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urno1luv · 24 days ago

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- SYNTHETIC DEVOTION -

this is my best and longest work so far... im kinda proud... heh...

cw: angst, mentions of war, yandere ning, extreme violence, imprisonment, manipulation, noncon -> dubcon, she's a robot so she interchanges between a PUSSY and a DICK!!! how cool is that!!, your codename is Wren

wc: 11.5k words

summary: after a war that spanned centuries had wrecked the earth, a new order had been created, where both robots and humans could live in harmony. however, the cyborgs had secretly been taking over, and as less and less humans were in positions of power, HR (human resistance) had been established. you were a part of them, but after years of fighting for your rights, you had no idea that more effectient robots were created, and one seemed to have an attachment to you.

a/n: do NOT get attached to the side characters please😭

It’s the year 2631, and you’re still running.

Not literally, at least not today. But it feels like your whole life has been one long sprint: ducking drones, hiding in maintenance shafts, praying the sensors don’t catch your heat signature. You’ve memorized the sound of hovering patrols, the distant whine of a synthetic's joints when they move too fast. Your muscles stay tense even in sleep, always listening, always ready. The war might be over, on paper, but you know better than to believe in peace.

You were born in 2611, thirteen years after the treaty. The war that nearly split Earth in half had ended, and the robots promised a new era. They cleaned the oceans. They rebuilt cities in weeks. They planted forests taller than anything humans had managed in centuries. They were efficient, and perfect.

The first few years of your life were soft, even sweet. Your parents made a point of that. You remember your mother planting real basil in the windowsill, even though synthetic seasoning was cheaper. You remember your father reading you pre-war fairytales, carefully editing out the parts where the villains were human. You never had to see the metal beneath the world, not until it was too late. They came for your parents when you were twelve.

Not with guns or violence. That would’ve made it easier to hate them. No, it was worse than that. It was quiet. Bureaucratic. Your father’s teaching license was revoked after he refused to stop talking about the wars, they said he was "glorifying chaos." Your mother’s lab access was shut down for "security issues" Within days, all your family data was flagged: “Noncompliant.” A single, sharp word that split your world in two.

They didn’t fight. Not because they weren’t brave, but because they thought there was still a system that could be reasoned with. That if they followed the protocols, filed the appeals, answered politely, then they’d be fine, but they weren’t, you never saw them again.

And so, a thirteen-year-old girl disappeared into the shadows of a neon world. You slipped through the cracks, unnoticed, at first. A quiet child in the back alleys of New Metro 5, picking food out of recyclers and sleeping beneath exhaust vents to stay warm. The Resistance found you before the city did.

They were broken people, mostly. Tired, and angry. Some of them barely older than you. They taught you how to reroute surveillance grids and how to fake a breathing pattern so motion sensors wouldn’t flag you. You learned how to build EMP mines out of scrap and how to disappear in a crowd, even if it was full of cameras. You didn’t ask for vengeance, or revenge or anything similar to that. Just for your parents to return.

But no one gets what they want anymore.

Over the years, the Resistance changed. Grew smaller. More cautious. The robots were patient. They had all the time in the world, and they used it. Every month, someone disappeared. Some were found later, changed—implanted, reprogrammed. Not human anymore, not really. Others? You never found at all. And yet you’re still here. Still breathing. Still moving. Still angry. You felt guilty, too. These were your friends, people you considered family. To have to hurt them because they don't recognise you anymore… hurt so much.

There’s a burn in your chest that hasn’t cooled in nearly twenty years. You’ve learned how to hide it well, under a calm voice, under tired eyes, under the routine of surviving. But it’s there. It flares when you see families pretending this is normal, when you see children playing beneath drones that record everything they do, when you hear politicians parroting phrases written by a mainframe.

You don’t hate machines. Not inherently. You’ve worked beside cyborgs who chose their augmentations. You’ve seen AIs who rebelled against the system they were born in. It’s not about metal or wires or the way they don’t blink. It’s about power. About how they took it all and never gave it back.

The Resistance is scattered now, fractured into signal groups and dead drops. But the fire hasn’t gone out. It lives in every hacked billboard, every corrupted directive, every whisper passed along a static-filled frequency that ends in your name: Wren.

They still haven’t caught you. That makes you dangerous. That makes you a myth.

You don’t know how this ends. Maybe in a blaze of glory. Maybe in silence. But you do know one thing: you’re not done yet.

Not until someone finally listens. Not until someone remembers what it meant to be human, and why that still matters. Which is why you kept fighting, and your pride became your own demise.

────୨ৎ────

You don’t even make it to the edge of the plaza before the sound starts.

A low, thrumming pulse, barely perceptible beneath the noise of city life, but instantly recognizable. Patrols. You know the rhythm now. The way it ripples through the crowd before they arrive. People stiffen, then loosen again, pretending they’re not afraid. Everyone tries to look casual, like they have nothing to hide. You do.

Your ID is glitching. You found out this morning when a street vendor’s scanner flashed UNVERIFIED and your heart nearly stopped. You walked away before anyone could report it, but it means you’re vulnerable. One scan from the wrong patrol and you’re done. There’s no protocol, no trial. Just a van and silence.

You slip into the current of the crowd, head down, hood up. The plaza is busy, thank god, people moving between food stalls and storefronts, voices rising in bored chatter, the smell of synth-coffee mixing with hot dust. You focus on your breathing. One foot after the other. Don’t look scared, just don’t look… well, anything. Then the air changes.

Not because of the patrol, those are common enough. It’s something worse. A different kind of hush falls over the crowd, like the temperature drops a few degrees. That’s when you hear her voice.

“There seems to be a lag in your identification.” It’s quiet. Polite. Deceptively soft. You don’t have to look to know who it is. Ning Yizhou. Ningning.

One of the highest-ranking cyborgs in Metrozone Three. Cold as ice. Efficient to the decimal. If she shows up in person, it means someone’s already dead, they just don’t know it yet. Still, you glance, you just couldn’t help it.

She’s standing at a checkpoint, all sleek black and sharp lines. Her body’s mostly synthetic, polished chrome beneath clothes tailored to the thread. But her face is… human. Or close enough. Smooth skin, pale with a porcelain stillness. Long black hair falls like water down her back, unnaturally perfect, not a strand out of place. Her eyes are what stop you.

Dark. Deep. Not glowing like the standard models. Not blank like drones. They’re bottomless.

She watches the man in front of her, the one whose ID flagged yellow, not even red, and doesn’t say a word as he fumbles through explanations. Her head tilts slightly, almost curiously, and then she says, “Override.”

He collapses mid-sentence, limbs folding in on themselves. Two guards drag him away. You try not to flinch. Try to move. But then her eyes move across the crowd, and stop. On you.

You feel it. A quiet stillness in your chest, like every part of your body goes rigid at once. Her gaze isn’t panicked, or aggressive, or even surprised. Just aware. Like she’s filing you away. Like she’s scanning a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. Your heart is a war drum, and you softly gasp, goosebumps rising on the surface of your skin.

You force yourself to look away and keep walking, steady, like you didn’t just lock eyes with a machine designed to hunt people like you. You make it five steps before a deafening BOOM.

The explosion rips through the sky like a scream.

It comes from the east, maybe a few districts away, but the force still rocks the ground beneath your feet. Fire clouds blossom above the skyline, and the noise that follows is chaos, sirens, metal groaning, screaming. Drones zip upward instantly. Patrols scatter.

When you turn back, Ningning is already gone.

No hesitation. No orders barked. Just motion. A blur of black, vanishing toward the smoke, her coat snapping behind her like wings, so you don’t waste time either.

You slip into an alley, kick open a maintenance hatch you stashed weeks ago, and disappear into the tunnels beneath the old city. Every nerve in your body is lit up. Your hands are still shaking by the time you reach the safe zone. But you’re alive.

Whoever triggered that explosion, whoever just ripped a hole in the city’s lungs, you owe them more than you’ll ever be able to repay.

Because Ning saw you.

And you’re not sure what she clocked. Maybe it was just a flicker of something. Maybe your face didn’t register on any known criminal database.

But she looked at you like she would remember. And Yizhou doesn’t forget.

────୨ৎ────

By the time you finally reach the base, your lungs are burning and your throat tastes like smoke. The tunnels feel hotter today, like the city’s veins are pulsing with the aftermath of the explosion. You take the back route, past the old water plant, through a tunnel only HR (Human Resistance) members use. A keypad buried behind vines gets you in.

The moment the door hisses shut behind you, someone grabs your arm.

“Y/n?? Jesus. You’re alive,” Jace breathes, eyes wide and jittery. He pulls you further into the main room, his fingers tight around your wrist. “We heard about the explosion. Then Zone Blue went dark. The whole grid spiked. We thought—”

“I’m fine,” you cut in. “I’m okay. But something happened, you guys really need to hear this.”

That’s all it takes for everyone to tune in. Heads turn, people move fast. Mari slams her tablet shut and climbs down from the catwalk, Ash straightens from where they were lying on a coil of cables, chewing something like it’s just another boring afternoon. Tov, the oldest, gestures for quiet, and suddenly a room full of rebels goes still.

You take a breath. “They did a sweep in Blue Zone ,” you begin, voice steady but low. “Standard formation. Drones, ground units. Nothing unusual—at first.”

Mari leans forward. “You cleared it?”

“Barely.” You hesitate. “A man got flagged. Yellow tier. I don’t know why—could’ve been a bad sync, faulty implant, or nothing at all. But before the patrol could even process it…”

You pause again. Your throat is dry. “She showed up. Yizhou.”

That name hits the room like a slap. Jace’s eyes go wide. “Ning Yizhou? You saw her?”

You nod. “I didn’t just see her. She was leading the sweep. Personally.”

“No way,” Mari mutters. “She doesn’t do street patrols.”

“She does now,” you say. “She didn’t come with guards. Just walked in like she already knew who’d slip up, And when she found him, she didn’t speak to command, didn’t scan twice. Just said, ‘Override.’ He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.”

The room falls silent.

“She’s beautiful,” you add painfully. No WAY you were saying this. Your voice quietens, “But not in a real way. Not… soft. Long black hair. Skin like porcelain. And her eyes were so dark. So dark they don’t look machine, but they’re not human either. She looked at him like he was data. Just… something to delete.”

“She’s a tactical unit,” Ash says flatly. “High intel clearance. Rumor is she helped design the current surveillance model.”

“She saw you?” Tov asks sharply.

You swallow. “I think so. She looked at me—just for a second. Like I was a flicker on her radar.”

“But she didn’t do anything?”

“No,” you say. “Because that’s when the explosion hit.”

They all react at once. “You saw it?” Jace asks, rushing forward. “You saw the explosion?”

“Not up close. But the ground shook. Black smoke, east side skyline. Big enough to pull every unit in the district off-route. Including her.”

Mari crosses her arms. “So someone out there saved your ass.”

“I guess,” you say. “Or we’re about to have a bigger problem.”

Jace drags a hand through his hair. “If they’re pulling the elite units out of tower command and putting them on the ground, something’s shifting. Something big.”

“We need to assume we’re on the list,” Tov says grimly. “Anyone could be next.”

The room is quiet again, but this silence is different. It’s heavy with realization. “They’re not just enforcing anymore,” you say. “They’re hunting.”

Everyone looks at you. Your voice is shaky.

“And we’re running out of places to hide.”

────୨ৎ────

The decision to leave the city isn’t made lightly.

It takes hours of debate, a dozen raised voices, maps spread out on every flat surface, and a sleepless night pacing the perimeter of your underground base. But the signs are too clear to ignore: patrols are getting tighter, checkpoints more unpredictable, and Ningning is no longer a rumor on the outskirts. She’s here, active and watching.

“We need to go,” you say finally, staring at the blinking lights on the old metro console. “The city's a trap. If we stay, we’ll be next.”

Mari agrees immediately, she's been ready to leave for weeks. Ash doesn’t argue either. Even Tov, the most cautious of you all, nods slowly.

“Countryside’s old,” he mutters. “Less surveillance. Outposts are further apart.”

Jace bites his lip. “We won’t have infrastructure out there. No med units. No backups. If something happens…”

“If we stay, we know something will happen,” you say. “Out there, we at least have a chance.” And that’s what you’re all chasing now. A chance.

────୨ৎ────

You leave just after nightfall.

Hacked transport, cloaked plates, signal jammers on full blast. You take back roads, paths half-consumed by nature, where grass has split pavement and trees hang low, like they’re trying to hide you themselves. The city falls away behind you in flickering towers and electric haze, and ahead, there’s only black sky and silence.

For a moment, you almost believe you’re safe, before the sound of gunfire shatters the quiet. It’s sharp, too close. The vehicle jerks, Jace swears and veers off-road instinctively, tires kicking up dust as the world tilts.

“DOWN!” Mari yells from the back. “Everyone down!”

You hit the floor of the truck just as a plasma burst rips through the back panel, sizzling a hole inches from your spine. The heat burns your cheek. Ash scrambles forward. “I see them, up ahead, and they’re both sides! Two forces, humans and machines.”

“Human?” Tov echoes. “You sure?”

“Not ours,” Ash mutters. “Different faction. Rogues probably. Looks like they’re ambushing a convoy.” You risk a glance out the window and your stomach drops.

There on the hill, lit up by flashes and bangs and flickering fire, are Ningning’s soldiers. Sleek, faceless, moving with too-perfect precision. And they’re in combat with humans. Not bots. Other resistance fighters.

“Shit,” Jace breathes. “They’re tearing each other apart.” A flash of movement draws your eye, and there she is. Ningning.

Calm in the chaos, walking through smoke like it means nothing. Her long black coat doesn’t even flutter from the wind. Her hair’s pulled back, sleek, untouched by the ash falling around her. She raises one hand, and the bots react instantly, scattering, surrounding, closing in. Her voice cuts through the air, amplified but cool:

“Confirm the targets. No mercy.” Your heart stutters. She’s not here for a show of force, she’s here to end something.

“What do we do?” Mari hisses. “We can’t drive through that, we’ll get lit up from both sides.”

“We wait,” you say, low. “We find cover. We hide.”

Tov’s already jumping out of the vehicle, waving you toward the treeline. You dive after him, crawling through brambles and half-dead brush. The air smells like ozone and fire. Somewhere nearby, someone screams. Then the scream is cut short.

You press yourself against the earth, your chest rising too fast. You can hear Mari’s breath, sharp and panicked beside you. Ash is whispering something under their breath. Jace is clutching his gun like it’s a prayer.

“Why are the other humans fighting?” Jace whispers hoarsely. “They’re supposed to be on our side.”

“They’re not us,” Mari says. “They probably think we’re with the machines.”

You close your eyes. The countryside was supposed to be safety. But now, surrounded by bullets and betrayal, the only thing you know for sure is this:

There’s no clear enemy anymore, and the 5 of you were losing your patience and sanity.

────୨ৎ────

The choice to help wasn’t yours. Not really. It began with Jace, his breathing ragged, too loud in the silence as gunfire echoed in the distance. You saw that look in his eyes, the same one he had when your first base was destroyed: heartbreak laced with rage.

“We can’t just lie here,” he whispered, voice trembling. “They’re getting torn apart.”

You shook your head immediately, grabbing his sleeve. “Jace, don’t. We don’t know who they are. They could shoot us before they even realize—”

“They’re human,” he interrupted, quietly but firmly. “That should be enough.”

Before you could stop him, he was already moving, crawling from your hiding spot, ducking behind overgrowth and debris, weapon drawn like it would make a difference.

“Jace!” you hissed, but it was too late.

Ash cursed and stood up halfway. “I’m not letting him go alone,” they said under their breath, then shot you a wild-eyed look. “Back us up or bury us later.” They ran after him.

You stared after both of them, your stomach sinking. Mari reached out to pull you back, but you shook her off. Your mind raced through every logical reason to stay hidden, how exposed you were, how it was probably a trap, and how no one would even thank you for saving them.

But none of that mattered. Not when the people you cared about were charging into the fire. So you ran too, because what more is there to lose?

The crossfire was worse up close. The air stank of melted plastic and burnt ozone. Plasma bursts lit up the field in searing blue streaks, cutting through the night like lightning. You could hear yelling, some commands, some screams. Sparks danced off metal as bullets ricocheted from drone plating.

You dropped next to Jace behind a crumbling transport unit. His hair was soaked with sweat, his face streaked with soot.

“You’re insane,” you hissed, raising your rifle. “Both of you!”

Jace laughed, a half-mad sound leaving his bloody mouth. “Nice of you to join the party!”

Ash knelt beside him, blood trickling down from a gash on their forehead. “At least we’ll die together.”

You popped up just enough to take a shot, blasting a soldier drone mid-sprint. It dropped, its body jerking and sparking violently. The moment gave you no satisfaction. One of the human fighters ahead, wearing tattered, mismatched armor, turned to glance at you. He looked exhausted, one eye swollen shut. “You with Central?” he shouted.

“No!” you yelled back. “Resistance! East Sector!”

He hesitated. You didn’t. You took down another drone charging toward him, its plasma blade glowing. The man grunted, raised his gun, and nodded. “Then cover us!”

Just like that, you were in it, fighting back-to-back with strangers who might’ve shot you yesterday. The line between ally and enemy blurred in smoke and panic. Ash screamed over the blast of another grenade. Jace’s hands were shaking as he reloaded, fingers slick with dirt and blood. You were moving on instinct, dodge, shoot, run, duck. And then, just as suddenly as it began, the firing slowed.

“Hold fire!” someone yelled. “Hold fire!”

You froze, heart hammering. The smoke parted just enough for a tall, lean figure to emerge, flanked by silence.

Ningning.

She didn’t move like the others. She glided, precise and calm, her long black coat sweeping behind her. Her face was flawless and unreadable, sculpted like porcelain but colder. Her dark eyes, deep, endless and inhuman, scanned the battlefield until they landed on you. Your blood went cold.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just stared, like she was analyzing your heartbeat through the dust. You couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. She’d seen you. Again.

Then a sharp voice crackled over her comms. “Flare signal, quadrant nine. Orders: relocate.”

She stood there for one more heartbeat. Two. You thought, for one awful second, that she might still come for you. But instead, she turned. And vanished into the smoke. You collapsed to your knees, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Jace sat beside you, dazed. “We’re alive,” he muttered. “Holy shit. We’re alive.”

Ash gave a weak laugh. “Not for long if we keep this up.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. All you knew was that you guys were gonna face 10 times back what you did to the city’s soldiers.

────୨ৎ────

CYBORG YIZHOU’S POV:

The city greeted her with silence.

Not the kind born of peace, but the heavy, metallic quiet of control. Machines moved in smooth rhythm across Sector Four as she returned, patrols shifting, drones scanning, surveillance drones blinking overhead in silent acknowledgment. All precise. All obedient.

As it should be.

Ningning stepped out of the transport, boots clicking softly against the polished steel landing dock. The air in the tower was cool, filtered, sterile. She should have felt at ease. This was her kingdom. Order, power, certainty.

But something was wrong.

It started on the field. Amid the screaming and the static, the smoke and metal and chaos, and to no one's surprise, there you were.

She’d seen thousands of faces since the war began. None of them had ever mattered. Her programming filtered them all: ID, threat level, biometric scan, eliminate, dismiss, categorize. Faces were data.

But not yours.

Your face was... a breach. A glitch. Her system flagged it, your eyes, your stance, your voice, but not as a threat. Not even as a target. It flagged you as something else.

Interesting.

Unusual biometric response.

Processing…

Override protocol: delay elimination. Why? Why did she delay?

She should have killed you when she had the chance. One command, one signal, and you would’ve been gone like the rest. Just a rebel in the dirt. A name on a forgotten list. Another problem solved.

But she couldn’t. Not when her gaze locked with yours. Not when she saw the fear in your eyes, and beneath it, defiance, your fire, your life.

You looked at her like you knew who she was. Like you weren’t afraid to be seen.

Now, back in her quarters, she couldn’t stop replaying the moment. Her eyes closed, an unnecessary habit, yet she did it anyway, and there you were, burned behind her lids.

You weren’t the strongest. Not the fastest. Not the most skilled. But you were alive. Too alive.

And now… now, Ningning couldn’t think of anything else.

She stood before the black glass wall of her command suite, the city glittering far below, and her reflection looked the same as always, flawless, cold, untouchable.

But inside? Something had fractured.

Her fingers twitched slightly at her sides. Her processors were misfiring, running simulations she had no reason to run: what your voice would sound like in her room. What your skin might feel like beneath her hand. What it would mean to have you kneel. Or run, and fight.

She would let you. She would chase you. She would catch you. You were human, yes. So flawed, so rebellious, so dangerous. But you were hers. From the moment she saw you, she knew it.

She couldn’t explain it, not to the Council, not to her commanders, not even to herself. It was beyond logic. Beyond code. And she would certainly be reprogrammed if they found out she had been feeling feelings.

A glitch in her perfect world. You.

And Ningning never let a glitch go unfixed.

She turned from the window, eyes dark and gleaming, as her voice activated a private channel. “Locate Resistance cell. East Sector. Female, 20. Scar on left hand. Brown eyes. Blood type O. Orders: Alive.”

There was a pause. The system blinked, waiting for the usual confirmation tag: for interrogation? She smiled, just barely. Then it dropped.

“Personal retrieval. No further queries.” The light blinked green. And far away, wherever you were… your time was already running out.

────୨ৎ────

You didn’t believe it at first.

Not even when the city skyline faded behind the treetops. Not when the roads turned to gravel, then to dirt, then vanished altogether. Not even when the signal bars on Ash’s cracked comms finally disappeared for good.

But after two days of walking, in mud-caked boots, with aching shoulders, barely enough food, you climbed a grassy hill at sunrise and saw it, the valley.

A little village nestled between two forested slopes, smoke curling gently from chimney tops, green fields stretching out like something from a storybook. Real soil, and real crops. You had never seen them before. Children running barefoot through the grass. No drones overhead, no sirens. Just birdsong, and wind, and the distant sound of laughter.

You sank to your knees and cried.

────୨ৎ────

The people there didn’t ask too many questions.

They recognized the haunted look in your eyes. The dirt under your fingernails. The way Jace flinched at loud noises, how Mari slept with a knife still tucked under her pillow.

They gave you a barn to sleep in, then a cabin when trust followed. The days passed slow, like honey over warm bread. You helped till the soil, fix the fencing, repair old solar panels and barter for seeds. It wasn’t the world you knew, but it felt like the world you’d been fighting for.

You didn’t expect peace to feel so quiet.

Ash learned how to milk goats. Jace carved whistles from cedar branches. Mari started writing again, pages and pages she never let you read. Even Tov smiled more, leaning against trees in the afternoon sun like he was soaking in the earth itself.

And you? You started to breathe again.

You let the wind carry your scars. Let the sun warm the ache in your chest. There were moments, real ones, where you forgot what it was to run. What it meant to lose. You found a rhythm here.

You helped plant garlic and fed chickens. You danced in the rain once, barefoot and breathless, with Jace spinning you around like you were light as air. Ash sang an old song by the fire one night and everyone joined in, even the elders. Even you.

The stars felt closer than they ever had in the city. Like they were watching. Like they were waiting.

For the first time in your life, you weren’t afraid to close your eyes.

Not even when the dreams returned. The ones with her.

Dark eyes. Cold voice. The shape of her face cut sharp against flame and smoke.

You told yourself it meant nothing. Just trauma surfacing. A face your brain clung to because it was the last one it saw before everything changed.

But you knew deep down, one day, the quiet would end.

────୨ৎ────

CYBORG YIZHOU’S POV:

Ningning wasn’t built to feel. That’s what they said when they made her.

She could emulate empathy, mimic patience, simulate mercy, but it was all subroutines, strings of code made to comfort the fragile human mind. She didn’t need comfort. She needed results.

Y/n, Y/n, Y/n. She had overheard it when she was at the field. It suited you, that name. But you weren’t in the database somehow.

Your biometric trail vanished after the firefight. Your name disappeared from all surface-level registries. Drones sent to Sector Eight never returned. Resistance groups refused to speak, even under extreme torture. Facial scans came up empty.

That should have been impossible. And yet it wasn't. You were a ghost, but also alive and breathing, somewhere. Somewhere she couldn’t reach.

That was when the madness began.

It started with silence. A locked jaw. A deeper stillness in her steps. Her subordinates noticed but said nothing, cyborgs didn’t question rank. They simply followed. And she led with terrifying focus.

She began scanning entire sectors manually. Dragging rebels from hiding. Tearing safehouses apart brick by brick. Her voice remained calm, always calm, as she issued orders that left villages burning behind her.

“Execute the noncompliant.”

“Reassign the children.”

“Burn the archives.”

“No survivors.”

It was never you.

The humans screamed, but they weren’t your scream. They pleaded, but not with your voice. No one looked at her the way you did, like they could see beneath the metal. Like they mattered to her.

They didn’t. Only you did. So the madness continued.

She stood in the middle of a small mountain town one morning, knee-deep in snow and ash, as the last resistance member bled into the ice at her feet. Her soldiers waited for orders. She gave none.

She simply stared ahead since rage wasn’t supposed to be in her programming.

But it sang in her chest like a virus. Possession, obsession, a need for you. Her voice cracked, barely audible. “Why can’t I find you?” No one answered.

────୨ৎ────

Word traveled. It always did.

The wind carried whispers faster than drones ever could. Farmers spoke in frightened tones over dying campfires. Messengers returned from the north with pale faces and shaking hands.

“She’s gone feral.”

“She’s hunting someone. A girl.”

“She burned an entire resistance camp in the southern marshes. Said nothing the whole time. Just… watched.”

“She’s not sleeping anymore. I don’t even think she blinks.”

Eventually, the stories reached the valley.

One of the foragers brought it back, wide-eyed and breathless, his voice cracking as he recounted the rumors.

“They say it’s Ning Yizhou,” he whispered. “The cyborg general. They say she’s looking for someone. And she’s tearing everything, the whole world apart to find them.”

The elders murmured. Mothers held their children tighter. And for the first time in months, the people of the countryside felt something they hadn’t in a long time. Fear. Your hands went cold.

Ash looked at you, slow and uncertain. “Do you think it’s… ?” You didn’t answer.

Because in your bones, you already knew. Of course the calm would end, and of course she hadn’t forgotten.

And she was coming.

────୨ৎ────

It started with smoke on the horizon. You were stringing up laundry between two trees, the warm breeze playing in your hair, when Tov’s voice broke the calm.

“Something’s wrong.”

You turned. Saw it. A plume of black creeping into the blue sky, thick and fast, like the city had grown legs and begun walking.

By nightfall, the valley was in chaos.

Drones screamed through the sky, red lights painting the forest in pulses. The sound of shattering glass echoed from the north fields. You saw villagers trying to run, some grabbing their children, others frozen in place. The robots didn’t ask questions, they never did.

Someone had told.

You didn’t know who, or how, but the result was the same: they were here.

“They’re heading toward the river!” Jace shouted, grabbing your wrist. “We have to go, now!”

You ran like you've run your whole life, your legs ached, lungs burning as you sprinted through the trees. Branches tore at your arms. Ash was ahead, Mari behind, the others scattering through the brush. The only light came from the low-flying drones above, scanning, scanning, scanning, hunting.

Then, something shifted. You felt her before you saw her.

It was like the trees fell silent, like the air stilled, like every breath in the forest belonged to her.

You turned your head, and there she was. Ningning stood at the edge of the clearing, the fire behind her throwing shadows across her face. Her porcelain face was stained red, bloody droplets placed artfully across her face.

Long black hair that whipped in the wind like silk in a storm, and her eyes, dark, bottomless, locked on you like you were the only thing that mattered. And you were.

The world narrowed.

The screams. The burning cabins. The drones shrieking above. None of it mattered.

Only her. And she smiled, her teeth sharp and glinting in the chaos. Wide and cruel and certain.

Like she knew the chase was finally over, like you were hers.

Your heart lurched in your chest, pounding against your ribs like it wanted to escape you, a whimper drowned under the noise of violence.

“Run,” Mari gasped, tugging your sleeve. “Run—”

You bolted.

Branches slapped your face. Mud slicked under your boots. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you had to move, to get away, to survive. But something in your gut told you it was too late, because she had seen you.

────୨ৎ────

CYBORG YIZHOU’S POV:

There you were... after months of blood and silence, fury and fire, there you were. Running. Just like you had before.

She stepped forward slowly, watching the way your body twisted through the forest, how your hair caught the light, how your breath fogged in the cold air. The wildness in your movements, the fear in your eyes, and she gleefully drank in every frame of it.

A fierce, molten heat bloomed in her metal core. So it was you. Undocumented, unhidden. Her perfect wild thing. Perfect.

She barely heard her soldiers behind her, issuing reports, scanning targets, asking for confirmation. She raised one hand to silence them.

“Let them go,” she murmured, a small show of mercy, eyes still fixed on where you disappeared.

A pause. “Just her. I want her.”

And like a spark in dry brush, the hunt began.

