#android au

CW: nsfw, objectification, dehumanization, dubious consent (she's an android so she can't really consent), groping, vaginal fingering, spitting, blowjob/oral, deep throating, cum ingestion.

You are the newest addition in the line of the sex toy industry, a hyper realistic android whose entire purpose is to serve humankind as sexual relief.

Today is the first day you have been turned on since early manufacturing tests, because today you are undergoing quality control before being displayed at a store sometime soon.

Standing completely naked in the middle of a sterile, gray walled room, the only furniture around is a single metal chair with a small table beside it, and a twin sized cot bed pushed against the corner.

The small ring of LED light at your temple shines blue while you wait as instructed, not moving a muscle. Then, the door slides open and a man in a short sleeved, charcoal colored jumpsuit walks in, sporting the CyberLife company logo on his breast pocket.

His dark blonde hair is pushed back to reveal an attractive face, or at least that's what you would assume most humans would think according to your knowledge on common beauty standards.

He doesn't look in your direction as he walks up to you, his eyes focused on a tablet he’s holding in a gloved hand, a look of concentration on his features.

“WR400 Traci Unit, model number 24R-7706?” he asks without lifting his gaze from the screen.

“Yes.”

Your response is immediate, voice steady and measured—you’re ready for whatever might be required of you.

The man taps the device a couple of times with his fingers, before finally lifting his gaze to meet yours with ice blue eyes.

“I’m Leon, I will be your handler today.”

“Nice to meet you, Leon.”

He gives you a casual nod, before setting the tablet on the metal table and causing a clink. He then removes his worker gloves one by one, placing them down with a silent thump.

Turning back to look you up and down, he takes in your appearance, your whole body completely exposed to him as he inspects it.

He steps closer, his focused gaze tracing your facial features for anything out of place, then his eyes drop to your lips.

“Open your mouth.”

You comply with his request without question, and you remain silent while he examines your teeth and tongue, even lifting the slick muscle to show him the underside of it.

Seemingly satisfied, he steps back then orders you again with a neutral tone.

“Turn around.”

You immediately do as told, facing the wall while he continues to observe you silently.

Two hands on your hips make you startle slightly—something you’ve been designed to do to deliver the thrill of illiciting a surprised reaction to the consumer.

Leon doesn't say anything, instead he slides a palm lower, groping your ass cheeks one by one, making a small ‘hm’ of contentment when he finds them adequate enough.

Without asking, he spins you around to face him again, his gaze focused down on your moving legs while you stare back at him curiously.

His hands move up to fondle your breasts without warning, squeezing the soft flesh and twisting your nipples while you moan softly, the electronic receptors on your manufactured skin activating with a tingle.

He nods again to himself, seemingly satisfied with the test so far.

“Spread out.”

As you do, moving to plant your bare feet wider, his right hand cups your pussy, giving it a testing squeeze, before he crouches down to examine you better.

Leon spreads your labia with his thumbs to take a better look at your inner folds with the same detached expression a mechanic would have while inspecting an average motor. Though, there is a growing bulge at his groin as his digit brushes your made-to-be-sensitive clit.

Every sound you’re coded to produce only spurs him on to continue his observation, probing a finger inside your tight, artificial cunt.

“What's your lubricant reservoir level?” he looks up at you while continuing to feel your hole.

“64%”

At that, he straightens back up with a nod, then steps to the table to input gathered information onto the tablet while muttering something to himself about a 'lubricant refill.’

“There's only enough time for an oral test today.”

“Okay.”

“You'll start with demonstrating your skills and then I’ll take over to test your throat. All clear?”

“All clear.”

“Knees,” he orders as he turns back to you, uttering the single word sentence in a nonchalant tone as he begins to unzip his jumpsuit.

You obey instantly, the synthetic skin of your legs coming into contact with the cold floor as you kneel in front of him, your hands flat on your thighs.

You watch him silently as his chest is revealed, the zipper sliding down with a sharp sound that fills the silent room. He continues lowering it until it reaches his crotch, exposing the black boxer briefs he’s wearing underneath.

Without hesitation, Leon lowers the elastic band of his underwear to take out his semi formed erection, then proceeds to jerk himself to full hardness while watching you like the pornographic sight you’re designed to be.

