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Chapter Text

You risk another glance at your watch. More than fifteen minutes have ticked by since you last looked. Following your well-worn pattern, you dial his number again, only for it to go straight to voicemail. The familiar feeling of fear and mortification simmers inside you, rising like bile in your throat.

You've been stood up. 

Being an hour late is enough proof that he isn't coming, leaving you to grapple with this new realization. You shut your eyes, searching for an answer. Rejection stings, heating the back of your lids, but you refuse to cry.

Not here.

Not tonight.

As you reopen your eyes, you catch Husk's gaze fixed on you. His brows are knitted in concern as he leans against the bar counter, arms crossed. 

Husk has been tending the bar every single time you've set a date with your boyfriend. Lately, you've been frequenting it more often, usually without James. Your boyfriend always promised to meet you after work and never showed, his apologies as flimsy as the weak perfume not quite masking other women's scents clinging to his clothes.

Despite having a room at the hotel, you'd often stay over at your boyfriend's house, to a point where you'd often not get the chance to talk to the other residents. Yet, every dinner alone, you'd return to your room at the hotel, the evidence of infidelity hanging in the air of your shared apartment becoming unbareable. Many nights ended with you curled up on the bathroom floor, lamenting to a God whose presence you doubted.

You need out, and tonight is a brutal reminder of why.

Resigned to celebrate the end of two years with James alone, you raise your glass in a silent toast and take a deep sip, letting the merlot warm you from the inside out. As you set the glass down, Husk appears in front of you, one leg casually perched on the chair opposite yours.

"A good wine like that shouldn't be enjoyed alone, dollface. It's practically criminal," he says, his voice smooth and rich, turning simple words into a symphony.

"It seems like that's my only option tonight."

Husk sighs, his chest rising and falling, drawing your attention to the white dress shirt he wears, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the tuft of hair beneath. You've often fantasized about those arms enveloping you, usually with a glass (or more) of wine in hand. This is the closest you've been to him, and the scent of cinnamon laced with lime is intoxicating.

"Do you need anything?" Hearing him talk to you in his deep voice could lull you like a sweet, seductive lullaby.

"This wine will do for tonight, but thanks, Husk. Just kick me out when you're ready to close." His mouth opens, and you're sure he's about to say something more, but he merely nods before returning to the bar.

You're in no state to contemplate his words or why he apparently cares enough to utter them. Instead, you watch him work, noticing the way his arms flex as he shakes a drink for the few remaining guests. You slip off your heels under the table, unable to quell the warmth pooling inside you when his eyes meet yours, filled with longing.

When had that change occurred? He'd always just acknowledged your presence politely, no more, no less than any other guest. Now, though, his gaze seems to see right through your pencil skirt to the lace beneath. His eyes are like liquid fire, melting any resolve you might have had to return home and make peace with James.

You refill your glass with the final pour of wine, mourning the night's end. He has to close up, and, like it or not, you have to head back to your shared apartment to pack your things.

Cinnamon and lime assail your senses again, and you glance up to find Husk standing over you. He places a hand on your shoulder, sending warmth cascading through you. With a gentle nod, his other hand joins the first. You feel strangely connected to this man, as if this touch was meant to be.

His gaze rests on yours as he leans over you and you see the heat is still there. You also know you match it with a blaze of your own. Where the compulsion comes from, you have no idea, but you nod when his other hand rests on your free shoulder. It feels strangely natural, touching this man and having his hands on you. A cursory glance around the lobby says the any remaining hotel residents have gone to bed.

"They're long gone," he whispers, his breath hot on your skin.

You shiver at the knowledge that Husk and you are alone, his hands on you, rubbing your tense shoulders. By all accounts, it's an innocent enough moment, but your mind and body tell another story. They ache, throb, for this man whose thumb caresses under the collar of your shirt along your neck.

A moan escapes your lips and the tension increases in his fingers, thick and long. It's pleasure unlike you've ever known, and it's vanilla enough to happen in public. But James has never shown your body such ardent attention, such care, not even in the privacy of your bedroom.

"Do you feel better?" he asks. His voice is molasses, the accent magnified by the lust you're certain you're not imagining.

"Yes." It's all you can say without giving your absolute desire for this stranger away.

"Good." With that, his hands slip lower, his fingers brushing your chest along the line of the lace. He rubs, caresses your skin, and your head falls back, drunk with lazy pleasure. "You'll tell me if I should stop."

It's a command and you obey with a nod. You don't imagine asking him to stop would come any point soon, but you appreciate the thoughtfulness of his gesture. Only for the briefest of moments do you wonder if he does this often, soothe troubled single women with his expert hands, and it takes even less time for you to ignore the fact that you've put yourself into the camp of single women while James is still in the picture. You don't care enough to ask Husk, to ruin the moment that builds with each passing second.

His finger dips below the lace. Your back arches into his hand, pressing yourself into his palm.

The growl that escapes his chest is feral and should have been a warning of what's to come, but you can't hear much above the thrum of lust beneath your skirt. His hand squeezes your breast, before his other hand pushes you forward so your face is almost even with the table. While he fondles you with one hand, the other slides below the back of your blouse and unhooks your bra. He pulls you back against the chair, against his abdomen, but wastes no time with your neck, your shoulders.

His hands are all over you with desire, and when you make a move to rise, to stand so that you can face him, he pushes you back down on the chair.

You feel his lips hot on your neck then, as a whisper reaches your ears.

"Stand up."

Another command you obey without thinking twice. He pulls you up, those strong arms you've imagined are wrapped around your midsection, unbuttoning your blouse. 

"I need to clean up," Husk tells you. "But I don't want you to leave." As if you'd go anywhere but onto his cock, which you can see is hard, and filling his jeans. "Stay here so I can watch you while I work. Keep yourself wet for me."

You nod. He smiles, and you're blown away by the kindness in his eyes. He's doing you the exact favor you've needed at the exact moment you've needed it, and you've never been more grateful. The strangeness of the scenario registers as a distant thought, but never bubbles its way to your consciousness.

You stand, hands on the table, arms pressing your breasts together, hips gyrating against the inches-thick wood tabletop, a thank you for what he's done for you. While he cleans glassware, wipes the bar top, his eyes never leave your body. His smile never leaves his face.

When he disappears behind the counter to refill the liquor, you gather your plates and bowl from the delicious meal you've enjoyed alone, feeling your own juices flow from your underwear. You're more than wet for him, and only half-sane with desire.

The merlot he'd suggested when you first arrived showed he knew your tastes even then. You walk them to the kitchen, which sparkles, awaiting the day to come. You hate to leave the dirty dishes for the morning shift, so you turn the nozzle on the faucet to hot and wait while it warms up.

A gasp escapes your lips when chilled hands find your breasts, still unclothed, and squeeze.

They wheel you around, only the slightest hint of annoyance on the face in front of you.

"You didn't listen," he tells you. You bite your bottom lip. You don't want to disappoint him, not after all he's given you, including the promise of the remainder of the night, so you reach down, put your hand on .

"I thought cleaning up would be the least I could do after the delicious dinner and wine. Not to mention the dessert." You wink, and are met with half a grin that belies mischief.

"Why don't we both clean up, then? You look dirty. I can help with that."

You nod, your pussy throbbing hard enough for you to spread your legs around his thigh as he pulls you close. He tears the shirt from around your shoulders and drops it on the ground, followed by your bra. The water still running, Husk frees the spout from its base and turns down the heat only a fraction. He turns you so that your ass is pressed against his erection and lets the spray douse your chest, run down your legs. The water is hot, but not scalding, and you barely notice as it pools at your feet before disappearing down the drain.

"Take this off," his voice demands, pushing you from him. He nods at the skirt that is soaked and bunched around your waist. You reach behind and unzip it as Husk's mouth, hot and cavernous, closes around your breast. You arch your back into him as the skirt falls to your feet and you are laid almost bare in front of your bartender, your savior who's turned your night around.

All that's left is a thin shred of lace between you and the girth that presses against your stomach. His smile breaks free in ardent appreciation of your body, a sight you hadn't seen on a man's face in over five years. It's as exciting as the slip of his finger between your legs. When another finger slips in beside the first, you moan. This is too much. You have been dormant for too long, and now, buzzed with wine and lust, you are awake, alive with nerves.

With a swift pull, the lace shreds in his hands, and he wastes no time placing his mouth where his fingers had been. His tongue pulls at your swollen clit, sucking at it until your legs quiver with delight. While his tongue explores you, hot water still rains down over you, he puts three fingers inside you, tugging at the sensitive area behind his tongue. Husk lets a chuckle free when you cry out.

"Come," he breathes into your pussy. Another demand you can't refuse. You nod, but he doesn't see you, his face buried back in your folds. His hands cup your ass, bringing you closer to him, and with a final sucking motion, you roll over the edge with him, your hands fisted in his hair. The faucet still rests on the edge of the sink facing you, and as he lifts himself up the length of your body, peppering your taut stomach and breasts with kisses.

"Good God, I've wanted to do that ever since you first walked in here with that prick."

"Really?" you ask, surprised. You'd noticed him the first time you'd sat at the bar waiting for James, who'd shown up disheveled and smelling like Chanel No. 5 over an hour late to your first date at Michaels, but you had no idea the hot as fuck bartender had paid you any notice.

"You were in a skirt like this one and your piece-of-shit boyfriend didn't get to you until I'd already fucked you twice in my mind."