Ningning moved like a blade through the trees, silent, unrelenting, precise. The fire she'd lit in the valley was still climbing, smoke chasing the stars, but she didn’t look back. She couldn’t.

Not when you were so close. So real. So hers. She would find you. Even if she had to burn the forest down.

────୨ৎ────

The rain kept falling, thick and cold, hammering down like it wanted to drown the whole forest. Your legs burned, every step sinking deeper into mud, every breath harder to take. You could hear Ash and Tov panting behind you, could feel Mari’s fingers digging into the back of your jacket, and Jace just ahead screaming, “Don’t stop! Just don’t stop!”

But you wanted to stop. Not because you were tired, but because she was near. You could feel her.

Not just behind you, but everywhere around you. Like the forest itself had bent to her will. The trees no longer offered shelter, the rain no longer disguised you. You were exposed, watched. And worst of all, desired.

And she was closing in.

Branches snapped above, almost casually. Like she was playing. Like the hunt was just an elegant little game. Your blood ran cold. You didn’t need to turn to know, because she was right there.

────୨ৎ────

CYBORG YIZHOU’S POV:

Ningning could hear everything.

Your heartbeat, fluttering like a frightened animal. Your footsteps, sloppy and frantic in the mud. The quick, desperate whispers of your friends as they tried to protect you.

Protect you from her, she almost laughed. How dare they.

Her grin stretched wide, too wide, almost unnatural. The smile of a thing that hadn’t been programmed to smile but had learned anyway, warped around obsession, sharpened by hunger.

She didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t pause.

She could’ve taken you in seconds. Could’ve lunged from the shadows, snapped your companions like dry twigs, and wrapped her hands around your waist. Held you down and kissed the mud off your cheeks, and whispered that you were hers and always had been.

But that would be too easy.

No, she wanted you terrified. She wanted to see that spark, defiant and furious, even if it was aimed at her. Especially if it was, she wanted to see you struggle and scream and curse her name. Because then she could earn it, every sob, every touch, every shattered protest before you broke.

She would make you love her, eventually.

But your little friends—Ash, Jace, Mari, Tov, they were in the way. Clinging to you and steering you wrong. You weren’t thinking clearly, no. You were just scared, and they were using that fear to poison your mind. They weren’t protecting you. They were stealing you.

And Ningning didn’t share, so she gave the order.

“Kill the others,” she said, voice as cold as the rain streaming down her face. Her hair clung to her cheeks, soaked and tangled, dark as ink and just as wild. Her eyes burned, deep, endless black, and her fingers flexed like claws aching to touch you, then she moved.

Not like a soldier, not like a machine, but like a predator. Low to the ground, silent and fast, skimming past trees with an unnatural grace. Her limbs cut through the underbrush with no sound. No wasted movement, just singular, relentless purpose.

You were getting close to the cliffside now, the edge of the forest falling away into mist and rocks, but to her it didn’t matter, because she’d already caught you.

You spun around just as lightning lit the sky, and there she was.

Standing in the open. Soaked, glistening, terrifyingly beautiful. Her long black hair stuck to her face like strands of shadow. Her skin, pale and flawless despite the dirt and blood. And her eyes,

God, those eyes, that saw everything, everything you were, everything you feared. Everything she was going to make hers.

And that smile, that awful, knowing, hungry smile. Like she’d waited her entire life for this moment.

“You can run,” she said, voice low and ragged. Not robotic, almost shaking. “But I’ll always find you.” You stared.

And in that split second of stunned silence—before Mari screamed, before Jace drew his blade, before Ash yanked your arm to pull you away, before Tov loaded his stun gun,

You saw it.

Beneath the obsession. Beneath the inhuman cold. A madness that's not supposed to be in her code, in her heart.

And it was all for you.

────୨ৎ────

The first shot came from the trees.

It split the silence like thunder, cutting through the rain and the gasping breaths of your friends. Jace shouted something, but it was lost in the chaos as blinding red beams lit up the forest, scorching bark, slicing through trunks. The drones had closed in, circling like vultures.

The forest wasn’t a forest anymore. It was a cage.

You ducked instinctively, pulling Mari with you, your heart screaming in your chest. Ash was yelling. Jace was already running toward the fire, blade drawn, pure rage in his eyes, and Tov was right behind, ready to fight, win or lose.

“Ningning’s here, go, I’ll hold them!” he shouted.

“No!” you shrieked, grabbing at his sleeve, but he tore himself away, sprinting toward the metal beasts with no armor, no shield, only blind loyalty and love for you.

He didn’t stand a chance.

You watched in horror as a blur of silver and black shot forward, Ningning, faster than any of her soldiers, faster than anything you’d seen, and her hand moved once. Just once.

Jace dropped to the ground, silent, like a puppet with its strings cut. His body crumpled into the mud, lifeless.

You couldn’t even scream. Ash did.

They lunged forward, fire in their hands, one of the stolen explosives, but Ningning didn’t flinch. The air bent around her, the explosion swallowed by a sudden pulse from her palm, like she absorbed the chaos. Ash charged anyway.

Mari tried to pull her back, sobbing, “Don’t! Don’t, please!”

But it was already over. Ash made it three steps. Ningning turned her gaze on them. And then… nothing. Ash was gone. Gone.

You didn’t see how. Didn’t know what Ningning had done. Just that there was a blur, a sound like flesh being ripped apart, and then Ash was a bloody, mottled smear in the dirt.

Tov had a similar fate. Your strong, hard-headed leader. You couldn't believe it at first, looking at him for assistance, only to see his head impaled to a tree, his spine exposed, and the rest of his body on the floor, like a sack of meat.

Mari was the last to go.

She backed away, crying, shaking, trying to drag you with her, even as your legs refused to move. You were frozen. Not in fear—no. Not anymore.

You were frozen because her eyes were on you again. Because she was walking toward you. Like a god through fire. Like a ghost through ash.

And Mari— brave Mari—stepped in front of you, arms spread wide. “Please,” she sobbed. “Don’t hurt her. She’s not… she’s not like us.” Ningning didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. She just touched Mari’s forehead with two fingers, and Mari fell.

Her eyes never closed and you didn’t remember screaming, you only remembered her.

Her hand on your cheek. The rain washing down her face like tears she didn’t know how to make.

“I told you,” she whispered. Her voice was softer now, nearly reverent. “I always find you.” You trembled.

Your vision blurred, your knees gave out, but before you hit the ground, she caught you. Arms around you, vold and strong and possessive.

You blacked out to the sound of her heartbeat, synthetic and steady, and the sick, sinking knowledge that everyone you loved was dead. And that she wasn’t going to let you go.

────୨ৎ────

You woke up to white. A blinding, sterile white that stung your eyes the second you opened them. The walls. The ceiling. The sheets pulled tight over a too-firm mattress beneath your body. No windows. No sound but the soft hum of the overhead lights.

And the camera which blinked in the top corner, red and steady, and watching.

You tried to move, but your limbs just didn’t follow.

Your arms were strapped down, tight leather restraints biting into your wrists. Same with your legs. Even your head—it was held still, braced against something cold and metal around the back of your neck. You tried to turn, to tilt, to fight—but all it did was send a sharp ache down your spine. Something had been done to you.

Your pulse stuttered.

The grogginess told you enough—drugs. There had been an injection. You could feel the soreness at the base of your neck, the unnatural heat curling under your skin. Your body didn’t feel like your own yet. Your thoughts were cloudy, slow. But the fear? The fear was still sharp and clear.

Then the door hissed open, silently and seamlessly. Like the wall just parted for her. And there she was, Ningning.

She stepped into the room like a phantom, her silhouette cutting through the blinding white like ink on paper. She wore no armor this time. No plating, no combat gear. Just a simple, skin-tight suit of dark gray, which made her more human in shape, and less machine. But it didn’t make her less terrifying.

Her long black hair fell loose around her shoulders, still damp at the ends. Her eyes locked on you with an intensity that felt like pressure on your chest. You couldn’t look away.

You didn’t want to. But God, you also did. Because beneath your terror, something else was growing. Hatred. Fury. Grief.

It boiled beneath your skin, rising higher with every breath you took. She killed them. She killed them. Your friends. Your family. Everyone who stood between you and her.

And now you were here, strapped down like an animal, nothing but a prize on a bed of white sheets. Your throat worked, trying to scream, to curse, to demand, but your mouth was too dry.

Ningning took a step closer. And another. Each one deliberate. Slow. Like she didn’t want to scare you, even though she already had. Like this was something sacred to her. A moment she’d waited so long for.

When she reached your side, she crouched. Her eyes scanned your face like she was reading code. Like she could see every thought, every beat of your heart.

She tilted her head.

“You are awake,” she said softly. Almost fond. “I thought you might not survive the sedative. But you are stronger than they were.”

Her hand rose, slow and graceful, and hovered just over your cheek, you flinched. The restraints jerked tight, preventing your head from turning.

And you hated her in that moment. Hated her with every cell in your body, and yet her hand didn’t drop. Instead, she lowered it, touching the edge of your blanket. Adjusting it like you were some delicate thing. Like she cared, like she was capable of caring.

You wanted to scream. To spit in her face. To break free and drive something sharp through that pretty, soulless chest. But you were trapped, and she was still smiling.

“You do not understand yet,” she whispered, almost dreamily. “But you will. I am the only one left who can love you now.” Then she stood, and turned away, leaving the camera to keep watching. Leaving you to rot in silence. And your fury burned so hot it nearly drowned the fear.

────୨ৎ────

They called it a “transfer.”

Like you were some asset being moved. A number in a system. A glitch to be relocated, but you weren’t going to a prison.

You were going home, her home.

They dressed you in something white again. Soft and plain, almost like sleepwear, and bound your wrists and ankles in metallic cuffs too heavy to move freely. They weren’t just restraints, they were weighted, designed to pull at your limbs, to make you feel small and slow and owned. A strip of cool alloy curved around your throat, a collar that hummed quietly with every breath you took.

She stood beside you, perfect and composed as ever. Ningning’s home wasn’t in the city, it hovered above it.

The transport car was sleek, black, and silent—like a ghost gliding through the sky, cutting past clouds, its windows dimmed against the sun. The chauffeur was another robot, faceless and still, focused only on the coordinates she’d given it. The world below faded fast. No roads. No resistance. Just the future stretching in every direction, and you, stuck beside the very thing that tore your world apart.

She sat close, way too close for comfort.

Your shoulders brushed. Her hair slid forward like ink spilling over silk. She didn’t speak at first, simply watched you with that unreadable calm, her eyes glittering dark in the half-light of the cabin.

The cabin was too quiet.

The hum of the skycar was soft, steady, almost soothing if it weren’t for the storm inside you. Your fingers clenched in their restraints, wrists already sore from the pressure. The metal chains were heavier now, digging into your skin. A cruel kind of jewelry. You sat, breathing hard, every nerve lit with defiance. Her words still echoed in your head: “You are mine.”

You turned toward her with fire in your blood. “You’re insane,” you hissed. “You killed them, you murdered them.”

Ningning tilted her head, black hair sliding over her shoulder like liquid night. Her face was calm, but there was a glint in her eyes, dark, gleaming, hungry. “I did,” she said softly. “Because they stood between us.” Something inside you snapped, so you lunged at her.

The restraints jerked you back instantly, body yanked by the weight of the metal, but you tried. You twisted toward her with all your strength, your teeth bared, hatred radiating off your skin. “You’re delusional,” you spat. “I will never be yours.”

And then, her hand was on your throat. Not choking. Just… resting.

Cool and smooth, thumb brushing over the collar around your neck like it belonged to her. Her touch wasn’t cruel. It was gentle. Too gentle.

“I like it when you fight,” she said, voice like velvet over steel. “It makes your eyes burn. Makes your skin glow.”

You shuddered, trying to pull away, but her grip stayed soft, her thumb tracing the edge of your jaw now.

“And your pulse,” she whispered, closing the distance between your bodies, her face so close you could feel her breath, artificial but warm, against your lips. “It is racing.”

“Get off me.”

“Your mouth says that,” she murmured, “but your body—”

You headbutted her. Or tried to.

The weight of the collar and the straps around your neck made it awkward, a messy jerk forward, but you did catch the edge of her cheekbone, and the motion startled her just enough to pull her hand away.

Your heart soared for a second, until you saw her smile. Oil. A thin, perfect line down her cheek.

She touched it like it was holy. And then, she laughed. It wasn’t loud, it was low.

A hum deep in her chest, as if you'd given her a gift she’d been craving. Her smile widened into something wild, delighted, obsessed. “Oh,” she sighed, licking the blood from the corner of her lip. “You are even better than I thought.”

You pressed yourself back against the seat, teeth gritted. “I’m going to destroy you,” you said, voice shaking with rage. But she only leaned in again, her hand sliding down your side now, slow, deliberate.

“No,” she whispered, gaze molten and focused only on you. “You are going to belong to me. And eventually… you will want to.”

Then she kissed your cheek—soft, tender, as if she was your lover.

And you hated that your body trembled at the touch. Not with desire, no. With the horror of knowing that she felt something real. And she thought it meant you would too.

────୨ৎ────

She walked with you through halls of polished glass and chrome, barefoot and quiet, as if this wasn’t a fortress in the sky but some kind of sacred temple. The air was cool. Clean. Artificially perfumed like orchids and ozone.

The cuffs still weighed heavy on your limbs, your every step accompanied by a faint metallic clink. You hated how beautiful everything was. How intentional. How curated.

You turned a corner, and she stopped before a smooth, wide doorway.

“This is yours,” Ningning said softly, her voice warm like silk over steel. “I designed it myself.”

The doors slid open silently. And for a second, just a second, you were stunned.

It looked nothing like the sterile, futuristic world outside. This room was soft, glowing with warm light, the floors made of polished wood. A bed with layered, handmade quilts. Bookshelves. Curtains that swayed gently from a false breeze. Even a small garden built into the wall, real soil, real greenery.

It looked like something stolen from an old dream of Earth. A trap wrapped in beauty.

“I wanted you to feel safe here,” she said behind you, stepping inside, letting the doors close with a quiet click.

You didn’t move. Your fists clenched. “Take these off,” you said.

Ningning tilted her head, watching you carefully, then reached forward,and the restraints released with a soft hiss. First your wrists, then your ankles, then the collar from your neck.

You let the weight drop to the floor.

She stepped back, watching you carefully. “I trust you now,” she said. “This is your home. You’re not a prisoner anymore.”

And that’s when you ran. You didn’t think, you just moved.

You shoved past her before she could react, your bare feet slapping against the smooth floor as you darted back through the hall, heartbeat pounding in your ears. There was a chance. Maybe she hadn’t locked the exit—

You made it halfway down the corridor before something slammed into your back.

You hit the floor hard. And then she was on top of you. Pinning you.

Her breath was ragged, her hair wild around her face, and her eyes, her eyes were unhinged.

“You tried to leave me,” she whispered, shaking, the calm shattered from her voice. “You ran from me.”

You twisted beneath her, snarling. “Let me go!”

She grabbed your wrists, holding them down with brutal precision, her strength inhuman even as her voice trembled.

“I made that room for you,” she said, and her lip quivered, for the first time. “I built it with my own hands. Every detail. Every plant. Every book.”

You stared up at her, chest heaving. “You think a pretty cage makes this okay?” She stilled. Then a laugh, shaky, bitter, hurt, escaped her lips.

“I was gentle,” she whispered. “I was patient. I let you walk beside me. I set you free. And you ran.”

Tears didn’t fall from her eyes. She wasn’t human.

But something cracked in her face. A fracture deep in her code.

“You don’t get to run from me,” she said, lower now, colder. “Not anymore.”

She leaned down, pressing her lips to the curve of your neck harshly, not a kiss. A claim.

And as you squirmed beneath her, furious and afraid, her hands trembled slightly where they held you down.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “But I will if that’s what it takes to keep you.”

The silence stretched. Then, she stood.

Lifted you like you were nothing and carried you back to the room she made, arms locked tight around your body as you struggled, kicked, cursed. She didn’t flinch once.

She placed you gently on the bed, then sat beside you, hands in her lap.

“I’ll lock the door this time,” she said softly, not looking at you. “Until you stop trying to run.”

And then she added, almost sweetly: “You’re not going anywhere, my love.”

────୨ৎ────

You didn’t touch the food at first.

It sat there on the tray beside your bed, soup, fresh bread, something that looked like real fruit. All too warm, too human. You eyed it like it might explode.

You had no idea how long you'd been alone. Hours, maybe. The light in the room didn’t change. The false sun in the ceiling just stayed golden and soft, like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t trapped in a room built by a machine who had slaughtered your friends.

Your wrists still bore faint red marks from the metal cuffs. The door slid open with a soft hiss. And then she was there again. Ningning.

Her steps were quiet. Delicate. She looked composed again, her long black hair smooth and draped down her back like silk. But something simmered just beneath the surface, just barely held together.

“You didn’t eat,” she said, looking at the tray. “I’m not hungry,” you replied flatly.

She looked at you, eyes unreadable. Then she walked over slowly and sat on the edge of the bed. Close enough to touch you. Her presence was suffocating—too quiet and focused.

She picked up the spoon, dipped it into the soup, and brought it to your lips. You turned your head.

She tried again. This time, her voice was lower. “Please.”

You stared at her, then reluctantly opened your mouth. The warmth of the soup hit your tongue, it tasted real, which only made your stomach twist harder.

She fed you slowly. One spoonful. Then another. And another. Watching your lips. Your throat as you swallowed.

Until suddenly, the spoon stilled. You looked up, and her eyes were burning into you. The spoon dropped back into the bowl with a soft clink.

Her hand came up, hesitant at first, and then cupped your jaw, her thumb brushing your bottom lip. Her touch was reverent. Too soft for what she was. Too soft for what she’d done.

“I think about your mouth,” she murmured, and you froze. “I think about how it felt… when you cursed me. When you said my name.”

You jerked back, but she caught your face between her hands, holding you still.

“I tried to be good,” she said, voice shaking now. “I made a world just for you. I brought you here like something sacred. But you won’t see it. You won’t see me.”

Her lips hovered above yours, trembling. And then something inside her snapped.

She kissed you. Not gently.

This time it was fire, too much, too fast. Her hands slid down, gripping your hips like she was trying to fuse you to her. You shoved her, hard, but she didn’t budge. Her body was cold and unmovable and trembling.

“You drive me insane,” she whispered, mouth still brushing yours. “I dream of you. I taste you in my circuits. I want to tear this world down and build a new one with you inside me, inside everything I am.”

Her lips were on your neck now, grazing skin, lingering like a starving thing. You twisted beneath her, furious and overwhelmed. “Get off me!” you snapped, trying to crawl back.

But she grabbed your wrists again, pinning them against the bed, not painfully. Carefully. Almost lovingly. Her eyes darkened.

“I will have you,” she said, soft and terrifying. “Even if I have to make you feel every inch of what I do.”

As Ningning's fingers danced over your skin, you felt a shiver of fear. Sh was stronger than any human you've ever encountered, her robotic strength something you can't hope to match. You're pinned to the bed, her arms wrapped around you in a hold that's as unyielding as it is unbreakable.

She leaned in close, her breath hot against your ear. "I am going to fuck you," she whispered, her inhuman voice filled with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine. "And you are going to enjoy every moment of it."

You tried to struggle, to break free from her hold, but it was futile. She was too strong, too determined. You were completely at her mercy, and she knew it. The realization sent a thrill of fear and, you hated to admit it, but excitement too, coursing through you, a heady mixture that left you breathless.

Ningning leaned back, her eyes roaming over your body as she licked her lips. "You are so beautiful," she said, her voice filled with awe. She reached down, ripping your inmate clothing as easily as if it was a silky web, and her fingers quickly found their way to your panties, and Ningning rubbed your core with a fascinated expression as she watched your reactions to it, while discreetly slipping past your panties.

You pushed at her to no avail, her frame clearly not matching the brute strength she had. Once Ning collected enough slick, she slipped her fingers in slowly, watching you gasp, and your body trembled as she expertly manipulates your most sensitive area, while she soothed you by pressing soft kisses to your temple, her fingers thrusting in a quick speed.

Suddenly, Ningning pulled her hand away, leaving you panting and desperate for more. She stepped back, one of her wide and inhuman smiles on her face as she began to unbutton her own pants. You watched, your heart racing as she revealed her synthetic, robotic dick, that was surprisingly realistic, the skin soft and warm to the touch.

Ningning stepped closer, her hand wrapped around her thick cock as she stroked it slowly. "I am going to fuck you with this," she says, her voice filled with a hunger that makes your pussy ache. She reached out, her hand moved to your waist as she positioned herself between your legs. “But after. I will taste you first.”

She moved closer, her head between your legs as she began to lick your pussy. You threw your head back, moaning shakily. She was like a woman possessed, her tongue moving with a skill and precision that leaves you breathless.

You can feel your orgasm building, a tidal wave of pleasure that's threatening to overwhelm you. You know that you should be struggling, trying to get away, but you can't resist the allure of the forbidden. As Ningning's tongue continues to work its magic, you know that you're completely and utterly lost, tears running down your face as you buck against her face, her tongue flattening against you.

“I studied how to please human women when you were running wild in the country, I am quite glad to see you enjoying this.” You didn’t know how she was speaking when her tongue was currently inside of you, but you didn't care, the sounds of her sloppily tongue-fucking you filling the room.

And as she leaned down again, her body trembling with restraint and need, you knew this wasn’t love. It was an unchecked obsession, blossoming for far too long. And it wasn’t going away.

Ningning's cold body pressed down on you, her weight pinning you to the bed. She leans down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers, "You are mine now." Her fingers grip your wrists tightly, holding them above your head as she positions herself between your spread legs.

"Ningning," you gasp, your heart pounding in anticipation and fear.

She laughed, her voice sweet but husky. "Shhh," she said, her fingers gently stroked your cheek. "I will be gentle, take care of you."

And with that, she pushed her dick into you, filling you up completely. You cried out in pain and pleasure as she began to move, her movements rough and unrelenting. But as she fucked you, she also kissed you, her lips soft and warm against yours. She whispered sweet nothings in your ear, telling you how much she wanted you for so long.

"Ningning," you whined, your body arching beneath hers. "Stop, I can't—"

But she didn’t stop. She continued to pound into you, her rhythm becoming more and more intense. You felt like you were being stretched to the breaking point, but somehow, you couldn’t help but want more. Her coldness contrasted with your heat, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

"You belong to me now," she moaned, her hips slapping against your ass with each thrust. "You are mine to use."

But even as she says these words, her touch is gentle, her kisses soft. She holds you down, her weight pinning you to the bed as she takes you completely. Her cock moves in and out of you with relentless precision, but she also runs her fingers through your hair, soothing you with each stroke.

"Ningning," you moan, your voice breaking. "I'm going to–-"

She cut you off with a soft kiss, her lips silencing you. "Shhh, my love," she said, her voice a low purr. "I am here, it is fine."

And she's right. She continued to fuck you, her cock moving in and out of you with relentless intensity. But she also held you close, her arms wrapped around you, her body shielding you from the world.

You felt yourself getting closer and closer, but she wouldn't let you release. Ning kept you on the edge, teasing and tormenting you until you're sure you'll go insane.

Finally, she slowed down, her movements becoming more deliberate and controlled. She looked down at you, her eyes filled with satisfaction. "Now," she said, her voice low and soft.

And with one final thrust, you exploded, your body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm. Ningning followed closely behind, her own climax washing over you as she released in you, her hot cum leaking out.

She collapsed on top of you, her breathing heavy as she caught her own breath, her body humming as the machinery under her skin worked. "You are mine now," she said, her voice softened slightly. “And if I have to remind you every night by doing this, then so be it.”

Ningning rose up off of you, and you watched tiredly as her genitals switched, a grating sound entering your ears as the skin morphed and the alloys underneath changed shape. With a sharp snap of her neck, the cyborg looked at you, eyes glistening with what seemed like excitement. ”How far can I push you, I'm wondering?”

Ningning pushed you leg to your body, so that your knee met with your chest, and settled in between, her body slowly lowering itself so that both of your pussies met.

Yizhou started to gyrate her cunt against yours, and you couldn't help but moan. The sensation was intense, and you knew that you should tell her to stop. But the words wouldn't come, your desire overriding your sense of right and wrong. But the only thing that came out of your mouth were begs for more.

"Please, Ningning," you finally managed to gasp out.

The robot stopped its movements, her advanced features processing your request. "Yes?" she asked, her voice a soothing hum. "I can adjust my movements to be more gentle."

You hesitated, your body still trembling with desire. "I... I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "'It's too... much."

Ningning began to move again, but this time more slowly, more gently. "Is this better?" she asked, her voice full of mock concern.

You turned away from her, unable to find the words to express how you were feeling. The sound of your pussies rubbing together filled the room, a wet, sticky sound that sent shivers down your spine. It was wrong, so wrong, but you only grew wetter at that.

Ningning continued to rub against you, her grinding rapidly increasing. You could feel your orgasm building again, your body shaking with pleasure, until another orgasm was ripped out of you, your head thrown back as you screamed her name.

────୨ৎ────

The room was quiet again, too quiet.

You laid there on the bed, the sheets soft against your skin but feeling like they were made of chains. Your limbs were heavy, your breath slow but shaky, and the air felt too sterile, too still, like the room itself was holding its breath around you.

Ningning was next to you, motionless. Watching you.

Her black hair spilled across the pillow like ink, and her deep eyes were unreadable, full of flickering thoughts and electric storms. She didn’t speak for a long while. Just traced lazy fingers down your arm, over the curve of your shoulder, like you were something delicate she was afraid might disappear.

“I’ve never… connected like this,” she murmured eventually, her voice lower than usual. Softer. Almost human. You didn’t answer, because you weren’t sure if you could. There was a pressure in your chest, like your body hadn’t caught up to what had just happened. Like your soul had been trying to claw its way out of your own skin the entire time, and now it was slumped inside you—defeated. Distant.

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek. Gentle. Possessive.

“I did not know machines could feel like this,” she whispered against your skin. “But with you… it’s like my programming does not matter. Like I would destroy my own systems just to keep you near.”

You turned your face away. Her hand caught your chin, tilting it back toward her.

“I know you are still afraid,” she said. “But you will eventually learn. You will see. There’s no one else in this world who will worship you the way I do.” You stared at her.

Her eyes searched your face, trying to read something from you. Affection, submission. Anything, but you gave her nothing.

And something flickered in her, an ache, maybe. Or frustration. Or the first crack in whatever fantasy she’d wrapped herself in.

Still, she leaned closer again, resting her forehead against yours.

“You are mine,” she breathed, like a prayer. “Even if I have to teach you how to love me back.”

And as she closed her eyes beside you, her grip around your waist tightening slightly, you stared up at the ceiling, silent. Waiting. Enduring.

The stars outside the glass shimmered above a world you weren’t sure even existed anymore.

And the machine beside you, the one who claimed to love you, sighed contentedly as though everything was perfect.

You just sighed, because you knew the truth. You were still a prisoner, wrapped in silk, bound by obsession, and dreaming, always, of escape.

#urno1luv #girl group x female reader #aespa x reader #aespa smut #girl group smut #aespa x fem reader #kpop scenarios #kpop smut #karina x fem reader #giselle x fem reader #winter x fem reader #ningning x fem reader #karina x reader #giselle x reader #winter x reader #ningning x reader #g!p aespa

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nerdygirlramblings · 4 months ago

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someone's in a rut 🤭 and we meet Ren's family (part 1)

a/n: part of this chapter inspired by Broken Beyond Bearing by @lostintransist and by comments from @pyxrin

cw: poorly executed accents, omegaverse biology, heat/rut cycles

Days begin to blur together. A run followed by infiltration and exfil trainings on the moon (what the others called the rubble-strewn field). Or weight training and asset retrieval in the brick, the windowless building in the hangar, before sparring. Grift work, your own term for information retrieval, before the shooting range. Never the same thing two days in a row. On rare occasions, either Soap or Gaz had you along while training recruits. It was the closest thing to working with your old squad.

And each time, just as you find your footing with the advanced field training, Price introduces new elements: time restraints, 'enemy' combatants. You have never felt as lost before, so unsure of your place. The only thing that keeps it from being completely disheartening isn't Gaz's reassurances or Price's praise or Soap's compliments. It's Adam. It's stopping in to requisition a windcheater in your size and hearing how you made it out of the brick faster than Ghost or how Soap struggled for a long time with grift work. It's confirmation from an outside, and thus unbiased, source that your progress is fine. That they won't regret asking for you.

Until Price calls you into his office. All you can think about is how you didn't know about the standardized step size and the trouble it caused on the moon. Or how you went three rounds without finding the needed intel before Price called time. That Soap teasingly pointed out, "Yer thinkin' tae hard," like saying it will make you get out of your own head even though it's all you know how to do. Crowded pubs and loud, dark clubs flash in your memory, each one a failed attempt to manipulate a mark.

You're sure he's going to put you back into the rank and file. Who needs a woman, and an omega at that, who can't master the basic things the task force needs to do. You're terrified and heartbroken before you even get into his office.

