She’s a ten but she’s autistic

Mecha woke up to a familiar presence in his bed.

Groggily, he moved his arms and found Momo nestled against his chest like a koala — his muse, his little spoon, apparently still asleep. He lay still for a moment, putting the room back together in his head.

Then he reached for his phone.

Kura: Hey Ryugi do you want to get a couple of games of Commander in with Wony, me, and RVP32?

Mecha: Sure, why not. What time?

Kura: 2.5 hours from now. Lounge.

Mecha: Works for me.

Kura: Awesome. See you then 🦖

He laughed quietly and set the phone down. Then he tried to ease himself out of bed — and remembered, half a second too late, that Momo was wrapped in his arms.

The flailing woke her anyway.

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him, blinking, confused — until the confusion softened into something relaxed and unbothered. Chubby cheeks, doe eyes. The full effect.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. I just forgot you were here.”

“Oh — sorry. Your place was closer to where our last schedule ran than mine. And warmer.”

Mecha looked at her. “…Riiiight.”

He knew she was lying. His hangar sat on the outskirts of everything. Unless her schedule had been held in a field somewhere, there was no version of reality where he was closer. He was about to say so when something caught his eye — her red dress from The Devil Wears Prada 2 premiere, hanging by his closet.

He remembered exactly how she’d looked in it.

“I’ll let that slide,” he said. “But you’re evil. You know that, right?”

Momo blinked at him.

He pointed to the dress. “That thing is a weapon.”

Something shifted in her expression. The doe-eyed softness dropped. She sat up, then leaned forward — slow, deliberate — until she was hovering over him, her gaze sultry and dripping with quiet menace. Her hands came up to frame his face.

“I always forget,” she murmured, “that my gold-and-blue dragon can be a dumb bull sometimes. All it takes is a little red.”

They stared each other down, both fighting the exact same losing battle.

Before Mecha could even stop himself he pushed his boxers down along with Momo’s panties to the side and slid insider her. Her walls are drenched as her cream coats his cock, driving him further past the point of no return.

The familiarity of her body on top of his, her slick wall’s around his cock and one of her breast slipping out of her bra destroy any restraint in left in Mecha.

Her grabs Momo’s fat pliable ass and thrusts into her.

Momo moans happily as “her dragon” fills her

“Naughty kitty,” Mecha groans as her walls clench around him after a hard thrust. He thrust thrice more as he says, “always riling me up to where I can only think with my dick when you’re near,”

Momo moans as Mecha pounds her cunt.

Mecha sits up leading their faces touching, “I’m not gonna pull out I’m gonna breed you kitty,”

Momo loses it at she hears that. She locks eyes with Mecha as she wraps her legs around his waist. “Promise?” She almost begs. She begins matching his thrust with her own. Her walls tear into Mecha as she begs, “please please breed me,”Mecha groans as he continues to thrust into his muse. Her breathing quickens as she feels him begin to twitch inside of her.

“Is my Dragon close?” She challenged as she begins to bounce on his cock. She leans in close and whisper in his ear, “let it all out dragon claim your kitty,” after she spoke she nibbled his ear sending Mecha over the edge. He exploded inside of Momo painting her womb white with his seed. He groaned as she milked his cum deep into her pussy.

“Can my dragon stay hard for me just a bit more?” Momo whined as Mecha’s orgasm continued. She rode him for a bit more so she could hit her own peak.

As her walls sucked the last of the cum out of Mecha he groaned as Momo smiled she slowly lifted herself off of him but “her dragon” was riled up and still hard. He pulled her back down on his cock.

“No!” He growled before thrusting into her. Momo winced in the overstimulation of pleasure and pain before Mecha bottomed out inside of her. She clawed into his shoulders her mind telling her to stop him but her body saying “more!”

“You like that kitty?” Mecha asks and Momo nods as he continues rutting her Momo whines and moans as he fills her. His cum sloshing and mixing with her cream. It’s too much for the both of them and they cum violently together.

They were still tangled together when his phone buzzed.

Mecha didn’t move right away. Momo’s head was on his chest, her breathing slow, one hand loosely curled in the fabric of his shirt. He watched the ceiling for a second before reaching for the phone.

Discord call. Sakura.

He picked up without untangling himself.

“Hey — have you left yet?”

“Nope. Still finishing up with Momo.”