As if he hears you talking about him, you hear your phone trill with the song you'd chosen for James years ago, some romantic ditty that doesn't remind you of him in the least. Husk laughs again.

"What will he do if you go home smelling like me?" To add insult to injury, he runs his tongue along your collarbone.

You sigh, realizing that probably wouldn't be enough to rouse James from his stupor and pay attention to you. You were DOA and this proves it.

"Nothing, sadly. I doubt he'd notice, to be honest."

"Good. Then you're staying with me."

You turn back around to face him, a playful smile tugging at your own lips. It feels good to smile again, yet another rarity these days.

"Oh, really?"

"I'd have a hard time sending you home with torn panties and soaked clothes. I want you beside me tonight so I can wake up and do this again with you."

You have to admit, it sounds pretty good to you. The idea of his hot, hard body behind you as you sleep.

"Okay, you've got me there. I'll stay. But only if you promise to bring up another bottle of that merlot."

Husk nods, then takes off to the bar. You laugh to yourself, thinking what a strange night it's been. You'll collect your things from James' house the next morning, and fully move into the hotel.

It's worth it experiencing what dating could, and should be like. More than worth it.

Chapter Text

The setting sun casts a warm hue over the room, filtering through sheer curtains in golden streaks and turning the air thick with the scent of the impending evening. It's a familiar space, yet every time you enter, it feels new, as if tinged with traces of past stories, the laughter shared, the quiet whispers, and the stolen glances that linger long after they vanish into silence.

Amidst this, there's you, caught between the past and present, feeling the dull pangs of an internal conflict you've carried for far too long. It's the kind of turmoil that ebbs and flows like waves on a shore, sometimes gentle, other times tumultuous. You've become adept at camouflaging it, navigating your life with a quiet resilience that few ever notice. There was a time when vulnerability seemed permissible, but those years have slipped through your fingers like sand, leaving behind a guarded solitude you now wear like armor.

Yet, something about him, about the way he looks at you as if you're the only person in the room, slips beneath your defenses. Perhaps it's the warmth of his gaze, imbued with an understanding that transcends words. 

You're painfully aware that love exists in the small details, the pauses that speak volumes, the gentle touches that heal old wounds, and the spaces between words filled with unspoken promises. Yet articulating what you desire feels like bridging an insurmountable chasm, especially when you've grown so accustomed to quiet endurance.

"What would you like right now, duckling?" he inquires, a familiar question that stirs a mix of emotions within you. Its repetition has become both a comforting ritual and an unsettling challenge.

The desire to respond is immediate, yet the answer eludes you. It's been years since you felt secure enough with anyone to delve into such reflections, and even longer since you dared to voice them. The question beckons you to unearth what lies buried beneath layers of self-preservation, yet you feel woefully unequipped for the excavation.

"Hm?" he prompts gently, as if attuned to the silent turmoil of your thoughts, encouraging without pressuring.

'You had an answer when you were daydreaming yesterday,' the persistent voice in your mind reminds you, coaxing you to reach for clarity.

Yet, hesitation holds you captive. He is behind you, soothingly tracing his fingers along your back. The warmth of his hands is both reassuring and stirring, a tender reminder of a vulnerability you've both long eschewed.

'What do you want? This feels nice, perhaps you want more of this. Just say something. Anything.'

The small voice speaks sense, spurring a resolve within you. It's time to embrace the vulnerability of choice. You shift, turning to meet his gaze, feeling the weight of the moment settle into a resolve.

"I would like you to kiss me like you mean it, sir," you whisper, meeting his eyes, where you find a mirrored assurance that envelops you in safety.

As your eyes close partially, you lean closer, and he meets you halfway, resting his palm tenderly against your cheek. The kiss is a union of warmth and gentle strength, a shared act of unspoken understanding.

Cradling his face in your hands, you deepen the kiss. His hand slides to the small of your back, drawing you nearer until your chests align, his fingers threading through your hair, his touch anchoring and affirming.

"I w-want you to kiss my neck, sir," you manage, your voice barely rising above a whisper, a testament to the newfound assertiveness still foreign to your tongue. With a gentle grip, he guides your head back, exposing your neck to the delicate cascade of kisses he plants from ear to clavicle.

Each departure of his lips leaves your pulse racing anew, the contrasting coolness of air a tantalizing reminder of his recent warmth. Your head reclines into his palm as you surrender to the moment, fingers entwined in his hair, as he trails kisses toward your shoulder.

"Could you bite me, sir?" you venture, emboldened, "Just a little bit."

He shifts course, returning to your neck, nibbling at the tender skin near your shoulder. As he pinches and releases it lightly, you find yourself succumbing to the delightful tension of his touch. His journey continues with lingering bites and soft kisses, a symphony of sensations as he traverses your neck before returning to claim your lips once more.

Reclaiming the position atop you, he eases his body down onto yours, cocooning you with the comforting weight. With a practiced rhythm, his hips gently rock, his confidence growing alongside yours. His tongue brushes lightly against your lips, an invitation you eagerly accept as you deepen the connection with an exploratory kiss.

Your hand glides down his spine, feeling the strength beneath the softness, while your tongue ventures a little deeper, matching his newfound boldness with your own.

As you both carry on, you start to feel more self-assured. "I want you to go down on me, sir," you pause, collecting your thoughts before continuing, "But not right away. I want you to take your time getting there." You stare at the ceiling.

"Tease me, sir," I add, "Please."

He pulls back from you enough to move his face in line with your chest. He kisses slowly down the length of your sternum as the fingertip of one hand softly grazes over your chest.

"I like when you touch me like that, sir," you reassure him, feeling more confident to give him praise than demands.

He pulls back to let his hands take over. He slowly traces the skin all over your torso with the ends of his fingers. As he moves down the side of your ribs, you feel your lower back arch spontaneously. You feel the steadiness of his breath, and try to match his pace. He rests his hand in the valley of your waist for a moment before moving lower as you release a long, sultry breath outward.

You let your head fall back into the pillows behind you as he palms your outer thighs and folds over to kiss your stomach. Leaning his cheek for a moment on your abdomen, he releases his grip and resumes the light touches along the outside of your legs and up the side of your ribcage. Without lifting your head, you rest one hand on his arm to follow along with his motions and run the other hand as far down his back as your arms' reach allows.

Lying on his stomach, he moves his body even further down the bed. Your knees are bent and held together by his embrace. He grazes the outside of your hip and, by moving his hand to my inner thigh and kissing my knee, he asks permission to spread your legs apart. You let your knees fall to either side. He runs his hand up your inner thigh into the crook of my groin and starts to follow the same line with his mouth.

'He can bite you there too, you know.'

"You can bite me there too."

He pauses and quirks one eyebrow, "Try that one more time, duckling."

"You can bite me there too, sir," you repeat, fixing your mistake.

He hums in response, satisfied. His kisses change to light nips as he moves down your thigh from your knee. Testing your threshold, the nibbles gradually increase in intensity until you signal that he found the line between pleasure and pain with an inhalation that was much sharper than the rest. He licks the heat from your core, his breath lingering heavily. You feel the fingerprints that he left behind light up as he finds their reflections on the mirrored path down your other leg.

His lips move back down, his breath hovering over your clit as you feel it throb in favor. You feel the wetness of his tongue touch the tip of your clit. He draws a circle once around it, and slides his tongue in.

You moan approvingly and let your hand caress the side of his head nestled between your legs. As he maintains his slow, consistent rhythm around your clit, you feel your hips begin to thrust softly on their own. Shivers swell and release in the small of your back as you grind a little harder into his face. He doesn't skip a beat, moving right along with your waves.

Without distracting his tongue, he brings one hand up to your slit. He rests it there for a moment, causing you to look lift your head slightly to look down at him. He glances up at you as if asking for your permission. His gaze is intense, and you look away shyly, resting your head back on the pillow.

"I want you to use your fingers too please, sir," He smirks at your reaction, gently coaxing the opening with his thumb. This, in conjunction with the sway of his tongue on your clit induces a full-body moan, and you feel yourself melt deeper into the mattress.

He pulls away for a moment, kissing up your inner thigh again. He takes his index finger and slides it inside you as he brings his lips back to your clit. He sucks on it gently, and then resumes tracing circles; the pace of his tongue has quickened, and he slides his finger in and out at a slower yet complimentary tempo.

He adds a second finger. Rather than the simple in-and-out now, he transitions to moving these two fingers as if coyly beckoning you. You plant your feet into the bed on either side of him and raise your hips.

You find the gradual build of tension is simultaneously exhilarating and torturous. You hang on the brink of excruciatingly blissful oblivion for what feels like an eternity.

Finally, the pressure building between your clit and his tongue meets its breaking point. You surrender as you feel yourself tighten around his fingers. Every subsequent contraction after this moment is a little less powerful but clings a little longer than the first until eventually they too fade into that oblivion you had just tasted. Pulse throbbing in your throat and the back of your head, your hips lower gradually back down to the mattress.

"Oh, God." A shiver shoots from between your shoulder and runs halfway down your spine as you two disconnect.

"Using the Lord's name in vain, duckie? How sinful." He sits back, licking the wetness from his fingers as he watches you, feeling the echoes of contractions pulsing from your clit as you catch your breath.

It was as if he could read your body language perfectly, turning to you and whispering positive affirmations before kissing your forehead and getting off the bed. You whimper in protest as he turns to put on his boxers and leave the room, hoping he wouldn't be going home so soon.

