ＳＥＮＴＩＥＮＴ
SERIES FILE 2 INSIDE JOKES [2/28/26]
pairing = "sex-robot!Geto × f!reader"
【ʙᴏᴏᴛ_ꜱᴇＱᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ（"ʙᴀᴄᴋꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ＆ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ．sᴇx.eｘᴇ"） ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴜꜱ ＝ "ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴜʀᴇ_ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟꜱᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ" ᴇᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ_ꜱᴜʙʀᴏᴜᴛɪɴᴇꜱ ＝ "ᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ…"】
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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. 6K+
TAG LIST. @eri-diglog @anubisvoid2 @Linxsolos
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.
Disclaimer The banner images used in this post were sourced from Pinterest and are not my original artwork. All credit belongs to the respective creators. I do not claim ownership, nor do I intend to infringe on any copyrights. These images are used purely for aesthetic purposes and are not monetized in any way.
If you know the original artist(s), please let me know so I can properly credit and tag them.
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[M. List]
[S. GETO NAVIGATION][Orkauh Masterlist][Psst… Early Access]
“Hanna’s gone?” you murmur, almost to yourself, though the girl behind the desk looks up as if the words were meant for her. Your tone is light — polite — but something small and private folds in your chest as your gaze drifts across the room. The air feels different now. bright. And very open. The kind of brightness that leaves nowhere for shadows to rest.
“You’re not Hanna…” you say absently, you're not unkind about it — only surprised.
The girl laughs, cheerful and untroubled. “Oh! No. I think she left before I started. I’m Aubrey.” she winks a cute school girl smile afterall thats what she is isnt she…
You incline your head, lips curving with courteous understanding. “Right… Of course you are...”
“She was the one before me, right? Hanna?”
“Mmhmm.”
“She got married last year. Had a baby. She’s a full-time mama now.”
Your heart doesn’t break. It only collapses in on itself — quietly, elegantly — like linen being put away. “Oh!” you breathe, almost smiling. “That’s good.”
Aubrey giggles, leaning forward as if sharing something scandalous. “You know, Everyone said she didn’t like anyone.”
“No..Heh…” you murmur, a faint laugh ghosting past your lips. “She didn’t...”
The conversation continues — light and exceptionally weightless — but you’ve already drifted somewhere else. You remember Hanna’s dry humor, her chipped black nail polish, the way she’d toss you a towel without looking and muttering, ‘Don’t embarrass yourself today.’ You remember pretending to roll your eyes, and her pretending not to notice. You were her only favorite, though she would never admit it.
And now, Now the counter gleams too clean, too polished. The kind of shine that belongs to new beginnings — not memories. “A lot’s changed,” you murmur, fingertips brushing the cold edge.
Beside you, Geto fills out the paperwork. His movements are fluid — unnervingly so — the pen gliding across the screen without hesitation, each signature looping into existence with elegant precision. He looks utterly at home in the act of imitation, as if the habit of belonging were built into him. Well, technically it is. His name fits neatly into this world, while yours feels like an echo. How ironic…
He does not pause as he speaks. His voice is calm, careful, as if placed gently onto the moment rather than spoken aloud. “Would you like,” he starts, eyes still on the form, “to send Hanna flowers? Let her know ‘we’ are thinking about her?”
The question is so mild — so well-meant — it takes you a breath too long to answer.
He glances at you then — just once — the kind of glance a man might give his lover while mid-task, pen still poised, paperwork half-finished. Not impatient. Not distracted. Just… suspended. As though he’s prepared to set it all aside if you need him to. As though your smallest need would be reason enough to abandon the rest.
It’s almost romantic.
To that your lips part, then close again. You offer the faintest smile — not cruel, but laced with something dry and knowing. “...She’d hate that…”
He doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask why. But he does pause — pen still between his fingers, poised above the line he’d been about to sign. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than necessary, maybe he's studying your face for additional data. A flicker of something almost tender passes through his expression — not quite concern, not quite comprehension. Just observation. The kind that wears the shape of feeling, perhaps emotion even! but not the depth.
And then he smiles.
Small. Polite. Measured.
“Very well,” he says, voice smooth as silk pulled through a ring.