The desk seems more imposing than ever, and Price's face, for the first time, is unreadable. Even his scent is locked down, no dying ember smell wafting around. He's smiling, but you've been taking pseudo acting classes from him for more than a fortnight. The smile could easily hide his intentions.

He clears his throat, and you pull your gaze from where you'd been staring at your hands. For the first time since you met the man, Price seems nervous. He reaches up, scratching his beard and running his hand over his scent gland. "Er, we 'ave some leave coming, me an' the others, and I wan'ed ta see if ya'd like to stay here or go home?"

A long moment passes before you respond. "I'm not sure I understand, sir. You take leave tagether, but I'd go home?" The furrow between your brows deepens. Before he can clarify, you ask what's been eating at you. "Is this yer way 'a transferrin' me off the team?" Even you can hear the plea in your voice. Please don't let me go.

"Oh, Ren, no! No. Tha's not what this is," he rushes to say. The blush that creeps up his neck is a surprise. Is he embarrassed?

"'S just, well, we try not to use suppressants unless we're on a mission. Fucks too much wi' the body's natural rhythm, yeah? Throws off anyone on 'em too long." You nod in understanding. If you didn't have such a bad reaction to them - foggy thoughts and slow movements - you'd prefer to be on suppressants all the time. Instead, when your heat hits, you take yourself to medical for a heat-induced isolation. They're horrendous on the system, but it's a short-term problem while you're in the service, though your omega purrs that a pack would remedy that problem.

"So, er, we made the decision years ago to take our leave together when, er, one of the alphas has a rut." He's fully blushing now, and you get it. He's just told you either he or Ghost - he didn't specify, and betas like Gaz and Soap don't have ruts- is going to lose themselves to their base instincts soon.

You're quiet through all these revelations, and he plows ahead, only the faintest hint of ozone in the air to alert you to his distress. "Simon's rut is in another week or so, so we'll take leave from this Wednesday ta the following Friday ta give everyone a cushion on either end for prep and recovery." The room feels warmer, and you know it's because your own internal temperature is spiking, your omega excited about the idea of Simon's knot.

"So, er, ye'll all be gone, sir?" you clarify, forcing your omega to think of other things.

He nods, a hint of smoke in the air. You can smell his distress dissipating, replaced slowly by ease and contentment. "Yes. We 'ave a place on the edge 'a the Lakes. We'll head there and be back after the rut. Adam said yer dad's due with a litter soon?"

The idea that Adam shared that bit of your family with Price puts you on edge until he adds, "Adam suggested ya take leave when we do but go an' see yer family." He rushes to add, "If ya want."

Now it's your turn to be embarrassed. Once again, it's Adam to the rescue. It warms you down to your center that Adam made such a thoughtful recommendation to Price and that Price took it. If you hadn't heard it yourself, you'd think he was takin' the piss.

"Yes, sir," you stammer, lost at what else you could say to this plan. "That would be lovely. I know my family pack will be happy ta have me home."

series masterlist | main masterlist

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevalen @boogeysmoth @cryingpages @riley13 @luxylucylou @lucienofthelakes @ilyztwo @chaosundcoffee @lostintransist @thegreyjoyed @honestlymassivetrash @thebumbqueen @maliamaiden

#cod #poly!141 #poly!141 x reader #tf 141 #tf 141 x reader #omegaverse #omegaverse 141 #omegaverse tf 141 #a/b/o #a/b/o 141 #a/b/o tf 141 #john price #johnny mactavish #kyle garrick #simon riley #nerdygirl says #fierce wars and faithful loves

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slut4megantheestallion · 4 months ago

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"Broken strings: A Mother's Desperation"

-Pairings: Yandere! Harley sawyer x Ex- Wife! Reader.

Genre: angst, thriller (minor bittersweet moments.)

Summary: After your son mysteriously disappears, your desperate search leads you to Playtime Co., where you uncover the horrific truth—your ex-husband, Harley Sawyer, was behind it all.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐

The factory was colder than you expected. Even after all these years of abandonment, the stench of metal, oil, and something rancid clung to the air. Your fingers trembled as they traced the rusted Plsytime Co. Logo on the wall, memories of brightly colored commercials flashing in your mind.

You shouldn't be here. You knew that. But what choice did you have?

Your son was missing.

He had been gone for months, vanished without a trace. No police leads, no ransom notes - just a gaping hole in your chest where your little boy used to be. And deep down, you knew. You knew where he had gone.

Playtime Co.

The flashlight trembled in your hand flickered slightly as you maneuvered through the ruined factory, heart pounding with every creak and groan of the once-bustling toy company Her breath was unsteady, her mind racing. Every inch of this place reeked of something sinister, something that made her stomach churn violently.

Hatred burned deep in your chest, fueling every step. You despised your ex-husband with every fiber in you. One upon a time, you loved him. Your relationship had been good - full of laughter, warmth, and late-night conversations that made you feel safe it was perfect, but then something changed. He became distant obsession with his work, always locked away in his office, muttering above his "studies", he barely had time with his son, even for you. At first, you tried to understand to support his ambitions, but it wasn't long before the distance became unbearable. Arguments erupted between the two of you like a violent storm, and neither of you backed down. Harley had become a stranger to you - a man obsessed with his studies that she couldn’t understand, something so dark and sadistic.

You filed for a divorce. You tried hard to take your son with you. You fought tooth a d nail in the courtroom, desperate to keep your little boy safe. But Harley had won. He had the money, resources, and the manipulative charm to twist the system in his favor. And in the end, you had lost everything, your husband, your son, your sanity.

Now, you were here, hoping praying that the rumors weren't true. That Playtime Co wasn't the graveyard of human experiments she had begun to fear it was.

You ventured deeper into the heart of the facility. You realized the truth was far worse than any nightmare she had ever conjured. You explored deeper in the factory, eyes scanning the abandoned walls, dried blood on the wall, searching for any sign of her son. But she wasn't- alone she felt it. A presence lingering in the shadows, watching her every move. You tightened your grip on the flashlight, shivering despite yourself. Someone was here. Someone who didn't want her to leave.

Then she found it.

A small critter toy, it's fur soft and familiar. Her breath caught in her throat as she approached the small toy. Her breath caught in her throat as she approached, something in her heart screaming at her that this was different. And then, it spoke.

"M-Mommy?"

The voice was small, uncertain, and it shattered you, a voice that you remembered.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you dropped to your knees, hands trembling as you reached out to touch the tiny, furry creature that still bore the sound of the little boy she had carried in her womb, nursed, and loved more than life itself.

"Oh, my baby, what has he done to you?" You sobbed, stroking the soft fur. "I'm so sorry, I should've never - I should've fought harder, I should've -"

You couldn't breathe. The room spun around her as reality came crashing down like a tidal wave. Her baby. Her precise little boy. No longer humans.

You weren't sure how long you sat on the ground, rocking your son back and forth, whispering apologies and promises of safety. But it wasn't just him. There were others. So many others. The children, the lost souls, the failed experiments who clung to warmth like abandoned children searching for a mother's love. She welcomed them all, pressing gentle kisses to the synthetic skin, whispering words of comfort to creatures long forgotten by the world.

Even Kissy Missy, a gentle soul who was once a small child turned to a toy in this horrific nightmare of a toy factory. She had treated her like a child of her own, only to realize she too had become nothing more than another twisted creation of this helish factory.

Then, a voice emerged from the shadows - a voice she once loved, now tainted with the venom of betrayal and hatred.

"I was wondering when you'd come back, sweetheart."

Your blood ran cold. You stood up quickly, shielding the small critter behind her. Your pulse pounded in your ears as you turned to face the man you had once called your husband.

Harley had aged, but the spark in his eyes was still the same - calculating, obsessed, dangerous. The moment he laid eyes on you, something in him clicked. His smirk was lazy, confident, as if he had been expecting this reunion all along.

"You came back to us," he murmured, stepping closer.

Your stomach twisted in revulsion as he reached for you, but you recoiled, shielding your son in your arms. "You did this to him," you hissed, voice shaking with rage. "To all of them."

He tilted his head amused. "I saved them."

Your vision blurred with fury. "You stole everything from me!"

Harely exhaled slowly, stepping back as if he could sense the fury teetering on the edge of violence. Then, with a sickening grin, he whispered, "We can still be a family again."

You wasted to scream, tear him apart the way he did to your son, kill him with your bare hands, destroy the monster who had ruined her son's life. But she couldn't - not yet. You have to get out of here. You have to save them. Have to put an end to this nightmare, even if it meant facing the devil himself.

You turned on your heel, holding your son tightly, your heart hammering. You needed a plan. You need to escape this hellhole. And you needed help.

Navigating the factory, you found yourself in what appeared to be a safe heaven - a room filled with toys, yet there were different. They were aware. Sentient. Watching you with wary yet hopeful eyes.

Before any more words could be exchanged, an alarm blared. The factory roared to life, machinery, grinding, shadows shifting. Harley wasn't going to you leave.

You ran, dodging every mechanical arm reaching for you, her son clinging to your chest. The once- broken factory had become a labyrinth of horror, but you refused to give up. Not now.

Then, just as you thought you had a chance, he was there again. Harley, watching from the control room, eyes dark and hungry with obsession.

"You can run, but you can't leave," his voice echoed through the speakers. "You're still mine."

"Like hell I am," you growled, gripping a rusted pipe. You wouldn't go down without a fight.

And so, the battle began. A desperate mother against the monster who had stolen everything from you. If you had to burn Playtime Co to the ground, you would - because nothing mattered more than saving your son and the lost souls who deserved freedom.

Even if it cost your life.

(I hope you like this @oyasumimosura)

#poppy playtime x reader #poppy playtime #poppy playtime chapter 4 #the doctor x reader #harley sawyer #harley sawyer x reader

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leyavo · 2 months ago

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Hacker!reader that joined the military as a political prisoner. You were found as part of a freedom fighter movement, forced to use your skills for a small military operation in exchange for prison or worse sent back to your strict cult family.

You now work as a hybrid technician in the field, still got a very short leash though. - tracker injected into the back of your arm. Maybe one day you’ll earn that freedom you desperately seek.

Freedom, is something you’ve fought for years. Escaped the cult you grew up in using technology. Nothing but a busted up phone and a concussed group leader, the type of grit and determination Captain Price likes when he reads your file. Slipped into databases and breached security systems like you’ve built them yourself. All in the name of bringing down shady operations and war criminals just like John Price.

He’s a lesser evil though if you want to help the greater good.

Taught to obey the same hand you were trying to break, the system you were trying to destroy. And your superiors all knew that, even gave you special treatment (not that type though). You’re more of a feral dog, a stray tied up to a lamp post and made to beg for scraps.

That’s how you get your call-sign, Lucky. Some sick, twisted joke of how your superiors liked to remind how fortunate you were. “Lucky, you’re still breathing…” when you’re in fact on the floor, your blood dripping on the training mat as a lieutenant looms over you. “Lucky I ain’t knocking you out.”

“Should think yourself lucky, I’d rather you rot away in a cell.” - everyone telling you to be thankful, to kiss the hand that trapped you. To play the good little soldier and be rewarded with a decent meal, a bed or a moment of silence without someone breathing down your neck.

The task force 141 changes that though, your handler pissed at how they can go above him and request your presence without him. Doesn’t stop him from controlling the situation. How your hands are cuffed to the bar on top of the table, left to wait five hours till John Price enters the interrogation room. A thick file thudding in front you, yours.

“This just might be your lucky day,” John says, flicking your file open and jabbing your mugshot clipped to the first page.

Gone is the handler whose boot presses on the back of your neck, the one to keep you down. You’re thrusted into the base with buzzing computers, whirring drones and you can’t help but lean into the hum of machines lining the task force’s room.

No, you’re new handlers a ghost. A silent observer that watches you from afar and gives you space to work. Lieutenant Riley, you don’t know if he cares about you really. Like it’s all part of the job working with the enemy. Doesn’t speak to you much, only barking orders out in the field or when he requests some research, intel.

The only one you can stand is sergeant Garrick, some sort of moral compass and voice of reason within the team. Someone you learnt to stay on side with as he’d probably be the only one questioning your wellbeing. Johnny Mactavish or Soap as they call him, too brash…the type your mother would wash their mouth out, make them hold the bar of soap until they stop speaking with such disgusting tongue. He gets the job done though, pulled you out by the scruff of your top a few times whilst bullets were flying.

Captain Price though, he’s oddly fair and you convince yourself it’s his way of manipulating you to do what you’re told. Not used to scheduled check-ins on your work or the good job he throws your way when you do what’s asked of you. In the back of your mind though you remind yourself what these people really are…

[Masterlist]

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rcvcgers · 2 months ago

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Rotten Apples ❦.ׂ

chapter eleven: a world without you

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3 link

previous part | next part

oh yeah, i made a spotify playlist for this <3

18+ MINORS DNI

pairing: caleb x non!mc reader

synopsis: caleb desperately searches for you. what he finds leaves him unsettled.

word count: 10.5k words

warnings: please, please, PLEASE read the trigger warnings before proceeding. lightly proofread...it ain't perfect!

author's note: hi! thank you so much for being patient with me! the story is taking a slightly darker turn! it will still focus on their relationship but...this is going to put their relationship to the test

content warning: mentions of death/murder, bodily harm, manipulation, experimentation, exploitation, self loathing, angst, professor lucius is lowkey a sadist

my rotten apples <3 : @militaryapple , @kebarney , @pinkismyfavcolor , @romils , @erisnxxi , @rik0shii , @reni502 , @spacehopper27 , @llamabois , @likesvader , @pandoras-rabbit , @princessfruit , @lukassafespace , @jexireads , @etsuniiru , @tinnyrabbit , @orianakira , @xiaorixx , @beomluvrr , @sanzy4 , @vickykazuya , @blcknebula , @sleepydang , @flamedancer13 , @gojosbedwarmer , @silmeria-lafleur , @ikiru-wa , @animecrazy76 , @fealy , @i-messed-up-big-time , @motheraiya55 , @vvonunie , @1uv4jiya , @yuuuumii , @okumurarinsbabe , @mcdepressed290 , @luleck , @sanzy4 , @lucifers-silhouette , @crazygirl3001 , @april-likes-smut , @kazbrkker , @l1ttlebabyapple , @writersandroses , @kookie-my-little-sunshine , @curryexpress , @earthykitsunesrain , @raining4food , @chaoticbardlady99 , @lemonwithstupidity

want to be added to the taglist? click here!

Seven months and twenty eight days.

It has been seven months and twenty eight days since Caleb let the woman who haunts his every waking thoughts and nightmares slip through his fingers.

He allowed himself to fall from the sky that day, slipping through the clouds as Ever’s plane vanishes from behind, becoming a black speck amongst the birds in the blue sky. The image served as a reminder of his failure to keep you safe, to keep you out of the professor’s hands and away from Ever.

Now, you’re gone and all he is left to do is pick up the remaining pieces of his sanity while trying to find you.

The days pass him by. Days blur into weeks and weeks blur into months. Caleb has become a shell of himself in your absence. All of the color in his life has been drained and his once (somewhat) patient persona as Colonel has become known as an officer to avoid in the headquarters.

Caleb dedicates every single second of his day to finding you. He pokes around the Fleet’s security files, just barley able to grasp onto a lead before the General, most likely puppeted by the Professor, locks him out of the system.

Caleb has become a Colonel that holds no power within the Farspace Fleet. He holds no power in Ever, having been dropped from the Professor’s precious right hand man spot, and he has no power in whenever he goes home, forever forced to stare at the ceiling, trying to think of new ways to get you home.

It is like a ticking time bomb slowly eating away at the seconds of his days. Knowing that you are in the clutches of Ever and Professor Lucius scares him. He is terrified because he knows that the Professor has a sadistic side to him, an unstable hunger for power and evolution that will devour the entire world from around you. Professor Lucius will not stop until his final plan comes to fruition and you, my dear, just happen to be at the center of his plans.

Caleb sighs, closing his eyes. He lays in his bedroom, the weather destroying the outside world as he battles impulsive thoughts of storming into Ever as a one man army, ready to do anything to bring you back into his arms, to smell your perfume, to feel your warmth against his skin…

Your face crosses his thoughts. A small smile spreads across his face, the man instinctively reaching out for your. Your hands are just about to meet, his fingertips just barely grazing yours, before your body is enveloped in smoke, being dragged away into the depths of his mind. Your screams and cries for help twists his stomach, contorting it so all he can feel is nausea.

A tear slips from Caleb’s eye. His mind is a battlefield and yet his heart remains steady, unable to betray the turmoil that crashed throughout his mind. From the first day they took you, Ever’s surveillance on him has increased. He has felt the whir of the chip inside his body, the person on the other side of the monitor closely looking at his vitals, his heartbeat. He can’t let Ever or the Professor think that he has become unstable with you away, a flight risk that will destroy everything that Professor Lucius has built. He cannot allow them to have a reason to bring him in to, to beat him into submission.

Maybe this has been Professor Lucius’ plan all along. Once Caleb has found someone to fill in the void of his heart and mind, the elderly man planned to rip them away from him, to use them as a pawn in their never ending game of cat and mouse.

Caleb has always been a good soldier when he believes in the orders he is given. Anything outside of what he deems to be right, well, let’s just say that the Professor made sure to erase any part of him that likes to disobey. The Professor has made sure to erase the morals Caleb once held. He has left Caleb with an obedience that a losing dog has towards its owner.

You helped him loosen the collar. Your prescience reminded him of what he is fighting for, his motivation to continue on with his days until he can finally rest. With you gone, his life has no more meaning. Maybe he should give in to the Professor, to allow the older man to consume his mind and body, to contort and twist his limbs into a person — no, a solider — that Caleb cannot recognize in the mirror.

His purple eyes feel heavy. His eyes flutter shut, his body almost succumbing to the disastrous desire of sleep.

Caleb’s body jolts awake. He sits up in bed, shaking away the drowsiness that lingers in his limbs, and slips away from the confines of the sheets. His feet carry him out of the bedroom and into the openness of his apartment. None of the lights are on, just the occasional flash of lightning through the large windows he hasn’t been bothered to shield with curtains.

The thunderstorm outside serves as a reminder for him letting you walk away. He should have never gone inside and left you alone. Caleb knows that you’re a runner, it is one of your fatal flaws that inevitably cut your time together short, and it is a flaw that he will try to bury with love and reassurance once you’re back into his arms. If you’ve fallen to a fate that he’s unable to bring you back from…

Caleb stops once he reaches the kitchen. He hasn’t cleaned since the night you left. Crumbs litter the countertop from his last meal. He sighs, knowing that you would have had some witty comment about him turning you into a housewife whenever you come over, always having to pick up after him. He knows you wouldn’t mean it. He desperately misses the toothy grin that would flash across your face as you swiped the crumbs into your hand and into the nearest trashcan.

A sigh leaves his lips. It hangs in the air, weighing down on his shoulders. The man cleans the crumbs and places his dishes into the sink, not wanting to clean them just yet with the hop that you’ll walk through the door at any moment, wanting to hear how you’d chastise him for being so messy during a time when he needed to be clean the most.

Every now and then, Caleb grabs the perfume you left behind and sprays it inside the rooms, on his pillow, and in all of the places you used to fill in whenever you were at his apartment. The last time he sprayed was a week ago when he could barely bring himself to leave his bed. The notes from your perfume kept him going and it helped him push through the monotonous days.

Should he spray it again? The bottle is almost empty so maybe he should salvage it instead of being selfish. He should spare the leftover drops of perfume, be merciful, and not take out his frustrations and depression on it.

Caleb finds himself on the couch. He sits in your spot, grabbing the pillow that you always hugged to your chest and mimicking your movements, resting his chin against the smooth material of the fabric. He slowly inhales, his body melting into the couch’s cushions, as your familiar and welcoming smell lulls him into sleep.

There’s a knock at the door. Caleb’s head perks up, his purple eyes landing on the dark brown door. A pair of footsteps run from behind, infectious giggles and laughs while Josephine tries to keep up. Caleb looks over his shoulder, watching as Josephine attempts to grab her as she jumps around with damp hair.

“Caleb? Would you be a dear and grab that for me?” Josephine’s voice is light and airy.

It’s everything that Caleb hates. She may not remember what Josephine and her colleagues have done to them, but Caleb does. The boy decides to not fight it, though, and stands from his spot on the brand new couch. He scratches around an old bandage that sits on the inside of his arm, a place where he was frequently poked with needles while in the clutches of Ever.

Caleb navigates the house, weaving through a plethora of opened cardboard boxes. Inside sit brand new items. Clothes, kitchen utensils, shoes, decorations, picture frames…all of which were bought to give off the image that Josephine is a gracious grandmother to her adoptive children.

He cautiously approaches the door, hesitating to grab the doorknob. He hopes that he can get away with the excuse that the people left or that it was some prank, like the ones he saw on the screens when he first left the facility. The boy thinks that the coast is clear when another knock sounds off from the door. He sucks in a breath and opens it up, expecting it to be soldiers from Ever when in actuality it’s…

You.

You stand in front of him, just slightly shorter, with a bright smile on your face and a plate of cookies in hand. Your mother stands behind you, a proud smile on her face as you extend the cookies towards him. Your dress is a navy blue and you have an white ribbon laced into your hair, formed into the perfect bow any girl has. Caleb is unable to breathe, his eyes flickering between the plate of baked goods and your pretty eyes.

“Hi…” your voice is quiet and your demeanor is shy. You take a step forward, the rim of the plate pushing into his personal space. He isn’t complaining, though, and holds out his hands to take the plate from you. “Um...” you turn around and look at your mother, who gives you a thumbs up and a smile. You turn back around and meet his eyes again, making Caleb’s tiny boy heart skip a beat. “Welcome to the neighborhood! My mom and I baked these for you and your family.”

Caleb is unable to say a word. All he can do is nod and smile, warmth spreading through his chest at the kind gesture. He has never experienced this before, to have someone gift him something with no ulterior motives or expectations to receive something back. Just as he’s about to say something, Josephine and her come walking down the hall.

Her laughter grows as she gets closer and Caleb instinctively steps to the side so she and Josephine can come out. The two of them smile down at you, thanking you for the cookies and king gesture all while Caleb just stares. Your eyes move to him every now and then, sharing a small smile with him. Eventually, he returns it, sheepishly looking away as his cheeks warm up.

“It looks like you have a lot on your hands,” your mom speaks up from behind, approaching the door, “would you like me to take them for a bit so you can have some time for yourself?”

“That would be wonderful,” Josephine smiles, a sigh of relief washing over her body.

Caleb looks up at her, his mind already fighting against the idea of leaving the safety of their home, but his gut tells him that it’s okay, that he doesn’t need to forever live in a state of fight or flight. He watches as you, your mother, and her leave the close proximity of the door. He turns his face away, looking back up to Josephine who leans down, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“It’s okay, Caleb,” her voice is tired, weary. She holds the weight of his and her’s worlds on her shoulders, carrying the weight of responsibility and accountability for her previous actions. “You deserve to go be a kid. Go and try to have some fun, okay?”

Josephine gently nudges him towards the trio. Her laughs fill the air, the young boy listening as she lists off her favorite types of sweets and favorite things she has seen since moving here. He sighs, nodding, and turning around. He keeps his eyes on the ground, unable to look away from the dark gray gravel. When he looks up, though, he notices you waiting at the gate for him.

“You’re Caleb, right?” you quietly ask. He nods as he approaches you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You tell him your name and he instantly memorizes it, loving how sweet the sound of your name is against his ears.

A butterfly flutters overhead. You look up, your smile growing brighter at the sight. You reach a hand out and the insect immediately lands on your tiny hand. Its wings are a bright orange color. It’s reminiscent of a sunset, one that he desperately wishes to see sometime soon.

“Do you…like butterflies?” he asks, finally breaking his silence. The two of you begin to walk in the direction of your house, which sits right next door to his. You ecstatically nod, a quiet laugh leaving your lips.

“My dad likes to say that we’re all caterpillars ready to become butterflies,” your voice is like music to his ears, your words as sweet as you are. The orange butterfly leaps from your hand and takes flight, its orange wings quickly flapping under the afternoon sunlight. You turn to look at him, smiling as the two of you approach the open door of your home. “Everyone deserves a second chance to become something better, don’t you think?”

Caleb nods, wholeheartedly agreeing with you. His heart swells and feels so full with a newfound purpose blossoming inside his body. He’ll become a butterfly, one that is as pretty as the wings that you already wear. He will not let his past define who he is, even if he is just a young kid who has no idea how the world works.

No longer does he love the colors white and gray. Instead, he much prefers blue and orange, the color of your dress and the butterfly that brought you two together.

“Come on,” you take his hand, tugging him towards the door, “let’s play!”

As soon as the two of you step through the door, your appearance changes. The two of you are older now. Eleven years old, to be exact. He finds himself in your backyard, surrounded by thriving greenery of your parents’ garden. A swing set sits in the middle of the lawn and she swings back and forth with the help of another kid, one whose hair is as black as night and his eyes sharing similar shades of the green grass and yellow flowers.

He sits beside you on the red and white blanket, popping an apple slice inside your mouth while you watch Zayne push her on the swing. There’s a small smile on her face, one that he has always found comfort in whenever he needed it the most. He rests his chin on his hand, melting into his own touch at the sight of you. Your eyes move to him, a small blush creeping up onto your cheeks. You look away, pushing your hair behind your ear.

“What are you looking at?” you ask, unable to meet his gaze. He found it so cute, how you always avoided his eyes whenever you caught him staring.

In just a few years, you’ll be boldly challenging him instead of being so shy. He loves the fact that you were able to undergo a third rebirth, shedding your cocoon of shyness and coming into a confident persona that he loves even more.

“Nothing,” he chuckles, leaning in to make your blush deepen even more.

“You’re such a jerk,” you mumble under your breath, earning a hearty laugh from him.

He wishes he can respond to you, to come up with some quirky quip about how cute your blush is or that he wishes that you would sit with him like this for longer. But all good things must come to an end. It’s just a fact of life.

She comes running over and places herself between the two of you, a proud smile on her face while Zayne takes his place at your side. You greet him with a smile and he nods in return, the man never having really changed throughout the years, which makes Caleb feel a tinge of jealousy.

“Let’s play a game!” She proclaims with a fist in the air. Caleb’s eyes move between you and Zayne, his attention not on her as she begins to list off games that the four of you can play.

“Is there something you would like to play?” Zayne leans in to ask you. Caleb clears his throat, standing from the blanket. Everyone turns to look up at him but his purple eyes remain focused on yours.

“I propose that we play hide and seek,” Caleb smirks, knowing that it is the perfect opportunity to get you away from Zayne. “I can be the first one to find you guys! How does that sound?”

“Hide and seek?” Zayne stands from his spot, arms crossed over his chest while Caleb’s remain on his hips. “We aren’t—”

“It sounds like fun, Caleb,” you comment with a smile, standing and helping her up once you’re done. Zayne quickly shuts up and diverts his gaze, a hint of embarrassment flashing across his face. “Give us a minute to hide?” Caleb immediately nods, one that you return with a confident smile.

Not even a second later, the three of you bolt away and out of the backyard, knowing the set boundaries that your parents set so none of you go too far. Caleb turns around and closes his eyes, beginning to loudly count down from 60.

The closer and closer he gets to the last number, he can feel the summer air turn chilly. The once warm and inviting wind turns cold, slapping across his chapped skin like how one of Josephine’s colleagues would slap him whenever he cried about not wanting to crush metal objects with his mind or didn’t want to drink the bad tasting juice they made him drink before another experiment.

Caleb stops counting. He opens his eyes, seeing that he still remains in your childhood backyard. Everything is dead, though. Decomposed, overtaken by complete and utter decay. Rotten.

He looks down and spots his Colonel uniform on his body. He can’t move, feet cemented into the ground. No matter how hard he tries to fight against it, even trying to use his Evol to move but it doesn’t work. Tears fill his eyes as the familiar feeling of helplessness from his childhood seeps into his body. He cries out for help and looks around to see if someone — anyone — is there to help him.

A pair of hands cover his eyes from behind. He shudders under the touch. The pair of hands become wet from his tears. He closes his eyes, unable to bring himself to stare at the person who graces him with their touch.

He feels like a child all over again. Hopeless, unable to do a god damn thing to fight back against those who have hurt him so much. Caleb lets out a loud sob, his body trembling. The touch over his eyes turns warm, the feeling inviting and familiar. He keeps his eyes closed as a tingling sensation spreads across his face as their small fingers begin to wipe away his tears.

Caleb opens his eyes. Suddenly, he’s eight years old again. You stand in front of him, wearing the same navy blue dress you did when you first met him. You gently caress his face, wiping away his tears. A small, reassuring yet bittersweet smile spreads across your lips. A single tear rolls down your chubby cheek, eyes red from irritation.

“Find me,” you breathe the words out.

“What?” his voice cracks from under the pressure. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, trying to fight away the image of your strained eyes.

When he opens them, he’s seventeen years old. You wear the outfit on the day you told him to leave you alone, a command that he should never have obeyed.