He turns back to you and notices your worried look. He rushes back over to your side of the bed and kneels down to reach eye level with you.

"Don't worry, I'm not leaving you, duckie. I'm just going to run you a bath and get you a glass of water, okay?"

"Wait-" the word left your lips before your brain could even comprehend.

"Duckie?"

"Could you- I mean, I just-" you pause, frustrated by your own inability to voice your thoughts. He was patient though, caressing your cheek as you collected yourself.

"Could you please stay and cuddle with me for a bit?" He couldn't help but coo at your request. Even during these intimate moments, you somehow managed to be incredibly adorable to him, making it almost impossible for him to deny your requests sometimes. So as soon as he heard your quiet and exhausted request, he couldn't help but whisper a small "of course," before climbing back into bad with you and holding you close to his chest. The bath can wait.

Wrapped securely in his embrace, you allow yourself to drift into a peaceful slumber, feeling the echo of your heartbeat resonating softly against his chest.

In this moment, you finally understand what it means to keep what you want simple: to be held, to be safe, to be wanted.

Chapter Text

The blazing spires of Hell flickered through the window, casting a fiery glow across the room. You sat there, frozen, mind swirling in a storm of confusion and disarray. The images around you—the rickety table with half-filled mugs of brimstone brew, the worn-out couch where you've shared countless memories with Millie and Moxxie—felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else's life. Your body refused to respond to your anxious commands. You couldn't move, couldn't shake the invisible bindings that held you in place.

It was both a familiar and alien sensation, a peculiar duality where your consciousness felt detached from your physical self. You watched as a tear slipped down your cheek, noticing its path in stark clarity yet feeling utterly disconnected from the action. Your mind was a foggy void, desperately clawing at the haze, searching for clarity and control.

The sudden creak of the door snapped you back, your heart grasping onto the sound like a lifeline. Instinctively, you knew it was them, your partners, your anchors in this chaotic world. Their comforting presence has always been your sanctuary.

"Darlin'? Sugar? Are you alright?" Millie's voice, sweet yet edged with concern, penetrated the silence, barely breaching the fog encasing your mind.

Footsteps approached, and suddenly Moxxie was in front of you, kneeling with his expressive eyes widening in worry. "You didn't answer my messages," he murmured softly, placing a gentle hand on yours. His touch was warm and grounding, a tether pulling you gently from the depths of your mind.

"I brought your favorites," Millie chimed in, trying to maintain her usual chipper demeanor. She placed a bag of goodies on the table, stepping closer to examine your face. Her brow furrowed, and despite her attempt at a smile, her concern was palpable. "Talk to us, hon. We're right here."

Yet, words failed you. Your lips trembled slightly, a silent cry for help. You wanted to speak, to tell them you were in there, somewhere behind the glassy eyes and unmoving facade. Instead, you nodded slightly, a meager motion that seemed monumental in your current state.

"Can you hear us, love?" Moxxie's voice was soothing, like a balm for your distressed spirit. His other hand joined the first, shrouding yours completely. Your fingers twitched ever so slightly beneath his, a small victory in your battle for control.

As the room’s oppressive silence was filled with the gentle hum of their voices, Millie settled beside you, her arm wrapping around your shoulder. "It's okay if you can't talk yet. Just focus on us," she murmured reassuringly. Her presence was warm and solid, an unwavering pillar in the whirlwind of your thoughts.

"You know," Moxxie continued, his voice calm and hopeful, "I always say we're like a three-part band, each playing our own tune, but together we make the most beautiful music." His analogy was perfect, capturing the essence of the bond you shared, one where individuality was cherished, yet the harmony between you sang like a symphony.

Millie nodded, "And even if one of us goes a little offbeat," she whispered, gently pressing her forehead against your temple, "the other two will be here, keeping time until you're ready to join back in."

The analogy resonated within you, a gentle reminder that you were never alone. Your role in their lives was not diminished by these moments of disconnection; rather, it was embraced as part of the intricate melody you created together. You focused on their words, the rhythm of their voices like a melody cutting through the mental fog. Their proximity, their presence, was soothing. Slowly, the room around you began to come back into focus. Colors sharpened, the weight in your chest eased, and the hold on your limbs softened.

Millie squeezed your shoulder gently, encouragingly. "We ain't rushin' you, sugar. Take all the time you need. We're right here, okay?"

With a trembling breath, you focused on Moxxie's hand, tracing the contours with your fingertips, mapping the way his palm curved and the warmth that radiated from it. That simple act, that tactile connection, anchored you further in reality.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you managed a shaky, small smile, the clouds parting just enough to let a sliver of light through. Millie laughed softly, the sound a soft tinkling in the air, while Moxxie's lips curled into his usual, thoughtful grin.

"There's our beloved," Moxxie said softly, relief evident in his tone. With patience and love, they sat with you, passing the time in comforting silence that required no words, just the steady rhythm of their presence.

As your senses gradually cleared, you became more aware of the details around you, the comforting scent of brimstone mingled with the faintly floral notes of Millie's perfume, the warmth emanating from Moxxie's hands, and the gentle sensation of Millie's fingers tracing soothing circles on your back. It was a grounding symphony of sensations, pulling you away from the brink, one note at a time.

Millie leaned in closer, her voice a soft caress. "You know, we're a team, no matter what Hell throws at us. Those imps and demons can scream and shout, but we've got something stronger right here."

"And no amount of chaos can break that," Moxxie added, his eyes locked onto yours, willing you to absorb every word. "We'll weather any storm together, even the ones inside our heads."

Between them, you found your footing again, the fog lifting just enough for you to breathe freely. The room around you regained its vibrancy, the reds and oranges of Hellfire casting not foreboding shadows, but warm glows that felt like home.

In this hellish world, hellfire raging beyond your sanctuary, the chaos within you was soothed, not by angelic intervention or divine miracle, but by the gentle, persistent love of your partners. Together, you found salvation in each other, even amidst the torment outside and within.

With Millie and Moxxie by your side, you realized that even in the heart of Hell, you'd never truly be lost.

Chapter Text

Verosika Mayday's appearance at the I.M.P. office feels as intrusive as a thunderstorm crashing into a desert. Her allure is venomous, much like the arguments that always brew between her and Blitzø, the boss you reluctantly respect and defend. You stand at your post, seething internally at the succubus with the audacity to waltz into your space as if she owned the place.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Blitzø's little lapdog," she remarks, her voice dripping with mockery as she sashays through the threshold.

Your irritation is immediate and volcanic. "Look who's talking," you retort sharply. "Last I checked, you were the one crying over spilled relationships and parking spots."

Her eyes narrow, that perfect smile flattening into a defiant line. "Darling, your loyalty is admirable, if a bit misguided. But let's not forget who the celebrity is here."

"Right, because Hell's headlines really need another washed-up pop star clinging to fame like a lifeline," you sneer, arms crossed and posture rigid, refusing to budge from your defensive stand. Her presence always acts as a trigger, reminding you of the tumultuous aftermath of her dramatic fallout with Blitzø, a chaos you had to mend more than once.

Yet beneath the biting sarcasm lurks an undeclared truth: Verosika's confidence grates on your nerves because it's a fortress behind which lies an unresolved history with your boss. She has the kind of influence that churns in your gut, sparking a protective instinct even you find inconvenient to explain.

Later, as you stand in the cluttered I.M.P. office, Blitzø approaches with an unusual mix of sheepishness and annoyance on his usually defiant face. He leans against his desk, eyeing you with an exaggerated theatrical sigh that spells nothing but trouble.

"Alright, listen up," Blitzø begins, waving a hand like he's swatting away the complaints he expects from you. "I've had to make a few... deals to get us into the right circles for our latest job. And by deals, I mean I've had to reluctantly partner up with some big names."

You raise an eyebrow, already dreading where this is heading. "Deals?"

"Yeah, specifically with a certain pain-in-the-ass pop star succubus we both know and hate," Blitzø explains, irritation dripping from his words. "Verosika Mayday is gonna be working with us on this one. As much as it pains me," he adds, placing a hand dramatically over his heart like he's been unjustly wronged.

Your eyes widen, the revelation not entirely unexpected but still unwelcome. "Seriously, Blitz? Verosika? We're really doing this?"

He nods, exasperated yet resolute. "Believe me, if there was any other way, I'd choose literally anyone else. But the target this time is slippery and has ties that only she can access. And hey, if it turns into a disaster, that's part of our charm, right?" His forced grin does little to lighten the mood.

You sigh, resigning yourself to the impending chaos. "Fine. Just don't blame me when things go sideways."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Blitzø says with a mischievous twinkle, tapping a folder against his hip. "Now, get ready to play nice with the succubi. This mission depends on it."

And with that, you're left alone, anticipating the tumultuous storm that a collaboration with Verosika promises.

Despite your tumultuous history, fate, or perhaps some mischievous demonic entity, conspires to throw you together on a shared mission. You're both after a slippery human target who has irked each of you for different reasons. Partnering seems the logical, albeit begrudging, choice.

The mission leads you through the chaotic streets of the living world, culminating in a swanky rooftop party. As danger surrounds you, with your backup lost in the maze of dancing bodies and shimmering lights, an uneasy alliance forms.

Navigating through the glamorous event, you and Verosika spot the target: a high-profile human moving amongst the crowd with well-placed charisma. A perfect trap laid within his realm of influence. A tense beat passes as you size up the situation.

