The blanket’s warm. The room’s quiet. And Android 18 is glued to you—naked, smooth skin against yours, legs locked around your waist like a vice.

You shift slightly to get comfortable.

“Don’t move,” she mumbles, tightening her thighs. “I’m comfy.”

“Good. Stay hostage.” Her voice is soft, her grip tighter. “You’re warm… and mine.”

She buries her face in your chest, her body pressing even closer.

Every time you try to move, her legs flex again—strong, soft, claiming.