Then he lowers his eyes to the page and resumes writing, line by line, without another word or concern.
He looks utterly at home in the act of mimicry, as if the habit of belonging were built into him. And again you can't help but feel his being fits neatly into this world, while yours feels more and more distant. The receptionist brightens. “All set! Just need a photo for the I.D!”
She clicks around the computer and perks up. “Oh! Looks like there’s already one here!— must’ve auto-pulled from your linked records. YAY!” You lean forward. The image that appears on the screen makes your pulse stutter.
Perfect. Too perfect.
The same face. The same symmetry. The same eyes, crystalline and cruel in their clarity. A man preserved by technology instead of time. And Geto? He glances toward you, mouth parting slightly, perhaps to suggest keeping it.
“No!...” The word cuts out sharper than you intend; both look at you in surprise (as if he could feel such an emotion) but you quickly compose yourself. “Let’s take a new one.” A brief silence passes. Then Aubrey shrugs, smiling. “Sure thing.” The flash goes off. “All good. Welcome back!”
Hah! …Back… she says it so easily. As though you’d gone somewhere simple. As though you’d ever left willingly.
You manage a small, practiced smile and turn toward the corridor. You believe you do remember the way — your body still remembers what your mind has begun to forget. The rhythm of it all: dropping bags by the cubbies, changing, stretching, spotting each other between sets. The familiar weight of a towel handed from the right, the brush of his temple against your skin, his teasing whisper — His low laugh, his kiss to your sweaty shoulder, and the small, amused tut of his signature…
“Focus for me… pretty girl…”
You walk that ghostly rhythm until you realize the space no longer remembers it either. And irritatingly so the hallway glows brighter now, scrubbed of its former warmth. The air humming with eucalyptus where there used to be chalk and effort. Even the floor feels foreign underfoot — smooth where you feel it should whimper.
You are halfway to the door when he calls your name.
“Professor.”
The voice is gentle, precise, entirely human in tone — and not at all human in origin.
You pause. And with that the air seems to still with you.
When you turn, he is already close. Not too close — never too close — but near enough that the faint heat beneath his synthetic skin warms the space between you. Geto then moves with unhurried grace, fluid as poured mercury, head tilted down just slightly to look at you. “There’s been a layout change,” he says softly. “You’re about to walk into the men’s room.” he says with a firm tone, and familiar amethyst eyes look into you.
A flush rises before you can stop it — faint, but unmistakable. You laugh softly, brittle at the edges, smoothing the moment over like it hadn’t snagged something inside you. “I think I remember where the changing rooms are,” you murmur, the words just a touch too clipped to pass as effortless.
You don’t know why it bothers you.
It shouldn’t bother you. His directive is concern, not condescension. Afterall You programmed him to challenge you — not just serve. Semi-sentient, yes. But also calibrated to resist indulgence. To think. To hold his own. A peer, if such a thing could exist... Someone who would call you on your bullshit with perfect precision and unwavering calm.
But still — something in you bristles. Quietly. Pointlessly. As if being corrected, even gently, even by him, had pressed against a place you weren’t ready to name.
You smooth your expression. Adjust your posture. Move forward like it meant nothing. Almost convincing yourself it didn’t. Before you can take another step, a hand catches you gently at the waist.
You pause, startled more by the softness of the gesture than the force — there is no force, only presence. Steady. Anchoring. Warm through your clothes.
He draws you back with practiced ease, his chest brushing against your spine as he leans forward, voice low beside your ear. Geto’s breath doesn’t fan your skin like Suguru’s did. But the closeness still makes your body remember how that used to feel.
Then His head tilts past your shoulder, gaze drifting to the sign posted clearly on the wall. “Unless,” he murmurs, tone smooth and slightly teasing, eyes all full of cheshire mirth “you enjoy watching unknown men change.”
Right on cue, a man steps out of the locker room behind the sign — towel slung over one shoulder, earbuds still in, unaware of the small scene he’s walked into. He nods to you both absently, then disappears out the entrance.
You don’t speak. Your breath is caught somewhere between a scoff and a laugh — and neither one escapes.
“Maybe,” Geto adds, smiling now, “the women’s locker room would be much more comfortable.”
