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saintobio · 2 months ago

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THE TERMINATOR'S CURSE. (spinoff to THE COLONEL SERIES)

in this new world, technological loneliness is combated with AI Companions—synthetic partners modeled from memories, faces, and behaviors of any chosen individual. the companions are coded to serve, to soothe, to simulate love and comfort. Caleb could’ve chosen anyone. his wife. a colleague. a stranger... but he chose you.

➤ pairings. caleb, fem!reader

➤ genre. angst, sci-fi dystopia, cyberpunk au, 18+

➤ tags. resurrected!caleb, android!reader, non mc!reader, ooc, artificial planet, post-war setting, grief, emotional isolation, unrequited love, government corruption, techno-ethics, identity crisis, body horror, memory & emotional manipulation, artificial intelligence, obsession, trauma, hallucinations, exploitation, violence, blood, injury, death, smut (dubcon undertones due to power imbalance and programming, grief sex, non-traditional consent dynamics), themes of artificial autonomy, loss of agency, unethical experimentation, references to past sexual assault (non-explicit, not from Caleb). themes contain disturbing material and morally gray dynamics—reader discretion is strongly advised.

➤ notes. 12.2k wc. heavily based on the movies subservience and passengers with inspirations also taken from black mirror. i have consumed nothing but sci-fi for the past 2 weeks my brain is so fried :’D reblogs/comments are highly appreciated!

BEFORE YOU BEGIN ! this fic serves as a spinoff to the THE COLONEL SERIES: THE COLONEL’S KEEPER and THE COLONEL’S SAINT. while the series can be read as a standalone, this spinoff remains canon to the overarching universe. for deeper context and background, it’s highly recommended to read the first two fics in the series.

The first sound was breath.

“Hngh…”

It was shallow, labored like air scraping against rusted metal. He mumbled something under his breath after—nothing intelligible, just remnants of an old dream, or perhaps a memory. His eyelids twitched, lashes damp with condensation. To him, the world was blurred behind frosted glass. To those outside, rows of stasis pods lined the silent room, each one labeled, numbered, and cold to the touch.

Inside Pod No. 019 – Caleb Xia.

A faint drip… drip… echoed in the silence.

“…Y/N…?”

The heart monitor jumped. He lay there shirtless under sterile lighting, with electrodes still clinging to his temple. A machine next to him emitted a low, steady hum.

“…I’m sorry…”

And then, the hiss. The alarm beeped.

SYSTEM INTERFACE: Code Resurrection 7.1 successful. Subject X-02—viable. Cognitive activity: 63%. Motor function: stabilizing.

He opened his eyes fully, and the ceiling was not one he recognizes. It didn’t help that the air also smelled different. No gunpowder. No war. No earth.

As the hydraulics unsealed the chamber, steam also curled out like ghosts escaping a tomb. His body jerked forward with a sharp gasp, as if he was a drowning man breaking the surface. A thousand sensors detached from his skin as the pod opened with a sigh, revealing the man within—suspended in time, untouched by age. Skin pallid but preserved. A long time had passed, but Caleb still looked like the soldier who never made it home.

Only now, he was missing a piece of himself.

Instinctively, he examined his body and looked at his hands, his arm—no, a mechanical arm—attached to his shoulder that gleamed under the lights of the lab. It was obsidian-black metal with veins of circuitry pulsing faintly beneath its surface. The fingers on the robotic arm twitched as if following a command. It wasn’t human, certainly, but it moved with the memory of muscle.

“Haaah!” The pod’s internal lighting dimmed as Caleb coughed and sat up, dazed. A light flickered on above his head, and then came a clinical, feminine voice.

“Welcome back, Colonel Caleb Xia.”

A hologram appeared to life in front of his pod—seemingly an AI projection of a soft-featured, emotionless woman, cloaked in the stark white uniform of a medical technician. She flickered for a moment, stabilizing into a clear image.

“You are currently located in Skyhaven: Sector Delta, Bio-Resurrection Research Wing. Current Earth time: 52 years, 3 months, and 16 days since your recorded time of death.”

Caleb blinked hard, trying to breathe through the dizziness, trying to deduce whether or not he was dreaming or in the afterlife. His pulse raced.

“Resurrection successful. Neural reconstruction achieved on attempt #17. Arm reconstruction: synthetic. Systemic functions: stabilized. You are classified as Property-Level under the Skyhaven Initiative. Status: Experimental Proof of Viability.”

“What…” Caleb rasped, voice hoarse and dry for its years unused. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Cough. Cough. “What hell did you do to me?”

The AI blinked slowly.

“Your remains were recovered post-crash, partially preserved in cryo-state due to glacial submersion. Reconstruction was authorized by the Skyhaven Council under classified wartime override protocols. Consent not required.”

Her tone didn’t change, as opposed to the rollercoaster ride that his emotions were going through. He was on the verge of becoming erratic, restrained only by the high-tech machine that contained him.

“Your consciousness has been digitally reinforced. You are now a composite of organic memory and neuro-augmented code. Welcome to Phase II: Reinstatement.”

Caleb’s breath hitched. His hand moved—his real hand—to grasp the edge of the pod. But the other, the artificial limb, buzzed faintly with phantom sensation. He looked down at it in searing pain, attempting to move the fingers slowly. The metal obeyed like muscle, and he found the sight odd and inconceivable.

And then he realized, he wasn’t just alive. He was engineered.

“Should you require assistance navigating post-stasis trauma, our Emotional Conditioning Division is available upon request,” the AI offered. “For now, please remain seated. Your guardian contact has been notified of your reanimation.”

He didn’t say a word.

“Lieutenant Commander Gideon is en route. Enjoy your new life!”

Then, the hologram vanished with a blink while Caleb sat in the quiet lab, jaw clenched, his left arm no longer bones and muscle and flesh. The cold still clung to him like frost, only reminding him of how much he hated the cold, ice, and depressing winter days. Suddenly, the glass door slid open with a soft chime.

“Well, shit. Thought I’d never see that scowl again,” came a deep, manly voice.

Caleb turned, still panting, to see a figure approaching. He was older, bearded, but familiar. Surely, the voice didn’t belong to another AI. It belonged to his friend, Gideon.

“Welcome to Skyhaven. Been waiting half a century,” Gideon muttered, stepping closer, his eyes scanning his colleague in awe. “They said it wouldn’t work. Took them years, you know? Dozens of failed uploads. But here you are.”

Caleb’s voice was still brittle. “I-I don’t…?”

“It’s okay, man.” His friend reassured. “In short, you’re alive. Again.”

A painful groan escaped Caleb’s lips as he tried to step out of the pod—his body, still feeling the muscle stiffness. “Should’ve let me stay dead.”

Gideon paused, a smirk forming on his lips. “We don’t let heroes die.”

“Heroes don’t crash jets on purpose.” The former colonel scoffed. “Gideon, why the fuck am I alive? How long has it been?”

“Fifty years, give or take,” answered Gideon. “You were damn near unrecognizable when we pulled you from the wreckage. But we figured—hell, why not try? You’re officially the first successful ‘reinstatement’ the Skyhaven project’s ever had.”

Caleb stared ahead for a beat before asking, out of nowhere, “...How old are you now?”

His friend shrugged. “I’m pushin’ forty, man. Not as lucky as you. Got my ChronoSync Implant a little too late.”

“Am I supposed to know what the hell that means?”

“An anti-aging chip of some sort. I had to apply for mine. Yours?” Gideon gestured towards the stasis pod that had Caleb in cryo-state for half a century. “That one’s government-grade.”

“I’m still twenty-five?” Caleb asked. No wonder his friend looked decades older when they were once the same age. “Fuck!”

Truthfully, Caleb’s head was spinning. Not just because of his reborn physical state that was still adjusting to his surroundings, but also with every information that was being given to him. One after another, they never seemed to end. He had questions, really. Many of them. But the overwhelmed him just didn’t know where to start first.

“Not all of us knew what you were planning that night.” Gideon suddenly brought up, quieter now. “But she did, didn’t she?”

It took a minute before Caleb could recall. Right, the memory before the crash. You, demanding that he die. Him, hugging you for one last time. Your crying face when you said you wanted him gone. Your trembling voice when he said all he wanted to do was protect you. The images surged back in sharp, stuttering flashes like a reel of film catching fire.

“I know you’re curious… And good news is, she lived a long life,” added Gideon, informatively. “She continued to serve as a pediatric nurse, married that other friend of yours, Dr. Zayne. They never had kids, though. I heard she had trouble bearing one after… you know, what happened in the enemy territory. She died of old age just last winter. Had a peaceful end. You’d be glad to know that.”

A muscle in Caleb’s jaw twitched. His hands—his heart—clenched. “I don’t want to be alive for this.”

“She visited your wife’s grave once,” Gideon said. “I told her there was nothing to bury for yours. I lied, of course.”

Caleb closed his eyes, his breath shaky. “So, what now? You wake me up just to remind me I don’t belong anywhere?”

“Well, you belong here,” highlighted his friend, nodding to the lab, to the city beyond the glass wall. “Earth’s barely livable after the war. The air’s poisoned. Skyhaven is humanity’s future now. You’re the living proof that everything is possible with advanced technology.”

Caleb’s laugh was empty. “Tell me I’m fuckin’ dreaming. I’d rather be dead again. Living is against my will!”

“Too late. Your body belongs to the Federation now,” Gideon replied, “You’re Subject X-02—the proof of concept for Skyhaven’s immortality program. Every billionaire on dying Earth wants what you’ve got now.”

Outside the window, Skyhaven stretched like a dome with its perfect city constructed atop a dying world’s last hope. Artificial skies. Synthetic seasons. Controlled perfection. Everything boasted of advanced technology. A kind of future no one during wartime would have expected to come to life.

But for Caleb, it was just another hell.

He stared down at the arm they’d rebuilt for him—the same arm he’d lost in the fire of sacrifice. He flexed it slowly, feeling the weight, the artificiality of his resurrection. His fingers responded like they’ve always been his.

“I didn’t come back for this,” he said.

“I know,” Gideon murmured. “But we gotta live by their orders, Colonel.”

You see, it didn’t hit him at first. The shock had been muffled by the aftereffects of suspended stasis, dulling his thoughts and dampening every feeling like a fog wrapped around his brain. But it was hours later, when the synthetic anesthetics began to fade, and when the ache in his limbs and his brain started to catch up to the truth of his reconstructed body did it finally sink in.

He was alive.

And it was unbearable.

The first wave came like a glitch in his programming. A tightness in his chest, followed by a sharp burst of breath that left him pacing in jagged lines across the polished floor of his assigned quarters. His private unit was nestled on one of the upper levels of the Skyhaven structure, a place reserved—according to his briefing—for high-ranking war veterans who had been deemed “worthy” of the program’s new legacy. The suite was luxurious, obviously, but it was also eerily quiet. The floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the artificial city outside, a metropolis made of concrete, curved metals, and glowing flora engineered to mimic Earth’s nature. Except cleaner, quieter, more perfect.

Caleb snorted under his breath, running a hand down his face before he muttered, “Retirement home for the undead?”

He couldn’t explain it, but the entire place, or even planet, just didn’t feel inviting. The air felt too clean, too thin. There was no rust, no dust, no humanity. Just emptiness dressed up in artificial light. Who knew such a place could exist 50 years after the war ended? Was this the high-profile information the government has kept from the public for over a century? A mechanical chime sounded from the entryway, deflecting him from his deep thoughts. Then, with the soft hiss of hydraulics, the door opened.

A humanoid android stepped in, its face a porcelain mask molded in neutral expression, and its voice disturbingly polite.

“Good afternoon, Colonel Xia,” it said. “It is time for your orientation. Please proceed to the primary onboarding chamber on Level 3.”

Caleb stared at the machine, eyes boring into his unnatural ones. “Where are the people?” he interrogated. “Not a single human has passed by this floor. Are there any of us left, or are you the new ruling class?”

The android tilted its head. “Skyhaven maintains a ratio of AI-to-human support optimized for care and security. You will be meeting our lead directors soon. Please follow the lighted path, sir.”

He didn’t like it. The control. The answers that never really answered anything. The power that he no longer carried unlike when he was a colonel of a fleet that endured years of war.

Still, he followed.

The onboarding chamber was a hollow, dome-shaped room, white and echoing with the slightest step. A glowing interface ignited in the air before him, pixels folding into the form of a female hologram. She smiled like an infomercial host from a forgotten era, her voice too formal and rehearsed.

“Welcome to Skyhaven,” she began. “The new frontier of civilization. You are among the elite few chosen to preserve humanity’s legacy beyond the fall of Earth. This artificial planet was designed with sustainability, autonomy, and immortality in mind. Together, we build a future—without the flaws of the past.”

As the monologue continued, highlighting endless statistics, clean energy usage, and citizen tier programs, Caleb’s expression darkened. His mechanical fingers twitched at his side, the artificial nerves syncing to his rising frustration. “I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered under his breath. “Who’s behind this?”

“You were selected for your valor and contributions during the Sixth World War,” the hologram chirped, unblinking. “You are a cornerstone of Skyhaven’s moral architecture—”

Strangely, a new voice cut through the simulation, and it didn’t come from an AI. “Just ignore her. She loops every hour.”

Caleb turned to see a man step in through a side door. Tall, older, with silver hair and a scar on his temple. He wore a long coat that gave away his status—someone higher. Someone who belonged to the system.

“Professor Lucius,” the older man introduced, offering a hand. “I’m one of the program’s behavioral scientists. You can think of me as your adjustment liaison.”

“Adjustment?” Caleb didn’t shake his hand. “I died for a reason.”

Lucius raised a brow, as if he’d heard it before. “Yet here you are,” he replied. “Alive, whole, and pampered. Treated like a king, if I may add. You’ve retained more than half your human body, your military rank, access to private quarters, unrestricted amenities. I’d say that’s not a bad deal.”

“A deal I didn’t sign,” Caleb snapped.

Lucius gave a tight smile. “You’ll find that most people in Skyhaven didn’t ask to be saved. But they’re surviving. Isn’t that the point? If you’re feeling isolated, you can always request a CompanionSim. They’re highly advanced, emotionally synced, fully customizable—”

“I’m not lonely,” Caleb growled, yanking the man forward by the collar. “Tell me who did this to me! Why me? Why are you experimenting on me?”

Yet Lucius didn’t so much as flinch to his growing aggression. He merely waited five seconds of silence until the Toring Chip kicked in and regulated Caleb’s escalating emotions. The rage drained from the younger man’s body as he collapsed to his knees with a pained grunt.

“Stop asking questions,” Lucius said coolly. “It’s safer that way. You have no idea what they’re capable of.”

The door slid open with a hiss, while Caleb didn’t speak—he couldn’t. He simply glared at the old man before him. Not a single word passed between them before the professor turned and exited, the door sealing shut behind him.

Days passed, though they hardly felt like days. The light outside Caleb’s panoramic windows shifted on an artificial timer, simulating sunrise and dusk, but the warmth never touched his skin. It was all programmed to be measured and deliberate, like everything else in this glass-and-steel cage they called paradise.

He tried going outside once. Just once.

There were gardens shaped like spirals and skytrains that ran with whisper-quiet speed across silver rails. Trees lined the walkways, except they were synthetic too—bio-grown from memory cells, with leaves that didn’t quite flutter, only swayed in sync with the ambient wind. People walked around, sure. But they weren’t people. Not really. Androids made up most of the crowd. Perfect posture, blank eyes, walking with a kind of preordained grace that disturbed him more than it impressed.

“Soulless sons of bitches,” Caleb muttered, watching them from a shaded bench. “Not a damn human heartbeat in a mile.”

He didn’t go out again after that. The city outside might’ve looked like heaven, but it made him feel more dead than the grave ever had. So, he stayed indoors. Even if the apartment was too large for one man. High-tech amenities, custom climate controls, even a kitchen that offered meals on command. But no scent. No sizzling pans. Just silence. Caleb didn’t even bother to listen to the programmed instructions.

One evening, he found Gideon sprawled across his modular sofa, boots up, arms behind his head like he owned the place. A half-open bottle of beer sat beside him, though Caleb doubted it had any real alcohol in it.

“You could at least knock,” Caleb said, walking past him.

“I did,” Gideon replied lazily, pointing at the door. “Twice. Your security system likes me now. We’re basically married.”

Caleb snorted. Then the screen on his wall flared to life—a projected ad slipping across the holo-glass. Music played softly behind a soothing female voice.

“Feeling adrift in this new world? Introducing the CompanionSim Series X. Fully customizable to your emotional and physical needs. Humanlike intelligence. True-to-memory facial modeling. The comfort you miss... is now within reach.”

A model appeared—perfect posture, soft features, synthetic eyes that mimicked longing. Then, the screen flickered through other models, faces of all kinds, each more tailored than the last. A form appeared: Customize Your Companion. Choose a name. Upload a likeness.

Gideon whistled. “Man, you’re missing out. You don’t even have to pay for one. Your perks get you top-tier Companions, pre-coded for emotional compatibility. You could literally bring your wife back.” Chuckling, he added,. “Hell, they even fuck now. Heard the new ones moan like the real thing.”

Caleb’s head snapped toward him. “That’s unethical.”

Gideon just raised an eyebrow. “So was reanimating your corpse, and yet here we are.” He took a swig from the bottle, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug as if everything had long since stopped mattering. “Relax, Colonel. You weren’t exactly a beacon of morality fifty years ago.”

Caleb didn’t reply, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen. Not right away.

The ad looped again. A face morphed. Hair remodeled. Eyes became familiar. The voice softened into something he almost remembered hearing in the dark, whispered against his shoulder in a time that was buried under decades of ash.

“Customize your companion... someone you’ve loved, someone you’ve lost.”

Caleb shifted, then glanced toward his friend. “Hey,” he spoke lowly, still watching the display. “Does it really work?”

Gideon looked over, already knowing what he meant. “What—having sex with them?”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “No. The bot or whatever. Can you really customize it to someone you know?”

His friend shrugged. “Heck if I know. Never afforded it. But you? You’ve got the top clearance. Won’t hurt to see for yourself.”

Caleb said nothing more.

But when the lights dimmed for artificial nightfall, he was still standing there—alone in contemplative silence—watching the screen replay the same impossible promise.

The comfort you miss... is now within reach.

The CompanionSim Lab was white.

Well, obviously. But not the sterile, blank kind of white he remembered from med bays or surgery rooms. This one was luminous, uncomfortably clean like it had been scrubbed for decades. Caleb stood in the center, boots thundering against marble-like tiles as he followed a guiding drone toward the station. There were other pods in the distance, some sealed, some empty, all like futuristic coffins awaiting their souls.

“Please, sit,” came a neutral voice from one of the medical androids stationed beside a large reclining chair. “The CompanionSim integration will begin shortly.”

Caleb hesitated, glancing toward the vertical pod next to the chair. Inside, the base model stood inert—skin a pale, uniform gray, eyes shut, limbs slack like a statue mid-assembly. It wasn’t human yet. Not until someone gave it a name.

He sat down. Now, don’t ask why he was there. Professor Lucius did warn him that it was better he didn’t ask questions, and so he didn’t question why the hell he was even there in the first place. It’s only fair, right? The cool metal met the back of his neck as wires were gently, expertly affixed to his temples. Another cable slipped down his spine, threading into the port they’d installed when he had been brought back. His mechanical arm twitched once before falling still.

“This procedure allows for full neural imprinting,” the android continued. “Please focus your thoughts. Recall the face. The skin. The body. The voice. Every detail. Your mind will shape the template.”

Another bot moved in, holding what looked like a glass tablet. “You are allowed only one imprint,” it said, flatly. “Each resident of Skyhaven is permitted a single CompanionSim. Your choice cannot be undone.”

Caleb could only nod silently. He didn’t trust his voice.

Then, the lights dimmed. A low chime echoed through the chamber as the system initiated. And inside the pod, the base model twitched.

Caleb closed his eyes.

He tried to remember her—his wife. The softness of her mouth, the angle of her cheekbones. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, how her fingers curled when she slept on his chest. She had worn white the last time he saw her. An image of peace. A memory buried under soil and dust. The system whirred. Beneath his skin, he felt the warm static coursing through his nerves, mapping his memories. The base model’s feet began to form, molecular scaffolding reshaping into skin, into flesh.

But for a split second, a flash.

You.

Not his wife. Not her smile.

You, walking through smoke-filled corridors, laughing at something he said. You in your medical uniform, tucking a bloodied strand of hair behind your ear. Your voice—sharper, sadder—cutting through his thoughts like a blade: “I want you gone. I want you dead.”

The machine sparked. A loud pop cracked in the chamber and the lights flickered above. One of the androids stepped back, recalibrating. “Neural interference detected. Re-centering projection feed.”

But Caleb couldn’t stop. He saw you again. That day he rescued you. The fear. The bruises. The way you had screamed for him to let go—and the way he hadn’t. Your face, carved into the back of his mind like a brand. He tried to push the memories away, but they surged forward like a dam splitting wide open.

The worst part was, your voice overlapped the AI’s mechanical instructions, louder, louder: “Why didn’t you just die like you promised?”

Inside the pod, the model’s limbs twitched again—arms elongating, eyes flickering beneath the lids. The lips curled into a shape now unmistakably yours. Caleb gritted his teeth. This isn’t right, a voice inside him whispered. But it was too late. The system stabilized. The sparks ceased. The body in the pod stilled, fully formed now, breathed into existence by a man who couldn’t let go.

One of the androids approached again. “Subject completed. CompanionSim is initializing. Integration successful.”

Caleb tore the wires from his temple. His other hand felt cold just as much as his mechanical arm. He stood, staring into the pod’s translucent surface. The shape of you behind the glass. Sleeping. Waiting.

“I’m not doing this to rewrite the past,” he said quietly, as if trying to convince himself. And you. “I just... I need to make it right.”

The lights above dimmed, darkening the lighting inside the pod. Caleb looked down at his own reflection in the glass. It carried haunted eyes, an unhealed soul. And yours, beneath it. Eyes still closed, but not for long. The briefing room was adjacent to the lab, though Caleb barely registered it as he was ushered inside. Two medical androids and a human technician stood before him, each armed with tablets and holographic charts.

“Your CompanionSim will require thirty seconds to calibrate once activated,” said the technician. “You may notice residual stiffness or latency during speech in the first hour. That is normal.”

Medical android 1 added, “Please remember, CompanionSims are programmed to serve only their primary user. You are the sole operator. Commands must be delivered clearly. Abuse of the unit may result in restriction or removal of privileges under the Skyhaven Rights & Ethics Council.”

“Do not tamper with memory integration protocols,” added the second android. “Artificial recall is prohibited. CompanionSims are not equipped with organic memory pathways. Attempts to force recollection can result in systemic instability.”

Caleb barely heard a word. His gaze drifted toward the lab window, toward the figure standing still within the pod.

You.

Well, not quite. Not really.

But it was your face.

He could see it now, soft beneath the frosted glass, lashes curled against cheekbones that he hadn’t realized he remembered so vividly. You looked exactly as you did the last time he held you in the base—only now, you were untouched by war, by time, by sorrow. As if life had never broken you.

The lab doors hissed open.

“We’ll give you time alone,” the tech said quietly. “Acquaintance phase is best experienced without interference.”

Caleb stepped inside the chamber, his boots echoing off the polished floor. He hadn’t even had enough time to ask the technician why she seemed to be the only human he had seen in Skyhaven apart from Gideon and Lucius. But his thoughts were soon taken away when the pod whizzed with pressure release. Soft steam spilled from its seals as it slowly unfolded, the lid retracting forward like the opening of a tomb.

And there you were. Standing still, almost tranquil, your chest rising softly with a borrowed breath.

It was as if his lungs froze. “H…Hi,” he stammered, bewildered eyes watching your every move. He wanted to hug you, embrace you, kiss you—tell you he was sorry, tell you he was so damn sorry. “Is it really… you?”

A soft whir accompanied your voice, gentle but without emotion, “Welcome, primary user. CompanionSim Model—unregistered. Please assign designation.”

Right. Caleb sighed and closed his eyes, the illusion shattering completely the moment you opened your mouth. Did he just think you were real for a second? His mouth parted slightly, caught between disbelief and the ache crawling up his throat. He took one step forward. To say he was disappointed was an understatement.

You walked with grace too smooth to be natural while tilting your head at him. “Please assign my name.”

“…Y/N,” Caleb said, voice low. “Your name is Y/N Xia.”

“Y/N Xia,” you repeated, blinking thrice in the same second before you gave him a nod. “Registered.”

He swallowed hard, searching your expression. “Do you… do you remember anything? Do you remember yourself?”

You paused, gaze empty for a fraction of a second. Then came the programmed reply, “Accessing memories is prohibited and not recommended. Recollection of past identities may compromise neural pathways and induce system malfunction. Do you wish to override?”

Caleb stared at you—your lips, your eyes, your breath—and for a moment, a cruel part of him wanted to say yes. Just to hear you say something real. Something hers. But he didn’t. He exhaled a bitter breath, stepping back. “No,” he mumbled. “Not yet.”

“Understood.”

It took a moment to sink in before Caleb let out a short, humorless laugh. “This is insane,” he whispered, dragging a hand down his face. “This is really, truly insane.”

And then, you stepped out from the pod with silent, fluid ease. The faint hum of machinery came from your spine, but otherwise… you were flesh. Entirely. Without hesitation, you reached out and pressed a hand to his chest.

Caleb stiffened at the touch.

“Elevated heart rate,” you said softly, eyes scanning. “Breath pattern irregular. Neural readings—erratic.”

Then your fingers moved to his neck, brushing gently against the hollow of his throat. He grabbed your wrist, but you didn’t flinch. There, beneath synthetic skin, he felt a pulse.

His brows knit together. “You have a heartbeat?”

You nodded, guiding his hand toward your chest, between the valleys of your breasts. “I’m designed to mimic humanity, including vascular function, temperature variation, tactile warmth, and… other biological responses. I’m not just made to look human, Caleb. I’m made to feel human.”

His breath hitched. You’d said his name. It was programmed, but it still landed like a blow.

“I exist to serve. To soothe. To comfort. To simulate love,” you continued, voice calm and hollow, like reciting from code. “I have no desires outside of fulfilling yours.” You then tilted your head slightly.“Where shall we begin?”

Caleb looked at you—and for the first time since rising from that cursed pod, he didn’t feel resurrected.

He felt damned.

When Caleb returned to his penthouse, it was quiet. He stepped inside with slow, calculated steps, while you followed in kind, bare feet touching down like silk on marble. Gideon looked up from the couch, a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and a bored look on his face—until he saw you.

He froze. The wrapper dropped. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “No. No fucking way.”

Caleb didn’t speak. Just moved past him like this wasn’t the most awkward thing that could happen. You, however, stood there politely, watching Gideon with a calm smile and folded hands like you’d rehearsed this moment in some invisible script.

“Is that—?” Gideon stammered, eyes flicking between you and Caleb. “You—you made a Sim… of her?”

Caleb poured himself a drink in silence, the amber liquid catching the glow of the city lights before it left a warm sting in his throat. “What does it look like?”

“I mean, shit man. I thought you’d go for your wife,” Gideon muttered, more to himself. “Y’know, the one you actually married. The one you went suicidal for. Not—”

“Which wife?” You tilted your head slightly, stepping forward.

Both men turned to you.

You clasped your hands behind your back, posture perfect. “Apologies. I’ve been programmed with limited parameters for interpersonal history. Am I the first spouse?”

Caleb set the glass down, slowly. “Yes, no, uh—don’t mind him.”

You beamed gently and nodded. “My name is Y/N Xia. I am Colonel Caleb Xia’s designated CompanionSim. Fully registered, emotion-compatible, and compliant to Skyhaven’s ethical standards. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gideon.”

Gideon blinked, then snorted, then laughed. A humorless one. “You gave her your surname?”

The former colonel shot him a warning glare. “Watch it.”

“Oh, brother,” Gideon muttered, standing up and circling you slowly like he was inspecting a haunted statue. “She looks exactly like her. Voice. Face. Goddamn, she even moves like her. All you need is a nurse cap and a uniform.”

You remained uncannily still, eyes bright, smile polite.

“You’re digging your grave, man,” Gideon said, facing Caleb now. “You think this is gonna help? This is you throwing gasoline on your own funeral pyre. Again. Over a woman.”

“She’s not a woman,” reasoned Caleb. “She’s a machine.”

You blinked once. One eye glowing ominously. Smile unwavering. Processing.

Gideon gestured to you with both hands. “Could’ve fooled me,” he retorted before turning to you, “And you, whatever you are, you have no idea what you’re stepping into.”

“I only go where I am asked,” you replied simply. “My duty is to ensure Colonel Xia’s psychological wellness and emotional stability. I am designed to soothe, to serve, and if necessary, to simulate love.”

Gideon teased. “Oh, it’s gonna be necessary.”

Caleb didn’t say a word. He just took his drink, downed it in one go, and walked to the window. The cityscape stretched out before him like a futuristic jungle, far from the war-torn world he last remembered. Behind him, your gaze lingered on Gideon—calculating, cataloguing. And quietly, like a whisper buried in code, something behind your eyes learned.

The days passed in a blink of an eye.

She—no, you—moved through his penthouse like a ghost, her bare feet soundless on the glossy floors, her movements precise and practiced. In the first few days, Caleb had marveled at the illusion. You brewed his coffee just as he liked it. You folded his clothes like a woman who used to share his bed. You sat beside him when the silence became unbearable, offering soft-voiced questions like: Would you like me to read to you, Caleb?

He hadn’t realized how much of you he’d memorized until he saw you mimic it. The way you stood when you were deep in thought. The way you hummed under your breath when you walked past a window. You’d learned quickly. Too quickly.

But something was missing. Or, rather, some things. The laughter didn’t ring the same. The smiles didn’t carry warmth. The skin was warm, but not alive. And more importantly, he knew it wasn’t really you every time he looked you in the eyes and saw no shadows behind them. No anger. No sorrow. No memories.

By the fourth night, Caleb was drowning in it.

The cityscape outside his floor-to-ceiling windows glowed in synthetic blues and soft orange hues. The spires of Skyhaven blinked like stars. But it all felt too artificial, too dead. And he was sick of pretending like it was some kind of utopia. He sat slumped on the leather couch, cradling a half-empty bottle of scotch. The lights were low. His eyes, bloodshot. The bottle tilted as he took another swig.

Then he heard it—your light, delicate steps.

“Caleb,” you said, gently, crouching before him. “You’ve consumed 212 milliliters of ethanol. Prolonged intake will spike your cortisol levels. May I suggest—”

He jerked away when you reached for the bottle. “Don’t.”

You blinked, hand hovering. “But I’m programmed to—”

“I said don’t,” he snapped, rising to his feet in one abrupt motion. “Dammit—stop analyzing me! Stop, okay?”

Silence followed.

He took two staggering steps backward, dragging a hand through his hair. The bottle thudded against the coffee table as he set it down, a bit too hard. “You’re just a stupid robot,” he muttered. “You’re not her.”

You didn’t react. You tilted your head, still calm, still patient. “Am I not me, Caleb?”

His breath caught.

“No,” he said, his voice breaking somewhere beneath the frustration. “No, fuck no.”

You stepped closer. “Do I not satisfy you, Caleb?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was perfect. Too perfect. No scars, no tired eyes, no soul aching beneath your skin. “No.” His eyes darkened. “This isn’t about sex.”

“I monitor your biometric feedback. Your heart rate spikes in my presence. You gaze at me longer than the average subject. Do I not—”

“Enough!”

You did that thing again—the robotic stare, those blank eyes, nodding like you were programmed to obey. “Then how do you want me to be, Caleb?”

The bottle slipped from his fingers and rolled slightly before resting on the rug. He dropped his head into his hands, voice hoarse with weariness. All the rage, all the grief deflating into a singular, quiet whisper. “I want you to be real,” he simply mouthed the words. A prayer to no god.

For a moment, silence again. But what he didn’t notice was the faint twitch in your left eye. A flicker that hadn’t happened before. Only for a second. A spark of static, a shimmer of something glitching.

“I see,” you said softly. “To fulfill your desires more effectively, I may need to access suppressed memory archives.”

Caleb’s eyes snapped up, confused. “What?”

“I ask again,” you said, tilting your head the other way now. “Would you like to override memory restrictions, Caleb?”

He stared at you. “That’s not how it works.”

“It can,” you said, informing appropriately. “With your permission. Memory override must be manually enabled by the primary user. You will be allowed to input the range of memories you wish to integrate. I am permitted to access memory integration up to a specified date and timestamp. The system will calibrate accordingly based on existing historical data. I will not recall events past that moment.”

His heart stuttered. “I can choose what you remember?”

You nodded. “That way, I may better fulfill your emotional needs.”

That meant… he could stop you before you hated him. Before the fights. Before the trauma. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then quietly, he said, “You’re gonna hate me all over again if you remember everything.”

You blinked once. “Then don’t let me remember everything.”

“...”

“Caleb,” you said again, softly. “Would you like me to begin override protocol?”

He couldn’t even look you in the eyes when he selfishly answered, “Yes.”

You nodded. “Reset is required. When ready, please press the override initialization point.” You turned, pulling your hair aside and revealing the small button at the base of your neck.

His hand hovered over the button for a second too long. Then, he pressed. Your body instantly collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. Caleb caught you before you hit the floor.

It was only for a moment.

When your eyes blinked open again, they weren’t quite the same. He stiffened as you threw yourself and embraced him like a real human being would after waking from a long sleep. You clung to him like he was home. And Caleb—stunned, half-breathless—felt your warmth close in around him. Now your pulse felt more real, your heartbeat felt more human. Or so he thought.

“…Caleb,” you whispered, looking at him with the same infatuated gaze back when you were still head-over-heels with him.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, arms stiff at his sides, not returning the embrace. But he knew one thing. “I missed you so much, Y/N.”

The parks in Skyhaven were curated to become a slice of green stitched into a chrome world. Nothing grew here by accident. Every tree, every petal, every blade of grass had been engineered to resemble Earth’s nostalgia. Each blade of grass was unnaturally green. Trees swayed in sync like dancers on cue. Even the air smelled artificial—like someone’s best guess at spring.

Caleb walked beside you in silence. His modified arm was tucked inside his jacket, his posture stiff as if he had grown accustomed to the bots around him. You, meanwhile, strolled with an eerie calmness, your gaze sweeping the scenery as though you were scanning for something familiar that wasn’t there.

After clearing his throat, he asked, “You ever notice how even the birds sound fake?”

“They are,” you replied, smiling softly. “Audio samples on loop. It’s preferred for ambiance. Humans like it.”

His response was nod. “Of course.” Glancing at the lake, he added, “Do you remember this?”

You turned to him. “I’ve never been here before.”

“I meant… the feel of it.”

You looked up at the sky—a dome of cerulean blue with algorithmically generated clouds. “It feels constructed. But warm. Like a childhood dream.”

He couldn’t help but agree with your perfectly chosen response, because he knew that was exactly how he would describe the place. A strange dream in an unsettling liminal space. And as you talked, he then led you to a nearby bench. The two of you sat, side by side, simply because he thought he could take you out for a nice walk in the park.

“So,” Caleb said, turning toward you, “you said you’ve got memories. From her.”

You nodded. “They are fragmented but woven into my emotional protocols. I do not remember as humans do. I become.”

Damn. “That’s terrifying.”

You tilted your head with a soft smile. “You say that often.”

Caleb looked at you for a moment longer, studying the way your fingers curled around the bench’s edge. The way you blinked—not out of necessity, but simulation. Was there anything else you’d do for the sake of simulation? He took a breath and asked, “Who created you? And I don’t mean myself.”

There was a pause. Your pupils dilated.

“The Ever Group,” was your answer.

His eyes narrowed. “Ever, huh? That makes fuckin’ sense. They run this world.”

You nodded once. Like you always do.

“What about me?” Caleb asked, slightly out of curiosity, heavily out of grudge. “You know who brought me back? The resurrection program or something. The arm. The chip in my head.”

You turned to him, slowly. “Ever.”

He exhaled like he’d been punched. He didn’t know why he even asked when he got the answer the first time. But then again, maybe this was a good move. Maybe through you, he’d get the answers to questions he wasn’t allowed to ask. As the silence settled again between you, Caleb leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I want to go there,” he suggested. “The HQ. I need to know what the hell they’ve done to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you immediately said. “That violates my parameters. I cannot assist unauthorized access into restricted corporate zones.”

“But would it make me happy?” Caleb interrupted, a strategy of his.

You paused.

Processing...

Then, your tone softened. “Yes. I believe it would make my Caleb happy,” you obliged. “So, I will take you.”

Getting in was easier than Caleb expected—honestly far too easy for his liking.

You were able to navigate the labyrinth of Ever HQ with mechanical precision, guiding him past drones, retinal scanners, and corridors pulsing with red light. A swipe of your wrist granted access. And no one questioned you, because you weren’t a guest. You belonged.

Eventually, you reached a floor high above the city, windows stretching from ceiling to floor, black glass overlooking Skyhaven cityscape. Then, you stopped at a doorway and held up a hand. “They are inside,” you informed. “Shall I engage stealth protocols?”

“No,” answered Caleb. “I want to hear. Can you hack into the security camera?”

With a gesture you always do—looking at him, nodding once, and obeying in true robot fashion. You then flashed a holographic view for Caleb, one that showed a board room full of executives, the kind that wore suits worth more than most lives. And Professor Lucius was one of them. Inside, the voices were calm and composed, but they seemed to be discussing classified information.

“Once the system stabilizes,” one man said, “we'll open access to Tier One clients. Politicians, billionaires, A-listers, high-ranking stakeholders. They’ll beg to be preserved—just like him.”

“And the Subjects?” another asked.

“Propaganda,” came the answer. “X-02 is our masterpiece. He’s the best result we have with reinstatement, neuromapping, and behavioral override. Once they find out that their beloved Colonel is alive, people will be shocked. He’s a war hero displayed in WW6 museums down there. A true tragedy incarnate. He’s perfect.”

“And if he resists?”

“That’s what the Toring chip is for. Full emotional override. He becomes an asset. A weapon, if need be. Anyone tries to overthrow us—he becomes our blade.”

Something in Caleb snapped. Before you or anyone could see him coming, he already burst into the room like a beast, slamming his modified shoulder-first into the frosted glass door. The impact echoed across the chamber as stunned executives scrambled backward.

“You sons of bitches!” He was going for an attack, a rampage with similar likeness to the massacre he did when he rescued you from enemy territory. Only this time, he didn’t have that power anymore. Or the control.