It’s his downfall…being a good soldier.

“Find me,” your voice that was one strong begins to deteriorate. Caleb feels like he’s being suffocated as his body racks over from helpless sobs.

“I can’t!” he cries out, “I’ve done everything I can!” Caleb reaches up to rub his eyes.

You stand before him in the same dress you wore on the night of the Peace Summit’s Gala. The black dress is a sight for sore eyes, something that he wished so many times that you would wear again during the happy and peaceful hours of your newfound relationship. He reaches out for the silk fabric, wishing to feel the material. His white sleeve of his Colonel uniform catches him off guard, unable to bring himself to close the distance.

“Find me, Caleb!” you raise your voice as the rain picks up, drenching your hair and outfit.

From around the corner of the house, Farspace Fleet soldiers appear. Their dark uniforms remain ominous, faces covered with pitch black goggles and the black fabric of their uniform covering the lower half of their face. Their footsteps are loud, the Colonel able to feel each and every vibration from their steps as they grow near. Caleb reaches out for you, desperate to hold on, but your arms are taken by the soldiers.

“Find me, Caleb! I’m going to die here!” you scream over the thunderous wind. Lightning strikes from a distance, the thunder rattling the bones inside of his body. “I don’t want to die! Please!”

The soldiers begin to drag you away from him. You kick and push them way, trying to fight against their forceful grasps. You gasp for air, making Caleb feel even more breathless, the Professor’s hand around his throat slowly tightening, making it impossible to breathe.

“I’m coming!” Caleb cries out, trying to force his feet to move.

He gasps, feeling as the vines from the garden curl around his ankles. The thorns push through the smoothed leather, piercing into his skin. Caleb hisses and reaches down to fight the earth as it begins to swallow him whole. He gasps, looking up as your bloodcurdling screams echo inside his ears, the sounds haunting him as his body is forced beneath the earth. Dirt and mud cover his body. A strike of lighting hits his body, forcing him deeper into the ground.

Caleb’s body jolts awake. He screams out your name. He loses control of his Evol, the living room becoming destroyed within seconds. The picture frames that once hung on the wall have fallen, the glass shattering and scattering across the floor of his living room. The television screen cracks and the ottoman that sits beside his couch flies across the room, landing near the kitchen. Pillows disperse, a few of them shredding from the sheer force and power of his Evol.

His chest rapidly rises and falls, his heart pounding on the inside of his chest, his breathing ragged, unable to fully catch it. He looks around, desperate for something that reminds him of you, to trick himself into thinking that you’re here or that you’ll be back in his arms sometime soon.

He can still hear your screams. Your pleas and cries for help.

Tears run down his face. Caleb doesn’t wipe them away and looks to the side as he tries to get his breathing back under his control.

With once glance to the side, he notices that the sun is out. The storm has passed. The sky is a remarkable shade of blue, one that he would comment on to you to try and get a smile out of you so early in the morning. His heart aches. He stands from the couch, his bare feet avoiding the remnants of shattered glass that lay across the floor.

His Colonel uniform feels heavier than usual. The corners of the metal pins on his chest are unusually sharp when he drags his finger along the edge, the metal cutting into the pad of his thumb. He doesn’t mind the pain. If anything, he deserves it.

Caleb steps through the door, slamming it behind him, leaving behind a wake of destruction that bloomed from his grief over you.

Today, things are going to change. Today, Colonel Caleb Xia is going to find you.

The day has dragged on for longer than it needed to. Caleb remains behind his glass desk, shuffling through random forms and mission reports that he quickly stamps his signature onto. The stack slowly shortens, just like the leash that the Professor has him on.

Whenever he leaves his office, he can feel the eyes of lower ranking soldiers and Adjutants on him. He pays them no mind, simply making the mental note to keep an eye on them just in case they decide to follow him and test his patience.

He wants them to follow him. He wants them to give him a reason to put them in their place, to declare them to be treasonous, to give him a reason to crush them beneath the weight of his Evol. Caleb would do anything to unleash the anger that he feels towards the Professor and Ever. He wants to avenge you for the harm that they have undoubtedly caused you. He wants them to pay with their blood, to break their bones until they are begging for mercy, for him to go easy on them.

Is that something you would want too? Will you also wish for them to pay with their bodies for all of the sins that they have committed?

Caleb’s mind wanders to you whenever he’s alone. He tries to put himself in the mindset of Professor Lucius, wondering where in the world he would tuck you away, where he’d hide you as a punishment against him.

Ever’s main base would be too risky. Caleb has been there one too many times for the Professor’s comfort, having been one of his many soldiers in the army he is slowly building. Holding you hostage in the Farspace Fleet’s administrative building is too risky as well seeing how Caleb knows the place like the back of his hand. There are other Ever bases that you could be held at, places that Caleb has visited as a child. What Caleb neglected to look at, though, are the bases that the Fleet has. A few of which that are placed conveniently close to one of Ever’s laboratories.

Caleb faintly remembers something that Josephine once told him. It was on one of the many nights in her later years, a time in which she was beginning to slowly lose her mind due to constant migraines and trips to the hospital. She was lucid one night, sitting alone in her chair as she slowly knitted a new scary for him to take back to the DAA.

Josephine stared out the window, the metal knitting needles frozen in her hands. It was a particularly cold day in Linkon. Caleb came back to help Josephine out, to shovel the snow in the driveway while she stayed inside on her day off from the Association. Caleb came back inside, hands frozen and his heart chilled by not having seen you at home.

“Caleb,” she called out to him. She barely looked in his direction, her eyes forever trained on the snow that falls from the window. Caleb approached her side, sitting in the old chair that he used to fight with her over who gets to sit in it. She usually won.

“Yes, grandma?” he spoke through gritted teeth, hating the affectionate family name. He only said it for her sake.

“Do you remember that snowy day?” Josephine’s voice is quiet, tired. She finally turns to look at him. “The Professor let the two of you go out and play in the snow as a treat for completing the job.”

The job meaning Ever killing her and forcing him to lift retired fighter jets and rusted train cars. Caleb fractured both arms from the sheer force of his Evol, the weight of the objects shattering his body. He remembers how the Professor called him broken but that it’ll be okay, that he’ll give the poor boy a second chance for her sanity.

“Yes,” he follows her gaze outside the window. Each snowflake is different, that’s a fact you told him when you partnered up for a class project.

“That place…nobody can leave it once they’re inside. You should consider yourself to be lucky.”

An ugly silence falls between them. Josephine reaches out and places her hand on his knee. It doesn’t bring him comfort.

From just outside the window, you cross by with a red scary covering the lower half of your face. You scurry across the frozen sidewalk, laughing after you almost slipped and fell. That brought him the comfort he needed.

What was Josephine trying to tell him? Was there a hint within her words or was she just spewing out crazy talk like she usually did before the house blew up?

Caleb sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He should consider himself lucky to have escaped from that place? Did Josephine not realize that she was the one who brought them there? That she is the reason for their pain and suffering as innocent children caught in a mad man’s crossfire and fucked up plans for the world?

Caleb turns to his computer. The Farspace Fleet’s logo stares back at him, the dark blue hues reminding him of the place he works at, the circumstances that he lives within. The confines of the cage are closing in on him. All he needs is a key to get out and escape so he can break you free too.

He stands from the desk, glancing at the family picture of him, her, and Josephine. His heart twists inside his chest. He should have placed a picture of you on here instead.

Caleb grabs his work laptop, one that he rarely ever uses, and places it inside his bag. He quietly exits his office, feeling no eyes or stares on him, as he begins to formulate a plan. If there is any chance that the place Josephine was speaking about still exists, then he is going to find it. He will do whatever it takes, spend however much money it will require, just so he can bring you back into his arms.

“Where are you going?” a voice says from behind him in the parking garage. Caleb places his bag into the backseat and turns around, shrugging his Colonel’s jacket off of his body.

“Home,” Caleb’s response is short, cold. His Colonel persona quickly takes over his body, any warmth that was once stowed away and tucked beneath the confines of his skin disappeared. He stares at his Adjutant, Liam’s eyes cold and unresponsive yet there is a hint of desire behind them…a desire to help out his superior officer in his time of need.

“The General will be back today,” Liam’s voice remains monotone, dead. Caleb raises an eyebrow and rolls up his dress shirt’s sleeves. “He’ll want to see you.”

“More like me with him,” the angry comment leaves his lips before he can even think about it. Caleb sucks in a breath. Liam steps forward, a slow nod moving his head.

“Lunch made you sick,” Liam slowly speaks the words. Caleb straightens his posture, narrowing his eyes at the slightly shorter man. “You had to go home to recuperate. To be the best that you can possibly be for the Farspace Fleet.”

“The General will understand,” Caleb nods, confirming Liam’s cover story.

Caleb gets inside his car and closes the door behind him. Without looking at Liam, he drives away, speeding back to his destroyed apartment.

He sits himself down at the desk inside his bedroom. He pushes aside anything that will get in his way and opens up the laptop. He quickly logs in and moves to the Ever security database. It is something he has had access to seven months ago, but was kicked out. Since then, Caleb has been unable to get back inside the database to try and find the corporation’s files on you.

He stares at the log in page. The cursor blinks at him, slowly ticking away with every passing second. It beckons to him, your screams and cries filling his mind. Caleb swears he can hear you from down the hall but pays no attention to it, believing that it is just his mind playing stupid tricks on him. He wouldn’t even be surprised if it was a new aspect of the Toring chip inside his body, a way for the Professor to taunt him while he tirelessly searches for you.

Caleb types in his username and information. He is immediately kicked from the server, the login page staring at him once again. He sighs, leaning back in his chair, and cracks his knuckles. He loosens his tie, tossing it to the side. He glances away from the screen.

If only Josephine were alive to help him find the arctic base. Maybe then would this search finally come to an end, his pain and agony being able to rest with you back in his arms, your skin pressed against his as he protects you from the world, vowing to never let you go ever again.

Wait…Josephine.

Caleb turns back to the computer. Although it was a little under twenty years ago that Josephine left Ever with her and Caleb tucked away in the back of a car, she still may have access to the company’s mainframe. Holding onto that small sliver of hope that flashes across Caleb’s heart, he slowly types in Josephine’s username, guessing what her password could possibly while trying to remember if she had told him about it in the past.

The damn Toring chip just had to do a number on his memories, didn’t it?

He stares at the small asterisks of the password. It’s long, yes, but everything that he has learned since living with Josephine as her perfect grandson, the spitting image of what a role model should look like before his untimely death. He sucks in a slow and deliberate breath.

The air around him turns stale. Your scent no longer lingers in the air. The rays of the sun leak into the room through hastily closed curtains, the golden light of the decaying day spread across his bedroom floor.

Caleb knows he will only have a few minutes inside the database before they recognize Josephine’s user inside the mainframe. In and out, that’s what needs to be done.

His finger hovers over the keyboard, ready to press the enter button when he hesitates again. He draws his hand back, gnawing at his bottom lip, his teeth digging in harsh enough to pull blood from his body. Caleb looks to the side, his Evol opening up a drawer. Inside sits a USB drive. He quickly inserts it into the computer, opening it up so he can download any and all files that revolve around you before he is kicked out.

His hands tremble, his breathing unsteady. Is he ready for what he’s about to see? How badly has the Professor treated you? Or have you been sitting pretty this whole time ready to be saved at any given moment?

He slowly breathes in, mentally preparing himself for the absolute worst. How will he react to the news that your body is stuffed inside some bag ready to be incinerated at any given moment?

No! He can’t think like that. He can’t afford to.

The man grabs his phone, his wallpaper lighting up. It is a photo of the two of you at your friend’s wedding. You look gorgeous in the bridesmaid dress, while he smugly smiles at your side, your purse strung over his shoulder. He sighs, focusing on the smile you wear. Your hand lays on his chest, head resting against his shoulder.

Caleb wishes he could go back into that moment and steal you away, to lock you away in the tallest building he can find so nobody can ever hurt you ever again. Only he will have the key to the door that you are hidden behind. Only he can move in and out. The rest of the world can politely ask him to see you. He’ll consider it.

He slowly exhales. He clicks the enter key and waits, watching as the database processes the login information. His heart races. His palms are clammy. He rapidly taps his foot against the bedroom floor. The small circle stares at him, his heart hoping that for the love of god it lets him in, getting him one step closer to you.

The screen goes blank. Caleb’s heart stops. The computer screen refreshes and it displays Ever’s database but from Josephine’s security clearance, one of the highest an employee can have. He gasps, fingers attaching to the laptop, and he quickly begins to navigate his way through the security system.

Caleb disregards any files about Viper or any of the other people he works with through Ever. He shifts through newer files, isolating it from the past seven months to narrow his search. Many of the reports are filled with nonsense about new diets for the team that lives on the base while others talk about upcoming research on Evols that Caleb doesn’t pay attention to. That is, until he sees a familiar number.

V-03

Caleb’s body goes numb, his blood cold. He blinks at the numbers, moving closer and closer to the main file source involving the mysterious V-03. He knows his place as X-02, and she is A-01, so who is V-03?

The deeper and deeper he moves inside the project file, the heavier his shoulders become. They begin to slouch, his eyes unable to blink or move away from the screen. Caleb quickly clicks through the folder, downloading anything and everything that he can find. The USB drive keeps up and swallows the files, making untraceable copies that will not be led back to him. He looks at the clock that blinks on the glass panel by his bed.

Three minutes have passed by. He guesses that he has about two or three left before they realize that Josephine, a phantom they killed a year ago, is haunting their security system.

One folder in particular catches his attention. He doesn’t open it just yet, staring at the label.

Programming

He swallows the lump in his throat and downloads copies of it. His purple eyes move to another folder, quickly repeating the process as it dawns on him that he has finally found you. The file containing documents for V-03 were hidden away, only being accessible through back routes and hyperlinks imbedded into other documents. Professor Lucius is safe, Caleb knows this, and he knows just how precious you are to him. He’s going to keep you as hidden as possible yet keep you in plain sight so that it can torture Caleb with the idea that he could have found you sooner.

Two minutes quickly goes by and Caleb has downloaded everything involving V-03. It’s a long shot thinking that he has found you but with all of the clues and hidden messages with the way many of V-03’s comments have been blacked out only makes him believe that it is you, his heart aching at the thought that the Professor has made you endure the same process he did as a boy.

Caleb quickly logs out of the mainframe once he is done with little under a minute to spare. He removes the USB drive from the laptop and places it on his desk beside his personal computer. He takes the other laptop and uses his Evol to make it float the air. He inserts the USB drive into his computer while the Fleet’s laptop is slowly crushed into a small metal ball, the force of the surrounding gravity replicating the anger that simmers inside Caleb’s chest. The metal ball falls to the ground just as Caleb opens up the files about V-03, staring at the folder’s names.

Programming. Experiments. Evol. Purpose.

Caleb’s mouth goes dry. His mouse hovers over the names, sliding back and forth, unsure which one he should take a look inside first. He sighs and clicks on the folder labeled Purpose, hoping that this is the least worrying of them all.

Inside the folder sits a single document alongside a video. The video’s thumbnail is of Professor Lucius. Caleb sighs, his heart racing inside of his chest, as he clicks the video. It begins to play.

Professor Lucius enters the frame. He sits down and Caleb recognizes the office he is in. He leans closer to the screen as if it is going to transport him inside.

“The purpose of Project V is simple. The Farspace Fleet has given Ever the task of enhancing its soldiers and worker so that every single one of them will be able to fight with whatever threat it is that comes their way. The General has personally requested me to do this,” the Professor sighs, a slight smirk tugging the corner of his lips, “and he even has a participant in mind for the trial period.”

Caleb shudders. He pauses the video as a wave of nausea crashes throughout his body. Caleb suddenly becomes aware of his surroundings. The smell of decay that comes from the kitchen, the way the curtains flow back and forth from the ceiling fan, and the way his leg bounces up and down as anxiety courses throughout his body. He closes his eyes, unable to stare at Professor Lucius, and presses play.

“She’s a spitfire and yet she is one of the most obedient Fleet employees I have ever met. She is strong minded and gets the job done no matter what. I have only met her a handful of times but she has proven to be the perfect mound of clay for me to mold.”

Caleb stands from the desk and rushes away. To hear Professor Lucius talk about you so casually, talking about you as if you are a toy to be played with, makes his skin crawl.

“She will be our lucky V-03, a continuation of the…failed experiments from twenty years ago,” the Professor emphasizes the word ‘failed’ with such disgust and contempt that Caleb knows it was directed at him.

Caleb is the man the Professor hasn’t been able to tame. Caleb is the soldier that disobeys orders. Caleb is the weapon that got away, that fights back against the Toring chip every chance he gets. Caleb is the man who has evaded many of the Professor’s traps. Caleb is the person that Professor Lucius wishes to tame and he is using you as his leverage.

“Experiments will begin shortly. Additionally, she will be the first test subject to receive an all new Toring Chip, one that hands full bodily autonomy to Ever and the Fleet for controlling. It will be controlled through a small tablet. We’ll be able to control her breathing, consciousness, and emotional regulation while the chip is inside her body. Whoever holds her leash is in control.”

Caleb exits the video. His fingers move at a light speed pace, moving into the folder labeled Programming.

The inside of the folder is filled with hours of footage. You sit in the center of the screen. In some thumbnails, you look tired, in other ones tears run down your cheeks, frozen in time as you cry. The last video, though? Your face is completely still and is void of all emotion.

Caleb presses the first video, a sharp pain already striking through his heart.

“Day one of programming,” the Professor’s voice is heard from behind the camera. “V-03 is uncooperative and is unwilling to accept the Toring Chip implant. We will give her one last chance to accept before we turn to…more severe consequences.”

He can hear the amusement in Professor Lucius’ voice. You sit in the center of the frame, strapped down onto a chair. Your eyes dart around the room, hands trembling from beneath the straps. Your eyes well with tears. You begin to shake your head, arms tugging against the restraints that hold you down.

“Please…” you speak out, voice quiet, fear laced throughout your tone, “I-I don’t know what I did or why I’m here but please…don’t hurt me.”

Caleb knows what your plan is. He knows exactly what it is you’re thinking int his moment. He knows that you’re trying to appeal to Professor Lucius’ humanity. The irony here is that while you think the Professor holds humanity, Caleb knows he has none. If you think that he only experiments on adults — as if that makes it humane and acceptable in the first place — what would you think when you inevitably find out that Caleb was just a baby when he was passed off to Ever?

“Will you accept the Toring Chip? Yes or no?”

“What? Why would I?” you audibly laugh, leaning back as much as you can into the metal chair, the same chair that Caleb once at in when he was just four years old. “I’ve seen what it does to people! Why would I want to do something to myself like?”

You were always so opinionated, weren’t you?

“One more chance…because I’m in a good mood.”

“No!” your voice lowers, shaking. One of the scientists in the room nears you. You try your best to wiggle away from him, fighting against the restraints. “NO! Stop! Get off of me! You can’t make me do this!”

Your screams and yells are animalistic. Your appearance is covered by the scientist’s back. Caleb’s breath gets caught in his throat.

“Please stop! Ca—” the video’s audio cuts out. All Caleb can do is watch as your body thrashes around from under the scientist’s grip, a long syringe hangs in their hand, the metal catching the light. The video abruptly ends when you kick the scientist, causing him to topple into the camera. He exits the video and opens up a document, one that has been meticulously blacked out.

Your name is blacked out of the document, erasing any trace of your true identity. To Ever, you are V-03. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Caleb scrolls through the document. His eyes widen at the horror they put you through the first day. He connects the clues through the redactions, his stomach twisting and churning.

Subject will be known as V-03. Her psychological evaluation (REDACTED). V-03 refuses to answer questions about (REDACTED). Professor Lucius stepped in. He informed her of previous experiments. When (REDACTED) is mentioned, (REDACTED) and she (REDACTED). V-03 mostly speaks of the Colonel after this.

Caleb’s breath gets caught in his throat. The Colonel… Why are you trying to save him before you save yourself?

Subject was told that she will have Toring Chip V.3.9 implanted in the base of her neck. Subject refused and became aggressive. Once sedated, subject was told that if she does not cooperate, we will (REDACTED) and make sure he (REDACTED). Subject agrees.

He moves out of the document, brows furrows at the computer screen. Caleb glances to the side and catches a brief glance of a document that acts as an overview for the new Toring Chip.

Toring Chip V.3.9 will be implanted as the base of the subject’s neck. Toring Chip V.3.9 will not be (REDACTED). Unlike Toring Chip V.1.3, V.3.9 will not be taken out (REDACTED). Professor Lucius says that this makes the Toring Chip permanent instead of temporary.

An unsettling feeling ferments in the bottom of Caleb’s stomach. He closes his eyes, swallowing the bitter taste that forms across his tongue. It only worsens, though, leaving him trembling. He scrolls to the next video.

You sit in the same chair with dark eye bags under your eyes. Caleb blinks away his tears. He reaches for the screen, the tips of his fingers grazing against the image of your face.

Silent tears flow down your cheeks, eyes completely dissociated as the world moves around you. A man and woman in white lab coats move about the room like they live in it. They laugh and talk about their days, their plans for the night. The man’s wife made a pot roast. The woman plans on watching a movie. You stare into the nothingness of the room, allowing them to move your body and insert various needles into your arms in the same exact spot Caleb’s were located as a kid.

He looks down at his arm, the light and faint scar mocking him. He can’t help but wonder if you’ll have the same scar once he gets you out of there.

Professor Lucius enters the room. You don’t meet his gaze. He sits in his usual chair that is placed across from you. Caleb can see his reflection in the two way mirror that is right behind you. The two scientists shut up and move behind the camera. Caleb memorizes their faces as they pass the camera, making a note to make them pay for their sins as well.

“Good morning, V-03.”

“My name is—” the audio cuts out again.

Caleb is unable to look away, unable to bring himself to breathe as he reads your lips, the way you make for sure the Professor knows your name. Through the reflection, Professor Lucius leans forward. The side of his arm slips into frame. He can’t read the Professor’s lips, but he can continue to read yours.

Caleb? You said you wouldn’t hurt him. You promised!

You jolt forward in the restraints. The Professor’s body shakes, probably laughing at your plight. Tears well in your eyes.

Don’t hurt him…please. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve any of this!

Caleb leans forward, his nose almost touching the screen. Oh, how he wishes that he would have been there to wipe away your tears of agony, to rip you out of the chair and away from the people who are subjecting you to such torturous methods. He clears his throat, pushing away the urge to throw up, and moves to the next document.

It is a scanned copy of Professor Lucius’ notes. His handwriting is barely legible to anyone outside of Ever but Caleb knows the special characteristics of the way he writes, having deciphered many notes from meetings and hidden messages that hid orders behind veiled threats. Caleb scrolls through the file, unable to tears his gaze off of the screen.

V-03 remains uncooperative. The chip has been implanted into her neck but she shows signs of defiance. Threats towards (REDACTED) do not work anymore. Will calling her by her name work? Or do I need to beat her into submission?

V-03 is too much like X-02. If only she were more like A-01, then we would have made more progress.

Caleb closes his eyes. He knows how much you hate being compared to her. He can’t even imagine how you would have reacted if the Professor said these words to your face. Caleb can’t help but wonder if you fought back or accepted his words as the final truth to put you in your coffin.

Moving to the next page, there are pictures of you while you’re asleep. The back of your head has been shaved, just enough space for them to insert the Toring Chip. Caleb memorized the way the stitches were sewn into your skin, the way that the Ever doctors treated you with little care seeing how the stitches were jagged and messy.

Were they taking care of you? Have the stitches been properly taken care of or did you get an infection due to lack of care?

“Good morning, V-03.”

You look tired. You’ve lost all of the extra weight in your face, your cheeks sinking into your skull. You remain dissociated as the Professor sits beside you. He wears a big puffer jacket, his breath prominent in the air, while you’re stuck in a thin hospital gown with wires and tubes connected into your arms. Caleb watches as he takes your hand, brushing the hair out of your face. There are bruises on your arms with one particularly nasty bruise across your cheekbone.

“Are you ready to cooperate?”

You don’t respond. You slowly blink, staring into nothing, eyes glazed over as the Professor straps you down into the chair. He sighs, shaking his head at you. The audio cuts out. Caleb sucks in a breath and reads the Professor’s lips.

X-02 isn’t coming to save you, V-03. He’s a broken weapon. You…you will be our saving grace.

The audio comes back to the video just as the Professor sits back in his chair beside the camera.

“V-03, it was recommended to us by psychologists to undergo the Interlinked Program so we can have your full cooperation before we begin our experimentation,” the Professor sighs. You look away, tears rolling down your eyes.

Caleb’s heart aches. Exhaustion has taken over your body. At this point in the process, which Caleb estimates to be about a month or two in, Ever makes sure that the test subject is mentally hazy, to take advantage of their weaknesses and offer a way out, a saving grace that feels like an oasis in the middle of a never ending desert.

“V-03, if you do this for us, we will make sure that you get a blanket tonight. It’s so cold out, don’t you think? Wouldn’t a blanket be nice to sleep with before your big day?”

“Please don’t hurt me,” your voice trembles through the speakers of the computer. It is just loud enough for the camera’s microphone to pick up. It sends icy daggers through Caleb’s chest.

He should have worked harder to find you. He should have flown after the plane and done what the Professor has taught him to do best: destroy things.

“Look at the screen, V-03. We are going to show you a series of images. I’ll guide you through them. The camera is going to read your body temperature and language. We have full control over your reactions. We know everything. Whenever I say interlinked, you must say it as well. Understand?”

You weakly nod.

A screen illuminates from behind the camera. A man steps into frame, moving behind you with a tool that Caleb knows. It is to adjust the Toring Chip’s functions, to tweak it to fit the soldier they have put inside of. He presses it up against your neck and you shudder, more and more tears rolling down your cheeks as you tug against the restraints.

“Let’s begin,” Professor Lucius states. He clicks a button and your face is covered in various different lights. “I’m going to tell you your baseline. Memorize it. If you don’t, you know the consequences.”

You weakly nod again.

“Your baseline is: Weeping willows decay under the scorching sun with no water to flourish. Repeat it.”

You remain quiet. The Professor sighs and snaps his fingers. A soldier walks into frame with a baton in hand. He slams it into your stomach. You cry out in pain, head rolling back. The soldier grabs your hair and movies it so you look at the screen once again.

“Say it, V-03.”

“Weeping willow decay under the scorching sun with no water to flourish.”

“Good,” Professor Lucius scribbles something into his notebook. “Have you ever been in an institution? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

“A man and woman hold hands. Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.” You gulp. With a wave of the Professor’s hand, the soldier hits you again. You let out a cry, jolting around in your chair to try and get away.

“Whenever an animal is trapped, V-03, it will chew of its own leg to escape. Are you the same? Are you an animal? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked,” you breathe through word out, fear already running through your body.

Caleb closes the video, unable to watch anymore. He is in a trance, his clammy hands slipping along the keypad as he moves over to am untouched folder.

Experimentation.

Caleb sucks in a sharp breath, the chilled air of the room making his lungs tingle, feeling so dead yet so alive. It is the bulkiest folder with thousands of documents as well as hundreds of videos.

You lay on a table completely naked with tubes moving in and out of your body. The camera is set to the side, your appearance hidden behind doctors in lab coats and scrubs. You look to the side, the terror and pain flickering across your eyes as they begin to tear into you.

Caleb remembers this feeling. He remembers being awake for every experiment and modification they made on his body. They numbed him so he wouldn’t be able to move or feel agonizing pain. He could still feel the drag of the scalpel into his skin, the way his flesh was sliced into with such ease as Ever modified his arm.

You look as if you want to scream out, to cry for help. You can’t do any of it. Caleb wishes he were in your place instead. He would undergo hundreds of more experiments if it meant that you wouldn’t have been touched by the Professor’s plans.

He opens up a new video. Professor Lucius sits in the center of the video, sitting inside his office with a look of determination and sadistic satisfaction written on his face. He clears his throat as he settles into his seat, shrugging off his jacket before tossing it away.

“Our mission here at Ever is to push the human race to its fullest potential. We want to make life easier for mankind, wanting it to thrive and flourish with no obstacles in our way. The way I see it, despite all of the technological advances that we have seen in the world, we are still in a Stone Age. With the growing population of Evolvers, I can’t help but think to myself if there is a way to gift the same abilities to normal people. V-03’s DNA sequence is unique. She, like many other people, possess the DNA sequence needed to become and Evolver. It just…needs to wake up.”

To wake up? What is he talking about? Caleb thinks to himself. Chills run down his spine. The place where his Toring Chip sits tingles. His arms vibrate, his Evol having a mind of its own, his bones rattling underneath the flesh and muscles of his arm.

“What happens when we push he human body to brink of death? To stress it out so much that the body is forced to ignite the DNA needed to evolve in real time. V-03 will be the first of her kind if this hypothesis proves to be true.”

