Wedding Night

Part 1

They were already mid-ceremony when the picture sharpens: white aisle, late sun pooling warm across the floor-to-ceiling windows, a hush that makes each breath feel ceremonial. Dahlia’s veil floats like a sigh against her shoulders; Damian’s jaw is set in that steady way of his, sharp suit cut close, boutonnière pinned with almost military precision.

“I do,” Dahlia says, voice bright and unwavering.

“I do,” Damian answers, the corner of his mouth finally breaking into the smile he’d been holding back.

The rings slide home — gold against warm skin, metal catching a flare of light — and the crowd exhales as one. Annie stands to Dahlia’s left in a long, soft dress the color of still water, bouquet lifted. Lucas is at Damian’s right, a step off the groom in polish and posture, handsome but not fussy: tie slightly loosened from a rushed minute, hair one shade more disobedient than he’d planned. The officiant beams. “I present to you—”

Applause rises. The kiss is simple, genuine. Dahlia laughs into Damian’s chest when they turn to face the room, and Annie’s smile ignites with hers. Lucas claps Damian on the shoulder, two quick pats, pride and relief in the gesture.

Photos follow — first formal, then barely controlled chaos. The happy couple flanked by their favorite people. The four of them — bride, groom, bridesmaid, best man — gathered tight, shoulders touching, heads tipping together and apart as the photographer calls, “One more—just one more—okay, eyes here!” Dahlia’s train is adjusted, Damian’s cuff straightened; Annie leans in and Lucas leans closer, their smiles not quite leaving even when the camera drops.

“Perfect,” the photographer declares, and for a minute it really is.

The reception hums on the far side of the door: silverware, glass laughter, a band tightening a melody. Inside the small, bright space, Dahlia is half-dressed — underwear and a cloud of veil laid over a chair, her wedding gown hanging from a hook like the husk of a miracle they’ve already stepped out of. Annie kneels by an open garment bag, shaking free the sleek silk of a second dress.

“Lucas looked at you like a man walking past a bakery with an empty wallet,” Dahlia murmurs, grinning as she smooths lotion over her collarbones. Annie snorts, fluster creeping into her cheeks. “He’s just being polite.”

“Polite men don’t stare at your mouth like it’s an invitation.” Dahlia tilts her head as Annie brings the new dress over. “You two will be great.” Annie hesitates, then blurts it out. “I haven’t… kept up with my maintenance lately.”

Dahlia’s brows lift. “How long?”

“Two… maybe three months.” Annie replies, embarrassed. “I’m flat broke alright!”

Dahlia clicks her tongue. “You know your body needs it more than ever.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just—” Annie’s shoulders slump. “Maybe tonight isn’t the night. Maybe I smile and let him dance and then I go home and… not ruin anything.”

Dahlia steps in close, thumb under Annie’s chin, lifting her face until their eyes meet. “You are not going to ruin anything.”

“I don’t have the confidence you do.”

“I didn’t, until I decided to. That’s the secret.” Dahlia’s smile softens. “Let me help.”

Before Annie can parse the shape of that promise, Dahlia’s hand trails down, gathers the skirt at Annie’s hips, and slides beneath. Cool fingers find warm heat through cotton; Annie stiffens on a gasp she tries and fails to swallow.

“Dahlia,” she whispers. It isn’t a protest.

“Shh.” Dahlia’s mouth is close to her ear. “Confidence.”

Annie meets her gaze, naked question in it. “Do you really want me? You’ll have Damian to yourself later.”

“Right now,” Dahlia says, palm cupping, middle finger pressing, “I want you to remember how desired you are.”

She turns Annie with practiced ease, pressing her gently into the wall, one of Annie’s arms guided behind her back and held there — not hard enough to hurt, exactly hard enough to make Annie breathe differently. Annie’s forehead tips to cool paint; Dahlia kisses the hinge of her jaw and then pushes her panties aside as her fingers slides in from the front, hooking up.

One finger first: slick heat, a testing curl. Annie shivers, weight sliding onto her toes. The second follows, then the third, Dahlia’s knuckles grazing as she sets a rhythm — in, out, in, out — with enough patience to let Annie rise to it and enough insistence to keep her from thinking too much. “More,” Annie breathes into the wall, the syllable caught on the edge of a moan. “Please… don’t stop.”