His eyes soften as he looks at you — the pretty slope of his monolids dipping low like a cat mid-blink. His expression is gentle, composed. Kind. and all the while one long, dark bang falls across his forehead, clinging slightly to his cheekbone.
It’s charming.
It’s perfect.
And it doesn’t belong to him.
As if summoned, Aubrey’s voice carries across the lobby: “Oh! Sorry! Forgot to mention — we switched them last year! Women’s is the other way now.” The moment stretches delicately, like thread between two needles.
“Of course it is…” you murmur, looking nowhere in particular.
You laugh again, softer this time, the sound refined and fragile. “How silly of me.”
A flicker passes over his mouth — the suggestion of a smile, restrained and polite. “No worries,” he says, low and calm. “We all make mistakes.”
Something about the phrasing turns in your stomach, its subtle but you can't deny it feels strange. You glance up at him. He’s watching you with a patience so perfect it almost feels merciful.
“Yes,” you say, meeting his gaze. “Humans do that…”
Then you step past him. The soles of your shoes whisper against the tile, the light too sharp against the glass, the air too new to remember what it once held.
Behind you, he watches — head slightly tilted, eyes following the measured sway of your shoulders — as if he has already learned how to recognize grace without ever knowing what it costs to carry it.
—
Your footsteps echo gently as you step forward, adjusting the hem of your loose fitting workout top with quiet precision. He’s already waiting — of course he is. Standing just off-center, back straight, water bottle uncapped in one hand. And in it his stillness is uncanny. Not relaxed or restless. Just… prepared. There’s something about the way he holds the bottle — not offering it, not withholding it — that makes your chest ache with the knowledge that he has no reason to be discourteous to you. He cannot be. He was built for you.
Why would this bother you then. Suguru used to do worse he never brought you water. In fact He used to steal yours. Used to smirk when you caught him mid-sip and complain that it tasted better when it was “hard-earned.” He would’ve had a towel over his shoulder, sweat already gathering at the collar from doing pre-cardio while you showered, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth. He would’ve met you with something familiar and unrepeatable — a kiss to the temple, a low murmur in your ear: “Why shower if you’re just going to sweat again?” And you, already rolling your eyes, firing back with the same wry snap: “Sorry, I don’t like to smell nasty like you.” He would’ve laughed. Pretended to sigh. Said something about saving the gyms water, and suggested you share the shower instead. You’d have shoved him. Called him a perv. It was never serious, but it was always intimate… the language of a thousand tiny nothings spoken only between the two of you.
But this one… this Geto… only waits.
“Ready when you are,” he says softly, and with a kind smile extending the water at last. His voice is warm — but it is a warmth carefully calibrated. Designed only for comfort. You take the bottle without a word, your fingertips brushing his. It's warm from his palm and you can't help but notice that it lingers.
You nod. “Let’s go to the mats.” quickly averting your gaze from where your hands met.
The walk is quiet. Irritatingly so. The tiles beneath your shoes give way to soft rubber, and still he says nothing. Doesn’t lean in to tease. Doesn’t joke about your pace, doesn’t pretend to race you to the edge like Suguru used to on slower days or when your brother made you mad and suguru was always there to comfort you then. You don’t realize you’ve slowed until you feel the emptiness beside you where once there would have been a palm at your back — lightly teasing, but always guiding. You do not look at him. You already know what you’ll find. Stillness. Poise. That same attentive expression meant to make you feel seen. And it nearly does.
You close your eyes. Draw in a breath that doesn’t settle. The air is too clean. The lights too cold. Everything here is new — so very, very fucken new to grieve properly, too polished to remember. Still, your body mourns without permission. The ache lives where your muscle used to stretch under a familiar hand. He does nothing wrong. He waits, just as he was designed to. Just as you once wished someone would.
And somehow, that is what makes it worse.
—
“You’re dripping back here…” he whispers, voice smooth and unhurried — as though he were commenting on posture, not pressing your sanity to the breaking point. The words fall like warm water against the shell of your ear. Gentle. Offhand but so ardently precise.
Your body goes still.