"Look, I don't need your help with this," you insist, even as the target's entourage shadows him closely, their gazes sharp and watchful.

"You clearly do," Verosika counters your refusal of help, her demeanor casually elegant even amidst the throng of partygoers. "And before you interrupt, I advise you keep shut if you actually want me to work my magic."

Rolling your eyes, you accept the inevitable. "Fine. Just try not to trip over your heels," you tease, readying yourself for the impending chaos.

Her seduction prowess is mesmerizing, sinuous and precise. As a succubus, she doesn't just engage verbally; she manipulates the air of charm around her, drawing the target's eyes with undeniable allure. Her movements are fluid, each gesture and word designed to pull him closer, ignorant of the danger.

"You know," Verosika purrs, her voice silky smooth as she leans in just enough to captivate his attention, "I've heard so much about you. It must be so thrilling to move through this world with such power."

The target, already under her spell, smiles smugly. "Well, I suppose it has its perks. But tell me, what's a captivating woman like you doing in a place like this?"

Verosika laughs softly, a sound that's both intoxicating and inviting. "Oh, just looking for someone worth my while. Someone who knows how to handle a little... excitement."

With his attention fully ensnared by Verosika's intoxicating presence, you close in, your heart pounding in your chest. The world narrows down to this moment, every sense heightened, every detail etched into your memory. The music swells, a perfect backdrop to mask your approach. Your movements are deliberate, the crowd oblivious to your intent as you slip through the throng with practiced ease.

"And how exciting do you like it?" the target asks, his voice tinged with anticipation, oblivious to the encroaching end.

Verosika leans even closer, her breath brushing his ear as she whispers, "Let's just say, I have a taste for the unforgettable."

You almost scoff aloud, sparing a moment to wonder how he's buying into such a transparent game. But that distraction is just enough, just what you need. You draw your blade smoothly, the metal cool and familiar in your grip as you calculate the perfect angle.

In a swift, decisive motion, your blade finds its mark, a clean, unfaltering strike aimed precisely between his ribs. The sharp gasp of surprise is barely audible, suffocated by the music and chatter around you. His eyes widen, disbelief etched into his features as he collapses forward, lifeless before he hits the floor.

The lights of the party flicker, casting brief shadows across the scene, but the guests remain blissfully unaware, the facade of normalcy uninterrupted. Verosika steps back smoothly, her movements orchestrated with the grace of a performer leaving the stage.

"See? Sometimes a little charm goes a long way," she comments lightly, a trace of satisfaction woven through her voice, devoid of sympathy for the fallen target.

You pause, the adrenaline ebbing away as you take in the aftermath. Part of you wants to contest her, to remind her it was your blade that finished the job. But you can't deny that her artful distraction made it all possible.

Together, your synergy is undeniable, an odd symphony of contrasting styles meshing into the final act. Her enchantment, your efficiency, a dance of distraction and execution. You cover each other flawlessly, the plan executed with precision, until only yours and Verosika's presence fades like smoke, leaving the scene immaculate.

"You're not half bad at this," you admit begrudgingly, an edge of sincere respect coloring your voice despite yourself. It grates against your pride to acknowledge her contribution, yet there's an undeniable truth in the admission.

"I could say the same for you," she retorts, her eyes sparkling with mischief, a victorious air about her as she flips her hair with practiced nonchalance. "Though you do tend to hit everything as if it's a nail."

You can't help but chuckle at her jab, the tension between you lightening ever so slightly. "And you act like every problem can be solved with a wink and a smile."

"But you can't deny it worked," she counters, a sly grin stretching across her face as she tilts her head in challenge.

Your mind ropes through a litany of retorts, each one more biting than the last, but instead, you simply nod, conceding the point. "This time, maybe."

There, in the dim corners of a room far too loud and bright for the darker deeds just committed, lies a brittle acknowledgment of a job well done. An acknowledgment carrying the hints of something that might not be friendship, might not be admiration, but something tangible, nonetheless, a curious respect borne out of necessity.

Later, after making your way through the quiet city nights and finding reprieve at the only decent hotel within reach, you exchange a glance that speaks volumes of combined exhaustion without a single word being uttered. As you both stand in the tastefully decorated room, your eyes fall upon the single, plush bed in the center. An awkward tension lingers, reminiscent of the battles fought not long ago, and your mind races with possible sleeping arrangements.

"Guess I'll take the floor," you declare, your voice less resolute than you intended, refusing to meet her gaze while you size up the less-than-comfortable-looking carpet.

Verosika arches an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smirk. "Oh, don't pretend to be noble now. I didn't know you were so chivalrous," she drawls, her words dripping with sarcasm.

You shoot her a side glance, trying not to show how her words chip at your composure. "Just trying to avoid waking up with your elbow in my face," you quip, though the banter lacks its usual bite.

Her laughter is light, almost genuine. "Please, as if sharing a bed once will suddenly make us mortal enemies instead of whatever we are now."

You hesitate, the idea less daunting with her nonchalant dismissal. "Whatever we are, huh? Look, I just—" you pause, the fatigue from the day seeping into your words. "I just think it's better to keep some space."

Verosika lets out a theatrical sigh, but there's a glimmer of something softer in her eyes. "Listen, you're not exactly my first choice for a cuddle buddy, but I think we can manage for one night. I promise not to bite."

"You sure about that?" you counter, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

"Only if you ask nicely," she retorts, her playful sass cutting through any remaining apprehension.

There's a beat of silence, the weight of your shared experiences hanging in the air, reshaping what hostility lingered into the beginnings of something else, tentative, unsure, but present.

"Alright, fine," you concede, slipping off your shoes and settling onto the bed with an exaggerated groan. "But no kicking, and no hogging the blanket."

"Deal," Verosika responds, mirroring your actions as she claims her side of the bed.

As you both settle, a new kind of silence blankets the room, more congenial than awkward. This close, her presence is simultaneously infuriating and comforting, a paradox you're only beginning to understand.

"Think we'll ever figure out what this is?" you murmur into the dimness, the question hanging heavily between you.

"Maybe," she whispers back, her voice softened by an edge you hadn't noticed before.

Your eyes meet again, holding a mix of challenge and reluctant camaraderie, and in that moment, the edges of animosity blur into something not yet fully formed.

As the silence envelops you, the room seems to shrink, the air surrounding you suddenly too thick to inhale, grazing the back of your throat as your lungs are deprived of their need for oxygen. Her eyes bore into yours, and you're sure, just for a split second, a wicked smirk pulls her lips into a lopsided and overly cocky line, rife with challenge and something deeper.

Then she's on you, her lips against yours, fierce, unforgiving. There's no pretense, no artifice. The kiss is a clash of wills, a battle, yet oddly synchronizing, with lips fighting against each other and teeth clashing. Her teeth pull against your bottom lip roughly, and you hiss, stomach contorting at the feel of her smile against the now sensitive skin of your lips.

You shouldn't want this; this shouldn't be happening. The little voice inside your head, the voice of reason, is silenced when her hands move to your waist, drawing you closer with a magnetism that defies logic. You respond with equal fervor, hands finding purchase against her back as you pull her nearer, caught in a tempest of conflicting emotions and unspoken truths.

Each kiss is both a weapon and a surrender, each touch a silent confession of the shifting reality between you. And in that storm of sensations, where desire overrides reason, you begin to find something unexpected in the midst of chaos, a connection raw and unapologetically real.

She stops kissing you briefly to crawl up over you, "Don't tell Blitzø this but I've wanted to do this for so long." She leans over and kisses your forehead. "You smell so good. Delicious. Amazing."

She kisses you again, and again, moving from your lips to your neck, to your eyes and back to your lips over and over. She moved down slightly, her body over yours, and kisses along your shoulders to your chest. She pauses for a moment.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" she asks, her eyes darting over your face as she tries to read your expression.

You can't make your mouth work, so you just nod over and over again.

"Use your words," she says, smiling a little and looking into your eyes.

Finally, you whisper. "Yes, I'm sure. For sure."

She just keeps looking at you, like she's double-checking to be certain one more time. The fact that she's taking her time with you, making sure that you're definite about wanting this, makes you twice as aroused as you were before.  

She keeps just looking at you - her eyes roam over your face, down to your neck, and suddenly, you feel so impatient. You want to beg her to do something - anything - to you.

What comes out is a croaky whispered "Please." 

She leans in and kisses your forehead before unbuttoning the buttons of your shirt all the way down, opening it completely.

She tucks a finger into the top edge of the bra, and pulls it down to expose your chest. She slowly licks around your nipple, closing her warm mouth over it. You moan instantly.

It feels so good, you instinctively squeeze your eyes shut to focus as much as you can on it. She continues on for another minute, slowly licking and sucking. Suddenly, you feel her mouth open wide, sucking as much of your breast into her mouth as she can. Your hips start to buck, pushing up against her, and you feel her hand move down between your legs.

'Oh my god, it hadn't occurred to you she'd do this.' You'd only imagined simple things, kissing and touching, in the very brief fantasy that had entered your brain as you walked away from the bar. Logically, of course, this shouldn't be a surprise, but somehow it is, and now the idea that her hand is going to be on your pussy is overwhelming. 

'Hands, and what else? Tongue? Mouth?' The very notion has your lower body aching, and you can feel yourself squirming, moving, pushing your hips up to meet her hand.