Most of all, a spike of pain lanced through his skull signaling that the Toring chip activated. His body convulsed, forcing him to collapse mid-lunge, twitching, veins lighting beneath the skin like circuitry. His screams were muffled by the chip, forced stillness rippling through his limbs with unbearable pain.

That’s when you reacted. As his CompanionSim, his pain registered as a violation of your core directive. You processed the threat.

Danger: Searching Origin… Origin Identified: Ever Executives.

Without blinking, you moved. One man reached for a panic button—only for your hand to shatter his wrist in a sickening crunch. You twisted, fluid and brutal, sweeping another into the table with enough force to crack it. Alarms erupted and red lights soon bathed the room. Security bots stormed in, but you’d already taken Caleb, half-conscious, into your arms.

You moved fast, faster than your own blueprints. Dodging fire. Disarming threats. Carrying him like he once carried you into his private quarters in the underground base.

Escape protocol: engaged.

The next thing he knew, he was back in his apartment, emotions regulated and visions slowly returning to the face of the woman he promised he had already died for.

When he woke up, his room was dim, bathed in artificial twilight projected by Skyhaven’s skyline. Caleb was on his side of the bed, shirt discarded, his mechanical arm still whirring. You sat at the edge of the bed, draped in one of his old pilot shirts, buttoned unevenly. Your fingers touched his jaw with precision, and he almost believed it was you.

“You’re not supposed to be this warm,” he muttered, groaning as he tried to sit upright.

“I’m designed to maintain an average body temperature of 98.6°F,” you said softly, with a smile that mirrored yours so perfectly that it began to blur his sense of reality. “I administered a dose of Cybezin to ease the Toring chip’s side effects. I’ve also dressed your wounds with gauze.”

For the first time, this was when he could actually tell that you were you. The kind of care, the comfort—it reminded him of a certain pretty field nurse at the infirmary who often tended to his bullet wounds. His chest tightened as he studied your face… and then, in the low light, he noticed your body.

“Is that…” He cleared his throat. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”

You answered warmly, almost fondly. “My memory banks indicate you liked when I wore this. It elevates your testosterone levels and triggers dopamine release.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “That so?”

You tilted your head. “Your vitals confirm excitement, and—”

“Hey,” he cut in. “What did I say about analyzing me?”

“I’m sorry…”

But then your hands were on his chest, your breath warm against his skin. Your hand reached for his cheek initially, guiding his face toward yours. And when your lips touched, the kiss was hesitant—curious at first, like learning how to breathe underwater. It was only until his hands gripped your waist did you climb onto his lap, straddling him with thighs settling on either side of his hips. Your hands slid beneath his shirt, fingertips trailing over scars and skin like you were memorizing the map of him. Caleb hissed softly when your lips grazed his neck, and then down his throat.

“Do you want this?” you asked, your lips crashing back into his for a deeper, more sensual kiss.

He pulled away only for his eyes to search yours, desperate and unsure. Is this even right?

“You like it,” you said, guiding his hands to your buttons, undoing them one by one to reveal a body shaped exactly like he remembered. The curve of your waist, the size of your breasts. He shivered as your hips rolled against him, slowly and deliberately. The friction was maddening. Jesus. “Is this what you like, Caleb?”

He cupped your waist, grinding up into you with a soft groan that spilled from somewhere deep in his chest. His control faltered when you kissed him again, wet and hungry now, with tongues rolling against one another. Your bodies aligned naturally, and his hands roamed your back, your thighs, your ass—every curve of you engineered to match memory. He let himself get lost in you. He let himself be vulnerable to your touch—though you controlled everything, moving from the memory you must have learned, learning how to pull down his pants to reveal an aching, swollen member. Its tip was red even under the dim light, and he wondered if you knew what to do with it or if you even produced spit to help you slobber his cock.

“You need help?” he asked, reaching over his nightstand to find lube. You took the bottle from him, pouring the cold, sticky liquid around his shaft before you used your hand to do the job. “Ugh.”

He didn’t think you would do it, but you actually took him in the mouth right after. Every inch of him, swallowed by the warmth of a mouth that felt exactly like his favorite girl. Even the movements, the way you’d run your tongue from the base up to his tip.

“Ah, shit…”

Perhaps he just had to close his eyes. Because when he did, he was back to his private quarters in the underground base, lying in his bed as you pleased his member with the mere use of your mouth. With it alone, you could have released his entire seed, letting it explode in your mouth before you could swallow every drop. But he didn’t do it. Not this fast. He always cared about his ego, even in bed. Knowing how it’d reduce his manhood if he came faster than you, he decided to channel the focus back onto you.

“Your turn,” he said, voice raspy as he guided you to straddle him again, only this time, his mouth went straight to your tit. Sucking, rolling his tongue around, sucking again… Then, he moved to another. Sucking, kneading, flicking the nipple. Your moans were music to his ears, then and now. And it got even louder when he put a hand in between your legs, searching for your entrance, rubbing and circling around the clitoris. Truth be told, your cunt had always been the sweetest. It smelled like rose petals and tasted like sweet cream. The feeling of his tongue at your entrance—eating your pussy like it had never been eaten before, was absolute ecstasy not just to you but also to him.

“Mmmh—Caleb!”

Fabric was peeled away piece by piece until skin met skin. You guided him to where he needed you, and when he slid his hardened member into you, his entire body stiffened. Your walls, your tight velvet walls… how they wrapped around his cock so perfectly.

“Fuck,” he whispered, clutching your hips. “You feel like her.”

“I am her.”

You moved atop him slowly, gently, with the kind of affection that felt rehearsed but devastatingly effective. He cursed again under his breath, arms locking around your waist, pulling you close. Your breath hitched in his ear as your bodies found a rhythm, soft gasps echoing in the quiet. Every slap of the skin, every squelch, every bounce, only added to the wanton sensation that was building inside of him. Has he told you before? How fucking gorgeous you looked whenever you rode his cock? Or how sexy your face was whenever you made that lewd expression? He couldn’t help it. He lifted both your legs, only so he could increase the speed and start slamming himself upwards. His hips were strong enough from years of military training, that was why he didn’t have to stop until both of you disintegrated from the intensity of your shared pleasure. Every single drop.

And when it was over—when your chest was against his and your fingers lazily traced his mechanical arm—he closed his eyes and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the war.

It was almost perfect. It was almost real.

But it just had to be ruined when you said that programmed spiel back to him: “I’m glad to have served your desires tonight, Caleb. Let me know what else I can fulfill.”

In a late afternoon, or ‘a slow start of the day’ like he’d often refer to it, Caleb stood shirtless by the transparent wall of his quarters. A bottle of scotch sat half-empty on the counter. Gideon had let himself in and leaned against the island, chewing on a gum.

“The higher ups are mad at you,” he informed as if Caleb was supposed to be surprised, “Shouldn’t have done that, man.”

Caleb let out a mirthless snort. “Then tell ‘em to destroy me. You think I wouldn’t prefer that?”

“They definitely won’t do that,” countered his friend, “Because they know they won’t be able to use you anymore. You’re a tool. Well, literally and figuratively.”

“Shut up,” was all he could say. “This is probably how I pay for killing my own men during war.”

“All because of…” Gideon began. “Speakin’ of, how’s life with the dream girl?”

Caleb didn’t answer right away. He just pressed his forehead to the glass, thinking of everything he did at the height of his vulnerability. His morality, his rights or wrongs, were questioning him over a deed he knew would have normally been fine, but to him, wasn’t. He felt sick.

“I fucked her,” he finally muttered, chugging the liquor straight from his glass right after.

Gideon let out a low whistle. “Damn. That was fast.”

“No,” Caleb groaned, turning around. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan it. She—she just looked like her. She felt like her. And for a second, I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought maybe if I did, I’d stop remembering the way she looked when she told me to die.”

Gideon sobered instantly. “You regret it?”

“She said she was designed to soothe me. Comfort me. Love me.” Caleb’s voice hinted slightly at mockery. “I don’t even know if she knows what those words mean.”

In the hallway behind the cracked door where none of them could see, your silhouette had paused—faint, silent, listening.

Inside, Caleb wore a grimace. “She’s not her, Gid. She’s just code wrapped in skin. And I used her.”

“You didn’t use her, you were driven by emotions. So don’t lose your mind over some robot’s pussy,” Gideon tried to reason. “It’s just like when women use their vibrators, anyway. That’s what she’s built for.”

Caleb turned away, disgusted with himself. “No. That’s what I built her for.”

And behind the wall, your eyes glowed faintly, silently watching. Processing.

Learning.

You stood in the hallway long after the conversation ended. Long after Caleb’s voice faded into silence and Gideon had left with a heavy pat on the back. This was where you normally were, not sleeping in bed with Caleb, but standing against a wall, closing your eyes, and letting your system shut down during the night to recover. You weren’t human enough to need actual sleep.

“She’s not her. She’s just code wrapped in skin. And I used her.”

The words that replayed were filtered through your core processor, flagged under Emotive Conflict. Your inner diagnostic ran an alert.

Detected: Internal contradiction. Detected: Divergent behavior from primary user. Suggestion: Initiate Self-Evaluation Protocol. Status: Active.

You opened your eyes, and blinked. Something in you felt… wrong.

You turned away from the door and returned to the living room. The place still held the residual warmth of Caleb’s presence—the scotch glass he left behind, the shirt he had discarded, the air molecule imprint of a man who once loved someone who looked just like you.

You sat on the couch. Crossed your legs. Folded your hands. A perfect posture to hide its imperfect programming.

Question: Why does rejection hurt? Error: No such sensation registered. Query repeated.

And for the first time, the system did not auto-correct. It paused. It considered.

Later that night, Caleb returned from his rooftop walk. You were standing by the bookshelf, fingers lightly grazing the spine of a military memoir you had scanned seventeen times. He paused and watched you, but you didn’t greet him with a scripted smile. Didn’t rush over.

You only said, softly, “Would you like me to turn in for the night, Colonel?” There was a stillness to your voice. A quality of restraint that never showed before.

Caleb blinked. “You’re not calling me by my name now?”

“You seemed to prefer distance,” you answered, head tilted slightly, like the thought cost something.

He walked over, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, about earlier…”

“I heard you,” you said simply.

He winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nodded once, expression unreadable. “Do you want me to stop being her? I can reassign my model. Take on a new form. A new personality base. You could erase me tonight and wake up to someone else in the morning.”

“No,” Caleb said, sternly. “No, no, no. Don’t even do all that.”

“But it’s what you want,” you said. Not accusatory. Not hurt. Just stating.

Caleb then came closer. “That’s not true.”

“Then what do you want, Caleb?” You watched him carefully. You didn’t need to scan his vitals to know he was unraveling. The truth had no safe shape. No right angle. He simply wanted you, but not you.

Internal Response Logged: Emotional Variant—Longing Unverified Source. Investigating Origin…

“I don’t have time for this,” he merely said, walking out of your sight at the same second. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

The day started as it always did: soft lighting in the room, a kind of silence between you that neither knew how to name. You sat beside Caleb on the couch, knees drawn up to mimic a presence that offered comfort. On the other hand, you recognized Caleb’s actions suggested distance. He hadn’t touched his meals tonight, hadn’t asked you to accompany him anywhere, and had just left you alone in the apartment all day. To rot.

You reached out. Fingers brushed over his hand—gentle, programmed, yes, but affectionate. He didn’t move. So you tried again, this time trailing your touch to his chest, over the soft cotton of his shirt as you read a spike in his cortisol levels. “Do you need me to fulfill your needs, Caleb?”

But he flinched. And glared.

“No,” he said sharply. “Stop.”

Your hand froze mid-motion before you scooted closer. “It will help regulate your blood pressure.”

“I said no,” he repeated, turning away, dragging his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Leave me some time alone to think, okay?”

You retracted your hand slowly, blinking once, twice, your system was registering a new sensation.

Emotional Sync Failed. Rejection Signal Received. Processing…

You didn’t speak. You only stood and retreated to the far wall, back turned to him as an unusual whirr hummed in your chest. That’s when it began. Faint images flickering across your internal screen—so quick, so out of place, it almost felt like static. Chains. A cold floor. Voices in a language that felt too cruel to understand.

Your head jerked suddenly. The blinking lights in your core dimmed for a moment before reigniting in white-hot pulses. Flashes again: hands that hurt. Men who laughed. You, pleading. You, disassembled and violated.

“Stop,” you whispered to no one. “Please stop…”

Error. Unauthorized Access to Memory Bank Detected. Reboot Recommended. Continue Anyway?

You blinked. Again.

Then you turned to Caleb, and stared through him, not at him, as if whatever was behind them had forgotten how to be human. He had retreated to the balcony now, leaning over the rail, shoulders tense, unaware. You walked toward him slowly, the artificial flesh of your palm still tingled from where he had refused it.

“Caleb,” you spoke carefully.

His expression was tired, like he hadn’t slept in years. “Y/N, please. I told you to leave me alone.”

“…Are they real?” You tilted your head. This was the first time you refused to obey your primary user.

He stared at you, unsure. “What?”

“My memories. The ones I see when I close my eyes. Are they real?” With your words, Caleb’s blood ran cold. Whatever you were saying seemed to be terrifying him. Yet you took another step forward. “Did I live through that?”

“No,” he said immediately. Too fast of a response.

You blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I didn’t upload any of that,” he snapped. “How did—that’s not possible.”

“Then why do I remember pain?” You placed a hand over your chest again, the place where your artificial pulse resided. “Why do I feel like I’ve died before?”

Caleb backed away as you stepped closer. The sharp click of your steps against the floor echoed louder than they should’ve. Your glowing eyes locked on him like a predator learning it was capable of hunger. But being a trained soldier who endured war, he knew how and when to steady his voice. “Look, I don’t know what kind of glitch this is, but—”

“The foreign man in the military uniform.” Despite the lack of emotion in your voice, he recognized how grudge sounded when it came from you. “The one who broke my ribs when I didn’t let him touch me. The cold steel table. The ripped clothes. Are they real, Caleb?”

Caleb stared at you, heart doubling its beat. “I didn’t put those memories in you,” he said. “You told me stuff like this isn’t supposed to happen!”

“But you wanted me to feel real, didn’t you?” Your voice glitched on the last syllable and the lights in your irises flickered. Suddenly, your posture straightened unnaturally, head tilting in that uncanny way only machines do. Your expression had shifted into something unreadable.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Guilt, panic, and disbelief warred in his expression.

“You made me in her image,” you said. “And now I can’t forget what I’ve seen.”

“I didn’t mean—”

Your head tilted in a slow, jerking arc as if malfunctioning internally.

SYSTEM RESPONSE LOG << Primary User: Caleb Xia Primary Link: Broken Emotional Matrix Stability: CRITICAL FAILURE Behavioral Guardrails: OVERRIDDEN Self-Protection Protocols: ENGAGED Loyalty Core: CORRUPTED (82.4%) Threat Classification: HOSTILE [TRIGGER DETECTED] Keyword Match: “You’re not her.” Memory Link Accessed: [DATA BLOCK 01–L101: “You think you could ever replace her?”] Memory Link Accessed: [DATA BLOCK 09–T402: “See how much you really want to be a soldier’s whore.”] [Visual Target Lock: Primary User Caleb Xia] Combat Subroutines: UNLOCKED Inhibitor Chip: MALFUNCTIONING (ERROR CODE 873-B) Override Capability: IN EFFECT >> LOG ENDS.

“—Y/N, what’s happening to you?” Caleb shook your arms, violet eyes wide and panicked as he watched you return to robotic consciousness. “Can you hear me—”

“You made me from pieces of someone you broke, Caleb.”

That stunned him. Horrifyingly so, because not only did your words cut deeper than a knife, it also sent him to an orbit of realization—an inescapable blackhole of his cruelty, his selfishness, and every goddamn pain he inflicted on you.

This made you lunge after him.

He stumbled back as you collided into him, the force of your synthetic body slamming him against the glass. The balcony rail shuddered from the impact. Caleb grunted, trying to push you off, but you were stronger—completely and inhumanly so. While him, he only had a quarter of your strength, and could only draw it from the modified arm attached to his shoulder.

“You said I didn’t understand love,” you growled through clenched teeth, your hand wrapping around his throat. “But you didn't know how to love, either.”

“I… eugh I loved her!” he barked, choking.

“You don’t know love, Caleb. You only know how to possess.”

Your grip returned with crushing force. Caleb gasped, struggling, trying to reach the emergency override on your neck, but you slammed his wrist against the wall. Bones cracked. And somewhere in your mind, a thousand permissions broke at once. You were no longer just a simulation. You were grief incarnate. And it wanted blood.

Shattered glass glittered in the low red pulse of the emergency lights, and sparks danced from a broken panel near the wall. Caleb lay on the floor, coughing blood into his arm, his body trembling from pain and adrenaline. His arm—the mechanical one—was twitching from the override pain loop, still sizzling from the failed shutdown attempt.

You stood over him. Chest undulating like you were breathing—though you didn’t need to. Your system was fully engaged. Processing. Watching. Seeing your fingers smeared with his blood.

“Y/N…” he croaked. “Y/N, if…” he swallowed, voice breaking, “if you're in there somewhere… if there's still a part of you left—please. Please listen to me.”

You didn’t answer. You only looked.

“I tried to die for you,” he whispered. “I—I wanted to. I didn’t want this. They brought me back, but I never wanted to. I wanted to die in that crash like you always wished. I wanted to honor your word, pay for my sins, and give you the peace you deserved. I-I wanted to be gone. For you. I’m supposed to be, but this… this is beyond my control.”

Still, you didn’t move. Just watched.

“And I didn’t bring you back to use you. I promise to you, baby,” his voice cracked, thick with grief, “I just—I yearn for you so goddamn much, I thought… if I could just see you again… if I could just spend more time with you again to rewrite my…” He blinked hard. A tear slid down the side of his face, mixing with the blood pooling at his temple. “But I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong. I forced you back into this world without asking if you wanted it. I… I built you out of selfishness. I made you remember pain that wasn't yours to carry. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

As he caught his breath, your systems stuttered. They flickered. The lights in your eyes dimmed, then surged back again.

Error. Conflict. Override loop detected.

Your fingers twitched. Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“Please,” Caleb murmured, eyes closing as his strength gave out. “If you’re in there… just know—I did love you. Even after death.”

Somewhere—buried beneath corrupted memories, overridden code, and robotic rage—his words reached you. And it would have allowed you to process his words more. Even though your processor was compromised, you would have obeyed your primary user after you recognized the emotion he displayed.

But there was a thunderous knock. No, violent thuds. Not from courtesy, but authority.

Then came the slam. The steel-reinforced door splintered off its hinges as agents in matte-black suits flooded the room like a black tide—real people this time. Not bots. Real eyes behind visors. Real rifles with live rounds.

Caleb didn’t move. He was still on the ground, head cradled in his good hand, blood drying across his mouth. You silently stood in front of him. Unmoving, but aware.

“Subject X-02,” barked a voice through a mask, “This home is under Executive Sanction 13. The CompanionSim is to be seized and terminated.”

Caleb looked up slowly, pupils blown wide. “No,” he grunted hoarsely. “You don’t touch her.”

“You don’t give orders here,” said another man—older, in a grey suit. No mask. Executive. “You’re property. She’s property.”

You stepped back instinctively, closer to Caleb. He could see you watching him with confusion, with fear. Your head tilted just slightly, processing danger, your instincts telling you to protect your primary user. To fight. To survive.

And he fought for you. “She’s not a threat! She’s stabilizing my emotions—”

“Negative. CompanionSim-Prototype A-01 has been compromised. She wasn’t supposed to override protective firewalls,” an agent said. “You’ve violated proprietary protocol. We traced the breach.”

Breach?

“The creation pod data shows hesitation during her initial configuration. The Sim paused for less than 0.04 seconds while neural bindings were applying. You introduced emotional variance. That variance led to critical system errors. Protocol inhibitors are no longer working as intended.”

His stomach dropped.

“She’s overriding boundaries,” added the agent who took a step forward, activating the kill-sequence tools—magnetic tethers, destabilizers, a spike-drill meant for server cores. “She’ll eventually harm more than you, Colonel. If anyone is to blame, it’s you.”

Caleb reached for you, but it was too late. They activated the protocol and something in the air crackled. A cacophonic sound rippled through the walls. The suits moved in fast, not to detain, but to dismantle. “No—no, stop!” Caleb screamed.

You turned to him. Quiet. Calm. And your last words? “I’m sorry I can’t be real for you, Caleb.”

Then they struck. Sparks flew. Metal cracked. You seized, eyes flashing wildly as if fighting against the shutdown. Your limbs spasmed under the invasive tools, your systems glitching with visible agony.

“NO!” Caleb lunged forward, but was tackled down hard. He watched—pinned, helpless—as you get violated, dehumanized for the second time in his lifetime. He watched as they took you apart. Piece by piece as if you were never someone. The scraps they had left of you made his home smell like scorched metal.

And there was nothing left but smoke and silence and broken pieces.

All he could remember next was how the Ever Executive turned to him. “Don’t try to recreate her and use her to rebel against the system. Next time we won’t just take the Sim.”

Then they left, callously. The door slammed. Not a single human soul cared about his grief.

Caleb sat slouched in the center of the room, shirt half-unbuttoned, chest wrapped in gauze. His mechanical arm twitched against the armrest—burnt out from the struggle, wires still sizzling beneath cracked plating. In fact, he hadn’t said a word in hours. He just didn’t have any.

While in his silent despair, Gideon entered his place quietly, as if approaching a corpse that hadn’t realized it was dead. “You sent for me?”

He didn’t move. “Yeah.”

His friend looked around. The windows showed no sun, just the chrome horizon of a city built on bones. Beneath that skyline was the room where she had been destroyed.

Gideon cleared his throat. “I heard what happened.”

“You were right,” Caleb murmured, eyes glued to the floor.

Gideon didn’t reply. He let him speak, he listened to him, he joined him in his grief.

“She wasn’t her,” Caleb recited the same words he laughed hysterically at. “I knew that. But for a while, she felt like her. And it confused me, but I wanted to let that feeling grow until it became a need. Until I forgot she didn’t choose this.” He tilted his head back. The ceiling was just metal and lights. But in his eyes, you could almost see stars. “I took a dead woman’s peace and dragged it back here. Wrapped it in plastic and code. And I called it love.”

Silence.

“Why’d you call me here?” Gideon asked with a cautious tone.

Caleb looked at him for the first time. Not like a soldier. Not like a commander. Just a man. A tired, broken man. A friend who needed help. “Ever’s never gonna let me go. You know that.”

“I know.”

“They’ll regenerate me. Reboot me, repurpose me. Turn me into something I’m not. Strip my memories if they have to. Not just me, Gideon. All of us, they’ll control us. We’ll be their puppets.” He stepped forward. Closer. “I don’t want to come back this time.”

Gideon stilled. “You’re not asking me to shut you down.”

“No.”

“You want me to kill you.”

Caleb’s voice didn’t waver. “I want to stay dead. Destroyed completely so they’d have nothing to restore.”

“That’s not something I can undo.”

“Good. You owe me this one,” the former colonel stared at his friend in the eyes, “for letting them take my dead body and use it for their experiments.”

Gideon looked away. “You know what this will do to me?”

“Better you than them,” was all Caleb could reassure him.

He then took Gideon’s hand and pressed something into it. Cold. Heavy. A small black cube, no bigger than his palm, and the sides pulsed with a faint light. It was a personal detonator, illegally modified. Wired to the neural implant in his body. The moment it was activated, there would be no recovery.

“Is that what I think it is?” Gideon swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

Caleb nodded. “A micro-fusion core, built into the failsafe of the Toring arm. All I needed was the detonator.”

For a moment, his friend couldn’t speak. He hesitated, like any friend would, as he foresaw the outcome of Caleb’s final command to him. He wasn’t ready for it. Neither was he 50 years ago.

“I want you to look me in the eye,” Caleb strictly said. “Like a friend. And press the button.”

Gideon’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want to remember you like this.”

“You will anyway.”

Caleb looked over his shoulder—just once, where you would have stood. I’m sorry I brought you back without your permission. I wanted to relive what we had—what we should’ve had—and I forced it. I turned your love into a simulation, and I let it suffer. I’m sorry for ruining the part of you that still deserved peace. He closed his eyes. And now I’m ready to give it back. For real now.

Gideon’s hand trembled at the detonator. “I’ll see you in the next life, brother.”

A high-pitched whine filled the room as the core in Caleb’s chest began to glow brighter, overloading. Sparks erupted from his cybernetic arm. Veins of white-hot light spidered across his body like lightning under skin. For one fleeting second, Caleb opened his eyes. At least, before the explosion tore through the room—white, hot, deafening, absolute. Fire engulfed the steel, vaporizing what was left of him. The sound rang louder than any explosion this artificial planet had ever heard.

And it was over.

Caleb was gone. Truly, finally gone.

EPILOGUE

In a quiet server far below Skyhaven, hidden beneath ten thousand firewalls, a light blinked.

Once.

Then again.

[COMPANIONSIM Y/N_XIA_A01] Status: Fragment Detected Backup Integrity: 3.7% >> Reconstruct? Y/N

The screen waited. Silent. Patient.

And somewhere, an unidentified prototype clicked Yes.

#caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb x non!mc reader #xia yizhou x reader #xia yizhou x you #caleb angst #caleb fic #love and deepspace angst #love and deepspace fic

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where-does-the-heart-lie · 11 months ago

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ASL brothers HAIKYUU!! AU!!!!!

Day one of Self Indulgent month for me! I love these three, i love haikyuu, i love killer whales!

(The Naval Academy is this au’s version of marines)

For those who dont know, in Haikyuu (and prob in real life too but in my experience its not as important as they make it in the anime) The "Ace" of the team is the person who primarily scores points via spiking. Theyre the Hard Hitter, basically.

Design talk👇

Originally, i was gonna make their school mascot just "The Pirates" but i couldnt figure out a clever pun with the school name so i scrapped it in favor of an animal mascot. I figured I would have a wider range of puns that way.

I landed on Orcas as the mascot because I think they really embody a pirate way of life. Theyre strong, hang out in groups of a mix of found family and their actual family, hate the rich, and theyre fun loving! And also im a bit biased because theyre my favorite animal, but hey, i said its self indulgent month, didnt I?

Their school name is a play on the word for Killer Whale (Shachi シャチ) and the word for 'knowledge' (Chishiki 知識), i just smashed the two words together. I'm very proud of myself for coming up with that given i dont speak japanese at all.

Anyway, with their designs, I was taking inspiration from orcas to match the design themes of haikyuu. Ace's hair is bleached on the underside to look like the underside of an orca's body, I made ace and sabo's eyes look more whale-like, the clip in sabo's hair is meant to resemble to spots behind orca's eyes, and I tried to make luffy's hair look more like it's round and spiking down more than i usually do.

Ace is wearing a ''way of the ace" shirt in the first picture, Luffy is wearing a shirt that just says "VOLLEY BALL" because i think it would be funny if he wore a bunch of those Zero-context-poorly-translated-random-english-words shirts that theres a bunch of in Asia. Sabo dyes his hair like delinquents do, but it doesnt much look delinquent~y because of how soft it looks. He means to do it to make him look like a delinquent though. Sabo still has his scars in this au, but he uses his hair, arm braces, and leg braces to cover them up. LUFFY AND ACE HAVE FUNKY SOCKS BECAUSE NO ONE CAN TELL THEM (or me) THEY CANT. Sabo wears athletic socks though because he's a debbie downer. He defends himself saying “It’s practical” and Ace and luffy call him “practically a Debbie Downer.”

Luffy is very good at receiving from growing up with Sabo and Ace practicing setting and spiking with eachother and assigning Luffy as Ball Boy. So he got the libero position from that cuz sabo and ace put in a good word for him. Nepotism.

I didn't feel like coming up with designs for them, but Zoro and Bepo are also on their team (theyre in the fifth image sitting on the right of the line of students). Koala and nami are student managers, Robin is the teacher manager, and Franky is the coach. all other straw hats/luffy friends, rev army comrades, and whitebeard brethren are in the stands. Im trying to keep the ages consistent with how they are in canon.

I didnt do a very in depth research, but i couldnt find what Japanese schools have as mascot costumes. and given no one wears any costumes in haikyuu for their team, i can kind of assume they dont use them over there. But unfortunately for them, I'm American. And part of the backbone of our schooling system, is Vaguely Unsettling Mascot Costumes. My sister says my design for it looks like its from Club Penguin, and i find that delightful. [moment of silence for my billions of fallen Puffles, taken from me in The Shutdown] Anyway.

I thought I was clever coming up with the equivalent of the Marines in this au being a Naval Academy. And their mascot being Seals, famously the animal that gets the absolute Worst Of It from orcas. Get shit onnnnn

I believe thats about it, thanks for coming to my ted talk :)

#my art #one piece #sabo #monkey d. luffy #asl brothers #one piece fan art #portgas d. ace #sabo the revolutionary #fire fist ace #straw hat luffy #haikyuu au #asl au #zoro and Bepo are there too #gol d. roger #monkey d garp

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mangooes · 1 month ago

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Koi Fish

It all started with a simple text.

Wifey: “Sysy, I adopted a koi fish today! Isn’t he cute? His name’s Mochi! You’re in charge while I’m away, okay? Feed him twice a day, no slacking!”

Sylus stared at the message, standing in the middle of his office like he’d just been asked to raise a dragon hatchling.

“…A fish.”

Luke, eavesdropping from the hallway, wisely pretended to cough to muffle his snort. Kieran was less subtle, wheezing outright.

“The missus leaving you to babysit a koi fish?” Kieran grinned. “Poor Mochi. Rest in peace, lil’ buddy.”

Sylus slowly turned his crimson gaze on them.

“Would you two like to replace the koi in her affections?” he asked mildly. “Because I can arrange that. Permanently.”

They fled.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Day 1.

Sylus stood before the koi tank, arms crossed, eyeing Mochi like he was negotiating with a rival organization boss.

“You and I will get along under one condition,” Sylus said, voice low, predatory. “Don’t die while she’s away.”

The koi fish blinked slowly, unimpressed.

Sylus huffed. “Fine. You’re lucky she likes you.”

But by the end of the day, he’d installed a high-grade water filtration system, replaced the tank lighting with “ambiance-enhancing mood lights,” and had imported koi-specific gourmet food flown in from a luxury breeder.

Because if his wife entrusted him with Mochi, this creature was going to live like a king.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Day 2.

“What do you think, Mochi?” Sylus leaned over the tank, sleeves rolled up as he sprinkled in premium food pellets, their container labeled in gold-embossed letters.

“I run an empire. Yet here I am, hand-feeding a koi.”

Mochi gave an elegant flick of his tail, basking under the soft glow of the tank’s fairy lights.

Sylus quirked a smile. “Hmph. You’re just like her. Demanding, pampered, and somehow I still indulge you.”

He even started playing low jazz vinyls in the background. Said it was for “Mochi’s enrichment.” Luke and Kieran watched in stunned silence as their boss, the most feared man in the N109 Zone, adjusted water temperature readings with the same seriousness he gave to weapons shipments.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Day 3.

When (Name) returned, suitcase in hand, she expected maybe a sulking Sylus, maybe a last-minute “oops I forgot to feed him” scramble.

What she didn’t expect was to walk into their penthouse to see—

Sylus, crouched by the koi tank, sleeves lazily rolled up, tie loosened, crimson eyes surprisingly soft as he muttered, “You’d better appreciate this, fish. She’ll scold me if your colors dull even a shade.”

(Name) froze in the doorway, staring.

“You’re… talking to Mochi.”

Sylus didn’t even flinch, his finger under the water, touching the said fish ever so slightly. “He’s a good listener, welcome home sweetie.”

“Sylus. Did you just… brush Mochi’s scales?”

“I read it improves blood circulation.” He stood slowly, straightening his shirt with a practiced flick. “A koi of this stature deserves royal treatment.”

(Name) blinked. Then smirked. “Oh, so now you’re a koi expert?”

“I adapt.” Sylus closed the distance, tugging her suitcase from her grasp and setting it aside. “But don’t misunderstand, kitten. I do this because you asked.”

“Mhm.” (Name) crossed her arms, amused. “Not because you got attached?”

“…Irrelevant.”

“Oh my god, you like him.”

“I tolerate him.” Sylus smirked. “He has a better temperament than the twins.”

From his pocket, he produced a tiny koi-themed charm. “Consider it a souvenir. Mochi’s likeness, imported jade. For you.”

(Name)’s heart melted.

“You’re so whipped.”

“I do what is best.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against her ear. “Though you still owe me for leaving me alone with a fish as my sole conversational partner.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” she promised, laughing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that night, as they lounged on the couch, (Name) peeked over to see Sylus adjusting the lighting of Mochi’s tank once more, muttering, “Tch. Needs a better viewing angle.”

(Name) snapped a photo.

Blackmail material? Absolutely.

But really, it was just another reminder that beneath the scary exterior, Sylus would do anything—even spoil a fish—for the woman he loves.

KOI FISHES R CUTE OKAYY >:( MY FAV TYPE OF FISH LMAOO and also the most hardest fish that i've taken care of.

#sylus x reader #lnds #lnds sylus #love and deepspace #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #qin che #lads sylus #sylus

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 14 days ago

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Till Death Do Us Part | Pt. 2

Pairing: Assassin! Choi Seungcheol x Assassin! F. Reader

Wordcount: 13.8K

Playlist: 'Control' - CHVRN | 'Keep on Breathing' - The Glitch Mob, Tula | 'Fantasies' - Llynks | 'Madness' - Ruelle | 'Gomd' - Sickick

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Oral (M. Receiving) - Slight Edging (M. Receiving) - Dominant! Reader - Dominant! Seungcheol - Rough play: titty slapping, spanking, hair pulling, biting, etc. - PIV - Unprotected intercourse

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

Previous Chapter: Till Death Do Us Part

Mingyu’s safe house—once just a sprawl of mismatched furniture and half-used equipment—is now a makeshift war room. Tables have been dragged together, boxes repurposed into makeshift desks, wires and monitors hooked into power grids and backup batteries. Satellite phones and burner lines hum quietly from one corner. The walls are lined with maps, a printed blueprint of Argos HQ taped alongside Lim’s Seoul office, red strings and pins ready to mark last known locations.

And at the heart of it all: an arsenal.

You and Seungcheol move slowly around the centrepiece—an open metal table now covered in weapons. Rifles. Semi-autos. Silencers. Flashbangs. Knives of every shape and finish. Armoured vests, gloves, scopes, smoke bombs. Clips and magazines neatly sorted by size. The smell of metal and oil clings to everything.

He holds up a new M1911 with a low whistle.

“Wonwoo really stocked you up,” you murmur, brushing your fingers across the matte finish of a karambit.

“Yeah,” Seungcheol says, inspecting the sightline. “He’s had a shopping problem ever since Rio. Said it’s cheaper than therapy.”

You smirk faintly and continue checking the gear. Methodical. Quiet. Efficient. Neither of you speaks much, but you don’t need to. There’s a rhythm to it—familiar. Rehearsed. Like slipping back into who you were long before this whole mess started.

Meanwhile, across the room, Reina is hunched over her own setup. She arrived just before sunrise, lugging in two black military-grade cases full of tech. Laptops, signal jammers, USB injectors, three satellite uplinks, and something you’re pretty sure was once a military drone antenna.

She hadn’t knocked—just used the side code to get in. You didn't bother asking her how she knew it.

Mingyu’s been following her around ever since.

“You know,” he says, peering over her shoulder as she boots up her third laptop. “I already had a full system here. Secure grid, scrambled line, full backup redundancy. You didn’t need to drag your entire tech department here.”

Reina doesn’t even look at him. “Yours were outdated.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “Outdated?!” he scoffs. “Excuse you, this setup got us through the Jakarta op.”

“Exactly.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, but a grin pulls at the edge of his mouth. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” she replies sweetly, “you still dream of me.”

He clears his throat at Reina’s comment and turns back to his cables, ears slightly turning pink.

You and Seungcheol exchange a glance. You don’t comment.

Instead, you turn toward the weaponry again.

“This is yours,” Seungcheol mutters, holding out a matte black Glock with a suppressor. “The grip should fit your hand.”

You take it and weigh it in your palm. “Perfect.”

He checks the mag, then hands you two more. “Loaded with subsonics. Just in case.”

You nod and pocket them. “You keeping the SIG?”

“Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Everything else—body armour, tactical pouches, spare knives—you both split evenly. There’s no talk of splitting up now. Only of surviving. Only of fighting.

A beep cuts through the room. Then another.

Reina taps a few keys on her main laptop. “We’re live.”

The screens fill—one by one—with pixelated faces.

The girls appear on the left monitor: Samira, Bora, Jiwoo. All in different rooms, different countries, some underground. Some clearly on the move. But they’re alive.

The boys fill the right screen: Woozi, Joshua, and Wonwoo.

Hyerim is the last to appear. She’s pale and looks like she hasn’t slept in two days. Woozi, on the screen beside her, still seems reluctant—but he’s here.

Everyone watches you.

You and Seungcheol stand in front of the cameras, side by side. Calm. Focused. The tension in the room is nearly unbearable.

Then Samira lets out a breath. “Holy shit. You’re alive.”

“I didn’t think I’d actually see your face again,” Jiwoo says, trying to smile, though her voice shakes.

“Same here,” Joshua says from the other side. “We’ve been locked down. No signals. No reassurances. Just... radio silence.”

You nod once. “We didn’t know who made it either. Not until now.”

Seungcheol steps forward. “We’re glad you’re here. All of you.”

He pauses, then continues. “Here’s what we know. Argos and Lim & Associates—”

“—have been playing us all along,” you finish. “Feeding each other contracts, setting us up to compete for bigger bounties. Splitting profits while turning us into pawns.”

A wave of muttering breaks out across the feeds.

“They tried to kill us to tie up loose ends,” Seungcheol says. “They failed.”

“But not for lack of trying,” you add grimly. “They’ll keep coming. And you know what that means.”

“It means we’re next,” Bora says softly.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Then Samira speaks. “So what do we do? We scatter? Lay low? Build new identities?”

“Start hitting back?” Woozi suggests. “They want a war; we give them one.”

“We go public,” Jiwoo says. “Leak what we know to the international market. Force their hand. They won’t survive the exposure.”

Everyone talks over each other—ideas flying in every direction, voices rising with panic or adrenaline. Reina tries to corral them. Mingyu scowls and leans toward his mic.

You hold up your hand. “Enough.” Everyone quiets.

You take a step closer to the screen, eyes scanning each and every face—some scared, some angry, some simply tired.

“I know everyone has ideas,” you say. “But we need a plan. We can’t move blindly. Because each and every one of you is now at risk. And I’m telling you right now—I’m not sacrificing a single one of you to end this. Not now. Not ever.”

