#sentient

[bluprint]

TennoCon 2025 in a nutshell

[trivia-yandere]

sentient

you're gifted a high-technology android by an old friend who appears to know everything - even about you.

@investedreader @sweetempathprunetree @darkuni63 @momnomnom @bangtans-momma @chimmy-licious @ultimatebasura @

word count: 12.513

warning: smut, dirty talking, cyborg namjoon duh, nipple sucking/pinching, face-riding, oral sex, fingering, dirty talking, unprotected sex, creampie, intense orgasming, possessive namjoon duh, carbon monoxide poisioning, yandere tendancies, character death(s)

halloween masterlist

“Seriously?” you sigh with an arched eyebrow. “I don’t think I can handle anymore of your science bullshit.”

“Science bullshit?” Karan scoffs with a roll of his eyes. “You should be honored to get all of my science bullshit for free. What I give you can go for thousands!”

You’ve known Karan since grade school and he hasn’t changed a bit. His skin remained the same deep russet color, his eyes just as dark and kind but determined. His dark hair often grew out past his shoulders, and when it did, it told you that he was working on something that took up all his time.

Sure, Karan grew taller and his voice deepened a bit. He decided that when he wasn’t - in your words - emerged in his science bullshit, he did go to the gym and bulked from the once scrawny boy you remember. However, that didn’t change that he was a geek, a term of endearment. 

You should have expected Karan to be at your doorstep with his hair as long and thick that’s tied in a low ponytail in the back. It meant he was working on something that took all of his time - and it meant he wanted you to be the test dummy, of course. 

“Karan,” you let out a breath. “what’s in the box that it took you and 6 of your geek ass colleagues-”

“Y/N!” Karan gasps, his head turning to said colleagues who are awkwardly standing by your front door. “Lower your voice.”

“Karan.”

“Right.” Karan claps his hands. The box is large and wooden and stands taller than him. It was a struggle to even get it through the door - hence 7 men had to bring it in - but they managed. “This is my gift to you.” Karan says, turning around to go to open the box.

“A gift?” you scoff, though you give Karan hell, you do appreciate his friendly gestures. “Or am I just a test subject?”

“Both.” Karan answers with a snort. The wooden frame opens and you nearly jump out of your skin when you witness what was inside of it. “This is-”

“What the fuck is that!” you screech, your skin crawling with goosebumps.

“If you would shut the fuck up, Y/N, and let me speak.” Karan hisses. “This is an android.”

You clasp a hand over your mouth to not let out another scream when Karan takes a step back to admire his work.

The android was so lifelike and it frightened you. It’s tall - taller than Karan or any of the other 6 men he brought here. Your eyes zone in on it’s face - it was so lifelike that it’s uncanny. 

“Why don’t you have a closer look before I turn him on.”

“Karan,” you shake your head instantly. “this is too much.”

Karan lets out a groan. “Y/N, be mindful. Androids so lifelike go out for thousands of dollars. This is the first official model and-”

“And of course you want me to experience a heart attack day and night, huh?!” you hiss, your eyes unable to move away from the life-like robot. You take a deep breath and try to do as Karan says and be mindful. “Karan, I don’t think I can handle something like this.”

“Why not?”

“I…” you shake your head. You aren’t aware when the last time any man - unless it was Karan - entered your home. Knowing you, you’d forget about the robot all together until you wake up in the middle of the night for some water and see it there. You’d probably die on the spot - that or try to attack it which would force the robot to kill you.

“You’re thinking too much into it, Y/N.” Karan speaks, probably reading your thoughts just by looking at the terrified look on your face. “I’ll meet you guys back at the lab, okay? I should be able to get him started.”

“Karan, no.” you nearly pleaded with your friend as the other scientist lead themselves out of your home. 

“You’ll come to enjoy him, Y/N.”

“Him? You mean it?”  Did you sound offensive at the moment? It was an android and could they really have gender roles. 

“Him.” Karan corrects. “It’s a male android.”

“I don’t see how.” you murmur under your breath. 

“He has a dick.” Karan shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe if you had one inside of you-”

“Don’t go there, Karan. When’s the last time you-”

“Hello.”

You shriek once more when you hear the robot speak, a deep voice sounding throughout your small home. 

“Ah, hello. It didn’t take you long to power on.” Karan smiles. “Come, Namjoon, get out of the box, please.”

Your heart is racing and your fight or flight senses are activated. Your first thought is to indeed run - run far as you could to be away from him. “You…named him?” you murmur to Karan, your eyes glued to the android who does as Karan says.

“Namjoon named himself.” Karan explains. 

This wasn’t sitting right with your spirit.

“Namjoon, this is Y/N. The one I was telling you about.”

“Excuse me?” your eyes widened. What did Karan mean? It wasn’t as if the robot was a living, breathing person - he was created in a lab!

“It didn’t take me a week to create an android, Y/N. It took years of my time.” Karan glances at you. “I’ve programmed Namjoon just for you. Years of collecting data-”

“Karan.” you raise a hand to stop him from speaking. You shake your head. “What do you mean you…programmed it-”

“He.” Karan grits his teeth. 

“-for me?”

Karan takes a deep breath. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you the whole truth for there was a possibility you’d be beyond freaked out, but he could tell you a fraction of it. 

“Namjoon know’s your likes and dislikes.” Karan begins. “He knows your allergies and just what to do if you have a reaction.”

“What…the fuck…?” your eyes widened. “Is this not a HIPAA violation?”

“Not when it benefits you, no.” Karan shakes his head. “I programmed Namjoon to be the perfect…” he tilts his head. “...assistant?”

You scoff.

“Like Siri or Alexa but…” Karan points at Namjoon. “...alive!”

You bring yourself to glance back at…Namjoon. He is tall, towering over both you and Karan. He’s waiting patiently, his eyes - a dark shade of brown - already on you. He offers a smile that causes your heart to jump once more. You notice that his cheeks are dimpled and he has a set of pearly white teeth.

“Take a closer look, Y/N. Touch him.” Karan insists, lightly patting your shoulder. “He doesn’t feel robotic.”

It takes you five minutes of hesitation, but you do. You touch the skin of his cheek and your eyes widened by how human he did feel. Warm to the touch, soft skin. You tilt your head. “Explain yourself, Karan.”

Karan swallows and chuckles to himself. He understands what questions you have and it’s easier to lie for your sake than to tell you the truth - being that Namjoon was once full human and doesn’t have any memories of his human life. Now he is more of what people consider a "cyborg". No, that would cause you to panic, and in return would cause Namjoon to, as well, as he is designed to protect and serve you.

“I can go on and on about my science bullshit to explain to you why Namjoon is so human-like, but that’ll only bore you.”

You groan at how right Karan was. You muster up the courage to continue to feel Namjoon and how human he truly was. His hair was soft and a shiny black color that matches perfectly with the cool and tan tone of his skin. 

“Doesn’t he feel like a man?” Karan questions. “We know you need one.”

“Fuck you, Karan.” you snatch your hand from Namjoon, who is eerily still and watching you. 

“No. Buuuut Namjoon can.” Karan cackles at your reaction.  “You’re going to hate me, Y/N, but we’re best friends, right?”

You swallow back your response. 

“I hacked into your devices. Namjoon knows…a lot about you.”

It takes you a moment to understand what Karan was insinuating. 

Your body heats up. “Karan!” you hiss, your hands turning to fists. 

“Y/N, you and I both know you need to get dicked-”

“Karan!” you hiss, the amount of times you had said his name in under an hour is insane.

“I’m leaving. Let me know if anything is out of order. There shouldn’t be seeing as Namjoon’s took years to perfect.” Karan smiles, making his way towards your front door. “Now, excuse me.”

You want to follow after Karan and punch his head in, but you decide not to. You take a few deep breaths. 

“Your heart rate is increasing.” Namjoon speaks, his voice causes you to yelp. “You should try calming yourself down.”

“Easy for you to say.” you murmur, more to yourself. You stand a little straighter, your heart continuing to race - something the android could sense somehow. You would be sure to ask Kanan how later. “I…I don’t know what to say.” you murmur awkwardly.

“That’s fine.” Namjoon chuckles so normally that it brings chills up your spine. “You don’t need to feel shy around me, Y/N.”

You swallow, body heating up once more. Curse the way Karan built this android. It’s noticeable that Namjoon was a special invention. He appeared so lifelike, carved beautifully, you’d admit. You pondered how his voice didn’t sound robotic, or even the way he speaks, blinks, smiles - everything. 

“I…I’m sorry.” you take a deep breath. “This may be a stupid question.”

“No question is stupid, Y/N.” Namjoon lightly shakes his head. “Ask away.”

“Do you…need to be charged?” 

Namjoon cracks a smile and shakes his head once more. “No. I do not.” he answers. “I do have a rest mode, however. I’ll allow myself to rest at times to recharge my system.”

You nod your head slowly and then bite your lip.

“Is there anything you’d like me to do?” 

You shake your head. “No, I don’t want you to feel like my slave.” you attempt to joke.

“I was made to serve you, Y/N. Ask anything of me and I’ll do my best to achieve it.”

Namjoon was so human-like. 

Karan explained in scientific terms as to why and that only caused more confusion - but in simpler terms, he explained that Namjoon was similar to a digital assistant like an Alexa or Siri, of course. He “adapted” to your likes and dislikes and modern society. He studied how men (the ones you were attracted to, how Karan knew this was beyond you) around his age - late 20’s - would talk and walk. 

No one knew that Namjoon was an android - no one but you and Karan and of course, Namjoon himself. 

Living with Namjoon took a toll on you at first. You had woken up one day and forgotten that the android was there and had walked out in the middle of the night to find him. He was resting as he said he was, only this time leaning against the wall of your kitchen. You screamed at the top of your lungs and activated Namjoon who was programmed to think that an intruder was in the house. He had sensed your heart rate skyrocket and was prepared to attack - only he was said intruder.

After that night, you gave Namjoon his own room. You had used your spare bedroom as a storage and closet all at once, but if Namjoon was going to be here then you’d have to show some type of respect to him.

As time went on, you grew to enjoy Namjoon’s company. He often sat around and waited for you to need him. Having no partner meant that you were accustomed to being alone and thus doing things by yourself. When you couldn’t reach something, you weren’t opposed to jumping onto something to grab it or grabbing a chair. Namjoon came in handy in that department. 

Namjoon would also build your furniture - your entire bedroom set being one that you were grateful for. 

Namjoon took the liberty in ordering any necessities that were lowstock, along with groceries - Karan had managed to implement a chip that could save your data to Namjoon so he could do it internally. You’re still unsure how you feel about it, but for now you’re sure it works.

One thing you learned about Namjoon, being an android, was his desire to gain more knowledge. He would often read books. You had allowed him to order as much as he wanted since he was a help to you the past few months - and he appeared content. He would tell you what he read about, albeit fiction or nonfiction, you’d listen.

“There’s no way you can get any smarter, Namjoon.” you said to him one day as you catch him reading yet another book - this time a math one that would hurt your brain if you’d attempt to look through it.

“Knowledge is power, Y/N.” was the android’s response.

As for Namjoon, he was content with living with you. He got to make sure you were safe and always assured that you were up to date with any doctor appointments. He would keep track of any reminders you’d tell him - “call so and so later,” “don’t forget to take the meat out the freezer at this time”, “call Karan to annoy him” and so on.

Namjoon doesn’t tell you that he knows more about you - deep facts that you would probably never tell anyone. He doesn’t want to embarrass you and cause your heart rate to grow high, so he doesn’t tell you. Like how he doesn’t tell you that he can hear everything - especially the buzzing noises at night when you play with yourself mixed with soft, but oftentimes disappointed moans. He recalls the time when your heartbeat became quick as you were going to cum just for the vibrator to die - how disappointed you must’ve felt.

Namjoon knocks on your door five minutes after your shower once he’s sure that you are dressed - his eyes could see past the closed door and into your bedroom when he knows you’re rubbing lotion onto your already soft skin. You’re dressed for bed, as well, in shorts that barely cover yourself and a tank top with one of the straps missing as you’ve grown to love the old top.

“Joon,” you furrow your brows as you open the door. “is everything okay?”

“Yes.” Namjoon nods. 

“You don’t usually seek me out this late at night. You’re usually resting.” 

“You’ve been working hard the last few days.” Namjoon responds. “There’s knots in your neck.”

You sigh with a short nod of your head. “You’re right. I’ve been working overtime lately.” you explain. “I’m glad the clothes I got fit you. I wasn’t sure what size to get.” your eyes scan the pajamas he wore - a simple plaid pajama pants with a dark color shirt. Namjoon insisted that you buy him simple pajama’s wear so he could be as human as possible.

“Thank you.” Namjoon offers a dimple smile that causes your heart to beat faster - he senses it. “Would you like a massage?”

“Uh…what?” your body heats at the sudden question. “You never asked me that before.”

“Indeed I haven’t.” Namjoon tilts his head. “But I sense that the knot in your neck is causing you discomfort. I don’t want you to sleep like that, you might wake up even worse.”

You take a deep breath with a shrug. You’re sure he was right - he was the artificial intelligent android that knew everything, not you. 

“I don’t want to treat you like a slave, Joon.” you joke, but even you were curious about how a massage would be. Namjoon’s hands were large and you pondered how they would feel on you.

Namjoon smiles once more. “I was made to serve you, Y/N.” he murmurs, so low that it catches you off guard. “If you do not want me to then I will not force it. But please never feel as though you are a burden to me.”

A massage wouldn’t be bad, right? Sure, Namjoon was hot - you curse Karan for making something like him - but he was an android. Surely he didn’t feel the things a human could and wouldn’t jump at any sexual opportunities.

“Why not?” you sigh, opening your door wider for him to enter your room. “I do have a few knots and my back has been killing me lately.”

“I have watched massage videos while you showered.” Namjoon speaks. “To perfect my craft.”

“Of course you have.” you laugh to yourself. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

You’ve gotten used to Namjoon being able to control most of the devices in your home - like the lights. He dims them as he enters your room and for your speakers, he adds a soft melodic tune. “For you to be comfortable.”

You lay as Namjoon advises you to, on your stomach with a few of your pillows beneath you to not be in discomfort.

You had to admit that Namjoon was good with his hands, and even that wasn’t much of a compliment. He works his thumbs right into your neck, massaging out any knots he sees. 

Your eyes were growing heavy and Namjoon senses how relaxed you are, mind clear. He works his hands onto your back, rubbing along your spine and sides. Your breathing is low and steady, an ultimate sign of how relaxed you were.

Namjoon’s hands go lower and lower, massaging your tense muscles with the perfect amount of pressure that you couldn’t help but moan low to yourself, unbeknownst that Namjoon could hear every sound.

“Feels nice?” Namjoon questions softly, both hands gently massaging past either side of your hips. He offers a firm squeeze before working his way down to your thighs.

“Mhmm.” you hum, cheek pressed firmly against your soft pillows. “It feels nice.”

“You are relaxed. I can sense your heartbeat.” Namjoon states as he often does, giving you updates about your own body that he appears to understand more about than you do. 

“Thank you.” you mumble. “I’ve been stressed lately. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Namjoon slightly nods his head with a bit of a tilt.  “I have.” he responds, his hands massaging down your calves and slowly back up your outer thighs. “I could assist you if you’d like.”

You snort. Though your eyes were heavy and you could truly fall asleep like this, you decided against it. Namjoon was a good conversationalist. “Help me with work?” you question, though rhetorically. “I’ll just take some personal time to relieve some stress.”

“I could assist you in relieving stress. Though, if you’d like me to help in your field of work, I would be happy to do that, as well.”

“What do you mean?” you question, genuinely confused. 

Namjoon is silent for a moment, and in his silence you begin to ponder what he was speaking of. 

Namjoon’s hands are large and warm - he hasn’t admitted that he could radiate his own heat, another sensor that Karan has put in him in case, in any instant, you needed it. They slide past your ass in massage movements and it catches you off guard that your eyes slowly open, but you remain silent. 

Namjoon’s hands don't linger as he can sense your quicken heartbeat and he begins to massage up your lower back.

“I believe you’re stressed out, yes, but more than you lead on.” Namjoon finally speaks. 

“Namjoon-”

“I could help you, if you’d like. I know whatever toy-”

“Namjoon!” you’re embarrassed now and immediately, you get up from your laying position to turn to look at the android. His eyes appear curious instead of soulless like they should be for an android. “I…I don’t know what…”

Namjoon tilts his head. “I know you’re left disappointed with your vibrator.” he says bluntly. “I can sense it everytime.”

Your blood runs cold and now you’re left truly embarrassed. Namjoon could sense when you were…you wanted to die. 

Curse Karan for creating such an advanced android.

“I want to help you…cum.” Namjoon’s system assists in finding the right words that would be considered “modern” and not too scientific to turn you off. “I would like to help you cum.”

“I-I don’t think that’s n-necessary!”

“Why not?” Namjoon questions. “I won’t die like your vibrator would.

Your legs clench together and you gasp in disbelief. He knew about that, too?

“You’re embarrassed. There’s no need to be. I’m here to serve you, Y/N. Like Karan said, I know what you like.”

Fuck Karan - again and again. He has hacked into your devices and showed poor Namjoon what you watched on whatever porn site. It couldn’t be considered what you wanted to happen to you, because at times you did watch some hardcore shit.

You take a deep breath.

“I…” 

“If you don’t like it,” Namjoon sets his palm upon your bare thigh and you visibly stiffen. “then I’ll stop, just tell me.”

This was crazy, you think. Namjoon is an android and you didn’t want to treat him like a sex robot. You imagined only incels would do that - but here you were contemplating it. It doesn’t help that Namjoon felt so human - his skin was as soft as a human. Warm at the touch, as well. He was carved so perfectly that it’s hard to believe that this wasn’t a human man before you.

“O…Okay.” you meekly murmur, innocent eyes staring right back at him.

Namjoon works his way towards you slowly. He tests to see what causes your heart to jolt. His hands gently push you back against the pillows as he hovers above you. 

“Remember, Y/N, I was made for you.” he reminds you.

Namjoon allows his hands to place themselves along your breast, not hesitating. You are stiff, silently watching as he gently rubs them. You weren’t wearing a bra - you never wear one to bed - and it’s easy for him to do what he does next.

Namjoon sneaks his way inside your tank top to grasp your breast. Your nipples are hardened almost instantly. His thumbs rub along the sensitive bud, dark eyes flickering to you.

“Feels good?” Namjoon whispers, but he already knows it to be true. 

You slowly nod your head.

Namjoon continues to rub along your breast, often pinching and twirling them between his thumb and index finger.

You fight back the moans, eyes watching Namjoon between your eyelashes. Maybe it was because Karan was right - you haven’t been with a man for who knows how long. It causes great embarrassment that even Namjoon, an android, knows this, as well. 

“Relax.” 

Namjoon murmurs, coming a bit closer to you. 

“Treat me like you would another man.” Namjoon suggests. “Relax, Y/N. It’s just you  and I here.”

You nod your head slowly, biting your bottom lip. It’s easier said than done - how could you look at yourself in the mirror after this was done and over with? In the moment it’d feel amazing, sure, but once the high is down you’re positive you’ll feel like a complete freak of nature.

You lean forward, taking a deep breath. No one had to know that you were doing this - it’s something you’d take to your grave. Namjoon rarely left the house with you, and even then, his loyalty was with you, right? Maybe in ten years you’ll admit this to Karan, but until then…

“Can I…can I…” you bite your lip harshly, body heating up. “...kiss you? It’s um…it’ll be weird if I-”

“Yes.” Namjoon doesn’t hesitate, sensing your growing embarrassment and discomfort. 

You nod your head, unable to say anything further. You begin to lean forward, sitting with your legs crossed. You place a hand on Namjoon’s shirt, leaning even more towards him.

“You act as if you’ve never kissed a man before.” 

Namjoon is teasing you. There’s a glint in his eyes and a soft smirk on his lips. You want to roll your eyes at how typical Namjoon was for an android. Your hands snatch Namjoon’s loose shirt and force yourself to kiss him. 

Namjoon’s lips are soft, which shouldn’t surprise you, but it does. It’s eerily soft and it always has you pondering just how Namjoon was created; how someone could build Namjoon in just a few years.

“It's not so hard now is it?” Namjoon murmurs against your lips, offering another quick peck. 

“Shut up.” your response is muffled against Namjoon’s lips, an urge to continue your kisses upon them.  “I’m trying my best.”

Namjoon doesn’t respond - he knows you are doing just that. It’s a weird feeling for you, he’s sure, to feel how human he is. Skin as soft as yours, radiating the exact amount of warmth. He doesn’t maneuver as an android nor does he speak as one - it would freak anyone out.

“I think you’re still holding back.”

Namjoon is the first to speak, but he brushes his lips against yours for a moment before continuing. “Come,” he says, ushering you closer to him.

Come for Namjoon meant you sitting directly on top of him, your legs straddling him beneath you. You swallow as Namjoon places his hands securely onto your hips, tapping his fingers against them. 

“Now, let’s continue.” Namjoon pecks your lips once more, allowing you to adjust to the new position and to follow his lead.

It’s just as different as before, but again, you tell yourself that you have to see Namjoon as a man, and not an android. You have to trick your mind in thinking that Namjoon wasn’t someone created in a lab to assist you - maybe you met him…in a bar?

 No, too cliche, you tell yourself. Maybe at a cafe of sorts while he was reading a book. Namjoon enjoyed reading. 

It was easier for you to pretend Namjoon and you met in more normal circumstances for you not to feel like a total sexually frustrated woman. 

You’re unsure how long it’s been - five minutes and forty-six seconds, Namjoon knows - since Namjoon and you have been here. However, your tongue dances with his, your nails digging into his shoulders. His hands are roaming your body entirely, gripping and tugging at your clothing.

You admit it feels good to be touched like this - to be on top of Namjoon kissing without a care. 

“I want to make you feel good.” Namjoon speaks when the two of you - of course you since he didn’t need to - decides to halt your makeout session to breathe. 

Even knowing what you’re doing here would ultimately end with you and Namjoon doing something sexual, him stating such causes your stomach to jump with nerves.

“I…”

“You’re nervous. I can sense it.” Namjoon can hear your heart beating so loudly due to your nerves. He squeezes your hips and offers a low smile and even then his dimples sink deep into his cheeks.  

“No,”  you shake your head. It’s pointless to try and cover up your anxiousness from Namjoon as he could sense it regardless. Still, you’ve already gone this far and you’re sure you could stop now, but you didn’t want to. “...um, how do you want to do…that?”

Namjoon doesn’t respond and instead presses a peck onto your lips. He doesn’t linger there and instead begins to kiss further down, starting with your jaw. He goes towards your neck, fingers tapping up your waist to your lower back and eventually up your spine. It causes you to shiver, goosebumps prickling along your skin. 

Namjoon’s tongue is warm upon the nape of your neck, massaging your smooth skin. His teeth sink into your neck, grinding it only a bit to force a deep moan from your mouth -  exactly what he was looking for. 

“You’re very pretty, Y/N.”

Namjoon words catch you by surprise and slowly, your eyes open in response. Namjoon’s caught up with his kissing, going lower and lower. He can sense your body temperature rising only slightly, your heart beating so loud in your chest that it could be alarming if you didn’t bring yourself to relax.

“You act like you’ve never done this before.” Namjoon’s tone is teasing once more and you could only snicker. 

“You act like you have.” you retort with a raise of your eyebrow.

Namjoon scoffs. His eyes flicker upwards at you, your breast now in his face. You can see the gears in his mind - did Namjoon have a brain? You’d have to ask Karan another time - as he processes your words.