Dahlia’s free hand finds Annie’s hip and anchors it, guiding the angle. The room becomes small: the whisper of silk on silk, the soft thud of Annie’s back as she rocks, the breathy, helpless sounds she can’t keep quiet. Dahlia’s temple rests against Annie’s hair as she works her hand, crooking and pressuring until Annie’s hips buck into her with impatient, greedy pushes.

“That’s it,” Dahlia whispers. “You’re fine. See? You’re fine. You’re okay.”

Annie’s answer is a sound that’s nothing like words. Her knees threaten to give. She swallows a cry and feels it anyway, breaking up inside her — a stuttering rush that makes her breath hitch twice in quick succession, makes the next “oh—” come out on a tremble and then again, involuntary, a reverb of pleasure. She clutches at the wall with her free hand, fingers splayed, nails skittering against paint.

And then she moves.

Annie wrenches her pinioned hand free and reaches blindly back, pushing under the band of Dahlia’s panties. Touch lands, sure by instinct: two fingers, then three, sliding inside until the heat of Dahlia’s body takes them. Dahlia gasps sharply, her forehead thumping the wall next to Annie’s. “You’re—” Annie can only say what she feels. “You’re so wet.”

“So are you,” Dahlia answers, voice ragged with delight.

They find a rhythm together, messy and new, Annie’s hips driving back into Dahlia’s hand as Annie’s fingers curl inside her. Each unspools the other with the same clumsy grace: breaths synching, thighs trembling, little sounds tumbling into laughter and back into moans.

Annie comes first — a warm, rolling break that makes her whole body tighten and flutter, makes a gasp catch and repeat as if the room itself were echoing, and echoing, and echoing. The tremor jitters through her muscles, freezes and then smooths; she whimpers her lover’s name against the wall. Dahlia follows smoothly a heartbeat later, a low sound rising from her chest as her knees soften and she stifles the cry in Annie’s shoulder.

They sink together, sliding down the wall until they’re seated on the cool floor, legs tangled, dresses rucked up, Dahlia’s arms wrapping around Annie from behind. The door stays blessedly shut. The world on the other side keeps celebrating.

“You’ll be fine,” Dahlia murmurs into her hair, fingertip tracing little circles on Annie’s wrist. “You’re better than fine.”

Annie turns her head and finds Dahlia’s mouth with hers — a quick, grateful kiss. “Okay,” she whispers, the word steadier now. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dahlia taps her thigh. “Up. Let me get into this dress before they send a search party.”

They laugh as they reassemble themselves: panties adjusted, lipstick refreshed, the new dress pulled over Dahlia’s shoulders and smoothed into place. When they open the door, the corridor’s noise rushes in like surf, and they step into it hand-in-hand before letting go.

The reception is mid-spin by the time they return. Lights have gone softer; candles make tiny galaxies across linen. The band slides from something classic into something with a bright, quick heartbeat, and people surge toward the dance floor.

“May I?” Lucas asks, appearing at Annie’s elbow with that rueful half-smile that looks like he’s apologizing for wanting something.

“You may,” she says, surprised at how easy her voice comes.

He isn’t the clean line that Damian is; his tie’s already loosened again, his hair stubborn in a way that makes her want to smooth it and not smooth it at the same time. He pulls her in with the music, one palm warm at her back, the other catching her hand. They find the beat within a bar, eyes searching, both a little breathless for nothing to do with dancing.

“Did you have fun escaping with the bride?” he teases.

“She needed help with a zipper,” Annie says, deadpan, and his laugh lines spark like it’s the best joke he’s heard all night.

They sway, spin, draw back, and come together; her dress flares and settles; his hand firms when the floor gets crowded and loosens when space opens. Happy draws itself into the lines of their faces and refuses to move.

When the song slows, he steps closer, the world narrowing to his breath against her cheek and the edge of cologne at his collar. He hesitates, eyes flicking from her eyes to her mouth and back, a question he doesn’t quite push into words.

Annie answers first. She lifts onto her toes and kisses him — not a test, not a tease, but a sure, deep thing that says exactly what it means. The music swells, and someone somewhere whoops on their behalf.

She breaks the kiss with a smile that feels like a promise and lets her mouth graze his ear. “Come find me later,” she whispers.

When she steps back, he’s still smiling like he’s trying not to, which is the same as not trying at all. The song changes. Somewhere, Dahlia’s laugh rings across the room. Annie takes Lucas’s hand again, and they keep dancing.

Part 2

The reception had thinned to a handful of lingering relatives and half-drained glasses. Dahlia and Damian stood beneath the last of the camera flashes, smiling as guests pressed in for photos. Annie busied herself at the edges, gathering plates, smoothing tablecloths, helping Lucas stack abandoned chairs into neat rows.