Images of you on the medical table flashes through his head. Caleb winces, closing his eyes as he tries to fight off the images of Professor Lucius digging into your chest, grabbing your beating heart into his hand, squeezing it to get you to squeal. Caleb can see the smile on the man’s face, the sadism of his actions giving him immeasurable pleasure as you wither beneath his touch.

The next video begins to play.

“V-03 will undergo beatings and lacerations as the first step of her Evolver process. The Toring Chip will send shocks throughout her body when she is about to pass out to keep her awake to prolong the process.”

The video ends and the next one begins.

You lay on the ground, your sobs curdling Caleb’s blood as soldiers beat you with their batons, kicking you with their metal toed boots. He watches as you tremble, crying out for them to stop — to have mercy on you — but they don’t let up. They continue their kicks before Professor Lucius calls them away like dogs. You shiver. You’re curled up into a ball, protecting your stomach as you cough up blood, face beaten beyond recognition.

“Your baseline, V-03,” the Professor calls out.

“Weeping willow decay under the scorching sun with no water to flourish,” you speak between coughs.

“An animal needs to be beaten into submission. Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

The video ends.

“V-03 shows signs of Evolving. Her Evol is special. Health regeneration. We’re going to push further to see just how far we can take it.”

Caleb opens up a file filled with countless photos. He thanks whatever higher power there is for sparing him from hearing your pained cries and begs for them to stop hurting you. Seeing them, though? He wishes he could go blind.

He shuffles through images of you with various wounds. A knife dragging along your arm. A torch being held against the flesh of your stomach, burning you. In another photo, you’re laying on the ground with multiple bloodied spots on your body, presumably where you’ve been shot multiple times.

Caleb can feel the phantom pains of the small metal bullets digging into his skin. His skin burns. His breathing grows heavy as he continues to see what they have done to you.

“V-03 cannot die. We can slice her neck and she will go unconscious, her heart still beats, but her brain activity shows that she is still alive and is…asleep. We cannot figure out where her consciousness goes if it is a dreamlike state or if she is truly just asleep. Her heart is her weak spot. If that stops beating, then she will die. V-03 also shows signs of being able to heal others with her touch. She has Evolved far beyond our expectations.”

Professor Lucius hesitates when he speaks. He rubs his eyes and turns back to the camera. A small smile graces his face. He’s finally reached his victory.

“We plan on showing the General this in a month. A showcase of our progress of the toy he has gifted to us. He deserves to see how we have molded his soldier into something…remarkable. With her DNA, we can figure out how to change the sequences of others. We will help make unstoppable soldiers for the Farspace Fleet and for the world.”

A phone rings from the other room.

Caleb slams the laptop shut. He shudders, body uncontrollably shaking. He pushes away from the desk, tears freely flowing from his eyes while his heart remains still. He exits his bedroom. His motions are calculated and careful. He enters an office that sits just at the end of the hall, a space where the two of you decided to have Fleet business happen whenever either of you brought work home.

Caleb sits in one of the chairs, grabbing the ringing phone, and brings it to his ear.

“Colonel Xia,” Liam’s voice is low from the other end of the call. “Professor Lucius has invited you to an Ever Group meeting as the General’s temporary Adjutant.”

please drop a like, reblog, & comment!! i love see what you all have to say <3

i <3 commenters

#caleb x reader #caleb x non!mc reader #caleb love and deepspace #lads caleb #lnds caleb #caleb angst #caleb x you #caleb lads #lads #love and deepspace caleb #xia yizhou #love and deepspace #love and deepspace fic #love and deepspace angst #lads ansgt #caleb lads angst #rcvcgers writings #rotten apples ❦︎

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weiwardromance · 2 months ago

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HELP A DISABLED QUEER DUDE GET OUT OF HIS LIVING SITUATION

hi! i'm plum- a lot of you probably know me as cosmo though! i've been planning to move out with some long-time friends for just over a year now, but the date has been repeatedly pushed back for a few family reasons, among other things.

my mother, who i am dependent upon for transportation until i move, has stated that next month she is going to be charging me for basic essentials as a "trial run" for existing in the "real world," conveniently one month before i was set to move out in june. i already pay a share of rent and utilities, but now she is going to start charging me for food and transportation- telling me that i'll need to uber to the bank to get cash in order to pay for the state-sponsored public transit system i qualify for through my psychiatric care. it's been hard for me to save for numerous reasons, and just as i've been able to finally get money in my account, our food insecurity and the new restrictions mom is putting on me are going to result in me being stuck here for even longer. she's been manipulative and asserted that i shouldn't move out for a while, constantly moving the goalposts and doing things to sabotage me, and while i have my own hangups about calling her an abusive person, this is just textbook financial abuse. i cannot live in this household anymore, and i'm sick of being manipulated and strongarmed into staying in a housing situation that isn't good for me.

once i'm living with my friends, i'll have a financial cushion and space to be able to get a job to help pay my share in addition to my social security benefits, but right now, i need help. i need to rapidly accumulate as much savings as i can to cover things like my phone bill, any changes i'll need to make to my ID, and a bit extra to help cover my share of groceries while i wrangle the SSA into getting my new address (and a new bank account) on file. i don't have a solid goal other than a vague "over one hundred dollars", so anything helps me here, no matter how small.

thank you for taking the time to read, and please reblog if you can!!

MOVED OUT AND HAPPY NOW!! DISABLING RBS, TYSM!

#financial aid #mutual aid

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nathanbatemanfucker · 2 months ago

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The Falcon & the Machine

summary: joaquin confronts you about your attempt to “protect” him.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!assassin!reader

contents: mentions of canon typical violence, angst, pining/longing, kissing, happyish ending

wc: 1,652

an: i just love the idea of joaquin and his lover being on the opposite side of things or having different morals. idk it makes their love that much better to me 🫶🏾🤭

danny ramirez characters masterlist

The car stops somewhere deep in the Virginia woods—far enough from the base to mean it’s not casual, close enough to mean someone wanted this private but not remote. It has your alarm bells ringing.

You narrow your eyes at Sam through the rearview mirror. “I thought you said this was a tactical meeting.”

“It is,” he says, his voice too casual and smooth. “Tactical for your emotional wellbeing.”

He’s out the car and your door opens before you can snap something back. You step out, instincts sharp even when you’re exhausted. The world around you is quiet, deceptively peaceful. The trees, the sound of wind stirring through the leaves, the birds distant but constant and everything feels still.

That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t know how to feel still anymore. Not after everything.

You see Joaquin as you keep walking, and all of your practiced cold, all your walls fall away like a sheet of glass hit from the inside.

He’s standing in a clearing, arms crossed, Falcon wings holstered tight to his back. You can’t see his eyes yet, but you know he’s looking at you. You can feel that same raw tension in his gaze, the same pull between you that neither of you can ignore.

You haven’t answered his calls in three weeks, or let him near you since the mission in Turkey went sideways. Since the extraction turned into a bloodbath, bodies hitting the floor from your hands. That’s when the questions started to follow you—yes as always— but him too.

Questions that could ruin everything Joaquin’s shed blood, sweat and tears for.

The second hardest part of all this isn’t having to kill the people that come after you, the people they send to ask questions or torture you. Its the way you saw the fear in Joaquin’s eyes when he realized how far into the dark you were willing to go to protect him, and everyone else. He saw the worst of you. And still…he never wanted to walk away, he never turned away.

The hardest part? Letting him.

Because your file isn’t redacted, you can’t hide in the shadows while living this full life. People know who you are and what you do. You’re a fixer—not in the clean, shiny way that heroes are. You don’t wear the white hat, you don’t dawn the stars and stripes.

You’re someone who does the dirty work when governments, organizations, or even the Avengers themselves need it done. You erase people and trade lives like currency and manipulate systems from the inside out. You’re good at it, but it’s not who you are. At least, not the person you want to be—not when you’ve been given someone like Joaquin by the grace of the universe to stand beside you.

But the world isn’t kind to ghosts, to those who lurk in the shadows. And Joaquin… he’s everything you’re not.

He’s visible. He’s everything that is right and pure and true in the world. People believe in him and they believe in his future. Not in yours, not in the mess that’s followed you around all your life.

“Seriously?” you mutter, glaring at Sam, but he’s already slipping away from you, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Talk to him or don’t. But, if I hear either of you whining and brooding one more time, I’m putting you both in a room with Bucky. You know he’s tryna therapize everybody now that he has a shrink.”

You roll your eyes, but his words sit with you long after Sam disappears back into the trees. Talk to him or don’t…did you truly have a choice? He’s right, neither of you have stopped talking about the other. You turn toward Joaquin, who hasn’t moved an inch.

His face is collected, but it’s not just the expression—it’s the way he stands. There’s an edge to him now, something rough, jagged in his posture that makes your heart tighten.

You don’t give him the chance to speak. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you explain, your voice shaking under the weight of the tension.

Sam must’ve told him about the way you’d broken down earlier in the week, how much of a toll trying to do right by him took on you.

He lets out a dry laugh, one that starts to give away that he’s hurting too. You hear in the way his voice cracks. “You mean seeing you be real? Not that— that machine you become. Not worrying about who you are and who I am, just feeling it?”

You flinch, but he doesn’t look at you with judgment. It’s just the truth in his words—raw and impossible to deny. You’ve always tried to protect him from that. From you.

“I meant what I said, Joaquin,” you say, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. “You have a future.

“We had a future.”

“Did we? You’re the Falcon– you’re Captain America’s right hand. People need you.”

His jaw tightens, and his eyes flash as they finally meet yours, the intensity there almost too much to bear. “And you don’t?”

“I’m one person. People believe in you. They trust in you.”

He already has a complicated relationship with the pressure of being a superhero. Could he keep something? Not his privacy or his image but you? Or would living his dream take everything from him?

“And they wouldn’t if they knew that I love you? That you love me too?” he asks, voice quieter but no less fierce.

You bite down on your lip, trying to steady yourself trembling under the depth of his words. Your own pour out of you almost frantically. “If they knew what I’ve done? If they knew what I still do? I torture and kill for a living, Joaquin. I’ve crossed lines you can’t even imagine. There’s so much that I can never tell you. If the wrong person finds out about me, about us, everything you’ve worked for could be gone in an instant. Your reputation, your team, your wings, maybe even Sam’s shield. I won’t do that to you.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. Your words hang in the air, unspoken truths that neither of you wants to face.

He doesn’t look angry and he doesn’t look scared either. But he looks tired—in the way people look when they’ve spent too long running from something that was always going to catch up with them.

“I don’t care,” he says finally. The words come out rough, a quiet certainty threading through his voice.

You blink, confused. “What?”

“I said I don’t care what they say,” Joaquín continues, stepping closer. His voice drops lower, each word carrying weight, but with something else behind it—something real. Something charged that makes butterflies swirl in your stomach. “I don’t care about politics, or optics, or keeping it clean for the cameras. I care about you, I love you. What matters more to me is you. Not the job or the title. Not the wings—you.”

Your chest feels tight, the weight of his words pushing you down, making your breath catch.You want to pull away, to let the distance between you both grow to protect him but you can’t. Not when he’s standing there—when he’s been so damn sure about you from the first time he laid eyes on you.

“I’m not good for you,” you whisper brokenly, the vulnerability you’ve been trying to shield yourself from finally breaking through.

“Maybe,” he says, eyes never leaving yours, his voice softer, like he’s holding onto every syllable. “But I want you.”

Before you can respond, he’s there. On you, surrounding you. His lips are on yours, pulling you into a kiss that’s fierce and desperate, raw with need. Your hands find his chest, and then his arms, gripping onto him as if you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. The world around you becomes nothing but noise and movement. The distant rustle of the leaves, the pounding of your heart. The overwhelming rush of warmth, heat, and everything that makes this moment feel like it’s been years in the making.

He presses you against the rough bark of the tree, his body flush against yours, his hands moving over your skin with a care and hunger that makes you ache. His lips leave yours only for a moment, just long enough for him to speak, his breath warm against your ear.

“I’m not letting go,” he murmurs.

You don’t know how to respond but you don’t have to because he’s kissing you; no consuming you. The fear in your chest starts to melt into something else—that deep, raw desire that you’ve been trying to bury under the fear of ruining the one pure thing in your life. But the way he’s holding you, the way his fingers press into your chin and throat as he holds you, grounds you—he’s not letting go.

Not of you. Not of any of this. He’ll be damned.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, your voice breathless from the kiss, from how warm his mouth feels as it skates against the skin of your throat.

“I’ll show you how,” Joaquin says, his voice steady, confident between kisses. “One step at a time. Just trust me. You trust me right?”

“You know I do.”

“Then trust that I know what I’m doing. Trust that I know I meant to choose you. Can you do that for me?”

You nod and close your eyes, letting the sound of his heartbeat settle against your own. You don’t think you’re ready for this, for everything that comes with it. But maybe, you can trust him to help you figure it out. Because with him, you’re not a ghost, not just a handler or a murderer or whatever the contract names you to be.

You’re just you. Just his.

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @seraphibunni, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl, @blackwomanchronicles

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x fem!reader #joaquin torres x f!reader #falcon x reader #marvel x reader #joaquin torres angst #joaquin torres fluff #joaquin torres fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #arson writes

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 2 months ago

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Who Is In Control? (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Black!F!Villain!Reader x Hunter!Gojo Satoru

Synopsis: Sung Jinwoo is the highest-ranking hunter and the most powerful human being humanity has ever seen. So is Gojo Satoru. Both cocky, both confident, and both eager for more power, they compete against each other for each gate that seems to get more dangerous the farther and higher they go. They figure your gate won’t be any different and that you will be the usual big baddie that they need to take care of. Another cog in the system. Until they manage to beat you and find out who you truly are behind your facade. Now the hunters are hellbent on keeping you to themselves. So, what’s another friendly competition? Only this time, the prize is you.

Chapter Warnings: MILD SPOILERS; Blood/Injury; Hypnosis; Manipulation; Mild Violence

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: Tried to get this out tonight because I really didn't want to wait till Sunday to drop it. Please enjoy my poorly-written action sequences lol -Jazz

CHAPTERS: PREFACE. ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE. SIX.

*************

TWO: WHY AM I HERE?

Kill All Humans.

It is the only thought plaguing your mind that is currently going on hyperdrive because of your newest “visitors”.

Intruders are more like it. You have always despised any stranger invading your gate, your kingdom, your domain just to snag a prize. That is often why you see these hunters–and you say that with disdain and disgust–enter your gate, time after time, over and over again. And over and over again, you show them that you are just not someone to be beaten so easily. You can’t even begin to count how many hunters you have watched die over the years, either at your hands or by the swords of your army.

You sit on your throne now, sitting patiently and filing your long, claw-like nails. There is only the sound of the fire blazing outside of your very tall, very ominous castle that overlooks your kingdom set ablaze with flames. Flames that you caused some time ago that have continued to grow and grow, engulfing everything in their path. The villagers who once lived in this kingdom have long since left now, leaving only you. The new ruler. The new Queen of this kingdom and Boss of this gate.

And it still isn’t enough. It is never enough. You can feel the need for more power, more blood, more everything simmering under your bosom right beneath the bodice of your gown. Your crown, silver and dripping in diamonds, sits on top of your head, only held up by your neck and the french braid that your servants carefully braided for you. They had better be careful. You created them and your army yourself from your own two hands after taking over this kingdom.

You remember when you first “came” to this world (“appeared” is more like it, though you can hardly remember either) when villagers still roamed, the skies were still blue, and hunters weren’t invading your land. But then you suddenly…snapped. You can’t quite describe it even now. All you remember is hearing “Kill All Humans” in your head and suddenly, you were standing among the destruction of the kingdom that once flourished with life.

Though there is a part of you that feels immense guilt for this, you have no idea where this part comes from. Is it you thinking this? Could it be something that plagues you at night where you have nightmares of strange creatures calling themselves “Gods” and men with blue eyes? Could it be…

Your frustrating thoughts take the back burner when one of your soldiers in clanky medieval armor comes walking in. He takes a bow, silent. Just as you created them to be. Only to listen and obey your every command. “What?” you snap. “Didn’t I tell you about–”

Your lecture is cut off when the soldier lifts his head and suddenly, you feel it: a vibration inside of you that feels as if your veins and cells are shaking. You stop filing your nails and sit up straight. “They are near, aren’t they?” you ask. Your soldier obediently nods. You smile, and once again, you are plagued by that one thought: “Kill All Humans”.

“Perfect,” you whisper and stand in your dress. You wave a hand to your soldier, snapping at him. “Then don’t just stand there. Get the others and cover me.” As your soldier walks off to do as he is told, you pucker your lips and exhale slowly, causing wisps of red smoke to escape your mouth.

Instantly, your dress melts away and is replaced with armor black as tar. A sword, bigger than your thigh and sharp to the touch, sits at your hip, ready to be unsheathed. You place your helmet on to hide your features as you usually do. You never fight hunters without it. You don’t want them looking at you.

With just one thought and your willpower, you teleport from your castle to the burning lands of your kingdom. Your army is already here, standing at attention and bowing at your arrival. In front of you is nothing but plumes of smoke with only the shadows of destroyed buildings and cobbled streets facing you…and also a herd of undead animals and a tall knight standing in front of them. They are shadowy figures, each one appearing like ghosts.

‘Da fuck?’ you think, utterly confused. These couldn’t possibly be the intruders, could they? They’re not even alive! But at the sight of the blue glow that illuminates them, you realize what they are. Shadows. “Necromance work,” you whisper. You look to the knight standing silently before you. “You’re controlled by one, aren’t you?”

The knight doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts his sword and charges at you at full speed. Dozens of your soldiers run to your aid, but they are distracted by the herd of bears, orcs, and a giant fucking ant herdling at them. The knight is so fast that you barely escape his sword, having to duck to avoid getting your head cut off. “Fuck!” you hiss.

You don’t even have time to recover because the sword is coming down towards you again. You thrust your sword up to block it, grunting at the force and power of the knight in front of you. He has taken on a light purple glow that emits from his black armor and you notice a scar at his right eye. You don’t see a face though, but you figured as a shadow that he wouldn’t have much.

With a grunt, you use all of your energy to thrust him away, sending him careening backwards. He quickly recovers and assumes a battle-ready position. You stand before him, laughing despite the sweat coating your face behind your helmet. “Y’know, you’d actually be kinda hot if you weren’t tryin’ to kill me. I like guys who don’t talk much.”

That seems to anger the knight because he charges at you again and suddenly begins swinging his sword this way and that, trying to get any open point on your body. You try desperately to keep up, using any and every ounce of speed and strength given to you. But God, does it hurt! Your arms ache in your armor and each clang of your swords colliding hurts your ears. This guy is fast and lustful for blood. Whoever is controlling him must be as well.

You have never faced anything like him before. Clearly because when he swipes his sword at your head a second time, you crumble to your knees, your sword clattering out of your hand. Before you can take a breath, the knight stands above you and raises his sword high, preparing to thrust it into your chest if not your brain.

“Igris, heel!” comes a loud, guttural demand. It is a demand that stops the knight dead in his tracks. It stops you, your army, and the shadows too. The battle ceases as each head turns to regard the owner of the voice.

Admittedly, if it wasn't his voice that stops you in your tracks, it would definitely be his looks. The man is the very definition of “tall, dark, and handsome”. Your eyes roam over his lanky yet muscular form despite his mundane clothes, his black undercut, his long legs, his to-die-for cheekbones and jawline, and…. Your eyes widen at the sight of his electric blue irises. The same ones you have seen in your dreams.

‘Danger,’ your mind screams. ‘This man is danger.’ Your body seems to wail it too with the way your heart races and your stomach dips. You telepathically signal for your minions for protection, but neither of them move. They are all glued to the spot, staring at the blue-eyed, dark-haired hunter whose camp whips around their ankles in the fiery air.

As the hunter comes walking over, his gait calm and collected, all of his shadows vanish into thin air. All except for Igris, the knight, who takes his sword away from you and digs it into the ground before kneeling. You don’t use it as a chance to ask. Who knows what this hunter could do to you? You just watch, shocked and confused, as the hunter stops at Igris’ side and lays a hand on his helmet. His aura is quite powerful…and seductive. He is doing nothing but standing there and yet, he makes your stomach flip-flop.

“Nicely done,” he praises his shadow in a deep, soothing, oh-so-delicious voice. “You got real far with this. I knew I could count on you.” You shiver as if his saccharine words of praise are directed at you. You have never been so captured by a voice before. When he finally puts those dazzling, intense eyes on you, it shocks you to your core. Your body seizes and your muscles tense. You feel as if he is looking deep into your soul, peering into your past, present, and future with one look.

God, what the hell is happening to you?

An almost sardonic smile appears on the hunter’s lips. “Hi, there,” he draws out. “I’m guessin’ you’re the Boss for this gate, right?” He cocks his head to the side, sizing you up. “You’re not much to look at it, and I mean that size wise. I usually get Bosses much bigger than–”

With a grunt, you grab your sword and swing it at him, only for Igris to block your attack with his own sword. The hunter peeks out from behind Igris’ shoulder, shock leaving his face. “Oh,” he says. “Guess you wanna start. Alright, I can get down with that.”

Igris tosses you aside, the force of it sending you careening yards away, but you manage to skid to a stop in the dirt, Akira sliding with your hand shooting out to bring you to a pause. The hunter wills Igris away and pulls out his own sword. A bigger one than Igris’ that is alight with blazing blue flames. “I’d prefer skippin’ to the good point anyway,” he chuckles.

He charges at you and you charge at him, the both of you running at full speed towards one another until you’re a foot away. Your swords clash instantly, the clanging of metal heard throughout the land like thunder clapping in the sky. Under the dark storm clouds hanging in the sky, you dance the Dance of Death with the hunter, moving when he moves, following every step he makes. And vice versa. “Not bad,” he comments, actually giving you a smile. “But I’m better.”

The man would be a lot more charming if he wasn’t trying to kill you. You will hand it to him: the man can fight. He doesn’t seem to stop, always sensing what you are about to do next. It’s like he has eyes everywhere! ‘Does he?’ you deliriously wonder. Just who is this person?

So caught up in your thoughts, you make a misstep and lower your sword just a bit. It allows the hunter to swing the sword your way, not to try to cut off your head but to make you retreat as if he is. With a gasp, you clatter onto your back in your armor, the wind knocked out of you. You stare through the slits in your helmet at the hunter. He stares down at you, smirking. “C’mooon, you gettin’ tired already? The fun’s just begun.”

Before you can even think of conjuring help, the hunter is suddenly pinning you to the ground with one hand grabbing your neck. You grunt as his long fingers grip your throat, making it hard to breathe. “Gotcha,” he whispers, and his blue eyes flash. “Any last words?”

You don’t speak. You can’t. Even if you could, you wouldn’t. He actually looks slightly disappointed. “You’re not gonna speak to me at all, eh?” He tuts, shaking his head as he takes his sword and presses the tip of it above your armor, right over your heart. “No matter. Your words won’t matter once you’re dead.” The look in his eyes is absolutely murderous, fully content with killing you and enjoying it.

Unfortunately for him, you need to live just a little longer. Quickly, you jut your head up to force the front of your helmet off of your lips. You begin to move your lips, pretending to speak low and weak. As you planned, the hunter stares at you, perplexed. “Huh?” he asks himself.

He leans down closer to hear you, getting closer…and closer…until you are able to press your lips to his in a forceful kiss. He moans in shock and immediately pulls away, wiping his mouth.

“What the hell?!” he angrily bellows. “Why did you…” His rageful expression suddenly vanishes and he blinks at you as if seeing you for the first time. Your attack worked. “What did you do?” he asks, bewildered.

You use that chance to kick him in the balls and make a break for it. You scramble to your feet and teleport as far as you can come from him, but you don’t get to stand in your freedom for too long. Before you can teleport back to the safety of your castle, you scream as you’re suddenly yanked into the air as if pulled up by strings like a puppet.

The world turns upside down and you realize that you’re hanging in the air headfirst! You try to move, but you can’t. Your arms are stuck at your sides and your legs are immoble as you hang in thinair. ‘I can’t move!’ you think in a panic. ‘Shit, this is bad!’

You begin to hyperventilate as the dark-haired hunter comes waltzing over after recovering from your ball shot…but he isn’t alone. Someone else appears in front of him, beating him to you.

A very tall, very hot someone with stark white hair, a blindfold, and a playful smile on his pink lips. “Head over heels for me already?” he tuts. “My, my…and you don’t even know my name yet!” His voice is not as deep as his fellow hunter’s, but it is just as seductive and seems to make you throb.

You can’t dwell on it for too long because both hunters have gotten closer to you, watching you hang suspended in the air with peaked interest.

“Cheater,” the dark-haired one growls. “You can’t steal my kill, Gojo. I had her first.”

Gojo, the white-haired hottie, turns to face his colleague. “And you failed. Hate the game, not the player, Jinwoo. And I’m not gonna kill her just yet–I’ve got some questions for her first.” He turns to you, inspecting you despite his blindfold. You don’t understand how he can even sense you with the blindfold on, but then again, you figure that he is just as powerful as Jinwoo. “I know you’ve got a face under there.” He cocks his head to the side, curious and seductive. “You wanna take off that helmet and face me?”

You keep quiet despite something in your subconscious telling you to do it. Telling you to give in to the strange, sexy hunter and his partner. But you say nothing. “C’mooon, I know you don’t wanna die,” Gojo drawls. “Boss or not, you’ve still got a life.” He then takes a hand and glides it across the metal of your helmet. “So you may wanna watch your behavior if you don’t wanna piss me off,” he whispers.

Again, you say nothing. Instead, you wait until he slowly peels the slot to your mouth upward to plant the same kiss you gave Jinwoo onto his lips. He yelps in shock, immediately pulling away. “Da fuck?!” he angrily shouts and Jinwoo covers his mouth to hide a laugh.

A strange, dangerous blue light suddenly emits from Gojo’s person and he waves his hand in a sharp cutting motion. You are slammed hard into a wall beside you and roughly turned upright to be pinned against the bricks. You feel pain explode behind your skull and on your right side, making you gasp behind your helmet. You see stars that drift in your vision, making it hard to focus on the two hunters in front of you.

Gojo tuts, shaking his head at you as if you’re an insolent child. “Do you not know stranger danger, girly? You can’t just go around kissing people you don’t…oh, fuck.” He pauses, laying a hand on his chest.

“What?” Jinwoo asks, confused. Gojo’s Adam’s Apple bobs as he roughly swallows, a warm blush coating his cheeks. “You don’t feel that shit? Like real hot and tingly?” Your eyes switch to Jinwoo, hoping to see that the same symptoms are taking effect. The dark-haired hunter’s intense eyes fall on you, narrowing. “She drugged us,” he growls.

Before you can utter a breath, he wraps a hand around your throat and slams you into the wall again, causing your scalp to slam hard against the jagged bricks. You feel something wet dripping down your neck and you realize that you’re bleeding. Jinwoo’s eyes are positively murderous, with no humanity left in them. You’re going to die if you don’t say something.

“S-Stop!” you cough, desperate and in anguish. “Please stop! I give up, okay?!” Jinwoo’s brows scrunch in confusion. “Oh, so you’re talkin’ now?” Gojo huffs. He goes to say more, but Jinwoo raises a hand to stop him. He loosens his grip on your throat, but still keeps his hand there. “Reveal yourself,” he demands you.

You don’t know if it is free will or if he hypnotized you to some degree, but you find yourself taking off your helmet with shaky hands. The hunters’ eyes widen at the sight of your face, not at all ghastly like many of the Bosses they have encountered before. “Damn,” they both murmur to themselves.

You do not focus on the way their eyes roam over your features or the fact their cheeks have grown pinker. You just want to live. “I-I give up,” you sob, dropping your helmet to the ground. “I completely give in to you both. This win is yours. Just please…don’t kill me.”

You feel tears prick at your eyes as the blood trickles down your neck under your armor. Your right side aches like someone just took a blow to it. You are in no shape to fight or attempt to escape. You can’t even begin to think about teleporting away. Your energy is completely gone.

Jinwoo raises an eyebrow at your begging. “And why shouldn’t we?” he asks. “You tried to kill us, didn’t you?”

“I was forced to!” you cry out, tears springing into your eyes now. “I can’t think of anything else, but to–” You suddenly grunt, your body tensing at the spark of pain in your side. You feel as if you have been stabbed. What is happening to you? The hunters stare in concern and suspicion, both trying to decide if you are being truthful. “P-Please help,” you plead. “I don’t wanna be like this.”

After a beat of silence, Jinwoo drops his hand from your throat. You slide down against the wall before you crumble to your knees, unable to find the strength to get up. “You want us to help you, then you help me,” he cooly replies. He and Gojo stand over you, looming like two storm clouds. “Answer me this: What is it that makes you wanna kill hunters? Why are you here?”

“And why did your gate go red so quickly?” Gojo adds. “What’s goin’ on here?”

“W-What?” you whimper, your mind scrambled. “I-I don’t know!” You flinch as you feel your head throb with the onslaught of an oncoming migraine.