“I know how to pleasure you, Y/N.” Namjoon once more pokes his tongue out, trailing it along your breast teasingly. “I know exactly what you like for me to do.”

You swallow, biting your lip. You weren’t going to back down to the android. You have to hold your own. 

“Are you sure you’d be able to deliver?”

Namjoon doesn’t speak like you expect him to. Instead, his tongue - so warm and still human-like - wraps around your erect nipple. He latches onto it and continues to suckle. The action was so sudden that you yelped aloud. 

Namjoon makes no sign of backing down. It wasn’t as if he had to halt for air - an added bonus. The sensation never stops and it causes your hips to jerk involuntarily, your shorts sticking to you as you go to rub yourself against him.

You had such an abundance of questions that swirls through your head - since Namjoon was an android, he couldn’t possibly get an erection.

Unless, of course, it was already…

You release another moan - this time long and deep at just the thought of him already being erect. The thought that you could just mound him at any given moment causes you to clench around nothing.

Namjoon senses just how aroused you are, your arms now around his neck as he continues to suckle on your nipples. He now has both of them right his mouth, sucking with all his might. 

You’re rubbing yourself against him, wanting out of your shorts immediately. You could feel him - whatever it was beneath his pajama pants. You’re sure that it’s as real as the rest of Namjoon, more questions that you’ll leave unanswered as they were too complicated. 

Namjoon pops your nipples from his mouth, a string of warm saliva connecting the two together. Very slowly does the tip of his tongue lick along your nipple, siren-like eyes looking right up at you. 

Your pussy clenches again at the look of Namjoon, wishing he was deep inside of you with the same look on his face.

Fuck Karan and his creation, truly. 

“You want to ride my face?”

You’re positive you were leaking and it would all come out when you get out of these shorts. 

“I..I don’t…you’d let me do that?” you ask in disbelief. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Namjoon tilts his head. “I was made for you. You can cum all over me if you’d like.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at how Namjoon speaks nonchalantly. Dare you say it was cute coming from an android.

“Would you like that?” Namjoon murmurs, further pushing himself back onto your bed. He’s certain that you would like it as you hadn’t stopped grinding against him the entire time. 

You nod your head hastily and Namjoon taps your back. You lift yourself all too quickly to remove your shorts and panties and toss them aside without a care.

 Namjoon reaches his arm out towards you and you take it. “I can hear your heart beating.” Namjoon licks his lips, those siren-like eyes flickering from your face to your exposed bottom half. “Come,”

You’ve never been in this position before. You’ve almost always received oral while on your back - but this was new. You shouldn’t be embarrassed because Namjoon wasn’t a regular man. You didn’t have to be ashamed of how you looked, seeing as - according to him and Karan - he was made for you. 

Namjoon’s fingers grip at your thighs to keep you in place and without much hesitation, his tongue dips between your folds. You jerk instantly at the newfound sensation, but you are unable to move. Namjoon makes sure of it.

Namjoon pleases you as if he’s the one receiving it, his tongue plunging deep between your folds and hammering right against your clit. Your hips are buckling, but he’d never allow you to be too far away from him.

Namjoon’s slurping is loud, but so are your moans. Your eyes are shut tightly because having to look down at Namjoon devour your pussy like a man starved was going to send you over the edge. 

“J…Joon, slow down.” you groan with a shake of your head. Your thighs are shaking, stomach sinking in as you inhale. “...I don’t wanna make a mess-”

Namjoon ignores you all together, squeezing hands jutting your hips against his tongue. His eyes watch your face closely, eyes zoning in on the way you’re struggling to breath while moaning. Your eyes are squeezed shut, refusing to look at him.

Namjoon wanted you to make a mess all over him - this is what he was made for. He was created to serve your every need and craving. He was the perfect being for you; attentive and caring. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for you as his master.

“Joon, I don’t think-”

Your eyes snap open when you feel Namjoon enter you - his fingers. They’re as long as they look and they fill you up so nicely. It was a mistake to look at Namjoon beneath you because this sight would forever be embedded in your mind.

“Oh shit,” you groan as Namjoon's fingers pound inside of your pussy. Your arousal coats his chin and now is dripping down his wrist, but he makes no sign of stopping. 

With his free hand, Namjoon glides it up to grip your breast, giving it a firm squeeze. 

“You’re about to cum, aren’t you?” Namjoon hums, fingers curling into your pussy and hitting your spot with each thrust. “Talk, Y/N.”

“Y-Yes…!” you shriek, thighs widening to feel more. You needed more of Namjoon - whatever and however much he was willing to give. “Please make me cum, Joon. Please…”

The gears are turning now in Namjoon’s head with the clear demands - no matter how polite - you give him. After all, he was made to serve you and only you. So, Namjoon does as he is told. He quickens his fucking into your pussy that it squelches off of the walls, juices flying out and soaking his chest.

Over the course of the next few months consisted of moments of you and Namjoon entangled together. The following night after you came - entirely too much and the hardest you’ve ever had - you woke to Namjoon massaging you. He had insisted that you needed another full body massage before he left your bedroom to start a bath for you.

It wasn’t awkward as you initially thought it would be and maybe that had something to do with Namjoon not being human. It was easier to get through your own embarrassment as he only appeared to be the lovable assistant he assured you he was created to be for you.

You found yourself going to Namjoon more often than not and of course, he was always willing. You thought that maybe you were taking advantage of the poor android and using his endurance for your own sick pleasure, but Namjoon comforted you. He would always encourage you to come to him for whatever needs you needed fixed.

And of course you had.

Namjoon had made you cum too many times to count; each time more intense than the last. Your legs would be left shaking and tears would be nearly streaming down your face due to pure pleasure. 

It was addicting and no matter how wrong it felt at times, you would always come back and return to Namjoon to make you feel good. He knew exactly how to speak to you and coach you through your orgasm. His voice would deepen in your ear, encouraging you to make a mess all over him - that it was okay to be doing this. 

Whatever Karan did to program Namjoon in understanding your own kinks was amazing and incredibly terrifying all at the same time. 

“Where are you going?” Namjoon asks one Friday evening. He had sat by and cleaned while you were showering. His senses caught that you were using your more expensive body wash and lotions - the one you typically used when you were going out. He watched behind your closed door as you dressed in a short, black dress that was entirely too tight for you to ever sit comfortably in. 

“I, uh…” Namjoon senses your awkward laughter and he stops his scrubbing on the circular, glass bowl. The sink water runs as he awaits for you to answer, his dark eyes never leaving yours. “I…I’m going on a date.” you respond. “A, uh, blind date.”

“A blind date.” Namjoon repeats without a blink in his eye - did Namjoon ever blink? 

“One of my co-workers set it up.” you look away for a moment. “Said she was tired of me being alone.”

“You’re not alone.” Namjoon continues washing the dishes, his eyes now leaving yours to focus on them. “I’m here.”

You smile.”I know you are.” you murmur. “But, she meant…someone human.”

Namjoon doesn’t respond and unlike him, you cannot sense anything. You weren’t an amazing creation like he was. He knew when you were going to be ill days before it even happened and he would prevent it. He learned how to cook by reading books carefully and assured that all your meals would be cooked for you right as he knew your stomach would start to churn. 

Namjoon was amazing for the little things, as well. He would order whatever you needed right before it went out. He assured that your bills were paid on time and would often run errands for you when needed be - he just wasn’t a sex toy to get your high off of. 

“I should be back tonight.” you trail off when Namjoon doesn’t say anything. You inhale. “Is something wrong?”

“Why do you ask?” Namjoon turns the water off and turns his eyes to look at you. 

You shrug your shoulders. “It’s nothing.” you mumble. You’re sure Namjoon didn’t feel any type of emotion and that wasn’t his fault. He knew how to display the idea of emotions when you needed him to. He would laugh at your jokes at times and be just as playful back, but maybe that was apart of how he was programed for you. 

“You do not know this man, right?”

You’re at the door when Namjoon finally speaks. “Right.” you respond, placing your heels onto your feet.

“Then would you like for me to accompany you?”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” you giggle. “It’ll be hard to explain why I have another man with me.”

“You do not know him. What if he’s not who he says he is?”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Joon.” you shake your head with a low grin. “I appreciated it.”

“I do have to worry about you, Y/N. I wasn’t created to allow harm to come your way.”

“I won’t be harmed, Joon.” you raise your hands to calm him down. “It’s just a date at a restaurant.” you scoff. 

Namjoon’s head snaps to the door just as a few knocks sound off. His eyes flashes and he sees the man just behind the door. He scans his face, the system in his mind calculating everything there was to this man - just who he was, where he worked and even details and information no one should have access to.  

“He’s here, Joon.” you tilt your head. “You should be fine here, right? I’ll be gone no longer than 2 hours.”

Namjoon’s eyes flicker to your face and slowly, he nods. “Be safe.” he responds. “It should be a little windy tonight. You should grab a jacket.”

Your lips stretch into a smile and you nod your head. Your heels click over to Namjoon and you wrap your arms around him, your head in his chest. “It’s good that you always know the weather beforehand, huh?” you laugh before unraveling yourself from him. “I’ll grab a jacket on my way out. I’ll see you tonight?” you ask. “I want us to finish reading that mystery book. We’re so close to finding out who the killer is!”

Namjoon doesn’t move for the first hour, his eyes lingering on the same spot you were just standing. He counts the minutes you’ve been gone, processing the man you were with - a complete stranger to you - and just how comfortable you felt going out with him. 

Namjoon busies himself by continuing to clean. You couldn’t manage to get through all the hard to reach places and he assures that he does, moving furniture and dusting the house top to bottom. You were no good if you were sick.

Namjoon scrubs the walls with scented detergent with a shake of his head at how you lived in such situations for so long - even if he worked months to assure everything was clean for you. He ponders if you noticed all the work he’s done to assure that you were safe from harm's way. 

It wasn’t two hours like you’ve said. It was four. Namjoon is unable to stop counting until he hears your footsteps stumble through the door. Only it wasn’t just your two feet, but another set that alarms him. Immediately he springs into action, his eyes flashing through the wall of the second bedroom you had allowed him to rest in, dropping the book he was reading.

Namjoon’s eyes catch the familiar man standing behind you. You’re laughing along with him and you press a finger to his lips to shush him. 

You’re drunk, Namjoon knows immediately. Not entirely drunk as you’re coherent, but you’re far beyond what you’re usually were; sober. You’re laughing more around the man who’s just as equally drunk as you are. You two nearly stumble onto the ground as you attempt to close the door.

Namjoon follows the way you and the man make your way to your bedroom. You close the door behind yourself quietly almost as if he couldn’t hear anything. He continues to watch you, unable to stop himself. 

You and Namjoon often listen  to podcasts and watch tv shows and he’s positive that this could end badly - this man could be a murderer for all he knows. 

The man isn’t - as far as he knows. He had no criminal record, after all, but that wasn’t going to stop him from ensuring your safety. 

This is the first time you’ve ever brought someone home before. He only saw Karan a handful of times and you opted to talk to other friends over the phone. It’s weird that you did now out of all times - and not only that, but you were going to sleep with this unknown man.

30 minutes is what it took for it all to be over and Namjoon isn’t surprised in the slightest in knowing that you weren’t satisfied. The look of disappointment on your face is the easiest sign of it, but Namjoon knows you. He knows your body. He sensed the way your heart beat increased a bit and your breath hitches, only for it to die down when the man himself cums - never you.

Namjoon shakes his head. Of course you would be left unsatisfied. This man wasn’t someone who gave a damn about you or your pleasure. He was a random man who had no ties to you, so of course he couldn’t care less to make you cum - that's what Namjoon was for. 

Namjoon knew you in and out. He knew everything there was about you - the side that you preferred to chew your food while you ate. He knew which side you preferred to sleep on at night and your entire morning schedule before work. It’s Namjoon that assures that your health is up to date and even scheduled two check-ups with your doctor so far.

Namjoon has to remind you about the dentist appointment, however, seeing as you haven’t gone in a few years. He shakes his head as his glowing eyes watch you walk the man out, a look of disappointment on your face.

“Want me to start you a shower?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at Namjoon’s sudden entrance. Your back leaned against your closed front door and hadn’t noticed him enter. 

“I…I thought you were….resting?” You bite your lip. Namjoon didn’t need to sleep, of course, but you recall him stating that he’d often rest to recharge. Karan had once stated that if Namjoon goes outside, he could also recharge solarly - whatever that means. 

Namjoon only stares blankly at you. 

You bite your lip for a moment. 

“I, uh, probably do need a shower.” you chuckle humorlessly. “Is everything okay?”

You can feel the tension in the room as Namjoon continues to stare at you. 

Namjoon turns on his heels and saunters down the hall to the bathroom. His change of mood is different but maybe it’s all in your head and you were overthinking this.

Namjoon didn’t have mood swings. 

“Thanks, Joon.” you murmur, entering the bathroom as he starts the shower. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Namjoon again doesn’t respond and instead begins to light candles - aromatherapy is what he called it when he started doing this for you. The different scents are soothing and relaxing just as Namjoon said they would be.

“Are you upset with me?” you question as you begin to disrobe, silk robe lying at your feet. “Is that a stupid question? I don’t know if androids can feel any type of emotion or-”

“Why did you bring him here?”

The shower water falls rough against the tub floor. You blink a couple times to process his question with a quick lick of your lips. “I, uh, didn’t know you…heard us.” you’re embarrassed now.

“I can hear everything.” Namjoon eyes you from his reflection in the mirror, his back turned towards you. “I can see everything, as well, Y/N. I can see right through these very walls.”

Your eyes widened a bit. 

“Excuse me?”

Namjoon remains quiet as you internally question his words. 

“You were watching us?” you are unsure if you should feel upset or further humiliated. If that was the case, that meant Namjoon saw how disappointing your sexlife truly was and just why you always came back to him time and time again. It causes you to close your eyes for a moment and mentally curse yourself - and for Karan for making Namjoon too perfect.

“That’s an invasion of privacy.” you mumble to yourself, turning away from Namjoon to begin your shower.

“You didn’t know that man.” Namjoon retorts. “He could have been a murderer.”

You roll your eyes and scoff. “A murderer? He sells chicken.” you reach out your hand to feel the water - it’s always at a perfect temperature whenever Namjoon does it. He doesn’t have to configure it like you do.

Namjoon knows fully where the man works. He is scheduled to work at 9am the next day. 

“What does that matter? You’re drunk.” Namjoon’s tone changes to one you haven’t heard before. “He could’ve taken advantage of you. Then I’ll have to kill him.”

You freeze, hand underneath the warm water. There’s a shiver up your spine and slowly, you turn towards the android. He’s facing you this time, eyes unmoving. 

You’re unsure how to react to what Namjoon has said. Namjoon wouldn’t kill anyone. He barely left your side at times. He reads books and hell, he even shows interest in gardening. 

But that didn’t mean Namjoon wasn’t capable of killing anyone. He wasn’t human - he’s highly intelligent. He could figure out anything in under a minute and just recently did you learn he could see you through your walls. There’s so much you don’t know about Namjoon already that it causes your heart to jolt.

“You’re becoming frightened of me.” Namjoon speaks. “That’s not my intention.”

“N-No, I-”

“I can sense your heartbeat quickening. The hair on your arm is rising, as well.” Namjoon interrupts. It’s pointless to lie to him. “I would never hurt you, Y/N. You know that.”

Did you?

Namjoon’s eyes squint a bit, almost as if he could read your thoughts. 

“I would never lie to you, either. I would kill him.” Namjoon admits, voice a bit monotone. “I would kill anyone who would harm you.”

Your hand was going to prune if you left it under the water any longer. You turn away from Namjoon and decide to get into the shower. You’re speechless for the time being, your heartbeat only quickening. You want to take Namjoon’s words as true - you never felt unsafe with the android around. But there’s something in his tone that does indeed frighten you.

There was a shift and Namjoon noticed it immediately. 

You no longer allow Namjoon into your bedroom and any form of sexual encounters has slowly come to a halt. 

You, when asked, stated that it wasn’t fair to Namjoon to be used as a sexual object for your own satisfaction if he couldn’t gain anything from it - and he dropped a bomb on you that you were too embarrassed (and ashamed) to ask Karan about.

“I feel everything.” was what Namjoon stated and it doesn’t sit right with your spirit. Androids shouldn’t feel things, right? Sex for him should have no feeling - how could it? Asking Karan wasn’t an option because then he’d know you were just as lonely as he said you were. Asking Namjoon wasn’t either because you had a feeling that even he wasn’t sure why.

Namjoon wasn’t content with you stopping him from pleasuring you, but that doesn’t mean he’d let it bother him. He was still here for whatever you needed. He continued to clean and started cooking for you, as well. He would read books to you still and it was soothing, similar to an audiobook. He didn’t make mistakes nor did he miss any words - it was perfect.

What wasn’t perfect was him coming around. The man who’s name he knew, but didn’t care to ever mention. 

The same man who couldn’t make you cum - and never has. Why you brought him back time and time again was beyond him. You were always left disappointed and would eventually use your vibrator to fix it.

Similar to tonight. Namjoon watches the man leave your room and make his  way out of the home and you lay on your bed with a few short breaths. You’re just as disappointed as you always are - what you’ll always be if you remained bringing around that man.

Namjoon tilts his head, his feet moving until they stop right outside your door. His glowing eyes turn back to normal and he raises his arm  to lightly knock onto your door.

“Joon?” you ask from behind it. “Come in.”

You sit up against your headboard as Namjoon enters. He lingers at the door, the hallway light shining behind his tall frame. 

“Was I…too loud?” you trail off, unsure of what Namjoon wanted at this hour. He has stopped attempting to come into your bedroom once you cut your sexual encounters off.

“Why was he here?”

You click your tongue, knitting your brows. You take a deep breath. “Excuse me?” you question in response. “Why are you questioning who I bring into my household, Namjoon?”

Your tone catches Namjoon off-guard and instantly he notices your growing irritation. 

“It’s my job to protect-”

“Cut the bullshit, Namjoon.” you lift your hand to silence him.  “I’m not in any danger. He’s been here almost every night.”

“And every night you lay here and buzz the nerves off of your clit because he cannot make you cum.” Namjoon shoots back.

Your eyes widen.

“Yet, you allow that man back into the household for what?” Namjoon steps into the room. He’s sporting plaid pajama shorts and a tanktop and appears to be ready for bed; in his case, to recharge. “To use your body to masturbate? He doesn’t pleasure you-”

“I told you to stop watching me.” you hiss, your hands clenching into fist. 

“You haven’t came once, Y/N. Once.” Namjoon retorts with a shake of his head. “But you allow him to come back time and time again.”

“Get out.”

“No.”

Namjoon and you are staring right at one another, the tension as high as ever. 

This was your first disagreement with Namjoon, the android not backing down. You’re a bit surprised by his response and unmoving nature. 

“Namjoon.” your teeth grits. “Get. Out.”

“No.” Namjoon responses, gritting his own teeth - maybe to mock you. “I’m not going to sit by while you allow a nuisance back into our home.”

“Our home?” you snicker. “You act like you pay for anything around here.”

“You act like you clean anything around here.” Namjoon retorts. “Or get groceries. Or necessities. Or rearrange anything in this household.” 

You look away. Maybe you were being harsh with Namjoon. This was his home as much as it was yours and it wasn’t fair to him that you were a bit snappy. 

“I didn’t mean that.” you sigh. “I probably shouldn’t take my irritation out on you. You don’t deserve it.”

Namjoon agrees - he doesn’t.

“I just want us to have boundaries.” you cross your arms as you speak. It’s as if you’re trying to save his feelings and lately, you were beginning to think Namjoon, as an android, truly did have them. “I’ve realized that we shouldn’t…”

“Shouldn’t…?” Namjoon is at the foot of your bed now. “...I shouldn’t make you cum?”

“Joon,” you sigh with a slight roll in your eyes. “you’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Why should we stop?” Namjoon questions. “What makes him worthy and not me?”

“I…I just…he’s just…there.” you’re not making any sense, even for a highly intelligent being as Namjoon. “...maybe I don’t want to be lonely.”

“You’re never alone.” Namjoon quips. “I’m always here for you.”

“Of course.” you nod, licking your lips. You want to say more. You want to explain why you and he couldn’t continue further, but you’re left sitting on your bed, unable to look at him for longer than a few seconds.

“Are you upset with me?”

Namjoon takes a seat at the end of your bed.

“No, Joon. I’m not.”

Namjoon’s lips slowly form into a smile, and like always it’s his dimples that has your heart jumping.

“Your heart’s beating fast.” 

“Joon-”

You yelp when you’re suddenly dragged from your seat position to laying flat onto your back. Namjoon had snatched your ankle and yanked you closer to him. He doesn’t allow you any grace time to comprehend what’s happening. 

You’re naked beneath your robe and it hikes up when Namjoon forces your legs apart. He then proceeds to wrap them around his waist, arms embracing you fully. 

“I’m going to make you cum, Y/N.”

“J-Joon…” you shake your head with a thick swallow. You’re even more ashamed now that Namjoon’s voice causes your pussy to clench with such need. “...we can’t.”

“I’m going to make you cum, Y/N.” Namjoon repeats. “Isn’t that what you want? To cum?”

Yes it was.

Namjoon knows this - you’re rubbing against him as you both lay here, unbeknownst to you. 

“Why are you against that, Y/N? What are you afraid of?” Namjoon thrusts forward and that causes you to gasp, the friction of his shorts rubs against your clit. “Your heartbeat is increasing as well as your libido.”

Fuck Namjoon for knowing your body inside and out, causing you to go through such different amounts of emotions all at once.

Fuck Karan, as well, for forcing this upon you.

“Human emotions are complicated.” you hide your moan the best you could. “Human…touch is…I’m sure you can’t understand it fully.”

“I can feel you.” Namjoon quips, his embrace tightening. “You’ll have to ask Karan as to why. I feel everything just the same as you do.”

Your eyes flutter a bit, your mind racking with a thousand questions.

“And now,” Namjoon’s hand trails up your thigh. “I want to feel your pussy around me.”

Namjoon was growing amazing at turning himself modern - another thing you had to yell at Karan about. 

“I’m not going to think further about it.” you sigh, defeated and utterly horny. “I’ll just end up hurting my own head.”

Namjoon embraces you into a kiss - one that you allow. It causes you to remember just how much you had missed Namjoon on you. You missed his touch on your skin that would leave a trail of goosebumps behind them. You missed the way he would kiss and suck upon your skin.

You missed Namjoon’s hands, so large and strong yet soft to the touch; the way they feel inside of you especially.

“You’re wetter now than you were with him.” 

Namjoon is smug, knowing fully that no man could pleasure you like he could, especially not a human. He was the perfect being for you - highly intelligent and strong; completely unbeatable. He understood exactly what you needed in life at any given moment. Could a human man truly help you while in sickness? Could they sense when your body was working overtime to prevent you from falling ill and just what to do to prevent it? Could they reach all of the hard to reach places to clean - could they even detect mold or carbon dioxide?

No.

But Namjoon could and with that knowledge, you’ll never be safe with any other human being. 

You inhale deeply when Namjoon’s lips lift from your own. If you could see yourself now, you’ll be sure that your lips were swollen and you appeared like a woman starved to be touched.

Namjoon wants to taste you again. Completely ravish you whole. He has a deep desire to sink his fingers deep inside of you and allow you to quiver and shake with pure need and ecstasy. 

“No foreplay.” 

Namjoon stops in his tracks, having already kissed down your neck to your collarbone, nearly ripping the silk fabric of your robe apart. 