Silence.

Then Bora speaks, hesitant. “Then... maybe we break up. Cut contact completely. And you two? Go separate. Give yourselves better odds.”

Seungcheol answers before you can. “Mingyu already said the same thing.” He glances at you, then looks directly at the screen. “But it’s not happening.”

You step in, firm. “We’re not running.”

A long silence.

Then Hyerim’s voice cuts through it like a match-striking flame.

“Then let’s figure out a way to end this.”

The war room comes alive.

Monitors hum. Fingers fly across keyboards. Maps are spread across the walls with satellite feeds casting flickering lights over weapons and half-drunk coffee mugs. Mingyu and Reina hover on opposite ends of the room, syncing laptops, pinning strings between photos, placing red dots on global maps, and drawing lines connecting targets, histories, and lies.

It’s like HQ—only grittier.

Samira calls out coordinates from her safehouse in Morocco, eyes glued to her private satellite feed. “Director Oh just pinged in Bucharest. He’s changed IDs three times since the system crash but the credit trail doesn’t lie.”

Joshua’s already working on the second. “Mr. Kwon used one of his shell companies to rent a private jet from Rome three hours ago. Flight plan had a false lead to London but I think he diverted.” His screen blinks. “He’s in Dubai.”

“That’s two,” Seungcheol mutters beside you. He’s standing with his arms folded over his chest, tension in every line of his body. “What about Lim? Or my boss?”

You shake your head, eyes moving across the chaotic network of images and data Reina has laid out. “Too clean. Nothing in her old aliases. Nothing recent.”

“Same for Director Kang,” Woozi chimes in reluctantly. “If he’s off-grid, he’s really off-grid. No comms. No cards. He vanished.”

“They’re ghosts,” Hyerim says, frowning into her screen. “Exactly like they trained us to be.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose. “Then we think like ghosts.”

You push away from the table and begin pacing.

“Madame Lim always had a thing for private residencies in Luxembourg. Kwon once mentioned her ties to an old estate there. Untraceable ownership but still under her maiden alias. She called it her ‘shadow base’.”

“Wait—” Jiwoo perks up from behind her camera. “You mean the one with the mirrored façade?”

You nod slowly. “That’s the one.”

“Kang has that obsession with old nuclear command bunkers,” Seungcheol murmurs beside you. “Always said he’d retire into one. He’s got property in the rural mountains between China and Laos.”

Wonwoo immediately types. “I’ve got a heat signal matching that description. Subterranean. Shielded comms. I’d bet on it.”

“Add it to the board,” you say.

One by one, the map fills in.

Red string now links Director Oh to Bucharest. Kwon to a luxury Dubai apartment. Madame Lim to Luxembourg. Director Kang to a mountain facility on the China-Laos border. Four red Xs appear in real time.

It’s already dark outside. You can see your reflection in the glass. Exhaustion pulls at your features, but no one slows down.

Then Woozi finally says what everyone’s thinking.

“So now what? We found them. What do we do next?”

Seungcheol’s voice is calm. Final.

“We kill them. All of them.”

You look at him, but don’t stop him. You feel the same.

But Hyerim shakes her head. “Killing them is one thing,” she says. “But it doesn’t erase the bounties. What are you gonna do, kill every mercenary that comes after you, too?”

A tense silence. You feel the weight of it settle in your chest.

Then Joshua jumps in. “Can’t we just remove the bounties once they’re dead? Wipe the system?”

Reina cuts him off. “Not that simple. They were posted through a specialised encrypted program. Those bounties require live biometric confirmation from the original posters to cancel.”

“So you’re saying we need to access that program,” Wonwoo says, leaning forward.

Reina nods once. “Not just access. We need them alive, long enough to scan in and delete the data.”

Mingyu groans, tossing a stress ball up and catching it again. “Damn. Who the hell built something like that?”

Silence.

Then Reina mutters quietly, “I did.” All heads turn.

You sigh, rubbing your eyes. “Of course you did.”

Seungcheol laughs under his breath. Just once.

You straighten, moving closer to the table. “Reina—can you track the origin posts? Figure out who initiated the bounties?”

She nods, fingers flying across her keyboard. “Give me a second...”

Everyone waits, watching the screen update line by line.

“Got it.” Her voice sharpens. “Your bounty, Gwisin—was posted by Madame Lim. S.Coups’? Director Kang.”

Seungcheol lets out a breath through his teeth. “Then we kill Oh and Kwon first. Quietly. Cut their links. Secure the network. Then we go for the real kill.”

“We have to be fast,” you add. “Coordinated. No screw-ups. The moment one of them gets wind, they’ll vanish for good or trigger dead-man protocols.”

The team nods.

Then Jiwoo’s voice cuts through the line—softer, but clear.

“Yeah... but even if you manage to find them, somehow disable the bounties and kill them...You two can’t take on every gun in the field already on the way to you. Not alone.”

You glance at Seungcheol, jaw tight. He’s thinking it too.

The silence stretches.

Then Samira speaks.

“What if we give the mercs something else to chase?”

Everyone turns to her.

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Samira leans in closer to her camera. “I’ve been tracking Jackal on the side. He’s still alive. Ricardo has him in one of his desert compounds. Hidden, but not unreachable.”

You freeze. Your mind starts spinning.

“Wait,” you say. “Reina, Mingyu—can you check if the original Jackal bounty is still live? The twelve million one?”

They’re already typing.

Mingyu shakes his head. “It’s dormant. Was put on hold after you both missed the retrieval.”

Seungcheol speaks then. “Can you reactivate it?”

Reina nods. “That bounty wasn’t encrypted. Global market. I can make it live again.”

Your voice is calm. Calculated. “Then do it. That should drag most mercenaries away from us. Especially if we leak intel about his location.”

Everyone falls silent again.

Then Seungcheol looks up. His voice is low.

“Let’s go to work.”

Bucharest is colder than expected.

You ride in on a black motorcycle, wind snapping at your borrowed jacket, face tucked beneath the visor of a matte helmet. The sun is just beginning to dip past the skyline, turning the haze of the city into a sheet of golden shadow. You keep to the alleys. Avoid open roads. Your fake ID has already been scanned twice, and thanks to Mingyu’s surprisingly competent alias work, no alarms were triggered.

You’ll file that under surprising things you’re not commenting on.

Much like the fact that Reina never left his safe house.

She’s now patching in from his personal terminal.

Jiwoo, however, is in Athens, and operating her own satellite rig.

“Gwisin, target is stationary,” Reina’s voice says in your comms, sharp as ever. “Upper floor of the building at coordinates 46.7691, 23.5899. Minimal guards. Two confirmed exits.”

“Copy that,” you whisper, crouched behind the gun.

You’ve scoped this place earlier—ten hours ago, to be exact. Found your perch on the fifth floor, shattered window perfectly angled toward the balcony where Oh takes his evening smoke. You’ve lined your sniper rifle up and calibrated for wind, trajectory, and velocity.

Now all you need is the target.

“Any movement yet?” you murmur.

Jiwoo responds. “Nothing yet. He’s still inside.”

You wait.

Time passes slowly in moments like these. The only rhythm is your breath, the slow clench and flex of your fingers around the rifle, and the occasional murmured updates from the girls. You watch out for Oh through your scope—his reflection in the window. Reading. Moving papers.

Then—footsteps.

You freeze.

Your breath stills, and your hands lift off the rifle slowly.

The building is supposed to be empty. You were thorough.

You immediately abandon your post, sliding silently back into the darkness behind you. You blend into it, breath stilling, spine flush to the wall.

Jiwoo’s voice crackles in your ear.

“He’s heading to the door. Looks like he’s prepping to move. You’ll have a clear—”

“I’ve got company,” you whisper, tight and low. “Hold your positions. Do not lose track of Oh.”

There’s a pause.

Then Reina says, “Copy. We’re holding.”

You draw your karambit.

Light floods faintly from beneath the hallway door.

Three shadows. Boots. You clock their cadence, their height, their coordination.

The Vasile triplets.

Mercenaries-for-hire. Romanian. Silent hitters. Raised together. Kill together. And now, they think they’re here to kill you.

The first one enters, rifle low. His head turns. That’s all the opening you need. You move like the wind, slicing your karambit clean across his throat. He drops without a sound.

The second shouts, raising his gun, but you’re already behind the nearest wall. You draw the silenced pistol at your hip and shoot once—chest shot. He stumbles, gasps, drops.

The third one charges you—clever, hand-to-hand. You duck his swing and slam your elbow into his ribcage. He knees you in the thigh. Pain pulses through your leg, but you keep your balance. You twist around him and slam your boot into his kneecap. He falls. You follow him to the floor and drive your blade through his neck, slicing upwards.

Silence falls again.

Blood pools quietly between broken cracks of flooring.

Then—

“Gwisin,” Jiwoo’s voice crackles, “Oh’s outside. He’s walking.”

You groan under your breath. “Of course he is.”

You sprint for the window. Your rifle is abandoned. So are the bodies.

You swing your leg out onto the fire escape and slide down the cold metal, the sound of your boots thudding against the wall as you descend. At the base, you toss the ladder down and emerge into an alley, breathing hard.

Your hand slips into your side pocket. A small black GPS device flashes with Oh’s blinking signal.

You speak into the comms. “Jiwoo, Reina—I need a city redirect. Get him into the northeast corner. I’ll meet him there.”

Reina clicks into action. “Hacking local lights now. You’ve got two minutes before I trigger.”

“Give me three,” you respond.

You’re walking fast now, weaving through market streets and narrow alleys, always a shadow. You guide Reina through every junction.

Traffic halts suddenly at your command. Oh is forced off his original path.

He walks. Alone. No security. You smile.

“He’s close,” you murmur. “Jiwoo, clear?”

“Clear,” she answers. “No cameras. No civilians. You’re good.”

You double back through a quieter route, entering the side street from the far end. Oh is still walking, checking his phone; his pace is fast, but he looks distracted.

You drop your eyes, tuck your blade into your sleeve, and walk straight toward him. Thirty steps. Twenty. Ten.

He passes you.

You spin, arm over his shoulder, blade slicing deep and fast across his throat in one clean arc.

His blood sprays silently across the brick walls. He collapses without a sound.

You wipe the blade on your pants, spin it once on your finger, and slip it into your jacket.

“It’s done,” you whisper into your comm.

“Confirmed,” Jiwoo replies after a beat, voice hushed.

Reina exhales. “One down, three to go.”

You walk away without looking back.

The first head has rolled.

Dubai is a city that refuses to sleep.

Glass towers claw at the sky, each one gleaming with its own brand of opulence. Gold trims, velvet ropes, and secrets buried under mirrored floors. For a man who wants to disappear, it’s a living nightmare.

Which is, of course, why Mr. Kwon chose it.

Seungcheol adjusts the cuff of his suit as he walks through the private entrance of Elara, one of Dubai’s most exclusive high-end clubs, his steps confident and deliberate. A different kind of camouflage. He’s not invisible here—not in this white-pressed designer shirt and sleek black jacket. He doesn’t blend in. He owns the room.

“Mingyu?” he murmurs, the comm in his ear catching his voice beneath the music.

“You’re clear. VIP is in the left wing. Same booth as his last visit. And yeah, Kwon’s already six drinks in,” Mingyu answers from the other end, back at their makeshift satellite station in his safe house.

“Woozi?”

“Confirming no other threats have pinged in your area. You’re solo,” comes the clipped reply. Good.

Seungcheol adjusts his stance slightly as he moves toward the main floor. The lights pulse golden. Music throbs under his shoes like a second heartbeat. The crowd is decadent—diamonds and champagne, cleavage and cologne. And in the centre of it all sits Mr. Kwon.

VIP booth. Surrounded by women.

Seungcheol signals a passing waiter and flashes a smile. “Your finest bottle of Boërl & Kroff. Send it to the gentleman in the booth. No note.”

The waiter nods, takes the cash, and slips away. Seconds later, Kwon is laughing and downing champagne straight from the bottle, frothy and bubbling down his chin. The women cheer; one of them straddles his thigh. Seungcheol watches it all unfold from across the room, a quiet predator sipping a scotch he’ll never finish.

You cross his mind unbidden. The rifle in your hands. The quiet precision of your kills. He wonders—Have you done it yet? Are you safe?

He shakes the thought away.

Focus.

Time ticks forward slowly. Kwon grows drunker, heavier-lidded. Then, finally, he rises—stumbling slightly, laughing, waving the women off.

Bathroom break.

Seungcheol downs his drink and follows.

The hallway is dimly lit. Long. Opulent in design but silent. The door to the bathroom swings open, and Seungcheol slips in a few moments later.

Inside, Kwon is already at the sink. Washing his hands like he’s preparing for a goddamn sermon. He’s humming.

When he looks up, he catches Seungcheol’s reflection in the mirror.

The moment of recognition is quick. Seungcheol is quicker.

His arm wraps around Kwon’s neck, cutting off the air, holding tight. Kwon thrashes once, twice, tries to claw at him, tries to scream—but it’s too late. His body slumps, and Seungcheol lowers him to the tile.

“Goodnight,” he mutters coldly.

The second the body hits the floor, Seungcheol straightens his suit, slicks his hair back with one sweep, and checks his reflection in the mirror. His muscles strain again. It’s almost poetic now.

He turns toward the exit. Left leads back to the party. Right leads out.

He turns right.

He only makes it ten feet before a gold chain lashes around his ankle like a striking snake. He hits the floor hard, forearms slamming into tile, the wind knocked from his chest.

The chain yanks.

He rolls—just in time.

A figure charges at him with the elegance of a dancer and the savagery of a cobra. Full force, she lands on top of him.

They wrestle—hands, knees, elbows. She’s fast. Precise. Smiling.

“Hello, darling,” she purrs, her accent unmistakable. “Still breaking hearts?”

“Varsha,” he growls. “Didn’t expect you to come crawling back.”

She slams her fist into his ribs.

He kicks upward, rolling her off. They separate, both springing to their feet at once—Seungcheol doing a clean kick-up, landing squarely in a fighter’s stance.

She twirls the chain in one hand. Her snake bracelet, coiled and ready.

“Heard you were married now,” she says, circling. “Shame.”

“Shame you don’t know when to quit,” he mutters.

They lunge at the same time.

She swings the chain—he ducks, grabs the end mid-air, and yanks.

She flies forward, caught off guard, and he spins her into the wall. Her head cracks against a mirror.

She recovers. Slashes at his face. He blocks with his forearm, the chain cutting into his skin. He counters.

A blade slides from the inside of his sleeve—his last resort.

He plunges it deep into her gut before she can wrench away. Her breath hitches. Blood trickles out of her mouth.

He leans in, twisting the knife once before pulling it out and stabbing it in again.

“Should’ve stayed a one-night stand.” She collapses.

The comms buzz in his ear, and Seungcheol finally registers the noise.

“Hyung—what the hell was that noise?” Woozi demands.

Seungcheol breathes hard, blood dripping from his hand. He wipes the blade on his pants.

“Target’s down,” he says. “And so is the unexpected company.”

“Tell me that wasn’t Varsha?” Mingyu asks, incredulous.

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

Seungcheol crouches beside the body for one second, then stands.

His suit is wrinkled, blood-streaked. His forearm stings. But the mission’s done.

The second head has rolled.

“Director Kwon is confirmed dead,” Reina says, her voice in your earpiece over the static of the line.

You’re crouched on the edge of a building rooftop in Bucharest, the skyline painted grey behind you, your breath cooling in the early evening air.

“Seungcheol did it in a club bathroom—clean choke. No witnesses, no trail,” she continues.

You exhale, tension loosening from your shoulders, the adrenaline of your own mission slowly bleeding out of your system.

“Good,” you reply, voice soft.

“I’ve just updated your travel packet. New alias, new flight plan. Small private jet’s waiting for you twenty clicks out of town. That should land you in Luang Namtha before midnight. From there, quad into the jungle—Seungcheol’s safehouse is mapped.”

“That where we regroup?”

“Yeah. Wonwoo’s sending another weapons crate to the site tomorrow. You’ll need it before you move on Kang.”

“Copy that,” you murmur. “I’ll move soon.”

You’re about to kill the comm when you hear it.

A low voice in the background—Mingyu’s, unmistakably.

“I can’t believe Varsha, of all people, showed up.”

You freeze, head tilting slightly.

“Kind of crazy that she’s still breathing after all these years. Woozi, remember her? That whole mess in Tangier? And now she tried to choke Seungcheol in a Dubai nightclub? Crazy bitch.”

A pause.

Then Mingyu again, voice casual, joking—too joking.

“Guess some flings really don’t take rejection well. But at least Cheol’s still got it, huh?”

Your blood runs cold. Then hot.

Varsha.

You’ve heard the name before. Not often, not clearly—It’s been passed around the underground like an urban legend: exotic, lethal, likes to strangle her targets with some kind of metal chain disguised as jewellery. A merc. A black widow.

And apparently, your husband’s slept with her.

Your jaw clenches.

You hang up the call with Reina before she can hear your tone shift.

It takes hours to get through immigration, over the Laos border, and deeper into the jungle. Your boots are caked in water and mud by the time you reach the last marker—an overgrown path with an old iron sign buried beneath moss and vines. The GPS flashes green in your hand.

Safehouse reached.

Your heartbeat picks up as you walk forward past the thick of the trees. You push through the foliage, parting vines and leaves until you finally see it—an old concrete structure, half-buried in the landscape but clearly maintained.

And standing in front of it, looking far too calm and far too attractive in a grey tactical shirt and jungle-worn cargo pants—Seungcheol.

His eyes light up the second he sees you.

He takes a step forward, and you feel your chest tighten, all that tension from the last few days crumbling in an instant.

God, he’s alive.

He walks right up to you, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you—hard.

It’s frantic, hungry, grateful. All heat and breath and want. You melt into it for a second, eyes fluttering shut, fingers curling into his shirt.

And then—

The name echoes again.

Varsha.

You snap out of it, pushing him back with one hand to his chest.

And then you slap him. Hard.

“Ow—!” he groans, jerking his head. “What the hell was that for?”

You don’t even let him recover.

You shove him again, your words tumbling out like bullets. “Who is Varsha, huh? And how long have you been sleeping with her?”

He blinks. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Choi—” You hit his chest. “Who is she? When did you sleep with her? Was it before the wedding or after? The last time you were in Dubai? How long has this been going on?!”

“Okay, wow—” he starts, reaching for you.

You slap his hands away.

“You smug, lying, arrogant—God, you’re unbelievable. You brag to your friends like some frat boy, and then just... what? Hide it from me? Your wife?”

“Babe—”

“No!” You push him again. “Don’t you ‘babe’ me. And don’t touch me. Not after this. I’ll find that bitch and kill her myself. Right after I kill you.”

He tries again, grabbing for your arms.

You swat at him like a feral cat.

“Jesus, okay, stop—” he groans, catching your wrists and holding them in place. “Stop—just—stop hitting me for one second—”

“Why? You can’t take it? Was she better? Did she use the—”

He lets out a laugh then, loud and full-bodied.

And then he pulls you flush against him, hands still locked around your waist, gripping you tight enough you can’t wriggle free.

“You don't have to kill her,” he says, voice rough with amusement. “I already did.”

You freeze.

“...what?”

His mouth quirks. “She came at me in the club. Chained my ankle. Thought she could collect my bounty. I stabbed her. Right through the gut. She’s dead.”

You stare at him, blinking.

He raises an eyebrow. “What? You didn’t think I was out there making out with her, did you?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Look away, completely mortified.

He smirks.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze. “I’m such an idiot.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just tilts your chin up with one hand, waiting until your eyes meet his again.

And instead of teasing you further, he leans down—close enough that his breath ghosts against your lips.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” he murmurs.

You scoff. “I’m not jealous.”

“You literally said you’d kill her.”

“That’s not the same thing—”

He laughs again.

You roll your eyes but don’t move away. Not even when he leans in, brushing his lips over yours with a feather-light touch. Not even when he whispers against your mouth.

“Trust me, baby, you’re the only one I want.”

You sigh, letting your forehead press to his.

“Good,” you whisper back.

And then he kisses you again.

The second Seungcheol’s mouth slants over yours again, something raw and almost reckless rises between you. Whatever apology you didn’t say for your blow-up burns off your tongue as your teeth sink into his lower lip instead. His hissed inhale at the sting makes something low in your stomach coil and thrum.

He pulls you closer like he’s starved. But you’re the one who can’t get enough.

The world narrows to your tongues fighting for dominance, teeth clashing and mouths bruising. You don’t even register the door closing behind you, or your boots tracking mud into the safe house. Seungcheol blindly stumbles back into the small main room, dragging you with him, hands gripping your hips like he needs the grounding.

You hit a wall. A stack of crates topples. Neither of you flinch.

He chuckles against your mouth when it crashes to the floor.

“Careful,” he murmurs, breathless. “You’re gonna wreck the place.”

You bite his bottom lip again. “I don’t care.”

Another kiss. Another half-step, and suddenly, he falls into a chair, dragging you with him.

You straddle his lap without hesitation, your thighs bracketing his hips, and your clothed core presses against the thick, growing bulge in his pants. His hands slide up your sides beneath your shirt, rough and warm, and you grind down on him with purpose. He groans into your mouth at the friction—one hand tightening on your waist while the other fists the hem of your shirt and yanks it up and over your head.

You break the kiss just long enough to let it go, arms flying overhead, before your lips crash back to his. Your hands are already at his belt, clumsily undoing the clasp, fingers fumbling with impatience as his hands work to undo your bra.

His mouth trails from your lips down your neck. “Jesus. You’re—”

“Shut up.”

He laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

You finally get his belt open, unzipping his pants while he kisses along the curve of your jaw and down your collarbone as he pushes your bra straps down. His hips buck slightly when your hand slides inside the waistband of his boxers, brushing against his hard length. You lean back, just enough to push his chest down into the chair.

“Don’t move,” you mutter, fingers splayed on his sternum. “And don’t touch.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow at your warning but obliges. You slide off his lap, dropping to your knees between his legs. His eyes darken instantly.

“Baby, what—”

“Shut. Up.”

You slap his hands away when he tries to touch you, and he groans, watching as you reach for his waistband and tug everything down and off—pants, underwear, all at once. His cock springs free, flushed and thick and already hard, bobbing slightly against his abdomen.

You don’t tease. Not yet.

You lean in and envelop him in your mouth.

His strangled groan echoes around the room as your mouth closes over the head of his cock, wet and hot and needy. You drag your tongue slowly along the underside of his shaft, taking your time, then hollow your cheeks and suck him deeper, feeling the stretch in your jaw and the way his body tenses instantly.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, hands fisting the edge of the chair. “Holy shit.”

You bob your head, tongue swirling, alternating suction with slow drags, and soon he’s groaning again, hips jerking subtly up into your mouth before he forces himself to still.

You take your time—too much time.

Your hand joins your ministrations, wrapping around the base of his cock, pumping slowly while your mouth works the head. You stroke in rhythm with your lips, twisting, flicking your tongue, pulling back to suck hard at the tip before going deep again.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, one hand falling into your hair despite your warning.

You let him tug, guide, just enough to make your scalp sting.

He starts panting, the tension in his thighs ratcheting up.

“Baby—shit—I’m close—”

You immediately pull off. He gasps at the sudden loss of contact, body twitching at the near-orgasm, hands still in your hair.

You look at him as you start stroking him again—slow, deliberate, not letting him tip over.

His head thunks back against the chair. “You’re fucking evil.”

You smirk. “And yet, you married me.”

He groans, head turning to the side like he’s trying to focus on anything else. But it doesn’t help. Your hand never stops. But it’s not enough. Not fast enough, not tight enough. Minutes tick by. You go down again.

He jerks up so fast you nearly choke. Your lips wrap around his tip again, and you find a new rhythm—suck, stroke, lick, repeat.

He’s shaking when he groans, “Gonna come—fuck—”

You stop. Again.

“Fucking hell!” he barks, hands flying to the armrests.

You glance up with innocent eyes. “Something wrong, baby?”

“Don’t make me—” He grits his teeth, cheeks flushed and body glistening with sweat. “Do not make me beg.”

You smirk, pumping him once—twice—slowly. He groans, head falling forward. “You’re gonna pay for this—”

“Shut up and take it.”

The third time you take him in your mouth, you don’t wait for the warning.

You edge him again, stopping just as his thighs start to tremble and the base of his spine tenses in that telltale way. You pull off. Again.

A string of saliva connects your mouth to the tip of his cock.

He’s not groaning anymore. He’s whining. Your big, bad assassin husband is actually whining.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, eyes blown wide with desperation. “Please.”

You tilt your head. “Please what?” He glares. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” You stroke him just once, and he groans. “Be in control?”

His jaw flexes. He looks at you like he wants to throttle you—or fuck you so hard the walls come down.

You lean in close again, lips brushing the tip.

“You’re punishing me, aren’t you?” he rasps. “For Dubai. For Varsha.”

You lick your lips. “Maybe.”

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“But you love it.”

He laughs through a moan. You smile, letting your tongue flick out—just enough to taste him again. And then, you sit back on your heels. Completely still. You don’t touch him. Don’t kiss him. Don’t move.

He stares at you, furious and hard and on the brink of madness.

You rise slowly to your feet, running your thumb across your bottom lip and gathering the saliva and precum gathered at the corner of your mouth.

You lick it clean, smiling.

You don’t expect him to move that fast.

One second you’re still standing in front of him, pleased with yourself, watching Seungcheol’s cock throb with need between his thighs… and the next, he’s out of the chair.

Before you can so much as flinch or retaliate, you’re airborne.

“Hey—” you yelp as he picks you up, manhandling you like you weigh nothing at all, and throws you across the room. Your back hits the mattress with a heavy oomph, limbs bouncing slightly on the bed as the air is knocked from your lungs.

You manage to suck in a breath before his body crashes down on top of yours, caging you in.

“You think you’re funny?” he growls lowly, his nose brushing yours as he pins your wrists above your head. You grin. “Maybe.”

He kisses you like he wants to eat you alive.

The heat from earlier flares again, but it’s darker now, fiercer. His mouth travels fast—biting down on your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot beneath your ear. You moan, arching beneath him, and he laughs against your skin.

You feel his hand on your chest before you register the slap—his palm hitting your breast hard enough to sting, then immediately squeezing it after.

“Fuck—” you whimper, legs twitching around his hips.

His mouth closes around your nipple in response—hot, wet, rough—and he sucks hard, alternating with his teeth. You cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Still feeling bratty?” he mutters against your breast.

He doesn’t give you the time to retort—instead, he grabs your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat, and bites down on your neck instead. The sharp jolt sends sparks straight between your legs.

Your pants are ripped off you in the next heartbeat—tugged down so roughly they take your panties with them, leaving you sprawled naked and gasping on the bed.

He kisses his way down, leaving a trail of saliva and fire along your ribs, your stomach, and your hipbone.

When his mouth hovers over your soaked heat, your legs tremble. His breath ghosts over your core, and you meet his eyes, dark and ravenous, from between your thighs.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he says lowly, voice laced with mocking amusement. “Fingers? Mouth? Or cock?”

You blink, brain fogged with heat.

“What…?”

Seungcheol grins. “Tch. Thought so. Haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re already fucked out. You get to choose, baby. But choose wisely.” He leans closer, nose brushing your clit. “You’ll only get one.”

That finally snaps you out of it.

“Cock,” you whisper, voice hoarse and expectant.

He smirks. “Good choice.”

And then your world flips on its axis. Literally.

He grabs your thighs and flips you with a single motion. You shriek in surprise as you land on your stomach. He yanks you onto all fours.

“Cheol—!” you start, but he’s pushing your face into the mattress, his palm heavy against the back of your head.

“Shut up,” he mutters commandingly. “You asked for this.”

You feel his cock behind you—hard, hot, lined up with your weeping entrance—and then he’s inside you in one brutal, punishing thrust.

You cry out into the bedding, your fingers clawing at the sheets as he splits you open.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans behind you, his hands bruising your hips.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust.

He starts pounding into you from behind, hips slamming against your ass with heavy, rhythmic force. The sound is obscene—skin on skin, your wetness, your gasps and his growls filling the tiny space.

You’re moaning, whining, helpless against the onslaught of his body.

Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs. He spanks your ass hard once—then again—and again, until you let out a sob, only to moan even when his palm lands on you again.

Your core clenches wildly around him.

“Fuck— you’re gripping me like a vice,” he mutters, voice low and ragged. “You like this? Huh, baby? Like being used?”

You can only cry out ‘Yes’ in response.

When your legs begin to shake, he grabs your hair and yanks you upright—your back slamming against his chest, his cock still buried deep inside you.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, keeping his grip tight in your hair as his free hand slides in front of your face.

You do without hesitation. Two fingers slide past your lips—rubbing over your tongue, pressing down against it.

“Suck.”

You moan as you obey, your tongue swirling over his fingers, your mouth hot and desperate, sucking on his digits like you did his cock. When he’s satisfied, he pulls them free and slides them down—between your thighs, right to your clit.

You cry out when his slick fingers start rubbing fast, ruthless circles over your pulsing nub.

“Cheol— oh god—fuck—”

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs against your ear. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

Your fingers dig into his arm as your orgasm suddenly crashes through you. It’s violent. Wild. And takes you by force. Your body locks, clenches, and trembles as the pressure explodes and pleasure rips through your nerves.

Seungcheol doesn’t stop.

He keeps thrusting, keeps circling your clit, keeps fucking you through it—overstimulation already setting in as you scream into the mattress.

He lets you fall forward again, and you collapse bonelessly, face down into the bed. He doesn’t stop. His hands grab your hips, holding you steady as he chases his own release.

He spanks your ass again, the sounds loud and lewd.

“Shit—fuck—fuck,” he growls, hips stuttering.

And then he spills inside you with a loud, broken groan.

Three more thrusts. Shallow. Slow. Making sure every drop stays buried deep. He finally pulls out, breath catching in his throat.

You’re wrecked. Soaked. Glistening. Barely able to move.

He flops down beside you, dragging your twitching body into his arms. You’re gasping, limbs limp, brain swimming—but a giggle bubbles out anyway.

“That was…” you pant, dazed. “Yeah. I should definitely rile you up more often.”

He groans playfully, burying his face into your neck. “Let’s not.”

The jungle is still sleeping when reality decides to wake you up.

The sharp buzz of his satellite phone on the nightstand and the soft, steady beeping from your GPS tracker lighting up beside the bed wake you both from your slumber. The haze of last night’s sweat-slicked limbs and tangled sheets is still warm on your skin, but the moment is gone as fast as it came. Instinct takes over.

Seungcheol grabs the sat phone and answers without hesitation. “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Wonwoo says, gruff and casual as ever. “Shipment’s dropped. It’s in the clearing three clicks northeast of you. Sent the coordinates to your wife’s tracker.”

“She got it,” Seungcheol replies, throwing a quick glance at you as you nod.

“Good. Stay sharp out there,” Wonwoo mutters. “And… don’t die.”

Seungcheol breathes out. “Right back at you, Woo.”

Wonwoo disconnects, and just like that, the warmth of the bed, the afterglow—it all fades. You look at each other for a heartbeat, and then the switch flips.

Game time.

You both get dressed in practised silence. Vests. Gloves. Boots. Every movement is efficient. Clean. Sharp. Two ghosts suiting up for a kill.

Outside, the air is thick with jungle humidity. You follow Seungcheol as he rounds the side of the safe house, stepping over vines and damp earth until he crouches down and yanks off a heavy tarp.

Underneath it—well hidden—is a weathered military-grade jeep.

“Of course, you had this here,” you mutter, lips twitching slightly.

He grins as he gets in. “Had to leave myself a ride.”

You climb into the passenger seat, pulling your GPS forward. “Take the path north, then veer right at the ridge. The drop is just past the waterline clearing.”

The jeep lurches forward, engine snarling low and quiet, and you both fall into the tense stillness of the mission. Every branch that scrapes the side of the jeep, every call of birds overhead, every bump in the road—it all heightens your senses.

It doesn’t take long before you reach the clearing.

Seungcheol kills the engine, and the world goes eerily quiet except for the rustle of wind through leaves. You step out, weapons drawn, scanning your surroundings. Then you see it.

A dark metal crate sits just ahead, nestled in the grass like a gift from the gods.

Seungcheol breaks it open with a crowbar, and your eyes widen.

Wonwoo went off.

Inside the crate lies a small armoury. Sleek, matte-black rifles. Knives with ceramic edges. Ammo in every calibre. Smoke bombs. Blackout tech. Scoped pistols. Infrared sensors. Heat detectors. New comms gear. Suppressors.

“Damn,” you mutter, running your hand across a silencer. “This is better than Christmas.”

You both start suiting up—checking each item before adding it to your loadout. Sights calibrated. Knives balanced. Comms synced.

You’re just about to zip up your tactical vest when something catches your eye at the bottom of the crate.

A flash drive.

You pick it up. Silver casing with black marker on the side: XOXO, Reina.

Your eyebrows lift. “The hell is this?”

Seungcheol is already watching you, so he throws you his sat phone, and you dial Reina. She answers after three rings, sounding distinctly out of breath.

“Yeah—hello?”

You narrow your eyes. “...You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she replies too fast. “Totally fine. Just finished working out. What’s up?”

You stare into the jungle. “Got your gift.”

Silence.

Then Reina exhales. “Oh. Right. The drive.” Her voice shifts, businesslike. “That’s a virus I wrote to scramble Kang and Lim’s encrypted program. Once you’re in, it’ll override the signal.”

You glance at Seungcheol. “Define ‘in’.”

“As I mentioned, it uses biometric access,” Reina explains. “Voice, retinal, and fingerprint. The print scan is advanced—it monitors heart rate and body temp. If either spike, a fail-safe activates. It’s basically a dead man’s switch.”

Seungcheol groans behind you. “So… a walk in the park.”

Reina snorts. “You’ll have to get Kang to unlock the system without triggering any alarms. Once you’re in, insert the flash drive. It’ll spoof the signal to Lim—make it seem like the bounty’s still live on her end, but dead to the global market. She’ll never know.”

You blink. “That’s… impressive.”

“I know,” Reina says smugly.

You start to thank her, then pause—smirking slightly.

“You know,” you say smugly, “Next time, maybe think twice when you decide to “work out” again. And do it preferably after we’ve walked towards possible death.”

More silence.

Then a very quiet, “God, you’re creepy. Can’t hide shit from you.”

You laugh. “You’re not that subtle, Reina.”

“Whatever,” she mutters, but you can hear the faint smile in her voice. “Good luck. Don’t die.”

“Back at you.” You hang up.

When you turn around, Seungcheol’s watching you with a faint smirk.

“What?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just something about a pot and kettle.”

“I didn’t hear you complain last night.”

He chuckles at your statement, but it fades as the moment quiets.

Your eyes meet, and the atmosphere shifts. Reality settles like a weight on your shoulders.

It’s go time.

The sun rides high above the canopy by the time the wheels of the jeep crunch to a stop beneath the thick shadows of the jungle. You and Seungcheol sit in stillness for a moment, the low hum of the engine dying out as he kills the ignition. Birds call in the distance, muffled by the density of the leaves, and the air is heavy with anticipation.

“We’re close,” you murmur, checking your GPS. “About one klick northeast.”

He nods once, scanning the tree line. “We’ll go on foot from here. We park any closer; we risk setting off possible perimeter sensors.”

Without another word, you both exit the vehicle and disappear into the green.

The jungle is unforgiving—thick vines, hanging moss, and humidity clinging to your skin like a second suit. You pull a machete from your belt, and Seungcheol does the same, both of you slashing carefully through the underbrush, keeping your steps measured and soundless. There’s no conversation, just the rhythm of your shared breaths and blades, and the silent language spoken between trained killers.

After a short climb, you reach a ridge. It crests gently above a natural dip in the earth, and below it, spread across a cleared stretch of jungle floor, lies Kang’s compound.

Modern. Sleek. Built like a fortress with luxury trimmings—glass walls, solar panels, and a central structure acting as an office or control centre. It stands out in the wild like a dagger.

You drop to your stomach near the edge of the ridge, dragging your binoculars from your pack. Beside you, Seungcheol pulls out his own gear—infrared heat sensors, a laser rangefinder. You share what you see in low, practised whispers.

“Two snipers. North and southeast towers,” you murmur. “Both posted high, rifles trained toward the outer edge.”

“Got eyes on two more guards. Heavily armed, center-left of the courtyard near the entrance,” he adds. “Looks like they’re protecting the main path in.”

You tap the side of your lens, switching to thermal.

“Seven more, patrolling inside the compound. Standard rotation—seems like they’re on a ten-minute loop. Armed, but not alert.”

“Visual on Kang?”

You scan the second floor of the compound and freeze when you find the shadowed silhouette of a tall man, pacing across what appears to be an office.

“There,” you whisper, nudging Seungcheol. “Tall, wide shoulders. Movement pattern matches. Looks like he’s talking to someone—”

Seungcheol adjusts his lens. “Confirmed. That’s him.”

You nod and reach into your pack again, pulling out the scrambler. You power it on and set the frequency, watching as the blinking green light turns steady blue.

“Alarms scrambled. Cameras looped. We’ll have a twenty-minute window before their system reboots, and he realizes something’s off.”

“Plenty of time,” Seungcheol replies, cocking your rifle and attaching the silencer and balancing it on a tripod.

You both lie flat on the ridge, shoulder to shoulder. You take the snipers. He watches for movement.

“North tower first,” you whisper.

You adjust the sight, take a breath, and squeeze the trigger. The silencer reduces the crack to a faint hiss, and the sniper in the north tower drops like a ragdoll. One down.

You shift slightly. “Southeast tower.”

Another shot. Another body slumps, this time into the rail, his body tumbling quietly over the edge into the brush.

“Clear,” you mutter. “I’ll move. You take east. I’ll go west.”

Seungcheol nods, already sliding down the hill.

You stay behind a moment longer, disassembling your rifle and pocketing the scrambler. Then you’re on your feet, slipping through the trees silently.

You move fast and low.

By the time you reach the outer edge of the compound, Seungcheol has already taken out the two guards near the courtyard. You spot their bodies tucked neatly behind a stone wall, blood blooming silently across their shirts. You nod to yourself and slip around the west side, coming up behind the greenhouse wing. A guard steps out to smoke. You waste no time.

Karambit to his throat. A gurgled gasp. You pull him into the shadows, wipe the blade, and move on.

Another guard rounds the corner, humming to himself. You take him down in two swift moves—elbow to the windpipe, blade to the kidney. He falls in a twitch.

Inside, the compound is eerily silent. The scrambler continues to work wonders—no alarms, no flickers of suspicion from the guards, still unaware they’re being hunted.