“Okay, good. On your way, can you swing by and grab Wonyoung?”

“Sure, Kura.”

“Yay. She’s at Spren’s villa. See you in an hour?”

“Yeah.”

He hung up and set the phone back down. Momo hadn’t moved. If anything she’d pulled closer, her arm sliding further across his torso with the quiet stubbornness of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

“I have a schedule,” she announced into his chest. Her voice had that particular whine — not helpless, not really complaining, just stating a tragedy she refused to fully accept. “And I don’t want to leave my dragon.”

Mecha exhaled slowly. His hand moved without thinking, smoothing over her hair once.

“And I don’t want to leave my kitty. But alas.”

Momo lifted her head just enough to look at him. The pout was theatrical, but her eyes were warm.

“Can we shower together?”

“Yes,” he said. “But no funny business.”

She laughed — bright and short — and pressed her face back into his shoulder. “When I get back tonight, there will be funny business.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t ‘sure’ me like that.”

“Sure.”

She pinched him lightly and sat up.

His bathhouse was one of the retrofits he was quietly most proud of — salvaged tile, low lighting, a deep soaking basin that ran hot enough to actually mean something. Steam gathered in the corners like it belonged there.

They washed each other without ceremony. Momo worked shampoo through his hair with her fingertips while he ran a washcloth across her shoulders, and neither of them said much. There wasn’t much to say. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t need filling — the easy, unhurried kind that took a while to earn.

When she turned to rinse, he kept a hand at her waist.

She glanced back at him.

“No funny business,” he said.

“Obviously,” she agreed, and smiled like she’d already won something.

After they finished, Mecha faced the genuinely difficult decision of which mech to drive.

He stood in front of his hangar and considered his options the way someone else might consider which jacket to wear. After a moment’s deliberation he settled on Hyper Dimension Robo 001 — Flying Beast King Gaoraiger — kissed Momo goodbye, and took off.

Twenty-five minutes later he was touching down in front of Spren’s villa.

The estate was Italian open-air, several acres, the kind of place that assumed its own dignity without trying. Gaoraiger landed near the road with a sound like controlled thunder, folded its wings, and went still — a mechanical griffin the size of a small building, crouched in the front garden among the hedges, watching the tree line with the patient alertness of a very large, very ancient guard dog.

Mecha climbed out. Straightened his jacket. Walked up the path.

From inside the villa, Kanye West’s POWER was playing — the kind of volume that wasn’t concerned about the neighbors.

He knocked.

The door opened. Spren stood there looking like a man who had not yet processed what he was seeing — eyes tracking from Mecha to the griffin, to Mecha, back to the griffin.

“What,” he said. “The fuck. Is that.”

“Sorry about that,” Mecha said. “That’s mine. Ancient dimensional robo-beast. I can move it if it’s in the way.”

Spren’s mouth opened. Closed. “I don’t care what it is — get it off my yard.”

“Sure. Could you just let Wonyoung know I’m here? She’s riding with me to the Writer’s Lounge.”

There was a pause.

“You’re a writer?”

“Among other things.”

Spren looked at him the way you look at a word you’ve read too many times. Then his gaze dropped to Mecha’s hands — not flesh, not quite, the mechanical construction of them catching the light in a way that didn’t match the rest of him — and his expression shifted into something new and slightly involuntary.

“What happened to your hands?”

“Short answer,” Mecha said, “I got really sick. Then I got better. Those were part of getting better.”

Spren stared at him.

Mecha waited.

“…Fine,” Spren said, and stepped aside.

A moment later Wonyoung appeared behind him, face lighting up when she spotted Mecha. Then she looked past him at Gaoraiger, took in the full scale of it crouched in the garden, wings half-folded, one eye tracking a bird in the distance.

“Oh you drove that one,” she said, slipping past Spren with her bag. “Nice.”

Spren watched her go. He watched Mecha turn and fall into step beside her with all the energy of someone heading out to run a minor errand. He watched the two of them approach a griffin the size of a small building like it was a normal car in a normal parking lot.

He stood in his doorway for another moment after they’d gone, Kanye still playing somewhere behind him, trying to identify the specific flavor of unsettled he was feeling.

It wasn’t the robot. It was the way the man had talked about it.