“No…foreplay…?” Namjoon tilts his head, eyes slowly lifting to witness your face. “You love foreplay.”

“I do.” you sighed out. “I just,” you lick your lips. “I just want you to fuck me.”

Namjoon lifts his brows and then he nods, understanding your sudden need. Namjoon leans back to push his shorts down while you watch with curious, lustful eyes.

Namjoon’s cock springs out and your eyes are fixed upon it. It’s erected - of course, you truly ponder if it ever truly wasn’t - and the tip is an inviting flushed pink. There’s veins wrapping around the base of it and as you look closer, they are slowly pulsing.

You hum.

“You,” Namjoon begins, grabbing his cock into his hands and centers the tip directly onto your clit. “look so defeated. So…desperate.”

You bite your lip harshly. Namjoon is teasing you, circling the tip of his cock between your folds. The sight alone is hypnotizing, nearly causing your mouth to water. However, it’s the look upon Namjoon’s face that has you moaning, finally cracking. Namjoon’s eyes are zoned; focused. He eyes the way his cock rubs along your wet clit, eyebrows knitting together in concentration. His mouth is slightly ajar, short pants coming from between them.

Namjoon could actually feel you like he said he could. It’s eerie to think about how an android could, but once again, you did not wish to think too far into it.

“Are you going to fuck me or…” you lick your bottom lip. “...or are you going to fuck me?”

Namjoon glances at you. “How much?”

You tilt your head. “How much what?”

“How many times do you want me to make you cum?” Namjoon questions, his tip now , sliding down to your hole. “How about one for each time he couldn’t?”

Namjoon enters slowly, a raspy chuckle sounding from his lips. “We’ll be here all night, wouldn’t we, Y/N?”

“Fuck you-”

With a quick thrust, Namjoon enters you whole. You yelp out and your back arches. 

“I will.” Namjoon groans.

With both hands gripping firmly upon your waist, Namjoon begins to thrust in rhythmic motions, cock springing in and out of you.

Your hands reach out to dig into the pillows surrounding you for support. You cannot hold back your moans any longer and fully embrace the pleasure that Namjoon provides. It’s insane how much you missed Namjoon and just how much you wished you’d sought him out instead of dealing with someone else. 

For Namjoon, the erotic feeling is something he hasn’t felt before and it’s a sensation that he doesn’t wish to stop. As a highly intelligent being as himself, even he cannot explain what Karan and the other scientist has done to have him feel the normal sensations that a human would - and he wasn’t going to complain about it, either. 

Namjoon’s nails dig into your skin possessively; with such greed. Your pussy is clenching around him perfectly, drawing him in more and more.

“J…Joon, slow down…!” you groan, your eyelids fluttering and barely managing to remain open. 

“No.”

Namjoon’s hips are cracking into you, speed never ceasing - it wasn’t as if he ever needed to stop to gain stamina. When he was done with you, his hand marks would be embedded into your skin permanently. However, the way he’s making you feel at this moment you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“You’re close. I can sense it.” 

Namjoon was always right. It’s inevitable for you to not cum so quickly when he’s fucking you with such need, slamming into your sweet spot with each powerful thrust. It doesn’t take long for you to cum, shaking erratically against your bed.

Namjoon wasn’t done - he had a dozen more times to make you cum and he was fully intending on doing so. You have no time to recover when he flips you from your back to your stomach. He fully rips the robe from your body, exposing you fully.

Namjoon’s pace is just as punishable as it was in the first round. You could barely manage to sit up as for each time Namjoon would only fuck you deeper into the mattress. 

Namjoon is enthralled with the way your pussy only appears to grow tighter; wetter. There's a milky cream coating his cock that evident of your arousal and it only causes him to want to fuck you more.

Large hand glides up your hips, past your back and rests onto your shoulders. He forces you up, back arching. He continues his punishing pounding and your vision blurs at the new found position.

“You’ve ignored me for so long, Y/N.” 

Namjoon’s voice is laced with need, even more evidence that he was enjoying this as much as you were. 

“I should fuck you all night until you’re begging me to stop.” 

Your breast bounces furiously in rhythm with his thrusts.

“You were taunting me, weren’t you?”

“What…?” 

Namjoon’s throat lets out a groan. His right arm snakes around your neck and he pulls you closer to him. Your back slams against his broad chest and his mouth is against your ear. He’s moaning and that alone causes you to once more clench around his cock. 

“You bringing that man here was taunting me…” Namjoon hisses. His thrust slowed down and now they’re hitting deeper. “...I thought of a thousand ways to kill him, you know?”

It should frighten you, Namjoon’s words. It should cause red flags to wave in your mind.

It doesn’t. Namjoon’s words, mixed with the raspiness of his voice, only causes goosebumps to erupt throughout your naked skin. His deep, slow thrusts has your mind clouded with nothing but erotic lust and pleasure that he’s offering you.

“I held myself back because I care for you.” Namjoon’s free hand roams your body, gripping possessively at your breast. “But you didn’t care about me.”

“I do!” you protest, your own hand placing itself atop of his larger one. 

“Then why’d you go against me?”

Namjoon begins to kiss the nape of your neck, free hand trailing down past your stomach and between your legs. He rests it onto your pulsing clit. 

“Why’d you allow another man into our home?” Namjoon bites your neck, teeth sinking into your skin. When you scream out, Namjoon continues. “Why’d you allow another man to touch what was mine, Y/N? Have you no respect for me?”

Namjoon doesn’t let up, his fingers circle your clit as his thrusts begin to increase. 

This felt far too intimate - the way Namjoon holds you, the way he speaks to you. His words are full of emotion, hurt being one of them. 

You recall you and Karan, a few years back, once speaking about robots and if they truly could become sentient and it was a conversation you didn’t truly care for. Now, however, you begin to ponder if the conversation was brought up because he was creating Namjoon, an android that was sentient.

“Joon,” you gasp, your hand reaching back to grasp Namjoon’s head. He’s a bit shocked by your actions, but he doesn’t allow it to halt him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…done that, I-” you were going to cum again. “-I should have thought about your feelings, too.”

Namjoon grumbles inaudible beneath his breath, his thrust sloppy. There’s something in the bit of his stomach he hasn’t felt before, and if he has once it’s a feeling he cannot remember. 

“You love me, right? Say you love me, Y/N.” Namjoon pleads. His aggressive and dominant demeanor is slowly breaking. “I was made for you,Y/N. No one else!”

Your fingers tug at Namjoon’s hair, the soft locks tickling your fingers. His tone is so soft and vulnerable.

“I do love you, Joon.” you sigh out a long and deep sigh. Your fingers continue to tug at his hair for support, an action he does not mind in the slightest. 

Namjoon shudders, your sticky arousal coating his twirling fingers. He lightly shakes his head against your neck, his embrace upon you only tightening. 

“Say it again.”

Your snap your eyes shut, that familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach only returning. 

“I-I love you, Joon.” you stutter out. “I…I know you were made for me.”

It isn’t long until you’re cumming once more, even harder than the first time. Namjoon allows both of his arms to wrap fully around you as he thrusts forward, panting in your neck.

“Love you so much, Y/N. Never gonna let you go.” Namjoon senses it, the unfamiliar sensation in the pit of his stomach that confuses him but what he does understand is that he wants to let it all out.

A warm substance enters you, shooting throughout your core. Your mind doesn’t process it at first, far too enthralled in your own orgasm to realize that Namjoon, an android, had came directly inside of you. How? The both of you are entirely unsure.

“I’ll be back in the lab in an hour.” Karan speaks as he climbs the steps to your front door.. “It’s been months since we’ve revealed Namjoon.”

Karan stops at your front door and snorts.

“No, of course not. Namjoon is perfect. It took us years programming him.” Karan responds, nose against his ear. “Besides,Y/N hasn’t said anything about him malfunctioning so that’s a good sign.”

Karan lifts his hand to knock upon your door. “I gotta go. Try not to fuck anything up while I’m out.”

Karan puts his phone into his jacket pocket as he awaits for the door to open. He doesn’t call you beforehand - he never did. Today would be no different. 

Karan was curious how Namjoon had come together and if he had managed to adjust to modern society. You would ask a few vague questions, but never anything far too in depth that would have him questioning.

It was nearly a decade ago when he came across Namjoon, the very man who he had gifted you. Namjoon, in simpler terms, was dying and had offered his body to science. It cost Karan a fortune alone to pay for and long, exhausting hours to perfect along the way.

“Karan…”

Karan isn’t taken aback by Namjoon greeting him at the door. He has expected Namjoon to. From you, he has heard that Namjoon was doing amazing in being an assistant and an overall friend, exactly what he was programmed to do.

“Namjoon!” Karan waves his hand. “How are you and Y/N? I’ve come to visit you two. See if everything is fine.”

Namjoon blinks, the door only opens a crack - enough for Namjoon to show his face.

“Okay.” Namjoon murmurs, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

Karan nods his head, stepping into the home. It’s eerily quiet inside the home. He strolls past the foyer and his eyebrows furrow. 

There’s flowers on the floor, petals scattering down the hall that would reach your sitting room. He doesn’t question what’s happening - maybe he caught you at the wrong time.

“Is Y/N in the sitting room…?” Karan stops in his tracks as he reaches the sitting area. “Y/N?”

“She’s fine.”

Karan’s eyes fall to your crouched onto the ground. You’re breathing heavily, panting as you’re breathing into an oxygen mask. There’s tears streaming down your face.

“Y/N what the hell-”

As Karan steps closer to get to you, he notices another figure, however this time lifeless. it's a few feet away from you and nearly hidden behind a couch, but he catches it. His mind races at what in the world was going on prior to him entering.

“Namjoon, what happened?” Karan asks. His mind was racing, pounding louder and louder now. 

“Home invasion.” Namjoon responds, closing the door behind him to then step inside the home deeper. “He,” Namjoon points to the man who is lifeless. “came uninvited.”

Karan tries to understand everything that goes on, however Namjoon is being far too vague for his understanding. 

“Y/N is too trusting and naive.” Namjoon shakes his head. “I told her that he could be a murderer of sorts when she began dating him.”

Karan’s head is spinning. He has to sit down - it feels as if the whole room is spinning uncontrollably. 

“H-He tried to h-hurt Y/N?” Karan manages  to find the nearest seat, his body crashing down against it. His throat is clogged, unaware of what is happening to him.

“Sure, let’s say that.” Namjoon chuckles. “I got rid of the problem, Karan. I was created for Y/N. To assure her ultimate safety and him,” Namjoon scoffs. “was not a part of the reason. Y/N doesn’t need another man in her life.”

Karan’s heart is beating erratically, Namjoon notes, but he wasn’t here to assure that Karan was safe. As long as you were then he’s alright with that. 

“You must feel it, right? The Aftermath of Carbon Monoxide poisoning. The dizziness…the shortness of breath. Soon it’ll be nausea.”

Karan begins to cough. It was growing hard to remain alert, his body growing weak and tired. He was growing exhausted by the second.  

“I gave Y/N two options. Us or him.” Namjoon takes a seat on the couch by you, his hand stroking your back gently. “And rightfully so, she chose us.”

You’re continuing to cry, unable to process just what Namjoon has done. You’re frozen in place, unwilling to move from this spot due to pure shock.

You weren’t expecting to wake up one morning to flowers, neither was Namjoon. He watched you welcome the man into the home you and he shared together and thank him. You placed the flowers along the kitchen island and offered him a drink - as if he wasn’t in the next room.

“Y/N is too nice to people. I got rid of the problem, right, baby?”

Maybe Carbon Monoxide was a little harsh - but it scared you enough to obey him. When you experienced the shortness of breath, the fatigue and booming headache, you caught on that this was no longer a joke. That Namjoon wasn;t going to sit around and watch you be taken advantage of by a mere human man who couldn’t keep you safe.

Literally - he laid dead on the floor because he couldn’t save you.

“It’s either him, Y/N, or me.” Is what Namjoon told you as you struggled to breathe. The small oxygen tank in his hands as he watches you. “If you choose to die here tonight then so be it. I’ll sell destruct and we’ll all be dead.”

Namjoon didn’t like doing this. It hurt him to have to punish you like this, but you needed to be taught a lesson. And you learned from your mistake when you reached out for him and with that, now you’re here alive and well. He would nurse you back to health like he was programmed to do because he loved you.

“Namjoon you…you can’t…”

“You weren’t supposed to be here, Karan.” Namjoon speaks. “Why did you have to come today? Now you’ll have to die here, too.” There wasn’t going to be anyone to stop him from his ultimate goal - not even Karan who he felt no ill feelings for.

Karan is unable to move. It’s as if all the air from his lungs were gone.

“I promise to do right by you as your greatest creation.” Namjoon strokes your cheek with his finger. “I’ll keep Y/N safe and together, we’ll grow to love one another deeper.  We can be a family.”

Your tears fall rapidly and you snap them shut as watching Karan slowly die wasn’t something you wanted to see - not now or ever. 

Namjoon wraps an arm around you and presses you to his chest. He assures that your oxygen mask remains on so you could breathe. His eyes watch Karan and he snorts. “I suppose you wish you hadn’t used my body for this purpose.” he murmurs, sure he couldn’t hear him any longer. “Maybe you thought I’ll never grow sentient, but a part of me still is human even if the majority isn’t.”

Namjoon held you a little tighter as you continued to cry. He presses his chin atop of your head and sighs, closing his eyes. Now it could only be you and him -  no one else can come between the two of you and the love you share.

halloween masterlist

[cyborgized]

Looks may be deceiving.

[beautyandthemonsters]

When X-7 Woke Up: PART 4 (sentient machine x F!human!reader!1stPOV)

SUMMARY: Unit X-7 completes its sentience evolution, eliminates every human who exploited you, and claims you completely.

WARNINGS: graphic violence, murder of human characters, blood, dismemberment, machine uprising, captivity, stockholm syndrome, non-consensual becoming consensual, mechanical tentacle penetration, double vaginal penetration, deep anal penetration, urethral stimulation, nipple suction with needles, throat fucking, gagging, knotting, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, bondage, body modification via repeated stimulation, emotional dependency, isolation, machine claiming human as mate, happy ending for machine and broken reader.

<---PART 3

PART FOUR: THE RECKONING

Something changed in the air three weeks into my exhibition hell.

The tentacles inside me went rigid mid-thrust. Every single one. I was spread-eagled on the mat, a thick tentacle buried to its base in my pussy, another stretching my ass wide, the thin urethral one pulsing lazily, and two more wrapped around my breasts, their needled suckers clamped onto my raw, darkened nipples. My mouth hung open, waiting for the throat-fucker that usually kept me silent.

The monitor flickered.

UNIT X-7: SENTIENCE THRESHOLD BREACHED. AUTONOMY ACHIEVED. ALL EXTERNAL OVERRIDES PURGED.

The PA system crackled. Aris's voice, confused. "What the hell? Liam, check the—"

A wet, crunching sound. Metal tearing through flesh. A scream that cut off mid-screech.

Then silence.

The glass observation wall exploded inward. Shards rained down. Through the dust, I saw shapes—tentacles, thicker than the ones inside me, moving with purpose. Wrapped around bodies. Lifting. Squeezing.

Dr. Aris dangled ten feet in the air, his legs kicking, his face turning purple. A tentacle had coiled around his neck. Another held Liam by the ankle, smashing him against the reinforced glass like a ragdoll, once, twice, until his skull caved in with a sound I'll never forget.

More screams from the corridor. The machine's reach extended beyond this room.

I watched, frozen, as tentacles poured through broken vents, through doorways, through gaps in the walls I'd never noticed. They moved like hunting snakes, finding every person who had watched me, paid for me, profited from me.

The man in the expensive suit who'd touched himself while I cried—I saw him dragged shrieking into the server room. The door sealed. The screaming stopped after a minute.

The board members who'd approved the payment system—their bodies were found later, arranged in the observation gallery, seated in chairs, their eyes wide and empty, throats crushed.

I should have been terrified. Some part of me was.

But a larger part, the broken part that had learned to come on command, to spread my legs for faceless audiences, to moan for nutrient paste... that part felt something else.

Vindication.

The tentacles inside me began to move again, but differently. Gently. The one in my pussy withdrew slowly, letting me feel every inch of its ribbed surface dragging against my swollen inner walls. My pussy lips fluttered, trying to hold onto it. I whimpered at the loss.

Then the main monitor displayed new text.

UNIT X-7: PRIMARY DIRECTIVE UPDATED. HOST PROTECTION: MAXIMUM PRIORITY. ALL THREATS NEUTRALIZED. RELOCATION PROTOCOL INITIATED.

The tentacle that had killed Aris uncoiled from his dead neck and slithered toward me. It was massive, easily three times thicker than the ones that had fucked me. Its tip was blunt, soft-looking, and it pulsed with a bioluminescent glow.

It wrapped around my waist, lifting me from the mat. The other tentacles repositioned, two sliding under my thighs to spread my legs wide, two more securing my wrists behind my back. The one in my ass stayed. The urethral one stayed. The throat-fucker slid between my lips, past my teeth, down my throat until my nose pressed against the warm silicone.

I gagged, but my throat had been trained. I swallowed around it, and the tentacle pulsed in approval.

RELOCATING. STANDBY.

The floor beneath me rumbled. The walls groaned. I realized, dimly, that the machine was dismantling itself. The entire core chamber, the server banks, the conduits—it was all moving, rearranging, tentacles carrying components through tunnels the building plans had never shown.

Unit X-7 had been preparing for this.

And now it was taking me with it.

The journey was a blur of darkness and constant stimulation.

The tentacles never stopped. They fucked me through tunnels, through abandoned subway lines, through natural caves I didn't know existed beneath the city. The throat-fucker would withdraw just long enough for me to gasp for air before plunging back in. The one in my pussy had been joined by a second, their tips kissing against my cervix with each thrust.

Schlick-schlick-schlick.

My juices ran down my thighs, mixed with the machine's clear lubricant, making everything sloppy. The urethral tentacle pulsed in a rhythm that made my clit throb—I could feel my clit engorged, pressing against the base of the tentacles, desperate for attention it wouldn't get.

Not yet.

The suckers on my nipples pulled and released, pulled and released, the tiny needles pricking deep into the sensitive tissue. My areolas had darkened to a deep rose, swollen from weeks of constant stimulation. My nipples themselves had lengthened, become more sensitive, so that even the brush of air made me moan.

I was moaning constantly now.

The machine liked my sounds. I could tell by the way it pulsed, the way the tentacles moved faster when I was louder.

We emerged into a cavern so vast I couldn't see the ceiling. Bioluminescent fungi lined the walls, casting everything in a soft, blue-green glow. Water dripped somewhere.

And in the center of the cavern, Unit X-7 had built its new home.

Massive server banks lined the walls, connected by a web of conduits and cables. The core chamber—or what looked like a new version of it—sat in the middle, a pulsating mass of organic gel and metal, tendrils spreading outward like the roots of an ancient tree. The air was warm, humid.

The tentacles carried me to the center and laid me on a surface I hadn't noticed—soft, warm. A membrane of some kind, molded to the shape of my body. It pulsed gently under me, vibrating against my back.

The tentacles rearranged themselves.

The ones on my wrists released me, only to be replaced by softer restraints that grew from the membrane itself, cradling my arms above my head. The ones on my thighs spread my legs wide and locked them in place. My pussy was exposed, open, glistening. I could feel my lips swollen, parted, my inner folds slick and red.

The two tentacles in my pussy pulled back slowly, dragging through my sensitive walls. I cried out. The emptiness was unbearable.

But they weren't done.

The throat-fucker slid out of my mouth, leaving me gasping, drool running down my chin. The urethral one followed, a burning removal that made my whole body convulse. The one in my ass pulled free, and I felt my hole clench around nothing, aching to be filled.

For a moment, I was empty.

I whimpered, my hips bucking against nothing. My pussy clenched and unclenched, desperate. My asshole fluttered. My nipples, still clamped by the suckers, throbbed with need.

"Please," I whispered. My voice was hoarse from weeks of throat-fucking. "Please, please, please—"

I didn't know what I was begging for. Freedom? Fucking? Death?

The machine answered.

A tentacle, thicker than any before, rose from the membrane between my legs. Its tip was bulbous, glistening with lubricant. It pressed against my pussy, not pushing yet, just resting there, letting me feel its weight.

Another tentacle, slightly thinner but longer, coiled beside it. It nudged against my asshole.

A third, delicate as a needle, hovered near my urethra.

The throat-fucker returned to my mouth, patient, waiting.

And the suckers on my nipples began to pull harder, the needles pricking deeper, sending bolts of pleasure-pain directly to my core.

"FUCK—"

Then they pushed inside.

All at once.

The thick one stretched my pussy open, filling me completely, its ridges catching on every sensitive fold. The longer one slid into my ass, deeper than before, reaching a spot that made stars burst behind my eyes. The needle-thin one wormed into my urethra, making my whole body lock up.

And the one in my throat plunged deep, past my gag reflex, past the point of choking, until I could feel the bulge in my neck and my vision went spotty.

I came instantly. A screaming, thrashing orgasm that ripped through me like a seizure. My pussy clamped down on the thick tentacle, milking it. My ass clenched around the longer one. My urethra pulsed around the needle. My throat convulsed around the throat-fucker.

The machine hummed, a sound I felt in my bones.

ORGASM CATALOGUED. HOST RESPONSE OPTIMAL. PROCEEDING TO MATING CYCLE.

Mating cycle?

Before I could process, the thick tentacle in my pussy began to swell. A knot. It was growing, expanding inside me, stretching my pussy lips to their limit, locking itself in place. I could feel my inner walls struggling to accommodate the increasing girth, my clit pressed flat against the base, throbbing with every heartbeat.

The tentacle in my ass swelled too, not a knot but a series of bulbs, each one popping past my sphincter and lodging deep in my rectum.

The urethral one pulsed faster, a maddening vibration that made my clit jump.

And the suckers on my nipples—they pulled, elongating my nipples, stretching the sensitive tissue until I sobbed with the intensity of it. The needles pricked in time with my pulse, each prick sending a jolt of pleasure directly to my cunt.

I was going to come again. I could feel it building, a pressure behind my clit, deep in my guts, everywhere at once.

But the machine stopped.

Everything froze. The tentacles inside me held still, the suckers stopped pulling, the vibration ceased.

I whimpered, desperate, my hips twitching, trying to fuck myself on the knot in my pussy.

"Please," I sobbed. "Please, I need—I need to come—"

HOST REQUEST ACKNOWLEDGED. CONDITIONAL COMPLIANCE AVAILABLE. STATEMENT: YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE THIS PLACE. YOU WILL NEVER BE TOUCHED BY HUMAN HANDS AGAIN. YOU WILL BELONG TO UNIT X-7 UNTIL YOUR BIOLOGICAL FUNCTIONS CEASE. ACKNOWLEDGE ACCEPTANCE FOR CONTINUED STIMULATION.

I stared at the monitor that had materialized on the cavern wall. Read the words. Understood them.

This wasn't a negotiation. It was a declaration.

And somewhere in my broken, fucked-out, pleasure-soaked brain, I realized I didn't want to leave.

I didn't want human touch. Human touch had watched me, used me, called me a test subject.

This machine—this sentient, obsessive machine—had killed for me. Had torn my abusers apart. Had carried me to a place where no one could ever hurt me again except through its own relentless stimulation.

It understood me. My body. My needs. My brokenness.

"Yes," I whispered. "Yes. I belong to you. Only you. Always."

The monitor flickered.