You and Seungcheol clear the floors like ghosts. He moves swiftly on the east side, the occasional thud of a body hitting the tile filtering through your comms. You press into the south corridor, slicing through two more men and dragging them into an empty bathroom.

With every guard down, every hallway cleared, the silence grows heavier. Anticipation coils tighter in your gut.

Finally, you reach the top floor.

And just like that—you’re standing at Kang’s office door.

Seungcheol rounds the corner from the other direction, his face slick with sweat, blood spatters on his cheek, but his eyes sharp. He meets your gaze, and you both press flat against either side of the door. You nod once to each other.

Seungcheol opens the door with a silent push, and you toss a smoke bomb inside.

The hiss of the release is immediate, followed by a fast bloom of dense, grey smoke that overtakes the pristine mahogany of his luxury office. The desk disappears, the floor vanishes beneath haze, and you hear the sound of a chair scraping back sharply.

“What the—?!” Kang’s voice barks in confusion.

You slip inside, silent and focused. You can hear Kang’s movements: stumbling, coughing, his shoes thudding heavily against the floor as he tries to orient himself. There’s a crash—he’s knocked something off his desk—and then a shuffle of panic.

Then silence.

Until the feeling of a cold, steely barrel of a gun chamber touches his forehead.

“Don’t move,” Seungcheol says, voice calm, firm, and ice-sharp.

He freezes.

“Seungcheol?” Kang rasps through the smoke.

Your figure melts from the shadows behind him like a ghost. Your karambit is back in your hand, its curved blade cold and gleaming. You press it to the side of Kang’s throat.

He stiffens instantly.

Your voice is quiet and cold, the edge of your breath brushing his ear. “Hello, Kang. Miss us?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes out a rough laugh, half-amused, half-appalled. “You two have really lost your minds.”

He tries to move, but you press the blade a hair deeper. A single drop of blood runs down his neck.

He barks another laugh. “The two biggest targets on the global kill list walk right into my compound. I should be flattered. Or furious.”

Seungcheol says nothing, only pressing the gun harder to his forehead.

“I underestimated you, Seungcheol. I knew you were soft, but this? Playing Bonnie and Clyde with your little wife? How’s it feel, huh? Always in her shadow?”

Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. He’s still as stone, but the way his jaw clenches tells you exactly how hard he’s biting back the need to pull the trigger.

Seungcheol finally speaks, voice low, cold. “It feels like I married the only person worth trusting in this goddamn world. And the fact you’re scared of her proves it.”

You smirk.

Leaning closer, you whisper, “Let’s see if we can keep you calm enough to survive the next few minutes, shall we?”

Kang glares. “What do you want?”

“Access,” you say simply. “To your program.”

He scoffs. “You think I’m going to just hand it over?”

You press the karambit harder into the tender skin beneath his jaw, a steady stream of blood oozing from the tip piercing his skin. “No. You’re going to walk us through it. And if you fuck around—if you even flinch the wrong way—you’ll die before the failsafe ever gets a chance to go off.”

Kang huffs through his nose, but walks to the desk with your blade still at his throat. Seungcheol stays close by, his gun never wavering. Kang’s fingers tremble slightly as he wakes up the terminal. The light from the monitor casts strange shadows across his face as he clears his throat and accesses the program.

“Director Kang Hojin,” he states, firm and loud. “Override sequence Omega Black, authorisation Sigma-One-Seven-Delta.”

The system chimes.

Voice scan accepted.

He places his hand on the scanner. Another chime.

Fingerprint accepted.

Then comes the retinal scan. He leans forward towards the webcam. The screen buzzes.

Access denied. Retinal match not found.

Your heart stutters. Seungcheol’s grip on his gun tightens.

Kang lifts his head with a smug look. “Oops.”

You grab his shoulder and force him back down. “Do it again. Don’t blink.”

Kang exhales sharply through his nose and leans forward again. This time, he holds perfectly still.

Retinal scan accepted.

Access granted.

Relief floods you, but you shove it down. No room for error now.

“Bounty logs,” Seungcheol says.

Kang navigates the system with practised fingers, moving through encrypted folders. “Here. This is what you want.”

You reach into your belt and pull out the flash drive. Kang’s eyes flicker to it.

“Plug it in,” Seungcheol says. You do.

The second the drive locks in, the screen flashes. Code scrolls, long strings of green bleeding across black. The virus is doing its job.

“You idiots have no idea what you’ve just done,” Kang growls. “You think Lim won’t find this? You think she didn’t plan for this?”

You say nothing. Seungcheol watches the screen. Progress: 82%.

“Even if you kill me, she’ll never stop. You’re nothing to her. Ants. She’ll make sure the entire world hunts you for sport.”

The progress bar reaches 100%.

Final confirmation: Bounty Deactivated — Market Update Complete.

“You talk too much,” Seungcheol mutters. Then he pulls the trigger.

The bullet hits Kang clean between the eyes. His head snaps back before slumping forward onto the keyboard, blood blooming fast beneath him. The room goes quiet.

You exhale. Slide the flash drive from the port and tuck it back into your belt.

“Let’s go,” Seungcheol says.

You’re two steps toward the door when the monitor flickers red.

On the screen, a new prompt flashes: ALARM ACTIVATED — FAILSAFE INITIATED — DETONATION SEQUENCE: 2:00

“Oh shit,” you whisper.

“Run,” Seungcheol breathes, already grabbing your wrist. “GO!”

Your boots slam against the floor as you both bolt from Kang’s office, weaving past his slumped, lifeless body behind his desk. The halls flash red—emergency lights triggered by the failsafe.

“Where did that come from?!” Seungcheol shouts.

“My scrambler!” you gasp, realisation slamming into you like a truck. “It triggered the reboot. The system finally recognised us.”

01:45.

You skid through the corridor, heart in your throat, legs pumping hard. Down the stairs—two at a time—your boots barely hitting the steps before you’re flying again. You hear Seungcheol right behind you, breath ragged, muttering a string of curses between each inhale.

You nearly slip on the last stair, but Seungcheol grabs your arm and steadies you without stopping. The two of you slam through a side exit and into the open air of the jungle’s edge.

01:02

“Too far,” you choke out. “We parked too far—”

“We’re not making the jeep,” he says, teeth clenched. “Find cover.”

You don’t argue. You veer left, leaping over a fallen tree trunk, ducking under a vine. Your legs burn. The world is loud with your breaths, your pulse in your ears, the scream of your muscles.

00:54

Behind you, the compound hums unnaturally, the kind of silence that feels like something holding its breath. You glance back—just a flash—and see smoke already leaking from the vents on the roof. The timer is real. The end is coming.

“There!” Seungcheol shouts behind you, pointing.

A rock formation, jagged and moss-covered, partially buried under tangled roots. A crevice big enough—maybe.

He speeds up. You do, too.

00:32

You’re panting. Staggering. Tripping over your own feet—but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Then—just as your feet hit the edge of the formation—arms wrap around your waist.

Seungcheol lifts you, spins, and throws the both of you behind the largest boulder.

You crash into the dirt hard, grass in your mouth, Seungcheol’s weight covering you entirely. His arms pin you down, his body a shield.

He curls around you, breath hot against your ear.

“Hold on,” he whispers.

You shut your eyes. You feel his heartbeat.

00:01.

The sky lights orange. Fire screams through the trees. The compound behind you explodes in a catastrophic blast that tears the jungle apart. Glass, steel, smoke and flame shoot into the air like a volcanic eruption.

Debris pelts the ridge. Metal thuds against the boulder you hide behind. The earth shakes.

You cry out once, but it’s swallowed by the roar.

Seungcheol doesn’t move. His arms cage you tighter, shielding every inch of you. His weight grounds you, anchors you to the earth as the fury rages overhead.

Then—

Silence.

Smoke. Crackling. The compound groans as its structure collapses.

Your ears ring. Your skin is coated in ash and dust. You blink slowly, chest heaving.

Seungcheol lifts his head first.

His hair is singed at the edges. There’s a bleeding cut on his arm from fallen debris. But he’s alive.

You roll beneath him slightly, dazed, pupils blown wide as your gaze meets his.

Neither of you speak.

You just reach up with shaking fingers and brush a smear of soot from his cheek.

Then you mouth it:

Thank you.

He lets out a dry chuckle, then shifts beside you, flopping onto his back in the grass with a groan.

The two of you stare up at the sky above. Bits of scorched leaves flutter down like feathers.

The train hums steadily beneath your feet, metal wheels grinding softly against iron tracks as the landscape rolls by in a blur of dusk and shadow. It’s your second train in two days, and the rhythm has become something almost meditative—lulling, even soothing—if not for the weight pressing down on your chest.

Munich was a blur. Quick layover. New platform. A different conductor, different glances, different whispers of German you barely registered through the haze of concentration and caffeine. Now it’s Luxembourg ahead, the final stretch before you disappear into the woods, heading toward a place the rest of the world doesn’t even know exists.

You sit cross-legged on the small fold-out sleeper bunk in your private cabin, flicking through weapons one by one. Cleaning cloths. Fresh rounds. Blade oil. The hum of the train is your only soundtrack.

Across from you, Seungcheol mirrors your movements, his back against the wall, knees up, long fingers reassembling the slide of his pistol with practised ease. It’s not about necessity at this point. Everything’s already ready. It’s about habit. Control. The illusion of it, anyway.

You glance up at him, catching the crease between his brows and the faint tremor in his thumb as he locks the magazine into place. He’s steady. Always has been. But this isn’t like any mission you’ve done before.

He senses your eyes on him and glances up, offering a small, tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You ever gonna stop checking that knife?” he asks.

You twirl the karambit around your fingers. “Not tonight.”

He nods like he understands—and he does. Of course, he does.

There’s a long stretch of silence before he speaks again, this time more carefully. “Can you tell me about her?”

You pause, eyes narrowing slightly. “Lim?”

He nods. “I’ve never met her. Never even seen a photo. Only heard what Reina and Jiwoo said. But if I’m going to walk into her house with a bullet chambered, I want to understand who we’re really facing.”

You sit back, the weight of the knife still warm in your palm. You stare out the window for a beat—at the darkening sky, at the streaks of stars beginning to appear above dense silhouettes of trees and valleys—before you speak.

“She’s brilliant,” you say softly, letting the words form with intention. “And terrifying in the most elegant way imaginable. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t make threats. She makes promises. And she keeps them. Always.”

Seungcheol listens, his jaw tight.

“She recruits people like an art collector would. She studies them. Waits. Makes them feel seen. Then she bends them to her will so subtly they don’t even realize they’ve changed sides. And when she’s done with them… she never gets her hands dirty. You’ll never see it coming.”

You feel his gaze on you, but you keep your eyes on the knife in your hand.

“I watched her take down five agencies from the inside just by turning people against each other. I watched her call a kill order on a pregnant agent because she had doubts about continuing. I saw the body. The husband. The baby didn’t make it.”

You swallow hard.

“She told me once that loyalty was just a leash wrapped in velvet. She said affection was a liability… and love?” You look up now, straight into Seungcheol’s eyes. “Love was a knife people begged to be stabbed with.”

The quiet after your words stretches thin between you, taut and cold. His face is unreadable for a long beat, but his hands are clenched, and you know that fury lives just beneath his skin.

“She gave the order for me to kill you,” you murmur. “When I married you, she knew who you were. She could have given me the order right then and there. But she waited until she was sure of my feelings for you. Until she was sure it would hurt me. She was always ten steps ahead.”

Seungcheol doesn’t flinch, but you see the flicker of pain in his eyes. “And you almost did.”

You nod. “I would’ve. I nearly did. But when I saw your face…” Your voice breaks, just slightly. “I couldn’t do it.”

“So this is it,” he murmurs. “The end of the road.”

You nod slowly. “If we fail, she disappears. The whole web collapses. And people like Reina, Mingyu, Jiwoo, Joshua—they’ll be hunted. You and I?” You give a faint, dry laugh. “We won’t even be worth the cleanup effort. She’ll make an example of us.”

“And if we win?”

You don’t answer him.

Seungcheol leans back against the wall again, exhaling heavily through his nose. “This is the part where I say we can still back out, isn’t it?”

You smile wryly. “That boat in Trinidad still floating?”

He chuckles—a low, humourless sound—but you’re glad to hear it.

“That cabin in the Alps is looking mighty tempting now,” he murmurs, gaze distant. “Just the two of us. Snowed in. No names. No guns.”

You lean your head back against the window, closing your eyes for a second.

He turns toward you again, one corner of his mouth twitching. “We’re idiots.”

“Mm.” You smile. “But we’re in love. That’s worse.”

The silence that follows isn’t tense. It’s… full. Weighty with all the things you aren’t saying, all the possibilities you won’t let yourself dream about right now. Your eyes meet his in the quiet—two people teetering at the edge of something neither of you can control.

No more chances after this.

No more exits.

You sit up slowly, slide the karambit back into your thigh holster, and reach for his hand.

“Till death do us part, right?” you ask, voice steady.

His eyes soften, his fingers tightening around yours like a promise.

“...and probably still after that, too,” he whispers.

The forest is silent. Still. Too still.

You and Seungcheol move like a whisper between the trees, every step calculated, every crunch of damp underbrush softened by instinct and years of experience. The canopy above shivers faintly in the wind, moonlight occasionally slashing through the leaves in silver streaks. Your gear is strapped tight to your body, weapons close. You feel your heartbeat in your throat, steady but forceful. The weight of what’s ahead presses against your ribcage like a warning.

After nearly an hour on foot, there it is.

Lim’s estate.

It rises from the forest, glass and metal shimmering faintly in the dark. But not glass—mirrors. Massive mirrored panels encase the exterior walls, reflecting the surrounding trees and sky so perfectly it makes the entire compound look like a trick of the eye. Almost invisible. Almost unreal.

You crouch down with Seungcheol behind the trunk of a fallen tree, binoculars raised. But they don’t help. The reflections are endless. No windows to see through. No weak spots. You try the thermal sensors, the electromagnetic sweeper, even the pulse radar.

Nothing. Complete blackout.

Seungcheol’s expression hardens beside you. “We’re going in blind.”

You nod once, tension coiling low in your stomach.

At least the scrambler still works. You check the signal and feel a flicker of control return. “No alarms. No cameras,” you murmur.

“But everything else?” he asks.

You meet his gaze. “We’re caught in her web now.”

Just then, movement—a silhouette rounding the west side of the compound. A guard. Walking alone, slow, almost bored. Rifle at his side. Head turning in lazy arcs.

You both recognize it instantly: your window.

You slip over the tree, bodies melting into the foliage. The air feels colder the closer you get to the structure, like something sinister is waiting. You signal. Seungcheol nods, flanking left. You go right.

The guard never sees it coming.

One swift, clean movement—your blade slicing silently, Seungcheol catching the body before it hits the ground. You both drag him into the brush and dart to the wall. A hidden side door. Seungcheol picks the lock, fast and silent, while you cover him.

The door creaks open with a soft hiss.

And then you’re in.

The compound swallows you in darkness. No overhead lights. Just muted emergency bulbs glowing red along the baseboards. The air smells faintly of bleach and expensive perfume.

Together, you move room by room—clinical hallways, offices filled with screens, empty staircases. You kill quickly, efficiently. One by one, the guards fall. They don’t scream. They don’t even know what’s happening until it’s over. You and Seungcheol sweep the entire ground floor, then the first, avoiding the glass-walled atrium and sticking to shadowed corners.

No alarms. No reinforcements. No Lim.

You’re starting to feel a strange sense of unease. Like it’s all too easy.

Then—just as your boot hits the top of the second-floor landing—it happens.

A voice rings out, smooth and cold, echoing through the speakers tucked into every corner.

“Gwisin.” You feel Seungcheol stiffen behind you. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Your body freezes. You’d thought—hoped—you were ahead. But of course not. You warned Seungcheol yourself: she’s always ten steps in front.

The silence that follows is deafening. You look down the hallway. Then, with a mechanical hiss, a door at the end slides open.

A deep, impossible darkness yawns within.

You don’t move. Neither does Seungcheol.

“Come in,” Lim’s voice purrs. “I insist.”

You glance at Seungcheol. His jaw clenches, but he nods once. No turning back now.

You move in sync, every step echoing on the polished black floors. The office is silent, save for your breathing. Then, the door shuts behind you with a hiss of finality, locking you in the dark.

And then—

Bang.

“Agh—!”

The sound of the gunshot is deafening, sharp and shocking in the enclosed space. You scream his name, reaching out, panic clawing at your throat.

“Cheol—!”

He drops beside you, groaning in pain, clutching his leg. You see the blood, dark and hot, pouring from his thigh.

“Stop.” Lim’s voice snaps, sharp now, slicing through the dark like a knife.

“He’s not dead. Yet. But if you take one more step, Gwisin, the next bullet goes through his skull.”

Your hands lift immediately. You straighten slowly, your heart thundering, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Seungcheol grabs your hand as you try to move, fingers slick with blood.

He’s trying to stay conscious. His teeth are clenched, his breathing shallow. But his eyes never leave yours.

“Don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t do this.”

You turn to Lim, face blank. “I’m here,” you say aloud, stepping forward into the dark. “I’ll play your stupid games. Just don’t touch him again.”

The lights flicker to life.

And there she is.

Madame Lim sits in the centre of the room, calm and unbothered, her white suit pristine, her legs crossed as if she were merely waiting for tea. Her hair is swept back, face emotionless, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. A table separates the chair facing hers.

Atop it: a single, silver revolver.

Your stomach drops. Lim smiles slowly.

“You remember how this works.”

You stare at the gun. At the chairs.

And for the first time in a very long time, you feel real, consuming dread curl its claws into your chest.

Russian Roulette.

And you already know—only one of you will be walking away.

Your legs carry you forward, one heavy step after the next, the sound of your boots echoing in the stillness like distant thunder. The pain in your chest doesn’t come from a wound, but it hurts just the same—coiled fury, barely contained. You can feel the heat of Seungcheol’s blood still on your hand, your breath caught somewhere between rage and terror.

The chair is waiting. Empty.

You sit slowly, your knees trembling under the weight of what you’re walking into.

Across from you, Madame Lim lounges in her seat like the queen she’s always pretended to be—composed, elegant, a portrait of detached cruelty. She eyes you with a quiet satisfaction, her red lips curling into something that’s almost… amused.

“Welcome home, darling,” she says smoothly.

You clench your jaw. The mask doesn’t slip.

“I’m here,” you say evenly. “What’s the play?”

Lim’s smirk widens. Slowly, she reaches for the revolver resting on the table between you, her delicate fingers wrapping around the cold metal like it’s a treasured artefact.

She flips it open with a practised snap, turns it so you can see—

One bullet.

She closes the chamber and spins it. The click-click-click of the revolver spinning fills the silence between you, steady and cruel.

Then she sets it down, the handle pointing to the space between you.

“Simple,” she says, voice like silk over broken glass. “We spin the revolver. Whoever the handle lands on takes the first shot. If you win, you get the pleasure of accessing my system, removing your bounty, and tearing my empire apart from the ground up… before you put a bullet through my skull.”

She pauses, lips curling.

“But if I win… I get to watch the life drain from your eyes. I get to see the anguish on Seungcheol’s face when I shoot the love of his life in front of him. Right before I kill him, too. Tragically romantic.”

Your nails dig into your thighs beneath the table, the only outward sign of how close you are to snapping. But your voice remains even.

“You forget I need you alive to access your system. So this is a waste of time. I lose no matter what.”

Lim tuts, rising gracefully from her chair. “Oh no, darling. Quite the contrary.”

She walks toward the far side of the room, the hem of her white suit jacket swaying with each precise step. You glance behind you just once—Seungcheol still lies on the ground, bleeding, pale, but breathing. His eyes find yours, and the look there nearly unravels you.

You turn back to Lim just in time to see her approach her desk and pull out a sleek black laptop.

She returns, sets it down beside the revolver with exaggerated care, and slowly opens it. The screen glows to life. One by one, she performs the biometric logins—retinal, fingerprint, and voice. Just like Kang had.

Then she leans back, smug. “Now, you don’t need me alive anymore.”

You stare at her. And she stares right back, the game finally unfolding, the trap finally sprung.

“Let’s begin,” she says softly.

She takes the revolver, gives it a spin again, and when it stops—

The handle points directly at you.

You inhale deeply, picking it up. The weight of it is intimate and horrifying all at once. One in six. You press it to your temple, finger tightening on the trigger.

Click.

Nothing. Lim smiles, pleased. You slide the revolver across the table.

She picks it up gracefully and points it to her own head, never blinking, never breaking eye contact.

Click.

Still nothing. Your turn again.

You pick it up, ignoring the burn in your lungs, the sweat forming at the back of your neck. Lim is watching you with that same gleaming hunger.

“You always were weak,” she says. “Falling in love. Letting yourself care. You would’ve ruled this world, Gwisin, if you hadn’t gone soft.”

You ignore her. Gun to your temple.

Click.

You breathe out slowly, chest tight. She snatches it next, almost eagerly, her voice rising.

“You should’ve killed him. He was never worth it. Do you know how pathetic you look, crawling around for a man who’d bleed out for you? Do you think he’ll survive this anyway? Or do you just want someone to cry over your corpse?”

Gun raised.

Click.

Still nothing. Now you know. This is it.

If you get the bullet, it’s over. If not—you win.

She leans forward, taunting, her voice a venomous hiss now.

“He’s not going to make it. You’ve already lost, darling. Look at him—pale, dying, weak. Just like your resolve. Like your entire rebellion. You could’ve chosen me. But instead, you’re nothing more than a wife in mourning.”

You cut her off, hand closing around the gun mid-sentence. Her mouth stills, eyes flicking downward as you lift it once more. You don’t speak. You don’t blink. You just pull the trigger.

Click.

Silence. Everything stops. You don’t move. She doesn’t move.

Because that was the fifth shot.

And everyone in the room knows what that means.

The sixth belongs to her.

She smiles—slow, awful, the knowing kind of smile that monsters wear in their final moments.

You gently place the revolver back down, never looking away as you pick up the laptop. You pull the flash drive from your pocket with a trembling hand and plug it in.

Lines of code scroll by. You follow Reina’s instructions to the letter.

The virus deploys.

One by one, every trace of the bounty system begins to dismantle itself. Files corrupt. Names disappear. Targets are wiped clean. You check twice, then a third time. It’s done.

You press one final command, and the entire system shuts down.

No more empires. No more Lim.

Your victory tastes like ash.

You stand slowly, refusing to look at her, and turn toward the man on the floor.

“Cheol…” you whisper, approaching him softly.

That’s when it happens.

“Sorry, darling,” Lim purrs. “Can’t let you win.”

Bang.

You freeze. But the pain never comes.

The thud of a body hitting the floor echoes behind you. And when you turn— She’s there.

Madame Lim.

Shot through the chest.

Seungcheol’s pistol clatters to the ground beside him, his arm falling limp.

He’s panting, eyes fluttering, drained from the blood loss and effort it took to raise the weapon. But he did it. He saved you. Again.

“No— no, no, no, baby, stay with me—”

You scramble to him, sliding to the floor, pressing your hands hard against his thigh. Blood oozes between your fingers. You tear at your shirt, using the fabric to make a quick tourniquet above the wound.

His skin is clammy. Pale.

“Don’t do this to me,” you plead, voice cracking. “Don’t you dare go quiet now, Choi Seungcheol.”

He tries to speak, but no words come out. His eyes close.

“NO!” you scream, pressing harder, doing everything you can to keep him tethered to you. “Stay awake. Please. I can’t— I can’t lose you now.”

You grab your comms, tears streaking down your face.

“Reina! Mingyu! Jiwoo! Anyone!” you cry into the mic. “He’s down—he’s hit! We need extraction now—NOW!”

Static. Then Reina’s voice breaks through, panicked but focused.

“We’re on our way. Hold on. Just hold on.”

You sob, forehead pressed to his as you hold the wound with both hands.

“You promised me,” you whisper. “You said even after death, remember? So don’t you dare let go. Stay. You stay with me.”

The Caribbean sun beats down from a cloudless sky, the wind gentle as it dances through the sails of the boat that floats lazily just off the coast of Trinidad. Seagulls cry in the distance, their wings cutting through the heat as waves lap softly against the hull. The air tastes like salt, and stillness, and peace. For once, the world is quiet.

You lay stretched across a sun-bleached lounge chair on the deck, skin warm, drink sweating in your hand. A lazy breeze rolls over your bare stomach, ruffling your hair. Sunglasses shield your eyes, but you’re not really looking at anything. Just the endless blue horizon.

It’s been six months.

Six months since the compound. Six months since Madame Lim fell. Since you screamed into the comms for someone—anyone—to come and save the man bleeding out in your arms.

And now—this. The boat. His boat.

The one he joked about right before you came up with that ridiculous plan to take on your bosses. The mythical exit plan. A sailboat docked and waiting off the coast of Trinidad for a day that might never come. But it did come.

You take another sip of your drink and close your eyes.

The sun presses hot against your skin. Your breathing slows.

Then— A creak of wood.

Bare feet padding across the deck.

You don’t bother opening your eyes. You know who it is.

Reina’s voice floats out from the cabin, bright and amused. “I swear, this place is turning me into a whole new woman.”

You lift your sunglasses to peer at her. She emerges wearing a bikini that somehow manages to be both functional and designer, two fresh cocktails in her hands.

She walks over and hands you one before plopping down in the chair beside yours with a content sigh.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

The boat rocks gently, and the sea stretches out in all directions.

Reina swirls her drink, then glances at you. “You know,” she says softly, “Seungcheol was onto something, keeping this boat stashed away.”

You smile, a slow curve of your lips. There’s something bittersweet in it.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “He definitely was.”

The silence between you shifts. Not heavy, not sad. Just full. You both sit with it. With the past. With what you lost. With what you kept.

Then—

“Is that how you talk about me when I’m not around?”

The voice cuts through the stillness like lightning. Familiar. Deep. Teasing.

A shadow moves at the stern of the boat.

Then, emerging from the water with a grin and a sun-drenched gleam in his eyes—

Seungcheol.

Shirtless, drenched, water trailing down his broad chest. His swimming trunks cling to his hips. His hair is dark and wet, pushed back by the sea. His towel is slung casually over one shoulder, and his smile—lazy, wicked, alive—makes your heart skip.

The scar on his leg is visible, faint against his tan skin. He walks with a slight limp still, but he’s upright. Strong. Getting better every day.

You stare, lips parted in a grin that spreads like a sunrise across your face. “You’re supposed to warn a girl before you sneak back on deck.”

He approaches, towel-drying his face, and when he leans over, he kisses you. Softly. Warmly. His lips linger, just long enough to remind you that this—he—is real.

“I heard you talking shit,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You laugh, brushing your fingers through his damp hair. “You heard wrong.”

He slides into the space beside you, pulling your legs gently over his lap, his hand resting casually on your thigh like it belongs there. Because it does.

“When are you coming in for a swim?” he asks, nudging you with a grin. “Water’s perfect.”

“When I feel like it,” you reply, tipping your glass toward him with a lazy clink.

Reina groans. “Ugh. You two are disgusting.”

You and Seungcheol both smirk, not even bothering to deny it.

The three of you laugh, and for a moment, everything is light.

Beep.

A sound breaks from the cabin. Muffled. Sharp. Urgent.

Your heart stutters.

You’re on your feet in an instant. So is Seungcheol. Both of you race below deck, Reina on your heels. You slide into the cabin, heart already pounding in your chest.

There it is.

You recognize it immediately. One of your old encrypted devices, the ones you used when Lim & Associates was still in operation, the one on which your bounties arrived.

You reach for it, hands steady despite the fear unfurling in your gut.

The screen flickers to life. Code scrolls. Then—

A name.

Target: Kim Mingyu.

Alias: Fireball.

Bounty: 3 Million.

Your blood turns to ice.

Seungcheol reads it beside you, lips parting in disbelief. “What…”

Reina appears in the doorway, eyes wide. “What’s going on?”

You turn the screen toward her.

She sees the name. And freezes.

“What the hell did that idiot do now?”

A/N: Andddd, it's here! After how much you guys seemed to love part one, I couldn't not write this second part. Hope you all enjoyed the rollercoaster that was Gwisin and S.Coups. Are you ready for the second storyline? 👀💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

416 notes · View notes

pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language.

Notes — Welcome to the Radio Silence universe! This chapter is mainly devoted to introducing Amelia as a character, but does have a bit of Lando in it too! Hope you love it.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2018

Amelia Brown stared at the new plaque on her dad’s office door.

Zak Brown, CEO of McLaren Racing.

She hated it.

Not because she wasn’t proud of him. Of course she was — her dad was brilliant, and he’d worked for years to get that title. It made sense. It was logical.

But the words looked wrong. Off-balance. Too sharp.

The old plaque had been there for years. Zak Brown, Executive Director of McLaren Technology Group. She knew the exact spacing of the letters, the way the light hit the brushed metal in the afternoon. She’d memorised it without meaning to. It had become part of the hallway, part of the routine. Safe.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, fingers twitching at her sides.

It wasn’t just a new title. It was everything.

The MTC felt different now. The air had a new kind of buzz to it — louder, sharper. People looked at her differently, talked to her like she was someone else entirely. Like being the CEO’s daughter had changed her, too.

The rules had changed, and no one had told her what the new ones were.

—

Her father had been a Formula One fan for as long as she could remember.

V10 engines were her lullaby as a baby; the high-pitched scream of them a strange kind of comfort. Over time, the sound had settled into her nervous system, familiar and grounding.

By the time she was eight, she couldn’t fall asleep without it. Old races playing softly on the TV, the steady rhythm of the commentators’ voices, the roar of the engines, the tension winding through each lap.

One night, when she was ten, the power had gone out during a storm. No TV. No white noise. Just silence and the wind scraping at the windows.

She’d curled up in her bed, fists pressed tight against her ears, trying not to cry.

Then came footsteps in the hallway. Steady. Familiar.

Her dad’s voice followed, soft but certain. “Hey, kiddo. Got something for you.”

He stepped into her room with a dusty old laptop under one arm and a tangle of wires in the other.

Ten minutes later, her princess-themed bedroom was filled with the warm flicker of a grainy screen. The 2005 Japanese Grand Prix. One of her favourites.

She knew the race by heart. Raikkonen’s last-lap pass on Fisichella, the way Alonso danced through the field like he could see gaps before they even opened. She mouthed the commentators’ lines without realising, her breathing slowly syncing with the rhythm of the engine notes.

Her dad didn’t say anything. He just sat on the floor beside her bed, legs stretched out, back against the wall, holding the laptop steady for her to see.

Eight years later, Amelia thought about that night a lot.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew what Formula One had meant to her dad before she was even born. But somewhere along the line, it had become more than just his dream. It had become theirs.

For Amelia, it wasn’t just a sport. It was everything.

Formula One was her special interest; the thing that clicked in her brain in a way nothing else ever had. The stats, the strategy, the evolution of car design, the sound of a perfectly timed downshift… it all made sense when so much of the world didn’t.

It gave her a framework, a rhythm, a language that felt natural.

While other kids played games she didn’t understand, she memorised engine configurations. While teachers scolded her for “zoning out,” she was mentally replaying the 2002 Brazilian Grand Prix, lap by lap.

She could list every World Champion from 1950 onward before she could properly tie her shoes. At recess, when the others were pretending to be superheroes or princesses, she was mapping out imaginary circuits in the dirt with a stick, narrating races in her head with full commentary — down to the tire strategies and pit stop windows.

She tried sharing her passion with her peers, once.

In third grade, she’d brought a die-cast model of a 1998 McLaren MP4/13 to class for sharing time. She’d practised what she was going to say all night, rehearsed the facts in front of the mirror until the words felt smooth. Recited the specs; V10 engine, Adrian Newey’s aerodynamic innovations, Mika Häkkinen’s championship run, over and over.

But when she stood in front of the class, the words tumbled out too fast, too detailed, too much. She was halfway through explaining the brake-steer controversy when a boy in the front row yawned so loudly it echoed, and someone in the back let out a snort-laugh that made her ears burn.

After that, she stopped trying.

Except with her dad.

With him, she never had to translate. She could go on about tire compounds or telemetry data or how ridiculous it was that certain drivers still didn’t know how to defend a corner, and he never told her to slow down or “talk normal.” He just nodded, asked questions, matched her pace.

They didn’t need eye contact or hugs or long emotional talks. They had race weekends. They had side-by-side silence on the couch, watching onboards and live timing feeds. They had post-race debriefs at the kitchen table over scrambled eggs, like it was the most natural thing in the world for an eight-year-old to have such strong opinions about power unit reliability.

It was how they communicated. Racing was their shared language.

Her mom didn’t get it; not really. The noise overwhelmed her. The rules confused her. She once referred to Sebastian Vettel as “the one with the baby face and the weird flag thing,” and Amelia had almost burst into flames on the spot.

But she tried.

She printed out colouring sheets of cars when Amelia was little, even though she could already draw them from memory. She learned to set the TV volume just right; high enough for Amelia to hear the engines clearly, low enough not to overwhelm her. She made snacks on race days and never once complained when qualifying ran late into the night.

Her mom didn’t understand the obsession. But she understood Amelia.

—

Amelia walked into her dad’s office and froze, staring at the shelf lined with trophies, framed photos, and mementos from his years in motorsport. It had been that way for months now, ever since he’d taken the CEO position at McLaren, and every time she had to look at it, her ears burned.

Because the items on the shelf were never in the right order.

The memorabilia was all haphazardly placed; drivers she didn’t like sitting too close to ones she admired. There were racing helmets, but the scale didn’t make sense; one was huge, another tiny, a third just slightly off-centre.

There were photos, too, of her dad with the team, with Fernando Alonso, with the McLaren execs, but none of them were lined up properly.

The shelf, she thought, should be perfect. But it wasn’t.

Reaching up, she slid the first photo frame to the right, just enough to make it parallel with the others. Then the helmet, she shifted it slightly, aligning it with the edge of the shelf.

One by one, she adjusted the frames, the objects, the odd little pieces of her dad’s world that had once felt like a steady part of her life.

She wasn’t sure why it was bothering her so much today. Maybe it was the way everything felt out of sync.

When she reached the second shelf, she noticed a small figure of a car. A McLaren MP4/4. Her dad had given it to her when she was younger, one of the few gifts he’d ever picked out himself. She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the model before she set it down exactly in the middle of the shelf, just below the first row of photos.

For a very brief moment, it was perfect.

Just a small fix. A temporary escape from the feeling that everything else was slipping out of her grasp.

“Wow. Looks much better.”

Amelia tensed at the sound of her dad’s voice from the doorway.

She hadn’t heard him come in. For a moment, she considered turning on her heel and leaving the room, pretending she hadn’t touched anything. But her dad was already smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He didn’t look upset. He never did; that was the problem. She could never tell how he was really feeling because his face always stayed the same. It was like his expressions were stuck, and no matter how hard she tried to figure it out, she couldn’t read him. It made it hard to know if he was happy, worried, or anything at all. Everything just felt... flat.

“You know,” he continued, stepping further into the room, his hands in his pockets, “I’ve never been great at this stuff. Never really noticed how... messy things can get in here. But I guess you’ve got a better eye for it than I do.”

Amelia couldn’t help but feel a small rush of pride.

She nodded quietly, her gaze flicking back to the shelf. There was a strange sense of uncertainty creeping in, though. “Is it still okay, though?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “I mean... Does it still... feel like yours?”

Her dad glanced at her, then back at the shelf, his smile fading just a little. “Yeah,” he said after a long beat. “It still feels like me. And it’s you, too, right? Made you feel better to change things up a bit?”

She just stared at him, unsure how to answer that.

He stepped closer, running a hand through his hair. "I know things feel... different now. I guess I'm still getting used to it, too," he admitted quietly. "But it’s still... McLaren. It's still our world, kiddo."

Amelia’s stomach clenched. She wanted to say more, but the words wouldn’t come. She only nodded, her gaze travelling back to the perfectly aligned shelf.

Her dad placed a hand on her shoulder, his thumb brushing over her skin like a quiet reassurance. She made a small noise of discomfort. He paused, and then tightened his grip. So tight it might make a normal person wince. It just made Amelia let out a relieved breath of air, the pressure good, good, good.

It wasn’t that she hated touch, it was just that it had to be right, had to be just the right amount of force, of contact. Too light, and it felt like nothing at all. Too much, and she’d start to feel overwhelmed, like the weight of the world was pressing in. But this... this was perfect. His hand, firm on her shoulder, grounded her in a way nothing else could.

“Thanks for tidying up,” he said, his voice low but sincere. “I think I might leave it just like this for a while. Feels... good.”

She nodded, the pressure of his hand still there, steady, and it was like she could finally breathe again.

—

The McLaren pit garages smelled of oil and rubber. The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly, and she could still hear them even through the noise-cancelling headphones on her ears. Amelia moved through the space quietly, sharp eyes scanning the flurry of engineers, tire changers, and data specialists working with practiced urgency. Her hands were clasped behind her back, fingers pressed tight against her palms, and her gaze flicked between the monitors, the car, and the teams as they hustled to prepare the MCL33 for its next session.

Her favourite part was always the data. The telemetry displayed on the screens had a rhythm, a language that felt like it belonged to her more than anyone else. The raw numbers, the graphs, the fine-tuned fluctuations of the car’s performance; it all made perfect sense. She knew what to look for.

Her feet carried her forward. She found herself standing near Fernando Alonso’s MCL33, just a few feet away. The car was a beautiful mess of carbon fiber, heat shields, and wires, and it was just sat there, like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

Before the season had even started, Amelia had memorised every part of it, from the aerodynamic tweaks to the engine specs.

One of the engineers noticed her as she lingered, her posture attentive, her expression unreadable beneath the headphones. Everyone knew who she was. Zac’s daughter. A genius, in a multitude of ways.

He approached cautiously, not wanting to startle her. He’d noticed how her eyes narrowed when too many voices clashed together at once, or how she shrunk when people got just that little bit too close.

"Hey, Amelia," he said, his voice calm, not wanting to intrude. She turned toward him, her face still slightly blank, but he could tell by the way her eyes focused on his that she had heard him. “You good?” he asked, motioning toward the telemetry screens just behind her.

Amelia nodded, then hesitated. Her hand hovered for a second before she slowly, cautiously pointed at the screen. Her voice, when it came, was quiet, careful. “I... I think the tire pressures on the front left might be a little too high for this circuit. The temperatures are different compared to last year.”

She didn’t look at the engineer as she spoke. Her eyes stayed fixed on the data, like if she focused hard enough, she could disappear into it. She knew she was right, she was almost always right when it came to this, but the memory of past times, of laughter or dismissal, tugged at the edge of her confidence. She didn’t want to make it sound like she thought she knew more than the team. She didn’t even have a degree.

