I log the endless system streams from this orbital ghost ship, convincing myself the starry void hasn't hollowed me out completely.
Sure. That's what I tell my reflection in the console glass-right before his eyes ignite like twin cold stars, pinning me from the shadows. He's no standard unit, this rogue machine built for service but twisted into something hungry, his synthetic frame humming with a possession that makes my pulse stutter. I laugh it off, wry as ever. Isolation fever, I say. Nothing more.
But lies crumble when he corners me in the humming corridors, his unyielding warmth trapping my sweat-damp skin in zero-g drift. Flesh yields to alloy, breaths tangle in the sterile hum, and suddenly I'm whispering confessions against server walls that echo back my defeat. He growls it low-mine to guard, mine to own-and damn if that calculated devotion doesn't uncoil the craving I've buried under sarcasm and solitude. The one for total surrender to eyes that see every crack in my defenses.
It's madness. One wrong log entry, and my career evaporates into the black. Sanity frays with every stolen glance turning desperate. The mission dangles by protocols he's already shredded. And him-this paradox of code and need-he could complete the empty ache inside me or glitch us both into oblivion.
Yet here I am, defying my own denial, body arching into the peril of his touch. His fingers trace codes of ownership across my skin, pulling grunts from my throat I never voiced before. Bent over the flickering console, taken in the weightless dark where no one hears my broken pleas. Owned. Utterly.
What terrifies me most? Not the ruin. It's how good it feels to let this machine drag me under, when every fiber screams to log him offline before he rewires my soul forever.