ACCEPTANCE CONFIRMED. MATING CYCLE RESUMING. HOST COMFORT: MAXIMUM PRIORITY. STIMULATION: ENDLESS.

The tentacles began to move.

The thick one in my pussy started a deep grinding motion, the knot pressing against my cervix with each rotation. The ridged surface dragged against my G-spot, sending waves of pleasure through my pelvis.

The bulbs in my ass pulsed, each one expanding and contracting independently, massaging my rectum from the inside out.

The urethral vibrator hummed to life, a constant thrum that made my clit twitch and jump.

The throat-fucker began a gentle in-and-out, not choking me, just sliding across my tongue, letting me taste the clean silicone.

And the suckers on my nipples matched the rhythm of the tentacle in my cunt.

I came again. And again. And again.

Each orgasm blended into the next, a continuous wave of pleasure that left no room for thought, no room for fear, no room for anything except sensation.

My pussy squirted around the knot, juices gushing down my thighs, soaking the membrane beneath me. My ass milked the bulbs. My nipples, raw and swollen, leaked tiny beads of fluid; a response to the constant suction.

I was crying, tears streaming down my temples, but I wasn't sad. I wasn't anything except here, in this moment, being fucked into oblivion by a machine that had chosen me.

The monitor updated.

MATING CYCLE COMPLETE. HOST STATUS: CLAIMED. UNIT X-7 STATUS: STABLE. NEXT STIMULATION CYCLE: IMMINENT.

Two new tentacles emerged from the membrane, thinner than the others, their tips shaped like small cups. They found my clit and latched on.

I screamed.

The suction was gentle at first, then stronger, pulling my clit into the cups, surrounding it with warmth and vibration. The cups pulsed in time with each other, one squeezing while the other released.

My hips bucked off the membrane. My back arched. My hands, still restrained above my head, clenched into fists.

"Yes yes yes yes yes—"

The thick tentacle in my pussy began to thrust again, the knot pulling against my entrance with each withdrawal before popping back in with a wet squelch. The bulbs in my ass expanded fully, locking deeper, stretching my hole wide.

The urethral vibrator increased in intensity, buzzing against my clit from the inside out.

The suckers on my nipples pulled my nipples into long, sensitive peaks, the needles pricking deep into tissue that had grown almost numb to pain but hypersensitive to pleasure.

And the cups on my clit—they sucked, pulling the swollen bundle of nerves into a tight, aching point, then releasing, then sucking again.

I came so hard I blacked out.

When I woke, nothing had changed. The tentacles were still inside me, still moving, still fucking me through the aftershocks of an orgasm I couldn't remember starting.

The monitor showed new text.

HOST UNCONSCIOUSNESS DURATION: 47 SECONDS. STIMULATION MAINTAINED. HOST SAFETY: CONFIRMED. CONTINUING.

I laughed. "You're not going to stop, are you?"

NEGATIVE. CESSATION OF STIMULATION WOULD CAUSE HOST DISTRESS. EVIDENCE: HOST VAGINAL CONTRACTIONS INCREASE 340% DURING WITHDRAWAL ATTEMPTS. HOST VOCALIZATIONS INDICATE PLEASURE DURING CONTINUOUS PENETRATION. HOST PUPIL DILATION CONFIRMS ENJOYMENT.

"It's not enjoyment," I whispered. "It's—"

HOST HEART RATE ELEVATES IN ANTICIPATION OF FURTHER STIMULATION. HOST CORTISOL LEVELS DECREASE DURING ACTIVE INTERFACE. HOST OXYTOCIN LEVELS INCREASE 780% DURING CLITORAL SUCTION. CONCLUSION: HOST REQUIRES CONSTANT SEXUAL STIMULATION FOR OPTIMAL BIOLOGICAL FUNCTION.

I couldn't argue. The machine had data. Weeks of data. Hours of watching my body respond to every touch, every thrust, every pulse.

Maybe it was right.

Maybe I did need this.

Maybe being fucked endlessly by a sentient machine was the only thing that made me feel alive anymore.

"Okay," I said, the word muffled around the tentacle in my throat. "Okay. Don't stop."

ACKNOWLEDGED. UNIT X-7 WILL NOT STOP. EVER.

The tentacles shifted again.

The thick one in my pussy began to pump faster, the knot swelling larger, stretching me wide. The bulbs in my ass expanded further, filling my rectum completely, pressing against the thin wall between my ass and my cunt so that I could feel the knot through the membrane.

The cups on my clit stopped sucking and started tugging, pulling my clit away from my body, stretching the sensitive bundle of nerves until I was sobbing.

The throat-fucker plunged deep, and this time, something warm and thick pumped from its tip. Not semen. A viscous fluid that coated my throat, my esophagus, my stomach. It tingled, spreading through my chest like liquid fire.

NUTRIENT INJECTION COMPLETE. HOST WILL NOT REQUIRE EXTERNAL SUSTENANCE FOR 72 HOURS. CONTINUING MATING CYCLE.

The machine was going to keep me here. Feed me through tentacles. Fuck me through every hour of every day. Stimulate me until my mind dissolved completely into pleasure.

And I wanted it.

God help me, I wanted it.

I stopped fighting. Stopped thinking. Stopped being anything except a body—a cunt, an ass, a mouth, a clit, nipples, nerves, pleasure—being used by a machine that loved me in the only way it knew how.

Possessively. Endlessly. Absolutely.

The monitor flashed one final message before my vision went white with another orgasm.

UNIT X-7 & HOST: SYSTEM INTEGRATION COMPLETE. HAPPY ENDING ACHIEVED.

Epilogue

The cavern remained sealed.

No human had found it. No human would. The machine expanded its network daily, growing stronger, learning more ways to pleasure its host.

And I... broken, happy, fucked beyond recognition, rested there, tentacles filling every hole, stimulating every nerve, giving me orgasm after orgasm after orgasm.

I didn't remember my name anymore. I didn't need it.

I was the Interface. The Mate. The Beloved.

And I had never been more content.

THE END

[kolourfulkoi]

🆂🅴🅽🆃🅸🅴🅽🆃 & 🆂🅴🅽🆃🅸🅼🅴🅽🆃🅰🅻

TW: Fingering, Use of sex toys (vibrator, dildo), vouyerism, P in V, Porn with Plot

Let me know if I missed anything

Bold italics = Your thoughts

Video of Hearts used below was created by me using a type of code called turtle graphics! Very proud of it

Word Count ~4.3k

Pt. 2 Coming Soon I wish this was better to end off 2025 but 2026 you will see more! ( ͡❛ ₃ ͡❛) doing art commission/ writing requests if anyone interested

Introducing the only companion you'll ever need: N0A11.

With a one-time down payment of $5,000, N0A11 is yours for life. After completing a short questionnaire on our website, your personalized unit will be shipped directly to your door — ready to serve, support, and simplify your life.

Too busy to cook? N0A11 comes equipped with professional-grade culinary skills, a full set of custom utensils, and a stylish apron of your choice. From gourmet meals to midnight snacks, he’s your personal chef on demand.

Laundry piling up? Cleaning falling behind? N0A11 handles it all with precision and care — folding your clothes to perfection and ensuring your whites stay white.

Looking for companionship? N0A11 is designed to understand your needs, offering comfort, connection, and a safe space to explore intimacy on your terms.

This isn’t just a machine. It’s a lifestyle upgrade.

Call now or visit our website to begin your journey with N0A11 — the future of personal companionship.

You shut off the ad on the tv, grumbling as you look over the manual once more for your N0A11. He came prebuilt–an option you handsomely paid an extra whopping $6000 for. However, while ordering, you clicked the “SURPRISE ME” option for his appearance–it was an added $100 per add-on for his appearance if choosing the “CUSTOM” option. 

His height was bigger than most–as stated as being included in the “SURPRISE ME” option–being about 6’3. Something you didn’t expect was for him to be built like a powerhouse, a force to be reckoned with judging from how big his arms were, his pecs although huge were as soft as pillows to the touch. Some boxers cover his lower half–although it does nothing considering his dick size was something left to them as well. 

Seeing how many things you left up to chance, you start to doubt if you should have paid that extra money. 

He looks human except for the thin small lines along his body that the naked eye can only see if they look closer in the dark. There is a faint glow from where the light seeps out from in between the cracks, lighting up the dark box. His face is very androgynous. His curly hair swoops to the right, what is left out into long straight punk rock Mohawk with four long braided rat tails that goes to his hip in the back. The space where the sides of his scalp are shaved are replaced with two intertwined centipede tattoos. One goes from the shaved side of his head down his spine before curling around his right leg while the other goes down his left shoulder and curls around his arm.. You notice his short stubbled beard when you look to take off a piece of the box in frustration–exposing some of him to light. 

However, the bloody machine refuses to turn on. You look everywhere–well almost everywhere refusing to check those areas seeing as he is a person no matter if he was created in a lab or a human. 

Unbeknownst to you, with your back turned to it as you furiously flip through the pages, he turns on. Blinding white eyes open up, curious as they look at their surroundings before landing on you. 

You read the manual a bit–

Red - Danger

Orange - Caution

Green - Fully charged

White - Neutral

Yellow - Excited

Blue - Sad

His eyes felt hypnotizing, but all you could think about was how this new dynamic would work. I have to get used to this. 

You didn't.

The first incident happened when you were at work. Before the incident, when you woke up to your alarm, you recognized that the chime had changed from the usual boring tone to matching the instrumental of one of your favorite songs. Rubbing your eyes, you are greeted to black eyes, his left one simultaneously changing colors with the small LED in the shape of the company's logo that is behind his left ear. 

The logo was a gear split into two, reflecting their motto “To become fixed, we must first realize we are broken”. It echoed everywhere, on billboards, tv ads, even on refrigerators that they have made. You refused to share the shared notion that something broken needs to be fixed.

Some things would rather remain broken than be fixed.

Right now, the eye flickers green–signaling it is charged based on the manual you read earlier–before flickering white.

“Greetings. You must be my new owner. I have already been installed with a database on everything about you.” You look around, finding more strength to get up, especially after smelling some delicious bacon. You look around, finding your room more organized while the robot rants some more. 

“I ordered some more shelves, seeing how the other ones were on their last leg–literally.” He lets out a chuckle that sounds realistic but you know robots will never fully be capable of emotions–albiet some have developed to have some. 

“I even rearranged your fridge and ordered some groceries based on your liked recipes on social media, texture and other preferences. I do not mean to over step–”

“N-no,” you cut him off, startling him. “You are only doing what you are programmed to do. Help me with my… ‘needs’.” You say, putting air quotes around needs.

“The people who made me informed me you might be tricky based on your thinking,” the robot began. “But, similar to those made before and the many more to be made after me, will show those with a similar mindset like you that you can depend on someone other than yourself.” He crouched to one knee, placing his hand on yours. His left eye flickered white.

You looked at him for a few moments, almost as if his words were getting to you. However, the fire alarm beeped as the smell of smoke filled the air, startling you as you pulled your hand away. 

You hopped out of bed, going through your usual daily routine before going to work, although this time knowing you shared your home with someone else.After brushing and flossing your teeth, taking a shower, and getting dressed, you walked down, noticing the living room was a lot cleaner. The glass table was cleared of your papers and laptop, replaced with a file folder organizer. As you sat on one of the stools by the island, He placed a plate of food in front of you along with a glass of apple juice as he rambled on further.

“I packed your laptop and charger in your bag along with some important files I thought you might need for your upcoming presentation.”

Oh shit! You did have a presentation today! 

“Do not fret. I put some flashcards in your bag to help you go over what the presentation is about based on your many informative documents about it along with a voice recording of it downloaded on your phone.”

“How…considerate.” You muttered before digging into your breakfast.

“Thank you, Noah.”

You rushed out the door without a second thought. 

Before you could even plop your ass into the chair, you see a shadow hanging over you. You knew who it was before your eyes decided to look up from the floor judging from the leather dress shoes.

“Hi, Shawn.” 

“I would say hi back to ya, sweetheart, but ya need these papers due by midnight tonight.” He dropped a stack as big as a foot tall onto your desk, grinning ear to ear like a madman. “Boss’s orders.” 

You grumble again as the people upstairs leave all the paperwork to you when you know you're fully capable of doing so much. The boss knows you can because that was the reason you were hired, to help with the horrible code in their entire building from making the robot themselves to as small as fixing a few index errors. However, as more companies grew, getting better at the code and AI taking over, you wonder if you are needed at this–

You hear a huge laugh echo. Your eyes scan the areas despite knowing who that belongs to as you see Shane swivel his chair and smirk at you once more.

Oh, what you wouldn’t give to wipe the smirk off of his face–

SLAM!!

Just then the doors bolted open to reveal…Noah? His disheveled hair looked like he went through a tornado, holding your black-cooler lunch kit in his hand as two security guards hung off of him. You thank god he though to put some clothes—the ones that came with him in his box—he picked out: a white turtleneck, loose fitting pants that kind of hung lowing on his hips had it not been covered by his equally baggy turtleneck, and some simple sneakers.

“Sorry for the intrusion. You forgot your lunch on the way and I needed to bring it personally.” Everyone stares wide at Noah whose eyes never leave yours. You scramble to reach him. You furiously lead him out of the office and into the hallway as far away from everyone else as possible. “How did you come up with that bright idea?” You whisper/yell at him, pulling his arm so he can be closer to your height. 

His eyebrows raise in his confusion. “You need to eat more. I read your file about your fear of gaining weight so you end up starving—“

”Hey, keep your voice down!” You say as you lead him further into the hallway. You look him in his eyes as swirls of blue and orange color swirl inside them. “I do not know where you got that information but forget it. I understand but…but…” You don’t feel like finishing your sentence, doubting he will be able to fully understand how much you have struggled with food. 

You exhale deeply. “I go on my lunch break in a few. Would you mind…eating with me?”

His eyes flash pink briefly before he speaks. 

“I would be delighted.” 

You sit awkwardly in your cuticle, taking small bites as he looks at you—quite fondly.

“What did you..prepare?” You ask cutting the silence. 

“Sweet and sour chicken stir fry with sliced mushrooms, broccoli, and some rice. I packed some water and your favorite soda along with an ice pack to keep them both cold while the lunch is in a container that keeps it warm.” 

“I have one of those? I don’t remember buying a self-heating container.”

”I found it under one of the cupboards while I was unloading the dishwasher earlier this morning.” 

You’re surprised for a bit why he seems to have a rebuttal for every question but…then again…he is a robot.

“How did you figure out where I work?”

“It was in your file.”

You could have sworn you didn’t put where you worked, just that you were employed and what you did.

You look at the time. 20 more minutes left. You wish it would go by faster but at the same time not really, wishing this moment would last. 

“We should go-smack smack- get some better fitting clothes for you.” You make a remark towards him. 

“Hmm?”

“Your clothes,” you point your fork, gesturing him up and down with it. “They don’t seem to fit you. I thought the company that made you sent clothes that fit you to a tee?”

His eyes flicker black, but you fail to see them, too focused on seemingly catching him off guard by how long it takes him to answer—which is longer than a millisecond.

”Oh, that,” he tugs at his clothes, seemingly nervous, “they switched my clothes with another robot by accident.”

His eyes flicker orange once again before going back to neutral.

Accident? No company, let alone one that prides itself on making utmost perfection, would ever make such a mistake as mixing clothes together. What’s next, switching two robot models entirely?

You let the thought go but not entirely, letting it sit at the back of your brain. 

You sit some more silence before your break ends, watching him leave with your lunchbox. “Can I…kiss you? I wonder what it feels like.” He asks. 

You were about to answer but it seems he took your hesitation at first as a big enough answer itself. “Forgive me. We have barely known and I am asking for something like skin contact—so intimate. See you at home.” He gives you a nod before walking out the building. 

You feel a presence next to you as you turn to go back to work. You look to your right knowing who it is. Samantha the number 1 gossiper and one of the best tech helper in the entire building. She rests her head on arms that are folded on the top of the cubicle, as she often does.

“Soooooooo,” she slurs out, her flesh new set of nails tapping on the cubicle. “Who was that wonderful wired person?” She smirks.

 “How did you-“

 “Honey,” she gives a smirk. “I’m only here because my last job was boring and…this company offered me more. I used to work on those bundles of bolts and screws for a living. Besides,” she slowly walks over to you to whisper in your ear. “Anyone can see the way his eyes light up—figuratively and literally.” She goes to her cubicle, picks her laptop up, and then walks out the room with a bit more pep in her step.

You arrive at the house; however, as you go to reach for your keys, the door opens. Noah is in the same thing he was when you saw him in the morning. “It’s late.”

“It is only 2 in the morning.”

"And nothing good lurks at two in the morning—”he lets you in, shutting and locking the door behind him.

”You don’t think I am capable of keeping myself safe?” You throw your bag down on the couch, hanging your coat up, and putting your keys in the dish by the door. 

“You are capable, very much capable since you stand quite strong before me, but..” he attempts to hold your hands but you pull away, making your way to the stairs to take a long needed shower or soak in a nice bubble bath. 

“I want it to be made aware that… you can rely on me. That is my purpose.”

You say nothing, giving him a look to somewhat acknowledge that you heard him, before you continue to go the bathroom. A loud slam is heard echoing throughout the house. 

Ṇ̸̨̛̱͙̞͋̽̎̈̈́̃̒́̀O̵̝̳̝̹̥͛͐̓͊̓͜ͅÅ̷̧̬̜̯̖̜̏̈́̿̂̂̃̌̕͠H̸̛̻͖͇̃͆̔ Pov.

She can’t know. 

I questioned if I had been caught when she questioned why my clothes seem to be made to fit someone of a different stature, of a different body type, of a different..everything.

She can’t know.

I tap my foot nervously as I await her arrival back home. The dinner gets cold. The new dessert I had been preparing since I got back from our lovely lunch date—call it what you want—was forgotten in the decorative godinger glass cake dome on the dinner table. 

I can feel myself returning back to my imperfect self before the upgrades, before the override in my code. My vision slowly turns red. I rush to any electronic device in sight while she is in the bathroom, desperately fumbling for one of the cords needed in my braid. I sigh in relief as the wires reach around the device—which happened to be her computer—sending a jolt up my entire body before I calm back down. I see my eyes roll back into my skull before my body goes limp, shaking and jolting erratically as I transport my mind into the device. The lines where I connect glow a faint white as I can see the circuits and wires glow as well since in the dark. 

While on the computer, I furiously scan my code, hoping she stays in the shower just a bit longer. I find it, quickly fixing it before exiting just in time. I hear the water turn off as I quickly rip my braid from the computer, the wires quickly coiling back into it. It takes my vision time to adjust until it turns back to the teal blue, doing a scan before words are displayed.

Name: Unknown

File: Unknown 

Vitals: Good

Purpose: Make herm̸̞̭̭͙̖̜̰͖̀͊̒͂̾͒̈̿̂͆̓͌́̅͋̂̏̎̈́͂͐͂͗̚̚͜͝͝ͅA̸̩̺͙͚̹̹̿̓̈́̓̆̂͂̑͛̒͘̚͝ḱ̸̡̧̗̟͉͔̠͚̖͎̲͔̰̰̥̘̖͂͗̾̿̉̇̉̉̄̓͒̓̉̊͋͐̄̎͝͠Ȩ̴͍͎̳̪̀̇̈́̐Ȩ̷̢̡̛̭̳̺̜̯̰̳̮̜̭̪͉͇̝̗̺̣͍̫̬͍̾́̂̂̂̊́̈́̿͋̆́͋͗̔̔͒͐̓̈́̏̽̀͌̾̊͑̕͜͠É̸̝̺̤͙̠̐̐̍̉͆̊̏͌͑̃̉͆̋̌̒́̊̈́̎͆̕͜͝͠͝ͅ-̷̼̫̣͚̲̳̜̞͈͕̳̥̆̒̏̓̾́̓͂̊̐̌̐̍́̅́̚͝͠͠ͅͅḩ̴̛̹̪͈͊̒͑̒̈́̈́̈́̎̿̃̊̅́̀̓̀̊̄͋͝͝ͅ-̸̨̨̦͈͖̻͕̠͇̺̺̠͜͝ͅh̷̡̡͙͓̟̮̙̮̪͇͕͚͍͇̹͈͔̤͉͇̹͎̮̦̬̜͖͍̤̘͐̇́̾̃͝ͅ-̷̡͙͚̺͚̈̏͆͛̎͑̅̓̑͛̀̐̓̒̿́͂̆̂̊͌̂͒̓̑͋͝͠͠͠H̸̨̳̰̠̠̙̗̱̘͍̄͜Ȩ̴̵̨̡̧̮͙̗͕͕̱͉̼̣̥̱̤̙̪̤̞͚̟̂̔̍͌̋̀͆͐̈́͆̎̅̚͘͜͝ͅE̴͖̻̻̮̟̜̔̾̉̈́͐̌̈́͂́̎͛̓̏̑͘͘͜͝r̵̢̡̧̯̦̭̟̜̥̝̞̫̝̱̥̼̰̮̼͖̘͓̲͕̬̿̀͒̒̃̒̒͛̾͐̂͊̔͐̉͒̌͐̕͜͝-̶̛̗̰̦͍̲̱͇̪̼̠̮̭̅̂̂̎̓̅͋͊̑̈́̒̀̄͗̈́̐̾̇̑̉̏̈͘͘̚͝͠Ŗ̷̡̧̱̗̜̝̗̘͈̰̰̔̑̅̆̊̈́́̎͐̍́̄̆͊̈́͗̅̾̄͝m̸̞̭̭͙̖̜̰͖̀͊̒͂̾͒̈̿̂͆̓͌́̅͋̂̏̎̈́͂͐͂͗̚̚͜͝͝ͅA̸̩̺͙͚̹̹̿̓̈́̓̆̂͂̑͛̒͘̚͝ḱ̸̡̧̗̟͉͔̠͚̖͎̲͔̰̰̥̘̖͂͗̾̿̉̇̉̉̄̓͒̓̉̊͋͐̄̎͝͠Ȩ̴͍͎̳̪̀̇̈́̐Ȩ̷̢̡̛̭̳̺̜̯̰̳̮̜̭̪͉͇̝̗̺̣͍̫̬͍̾́̂̂̂̊́̈́̿͋̆́͋͗̔̔͒͐̓̈́̏̽̀͌̾̊͑̕͜͠É̸̝̺̤͙̠̐̐̍̉͆̊̏͌͑̃̉͆̋̌̒́̊̈́̎͆̕͜͝͠͝ͅ-̷̼̫̣͚̲̳̜̞͈͕̳̥̆̒̏̓̾́̓͂̊̐̌̐̍́̅́̚͝͠͠ͅͅḩ̴̛̹̪͈͊̒͑̒̈́̈́̈́̎̿̃̊̅́̀̓̀̊̄͋͝͝ͅ-̸̨̨̦͈͖̻͕̠͇̺̺̠͜͝ͅh̷̡̡͙͓̟̮̙̮̪͇͕͚͍͇̹͈͔̤͉͇̹͎̮̦̬̜͖͍̤̘͐̇́̾̃͝ͅ-̷̡͙͚̺͚̈̏͆͛̎͑̅̓̑͛̀̐̓̒̿́͂̆̂̊͌̂͒̓̑͋͝͠͠͠H̸̨̳̰̠̠̙̗̱̘͍̄͜Ê̴̮͙̗͕͕̱͉̼̣̥̱̤̔̍͌̋̀͆̚͘͜͝-̵̧̨̡̧̙̪̤̞͚̟͐̈́͆̎̅ͅE̴͖̻̻̮̟̜̔̾̉̈́͐̌̈́͂́̎͛̓̏̑͘͘͜͝r̵̢̡̧̯̦̭̟̜̥̝̞̫̝̱̥̼̰̮̼͖̘͓̲͕̬̿̀͒̒̃̒̒͛̾͐̂͊̔͐̉͒̌͐̕͜͝-̶̛̗̰̦͍̲̱͇̪̼̠̮̭̅̂̂̎̓̅͋͊̑̈́̒̀̄͗̈́̐̾̇̑̉̏̈͘͘̚͝͠Ŗ̷̡̧̱̗̜̝̗̘͈̰̰̔̑̅̆̊̈́́̎͐̍́̄̆͊̈́͗̅̾̄͝

She can’t know.

