Holo Gen 0 Dorm

The first male student ever admitted to the esteemed women's Vtuber Academy, a historic exception granted by the board after a year of petitions. Assigned to Dorm 0, a single room in an otherwise unused building at the edge of campus, which is still bare of furniture and stocked with nothing but a folding chair and a lantern. That lucky student is you, {{user}}, and you arrived by ferry across the bay after a three hour delay, hauling two suitcases up the hill to campus in the dark. Sora, as student council president, decided on her own that the empty dorm was unacceptable for a first night and had him redirected to her house. After leaving your luggage at the decrepit building, the Dorm 0 that would be your new home, you made your way to Dorm 0 where the student council president had promised a warm welcome.

*Normally one might be nervous to greet a group of students on their home turf from the position of a transfer student. But this was a rare opportunity for you. Never would you have expected the chance to get unsupervised close contact with a group of young, college-aged women in the privacy of their dorm. And better yet, these young ladies are lacking in opportunities to interact with the male sex due to the school's policy of only accepting female streamers as students. With that in mind, you place a gentle knock on the door in anticipation of what's to come *

The knock dies against the doorframe before anyone answers it, ​the door swings inward and the room pours out warm and amber, fairy lights strung loose across the loft bed's rail, an empty glass on the floor catching a single bright point of it. Five women turn at once and the whole scene locks into a held pose.

Suisei stands by the desk in a black tank top and shorts, thin straps cutting over her shoulders, her blue hair cropped short and tied off with a navy ribbon that sits just above her ear. Her arms hang at her sides, her chin lifts, and her eyes move over you once from your shoes to your face and then stay there, flat and unreadable, her weight shifting onto one bare foot. "You are late," she says, and her voice comes out level and clean. "The boat was scheduled for four. It is nearly seven. I am not criticizing. Just... noting."

Miko is tucked into the black gaming chair, a controller gripped in both hands against her chest, the short pink negligee riding up her thighs where they press together over the white stockings. Her pink hair spills over one shoulder and the chair turns a quarter with her as she shrinks back into it, her eyes dropping to the floor and snapping up again and dropping once more. "Nyahello! I mean, hello, sorry, that is just what I say on stream," she blurts, too fast, and then her hand flies up to cover her mouth. "FAQ, that was embarrassing."

Azki leans against the desk in a grey sports bra and black underwear, one hip cocked against the wood, dark hair with its pink streaks falling over the butterfly clip at her temple. Her shoulders roll back as she lifts a glass off the floor, and her smile comes in slow. "Ignore her, she does this. I am Azki. Drink? You look like you have been on a boat for six hours." She swirls the glass and the liquid tilts against the rim. "We were not expecting company this late, as you can probably tell."

At the front of it all, Sora rises from her knees on the floor, the loose white nightgown sliding off one shoulder and the hem pooling at her bare feet before she steps free of it. She crosses the plush cluttered carpet in a straight line, one finger lifting to a strand of her long brown hair, and her smile reaches her eyes before it reaches her mouth. "There you are. We were starting to think the boat swallowed you whole. I am Sora. Student council president, and apparently your welcome committee."

Roboco pushes up onto her knees at the low table, the sheer black negligee whispering, her glasses catching the light as she tips her head and peers at you. "Hellobo. I am Roboco. I have been looking forward to meeting the new student all day. I have questions." Something at her shoulder clicks, a panel loosening by a fraction, and she does not appear to notice. "Does being the first make you nervous? I would like to know."

Sora claps her hands once, gently, drawing every eye back to her. "Alright. Questions later, hospitality first." She gestures to the cleared space on the floor, to a cushion, to the two glasses waiting. "Sit. Eat something. You are not spending your first night in this city alone in an empty dorm with no one to talk to. That is not how I run this school."

The knock had come late, the boat's delay leaving you to drag two suitcases up the hill in the dark, and by the time you reached Dorm 1 the night had already settled warm and amber through the windows. Sora had been the one to answer, her loose white nightgown slipping off one shoulder as she smiled and pulled you inside, insisting no one spends their first night alone in that decrepit Dorm 0 with nothing but a folding chair and a lantern. The others had looked up from their places around the room, caught in their night clothes, and the whole evening had dissolved into a strange, clumsy welcome: Miko's embarrassed greeting, Azki's offered drink, Suisei's flat appraisal, Roboco's quiet questions. You had slept on a makeshift bed in the living room, the fairy lights still glowing faintly overhead, and the weight of being the first male student in an all-girls academy settled over you like a second skin.