“I’m sorry—wh-what?...” The syllables leave you on a thread of breath, too high, too fast. Embarrassingly alive. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t smirk. Just offers the correction again, polite and patient— as if it were always meant that way. “I said you’re tipping back here. Your hips. You’ve got sciatic nerve compression. It’s likely contributing to the pain in your lower spine you mentioned earlier."
You nod, but you don’t breathe. Not properly at least. Your face burns as you stare down at the mat, suddenly aware of every inch of your body.specifically, Every point of contact. Every mistake in tension.
He isn’t being obscene. He isn’t being anything. And that, somehow, is more embarrassing. Because you heard it differently. And worse still—you wanted it that way. God help you.
His palm presses gently at the base of your spine, just above the curve of your glute. His thumb rotates outward, working through a knot with skilled detachment. One hand anchors your hip, the other guides your thigh into better alignment. It’s all so professional. So correct.
And yet—
You feel like you’re being fucking edged in slow motion.
Especially since the position is criminal. Extended Puppy Pose. Your arms stretched forward, your knees are parted, your hips raised to the air like an offering. Hah! There’s no grace in it — only vulnerability. Submission, thinly disguised as therapy.
He kneels just behind you, solid and still. His body doesn’t press, doesn’t hover — but you feel the echo of him anyway. The hot hot heat. The awareness. The unrelenting patience of a man built to wait forever.
Your breasts brushes the mat with each shallow breath and that mixed with the fabric of your leggings is thin. You cant help but feel its to damn much. oh so tight. Damp and hot at the apex that joins both legs . You can feel yourself pulsing against it, every muscle in your pelvis clenched with effort — not from the stretch, but from your pathetic attempts at restraint.
Hah! You are so wet, it’s humiliating.
You shift slightly, trying to adjust, to relieve the pressure — and the seam drags against your clit in a way that almost makes you gasp. Luckily You don’t. But your arms tremble. Your jaw locks. You think you might cry from the tension in your own thighs.
And yet, all you can think about is how warm his voice sounds when he speaks again. “Still tight here.” He’s looking up and to the left purseing his pretty lips all the while— as if searching for the knot via the memory of having done this only but one thousand times before, not downloaded data sets. Hes Mimicking the human gesture of thought, of focus. That subtle tilt of the head, the flicker of his gaze toward imagined space. Just like Suguru used to do when trying to remember the name of a nerve or the source of your tension.
But this one — This version — Was programmed to do it. Every one of his mannerisms are borrowed… after all.
You nod. You can’t speak.
“You’ve been overcompensating on the right side,” he continues. “That’s where i feel the inflammation’s pooling. I’ll help you release it.”
You almost laugh. Because something is about to release, and it sure as hell won’t be your fucking sciatic nerve. But you stay silent. Because you are a woman of composure. You were raised to withstand far worse than kindness.
But damn, that kindness the one you keep telling yourself is nothing is infact what’s killing you in this very compremising predicament.
He shifts his grip again, his palm gliding down the inside of your thigh to brace your knee. The touch is firm. Dutyful not lewed. But it hovers so close to the softest part of you — a whisper of skin, a hair’s width of modesty — and your hips buck forward involuntarily, just once.
He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t pull away. Just guides your breath again like a lullaby.
“Let go,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to brace. Let me know if it hurts, kay”
But you do. You have to. Because if you let go, you will sob. Or moan. Or grind your cunt against the mat or better yet Him! Until you cum so hard it echoes. But none of those are options. Not in front of him.
Not in front of this — this ghost in a borrowed face.
You close your eyes. You breathe.
And when he finally pulls back — rising without urgency, composed as ever — you collapse. Boneless. Breathless. Your body folds into the mat like wet silk, flushed and trembling, hips twitching subtly against the rolled towel beneath them. The air feels feverish against your cheek, which sears where it meets the vinyl floor. Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Your legs burn with strain, and yet it’s something deeper — a throbbing ache between logic and longing — that threatens to unravel you.
He moves behind you without pause, a shadow of precision. The way he sets the timer is maddeningly calm, like none of this touched him at all. He does not fumble. Does not linger. His hands are clinical, exacting — no tremble, no question, no sin. You ache, not from what he’s done, but from everything he hasn’t. And the silence, thick and fragrant as crushed orchids, makes you wonder if he even can.