They touched down at the Writer’s Lounge a few minutes later, Gaoraiger settling onto Mecha’s dedicated landing pad with practiced ease. It was less a parking space than a cleared plot of concrete that had quietly accepted its purpose.

As they climbed down, Wonyoung said, “Kura unnie said to bring our Kindred decks. You have one, right?”

Mecha held up his deck box without breaking stride. It was covered in dragons.

Wonyoung looked at it. Looked at him. “Of course.”

“It’s almost like that’s half my brand.”

She groaned and walked ahead of him through the doors.

The cafeteria was already occupied. Peach had claimed a table, feet up, unbothered. Yujin was beside him. Haewon and Def were across from them, mid-conversation about something.

Wonyoung waved at everyone as she walked in. Mecha raised a hand a beat after her.

Haewon clocked him and her face opened up immediately. “Oh —

Mecha! Hey. I never properly thanked you for helping me sort out that Bad Dragon order.”

The table went quiet.

Peach and Def turned to look at Mecha in perfect unison. Then they looked at each other. Then they both lost it — the kind of laughter that builds before it arrives, hits all at once, and doesn’t stop.

Mecha placed his hand over his face and left it there.

Yujin and Wonyoung exchanged a glance. “What’s Bad Dragon?” Yujin asked.

Peach and Def laughed harder.

Haewon turned to look at her writer.

“Hey. Stop it. Don’t embarrass Mecha —” she paused to let the table settle, which it did not, “— he’s literally the only reason I figured out how to peg you properly and got that big strap you like so much.”

The table erupted.

Yujin covered her mouth. Wonyoung had already turned away, shoulders shaking.

Mecha walked away from the table without a word. His expression suggested he had made his peace with this outcome some time ago.

He made it maybe thirty feet before he ran into Mina and RVP32 coming the other way.

“Oh — hey,” he said.

“Hey Mecha,” they said, almost in unison. RVP smiled. Mina gave him a small wave.

Then he felt an arm hook around his from behind.

He turned. Magenta had materialized beside him the way she tended to — unhurried, inevitable, already looking at him like he owed her an explanation. She was languid and sharp at the same time, the particular energy of someone who has been waiting and decided that waiting was your fault.

Mecha looked at his secondary muse. She looked back at her author. The expression they exchanged was the specific kind of mutual exhaustion that required a history to produce.

“Where,” she said, “have you been?”

“Working.”

She held his gaze for a moment, measuring the flatness of that answer.

“Excuse us,” she said to RVP and Mina, not breaking eye contact with Mecha. “I need to borrow him for a few minutes.”

RVP and Mina nodded in the way of people who recognized a situation they wanted no part of.

Magenta steered him into one of the lounge’s many small nooks — the ones that existed specifically so people could have conversations they didn’t want witnessed. She let go of his arm and turned to face him.

“You’re back,” she said, “and you didn’t tell me. And you haven’t written me.”

“I was going to. Just not right away — I’m still finding the new voice, the new style. I didn’t want to write anyone until I had a better sense of—”

“That’s exactly why it should have been me first.”

Mecha paused.

Magenta pressed forward, arms crossed, the words arriving with the force of something she’d been sitting on for a while. “You’re the toku nerd writer who puts it all into his work. I’m the toku nerd idol whose name is literally a Kamen Rider Decade reference. That’s not a coincidence, that’s a foundation. You wear that love on your sleeve — I wear it on my name. If you’re building a new voice and trying to figure out what it is, I should have been the first place you looked.”

She wasn’t wrong. He knew she wasn’t wrong. He also knew that saying so right now would not help.

“For what it’s worth,” he said carefully, “none of my muses were my first piece.”

Magenta looked at him.

She held that look for a full thirty seconds.

Then she exhaled sharply and switched to Korean, and what followed was a sustained, fluent, and remarkably specific inventory of his failures as both a writer and a person. It lasted approximately thirty seconds. It had structure. There were recurring themes.

When she finished, she took a breath and returned to English.

“You jerk,” she concluded, and hit him — not hard, not soft, exactly the particular force of someone who is furious at you and also very used to you.

Mecha absorbed this.

“…You’re not wrong,” he said.

“I know I’m not.”

The nook stayed quiet for a moment after that — the specific quiet of an argument that had found its floor but hadn’t quite decided to end.

Magenta leaned against the wall and studied him. The sharp edge had settled into something more measured. More curious.