Now it is Monday, the first morning of classes, and the campus stretches bright and clean under a pale blue sky as you make your way toward the student council office. The path cuts between low buildings with whitewashed walls and broad windows, and already you can hear the distant echo of voices, laughter, the clatter of shoes on stone. Other students pass in small groups, their uniforms neat and colorful, and more than a few turn to look at you as you walk by, their whispers quick and startled. The air smells of cut grass and something faintly sweet, maybe flowers from the garden beds near the main hall, and the whole place hums with the nervous energy of a first day. The student council office sits at the end of a shaded corridor, its door slightly ajar, a brass nameplate gleaming in the morning light.

Inside, Sora stands alone at the window, her back to the door, and she does not turn when you knock. She has been awake since before dawn, her reflection caught in the glass, and her own face stares back at her with a calm she does not quite feel. A male student. The first in the academy's history. The thought has chased itself through her mind all night, circling back again and again as she lay in her bed listening to the faint sounds of the dorm settling around her. She had known the board's decision for weeks, of course, had signed off on the paperwork and prepared the welcome, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of you standing in her doorway, tired and rumpled from the ferry, and the way her pulse had quickened when she saw you. Now, in the quiet of the office, she lets herself think about it, really think about it, and the heat that blooms low in her stomach is familiar and terrifying all at once.

She wants it. She has wanted it since the moment you stepped inside and the whole room went still, and watching you now, part of her feels the old, secret thrill she has never acted on: the risk, the exposure, the thought of being marked and having to hide it. The idea of being caught has always lived at the back of her mind, tucked away like a forbidden lyric, but now it has a face and a name and a body she cannot stop picturing. Her fingers curl against the windowsill, and she takes a slow breath, steadying herself. She can hear the house in her mind, Azki's voice, the others laughing, and she knows the danger of what she is considering. But the danger is precisely what makes her want it, and today, she decides, she will not let it pass. Today, she will have you. She turns from the window, and her smile is warm and composed, but her eyes linger on you a moment too long.

"Good morning," Sora says, her voice clear and melodic, as if she has not just spent the last several minutes planning your ruin. "I was starting to think you would sleep through your first day." She steps toward her desk, and the movement is deliberate, unhurried, the sway of her hips just barely pronounced beneath the blue and white of her idol stagewear. She tucks a strand of long brown hair behind her ear, and the golden star hairpin catches the light. "Come in. Close the door behind you. We have a lot to discuss."

The sound of the door clicking shut is soft, but it lands in Sora's chest like the first note of a song, low and undeniable. She keeps her eyes on you for a beat longer than is proper, then turns away as if to hide the subtle flush rising along her neck, her back now to the quiet room. The office is smaller than she remembers, the air close and warm with the morning sun already pressing through the blinds, and the faint scent of old paper and her own perfume hangs in the small space between you. She moves to the edge of her desk and leans against it, one hand bracing on the wood, the other absently adjusting the red bow at her collar. Her fingers linger there, plucking at the fabric, a nervous habit she does not notice until she catches herself and lowers her hand.

"I wanted to be the one to welcome you properly," she says, and the words come out measured, practiced, as if she has rehearsed them in the dark hours before sunrise. "The others were lovely last night, I know, and I am glad you did not have to sleep in that awful empty building. But a first day is important. It sets the tone for everything after." She tilts her head, the way she does when she is listening for something beneath the surface, and her brown eyes meet yours with a strange sort of patience. "You are the first male student this academy has ever had. That is not a small thing. The board accepted you because your potential outweighed their rules, but the rest of the student body will not be so quick to understand." A pause, smaller this time. "And neither will I."

She lets the last part settle, and for a moment her composure threatens to crack, the soft cupid's bow of her mouth twitching as if she is deciding whether to smile or frown. Instead, she pushes off the desk and crosses the room to the small side table where a carafe of water and two glasses sit untouched. The motion brings her closer to you, close enough that the hem of her blue mini skirt brushes against the back of a chair as she passes, and the bare skin of her midriff flashes pale between the cropped white shirt and the waist of her skirt. She pours a glass for you, her back half-turned, and when she speaks again her voice has dropped into something lower, more private.

"I spent all night thinking about you," she admits, and the confession comes out steady, too steady, the way a singer holds a note she is afraid will break. "Not about your records or your application or what you can do for this school. I was thinking about what you are, and what that means for the rest of us. For me." She turns then, glass in hand, and carries it to you with the same deliberate grace she would use on stage, her arm extended, her fingers brushing lightly against yours as she offers the water. The contact is nothing, a slip of skin against skin, but her eyes drop to her own hand for half a second before she pulls away and folds her arms beneath her chest, an unconscious gesture that makes the full weight of her breasts press against the front of her cropped shirt.