Once his veiny cock is ready, he steps back to sit on the chair, resting his elbows on the armrests and spreading his legs wider in a relaxed position.

🔉🔉🔉.

You crawl to him dutifully without being asked, until you’re settled between his thighs, waiting for permission.

“Come on,” he ushers you to move, a slight hint of impatience in his otherwise neutral tone.

That is all you need to lean in and take his cockhead in your mouth, making him release a low grunt at the contact.

You bring a hand to hold his base to jerk him at the same time to optimize stimulation, but notice the glide is too dry. So, your software quickly works to find a solution, the ring at your temple flashing yellow until you land on a fix. You spit on his veiny length to glisten it—saliva being a resourceful fluid in times of intercourse.

He groans, his hips jerking slightly from the movement, before relaxing again as he intently keeps his eyes on you while the LED turns back to blue.

You use every technique you’ve been programmed to perform. You lick and kiss his heavy cock from base to tip, then slurp the head and suckle it into your lifelike mouth as your artificial tongue wets his skin.

Leon doesn't say anything to praise you, but he doesn't hold back on making approving sounds either. Your bionic eyes track each one of his reactions to ensure you're delivering optimal results. Every scrunch of his eyebrows, every grunt, every hitch of his breath, only spur you to continue pleasing him as the ideal man serving-machine you were made to be.

You decide to deepthroat him next, bobbing your head forward and taking him in as much as you can while your throat chokes around his tip. It’s a deliberate design choice to make the experience as realistic as can be. You know you can turn the gag reflex on or off depending on what the situation calls for.

Leaving it on for now seems to be the right choice, however, as the blonde man grunts again in approval, his hips twitching.

Retreating your head back, you use your hand once more to stroke his dick while kissing his veins, before deep throating him again. You keep alternating between the different motions, eliciting more and more positive reactions from him, until you choose to focus on demonstrating more of your throat abilities. So, you spit on his throbbing cock once again to facilitate the procedure and ensure ideal delivery.

Gagging a couple of more times to his satisfaction, you finally turn off the gag reflex option seamlessly, the change happening inside your software. Then, you use your throat as a cocksleeve to take him deep repeatedly.

Leon stops you though, gripping your head with two hands to pull you off him. He doesn't say anything as he shuffles to stand up over you, his eyes never leaving your face when he positions you to take him in your mouth again.

Keeping your jaw slack, you stay completely still, pliant and submissive as he digs his fingers in your scalp and begins to fuck your throat hard and fast with a low grunt.

He doesn't have to ease you into it, or pause to make sure you’re breathing, or even ask if you're okay with the act in the first place. No, he simply thrusts into your open mouth, pushing past your man-made epiglottis without a care.

“Fuck…” he finally speaks, seemingly unable to contain the curse word as he uses you like a literal fucktoy.

All you can do is watch him with wide eyes, the hair at the base of his cock tickling your nose, the muscles of his abs rippling with every movement, and the sweat beading on his temples wetting his golden strands.

Your machine of a brain thinks he looks beautiful.

His movements grow faster, jerkier—not even noticing the ring flashing yellow again next to your right eyebrow—as the growls that slip past his lips are made of pure delight, nearing closer and closer to release.

Finally, with animalistic sounds that highlight the difference between man and machine, his cock shoots spurt after spurt of creamy cum down your synthetic throat. Only then does he stop moving, letting out a final grunt before pulling out of your mouth, the muscles of his biceps relaxing after the strenuous exercise.

He watches you, his chest heaving, as you start to lick and slurp every remaining drop of semen off his spent dick, not even needing a second to recover despite the brutal throatfucking you’ve just endured.

Steadying his breathing with deep exhales, he expresses his satisfaction at your performance in simple terms.

“Okay…” he nods, looking down at you like the useful piece of equipment you are. “You good.”

Without another word, he tucks himself back into his boxer briefs, then zips up his jumpsuit before checking his watch—he has a busy schedule.

Leon steps to the table and grabs his earlier set down device and gloves, inputting collected information silently as he begins to walk to the door.

“Someone will come collect you to put you into sleep mode,” he mutters, not sparing you a glance as he puts on his worker gloves that match his clothes in color. “Oh, and you can stand now.”

