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so I can taste your name on my final breath Springtrap masturbation drabble. <1000 words. Willry (referenced, past-tense), Hentrap, wire kink, erotic dismantling.

Springtrap masturbates to the memory of Henry, in his own obsessive, maniacal, and morbid way.

vaguely porn-y prose, not particularly coherent nor cohesive. something self-indulgent to try to get back into the writing swing... more to come soon.

It's a rotten scene.

An old, dejected robot, hunched nearly in half. Slumped against a long-abandonded worktable like a broken toy. Scattered tools, coated with a thick coat of dust; disassembled synthetic skulls of skin-stripped machinery, somber and silent. An outsider might presume the animatronic a piece of the scenery: another unfinished project, a scrapped repair job, left to collect dust in the abandoned workshop.

It groans. Grotesquely artificial, vulgar and vile and vital all at once; the animatronic sparks with a foul facsimile of life. Rusted joints screeching with decay and disuse, its movements disjointed, jerking, erratic.

There's a loosened knot of copper-crusted wires at the juncture of his hip: whatever finely-soldered circuitry it once connected to is now overgrown, over-fleshed by illogical webs of sinuous tissue. Through the gaps of the suit's plastic casing he tugs at it, fleeced digits clumsy and imprecise, jolting flashes of white-hot electricity sparking through withered flesh. Like electricity in frog-legs: dead muscle jerking to abrupt, thunderflash life. From a molding muzzle comes a groan of drooling, droning pleasure, wheezed between gritted teeth; a death-rattle moan.

(A memory of warm hands; of human touch. Blood-under-skin, breath that comes hot as steam. The shudder of gooseflesh, a sweet caress along the grain of finely-haired skin—sharply, queasily contrasted to filth-stiffened nylon fleece, the rigidity of plastic.)

He hears his voice, still. That soft, low coffee-rich rumble: smoothing a thick palm along the chassis of a malfunctioning machine, coaxing it back to life with honeyed words of praise.

(Thick muscle, corded and robust, tan skin glossy as leather in the queasy workshop light. A face that flushed red with exertion, ruddy and vital. Calloused hands, thick and strong, workman's hands—plunged deep within the tangled anatomy of machine-parts and wrenching the springlock teeth apart with a stifled grunt of exertion. Henry Emily: alive.)

He imagines those thick fingers plunging deep within his innards. Precise as a surgeon's, blunt as a mechanic's; with reverence for the machinery therein, the machinery he had sculpted with blood, sweat, and tears.

It was euphoric, in that way. To carry his workmanship, to become it. Blunt fingers scrape at delicately twisted cabling, corroded circuitry, rusted half-fused actuators embedded in old flesh and bone—imagining the hands that placed them there. The pinch of Henry's brow, the tightness in his jaw as he poured over such delicate work, the peek of tongue bitten between teeth. The smell of solder, machine-grease, and sweat. He dared to imagine himself the sculpture, Henry his Pygmalion.

(A lascivious scene, a rose-tinged memory: Henry sprawled back against the workshop bench, legs hooked over Will's shoulders. Tools knocked askew, littering the bench, projects abandoned. The air is stuffy, stale, yet static. He remembers the taste, the salt and sweat and sweetness of his breath—coffee and cigarettes and Henry. Long fingers slipped knuckle-deep into his ass, coaxing out a melody of soft breaths and stifled moans. The engineer's head is titled back, the column of his throat cast in baroque light under the worklamps, all muscle and unkempt beardscruff. A white undershirt pushed up over his tits, bunched above the breadth of his chest, sweat-slicked hair and the rising, panting swell of his gut beneath.)

(He called him a devil, words spat and hissed between keens of pleasure, arching high upon his fingers, fingers white-knuckle wrapped around his apron strings to pull their bodies flush, cursing his clever hands and wicked mouth. The bitter irony tasted like iron and rot.)

(The scene changes: and now Springtrap is pouring over the body of the engineer. The robot dismantling his inventor, pulling the man apart piece by piece. Fingers thick as bolts crammed messily into his hole, slick with machine-grease. Henry's moans tinge on pained, blood threading through bitten lips and gritted teeth, swallowed gasps and whimpers in an effort to keep quiet. The confessional quiet of the workshop. The metal-and-bone paws trace the curve of his hiphones, the skin of his abdomen—how fragile he seems. His Henry, so robust, so vital, but only flesh and blood. He couldn't hold it against him.)

Like an over-wound tape, corrupted data, the image shifts and glitches: his teeth are around Henry's throat, plastic and all-too-organic enamel at once sinking deep into thin skin. His gasp, his pleading, sputtering and choked and drowning in his own blood, pawing at the animatronic's fleeced arms. He imagines the light dimming in his eyes, the blood cooling and coagulating, coating his mechanical throat like wine.

The tape rewinds, a rotted data-file reconstructs. The animatronic lays beneath Henry's hands, unpieced, unbolted, gutted like a deer.

The tape rewinds, a rotted data-file reconstructs. The animatronic lays beneath Henry's hands, unpieced, unbolted, gutted like a deer. Corroded circuitry drenched in pleasure-pain, disembowelled cabling trembling with ecstasy: writhing, bloody, hot and slick with blood and gore. His heart in Henry's hands, his pulse thrumming to a standstill, stripped naked and bare and undone: unmade.

A death-rattle of breath, thick with dust, wheezed through torn vocal cords. Henry's name choking the last of the room's oxygen, ripped rotten and dry from the remains of his throat. The machine eases to a standstill, blunt fingers slick with organic matter and oil, the lights of its eyes flickering dark: corpse-still, and deathly quiet.

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