Yes, he asked you to sit on it

۶۟ৎ : Fem pov

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⋅°+ • ୨ He needs a brainstorm, and what better brainstorm that you sitting on his face? Perhaps suffocating will force the brain to work. ୧ ‧+°⋅

Doctrine's makeshift laboratory smelled of ozone and synthetic oil, that familiar scent of innovation that never seemed to fade. At the center of it all, bathed in the glow of seventeen monitors, he lay sprawled across a polished titanium workbench, arms folded over his chest like some creature from nocturnal folklore resting inside a crystal sarcophagus. The comparison would have been more fitting if the workbench hadn't been something he'd hurriedly cleaned just moments ago, having apparently run out of ideas at the worst possible time.

"Haiwa, benzi," he muttered, his voice carrying the unmistakable rhythm of Harare as it rose toward the vaulted ceiling. His bat-drones hummed nearby, about as useful as his own brain seemed to be at that particular moment.

Akande's cybernetic arm lay disassembled before him, a tangled mess of synaptic cables he had forged himself, now staring back at him with all the silent mockery of a cruel muse. He needed an improvement. Something beyond the previous version. Something worthy of the reputation he had built as a superior intellect. Yet tonight, neither his supposed genius nor an IQ of 187 seemed particularly useful.

He had been lying there for nearly an hour, completely absorbed in thought. You remained on the divan, occupied with your own affairs while the drones continued their monotonous humming, mechanical witnesses to his increasingly frustrating stagnation.

"I am merely deep in thought," he announced when he noticed your gaze, adopting the dignity of a man who had designed machinery capable of tampering with human lives while currently being unable to figure out how to improve a simple limb.

"You are stuck," you stated plainly, refusing to be distracted by his theatrics.

"So it would seem." He sighed, and for perhaps the first time in decades, some of the usual steel in his voice gave way. "I am, indeed, stuck. The neural feedback algorithm requires something I currently lack, a spark, Inspiration. Something my supposedly enhanced brain has decided it would rather not provide."

You set your tablet aside and approached, your footsteps echoing softly against the floor. You stopped beside his makeshift workbench aka sarcophagus, and looked down at him, meeting those yellow eyes that always seemed capable of affecting him more than they should. "What usually inspires you?"

"Death," he answered immediately. Then, after a moment, he corrected himself. "Danger. Transgression. Those moments when existence is reduced to its most essential form." You raised an eyebrow. "I require something more..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Immediate."

He sat up with the slow, deliberate gravity of someone who had spent far too much time contemplating things most people preferred not to think about. His yellow eyes followed you in silence, their intensity making it clear that whatever was coming next was not a joke.

"I have a favor to ask of you." You waited.

"I need you to sit." You continued waiting. "Upon my face."

The silence that followed was broken only by the electric hum of one of the drones passing nearby, as though even the machines had momentarily stopped to process what they had just heard. Your disappointed sigh prompted him to explain himself immediately.

"Hear me out." He raised one golden-gloved hand and pressed it against his chest. "Creative stagnation is a form of death. And you..." His expression softened into something almost thoughtful if not for his request. "You are life, at least in this particular moment. But that is not the only reason."

He gestured vaguely toward his workbench. "I require a different perspective. Something capable of forcing my mind into unfamiliar territory. I need my world to narrow to you, to your essence, to the pressure and heat and immediacy of your body upon mine... Perhaps"—his eyes gleamed with renewed cunning—"perhaps that will finally stimulate the neural connections that have so inconveniently abandoned me."

He watched you closely, searching your expression for any indication that you had realized he was joking, but there was none to find. Doctrine was not particularly known for joking, and certainly not for jokes of such questionable taste. The request was absurd brushing the inappropriate, but he was completely serious.

"Place all your weight in me," he continued, reclining against the workbench once more. He removed his pink-tinted glasses and set them beside him before slowly closing his eyes, settling into the position as though he had just entrusted himself to some profound scientific experiment. "Even if oxygen deprivation affects my brain, I shall be more than willing to sacrifice it merely to force the thing to think."

Once again, you thought he was joking—deciding to give him one last chance to back down and save face—but then you saw him open one eye and look at you with a mix of curiosity and defensiveness; it was as if your failure to heed his request meant you were opposed to him making progress in his work. "I am certain that, within seconds, I shall be drowning in ideas..."

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SIT ON IT, HELP THE OLD MIND TO THINK BETTER!!!🗣🗣🗣