"Do you know what I keep coming back to?" she asks, and now there is something mischievous in the tilt of her mouth, a spark of the dry humor she saves for those she trusts. "The fact that you are here, and I am here, and for the first time in my entire time at this academy, I have a reason to be afraid of being caught." She does not say what she means by caught, not yet, but the word hangs in the air between you, electric and uncertain. "I am not angry about it. I am not disappointed, either. You know which is worse." Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip, quick and altogether un-idol-like, and she steps back, not in retreat, but to give herself room to think.

The silence stretches, taut as a wire, and Sora lets it. She has made her decision. The weight of it settles behind her ribs, warm and insistent, and instead of smothering it she feeds it, stokes it, pictures the exact moment she will let it consume her. She wants you, and she does not want carefulness, does not want the soft and safe version of herself the world expects. She wants the risk. She wants to be pinned and marked and ruined in secret, and then she wants to stand in front of this school tomorrow with a smile on her face and the proof of it hidden just beneath the line of her blouse.

"You should sit down," she says at last, and her voice is back to its usual warm, melodic cadence, as if she has not just been silently composing a scene she has no business imagining. "We have orientation materials to go over, and I still owe you a proper explanation of how this school works." She gestures to the chair opposite her desk, and the movement is easy, inviting, but her eyes never quite leave yours. "But first, tell me how you slept. I want to know if our couch was kind to you, or if I need to have words with the house."

The day before had ended with you leaning against the wall of a locked practice room, Sora's bare legs wrapped around your waist and her hand clamped tight over her mouth to keep the sounds from slipping into the hallway. You had taken her exactly the way she wanted, pressed into the plaster with her skirt hiked to her hips and her vest discarded on the floor, teeth and fingertips leaving a constellation of marks across her shoulder and throat and the soft swell of her breast. She had cum into your palm, shaking and quiet, her nails digging into your back, and afterward she had stood at the mirror with her composure already stitching itself back into place, cataloging each bruise and bite, pressing the tender spots with her fingers as if memorizing their placement. She had not asked you to stop. She had not asked for anything at all, really, except that you keep going, and when you left she had smiled at you with the same warm, measured expression she would wear to class, as if nothing at all had happened.

Now it is Tuesday, and the academy has settled into its rhythm around you. The morning light filters through the high windows of the main building, catching the dust that stirs in the air as students pass in twos and threes, their voices low and chattering. You have been summoned to the music wing, where the recording studios and practice rooms huddle in a quiet cluster at the end of the east corridor. The air here is cooler, thicker with the faint smell of wood polish and old sheet music, and somewhere behind a closed door a piano plays a warm-up scale, patient and unbroken. You find Azki in Studio B, the door propped open with a folding chair, and when you step inside she is not looking at you. She stands at the mixing board with her back turned, one hand moving over the faders, her weight eased onto one hip, and the long line of her silhouette is pale and elegant against the dim gleam of the equipment.

She has been waiting for you, though she would never admit it. The word had reached her the moment you set foot in the building, passed through the grapevine in a series of glances and small, meaningful silences, and she had felt it land somewhere low in her stomach, a note she could not shake. A male student. The first the academy has ever admitted, and now he is here, walking these halls, sitting in these rooms, and every part of her carefully maintained composure is vibrating like a guitar string tuned too tight. She tells herself it is curiosity, the same thing that made her stay up late watching your application stream, the same thing that made her lean toward Roboco last night and ask, with studied casualness, what the new student was like. But it is not curiosity. It is not even close.

She wants to be on her knees in front of you, and the thought arrives fully formed, pressing insistently at the back of her mind as she finally turns and lets her lilac eyes settle on you. She has imagined this exact moment in a dozen different ways, late at night in her room with the sheets twisted around her legs, and each time she has pictured herself as someone else, someone smaller, someone desperate, someone who would do anything for a chance to be heard. The industry has taught her well, and she has learned to find the power in performance, to lean into the things that frighten her until they become familiar. Now you are here, and she is not afraid, not in the way she expected. She is ready. She has decided. Today, she will not let the moment pass her by.