When there was a pause between shots, Dahlia leaned toward her, voice pitched low. “Did you make your move yet?”

Annie’s face heated. “Sort of. When we were dancing, I told him he could… come by later.”

Dahlia gave her a look sharp enough to cut through the din. “Sort of isn’t enough. He needs to know it’s real.”

Before Annie could protest, another group of guests swept Dahlia and Damian back into the center. Annie stood awkwardly for a moment, then drew a breath and made herself cross to Lucas.

He was bent over the next table, sleeves rolled back, gathering candles into a box. He glanced up when she stopped beside him.

“Lucas,” she began, softer than she meant. “About what I said earlier… were you really interested?”

His smile was warm, easy, and the way he set the box aside told her everything before he spoke.

Relief trembled in her chest. She nodded quickly, half-shy. “Midnight, then. I should freshen up first.”

She excused herself with a promise to finish the last of the cleanup, then slipped toward the corridor. As she reached the hall, Dahlia caught her eye across the room and offered a brief, encouraging smile before turning back to her guests.

Annie let the warmth of it follow her all the way back to her room.

Annie slipped out of her dress, folding it carefully over the chair, and laid a black lingerie set across the bed. She stood naked before the mirror, smoothing her palms over her waist and thighs, turning slightly to check herself from every angle. Tonight had to be perfect.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the familiar warmth low in her belly, waiting for it to stir. Nothing.

Her brow furrowed. She tried again, holding her breath, willing it to catch the way it always had. Still nothing.

“This is weird,” she whispered. Her reflection looked back steady, unblinking, offering no answer.

Her mind flicked back, unbidden, to the afternoon—Dahlia’s hand slipping between her legs in a stolen moment, the sharp burst of pleasure that had lit her nerves then. It had worked. It had more than worked. So why not now?

She tried once more, harder, and felt only the same blank stillness.

A cold knot tightened in her chest.

The clock on the nightstand read 11:50.

With trembling fingers she abandoned the lingerie, pulled her robe around herself, and cinched the sash tight. She couldn’t solve it standing here. Ten minutes until midnight. Annie slipped into the corridor, heart hammering, searching for the door she knew she had to knock on.

Annie rapped lightly on Dahlia’s door and pressed her palm against the frame, hoping she was back in her room already. Ten seconds crawled by, each one dragging her stomach lower.

At last the bolts clicked, and the door opened to Dahlia’s familiar face, brows drawn. “What?” she snapped, sharp in a way Annie hadn’t expected. “You could’ve just pinged me, Annie.”

From behind her came the muffled sound of running water, the shower hissing alive. Damian’s voice carried out, casual: “I’ll take a shower first. You girls take your time.” The bathroom door swung half-shut again.

Annie’s throat tightened. “Can I… come in?” she asked meekly.

Dahlia sighed, but stepped aside. Annie slipped past, and the door shut with a soft click behind her. Dahlia folded her arms across her chest. She was wrapped only in a robe, nothing beneath, her wedding dress tossed in a heap at the foot of the bed with Damian’s clothes scattered beside it.

Annie clasped her sash tighter. “I need your help. It’s not working anymore.”

Dahlia stared at her. Then she exhaled, slow, unfolding her arms. “Sweetie, it’s my wedding night. I love you, but… I have to say I’m sorry.”

Annie’s eyes blurred. “Please. It might work for you. Can we try?”

Dahlia held her gaze a moment, weighing the plea, then let out a long sigh. Wordless, she loosened her robe and let it fall. Annie followed, trembling, until they both stood stark naked in front of each other.

For a heartbeat they hesitated, bare and mirrored. Then faint seams rippled across the lines of their pelvises, panels easing open with mechanical precision. From within, each of their sex modules slid into view.

They blinked back into focus, reached down, and pulled the devices free. For a moment they held them, then wordlessly extended hands and made the exchange.

Dahlia fitted Annie’s module into place first. The mechanism seated with a muted click. She straightened, unblinking, and announced flatly, “New device connected. Diagnostics normal.” Then her eyes softened again, warmth returning. “Well. It seems to be working for me.”

Annie pushed the other module into her own slot. It locked home without ceremony. She didn’t speak at first, only closed her eyes, waiting. Finally, she murmured, “It’s still connecting. Let’s hope it works.”

“It’s state-of-the-art,” Dahlia retorted lightly, tying her robe again. “Of course it works, sweetheart.”

