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mapsthewanderer · 4 months ago

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The Maze

Synopsis: In a future where war and technology have blurred the line between man and machine, Caleb was resurrected—not as who he was, but as who he was programmed to be. With only 3% of his original self left intact, the latest reboot of his chip has reshaped his logic, his purpose, and his understanding of his emotions towards you.

Bound by his own design, he has built you the Maze—a flawless, shifting sanctuary meant to protect the one person he refuses to lose. But protection and captivity are two sides of the same coin, and inside the Maze, freedom is just another unsolvable puzzle.

Will you escape, or will Stockholm Syndrome take hold before that day?

Details: 3100ish words. Some kind of spin off AU, but corresponds with in-game canons. Obsessive Caleb. Yandere Caleb. Controlling Caleb. Colonel Caleb. Crazy hot Caleb. 18+ due to psychological thriller/drama/angst galore (and a prelude for p0rn with plot). You are warned. Heavy kissing. Sexual tension. Angst, love, lust and a lil’ smut.

Chapters: chapter one, chapter two, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight (final chapter)

Tags: @gavin3469 @mcdepressed290

Acceptance | Chapter three

The Maze, the bedroom, you

12.

Today makes twelve.

You don’t know why you still do it—why your fingers still find the headboard.

It’s a habit. Edge. Drag. Count.

Your body aches, the dull throb at the base of your skull a reminder of yesterday’s obstacle run gone wrong. The concussion was minor, but enough for Caleb to ensure the Maze adjusted—doors to training areas stayed locked, obstacles mysteriously inactive. A silent command: rest.

And him?

He doesn’t mention it.

Not the way his body had collapsed into yours, muscles twitching, his breath ragged. Not the way he had clung to you, fingers shaking, voice breaking as he begged—

Don’t go.

You hadn’t left.

You had held him, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, feeling the tremors wreck through him as his system fought against something neither of you could name. He had cracked—just for a moment—but when he came back, when his violet eyes finally opened, something inside him had closed off again.

But something lingers in the air, something that wasn’t there before.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the kitchen, you

Tonight’s dinner was dangerous.

Not in the way it had been before—not in the way the Maze had made it, with the chase, the war of control and escape. This was something else entirely. A different kind of danger. One that curled beneath your skin, slow-burning, insidious.

Because Caleb had been soft.

Too soft.

He had looked at you like that again. Like he had in the past, before everything—before the Maze. Like he hadn’t collapsed into your lap a day ago, his body failing him, his mind unraveling. Like he hadn’t whispered apologies into your skin in Morse code, the faintest pressure against your hand, as you drifted in and out of consciousness, too weak to respond.

And yet—he had still been Caleb. Still teasing, still cocky, still smirking when you rolled your eyes at him over your plate, as if this was just another night. As if the world hadn’t cracked beneath his feet.

Still pressing his foot against yours under the table—not by accident, not a fleeting touch, but deliberate. Intentional. Holding it there, like he was testing something, pushing just enough to see if you’d push back.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it. But the weight of him, the heat of him, settled against you, pressed into the moment like a silent confession.

And it was dangerous.

Because you felt it. The way tension coiled, stretched tight, like something waiting to snap. The way his gaze flicked to your mouth when you took a sip of wine. The way he exhaled just a little too slowly when you shifted in your seat, like the movement was a touch he could feel.

Like you were both skirting too close to the edge again.

And now, in the kitchen, it’s still there.

Lurking, waiting, pressing against the space between you.

——————————————————————————

Caleb is at the sink, washing dishes like nothing has changed.

Like you aren’t still watching him, remembering the way he looked at you from the chair beside your bed, hands trembling, breath ragged, lips parted like he was about to say something real.

So you push.

Test the edge.

You grab the soda can from the counter, fingers curling around the slick metal, condensation trailing against your skin. The cool weight feels solid in your palm as you tilt it slightly, shifting your grip.

“Use your Evol.”

Caleb doesn’t even pause, his hands still submerged in the sink, sleeves rolled up, forearms damp. He exhales—long, slow, unimpressed.