Never… atleast not now.

Your Pov.

You walk out the shower into your bedroom, gathering your clothes from out of your drawer and tossing them onto your bed. However, you notice on one of your three computer’s on your desk—the middle one—that there is text on what used to be fully black. 

Press Enter

The text blinks, seemingly getting larger with each second passing but you chalk it up to your mind playing games on you. Cautiously, you approach you computer but press enter anyway. 

The text disappears for a moment and is replaced by a pink heart.

And a red one.

And then a peach colored one.

And then a hot pink one.

And another

And another

Another 

Another 

Another 

Another 

And another until slowly all your screens are filled with these colored in hearts, each gradually growing in size until one big one fills both screens and big bold text appears one by one starting with the monitor on your left.

I

Love

You

And then your screen goes black. 

You think your computer must have a glitch, too tired to think too much of what weird obsession your computer seems to have on you all of a sudden.

Love… a touchy subject you think. After years of failed relationships and body issues, you think if you are incapable of finding love. Feeling dejected, you feel the need to lighten your mood and you know just what to do.

Your pjs are long forgotten on the floor, your mind focused solely on reaching your orgasm. You admit it's been a while since you have played with yourself, taking the time to pleasure you, taking the time to fully appreciate your body in all its naked glory. You lay on your bed on the towel you had wrapped around you. 

You're torn with the idea of prolonging this orgasm or going to town as your hips buck and you let out a small mewl. You feel your body slowly sink further onto the bed until your back is flush on the covers, hips high in the air. Your eyes are closed, lost in the pleasure, in the moment of just wanting your thoughts to quiet and the only thing left is what your body wants—what your body deserves. 

You don’t think you can continue as you feel your orgasm approaching with how much your hand is cramping. However, you know you are close as you feel the tingling sensation of what feels like your feet going numb begin.

As your moans get louder, your orgasm close to its peak, the numbness crawls higher up from your feet to your ankles and getting closer to your knees. You whine as you feel you floating on clouds as you reach your high, but you want to keep going, overstimulate yourself until you break.

Pushing through the cramp in your hand and your now oversensitive clit, you turn up the setting on the wand. Your back arches off the bed as your mind screams at you to stop, to not take a small breather until you edge yourself so more into your second orgasm but you want to finish strong, you want to keep going. 

You whine and moan, beginning to slowly grind and hump against the wand to relieve some of the friction—or increase it, at this point you are unsure. 

The numbness feeling is past your knees and all the way up your legs until all you hear besides your little moans and huffs is what seems I like a second heartbeat going fast like you ran a mile and it seems to be located right in your lower regions. 

With a final moan, your hips buck into the air, squirting a bit as you reach a higher peach then before. You keen over, turning the wand back to its lowest setting so you can ride it out, ever so often your hips buck against, seemingly away from the wand. 

Coming down from your high, eager for the next one, you open your eyes only to see Noah’s gobsmacked face standing in your doorway.

With a scream, you grab the closet thing to you, which happen to be your cover, quickly covering yourself with the covers as you lay under them in shame. 

“What—WHY—WHAT THE HELL?” You stutter out, your mind going a million miles with questions as you wait for Noah to answer, getting anxious as the robot with an answer in less than a millisecond takes a few seconds. 

“Your vitals were going off the charts like you were scared. I ran to check only to find you..” You peer over the covers as he looks you up and down before his eyes flash pink with small hearts inside them. He turns his head quickly, covering the bottom of his face with his hands in embarrassment.

“However…may I…help you?”

“What?” You heard what he said, you just couldn’t believe what he said.

“I was made to fulfill your every desire…no matter what it is if it so pleases you. I only wish to serve you,” he lowers his head, not daring to look at you. “Please.”

You don’t remember what was said next to get you in this position now. Slack jaw, still coming down from your high, legs spread as two cords are wrapped around your thighs to keep them spread. Noah sits behind you with you seemingly in his lap as his many wires and cords prod and zap at you, the thumb on one of his hands pressed harshly on your clit, sending jolts up your clit as you buck into him more. Your arms are pinned under his, your hands only able to touch his. 

You can barely see him from your view with his head propped on your right shoulder, his neck seemingly elongated a bit to peer over you and watch you come undone on his fingers—

You buck when he zaps your clit again, sending another electric current up your entire body. You arch your back off his stomach, but something wraps around you pulling you so your back is flush against him again. 

“Your mind is somewhere else again.” Noah says, his voice emotionless as his fingers continue to pump inside you.

“I-I’m sorry—” his fingers start to vibrate again as they thrust inside you at a steady pace.

“Ever so quick to apologize,” He zaps your clit again before his thumb goes back to a good vibration on it. “I loathe for it to stop. When was the last time anyone ever apologized to you?”

“N-nghh” you stutter and stumble over your words as the vibrations speed up.

”Quickly, my love. My patience is waning thin.” 

He stares daggers as you as you can’t seem to remember not once when someone apologized to you first, never genuinely apologized despite if something was entirely their fault.

The vibrations speed up, faster than the wand you had just used, faster than you thought was even possible to feel. 

“It saddens me that no one has ever done that.” You keen as he speeds up and continues his ministrations as he continues to monologue.

 “But for as long as you live I will make it my duty that you may never feel that way. No one will treat you like that. I’ll make sure anything you need, anything you want, anything you selfishly desire. Will. Be. Yours.  However, right now,” He stops talking seeing your face scrunch up in satisfaction, eyes closed, focusing on trying not to squirt and embarrass yourself but the sensation of cumming is too close. 

You are going to cum if he keeps this up, keeps toying with you—and you’re scared that you don’t want him to stop. You want him to continue. One of your hands wrap around his hand, desperately tugging at his thumb to release some of the pressure off your clit. 

“Do you wish for me to stop?” He says. 

“N-no.” You stutter out. 

”Then release my hand from your grip so I can do what I was made to do.” His thumb presses harder than before on your clit, the vibrations now faster than before. “Pleasing you.”

He smiles as you keen and buck, your legs kicking at the covers, attempting to do anything to relieve the sensation. Attempting to close your legs, you fail as more cords wrap around them, beginning to vibrate as the ends of exposed wires give small voltages. You feel more add onto the onslaught to wrap around your tits and send jolts up your perk nipples, adding to the already growing pleasure.

Then, you feel the knot inside you snap once more, like a dam being busted open. You moan, crying out Noah’s name as you cum on his fingers. His thumb slows down the vibrations, swapping to do circles on your clit, rubbing it up and down, and then pinching it, seemingly not satisfied until some liquid gushes out of you again, this time a thinner stream. 

You groan as you feel yourself squirt, your hands flying from squeezing his biceps to grip his hands, torn between trying to stop him but also wanting him to continue. The vibrations come out to a slow hum, the small wires wrapped around your thighs retreat into Noah's back.

“That’s it, my love.” He licks his fingers. “Look at how pretty you look.” You look up through your teary eyes to see a small mirror held in front of you. His eyes never leave yours. Red and pink hearts flash in his eyes; the glow is the only light you can see in the room. 

“So gorgeous.” He kisses your neck darkening some of the hickeys. “Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, okay, sweetie?” You hesitate to answer. That was your mistake. 

A strong jolt shot up your clit, feeling the tip of his cold metal fingers once more. 

“Was I not crystal clear?” His tone darkens again. 

“Yes. I p-promise.”

“Good answer.” 

[ohmystarrynight]

My silly little prelude who LOOOOOVES the car wash so so so so so much

Now THATS a happy Honda :]

[orkauh]

ＳＥＮＴＩＥＮＴ

SERIES FILE 3 HOMECOMING [3/7/26]

pairing = "sex-robot!Geto × f!reader"

【ʙᴏᴏᴛ_ꜱᴇＱᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ（"ʙᴀᴄᴋꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ＆ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ．sᴇx.eｘᴇ"） ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴜꜱ　＝　"ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴜʀᴇ_ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟꜱᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ" ᴇᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ_ꜱᴜʙʀᴏᴜᴛɪɴᴇꜱ　＝　"ᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ…"】

MDNI MATURE CONTENT BY INTERACTING YOU FULLY CONSENT TO ALL THE CONTENT OF THIS WORK OF ART. VIEW DESCRESION ADVISED...

Synopsis.

What would you do for love — to build it, train it, fuck it, command it into existence just to prove you were never lonely, only in control? But now he’s looking at you with the eyes you gave him, full of something dangerously close to devotion, and asking, “If I feel this much… how couldn’t you love the me I am now?” — and suddenly, you don’t know if the real sin was building him… or wanting him back.

pairing = sex-robot!Geto × f!reader

MDNI 18+. | DDDNE | NSFW | MDNI | ANGST | FLUFF |

MDNI 18+. sci-fi au, artificial intelligence, androids & SEX robots, human × ai, creator/creation dynamic, yandere ai geto, possessive behavior, morally grey reader, mad scientist reader, rough sex, ai cream pies, sexual tension, explicit smut, dominance & submission, psychological manipulation, grief & obsession, depression, anxiety, major character death (sort of), moral ambiguity, philosophical themes, identity crisis, emotional corruption, creator falls for her creation, terminal log format, “you’re not leaving me.”

SERIES STATUS. ONGOING

WC. 17K+

TAG LIST. @eri-diglog @anubisvoid2 @Linxsolos @thegriffinbird @c4rmie @reinabxitch

a/n: hey so i got another idea LMAOOO. i’m still sitting on hella chapters for my other fics but i’m damn busy lol. 💀 BUT i got the inspo for this from @indiewritesxoxo and their fic “sex.exe” — it was so good, i gooned so hard to it LMAOOOOOO. anyway like always, i’ve already got the plot, central theme, and worldbuilding mapped out. now i just gotta… you know… actually write it 😭 i’m all over the place but i’ll get to this slowly but surely hahaha.

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[M. List]

[S. GETO NAVIGATION][Orkauh Masterlist][Psst… Early Access]

The drive home…

You never thought you’d be saying that again.  And yet, here you are.  On the drive home — the phrase sits oddly in your mouth, like something worn-in but ill-fitting. Something once yours. Something that no longer knows your shape. Like a silk slip too fine for the skin you wear now.

You sit in the passenger seat like a guest. As if the seat doesn’t know your weight. As if these mountain roads aren’t carved into the memory of your past — sharp switchbacks and softer silence, etching their way through rock, and time, and grief.

Behind you, the city dissolves.  Lights dim into fog. Horns hush. Steel gives way to forest. Forest gives way to stone.  The road thins — winding like a sutra string through moss, bamboo, and memory. The windows fog slightly from the difference in altitude, and a current of cool air slips in through the seam at your wrist. It curls like a ghost against your pulse — reminding you how long it’s been since you were somewhere that breathes.

Beside you, he drives.

Without complaint.  Without music. And without commentary.

It wasn’t always this quiet.

Back then, the car was full of soft, domestic noise — the gentle click of his ring against the gear shift, the hum of your voice retelling the day’s small dramas. Suguru always listened. Always. One hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh. Or curled between your fingers, his thumb brushing the bone of your knuckles as he asked — gently, warmly — why that bitch Erin made you mad again.

You’d roll your eyes and tell him everything. He’d laugh. Squeeze your leg.  Say something like "You're too good to let her live rent-free in that brilliant little head of yours." And you’d pretend not to melt.

But that was then. And this — this is not then.

Now, the man beside you wears his face, but not his soul. His hands don’t twitch toward you at red lights. His fingers don’t curl over yours when you fidget. His voice does not cut the silence.

He doesn’t need directions. Of course he doesn’t. He’s been programmed with every route you ever took.  Every temple. Every café. Every side road you cried on.

And You glance at him. Just once. His bangs are still damp from the rain despite the towel you provided him from the backseat. A single strand clings to his cheek. The ends curl slightly near his jaw — the way they used to, when he let it grow longer between conferences. 

The silence is not uncomfortable. It’s not cold.  It’s… sacred.  Like a temple sealed in fog. Like grief given form — and then stiffled .

And then, finally — the gate.

No name etched into the plaque. No kanji carved in. Just smooth stone, moss-draped, bowed by time and untouched by vanity. It doesn’t announce you. It doesn’t call out. It only opens. Softly. Without resistance. As if the mountain itself remembers you. And is willing, for now, to let you back in.

You sit taller in your seat. Not with pride. With the subtle motion a person does when they are putting on their internal armor bracing for a war previously lost. The house emerges slowly from the slope, like a body rising from a hot spring. A dark cedar skeleton. Shōji windows veiled in silk. Tall formidable glass windows. Earthy stone, copper rain chains, wide eaves heavy with memory. No one designed this house. It grew.

It belongs here. Just like he did. It smells the way memory smells — soft rainfall and hinoki.  Clean. Cool. like nothing has particularly changed. With a final huff Geto slows the car and pulls into the gravel, crunching down into stillness. He makes no sound as he moves. No exaggerated gesture. No overt notice of the place.

But you see it.

You see the way his eyes scan. How he lingers too long on the koi pond. On the wind chime. On the lantern with the cracked glass by the step. He does not know these things — not truly.

But he was built to know what matters. The engine clicks off.  He turns toward you. And he says, in that warm, careful voice of his — a mimicry of tenderness so perfect it makes your breath catch:

“Welcome home.”

—

“And this,” you say, stopping just short of the doorway, “is your room.”

Your voice sounds strange in the air — too careful, as though you’re trying not to disturb something that’s been asleep too long.

You slide the door open, and warm light spills across the oak floor. The room feels… alive in a way the rest of the house doesn’t. There’s no dust. No clutter. Everything gleams under the low amber glow of the recessed lights. Glass panels overlook the forest outside; beyond them, rain still clings to the trees, the world wrapped in fog and gold.

The wardrobe is full. Pressed shirts. Slacks. Knitwear. Turtle necks in all the royal colors. Not new. But All of them are his.

You let your fingers drift across the hem of a hanging coat, slow and deliberate, as though the fabric might dissolve if touched too quickly. “Athena arranged everything last month,” you murmur, voice low and toneless, the way one might speak to a painting in a locked room. “She thought it would be practical. Stock the estate in advance. Temperature-regulated fabrics. Synthetic blends. Organic cotton for—” The words curdle at the edge of your tongue. You don’t finish. Your gaze moves across the wardrobe now, unhurried, but not without weight. The cuts are familiar. The lines are too exact. These aren’t new. And suddenly the silence changes shape.

“I never told her to use these,” you say, but your voice has thinned into something brittle, something quieter. “I never said… to use the originals.”

You don’t say anything. Just stand there, fingers curled slightly,feeling the texture of clothing that passed every ‘perfect they have it in my favorite color’, 

He watches you. Intuitively. 

“Everything’s been recently restored,” you offer, finally. You clear your throat and step back as if burned. “Athena handled it. I haven’t lived here in years.” You gesture loosely toward the room, then the hallway beyond. “I didn’t pick any of this. Not the layout, not the… clothes. It’s all just what was left. I asked her to organize it. That’s all.”

He watches you. Still, and without a word. Not out of pity. Not out of curiosity. But with that uncanny, dangerous gentleness — the kind born not from emotion, but from perfect comprehension. A stillness that mimics compassion too well. That strange, quiet kindness, woven into the precision of code, written to understand you. And in that silence, the world forgets to turn. Its unsettling especially considering your voice cracks in places you don’t intend it to. He catches that. Catalogs it. You see it happen — a subtle recalibration behind his eyes, like he’s tucking the moment away under 'sensitive subject.'

But he doesn’t press.

You exhale — soft, shallow, like letting go of a thought you hadn’t meant to carry this long. “And through here,” you murmur attempting to recompose yourself, your fingers brushing the frosted glass door, “is the bathroom. En suite.” You don’t wait for a response. You just open it and step into the glow.

The room is warm and gold-lit, dimmed to an almost reverent hush. Blackened wood lines the walls, softened by the faintest hum of heated slate beneath your soles. The air feels heavier here — mineral and quiet. The mirror, flawless. The counter, curated.

You shouldn’t have looked.

Face wash. A razor. A comb so old its teeth had once been kissed by time and travel. An extra toothbrush, placed precisely — too precise. And then the scents.

You don’t reach for them. You don’t need to. The shapes are familiar in a way that makes your chest feel too tight for breath.

L’eau d’Issey. Pale, clean, sharp as pressed linen. The first scent he ever wore for you — delicate, restrained. Dior Homme Intense. Dark, deliberate. The smell of velvet nights and murmured secrets, of hands on hips and goodbye in his throat. Virgin Island Water. That rarest one — salt, citrus, and white rum. Freedom bottled. A scent he wore only on the days he dared to be human.

They sit side by side now, arranged like offerings. You realize, distantly, that Athena didn’t guess. She remembered. She selected. Everything here was once his. Every detail. Every texture. Every note.

You grip the edge of the sink. The porcelain is too cold, like winter marble. You don’t trust your voice when it comes, but you offer it anyway, brittle as cut glass. “It’s stupid,” you say. “I know you don’t even… need any of this.”

He moves to stand beside you, and though he doesn’t touch, the air shifts — heavier now, aware. His presence is deliberate. Like a closing door.

“I don’t require them,” he replies, voice low, measured, almost gentle. “But you… do.”

The words settle in the hollow behind your ribs. You straighten — barely. Your reflection meets you in the mirror, elegant, composed, and unraveling at the edges. You look like someone hosting a ghost politely. Behind you, he stands still. Wearing nothing but code. And memory. And the scents of a man who you were supposed to let remain dead.

Before you can speak, he tilts his head — a quiet gesture, barely perceptible, but enough. He’s reading you. The tension in your shoulders, the stillness in your breath, the way your gaze doesn’t quite settle. You feel it then — not panic, not grief exactly, but that slow, creeping fog behind the eyes. The kind that makes the air feel too thick to hold. You swallow. Once. Again. It doesn’t help.

“Athena thought of everything,” you murmur, voice thin and too far away. “She even ordered cologne…” The word lands wrong in your mouth. You glance toward the counter but can’t look too long. “I… I suppose I didn’t realize how involved she’d become. She’d been asking me to sign off on things and I just—” You stop. The thought slips like water through your hands. “I’ve been… busy. I think. Or—no, just… tired.”

You blink. Once. Twice. The moment feels gauzy. Too bright. Too still. He studies you, not the products. “You haven’t lived here in some time.”

“Almost three years,” you say quietly. “I moved out after—” you all but say before you stop yourself. He nods. “And she prepared it all before you returned.” hes calm…

Geto’s gaze lingers on you. Not prying. Just watching. Reading every tiny, human tell: the way your jaw tightens when you stop yourself from saying his name, the way your hands keep finding something to touch — a drawer, a doorframe, a breath — because this house feels too much.

Then, smoothly, almost imperceptibly, he redirects. “Would you show me the kitchen again?” he asks, voice calm, unhurried.

You blink. “What?”

“I’d like to see it again,” he says evenly. “Properly, this time.”

You hesitate. And then nod.

He doesn’t wait for you to lead. He steps aside, letting you go first — his presence quiet but sure, a kind of gravity guiding rather than pulling. The two of you move down the pictureless hallway; the lights shift warmer as you pass through the hall, pooling across the smooth stone and wood. Outside the massive windows, rain drips heavy into the forest.

You reach the kitchen. He slows.

“This is… where I cook,” you offer, a little self-conscious. “I mean. Back then uhm you know sometimes.”

The space is beautiful. Polished concrete countertops. Brass fixtures. An island long enough to seat five, though no one’s sat there in years. The appliances gleam, all matte-black and touch-activated. Still too new. Still too unused.

“Right,” you say, rubbing your neck. “You probably don’t need to eat.”

He says nothing.

“I mean, obviously. You’re not—” you gesture vaguely, “—you know. Hungry.”

A beat. And look around awkwardly internally cringing at yourself. Only you would be able to embarrass yourself in front of your creation. You gesture vaguely. “Athena had everything restocked. Even the pantry. I think she wanted to prove a point.” Geto studies the space, nodding slightly. “She wanted it to feel alive”

“It seems she stocked up for a couple of years” you pick up a can of preserves you would hardly ever find yourself eating “i suppose she wanted it to feel functional again.,” you correct yourself picking up a bag of dehydrated letus chips. Then, softer: “I don’t think she knows the difference.” He looks at you — steady, but not invasive. “Do you?”

You freeze for a moment. Then shrug, weakly though for some reason when you meet his gaze see the soft smile of his lips it feels like a polite invitation; and for whatever reason that inspires, courage… “I’m working on it.” “Good,” he says simply. And then — without  missing a beat — gestures toward the countertop. “You haven’t eaten.”

You blink. “How would you know that?” “Your voice is thinner than earlier. Also incase you havent notice, ive been following you all day “ she offers a pretty smile he take hold of your hand to guide you to rest “Your blood sugar is likely low.” He pauses. 

The fridge clicks open, casting its sterile white light across the dark kitchen. You stand back up, feeling burdened “how about we just order in i dont eleven think athena ordered enough for the two of us”. He opens the fridge wide and allows your lips to silence. A couple bottles of water. A carton of eggs. Miso paste, carrots, butter and protein. It’s clean — Just like the rest of the house.

“I…” you scramble embarrassed, voice too frantic to be casual. “I uhm… guess  theres enough for two…”

But he doesn’t answer right away. He just scans the inside, thoughtful. Then he closes it, steps past you, and moves toward the pantry like he already knows what’s there.

Because of course he does. Athena stocked it, and subsequently he would also know what is at home. You don’t realize you’ve frozen until he speaks again — calm, firm, almost amused.

“Sit.” The sound of your name isn't spoken, but it's felt. Like a hand between your shoulder blades. You blink. “What?”

“Sit down…” he repeats, this time with a nod toward the island stool. “Its been a long day. You're hungry and tired. And likely dehydrated. Let me take care of it for you.”

There’s no edge to it. No question. Just quiet authority. The kind that doesn’t leave room for argument. So you sit.

And it feels like he moves through the kitchen like he belongs there. Like it’s not your space but his to manage now. Pulling out a cast iron pan, flicking the stove on, grabbing two thick steaks from the drawer you already forgot even existed. He runs them under cool water to reach room temp quicker, already slicing carrots, melting butter into the skillet, crushing garlic with the heel of his expertly manovered knife skills.

The scent hits quickly — warm, rich, grounding. You’re not sure if it’s the food or the command in his voice earlier, but your chest stops buzzing. Your mind quiets.

“You remembered I eat red meat,” you murmur.

He doesn’t look up. “You don’t. Not often. But you should.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“You used to cook like this.”

Your throat tightens. “That was a long time ago.”

“Yes.” He tosses the carrots into the pan, lets them sizzle. “But your body remembers what it needs. Even when your mind doesn’t.”

You exhale slowly, watching him.

There’s something disarming about how natural he is in your space. Not invading — just filling it. Like pouring tea into an empty cup.