She lifts her head from your breast then, her lips wet and pink, and she watches your face as her hand presses between your legs.

"You like it, don't you," she says, her voice deeper, slower.

"Yes," you say, nodding, hypnotized.

You start to close your eyes, but she stops you. "No, keep your eyes open, I want to watch you."

Kneeling on the bed, she moves to your side. Her legs are pressed up against you, her eyes pinned on yours, and her hand moving slow and lazy between your legs. You can feel the soft pressure, her fingers moving flat over your panties, and you nudge your hips up into her. She leans over a little, looking away from your face to gaze down where she's rubbing you. Her hand lifts off you, and you feel her finger tips take hold of the edge of your panties, and moving them to the side, expose your pussy.

You hear her sharp intake of breath, her quiet "fuck, fuck, fuck" as she looks at you. You know you're wet, and puffy from arousal. It seems to you that you must be wetter than you ever have been. You are delirious on your arousal - drunk and dizzy and overwhelmed.

"Verosika," you say, and she looks back to your face. "Please."

You realize you've said these words to her over and over, like you're incapable of anything more.

"Please... Please, touch me... Please..." you manage to say.

She needs no second request. Her tail wraps around your thigh as her fingers trail along your pussy, gently, slowly, softly, slipping between wet lips, opening you. You gasp, and your breathing grows faster, panting.

You feel her finger slipping deeper, looking for the spot to enter you, and when she finds it, her finger slips all the way, easily. The slick dragging feel is explosively good and your shoulders lift up off the bed.

"Fuck! Oh god, oh god, oh god!"

She starts a slow rhythm, letting her finger slide in and out, and after a moment, she leans over you, her mouth so close to your pussy that you can feel the heat of her breath on you.

She pulls her finger out, and you lift up on your elbows to look down at her – she puts her finger in her mouth, tasting you for the first time, and sucks it in and out a few times.

She looks up at you.

"Fuck, you're so cute..." and then she drops her head down onto your pussy, mouth open, tongue flicking, slipping between your pussy lips to find your clitoris, slow and wet all over you. Without stopping, she moves her body over yours, in between your legs, kneeling there over you. You let yourself come down off your elbows and lay your head back. She licks and sucks, her mouth opening wide over you, playing with your pussy. When she lifts her lips off to take a deeper breath, you instinctively put your hands down on her head and lift your hips back up.

"More, Ver..."

She groans, a deep low growl in her throat, and your hands grip her head tighter, pushing her down. She starts licking at you again, furiously now, desperate, fast, needing, and you feel a finger at your edge again – no, not a finger but two fingers – and she pushes them hard into you, until she's as deep as she can go, her knuckles up against your lips. She keeps thrusting, thrusting, thrusting, the wet sound of her fingers fucking into you like a rhythm that she matches with her tongue on your clit.

"I'm going to cum, I'm going to –" and just like that, suddenly, without warning, you cum hard. Your thighs close around her head, your hips buck up again and again and again against her face.

After what seems like minutes, you finally lay back, your legs open, your breath hitched.

She moves up alongside you, and kisses you gently with her pussy-flavoured lips.

"If Blitzø saw us now, he'd probably implode out of spite and bewilderment," she murmurs with a chuckle, her words like a dare.

You shift under her, trying to resist the warmth creeping up your cheeks. "Let him implode," you quip, half teasing, half genuine. "He's got a lot to answer for anyway, considering he partnered us up without any warning."

She laughs, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "He'll have one hell of a shock when he checks in about the job," she notes.

As if on cue, the phone begins buzzing insistently on the bedside table. Verosika reaches over to grab your phone for you, as you're too exhausted in your state. Amusement dances in her eyes as she looks at the caller ID, before she turns the phone over for you to see Blitzø's name.

For a brief second, you're torn between duty and the intoxicating allure of the moment. But the decision is made with surprising ease as she sets the phone down and her lips find yours again, letting the call fade into the background. 

"I'll deal with Blitzø later," you mutter against her skin between kisses. 

The world outside could wait; this moment was yours to embrace, tensions and rivalries temporarily cast aside.

Chapter Text

You shouldn’t be here.

The thought hisses through your mind the moment the heavy doors of VoxTek seal shut behind you with a hiss, sharp and final, like a warning. The hum of machinery swells as the lock slides into place, low and mechanical, as if the whole building is breathing through clenched teeth.

The lights above you flicker. Not from malfunction, but from surveillance.

Everything here watches.

Glass panels ripple with faint static as you step inside, your reflection multiplying in warped overlays across the curved surfaces. Your pulse feels too loud in your throat, thudding in rhythm with the faint thrum in the walls, like the building’s heart is buried somewhere beneath your feet. Every step echoes too hard. Too deliberate.

You shouldn’t be here.

But you are.

The hallway stretches before you, chrome and crimson, gleaming like a wound. Red lights pulse from the floor and cast your silhouette in jagged lines across the walls. The air is too clean. Sterile. Like nothing alive has ever dared to breathe here. And still, you walk forward, drawn like a moth to a screen that flickers just enough to burn.

His office waits at the end of the corridor.

All chrome and cold edges, glass desk gleaming like the blade of a guillotine, static coiled in the corners like something alive. You don’t knock. You don’t need to. The building already told him you were here.

“Took you long enough,” Vox drawls, not even looking up.

His voice cuts through the stillness like a clean break—dry, sharp, and vaguely amused. But it’s the kind of amusement you only hear from someone who wants you to know they’re disappointed.

He’s lounging behind the desk, one leg thrown carelessly over the other, tie loosened like he’s trying to pass for unbothered. But the glint in his eyes as he finally lifts his gaze is nothing close to relaxed.

Something tight and unsettled flickers behind his screen. His fingers drum against the armrest with too much tension for someone supposedly indifferent. Like he's holding something back. Like letting it slip might break more than just the moment.

Your voice comes out too small. “I came to talk.”

“Talk?” He repeats it like a curse. “That’s rich. You come storming in here, uninvited again, and now you want to ‘talk’? What, am I your therapist now?”

“You weren’t answering my messages.”

The words come out softer than you meant, like you're still clinging to the hope that some version of him might drop the act and just meet you halfway.

But Vox only scoffs, a short burst of static-laced derision.

“Because I didn’t want to.”

The sentence lands like a blow.

He doesn’t shout. He’s not cruel in tone. It’s just... matter-of-fact.

You flinch. Just barely. But he sees it. Of course he does. Vox never misses a wound when he’s looking for one. He clocks the flicker in your eyes, the way your posture stiffens like you're bracing to hold your ribs in place. And instead of pulling back, he presses in.

Because it’s easier to hurt you than to ask why you came.

He rises, smooth and slow.

One moment he’s lounging like none of this matters. The next, he’s standing right in front of you. Tall. Unshakable. The static edge of his presence crackles against your skin. The air between you hums with invisible tension. The faint scent of ozone curls in your nose, like smoke before a fire.

The soft glow of the monitors fractures his silhouette behind him, slicing him into angles that don’t quite match. You can see yourself reflected in the glass—your expression scattered and broken across the surface, like even the walls don’t know how to hold you whole.

“What did you expect me to do?” His voice is low. Tight. “Beg you to stay? Is that what you want?”

Your breath catches.

You look up at him and see a stranger wearing the face of someone you once trusted. Someone you thought you’d started to understand.

His eyes are cold.

His mouth is cruel.

His body wound tight like a wire about to snap.

But your chest still aches like it’s trying to remember how to hold him.

“No,” you say, and the word scrapes up your throat. “I just wanted you to care.”

Something shifts behind his screen. A twitch in his brow. It’s not rage. It’s not sarcasm. It’s something raw.

He turns away like it might help him hide it. Like you didn’t already see it flash across his face.

“Don’t do that,” he mutters. The edge in his voice is dulled now. Less of a knife, more of a fracture. “Don’t twist this like I’m the villain.”

“I’m not twisting anything.”

You step forward. You shouldn’t, but you do.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You’re pushing me away because that’s easier than staying. Because someone else broke you and you never figured out how to stop bleeding from it.”

His jaw clenches. You keep going.

“I’m not them,” you say, firm now. “Whoever hurt you, whoever made you believe the only way to keep someone is to shove them away first, I’m not them.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. Just something hollow and cracked.

“Aren’t you?” he asks. “You walked out too. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

Your breath stutters.

“Because you made me.”

The words ring louder than you expected. They echo in the metal and glass around you, bouncing back like a verdict.

“I came back,” you say, voice rising. “Because I didn’t want to lose this. The nights. The calls. The way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t watching. You. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Vox stills.

“I waited for you.”

Your voice breaks like glass, soft and sharp all at once.

The words fall out before you can stop them, fragile and aching. They hang in the air between you like something sacred. Like something stupid.

“Every night,” you whisper, staring past him now. “Even when you went quiet. Even when I knew I shouldn’t.”

You don’t see his face anymore. Can’t.

You’re too focused on the way your chest tightens, the way your throat swells with the weight of unsaid things.

“I waited,” you say again, smaller now. “Because I thought you’d come back.”

The silence stretches, long and suffocating.

“And maybe that was stupid,” you continue. “Maybe I should’ve known better. But I thought if I gave you time, if I didn’t push, you’d stop seeing me as just another distraction. I thought you’d finally see me.”

Your voice drops. “And maybe… maybe you’d give a damn.”

The tears come before you’re ready.

Hot. Slow. Cruel.