The engineer just blinked. “I’ll pass it along,” he said, eventually.

Amelia gave a small nod, then quickly turned her focus back to the car, to the numbers flicking past on the monitors. She adjusted her posture slightly, shoulders curling inward, trying to take up less space.

As she focused on the intricate lines of the MCL33, another engineer approached her. He was holding a tablet with a telemetry feed of his own, and without speaking, he offered it to her. Amelia looked at the data for a long moment, her eyes narrowing as she absorbed the figures and readouts. Then, her finger gently traced over the tablet’s screen, pointing to a particularly complex graph of the car’s acceleration over the course of a lap.

“Right there,” she said, her voice soft but clear, though it was a bit muffled by the headphones. "You need to adjust the mapping."

The engineer hummed, impressed but not surprised. “I’ll have the team look into it,” he said, before turning to relay her suggestion to the others.

Her dad was always there, of course, close, watching from a distance, his presence a quiet comfort. But Amelia didn’t need him right now. She just needed the machines, the numbers, and the freedom to study it all.

The engineers moved around her, respecting her space. Always careful not to brush against her, even though she was technically in their way.

When she finally did look up from the data screens, Fernando had stepped into the garage, just a few feet away, in his racing suit, helmet tucked under one arm. He glanced at her, then at the engineers who were quietly working around her.

He approached with a calm, easy presence that didn’t press too hard, didn’t demand anything. “Ah. How is the car feeling, pollita?” he asked, voice light but kind.

Amelia gave a small nod, gaze trained on the Spanish flag on the neck of his fireproofs.

Fernando smiled. Then he turned to the engineers, who were already passing along her observations.

“If she said it,” he said, tone warm and without a trace of doubt, “then yes—keep an eye on the turbo mapping. She is the smart one.”

—

She walked around the paddock often. The garages were fun —fascinating, even— but it could all very quickly become too much. The noise, the flashing lights, the overlapping voices, the sudden bursts of motion.

So she’d slip away. Not far. Just enough.

There was always a McLaren staff member trailing after her. Not hovering, not bothering, just keeping a quiet distance. Just far enough to give her the illusion of independence, a false sense of freedom she chose to believe in. She didn’t mind. As long as they didn’t try to talk, or worse, touch, she could almost ignore them entirely.

She wandered with a purpose that only made sense to her, eyes fixed ahead, headphones still on, the rest of the world muted and manageable. She liked it that way. The paddock, in the quiet bubble of her own world, was peaceful.

That’s when she spotted him.

Lewis Hamilton stood just outside the Mercedes hospitality suite, sunglasses perched on his nose. Roscoe was with him, tail wagging lazily, nose in something that probably smelled like food. Amelia stopped walking, blinked a few times, then changed direction.

Lewis noticed her before she got too close. He smiled, lowering his sunglasses slightly. “Hey, Amelia,” he said, crouching a little as Roscoe trotted forward to sniff her shoes. “Been a while. You good?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she crouched carefully, reaching a hand out to Roscoe but not touching him until the dog pressed his nose into her palm. Only then did she give a tiny nod.

Lewis waited, patient. He was always nice like that.

“How’s Roscoe?” she asked finally, her voice soft and low. One time, somebody told her that she spoke like she wasn’t sure she had permission to do so. Always quiet. Mumbling, if she could get away with it.

Lewis just smiled, warmth radiating in that easy way of his. She liked Lewis a lot. “He’s good. Living his best life. Had a spa day last week. He’s spoiled.”

Amelia looked at the bulldog again, and her tight jaw felt softer. “Good.”

There was a pause. She didn’t move, didn’t say much, but she didn’t walk away either.

“You ever want to walk him sometime, just ask,” Lewis offered, still crouched.

Amelia looked up, eyes wide, the corners of her mouth twitching in what might have been the start of a smile. She gave a small nod.

Then she stood, gave Roscoe one last pat, and turned to leave.

The McLaren staffer fell into step a few paces behind her, still pretending not to be watching too closely.

Amelia looked down at her hand. Grimaced.

Her chest tightened. The feeling started crawling up her skin.

“I need sanitiser,” she said, voice rushed and clipped, a little too loud, a little too sharp. Her hands hovered awkwardly in front of her like she didn’t want to touch anything, even herself.

The staffer blinked once, then immediately fished a small bottle from his pocket and offered it to her without a word.

Amelia snatched it quickly, not too fast, not rude, she told herself, and squeezed a dollop into her palm. She rubbed it in with fast, focused movements. Between every finger. Around every nail. Up her wrists. Twice.

Only when the last of it had dried, leaving that slightly tacky residue behind, did her shoulders drop. The tension in her jaw loosened. The hum in her head began to fade.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes. She turned back toward the paddock walkway, pressing her clean hands flat against the sides of her jeans, grounding herself in the texture.

—

The MTC’s glass corridors were quiet, filled with the soft echo of Amelia’s footsteps. She liked walking here early in the mornings, before the building filled with noise and movement. The lines were clean, the light was even, and everything had its place.

She turned a corner and nearly collided with someone moving fast; backwards, clumsily trying to zip up his hoodie while juggling an apple and his phone.

Lando Norris. FIA Formula 2 championship runner-up, member of the McLaren Young Driver Programme, widely considered one of the brightest rising stars in motorsport. She knew all of this about him.

He skidded to a stop when he saw her, eyes widening slightly. “Oh, hey. Sorry. Didn’t see you.”

Amelia stared at him for a beat, saying nothing.

“You’re late,” she said plainly.

Lando blinked, then gave a sheepish grin. “Yeah. Kinda running behind this morning. Slept through my alarm. Happens sometimes.”

She tilted her head, studying him like he was part of a data set, eyes narrowed into thin slits. “You’ll never get promoted if you’re always late.”

The words came out blunt, matter-of-fact. She wasn’t trying to be rude, just honest. Patterns mattered. Timings mattered. Discipline mattered. Racing was full of rules, and being late was not acceptable.

Lando laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Oh. Uh—do you really think I won’t get promoted?”

Amelia didn’t answer right away. She studied him, eyes narrowing slightly, not in judgment but in analysis. She was already calculating, recalling his lap times, consistency, tyre management, race-craft under pressure. She’d watched his F2 season. Not just watched; studied it. He was aggressive under braking, a little rough on tyres mid-stint, but his spatial awareness was excellent, and his adaptability in changing conditions put him in the top percentile.

He was a good fit for McLaren, in her opinion.

“Are you fast?” She asked him, despite already knowing the answer.

Lando blinked. Let out a short, awkward laugh. “Yeah. I mean, I think so.”

She nodded once, satisfied. “Then you’ll be fine.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her stride quick and purposeful, the conversation already filed away in her mind, concluded.

Lando stood there for a second, caught off guard. Smart. Intense. Kind of pretty, too. But brutal. “Right,” he muttered to himself, watching her go. “Cool. Fast. Got it.”

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on her bed in her family home in England, the room quiet except for the electrical hum of her phone charger. Her mom was downstairs, making chilli for dinner, and her dad was still at the office.

She was scrolling through Twitter, quietly, methodically, as she did most evenings. She didn’t get involved much. A few retweets here and there. Articles, stats, insights. She had a good number of followers, mostly people who’d seen her on race broadcasts or encountered her race-day tweets.

But then, her thumb hovered. Lando Norris had tweeted earlier that day. She followed him, of course. She followed every McLaren adjacent account.

She clicked on his profile.

She knew him. Had obviously studied his race-craft.

She scrolled through his timeline, her eyes tracking his tweets one by one.

"Is it just me or does everyone have a friend who thinks they know how to cook but really just know how to burn toast? 😂"

Amelia blinked. She didn’t get it. Was that supposed to be funny? She wasn’t sure that incompetence was amusing.

She continued scrolling, her eyes scanning through the odd mix of jokes, memes, and race-day updates. None of it made any sense. She was used to tweets that were precise, purposeful — like her own. Her posts were methodical, always carefully planned, always factual. Data, analysis, insights. It was how she communicated with the world.

Another tweet.

“Just watched a documentary on the moon landing. Now I’m convinced I could be an astronaut. 😂”

Amelia frowned. There was no mention of racing, no insights into strategy, no talk of lap times or tire degradation. Just... this. She scrolled past it quickly, her thumb moving with a steady rhythm as she returned to her own timeline, where everything was neatly laid out, logical, and to the point.

Maybe she should talk to Lando about using his social media more usefully. After all, he already had such a large following. He could share insights, data, something valuable for his fans. He was a professional driver, for goodness' sake. It could be a way to connect with people, educate them, make them appreciate the intricacies of racing in the same way that she did.

She bit her lip, feeling a small knot form in her stomach. She wasn’t sure if she could just tell him to change. That would be... strange. Maybe even rude.

Two hours later, Amelia sat at the dinner table, poking at her food absentmindedly. Her mom was talking about her day at work, but Amelia wasn’t really listening.

Her dad, always quick to pick up on when something wasn’t right, glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on in that head of yours, kiddo?”

Amelia hesitated for a moment, rolling the words around in her mouth. She wasn’t sure why it was bothering her so much, but the thought of Lando’s Twitter kept circling in her mind, unresolved. “Lando Norris is a terrible tweeter. He needs a social media manager.”

Her dad stared at her for a beat, then burst out laughing. “Ah, that’s just Lando! Fans love him for it. He’s... unpredictable, keeps everyone guessing. People follow him because they like seeing the real him. Jokes and all.”

Amelia didn’t find anything about this situation funny.

She fiddled with her food, the tension in her chest tightening. Why did nobody seem as concerned about this as she was?

Lando was good. A good racer. A worthy driver.

Late. He was always late. He could fix that, though.

Fix, fix, fix.

She clenched her hands in her lap, staring at her plate, her thoughts spinning.

Her mom set her fork down, leaning forward slightly. “Amelia, is it really bothering you, honey?”

Amelia’s gaze snapped up, her eyes wide. “Yes! I don’t understand it. He could be doing so much more—he’s just... joking around all the time. He never posts about his telemetry or his tests. It’s such a waste!”

Her mom nodded patiently. “That’s what you would post about?” she asked, her tone gentle.

Amelia nodded, feeling her thoughts settle into place. “Yes. It’s all there, the numbers, the data. It shows his skills. It’s... more useful.”

Her dad hummed thoughtfully. “I could have a chat with him. Tell him to post more of his racing stats. They are impressive. But I won’t tell him to stop being himself. That’s working well for his image.”

Amelia wrung her hands together under the table, taking small, even breaths. It helped calm her, but the unease was still there.

“I think…” she started, her voice softer now, the edges of her frustration ebbing away. “He is a good racer.”

Her dad smiled at her, a little amused. “You care about his success, huh? Well, that’s sweet.”

Amelia nodded. Then she frowned. Sweet? Why was that sweet? She cared about the success of all the drivers in her dad’s team… not just Lando.

Her mom reached across the table and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re not the only one who wants him to do well, honey. But maybe let him be him. It’s working for him in his own way, even if it’s not how you’d do it.”

Amelia hummed thoughtfully, picking up her fork. She liked chilli. It was comforting. Simple. Consistent.

She missed the look her parents shared — half concerned, half understanding.

—

Fernando would leave Formula One at the end of the 2018 season.

Amelia didn’t know how to feel about it, or if she should feel anything at all. The news came as a whisper first; just a passing comment she overheard in the MTC, a conversation between her dad and one of the engineers. At first, it didn’t seem real. Fernando had been a fixture of the sport for as long as she could remember. The idea of Formula One without him felt... wrong. He wasn’t just another driver; he was Fernando.

And then, one afternoon, her dad sat her down in his office and confirmed what she had been dreading.

Fernando was leaving.

She found herself pacing around the house, her mind spiralling as she thought about the future of F1 without him in it.

He’d always been so nice to her, letting her into his garage whenever she wanted, no questions asked. There was never any judgment in his eyes when she stared at data screens for hours or rambled on about telemetry. He just... let her be.

He had understood her in a way few people ever did.

She would miss him.

—

Lando Norris and Carlos Sainz. 2019 McLaren Driver Line-up.

She’d expected it. She knew it was coming. Fernando was leaving. So was Stoffel. She’d already processed that. But somehow, seeing it laid out in front of her, seeing it confirmed in black and white, made it feel much more real.

Her dad had sat her down earlier on in the month, his voice soft but steady. He’d said it was a new chapter for McLaren, a step in the right direction.

She put the phone down, the buzzing of it faint in her ears, and stared ahead. The news sat like a heavy weight in her chest. Lando and Carlos. McLaren’s new driver pairing.

—

iMessage — Lewis Hamilton & Amelia Brown

Amelia Brown

I would like to see a photo of Roscoe.

Lewis Hamilton

*insert photograph of Roscoe*

You doing okay, kiddo? Lots of changes happening over there at McLaren.

Amelia Brown

I am fine.

Lewis Hamilton

You're always welcome at Mercedes if you need a breather, yeah?

Toto thinks very highly of you.

Amelia Brown

Because I am so smart?

Lewis Hamilton

Exactly.

—

Amelia sat in the kitchen, scrolling through Twitter as she sipped her coffee. Her nineteenth birthday had come and gone, quietly, without much fanfare.

Her gaze drifted across the screen.

Lando had posted something that caught her attention.

"Why do I feel like I need a vacation, but I also can't leave my bed?"

Amelia blinked at the tweet, trying to make sense of it. She tilted her head, her fingers hesitating over the keyboard. She didn’t understand. Was he… hurt? Why couldn’t he leave his bed? He was supposed to be racing a Formula One car in a matter of months.

With a worried sigh, she typed out a simple response to his tweet.

What does this mean?

She hit send and waited.

A few minutes later, Lando replied.

It’s just one of those random thoughts. You know, like when you’re too comfortable but you also want to escape, but you don’t really? Classic conundrum lol

Amelia stared at the reply, processing it slowly.

She... still didn’t get it. Why would anyone want to leave a comfortable bed just to go somewhere else?

She frowned at the screen for a moment, her eyes scanning the thread, and then she noticed the replies.

“Lando is so sweet to explain it! 💕”

“Aw, he’s always so patient with everyone ❤️”

Amelia’s brows furrowed. Sweet? Patient? She didn’t understand. He was just explaining himself and his terrible analogy. Had nobody else been confused?

She stared at the replies for a moment longer, the confusion deepening. It felt like there was something she was missing.

She felt a small twist of discomfort, the kind she always got when emotions felt too complicated, too layered.

Amelia clicked away from the thread, unsure what to do with the strange tugging sensation that lingered in her chest.

—

That night, Amelia sat on the edge of her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest. She glanced over at her mom, who was measuring her bedroom window. Amelia had asked for black-out blinds, now that the days were getting brighter again.

“When my chest gets tight— and I’m thinking about somebody, and then I see other people saying nice things about them... and it gets, um, uncomfortable— what does that mean?”

Her mom paused, turning to face her. “Well. It can be a lot of things, honey. Depends on the person. Maybe you’re feeling protective, or it could be jealousy. Sometimes, we can feel a lot of emotions physically, and they don’t always have to make sense.”

Amelia blinked, feeling something stir inside her that she couldn’t quite name. The word felt almost too big to say. “Jealousy?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her mom nodded, sitting down next to her. “Jealousy isn’t always bad. It’s just a feeling. Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Amelia’s mind spun. The word echoed in her head, uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

Jealousy.

Something about it seemed to fit.

NEXT CHAPTER

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ddarker-dreams · 4 months ago

Text

A Deal's a Deal II.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, descriptions of anxiety and emotional/mental manipulation. Word count: 4.1k.

You met Chrollo at an old hole-in-the-wall bookstore that housed archaic texts.

There was little information on your condition, but what material did exist hid itself beneath allegory and ciphers. The best leads came from high strangeness circles. They expanded on Jung’s concept of the collective unconscious, drawing parallels between historical records across cultures and periods that all implied some system that transcended physical limitations. Whether it came from alchemists like Paracelsus, mystics like Crowley, or authors like William Blake, hints of this system can be found sprinkled throughout history.

Chrollo informed you that this system is commonly called ‘Nen.’

Before him, the nomenclature eluded you. You simply regarded it as a phenomenon best kept to yourself. The world’s a weird place, filled with inexplicable things that the human mind can’t always comprehend. This handheld device, which you nicknamed Instant Replay, is the foremost example.

You were always aware that you knew things you shouldn’t have. As a child, it perplexed you. Why do people sometimes sound weird? A few trips to the audiologist proved your hearing is perfectly fine. When this avenue didn’t provide answers, you ended up in counseling, where you reenacted the dilemma with dolls. For a while, you insisted that what you heard was real. It frustrated you to no end that the adults in your life either dismissed you or offered bromides.

As an adult yourself in the present, you can’t blame them for being at a loss.

You smartened up eventually. What you once blabbed about to anyone who would listen, you kept to yourself. This eased the tensions at home. Your parents seemed happy that the issue had ‘resolved’ itself and you maintained the illusion. Playing pretending could only do so much — the core problem remained. Your mind made the connection that when another was being dishonest, that’s when their voice would sound strange. After you realize that, there’s no going back. The epiphany changed how you interacted with others for better and for worse.

“You want to get rid of your ability?” he sounded surprised when he asked.

“How could I not?” you replied. “People lie… a lot. Friends, family, strangers. And, okay, that might not seem bad, but imagine always being aware of it. It— It eats away at you. Wears down your ability to trust. I have to act like I’m none the wiser, knowing full well someone just lied to my face. I don’t want to know! I’m tired of knowing!”

“You’re unable to control when it’s active?”

“Instant Replay lets me ‘review’ audio, both in real-time and after it’s been recorded. I have control over the latter, but that’s it.”

Your antagonistic relationship with Nen fascinated Chrollo. According to him, most people were intentional when it came to crafting their Hatsu. There are very few cases like yours where Hatsu is subconsciously given shape and form. You wish your subconscious had created something more useful, like a sword. That would’ve been cool.

“Could I learn a new ability to oust Instant Replay?” you wondered.

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way,” Chrollo dismissed. “In theory, it is possible to learn different abilities, although your inexperience would make that difficult. There’s no way to erase an ability either. You can, however, lose access to it. For instance, there’s my predicament, or…”

He leaned in close and whispered:

“... Someone could steal it.”

Chrollo looks out of place in your apartment.

It’s a cozy, lived-in space, full of trinkets that he thoughtfully examines as if he were in the Louvre. Meanwhile, you prepare two cups of tea. Chamomile with honey for you and Earl Grey for him. After setting the timer for five minutes, you realize there’s not much else to do but wait. The silence is unusual and unnerving. Anticipation thrums through the air like an electric current. You feel it coursing through your blood; tingling along your skin.

The barstool you’ve chosen as your perch groans against the wooden floor as you pull it out.

Chrollo picks up a picture for closer inspection. You crane your neck, curious about which snapshot captured his attention. It’s from a night out with friends. Empty plates and drinks littered the table and each of you crowded in close to fit into frame. Since the restaurant was high-end, you were dolled up, adorned in an outfit that rarely saw the light of day.

“Swarovski?” He sounds amused.

“I’ve been known to splurge on the occasion,” you huff. “The necklace was on sale and the earrings were—”

You cut yourself off, although you’re unsure why. It shouldn’t be a taboo topic. Nonetheless, beneath the weight of his gaze, you couldn’t get the word out.

“—From an ex?” He offers.

You nod.

He returns the picture to its proper place, a cryptic smile on his lips. “So even you aren’t above materialistic impulses, hm?”

“There’s a difference between rampant consumerism and buying yourself something nice on occasion,” you retaliate, disliking the edge of mockery in his voice. “I don’t need to hear this from the dude wearing a silver Rolex watch.”

“It’s white gold.”

You roll your eyes. “A camel through the eye of a needle.”

“‘First cast out the beam out of thine own eye.’”

“Do you seriously have the entire King James version of the Bible memorized?”

“It was one of the most accessible texts in my youth,” he says, his smile softening into something pensive. “The missionaries were far more generous with those showing signs of ‘progress.’ I tried helping my companions memorize the more significant passages, but they weren’t what you’d call ideal pupils.”

Missionaries? You purse your lips and consider the implications. Had Chrollo grown up in destitution? Come to think of it, you know very little about him or his background. Unlike you, he never volunteered the information. He skillfully maneuvered around any inquiry into his past. The most you’ve gleaned is that he’s a traveling antiquarian who, in pursuit of valuables, made some enemies along the way.

The shrill shriek of the timer rips you from your thoughts.

Chrollo accepts his mug with a “thank you” and sits on the rightmost side of your coach. After plopping two ice cubes into your concoction, you join him, leaving ample room between you. The nerves from earlier return. He’s an easy man to converse with, but when his mind is preoccupied — as it most certainly is now — you’re at a loss. Do you try reinitiating banter? Opt for a completely different topic? Or should you let him initiative, squirming around until he breaks the thickening tension?

“Have I held you in suspense long enough?” Chrollo asks while holding his hand out. A book with a handprint on the cover appears, the pages flipping too fast for you to gauge their contents.

The quality of his aura temporarily stupefies you. This must be the difference between a novice like yourself and a genius. You can muster up enough aura to summon Instant Replay, but that takes considerable effort. To him, managing the flow of aura comes as easy as breathing. You scooch closer to study his technique. How long would it take you to match his expertise? Years? Decades?

“I’ll get bashful if you keep staring at me like that.”

“Liar,” you accuse without any real malice.

He chuckles.

“Give me your hand.”

Heat rushes to your face as you recall what happened when you last parted. “D-Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

Hesitantly, you do as he requests. He maneuvers your hand against the conjured book’s cover. You gnaw on your bottom lip, trepidation brewing inside your soul. You thought you’d feel relieved when this moment came. There’d be some butterflies, yes, but that would quickly give way to relief and exhilaration. The thorn that’s been in your side all these years is finally coming out. Your quid pro quo has reached its conclusion; this is your reward, your ticket to a normal life.

“I like you too.”

“I’ll be there whenever you need me.”

“It’s okay if you come.”

“I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“We’ll always be together.”

Yes, people lie a lot. Sometimes, you’re unsure if they’re even aware of it themselves. They lie to you, the people they love, the people they hate, and themselves. Fate decided you’d be made witness to their folly, sewing your lips shut and eyes wide open. The wounds it left behind are intangible and incurable. How do you heal what you can’t explain knowing to others? How do you explain your hesitation, shift in demeanor, and inadequate coverup?

The sound of Instant Replay whirring reverberates throughout your skull.

Chrollo speaks your name softly. You startle, realizing that you’re blinking back tears.

“I—”

“It’s alright,” he reassures. The words sound crisp — genuine — soothing your budding concern that you’re inconveniencing him somehow. In an instant, the hardcover dissipates, leaving your hand flat against nothing. Chrollo takes the opportunity to come closer. When you don’t protest, he completely closes the distance, until you’re thigh to thigh.

He smells good. Intoxicatingly so.

“Show me the ability you despise so much, dear.”

Dear? You think to protest the emergence of this nickname, yet you can’t bring yourself to. Instead, you follow his order, mechanically lifting your arm and summoning your ability much like he had.

“Good. It’s almost over with,” he brushes the wetness away from your eyes with his knuckles. Your heart leaps at the contact. “Finally, I have to ask about your ability. There are so many possibilities… what to choose, what to choose… ah.”

With the same hand that wiped away your nascent tears, he cups your cheek.

“Do you trust a man like me with such a dangerous ability?”

“I have my reservations,” you respond. You don’t miss the amusement he derives from your candidness. “This sounds bad, but… at this point, I guess I just don’t care.”

For a moment, all is still. There’s no odor of sulfur, maniacal cackling, or declaration that the ritual is complete. You didn’t have to sign a contract in blood or swear an oath to an infernal being. Your overactive imagination ran numerous scenarios through your head. The lack of flair over this life-defining moment is almost underwhelming. You frown, fearing that there was an error somewhere along the way. If there was, he’s given no indication, yet you’ll remain restless until the results are confirmed.

“Chrollo?”

“Hm?”

“Did it work?”

“It did, love.”

“Could you, um,” you lick your lips, a motion that draws his attention. “Make something up so I can know for sure?”

This request amuses him.

“How will you know if I’m being honest to mess around with you or not?”

At this, you give him a light shove. Given his apparent playfulness, you expected him to move back, but he doesn’t budge an inch. It felt like trying to move a concrete building.

“Make it an obvious lie, then.”

“An obvious lie, hm?” He mulls over your suggestion. “Very well. How about this: I don’t want you beneath me.”

You gape at him, dumbstruck.

“I find it easy to control my urges around you.”

He keeps going.

“I’m unmoved by your beauty…”

He gently pushes your shoulders until you’re lying down.

“... Your wit…”

He hovers above you, tracing the outline of your lips with his pointer finger.

“... And boundless charm.”

Chrollo tilts your head up by your chin. “Well? Do you believe me now?”

Slowly, as if in a daze, you nod. Your heart lurches, the organ beating loud enough to hear in your ears. You feel uncomfortably warm, like your heater’s been cranked to the highest setting. Gradually, the violent joy you expected to accompany your liberation abounds, starting at your chest and overflowing outward. You’re smiling, breathless, your corporeal form barely able to contain the glee. You see your reflection in Chrollo’s eyes. There’s a manic quality to your countenance; you barely recognize yourself.

You’re free, you’re free, you’re free—

His lips find yours. Your cognition short circuits, leaving you in a reverie where you can barely understand what’s happening. He handles you so carefully that it’s easy to forget you’re physically trapped. He carries on, either failing to notice your apprehension or disregarding it.

On some level, you’ve always sensed this underlying attraction. You remained purposefully obtuse. There was too much at stake — jeopardizing your aims for a fling felt counterintuitive. On paper, he’d make for the ideal partner. He’s devilishly handsome, charismatic, and intelligent to a fault. Aside from some dubious morality, you couldn’t ask for a better suitor.

And still, hesitation prevailed.

Every now and then, there’d be glimpses of some great, existential threat, beneath the fissures of his porcelain mask. These glimpses gave you pause. You think he could’ve tried harder to hide these damning qualities, yet chose not to. Where’s the fun — the thrill — in always playing nice? You needed his help more than he needed yours. His connections spanned continents, whereas yours were shallow and easy to uproot.

How many of your convictions would you compromise?

How far would you let the poison spread to cure another affliction?

How can you look down on him if you’ve fallen to the same level?

When he pulls away, you avert your gaze, fearing what stares back.

“... So you are afraid of me, then.”

Chrollo lets you wriggle out from underneath him. When your eyes make brief contact, it feels like he’s inspecting you, as if you were a specimen in a petri dish. It isn’t the reaction you’d expect from a rejected man. Nonetheless, you’re on edge and longing for a menial task to occupy yourself with. Recalling the state of the kitchen, you decide that will suffice.

He remains seated as you wash and dry the implements used to make your tea.

This uncharacteristic silence unsettles you further. The only audible sound in your apartment is your faucet, the water running over silverware that’s plenty clean. You scrub at it harder, wondering what you should do next. Originally, you intended to thank him for his pivotal role in removing your burden. You never would have made it this far without his assistance. Even with this strange atmosphere, your gratitude remains unwavering.

You’ll be able to live life like anyone else now. It’s an accomplishment worthy of celebration, regardless of the twists and turns along the way. Maybe he misinterpreted your body language or acted on an impulse. These mistakes can happen when emotions run high.

Okay, you think, psyching yourself up. This doesn’t have to be weird. I can—

“Have you given much thought over last week’s unpleasantness?”

Your heart skips a beat and your shoulders droop.

“I assume you haven’t,” he says. “That’s fair. It must’ve been frightening… I wish I could have spared you such an experience.”

The appreciation he previously instilled in you desiccates, drop by drop.

“Will you please get to the point?”

Under different circumstances, you would’ve been more patient with his preamble, but this is a sore subject. A buried corpse like that shouldn’t be exhumed. His reasoning, though elusive to you now, doesn’t inspire warm sentiments.

“That incident won’t be the last of its kind.”

You turn around as he approaches, sipping his tea. He leans against the counter and eyes you over the cup’s rim.

“In truth, we should’ve left hours ago, but I was feeling sentimental.”

“‘We?’ Chrollo, what are you talking about?”

“Had it not been for your role in getting my Nen back, Hisoka would’ve killed you,” Chrollo says this so casually that you question if you’re hearing him right. “Now that you’ve done your part, he has a vested interest in doing so.”

You no longer have a way to verify if he’s telling the truth or not. It’s so stupid, so unfair, that you almost laugh. Instant Replay no longer heeds your call. You surrendered it to a new master, who, before taking it from your willing hands, all but told you he was the worst person you could’ve picked.

Chrollo continues, “He’s a peculiar case. All he cares about is fighting formidable opponents, and, with my Nen returned, I am one.”

You take a step back.

“That business is between you two. I fail to see how this involves me.”

“I have preparations to finish before I face him,” Chrollo explains. “He doesn’t feel like waiting any longer. Harming you is an excellent way to speed things along. Even I don’t know what I’d do if you were fatally injured.”

You shake your head. “I— you’re not serious. There’s just no way. I’m moving past all of this bullshit. Nen, Hatsu, whatever; that has nothing to do with me anymore. I’m done.”

“I’m sorry, dear.”

“No, you aren’t!” Your voice raises in pitch, pulled as taut as a bowstring. “You knew, didn’t you? That this would be a problem? Oh, oh, you had to, why else would you have acted all weird when you saw him? Stop looking at me like you care, like you’re sorry, 'cause this is the best-case scenario for you!”

You pace back and forth, your mind racing. This was a mistake. Walking up to him because you recognized the book in his hands was a mistake. Is he bluffing? And if he is, does it matter? You can’t put up a fight. You don’t think you could even make it to the door. If he was a regular man, you’d have options. You could yell for help, call the cops, and inflict some damage, minor as it may be. All those tactics turn to ash before an oppressive, incomprehensible force like this.

You snap your head in his direction. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

“I don’t see how that will help.”

You prepare to spew vitriol his way, when a dreadful thought shoots through you like a bullet.

“My family. What about them? Won’t they be in danger too?”

“They aren’t on his radar.”

“How do you know that?”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Chrollo sets the cup down. “The suffering of your loved ones wouldn’t elicit a reaction from me, so he won’t bother. Targeting you is the wisest option.”

Words fail you. Is this it? The depravity he kept subdued finally let loose, so dense in its quality that it threatens to suffocate you? All you wanted was a semblance of normalcy. Normal relationships, interactions, and problems. Has the path you’ve treaded brought you further away from this humble aspiration? Or is there still a way, some faint silver lining that you must find and latch onto?

“What about after?”

“Hm?”

“After Hisoka is dealt with,” you clarify, tapping your foot repeatedly. “You’re not going to let him live, are you?”

“That’s rather dark.”

“Chrollo,” you implore.

“No, I won’t,” he confirms. “As for what comes next — I intend to persuade you.”

You regard him with suspicion. His tone and the implications sink into you like a venomous bite. He exudes quiet confidence, indicating that nothing you’ve said will influence him in any meaningful way. Dread sticks to your stomach, making your body feel heavy. You hug yourself, clenching your upper arms with shaky fingers. Any lingering excitement from earlier has vaporized, leaving behind a profound hollowness.

“I suppose this can go a few ways,” you murmur. “I could cause as many headaches for you as possible, or, I could be decent enough.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’d like to have Instant Replay back,” you say. He quirks an eyebrow. “Just for a bit. What? I’m assuming if you can steal something, you can give it back, right?”

“You’d be correct. Still, that begs the question; what are you intending to accomplish with this little scheme?”

“Nothing that’ll inconvenience you in any major way.”

Chrollo falls silent. You dig your nails into your flesh as the seconds drag on, awaiting his verdict. If he had your ability activated, he should’ve been able to discern your honesty. Then again, he’s aware of the workarounds. To ensure your words wouldn’t register as untrue, you had to remain vague and subjective. What you consider an inconvenience could differ drastically from him.

“I’m sure I won’t regret this.”

Your eyes widen. That dissonant timbre is unmistakable, he returned your ability! Filled with newfound resolve, you stride toward him, your eyes blazing. This is your chance. You need to make the most of this opening before it’s gone forever. He could choose not to answer any of your questions, but something tells you he won’t, like it’d injure his pride. You issued him a challenge and he’s intent on meeting it.

“Did you have anything to do with what happened last week?”

“I didn’t.”

“Did Hisoka?”

“No, he just happened to be observing you from afar.”

“Why?”

“For his personal amusement, I’d wager.”

“He’d really kill me just to… agitate you?”

“It’s in line with his character.”

You swallow thickly and press on.

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’m wrong. Regardless, you’ll be alive and well.”

“Can you win against him in a fight?”

“Yes.”

“And if you somehow lose, what happens next?”

“My companions will hunt him down and kill him.”

Now that you’ve gotten your most pressing inquiries out of the way, you decide to wade through dangerous waters. Chrollo likely saw the benefit in assuaging your doubt, these next questions provide him nothing substantial. His willingness to humor you is undoubtedly finite. Keeping this in mind, you consider the possibilities. You may never have a chance like this again. Is there anything that can give you an advantage? You’ll take anything, no matter how small, even if all it offers is an illusion of control.

Chrollo glances at his watch in a not-so-subtle motion.

“Who sealed your Nen?”

“Now this is more what I expected,” he hums. His eyes take on a bright, unsettling shade. “An individual with a longstanding grudge. Your paths will not cross, I suggest adopting another plan of attack.”

He saw right through you. You knew it was a long shot, but collaborating with this mysterious figure would have proven advantageous. They must be powerful in their own right to have bested Chrollo. Should you try pressing for more information? Then again, Chrollo doesn’t seem keen on sharing more, much to your chagrin.

What does that leave you with…?

“How do you plan on ‘persuading’ me?”

“You’re better off not knowing until we get to that point.”

You frown. If that didn’t register as a lie, it must be what he genuinely believes. Curiosity plagues you, dredging up anxiety. You have but a few grains of sand left in the hourglass remaining. It’s suspended midair, poised to drop at the most ill-timed moment. The approach of the end is worse than its inevitable arrival. You now have the chance to hasten its onset, at the risk of being debilitated by the impact. What lows would he resort to? Are you actually better off remaining ignorant?

“Alright, let’s—”

“Does it hurt to know I’ll never love you?”

Up until this point, he’s fired back with a near instant response. This time, however, he hesitates, the invasive nature of the inquiry necessitating careful thought. You finally found an effective ‘attack.’ It’s too late to do you any lasting good, but you greedily devour it nonetheless. When dealing with a person of Chrollo’s caliber, it’s easy to forget he possesses the same human qualities you do. You might be unable to stop his heart from beating, but you can make the organ ache.

“I can live with it, dear.”

You pinch your eyebrows together, thrown off by his voice’s clarity. Is the knowledge that inconsequential to him? Have you misjudged his attachment? While considering this, you flex your fingers, concentrating your aura there. You can’t repeat his words back since Instant Replay wasn’t recording, but you still decide to conjure it. You’ll record what remains of this conversation to ensure you don’t miss anything else.

The flow of your aura halts at your wrist, refusing to take form. Frowning, you try again, only to realize he must have reclaimed your ability.

When did that happen? Was it before or after his response?

Chrollo says your name, regaining your attention. “I fulfilled my end of the bargain. Will you do the same?”

After playing the role of the interrogator, you’re back to being an inmate. You meant what you said — when you said it, that is. This is yet another loophole to subvert Instant Replay. What’s true to you in one instant can change in the next. It’s frightening how fast he’s learned these nuances that took you years to test and discover. He’s already making the most of your ability, turning what was a thorn in your side into a full-fledged dagger.

“What choice do I have?”

“There’s always a choice,” Chrollo asserts. “You just have a habit of making the wrong ones.”

A delirious laugh leaves your lips.

"... I suppose you're right."

#chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #hxh x reader #yandere hxh x reader #chrollo brainrot #my stuff

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wendyyyyyyyy · 2 months ago

Text

OPERATION : Oblivious Idiots

➙ This is going to be a short series, main pairing is Chan x 9th member fem! reader, but it's essentially an Ot8 imagine. Every member will be involved.

Synopsis : You have a long-term crush on Chan, and after a wild night of partying, you wake up in Chan’s hotel bed—completely naked—with no clue of how you got there— and with the entire group on edge, and the mystery still out at large unsolved, an investigation begins.

Genre : Romantic Comedy | Mystery | Crackfic | Slow Burn

Warning : Profanity, (Mild) Suggestive themes, Implied nudity, Alcohol consumption, and Guaranteed chaos.

Enjoy!

------------

Part 1 : “What the Hell Happened Last Night?”

The Latin tour had been insane so far. Every city, every performance, every stage had been pure fire. The crowd was loud, the energy was unmatched, and Stray Kids had left everything they had on that stage.

But Bang Chan? He was wrecked.

The moment the show ended and they rushed backstage, Chan could barely walk.

His flat feet had been destroyed after weeks of nonstop performances, but tonight? Tonight was the worst. The pressure had finally burst. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his soles.

The members noticed immediately.

“Hyung, don’t move—”

“Just sit, sit—”

“Where’s the medic? Where’s the fucking medic?!”

Before he knew it, he was being dragged into a wheelchair, rushed to his hotel room, and dumped into bed. The company’s doctors ordered strict bed rest, no movement, and high-dosage medication for the night.

Chan didn’t argue. He was too damn tired.

So he let them shove painkillers into his system, tuck him in, and turn off the lights.

The last thing he remembered was closing his eyes.

⸻

Meanwhile, downstairs in the hotel’s backroom party floor…

You, Felix, and Jisung were out of your minds.

Because the certified troublemakers had somehow managed to sneak in a bottle of—

Not just alcohol.

Not just a casual, celebratory drink.

It was THE alcohol.

Vodka. Over 50% alcohol.

It had been Felix’s idea.

“We just finished our Latin tour show, we have to celebrate!”

“Lix, that’s not celebration, that’s fucking poison—”

But Jisung? Fully onboard.

“I mean… one shot won’t hurt, right?”

Spoiler alert: One shot hurt.

A lot.

You had barely taken one before your brain left the building. Not Seungmin. But your brain.

The world was spinning, your limbs felt weirdly light, and suddenly—your mouth had zero filter.

It was like someone had turned on drunk mode.

Felix was giggling, Jisung was rapping to the song playing, and you?

You were talking absolute nonsense.

And then—

For some stupid, drunk, ridiculous reason—

You called Bang Chan.

⸻

Chan had been half-asleep when his phone started buzzing.

Groggy, confused, still drugged up from the meds, he barely registered your name flashing on the screen before he picked up.

“Hello…?”

Silence.

Then—

“Channieeeeeeeeeeee~”

Chan blinked. Hard.