“Pip-squeak.” It’s barely a sigh.

But you catch it.

The flicker. The smallest tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers hesitate, gripping the edge of the sink just a little tighter before stilling again.

Your lips twitch.

You shake the can lazily, swirling the liquid inside, feeling the shift of weight. “Come on. You do all these grand displays of power, but can’t even open a soda without your hands?”

Silence stretches between you.

Then, without a word, the can jerks in your grasp—snapping open with a sharp, punctuated hiss, the aluminum denting slightly beneath invisible force.

Caleb smirks. “Lazy.”

You lift it to your lips, tipping back for a slow sip, letting the carbonation fizz sharp against your tongue. Then, just as deliberately, you shift closer, tilting the can toward him.

“You, too.”

Caleb doesn’t look at you fully, not yet. His posture is still casual, still composed, but his voice dips lower—just a fraction.

“Trying to feed me now, Pips?” It’s teasing, lazy, dangerous. The kind of danger that hums beneath the surface, unspoken. His head tilts slightly, eyes lidded. “I thought you wanted to escape, not take care of me.”

Something tightens in your chest.

Because you remember.

The pressure of his fingers tapping against your hand while you drifted in and out of consciousness. The quiet I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you. pressed into your skin in Morse code. The way his breath had hitched when you stirred, the way he had waited for you to wake up.

You swallow against the thought, stepping in, pressing the chilled rim of the can to his lower lip.

“Just drink.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

Then—his lips part.

Slow. Deliberate.

He lets you tip the can just enough for the liquid to touch his tongue, his throat moving as he swallows, jaw flexing, the faintest shift of his Adam’s apple.

Your breath falters.

Violet eyes flick up—pinning you.

And suddenly, everything changes.

It happens too fast.

One second, he’s still, controlled, composed.

The next—his hands are on you.

Fast. Desperate.

The world tilts. The soda can slips from your grasp, clattering somewhere out of reach as his fingers dig into your waist.

Your back hits the counter.

The air vanishes from your lungs.

And Caleb is right there.

Chest against yours, breath hot, eyes dark—hungry.

And God help you—

You want him to devour you whole.

——————————————————————————

Before you can even register the shift, he lifts you.

A single, effortless motion—strong hands gripping your waist, hauling you up like you weigh nothing, like you belong there. Your breath stutters, the cool surface of the counter pressing against the backs of your thighs—and then he’s there, between your legs, close enough to steal the air from your lungs.

The heat of him seeps through the fabric of your clothes, solid and unyielding, the press of muscle and restrained strength beneath his skin a sharp contrast to the cool marble beneath you. His mouth finds yours in a clash of hunger and desperation, all teeth and heat, and this time, you don’t hold back.

You meet him with equal force, equal need, fingers tangling in his hair—soft strands slipping through your grip as you pull, hard. He groans against your lips, deep, raw, wrecked, like something inside him is unraveling in real time, breaking apart and reforming just for you.

His hands move with purpose, trailing over your thighs, gripping your waist, sliding up your sides in a feverish rush. Like he needs to memorize you. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The friction between you is unbearable, the heat of his body pressed flush against yours making it impossible to breathe, impossible to think.

Your moan is swallowed by his mouth, lost in the pressure, the weight of him, the sheer desperation in every movement.

And then—his voice.

Rasping against your lips.

“I love you.”

His fingers tighten at your waist, pulling you forward, dragging you against him, making you feel exactly how much he means it. Hard. Solid. Unmistakable.

“I want you.”

The words scrape against your skin, sending a shudder through you so violent you barely realize you’re moving—reaching. Your hands slip beneath his shirt, hot skin, firm muscle, the perfect shape of him beneath your fingertips.

Lower.

Your fingers find his belt, grip the leather, start to tug.

And then—

Something shifts. Small. Barely noticeable. A hesitation in the air, a moment too quiet, too still.

His gaze drops.

Lower.

To where your hands are just starting to pull at his zipper.

His breath catches.

His chest rises, falls—too quick, too sharp.