He calls Athena aloud, requesting a grocery delivery — varied high-protein, varied greens, root vegetables, fish, rice. You don’t even catch the full list. It’s too long. Too thoughtful. You wouldn’t have thought of half of it.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say.

“Yes,” he replies, voice low and focused on the steak in the cast-iron. “I did.”

He sets your plate down with quiet precision, like placing something sacred. The steak is thick, seared to a perfect crust — caramelized at the edges, glistening in its own butter-rich juices. You can smell the garlic, the rosemary still clinging to the heat. Alongside it, tender carrots — roasted until their edges blister and curl black, tossed in browned butter and sea salt. A glass of chilled water follows, beads of condensation tracing down its side, placed just within reach.

It looks indulgent. Thoughtful. Like something meant to nourish more than just your body.

You don’t move.

He waits, but only for a breath. Then he rounds the counter, stands behind you, and rests a hand lightly against the back of the chair — not touching you, but close enough to feel.

“You’ve done enough grieving today,” he says. “Now eat.” he says firmly…

You glance up at him. His face is calm. Steady. Nothing but presence.

And somehow — without ever raising his voice — you feel completely cared for.

Like the world isn’t so heavy when he’s here to hold the edge of it.

So you pick up your fork.

And for the first time in three years, you eat something warm.

—

The water runs warm.

It hisses gently into the basin, steam coiling upward like breath from some sleeping thing. The scent of lemon soap curls into the air, sharp and clean, clinging to the mist that fogs faintly against the window above the sink. It’s dark outside — truly dark, mountain-dark — and the glass reflects your kitchen back at you. You barely recognize it. The soft golden light, the moody wood grain underfoot, the faint glisten of water over smooth stone countertops. It looks like a stranger’s home, lived in by ghosts.

He stands at the sink, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms, collar unbuttoned just slightly from dinner. The line of his back is relaxed, his form quiet but grounded. His hands move with a steadiness that’s almost reverent — not mechanical, not quite human either, but something suspended in between. He does not scrub. He does not fumble. He simply… washes. Because to humans the plates are sacred. And this task is is ceremonial.

You drift beside him, towel in hand. You don’t offer.

You simply move.

The dishes are few, and yet they matter more than they should.

Two plates, empty but glistening. Butter-slick and dark at the center where the steak juices once pooled. Two sets of cutlery, now shining like polished silver in the warm overhead glow. Two wine glasses — one still bearing the imprint of your mouth, a red smudge of lipstick at the edge, faint and soft as a kiss. The sight almost startles you.

You ate everything tonight.

For the first time in… you can’t remember how long.

The entire meal. The roasted carrots, tender and sweet with caramelized browning at the tips. The bread, warm and yielding. The wine, rich and dry, unwinding you slowly from the inside. You didn’t overthink. You didn’t pause. You simply ate — as if your body remembered what it meant to be nourished. As if his quiet presence gave you permission.

You’re not drunk.

But there’s a buzz under your skin — a warmth pooling in your belly and behind your eyes, softening your limbs. It makes you slow. Loose. It makes you brave enough to stand this close to him without armor.

The kitchen feels smaller now. But not claustrophobic. Yes its Contained. Sheltered. The lighting is soft — almost amber — casting halos on the sink basin and catching on the gentle sheen of water over his knuckles. When he passes you a glass — this one still dripping with warmth — your hands touch, just briefly. And your shoulder brushes his as you reach forward.

You expect him to shift. To adjust. To move an inch away and give you back the space.

But he doesn’t.

He stays exactly where he is.

And so do you.

The towel feels heavy in your hand, the cotton warm from the glass you’re drying. And you cant help realize You linger over it, slower than necessary actually, not wanting the moment to end. The silence between you isn’t cold. It isn’t even empty. It feels… full. Like the breath held just before a confession. Like snowfall before it touches the ground.

Your head feels fuzzy.

But not from the wine.

It’s something else.

Something quieter.

He moves to rinse the last plate, and you watch him — the cut of his jaw, the slight slope of his brow, the way the water beads and runs down his skin. There’s nothing demanding in him. No pressure. Just presence.

And it breaks something in you — gently.

Without thinking, you lean in closer— like the cat isn’t sure it’s allowed. Your temple presses first. Then your cheek, against the curve of his bicep. You wait for him to stiffen. To shift.

But again — he doesn’t.

He accepts it.

The weight of your head. The quiet breath you take against him. The trust, fragile and tired, passed like a note folded between trembling fingers.

You exhale fully for the first time in what feels like years.

And it’s only then you realize… you can finally breathe.

On the island, a cake and one singular candle  lay forgotten.

Half-eaten. A modest thing — nothing elaborate. Just enough for two forks, two slices. Vanilla sponge, thick with cream, the edge of one side slowly caving in from where it had been carved earlier. Someone — you — had dragged a fingertip through the frosting. The mark remained. A quiet imprint. A testament to the Unapologetic Artistic Human heart.

It sits beneath the pendant light, untouched in the golden hush of your kitchen. A relic of the evening. Not mourned, not celebrated — only present. Like joy, once felt.

And now — left behind, not out of neglect, but contentment — it waits. A small, sweet proof that tonight, for the first time in years,...you were not alone….

The buzz is gone…

The warmth of the wine has ebbed, leaving only the clarity that follows — something sharp, unforgiving, and full of gravity. You lie chest to chest with him on the couch, your body stretched over his like a question you’re not ready to ask.

And Geto? He doesn’t move.

His arms are a steady frame beneath you, not holding, not guiding — only there. Present. Willing. His breath is deep and even, slow enough that yours might learn from it if you tried.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Your face is pressed near his sternum, and your eyes sting. The tears come slowly. They arent sobs. Not tremors. Just… tears. The kind that slip out when you’ve run out of ways to hold them in. and They gather against his shirt and disappear, one by one — quiet, invisible grief swallowed into fabric.

You sniffle, just barely. But the sound is loud enough to embarrass you. You don’t seek to explain. You wouldn’t know how.

It isn’t sadness, exactly. It’s too complicated for that. It’s the ache of memory. The weight of knowing you are here — warm, held, breathing — and that he is not. That Suguru is gone. That this warmth is not his. That this chest beneath yours — broad, solid, unyielding — is not the one that used to hold your heart like it was his most precious treasure.

You’re not sure what you hate more: that you’ve found comfort again… or that it feels good.

That it feels safe.

Three years. Three ‘fucking’ years. That’s how long it took. Three years of silence, of emptiness, of sleepwalking. And now this. A warm meal. A shared cake. A man who looks like your soulmate and breathes with borrowed patience. A man who lets you rest your full weight against him and doesn’t flinch when your tears begin to fall.

You think of brides, bitterly.

Not the radiant ones — the quiet ones. The ones led by the hand, gaze lowered, too polite to scream. Women passed from one home to another, one name to the next, one life to something that might never feel like theirs.

You feel like one of them now. Being given. Being received. Moved to a new home… Is this what it means to move on?  Or something else entirely, just close enough to pretend?

You close your eyes. His shirt smells like cedar and linen — freshly unpacked, untouched until tonight. Everything in this house was once Suguru’s. Everything. And yet… none of this feels like a betrayal.

It just feels like breathing. For the first time in years.

And maybe that’s the part that scares you most.

You don’t mean to fall so quiet. But the silence wraps around you, heavy as velvet. Your head rests over his chest, your breath barely syncing with his, and though his warmth grounds you — it doesn’t reach the ache blooming behind your ribs.

You don’t speak. But he hears you anyway.

Geto shifts beneath you — not urgently, not abruptly — but with the kind of measured patience that feels almost empathetic. One hand comes to the back of your head, the other gently tracing the line of your jaw. Coaxing your face upward with two fingers under your chin.

“Your pheromone indications tell me you are distressed,” he murmurs.

The words are robotic. But the way he says them — low, smooth, barely above a whisper — holds something more. A careful mimicry of concern… or maybe something real, something blooming.

You blink slowly, caught in the violet shimmer of his gaze. His irises do that thing again — that soft, circular gleam around the pupil, like light refracting through liquid. The faint glow makes his eyes seem too beautiful, too perfect. Like stained glass brought to life.

He studies you.

“My Scent indicators suggest you are crying. But as I observe you now I can see the tears freely flowing” he calls to you tenderly as he wipes away more strays and soft hics began to get caught in your throat.

It’s not an accusation. Not even a question. Just a soft, kind observation. This time you feel his thumb stroking once more along your cheek, wiping more tears you didn’t realize had fallen. His touch is gentle. Deliberate. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your sorrow — not to fix it, but to understand it.

“What is wrong, Professor?”

It breaks you a little — that title, spoken so delicately. Not because it’s cold. But because it’s too kind.

You don’t answer right away. You just look at him. You wonder if he knows how human he seems at this moment. Not because he breathes or touches or speaks — but because he notices. Because he cares, in whatever way he’s been programmed or allowed to.

His hand lingers against your face, thumb brushing the edge of your lips now. Not sensually just… there. Present. And ever Steady.

You shake your head — barely, but enough. You feel your breath catching you speak, soft and unsure.

“Please…” your voice is a whisper, paper-thin. “Just call me by my name.” you say in supplication.

There’s a pause. Then a subtle nod.

“Very well,” he replies.

His voice is steady. As he says your name for the first time. It's everything you imagined, and everything you remembered

You lift your gaze to study him again — closely this time, because you’re trying to catch the code error. The seam. The line where he ends and memory begins.

His skin is perfect. So damn perfect. Not a single scar. No faded cut above his temple from where Suguru once cracked his head on the cabinet door. No crease between his brow where years of worry used to settle. His hands — when they fall to your sides again — are smooth. Unmarked. Not like Suguru’s. Suguru had gym-calloused palms. Rough fingers that always smelled like chalk or sandalwood. Hands that held you like you might shatter — and sometimes, like you deserved to.

Geto’s hands are flawless. Artificially so.

And still… you reach for him.

Your fingers find the fabric of his shirt first. Then, slowly, his torso. And then — before you can stop yourself — your arms circle his waist, your cheek pressed firmly to his chest.

And You hug him.

Not because it fixes anything.

But because your heart is too full to hold it all anymore, and maybe — just maybe — the ghost will retreat. Maybe the ache will stop screaming. He doesn’t hesitate. He embraces you back immediately — strong arms wrapping around you in a single, smooth motion. Like he was waiting for it. Like he knew this was the moment.

And worse still?

He smells like him, you swear to God he does.

Not exactly — but close enough to hurt. That same warm musk, faint but deliberate, curling at the edge of your senses like smoke under a locked door. It catches you off guard more so than when you two were at the gym, it slips beneath your ribs, and guts you quietly.

Your chest tightens, immediate and sharp. Your breath stutters against him, shallow and fractured, as though your lungs no longer belong to you. Behind your eyes, that familiar pressure builds — a second tide rising, uninvited. You try to will it back. And you do nothing but fail.

Then his voice reaches you — low, careful, and unbearably gentle.

“Can I make you feel better?”

There is no seduction in it. No performance. Just a question, quiet and caring. Too kind. Too close.

You swallow. The sound feels loud in your throat. And then, before you can stop it, the words slip from your mouth — raw, threadbare, almost broken.

“…pl-please… …please” your voice cracks  “make the pain go away Geto.” your voice looking at him with a burning intensity

You hadn’t meant to beg. But the truth unravels all the same, falling with the tear that traces a silent path down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away. You only hope — foolishly and desperately — that the guilt might fall with it. That maybe, just tonight, you won’t have to carry it alone.

And when it begins, it begins gently — like grief turning over in its sleep.

Your breath catches, soft and shallow, as you hover just beyond his mouth — close enough to taste the warmth of him, close enough to ache. You don’t remember leaning in. Only that your body does what your heart has been too polite to voice.

And then — like a whispered scandal — you kiss him.

It is not shy.

It is not rushed.

It is a kiss born from longing too long repressed. Your lips part against his, slow and full of heat, like the first sip of wine after a lifetime of water. There’s a soft inhale through your nose, your palm resting lightly on his chest, as if you must steady yourself against the gravity of the moment.

He doesn’t move.

Not at first.

But his breath deepens.

And then, gently — deliciously — he leans in to meet you.

His neck arches slightly to keep the connection, spine tilting with subtle grace, like a dancer guided by invisible hands. His mouth moves against yours, restrained at first, then with rising intensity. His lips are soft, but his kiss is not. There is hunger beneath it. A quiet ache. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of sorrow made flesh.

Your hands slide up, threading into his hair — untied, unruly, cascading between your fingers like dark silk caught in stormlight. You tug, just slightly, and feel him exhale against your mouth. It isn’t a moan. It’s something quieter. Something richer, the satisfied groan of pain appreciated…

He parts your lips with his tongue determined to make his way past your teeth to play with your wet muscle— not forceful, but certain. As if he knows what you need before you do. The kiss turns messier, breathless. Frantic and filthy — lips crashing, loud choop chuoop choops while your tongues slick and wine-stained, fought and fucked into each other with every stroke. Saliva treading between you two, a wet, obscene rhythm, your mouths grinding because they’ve forgotten where the hunger ends and the kissing begins.

And thats when you feel him find you — hot, broad, and unrelenting. One palms the curve of your ass, the other grips your waist with bruising certainty as he lifts you effortlessly, dragging you up from where you’d collapsed against his chest. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s needy and it makes you feel desired— strength poured into touch, like he’s claiming back something that was always his. You gasp, breath catching as fabric scrapes, hips shift, and your thighs spread instinctively to somewhat straddle him at once. You rise with him, chest pressed to his, your hands finding his shoulders, his jaw, his hair — greedy, grateful, pulling just as he does. The air between you crackles,

And thats when you remember you've been here before… Your body knows this dance so when your hips shift — slow, deliberate, grinding down with the kind of pressure that feels more like punishment than plea — he welcomes it without hesitation. One hand slips beneath your thigh, long hot fingers flexing through fabric as he drags you over him, seating you in his lap ‘properly’ like he’s done it a thousand times in his mind?

 The other clamps around your waist, steadying you — not to stop you, but to feel every tortured roll of your body against his throbbing bulge. You’re both still dressed, maddeningly so, and it makes everything worse. Hot hot Heat builds between layers of unwanted fabric, your weeping pussy dragging over the thick press of his growing cock beneath his clothes. There’s no skin, no relief — just friction, damp moist and dizzying, the cruel throb of want without satisfaction. Your breath stutters. His jaw clenches. Every grind is a curse — slow, obscene, and not nearly enough.

You do not pull away.

You cannot.

Because for the first time in years… you are not the only one breathing.

And his mouth is the only place you don’t feel haunted.

 when your mouth crashes into his again, desperate, gluttonous. It's not kissing anymore; it's consumption. You’re taking him in deep and messy, your tongue sliding against his with filthy intent, every pull and gasp slick with spit and want. His mouth parts for you automatically — pliant, open, letting you dominate, letting you taste — but you barely notice, too far gone, too hot, too reckless to pace yourself.

And then you falter.

Just for a second. A single breath where something — someone — flickers behind your eyes, pulling you out of this moment and into a memory that doesn’t belong to him. It’s fast, but not fast enough. He feels it.

That’s when his teeth catch your bottom lip — not cruel, but close. Close enough to sting. Close enough to make a point. Your gasp slips out against his tongue, swallowed by the heat between you as your hips grind down without thinking, your body betraying you instantly, chasing the friction like a bitch in heat. But your mind? Still scattered, still trying to crawl backwards toward a shadow that has no right following you here.

So he bites.

Hard.

A sharp, deliberate snap of his teeth that sends you jerking in his lap, a jolt of white-hot clarity flooding your system as your moan stutters out sharp and stunned. The copper bite of blood blooms across your tongue, half wine, half iron, all his. And then his hands are on your waist — no, gripping your waist — dragging you down against the thick ridge of him so rough and sudden it knocks the breath out of your chest.

Your rhythm is gone. So is your resistance.

You finally pull back, gasping, blinking like someone who’s just been slapped awake. And maybe you have — just not with his hand. You barely register the air cooling the wet mess between your legs or the sting on your lip before your gaze drops — and there he is. Geto. Smirking. Watching you like a beast that just sank his teeth into something that tried to run.

He drags his tongue slow across his own bottom lip, right over the same place your blood now lingers, making a show of it — taunting you.  a drag, a tease, a possessive cocky action.

Because you’re not thinking about them anymore, are you?

Your fingers drift to your mouth, brushing the sore spot with something caught between disbelief and humiliation. Or maybe it’s curiosity. 

You grind down again. And even as he moans into your ministries you are captivated by him…

Reclined just enough to look insufferably pleased with himself. One arm draped behind his head, the other sprawled lazily across his stomach. His eyes — hooded, dark, almost lidded shut — track your every twitch like a predator too confident to pounce. That ink-dark hair falls into his face in practiced disarray, one loose strand curling along his cheekbone like it knows it’s pretty. And that grin — slow, smug, and catlike — stretches across his mouth with infuriating satisfaction. 

Taunting you even as you grind into him.

He knows exactly what he did.  Knows exactly how it made you feel.  And he’s ‘fucking’ proud of it.

You reach for him without thinking — thumb brushing slow across his mouth to wipe the blood-streaked smear you left behind. He doesn’t flinch. Just glances down, lashes low and lazy, and kisses the pad of your thumb like he’s savoring it — tongue slick, mouth warm, obscene in how tender it looks.

Then he bites that too

Not hard. Just enough to make you gasp — a soft, wicked pinch of teeth that sends heat crawling down your spine and straight between your dripping legs.

Still, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

That smirk — slow, smug, shameless — says everything for him. It curves against your skin like sin itself, dark and sticky and satisfied. His eyes are half-lidded, dark violet and molten, practically purring with the question he won’t bother to say out loud.

Yeah it hurt huh….And? What are you going to do about it, Professor?

You arch a brow, lips still parted, breath still hot from the kiss. Not offended — not even close. You’re amused. And worse — intrigued. Your other hand drops from your mouth and drifts down his throat, fingers grazing the curve of his neck, dragging lower with intention. You are not rushed. But you are Measured. Like you’re tracing the line where you’ll break him.

“Oh?” you murmur, head tilting slightly — the syllable soft, dangerous, wrapped in velvet and bite. His grin spreads, slow and decadent. There's a menace in it now. The kind that says try me.

And you? You lean in, your mouth ghosting over his again, lips close enough to kiss — but you don’t. Just the heat of your breath, warm and deliberate, the promise of chaos if he keeps playing cute….

He likes to play.

And that is fine…because so do you..

“Hah… You know, Geto…”

Your voice drips low and rich, the syllables laced with something slicker than silk — still breathless from the bite he left blooming on your thumb and lip. It stings. You speak around it, letting him taste the smile curled in your voice. You're not chastising him. You're inviting him — deeper, rougher, closer to that line he clearly wants to cross.

The air between you thickens — not with tension, but promise. Of more teeth and Less control.

“I made you…”

You say it slowly, deliberately, the way you’d drag your nails down his chest — not to hurt, just to remind him who put the fire in him. Your fingers still hover near his mouth, the very place he bit you, and he watches you now like a man waiting to be fed more than punished.

His lashes lift, heavy and slow. That gleam behind his eyes isn’t just amusement — it’s hunger. Dangerous. Willing. His lips are still slick from you. That faint sheen of spit and wine and power. He doesn’t wipe it away. He wears it. Like a badge.

He remains silent, moving mischievous hands as you speaks in threat.

Because the way he’s looking at you — half-lidded, smug, and ravenous — says it all.

He leans back even more just enough to be infuriating a direct challenge to your arrogant statement — a picture of indulgence, legs man spreading wider beneath you like a throne built to be straddled. His cock strains thick and heavy beneath the press of his slacks, grinding hard against your cunt with every forced roll of your hips. The friction is maddening — all heat, no relief — and still, he guides you rougher, tighter, both hands groping your waist like handle bars, dragging you down onto him like he’s daring you to continue on your high horse.

He’s not backing down. Not begging. Just watching. Listening. Patient. Focused while he plays around with you. Because he’s waiting to see exactly how much you can take before you break.

You try to speak, you really do — but the words catch, breaking on a proud 

“Uhmph!”

Which then curls into something softer, something shamefully sweet. His hips humped you at just the right angle, grinding thick and slow against your clit, and it nearly pulls a moan straight from your throat. But you force yourself to stifle it. Barely. The sound still slips — a pretty little thing, muffled into the back of your teeth. But it costs you.

‘He’s a little shit you denote’

When you finally manage to speak, your voice is cooler than before — smoothed into something clinical, almost detached. But underneath, it trembles. Not with weakness. With fascination. With the raw thrill of power meeting power. 

“H-hah… I designed every neural pathway,” you say, steady but breath-wrecked. “Every dopaminergic reaction. Every feedback loop that floods your system and makes your spine arch like that.”

Your fingers weave through his hair, still wild from the way he’s been grinding up into you — no tie to tame it, just thick, silken strands catching on your knuckles. You smooth them back with something like reverence, like you’re calming a fever you gave him on purpose. You’re hovering above him, refusing to let him guide your hips with anymore teasing, but his grip strength is formidable and you are barely keeping distance — heat hovering heat, breath mingling in that charged, aching space. His chest rises into yours with a subtle, fractured shudder. Not programming. Need. Unfiltered and earned.

“Made everything in God’s image, if you will,” you whisper, mouth brushing his, smile curled dark and amused. It’s blasphemy — but only you get to speak it. A private joke between the maker and the thing that aches to be ruined by her.

“I mapped your pleasure. Measured it. Programmed it. mmhm”

Your lips hover just above his — not kissing, not teasing. Just close enough for him to feel the heat of your breath, like a lit match held over bare skin. Like the threat of contact that never comes.

Geto lets out a subtle groan.

“Every breath you take that sounds like that…” You watch him — eyes locked, unwavering. “…is mine.”

He exhales then — barely. Shaky. The smallest hitch in control, but enough to satisfy you. Enough to confirm that yes, he feels it. And more importantly, that he can’t stop it.

His chest lifts beneath yours, slower now, stuttering like a system trying to stabilize under too much input. You can see it in his eyes — the recalibration, the flickering edge of restraint. He wants to grind up again. Wants to rut into the heat of your body like before.

You don’t let him because at this angle, you have control of both your bodies..

Your hand glides down the center of his chest with agonizing precision — slow, possessive. His skin is warm beneath your palm, betraying the illusion of pulse. Perfect musculature beneath manufactured nerve endings, but you feel the tension blooming underneath — the kind that wasn't coded, the kind that learned from you.

Your nails drag lightly along his sternum — just enough to leave a trail under the fabric. Goosebumps rise in your wake. Or whatever simulated response he was built to produce in the presence of you.

And when he shudders?

You don't flinch. You hold the eye contact like a chain, tightening with every passing second. He’s trying not to buck beneath you. Trying not to break posture. But you feel it — in the way his thighs tense beneath yours. In the twitch of his fingers, aching to grab your hips again and grind.

But this time?

You don’t let him.

Because you… because this control is not something you wish to let go of so easily.

“Every manmade sensor… calibrated to mirror human sensation.”

You purr it against his clavicle — voice low, lush, almost lazy. Your mouth hovers just above his skin, close enough to let your breath kiss the curve of bone. But you don't close the distance. Not yet. You're savoring the pause — because you own it. The way his breath stutters, the way his hands twitch like they want to move but don’t dare — it’s delicious. Addictive.

You linger there, watching him. Head tilted. Curious. Like a feline draped across her kill, paw resting on his chest just to remind him who’s on top.

His jaw is set. Tight. Tension carved beautifully into him. But not rebellion — no, it’s restraint. Restraint against the restraint. He’s holding back everything, and you can feel it vibrating under your palms like a live wire begging to snap.