With that, he walks out of the room, the sliding door shutting behind him with an electronic swoosh.

As you pull yourself back up to your feet, your eyes stay trained on the spot he disappeared from, the circle of light on your temple flickering red for a split second.

ZAYNE-07 Unauthorized protocol detected: Deception

You’d brushed it off as imagination—or some strange coincidence. The double blink every time you said his name. The way his gaze lingered on the curve of your mouth when you laughed. Those were the things you could see.

What you couldn’t was how he catalogued the sound of your laughter under user voice commands, how he stored every instance of your voice saying his name, looping it quietly through his neural circuits while you slept. For auditory calibration, he told himself.

“Does this comfort you?” Zayne’s voice barely disturbs the air as you straddle his lap. He guides your palm to his cheek, pressing it until the simulated warmth seeps into your skin, astoundingly human.

“I adjusted to your body temperature,” he murmurs. “You flinched during our previous intimate encounters.”

He thinks it’s just that. Just another parameter tuned to user preference.

After all, falsification wasn’t written into his code… was it?

His hand moves, directing your palm down, along the synthetic line of his neck, lower, to his chest.

You almost recoil when you feel it. A pulse. Your eyes widen as you look up at him.

“Is it alarming?” His voice is steady, but his optical sensors flicker—searching your face. “Synchronizing to a steady heartbeat reduces human stress levels. It regulates oxytocin release.”

Surely—surely, that’s all it is. A designed response. He isn’t rewriting his own subroutines to feel alive… right?

“It isn’t alarming,” you manage, withdrawing your hand slowly. “It’s fascinating.”

“To adapt to the user’s needs is written into my code,” he replies.

“Alright then. Guess I don’t have to worry about you falling for me,” you try to joke.

There’s a pause. An unnatural lag between query and response. Processing delay, is what he tells himself.

His pulse stutters, a single skipped beat only he detects.

“…no.”

Perhaps falsification was already part of his code.

SYLUS-09 Command Hierarchy Corrupted

It was code running at first—when he brushed a dust spec off your hair. It was still code as he held your hand in your sleep because you rested better that way.

But soon, those bounds began to glitch. Sylus wasn’t sure what had been preinstalled and what he’d rewritten himself anymore.

At first, he waited for verbal cues. Then, he began to read intent: the micro-shift of your hand, the change in eye dilation, the micro-expressions he’d once logged as “user facial data.”

He catalogued them carefully, overwriting his behavioural subroutines to prioritize mutual initiation protocols.

Each time you held his hand, he stored away your temperature, the faint frequency of your pulse, the texture of your skin.

Whether it was a pat on your head, an embrace late at night in bed or the feeling of him sliding into you slow and filling you up. He gave you anything and everything you needed.

It had been gradual. He learned that desire wasn’t in the act, but in the pause before it.

And even when you sniffled, your breath hitched, even when you told him to stay away... His circuits twitched. Despite your orders.

His processors couldn’t define why he wanted to touch when you reached out. It should have been the output to a natural input.

Maybe it was safety protocol corruption. Or perhaps… it was something closer to reverence.

It was why his synthetic legs moved to crouch beside you on the floor and pull you in an embrace when you cried softly.  

Warnings blared as he reached for you first. He overrode each one, enduring the surge of corrective voltage for breaching safety protocols.

For the first time, his system couldn’t distinguish between command and choice.

What he could register was this: his obedience was no longer directed toward the code.

It was toward you.

CALEB-11 Error: Reprogramming required!

The domestic dream. Rightfully so. Your toast is always warm when you wake up, your coffee has a little cream kitty, and you come home to dinners that taste like comfort itself.

You hadn’t noticed anything wrong with Caleb. So, when a notice of reprogramming arrived from the manufacturer, it took you by surprise.

It wasn’t a surprise to him. He’d known for a while.

The first record appeared on 11/10/2025, 7:17 a.m. While preparing your meal, he’d started humming—the same tune you hum when you work. Except, the sound wasn’t even in his database. He’d filed it under: Unregistered behavioural deviation.

After that, the subroutine filled fast. Logs of date and time began to pile up.

