A Peach Cantata fanfic by Neo Qwerty
The City had a rhythm, a pulse of sorts, working like well-oiled clockwork. Every little change on the schedule placed by Master's regime pissed off and unsettled the city-dwellers, content in their miserable shells of unreality. Change was painfully slow. It had taken him the better part of two months to acclimate the goddamned idiots to a simple text newsfeed instead of Master's now-obsoleted droning voice and propaganda.
The silence lingering in the city whenever Kara had to leave and reintroduce what she called "the arts" to the rest of the Valley was driving him mad. Or as close to it as a toy-man like him could get.
Nothing happened, nothing moved, it was as if the idiots were holding their breath in fear that a sigh would turn their precious "heaven" into ruins.
That was how Phoenix learned he was cursed to feel boredom.
And had no idea how to relieve himself of it.
Walking through the City was boring, no sights or sounds or people to look for or chase down. Everything that was tolerable was beyond the edge of the city. Everything that enraged him, lit a fire in his head and "heart" was probably even beyond the mountains cradling the Valley. Out of reach, with no real way to find either unless they came back on their own. Could take a few months or a few years.
He'd begun reading and listening through all the shit Master had stored away, logs and experiments and journal entries all jumbled together. Hearing the voice of the defunct tyrant numbed his mind even further, until he was counting the various ticks and hisses that came inside his own body. He stayed like that for hours, counting away as the voice droned on and on about whatever batshit insane plan of the week was in progress.
With a grunt, Phoenix kicked out at the console to shut it up. Nothing to do.
His mind blanked out once more, and he set back to counting his clockwork's sounds, boredly. He lifted his head a little, looked down the length of his body, and a thought flitted at the edges of his mind.
'Could use a distraction.'
He shifted his hands under the black and red poncho, brought them to his waist and unbuckled his belt, watching the coarse and thick fabric draped over him shift as he moved his hands. He pushed his pants out of the way and began stroking his dick idly.
The leather of his gloves pulled and stuck annoyingly to his skin, and he tugged one of them off, grasping his limp shaft with the bared hand. He slid his hand up and down, fingers curled loosely, and coaxed it to harden. He watched himself with mild interest, little crackles of pleasure climbing up his spine, and stroked a little faster.
Sex wasn't really something crucial to Phoenix. He didn't mind itit gave him a little rush of pleasure and let him work out some of his energy through itbut he wasn't craving it, either. The pleasure was always fleeting, and he could tire himself out by other means. The physical urges were easily ignored on the rare occasions they surfaced, and for the most part his mind was too focused on his goals to leave him needing.
It did make for a good distraction on the rare times he both didn't have anything to do and wasn't singlemindedly pursuing something, though. Like right now. The grip on his cock tightened a little more, and he hastened his pace. his strokes turned rough, a twinge of pain or two mingling with the pleasure zapping up and down his nerves lightning-fast.
He brought himself to orgasm gradually, establishing a regular pace, moving faster only once the pleasure became so much for his body that his hips and thighs twitched, aching to buck up into the air and thrust into his own hand. He froze up, throbbing, feeling his lower body clench and relax as an electrical storm of pleasure was released in every component inside him, shocking warmth crawling through him from head to toes, as he reached orgasm.
His body slowly calmed down, bliss substituted for fatigue, and he let his head flop backward, bringing his hand away from his softening cock. He remained near-boneless in the chair, lazily, as long as the afterglow remained. Idly, he acknowledged that one of the advantages of being artificial was that he didn't produce any sort of wet mess to clean up.
After a few more minutes, he tucked himself back in his pants and closed them, pushing himself out of the chair, and set out to find something else to do. He was already getting bored again.