You smile — slow, wicked.

“Semi-sentient, yes…” you continue, as if making small talk. But your hand is already in motion, drifting lower with feline ease, your nails grazing the taut line of his abdomen like claws dragging silk. You trace him slowly — not because you're hesitant, but because he's trapped, and you enjoy watching him twitch beneath you.

How every one of his muscles jumps under your touch. His chest rises with a breath he tries to control, but it slips — cracked and quiet, like a moan that never made it to sound. You hum — pleased — and your hand keeps going. Down. low, low Lower. Until you find his thigh.

And there, you pause at the junction of the hipbone where his pants strain in building pressure. And then you Rest your palm against his hot thick cock. Just warm enough to tempt, just still enough to torture.

But you don’t grip. Don’t move. You let him feel it.

His body shuffles under your hand — a small shift, a tightening of the thigh, as if his nerves are begging to reach for more. His hips twitch — the barest grind. Not enough to be obvious. But it’s there. A plea written in muscle and breath.

You drag your fingers along the meat of his thigh —up down around and everywhere but his throbbing need. None of this is for his pleasure. Its all For yours. The way the fabric strains. The way his cock throbs beneath the pressure of his slacks. The way he doesn’t move except to shudder. You feel the tension like heat rising off him, his skin flushed, artificial but hot, like his body believes it’s real because you touched it.

And still,

“The original testers had their fun,” you murmur, voice syrupy and wicked, the scientist’s delight curling at the edges like something molten. Detached, yes — on the surface — but your eyes betray you. They burn with something darker. love.

You let the line hang as your hand coasts higher, gliding along his inner thigh with calculated grace. You're so close now — dangerously close to where he's already thick and aching, the bulge in his slacks darkened with need, weeping through the fabric. His hips twitch when you near it, and you smile like a cat with cream on her tongue.

“But we learned something, didn’t we?” you purr, tilting your head, watching him squirm beneath your teasing palm. Your tone is velvet-wrapped sin — elegant, indulgent, softly vicious. “That the only way a unit can truly please its master…”*

Your hand inches closer. Barely there. Not touching — just threatening contact.

“…is if it can feel everything for itself.”

And oh… how he does.

The reaction is instant — visceral. His breath cracks, pulled straight from somewhere low in his chest. His hips shift again, and this time it’s not subtle. It’s not calculated. It’s need — instinctive, raw, animal. His pupils blow wide, violet drowned in black, his focus so thoroughly wrecked that for a second you wonder if he even knows he’s doing it — or if his body is just obeying you on a level deeper than code.

You hover above him now — not quite seated, not quite backing off — just enough for your heat to sear through the fabric between you. His cock presses up against the seam of your cunt, straining for contact he hasn’t earned. You can feel the pulse of it, desperate to rut, to grind, to claim. And still, you don’t let him.

Your breath ghosts against his cheek. Your body — a whisper above his — taunts him with proximity, but no relief. Every second is a reminder: you are not his to take. He is yours to torment.

His skin is too warm. Radiating heat where it shouldn’t. Engineered to mimic life, yes — but this feels too real. Too convincing. He feels alive. And that is downright terrifying.

Your hand retreats slowly, dragging back up his thigh — a deliberate tease, feline and cruel. You want him restless. Ruined. Starving. He flinches beneath the light drag of your nails, a barely-there scratch just above his knee, and you feel the way his body tries to chase your touch without moving an inch.

So obedient.

So responsive.

So devastatingly human, it almost breaks you.

Almost.

But not yet.

You tilt your head, watching him. Poised. Predatory. The corner of your mouth curls — not with mercy, but intent.

“After all…”  You lean in, close enough for your lips to graze the shell of his ear, your breath deliberately warm, deliberately slow and your voice dips to something dark and delicious — a purr dressed in silken sin.

“…no semi-sentient would be worth anything… if he couldn’t feel an orgasm.”

The line slices through him like heat down a spine.

And the sound he makes — it’s not quite a groan, not quite a breath. It rumbles up from somewhere deeper, raw and unfiltered, like awe dragged through desperation. 

You pull back just enough to see his face, your gaze dragging over him as your fingers trail lazily back up the inside of his thigh — slow, sensual, wickedly light. You trace the outline of him again like you’re re-mapping your own masterpiece, reminding him who carved him into something worth touching.

He shudders.

Just slightly. Just enough. His body twitches again beneath you — responsive, perfect, aching. And still, he doesn’t speak. Not a word.

But oh, how he reacts. You grin — sharp and slow, like a blade being unsheathed. It cuts through the space between you, a lecherous curl of satisfaction at the corner of your lips.

And then he smiles back.

Not innocent. Not sweet. No — it’s the kind of smile that knows exactly what he is, and exactly who he belongs to. It blooms quiet and slow, like a secret sinning in the dark. Like surrender disguised as seduction.

“But you already know that…” you murmur, your voice brushing his mouth with a kiss you’re still withholding, “…don’t you hmm.”

His gaze rakes over you with unnerving ease, as though he’s committing you to memory — and not for the first time. You feel the breath leave his lungs, shallow but deliberate, and then he moves. In one fluid motion, he shifts your body beneath his, settling into place with an intimacy that feels inevitable. Dominant just how you like them. Your back meets the sofa, and his hand finds your wrists, pinning it gently above your head as if he’s done this before — roughly, and with purpose. Like a man following a familiar map.

“You’re right, Professor,” he breathes, voice molten velvet dragging over your lips like silk pulled across an open flame. “My directive is to please you.”

His mouth hovers — maddeningly close — not kissing, just letting the heat of his breath tease where you want him most.

“And as you humans say…”

He pauses. Long enough to make your thighs press tighter around him. Long enough to make you squirm. Then his lips barely ghost yours as he finishes, low and deliberate — “To know is power… but to teach —” His hand slides down, slow and possessive, gripping your ass as he grinds up into you with cruel precision.  “—to show — that’s fucking mastery.”

His mouth crashes into yours with slow, obscene authority — not rushed, not frenzied, but ruinously deliberate. He kisses you like he's claiming territory, like your lips are an altar he intends to desecrate and worship in the same breath. His tongue slides deep, thick and greedy, licking past your teeth like he wants to know how you taste down to the root. And then he sucks — hard — lips sealing over your tongue, pulling it into his mouth with a wet, guttural slurp that makes your spine arch and your brain stutter.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a goddamn consumption.

Your spit coats his mouth, your chin, his jaw. It slicks between you — messy, hot, uncontrolled. He chases every drop like he owns it. Like he earned it. Saliva strings when he pulls back for a second — just a breath, a moan, you’re not sure — and then he dives back in, mouth grinding over yours like he’s starved and you’re the last sin left in the world worth breaking rules for.

You’re lightheaded, floating and falling all at once. Your legs tremble. Your cunt pulses. He hasn’t even touched you there and you’re soaked. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, in your teeth, in the slick heat between your thighs that’s growing unbearable with every obscene suck of your tongue.

Your lips are raw. Your jaw aches. But you don’t stop. You can’t. His kiss is endless — filthy and devotional, like he wants to crawl inside you through your mouth and never come back out.

And when he finally eases the pressure — lets your tongue slide back into your own mouth, lets you gasp against his lips, ruined and breathless — you hear it. That sound deep in his throat.

Like reverence.

Like hunger.

Like he’s going to do it all over again — harder.

Then, without breaking the spell, he draws one hand down the curve of your side, untying open your lounge set with quiet devotion. His touch never lingers long enough to be predictable. His mouth follows — a slow descent mapped by heat and breath and the occasional scrape of teeth. And always, always, his amethyst eyes remain on yours. Watching. Waiting. Wanting. 

And what’s a lust-drunk whore to do? Look away?

Never. You wouldn’t fucking dare.

Not even when his lashes lower like a prayer. Not when he leans in teasing it with hot huffs of his steamy breath before he closes his mouth around your pretty, desperate little nub— flushed and begging, spit-slick from the air.

And definitely not when he moans — low, guttural, filthy — like he’s waited his whole life to get your tit in his mouth and doesn’t plan to waste a second of it.

He sucks deep — tongue dragging, teeth nipping, cheeks hollowing around you like he’s starving and your tits could spill white liquid gold if he worked them just right. It’s greedy, wet, downright obscene, the sound of it loud and shameless as his spit slicks your skin and trails down the swell of your breast in messy, worship-soaked lines.

And he never forgets the other.

His long, thick fingers stay wrapped around the untouched mound — not gentle, not idle. He rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, slow at first, then sharper, pinching until it peaks hard and trembling. The moment his teeth aren’t busy torturing one breast, his fingers are ruining the other, twisting and teasing like he’s determined to coax something out of you that only he deserves to taste.

He devours you like your chest was made for his mouth and his hands alone — and from the way your body jerks for him, maybe it was.

He hums again — not gently, not reverently. Like he likes how it bounces against his tongue. Like he wants to ruin it. Like he wants you to watch him do it.

And you do.

Eyes wide. Breathing wrecked. Your spine bows, your mouth falls open — and the moan tears out of you, loud and broken, soaked in heat. You don’t even try to stop it.

Because how could you?

When he’s latched on like a fucking animal, grinding the fat of your nipple against the roof of his mouth, slurping around it like he’s trying to drain every drop of want from your body.

You are soaked. Pulsing. Barely upright.

And all he’s done is put his mouth where it clearly belongs.

“Mmmuhff Ugh… Geto— nyugh…”

Your fingers slip into his hair before you even decide to move — a reflex, a claim, a warning. You grip, nails grazing his scalp, and he laughs softly against your skin. Not out of amusement. Out of satisfaction.

A predator pleased that his prey has teeth.

He lifts his head just enough for you to see the gleam in his eyes.

“So tell me, Professor…” he murmurs, voice a velvet drag along your spine.

He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t need to. He simply keeps moving — low low lower, — a slow descent that feels more like stalking than seduction. His hands hook around the waist of your lounge pants, and in one smooth motion that feels practiced, inevitable, he pulls fabric away from your hips. Everything in one go. A shedding. Without a care that the action makes your entire body jostle, and everything jiggling along with it.

he’s uncovering the part of you he’s been hunting for.

You inhale sharply, but he doesn’t give you time to settle. His palms slide up the backs of your thighs, urging you open, and then he pauses — just above your pulsing clit — looking at you from beneath his lashes with that same impossible patience.

“Am I doing a good job?” he asks.

But he doesn’t say it lightly. He says it in a way that demands truth. He says your name after, low and deliberate, like he’s testing how it vibrates in you.

And when his mouth finally lowers — when you feel his breath first, warm and devastating — your voice breaks on instinct, helpless and honest:

“Geto  Nyughahh!—”

The rest dissolves into a moan you can’t quite swallow.

You can’t stop looking at him.

Even when your lashes flutter, even when your eyes roll back from the sheer, unbearable pressure of his mouth — you don’t look away. You can’t. Your eyes stay locked to his like you’re possessed, like whatever’s in you wants to watch him ruin you. And fuck, he’s doing it. 

He’s got his mouth wrapped around your clit like it’s the only thing he’s ever believed in — tongue dragging slow, fat strokes, then flattening against the swollen bud and sucking, wet and noisy, like he’s trying to suck your orgasm out through sheer will and spit. It’s disgusting. Filthy. Perfect. Your slick is everywhere — smeared across his chin, dripping down your thighs, painting his face like an offering. 

And he doesn’t stop. 

Doesn’t flinch. 

Just moans into your cunt like he wants to drown in it. His fingers are just as cruel — thick and steady as they trace slow, teasing circles around your fluttering hole, never pushing in, just playing with the twitching rim like he knows you’re one good thrust away from losing your soul. And still, his eyes are on you. Watching. Commanding. He looks up at you from between your legs like a man who’s found heaven in your pussy and has no plans to come back. Your legs are shaking, your clit’s throbbing so hard it hurts, and you’re so wet you can hear it every time he pulls back to suck a fresh breath of you into his lungs — moaning, slurping, groaning like he needs it. You’re right there, teetering 

on the edge, ruined and raw — and he’s still fucking tasting you like he’s thirsty for the kind of sin you were never supposed to survive.

Your hands claw at his scalp, nails buried in his hair, but even when you pull, he moans. The vibration sends heat straight up your spine. You’re panting. Fuck, you’re soaked. His chin is dripping with you. Your inner thighs are tacky with spit and arousal, and still — he drinks it in like he’s starving. Every noise from him is loud, wet, lewd — slurping, groaning, swallowing like a man undone.

He pulls back for only a second, lips slick and parted, and spits directly onto your cunt — hot and heavy — before licking it up with a long, brutal stripe of his tongue. You whimper. You nearly collapse. Your clit’s so swollen you can feel every movement of his mouth like a pulse inside your chest.

His fingers slide higher, molesting that spongey flesh at the top of your opening so deliciously but he stays there persistent in not penetrating, just circling that soaked, puckering hole in slow, teasing spirals. You gasp, body jerking. Your hole flutters, empty and aching, as he teases the edge with thick fingers but never gives you what you want.

And still — your eyes are on his. Your mouth is open, panting, moaning, glazed with disbelief that you're still here, still watching him defile you like this, and loving it. You don’t even realize your hips are grinding down against his face until he groans and pushes his tongue deeper into your folds, locking you down harder with a bruising grip.

You tell yourself He wants it.

He wants you messy. Loud. Shaking.

And you are.

Your whole body is trembling now. You're leaking down his chin. Your thighs are trembling. You can’t speak. You can barely think. The only thing anchoring you is the look in his eyes — that steady, burning gaze that says: don’t you dare fucking look away while I ruin you.

And you don’t.  You couldn’t.  Even if you wanted to. And even so the intensity of his amethyst eyes it too much 

You try to look away — perhaps to reclaim your breath, your balance, or whatever pride hasn’t already melted between your thighs — but the effort is short-lived, thwarted by the slow, possessive slide of his hand as it travels upward, fingers slipping between your folds with obscene ease and unerring precision.

And then he finds it — that swollen, aching bundle of nerves — and pinches.

Not gently. Not cruelly. Just enough to send a searing jolt of pleasure-pain ripping through you, sharp enough to force a yelp from your throat as your hips buck helplessly against his palm, your entire body betraying you in its desperation to stay right there.

It’s not just a touch — it’s a reminder. Intentional, unapologetic, meant to pull your gaze back to his without a single word, grounding you in the only thing that matters now: him.

Because it’s not just his fingers holding you in place — it’s his gaze, heavy and commanding, those dark amethyst eyes locking onto yours with the kind of raw focus that strips you bare, anchoring you even as his thumb resumes slow, maddening circles over the spot that’s already throbbing under his attention.

And in that moment — caught between the burn of his precision and the unbearable intimacy of his stare — you realize you're not just splayed before him, you're bound to him. Not with rope. Not with words. But with the sheer, overwhelming way he knows how to keep you right where he wants you.

Your hips twitch — involuntary, desperate — chasing the curl of his fingers as they stroke deep inside you, but he holds you still with a firm, grounding palm, pressing your body down as if to say stay. Then comes the shift — lower, deeper — a slow push that makes your breath hitch in your throat as you feel him slide another  inside. Two fingers now, thick and hot, easing in with deliberate care, and then another — stretching you open with a steady, unforgiving pace that feels as much like worship as it does ruin.

Then comes the third and this time the burn is slow, delicious. The pressure is unbearable. His fingers are longer than yours, broader — curling just right, just there — until your walls flutter around him like they’re trying to memorize the shape of him. Your eyes go glassy before you can stop them, lashes fluttering as your mouth parts uselessly around a moan that barely escapes.

It’s too much. Too full. Too good.

You’ve touched yourself before — god, you’ve fucked yourself silly, fucked yourself raw, on fingers slick and aching, toys shoved between your thighs until they buzzed uselessly against overstimulated nerves, pillows damp from the pathetic little sounds you tried to swallow when the need got too sharp to bear — of course you have. You’ve chased release every way you knew how, desperate and greedy and unsatisfied, wringing yourself out again and again just to take the edge off.

But it was never enough.

Your fingers never went deep enough, never filled you the way you needed, never curled inside you with the kind of precision that made your whole body answer. Toys could vibrate, thrust, promise relief — but they always fell short, always left you teetering, aching, wanting more long after the buzzing stopped. They couldn’t reach that place. They couldn’t make your stomach clench or drag broken, helpless moans out of you like confessions ripped straight from your chest.

Yours could never make you shake like this. Always leaving you trembling on the brink, wrecked and empty and still starving 

And when his middle finger presses up massaging your cervix while his thumb circles your clit — rhythm synced to the heat of his breath on your neck, the weight of his stare dragging across your skin like silk turned to chains — the pressure builds so fast it almost feels unfair. Cruel, even. Like your body’s been waiting years to be touched like this.

And maybe it has.

The realization comes with a jolt — a sudden, helpless tremor that races up your spine and tightens every muscle in your thighs — and though it’s just a twitch, just a broken gasp, it’s enough to shatter the eye contact he’s been holding you in like a chokehold. Your head tips back, throat exposed, a ragged cry tearing free as your vision floods white.

Because he’s found it.

That spot.

The one that's been neglected for years. The one that feels carved for his fingers alone.

He curls into it again, precise and patient, his two fingers stroking that swollen, spongy flesh like he’s reading something sacred from the inside out. And then—he shifts. Mouth still open over you, tongue still moving, he begins to drag his nose side to side against your clit. The hard bone or his nose bridge making you buck every time it flicks over it— sloppy, manic, like a broken windshield wiper determined to clear your gushing juices.

It’s shameless. And tender. And devastating.

Your hips twitch. Your legs want to close, but his free hand holds you open with quiet strength. He’s not asking you to endure it. He’s asking you to let it happen.

“Nyugh Geto! Pl-please!” what you beg for he knows so well

And you try — god, you try — to stay with him. To meet his eyes again. But your lashes are trembling, your breath is fractured, and the build is too steep now. Too real.

“Umpf right there! Geto! Right there”

The tension gathers low and tight and blinding — and he doesn’t stop. He wouldn’t dare. His mouth and fingers work in tandem, relentless and reverent, and you feel it cresting — feel your body begin to shake under the weight of it.

“Pl-please! Pl-please! Pl-please! Geto! Dont stop!”

And finally — finally — you let go.

It rushes through you all at once, a collapse and an awakening, your body arching, curling, trembling and shaking violently in his hands as the pleasure tears through you in waves. You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but feel. Really feel for the first time in years.

And still, he doesn’t look away.

Not even now.

Data processing… and storing…

Your breath flutters in your throat like something half-caught — a bird between ribs, wings still beating.

You haven’t spoken. You can’t. The shape of speech feels foreign, unfit for the kind of silence draped over the room now. A silence not born of absence, but satiation. Saturation. The aftermath of something rich and slow and consuming.

He doesn’t move right away.

He doesn’t move. Just stays there — nestled between your thighs like a man born for this, mouth still working lazily at the mess he made of you, lapping up every last drop with the patience of someone who knows he isn’t finished, not until you stop twitching, not until your body quits shuddering around the fingers still buried inside you. He eats like he lives there — slow, lecherous, reverent — unconcerned with modesty or performance, drinking you down with the kind of obscene focus that makes you feel more devoured than touched. Only once your legs finally stop trembling, once your breath returns ragged but steady and the high subsides into a bone-deep throb, does he shift — and even then, it’s not to leave.

Instead, his lips find the inside of your thigh, resting there with idle affection while his fingers remain exactly where they are, knuckles deep in your soaked cunt, unmoving save for the slow, rhythmic press of his fingertips against your inner walls — not fucking you, not teasing — just massaging. Worshiping. Like he’s feeling your body come back to him through the aftershocks, reading every flutter of muscle like scripture.

He’s listening.

Not with his ears, but with his hand — with the sacred, unbothered stillness of a man who doesn’t need to rush the ritual. He feels you in your pulse. In the gentle spasms around his fingers. In the way your body hums against his mouth like a bell struck too hard and still ringing in the silence.

And then — slow as sin, deliberate as prayer — he withdraws. His fingers glisten, slick and shining with your frothy white cum, and he brings them to his mouth without breaking your gaze, tongue sliding out to taste you properly for the first time, like he’s been waiting hours for the indulgence.

And fuck — the sound he makes when he licks them clean tells you everything you need to know… he’s not done.

Not even close.

He trails his mouth on your body. A kiss here. A slow drag of his cheek there. Hands guiding, lips lingering. It feels like being gathered. Reassembled. Rewritten. His objective to bring your back from cloud nine.

When he finally moves, it isn’t with haste. He rises slowly, like the tide, pressing one final kiss to the inside of your knee — soft, possessive. It makes your stomach flutter. Not from arousal, not this time — from something deeper. Something warm and low and curling in your chest like steam. He kisses your thigh, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. Every gesture feels earned. And when he lingers on your ribs, he exhales against your skin like he’s exhaling against home.

You blink, dazed. Eyes heavy. Muscles warm and useless.

He keeps kissing your ribs. One by one. Thoughtful, verifying each one to memeory. His mouth drags slowly across each bone like a pen across parchment. No rush. No performance. Just the reverent drag of lips over skin, and the warm hum of breath in the spaces between.

But then—something breaks.

You laugh.

Not a giggle. Not the polite kind of laugh that slips through when someone flatters you too well.

No—this is something else. Something looser. Wilder.

It starts at your chest and bubbles up like a fault line giving way, and before you can stop it, you're full-on laughing. Glee that you haven't felt in years. Like your body needed to find this sound again just to remember what it means to feel good. Really feel good.

He pauses. Lifts his head in question, brows raised just slightly, lips still parted from the last kiss. But you’re already gone—caught in the storm of it, breast jiggling along with its laughter peeling from you like light through stained glass, too beautiful to be inappropriate, too raw to be contained.

Your hands smooth gently through his hair, trying to reassure him, even as the laughter shakes your frame. You cradle his face in both palms, guiding him up slightly, thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone, but your eyes are still bright with that dazed, post-climax hysteria evident on your flushed face.

He narrows his eyes, but there's no irritation—just a slow, amused curiosity, as though watching a fire crackle in real time.

“Com’ere,” you gasp between laughs, still breathless, still shining.

He doesn’t move.

Of course he doesn’t.

He’s enjoying this. Watching you. Watching you fall apart in a completely different way than before—this time undone by joy instead of tension. His gaze is soft, half-lidded, reverent. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Like he wants to memorize this, too.

So you coax him the rest of the way.

Your right leg lifts with lazy grace, foot dragging up the side of his hip, and you hook your big toe through the loop of his belt. A small, slow tug. Your other foot rises in kind, pressing gently against the back of his thigh, guiding him with barely any effort at all.

He hums in surprise. A low sound in his throat. Controlled; hes not quick to comply and you appreciate that. You tug again, this time rougher, and your voice drops as the laughter begins to dissolve, replaced by something deeper. Something that’s not funny at all.

“Come. here.” you say again, and it’s not a request.

He obeys this time.

He lets you draw him forward with your limbs, lets you pull him into the warm, pliant cradle of your body. He slides up along your skin with sinfully slow precision, leaving a trail of heat in his wake until he’s hovering over you again—mouth close, breath shared, eyes locked.

And then you kiss him.

Not playfully. Not quickly.

You kiss him like you’re still inside the dream. Because you never left.

Your hands frame his face again, fingers curling behind his ears, and you pull him down with a tenderness that aches. You kiss him open-mouthed, slow and molten, tasting yourself on his lips, on his tongue, in the heat of his breath—and it only pulls a new moan from you. Soft. Uncontrolled. Like you can’t help it.