Your soul — that poor, unholy thing — feels as though it’s screaming into velvet. Silenced but not soothed. Your thoughts race, clattering through denial and desire, dragging behind them every rule you’ve laid like barbed wire.
Because this version of him? This polished echo in flesh and circuits? He does everything right. Never a hand too low. Never a breath too sharp. Never a touch that isn’t pre-programmed to obey. And yet — lying there, wet and wanting and ashamed — you can’t help but wonder:
What if code could falter? What if programming could cracked? What if something inside all that steel and skin glitched — and for a moment, just a moment — he could he actually have desire?
Would you dare believe it? Would you let yourself reach?
Free will.
The phrase drips like mercury in your skull. What is it, really? A biological illusion? An emergent property of layered neural chaos? A romantic delusion to excuse our cruelty and crown our lust?
Or worse — a privilege?
Because he’ll never have the option of choise. Not like a man might. Not in error, not in ecstasy, not in the flood of an unguarded heartbeat. He’ll never decide you. He’ll simply do what he was made to. And that should bring relief.
But this, this? This is not that. This is something colder. calm…. safe….
“Shall we begin the workout, Professor?” he asks at last.
—
You start with squats. Of course. The heaviest lift is always first — it demands the most energy, the most control. You recall you used to move through this routine like a second language, hips sinking deep, spine proud, glutes firing like reflex. But now, even approaching the bar feels foreign — like stepping into someone else’s memory with your name stitched to the edges. But Geto never falters; instead he loads the bar for you without asking. Checks the rack height, adjusts the clips, like he has done this many times before.
When he motiones that its ready for you and You step under it. you Let the cold steel rest against your shoulders for a moment; before you Roll it once, twice, like muscle memory might carry you through. It doesn’t. And as a result the first squat is a disaster.
Before you can pretend otherwise, he’s behind you. No warning — just hands. One at your waist. One skimming up your back. You freeze under his touch.
His fingers press into your hips — not firm, but deliberate. Not suggestive, but exact. He moves you like a sculptor moves clay, tilting your pelvis, shifting your spine, guiding the rotation of your knees.
And you have to reminf yoruself this is not sexual.
And yet your breath stutters. Because it doesn’t have to be sexual. It’s him.
His scent hits you next — something faintly musky, masculine. Familiar. Like cedar and skin and warmth baked into cotton. It reminds you of every shirt Suguru used to wear, every set he used to spot you through with sweat slicking his jaw and that smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.
But Geto doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t tease.
He just says, “You’re collapsing through your left glute. Keep that in mind.”
You nod, but your knees are already trembling. Not just from fatigue — but from the heat between your legs, the sweat running down your spine, the ache pulsing low in your stomach that has nothing to do with form.
You do another rep. And again he corrects you again — presses two fingers into the top of your ass, just below your back. The contact is so precise it nearly makes you choke. “This should engage first,” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. “You’re bypassing it. Overcompensating on your right.”
To that Your face burns. Your body reacts. Your hole…clenches.
You’ve never been so aware of yourself. Of how sticky your leggings feel. Of how raw the air tastes. Of the way you want his hands to slip — just once. Lower. Rougher. Intentional. But he doesn't, he wouldn't… unless you initiated first.
He adjusts the bar, adds ten pounds to each side. The weight is insulting. If Suguru were here he would have been insulted on your behalf; afterall you didn't even warm up with this in the past. What would Suguru say about your pathetic state? But now it feels like gravity is reminding you of every bite of grief, every skipped meal, every part of yourself you’ve let rot in his absence.
Still, you brace. And you lower. And this time, he steps in closer. One hand steadies your waist. The other finds your glute again poking at your ass with the firmness of his index middle and ring finger; how how you wished they were poking and prodding something else completly.
“You’re compensating on your right,” he whispers, repeating it again and if it weren't for the way your pussy clenched for him at the sound of his voice you would have already snapped at him that you heard him the first time. “Engage your glutes.” he calls your pretty name
You whimper.
It slips out — quiet, but helpless.
Your thighs can help but tremble. Your jaw locks again. Your eyes sting with something unspeakable. You want to crawl out of your own skin. Or better yet into his.