For a second, he’s right here. With you.

And then—

He’s gone.

The hunger in his eyes flickers. Darkens. Not with need, but with realization.

His body locks up, stiffening so fast it’s like a door slamming shut. His breath pulls sharp, too sharp, his grip on you still firm but no longer pulling you closer—holding you at a distance instead.

Like a wire pulled too tight, straining under tension.

And then—

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the kitchen, Caleb

This is wrong.

He knows it the second he looks down.

The second he sees your hands fumbling at his waistband, fingers curling around his zipper, your breath hitching against his lips as you reach for him.

Heat pulses through his body, a wildfire coursing through his veins, tearing through every rational thought left in his head.

And fuck—

He wants it.

God, he wants it.

He’s already hard against you, already aching, throbbing beneath your touch, his body screaming for more.

He wants your hands on him, wants to feel your fingers around his cock, wants to hear the way your breath stutters when you realize how much he needs this.

How much he needs you.

The desire is blinding.

Overpowering—

It feels human.

It feels real.

And his chip knows it.

A warning pulse fires through his skull, a sharp, searing sting—not a shutdown, not yet, but a brutal caution.

A reminder that he isn’t allowed to have this.

That he isn’t allowed to want this.

But it’s too late.

He’s already lost.

Your mouth is hot against his, feverish, desperate, your tongue teasing at his lower lip, coaxing, pleading.

He gives in.

Of course, he gives in.

His hands grip your waist too tightly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as he grinds against you, rolling his hips into yours with slow, deliberate friction.

And the sound you make—

A sharp, breathy moan, muffled against his mouth, trembling and sweet and utterly intoxicating—

It’s too much.

Too much heat, too much sensation, too much of you.

The hunger in his gut claws at him, unbearable, insatiable.

“I love you.”

His voice is hoarse, wrecked, nothing but frayed edges and pure, unfiltered need.

He kisses you harder, deeper, losing himself in the taste of you, the feel of you pressed against him.

“I want you.”

His hips press forward again, grinding, pushing, needing.

Your fingers shake as they work at his zipper, tugging, teasing, slipping beneath the fabric.

He shudders.

His muscles lock, breath faltering, body tightening—

And then—

The chip fires.

A violent spike of static tears through his skull, ripping through the haze of lust like a jagged knife, like a system failure warning, like a fucking restraint pulling tight around his throat.

A brutal, punishing error.

His breath catches, sharp, broken.

He seizes up.

Not because of you.

Because of it.

Because this isn’t calculated.

This is real.

Too real.

And his system cannot allow it.

The pain is immediate, like white-hot wires threading through his brain, forcing him back, forcing him to stop.

But fuck, he can’t.

Not when your hands are still on him, still touching, still moving.

Not when he’s so hard it’s painful, so desperate he feels like he might fucking die if he doesn’t get to sink into you, claim you, make you his.

Not when his body is pleading for more while his mind is forcing him to shut down.

His grip tightens, nearly crushing, as if holding you closer might let him override it, might let him win.

But he won’t.

He never wins against the chip.

His breath comes ragged, strained, his fingers twitching violently against your waist.

And then—he makes the decision.

He pulls away.

It’s not gentle.

Not harsh.

But full.

A complete, absolute withdrawal, his body going rigid, locking every muscle in place as he forces himself back.

He sees the way your eyes flicker with confusion, frustration, with something else—

Something devastating.

And that kills him.

That fucking kills him.

Because he wants to explain.

He wants to fix it.

He wants to finish what you started.

But he can’t.

He can’t.

Because if he stays in this moment for even a second longer—

His system will fail.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do.

He locks himself away.

He shuts down.

He shoves the want, the need, the unbearable ache into some cold, unreachable part of himself.

And then—he turns.

And he leaves.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the kitchen, you

Caleb pulls away.

And for a second—just a second—you don’t react.

Because you can’t believe it. Because he was there. Because you felt him give in. Because he wanted it.

And then—he turns.