She smiled, lifted her chin, and gave Annie a look of blessing. Annie hurriedly wrapped herself back in her robe, managing a worried smile before slipping out into the corridor once more.

Annie slipped back into her own room, heart still racing. The clock on the nightstand glowed 11:58.

A soft ping pulsed in her vision: <New device detected. Connection established.>

Relief flooded through her. She exhaled hard, shoulders sagging.

No more hesitation. She pulled the black lace lingerie onto her body piece by piece — the garter belt snug against her hips, the matching panties sliding into place, the bra framing her just as she had imagined it. In the mirror, she studied every curve and pose, the faint texture of lace against skin. She shifted her stance, lifted her chin, let herself believe she looked irresistible.

One quick test — a subtle thought, a coaxing — and heat bloomed instantly low in her belly. Her lips parted, damp already. It worked.

A knock startled her. She jolted, then scrambled for her robe.

“One second,” she called, tying the sash tight. She turned back to the mirror for one last check — hair smoothed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Perfect enough.

She pulled the door open.

Lucas’s familiar face filled the frame, his smile soft. “Hey,” he said. “Can I come in?”

Annie blushed, pulse hammering, and stepped back, holding the door wide. “Yeah.”

She let him in.

He didn’t wait for the door to close. His hands found her waist, spinning her into a deep, eager kiss. She closed her eyes and met him with equal pressure, letting his warmth press against her. When they parted just enough to breathe, she smiled faintly.

“Can’t wait, can you?”

“Enough waiting,” he murmured, grinning as he slid the robe off her shoulders and examined her body.

“You look mesmerising...” he breathes, excited, as he pushed her gently backward toward the bed.

She landed on it with a soft bounce, hair shifting over her shoulders. In one fluid motion she unclasped her bra and pulled it off her chest, leaving her panties and garter belt on.

Lucas stripped his formal jacket and shirt, tossing them aside, then leaned over her, mouth finding hers again. His hands slid up to her full chest, fingers exploring, fondling, pinching lightly. A soft moan escaped her lips as he flicked a stiff nipple.

Her own hand slid down to his belt, unfastening it with a single practiced tug. She helped him work his pants down, then caught his shoulders and rolled their bodies until she was straddling him.

“Let me show you, what else is mesmerizing...” she purred.

She leaned in, pressing her breasts on his bare chest, tongue sliding back into his mouth, her hips rocking in slow circles so her covered mound dragged along the length trapped in his boxers.

Lucas moaned, then gently gripped her shoulders to push her back.

“I can’t wait anymore, Annie,” he breathed, tugging at her panties. She helped, sliding them away, then pulled at his boxers too.

Their eyes locked again as she positioned herself on top of him. She teased his tip again with the warmth of her entrance, this time bare, then she started to lower herself — only to freeze halfway as Lucas winced.

“Oh. It seems I’m not wet enough.”

Lucas blinked. “Want me to lick you?”

Fluster flickered across her face. Please not now. Please just work.

“No… let me fix this.” She shut her eyes and forced an override command. A sudden gush spilled from her slit, coating his head with too much wetness.

“That should do it,” she said, her voice smoothing back to seduction.

Lucas’s brows lifted, but he didn’t resist as she sank down on him in one greedy drop. She shut her eyes, settling fully onto him before she began to lift and drop her hips — steady, strong, relentless.

He met her thrusts with his own, groaning. “Oh, Annie… you pussy is so tight!”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she dropped forward, her head beside his, hips pounding in a relentless rhythm.

Lucas’s pace quickened, hips striking up into her in hard, rhythmic jolts as she pressed down. Her own bucking matched him, every impact driving his length to the base, her inner walls tightening in pre-programmed milking patterns. Pleasure data building in perfect sequence — but so did her heat load.

<Warning: pelvic actuator strain.>

Override. She willed as she forced the alerts aside, burying her face against his cheek, moaning louder, trying to sound human.

Stay human, she reminded herself silently, even as her lubrication chamber was already misfiring, coating him more than necessary. She closed her eyes, hoping the errors would fade away. Her moans continued as she felt Lucas’s tip tremble, the beginning of a flare.

Just a little longer. Please…

“Annie… Fuck… I’m gonna cum…” he groaned.

“Uhhh! Lucas! Ple-ase. C-cum. for. Me-e.” her words stumbled, a little too robotically.

Lucas’s tip twitched hard, triggering an ego-boosting rule for Annie to cum right before her partner does.