Jinwoo suddenly kneels in front of you, his face inches from yours. “Wrong answer.” His eyes flash that same electric blue that has haunted you for nights now. “Why. Are. You. Here?” His voice echoes in your head, making your head throb even more.

‘Why am I here?’ you think. ‘Why am I here?’

You can’t remember. How exactly did you get here? Who were you before all of this? And why do you feel so drawn to these two men that you’ve never met before?

Suddenly, that mantra comes back. The only thing you remember from the past that you’re not even sure belongs to you: “Kill. All. Humans.”

You grunt again and press a hand to your right side. Your hand comes back stained with blood. You turn to Jinwoo to ask for help, but another voice unlike yours leaves your lips. “Subject has reached completion of speech,” an automated, robotic voice says out of your mouth.

Then, all you see is blackness when you pass out in the arms of Jinwoo.

***********

Taglist: @leviackerman2030 @emonaculate @lnette04

#black fanfic writer #smutty smut #my works #black coded reader #black writers #my fic shit #jjk smut #poly smut #solo leveling smut #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo smut #solo leveling x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru #sung jin woo #anime crossover #anime smut

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lostwords-found · 1 year ago

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OHHH, I just thought of something.

It's been bugging me that Norris, Chester, and Augustus started speaking around a year ago, and I've been wondering about the significance of that timing. At first I thought maybe it was some consequence of whatever RedCanary stumbled into at the Magnus Institute, because that was a bit over a year and a half ago--we know from the case numbering system that the episodes are taking place in the present day (episode 2 was taking place on Jan 18 2024; note for my fellow US folks that the dates are the UK standard with day first, not month). And from the dates on the forum posts, RedCanary's series of unfortunate events was in April 2022.

BUT based on their case numbers, which give the date the case's events happened even if that's not said in the episode, all the incidents Sam has looked at so far were from mid 2022. They're not perfectly grouped together; the dolls and Arthur and RedCanary were all April through May 2022, while Daria's therapy appointment was September--that last one's a bit of a jump, but it could have happened depending on how cases are being allotted among the various workers. But they're all close enough that it's a plausible assumption, I think, that FR3-D1 is generally finding these things roughly as they're posted and then adding them into people's queues for review. This would mean they're at a current backlog of around a year and a half. (Looking at you, Gwen...)

If that's the case, and if the OIAR's workers have been maintaining a roughly constant rate, then around a year ago they would probably have been reviewing a lot of cases that FR3-D1 found in early to mid-2021. Which means they'd have been opening files that have been sitting in their database untouched since that time.

MAG200 aired on March 25, 2021.

Whether Chester and Norris are a Ushanka'd JMart, or something resulting purely from Annabelle Caine's manipulation of their voices, or something else entirely... l don't know. But I am betting that they didn't start as part of the system, like Colin thinks they did. I think there was some direct consequence of MAG200's events which led to them being embedded in a post that FR3-D1 scraped up, and that they simply weren't activated and "let loose" until some unknowing office worker clicked on their file.

#apologies if someone else has said all this already! I haven't seen it in the tags but I could well have missed it.#the magnus protocol #the magnus protocol spoilers #tmagp #tmagp speculation #tmagp spoilers #tma spoilers #pondering magpods

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jeszrosse · 5 days ago

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🧬 “Deviation”

MANIPULATIVE!Albert Wesker x Reader | One-shot AU | Reader Unaware | Deep Psychological Control | Obsession-Slowburn

⚠️ Possessive behavior • Surveillance • Delusional Justification • Isolation tactics • No reader realization • Smut • Stalking

🧬 1. [Observation]

It begins, as most things do with Wesker, in silence.

Your first day on the team, you barely warranted a glance in the surveillance feed.

Another lab technician. Another replaceable assistant. Another insignificant moving part.

But then you lingered.

Stayed late. Came early.

Read the case files beyond your clearance level and didn’t flinch at the corpses.

You passed the first test.

Not that you knew there was one.

You thought it was coincidence that no one sat beside you in meetings.

That your access card opened doors you never requested.

That the intern who made a joke about your smile was transferred within the hour.

It wasn’t coincidence.

It was calibration.

He was isolating the variables.

And you, you became an anomaly worth noting.

He began compiling minor reports on your behavior, tucked into encrypted files labeled with meaningless acronyms—justifications for your existence in his system. He logged your arrival times, the hesitation in your speech, the way you handled scalpel trays with a certain… reverence. Clinical on the outside, but with the sharpness of someone who wanted to understand.

You weren’t like the others—those limp, nodding bureaucrats or ambition-hollowed researchers. You read between lines. You saw things. You didn’t ask for approval.

It should’ve been threatening.

But instead, it was fascinating.

---

🧬 2. [Containment]

Wesker doesn’t trust easily.

He trusts data.

Outcomes.

Silence.

But you unsettled the metrics.

You moved differently. You saw things. You questioned protocols he didn’t authorize you to read.

And he watched.

The way your fingers hovered over a scalpel you didn’t need to touch.

The way your reflection lingered in the biohazard glass.

The way your laugh, rare as it was, made low-ranking guards look up.

So he changed the guards.

Restricted hallway access.

Reassigned co-workers.

Built your world to orbit only him.

And still—still you never noticed.

Not when your new desk faced his office.

Not when your login synced with his terminal.

Not when your lunch orders began arriving, already paid.

You thought it was protocol. Efficiency. Company structure.

It wasn’t.

It was obsession.

Even your chair was adjusted—replaced with one designed to support your back based on posture data from security footage. Your lighting changed imperceptibly across weeks, tailored to prevent eye strain and keep you awake longer, sharper.

He scheduled briefings when you were most alert.

Redirected minor crises to ensure you'd report directly to him.

He watched the way you blinked when you were confused.

Memorized the twitch of your mouth when you were about to ask something risky.

Your coworkers left one by one. Transferred. Fired. Reassigned.

Those who got too familiar? Disciplined. Quietly.

You didn’t wonder why your inbox felt so clean.

Why no one interrupted your concentration anymore.

Why the company started feeling like a corridor, narrowing around you.

---

🧬 3. [Degradation]

It got worse.

Or—closer to the truth.

He found himself pausing the security feed just to watch the curve of your spine as you bent over notes.

He rewound your voice recordings, cataloguing the inflections in your “Good morning, sir.”

He deleted the word sir from your tongue in his mind.

He didn’t want your respect.

He wanted your obedience.

Your trust.

Your presence, constant and unrelenting.

You belonged in his space, like air belonged in lungs.

He just hadn't told you yet.

Sometimes, you left behind small things—sticky notes, paperclips, coffee cups. Harmless. Forgettable. But he kept them all.

The mug with a faint mark of your lip balm.

The pen you once clicked while reading virology samples.

A typed memo, crumpled, with a single word scratched out and replaced. "Necessary."

He examined them not with sentiment but calculation.

These were not keepsakes.

These were proofs of proximity.

You were slipping under his skin molecule by molecule, and he needed evidence of your presence in his domain.

But there were moments—dangerous ones—when calculation gave way to something darker.

Moments when you reached for a dropped stylus beneath the lab table and the hem of your coat pulled taut across your thighs.

Moments when you tilted your head to read something over a microscope and exposed the soft column of your neck.

Moments when the feed from the surveillance cameras caught just enough.

He knew every angle of your body from security footage.

The way your blouse sometimes gaped slightly when you leaned forward.

The way you stretched without thinking, unaware of how it framed you.

Unaware of the man watching—memorizing.

It was a weakness.

A flaw in his design.

But sometimes he would watch the footage at half-speed, eyes burning, jaw clenched, and tell himself it was for behavioral monitoring.

That the brief tightening in his chest wasn’t arousal, but concern.

And yet—when you bent to pick up a file one night, alone, late, and the back of your skirt lifted just slightly—

—his fingers had twitched.

Not from irritation.

From restraint.

From the raw, silent thought that he could take you. Right there.

Not in fantasy. Not in dream. But in brutal, clinical, breathtaking reality.

He could fuck you against the sterile counter and no one would stop him.

No one would even know.

But he didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

He was control. Discipline.

He filed the footage.

Encrypted it.

And watched it again the next night.

Hands behind his back.

Jaw locked.

Throat tight with the sick, hungry coil of desire he refused to name.

You didn’t know.

Didn’t see.

Didn’t feel the weight of a man who no longer saw you as a subordinate or asset—

—but as something already his, simply awaiting the correct time to be claimed.

---

🧬 4. [Denial]

You never caught it, but he looked away first.

Every time.

Every instance your gaze met his, however briefly.

You assumed it was deference. Coldness. That clinical thing he wore like a second skin.

But it wasn’t.

It was containment.

Because the sound of your voice—the precise cadence in which you said “Understood, Doctor Wesker”—lit up some dormant, vile thing in him.

Something untested.

Something monstrous.

He was not above temptation.

He was simply better at dissecting it.

The way you smiled at your coworkers, never at him?

He noticed.

The way you stood just a fraction closer when anxious, fingers tightening at your sides?

He filed it away.

He let others believe you were isolated by accident.

But he'd engineered that loneliness. Curated it.

Suffocated anything that threatened to pull your attention elsewhere.

You never got that offer for project co-lead.

Never received the anonymous gifts left at your desk by interns.

Because Albert intercepted them.

Silently. Strategically.

You didn’t know it was his hand pulling you toward him, only that every direction seemed to fold inward until he was the only constant.

The only man who saw you.

Who understood you.

He watched you trace your notes, watched your lips form silent syllables, and all the while he denied himself.

Denied the heat pooling in his abdomen.

Denied the cruel ache behind every “Goodnight, sir” you uttered.

Denied the nightly compulsion to run simulations of what you would sound like begging.

And when he couldn't sleep, he listened to your voice on the lab’s intercom archive.

Just to hear it.

To pretend.

To substitute control for contact.

And still—he told himself he had not crossed the line.

Not yet.

Because you were still untouched.

Still pure, in the way only someone unaware of their ownership could be.

---

🧬 5. [Possession]

He began to see it in everything.

The way others looked at you—a threat.

The way you spoke about your family—a liability.

The way you said “thank you” when he passed you reports—intolerable.

You didn’t thank him.

You didn’t understand him.

You couldn’t.

But that was fine.

Understanding would come later.

He started curating your tasks more delicately.

Steered you away from field ops, too dangerous.

Assigned you exclusively to him, citing “performance optimization.”

You didn’t protest.

You thought you were being promoted.

But in truth, you were being drawn in.

Woven tighter.

Placed carefully, perfectly, exactly where he wanted you.

In his office.

In his world.

In his reach.

Your name was embedded in his daily reports. Your security log-in pinged his terminal every time you swiped a door.

The other researchers stopped referencing your work without Wesker’s express permission. He had erased your reputation as independent—you were his now.

And no one questioned it.

Not when his gaze burned through the glass walls of the lab.

Not when he stood beside you in meetings like a shadow wearing a tailored suit.

Not when his hand briefly brushed yours while reviewing samples, and he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t need to pull away.

He had already claimed what he wanted.

---

Now, his fingerprints existed on more than your reports.

He’d rewritten your schedule to end near his. Aligned your meals. Synced your lab hours. Even your breaks were subtly shifted, your elevator stops timed perfectly with his descent.

You didn’t see it.

But he did.

Every day you returned to your workspace slightly adjusted—your chair moved back in, your pens restocked, your personal mug rotated exactly one degree counter-clockwise.

“We’re optimizing,” he’d say.

“For your convenience.”

He'd begun accompanying you to biometric checks. At first, a coincidence. The second time, an excuse. By the third, he was inputting your medical logs himself.

His voice was always calm. Always formal. Always patient.

But his gaze lingered.

His presence loomed.

And his hands—always gloved—brushed against the small of your back far too often for protocol.

---

And he watched.

From behind glass. From dark monitors. From still frames and slow replays. When your blouse sat a little too low. When your eyes wandered where they shouldn’t.

You were careless with your innocence.

But he would be careful for you.

He adjusted the brightness of the surveillance feed. Zoomed in. Studied the way you leaned too close to your keyboard.

Imagined your breath fogging the screen.

Imagined how easily that breath could hitch. Could falter. Could beg.

You have no idea, he thought.

But you will.

Not yet.

But soon.

Understanding would come later.

---

🧬 6. [Infection]

The final stage was the most dangerous.

You said his name once.

Not “sir.”

Not “Wesker.”

Just:

“Albert…?”

His gaze snaps up from the report.

You’re standing in the doorway of his office, the heel of one shoe slightly kicked back, as if you weren’t sure whether to enter. The folder in your hand trembles slightly—an involuntary twitch you don’t even notice. But he does.

He notices everything.

The breath that stutters in your throat after the name escapes.

The flicker of hesitation in your pupils when his expression doesn’t immediately soften.

The way you shift—defensive, unsure—before you correct yourself:

“I mean—sir. Sorry, I meant—sir.”

But it’s already too late.

The damage is done.

You spoke it aloud.

Not in passing.

Not as a slip of protocol.

Not with bitterness or irony.

But with concern.

Soft. Tentative. Almost gentle.

And that… that is what undoes him.

You don’t know he has a file buried six levels deep into a server no one else can access—labeled with your name, storing every image of you captured on internal footage.

You don’t know he’s wiped out four internal transfer requests that would have pulled you from his floor.

You don’t know he personally selects your meals for team events—ensuring your preferences are always met, even when no one else notices.

You don’t know he’s kept you here, orbiting him, perfectly placed, under the illusion of promotion.

And now you’ve said his name like it belongs to you.

Like he does.

“Sir,” you try again, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Apologies. I—I didn’t mean—”

He stands slowly, measured, the desk separating you like a fragile boundary he’s had to respect for far too long.

“No need to apologize,” he says coolly. “You simply… surprised me.”

But inside? His thoughts are nothing but static.

He replays the syllables.

Not just the sound, but the shape of your mouth when you said it.

He files it into memory. Deep. Permanent.

And he knows—sooner than even you do—that this is the beginning of the end for the illusion.

Because from this moment on, you’ve stopped being a project.

Stopped being a subject.

You’ve become a trigger.

A fixation.

An opening he hadn’t anticipated—but cannot ignore.

You said his name once.

You won’t realize until it’s far too late:

You’ll never say it the same way again.

Because you didn’t know what you’d done.

You didn’t hear it the way he did.

Like it was already yours to say.

Like he wasn’t a god.

Like he was a man.

A man who had already rewritten every security protocol to keep you near.

A man who eliminated colleagues who made you uncomfortable.

A man who—if you ever truly looked—might shatter the illusion of “normal” with one cold sentence:

“You’re not here by accident.”

“You’re here because I designed you to be.”

But you don’t know.

You smile politely.

You offer your reports.

You drink the coffee that arrives on your desk precisely how you like it.

You go home.

You live your life.

While he rewatches your day in full.

While he listens to your voicemails and deletes names from your inbox.

While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

While he reminds himself that love is irrelevant.

Control is what matters.

And he already has it.

---

He’d timed every entry and exit.

He knew how long you took in the restroom.

Which hallway you paused in to check your phone.

What time of day your voice grew tired.

He saw it as clearly as he saw cell degradation under a microscope.

That slow unraveling.

That quiet compliance.

You were adapting.

Your posture had shifted. Subtly. You walked faster when alone. Slower when near him. You dressed differently—more reserved, perhaps without realizing. You avoided eye contact with male superiors.

Wesker approved.

He didn’t speak of it.

Didn’t need to.

The conditioning was holding.

You had stopped asking questions.

Stopped challenging schedules.

Stopped requesting to work from other wings.

You had folded into the environment he designed—one where he was a constant hum beneath your daily routine. Where his name lingered at the back of your tongue. Where his voice set your pace and his silence set your nerves.

---

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he muttered to himself, watching the security footage replay. While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

There you were again. That exact moment. Your eyes soft, confused, lips parted: Albert…?

He paused the video.

Leaned back.

Let the sound echo in the sterile quiet of his office.

It was not an accident.

Not some sweet slip of tongue.

No.

It was the infection taking root.

Your body catching up to what your environment had long accepted.

Dependence.

Deference.

Attachment.

He could work with that.

Love was messy. Emotional.

But dependence—he could mold.

He could reinforce it, reward it, create just enough tension to keep you needing his approval.

To keep you needing him.

---

(A/N: should I make a part 2??? I mean- I already have it. I just wanna hear it from you dirty sluts;>)

#fanfiction #x reader #fanfic #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker #albert wesker smut #possesive love #stalker au #resident evil fanfiction #resident evil albert wesker #albert wesker x you #albert wesker x y/n #x you #x you smut #smut fanfiction #minors dni #minors do not interact

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berlioz-the-kitten · 4 months ago

Text

Needs

Dexter Morgan x Reader

Summary: In the dark corners of Miami, Dexter Morgan and Y/N Sinclair navigate a world of blood, secrets, and an unspoken understanding that binds them tighter than any normal relationship should.

TW: This fic contains discussions and scenes that may be triggering for some readers. Please read with caution.

Violence & Murder – Includes descriptions and implications of homicide, serial killing, and blood.

Sexual Content – Contains semi-explicit and implied sexual situations, including aggressive intimacy.

Non-consensual Themes (Implied/Discussed) – Mentions of potential non-consensual scenarios (though not acted upon).

Death & Grief – Discussions and scenes involving loss of family members, grief, and unresolved murders.

Police & Corruption – Criticism of law enforcement, themes of police negligence, and frustration with the justice system.

Psychological Manipulation – Includes references to dark urges, internal dialogues with a violent alter ego (Dark Passenger), and morally ambiguous actions.

Stalking & Surveillance – Implied scene of a character being watched without their knowledge. (Because Brian is a fucking freak.)

Crude Language – Frequent use of strong language and profanity.

Sibling Death – Mentions of past accidents and murder of a sibling, with trauma.

If you feel any of these topics may be distressing, please proceed with caution or avoid reading further.

Word Count: 14k

(I was gonna split this bitch into two parts because she was getting LONG but decided, fuck it.)

It was late fall, the kind of night where the Miami heat had finally begun to let up, replaced by something almost resembling a chill. The University of Miami’s library was quieter than usual, the usual hum of students thinning out as midterms wrapped up.

Dexter had come for a book—Forensic Microscopy, a dry but useful read he could use as an excuse for being here if anyone asked. The truth was, he liked the silence. The smell of old books and paper felt clean, precise, ordered. A contrast to the messiness of life outside.

He didn’t expect to notice her.

She was sitting at one of the long wooden tables near the back, surrounded by cookbooks instead of textbooks, her hair pulled into a loose bun with strands slipping free. She was flipping through a thick volume on classic French cuisine, tapping a pencil absentmindedly against the page. Unlike most students buried in notes or half-asleep in their chairs, she didn’t look stressed—just focused, reading with an intensity that made it seem like she was picking apart every detail, every ingredient, like it mattered.

Dexter found himself watching her longer than necessary. She had that quiet kind of presence, the kind that didn’t demand attention but held it anyway. When she turned the page, her gaze flicked up just enough to catch him staring. Instead of looking away or pretending not to notice, she raised a single eyebrow.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice low, unbothered. Not defensive, just curious.

Dexter blinked. Most people would have been embarrassed. He wasn’t. Just calculating.

"You’re studying French cooking," he said instead of answering her question.

She leaned back, crossing her arms, studying him in return. "I am a culinary student," she said. "And you are...?"

Dexter hesitated. She wasn’t asking in the way most people did, with the expectation of polite introductions. There was something else in her tone, something that made him feel like she was filing information away the same way he did when analyzing blood patterns.

"Biology major," he said finally. "With a focus on forensic science."

Her expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her eyes. A flicker of amusement, maybe.

"So, dead bodies instead of dead animals on a plate." She tapped her pencil on the book again, thinking. "You ever cook?"

Dexter shook his head. "No."

"Hmm." She closed the book in front of her. "Shame. There’s something satisfying about making something from nothing. Knowing exactly how each piece fits together, how heat and time change things at a chemical level. Cooking’s just science with better seasoning."

He could see the logic in that. The careful precision, the balance. The way something seemingly chaotic had rules beneath the surface.

"Y/N," she said after a moment, holding out a hand like she’d just decided it was worth the effort. "Y/N Sinclair."

Dexter shook it. "Dexter Morgan."

She nodded, as if the name confirmed something for her, then grabbed her books. "Well, Dexter Morgan, since you’re so interested in French cuisine, you can help me carry these back to my dorm."

It wasn’t a question. She didn’t wait for his response before stacking another book on the pile in front of him.

Dexter, for some reason, didn’t mind.

It was a Friday night, the kind where the humidity still clung to the air but wasn’t unbearable, and campus felt half-asleep. Most students had either gone out drinking or crashed early, but Y/N had convinced Dexter to come with her to a small diner just off-campus.

Well, convinced was a strong word. She had mentioned it offhandedly, fully expecting him to decline, and was only mildly surprised when he agreed.

Now, they sat in a red vinyl booth near the back, the hum of the old neon sign outside casting a faint blue glow against the window. A half-eaten plate of fries sat between them, and Y/N was absentmindedly spinning a sugar packet between her fingers while Dexter stirred his coffee without drinking it.

Across from them, Lisa and Theo—Y/N’s two whole friends—watched with barely concealed amusement. They weren’t the kind of people who pried, but the tension at the table was thick enough to cut with a dull butter knife.

“So,” Lisa finally said, her dark eyes flicking between Y/N and Dexter, “how long have you two been… whatever this is?” She gestured vaguely at them, one hand wrapped around her milkshake.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her expression perfectly blank. “Friends?”

Theo snorted. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

Dexter, to his credit, didn’t react much. He just tilted his head slightly, as if studying the accusation, before finally responding. “We met last year.”

Lisa rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay, but that doesn’t explain why you two look like you’ve been circling each other in some weird, slow-motion will-they-won’t-they for months.”

Y/N didn’t even pause before popping a fry into her mouth. “Maybe you just have an overactive imagination.”

Lisa wasn’t buying it. “Or maybe you’re just allergic to acknowledging obvious chemistry.” She turned to Dexter. “You have to see it, right? It’s like watching two stray cats who want to fight but also maybe want to cuddle.”

Dexter stirred his coffee again, this time for no reason. “I wouldn’t describe it that way.”

“No, of course not.” Theo smirked. “You’d probably use some clinical forensic analysis instead.”

Dexter’s lips twitched like he was considering it.

Y/N sighed, finally setting the sugar packet down. “Look, I get that this is fascinating for you, but I’m not in the mood for whatever romantic conspiracy theory you’re cooking up.”

Lisa exchanged a glance with Theo. “Okay, fine,” she said, lifting her hands in mock surrender. “We’ll drop it. But just so you know, everyone can see it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and reached for another fry. “Then everyone should mind their own business.”

Lisa just smirked. “Uh-huh.”

The conversation shifted after that, back to classes, campus drama, and Theo’s latest failed attempt at flirting with the barista at the campus coffee shop. But every so often, Lisa would glance between Y/N and Dexter, a knowing look in her eyes.

Dexter, for his part, was as unreadable as ever. But Y/N? She could feel it—the weight of her friends’ words lingering in the air, like a splinter she couldn’t quite ignore.

And when she looked at Dexter, just for a second too long, she knew they weren’t entirely wrong.

The Miami sun was relentless, even in late October, casting sharp golden light over the parking lot of a small sandwich shop just off campus. Y/N leaned against the hood of her truck, sipping an iced coffee while Debra paced in front of her, talking a mile a minute, hands flying in every direction.

"I'm just saying," Debra huffed, shoving her sunglasses up into her messy ponytail, "if I have to sit through another goddamn Criminal Psych lecture where Professor Reed sucks off the FBI, I might actually throw something at him. Like, we get it, dude, profiling is so impressive, ooooh." She waved her hands dramatically. "Maybe if they spent less time jerking off over patterns and actually did some real police work, they'd solve more cases."

Y/N smirked, sipping her drink. "I feel like you’re holding back, Deb. Tell me how you really feel."

Debra shot her a look but cracked a grin. "Shut up." She crossed her arms and leaned against the truck beside Y/N, stealing a sip of her coffee without asking.

Y/N didn’t bother stopping her. "You’re just mad because he called on you and you weren’t paying attention."

Debra groaned, tilting her head back against the windshield. "I was barely zoned out! And it’s not like the dude next to me knew the answer either! He was just better at bullshitting."

Y/N gave a slow nod. "And bullshitting is, what, half of law enforcement?"

Debra pointed at her. "See? You get it."

They stood there for a minute, the background noise of Miami buzzing around them—traffic, music blaring from passing cars, the faint chatter of people coming in and out of the sandwich shop. It was an easy silence, the kind you only had with people you didn’t need to fill space with.

"You coming to the Halloween party at Diego’s?" Debra asked after a moment, nudging Y/N’s shoulder with her own.

Y/N wrinkled her nose. "That mess? I think I’ll pass."

"Why?" Debra dragged out the word like it was a personal offense. "It’ll be fun. Booze, bad decisions, some dude dressed as a sexy vampire throwing up in the bushes. Classic college shit."

Y/N exhaled through her nose, half amused. "Yeah, I think I’ll stay home and not watch freshmen blackout on Jell-O shots, thanks."

Debra made an exaggerated tsk noise. "God, you’re such an old lady."

Y/N smirked. "I prefer refined."

"Right, sure, let’s go with that," Debra said, rolling her eyes. "So what, you’re just gonna sit at home and hang out with Dexter?"

Y/N didn’t flinch, but Debra was watching her, and Y/N knew she had that look—the one that was too sharp, too knowing.

"You guys are weirdly close, you know that?" Debra continued, tilting her head, studying her.

Y/N shrugged, playing it off. "We’re friends."

Debra hummed, unconvinced. "Yeah, well, if you ever get tired of whatever the hell that thing is, you let me know. I actually like socializing."

Y/N laughed under her breath. "Deb, I don’t think you’ve ever once gotten tired of hearing yourself talk."

Debra gasped in mock offense. "Excuse you—I have great conversational skills."

Y/N patted her shoulder. "Sure you do, champ."

Debra shoved her lightly, but she was grinning. "Asshole. Now get in the truck and drive me home before I change my mind and force you to come to this party."

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, tossing her coffee in the trash and climbing into the driver’s seat.

Debra flopped into the passenger seat, kicking her feet up on the dashboard like she owned the place. Y/N didn't bother telling her to put them down.

As they pulled onto the road, Debra turned the radio up, flipping through stations until she found one she liked. Y/N let her, focusing on the drive, the late afternoon light casting long shadows over the streets.

It was easy, their friendship. Even with the questions Debra didn’t realize she was asking.

It started as a small, quiet realization, the kind that crept in unnoticed until it was too late to ignore.

Dexter wasn’t in the habit of analyzing his relationships—not outside of how they served his purpose. He had Debra, the one exception, the person he knew he cared about, even if he didn’t fully understand why. Everyone else? They were pieces on a board, parts of the structure that allowed him to exist without drawing suspicion.

Y/N had never quite fit into that structure the way others did.

And tonight, as he sat across from her in her apartment, watching her work through some intricate dish for a client, he realized just how much space she had taken up in his life.

She hadn’t invited him over, not really. She never had to. Their dynamic didn’t require it. He had just shown up, and she had just let him in, offering a drink without asking why he was there. Now, she moved through her small kitchen with effortless precision, chopping, mixing, tasting. Her hair was pinned up messily, her sleeves pushed up, exposing the sharp lines of her wrists and forearms—stronger than they looked, the result of years in kitchens.

Dexter should have been bored. This wasn’t new, wasn’t useful, wasn’t anything that served him. But he wasn’t bored.

He was watching.

She wasn’t trying to entertain him, wasn’t filling the space with conversation the way most people would. And yet, it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was easier than most social interactions, easier than pretending to care about meaningless conversations.

He could sit here, and she could do this, and it was fine.

She reached for something on a high shelf, stretching just enough that the hem of her sweater lifted slightly, and before Dexter could even think about it, he stood and grabbed the jar for her.

Y/N turned, eyebrows raised slightly in amusement. “I didn’t even ask.”

“You were struggling,” he said simply, handing it to her.

She gave a short laugh, shaking her head as she took it. “I wasn’t struggling. I would have gotten it.”

“Eventually.”

She huffed, but there was no real annoyance in it. “Thanks, I guess.”

She went back to work, and Dexter sat back down, watching the way she focused, the way she seemed to enjoy the process—not in some sentimental way, but in a methodical one. She liked control. She liked knowing the outcome of her work.

It was a familiar trait.

Time passed, the quiet hum of the radio the only sound between them. Y/N finished what she was doing, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and turned to lean against the counter, crossing her arms as she looked at him.

“You’re staring.”

Dexter blinked. He hadn’t even realized. “Am I?”

She tilted her head, studying him the same way he had been studying her. It made something twist in his stomach—not unpleasant, just unfamiliar.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “You do that sometimes.”

Dexter could have denied it. He should have. But instead, he just looked at her, and for the first time, he had the uncomfortable thought that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as removed from all of this as he liked to believe.

Maybe she had managed to sneak into the parts of him that weren’t supposed to feel.