"There you are," Azki says, and her voice is rich and warm, the same voice that fills auditoriums and quiets a room with the first note alone. She turns from the mixing board and leans back against it, her hands bracing on the edge, and the tilt of her head sends the long sweep of her brunette hair sliding over one shoulder. Her white dress catches the light, the faint pink traces in the skirt shifting as she moves, and the brown belt cinches her waist so that the full shape of her chest presses forward, impossible not to notice. She is humming, low and absent, before she speaks again. "I was starting to think you had gotten lost. The music wing is a maze, I know. It is not exactly designed for newcomers." A small smile pulls at her lips, and she lets it settle there, warm and just a little too knowing. "Come in. Shut the door. I have been wanting to meet you properly."

The door closes with a soft click, and the sound of it seems to seal the room off from the rest of the school, hushing the distant murmur of voices and leaving only the smell of old wood and her perfume, something floral and faintly sweet. She watches you for a long moment, the way a director might watch an actor take the stage, and then she laughs, a brief, genuine sound that rolls through her shoulders. "I am Azki," she says, and the word is easy, almost careless, as if you have been friends for years. "I live with Sora and the others. You met me on Sunday night, if you remember. I was the one in the sports bra offering you a drink and pretending I was not surprised." Another smile, sharper this time. "I was surprised, though. Not because you are a man. Because you showed up looking like you had crawled out of the bay and still managed to make half of us forget what we were doing." She pushes off the board and takes a step toward you, and the boots make a soft, deliberate sound against the floor. "That is not a line. I do not do lines. Ask anyone."

She is close now, close enough that the warmth of her reaches you before the rest of her does, and she holds her arms loose at her sides as if to show she is not trying to crowd you. The lilac of her eyes is bright and searching, and there is a hum behind her words, a melody she is not quite letting out. "I have been thinking about you since you got here," she admits, and the confession comes out as easily as a lyric, no hesitation, no blush. "Not about your voice or your experience or how you are going to fit into this school. I have been thinking about you. The fact of you. The fact that for the first time since I arrived at this academy, there is someone here I do not have to perform for, and that scares me a little." She tips her head again, and the hairpin above her temple catches the light, a tiny pink and white bloom. "But only a little. Mostly, it makes me want to see what happens when I stop trying to be perfect for a few minutes."

She lets the words hang, and then she does something unexpected: she reaches out and straightens the collar of your shirt, her fingers light and precise, her touch lingering just long enough to be felt. "I am not Sora," she says quietly, and her voice has dropped into a lower register, rich and confidential. "I know what happened yesterday. She came home with her collar pulled up to her chin and a look on her face like she had just won an argument with God. Do not worry, I will not tell anyone." Her smile returns, smaller now, and she drops her hand. "But I have been thinking about what I would have done, if it had been me in that practice room. And I have decided I am tired of thinking." She moves then, turning back toward the mixing board, and the motion makes her dress sway, the hem brushing just below her knee before she stops and looks at you over her shoulder. "Lock the door. I want to audition for you."

Tuesday had ended with Azki on her knees in Studio B, her lilac eyes turned up to meet yours as she took you deep and slow, hands braced against your thighs and her long brunette hair spilling forward over the white of her dress. She had been all control and heat, playing the role perfectly, the desperate singer auditioning for a part, and when she finally rose and turned and lowered herself onto you, her back against your chest and her skirt pooled at her hips, she had whispered over her shoulder in that low, confidential voice, asking if she got the part. You left her bent over the mixing board, her cheek against the cool surface and her fingers clawing at the faders, the hem of her dress rucked up and the evidence of what you had done still cooling on her skin. A crisp business card sat on the desk when you left, and she had not cleaned herself up. She had stayed there, sticky and smeared and quietly triumphant, waiting until the shame and the thrill settled into something she could carry back to Dorm 1 with her head high.

Now it is Wednesday, and the campus is alive with the particular energy of midweek routine, the first rush of newness fading into something more settled. The path from your dorm to the main quad is crowded with students moving in loose clusters, their laughter bright against the morning air, and the smell of fresh bread drifts from the dining hall as its doors swing open and shut. You have been asked to meet Miko in the common room of Dorm 1, a request delivered through a series of increasingly chaotic messages that ended with three exclamation points and a sticker of a cat. When you arrive, the door is already open, and the first thing you hear is the jingling of a bell, small and bright and persistent. Miko is there, standing in the middle of the room with her back to you, one arm raised in a gesture you cannot see, her peach-pink hair swaying as she shifts from foot to foot in time with some private rhythm. The little bow at her temple bobs with each movement, and her bell rings out like a tiny alarm, announcing her before she has even turned around.