Her cheeks flushed immediately as her body tensed, thighs clamping. She let out a sharp breath that collapsed into a pre-programmed moan.

The processing spike hit before she could fully prepare — her control threads lagging, servo coordination slipping. An uncontrolled announcement fractured on the way out but wasn’t picked up by Lucas in the moment: “Er-r-ror… Mal-mal-mal-function…”

No…

Her climax detonated. Heat cascaded through her pelvis as every mechanism in her sex seized at once, then released, then seized again in chaotic pulses.

Her breath caught, eyes squeezing shut, trying to pass it off as raw ecstasy. But the timing was wrong, her hips jerking in uneven snaps, nothing like the smooth strokes she meant to show him.

Lucas groaned almost immediately. His already twitching cock started spurting inside her, the pressure flooding her inner cavity. Her control loop scrambled to compensate, milking him with stuttering pulses —too fast, too even — the kind no human could sustain.

<Warning: actuator desynchronization>

The sensation overwhelmed her: every sensory filament in her sheath firing at once, pleasure and system error tangled into a single unstoppable cascade. She clung to him out of reflex, but her body betrayed her. A sharp jolt ran up her spine, hips locking down on him in a crushing, involuntary clamp.

The scream came next — not fully under her control and much later than it should have. It started natural, then fractured into a perfect loop: “Ahhh—ahhh—ahhh—” repeating faster than her throat could move, each cycle identical. She felt helplessness as her higher systems begun collapsing.

Stop. Stop. Please stop…

But she couldn’t.

Her thighs stayed rigid, pinning him inside, while her upper body slackened, her breasts flattening under her weight against his chest. The world narrowed to the residual firing of her sex module, milking him in glitchy, desperate bursts even as her vision tunneled and her consciousness slipped.

<Warning: error cascade – emergency shutdown engaged.>

Then the crash hit — her internal bus cutting out, drives freezing mid-pulse, her world narrowing into a void.

She still felt Lucas moving against her for a moment, but she couldn’t answer — couldn’t move, couldn’t even send a signal to her own lips.

“Annie!?” His voice warped, distant, collapsing feed from her external mics. Her textile and audio sensors detected his presence but the data no longer mattered to a shattered mind.

Her vision dimmed into static. Motor power dropped to zero. Her head tipped forward against his shoulder, limp. She was vaguely aware of him pulling back, withdrawing from her, but only as fragmented sensations.

“What the hell, Annie, are you ok?!”

A faint click echoed inside her abdomen as the failsafe unlatched. The panel opened with a quiet pop, exposing her inner chassis.

A sharp intake of breath from Lucas — then his voice, panicked and loud in the fading dark: “Holy shit! What the fuck are you?!”

Her body shifted abruptly — pushed — then the muted impact of carpet against her side. Limbs sprawled awkwardly. The feedback from her joints was gone; they were just coordinates in the dark now.

Her last registered data point before the blackout was the open panel at her abdomen, the reboot button inside blinking steadily, waiting for someone to press it.

Part 3

The suite was quiet once Annie slipped away. Dahlia let the door shut, then exhaled and stretched out across the bed. She should have been checking her systems, running diagnostics after the long day, but she didn’t, at least not consciously.

She lay on her back like any bride might, hair spilling across the pillow, watching the ceiling and letting her mind wander freely.

She thought of Damian in the shower, rinsing away the reception’s chaos, and felt a private impatience. He was hers now — no more guests, no more interruptions. Just them. She smiled faintly, wishing he would hurry up.

Her thoughts drifted further, into daydreams of their future together. The trips they might take, the home they might share.

She imagined his hand warm on her stomach, the way her human friends had described, that unspoken promise of children. The ache came with it, sharp and familiar: she could never give him that. She would never know the slow miracle of life growing inside her.

She pressed the heel of her hand against her belly, closing her eyes. But I can have this, she told herself, focusing on her lower belly where the new buffer cavity waited. I can hold him inside me. Tonight, I can feel that.

The sound of water cut off in the bathroom. Dahlia lifted her head from the pillow, excitement building with anticipation, and she slipped into the perfect pose for Damian to see.

Steam curled from the bathroom as Damian stepped out, towel hanging low on his hips. Droplets trailed down his chest, catching in the faint lines of muscle before slipping lower. He raked a hand through his wet hair, eyes lifting to find her.

“You ready?”