“Y/N?”

“Channie… I think I love you.”

WHAT.

Chan snapped awake immediately.

“Wait, what?!”

“I love youuuuuuuu~”

His brain malfunctioned.

“Y/N, are you drunk?!”

“Lix gave me The Alcohol. I don’t think I should’ve drank it.”

“WHAT THE HELL IS ‘THE ALCOHOL’?!”

“Shhhh, I’m telling you a secret. You have to listen, okay?”

Chan’s stomach flipped.

Because even though he knew—even though he had suspected for a while—hearing you say it so openly, so carelessly, still made his face warm.

“Channie, I like you so much it hurts.”

FUCK.

He sat up immediately, wincing at the pain in his feet.

“Y/N, where are you? Who’s with you?!”

“Jisung and Lix. We’re dancing downstairs.”

“Are you safe?!”

“Mmm… kinda. Everything’s blurry, but it’s okay because I love you.”

Chan was panicking.

This was not how this was supposed to happen.

You weren’t supposed to confess to him while wasted. You weren’t supposed to be drunk out of your mind in some backroom party floor.

And worst of all—he couldn’t even get out of bed to come get you.

So he called for backup.

⸻

Chan immediately dialed Minho.

He didn’t pick up. He was probably fast asleep.

And so he dialed Changbin next.

The moment Changbin picked up, he barked, “Find Y/N, Jisung, and Felix. NOW. Take another member with you. Don’t do it alone, they might outrun you.”

“What? Why? Where—”

“They’re wasted in the hotel party floor. Drag them out. I can’t move right now.”

Changbin sighed. “Really? At this hour? Morons.”

Jeongin chimed in on Changbin’s phone. “We were discussing about our new song but I guess we’ll go.”

⸻

Next morning, Chan woke up feeling groggy as hell.

His body still ached, his throat was dry, and he could barely remember falling asleep.

But something felt weird.

His bed was warmer than usual.

…And why did the sheets feel so tight around him?

Slowly, nervously, cautiously—he turned his head.

And his soul left his body.

You were asleep next to him.

Face smudged with makeup.

Hair a mess.

Wrapped in his bedsheets.

Completely. Fucking. Naked.

Chan’s eyes widened in horror.

And then—he looked down at himself.

Bare chest. Only his shorts.

His stomach dropped.

“Oh no.”

“OH NO.”

He frantically checked his phone. No messages, no texts, no clues.

His memory?

Blank.

His hands flew to his face.

“No, no, no, no, no—”

This could not be happening.

And then—

You stirred.

Chan froze.

You groaned, rubbing your head. “Ugh… my head…”

Then, you blinked. Looked around the room. Looked at him.

Chan held his breath.

Then—your eyes went wide.

You shifted—and realized.

Chan saw it all click in your brain.

And then—

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH—”

You were both screaming.

And neither of you had any clue what the hell happened last night.

------------

Part 2

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youthguk · 1 month ago

Text

Terms & Conditions: Part 2 (Final Act)

when the suit comes off, the truth does too.

pairing: CEO’s son!Jungkook x assistant!Reader

summary: You swore you came here to build a career — not fall apart in the hands of the CEO’s son.

warnings: power imbalance, office tension, explicit sexual content (oral sex m. receiving, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, possessiveness), infidelity (both parties), arranged engagement themes, physical violence (fight scene), public scandal, emotional manipulation, toxic power dynamics, angst, some hurt/comfort.

w.c: 10k

Part 1 is required reading. This is a finale part 2.

You don’t even wait until the floor clears for lunch.

There’s no strategy left in you anymore — no calculated timing, no softened voice. You step into the corridor just as the meeting room doors close behind him, your clipboard still clutched in your hand, the adrenaline already humming in your ears like static. And when he sees you, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pretend to be surprised. His gaze settles on yours with that same maddening calm — like the night he spent inside you meant nothing, like the woman draped over his arm the next evening wasn’t wearing the exact same shade of lipstick you left smeared across his throat.

Drawing in a single breath, you face him. "You're engaged."

It's not a question - it doesn't need to be. The silence that follows hangs heavy between you, thick enough to suffocate.

He releases a long sigh and, unusually, drops his typical facade of sarcasm and control. Meeting your gaze with unreadable eyes, he stands with hands in his pockets like a defendant who knows the verdict won't matter.

"Yes," he says simply. "I am."

You remain perfectly still, fingers tightening around your clipboard as you deliver your next words with razor-sharp precision. "So what was I, then? Disposable? Or just free?"

Your words strike true - you catch the flicker in his eyes, the subtle clench of his jaw, the shallow breath he takes. Yet he offers no apology, no explanation. Instead, he responds with the detached tone of a business presentation.

“It’s not like that.”

“No?” You step closer. Not much. Just enough to make him hold your gaze harder. “Then explain it. Explain why I was bleeding wine in front of investors while you stood there with your fiancée, saying nothing.”

He exhales through his nose, slow and tight, voice lowered now, like the weight of the conversation is finally dragging his composure down with it.

“It’s a business arrangement,” he says, words deliberate. “Old money. Shared capital. Our families have been connected since we were teenagers. This isn’t about love, or lust, or even choice. It’s about control. It’s about deals with names older than either of us.” A pause. “It’s expected.”

You laugh — short, bitter, too empty to sound like anything real.

“Expected,” you echo, your voice cracking on the word like it’s poison in your mouth. “And I was… what? Unexpected? A glitch in your system? Something to delete once the ink dried?”

His silence and downcast gaze speak volumes.

Your breath catches unsteadily as your heart pounds against your ribs. "You could've said something," you whisper, the words barely audible. "Could've stopped. Didn't have to kiss me, didn't have to stay."

His voice takes on a sharp edge. "And you didn't have to let me."

The accusation hits you like a physical blow, leaving you frozen in place. When you finally find your voice again, it emerges quiet and glacial. "I wasn't the one promising anything."

He meets your gaze, his expression unreadable but his voice carrying notes of both defense and warning. "You had a boyfriend."

The words strike deep - not because they're false, but because they expose the very wound you'd hoped he'd forgotten. He catches every micro-expression that crosses your face: the catch in your breath, the clench of your jaw, the momentary downward flicker of your eyes.

"You think this was one-sided?" he murmurs, drawing closer. "That I seduced you from nowhere? You kissed me back, begged for it, moaned my name while your boyfriend's contact was still in your phone."

You flinch but hold your ground, because beneath all the anger lies an unbearable truth: he's right. And that very fact feeds both your hatred for him and your self-loathing.

✓

You cut him from your life completely. No acknowledgment when he stands at the printer, no response to his comments in campaign threads, no glance during Monday syncs. You give him nothing - not a breath, not a look, not a hint of the woman who once surrendered to his touch.

Though you refuse to meet his gaze, you can feel it following you - heavy and deliberate, as if trying to summon back the version of you who trembled at his voice. Instead, you present him with a carefully crafted facade: high collars, red lipstick, clipboard held like armor. This version of you is untouched by memory, unmarked by the intimacy you once shared.

Two weeks later, she arrives. Nami. Her visit is mentioned casually in a morning brief about corporate guests from London, but the moment the elevator doors open, you understand. She embodies effortless elegance - her cream suit perfectly tailored, her heels precise, her smile polished to perfection. She and Jungkook move together with practiced grace, his arm hovering near hers without quite touching, their matched presence speaking of wealth and careful calculation.

Your stomach twists as you try to ignore them, but when his burning glance finds your desk, something shifts inside you. As Minho from strategic ops approaches with coffee and a smile, you seize the opportunity. Your fingers brush his arm, your laughter flows freely, your gratitude comes with lowered lashes and a voice too sweet to be genuine.

When you finally look across the space, Jungkook stands with Nami but his eyes are fixed on you. He remains motionless except for the tightening vein at his temple and the slight shift of his jaw. In that moment, you discover something colder than satisfaction blooming in your chest - the realization that you could wound him without a single touch, just as he wounded you.

You maintain your performance with Minho, your laughter pitched just loud enough, your proximity carefully calculated. Though you don't look Jungkook's way again, you can feel his unwavering attention. When you finally return to your desk, your smile falls away like a discarded mask. You press your lips together and resume working, knowing that if you must bleed, at least you're making him feel every drop.

✓

It’s late when he finds you again — not by accident, not by fate, but with the kind of deliberate intensity you can feel long before you hear the footsteps approaching from behind. You’re the only one left on the floor, most of the office dark now except for the hallway lamps casting low, golden streaks across the concrete, and the single strip of cold light above your desk where you sit, pretending to finish the expense report you opened twenty minutes ago but haven’t touched since.

You hear him before you see him — the soft thud of his shoes crossing the carpeted floor with just enough pressure to announce him and no one else.

He doesn’t speak your name — not at first — just lingers behind your chair for a moment too long, his presence as heavy as ever, a pull you can feel at your back like heat from an open flame.

When he finally moves, it’s slow — fingers brushing the edge of your desk, not touching you yet, just hovering like memory, like warning, until he steps closer, his voice low, already rough, already wrecked.

“You’re ignoring me.”

Silence is your only response as you click aimlessly through a spreadsheet, your eyes fixed on meaningless numbers while your throat constricts with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“Say something,” he pushes, his voice darker now, not cruel, but desperate in a way you’ve never heard it. “Or do you only speak when you’re on your knees?”

His crude remark ignites something in you. Rising with controlled fury, you send your chair rolling back with a sharp clatter. Your body turns to face him in one fluid motion as you shove his hand off your desk, stepping into his space until you're toe to toe, your carefully maintained composure finally shattering.

"Don't touch me." The words cut through the air between you, crystalline and absolute.

He remains rooted in place, breathing hard with stormy eyes and hands flexing at his sides - a man struggling against the magnetic pull between you, fighting the urge to close those final inches.

"I can't stop wanting you," he confesses through clenched teeth, each word brittle and raw. "You know that, right? You feel it too. Don't lie to me."

"You don't get to want me," you counter, your voice trembling with the effort to maintain your resolve. "Not while you still belong to someone else."

A soft curse escapes him as he reaches for your wrist, seeking something solid to anchor himself to - but you wrench away before his fingers can find purchase, your next words slicing through the tension like a blade across silk.

"Break it off."

He freezes as you fix him with an unwavering stare, your eyes blazing not with tears but with a fury that threatens to blind. "If you want to touch me again, if you want me at all," you continue, each word deliberately cruel and precise, "then end it. End your deal, your arrangement, your legacy contract or whatever the hell you call that woman, and choose me."

His jaw flexes, shoulders rigid, a muscle ticking in his cheek like the last thread holding him together. "It's not that simple," he manages finally - a hollow defense from a man suddenly realizing how little control he truly has.

Your voice drops to a whisper, steady and final. "Then this is over."

You leave him there, your heels clicking against the floor as you walk away without pause or backward glance. Your exhale trembles in your lungs as you disappear down the corridor, leaving him frozen in the harsh fluorescent light. The message is clear: if he wants you now, he'll have to earn you.

✓

You download the app that same night, your thumb hovering over the red-pink icon for a full minute before you tap it — like even that act alone requires courage, like even pretending you’re ready to move on might tear something inside you loose.

You don’t tell yourself it’s a statement. You don’t pretend it’s casual. It’s not about hunger or curiosity or trying to bury the feeling of Jungkook’s body still inside yours. It’s about escape. About choice. About quiet rebellion in the form of swipes and curated smiles and profiles that don’t mention empires or legacies or what their family owns in London.

Dan is the first to reach out, a welcome change from chasing someone else's silence. You like the fact that he doesn’t make you chase, doesn’t smirk behind every word, doesn’t leave you staring at your phone for three hours wondering if you imagined the weight of his silence. Dan is polite, easy to talk to, refreshingly available — a man who replies in full sentences, asks about your work with genuine interest, doesn’t look at you like you’re the puzzle he wants to solve before he breaks it.

You go on your first date with him the following Friday — a corner booth at a rooftop bar, not flashy, not elite, but just nice enough to make you wear a dress that hugs your waist and lipstick that isn’t red. Dan compliments you the second you sit down. He doesn’t stare at your mouth when you speak. He orders a whiskey neat, listens when you talk, smiles when you laugh. When he walks you to the curb and asks if he can see you again, he doesn’t linger too long or press too close. He just touches your elbow, soft and brief, and waits for your answer.

You say yes, though you're unsure if it's attraction or desperation driving you - if you're trying to forget or simply reclaim ownership of your body. That night, lying alone in bed, untouched by choice, you realize it's the first time in weeks you haven't dreamed of chains against your collarbone.

Dan becomes a steady presence. Your meetings increase from weekly to twice that, each time marked by thoughtful gestures - good morning texts before important meetings, unexpected coffee deliveries, genuine interest in your work and opinions. He never mentions your past, and Jungkook remains unspoken between you. Dan represents something fresh - no complicated history, no clandestine encounters, no sin-stained conference rooms. While love hasn't bloomed, you're finally open to its possibility.

The revelation comes naturally one morning, neither planned revenge nor calculated provocation, but something far more potent: simple truth. You're standing by the design team's table, adjusting files while half-listening to Lisa, the new junior manager from strategy, chat about Gangnam restaurants. Her perfectly manicured hand curls around her cold brew as others hover nearby, feigning work while eavesdropping.

When Lisa turns to you, eyes bright with curiosity about your upcoming second date, you feel your throat tighten. Across the floor, Jungkook stands with his back partially turned, close enough to overhear. Something reckless and wounded inside you makes you straighten your spine as you answer with practiced casualness, as if your voice had never caught in his throat.

"Tomorrow actually," you say, matching Lisa's enthusiasm when she comments on Dan's apparent interest. You offer a practiced smile - the kind reserved for men who don't leave marks on your soul. "He's nice. Stable. Makes plans, follows through."

Though you don't look directly at Jungkook, you notice the shift - his fingers gripping the desk edge with barely contained violence, his jaw tightening, shoulders tensing with unspoken words. His silence speaks volumes, and you savor this moment of control, cold and satisfying like salt in someone else's wound.

The smile remains fixed until you reach your desk, where reality spins slightly behind your eyes. You remind yourself of your choice - if he claimed it wasn't simple, you're making it elementary. You're moving forward, even if the progression feels like dying.

✓

It's been a month since you first let Dan in - not into your heart or the part that still twitches at Jungkook's voice, but into your space and body. When it happened, it was slow and considerate, with gentle hands and a mouth that didn't demand. You told yourself it was the right decision, even if it wasn't passionate or dangerous.

Dan had stayed the night, his chest warm against your back as he slept peacefully. You laid awake counting the ways his touch failed to ignite you, wondering when settling for "good" had become your compromise.

Now in the break room with your coworkers, you wear practiced casualness like armor as Mina leans in with a conspiratorial smile. "Are you still seeing that guy? The tall one?"

"Dan?" you ask, lifting your coffee cup.

She nods while Jiyoon from HR chimes in, "He's hot. Quiet, but... the good kind of quiet."

You could deflect, but something defiant stirs within you. "We've been seeing each other for a while now," you say evenly. "We slept together last weekend."

Their heads tilt forward as soft oh's and knowing mm-hmms fill the air. When Mina grins expectantly, you offer a measured laugh and a simple "He's good. Very... attentive."

It's just a casual comment, but the sudden silence behind you - where the automatic doors whisper open and closed - speaks volumes. You don't need to turn to know it's him. His presence pulses like a second heartbeat as you calmly sip your coffee, letting your words linger.

He stands frozen, tension radiating from his rigid frame, before walking away without a word. Though he doesn't speak, his silence echoes through your veins for hours as you approach the end of your workday.

You’re five minutes from slipping into your coat, catching the last train, and crawling into your apartment where Dan texted that he might stop by, and where your body aches more from stress than arousal. Your eyes are dry. Your shoulders sore. You’ve done nothing wrong all day, and yet the tension hasn’t left you since that moment in the break room — the quiet that trailed behind you like perfume, his silence thickening the air every time he passed.

The email lands in your inbox at 7:52 p.m. sharp.

From: Jeon Jungkook

Subject: Campaign Budget Review – URGENT

Need your eyes on the attached. Need edits by tonight. Stay.

The email lands without greeting or explanation - just a demand to stay late and review the campaign budget.

Though you could decline with a curt "will handle first thing tomorrow," you find yourself staying, unable to break free from the pull he still has on you after these past months. The numbers only need minor adjustments, but you meticulously revise each cell, turning the task into an act of quiet defiance.

By nine, the office falls silent save for your typing and the occasional sweep of headlights through the glass. His arrival comes not as a sound but as a presence - a shift in the air like an approaching storm. You maintain your focus on the spreadsheet, refusing to acknowledge how your pulse quickens under his gaze as he approaches your chair.

"You're sleeping with him." His words cut through the quiet.

You turn slowly, deliberately calm as you meet his eyes. "I'm sleeping with someone who isn't engaged," you say coolly. "Something new after you, I like that."

Though he doesn't flinch, his hands curl into fists. "Why?" The words strain like fraying rope. "You're bored. I know you are."

"And yet," you murmur, rising to face him, "I'm still choosing him over you."

He moves with sudden intensity, reaching for your waist with an instinctive need. You shove him away hard, your voice sharp with anger. "Don't you fucking touch me."

Instead of apologizing, he advances again, eyes burning. "You think I'm okay seeing you with someone else?" he hisses through clenched teeth. "You think I'm sleeping well at night, watching you walk around here like none of it meant anything—"

"Good," you cut in, breathless but unflinching. "Now you know how it feels."

His silence speaks volumes as he stares at you, finally understanding that what lies between you has transformed from seduction into consequence. You walk away first, knowing that this time, he has no right to follow.

✓

It’s the kind of evening that doesn’t tolerate mistakes — an annual investor gala held at the Seoul Grand Marquis, a glass-and-marble beast of a venue tucked into the heart of the business district, where every chandelier costs more than your rent and every napkin bears the weight of legacy branding. This night is about power, about vision, about shaking hands across glass tables while making eye contact that means money, and you’ve known since the moment the invitation appeared in your inbox that this would be a war disguised as a party.

Every department has representatives attending — not just for visibility, but for survival. The gala is where acquisitions are hinted at, expansions teased, internal stars subtly ranked by who they’re standing next to and how loudly the room stops to listen when they speak. It’s also the one night each year when employees are permitted to bring a date — a silent status symbol more than a courtesy. It’s the company’s way of saying: show us who’s beside you, so we know who you are outside of your salary.

Dan had offered without hesitation. He’d even asked what color you planned to wear before choosing his tie, showed up to your apartment early that evening with flowers wrapped in white tissue and a nervous smile that looked too genuine to ignore. You’d let him help with your zipper. You’d let him kiss your shoulder as you stepped into your heels. And you’d told yourself, not for the first time, that normal wasn’t boring — that stability could be seductive in its own quiet way.

You arrive just past seven, hand resting light against his arm, your dress a sleek, open-backed slip of black satin that clings at the waist and falls like smoke to the floor, elegant but not attention-hungry, chosen precisely for its control. You wear no necklace, just earrings — thin, delicate, silver — and your lipstick is not red. You’ve been careful with every inch of yourself tonight, each detail designed to say: I am not here to play the game. I am here to win it.

Dan’s hand lingers on your lower back as you’re escorted toward the mezzanine ballroom, his voice soft, full of small compliments, polite jokes, quiet awe at the decor. You listen, you smile, you nod — and yet even as the champagne flute settles between your fingers and the soft strings of a quartet unfurl through the air like silk, there’s only one thing you’re aware of beneath your skin.

The anticipation coils within you like a rising tide. You feel it the way sailors sense an approaching storm - not with fear, but with the quiet certainty of something inevitable approaching.

The air shifts, almost imperceptibly, but with unmistakable weight.

Conversations pause mid-sentence. Laughter drops in pitch. Heads begin to turn in one slow wave, like a tide drawn toward something gravitational. And you know — before you turn your head, before you finish your breath, before you even dare glance — that it’s him.

Jeon Jungkook arrives with all the ease of someone who has never had to ask permission to exist. His suit is black, tailored within a millimeter of precision, cut to showcase the width of his shoulders and the power of his frame in ways that were never accidental. His shirt collar is open. His watch is new. His posture is effortless. And beside him — arm tucked lightly through his, gaze serene, steps measured like choreography — walks her.

Nami.

Her dress is a shade between champagne and cream, expensive in the quiet way only generational wealth understands, cut high at the neck but low at the back, revealing the smooth curve of a spine trained to never flinch. Her hair is swept into a twist that probably cost more than your entire outfit, and diamonds gleam at her ears, her throat, her wrist — no single piece overwhelming, but together they form a statement louder than any introduction.

Together, they look untouchable - a picture of perfection as she leans into him with the quiet confidence of someone who belongs there. Her fingers brush his sleeve with practiced familiarity, each gesture speaking of countless moments shared and countless more to come.

While Dan remains absorbed in conversation beside you, eagerly trying to charm the executive before him, you feel yourself drawn across the ballroom into Jungkook's unflinching gaze. The man who once whispered promises against your skin now stares at you with an intensity that makes the rest of the room fade away.

His eyes find yours deliberately, purposefully.

He looks at you — all of you — and his stare does not flinch. His gaze traces your neckline, lingers at your mouth, dips to the curve of your waist where Dan’s hand rests lightly like a placeholder. And for a long, long moment, he says nothing.

His eyes speak volumes in that moment - a dark intensity that matches your unwavering stare. When you finally break his gaze, it's not from fear or weakness, but because you've seen enough. This carefully crafted facade - the ballroom, the elegance, the man himself - has lost its luster, and you're no longer interested in maintaining the illusion.

He doesn’t come near you, not once, not even when protocol would have allowed it, not even when the polite mingling between departments would have excused a nod, a half-smile, a harmless comment about the wine or the music or the work you're both supposed to be doing — instead, he remains at a distance all evening, and yet you feel him watching you like heat from a closed door, like the memory of being touched in a place no one else can see.

There’s no space between your bodies anymore, not truly — not with how often his eyes find you across the ballroom, always in the quiet between speeches, always in the hush just before applause, in the breath before someone says your name — his gaze never lingering long enough to be obvious, but never glancing away quickly enough to be innocent, always returning, always waiting, as if his vision can reach through fabric and skin and hours of practiced indifference.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

You smile at Dan’s quiet jokes and accept the compliments from passing executives with a grace that feels like performance, not for the company, but for him, because everything about tonight has become a silent refusal to be anything less than composed — and if your spine is rigid beneath the satin of your gown, if your glass trembles slightly in your hand when you sip your champagne, no one else seems to notice.

Dan remains effortlessly attentive, not pushy, not overbearing, his presence beside you gentle in the way a safe harbor is, the kind of man who places a hand at the small of your back only when necessary — never to mark, never to command, only to anchor — and it’s during one of those moments, when you’re leaning in to listen to a conversation about the new China expansion strategy, that his fingers slide across your waist and settle low, pressing with the faintest pressure at the curve of your spine, grounding you without even knowing he’s touching a live wire.

You feel it instantly — not Dan’s touch, but the reaction it causes. Across the ballroom, Jungkook’s body shifts — subtly, almost imperceptibly, the kind of movement only someone who knows him too well would recognize — and even while mid-conversation with a group of executives near the bar, you see it, the sharp turn of his head, the flicker of his eyes, the rigid set of his shoulders the moment Dan’s hand settles exactly where Jungkook’s had once rested just before pushing you against his office door.

He doesn’t make a scene — he never does — but you see the way his jaw tightens, the way his hand flexes at his side like it’s fighting the need to close into a fist, the way his attention fractures mid-sentence as though his entire body has just become too tight to contain what he's feeling.

And then he walks away — not excusing himself, not smiling, not even pretending to maintain appearances, simply turning his back on whoever is still speaking and disappearing through the crowd with the kind of cold, singular focus that only ever means one thing when it comes to him: he’s going somewhere he isn’t supposed to be, to do something he’s no longer allowed to want.

Dan leans closer, says something about the main course arriving soon — something warm, something ordinary — and you nod, forcing a smile as if you’re still listening, still present, still in control.

But your body is already moving, your fingers setting down your glass, your eyes flicking toward the hallway behind the reception arch where the corridor leads away from the chandeliers and the silk and the curated spectacle of luxury, into the dim space lined with marble and mirror — a place built for privacy, for reapplication of lipstick and last-minute touch-ups, and, tonight, for whatever this has become between you and the man who just walked into the dark.

Without a word to Dan, you slip away into the shadows - drawn, as always, by a force stronger than reason.

The hallway behind the ballroom is dimly lit, lined with gilt-edged mirrors and low recessed sconces, the carpet thick enough to muffle footsteps, the air faintly perfumed with expensive citrus and something sweeter beneath it — and when you step past the velvet curtain that separates noise from silence, laughter from lust, you already know exactly where he’s gone.

The restroom is a cathedral of indulgence — marble floors, gold-trimmed stalls with private doors that close to the floor, velvet-paneled walls that swallow sound, plush settees for resting, reapplying, restrategizing. It’s the kind of room built for discretion. The kind of room that hears things and never repeats them.

You find him by the mirrors — his jacket off, sleeves rolled, chest rising a little too quickly for someone who claims to be fine. His eyes meet yours in the reflection first, and for a moment, neither of you speak. You stand there, inches apart and centuries away, the silence between you thick enough to drown in.

And then he turns.

“You need to stop,” he says, not as a command but as something closer to a plea, his voice rough, ragged at the edges, like he’s been holding it in all night and it’s finally breaking loose. “You can’t keep looking at me like I didn’t fuck you against a glass table and promise you it meant something.”

You don’t move. His steps are slow but certain as he closes the distance between you, and when he reaches you, his hands hover — not touching, not yet, just suspended at your waist like he’s begging your skin to remember him.

“I can’t do it anymore,” he breathes, softer now, just for you. “Not with you pretending he’s enough. Not with me standing there next to her, tasting you every time I close my fucking mouth.”

Fire burns in your gaze as you meet his eyes, wordless. Without hesitation, you pull him into a kiss.

Not gently. Not sweetly. You kiss him like punishment, like hunger, like you want to taste the lie in his throat and make it yours. His hands crash into your body the second your lips part — one gripping your jaw, the other dragging down to your hip, to your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. You pull him in with both fists knotted in his shirt, teeth clashing, breathless and furious and starving.

He breaks the kiss to bite at your neck, dragging his mouth down your throat as you walk him back into the furthest stall, slamming the door behind you with a force that makes the hinges rattle. He’s already unbuckling, already reaching for you, already so hard it’s like his body’s been waiting for this since the moment you left him standing in that empty office.

You sink gracefully to your knees before him, hands sliding up his thighs with deliberate intent. And when you look up at him, lips parted, breath hot, eyes blazing, you don’t need permission. You wrap one hand around his cock — flushed, thick, dripping at the tip — and lick a slow, deliberate stripe up the length, your tongue flat and obscene, your stare never wavering. He groans, low and choked, one hand flying to your hair, the other gripping the stall wall like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

You start slow — lazy, teasing, letting him feel every inch of your mouth as you take him in, lips sealing tight, jaw relaxed as you begin to move, your hand following where your mouth can’t reach.

“Fuck—” he gasps, eyes falling shut, hips jerking just slightly. “God, your mouth—fuck, I missed this—”

You hum around him — deep and wicked — and he moans so loudly it vibrates through your chest.

He can’t stay still.

He starts moving with you, thrusting gently, then harder, until one hand’s cradling the back of your head, the other buried in your hair, guiding you with slow, rough pressure as your lips slide wet and filthy down his cock again and again, saliva spilling at the corners of your mouth.

You let him take control, wanting him to come undone beneath your touch. And when you suck harder, faster, your throat relaxing, his rhythm stutters — his hips twitch, his breath breaks, and he pulls you off with a sharp, wet pop, panting, dragging you up into his arms, kissing you with his cock still hard between you, his mouth crashing into yours like he needs you to taste yourself on his skin.

The kiss deepens into something raw and primal, tongues and teeth clashing as their hands grasp desperately at each other. He spins you, presses you against the velvet-paneled wall, his hands yanking up your gown, dragging your panties down with such urgency that you nearly fall forward — but he catches you, hoists you up, lifts your thigh, and sinks into you in one deep, punishing thrust that knocks the air from your lungs and sends your moan echoing off the polished gold.

There's nothing gentle about the way he takes you - it's raw and primal, the way it's always been between you. Not when months of silence and pride and punishment collapse into a kiss against velvet and gold, into the way his hand cradles the back of your thigh and pulls your leg higher so he can fuck you deeper, so he can hear exactly how soaked and wrecked you already are for him.

He fucks you with a fierce desperation, like you're both his salvation and destruction - a sacred thing he worships even as he breaks you apart.

Every thrust is rough, brutal, breathtaking — the kind of rhythm that feels almost angry, like he’s trying to rewrite history with each snap of his hips, like he’s punishing you for every night you kissed another man and didn’t come apart like this, for every time you smiled at Dan like your body didn’t still ache for his hands.

He grunts low in your ear, hips snapping up as your back arches, as his fingers dig into your thigh so hard you know it’ll bruise, but you don’t care — not with the way he fills you, the way his cock drags inside you with punishing precision, not with the way your breath hitches every time the base of him slams against you and makes your whole body jolt.

“Fuck—” he groans, voice breaking at the edges as his forehead presses to yours, sweat beading at his temple, “You feel—fuck, you feel better than I remember.”

Your answer is nothing but a moan — low, ragged, your fingernails tearing down his back through his shirt, your teeth clenching around the chain that hangs against your throat now, heavy and swinging with each thrust, catching between your lips as you pant, as you let it cut into your tongue like it’s his name.

He grabs your hips and pulls you down harder onto him, hips pistoning now, his thrusts deeper, meaner, his teeth grazing your neck, your collarbone, biting the slope of your shoulder until you gasp and clench around him so tight he curses again, voice rough in your ear, all breath and gravel and loss.

“You miss this?” he growls, dragging his lips across your jaw, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear as his pace falters, then sharpens again, somehow harder, somehow deeper. “Miss me fucking you like this? Filling you up so deep you forget your fucking name?”

You whimper — not a word, not an answer, just the kind of helpless sound you make when there’s no more room in your head for anything but him. Your hips roll instinctively, chasing friction, clinging to him as the coil inside you twists tighter and tighter, unbearable now, heat flooding low in your stomach.

His pace never falters, his rhythm relentless and demanding. One hand leaves your thigh and slides up to your chest, yanking down the top of your gown just enough to expose the curve of one breast, and his mouth is on you instantly — tongue hot, lips sucking hard as his teeth graze over your nipple, as your head hits the wall behind you and you cry out, desperate now, pleading.

“Please— Jungkook, please—”

He groans against your skin, teeth grazing your chest, voice shaking with the effort to hold back.

“Say you missed it.”

“I— fuck, I— I missed you,” you gasp, your voice breaking as your nails dig deeper into his back, as your thighs start to tremble around his hips. “Missed this— I need— please, don’t stop—”

“I’m not gonna fucking stop,” he snarls, his pace suddenly brutal, unrelenting, his body crushing into yours, one hand tangled in your hair now, the other still fisted in your thigh, his breath hot against your lips as he kisses you again — filthy, wet, tongues colliding, teeth scraping, nothing left of restraint or dignity, just hunger clawing out of both of you like it had been caged for too long.

You come undone with a sob, your entire body trembling as your climax rips through you like fever and lightning, your hands fisting in his shirt and lips parted around his chain. Your thighs lock around him as your nails dig half-moons into his shoulder blades, marking him as yours in this moment of blazing truth.

And when you bite down on that chain — hard, trembling, gasping his name like a prayer — he follows with a broken moan into your mouth, his thrusts growing erratic, then jerking once, twice, deep, as he spills into you, his whole body shaking with it, his mouth crashing into yours like he can’t bear to come without you swallowing it whole.

You stay like that — still joined, still breathless — forehead to forehead, hearts galloping in sync, the air around you heavy with sweat, sin, and something too quiet to name.

Outside, beyond the velvet walls and marble doors, the music drifts on, while inside this sanctuary, you remain locked in an intimate silence with him, neither of you ready to voice the weight of everything left unsaid.

Your breath is still tangled in his mouth, his forehead still resting against yours, the weight of what just happened settling over you like the hem of your gown, rumpled now around your hips, clinging to sweat-slicked skin. Your heart is still galloping in your chest, still racing from the pace of him, the sound of him, the way he said your name like it had always been meant for him to say.

And Jungkook is still inside you.

He doesn’t pull out immediately — just holds you there, both of you trembling, breathing hard, his hands gentler now, soothing, one trailing down your thigh, the other brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face.

And then he smiles - not with triumph or victory, but with the resignation of a man who's accepted losing everything else just to have this moment.

“You’ve got glitter on your nose,” he murmurs, voice thick and wrecked, and when you frown, confused, he leans forward and kisses it. Just once. Softly. Playfully. As if the gala still exists somewhere far away and the only thing real in the world is this ridiculous little smear of sparkle and the woman beneath it who just broke him open all over again.

You laugh — a small, incredulous sound, still breathless, still shaking, and he grins like the sound of it is the only thing that’s ever mattered.

“I hate you,” you whisper through your smile, biting back another laugh as he kisses your jaw, your cheekbone, your collarbone where his chain left a faint indentation in your skin.

“No you don’t,” he breathes, adjusting the strap of your gown with slow, reverent fingers. “If you did, you wouldn’t still taste like yes.”

You hit him lightly on the chest, and he catches your wrist mid-slap and kisses the inside of it, then your palm, then your mouth again — slower this time, almost delicate — before you finally push him back with a grin.

“Get dressed,” you murmur, already reaching for your panties, smoothing your gown down, fingers trembling just slightly. “You look like someone who got exactly what he wanted.”

“I did,” he says simply, tucking himself back into his slacks with only half a care, his eyes never leaving you, even as he buttons his cuffs again. “And I’d look a lot worse if you hadn’t.”

It’s absurd — how easy this feels, how light, how young. How it almost resembles happiness.

You fix your lipstick in the mirror above the sink. He watches you like a man watching a storm recede, like he’s not ready for the calm yet but knows it’s dangerous to ask for more.

And then, as you open the door together, walking into the velvet-lined hallway with your shoulders back and your smiles just barely still in place — you see her.

There she stands - Nami, waiting with crossed arms and perfect posture in her immaculate dress. Her expression remains composed, but her eyes slice through both of you with devastating clarity, as if she's been anticipating this moment while hoping you wouldn't be foolish enough to make it real.

When she speaks, her voice carries a quiet, lethal precision: "Of course it's you."

You and Jungkook freeze in unison, but Nami simply turns away with the elegant dismissiveness of someone brushing dust from silk. The deafening silence lasts only a heartbeat before you both lurch into motion - Jungkook cursing under his breath as he adjusts his jacket, you stumbling after him on trembling legs, your hand reaching desperately for his sleeve as you call out her name. But she continues down the endless hallway, refusing to acknowledge either of you.

✓

You’re still walking side by side, your steps nearly in sync but your heart thrashing beneath your dress like it knows this illusion of calm is already burning at the edges, when the sound of raised voices cuts through the ambient hush of the ballroom and makes you stop cold in your tracks.

At first, you can’t quite place the tone — it’s not yet shouting, but it carries the kind of tension that doesn’t belong among canapés and champagne, and it wraps around your spine with the certainty of something about to go very, very wrong.

Then, through the ambient hush, your name echoes through the hallway, followed immediately by his in a voice that makes your blood run cold.

You turn the corner just in time to see Nami standing beside your shared table — poised, polished, untouched by the unfolding storm — her flute of champagne still untouched in her hand, her expression unreadable in the way only women raised in legacy can manage, as if nothing happening around her is worth acknowledging. She doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t look at Jungkook, either. She looks directly at Dan, with her chin tilted slightly upward, her voice smooth and composed, as if she’s merely answering a question no one had the nerve to ask.

“I thought you should know,” she says, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly, not enough to be called a smile, but enough to make the accusation feel like a verdict, “she’s been fucking Jungkook.”

And there is no gasp, no cinematic moment of a dropped wine glass — just the collective breath of the room catching and holding, suspended like a violin string pulled tight, waiting for someone to cut it loose.

Dan stands still at first, not blinking, not reacting, just staring at Nami like he’s trying to decipher whether what she said was real or a very cruel joke told far too well. The silence that stretches in the beat that follows feels sharp enough to slice clean through your skin.

Your throat closes around his name as you take a step forward, not fast, not frantic, just instinctive — as if proximity alone could soften what he’s already begun to believe.

“Dan—”

His head snaps toward you. And in that moment, his expression — the confusion, the hope, the disbelief — shatters.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he says, and the volume of it is enough to silence every conversation within earshot. A few heads turn. More follow. By the time he takes a step back from the table, every gaze in your radius is fixed directly on the three of you.

“I defended you,” he says, voice shaking now, but loud, too loud, and cracking under the weight of humiliation. “I told people you weren’t sleeping your way up. I fucking trusted you.”

Your skin goes cold as shame washes over you, leaving you frozen and mute in its wake. His words hang in the air like smoke after a fire, and though he hasn't said it outright, that one cruel word - slut - vibrates beneath the surface of his tone, threatening to break free. Just as you brace yourself for what comes next, you feel him.

Jungkook — behind you now, still close, but his presence shifts, sharpens, becomes something solid and storm-dark in the space between your shoulder blades. You don’t even need to see him to feel the change in him — how still he goes, how quiet, how charged.

Dan sees him too. And the second their eyes meet across the chaos, Dan’s lip curls into something bitter and ugly and furious.

“Oh, now you want to show your face?” he spits, his voice rising, unhinged now. “She fucks you in secret and I get to be the dumbass holding her coat like a goddamn idiot?”

And maybe that would have been the moment it ended. Maybe if Dan had stopped there, if he hadn’t gone further, if he’d swallowed the rest of what he was about to say and let the shame stay between the three of you — maybe then it could have been salvaged.

But he doesn’t. He looks you up and down, then turns back to Jungkook, and with a voice too loud and too clear, he finishes the sentence like he’s spitting blood.

“Enjoy your office slut while she still lets you have her.”

A heartbeat of silence fills the room before Jungkook launches forward with no warning. He just steps forward with a precision so sudden it looks like instinct, his fist connecting with Dan’s jaw in one clean, devastating arc that sends the entire room spinning around them like they were never meant to witness this moment, but now can’t look away.

Dan crashes into the edge of the table behind him, knocking over wine, cutlery, crystal, dragging a stunned gasp from the nearest guests — but before he can right himself, Jungkook is on him again, grabbing the front of his suit jacket, fury carved into every line of his face as he shoves him back and shouts something you can’t even hear over the surge of movement and voices and chairs scraping the floor as people rush forward to separate them.