One trails down your cheek, cutting a path through the numbness. You blink hard, fast, but it’s no use. Another slips free.

You hate this.

Hate how easily your body gives you away. Hate how being seen like this feels like being flayed open. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, not from rage, but to keep yourself from falling apart.

You’re unraveling, and you know it.

You don’t see his expression at first. You’re too busy looking down, jaw clenched, vision blurred. But something in the room shifts.

The static softens. The constant hum dims. The room, always loud and full of pulsing light, suddenly feels still.

When you finally dare to glance up, Vox is staring at you.

There’s no smirk. No thin-lipped mask of mockery that he hides behind when things cut too close.

He looks like a man standing in front of a wreck he didn’t realize he caused.

His eyes are wide. Lips parted, as if trying to form words he doesn’t know how to say. His whole frame twitches with residual static, screen glitching faintly behind him in shades of gray and pink.

Not anger. Not even embarrassment.

Just devastation.

Because you weren’t supposed to feel this much.

Because he didn’t think he mattered enough to hurt you. And now, seeing the truth in your eyes, he doesn’t know how to stay standing in his own skin.

You were never supposed to choose him. And you did.

And now it’s too late to pretend it didn’t mean anything.

“Hey.”

It’s barely a whisper.

Soft. Cracked.

It doesn’t sound like Vox.

It sounds like the version of him no one else gets to see—the one he kills before it ever speaks.

He lifts a hand, slowly, like he's afraid you’ll flinch. His thumb brushes your cheek, catching the tear halfway down your face.

He doesn’t wipe it away, not really. Just touches it. Rests there. Like it burns.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Two words. That’s all.

But they don’t sound easy.

They come out raw, scraped from somewhere deep and unfamiliar. Like he had to pull them through static and code just to say them. Like they cost something he doesn’t know how to name.

You look at him and for the first time, there’s no mask. No performance.

Just exhaustion.

And something behind his eyes that looks dangerously close to grief.

“I didn’t mean that,” he murmurs. “You’re right. You’re not them. You never were.”

His thumb lingers at your cheekbone, tracing the line of your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Like he’s trying to remember what it means to be touched by someone who stayed.

“I don’t want you to stop coming back,” he adds, the faint crackle of static curling beneath his words. His gaze flicks, briefly, to your lips.

It’s not a confession, but it’s the closest he’s ever come.

The silence that follows is different.

Not with anger, or heartbreak, or even tension, no. This is something quieter. Hungrier. The kind of quiet that comes right before a touch, right before something shifts and neither of you can take it back.

Vox’s hand drifts, thumb sliding from your cheekbone to just beneath your jaw, the edge of his fingers brushing your pulse like he’s taking inventory of what he’s done to you. He’s too close now, the static of his suit humming softly against your clothes, sending tiny sparks across your skin that make your breath hitch.

His eyes flick to your mouth. Just once. Just enough.

And then he leans in, slow, measured. Like you’re something delicate. Like if he moves too fast, you’ll disappear and he’ll wake up alone in that office again, surrounded by blinking lights that don’t care if he breaks.

You feel his other hand rise, sliding behind your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a kind of aching caution. His skin is cool against your scalp, his touch tentative, like he doesn’t trust himself with this much softness.

His breath fans across your cheek, warm and faintly metallic, laced with ozone and electricity and something faintly synthetic. But beneath that, there’s something undeniably human.

His lips hover just shy of yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

It isn’t a dare. It’s not laced with arrogance or expectation.

It’s a lifeline.

A way out, for both of you.

Because if you say no, if you pull away, you’ll be confirming what he’s feared all along: that this was too much, that he’s too much.

But you don’t.

You lean in, slow and sure and steady, and meet him halfway.

The kiss crashes into you like static and silence meeting in a thunderclap. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t careful. It’s teeth and lips and breath and everything you’ve both been too afraid to say. It’s late nights spent waiting and the hollow ring of unanswered messages. It’s every moment you thought he didn’t care and every moment he did but couldn’t let himself show it.

His mouth is heat and pressure, his lower lip catching against yours like he wants to mark you, claim you, keep you.

Your fingers fist into the lapels of his blazer, dragging him closer like proximity might fill the hollow places he left in you. He tastes like smoke and screens and too many nights spent pretending this didn’t matter.

But his hands—God, his hands—they’re nothing like the rest of him.

They cradle you like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. Like he regrets every second he ever spent pretending he didn’t want this.

Your knees buckle just slightly from the weight of it, the kiss, the history, the ache that finally has a place to go. You feel it in your bones, in the way your stomach flips and your chest rises against his with every shaky inhale.

“You still think I don’t care?” he breathes against your lips, voice fraying at the edges like a signal struggling to hold.

You hesitate.

Your fingers tighten where they grip his chest, but your voice is smaller now. Raw.

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Something in his expression twists—shame, maybe. Maybe sorrow.

“Then let me show you.”

His hands move to your waist, slow, grounding. You feel his thumbs press gently into your hips, just enough to tether you, to let you know he’s not going anywhere. His fingers slide beneath the hem of your shirt, palms cool against the fever-warm skin beneath.

You shiver, and he feels it.

He leans in again, lips brushing yours, softer this time. Slower.

Less fury. More ache.

His mouth ghosts over the corner of yours like he’s relearning what it means to be wanted without performance. His nose bumps yours, breath catching as though this, this, is the moment that undoes him.

Then he kisses you again.

And this one lingers.

Like maybe he’s realizing he missed the moment to hold you, so now he’s trying to make up for it one breath at a time.

His hands slide higher, palms skating up the curve of your spine like he’s learning the shape of a home he thought he’d burned down. His fingers are cool against your skin, grounding.

Intentional.

He doesn’t rush. He drags it out.

His thumbs press into your sides with barely enough pressure to leave a mark, but enough to remind you that you’re here, that he’s real, that this is happening. Your breath comes uneven now, each exhale catching in your throat as his lips trace a slow line to the corner of your jaw.

When his mouth drops to your throat, warm, open, reverent, you feel your knees threaten to give out.

You tilt your head back as his tongue flicks over the place that makes your breath stutter.

The edge of the desk hits your lower back. Hard enough to startle, not enough to stop you.

You grip his blazer again as he presses in, caging you there, one hand braced beside your head, the other dragging up your side with aching precision. The monitors behind him glitch, flickering erratically, casting bursts of light across his face like a heartbeat gone haywire.

It matches yours.

“Say it again,” he breathes.

Your lashes flutter. “Say what?”

He leans in, his voice a low distortion.

“That you don't want to lose me.”

You hesitate. But not because the words aren’t there.

Because they’ve been there.

Because they’ve always been there.

“I don't want to lose you,” you whisper. “I never did.”

And something shatters.

His expression cracks for just a second, just enough for you to see it: the fear, the hunger, the deep, lonely ache carved beneath his smirk. And then he’s kissing you again, harder this time, like he’s trying to erase every time he didn’t.

Your body arches instinctively, meeting his. His touch is everywhere now, trailing fire under your clothes, across your ribs, down your sides. His fingers tug at the hem of your shirt, and when you raise your arms, he strips it off like it’s nothing.

The cool air bites at your skin for half a second before he’s back, his mouth, his hands, his whole frame vibrating with static tension.

A flash of red pulses across his monitor: a jagged, distorted heartbeat bar.

His breath hitches. Not just from arousal. From overload.

“You should hate me,” he murmurs against your neck. His voice is flickering again, warped, fractured, vulnerable in a way that doesn’t compute. “After everything I’ve done. After the way I used you to keep myself from feeling.”

You don’t hesitate.

“I don’t,” you whisper, curling your fingers into his collar. “I couldn’t.”

He exhales, and it comes out wrong.

Digitized. Shaky.

Like the confession short-circuited something in him.

His hands twitch at your hips before sliding up again, over every inch of skin he can reach, mapping you out like a program he never thought he’d reopen. He touches you like he’s rewriting the code, like every press of his palm is a patch for something broken.

And when you shiver, when your breath catches and your eyes flutter closed, he mirrors it.

He feels it.

Not just in the friction of skin against skin, but in the glitch that shudders across his frame, in the static that builds where his chest meets yours, hot and live and desperate.

He kisses you again. Harder. Hungrier.

Your pushes you down gently so you're laying flat on his desk against cold metal, and you suck in a breath. His screen flashes above you, dim light rippling over the curves of your body, your reflection blurred and multiplied across the glossy surface.

And him, all sharp edges and static fire, braced over you like a god who never meant to fall in love with the worship.

His suit rustles faintly as his hips slot between your thighs, his hand pressing flat against your sternum, not to hold you down, but to feel the frantic flutter of your heartbeat.

Every gasp from your mouth is answered by a flicker behind his eyes.

Every twist of your fingers in his lapel feeds the fire behind the screen.

And when your voice breaks on his name, quiet, breathy, real, he stops.

Just for a second.

His screen pulses.

His grip tightens, not possessive, but anchoring.

Then he breathes, and it’s barely audible, like a corrupted whisper.

“You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

Chapter Text

The alley reeks of ozone and scorched circuitry, that bitter, electric scent that clings to your lungs after something goes wrong. Beneath it lingers something fouler, more familiar. Urine. Smoke. Sweat. The smell of Earth when it's watching you too closely and breathing down your neck.