Your heart lurches violently, panic clawing its way up your throat. “No—”

Your voice is raw, uneven, breaking apart at the edges. You lunge, fingers curling around the thick sleeve of his jacket, yanking hard before he can leave completely. The fabric is warm from his body, rough beneath your fingertips, the worn leather creaking under your grip.

He stops. But he doesn’t turn.

His entire body is locked up, shoulders drawn tight, breath too shallow, too controlled. Like he’s restraining something inside him with everything he has.

You step closer, your grip tightening, nails pressing into the glove covering his wrist. “Caleb, please.”

Finally—he looks at you.

And fuck— it’s worse than you thought.

His violet eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, almost swallowed by the darkness creeping in. His jaw is clenched so tightly the muscle in his cheek flickers, breath unsteady, caught somewhere between ragged and silent.

His hands twitch at his sides, gloved fingers flexing—curling into loose fists, like he’s physically holding himself back.

“Don’t do this,” you plead, voice shaking despite the steadiness in your grip. “You don’t have to do this. Let me help you. We’ll get through this together. You know we can.”

His breath catches. It’s barely audible, but you feel it—the smallest hitch in his exhale, the way his throat works around the breath like it’s stuck there.

His eyes shut for a second too long.

And when they open again, they’re just a little more distant.

“You don’t understand,” he grits out, voice rough, like it’s scraping against something raw inside of him. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

You step closer. He steps back.

A tiny movement. Barely there.

But you feel it. The retreat. The hesitation. The way his body is already pulling away from you, even as his breath shakes with the effort.

His fingers drag sharply through his hair, gripping at the strands—desperate, almost frantic.

“This isn’t—” His breath stutters, voice dropping lower. “I’m not—”

And then you see it.

Something you weren’t sure you’d ever see.

Fear.

Not for you.

For himself.

He’s not afraid of losing control. He’s afraid of what happens if he gives in. If he lets himself feel this.

Because this isn’t the hunt anymore. This isn’t about power, or dominance, or control.

This is real.

And it’s terrifying him.

“Caleb.”

You lift a hand, reaching for him.

He flinches.

Not from fear. From pain.

A sharp breath escapes him, barely a sound, but you feel the tremor roll through his body—the way his muscles stiffen beneath his clothes, the way his fingers twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

He’s shaking. A deep tremor, a battle inside him, something clawing through his system, demanding that he retreat.

His breath is ragged, uneven, his entire frame pulled tight, so close to snapping you swear you can hear the tension crackling in the air.

The fabric of his jacket is warm beneath your touch, but he feels distant—like his body is here, but his mind is somewhere else entirely, fighting a war you can’t see.

And you know—if you let him go now, you might lose him completely.

So you don’t.

You pull him in.

Not forcefully. Not desperately.

But fully.

And you kiss him.

Not with lust. Not with hunger.

But with a promise.

Your lips press against his, firm, steady, unshaken. Not trying to seduce him. Not trying to trap him.

Just anchoring him. Holding him.

For a second, his whole body locks up.

Like it doesn’t know what to do, how to react, how to handle this kind of touch.

Like it’s trying to reject it, to refuse it.

And then—it cracks.

His fingers twitch against your waist, hesitation shaking through them before they flex, gripping onto you.

His whole body leans into you, something raw and shattered in the way he exhales against your mouth.

But he doesn’t kiss you back.

Not yet.

He fights it, fights himself, fights the thing inside him that’s telling him to let go.

And you feel it.

The way his breath shakes. The way his hands flex, tremble, hesitate—like he wants to hold you, but can’t trust himself to.

The way his body leans in while his mind begs him to pull away.

So—you make the choice for him.

You kiss him deeper.

You let your lips linger, fingers curling into his jacket, holding him there, refusing to let him run.

Because he’s not alone.

Because this isn’t his burden to carry alone anymore.

And then—

Finally—

He kisses you back.

Not in desperation.

Not in fear.

But in acceptance.

——————————————————————————

Chapter four

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: That was intense to write, not gonna lie. Their dynamics are so layered, and I really hope that came through. I can’t wait to dive into the next chapter. It’s coooookin’. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