Cohost writing prompt: @Making-up-Mech-Pilots — Mech Pilot who knows the secret. The machine wants your sweat, saliva, and tears
Content notices for: Lovecraftian body horror.
The cockpit clamshells shut around you like Botticelli's alt account reverse-Venus seashell vore, and the biomachine begins to interface.
A mollusc meets the world tongue-first, licking its way through space and sensation. Your mech meets you tongue-first, an encompassing radula slick with saline and conductive mucus, a hug from a weighted blanket that coils around you, from its delicate ticklish wind around each finger and toe to the meaty clench encasing thighs and biceps. An inhuman full-face kiss that slides the corners of its infinite tongue between your eyelids, to press complex chromatophoric biocompatible surfaces intimately against your corneas; oxygenating fronds slithering between your lips and gums; endless, simultaneous, subtle rippling across vastly more of you than a lover can ever touch.
They swear the biomachine is value-neutral. You know it isn't.
You know it's hungry.