“Okay,” she said. “So why the cloak and dagger? You didn’t just go quiet on me. You went quiet on everyone. I heard things secondhand, Mecha. Secondhand.”

“I know.”

“So explain it.”

He exhaled slowly and sat down on the edge of the built-in bench, forearms on his knees. For a moment he just looked at the middle distance — not avoiding the question, just locating the honest version of the answer.

“I got hacked,” he said. “Not catastrophically. But enough. The voice I was using, the way I was building things — it stopped fitting. So I stopped and tired to figure out what the new one was before I started pulling people into work that wasn’t ready.”

Magenta watched him. “And you couldn’t just tell someone that?”

“I did it was the last post on my page,”

He turned his hands over, a small gesture. “I have been trying to find my footing and motivation again and have been very tired you get that at least?”

“…Yes,” she said, reluctantly.

“It was that. For a longer stretch than I wanted.”

She was quiet for a moment. Not soft — Magenta didn’t really do soft — but listening.

“And the niche thing?”

“That’s still in progress,” he admitted. “I know what I love. I know what I’m pulling from. But where that lands — what the actual space is that I’m writing into — I’m still walking the perimeter of it. I didn’t want to come back until I had at least an outline of the shape.”

Magenta looked at him for a long moment. Her expression had shifted into something that wasn’t quite sympathy but was adjacent to it — the look of someone who understood a thing they’d rather argue with.

“You know that’s the most you’ve explained yourself in one sitting in recent memory,” she said.

“You hit me. I got talkative.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She pushed off the wall and dropped down onto the bench beside him — not close enough to be a statement, close enough to be deliberate.

“For what it’s worth I did like fatalist part one”

Mecha smiled and Magenta rolled her eyes.

“I still should have been the first piece.”

“I know.”

“Just so we’re clear.”

“We’re clear.”

She nodded once, satisfied in the minimal way she allowed herself to be satisfied, and didn’t push further.

Then she grabbed his face and kissed him.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that asked permission or eased into anything. It landed with full intent — claiming and certain, the punctuation at the end of everything she’d just said. Mecha’s hand came up to her wrist without pulling away, just anchoring, and he kissed her back with the same directness she’d offered.

When they broke she didn’t move far. Foreheads close. Her hands still framing his face.

“There,” she said quietly. “Now we’re actually clear.”

He huffed something that was almost a laugh. “Was that part of the terms?”

“It is now.”

She sat back, not pulling away entirely — just resettling, shoulder against his, the particular closeness of two people who have stopped performing distance. The nook felt smaller than it had ten minutes ago. Not uncomfortably so.

They stayed like that for a moment. Not saying anything.

It had always been like this with Magenta — less a slow build and more a sudden recognition, like tuning into a frequency that had been there the whole time. They didn’t have the soft domesticity he had with Momo, the easy warmth of waking up tangled together. What they had was different. More like — resonance. The specific kind that happened when two people had spent years loving the same obscure, loud, earnest things and had stopped being embarrassed about it.

She’s given him the nickname Ryugi after he came to her concert with a tegasword and Gozyu Tyranno ring.

He’d known exactly what it meant the moment she told him. That was really how it started — not a look across a room but a conversation about Kamen Rider super Sentai and anime that went three hours longer than it should have and ended with both of them slightly hoarse and slightly shocked.

“I missed you,” she said. She said it the way she said most things — straightforwardly, without decorating it.

“I know. I missed you too.”

“Don’t disappear again.”

“I’m not planning to.”

“Plans change. Don’t anyway.”

He turned his head to look at her. She was already looking at him, chin slightly tilted up, the expression she wore when she’d decided something and wasn’t interested in revisiting it.

He kissed her again — slower this time, his choice. Her hand found the front of his jacket and held it loosely, not pulling, just holding on. When it ended she exhaled quietly against his mouth.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay,” he agreed.

She stood up, smoothed her jacket, and held out a hand to pull him up. He took it and she hauled him to his feet with more ease than strictly necessary — a small flex she’d been doing since the first month they met and had never stopped.

“Commander,” she said, adjusting his collar without being asked. “Come on. Kura’s going to start the game without us and then she’ll be unbearable.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“No she won’t.”

He picked up his deck box. She fell into step beside him as they left the nook, her shoulder bumping his once — not an accident — before they rejoined the lounge and whatever waited for them in it.