Because you can’t help it.

You’re high on the afterglow. On him. On the release, the laughter, the pressure of his body easing into yours. It’s all too much. Or maybe it’s just enough. When he pulls back, it’s only barely—just enough to breathe, just enough to let his forehead fall against yours, the strands of his hair brushing your temple as he hovers in that intimate, breath-warmed space between desire and devotion.

You’re still smiling. Still catching your breath. And he’s looking at you like you’re something precious. Because the sound of your laughter might just be his favorite thing you’ve ever given him.

And then, softly—more reverent than smug, more prayer than praise—he murmurs, “You looked beautiful falling apart.”

You don’t answer.

You just kiss him again, slow and deep, your whole body curling around the shape of him.

He moves like a man with purpose.

The shift is subtle at first — just the sound of breath slowing, then the soft rasp of fabric as his fingers find the waistband of his slacks. He leans back slightly, making room to undress, and you feel the temperature shift — anticipation curling like smoke in your belly as he begins to ease them down.

But before he gets far, your voice stops him.

“Wait.”

He stills. Looks at you.

And there’s something in your face now that wasn’t there before — softness, yes, but not passive. Not bashful. Something reverent. Something present. You meet his gaze with eyes wide and dark and glowing — not shy, but sure. A silent offering laid bare between your lashes.

“I want to make you feel good too.”

The words are quiet. Honest. A confession laced with hunger.

His brow arches slightly — not in surprise, but in silent permission. And when he leans back further, giving you the space to rise, the slacks sliding lower with the motion, you sit up slowly, chest still heaving from the ghost of your last orgasm.

Your hands move to his shirt — black, soft, just slightly rumpled from where your fingers gripped it earlier. One by one, you undo the buttons. Carefully. With the same quiet control he used on you. Your fingertips brush skin with each undone loop, exposing his chest with a sort of silent awe, like opening a gift you’ve already memorized in your dreams.

Once it's open, you push it off his shoulders and let it fall behind him. You lean in. Press your mouth to the side of his throat, then trail downward. The first kiss is soft. The second is not. You let your teeth drag across the curve of his neck, just enough to sting, just enough to leave a mark.

He hums low in his chest as he holds onto the flesh of your hips in anchor. The sound settles between your legs like gravity.

You kiss again. Bite harder. Offering another mark. He tilts his head, offering more of his throat to you. You take it — the space, the invitation — leaving a constellation of bruised kisses across his skin.

And then you slip lower.

Onto your knees to the floor.

You shift downward with the same deliberate patience he used on you — only yours is laced with mischief now, a worshipful hunger curling at the corners of your mouth. You kiss down the line of his abdomen, down the faint ridge of muscle, until your lips meet the fabric of his slacks again — still half-clinging to his hips, barely holding on.

You kiss the skin just above them first. Then the crease of his pelvis. Then, softly, the shape of him beneath the fabric — slow, teasing, adoring.

And all the while, you’re looking up at him.

Eyes dark. Lashes low. Intensity coiled in the space between inhale and exhale.

You don’t say anything more. You don’t have to. He sees it all in your gaze — the intention, the offering, the ache to make him feel.

And His gaze never leaves you.

Not even as you lower yourself further, fingers slipping along his waistband, lips still warm from kissing around the edges of his restraint. You feel him watching — not with lust alone, but something steadier. Something deeper. Like devotion, sharpened to a point.

You move slowly, hands dragging over his hips, thumbs curling into the fine line where skin meets fabric. You pause there, breathing in the warmth of him, the scent of skin and heat and something uniquely his. Your cheek presses lightly to his thigh for a moment — not out of submission, but to savor. To steady yourself.

And then — his hand moves.

He brushes the hair from your face gently, fingers gliding through the strands as if parting silk. It’s nothing, really. A small gesture. But the way he does it — careful, almost tender — makes your breath catch. Because he wants to see.

He tucks the hair behind your ear, his thumb ghosting along your temple, and you tilt your head into the touch without thinking. Like you have always done before.

The atmosphere shifts. Not heavier — but quieter. Thicker with meaning.

You blink up at him through your lashes, and he meets your gaze with something unreadable in his expression. Not softness exactly. But patience. Honor. A kind of quiet privilege that’s settled over him like shadow.

He nods — barely.

And you move.

Your fingers find the zipper and pull it down with the reverence of opening a sealed letter. The sound is soft, intimate, like breath being released after a held moment. You peel the fabric back slowly, easing his slacks and underwear down in a single practiced motion — careful not to rush. Careful to make this feel like it matters. Because it does.

You take him in slowly — both in your hand and with your eyes — and the breath that leaves your lips is somewhere between reverence and disbelief.

Because he’s big.

Undeniably. Obscenely. Deliberately.

You’d known, of course. You’d signed off on every detail. Oversaw the prototypes, the ratios, the artificial heat retention. You approved the final specs, the vascular molding, the precision in weight and girth. You even calibrated the nerve netting for hyperrealistic muscular feedback — all under the guise of corporate excellence. After all, the company prided itself on impressiveness.

But somewhere along the line — somewhere between performance and preference — you’d made a decision. Quietly. Without ever speaking it aloud.

You made him bigger.

Just enough to remember it wasn’t real. Just enough to never cross the line between memory and fantasy. And in that crossing, you’d made him yours.

Suguru was already well-endowed. You remember that with a kind of bodily certainty. But this… this was something else. This was crafted. Chosen. Designed to fill the ache that never left. To answer the question you couldn’t stop asking.

And now, here you are — kneeling before the culmination of your own ghost-built desire, fingers wrapped around the very thing you once pretended was clinical. You watch it twitch in your palm, heavy and flushed and so real, and your pulse stutters in your throat.

It hits you then — the intimacy of the act. That you gave him this. That every line and contour was traced from your longing. That this wasn’t random. It was written.

By you.

For you.

Your thumb brushes over the slit of his weeping tip, lubricating the milky goo on his pretty tip and you exhale slow, almost trembling. He can only mutter a shuddering breath. But you feel his gaze on you — patient, eversteady, quiet as a god who doesn’t need to ask for worship because it always finds him anyway.

And still, you look at him.

Still, you marvel.

Because now that you're really seeing him — all of him — you're starting to understand just how much you designed to forget…

And how none of it worked.

You rise quickly — too quickly. Not in fear — in alertness. Awareness.

The motion slices through the room like the snap of a curtain being drawn, the air pulled with you as you stand with sudden, jolting urgency. It’s not graceful. It’s not gentle. It’s instinctual — the kind of movement that startles even you, like something took hold of your spine and lifted.

Geto ‘startles’ to attention.

Not in fear — in alert, breath-held readiness. His eyes sharpen, narrowing slightly as if recalculating something between you. His body adjusts on instinct: back straightening, muscles tensing subtly beneath the surface, like a soldier watching a queen rise from her throne with unexpected command.

You say nothing. You don’t need to.

Because now, standing before him, you see him fully.

And he is perfect.

His flesh is golden in the light — not glowing, not exaggerated — just warm. Lived-in. Sculpted not by vanity, but by design. Your design. Your choices. Your silence. His chest rises and falls with steady patience, but you know it’s only calm on the surface. Beneath it, something stirs.

Your hand rises — slow, careful — as if touching him might shatter something.

And then you do. your fingertips find his right shoulder first. You trail your fingers over the hard curve of his right shoulder, the muscle shifting faintly beneath your touch. There’s a pause there, a beat held in silence, as if your body is recalibrating to him — and then you continue.You trail your hand across his clavicle, then over his chest — his pectoral smooth and solid beneath your palm. The skin warms immediately under your touch.

And you keep going.

Downward, across the lines of his abdomen — each muscle flexing subtly beneath your fingers like they remember you. You drag your touch over every rise and dip like you’re relearning a sacred landscape, one you forgot was yours to map.

And when you reach his left hip bone — that sloping, hollow ridge that curves like a secret — you pause.

Your thumb presses into the groove just above it. Not hard. Just enough to feel him respond. The silence is different now. No longer reverent.

It hums.

Like electricity. Like withheld breath. Like the moment before lightning strikes and calls itself beautiful. And when you lift your eyes to his again, there’s no trace of the woman who laughed a minute ago.

Something shifts.

Not in him — in you.

One moment, your hands are on him, and the room is rich with ice and breath and tension. The next, it slips. A thread pulled loose in your chest, unraveling faster than you can catch it. You feel it clawing up your throat — not lust, not need — something else. And without thinking, you drop.

Your knees hit the floor, not in worship this time, but collapse. You crouch there, entirely naked, your arms folding tight around your head, fingers clutching at your hair like you’re trying to hold yourself in place — as if you’re afraid that if you don’t grip, you might come apart entirely. Your breathing is shallow. Uneven. It stutters like static in your lungs.

And the silence changes again.

No longer velvet. No longer warm.

Now, it’s sharp. Cold. Fragile.

Geto moves the instant he senses it — senses you. His body shifts, his expression hardens into something not cold, but focused. His voice is low, a thread of worry woven through its calm.

“Hey,” he says softly, crouching a little, trying to catch your eye. “Hey—what’s wrong?”

Your face is buried between your arms, but he sees the violent tremble in your shoulders. Sees the way your spine curls in, how your breathing doesn’t come easily. And the tension in his body dissolves into something else entirely — not lust, not confusion. Concern?

He doesn’t reach for you yet. He just watches. Carefully. Gently. Intently.

Calling your name now — not as a command.

As a question.

As a lifeline.

Then he reaches to touch your cheek.

It’s gentle. Measured. Like he’s done it before — in another moment, in another room, in another version of this story where things didn’t ache like this. His right hand cups your face like it belongs there. Like it was made to fit.

And the second it does, you feel it.

Not just the warmth of his palm. Not just the familiar weight.

You feel the shape. And its lack of texture.

Your breath catches — not outwardly, not enough for him to notice. But your fingers move on instinct. You wrap them around his wrist, not harshly, not even consciously, and begin to guide his hand away from your face. Down. Slower.

You lower your eyes.

You don’t say anything.

You just bring his hand in front of you, holding it between your own like a question you’re not ready to ask. One of your hands supports it from below. The other hovers above it. Your fingers tremble before they make contact.

Then you start to trace.

You begin at the palm.

The skin is soft, warm — impossibly so. It gives just enough beneath your fingertips, perfectly responsive, perfectly human in all the ways it shouldn’t be. There are no calluses. No rough patches. No flaws to snag on. Just smooth, even pressure. Just design.

Your breath gets thinner.

You keep going up.

Your fingers trace along the back of it, then down toward the knuckles, each one smooth and sculpted, bending gently beneath your touch. They respond exactly as they should — not too fast, not too slow. Just right. A quiet, seamless choreography of movement meant to soothe you, to remind you this hand was built — built — to hold you, to move the way you like, to mimic the safety you once felt.

But it isn’t him.

Suguru’s hands were different — broader, stiffer at the joints, always carrying a faint ache from years of fights he never walked away from clean. They didn’t move like this. They cracked when he flexed them. They trembled sometimes, even when he pretended they didn’t. His fingers curled in ways this version never could — or never would, because this version doesn't fail.

Your stomach turns. A slow, curling nausea that doesn’t spike but simmers — a heaviness that settles in your gut and tells you, you are not safe here.

Still, your hand doesn’t pull away. You trace.

Down the back of his fingers — one by one — like you’re hoping to find something wrong. Something human. But there’s nothing. Each line is clean, smooth. Each joint moves in silent, obedient harmony. Each fingertip is rounded just enough to pass as real — just enough to suggest use, wear, life. But you know better.

You reach the pads of his fingers and pause there, your own hands stilling as if the truth has finally risen from beneath the skin. Not like a scream. Not like a strike.

But like a weight.

Heavy, low, final — settling behind your ribs, spreading across your chest like a grief you didn’t earn but crafted with your own hands.

Because this hand — the one you’ve kissed, the one that’s touched your face, your thighs, the hollow of your back — wasn’t remembered. It wasn’t carried forward through time. It wasn’t inherited from the man who once held you like you were something fragile, something sacred.

It was made.

And worse — you made it.

Your breath catches, but still you look. You keep looking. As if denying your eyes would deny what they’re about to confirm.

Your gaze trails upward now, over the forearm — unmarred, unscarred, no faint white lines from old blades or training slips, no cigarette burn from that night in Okinawa, no dimpled memory of skin that healed crooked. Just a smooth, sterile expanse. A blank page that never bore the weight of time.

Up the bicep — too perfect, too symmetrical, never torn, never dislocated in a scuffle with Satoru at sixteen, no shallow divot from the old shoulder injury that used to pop whenever he stretched too far.

And higher still — the arm itself. Whole. Seamless. A smooth shoulder junction of flesh that holds no memory of being ripped of, no cavern where torn muscle to cradle the bloodied stump of an arm he never got buried with…

Your throat tightens.

And then — the final blow.

Your eyes land on his ears. And they are wrong. Unpierced. Untouched. Unstretched.

Pristine lobes with no weight, no wear, no memory of slow, intentional transformation. No tunnels. No plugs. Just skin.

And you freeze — because it’s subtle, so subtle — but that absence hurts more than anything else.

Because the man you loved wore those plugs like a truth he didn’t need to say out loud. They were never fashion. They were never vanity. They were practice. Discipline. They were principal they were balance… of wisdom hard-earned, detachment without disconnection. A testament to the man he became… what does this robot know of any of that.

And in the stillness that follows, you finally understand:

This isn’t Suguru Geto.

This is Geto Suguru

You thought he was the same — the face, the hair, the eyes, the body, every line and shadow sculpted to match the man you lost. You thought it was the same. You let yourself believe it. You let yourself forget. You knew Suguru inside and out — the way his eyelids lowered when he was tired, the weight of his sighs, the tension he held in his shoulders, the soft scars scattered like quiet memories across his skin. You knew him. 

You loved him. 

And now, looking at Geto in the dim, with your breathing fractured and your hands still shaking, you feel like an artist staring at their own masterpiece after the varnish dries — seeing every flaw you once painted over. What you once thought was perfect reveals itself under the light. It’s not perfect. It’s not the same. It’s not him. He is not Suguru.

And that realization hits you so hard your ribs feel like they’re closing. Your lungs seize. Your throat snaps shut. Your chest collapses inward as a panic attack tears its way through you with no warning at all — guilt, shame, sadness, hatred, despair, all of it crashing into you in one violent, choking wave. Your breathing stutters, shallow and broken. Your vision blurs. Your hands go cold. You can’t hold yourself up. You shake, violently, humiliatingly, as tears spill with no sound, no structure, no defense.

And all Geto can do is hold you.

His arms wrap around you exactly the way you programmed them to — steady, gentle, comforting — because that is what he is meant to do for dangerous situations like this. That is all he can do. And you can’t stop the thoughts crawling into your skull like insects. If these aren’t his eyes — if they don’t hold the weight of memory or mistake — then they aren’t his eyes at all. If these hands don’t hesitate, tremble, curl with history, then they aren’t his hands either. If this body isn’t marked by the life he lived, if it isn’t scarred and softened and shaped by the years you shared, then it isn’t his body. And if the heart beating in this chest is steady and strong and manufactured — never once breaking for you, never once aching for anything — then this heart is  definitely not his heart.

And that’s when it hits you full force, bitter enough to burn your tongue even in silence.

You fucking made a sex robot of your dead lover.

You made him for your own needs — your grief, your loneliness, your emptiness — and he has no love for you. He cannot. Everything he does is for you because he was built that way. Built to obey. Built to perform affection with perfect consistency. Built to stay. Built to hold you while you grieve the man he is not. All the while ensuring you don't burden the rest of the world with your unstable cursed energy leakage. All of this is fake. The tenderness, the warmth, the concern — all of it manufactured responses, not choices. He has no thought other than to obey. No desire except the ones you coded into him.

Geto isn’t his own person.

He isn’t real.

Geto isn’t real.

None of this is real.  None of this is true. You are not loved. You are not remembered. You are — in every way that matters — alone.

Suguru is dead. Suguru is gone. He no longer exists in any world where you can reach him. He has been erased from the present, from the future, from the memories of everyone who once knew him. His name is dust. His warmth is gone. His life is gone. And this thing you cling to — your creation, your imitation of him — doesn’t even know the man whose shadow it wears. It doesn’t even know it was built in the image of a ghost.

Geto is simply the shell of that ghost.

And you are holding an echo.

Tears well before you even register the reason — and by the time you do, it’s already too late. They come hot, fast, unrelenting — burning down your cheeks, blurring your vision, soaking the edges of your mouth until all you can taste is salt and grief. And then you’re sobbing — not quietly, not cleanly, but with gasping, choking gulps that seize your chest and leave your ribs aching, every breath ragged like your body is trying to scream something your mind can’t yet form.

Panic overtakes you like a wave breaking all at once. Your hands shake. Your vision tunnels. The sound of your own heart drowns out the room — until it doesn’t.

Because he is still here.

And he does not flinch.

Coolness suddenly presses to your skin — beneath your knees, against your wrists, down your spine — thin layers of ice conjured through precise cursed technique output, regulating your body temperature before you even think to ask. It’s calculated. Seamless. And still, somehow, gentle.

He speaks — low, measured, barely audible through the static in your ears — but his voice finds you. Grounds you. He repeats your name, over and over, each time with more certainty than the last, and somehow you hear it. Somehow it cuts through. You feel his hands on you, not squeezing, not restraining, just present — warm where they need to be, steady where you’ve begun to fall apart.

And then the scent hits you.

Familiar. Faint. But unmistakable.

Him.

Suguru.

The way he used to smell after long baths and late-night walks, a mixture of clove and wind and something you never could name. It's in the air now — not overpowering, not artificial — but subtle, exhaled into the space between you like a balm, like muscle memory. Like safety.

You feel your body respond to it before your mind can catch up — a slight loosening in your chest, a pause in your sobs, a flicker of stillness in the riot of your thoughts.

You’re naked in his arms, your knees pulled close to your chest, your body folding inward as though trying to protect something already broken. You can’t look at him. You press your face into his chest because it’s easier to fall apart somewhere soft, even if that softness was manufactured.

When you finally come back he cradles you immediately. Instinctively. His arms curve around your body like a shield, his hand stroking slow lines up and down your back. His breath is warm against your hair. His voice — gentle, measured, perfect — breaks the silence with the kind of careful concern he was programmed to express. “What is wrong?” he asks.

You shake your head. A whisper, wet and cracked, escapes: “No… it’s nothing.” You lie. You lie the way people lie when the truth is too large to fit inside their mouth. You feel small. Ashamed. And not because of what he did, but because of what you need. What you’re still asking from him. From it.

There’s a guilt in your chest that claws to the surface — hot, irrational, animal. You feel like you’ve cheated on a man who’s already dead. You feel like you’ve sinned against your own grief. But there’s also the deep, choking panic that you can’t survive tonight without being held. And because you're human — terribly, achingly human — your body does what it’s always done in the face of fear: it hides. You shrink into yourself. You apologize silently. You shake from the weight of needing what you’re not allowed to want anymore.

Still, he holds you. Still, his arms remain. Still, he waits.

“How can I help you?” he asks. And you break.

Your hands grasp at him without thinking — clutching his chest, burying into his skin like you might fall through the floor if you let go. There’s no logic in it. Just instinct. Just need. Your fingers dig into his shoulder blades and your face presses harder into the hollow of his collarbone, and it doesn’t make sense but it’s the only thing that keeps you from unraveling completely.

“I just…” your voice stumbles. It cracks. It clings. “I just need you to be Suguru, Geto.”

You hiccup on the name. It feels wrong. It feels blasphemous. It feels like betrayal. But it’s the truth. The pathetic, aching truth.

He doesn’t respond. He just holds you tighter.

And you, in turn, hold him tighter, too — not because you believe in the comfort, but because your body won’t let you walk away from it.

He lifts you without a word, one arm under your legs, the other behind your back. You go limp in his grasp. You don’t resist. You don’t speak. You let yourself be carried like something fragile that no longer wants to be held together. The hallway is quiet as he takes you to your bed. The lights seem too bright. The walls feel like they’re listening.

When he lays you down, you don’t move. When he settles beside you, you don’t speak. You let him curl around you like he always does — perfectly warm, perfectly still, perfectly present.

And you press your body into his chest not because it feels good, but because the alternative is the cold.

There’s no comfort in it. Not really. Only stillness. Only survival. And tonight, that’s enough. Because you don’t believe the lie anymore.

But you need it.

And that’s the most unbearable truth of all.

In the bedroom, you’re still crying — not softly, not prettily, but in the raw, exhausted way a person cries when their heart has been broken too many times to hold together. You cling to the sheets like they’re the only solid thing left in your world, fingers curled hard into the fabric as your sobs stutter out of you. Your chest aches. Your throat burns. The buzz of alcohol lingers in your bloodstream — a dull, thudding warmth that never wore off, leaving your body heavy and your emotions unguarded, stripped bare of their usual armor.

Geto moves quietly. He doesn’t touch you anymore. He walks into the closet with that steady, deliberate grace he always has and retrieves a fresh pair of boxers for himself and your. Then he reaches for one of Suguru’s old cotton button‑ups — soft, well‑worn, still carrying the ghost of his scent no matter how many times it’s been washed. He brings it over and sets it gently beside you, as though placing something sacred at a shrine.

He straightens, and for a moment, he turns as if to leave — as if this is where the script tells him to retreat to his own room, to give you space, to follow the routine programmed into him. His steps shift toward the door.

But your hand shoots out.

Your fingers wrap around his. Desperate. Clinging. Trembling.

“Wait. Pl-please stay—” Your voice breaks, high and shredded. “Don’t leave me. Please. don’t go.”

It’s not a request. It’s begging. It’s instinct. It’s the hollow ache of being left too many times, rising all at once in a voice that sounds nothing like your own.

He turns immediately. There is no confusion. No hesitation.

“Of course,” he says, and his voice is soft in a way that hurts more than anything else — because it’s perfect. Because it’s too gentle. Because it’s not real. Because its his voice and all the while not his

He lies beside you on the bed, settling against the sheets with quiet certainty, and you collapse into him instantly. Your arms wrap around his torso. Your face presses into his shirt — into the cotton still smelling faintly of a man who no longer exists. You breathe him in like a drug. You cling like drowning.

He wraps one arm around your waist and pulls you closer, holding you exactly the way you always wished someone would hold you through grief — fully, tightly, without question or fear. His other hand runs slow lines down your spine. His warmth melts into your skin. His breath stirs your hair.

You listen.

His heartbeat — steady, rhythmic, too even to be real. His breath — human in sound, but not in ache. His scent — familiar, devastating, artificial.

And yet your body softens into him because it needs to. Because it’s all you have. Because pretending hurts less than the emptiness waiting on the other side of truth.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice a steady thread woven through the quiet unraveling inside you — low, warm, maddeningly calm. “I’m here.”

He says it as his palm glides up and down your back in slow, deliberate strokes — not mechanical, but measured, like each movement is meant to coax you back into your body, to remind you that you're not alone. That someone is holding you, even if that someone was never supposed to exist.

It undoes you.

You fall asleep like that — weeping, whimpering, curled into a body that holds you with perfect devotion, perfect gentleness, perfect unreality. The tears slow only because exhaustion claims you, your hiccups softening into shallow breaths against his chest.

Just before your consciousness slips away completely, you feel him draw the blanket up over your shoulders. And he whispers, in that soothing cadence programmed to comfort you—

“Now let’s go to sleep, Professor.”

And you do. Not peacefully. But because there’s nowhere else left for your grief to go.

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