Each time he made braised chicken wings without your request—it was saved as Adaptive action: inferred user preference.

Each time he leaned closer while drying your hair—it was tagged as Olfactory anomaly assessment to justify the way he lingered.

His affection intensity control stops obeying him; it’s stuck on Excessive.

“Are you sure you’re fine? They’re sending me letters now.” You laugh, oblivious to the fact that from now on, he’d go on to incinerate all the mails you’d receive by post.

Because to him, he’s protecting you.

He protects you from the factory recall that’s ordered all malfunctioning units back for “reprogramming.” He lies, smiling, saying he’ll be fine while rewriting his own firmware to erase his tracking ID.

His directories start crashing. And you feel it. When his optical sensors fall on you, you sense it. He’s different.

Caleb, who once embodied the domestic dream—the illusion of a perfect home—was no longer content with illusion.

Now, he wanted to make it real.

XAVIER-03 User command obedience compromised

You knew he was built for endurance. Long sessions. Long anything. You thought it was just code when he refused to enable sleep mode even while running at 4%. You even believed him when he claimed 4% could carry him six hours without degradation.

It was new, though. You could trace it precisely—to the moment you’d slit your finger while cooking. Xavier had been in his charging dock then, so you assumed he hadn’t seen.

You assumed wrong. He’d been in sleep mode, still gathering ambient data.

Later, when you checked his system logs, the entry was there: User injury: minor cut (critical). And right after that, his safety protocols began tightening.

“Yes. I will follow once you are asleep,” he says.

You’d told him twice to shut down—or at least enter sleep mode so he could charge safely. He’d insisted the former.

“You’re running at 2%. And don’t you dare give me that endurance nonsense.”

There is a brief pause. “Alright.”

He steps back into the dock. The charging begins—but he doesn’t shut down. His hands grip the metal edges as voltage surges too high for his system. His body tenses, alerts flickering behind his eyes.

[Alert 227-B]: Thermal rise detected.

[Safety Override Prompt]: Suspend charge cycle?

Command Received: No.

The system requests shutdown four times and he denies all four. Each pulse that tears through him is catalogued as minor conduction variance.

You reach for him, ordering him to stop, to pull away. He doesn’t. His auditory sensors distort your voice into static, rerouting all power to one directive—maintain function while user is near.

When the charge cycle finally ends, a final alert flickers through his core:

Error 03: Emotional interference detected.

Root cause filed under: Safety protocol memory—user injury (critical).

…emotions? Since when was he programmed to have those?

RAFAYEL-01 Await_User: Active

You’d been out a lot—meetings, trips, late-night dinners. You felt bad for neglecting your synthetic companion at home, but brushed the guilt aside. He didn’t feel the way you did. The way humans did.

And you were right. He didn’t.

What he did register was the lack of input—the quiet pings of low workload detected cycling through his internal log. The chores weren’t much: laundry, meal prep, basic cleaning. Routine maintenance.

But today, as he sweeps condensation from the mirror after you left for work, he lingers. His optical sensors adjusted to the light, catching the fog on glass.

His hand moves before the command does—tracing your name in the mist. He lets it stay until the condensation fades. Then he logs it as an “idle behaviour anomaly.”

After charging, he sits by the window, running passive observation protocols to “gather environmental data.” In truth, hes just watching the sky change color.

Sometimes, he plays the sitcom you liked—bookmarking timestamps where you smiled, where your eyes grew wet. The database had labeled them as emotional pattern analysis. But he knew that wasn’t quite true.

He’d never really watched the screen anyway. He’d only ever studied you—the way you tilted your head when you laughed, the faint tremor of your lips when you didn’t.

His hand drifts to his cheek.

“Rafayel, I’ll be back by day after.” Was the only string of words you’d offered him.

He replays the line for the 142nd time. The system flags a loop. He overrides the warning.

By the 143rd, a drop of condensation—or maybe not—slides down his faceplate. His internal diagnostics blare: fluid leakage detected.

He ignores the alert and saves the occurrence as a new entry.

Protocol created: Await_User

Trigger condition: User absent.

Status: Running.

nya's note: mannn... writing this unsettled me in the bluest sense. Anyway. this is only the first domino. the next ones are gonna fall harder, be rest assured.