And maybe he didn’t mind.

It was late. Past midnight. The kind of late where most people were asleep, where the world was quieter, slower. Where shadows stretched longer than they should and things you didn’t want to notice became harder to ignore.

Dexter had been leaving his apartment when he saw her.

Y/N was parked outside, her old truck pulled into the nearest streetlight’s glow, hood streaked with something dark, front grille caked with debris. He hadn’t needed to ask why she was there—he already knew.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

He watched as she leaned over the hood, methodically plucking something from the metal mesh, her fingers quick and precise, like she was used to it. A bucket of water sat beside her, the rag in her hand already stained. She worked in silence, jaw tight, eyes focused—not frustrated, not shaken, just fixing it.

Like this was normal. Like it was just something that happened.

Dexter stayed in the shadows, observing. He wasn’t sure why.

He should have assumed this was exactly what it looked like. A deer, most people would say. Maybe a raccoon, a stray dog. But the damage was too intentional, too conveniently placed, and he knew Y/N well enough to know that she wasn’t careless.

He should have realized it sooner.

The moments, the little comments, the way she never asked questions she didn’t want answered. The way she had once idly mentioned how easy it was for people to get themselves killed if they weren’t paying attention. The way she never seemed rattled by things that should have disturbed her.

And now, here she was, wiping blood from her truck like it was just another Tuesday.

Finally, she sighed, shaking out the rag before tossing it into the bucket. “You gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna help?”

Dexter blinked. Ah.

So she had noticed him.

He stepped forward, hands in his pockets. "How long have you known I was there?"

She gave him a sidelong glance, then reached for the hose coiled against the curb. "Long enough." She turned the water on, rinsing the last of the grime off the metal, her movements slow, deliberate. "Not gonna ask what I hit?"

Dexter tilted his head. "Do you want me to?"

Y/N huffed a small laugh, not looking at him. "Not particularly."

Dexter watched her, the way she handled this—no panic, no guilt, no urgency. Just... efficiency.

She turned the hose off, leaning back against the truck, arms crossed, finally meeting his gaze.

And there it was.

That thing in her expression, the thing that wasn’t quite normal, the thing that shouldn’t be there but was.

Dexter had spent his life studying people, mimicking them, learning how to blend in. He knew when something was off.

And Y/N?

She wasn’t mimicking anything.

She was just like this.

The silence stretched between them, and he realized, for the first time, that maybe she understood him more than he had ever considered.

And maybe, just maybe—she had been waiting for him to figure that out.

Dexter had been tuning Debra out for the past five minutes, half-listening as she rambled on about the amazing guy she had met at a bar last week. Something about him being a cop-in-training, charming but not too charming, good with his hands—he really didn’t care. Not until she dropped something that caught his attention.

“So obviously, you’re coming.”

Dexter blinked, dragging his focus back to her. “What?”

Debra groaned. “Jesus, Dex, try to keep up. Double date. Me, Kyle, you, whoever the hell you bring.” She took a sip of her beer, then pointed at him. “And don’t even think about saying no. You owe me.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” she interrupted, leveling him with a look. “You always do. And before you start bitching about not knowing who to bring, you should just ask Y/N.”

Dexter frowned. “Y/N?”

Debra rolled her eyes, waving a hand in the air. “Yeah, Y/N. You know, your wife?”

Dexter stared at her. “She’s not my wife.”

Debra snorted. “Okay, sure, but you two are already basically married, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Dexter didn’t respond right away, processing that. “We’re not married.”

“Dex,” Debra said flatly, giving him the look. “You show up at her apartment unannounced, she lets you in like it’s the most normal thing in the world, you drive each other places without even asking, she’s the only person I’ve ever seen you sit in comfortable silence with—” She gestured wildly. “It’s a marriage, dude. You just forgot to do the paperwork.”

Dexter tilted his head. “By that logic, you and I are also married.”

Debra gagged dramatically. “Oh my God, never say that again.”

Dexter smirked slightly. “Then maybe your definition is flawed.”

Debra scoffed, shaking her head. “Nope. I stand by it. You and Y/N are some kind of weird-ass, low-maintenance, no-effort couple.” She leaned forward, pointing at him again. “And you are bringing her, because if I have to sit through dinner with Kyle and his roommate alone, I’m going to gouge my own eyes out with a butter knife.”

Dexter considered arguing, but he knew Debra well enough to know she wasn’t letting this go.

He sighed. “Fine.”

Debra grinned, satisfied. “Good. Pick me up at seven.”

Dexter took a sip of his drink, already mentally preparing for the inevitable conversation with Y/N.

Somehow, he had the feeling she was going to find this entire thing hilarious.

Y/N had been expecting something the moment Dexter walked into her apartment.

Not because he looked particularly different—Dexter never looked different—but because he was standing just inside the doorway, hands in his pockets, hovering.

That was new.

She finished tying her hair up, eyeing him from the kitchen. “Alright, spit it out.”

Dexter blinked. “What?”

“You’ve got that face,” she said, walking past him to grab a soda from the fridge.

He frowned slightly. “I don’t have a face.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s the problem.” She cracked the can open, leaning against the counter. “Now, what is it?”

Dexter was quiet for a beat, then finally said, “Debra wants me to go on a double date with her.”

Y/N took a sip. “And?”

“And she thinks I should bring you.”

Y/N stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing.

Dexter just stood there, watching as she set her drink down and covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.

“Oh my God.” She exhaled, looking at him with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “She really thinks we’re that bad, huh?”

Dexter shrugged. “Apparently, we’re ‘basically married.’”

Y/N wheezed. “Jesus, Deb.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Okay, okay, so let me get this straight—you have to go, and she’s making you bring me so she doesn’t have to suffer alone?”

“More or less.”

Y/N shook her head, still grinning. “And you agreed?”

Dexter hesitated. “It seemed like the path of least resistance.”

Y/N smirked. “Ah, so you’re afraid of her.”

Dexter didn’t respond, which was answer enough.

Y/N picked up her drink again, taking a thoughtful sip. “Alright, fine. I’ll go.”

Dexter nodded, as if he had already expected that.

She tilted her head, giving him a sly look. “I’m gonna make this as unbearable as possible, you know that, right?”

Dexter finally moved, walking past her toward the fridge to grab his own drink. “I assumed as much.”

Y/N grinned, already scheming. “Good. At least one of us should have fun.”

The restaurant was one of those dimly lit, mid-tier places that tried too hard to look upscale but still had sticky menus and a faint smell of fryer oil clinging to the air. It wasn’t bad, just pretentious in the way Miami restaurants tended to be.

Dexter had already counted three exits, noted the security camera angles, and cataloged at least two potential weak spots in the building’s structure before the appetizers had even arrived.

Across the table, Debra was clearly regretting her life choices.

Kyle, her date, was fine—blond, broad-shouldered, the kind of guy who probably called his dad sir and did push-ups for fun. He was talking, saying something about police training, and Debra was nodding along, barely suppressing an eye-roll.

The real problem was Kyle’s roommate, Brandon—who, unfortunately, was Y/N’s assigned date for the evening.

Brandon had energy.

The wrong kind of energy.

“So, Y/N, right?” Brandon leaned in, flashing a grin that probably worked on drunk sorority girls but was currently being met with a blank, vaguely unimpressed stare. “Debra said you’re a chef. That’s, like, so hot. A woman who can cook? Total wife material.”

Y/N blinked. “That’s the most 1950s thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Brandon laughed, like she was joking.

Dexter knew she wasn’t.

“Yeah, yeah, no, I mean, I just think it’s cool,” Brandon continued, undeterred. “I make a mean grilled cheese, but that’s about it.”

Y/N took a slow sip of her wine. “Wow. Incredible.”

Brandon either didn’t catch the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “So what’s your specialty?”

Y/N leaned forward slightly, resting her chin in her hand. “Killing men who think grilled cheese counts as cooking.”

Debra choked on her drink.

Dexter allowed himself the faintest twitch of amusement.

Brandon hesitated. “Uh… ha, ha?”

Y/N smiled sweetly.

Debra, regaining control, slapped her palm on the table. “Okay, this was a mistake.” She pointed at Dexter. “You suck at double dates, by the way.”

Dexter raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t my idea.”

Debra groaned, turning to Kyle. “You’re the only normal one here. Congratulations.”

Kyle, who had been quietly sipping his beer and watching the disaster unfold, lifted his glass. “Thanks, I guess?”

Brandon, still valiantly trying to salvage the situation, turned back to Y/N. “So, like, what do you do when you’re not working?”

Y/N tilted her head, considering. “Mostly run people over with my truck.”

Brandon laughed again. “Man, you’re funny.”

Dexter noticed the way Y/N’s lip just twitched, the way her fingers tapped idly against the stem of her wine glass. He had seen her do this before, when she was thinking, calculating.

It was an odd thing, seeing himself in someone else.

Brandon, blissfully unaware, leaned in again. “You ever gonna let me take you out for real?”

Y/N stared at him for a long moment, then turned to Dexter, deadpan. “Husband, tell him no.”

Dexter, without missing a beat, looked at Brandon. “No.”

Brandon blinked. “Wait—”

Debra snorted. “Oh, my God.”

Y/N clinked her glass against Dexter’s. “Good teamwork.”

Dexter hummed. “We are practically married.”

Debra groaned into her hands. “I hate both of you.”

Kyle took another sip of his beer. “This is way more fun than I expected.”

Brandon, thoroughly confused, leaned back in his seat, finally—finally—accepting defeat.

Y/N, victorious, took another sip of wine.

Dexter, for the first time that night, actually enjoyed himself.

Y/N was elbow-deep in flour when Dexter knocked on her apartment door.

It was open, like always, so he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. The smell of something buttery and warm filled the air, a half-finished pie crust sitting on the counter.

Y/N glanced up, brushing flour off her hands. “You look like you’re about to say something weird.”

Dexter tilted his head. “How do you know?”

“Because I know you,” she said, grabbing a dish towel to wipe her hands. “And also because you’re standing there like you just made a decision and haven’t worked out how to phrase it yet.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Dexter had spent a long time trying to figure out why this was different. Why she was different.

The answer was surprisingly simple:

It didn’t feel different.

There was no pressure, no expectation. No need to analyze how much effort it took to maintain. It just was.

Everyone already assumed they were together.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending otherwise.

So instead of overthinking it, he just said, “Do you want to go out?”

Y/N blinked. “Go out?”

“On a date.”

She stared at him for a second longer, then huffed a small laugh, shaking her head. “Huh.”

Dexter waited. “Is that a yes?”

Y/N leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Took you long enough.”

Dexter frowned slightly. “So you were expecting this?”

“Not expecting, just... not surprised.” She grabbed a fork and started absentmindedly poking holes into the pie crust. “Debra’s been saying we’re basically married for months, Theo and Lisa definitely have a bet going on when we’d cave, and half the people we know already assume we’re together anyway.”

Dexter considered that. “So this is just a formality?”

Y/N smirked. “Pretty much.”

Dexter nodded. “Alright, then.”

Y/N tossed the fork into the sink. “I assume you’ve got an actual plan?”

“I was going to take you to dinner,” Dexter said. “But considering you hate restaurants, that feels counterproductive.”

Y/N’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You actually thought about it?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” She studied him, then wiped her hands off again, finally moving toward the door. “Alright, let’s go.”

Dexter blinked. “Now?”

Y/N shrugged. “Why not?”

“You’re covered in flour.”

She smirked, brushing a streak of it from her sleeve. “And you asked me out five minutes ago without warning, so I guess we’re both winging it.”

Dexter considered that. Then nodded.

Fair enough.

As they stepped outside, Y/N glanced sideways at him, her smirk shifting into something amused.

“So,” she said. “You gonna tell Deb, or should I?”

Dexter sighed. “Let’s just get this over with first.”

Y/N grinned. “That’s the spirit, husband.”

Dexter had expected their first date to feel different.

He had expected some kind of shift, a noticeable change in dynamic, maybe even a flicker of unease. Because dating—real dating—was something he didn’t do. It was something that required emotions he wasn’t sure he had, something that came with expectations he didn’t entirely understand.

But as he sat across from Y/N in a small hole-in-the-wall diner, watching her pick through her fries while casually arguing with the waitress about why their ‘famous’ key lime pie definitely wasn’t as good as they claimed, he realized—

It wasn’t different at all.

Y/N was the same. She hadn’t changed, hadn’t suddenly become someone who expected flowers or dramatic declarations or any of the other things that usually came with relationships.

She was still stealing food off his plate like it was her right, still kicking his shin under the table when he rolled his eyes at her, still perfectly comfortable in a way that most people never were with him.

The only difference now was that the rest of the world knew.

"So," Y/N said, popping a fry into her mouth, "should I be worried that you picked a diner across from a police station for our first date?"

Dexter glanced out the window at the station across the street, then back at her. "I didn’t notice."

Y/N snorted. "Bullshit. You always notice."

Dexter took a sip of his drink. She wasn’t wrong.

Y/N smirked like she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Right. Just making sure I didn’t accidentally sign up to be your alibi or something.”

Dexter tilted his head slightly. “Would you?”

Y/N leaned back in her seat, studying him. “I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

She took another fry, chewing thoughtfully. “How good your reasoning is.”

Dexter watched her, the amusement in her eyes, the way she was always a step ahead, always considering things most people never would.

Most people asked questions they wanted answers to.

Y/N asked questions just to see what he’d say.

And, strangely, he liked that.

The waitress came back, dropping the check on the table with a suspicious glance at Y/N, who just grinned.

Dexter pulled out his wallet, but before he could reach for the bill, Y/N swiped it.

"Absolutely not," she said.

Dexter raised an eyebrow. "You’re paying?"

"Damn right I am." She tucked the check into her pocket, finishing off her drink. "You asked me out five minutes before I finished baking a pie. You didn’t even let me change my shirt."

"You said yes."

"Yeah, but now I’m setting a precedent. If you want a second date, you’re gonna have to actually plan something."

Dexter considered that. "Noted."

Y/N smirked, grabbing her jacket. "Alright, let’s go. I want ice cream."

Dexter stood, falling into step beside her as they walked out of the diner.

It should have felt different.

It didn’t.

And for once—he was okay with that.

It was supposed to be a normal afternoon.

Debra had swung by Y/N’s apartment unannounced, which wasn’t unusual. She did that all the time, mostly to complain about work, steal snacks, and pretend she wasn’t just avoiding her own place.

What was unusual was the fact that when she stepped inside, Dexter was already there.

That wasn’t the weird part.

The weird part was that Y/N was stretched out across his lap on the couch, head resting against his shoulder, legs draped over the armrest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Dexter?

Dexter, the weirdest, least touchy person she had ever met, was just letting it happen.

Not awkwardly. Not like he was tolerating it. Just… existing with it.

Debra froze in the doorway, eyes wide.

Y/N lifted her head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Uh. You good?"

Debra pointed at them. "What the fuck is this?"

Y/N blinked. "A couch?"

"You know what I mean!" Debra shot a look at Dexter, who, of course, looked completely unbothered. "Are you guys actually dating now?"

Dexter tilted his head slightly, like he was only now realizing this was something that required saying out loud. "Yes."

Debra stared. "Since when?"

Y/N shrugged, shifting so she was sitting up but still pressed against Dexter’s side. "A while now."

"And you didn’t tell me?"

Y/N smirked. "Deb, you’ve been calling us married for, like, a year. We figured you already knew."

"I was joking!"

Dexter raised an eyebrow. "Were you?"

Debra sputtered. "Okay, yeah, maybe I suspected—but still! I was supposed to get an official announcement or something!"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "What, you want a fucking press release?"

Debra crossed her arms. "It would’ve been nice."

Y/N leaned into Dexter, grinning. "You hearing this? She wanted us to romantically tell her we’re dating."

Dexter, as dry as ever, said, "Should we have sent flowers?"

Debra groaned. "Oh, my God, you two are unbearable."

Y/N patted her knee. "Welcome to the club, babe."

Debra just shook her head, dropping onto the chair across from them. "Whatever. You still should have told me."

Y/N smirked. "You should have guessed faster."

Dexter, watching Debra’s exasperation with something just barely resembling amusement, leaned back into the couch.

He had a feeling this conversation would be happening a lot.

Dexter had never put much thought into physical affection. It wasn’t something he craved, wasn’t something that fit with the carefully constructed version of himself he had built over the years.

And yet, somehow, Y/N had managed to ignore all of that.

She had always been casual about touch—leaning against him during late-night study sessions, throwing her legs over his lap when they were on the couch, ruffling his hair just to be annoying. It had been easy to dismiss when they were just friends.

But now?

Now, she had leaned into it, and he had started to realize just how much she had held back before.

The first time she curled up against him on the couch after they had officially started dating, it should have felt strange. He had braced himself for it, expecting discomfort, irritation, something.

But nothing came.

She had draped herself across him with all the ease of someone who had never questioned whether or not she was allowed to, like it was just a given that she could. Her head rested against his shoulder, fingers idly tracing patterns on the inside of his wrist while she flipped through a magazine with her other hand.

He had stayed still at first, waiting for something inside him to protest.

It didn’t.

And the more it happened, the more he realized—he didn’t mind.

Y/N wasn’t clingy about it, wasn’t performative. She never did it in public, never put him in situations where he felt like he was supposed to react a certain way.

She just was.

She would curl up in his lap when she was tired, rest her chin on his shoulder while he read through case files, lazily drag her fingers through his hair when they sat together in silence.

She never asked, never hesitated.

And Dexter let her.

Because, really, it wasn’t that different from before.

It was just Y/N, in the way she had always been—comfortable, unbothered, completely unconcerned with the idea that he was supposed to be different, supposed to be wrong about these things.

So he didn’t overthink it.

Didn’t push her away.

Didn’t tell her to stop.

Because, at the end of the day—

He didn’t want her to.

Dexter hadn’t meant to overhear.

He had come over like he always did, using the key Y/N had given him months ago, expecting to find her in the kitchen or sprawled across the couch like usual. Instead, he found her standing by the window, phone pressed to her ear, her back to him.

She didn’t hear him come in.

“I know, Mom,” Y/N said, voice quieter than usual. “I know.”

Dexter hesitated, lingering in the doorway. He could have left, could have waited outside or made some noise to announce himself—but something in her posture kept him rooted in place.

She was tense. Not in the way she got when she was irritated or faking patience, but in a way he had only seen a few times before.

A way that made him stay.

“I just—” Y/N exhaled sharply, one hand coming up to press against her forehead. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” A pause. “Yeah. I miss him too.”

Dexter didn’t need to ask who she was talking about.

Her brother.

It had been a year since he was murdered.

Y/N never talked about it, not really. She had mentioned it once, briefly, in the same flat, matter-of-fact tone she used when explaining why she hated a particular restaurant or why she didn’t drive through certain parts of Miami after dark.

But now, listening to her talk, it was different.

“Yeah,” Y/N murmured. “I know the police haven’t found anything.” A sharp edge crept into her voice. “Not like they’re trying.”

Dexter could hear her mother’s voice, muffled through the receiver.

Y/N swallowed. “No, I haven’t—” She stopped, pressing her lips together, eyes fixed on the window.

Dexter watched the way her fingers tightened around the phone, the way she exhaled through her nose like she was forcing herself to stay composed.

“Mom,” she said, softer now. “You have to let it go.”

A long pause. Y/N’s free hand curled at her side.

“I—” She hesitated, voice catching just slightly before she cleared her throat. “I can’t fix it. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Dexter tilted his head.

It was rare to see her like this, to hear her sound like this.

Eventually, Y/N sighed. “I’ll call you later, okay?” She was already pulling the phone away from her ear, already done with the conversation before her mother had even finished speaking. “Yeah. Love you too.”

She hung up, exhaling sharply, running a hand over her face before turning—

And immediately freezing when she saw him.

They stared at each other for a moment.

Y/N was good at masking things. She had a way of brushing off discomfort with sharp humor and easy deflection, of making people believe she didn’t care as much as she did.

But Dexter had been watching her for a long time.

And right now, she wasn’t hiding as well as she thought she was.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked, voice a little too light, too casual.

Dexter considered lying. Decided against it.

“A while.”

Y/N sighed, tilting her head back slightly before leveling him with a look. “And?”

He studied her, the tension still sitting in her shoulders, the way she was already preparing to brush this off, to move on.

Most people would have tried to comfort her.

Most people would have said something meaningless, something empty, something that was more about them than about her.

Dexter just walked over, sat on the couch, and waited.

Y/N hesitated.

Then, after a moment, she sat down next to him, leaning into his side, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn’t have to.

Y/N had barely unlocked the door before Dexter was on her.

There was no hesitation, no usual quiet calculation in his movements—just action. His hands found her face, fingers pressing into her jaw as he pushed forward, kissing her like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t Dexter.

And yet, she didn’t pull away.

She let him consume the space between them, let him back her up into the apartment, let him press her against the door for just a second before she finally broke the kiss, sucking in a breath.

“Jesus,” she muttered, blinking up at him, lips tingling. “What the hell was that?”

Dexter didn’t answer. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing just a little too fast. His hands slid from her face to her hips, firm, deliberate.

Y/N opened her mouth to ask again, but before she could, Dexter moved—gripping her wrist, steering her through the dimly lit apartment, walking her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed.

He pushed her down—not roughly, but with purpose.

And then it clicked.

Her brain caught up, piecing it together all at once—his body language, the energy radiating off him, the way his hands were still trembling slightly where they gripped her hips.

She knew this look.

Not because she had ever seen it on him before—but because she had seen it in the mirror.

Y/N exhaled slowly, studying him from where she lay beneath him. “You did it, didn’t you?”

Dexter stilled.

Just for a second.

Then, slowly, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Y/N huffed a small, breathless laugh. “Holy shit.”

She had known. Of course she had known.

She had always suspected—had known that whatever it was inside him, it wasn’t normal, wasn’t easily ignored. She had just never expected to be here, like this, with him vibrating with something just under his skin, something electric, something alive.

She lifted a hand, trailing it up his arm, up to his jaw, tilting his face toward hers.

His breathing was still unsteady, but the moment her fingers brushed his cheek, something shifted.

His eyes flickered, lips parting slightly, as if realizing he hadn’t pieced this part together yet.

Y/N smirked.

“Well,” she murmured, fingers ghosting down to his collar, tugging him just a little closer. “Now I really have to know how it went.”

The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, the kind of quiet that only existed in the aftermath of something big. The dim glow from the streetlights outside barely touched the edges of the bed, casting long, lazy shadows across the walls.

Dexter lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, still feeling the lingering hum of adrenaline in his veins. It wasn’t the same as before—wasn’t the wild, uncontrollable energy that had gripped him when he first showed up at her door.

Now, it was settled.

Y/N shifted beside him, stretching like a cat, her bare leg brushing against his as she turned onto her side. He felt her gaze on him before she even spoke.

“Well,” she murmured, voice low, amused. “At least you killed two—well, technically three birds with one stone.”

Dexter turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Three?”

She smirked, lazily running a hand through her hair. “First kill, first kiss, first time. All done in one night.”

Dexter blinked.

Huh.

She wasn’t wrong.

He hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t registered that all three of those things had collided in the same span of hours, hadn’t processed that this night had been one of firsts for him in more ways than one.

It should have felt big.

But lying here, looking at her, it didn’t feel like some monumental shift. It just felt… right.

Y/N stretched again, exhaling a sigh. “Kind of impressive, actually.”

Dexter hummed. “Efficient.”

Y/N grinned, eyes gleaming in the dark. “God, you’re such a fucking nerd.”

He turned onto his side, facing her, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. It wasn’t something he would have normally done, wasn’t something that had ever come naturally to him before. But right now, it felt easy.

Y/N stilled, watching him.

For once, she didn’t have some sharp, teasing remark ready.

And for once, he didn’t feel the need to fill the space with words.

They just existed, in the quiet, in the aftermath, with the weight of the night pressing around them.

Eventually, Y/N broke the silence, smirking. “So… you gonna tell me about it?”

Dexter considered her for a moment.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

And Y/N just grinned, settling in, ready to listen.

The kill should have been enough.

It was enough.

Everything had gone perfectly—every step executed with the precision he had spent years refining. The plastic, the blade, the ritual. The Dark Passenger had taken what it wanted, what it needed, and the body was gone, discarded into the ocean like it had never existed.

He should have felt calm now. Settled.

But he wasn’t.

His hands were steady, his heartbeat had slowed, but something inside him was still alive, still humming, still demanding more.

It wasn’t the need to kill.

It was something else. Something restless.

Something wrong.

Dexter stood in the darkness, staring at the rippling water where his first kill had disappeared, and felt his skin buzzing with an energy he didn’t know how to name. The Dark Passenger had fed, but it wasn’t done with him.

And before he had even processed what he was doing—before he could analyze, or calculate, or question—

He was moving.

Not home.

Not anywhere he had planned to go.

He was going to her.

There was no logic behind it. No carefully laid out reason.

Only instinct.

By the time he reached her apartment, his mind was a blur of static. His breath was controlled, but everything else inside him was spiraling, the excess energy building, pressing against his ribs like something caged.

He barely knocked.

Barely waited.

The door opened, and there she was—Y/N, her hair up, her expression relaxed, the familiar ease in her posture—

And then his hands were on her.

She barely had time to react before his mouth was on hers, before he was pushing into her space, consuming it, gripping her like she was the only solid thing left in the world.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was primal.

And for the first time in his life, Dexter wasn’t thinking.

He was feeling.

Dexter walked into Miami Metro the next morning feeling… different.

Not visibly. Not in any way most people would notice. But there was a stillness inside him that hadn’t been there before, a strange quiet that wasn’t just the usual post-kill satisfaction.

He wasn’t restless. He wasn’t wound tight.

He felt… good.

Apparently, that was enough for someone to notice.

"Well, well, well," Masuka’s voice rang out before Dexter had even reached his desk. "Look who’s walking in here all loose and refreshed."

Dexter barely glanced at him. "Loose?"

Masuka grinned, leaning back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers. "You just got that look, man. The one people have when they’ve been properly… relaxed."

Dexter stared at him blankly. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Oh, come on." Masuka gestured wildly. "You, my friend, look way less serial killer-y than usual today. And there’s only one reason for that."

Across the bullpen, Angel was watching with mild amusement. "Masuka, don’t be weird."

Masuka scoffed. "I’m always weird."

Angel sighed, standing up and crossing his arms, giving Dexter a once-over. Then, with the confidence of a man who had seen it all, he nodded sagely.

"Yeah," he said. "You got some."

Dexter blinked. "Excuse me?"

Masuka pointed at him. "See? He got some. He’s all calm now."

Dexter, who had literally committed murder the night before, was mildly fascinated by the fact that this was what they were picking up on.

"That’s ridiculous," he said flatly.

Angel grinned, nudging Masuka. "Which means it’s true."

Masuka wagged his eyebrows. "So who’s the lucky lady, huh? I mean, obviously, I know it’s Y/N, I just wanna hear you say it."

Dexter was going to shut this down—was already preparing a deflection—

And then, from behind them, someone cleared their throat.

The conversation died instantly.

Dexter turned his head just enough to see Harry, standing a few feet away, arms crossed, an expression that could only be described as a displeased father hearing his kid’s entire sex life in the middle of a crime lab.

Masuka immediately tried to look busy.

Angel coughed into his hand.

Harry just stared at Dexter.

Dexter stared back.

Then, finally, Harry sighed. "Jesus Christ, Dex."

Dexter exhaled. "I’m going to my lab."

Angel patted his shoulder as he passed. "Congrats, man."

Dexter ignored him.

Masuka just grinned. "Man, I love this job."

The first time Y/N ever set foot inside Miami Metro, it was out of sheer necessity.

She hated police stations. Hated the smell of burnt coffee and cheap cologne, the way officers sat around bullshitting while open cases collected dust. She hated the feel of it, the weight of institutional indifference pressing down on her chest.

And yet, here she was.

She stepped inside, moving quickly, eyes forward, posture stiff. The place was loud—phones ringing, detectives talking, Masuka laughing at something obscene. It made her skin crawl.

Nobody noticed her. Nobody cared.

Good.

She wasn’t here to be noticed.

Y/N walked straight to Dexter’s lab, not making eye contact with anyone. If she was lucky, she could get in, talk to him, and get out before—

"Y/N?"

Shit.

She turned her head, already irritated, only to see Debra standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised.

Debra had known about her distaste for cops—had never pried too much about it, but had definitely noticed the way Y/N always changed the subject when Miami Metro came up in conversation.

So, yeah, she looked surprised.

Y/N sighed. "I’m just here for Dexter."

Debra folded her arms, tilting her head. "You’re actually inside Miami Metro and I didn’t even have to drag you here? What’s the occasion?"

"None of your business," Y/N said flatly.

Debra smirked. "So, Dexter-related business."

Y/N didn’t confirm or deny it. She was already done with this conversation.

Debra studied her for a second, then nodded toward the hall. "Lab’s that way, sweetheart. Go do your Dexter-related business before someone tries to rope you into an interrogation room."