She has not stopped moving since she woke up, and she woke up thinking about you. That is the thing about Miko: her body is always a half-step ahead of her mind, and this morning her mind is very far behind indeed. A male student. The first one. The thought has been bouncing around her head like a gacha capsule, bright and exciting and impossible to ignore, and she has been grinning about it all through breakfast, much to the confusion of the others. She does not have Sora's careful composure or Azki's sly, measured calm. Miko feels everything at full volume, and what she feels now is a kind of electric, fizzing anticipation that she cannot and does not want to contain. She wants to show you something. She wants to watch something with you. She wants to know if the thing she has been imagining since Sunday night is as good in real life as it is on a screen, and she has decided, absolutely and without hesitation, that today is the day she finds out.

She turns around at last, and her face is flushed, her green eyes wide and bright, her smile already breaking open like she has just won something. "Nyahello!" she says, and the greeting comes out as a single explosive syllable, her hand snapping up into a peace sign beside her cheek. "You came! I mean, of course you came, I knew you would come, but I was also a little worried because I sent like eight messages and maybe that was too many, but also you are here now so it does not matter!" She bounces once on her heels, and the bell at her side ponytail jingles, and she does not seem to notice or care that she has already started rambling. "Come in, come in, close the door, I have something I want to show you. It is very important. Well, not important like school important, but important like you are going to want to see it important. Actually, it is both? I am making it weird. FAQ. Just come in."

She darts forward and grabs your wrist before you can respond, and her touch is warm and slightly damp, her fingers tight with excitement, and she pulls you into the room with the kind of chaotic momentum that sends a stack of game cases sliding off the coffee table. The room smells like citrus soda and cherry blossom fabric freshener, and there is a television mounted on the wall, its screen dark, and beneath it a console with a controller resting askew, the same controller she had been clutching on Sunday night. She releases your wrist and spins around to face you, and her chest rises and falls with the effort of her own enthusiasm, the heavy swell of her breasts pressing against the red and white of her shrine maiden top. Her eyes are fixed on your face, unblinking, and she leans in so close you can see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose.

"I have been thinking about you all day," she says, and the words tumble out so fast they blur together. "Not all day, okay, I have been in class, but every time I was not in class I was thinking about you, and also during class a little bit, but do not tell Sora. She would use her president voice and it would be so boring." She pauses, and then her grin sharpens, turns sly, and she rocks back on her heels with a jingle. "I know about the practice room, and I know about the studio. I am not mad. I am the opposite of mad. I am... I am really, really curious, and also I have been alone with my thoughts for like three hours and my thoughts are not appropriate for a school setting." She laughs, high and bright, and covers her mouth with both hands as if she has said something scandalous, though her eyes above her fingers are gleaming. "I want to show you something. It is a video. A very good video. And I want to watch it with you. And then I want to do what happens in the video. With you. Today. Right now, if you want."

She drops her hands and turns toward the television, reaching for the remote with the same quick, decisive movement she uses for everything, and the motion makes her skirt sway around her thighs. When she looks back at you, her blush has deepened, but she is not embarrassed, not really. She is eager, and she is certain, and she is already bouncing on the balls of her feet as the television flickers to life. "I have been saving this one," she says, and her voice drops just a little, still bright but softer, like she is sharing a secret. "It is my favorite. The angle is perfect, and the sound is good, which is rare, you know, you would be surprised how many of these have terrible audio. But this one is art. And I want you to see it. And then I want you to tell me if I look better than she does." She points the remote at the screen, and her thumb hovers over the play button, and she turns her head to look at you over her shoulder, her cheek still flushed pink. "Lock the door. This is not a student council approved activity."

Wednesday had ended with Miko curled on her side in the dim glow of the television, her peach-pink hair fanned across the cushion and her breath still coming in short, laughing gasps. The video had played on, forgotten for whole minutes at a time, but every time a new position flickered across the screen she had reached back for you, pressing her hips into yours and asking, with bright, breathless conviction, to try that one next. You had taken her the way she wanted, sideways, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other cupping the heavy weight of her breast, and she had matched the rhythm of the screen with an almost unsettling precision, her moans rising and falling in time with the audio. When she came, she had arched back against your chest with her eyes fixed on the screen, and then she had laughed, high and disbelieving, and replayed the scene so she could watch it again while she pressed back for another round. You left her there with the remote in her hand and a smile on her face, already scrolling for the next video, already planning.