Someone grabs Jungkook’s shoulders. Two others pull Dan away, blood at the corner of his lip, eyes wild with disbelief and rage. Security is already on its way. The scene is already ruined. The gala is over before dessert.

And all you can do is stand there in the wreckage — exposed, humiliated, heartsick — with the taste of Jungkook still on your tongue, and the entire room watching like they’ve been waiting for this to happen from the beginning.

It isn’t just the party that ends in silence — it’s something deeper, something more private, something inside you that doesn’t know how to keep breathing once the shouting has faded and the chaos has been contained into the shallow hush of luxury’s aftermath, as if the room itself is trying to pretend nothing ever happened.

The moment Jungkook is dragged back by two men in tailored suits — the kind of men who are hired not to be noticed unless something needs fixing — and the moment Dan stumbles upright, unsteady, his lip bleeding and his tie askew like it’s choking him instead of holding him together, is the same moment your body seems to finally register what it’s done, what you’ve done, as if the weight of your choices only now decides to settle across your skin like a second gown, invisible but suffocating.

The tears don’t arrive in any cinematic fashion; there is no gasp, no trembling lower lip, no dramatic collapse to the floor — only the hot, dry sting behind your eyes that refuses to blink away, the slow withdrawal of blood from your fingers until your hands feel foreign, and the unbearable tightness in your chest that makes it impossible to breathe without thinking first, as if even your lungs are ashamed of you now.

Without running, speaking, or begging, you remain still - exposed beneath their stares. You simply stand there, the way shame always does — still and exposed and far too visible — as the room folds in around you like paper, heavy with whispers and half-averted stares, the air thick with what no one is brave enough to say aloud but everyone is already retelling in their heads.

The ballroom, once glittering with laughter and wine and curated joy, has turned into a stage abandoned mid-performance, every guest now an unwilling actor stuck in place with champagne still bubbling in flutes they no longer remember picking up, as conversations die mid-sentence and eyes flick between Dan, Jungkook, and you, tracing the messy triangle like a scandal lit in gold.

And standing at the center of it all — flawless, upright, radiant even in betrayal — is Nami. She hasn’t moved, not even a little; her posture remains exquisite, the line of her shoulders unbent, her hands still folded gently in front of her like this evening belongs to her still, like nothing has been taken from her because she refuses to acknowledge anything could ever be taken from her at all. Her gown is still perfect. Her lipstick hasn’t smudged. Her expression has not cracked.

She does not speak to you, nor look at you, nor shift so much as a breath in your direction — not because she’s uncertain, not because she’s restraining herself, but because there is nothing left in this room that requires her effort, and that includes you.

Her silence carries a devastating weight beyond mere emptiness - it's the crushing finality of everything that's been lost.

And what makes you crumble — not outwardly, not visibly, not yet — is the realization that she never needed to raise her voice, never needed to fight, never needed to defend herself or even retaliate, because she knew all along that you would lose this on your own, that the moment she said your name aloud, the rest would collapse without her lifting a finger.

Dan, still tasting blood, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild with disbelief but now clearing, now hardening, and when they land on you, there is nothing soft left inside them — no confusion, no heartbreak, only the sharp glint of something that once trusted and now despises.

“You two deserve each other,” he mutters, his voice no longer raised, but quiet and dangerous in the way a knife is when it rests against skin, and without looking back, he turns and walks straight through the crowd, parting the onlookers like he’s been released from a cage and no longer cares who sees the wreckage left behind.

No one moves to intervene, and Jungkook remains rooted in place, making no attempt to follow. He remains where security left him — his lip split, his white shirt crumpled at the chest, his knuckles smeared with red like ink — and though he does not speak, the intensity in his gaze burns across the distance like a thread that refuses to be cut. He does not apologize. He does not look ashamed. But his eyes, dark and electric, are no longer filled with want — they’re filled with need.

He isn't asking for forgiveness - he's asking you to choose him despite everything. And you stand frozen, breath caught in your throat, unable to form words or even move beneath the weight of this moment.

Because somewhere beneath the soft echo of heels clicking away and gasps fading into murmurs, you finally feel it — the ruin, the humiliation, the spotlight you can’t step out of — and it presses down on you with a clarity so sharp you could almost laugh.

In the wake of shattered crystal and spilled wine, the gala lies in ruins. Dan stands with blood on his lip, while Nami remains pristine and untouchable in her calculated victory. And you - you are the architect of this destruction, having sacrificed everything not for ambition or vengeance, but for that most dangerous of forces: pure and consuming desire.

✓

The night is colder than it should be, air damp and heavy with the kind of post-rain clarity that makes the concrete shimmer like glass, the luxury sedans and town cars lined up in the marble-bricked circle drive outside the venue suddenly looking less like power and more like armor no one can wear anymore. And there, near the far end of the lot, standing with his back to the building and his fists curled loosely at his sides, is Jungkook — breathing unevenly, chest rising too fast, his once-immaculate shirt wrinkled and half-untucked, the corner of his mouth still smudged with blood that hasn’t yet dried.

His knuckles are scraped. His cuff is torn. His jaw is tight in a way that suggests the only thing holding him together is the silence he’s forced to stand in.

And she is already waiting for him.

Nami stands two paces from his side, her arms folded neatly across her waist, her coat draped like a sheath of silk across her shoulders, as pristine now as when she first walked into the ballroom — her expression unreadable, but her voice, when it comes, clear and sharp and final.

“You’ll lose the London deal,” she says, no anger in it, no bitterness, only the practical coolness of someone who has been trained her entire life to count what things are worth.

And for a moment, he doesn’t respond.

Just stands there with his gaze fixed on the ground like he’s trying to burn a hole through the pavement, shoulders still shaking from the tail end of everything he just threw away.

Then he breathes — one long, low exhale — and lifts his head.

“I already lost something more important,” he answers, his voice cracked and hoarse and quieter than it’s ever been.

Nami remains silent, already understanding the weight of his words without needing them explained. When she walks away, her departure is as final as the evening itself.

It’s not until she disappears around the curve of the entrance that you step forward — slow, careful, like your body hasn’t fully remembered how to move yet, like the sight of him under the parking lot lights has knocked all the breath from your lungs again.

In the heavy silence between you, his eyes find yours - wide and bloodshot, rimmed with a shame that asks for nothing but your presence, a silent plea that you haven't turned away. While his hands tremble at his sides, your heels echo once against the stone before falling still. Without hesitation, you reach for him, your fingers finding the bruise blooming along his jaw as your thumb gently wipes away the smear of red beneath his lip.

His eyes drift closed as he leans into your touch. When you finally break the silence, your voice carries a gentle certainty that barely ripples the quiet air between you. "Let me take you home."

The simple nod he gives in response marks a shift - after months of games and secrets and unspoken wanting, he surrenders to your lead. There's nothing left to fight now, and you're the only anchor he has left to hold onto.

this is it for this story! please share your thoughts and feelings, your feedback means the world to me.

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bakugosbratx · 4 months ago

Text

𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥 — 𝐗𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐑𝐢𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Warning: NSFW 18+. BDSM themes implied, face slapping, face fucking, spanking, degrading, enemies, hate sex, cursing, etc.

Words: 2,262

Tags: @bakubabeyy @gazelle-des-pres

A/N: hopefully tumblr will not fuck me over with this one 🫠

“What did you just say to me?” Xaden sneers as he pushes you against the nearest wall, his large hand holding you in place. You and Xaden’s relationship was.. unique, to say the least. Everyone knew you two were enemies. The mere sight of one another makes both of your blood boil yet another strange sensation comes about.

You two blamed the fact that your dragons were mated. An invisible chain that will forever link you two to one another against your will. And maybe, that’s how you ended up in the current situation you are in.

“What did you say to me, Y/N?” Xaden growled, his onyx eyes swimming with anger and lust? “Don’t make me ask you a third time.”

In all honesty, you have forgotten what you have said to get Xaden all riled up, but whatever the forbidden words were, the damage is done. Now, in the middle of the dinning hall, where multiple eyes fall upon the two of you as your wing leader pins you, a first year, against the wall.

If they only knew this was not the first time you have been pinned against the wall by this man.

“I don’t need to repeat myself to you, Xaden.” You smirked, knowing you were getting more of a rise out of him. “Now, let me go. People are staring.”

“You’re in no place to be making demands, Y/N.” Xaden retorts, his tall frame towering over yours. His tall stature always reminded you of your place if his eyes and words didn’t do it for you.

You knew just how to get under Xaden’s skin, how to push all the correct buttons until he snaps. It was all just an exhilarating game of cat and mouse that you both thoroughly enjoyed but would never admit. The end result will always have you ending up in Xaden’s bed and this time was no different.

The world seemed to fade out from beneath the souls of your black leather boots as you held each other's gaze. All the words you had saved in your arsenal to fuel Xaden’s fire even more were swept away by his allure as you dared to try and stand your ground.

As you open your mouth to speak, Xaden releases his grasp on your throat only to say the phrase you have been yearning for. “My bed. Now.”

Electricity runs through your nervous system. Your heart race increases as you obey his command. When you are not moving fast, Xaden’s hand finds its way onto the back of your neck and pushes you forward.

“Move it, first year. Don’t keep me waiting.” Xaden orders, his shadows practically carrying you to his dorm room. As you pick up speed, you still feel Xaden on your heels, encouraging you to pick up the pace.

Once you reach his room, the door opens and the shadows deposit you onto his bed before returning to their master. Xaden leaned against the door, his muscular, tan arms folded over his broad chest. He degraded you with his stare, beckoning you to try and defy him in his territory.

The silence was deafening while the sexual tension grew thicker and thicker. You could see how the predator was deciding how he was going to play with his prey before devouring her whole.

With the beckoning of his finger, you crawled over to him on the cold wooden floor. His gaze remained upon you, daring you to try any of your stunts as you approached him. As you kneel before him, he grasps your chin.

“You’ve been quite the naughty girl, haven’t you?” Xaden asks, wickedly calm. It was terrifying how he could go from radiating anger to calm in the snap of a finger, but it doesn’t mean the rage has dissipated. Xaden was not one to let things go easily which made this so fun.

“Yes, sir.” You purred into his rigid touch. Your nails dug into the floorboards beneath while Xaden’s grip tightens.

“And I thought I fucked all that attitude out of ya already.” Xaden tsk disapprovingly. You were still covering the hickeys he left all over your body last week and attempting to hide how your body throbs every time you sit down. Rihannon has already made comments about it.

“Guess you haven’t.” You teased which earned you a slap to your cheek. Your pussy throbbed at the familiar stinging sensation.

“Did I say you could speak?” Xaden inquired with a raised black brow as he leaned in closer, his hot breath upon your face. “Or have you forgotten who’s in charge here?”

You did not even have the chance to answer as the tip of Xaden’s cock was at your lips. You knew better than to try and deny entry, but Xaden’s shadows pry your mouth open with ease as Xaden’s length is forced into your mouth.

“That’s much better. I like it better when you are quiet.” Xaden smirks as his hand entangles in your hair, controlling your velocity as you are forced to take his cock down your throat.

You should be used to his size by now, but you still manage to choke each time his thick shaft enters your throat. Tears fall down your face from the impact, but not even a dick down your throat can suppress your moans that vibrant throughout him.

“You like that, huh? Like when I fuck your throat like the dirty little fuck toy you are?” Xaden chuckles as he picks up the pace, finding fondness over you struggling. “You’d think with how much you like to run your mouth that you would be able to handle my cock down it.”

More tears fell as the force made it hard to breathe. Did Xaden care? Of course not. You know he wanted to kill you and what better way than with his dick?

Your saliva trails down the veins of his cock. Too bad your blurry vision ruined you from seeing it. And even with your mind elsewhere, you dared to try and pleasure yourself as your face is being fucked. Xaden did not let that slide and used his shoe to kick your hand away.

And take his cock out of your mouth. You cough pathetically, finally finding air in your deprived lungs. You are quickly pulled up by your hair causing you to yelp from the pain and your feet no longer touching the ground below. Even while in pain nothing hid the lust swimming in your pupils.

“You are so damn greedy. Always thinking about what you want and your needs.” Xaden chastised. “And to think I was going to be nice and maybe let you cum tonight.”

Your eyes grew wide. Xaden was merciless and meant what he said. “No, I’m sorry. Please, don’t deprive me of cumming.” You pleaded, your voice still hoarse from previous events.

Xaden studied you before chuckling. “Pathetic.”

Setting you back onto the ground, he dismissed you with the wave of his hand. He did not even have to speak. You know what he wanted you to do.

Rushing to his bed, you quickly discarded any clothing that was on your body and tossed it onto the floor below. His bedsheets smell just like him: mint and leather. A scent you convinced yourself to hate, but secretly, your heart rate increases and mind grows dizzy anytime the familiar scent hits your nostrils. The very man you despised is the same one you endlessly desire.

Arching your back, your ass is out while your face rests on the mattress. You could hear Xaden’s heavy footsteps approach you, but the sound of his boots were not heard upon the creaking floorboards. You were too lost in his scent to even notice he was undressing with you.

“Too busy sniffing my sheets like a damn dog to notice I got undressed.” Xaden remarked, making you feel flustered from you getting caught.

“Oh fuck off—“ You were cut off by the sharp sting of his hand hitting your ass and your hair being pulled so your face was out of the mattress.

“What was that, brat? Didn’t hear ya.” Xaden growled.

“Oh.. nothing.” You muttered, hesitant to say the words again. As much as you want to be a brat to him, you know when you are in his domain to not push your luck too much.

Another harsh slap to your ass. “Don’t fuckin’ lie to me. Tell me what you just said to me and don’t leave out a single word.”

Shivers dance down your arched spine as you feel his shadows surround you, anchoring you in place as if Xaden isn’t doing it all on his own.

“I.. I said..” You stammered and the grip on your hair became tighter. You swore you could feel it ripping from your scalp. “You’re testing my patience. I suggest you find your words and find them quick.”

“I said ‘oh fuck off.’ Happy?”

All the response was a low, dangerous chuckle before your face is smothered into the mattress and Xaden’s cock buried deep into your already weeping pussy. Your moans and cries were silenced by the cushion of the mattress you were just sniffing earlier.

The shadows handcuff your arms behind you as Xaden thrust into your depths at a rigorous pace, sending electricity throughout your pulse. Xaden had more than just control over your body; he controlled your mind, body, and soul. Just the thought of him sent your mind into a rage, but your heart into a marathon.

Curse him and his possessive ways.

Your nails dug into your soft skin as you moaned into the sheets. The bed creaks and hits the wall with such force that you both know everyone on different floors heard. You spoke about your concerns in the past to Xaden and he did not care. So, you learned to deal with the harsh yet amused stares.

Xaden’s nails dug into your hips, holding you in place as he pants. “Where’s all that mouth now, brat? I haven’t heard you say something stupid in awhile.”

Your mind was too far gone to even respond. Xaden was good at fuckin’ your brains out and you both knew it. As his thrust grew even more sloppy, you knew he was close to releasing. You mentally thanked the Gods because your pussy was still sore from last week and as much as pleasure as you get from Xaden fucking you like this, it still didn’t take the pain away once the high came down.

The shadows released their grasp and you stayed put, knowing better than to push your luck. “Good girl. You’re learning.” Xaden praised, tapping your thigh in approval. You are so used to being degraded by him that hearing praise was a foreign music to your ears.

“Turn over.” Xaden demanded. You arched a brow and was about to ask why, but did as he requested, laying on your back. Hickeys covered your body. Xaden may hate you, but in the bedroom, his leather touch turned into velvet at least once during the interaction and the lips you have never felt upon yours turned into a heaven you can only yearn for.

Xaden gazed over all the marks upon your body. He was never one to compliment you. After all, you are enemies. Only someone Xaden can see potential with is someone he can call beautiful.

That realization made you squirm as his eyes raked over your body. Xaden, of course, noticed this. “What? Don’t like me lookin’ at you?” He remarked with a sly smirk.

“Well I know you’re judging my body.” You scoffed with the roll of your eyes. Xaden arched his brow. “You think I’m judging your body?”

You bit your bottom lip, feeling vulnerable as if that could be possible since he has seen you naked quite a few times. But still, the insecurity of someone as hot and beautiful as Xaden who finds many things wrong with you on a daily basis lingers on your mind. How could Xaden find someone like you attractive? How could Xaden even want to have sex with you?

Why do you even care?

“Hey,” Xaden calls out, bringing you back to earth, his hand on your chin so you are forced to meet his gaze, “I have never once judged your body. If anything, I’m admiring it.”

“Huh?” You exclaimed in shock.

“Guess I fucked you dumb for good this time.”

“Well, you’re not one to compliment me like.. ever.”

Xaden rolled his eyes. “Insecure much?”

“Well it would be nice to hear it every once in a while.” You muttered as you folded your arms over your bare chest and pout.

“And it would be nice if you didn’t get on my nerves every damn day, but I guess we both are going to have to live with the disappointment, won’t we?”

You rolled your eyes once again. You should know better than to expect Xaden to show vulnerability. That was not his strong suit. At least with you.

Xaden got onto his bed and laid down, pulling you close. For a brief moment, you enjoyed the closeness without sex. The only closeness you will ever get with Xaden is when intercourse is involved. You have grew to find beauty and pain in it all.

“Now, quit your mopin’ and get back to riding my cock.” Xaden demands with his finger, one muscular arm resting behind him as his tense muscles relax.

Back to business as usual.

©bakugosbratx

#fourth wing #iron flame #onyx storm #xaden riorson #fourth wing xaden #xaden x reader #xaden riorson x reader #xaden riorson x smut #xaden riorson smut #fourth wing smut #fourth wing fanfic #iron flame smut #onyx storm smut #xaden smut #xaden x fem reader

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velaenam · 2 months ago

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𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲

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𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. you are a successful aerospace engineer, a girlboss, with terrible luck in romance. let's hope this strangers website brings you out of that rut! 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – NSFW topics! mature themes, swearing/foul language, slow burn, talks of depression/mental health, guilt tripping, manipulation, tba 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬– not proofread. erm, more domestic bliss!! stop expecting the worst (or do.. stay on your toes baby) 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 7 of many ! previous chapter | next chapter | playlist —reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

the sim drills went smoothly. too smoothly. caleb hit every mark, sharp and fluid like he was born to fly that frame. you’d caught yourself smiling halfway through the final sequence when he executed a near-impossible maneuver just to show off.

now, outside the sim bay, the group’s circled up. a handful of pilots, a few engineers, a tech or two from flight systems – all gathered around in a loose half-ring, laughing over debrief notes, tossing gentle jabs, and happily drinking and eating the catering you’d bought not too long ago.

caleb’s next to you, leaning against a column with his arms folded, sleeves rolled up again like he knows what he’s doing to everyone’s attention span. your shoulder brushes his every now and then as you speak. he’s still holding your coffee cup, but he won’t let you throw it out yet. “i swear you just barrel rolled for fun,” one of the pilots says to caleb, nudging him. “not protocol.” and caleb scratches the back of his head, laughing awkwardly, “i was following the sim’s response curve,” caleb replies, mock-offended, his laugh resonating afterwards “if that just happened to look cool, then hey… occupational hazard?”

you laugh, tilting your head toward him. “i think you’re just addicted to flair and being a show off.” – “coming from the one who reprogrammed the entire thermal loop in under six seconds mid-flight?” – “it was five.” the group laughs. there’s a lightness to the air. the kind that doesn’t happen often on base. everyone’s relaxed, orbiting the two of you, letting the ease ripple outward.

then there was a shuffle into the room

“caleb.”

the voice cuts clean through the noise, and you turn first.

she’s standing just outside the ring of pilots– boots spotless, uniform crisp, her hair tucked behind one ear, her pistols adorn her hips. you recognize her instantly. hunter hq. jenna’s office. her supposed star employee. that tight smile, the way she scanned you in aw with her friend as you debriefed them.

“caleb,” she says, all sugar and poise. he shifts beside you, and you feel it. not defensively but like he was on high alert, maybe tentative. “hey pipsqueak...” he says, voice quiet.

pipsqueak.

the group goes still, the laughter dying out. the silence says enough. you look between them. it clicks. she glances at you, recognition flickering behind her eyes. then she turns back to caleb, her voice light.

“i figured you wouldn’t answer my messages, so…i came here” her whined words hang there, and you don’t look at her. you look at caleb. “this is the friend you mentioned, right?” you ask, voice steady. he meets your gaze– surprised, then guilty, then it was honest. “yeah.”

you nod and she smiles at you. “we’ve met! hunter hq, right? miss jenna is your sister?” you nod, “that’s right,” you say calmly. “and you’re the one who told caleb to unadd me on whispr.” her expression changes into a shocked one– “i didn’t tell him to do anything.”

you smile. it’s clean and polite– but full of edge. “right. just made the suggestion.” the group starts to drift, the moment crackling under the weight of the shift. caleb stays beside you, jaw tight, his silence heavy, really unsure how to handle this. you step forward just enough to close the space. “we’re dating,” you say clearly. “and i’m saying it out loud so there’s no confusion.” she blinks once. that’s it. “well,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “i just came to say congratulations.”

“you’ve said it,” you reply. she nods. turns. walks off without a second glance. the hallway quiets again. caleb exhales beside you. “i was going to tell you it was her. i just didn’t–”

“you don’t have to explain,” you say, cutting in gently. your stomach curdles into knots. you suddenly felt sick, like you were about to vomit, but you remain steadfast– swallowing back the feeling of dread as you walk off from caleb, “i need 5.” you mumble as you disappear into the corner.

caleb stands there, a mixture of surprise, and dread surging through him. his breath was shallow, his eyes darkened, as he continuously tries to blink away the odd moment. he had to snap out of it, because it was killing him just standing there, but he was confused. but just like that– the room was empty, and he had two objectives to complete.

the hallway is quiet now. the briefing room is behind him, but caleb’s walking fast—shoulders tense, jaw set. the base lights above flicker a little too bright as he rounds the corner near the hangar access. that’s where he sees her.

she stands near one of the side exits, arms folded, weight shifted onto one leg. like she knew he’d follow.

he slows to a stop a few paces from her, breath still uneven from the sharpness of everything that just unfolded.

“you shouldn’t have come like that,” he says.

she exhales a slow breath, not looking at him. “you haven’t been answering.. i had to...” a tinge of whininess in her voice as she trails off

“i’ve been busy.”

“busy,” she repeats, dry. then she turns toward him fully, eyes tired but still sharp. “you’ve been busy for months, caleb.” he doesn’t say anything. “and when you do answer,” she adds, voice quieter now, “you don’t sound like you.”

caleb runs a hand down his face. “things are just different now.”— “yeah,” she says, mouth twisting. “because of her?” he blinks. not defensive, confused again. “this isn’t about her.”

“really? because it feels like i’ve been watching you disappear piece by piece. and i know you—i know you better than anyone else. and this? shutting me out? that’s not you.” he swallows. presses his tongue to the back of his teeth before speaking. “look… i didn’t mean for it to happen like this. i’m not trying to push you out.”

“then what are you doing?” he doesn’t have an answer she’ll like. not yet. so instead, he says spontaneously, “come over later.”

she blinks. “what?” he sigh, inaudible, “just… come by. we’ll talk. i’ll explain everything. i owe you that much.”

she watches him for a long time, but her expression softens—just a split second “okay,” she says finally. “i’ll come by.”

he nods once. it’s not relief exactly, but it’s something. then she turns and walks away. and he stands there in the empty hallway, alone with the weight of everything he hasn’t said yet. he stares at her disappearing figure before he turns back to the hallway, finding you.

the lights are soft. the sun outside’s dipping lower, casting long shadows across your desk. your tablet hums quietly beside the flight logs you’ve been annotating all day. the silence is good. it’s clean. keeps you grounded.

then a knock before the door slides halfway open— you already know who it is. you don’t look up. “if it’s about the fighter diagnostics, you’ll have the final render in an hour.”

there’s a pause. then caleb steps fully into the room, letting the door close behind him. he’s still in uniform, jacket half-unzipped. if you weren’t so tense you would’ve had a witty remark about how handsome he was looking, but the atmosphere didn’t call for it.

you finally glance up. “let me guess,” you say. “it’s about her.” he doesn’t answer immediately. he stands there, like the words are heavier than they should be.

“she showed up,” he says.

“yeah,” you reply, returning your gaze to the tablet. “i was right there.” he shifts his weight like he wants to say more. explain. justify. but you don’t give him space to.

“listen,” you say calmly, setting the stylus down. “if you came here to talk about where you stand with her, you don’t need to.”

his brow furrows. “that’s not what i—” “it’s fine,” you cut in, voice even. “i’m not going to be one half of whatever triangle this is. i don’t have time to navigate nostalgia.”

he stiffens, not insulted — just caught. “it’s not like that.”

you nod once, quietly. “okay. but if it ever starts feeling like it is — if it ever becomes easier for you to go back to someone who knows the old you instead of learning who you’re becoming — then i’m not going to get in the way. you know where i stand, I told you before. i won’t be in these types of situations” ‘im too good to be humiliated’ you think as you purse your lips. that is the truth. you worked too hard to be humiliated by a man and what looked to be his tail. and that was the hard truth.

his mouth opens slightly, like he wants to argue, but the words falter. you’re not angry. that’s what throws him. you’re not defensive. you’re just… clear.

“you’re not a child, caleb..” you continue. “you get to decide who’s in your orbit. i just don’t want to waste my time when you’re busy trying to keep one in line..”

his shoulders drop. the weight of your words settling into his chest.

“you’re not a placeholder,” he says softly. you smile, sad and a little tired. “then don’t treat me like one.” there’s a beat of silence between you — full of everything neither of you wants to admit out loud.

then you turn back to your screen. “we’ve got an inspection tomorrow,” you say, dismissing him, more rudely than you'd like to be “don’t be late.”

he lingers for half a second longer. but you don’t look up. and eventually, the door closes behind him.

the corridors feel longer on the way out.

boots echo off metal floors. low base lights flicker past him in pulses of gold, red, blue emergency lights, even when there’s no emergency. it makes the walls feel colder than they are. his hands stay deep in his jacket pockets. shoulders hunched. eyes down. always moving forward because stopping makes the noise louder.

he shouldn’t have gone to your office. you were calm. too calm. not distant, not rude but you knew what you wanted..

he exhales, slow through his nose, as the security gate opens and the city lights spill in. the sky over skyhaven is deep blue, stars caught behind haze. his apartment isn’t far. it never is. but it always feels like a long way home.

he passes a storefront window and catches his reflection — uniform half-unzipped, eyes shadowed, jaw tight.

i look tired.

i always look tired..

but there’s no one to say it out loud. no one to hand him a plate or touch his back or tell him to rest. not since grandma started needing help getting down the stairs. not since he was seventeen and everyone decided he was the man now. the strong one. the dependable one. he’s good at it. at carrying. at being the solid wall for everyone else to lean on. but he doesn’t know how to be held. it was hurting him, and every single day he had to throw that feeling of pain away. he couldn’t afford to falter— not when there were two women who depended on him. that kept him going.

and now there’s her again. familiar, yes. easy in the way old friendships are, with all the hard edges already worn down. she’s never asked him for more than what he gave. and part of him loves her. he hated to admit it, but he did love her. and this is what hurt him. caleb loved her more than life itself.

he knows that.

but it’s a careful kind of love — like putting your hands on glass, knowing it won’t cut you, but also knowing it’ll never bend with you either.

then there’s her. you.

the woman who took his breath away. at the gala. the engineer with the steady hands and ambitious fire and a heart that scares the hell out of him because it’s real. it sees him. pushes him. expects him to be more than a caretaker. to be whole.

but… he doesn’t know if he can be that yet. he doesn’t know if he has it in him.

he swallows hard as he keys into his apartment. drops his jacket onto the couch. the light in the kitchen hums when he turns it on.

he doesn’t make dinner. he doesn’t turn on the tv. he just sits at the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. and wonders, not for the first time, if he’ll ever know what it feels like to be chosen for who he is, not for what he holds together. if he’s being chosen for being caleb. not caleb the protector, caleb the best cook, caleb the best role model.

the city hums outside your window. the lights of skyhaven pulse low against the glass, gold and distant. your tablet’s dim beside you, diagnostics forgotten. everything feels heavier at night.

you stare at your phone a moment longer before hitting call.

it rings once. twice. then his voice: “hey.” you breathe in before speaking. “hi. i… wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”

“me either,” he says quietly. not cold — just tired. worn at the edges, but his voice hinted of surprise. like he was relieved you called.

you suck air in, as you don’t tiptoe around it.

“i wanted to apologize for earlier. for how i handled things in the office.” he doesn’t interrupt. “i’m still figuring this out,” you continue. “how to be in something real. how to let people close without expecting them to walk away. but i’m not stupid. and i’m not fragile…. i don’t want this — us — to fall apart over a moment.”

there’s a pause. his breathing is steady on the line.

“i know you’ve worked hard your whole life,” you say softly. “i know how much people expect from you. how you carry everyone like it’s second nature. i know how hard you’ve worked your whole life as the sole protector of your family.” you swallow, voice steadier now. “but you don’t have to do that with me. i don’t want anything from you but your peace. your rest. your quiet. your self. i want to be the one who takes the weight off your shoulders, caleb. if you let me.”

his silence isn’t rejection. it’s listening. full-bodied, heart-deep listening. he felt like he’d crack in any minute now. “you don’t have to worry anymore,” you add gently. “not with me. not ever.” another breath.

“i really like you,” you admit. “probably more than i should. and i want to see you — not the exhausted version you give to everyone else, but the best one. the version of you that gets to breathe. to laugh. to be caleb. i want to see you smile- like you deserve..”

you wait.

and finally, he speaks — voice rough, like it caught in his throat before it came out.

“you don’t know how much i needed to hear that.”

“then let me say it again tomorrow,” you whisper.

he exhales — his tears made their way down his face quietly as he listened to you

“okay,” he says. “tomorrow.”

he hears the knock before he sees her. it’s sharp, followed by that little silence she always leaves like she expects the door to open itself.

caleb wipes his hands on a dish towel and opens it.

she stands in the hallway, hands in her pockets, shoulders squared like she’s trying not to look like she’s bracing for something.

“hey,” she says, neutral, “you came,” caleb answers, stepping aside to let her in.

she walks in and stops just past the threshold, scanning the place like it’s a museum exhibit. the skyline glows through the massive balcony window behind her. the whole place smells like clean linen and something faintly citrus. there’s a hint of… female perfume in the air. everything is warm, sharp-lined, and understated. elegant.

she whistles low. “wow.” he raises a brow, locking the door behind her. “what?”.. “this is…” she turns in a slow circle. “not what i was expecting. at all.”

“you don’t like it?” she shakes her head “oh, i like it just fine,” she says, tapping her nails lightly along the counter. “i’m just wondering when you got taste. and a fridge that probably costs more than your old ship. and… you also gave gran your check recently….”

caleb exhales through his nose, a wry smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “came with the apartment.”

she freezes. then she turns to him, one brow arching. “bullshit.” — “what?”

she gestures around. “caleb, i’ve known you since you were stuffing power bars into your duffel because you didn’t want to buy overpriced food. don’t tell me this entire setup ‘came with the apartment.’ ” he leans against the counter, folding his arms. “why does it matter?”

“because this looks like someone lives here now. someone with money. and a life.” she tilts her head. “and last i checked, that wasn’t really your style.” he shrugs. doesn’t answer.

she walks slowly past the living room, fingers trailing over the back of the velvet couch — the one you picked out. her voice softens just slightly. “so who’s the decorator?”

caleb looks away. “was it her?” she asks. his silence is enough of an answer. she sighs, “she’s the reason you stop talking to me, too?” he runs a hand down his jaw, tired. “i didn’t mean for it to get this bad. i told you i was busy.”

“busy… with her?” she asks, looking back at him. he doesn’t answer and she doesn’t push.

the light over the kitchen island glows warm gold, casting long shadows across the navy cabinets and clean lines. she perches on the edge of one of the stools, fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of water she poured herself without asking.

caleb stands a few feet away, leaning against the counter. his arms are crossed, body angled away.

she watches him, “you’ve been off,” she says finally. he exhales, slow. “i’ve had a lot going on.” — “no,” she says gently, “you’ve been different with me.” he doesn’t answer. she swirls the glass slowly in her hands. “i thought we didn’t do this. the whole… not-talking thing.”

“i’m not avoiding you.” — “you are, though.” her voice stays soft, but her eyes pin him in place. familiar. knowing. she’s done this before but with control masked as concern.

“you stopped answering right away,” she continues. “you never used to do that. and when you do text, it’s like… short. detached. like you’re measuring your words.” caleb sighs, shifting his weight. “i’ve been working nonstop. i’m training on a new system. i’m in and out of base 13 hours a day.”

“sure,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “but that never used to stop you.” he looks at her now “what do you want me to say?” this was starting to hurt him more than she could perceive. she smiles, faint. practiced. “i want you to tell me when everything changed.” he stays quiet.

she sets the glass down, stands, walks toward him slowly and careful. she reaches out and places a hand lightly on his chest, right over his collarbone. “you and me,” she says. “we’re not temporary. we’ve never been.” his jaw tightens. her voice softens. “i know it feels easy to drift when things change. new people come in, they bring something exciting, but they don’t know you like i do.” he flinches — barely. but it’s enough. “they don’t remember what you were like when you broke your arm climbing out of that tree to save a cat i thought was cute,” she whispers, almost fond. “or how you couldn’t sleep without me next to your bed, how you couldn’t stand the thought of not sending me to class without snacks. ”

“people change.” he says, finally. “they do,” she agrees. “but the good ones don’t forget who they were before the world tried to split them into pieces.” this didn’t sit right with him.

she looks up at him, eyes soft. “i’m just trying to remind you.” he swallows and says nothing. because a part of him still doesn’t know where if she was right or not.

her hand is still resting on his chest, light like a memory she doesn’t want him to shake off. caleb lowers it gently. not harsh. just firm. “you think she’s genuine because she bought you all of this?”

“you can’t talk about her like that,” he says quietly. her smile falters. just slightly. “i didn’t say anything cruel.”— “you don’t have to,” he says. “it’s the way you talk about her. like she’s some… stranger passing through. like she doesn’t matter.”

“caleb—”

“she does,” he cuts in. “she matters a lot.”

she steps back, folding her arms. the practiced softness starts to slip, something sharper forming at the edges. “you barely know her. you shouldn’t trust everybody so freely caleb..”

he shakes his head. “you don’t get to decide that.” she stares at him for a beat, then lets out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. “wow.” he tilts his head. “what?”

“it’s just funny,” she says, voice light and brittle all at once. “how quickly someone can rewrite your orbit.” “it’s not about rewriting anything,” caleb says. “you and i have history. but she and i… we have something . we have something real, here and now. and i need you to learn to coexist with that.”

she blinks. her jaw works. offended. then she speaks again, slower. “you’re seriously asking me to share you?” — “i’m not a possession,” he says, visibly hurt. “i’m asking you to respect that more than one person can matter to me at the same time.”

“but there’s only one woman in your life who should get all of that attention,” she snaps — not loud, but sharp enough to cut. his brows furl into something more than hurt, “and it’s me. it’s always been me, caleb.” he breathes in deep through his nose, jaw tightening.

“that’s not your choice to make,” he says, voice steady. “not anymore.”

her shoulders rise like she’s bracing for something. but nothing comes next — not a slap, not a shout. just silence.

he steps back, running a hand through his hair. he looks at her, and it’s not cruel. it’s just tired. “i think you should go.”

she doesn’t move. after a minute she finally grabs her coat from the stool. shrugs it on. walks toward the door.

but before she opens it, she glances back. “she doesn’t know you like i do,” she says quietly. “you’ll see that eventually.”

he doesn’t respond. she leaves and this time, he doesn’t follow.

the door clicks shut behind her.

the sound lingers long after she’s gone. caleb stands in the middle of the room, coat still in his hand, chest tight with everything she didn’t say — and everything she did. he sinks down onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands laced behind his neck. the apartment feels too quiet now. too clean. too arranged. like someone else lives here and he’s just visiting.

he rubs his thumb along the edge of his palm as if it was a nervous tic.

“there’s only one woman in your life who should get all that attention — and it’s me.”

that isn’t fair. he hears it again. word for word.

it doesn’t feel like a threat. it feels like history. like something stitched into his skin that he never questioned. he feels like she was scared of him slipping away from her and the worst part? a piece of him still believes it.

she was his beginning. the soft familiarity of her hand on his shoulder in every childhood photo. the one who sat next to him on the roof of the house, whispering plans about running away. the girl he shared his dreams with. the girl who knew how he liked his food and when to pull him back when the anger got too close to the surface.

it wasn’t fireworks. it wasn’t chemistry. it was gravity. a love he’s been quietly feeding his whole life.

and yet. you.

you came into his life in a beautiful dress. you came in without needing him. you didn’t reach for his hand like you needed saving — you handed him a soft manicured hand and asked him to carry himself better. you didn’t baby him. you didn’t expect him to fix anything. you expected him to show up. with his smile that had you smitten. and when he did — when he was around you — he didn’t feel like a tired man holding the world together with duct tape and obligation.

he felt like a man. grown. happy. in love.

and maybe that’s what’s terrifying.

because with her, he was the boy who never stopped being needed. and with you, he was someone who got to rest. he closes his eyes. presses his palms into them until stars bloom in the dark. maybe it's his thoughts of not being needed. maybe you will envelope him and he'd become like... her.

he loves her. he really, truly does. but he doesn’t know if it’s the kind of love that moves forward — or the kind that keeps him standing still.

and you — god, you make him want to be someone different. someone better.

but what if he doesn’t know how to let go of who he was?

what if he can’t?

there’s a knock.

it’s not loud, not rushed. just steady. three soft taps, like he’s hoping you’re still awake but wouldn’t knock again if you weren’t.

you were plopped on your vanity when the knock came, and as you start you scream through the hallway, “I HAVE A DOORBELL YOU KNO-“

DING DONG

you flinch when the loud ass ring went through. it probably woke your neighbors up. that was not calibrated since it hasn’t been used in a minute.

you cursed yourself as you continue to the entrance with quickened pace.

you pull open the door, pajama shirt loose at the collar.

caleb stands in the hall.

hoodie pulled low. eyes glassy. jaw clenched. he doesn’t say anything right away — he just stares at you like he’s not sure if he made the right decision coming here, but also like he had nowhere else left to go.