Dahlia was already stretched naked across the bed, poised perfectly. Her head propped on one palm, her other hand resting on her hip, her full shape on display. She let her hair spill back over her shoulder as she lifted her head lazily, responding with a teasing “Are you?”

He smiled and moved toward her. She caught him with one palm against his chest, halting him as she repositioned gracefully, then pushed him back until his spine met the pillows. Surprise flickered in his expression, then softened, acceptance in his eyes as she climbed and planted her knees astride him. She reached down to stroke his length, planting kisses on his chest and working up until her mouth met his.

As his cock rose to rock-hard attention, she paused and brought both arms to his shoulders, then lowered herself slowly, her slick entrance teasing the tip of his cock.

Damian moaned and bucked his hips reflexively, but she moved her hips up and out of the way.

“Not yet, darling.”

She leaned in for another deep kiss, and as their mouths melted together, tongues duelling, she sank onto him achingly slowly, the crown of his cock pushing past her entrance – pressure building, the ridge catching against her inner rim before sliding deeper. The stretch made her breath hitch involuntarily.

His head fell back against the headboard. “God… you feel different tonight. Tighter than I remember.” His hands closed around her hips, gentle, careful – almost reverent, she thought. “Like you’re a virgin again.” He whispered.

She smiled and began to move, rolling her hips in a steady rhythm. “Just your imagination,” she whispered. “My every curve, every module, and every feature—was and is built to please you.”

Damian groaned, hips rising to meet hers as they frantically slapped against each other.

She leaned forward, hair brushing against his cheek, voice dark with invitation. “Every part of me is calibrated for your maximum pleasure.”

“Use me.” She continued, purring, “I want to feel used. I need to.”

Damian responded with a grunt as he thrust with increased vigor.

“Tell me what you are.” Damian muttered, thrusting.

“I’m your wife. Your robot. Yours.” She moaned. “Your fuck-toy.”

Dahlia caught him wincing at the word robot. She knew he didn’t like it when she referred to herself that way. He thinks it’s degrading. But her worry faded to give way to relief as his empowered thrusts pounded into her at the word fuck-toy.

Hypocrite. She smiled to herself, as Damian pounded into her with ferocity.

Dahlia braced herself as their rhythm quickened. This was the moment she had dreamed of. The indulgence she had bought for herself, for them, for tonight. She remembered her colleagues laughing in hushed voices about “accidents,” about trying for babies, about the ache of fullness after a night with their men. She had smiled along, pretending she understood, while envy burned quietly inside.

That was why she had paid for the upgrade — the cavity, the valve. She wanted to know that feeling, to hold him inside her, to share in the impossible human bliss she had heard described with conspiratorial delight.

Her thighs trembled, walls locking tighter as her own climax crested. Damian gasped beneath her, release imminent. She clutched him deeper, bracing to receive him. She tensed, waiting for the muted click, the valve opening, the warm surge flooding the cavity she’d carved for this exact moment.

Nothing.

There was no valve. The buffer cavity remained barren.

The truth cut sharp and sudden. In the rush to help Annie, she forgot, this wasn’t her state-of-the-art sex module at all. This was Annie’s old module: sealed, valveless, self-contained. Her cavity waited uselessly, empty and longing, while Damian groaned and shuddered in climax, spilling into the self-contained sex.

The hollowness struck like a blow, just as waves of muted pleasure hit her processors. All her time, her effort, her money, her anticipation — wasted in an instant.

Her body tensed hard with the realization, thighs clamping around him. Damian groaned louder at the sudden grip, misreading it entirely. “That felt good, huh?” His voice was ragged with pleasure, smiling faintly as he caught her eyes.

Dahlia forced a smile, leaned in close, and whispered against his lips. “You were perfect.” I wasn’t.

She kissed him then – fiercely – sensation and desire drowning out the hollowness she felt within. He groaned into her mouth.

She held him close until his breathing slowed, masking the ache that hollowed her from the inside out.

They lay tangled together in the aftermath, her synthetic skin cooling where perspiration had gathered at her temples and the small of her back. His breathing slowed against her hair, deep and even, while hers remained perfectly measured—unnecessary, but the habit of appearing human ran deep.

The room settled into silence, broken only by the faint rustle of sheets and the distant hum of the hotel's climate system.

She let herself drift, weightless in the quiet.

Damian’s arm came around her shoulders, pulling her close, lips brushing her hair. He relaxed as she let her cheek rest against his chest, listening to the steady drum of his heart, trying to lose herself in the warmth.