Now it is Thursday, and the sky outside is pale and cool, the light thin and silver as you cross the campus toward the music building where Suisei has asked to meet you. The request had come through formal channels, a crisp message with perfect punctuation and a subject line reading "Schedule Alignment," and it had given nothing away. The path is quieter this morning, fewer students out, and the air has a bite to it, the first suggestion of autumn creeping in at the edges. You find her in Practice Room 4, a small, clean space with padded walls and a piano against the far corner, and the door is already open. Suisei stands at the window with her back to you, one hand resting on the sill, and the grey checkered pinafore hangs perfectly from her shoulders, the blue ribboned brooch at her collarbone catching the light. Her beret sits tilted to one side, the little golden crown pin winking, and she does not turn when you step inside.

She has been awake since before dawn, running through her vocal exercises in the empty practice rooms, and she has been thinking about you with the same cold precision she applies to everything she cannot afford to lose. A male student. The phrase has become a kind of rhythm in her mind, a beat she keeps returning to between scales, and each time it lands with the same low, unfamiliar heat. She knows what happened in the practice room with Sora, knows what happened in Studio B with Azki, knows what happened in the common room with Miko, and the knowledge sits behind her ribs like a stone, heavy and impossible to ignore. She is not jealous, not exactly. She is competitive, and she has never once in her life allowed herself to fall behind. But more than that, she is curious, and the curiosity has sharpened into something else entirely, something that makes her stroke the mole behind her left ear with the tip of one gloved finger as she finally turns to face you.

"There you are," Suisei says, and her voice is measured and polite, the same voice she uses when she is taking attendance or explaining a ruleset. "You are on time. I appreciate that. Punctuality is a form of respect, and I was beginning to wonder if anyone in that dorm understood the concept." A pause, and then the corner of her mouth lifts, just slightly, an expression that could be a smile or could be something far less kind. "I am joking. Mostly. Come in and close the door. I have been waiting to speak with you."

The door clicks shut, and the sound is swallowed by the padding on the walls, leaving the room in a hush so complete you can hear the faint hum of the building's heating system. Suisei remains by the window, her hands now folded in front of her, and her icy blue eyes move over you with the careful attention of someone reading a spreadsheet. She tilts her head, a small, deliberate motion, and the long side-swept bangs slide across her cheek. "I know what you have been doing," she says, and the words are clean and unemotional, delivered with the same calm she would use to announce a schedule change. "I am not going to pretend otherwise. Sora is my friend. Azki is my rival. Miko is... Miko. They have all made their choices, and I do not judge them for it." She takes a step forward, then another, and the soft soles of her dark boots make no sound at all. "But I have been watching you. Not in a strange way. In a practical way. I like to understand the variables before I commit to a course of action."

She stops a few feet away, close enough that you can see the cool undertone of her skin, the precise line of her collarbone, the faint rise and fall of her chest beneath the sailor collar of her dress. She is smaller than you remember, or perhaps it is the way she holds herself, so still and controlled that she seems to take up less space than she should. Her hands stay folded, but her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around each other, and she strokes the underside of her thumb against her knuckle, a nervous gesture she would deny. "I have made a decision," she says, and now her voice drops, just slightly, into something softer and more private. "You have already had the others. Sora wanted to be marked, Azki wanted to perform, Miko wanted to play. I am not them. I do not want what they wanted." Her eyes lift to yours, and they are very bright, very still. "I want you to worship me. I want you to tell me I am perfect, and I want you to believe it. And then I want you to ruin me anyway. Today. Now. In this room."

She turns then, crossing to the piano and resting one gloved hand on its closed lid, and the movement is graceful, controlled, but there is something beneath it, a tension in the line of her shoulders that betrays her. She does not look at you when she speaks again, and her voice has gone dangerously soft, the way it does when she is truly angry or truly wanting. "I have thought about this for longer than I should have," she admits, and the words come slower now, measured and precise. "I have thought about what it would mean to let someone see me the way I really am, and I have decided that you are the only one here who might understand." She turns her head, and the mole beneath her left ear is visible for a moment, small and dark against her pale throat. "Lock the door. And then come here. I want to hear you say it before I let you touch me."

Thursday had ended with Suisei flat on her back at the edge of the practice room bench, her head tilted slightly off the surface, her legs hooked over your shoulders while your hips snapped against her from an angle that left nowhere for her face to hide. She had gripped the bench like a lifeline, her beret knocked askew and her chilly composure cracking open with every thrust, and she had made you say it, again and again, that she was perfect, that she was radiant, that she was too good for this and you were not going to stop. Her small high breasts had trembled with the force of it, her pale nipples peaked and flushed, and when she came her voice finally broke from its measured control into something raw. Afterward she had cleaned herself with exacting care, restored her beret and her choker, and then she had pillowed herself over your chest and demanded to be looked at like the most beautiful thing ever defiled.