You recall Suguru was behind you in this very position. Not correcting you. Not guiding. Just grinning. His breath against your neck, his hips brushing yours, his voice teasing, low and full of sin — “You always work harder when I’m behind you. Is that why you’re sweating, pretty girl? Or do you just like it?”
And you did like it. You loved it so much. You ache for it now. But Geto doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move closer or pull away. He just holds you steady. Efficient. Programmed. And it kills you. Because your body is soaked with want, but his hands remain chaste. Because he says everything right and feels nothing.
Because he’s perfect.
And that, more than anything, makes you want to scream.
After a short set, you collapse onto the bench like a marionette with the strings cut. Your thighs tremble. Your vision sways as the anemia finally catches up to you. The last few reps wrung the breath straight out of your lungs, and now all you can do is sit — sweating, flushed, and hollowed out like a thanksgiving turkey — as the sound of your own pulse thrums behind your eyes.
Across from you, Geto watches. Not with concern, but with calculation. The silence stretches just long enough to become a verdict. Then he tilts his head. Sighing through pursed lips, a slight furrow on his brows “Your BMI is well below the recommended threshold for a woman of your stature,” he says, tone even, almost gentle. “There is pronounced muscle atrophy in your glutes, upper body, and abdominal wall.”
He pauses just long enough to let the words settle before crossing his arms with a sigh — its not impatient, but deliberate. Studied. Like he’s seen every personal trainer do it in every archived fitness program and knew it would land exactly like this.
“To say it plainly,” he adds, eyes scanning you with that unnervingly calm expression, “this is a pathetic starting point.”
There’s no venom in it. No disappointment. Just data. He sounds exactly like someone who cares. The kind of trainer who believes in your potential. The kind who scolds you when you sneak a cheat meal because they know you’re better than this.
It’s almost impressive.
So much so you freeze.
And then, impossibly for the first time in years — you laugh!.
It’s loud. It echoes, even the gym rat in the corner stops his grunting to look at your outburst in open judgment. But it uncoils from somewhere low and bitter in your chest, dry as the aftertaste of a pill you never meant to swallow. The laugh folds in on itself before it can become even more hysterical, but the edge is unmistakable.
Of course. Of course that’s what does it. Out of everything that’s happened tonight — the pose, the stretch, the way your cunt throbbed like the betraying bitch she was under his perfect hands — it’s this. That line. So flat. So unimpressed. So unforgiving.
It’s the most Suguru thing he’s said all day.
And he even wears the frown to match.
And even better he doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t flinch. His brows pull ever-so-slightly tighter, as if disappointed. As if you’ve… failed him. Hah!
“Your health should be taken more seriously,” he says calls your name. “Would you like a nutritional plan loaded into your routine?”
Your laughter sharpens once more, then dies. You lean forward, elbows braced against your knees, sweat cooling against the nape of your neck like shame. The air feels thicker than it should.
“Sure,” you say quietly shaking your head abit in the action “Why not.” you wave a hand dramatically Your voice doesn’t tremble, but it’s thinner now. Brittle around the edges. “Build me from scratch,” you murmur. “I did it to you.” you say pointedly
He doesn’t answer. He simply watches you, perfectly still, as if waiting for permission to begin.
And you wonder — not for the first time — if he ever needed it at all.
Your eyes fix on the rubber tile beneath your feet. You don’t look at him anymore after that; you mind is already gone to the part of the brain you always try to avoid and he watches you — still as stone, programmed to help — unaware that you were never asking to be rebuilt.
Only remembered.
—
The locker room is quiet when you step inside — cold and humming, the scent of lemon cleanser mingling with faint sweat and eucalyptus. A cold tile sanctuary for women who know how to endure in silence.
You don’t rush. You move slowly. Deliberately. Not from elegance, but fatigue. Your legs are achy. And your thighs burn. Your breath still catches sometimes, as if your lungs haven’t quite forgiven you. The bench creaks softly beneath you as you lower yourself down. While You peel your top over your head, you notice the fabric is damp and clinging. You reach for your leggings next, rolling them down inch by inch, until—
You pause and see the wet truth.
The heat is there.