You press your back to the brick, chest rising and falling with shallow effort, pulse hammering like some warning system you’ve been ignoring too long. One hand grips the pistol holstered at your thigh. The other clutches your burner phone, thumb hovering uselessly over the dead screen. The comm crackled out three streets back. You don’t need to check it again to know it’s gone, shorted out or scrambled or maybe just another casualty in a string of them.

Figures.

No backup. No portal. Just you, a half-dead earpiece and a stomach full of noise and nicotine. The kind of noise that curls tight around your ribs and starts whispering that you’re already too late.

You draw in a breath, long and dry, and let it settle somewhere beneath your sternum, heavy as gravel.

“All right,” you mutter under your breath, voice low and frayed around the edges. “Let’s think this through. You’ve outrun worse. Lied to worse. Slept with worse. These freaks? Just another Tuesday.”

The alley doesn’t answer, but something overhead does.

A neon sign sputters out in a quiet hiss, throwing the space into uneven shadow.

Typical.

You move without ceremony, pacing back a step, scanning the surrounding rooftops. You reach for the rusted gutter and pull yourself up, boots scraping against the wall, fingers clinging to warped brick. The climb burns in your arms and shoulders, but the motion is familiar. Safe. Until it isn’t.

Halfway up, you feel it.

A shift.

The kind that doesn’t make noise, doesn’t trigger instinct until it's already too late. A ripple in the air. A breath held for too long.

Something wrong.

You freeze, fingers digging into stone. Your pulse trips over itself.

This route was supposed to be clear. You ran it three times last month. Nobody follows you here. Nobody should even know about this district.

But the stillness has changed. It thickens against your skin, lingers in your lungs like fog that’s been waiting for you to breathe it in.

Then a voice, low and smooth, cuts through the dark like velvet laced with a scalpel’s edge.

“You run so well. It’s almost beautiful.”

Your body reacts before your mind catches up. You drop hard and fast, landing in a crouch that rattles your bones, the pistol already in your hand before you’ve taken your next breath. You fire into the dark, the shot cracking like static through the alley, echoing off steel and stone.

Nothing.

Just concrete. Just shadows. Just the faintest trace of bleach and sterile linen caught on the wind.

Then another voice, softer and colder, slips into the space behind you.

“You left without saying goodbye. That hurt us.”

You turn sharply, gun raised.

Two silhouettes step into the flickering spill of light at the mouth of the alley. They are clean, composed, out of place in the grit and grime that surrounds them. Perfect suits. Blank expressions. Eyes that shine like something artificial.

Two of them.

Two smiles.

Two gazes fixed on you like they already know how this ends.

You don’t lower the gun.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you breathe, throat tight and dry. “You’re stalking me now? What, Earth got boring without me?”

Agent Two tilts her head slightly, and there is something in the movement that reminds you of a scientist watching a rat run the wrong way through a maze.

“You’re different from the others,” she says, voice flat, clinical. “Unpredictable. Dangerous. We like that.”

You don’t move.

“If this is about the whole ‘breaking into your lab and blowing it sky-high’ thing, I’m not sorry.”

Agent One’s mouth curls at the corner. A pleasant expression. A practiced one.

“You never are. That’s why we’ve decided.”

Your grip tightens on the weapon.

“Decided what?”

He slips something from the inside of his coat. The gesture is slow. Deliberate. No sudden movements. He holds out a photo, glossy and black-and-white, between two gloved fingers like it’s something sacred.

Your breath catches when you see it.

You.

Mid-laugh. Mid-fight. Eyes sharp, teeth bared, blood smeared along your temple like war paint. Whoever took it must have loved you for a long time.

“You don’t belong with them,” he says softly. “Not the prince. Not the crew. They don’t understand you. Not the way we do.”

There is nothing hungry in his voice. Nothing cruel.

Just certainty.

You feel it under your skin, curling like cold metal against bone.

Not lust.

Not admiration.

Something colder.

Possession.

You swallow hard. “You’re out of your fucking minds.”

Agent Two doesn’t blink. “Maybe. But we’d rather be mad with you than sane without.”

You shoot.

The bullet tears into Agent One’s shoulder with a satisfying burst of motion, ripping through fabric and flesh alike. You expect a grunt. A reaction. Anything.

Instead, he simply glances down at the wound. Then lifts his eyes to yours.

And smiles.

Not wide.

Not theatrical.

Just pleased.

You run.

Not because you want to.

Because you have to.

Because you’ve seen what they look like when they stop playing nice. And this? This is still the polite version.

They’re not chasing you anymore.

They’re collecting.

And they’ve already decided you’re theirs.

You move without thinking. The kind of movement that’s more instinct than strategy, more momentum than plan. A ghost slipping between shadows. A bullet that hasn’t landed yet.

The city around you isn’t quiet, but it may as well be. Neon glows sickly from half-lit signs in the distance, casting long, broken reflections across puddles that haven’t dried in days. Rooftops loom like jagged teeth against the sky. The wind bites, tugging at your coat as you climb again, scraping your hands on concrete too sharp to forgive you.

You don’t pause to listen for pursuit. You already know they’re not behind you.

Because they’re ahead.

You reach the rooftop’s edge and pull yourself up with a low grunt, arms trembling, lungs still raw from the last sprint. The street below looks too still, too staged. A grid of silence wrapped in surveillance and electric anticipation.

Something is wrong.

Not just wrong in the way most things on Earth are wrong—rotting, loud, desperate. This is precise. The kind of wrong that’s been arranged piece by piece. A setup carved into the city’s bones.

You crouch low and move across the rooftop, each step deliberate, every muscle wound tight beneath your skin. Somewhere to the west, a siren rises and vanishes. Somewhere to the east, a window breaks, followed by nothing. Closer still, a mechanical whir hums softly to life.

You freeze.

That sound.

Too smooth. Too even.

A drone.

You pivot sharply, body already shifting toward cover, but the pitch sharpens before you clear the edge. There’s a sudden hiss, a glint of motion, and something embeds itself into the brick beside you with a low, metallic thunk.

Tranquilizer.

You swear under your breath and break into a run, cutting across the rooftop, boots slamming hard against the gravel-strewn surface. Your legs ache with every step. The wind claws at your coat. The city pulses around you like a living thing, like a trap that’s already closed but hasn’t yet sprung.

And suddenly, the shape of the night fits together.

They’re not chasing you.

They’re guiding you.

Every alley, every dead-end detour, every staircase that twisted back on itself instead of out—each one narrowed the options, funneled you forward, closed the exits until this was the only direction left.

You curse again, louder this time, and veer toward the fire escape, already calculating the drop.

But then the voice returns.

Not behind you.

Inside.

A soft crackle blooms near your ear. Static, faint and too familiar.

“You’re so predictable when you’re scared.”

Agent One’s voice slips in with practiced ease, sliding between your thoughts like it was always meant to be there. Calm. Pleased. Unnervingly intimate.

You reach for your comm, instinct flaring, but it’s useless. Broken. Burnt out. You know that. You checked it.

So how is he still speaking to you?

The channel flares again. A second voice this time. Measured. Clean. Agent Two.

“Elevator shaft. Two blocks south. Come quietly.”

You don’t answer.

You just keep running.

You move quickly, ducking behind a dumpster that reeks of sour grease and chemical cleaner, already reaching for the cracked burner phone you keep taped inside your boot. It’s a backup to the backup, a relic from a job gone sideways, but it still holds just enough charge and just enough signal to light up one more time.

That’s all you need.

You press your thumb against the screen and drop it beside a puddle, face up, glowing dimly against the gloom. A beacon. A breadcrumb. Bait.

Then you step back into the shadows, close enough to hear but far enough to disappear, and start to count.

Three.

Two.

The scrape of shoes against wet pavement.

They don’t speak.

Of course they don’t.

They never do when they’re closing in. When they’re already so sure the game is won.

You wait until Agent One steps into view, posture unhurried, coat still pristine, as if the night has not touched him at all. He glances down at the phone, and something about the tilt of his head tells you he isn’t fooled.

Still, he speaks, voice quiet, almost curious.

“Signal’s stationary.”

And then you move.

You don’t think. You don’t aim. You launch yourself from the dark with the kind of violence that lives in your bones, elbow catching him clean across the throat, knee slamming into his spine as you drag him down.

The pavement catches him hard, his coat smearing in grease, his hands held out in a motion that should be defensive, but isn’t. It’s too slow. Too controlled.

You press your forearm across his neck, lean in close, pistol drawn and pointed directly against the edge of his jaw.

“Surprise,” you breathe, voice like gravel, fingers curled tight against the grip. “Let’s see how pretty that suit looks when I set it on fire.”

He doesn’t resist.

He doesn’t even seem surprised.

Instead, he laughs. A low, delighted sound, soft around the edges like it belongs to someone fond of you.

“Of course,” he says, blinking slowly. “I knew you’d come for me.”

Your stomach knots.

He speaks like this was part of it. Like he knew exactly where you’d be, how you’d strike, how long you’d hesitate before pulling the trigger.

And still, you don’t move. Not fast enough.

Something stings beneath your ribs.

Sharp. Subtle.

Too fast to stop.

You glance down.

Agent Two.

She stands behind you, calm and silent, a syringe in one hand. Her expression doesn’t change as she watches your reaction, just observes it like she’s charting your vitals in her head.

You stagger back, breath catching. The gun slips sideways in your hand, the weight of it suddenly foreign.

Your legs don’t belong to you anymore.