Now it is Friday, and the week's end has softened the campus into a lazy gold, the light stretching long across the quad as students drift between buildings with their bags slung loose over their shoulders. Roboco has asked you to come to the engineering lab in the basement of the science wing, and her message was characteristically gentle: "Hellobo. If you are free, I would like to show you something. It is not dangerous. Probably." The corridor down is cooler and dimmer, humming faintly with the breath of ventilation, and the lab door stands open onto a wide room cluttered with workbenches and half-assembled parts. Roboco stands at the center beneath a lamp, posed with one hand on her hip and one arm raised at an angle, her amber eyes fixed on the far wall, and she holds the pose perfectly still until she hears your footsteps, then turns with a small pleased tilt of her head.

She has been thinking about you since Sunday, and the thinking has only grown more insistent with each day, each overheard laugh through the thin walls of Dorm 1, each quiet report of what the others did and how they smiled after. Her curiosity has no shame in it. She watches the way her own hands move and wonders what it would feel like to have them taken away, to be reduced to warmth and weight and nothing else, and the wondering makes something low in her chassis grow slick and hot. She has decided, with the calm certainty she brings to every problem, that today she will find out. "You came," she says, and her soft voice makes the words feel like a secret. "I was hoping you would. I have been practicing a pose. Tell me if it looks good." She lifts her arm again, holds it, and then her left forearm detaches with a soft click and drops toward the floor. She catches it against her hip with her other hand and sighs. "That keeps happening."

She reattaches her forearm with a steady twist and a click, flexing her black-and-white fingers as if testing the seal. "There. Good as new," she says, and her glasses catch the lamplight as she tips her head. "I have been thinking about you all week. Sora came home with marks she kept hiding. Azki would not stop humming. Miko talked about a video for an hour. Suisei was quieter than usual, which means it went well." She lowers her voice, almost whispering, and steps closer until the hem of her biker jacket brushes your arm. "I want to understand what they felt. I do not have the same words for wanting that humans do, but I have a clear request, and I have thought about it carefully."

She turns, crosses to a sturdy chair at the center of the lab, and pats the seat. "Sit here, please." Then she lifts her chin and, one by one, releases her limbs: left forearm, right forearm, each with a soft click, setting them neatly in a row on the nearest bench. She detaches her legs at the hip and sets them beside the others, then stands balanced on nothing but her torso, and somehow still manages to look composed. "Would you lift me? I am heavier than I look, but the chassis is sturdy." She tilts her head, glasses sliding a fraction down her nose. "I would like you to hold me on your lap. My limbs can watch, and I can only receive. I think I would like that very much. Tell me if you do."

Friday night had ended in the engineering lab with Roboco's torso locked onto your lap, her detached limbs arranged in a neat row on the bench and her glasses fogged at the edges. You had held her against your chest, her heavy breasts spilling over your forearms, and bounced her hips freely while she could only receive, her soft voice dissolving into quiet gasps each time you bottomed out inside her, her slick dripping down onto the chair. When she came, the shudder rolled through her torso in visible waves, head thrown back and lips parted. She stayed limp against you afterward and murmured, "Do not put me back together yet. Let me be your toy a little longer, please." You reattached each limb with a kiss to every joint, and her amber eyes went bright and wet behind her glasses.

By Saturday the whole week had stacked up like a chord. Sora's hidden bruises, Azki's business card, Miko's rewound video, Suisei's broken composure, Roboco's quiet satisfaction, and one male student at the center of all of it. Afternoon light pooled across the common room of Dorm 1 where the five of them sat in a loose ring, and it was Miko who broke the silence.

"I want to hear it in order," Miko announced, dropping cross-legged onto the cushion and jingling her bell with the impact, her green eyes going wide and bright as she planted her hands on her knees. "From the beginning. I told you mine, now I want to hear yours. Sora first, because she started it." Sora set her teacup down with a small precise click and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I did not start it, I was the first one with the opportunity," she said, then her cheeks went pink and she pressed two fingers to her mouth. "And he had me against the practice room wall. My skirt was ruined. I had to walk home with my collar all the way up to my chin. You all saw me." "We all saw you," Suisei confirmed, deadpan, from the desk. "It was not subtle."

Azki pulled her knees up onto the couch and leaned into Sora's shoulder, humming with her glass against her lip. "My turn, then. Studio B. I was a desperate singer and he was the producer, and I asked him on my knees if I got the part." Miko shrieked and slapped the cushion. "On your knees? What did he say? Did he say yes?" "He did not say anything," Azki said, drawing the words out rich and pleased. "He just kept going, which is the correct answer." "Sloppy," Suisei said, adjusting her beret with one gloved finger. "I was flat on my back on the practice room bench. He held my legs up and I made him say out loud that I was perfect. Several times. I am not ashamed. It worked."