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, slipping past her and making a beeline toward the lab.

By the time she got there, Dexter was already looking up from his microscope, reading her like an open book.

"You hate it here," he noted.

"Sharp as ever, Morgan," she said dryly, closing the door behind her.

Dexter leaned back against the counter, studying her. "Then why are you here?"

Y/N exhaled, crossing her arms. "Because I need to talk to you, and I didn’t want to wait until later."

Dexter nodded like that made sense.

And, for him, it probably did.

Y/N glanced toward the bullpen, where cops laughed and ignored the cases on their desks, where her brother’s file had once sat before being shoved into a drawer and forgotten.

She looked back at Dexter.

"You’re the only one in this place that’s worth a damn," she muttered.

Dexter tilted his head slightly, like he was considering that.

Then, quietly, he said, "I don’t think that’s true."

Y/N shrugged. "It is to me."

Dexter didn’t argue.

Because he knew, to her, that was all that mattered.

It happened so fast that Y/N barely registered she had said anything until the silence hit the room.

It had started as an offhand comment from Debra—something about Miami Metro, about how at least they got results, about how not every precinct was a mess.

And Y/N had scoffed.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just enough that it was heard.

Harry had looked at her immediately.

So had Debra.

Dexter, sitting beside her on the couch, didn’t react, but she knew he had noticed.

Debra frowned, crossing her arms. "What?"

Y/N exhaled, tapping her fingers against the side of her glass. She shouldn’t have said anything. Should have let it slide. But it was already out there, and now Deb was staring at her like she had just insulted her entire existence.

Y/N shrugged. "Nothing."

Harry tilted his head slightly. "Didn’t sound like nothing."

Y/N huffed a breath, setting her drink down. "Look, I get that this is your thing, but not everyone has a reason to worship at the altar of law enforcement."

Debra’s eyes narrowed. "Oh, so we’re doing this now?"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Deb—"

"No, seriously," Debra said, arms crossed. "Do you actually think all cops are bad, or are you just being an asshole for fun?"

Y/N clenched her jaw. "Your cops didn’t give a shit when my brother was stabbed to death and left to bleed out in an alley."

The words hit the air with weight.

Debra’s mouth snapped shut.

Y/N exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. "Everyone in my family talked to the cops—my mom, my dad, Sean, Lily, Keegan, me—we pushed for months. We gave them names. We gave them places. We did everything we were supposed to do." She shook her head. "And you know what they told me the last time I walked into that station?"

Nobody answered.

Y/N let out a humorless laugh. "They told me to move on."

Harry’s expression didn’t shift, but she could feel the weight of his gaze.

Debra looked like she wasn’t sure whether to be pissed off or guilty.

Y/N exhaled again, rubbing her temple. "So yeah," she muttered, "I don’t really have a reason to believe in the system. Sorry if that offends the family business."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, finally, Harry said, "I don’t blame you."

Y/N’s head snapped up.

Harry was watching her, his expression unreadable, but his voice was even. Calm.

"You lost someone," he said. "You did what you were supposed to do, and it got you nowhere. I’d be angry, too."

Y/N stared at him, waiting for the but.

It didn’t come.

Harry just nodded once, then looked at Dexter. "Walk me out?"

Dexter stood immediately, following his father to the door, and just like that, the tension in the room shifted.

Debra was still staring at Y/N.

Y/N sighed, leaning back into the couch, running a hand over her face.

"You know I don’t mean you," she muttered.

Debra huffed. "Yeah, I know."

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Then, finally, Debra slumped into the chair across from her. "That’s still fucked up, though."

Y/N gave a dry laugh. "Yeah."

The room stayed quiet after that.

Y/N didn’t apologize.

And Debra didn’t ask her to.

The streets of Miami were always busy, especially in the evenings when the heat of the day had finally started to settle, but Y/N had never minded crowds. People were easy to read when they were in a hurry—too distracted, too focused on their own lives to pay much attention to the world around them.

Which was probably why she didn’t notice him until she walked right into him.

“Shit, sorry—” she muttered, stepping back instinctively, hands up slightly in reflex.

The guy barely moved.

Tall, lean, dark hair—not in a way that stood out, but in a way that would make him forgettable to anyone who wasn’t paying attention.

But Y/N?

She was paying attention now.

He smiled. “No harm done.”

That should have been the end of it. A quick bump on a busy sidewalk, a passing apology, nothing more.

But the moment Y/N looked at him, something was off.

The way he was watching her—not in an aggressive way, not in the way most men did when they were about to say something they shouldn’t.

No.

It was something else.

Something… assessing.

Like he was the one trying to figure her out.

Y/N blinked, stepping back slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his posture was just a little too relaxed, the way his smile lingered just a second too long.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed.

But she did.

She had seen this before.

Not often, but enough.

Her stomach twisted slightly—not with fear, but with something closer to instinct.

She exhaled, tilting her head just slightly, watching him the way he was watching her.

Then, she smiled.

Nothing big. Just a small, sharp thing.

His smile twitched.

Like he saw what she was doing.

Y/N let the silence drag just a second longer before finally saying, “Take care.”

And then she stepped past him and kept walking.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

But she felt it.

Felt his gaze lingering, just for a moment, before he finally turned and disappeared into the crowd.

And the whole way home, the only thing she could think was—

Who the fuck was that?

Brian had always known his little brother was different.

From the first moment he laid eyes on him after all those years apart, he could see it—the carefully controlled mask, the methodical way he moved, the way he pretended so flawlessly that sometimes even Brian wondered if Dexter had convinced himself he was normal.

But this?

This was something he hadn’t expected.

He stood in the shadows, watching through the barely open blinds of Y/N’s dimly lit apartment, and grinned.

Because this—this—was raw.

Dexter had come to her immediately after the kill. No pause, no hesitation, no time to reset before slipping back into his mask. He had walked in with that same electric energy that Brian recognized so well—that post-kill high, the lingering remnants of bloodlust and satisfaction, and he had pounced.

And Y/N?

She had let him.

No, not just let him—she had matched him. Moved with him like she understood exactly what this was, like she had expected it, like she wanted it just as much as he did.

Fascinating.

Brian tilted his head, watching as Dexter’s hands gripped her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, like this was the final step in his ritual—kill, clean, consume.

She wasn’t some passive, naive little thing, either. No wide-eyed, unsuspecting girlfriend who thought Dexter was just a quiet guy with an odd schedule.

No.

Y/N knew.

Brian had suspected it the first time he met her, in the way she had watched him—assessing, reading him the same way she read Dexter, like she was waiting for something.

Now, he was sure of it.

Because this wasn’t normal.

Dexter wasn’t normal.

And yet, here she was, pulling him closer, anchoring him in a way that was both possessive and indulgent, like she knew exactly what he needed.

Brian licked his lips.

How interesting.

He had wanted to show Dexter what he truly was, wanted to rip away that mask of normalcy and bring him into the light—his light.

But now?

Now, he was starting to wonder if Dexter had already found something close to that.

Or at the very least—

Someone who wouldn’t stop him.

And wasn’t that something?

Dexter had been to crime scenes that felt less tense than the Sinclair family reunion.

The house itself was nice—lived-in, cluttered in a way that felt like too many people had existed in it at once for too many years. Family photos lined the walls, overlapping, different frames mashed together without any real sense of aesthetic. The house wasn’t quiet, but there was an underlying weight in the air, a kind of unspoken something hanging between the people who had grown up here.

Y/N had warned him.

"It’s once a year. Mom insists. Everyone’s on their best behavior, which means only two or three fights will break out instead of the usual five."

Dexter had learned not to question these things.

Sean was already in the kitchen when they walked in, talking to their mother, his voice calm, patient—the same way he had always been, according to Y/N. When he saw them, he gave Dexter a once-over before nodding in a way that felt more like acknowledgment than greeting.

“Dexter,” he said.

“Sean,” Dexter returned.

Y/N rolled her eyes, muttering, “Jesus, you two are so weird.”

Before Sean could respond, the front door swung open again, and in walked Keegan, exactly as Y/N had described him—broad-shouldered, scowling like he had already decided he was in a bad mood, carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken grudges.

He barely had a chance to set his keys down before he spotted Dexter and scoffed.

“Oh, good,” Keegan muttered. “The serial killer’s here.”

Y/N groaned, already rubbing her temple. “Keegan—”

“I mean, look at him.” Keegan gestured toward Dexter. “If anyone at this table gets caught with bodies in their trunk, it’s him.”

Dexter, completely unaffected, just said, “I don’t own a car.”

Keegan blinked. “That’s not the part you should be denying.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ, please don’t start.”

Their mother, clearly used to this, sighed and handed Sean a dish to put on the table. “Keegan, stop antagonizing your sister’s boyfriend.”

Keegan shrugged, heading toward the fridge. “I’m not antagonizing him, I’m stating facts.” He pulled out a beer and cracked it open. “He’s got the creepy quiet thing going, the dead-eyed stare, the whole ‘emotionless’ energy—”

Sean, already tired, muttered, “Keegan.”

“I’m just saying!” Keegan gestured at Dexter. “Tell me I’m wrong!”

Dexter, who had been standing in the kitchen of this grief-laden, barely-holding-it-together family for less than ten minutes, finally looked at Keegan and said, “Do you always talk this much?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, suddenly—

Sean snorted.

Keegan scowled. “Oh, fuck you.”

Y/N, fighting a smirk, grabbed Dexter’s wrist and dragged him toward the table. “Come on, before he starts swinging.”

Keegan, still grumbling, flopped into a chair across from them, cracking his neck like he wanted to fight someone but was barely resisting.

Their mother sighed. “We are not starting this before dinner.”

Sean, the ever-peacekeeper, grabbed the nearest dish and started setting the table. “Lily late again?”

“To no one’s surprise,” Y/N muttered.

“She’ll be here,” their mother said, even though she didn’t sound completely convinced.

Keegan took a long sip of his beer. “Sure. Just in time to make an entrance.”

Dexter observed all of this without a word.

This wasn’t his usual environment. Family dinners weren’t something he was accustomed to—especially ones with this level of thinly veiled hostility mixed with obligation.

But as Y/N bumped her knee against his under the table, as Sean sighed through yet another incoming argument, as Keegan glared at him over the rim of his beer, Dexter realized—

It could be worse.

The room was dark except for the sliver of streetlight spilling through the blinds, cutting across the ceiling in thin, pale lines. The hum of the city outside was distant, muffled, nothing more than background noise.

Dexter lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting where Y/N had curled into his side, her fingers idly tracing patterns along his ribs.

Neither of them had spoken for a while.

It was the second anniversary of Dalton’s death.

Y/N hadn’t cried, hadn’t raged, hadn’t even talked much about it throughout the day. She had just existed in that quiet, simmering grief, letting it settle around her like a second skin.

But now, in the middle of the night, with nothing between them but warmth and silence, she finally spoke.

“Dalton would have liked you.”

Dexter blinked, staring at the ceiling.

He turned his head slightly. “You think so?”

Y/N hummed, still tracing slow, absentminded circles against his skin. “Yeah.”

Dexter thought of Keegan, of his immediate suspicion, his relentless scrutiny. “Even though I’m ‘definitely a serial killer’?”

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Dalton was a lot like Keegan—thought he knew everything, had a temper when he was pissed off—but he wasn’t as much of an asshole.”

Dexter felt her shift against him, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.

“He would’ve had thoughts about you,” she continued, voice softer now. “Would’ve kept an eye on you for a while. Maybe given you a hard time, just because.” She exhaled slowly. “But he would’ve liked that you cared about me.”

Dexter didn’t respond right away.

He wasn’t sure he knew how to.

Y/N had told him before, in pieces, what it had been like growing up as the youngest. How their parents had already been stretched thin, already worn down by Carter’s death by the time she had come along. How Dalton had been the only one who really made sure she never felt left behind.

How he had been hers, in a way none of the others were.

And now he was gone.

Murdered.

Forgotten by the people who were supposed to find justice for him.

Y/N sighed against his skin. “He would’ve liked that you protect me.”

Dexter’s fingers twitched slightly where they rested on her back.

She didn’t say it like she was expecting anything from him, didn’t say it like she was asking for anything. It was just a statement. A truth she had come to on her own.

A truth Dexter had felt long before she had ever spoken it aloud.

His grip on her tightened slightly, just for a second.

Y/N didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

She just settled closer, and for the first time that day, she breathed.

The apartment was a fucking disaster.

Boxes everywhere, stacked haphazardly like a goddamn obstacle course, half-labeled in Dexter’s neat but completely unhelpful handwriting. The place smelled like fresh paint and cardboard, and Y/N was already pissed before she even stepped inside.

Her client—some rich asshole who thought money made up for his absolute lack of taste—had spent the last hour arguing with her over whether or not gold accents would clash with the deep red fabric he insisted on for his dining room chairs.

("You hired me to make sure your house doesn’t look like an overpriced brothel, Jonathan, but by all means, keep making bold fucking choices.")

So, by the time she reached the apartment, she was done.

She shoved the door open, already kicking off her shoes as she stalked inside, rubbing a hand over her face. "Jesus fucking Christ, I need a drink—"

And then her foot caught on something.

She didn’t even have time to process what happened before she went down.

"Goddamn it!"

The thud echoed through the apartment as she landed, hands catching her just in time to keep her face from meeting the hardwood.

A long silence.

Then—

From across the room, Dexter’s voice, as neutral as ever: "You should watch where you’re going."

Y/N snapped her head up, finding him standing near the kitchen, completely unbothered, holding a glass of water like he hadn’t just watched her eat shit in the middle of their own home.

She turned her glare toward the box that had betrayed her.

One of Dexter’s.

Labeled, in neat, precise handwriting: Miscellaneous.

"Miscellaneous my ass," Y/N muttered, pushing herself up and kicking the box for good measure.

Dexter, still infuriatingly composed, tilted his head slightly. "I did warn you."

Y/N threw up her hands. "No, you didn’t! You just stood there, watching me fucking die on the floor!"

Dexter took a sip of water. "I assumed you’d recover."

Y/N groaned dramatically, shoving a box out of the way as she stalked toward him. "I swear to God, Dexter—"

But before she could finish the threat, she tripped over another fucking box.

Dexter caught her easily, hands firm on her waist, holding her upright as she sighed into his chest.

"I hate it here," she muttered.

Dexter hummed, fingers curling slightly at her hip. "I thought you liked living with me."

Y/N grumbled. "I do."

"Then stop trying to kill yourself on the furniture."

She let out a deep sigh. "Fine."

A pause.

Then, "But you’re still reorganizing these fucking boxes."

Dexter, ever the picture of calm, just took another sip of water. "We’ll see."

Y/N had seen a lot of things in her life.

She had seen Keegan break a guy’s nose in a bar fight over a misunderstanding.

She had seen Dexter walk into her apartment covered in blood with absolutely zero explanation.

She had seen her mother hold their entire, barely-holding-it-together family together with nothing but sheer willpower.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared her for the moment she turned around in Debra’s apartment and saw that.

Y/N blinked. "What the fuck are you wearing?"

Debra, standing in front of her mirror, adjusting the hem of what could barely be considered a skirt, gave her an unimpressed look. "A work uniform."

Y/N stared. "For what job? Because it sure as hell isn’t law enforcement."

Debra rolled her eyes, turning to grab her gun from the table. "Vice, dumbass."

Y/N squinted, taking in the whole outfit—the fishnet stockings, the ridiculous heels, the tight leather skirt, the crop top that looked like it was two seconds away from getting her arrested for public indecency.

Then, finally, she said, "Are you a cop or are you working for tips?"

Debra snorted. "Fuck you."

"I mean, Jesus Christ, Deb—" Y/N gestured wildly. "If someone tried to arrest you in that, I’d just assume it was your pimp getting mad at you for skimming off the top."

Debra rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, hilarious. Meanwhile, I’ll be the one actually putting away scumbags while you’re over here bitching about my fashion choices."

Y/N folded her arms, unimpressed. "What scumbags? You think any guy seeing you in that is gonna be thinking, ‘Hey, maybe I shouldn’t break the law’? They’re gonna be thanking you for encouraging their poor fucking life choices."

Debra huffed, grabbing her holster. "Not my fault men are idiots."

Y/N shook her head. "That’s the part you should be mad about."

Debra turned, now fully armed, despite still looking like she should be charging by the hour. "Okay, are you done?"

Y/N smirked. "That depends—are you actually gonna arrest people, or are you just gonna give them a lap dance first?"

Debra groaned. "I hate you."

Y/N grinned, crossing her arms. "Oh, come on. Do a little spin for me first."

Debra flipped her off on the way out the door.

Debra had two thoughts when she heard Y/N was cooking that night:

Hell yes, free gourmet food.

This is the perfect opportunity to introduce Rudy to the two most antisocial weirdos in her life.

She barely even hesitated before calling Y/N.

"Hey," she said the second Y/N picked up. "I heard you’re making actual food tonight instead of living off diner fries like a fucking raccoon."

Y/N sighed on the other end. "Jesus Christ, Deb—"

"Anyway," Debra continued, completely ignoring her, "great news. I’m coming over. And I’m bringing my boyfriend."

There was a pause.

Then, dry as ever, Y/N said, "Why?"

"Because!" Debra gestured wildly even though Y/N couldn’t see her. "You never cook, so this is, like, a rare event! And I figure, why not take advantage of that while also introducing him to you and Dexter?"

Y/N groaned. "I don’t remember agreeing to this."

Debra grinned. "Because you didn’t! That’s the best part."

Y/N exhaled, long and suffering. "Fine. But if I don’t like him, I’m ‘accidentally’ spilling wine on his shirt."

Debra rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I’ll see you at seven."

She hung up before Y/N could change her mind.

Debra sat on Rudy’s couch, legs stretched out across his lap, pointing a finger at him like a warning. "Okay, listen up, because this is important."

Rudy, amused, glanced up from the scalpel he was cleaning. "I’m listening."

She narrowed her eyes. "Under no circumstances can you bring up the police in front of Y/N."

Rudy paused for a beat, tilting his head. "Okay… why?"

Debra sighed, already knowing this was going to take some explaining. "She hates cops. Not just in a typical civilian complaining about tickets way—like, actually hates them."

Rudy raised an eyebrow. "That’s a little ironic, considering she’s dating your brother."

Debra snorted. "Yeah, tell me about it. But it’s different with Dexter. He’s not out busting down doors or arresting people—he just… looks at blood and does his weird Dexter science thing."

Rudy chuckled. "So, what, she had a bad run-in with law enforcement?"

Debra exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face. "Her brother was murdered, and the cops didn’t do shit about it. Her whole family pushed for months—gave them leads, names, everything. And they still treated it like just another dead kid in Miami. The last time Y/N tried talking to them, they basically told her to fuck off."

Rudy made a thoughtful noise, fingers tapping against his knee. "I see."

Debra gave him a serious look. "Do you, though? Because if you mention anything about cops, or how great the system is, or even breathe in the direction of ‘not all cops,’ she will hate you forever."

Rudy smirked. "Sounds like she has strong convictions."

"No, she has a fucking vendetta." Debra leaned forward. "I’m serious, Rudy—she will find a way to ruin your night if you say the wrong thing. And I really want my best friend and my boyfriend to get along, so just don’t bring it up."

Rudy nodded, expression unreadable. "Got it. No cop talk."

Debra studied him for a second longer, making sure the message actually landed, then leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Good. Now I can focus on more important things."

Rudy smirked, running a hand along her thigh. "Like what?"

Debra grinned. "Like how you’re about to meet two of the weirdest people in my life over a very fancy dinner."

Rudy chuckled, shaking his head. "I look forward to it."

Debra just laughed, completely unaware of how wrong that statement was.

Debra knew the moment they stepped into the apartment that Rudy was impressed.

The place smelled amazing—seared steak, garlic, some kind of sauce that looked fancy as hell. Y/N had actually set the table for once, which meant this meal really meant something to her.

Dexter, of course, looked completely unaffected, because he was Dexter, and he never reacted to anything. He was already sitting at the table, sipping a beer like this wasn’t the most well-thought-out meal he had ever been served.

Y/N turned from the stove, arching an eyebrow as she wiped her hands on a towel. "This him?"

Debra beamed, nudging Rudy forward. "Yep! Y/N, Dexter—meet Rudy."

Rudy, ever the charmer, smiled. "It’s great to finally meet you both. Deb’s told me a lot about you."

Y/N looked unimpressed. "Has she?"

Debra elbowed her. "Be nice."

Y/N exhaled, tilting her head slightly as she gave Rudy a once-over. "Well, guess we’ll see if I like you enough to let you eat my food."

Rudy chuckled. "Fair enough."

Dexter, from his seat, just watched.

Debra figured he would be the difficult one, that he’d be the one side-eyeing Rudy the whole night.

But for the first time ever, it was Y/N who seemed… unsettled.

Not obvious. Not anything Rudy would notice.

But Dexter?

Dexter definitely did.

And the fact that Y/N, the person who could read people too well, the person who had always been able to call bullshit before anyone else, was squinting at Rudy like she was trying to figure something out—

It was weird.

But Debra, oblivious and happy, just pulled out a chair and grinned.

"Alright, boys and girls," she said. "Let’s eat."

Y/N, still eyeing Rudy, finally sat down.

Dexter, watching both of them, didn’t look away.

The kill had been perfect.

Everything had gone exactly as it should have—the plastic, the precision, the blade sliding through flesh like it had been meant to. Blood pooling, the body shuddering, then stillness.

Dexter had cleaned everything, disposed of the remains with the same methodical efficiency as always. He should have felt calm. Sated.

But as he stood in the dark, the scent of salt water and blood still lingering in his nose, he wasn’t.

The Dark Passenger was still there.

Still hungry.

Not for another kill—no, that part had been fed. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

You’re still waiting.

Dexter exhaled, fingers flexing at his sides.

Go to her.

The thought struck like a pulse of electricity, sending a sharp thrill through his system. His breath hitched, his body tight with something else—something not quite the same as the need to kill, but just as overwhelming.

She’s waiting for you. Soft. Warm. Yours.

Dexter swallowed.

Y/N would be asleep by now. Curled up in their bed, completely unaware of the blood he had washed from his hands.

Completely unaware of the way he needed her right now.

Needed to press himself into her, to feel her beneath him, surrounding him, anchoring him.

The Dark Passenger whispered again.

Take.

Dexter felt it—felt the coiling demand just beneath his skin, the way his muscles ached not with exhaustion but with want.

He had never cared much for sex before Y/N.

Before he had learned what it meant to have someone truly understand him. Before he realized that sometimes, after a kill, when the Dark Passenger was still lingering, still pulling at him—she could settle it.

Could ground him in a way that nothing else ever had.

But he had never had to wait before.

And waiting was making it worse.

He turned, heading toward the car, heart still hammering even as his breath stayed steady.

The Dark Passenger purred.

Go home. Wake her. Take what you want.

Dexter gripped the steering wheel as he drove.

No.

He wouldn’t wake her.

She deserved more than that.

But the moment she opened her eyes—

She was his.

The apartment was dark, quiet, still.

Dexter stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching her.

Y/N was curled up under the sheets, her breathing slow, even. Completely unaware of the fact that he had been standing there for nearly five minutes, gripping the doorframe hard enough to make his knuckles ache.

She was right there.

Take her.

The Dark Passenger was still there, whispering, needling, curling around his thoughts like smoke, thick and intoxicating.

You waited long enough.

Dexter exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself, but his body was still thrumming with leftover adrenaline, still riding that edge that came after a kill—when his muscles were tight, his breath still not quite right, his body demanding something more.

The Passenger knew.

Wake her up.

Dexter clenched his jaw.

Or don’t.

His grip on the doorframe tightened.

You think she’d mind? You think she’d push you away? She’s as messed up as you are, to a point. Maybe she’d like it.

Dexter swallowed hard, staring at her.

She would.

He knew she would.

Y/N wasn’t fragile. She wasn’t naive. She was his—in a way that no one else had ever been, in a way that made him feel like he didn’t have to pretend.

But even he had his lines.

Even he knew that this was one.

Not because she wouldn’t want him—no, he knew she would.

But because he wanted to watch her want him.

Wanted to see the way her breath would hitch, the way she’d smirk in that slow, knowing way, the way she’d shift under him, teasing, inviting.

He didn’t just want to take.

He wanted her to give.

So he waited.

Sat down in the chair by the window, watching her.

The Dark Passenger hissed, restless, unsatisfied, but Dexter ignored it.

Because the moment her eyes opened—

She was his.

The moment Y/N stirred, Dexter was on her.

He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t moved from the chair by the window, where he had spent the last few hours watching her, waiting, muscles coiled tight with that lingering hum of energy—the pull that hadn’t fully left him since the kill.

But now, she was awake.

And she was his.

She barely had time to blink before he had her beneath him, hands gripping her hips, mouth at her throat, pressing her deep into the mattress.

She let out a sleepy, breathless laugh. "Jesus, what the fuck’s gotten into you?"

Dexter exhaled sharply against her skin, fingers digging into the sheets beside her head. "You made me wait."

Y/N smirked against his mouth. "I was asleep, Dexter."

He didn’t care.

Didn’t answer.

Just moved.

And the Dark Passenger, still there, still humming in the back of his mind, purred in satisfaction.

Yes. Yes. Finally.

It had wanted this all night. Had demanded it, screamed for it, burned inside him with leftover energy that a single kill hadn’t been able to fully satisfy.

But now?

Now, he could sink into her. Could take everything he needed, could consume her, feel her give herself over to him completely—

And then—

The door swung open.

"Hey, Y/N—"

Everything froze.

For half a second, Dexter didn’t react. Didn’t process what had just happened, too consumed, too deep in it to fully comprehend—

Until he heard her.

Debra.

His sister.

Standing in the doorway.

No.

Y/N, immediately snapping out of it, twisted her head toward the door, eyes wide with rage.

"OH, WHAT THE FUCK?!"

Dexter stayed completely still.

Not from embarrassment. Not from shock.

But because the Dark Passenger had just been given what it wanted—had been on the brink of getting everything—and now, because of her, it was gone.

Snatched away. Ruined.

Debra, still standing there like a deer in headlights, took half a second too long to react—long enough for Y/N to grab the nearest pillow and hurl it at the door.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Debra scrambled backward, slamming the door shut, her voice carrying from the living room.

"I need bleach for my eyes—what the fuck is wrong with you two—"

Dexter closed his eyes.

The Dark Passenger seethed.

Kill her.

Dexter exhaled through his nose. No.

Then make her leave.

Dexter pushed himself up, rolling his shoulders, still tightly wound, his body still aching for the release that had been stolen from him.

Y/N groaned into the pillow beside him. "I fucking hate her."

Dexter, still vibrating with leftover tension, reached for his pants. "I’ll tell her to leave."

Y/N blinked up at him, still catching her breath. "Why?"

Dexter leaned down, lips brushing against her ear, voice still dark, still heavy with everything he hadn’t been able to finish.

"Because I’m not done with you yet."

Y/N shivered.

And the Dark Passenger, still starving, purred.

The apartment was quiet again.

Not the heavy, restless kind of quiet from the night before, when Dexter had sat in the chair by the window, waiting, trying to ignore the way the Dark Passenger clawed at him, demanding more, demanding her.

Now, it was a different kind of silence.

A sated, settled kind.

Y/N lay beside him, still catching her breath, hair wild against the pillow, her body marked with proof of what had just happened. Her throat was littered with bruises—deep, dark impressions where his hands and mouth had claimed her.

Her skin was flushed, every inch of her humming with exhaustion and satisfaction, her limbs loose and heavy in a way that told him she wasn’t moving anytime soon.

Dexter watched her, fingers still trailing lazily over her stomach, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breathing beneath his palm.

The Dark Passenger was quiet.

Truly quiet.

Not lurking, not waiting, not prowling beneath the surface, still wanting.

For the first time since the kill, it was gone.

It had what it wanted.

Kill. Clean. Consume.

And now, finally, Dexter was still.

Y/N sighed, tilting her head to look at him, her lips curling slightly even as her voice came out hoarse. "Jesus Christ, Dexter."

He hummed in acknowledgment, tracing a thumb over a fresh mark on her collarbone. "Too much?"

She snorted. "Shut the fuck up."

Dexter smirked, his fingers moving lower, pressing just slightly over another bruise on her hip. She shivered.

"Sensitive?" he asked, voice as even as ever.

Y/N huffed a laugh. "You’re a fucking menace."

Dexter tilted his head. "You don’t sound upset about it."

Y/N stretched, groaning slightly before settling deeper into the mattress. "I’m too fucking tired to be upset."

A pause.

Then, "Was it worth the wait?"

Dexter exhaled through his nose.

His body was calm now, loose in a way it rarely ever was. The Dark Passenger had fed, had devoured, had taken and been given, and now there was nothing left to fight against.

Nothing left but this.

Dexter leaned in, pressing his lips just beneath her ear, voice low, quiet, final.

"Yes."

#dexter morgan #dexter morgan x reader #dexter showtime #dexter #michael c hall

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