#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!”

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

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.”

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

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.

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.

Buy me a Ko-Fi :)

[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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