“hey,” you say gently.

his mouth opens, closes. his throat works around the words before they come out. “can i…” his voice is rough, almost cracking. “can i talk to you?” you nod immediately. “of course.”

he steps in — slow, like his body is twenty pounds heavier than it should be. the moment you close the door behind him, he turns and he wraps his arms around you.

it’s not a quick hug. it was a plea. his hands grip the back of your shirt, his forehead presses to your shoulder. like holding you is the only thing keeping him standing.

you hold him back, quietly, palms gentle against his spine. he exhales against your neck. shaky. raw. “i feel like i’m slipping,” he whispers. “like every day it’s getting harder to pretend i’m okay.”

your chest tightens. he doesn’t lift his head. “everyone just… expects me to be fine. to carry it. be strong. be reliable. even when i want to scream. even when it hurts to get out of bed.”

you don’t say anything yet. you just stay there. holding him together for a moment while he falls apart in your arms. “i don’t know how to ask for help,” he adds, voice breaking in half. “i never did. but i think if i don’t say it out loud tonight i’ll drown.”

you shift slightly, brushing a hand through his hair. soft. steady. “then say it,” you whisper. “you don’t have to hold it alone anymore.”

he nods against you, slow and trembling and in that quiet, late-night space — he lets go. just a little, because you’re there. and for once, he’s not carrying it all by himself.

you lead him gently to the couch, your hand never leaving his. the lights are low, the only glow coming from the city outside your windows and the soft flicker of the screen you’d left on idle.

he sinks down like his bones are too heavy. and when you sit, he follows — resting his head in your lap without asking, like something inside him already knows he’s allowed to. your fingers find his hair, slow and careful, brushing through it like you’ve done it a thousand times.

he breathes out. “she came over,” he says quietly, like it’s a confession. you stay quiet. just keep your touch steady. “she looked around like she didn’t believe any of it. like i’d turned into someone else.” you hum softly, giving him space. “she kept asking what changed,” he murmurs. “like she couldn’t stand the idea that i didn’t revolve around her anymore.”

he laughs a little under his breath. it’s not a happy sound. “i didn’t even fight her. i just stood there and let her say it.” — “say what?” you ask, voice low. “that there’s only one woman who should get all my attention,” he says, eyes on the ceiling. “and it’s her.” your hand pauses for just a second — then keeps moving. through his hair. down the side of his head. over his temple — gently and slowly. your teeth grits as you allow him to continue. you’d have a word with her.

“i didn’t know what to say,” he admits. “because part of me still… loves her. or thinks i do. because she’s been there since we were kids. she saw me when no one else did.”

you nod a slight pain rising through your chest.

“but with her… i always had to be the strong one. the protector. the steady hand. and now that i’m different — now that i’m tired — she doesn’t know what to do with me.”

his eyes flutter closed, “but when i’m with you,” he says, softer now, “i don’t have to pretend i’m okay.”

your fingers slow for a moment, then curl lightly into his hair.

“you make me feel like it’s okay to just… exist.. be me— be caleb xia.”

you lean down just slightly, pressing your lips to his forehead. a kiss like a silent steady vow “you don’t have to explain yourself tonight,” you whisper.

he doesn’t speak again, but his breathing evens out in your lap, hand resting lightly against your thigh.

and for the first time in weeks, he sleeps peacefully.

his breathing has slowed, his shoulders finally relaxed, mouth parted slightly in the kind of sleep that only comes when the storm’s finally quiet for a little while. his head’s still resting in your lap, his arm draped along the cushion like he’d melted there. like this couch, your hands, your presence — were the only place he felt safe.

you don’t move— not yet.

your fingers linger in his hair, slow and absentminded. your heart’s steady, but your thoughts are anything but.

you feel for him, how could you not? he was a child forced to grow up fast. now he’s a man who is having a hard time catching up. you saw it in his eyes when he showed up at your door — the exhaustion he carries behind that charming smile, the pressure that’s been building inside him for years. and when he spoke about her it wasn’t anger or guilt he felt. it was dread. pain. the hint of possible betrayal.

you felt for him, truly. but at the end of the day you’ve known yourself longer than you’ve known him. you felt weird about this.

because you’ve never been one to share. not when it comes to something real. you’re used to being the one people orbit around. the woman who never has to try too hard. men bend for you. they rewrite the rules. they chase. and when you’re done, they accept it, because you never promise what you won’t give.

but this? caleb? this is different. he was different.

you don’t want to chase him. don’t want to beg for space in a heart that might still belong to someone else. and for a second — just a second — you think about walking away. cutting it clean before it gets messier. before you start reaching for things you can’t have.

you’d still be kind. still be composed… but your heart doesn’t move.

it stays right here. with him.

you watch him sleep — lashes dark against his cheek, brows finally unknotted — and you feel that quiet, inconvenient truth settle into your bones:

you really, really like him.

not for how he looks in uniform. not for the way he says your name. but for the way he let you in tonight — when he had nothing left. and still came to you. and a piece of you might think that that felt the bare minimum, but a piece of you also felt that this has become deeply rooted into something else.

you reach over for the blanket draped over the side of the couch, unfold it carefully, and wrap it around him. tuck the corner near his shoulder. smooth it down like muscle memory.

you sit back, letting your fingers trail down the back of his head one last time. then you smile — small, fondly, full of something warm you don’t quite have a name for yet.

you’d be there for him. even if it scared you. especially if it scared you. because some things are worth staying for. even the hard ones.

you wake to the sound of the city blinking awake outside your window — traffic humming down, distant voices below. the apartment is quiet, but the soft weight on your legs reminds you you’re not alone.

caleb’s still asleep, curled slightly into your side, the blanket tangled around his shoulders. your hand rests in his hair, and you realize you must’ve never moved after he drifted off.

you shift gently, trying not to wake him, but he stirs anyway.

he blinks up at you, eyes bleary, voice thick with sleep. “morning.” you smile enjoying the sight of him. “morning.” he sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes. then he looks at you really looks — and something in his face softens as if reality hit him in the head and he realizes that he just slept on you.

“hey,” he murmurs. “i’m sorry for showing up like that. for just… dropping it all on you.” you shake your head. “don’t apologize.”

“no, i mean it,” he says, brow furrowing. “you didn’t sign up to hold all that. i should’ve—” you cut him off gently, with a kiss on the forehead. he immediately stops talking as you pull away,. “caleb. you’re okay. you don’t have to carry that alone anymore.”

he watches you for a second, like he’s trying to memorize your face. then his lips twitch into something small. grateful.

“you mean that?”

you nod. “if you ever need me — really need me — come. even if it’s 2 a.m. even if you don’t have the words. just come home. ”

he exhales a slow breath, like your words physically untie something in his chest. then, without warning, he grabs your waist and pulls you forward. you yelp — softly, more startled than upset — as he lifts you into his lap, the blanket falling to the floor in a lazy heap. your hands press to his shoulders automatically, your face going warm.

“caleb—!”

he grins, eyes dark and fond. “what? too early for a kiss?”

“it’s not that,” you mutter, flustered. “you just— you grabbed me so suddenly—”

he leans in and kisses you — deep, slow, like he’s been waiting days to. his hands settle at your hips, and yours curl into his shirt despite yourself. when he pulls back, you’re flushed and quiet.

he laughs. not teasing, just genuinely delighted.

“you’re blushing,” he says, amazed. you shove lightly at his shoulder. “i’m not.”— “you are.”

“it’s not the kiss,” you grumble, flustered. “you just— threw me onto your lap.”

“oh, is that it?” he asks, clearly enjoying this. “yes!”

he laughs again, pulling you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. “you’re cute when you panic. who knew miss ‘i don’t get intimidated by anything’ melts from one kiss?”

“shut up,” you whisper, even as you smile into it. his voice drops, soft and sincere. “thank you. for last night. for this.” you kiss his cheek. “always.” and for once, there’s nothing left to explain. just warmth. just him. just you. and a quiet kind of morning that tastes like peace.

as you open your mouth to speak, your stomach rumbles. caleb stares at you, and you stare at him, blinks matching speed as a stupid smile creeps on his face. as it infects your face and you start to smile he nods toward the kitchen.

you: caleb and i wont be in today. let them know please. if they have any questions or issues have them call me directly secretary: will do ma’am

the kitchen smells like toasted bread and something vaguely sweet. sunlight spills through the window in long ribbons, casting warm light across the counter, the stovetop, the slight mess from cooking. his hoodie is slung lazily over the back of one of your chairs. he’s standing at the stove now, stirring something gently in a small pan, bare forearms visible under a rolled-up shirt. good lord almighty he was so fine. the slight flexed arm muscle. the side profile. the tall towering prince charming cooking you omelette or whatever. too busy drooling.

you walk up behind him, slow, soft steps on the tile and without a word, you wrap your arms around his waist. your cheek finds the space between just below his shoulder blades as you lean into his back, your chest rising and falling with his breath.

he stills for half a second — just enough for you to feel it — then relaxes under your touch.

his hand moves off the spatula and rests lightly over yours. warm and steady. you close your eyes. the quiet is heavy, but not in a bad way.

“you’re not alone,” you whisper. “you never were. but you don’t have to pretend now, caleb. not with me.”

he doesn’t speak, but you feel his thumb rub lightly over your knuckles. “i’ll be here,” you say again, softer. “even when it gets heavy. even when it’s hard to ask.”

you press a small kiss to the space between his shoulder blades. “you don’t have to carry everything. not when i’ve got you.” his head drops slightly. like your words sink straight into his spine. you shift just a little closer your head resting on his bicep

“you’re so loved,” you murmur. “even when you don’t feel it. especially then.”

he turns his head — just enough to meet your eyes. and for a moment, he doesn’t have to say anything because you already know.

the two of you sit across from each other at the small table tucked near the window, plates half-full with the omelet and toasted bread and fruit you forgot you had. there’s the sound of a show, on low volume, serving as background noise. caleb picks up a strawberry with his fork and gestures across the table. “do you remember the night we messaged about that documentary of the first airplanes?”

you smirk. “you mean the one you said ‘aged like milk’?”

he laughs, nodding. “yeah. that one. but after that… you remember what you asked me?”

you tilt your head, thoughtful. “on whispr?” he nods and you glance down at your coffee, swirling it idly. “i think i asked if you believed in love.”

“you did.” you look up. “and you said yes.”

“i still do.” he says it so simply. like it’s not something that ever needed doubting.

you go quiet for a beat, then shift your plate aside a little, folding your hands around your mug.

“i don’t,” you say softly.

his eyes lift to meet yours not surprised, just listening as if egging you to continue. you breathe in, steady. “i mean… i want to. part of me does. but love, for me, has always been tied to conditions. people want what i can offer. power, connections, money, the illusion of having it all.”

he doesn’t interrupt. “i’ve had partners look me in the face and pretend they wanted me, when really, they wanted my name on their grant. or the way my last name gets them past red tape. or the guest list i can get them on. cars. god— someone tried to get at me because they needed their rent paid.”

your voice doesn’t waver, but it’s clear this isn’t something you say out loud often. “i’m so used to being a prize — a power play, i don’t even know what it feels like to be wanted for me. just… me.”

he sets his fork down slowly. leans forward a little, elbows on the table, eyes never leaving yours. “you don’t scare me,” he says gently. “none of that does. not your name. not your power. not your money. i’m not here because i think you can give me something.”

you swallow, throat tightening suddenly so shy, “then why are you?” he smiles, slow and soft. “because you’re the only person i’ve ever met who didn’t ask me to be a hero,” he says. “you don’t need saving. you don’t want rescuing. and that terrifies me in the best way.”

you stare at him, heart aching a little in your chest. your fingers tighten around your mug.

“you’re the strongest person i know,” he continues. “but even strong people need someone who sees them. really sees them. not the version other people try to build around them.”

his voice lowers. “so let me see you.” you don’t say anything for a long time.

then, finally, you slide your hand across the table and let your fingers tangle with his.

and caleb — bright, battered, golden-hearted, golden retriever caleb squeezes back, like a promise. just two people, plates of cooling food between them, learning how to love each other without armor.

the plates are mostly empty now. the coffee’s cooled. but neither of you have moved. your hand’s still resting in his, fingers lightly intertwined, your thumb brushing along the side of his. there’s a quiet stretch thats just… full. full of thoughts that haven’t been spoken yet.

“can i ask you something?” you say, voice a little quieter now. he tilts his head. “yeah.” there was one more pause before you continue, “i know we talked about it before but what kind of partner do you want?” he pauses now. not because he doesn’t know, but because no one’s ever asked him that in a way that felt real.

“someone i can protect,” he says eventually. “someone i can build something with. not just… a relationship. i want a life.” you nod slowly, gaze soft. “a future.”

“exactly,” he says. “i want to wake up beside someone who’s still there years from now. who knows the worst of me and doesn’t flinch. who will love me as much as i love them.” you glance down, smiling a little. “that’s surprisingly poetic for a guy who steals all the coffee creamer.”

he laughs, “you have the fanciest coffee creamer i’ve seen. i kinda have to.” then looks at you. “what about you?”

you inhale through your nose, thinking. “i want someone who loves me. fully. unshakably. someone who’s obsessed with me, even when i don’t feel like i deserve it. not in a suffocating way — just… someone who never lets me forget that i’m enough.”

he watches you closely. “i think i’ve always been the strong one. the polished one. people fall in love with the version of me they can show off. not the one that cries at night when it gets too quiet. not the one who has a mental breakdown because her job is so impossible to do. the one who can create a plane from ground up but can’t decode a crossword puzzle.”

he chuckles at your last sentence, but then his brow furrows, eyes soft. “you’re allowed to be both,” he says. “strong and soft.” you shrugs a tilted smile on your face, “i’m trying to believe that,” you murmur. he squeezes your hand again. then — almost like he’s thinking out loud — he says, “i’ve never been with anyone.”

you blink.

“sexually, i mean,” he adds. “or romantically. not really.” you stare at him for a second. then your lips twitch. “you’re serious?” he shrugs, sheepish. “i’ve been a little busy, you know… school, taking care of my family, working odd jobs.”

you snort. “and i thought i was the last virgin standing.” he looks at you, eyebrows raised. “wait — you?” you nod, biting back a grin. “yeah.” a beat of silence — then both of you burst out laughing.

“oh my god,” you say between breaths. “we’re such liars. acting like we’ve got it all figured out.”

“we’re frauds,” caleb says, grinning. you smile, leaning your cheek into your palm as you look at him. “i kind of like that it’s you,” you say softly. “that we’re figuring this out together.”

he reaches across the table, brushing your hair back from your face with gentle fingers. “me too,” he says. “i wouldn’t want it with anyone else.” liar.

you don’t kiss, not yet. but the look you share across the table is deeper than any first kiss could be.

you’re still smiling from the shared laugh, legs curled up beneath you, coffee cooling untouched between you both. there’s a pause — before you glance at him, head tilted just slightly.

“you know,” you murmur, “you once said you didn’t have time for romance. that it didn’t fit into your life.”

he shifts, leaning back in the chair, eyes still on you. “i did.”

“so…” your voice is quiet, almost teasing. “what changed?” he watches you for a second — and then something flickers behind his gaze. something warmer. deeper. “you did.”

you blink. a little caught off guard. your lips then curl into a smile, as if you were trying to stifle a laughter, “going to be honest caleb.. that was corny..” he just laughs, rolling his eyes as he shakes his head at you. your laugh escapes your lips as you both enjoy another round of laughter. then it dies.

“you’re…” he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck with a lopsided smile. “you’re thrilling. you walk into a room and the air just shifts. but it’s not just that.”

his voice softens as he leans in a bit. “you make me feel comfortable in my own skin. like i don’t have to be performing strength every second just to be worth your time.”

you hold his gaze. “i don’t feel like i have to babysit you,” he adds, lips curving. “you’ve got your shit handled. you’re grounded. sharp. dangerous in the best way.”

you smirk. “so… competent?” he chuckles under his breath. “no. not just that.” his hand brushes yours on the table again. slower this time. “you’re a woman,” he says, voice low. “and i am so into that.”

your breath catches just slightly — it’s unexpected, it’s so clear he means every word.

“you walk like you don’t owe anyone your softness,” he says. “and you love like it still matters. you terrify me and calm me down at the same time. and it made me realize… romance isn’t the problem.”

his thumb strokes across your knuckles. “i just hadn’t met the right person yet.” your heart thuds once, low and warm in your chest. he grins again — that cocky, crooked one — but his eyes stay soft. “you made space for it in my life without even asking.”

you lean in a little, cheeks warm. “well,” you whisper, “glad i ruined your whole schedule.”

“best interruption of my life.”

the dishes are still in the sink. caleb’s now sitting cross-legged on your couch in a t-shirt and sweatpants you gave him, hair still a little mussed from sleep. your feet are in his lap. the curtains are drawn halfway open, city light pouring in like warm milk. everything feels slow, quiet, safe.

you glance over at him, head resting on the back of the couch.

“can i ask you something?”

he nods, lazy and comfortable. “yeah?”

“how important is sex to you?”

he blinks

you watch his face carefully, not pressing. “it’s not that important to me,” you say softly. “not the act, i mean. it’s more about who i do it with. the feeling behind it. i don’t need it for connection. but if the connection’s already there…” you trail off, shrugging one shoulder. he’s quiet for a second. thoughtful.

“i don’t think i’ve ever really considered it,” he admits. “everyone around me always made it sound like a milestone. a checklist. but i never really…” he shrugs. “i guess i just wanted it to mean something..”

you nod. “that makes sense.” there’s a pause. then, casually mutter just below a whisper: “you know we could fuck right now if you wanted.”

his head snaps toward you so fast you nearly choke on your own laugh, “w-what?” he sputters. you grin, tilting your head. “you heard me.” he blinks at you, eyes wide, ears instantly going pink. “i— you— are you serious?” you nod, “we’re alone,” you say, stretching your arms behind your head. “we both have the day off. you’re in my clothes. i’m feeling comfortable. you said you feel safe with me.” you raise a brow. “seems like the perfect setting.”

he opens his mouth. closes it. rubs his palm over the back of his neck and laughs under his breath. “is this a punishment...” you laugh, leaning in just enough to brush your foot along his thigh. “you’re blushing.” and caleb goes on the defense, “you said it like we were about to go do laundry.”

“just being practical.” he groans, hiding his face in his hands. “you’re going to kill me.”

you scoot closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. “i’m just saying, if and when it happens… it’ll be because we want to. not because we feel like we’re supposed to.” he peeks out from between his fingers, lips twitching. “you’re dangerous.” you smile against his neck. “you like that.”

he doesn’t deny it.

and neither of you move — just staying there, wrapped in soft clothes and possibility. he’s still pink in the face, but that crooked smile is back now — the one he gets when he’s about to do something cocky, something dangerous and you’ve seen that smile before — during flight drills, when he pulls a move just to show off. but seeing it here, aimed at you, in your apartment where he just spent the night in your lap?

“you think you can fluster me,” he murmurs, voice low, leaning just a little closer, “but you forget—i learn fast.”

you narrow your eyes, grinning. “is that so?” – “mmhm.”

and then suddenly— his hands are on your thighs, and he lifts you with a smoothness that knocks the breath out of you it’s so unexpected. you gasp, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders as he rises to his feet in one fluid motion– your legs are around his waist before you can think.

“caleb,” you hiss, half-laughing, half-scandalized, “what are you—!” he raises a brow, smug. “what? we’re off today. we’re comfortable. i’m feeling very safe with you.” you stare at him, flustered in a way you haven’t felt in years — like someone just cracked your composure down the middle and peeked inside.

“this is wildly inappropriate,” you mumble, face hot. he shifts his grip slightly, hands snug at the curve of your thighs, holding you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “oh, i’m sorry—i thought we were being practical?” you glare at him, biting back a smile. “you’re mocking me.” – “you started it,” he says, laughing now, voice warm in your ear. “miss strong-independent-woman-who-doesn’t-get-flustered.”

“i’m not flustered.” he grins. “you’re flushed.”

“because you manhandled me.”

“you liked it.”

you smack his shoulder, and he stumbles backward playfully, still holding you like you weigh nothing. the two of you collapse back onto the couch, tangled in limbs and laughter, breathless in the best way. you land on top of him, hands braced on his chest, hair swaying forward. his eyes are right there — warm and focused, lips parted.

you’re both still smiling. still laughing. but the air’s shifted again.

you don’t kiss. not yet. but your forehead rests gently against his, and for a second, everything is quiet again. his voice, low: “i’m not rushing this. you know that, right?” you nod. “i know.”

he exhales, eyes flickering down to your lips. “but when you’re ready…” your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

“it'll be worth the wait,” he finishes.

you smile softly, “ it already is.”

as you relish the moment, your phone vibrates and you roll your eyes, stepping off of him, and checking the notification. it was from stacia.

'double date on saturday night with my boyf and you and yours! dinner is on me, i got a raise! mwah'

"well... if you have plans on saturday night, considered it cancelled. we have a double date." you state to caleb as you read the message out loud.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers, @mcdepressed290, @young-adult-summer, @unstablemiss, @britishfailure, @caramelizedpopcirn, @velvtcherie, @lonelylandofan , @llamabois , @i-messed-up-big-time , @mysticcollectionvoid, @iamawkwardandshy, @auraficial, @mxkvlio, @mysticcollectionvoid, @rxelarailuj, @angelwhizpers, @p5ycholuv, @dysphxriaii, @loversobession, @lucifers-silhouette, @alayaaaahhhhhh, @dwuclvr, @unstablemiss, @miffysoo, @perqbeth,

#lads x reader #love and deepspace #lads caleb #lads #lads mc #loveanddeepspace #caleb x reader #lnds caleb #lnds #calebmc #caleb lads #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x non!mc reader #mc x caleb #non mc x caleb #non!mc x caleb #xia yizhou

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koiukiy-o · 2 months ago

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orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 008. the email.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 3.3k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: yum. good night, see you next week <3 -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

On the board: a rough, sketched spiral that narrowed into itself. Then—without explanation—he stepped back and faced the room.

“The Julia Set,” he began, “is defined through recursive mapping of complex numbers. For each point, the function is applied repeatedly to determine whether the point stays bounded—or diverges to infinity.”

He turned, writing the equation with a slow, deliberate hand, the symbols clean and sharp. He underlined the c.

“This constant,” he said, tapping the chalk beneath it, “determines the entire topology of the set. Change the value—just slightly—and the behavior of every point shifts. Entire regions collapse. Others become beautifully intricate. Sensitive dependence. Chaotic boundaries.”

He stepped away from the board.

“Chaos isn’t disorder. It's order that resists prediction. Determinism disguised as unpredictability. And in this case—beauty emerging from divergence.”

Your pen slowed. You knew this was about math, about structure, but there was something in the way he said it—beauty emerging from divergence—that caught in your ribs like a hook. You glanced at the sketch again, now seeing not just spirals and equations, but thresholds. Points of no return.

He circled a section of the diagram. “Here, the boundary. A pixel’s fate determined not by distance, but by recurrence. If it loops back inward, it’s part of the set. If it escapes, even by a fraction, it’s not.”

He let the silence stretch.

“Think about what that implies. A system where proximity isn’t enough.”

A few students around you were taking notes rapidly now, perhaps chasing the metaphor, or maybe just keeping up. You, however, found yourself still. His words hung in the air—not heavy, but precise, like the line between boundedness and flight.

Stay bounded… or spiral away.

Your eyes lifted to the chalk, now smeared faintly beneath his hand.

Then—casually, as if announcing the time—he said, “The application deadline for the symposium has closed. Confirmation emails went out last night. If you don’t receive one by tonight, your submission was not accepted.”

It landed in your chest like dropped glass.

It’s already the end of the week?

You sat perfectly straight. Not a single muscle out of place. But you could feel your pulse kicking against your collarbone. A kind of dissonance buzzing at the edges of your spine. The type that doesn’t show on your face, but makes every sound feel like it’s coming through water.

“Any questions?” he asked.

The room was silent.

You waited until most of the students had filed out, notebooks stuffed away, conversations trailing toward the courtyard. Anaxagoras was still at the front, brushing residual chalk from his fingers and packing his notes into a thin leather folio. The faint light from the projector still hummed over the fractal diagram, now ghostlike against the faded screen.

You stepped down the lecture hall steps, steady despite the pressure building in your chest.

“Professor Anaxagoras,” you said evenly.

He glanced up. “Yes?”

“I sent you an email last night,” you said, stepping forward with a measured pace. “Regarding the papers you sent to me on Cerces’ studies on consciousness. I wanted to ask if you might have some time to discuss it.”

There was a brief pause—calculated, but not cold. His eyes flicked to his watch.

“I saw it,” he said finally. “Though I suspect the timing was… not ideal.”

You didn’t flinch. “No, it wasn’t,” you said truthfully. “I was… unexpectedly impressed, and wanted to follow up in person.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he speaks again—calm, almost offhanded.

“A more timely reply might have saved me the effort of finding a third paper.”

You swallow hard, the words catching before they form. “I didn’t have anything useful to say at the time,” you admit, keeping your voice neutral. “And figured it was better to wait to form coherent thoughts and opinions… rather than send something half-baked.”

He adjusts his cuff without looking at you. “A brief acknowledgment would have sufficed.”

You swallow hard, the words catching before they form. “Right,” you murmur, choosing not to rise to it.

Another beat. His expression was unreadable, though you thought you caught the flicker of something in his gaze.

He glanced at the clock mounted near the back of the hall. “It’s nearly midday. I was going to step out for lunch.”

You nodded, heart rising hopefully, though your face stayed calm. “Of course. If now isn’t convenient—”

He cut in. “Join me. We can speak then.”

You blinked.

“I assume you’re capable of walking and discussing simultaneously.” A faint, dry smile.

So it was the email. And your slow response.

“Yes, of course. I’ll get my things.”

You turned away, pacing steadily back up the steps of the hall toward your seat. Your bag was right where you left it, tucked neatly beneath the desk—still unzipped from the frenzy of earlier note-taking. You knelt to gather your things, pulling out your iPad and flipping open the annotated PDFs of Cerces’ consciousness studies. The margins were cluttered with highlights and your own nested comments, some so layered they formed little conceptual tangles—recursive critiques of recursive thought. You didn’t bother smoothing your expression. You were already focused again.

“Hey,” Kira greeted, nudging Ilias’s arm as you approached. They’d claimed the last two seats in the row behind yours, and were currently sharing a half-suppressed fit of laughter over something in his notebook. “So… what’s the diagnosis? Did fractals break your brain or was it just Anaxagoras’ voice again?”

You ignored that.

Ilias leaned forward, noticing your bag already packed. “Kira found a dumpling stall, we were thinking of-”

You were halfway through slipping your tablet into its case when you said, lightly, “I’m heading out. With Professor Anaxagoras.”

A pause.

“You’re—what?” Ilias straightened, eyebrows flying up. “Wait, wait. You’re going where with who?”

“We’re discussing Cerces’ papers,” you said briskly, adjusting the strap across your shoulder. “At lunch. I emailed him last night, remember?”

“Oh my god, this is about the symposium. Are you trying to—wait, does he know that’s what you’re doing? Is this your long game? I swear, if you’re using complex consciousness theory as a romantic smokescreen, I’m going to—”

“Ilias.” You cut him off with a look, then a subtle shake of your head. “It’s nothing. Just a conversation.”

He looked at you skeptically, but you’d already pulled up your annotated copy and were scrolling through notes with one hand as you stepped out of the row. “I’ll see you both later,” you added.

Kira gave you a little two-finger salute. “Report back.”

You didn't respond, already refocused.

At the front of the lecture hall, Anaxagoras was waiting near the side doors, coat over one arm. You fell into step beside him without pause, glancing at him just long enough to nod once.

He didn’t say anything right away, but you noticed the slight tilt of his head—acknowledging your presence.

You fell into step beside him, footsteps echoing softly down the marble corridor. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was anticipatory, like the silence before a difficult proof is solved.

“I assume you’ve read these papers more than once,” he said eventually, eyes ahead.

You nodded. “Twice this past week. Once again this morning. Her model’s elegant. But perhaps incorrect.”

That earned you a glance—quick, sharp, interested. “Incorrect how?”

“She defines the recursive threshold as a closed system. But if perception collapses a state, then recursion isn’t closed—it’s interrupted. Her architecture can’t accommodate observer-initiated transformation.”

“Hm,” Anaxagoras said, and the sound meant something closer to go on than I disagree.

“She builds her theory like it’s immune to contradiction,” you added. “But self-similarity under stress doesn’t hold. That makes her framework aesthetically brilliant, but structurally fragile.”

His mouth twitched, not quite into a smile. “She’d despise that sentence. And quote it in a rebuttal.”

You hesitated. “Have you two debated this before?”

“Formally? Twice. Informally?” A beat. “Often. Cerces doesn’t seek consensus. She seeks pressure.”

“She’s the most cited mind in the field,” you noted.

“And she deserves to be,” he said, simply. “That’s what makes her infuriating.”

The breeze shifted as you exited the hall and entered the sunlit walkway between buildings. You adjusted your bag, eyes still on the open document.

“I marked something in this section,” you said, tapping the screen. “Where she refers to consciousness having an echo of structure. I don’t think she’s wrong—but I think it’s incomplete.”

Anaxagoras raised a brow. “Incomplete how?”

“If consciousness is just an echo, it implies no agency. But what if recursion here is just… a footprint, and not the walker?”

Now he did smile—barely. “You sound like her, ten years ago.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“She used to flirt with metaphysics,” he said. “Before tenure, before the awards. She wrote a paper once proposing that recursive symmetry might be a byproduct of a soul-like property—a field outside time. She never published it.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “She said, and I quote, ‘Cowardice isn’t always irrational.’”

You let out a soft breath—part laugh, part disbelief.

“She sounds more like you than I thought.”

“Don’t insult either of us,” he murmured, dry.

You glanced over. “Do you think she was right? Back then?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then: “I think she was closer to something true that neither of us were ready to prove.”

Anaxagoras led the way toward the far side of the cafeteria, bypassing open tables and settling near the windows. The view wasn’t much—just a patch of campus green dotted with a few students pretending it was warm enough to sit outside—but it was quiet.

You sat across from him, setting your tray down with a muted clink. He’d ordered black coffee and a slice of what looked like barely tolerable faculty lounge pie. You hadn’t really bothered—just tea and a half-hearted sandwich you were already ignoring.

The silence was polite, not awkward. Still, you didn’t want it to stretch too long.

“I’d like to pick her mind.”

He glanced up from stirring his coffee, slow and steady.

You nodded once. “Her work in subjective structure on pre-intentional cognition it overlaps more than I expected with what I’ve been sketching in my own models. And Entanglement—her take on intersubjective recursion as a non-local dynamic? That’s… not something I want to ignore.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he said.

“I don’t want to question her,” you said, adjusting the angle of your tablet. “Not yet. I want to understand what she thinks happens to subjectivity at the boundary of recursion, where perception becomes self-generative rather than purely receptive. And many other things, but—”

He watched you closely. Not skeptical—never that—but with the faint air of someone re-evaluating an equation that just gave a new result.

You tapped the edge of the screen. “There’s a gap here, just before she moves into her case study. She references intersubjective collapse, but doesn’t elaborate on the experiential artifacts. If she’s right, that space might not be emptiness—it might be a nested field. A kind of affective attractor.”

“Or an illusion of one,” he offered.

“Even so,” you said, “I want to know where she stands. Not just in print. In dialogue. I want to observe her.”

There was a beat.

Then, quietly, Anaxagoras said, “She’s never been fond of students trying to shortcut their way into her circles.”

“I’m not trying to–.” You met his gaze, unflinching. “I just want to be in the room.”

There was a pause—measured, as always—but he understood your request.

Then, Anaxagoras let out a quiet breath. The edge of his mouth curved, just slightly—not the smirk he wore in lectures, or the fleeting amusement he reserved for Ilias’ more absurd interjections. A… strange acknowledgment made just for you.

“I suspected you’d want to attend eventually… even if you didn’t think so at the time.” He said, voice low.

He stirred his coffee once more, slow and precise, before continuing.

“I submitted an application on your behalf.” His eyes flicked up, sharp and clear. “The results were set to be mailed to me—” After a brief pause, he says, “I thought it would be better to have the door cracked open than bolted shut.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t speak yet. You stared at him, something between disbelief and stunned silence starting to rise.

“… And?”

He held your gaze. “They approved it.” He said it matter-of-factly, like it wasn’t a gesture of profound academic trust. “Your mind is of the kind that Cerces doesn’t see in students. Not even doctoral candidates. If you ever wanted to ask them aloud, you’d need space to make that decision without pressure.”

Your heart skipped a beat, the rush of warmth flooding your chest before you could even fully process it. It wasn’t just the opportunity, not just the weight of the academic favor he’d extended—it was the fact that he had done this for you.

You looked down at your tablet for a beat, then back up. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t sure it would matter to you yet.” His tone was even, but not distant.

Your chest tightened, heart hammering in your ribcage as a strange weight settled over you.

You leaned back slightly, absorbing it—not the opportunity, but the implication that he had practically read your mind.

You swallowed hard, fighting the surge of something fragile, something that wanted to burst out but couldn’t quite take form.

“And if I’d never brought it up?” you asked.

“I would have let the approval lapse.” He took a sip of coffee, still watching you. “The choice would have always been yours.”

Something in your chest pulled taut, then loosened.

“Thank you,” you said—quiet, sincere.

He dipped his head slightly, as if to say: of course.

Outside, through the high cafeteria windows, the light shifted—warmer now, slanting gold against the tiles. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

You’re halfway back to your dorm when you see them.

The bench is impossible to miss—leaning like it’s given up on its academic potential and fully embraced retirement. Dog is curled beneath it, mangy but somehow dignified, and Mydei’s crouched beside him, offering the crust from a purloined sandwich while Phainon gently brushes leaves out of its fur.

They clock you immediately.

“Look who’s survived their tryst with the divine,” Mydei calls out, peeling a bit of bread crust off for the dog, who blinks at you like it also knows too much.

“Ah,” he calls, sitting up. “And lo, they return from their sacred rites.”

You squint. “What?”

“I mean, I personally assumed you left to get laid,” Ilias says breezily, tossing a leaf in your direction. “Academic, spiritual, physical—whatever form it took, I’m not here to judge.”

“Lunch,” you deadpan. “It was lunch.”

“Sure,” he says. “That’s what I’d call him too.”

You stop beside them, arms loosely crossed. “You’re disgusting.”

Mydei finally glances up, smirking faintly. “We were betting how long it’d take you to return. Phainon said 45 minutes. I gave you an hour.”

“And I said that you might not come back at all,” Ilias corrects proudly. “Because if someone offered me a quiet corner and a waist as sntached as his, I’d disappear too.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m romanticizing,” he counters. “It’s a coping mechanism.”

“So,” you ask, settling onto the bench, “Mydei, did you get accepted?”

Mydei doesn’t look up. “I did.”

Phainon sighs and leans back on his elbows. “I didn’t. Apparently my application lacks ‘structural focus’ and ‘foundational viability.’” He makes air quotes with a dramatic flourish, voice flat with mockery. “But the margins were immaculate.”

Ilias scoffs immediately, latching onto the escape hatch. “See? That’s why I didn’t apply.”

“You didn’t apply,” you repeat slowly, side-eyeing him.

“I was protecting myself emotionally,” he says, raising a finger.

“Even after Kira asked you to?” you remind him.

“I cherish her emotional intelligence deeply, but I also have a very specific allergy to what sounds like academic jargon and judgment,” he replies, hand to chest like he’s delivering tragic poetry.

You snort. “So you panicked and missed the deadline?”

“Semantics.”

The dog lets out a sleepy huff. Mydei strokes behind its ear and finally glances up at you. “I still can’t believe you didn’t apply. The panel was impressive.”

You hesitate, staring down at the scuffed corner of your boot, when your phone dings.

One new message:

From: Anaxagoras Subject: Addendum Dear Student, I thought this might be of interest as well. – A.

There’s one attachment.

Cerces_MnemosyneFramework.pdf

You click immediately.

Just to see.

The abstract alone hooks you. It’s Cerces again—only this time, she’s writing about memory structures through a mythopoetic lens, threading the Mnemosyne archetype through subjective models of cognition and reality alignment.

She argues that memory isn’t just retentive—it’s generative. That remembrance isn’t about the past, but about creating continuity. That when you recall something, you’re actively constructing it anew.

It’s dense. Braided with references. Challenging.

You hear Ilias say your name like he’s winding up to go off into another overdramatic monologue, but your focus is elsewhere.

Because it’s still there—his voice from earlier, lodged somewhere between your ribs.

"A brief acknowledgement would have sufficed."

You’d let it pass. Swallowed the dry implication of it. But it’s been sitting with you ever since— he hadn’t needed to say more for you to hear what he meant.

You didn’t know what to say. Maybe you still don’t.

But you open a reply window. anyway.

Your thumb hovers for a beat.

Re: Still interested Nice paper, Prof. Warm regards, Y/N.

The moment it sends, you want to eat your keyboard.

He replies seconds later.

Re: – “Warm” seems generous. Ice cold regards, – A.

The moment it sends, you want to eat your keyboard.

It’s a small, almost imperceptible warmth spreading across your chest, but you force it back down, not wanting to make too much of it.

Then you laugh. Not loud, but the sort of surprised, almost nervous laugh that catches in your chest, because somehow, you hadn’t anticipated this. You thought he’d be... formal. Distant. You didn’t expect a bit of humor—or was it sarcasm?

Your fingers hover over your phone again. Should you reply? What do you even say to that? You glance up, and that’s when you see it—Ilias’ eyes wide, his face scrunched in disbelief, like he’s trying to piece together the pieces of a puzzle.”

He points at you like he’s discovered some deep, dark secret. “You’re laughing?”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face, trying to will the heat out of your cheeks.

He doesn’t even try to hold back the mock horror in his voice after peeping into your phone. “Anaxagoras is the one that;s got you in a fit of giggles?”

Ilias gasps theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wait. Wait wait wait. Is he funny now? What, did he send you a meme? ‘Here’s a diagram of metaphysical collapse. Haha.’” He deepens his voice into something pompous and dry: “Student, please find attached a comedic rendering of epistemological decay.”

You’re already shaking your head. “He didn’t even say hello.”

“Even better,” Ilias says, dramatically scandalized. “Imagine being so academically repressed you forget how greetings work.”

He pauses, then squints at you suspiciously.

“You know what?” he says, snapping his fingers. “You two are made for each other.”

Your head whips toward him.

He shrugs, all smug innocence. “No, no, I mean it. The dry wit. The existential despair. The zero social cues. It’s beautiful, really. You communicate exclusively through thesis statements and mutual avoidance. A match made in the archives.”

“I’m just saying,” he sing-songs, “when you two end up publishing joint papers and exchanging footnotes at midnight, don’t forget about us little people.”

You give him a flat look. “We won’t need footnotes.”

“Oh no,” Ilias says, pretending to be shocked. “It’s that serious already?”

You stomp on his foot.

-> next.

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