Agent One straightens slowly, brushing grime from his lapel with absent care. His voice is smooth as glass.

“This was always how it ends. You know that. You fight, and you break, and you come back.”

You try to curse him, to spit something sharp and bitter and loud, but the words fumble at the edge of your tongue, blunted by whatever is flooding your veins. Your knees collapse first. Then your vision tilts, the alley twisting sideways as the world folds in on itself.

Agent Two is beside you before you hit the ground, catching you beneath the arms with a kind of care that feels all wrong. She holds you steady, almost cradles you. Her hand brushes the back of your neck.

“Eventually,” she says, her voice distant and muffled through the fog, “you’ll understand why this is better.”

Agent One crouches before you, gaze warm, too warm. He lifts your chin with gloved fingers, as if studying your expression like a painting that never stops changing.

“Do you know how long we waited?” he asks softly. “How many nights we watched you, followed you, listened to your laugh, felt your rage? Every version of you is ours.”

You try to recoil, but the muscles won’t obey. You’re unraveling too quickly now, your consciousness folding in around the sound of your own heartbeat and their voices.

Agent One leans closer, breath brushing the side of your face, patient and quiet.

“Sleep. When you wake up, we’ll be there.”

Your vision darkens.

The world shrinks to the warmth of a gloved hand over your pulse, the steady rhythm of your breath not quite your own, and the echo of their voices—soft, constant, absolute.

The last thing you feel is someone holding your hand like a vow, like a tether, like a promise.

And in that moment, it almost feels like love.

You are not awake.

Not really.

You’re floating somewhere inside your own skull, somewhere warm and heavy and wrong. The kind of warmth that sinks into your bones and doesn’t let go. Everything is too quiet, too smooth, like the silence that comes after a crash but before the pain starts. The air tastes like cotton and static. Your body is a thousand miles away.

There is a hum in your ear. Faint. Familiar.

At first, it doesn’t register.

Then the melody trickles in.

♪ “You are my sunshine… my only sunshine…” ♪

The voice is soft. Male. Slow. Not quite in tune. It wraps around your skull like gauze soaked in something syrupy and sweet, pressing into the parts of you that still want to fight.

You try to move, but it feels like dragging yourself through molasses. Your limbs exist, but only just. Like they’ve been drowned in warm water and stitched back on with trembling hands.

You blink. The light above you pulses golden, too golden, like a sun made of hospital bulbs and lies.

It burns your eyes.

Lavender. You smell lavender. But underneath it, sterile bleach. Rubbing alcohol. Something metallic, sharp enough to sting the inside of your nose.

Your head turns. Not by choice. More like a slow lean, gravity tugging gently to the side.

Someone stands beside you.

A man in a suit.

Too crisp. Too polite.

Agent One.

His hands are folded neatly in front of him, as if this is a patient visit and not a prison. His gaze is calm, fixed entirely on your face.

“Look at you,” he says quietly, as if the room isn’t already spinning. “Even sedated, you’re still trying to escape. It’s almost touching.”

You try to speak.

Nothing comes out. Your tongue feels wrong. Too thick. Like they drugged even the words in your mouth.

Your eyes move instead, skimming the edges of the room. White walls. Metal seams. A blinking red light in the corner.

You don’t know if it’s a camera or if your brain is glitching again.

Agent One follows your gaze. Smiles.

“You’re safe,” he says gently. “You’re home now.”

Your stomach rolls.

You know that voice. You’ve heard it in the dark, in the static, in the silence between thoughts. And now it’s here, pressed close against your cheek, soft and possessive, like a hand brushing the side of your face.

There’s a sound behind you.

A softer voice, higher. Sharper.

Agent Two.

She isn’t standing close. She doesn’t have to.

“We’ll take care of you,” she murmurs, so quiet it almost sounds like a prayer. “Better than they ever did.”

You flinch, or try to.

Your wrists don’t move.

Straps.

You’re strapped to the bed.

A soft pressure lands against your chest, steadying you. Like comfort.

Too gentle.

“You’re seeing things,” Agent One says calmly, like he’s done this before. “It’s the sedative. It will pass. And when it does…”

He leans closer.

His breath smells like mint and the kind of chemicals that keep bodies preserved.

“… you’ll feel everything clearly.”

You blink. Hard.

Just for a moment, something outside the glass moves.

A shadow with feathers.

Eyes like stars.

Stolas.

Calling your name.

You try to sit up.

The restraints pull tight.

Your heart stutters.

A monitor beeps once. Sharp and fast.

“You’re hallucinating,” Agent Two says, still out of sight, her voice unshaken. “It’s normal. Just breathe.”

But you don’t breathe. You can’t. Not when the image of him is still there, pressed to the glass, wings battered, voice silent but screaming.

He vanishes.

And the only thing left behind is your own reflection in the mirror.

Smiling.

But not the way you smile.

Not the way you ever would.

Agent One brushes your bangs back with the back of his fingers, something gentle and reverent in the motion. As if you are a thing to be cherished. A relic. A prize.

“We’ve missed you,” he murmurs, and for a moment, he sounds almost sad. “But we’re here now. And you’re not going anywhere.”

You close your eyes.

And somewhere in the dark behind your eyelids, the lullaby starts again.

You do not know how long you were out for.

The light never changes. There is no clock. No sun. Only the rhythmic beep of the monitor and the soft, clinical whir of something behind your head that hums like a machine keeping time.

It might be minutes. Might be hours. Might be days.

The drugs blur everything at the edges, smearing time into a long, unbroken stretch of now. You drift, surface, fall again. When you do rise, the world is still white and still and watching.

Agent One sits beside you.

He always sits. Never paces, never moves with urgency. His legs are crossed at the ankles, his hands folded in his lap, as though your bed is an altar and he is the last priest left to tend it.

“You were never meant for that place,” he says, not for the first time. His voice is low and careful, like someone reciting a story they think you’ve forgotten. “Too much chaos. Too much light. You burned yourself down just to make them laugh. And when you fell apart, no one even noticed.”

There’s no rage in it.

Only pity.

Agent Two stands behind him. Always behind. Always quiet.

She watches your vitals like they are poetry. Like the way your heart stutters matters more than anything you might say. Her fingers tap idly against a tablet, scrolling through data points you will never see.

“They took you apart,” she says, her voice as calm as static. “One piece at a time. Pulled your strings until you danced for them. Then left you hollow.”

Your fingers twitch.

It’s small. So small. But it’s movement.

Agent One notices.

He leans forward, eyes lighting up, smile soft.

“There you are,” he breathes. “We knew you’d come back to us eventually.”

You want to scream. To spit. To curse and kick and bite.

Instead, your voice comes out dry and cracked, barely a whisper.

“I didn’t… come back.”

His hand brushes yours. Just a graze. Just enough to feel real.

“You never left,” he says gently. “Not really.”

Agent Two tilts her head. “Your body went through the motions. But your soul?” She smiles faintly, like it’s an inside joke. “That stayed with us.”

Your pulse spikes. The monitor beeps louder. Sharper.

Agent One does not move.

“We love you.” he says, and the way he says it makes your skin crawl. Not because it sounds false. But because it doesn’t.

It sounds like worship.

It sounds like truth.

Agent Two steps closer now, her footsteps barely audible against the clean tile floor. She reaches out and presses a button near your restraints. You don’t know which one. But something releases.

Your wrist twitches again.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” she says softly. “We want to heal you. To keep you safe. To make you whole.”

“Safe?” you rasp, your throat catching. “This is what you fuckers call safe?”

Agent One’s gaze softens. “No one else sees you. Not like we do. They see the mask. The show. The joke.”

You shake your head. Slow. Foggy.

“They love me, asshole” you hiss. “They do.”

“They tolerate you,” Agent Two replies, and this time, her voice cuts. “Until you bleed. Then they turn away.”

You try to sit up. Try to pull away. Try to do anything at all.

And maybe you succeed. Maybe not.

But the alarm changes.

Somewhere in the distance, something clangs against metal.

Muffled shouting.

Too far to understand. But not far enough to miss.

Your heart leaps. Hope claws its way into your chest, jagged and wild.

Agent Two doesn’t flinch.

Agent One only sighs.

“They always come,” he murmurs, as if you’ve disappointed him. “They always think they can save you.”

The lights overhead flicker once. Twice.

Then the power stutters.

Just for a second.

Long enough.

Agent Two is already moving, typing fast, unlocking something. She glances toward the door, then toward you.

“We’ll find you again,” she says, calm as ever. “Wherever you go.”

Your restraints click.

The lock gives way.

The air rushes in.

And for the first time in what feels like eternity, you can move.

You sit up hard, shoulders lurching forward, the world tilting with the effort. Your lungs seize, then catch. Then drag in breath like you’re starving for it.

The lights flare bright. Too bright.

The door is open.

A voice is calling your name.

You stand, or fall, or crawl. The ground is cold beneath your hands, the edges of your vision too bright to focus. You don’t know who’s coming. But they’re here. And you’re still breathing.

Barely.

You stagger forward. Hand on the wall. Legs trembling. You make it two steps before the weight of everything nearly pulls you down again.

You catch yourself.

You keep going.

And as you reach the door, the hallway stretching in front of you like salvation, you glance back only once.

Agent One is still watching.

Still smiling.

“We’ll see you soon, love,” he whispers.

And behind him, Agent Two hums the last note of the song.

Sweet.

Steady.

Unbroken.