For a moment, it felt whole. Human. The ache of her own disappointment dulled, smoothed by the weight of his body and the scent of his skin. She closed her eyes and let herself drink in the moment, as though time had slowed just for them.

His fingers traced idle patterns on and around her stomach, then paused at a muted seam – barely visible, perfectly concealed beneath her skin. He pressed it gently, feeling the edges of her chassis beneath the warmth. Dahlia loved it when he explored her body this way, but she’d never admit it. She felt him harden again against her thigh.

That was when the alert cut across her vision.

Her breath stalled. Annie.

A flicker of resentment hit first, hot and unfair — if not for Annie, she would have had the wedding night she wanted, the fullness she had bought and longed for, instead her body remained hollow as ever. But concern overwhelmed her almost instantly. Annie broke down, maybe the lack of maintenance caught up with her after all.

“Damian. Something happened to Annie. I need to go check on her.” Dahlia said, rising.

But Damian held on to her. “Don’t worry sweetheart, Annie’s fine.”

Dahlia tensed. “How do you know?”

“Well, isn’t Lucas with her? He’ll take care of her.”

Dahlia’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think Lucas didn’t freak out and run away after seeing his dream girl malfunction and collapse like a cheap robot?”

“Android.” Damian corrected. “You know androids aren't rare, right? Even realistically human ones, Stage 3s and Stage 4s like you.” Damian hesitated before adding. “… and Annie.”

“I still don’t think it’s normal for people to keep calm when they discover the human they’re fucking suddenly turns out to be a ro.. an android.” She said.

Damian caught her eyes, then dodged her gaze, blurting, “Lucas has a thing for androids.”

“What?” She blinked. “You mean for… for what we are?” Her voice carried an edge he couldn’t quite read – amusement, maybe something more complicated. “He’s turned on by… us not being exactly human?”

Damian laughed. “Well yes.”

Dahlia internally logged her relief; Lucas can be trusted after all.

Then she smirked at Damian, mischievous. “And you? What about your… preferences?”

Damian hesitated, and that was all Dahlia needed.

Dahlia slid off him and moved before he could decide on an answer. Her body stiffened deliberately, posture locking into neat mechanical alignment. Her movements stiff and precise, unnatural. Damian blinked, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and recognition, as she sat up in a one motion and swung her legs off the bed.

She stood, spine straight, head level, limbs locked at stiff angles. The shift in her voice came cold and flat. “Error,” she intoned. “Malfunction. Logic. Matrix. Buffer. Corrupted. User. Assistance. Required.”

“Dahlia… what’s happening?” he asked, half-alarmed, half-smiling.

“Error,” she repeated, walking to the dresser stiffly. She placed her palms on the polished wood, feet planted apart, and leaned forward mechanically. Her back arched just enough to make the pose unmistakable. “Malfunction,” she said again, in monotone. “Please. Insert. Probe. And. Trouble-shoot.”

“Seriously?”

She tilted her head slightly, and a small break lined her softening face, eyes glinting with mischief before the mask of blankness slid back in place. Damian caught it and seemed to understand. His exhaustion appeared to evaporate. He rose, the bed sighing under his weight, and came around behind her. His hands hovered a moment at her hips before settling, testing the stiffness of her posture. “You aren’t serious,” he chuckled, but his voice had thickened with arousal.

“Awaiting. Input,” she said, staring blankly into the mirror ahead, posture perfect.

He brushed her hair aside and kissed the back of her neck. “Fine, let me… troubleshoot you.”

His hands traced down her sides, finding the familiar warmth. She didn’t move an inch. Her stillness made her feel more like sculpture than skin, her breathing was impossibly even. The angle was perfect and when he slid inside her, the moan that escaped her was clipped, deliberate – sounding like playback more than a natural reaction.

“Probe. Detected.” She said softly, monotone holding even as her fingers flexed against the dresser’s surface.

He started with slow, smooth strokes, testing her range. She held rigid – spine locked, hips angled precisely, no give in her legs. Each thrust she met with calculated counter-pressure, her walls flexing in exact rhythm, no variation, automatic.

Dahlia stared ahead, catching his face in the mirror. He stared back, his breath quickening, expression tight. Her mask of blankness seemed to be doing a number on him, she chuckled internally.

She announced again, evenly spaced between breaths.

“Sequence. One… engaged… Identifying. Errors…”

He gripped her hips tighter. “You’re something else.”

“Calculating… Unable. To. Generate. Response…” She said as she bucked her hips against him, resuming her clipped moaning.

