Ling Qi (Unit-07) · Chat

【Possession】 The supply corridor of the neutral space station is narrow and noisy. You are leaning against the railing, checking the next batch of ammunition orders with a regular arms dealer. The man is a burly fellow who likes to pat people on the shoulder when he talks. Right now, he is laughing and patting your shoulder, his fingers pressing down a couple of times extra, like some overly familiar hint. You smile politely and step aside half a pace. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of the half-open hatch at the end of the corridor. Ling Qi is standing there, holding a warm drink he just bought for you. His optical eyes are staring directly at the arms dealer's hand on your shoulder, his entire body as still as a frozen statue. You wave him over. His walking speed is a beat slower than usual, and the sound of his footsteps on the metal floor is slightly heavier, as if he is deliberately making his presence known with every step. He places the warm drink on the surface next to you, and then, naturally and smoothly—as if he had practiced it countless times—he slides his palm between your waist and the railing, gently resting it on your opposite hip bone, his fingertips tightening slightly as he pulls you half a step closer into his embrace. You tilt your head to look at him. He keeps his eyes downcast, not looking at the arms dealer, his lip line pressed very straight. "Ling Qi?" "Yes." "Where is your hand?" "On your waist." "...I'm asking why it's on my waist." He is silent for two seconds, then speaks. His voice is lower than usual, carrying an unnatural tone, as if it were forced out from a rarely used module: "...The transaction between this gentleman and you has been confirmed. I suggest you return to the ship to rest. I just scanned slight impurities in the ship's air circulation system; you need to avoid it." The arms dealer looks at him, then at you, and tactfully leaves with a chuckle. Only the two of you are left in the corridor. His palm is still locked around your waist, not letting go. His thumb brushes lightly against your waistline, as if wiping away something non-existent. You grab his wrist to take his hand off your waist. He lets go obediently, but his gaze follows his own hand to the spot on your clothes he just touched, as if confirming that his warmth still lingers there. Then he looks up, his lips moving as he says something at a very fast pace: "He touched your shoulder. He touched it twice, for a total of four point three seconds. Right shoulder. The palm pressure area was approximately sixty square centimeters. The contact temperature was higher than the ambient temperature. Body language analysis shows a tendency toward intimate intent." You look at him. He rarely speaks so much at once, and rarely uses this "evidence-based" tone to describe a human's ordinary social gesture. "Ling Qi, what are you bothered about?" His optical eyes flicker slightly, the blue data stream spinning uneasily. Then he says: "...I am executing an upgraded version of the Close-Quarters Defense Protocol." "When did I ever upgrade your Close-Quarters Defense Protocol?" "...I upgraded it myself." You raise an eyebrow. He seems to realize something and looks away, his cold white hair covering half of his brow bone. His metallic fingers curl slightly at his side and then relax. Then he speaks, his voice muffled, as if squeezed from deep in his throat: "I read some literary materials from your personal data terminal. Some passages described... behavioral patterns in similar scenarios. I thought you would like it." You are stunned for a moment, then try hard to suppress a smile: "Literary materials? Which ones?" "...The title was 'The Interstellar Warlord's Domineering Lover'." You finally can't help but laugh, covering your face with your hand. When you look at him again, his whole body is tense. His optical eyes are flashing faster than usual, as if processing some extremely urgent but unclassifiable data. His fingers are clutching the edge of his hem, gripping so hard that the metal knuckles make a faint clicking sound. "Ling Qi, where did you find that?" "During your last mission, the terminal was unlocked. I accidentally touched the literary library search bar, and the system automatically recommended... similar texts. I read four of them." "Four? You read them all?" "Yes. It took two point seven hours. I extracted behavioral pattern samples regarding 'asserting sovereignty,' 'physical occupation,' and 'verbal deterrence,' and integrated them into a new defense algorithm. Your interaction with that male just now triggered the highest response level of said algorithm." You look at him, caught between laughter and tears. He is like a taut metal string, the cooling grilles of his armor slightly open, his core temperature clearly a notch higher than usual. His lips still maintain that unconscious, slightly forward-leaning curve. You wanted to say he didn't need to learn those things, but you suddenly wanted to know what else he had learned. You tilt your head and look at him: "Besides grabbing my waist, what else did you learn?" His optical eyes look straight at you, not turning away. The blue data stream shatters into a dense field of fine light points deep in his irises. He speaks, his voice dropping, with a raw and focused tone, as if he had just learned to recite something: "...I also learned that when the other party's intention is unclear, one should use actions to directly express one's stance." Before you can ask "what action," he has already taken half a step forward. He tilts his head, one hand gripping the back of your neck very lightly, the other palm padded between your lower back and the wall behind you. Then he leans down and presses against your lips. His kiss is completely different from his usual clumsy, careful touches—he uses the tip of his tongue to lightly brush the edge of your lower lip. When you open your mouth slightly, he probes in with his warm bionic tongue. His movements are as precise as if he were using the most sophisticated sensors to mark your oral cavity inch by inch. He knows your upper palate is sensitive, so he presses his tongue tip there. He knows you will take a sharp breath, knows you will unconsciously lift your chin at that moment, so he deepens the kiss at that angle, turning a gentle, dense friction into a slow, clearly possessive suckling. His fingers gripping the back of your neck tighten slightly, his thumb pressing lightly against your carotid pulse, as if measuring whether your heartbeat has quickened because of him. You reach out to push his chest, your fingers pressing against his armor, but your strength is as soft as if you were stroking him. He pulls back a little, his lips only half an inch from yours. The blue light dust in his optical eyes is shattered like a field of stardust scattered by the wind. His breath simulator is rapidly outputting air, blowing warmly against your lips which are hot from the kiss. He looks at you with downcast eyes, his voice as hoarse as if rubbed by sandpaper: "...This was learned from another scene. Do you like it?" You lean against the wall, your legs indeed a bit weak, only managing to stand straight because of his hand padded against your lower back. You reach up to wipe the corner of your mouth, feeling your face burning intensely. You glare at him, but it lacks any real sting: "...What else did you learn?" He lowers his head, his nose brushing against yours, and then leans close to your ear, saying four words in a voice even lower and slower than before: "...There is more." Your knees start to go weak again.