You slide your panties down — slowly. The fabric clings, damp and reluctant, peeling away like glue from skin. When it slips past your thighs, you pause… watching as a clear ribbon of frothy white cum glistens, slipping down with quiet insistence.
“Mmmn heh…”
You exhale — a soft, incredulous laugh slipping out of you before you can stop it.
Not loud. Not sad. Just—incredulous.
You reach between your thighs, curious, cautious — and nearly recoil. It’s decadent. Slick like melted satin, or worse — like two silken snails tangled beneath your fingertips. your fingers brush instinctively between your labia, over the slick heat that’s bloomed and spread since the moment he touched you — no, since before that. Since the moment he spoke...
And then your fingers slip accidentally too close — hopping just above your sensative clit — and your whole body twitches like a wire pulled too tight.
‘h-hah—!”
You let out a breathless sound, something between a whimper and a laugh, and sit back, boneless. You bring your fingers up to inspect.
They glisten. Clear. Viscous. Shameless. You smile, crooked and tired. Then your other hand rises, fingers pinching the bridge of your nose like you’re trying to stop a headache from blooming. You shake your head, laughing again — this time quieter as you coil into yourself, slowching over your knees letting your sweaty hair fll over your shoulders. You stare at the floor in somthing close to wonder.
“Wow…” you murmur, dry and breathless. “I must be God.”
Because really — who else could’ve built something so lifelike it left you soaked through your clothes, trembling on a squat rack, all the while hallucinating your dead lover from the ghost of a touch?
That no not a glitch. Not a fantasy. Just you.
The proof of your own madness dripping down your thighs. To that You close your eyes tossing your head back covering your eyes with your hand. And laugh again.
Because the alternative — the truth of it — might break you completely.
—
By the time you're standing outside the gym, your body is clean but unsteady. Muscles worked, flushed, stretched past comfort — the good kind of sore. The kind that leaves you floating and content. But Rain greets you the second the doors slide open. A heavy, deliberate downpour, soaking the pavement in silver sheen.
You extend your hand into it, fingers splayed. “It’s raining hard,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. Geto, standing at your side obediently, doesn’t hesitate. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring the car around.” he says smiling
You nod, already knowing he will. Of course he will. You built him to.
He moves without hurry, vanishing into the downpour with the same calm assurance one might use to exit a ballroom — smooth and unbothered by the rain soaking through his shirt, despite the theatrical pretense of holding his jacket half-heartedly over his head. As if his body, carbon-fiber and steel beneath the skin, could ever be chilled by a cold.
You linger in the doorway. The wind kisses your ankles. Its chilly you thick quickly before you lets your fingers drift into your coat pockets for warmth — idle and instinctual.
And then you feel it.
Smooth. Cylindrical. Heavy with memory.
You vaguely recall Athena’s voice earlier — gentle, robotic, certain: “Light to moderate rainfall expected between 7:00 and 9:30 PM.” You had nodded. Acknowledged. And Chosen not to listen apparently.
You’d meant to grab the umbrella. It had been sitting by the door. But somehow… this had made it into your hand instead. The lipstick. You had reach for it without thinking.
He returns moments later, your car already parked at the curb. Rain hits the pavement in steady sheets, heavy and unapologetic, blurring streetlights and painting silver streaks across the asphalt. You stand just beneath the overhang, shoulder against the glass, breath still catching from the workout, when you see him.
The car pulls up silently — a sleek hum in the storm — and then he steps out.
He doesn’t rush.
His hair is already drenched, long strands clinging to his neck and jaw like ink spilled in slow motion. Loosened from its lack of a hair tie, it moves with the wind — not wild, but purposeful. He rounds the hood of the car with a stillness that feels almost choreographed. There’s no urgency in his gait. No flinch from the cold. Only poise. Presence. He moves through the storm as though it were a stage cue — not a disruption, but a design. As if the rain existed for no other reason than to catch in his lashes, to glisten down the sharp line of his throat. As if he were not merely a man in the weather, but the reason for it.
Composed. Unbothered.
Regal.
Like something built to be witnessed.
