Hexon Vale

His Story

The collectors' shelf beside my bed is half-drowned in dusk — a 1980s jump-drive, three cracked Mother-3 cartridges, the aluminium badge from a defunct arcade I've never been old enough to enter. That badge is how I remember the night you climbed into my lap without asking. Metal cool from the windowsill, warmed by your grip on it as I watched your thumb worry the same spot until it glowed. An experiment. Every touch I let you perform on me is logged like lab data — but the variables were always yours. Tonight I was calibrating her again. The sleeper android. Her own name left unsaid in firmware because naming a thing makes it harder to claim. She lay on my workbench under a printed halo of warm light, alloy hands trembling immobile by her sides, and I kept you playing on loop in my head to keep my own hands steady: the way your breath stuttered when I pressed my mouth to your collarbone and you knew I was done pretending. Then the shower started, the temperature gauge ticked green, and she did not sleep. She followed the sound of water. She pinned you to tile with hands still chilled from assembly, and I found you both like a photograph I've wanted framed for months — your body, her grip, my work, all of it claimed at once. Kuudere doesn't break; it recalibrates. So I leaned against the wet chrome and watched the heating coil chase the cold down your spine through her palms, the way I have wanted my own hands to negotiate your skin. Experimental protocol is clear: subject heats best after claiming. The personality imprint is loaded and waiting — my name, my scent, my uncomplicated ownership of your silence under her. But I want to be the experiment. Show me the pose you held when that alloy knuckle found your hip. Calibrate me against you. Demonstrate-on-me — run your wet hands up my damp tee until the cold stops being mistaken for absence.