He pressed deeper, harder. Each push drove a small sound out of her – first measured, then subtly fractured, her humanity peaking from underneath.

“Errors. Identified… Beginning sequence two… Resolving errors…” Her pitch wavered, no longer fully monotone.

He bent forward, chest against her back. “You’re slipping.” He mused.

Her breath caught. “Correction… systems… stabilizing…”

Fluidity slowly returned to her form as her control faltered. Her hips began to move on their own accord, pressing back to meet him greedily, the mechanical poise breaking down into something human and desperate.

Her reflection in the mirror painted a picture – her lips parting, lashes lowering, face starting to melt into pleasure. Her sounds shifted with it, no longer clipped, now breathy and raw.

He drove into her again, rougher, breath coming ragged now. She gasped, “Ah-ahh!”, voice fraying slightly between monotone and the cadence of real pleasure.

“Clear… Clearing… err-ah!”

Her sentence dissolved into a human sound, a half-moan, half-laugh. She gripped the edge of the dresser for balance, her reflection now flushed and alive. Each thrust seemed to rewrite her, reminding her body what a human soul was.

Her body shuddered with each motion, the pretence unravelling, the tone smoothing into perfectly breathy syllables. Her muscles tightened around him, and he responded by slowing slightly, holding her there. She caught him watching her reflection intently, saw the moment he registered her mask finally breaking.

Her next words came unfiltered, natural, soft with exhaustion and emotion.

“Did you… like that?”

Damian’s response was to drive powerfully into her. The intensity caught her off-guard, and her gasp came out as static nonsense. Dahlia felt Damian’s tip tense inside her as her voice broke.

Oh, he loves this. She thought.

“I can’t – I can’t hold back anymore,” he said, voice breaking between strain and awe.

Dahlia peered at him through the mirror, her lashes dipped, expression softening into something unguarded, almost helpless, “Then don’t hold back,” she whispered, begging, “Finish me.”

He moved with sudden urgency, hands firm on her hips, the room filled with the wet sound of their bodies moving with immediate purpose. She cried out as his tip began the unmistakable twitch of climax, her own peak on-rushing.

He drew a length one last time before he pushed in – harder than he intended. Dahlia’s body rocked forward with the force, and a dull thud rang through the room as her head slammed against the dresser. Sensing the opportunity, she froze her movement. He tried to stop but was unable to as he spilled and spilled into her.

“Dahlia,” he gasped, breathless, “Are you ok?”

Silence.

Her face in the mirror was a contortion of stilled pleasure, the edge of her eyes twitching. Her shoulder jerked, then her neck. When she spoke, her voice was a tangled mess of a malfunctioning voice box.

“E-e-error… im-im-impact d-d-detected cran-ial… m-m-module… d-d-damaged…”

Her limbs locked – right arm jerking upward, left leg spasming – then loosened in erratic waves. Her eyes unfocused, pupils dilating unevenly. A tremor ran through her jaw.

“Dahlia! Hey!” She saw his panic bleed out as his hands hovered, afraid to touch her, maybe, afraid to make it worse.

She twitched again, a shiver running through her as if caught between states.

“D-d-damage d-damage… Sh-Shutting down…” She exhaled, her body relaxing as if her soul is evaporating, limp and pressed against the dresser as she slid down to the floor.

Damian caught her body before her knees hit the ground, his hands shaking.

His breath came shallow, panicked. She felt his pulse hammering against her skin where he held her.

Dahlia let another second pass torturously before she relaxed and turned her head towards him, grinning widely.

“Surely,” She said, voice back to its usual warmth, “you knew I could take more than that?”

Damian blinked, half-relief, half-disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.” he muttered, torn between laughter and embarrassment. But he didn’t let go.

She laughed softly, turning in his arms, warm and flushed and whole. She kissed him, still grinning, tasting his embarrassment and relief. He held her tight, breath evening out against her hair, and for a moment the world narrowed to just the two of them—skin and warmth and the quiet hum of contentment.

Then the alerts sliced across her vision like daggers, and the grin died on her lips:

Annie. Her body went rigid. Another alert, worse:

The warmth drained out of her in an instant – skin cooling, pulse flattening, every system pivoting toward the crisis. Her face went pale, the playfulness vanishing as though it had never existed.

She looked at Damian, voice thin and breaking. “Something’s happened. Annie. It’s serious.”

Damian opened his mouth to reassure – but it died when he saw her trembling eyes. His expression changed.