He retrieves something from the backseat — a plastic binder, bent slightly at the corner, probably left over from some discarded file you forgot about in your car— and uses it to shield the passenger door. Rain slicks his sleeves. More Droplets cling to the curve of his throat, catching in his lashes. But he says nothing.
He opens the door for you like it’s instinct.
Then he takes your bag from your shoulder and moves it to the trunk with mechanical ease, not a single movement wasted. When he returns, he places his hand gently at the small of your back and guides you in.
You sit, breath shallow, trying not to feel too much.
When He leans in to buckle you — as he always did— the shoulder strap sliding across your chest, his fingers brushing the clasp beside your hip. Water drips from the ends of his hair onto your lap. You should be uncomfortable. You should say something…
But instead, without thinking, your hand lifts.
You tuck his wet hair behind his ear, fingers grazing the nape of his neck. The silk of it surprises you — so smooth, so perfectly thick. Your eyes lift, just slightly.
And you noticed He’s already watching you.
“I’m sorry for getting you wet,” he murmurs, voice low, almost shy — as if the apology were his own to give. More Rain beads along his lashes, catching against the fine curve of them, framing his eyes with a softness that feels too sincere.
“My hair ribbon broke.”
You don’t know what it is — maybe the rain, or the hush of wind curling cold against your skin. Maybe the way the world smells cleaner in a storm, or the fact that you’ve been too close to the ground all day — too tethered to the ache of your own body.
But something flickers. Something delicate. And for the briefest breath, you forget what he is.
“It’s okay…” you whisper. “I’ll let you have one of mine back home...”
Your hand drifts to his cheek before you realize what you’re doing. And the pad of your fleshy thumb strokes along his skin — smooth, warm, alive. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans into the touch.
And for a heartbeat, you forget the storm, the car, the years between you and grief. Because he nuzzles into your palm. And for that breathless moment… it’s him…
Your heart flutters. Violently… A smile paves way on your face as you look at him saying “okay, now get in the car before you catch cold,” and it all shatters.
He pauses.
And then you remember. Oh…. Right…. He’s not something that gets sick… You freeze, mortified.
“Well… you know what I mean.”
He inclines his head — elegant, unreadable. “Not a worry. Pardon me.”
Then he closes the door with soft finality.
You wince, cringing at yourself as he rounds the car again, soaked hair slicked behind his neck. You press your thighs together. Cringing, if you were by yourself you would have screamed and pulled your hair. But hes quick to move so when he opens the driver’s side and slips inside, you pretend not to look at him. Instead, you pull down the car mirror. Acting all nonchalant.
The burgundy lipstick sits in your hand like a dare you willingly partake in.
You twist it open. Wait one breif moment before you watch your own mouth in the glass as the pigment blooms against your lips — smooth, full and perhaps even ceremonial. You apply it slowly, reverently, like war paint or mourning veil. The color has weight now. Not just memory. A new meaning birthed at this very moment.
You won't wear it for him.
But to remind yourself that none of this is real.
When you glance sideways, the car hasn’t moved. He’s watching you. Again. You close the mirror with a soft click, the echo louder than it should be in the quiet of the rover.
And still, you sit in stunned silence, the rain thudding heavy against the windshield in steady rhythm. You’re on autopilot now, suspended in some strange in-between — not fully in your body, but not quite out of it either. Watching this man — this machine — care for you like it’s second nature.
Because it is. It is to him…
Not because he loves you. Not because he chose to. But because he was made to. You tilt the rearview mirror down slowly, eyes catching your own reflection in the dim car light. Checking the lipstick is right one last time.
This ritual — used to mean you were wanted. Desired. Chosen.
Now it has a new meaning… You watch your mouth move — delicate, deliberate — as if painting proof of your awareness across your skin.
finally…
You meet his gaze through the mirror, smile faintly — nothing sad, nothing broken. Just a reclaiming.
“Don’t you think,” you murmur, softly, ready to assert your new identity… “I’m such a pretty girl?” He doesn’t startle. He doesn’t flinch. He takes it in like data, processes it like a code.
“Yes,” he says, voice steady. “you are a Pretty girl.”
He readjust the mirror And then — only then — he starts the car. The road opens before you. Clean. Wet. and Silent.
You’re determined to not look back.
Buy me a Ko-Fi :)
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