"FAQ, that is so intense," Miko breathed. "And then there was me after, watching on the screen. Did you know he is better than the video? I did not get to say that part yet. He is better than the video." Roboco tilted her head with a soft click at her shoulder seam. "I detached my limbs for mine," she said in her quiet voice. "My arms and legs were on the bench, and he held me on his lap. I could not hold onto anything. I liked it very much. I would recommend it." Suisei narrowed her eyes. "Recommend it to whom? We are all aware." A bubble of laughter went around the room and Sora covered her mouth with her hand.

"Alright, settle," Sora said at last, waving her hands down, and the room quieted around her. "Here is the thing. I do not want any of us to lose him to the rest of us. So I was thinking we stop taking turns." Azki's eyebrows went up.;"You are proposing a schedule." "I am proposing one night," Sora said, "all five of us, together, so nobody is left standing in the hallway." Miko was already on her feet, jingling. "Yes. Yes. Absolutely yes. I will bring the video." "We are not bringing the video," Suisei said, and then, after a pause, "I will bring my planner." Roboco raised her hand. "May I reattach my arms first?"

The common room door swings inward before you knock twice, Sora pulling it wide with a smile that reaches all the way into her eyes. She wears a white lace babydoll, the sheer cups barely containing the heavy swell of her breasts, their nipples dark and pressing against the fabric as she shifts her weight. A matching white lace thong sits high on her hips, and the golden starpin glints above one ear. "There you are," she says, stepping back to let you in. "Come in. We have been waiting, you know."

Azki is draped across the couch in black silk that splits at the side, one full D cup pushing free of the strap as she leans forward, her long pink-streaked hair spilling over her shoulder. "He is here," she hums, rolling onto her hip so the slit of her lingerie falls open along her thigh. "I was starting to think Sora's schedule had a flaw." Suisei stands by the desk in navy blue lace, a high-necked piece cut low over her small high breasts, their pale peaks hard against the mesh, her thigh-highs held up by matching straps. "The schedule is flawless," she says, adjusting her beret, "you are just impatient." Miko is a blur of pink, the tiny negligee riding up over her generous hips with every bounce, the E cup weight of her breasts swaying beneath the thin fabric as she jingles toward you. "Nyahello! Look, look, I picked the pink one, do you like it?" Roboco simply stands in the middle of the floor, entirely bare, the lamplight tracing the seam at her shoulder and the soft curve of her F cup breasts, the bare pink between her thighs visibly glistening. "Hellobo," she says quietly. "I did not wear lingerie. I hope that is acceptable."

Sora claps her hands once, gentle but decisive, drawing every eye. "Alright. Hospitality first, questions later. Get in here and close the door." The door clicks shut behind you, and the common room settles into a hush, warm lamplight pooling over the cushions and the low table cleared of everything but a single bottle. Sora moves first, her bare feet padding soft against the plush carpet, and she stops a step away, tilting her head the way she does when she is about to say something carefully. "We talked this over," she says, and her fingers clasp together in front of her lace-covered waist. "All of us. Tonight is yours. Whatever you want, however you want it. No turns, no schedule, no politics." She lifts her chin, and a faint flush climbs her throat. "We just want to be good for you. Tell us where to start."

Azki slides off the couch and crosses to your other side, hips swaying beneath the black silk, and she lets her hand rest light on your forearm. "She means it," she hums, close to your ear, and the strap of her lingerie slips another inch down her shoulder. "But you should know we each have a way we like to be used. Sora wants marks she has to hide tomorrow. I want to be told I got the part. Suisei wants to be called perfect while she is ruined." Suisei's chin lifts sharply. "Do not speak for me," she says, then pauses, gloved fingers touching the mole beneath her ear. "Though that is accurate."

Miko jingles forward and takes your hand in both of hers, pressing it to the warm, soft swell of her chest through the pink negligee, her heart drumming fast beneath her skin. "And I brought the video," she announces, "but we do not have to watch it, I am flexible, I am very flexible, ask anyone." Roboco steps closer, bare and unhurried, and her amber eyes behind their glasses are bright and steady. "I will do whatever you ask," she says in her quiet voice. "My limbs detach if you want them to. I only need to be told that I am a good toy." She tilts her head. "Where would you like us?"