If you give a mouse a cookie…
He pauses pondering why he would think of such a thing. Perhaps it is what might be called post-coital musing except he lacks the specifics necessary for such a thing. He traces the spine of his unexpected partner listening, observing, caching this information for later.
Mouse (n.) a small omnivore of the rodentia family exhibiting the attributes of fur, large fore-teeth, large sensitive ears, and characteristic prey-minded behavior. Primary consumer.
plural: mice
Cross-reference Furi kuri: "sometimes you're the cat and sometimes you're the mouse."
Of mice and men
Men…man.
So if you give a man a cookie…
That doesn't seem right, far too nonsensical for one thing - Far too close to home for another, He has after all somehow enticed this man into his bed… Or rather he has enticed himself into this man's bed. Androids don't need beds after all. Android he means, since there is only one - himself. In a man, the quiet he lapses into might be called melancholy or perhaps despair, fear. The ticking of the clock in the living room is absurdly loud in counterpoint to his bedmate's gentle snoring.
If your give a man a cookie…
…he will follow you to bed…
A new line in this twisted parody of a children's rhyme. When did he ever learn this? Why would he? Lot. Lot would enjoy learning rhymes, would enjoy this dark, rambling nonsense. Would perhaps make a song and dance of it. A brooding, lilting nocturne-like adult nursery rhyme. Something to think of as he floats through the eternal darkness.
He doesn't shiver, hasn't got the functions for it, but he is given pause. Never one for imagination it's still possible to see a gleeful, impish pale face as hands, pale hands clap in time to the tune. Long, fine faintly golden hands just a shade different form the ones playing-well toying, combing the dark hair of the head on his chest. Floating, spinning, drifting through the cold, endless darkness.
If you give a man a cookie, he will follow you to bed… As his hair slips through your fingers, he will crawl into your head…
That isn't possible, for all he understands of them, they have yet to come close to knowing him… Knowing about him, but why should they care - he is only a machine. A toy, a tool, a curiosity sometimes amusing, most times annoying. He is thankful for his reflexes, having nearly pulled a chunk of hair and scalp out of the head of this innocent man.
No one's innocent.
And that's not true… he is merely frust- He lacks emotion, cannot feel frustration bleeding into anger into hatred now violence which sometimes soothes. Their lack of understanding, lack of desire to understand means nothing, less even then this - post-coital cuddling. Less then this opportunity to observe human intimacy up close - heat, pressure, the mysterious play of expression across that oh, so human face. As he is thrusting, thrusting - mindlessly thrusting into the blessed heat - the precious silken heat.
There is no need for him to breathe so not breathing needn't be a sign of shock. Of course he cannot feel shock, cannot feel lust or the electricity of friction. Friction? His partner grinds his morningwood slowly, sleepy against his own erection. Why give a creature the power to fuck if it cannot even enjoy it? What sick pervert makes a sex toy so big? Dr. So Wrong - pale hands clapping.
If you give a man a cookie…
His eyes snap open. Did he sleep, did he dream? No, his partner still idly toys with him a throbbing erection between his own well-formed thighs. …he will follow you to bed… Has something corroded, corrupted his circuitry again? Will he be Sybil again with a thousand voices in his head? Is he playing host to some parasite ghost?
As you fiddle with his hair, he will crawl into your head.
How many hands, how many minds have violated him? How? "Data?" Quizzical brown eyes watch him - study him broad, warm hands running over his pale chest. How long has this one been a wake? "Data?" Warm, slightly chapped lips and between them their members grind. A quivering moan as Data expertly maneuvers his hips gilded hands running over a firm ass. Thrusting. Parting the cheeks to the Heat tight, puckered bud.
Lying quiet amidst the circuits all your memories he'll have read.
No. Why does he have to be thinking of this right now? Why not later? Or never? Desperate he wants to flip them over, shove the shorter man into the mattress and mount him. Mount him gladly as he thrusts, thrusts, thrusts into the blessed heat. This is what he wants, but he knows better - knows that androids don't want, don't need - they do.
So he grabs the other's hips dragging him forward to taste him. He knows all the points, all the areas statistically, consistently shown to produce some kind of reaction. Multi-tasking as easily as breathing he snatches up the lubricant he has kept near. …he will crawl into your head… Should have powered down hours ago, but the warm body squirming on top of him stirred the monster inside - monster?
Data, repeat - "If you give a mouse a cookie…"
Tight, a ring of moist, hot pressure flexing about him. Barely able to keep himself from shoving ahead. Keep himself from ramming his way toward something, anything but this confusion.…it will want a glass of milk…growing into frustration - What is the point!? Do you even care about him!?- now becoming angerhatred, violence - Shut up! Or do you sing along too? Dr. So Wrong! "Data!"
Painful - impossible, you are incapable of pain - to slow much less stop. "Sorry, I -" Like holding back a hurricane with one hand - hips aching - cannot ache, can only emulate what is seen - "I, please!" Needing - he will want a glass of milk - gripping tightly, nearly bruising. Slowly, smooth motion like a piston gearing up. Lifting the sticky, moaning man he shifts them until he is sitting on his heels.
Faster…
"Data, repeat…" If you give a mouse a cookie he will want a glass of milk." Repeat, Data." As he parts his lips the door opens to Dr. Sung wearing alarmingly. "Come on Data time for your special modification." Dr. Sung's expression is not reassuring, smile hanging crookily, eyes slightly askewed though burning brightly. His mother stands abruptly face an ugly mask of red and white.
"What's wrong with you!? Wasn't Lot enough! Why do you keep doing this!?" They scream as he looks longingly toward the bright book with the mouse: mouse(n.) a small omnivore of the rodentia family exhibiting the attributes of fur, large fore-teeth, large sensitive ears, and the traditional behavior of prey.
Pural: mice
Cross-reference - mice and men
"What's the point!? Honestly , what the fuck is the point!? If he has no one to love, if you're right and he can not love, then why change him like this!? Don't you care about him at all!?" What changes? He pays more attention now. His mother screams only one part of her face red now - the rest a sickly white. Dr. Sung is very angry - "Shut up! He isn't our son! He's a project, a challenge, my greatest work! Or do you think I'm crazy too? Do you sing along with them? Dr. So Wrong, Dr. All Wrong, The Mad, Mad Scientist?"
He looks right at him as he is desperately trying to curl away into himself, not wanting to be hurt, to be change - afraid. Dr. Sung tries to smile, but it's all wrong. "Come along Data", a broken grin," you're not afraid, are you?" The bad grin makes it easy to realize what he need to say - "No." His voice quivers only a little - at least to him, but then he's special. Made in the image of man, but not of man - far beyond, far better then Man.
On that day his father would make him a man - transferring his core into the adult form storing away the child-from his mother loved, the child-form he loved. And then Dr. Sung "needed" to test him - to make sure he was - he is fully functional. It didn't hurt, but it felt wrong, so wrong. He felt confused, and confusion leads to frustration leads to anger to hatred to violence, which sometimes soothes. It wasn't Lot. It didn't even start with Lot… Dr. So Wrong.
"Data?" Hard to focus eyes blurry with…something. "Data are you hurt?" A bad sound like a man choking - he doesn't recognize it, but he knows it came from him. Panic - his brand spanking new fuck buddy is in a panic, worried that maybe he broke Starfleet's toy. One of a fucking kind since they killed his daughter. Closing his eyes he smiles, "I'm alright commander - I promise."
If you give a man a cookie, he will follow you to bed.
As his hair slips through your fingers, he will crawl into your head.
Laying quiet midst the circuits all your memories he'll have read.
If you give a man a cookie then your mask you'll have to shed.
"Data, Data, Data sometimes you're the cat and sometimes you're the mouse."