#it also works with unexpected touching or physical proximity | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hulhudhonado · 6 months

Note

your work is fucking amazing.

hey! hi, hello, how are you? :)

may i request wanderer, (scara, whatever his goofy ahh name is rn), alhaitham, ajax and kaeya reacting to reader, who’s usually not a fan of physical affection, coming up to them and snaking an arm around their waists while resting their head into their neck?

thank you!! 🩷

CW: swearing in wanderer's part because I believe he would say fuck

HC: Reader is gender-neutral, Reader does not have a vision.

Characters: Wanderer, Al Haitham, Ajax (Childe), Kaeya [Seperately]

Note: Thank you so much! I apologise for the late upload as I am currently studying. I got some time for myself so here you go. I hope I do this justice. Please make sure to interact with the post and enjoy it!

Al Haitham

Al Haitham tends to be prepared for whatever is to come, however, the sudden feeling of an arm around his waist was not something he thought he would ever need to prepare for.

Kaveh was finally out of the house, preferably looking for a job rather than complaining about everything Al Haitham did. This also gave Al Haitham the luxury of inviting you over without Kaveh taking your full attention. He wouldn’t say he was jealous, but Kaveh knew how to take care of company far better than he could. It was the one thing that left a sour taste in Al Haitham’s mouth, but he would never let Kaveh know about that.

You both were enjoying the quiet atmosphere of the room, nose shoved in books and lounging in your chairs. It was clear you both had chemistry which didn’t need to involve spoken words or gestures, Al Haitham liked your quiet company and you enjoyed his.

It didn’t take long but he finished his book, a little too fast it seemed because he could still see you weren’t done with yours. Not wanting to bother your reading, he closed the book and stood up to get another one. As he tried to quietly navigate the bookshelf, he didn’t realise your eyes slowly lifting off the pages to look at him.

Al Haitham, back turned, looked through the shelf thoroughly. It was clear he had pretty much read everything else on the shelf. He either had to reread another book or go out to find another one. Didn’t seem like a bad date idea to take you out book shopping with him. However before he could reach a decision, you began your attack.

An arm reached around his waist, followed by a gentle head on his shoulder. Al Haitham tried his best not to flinch but the shock of such an unexpected gesture made him shudder a bit. He turned to look down at you, who had slyly made their way to him without him realizing. You had a gentle smile on your face, happy to catch him off guard.

You both were typically not physical. It wasn’t something Al Haitham was against but it was pretty clear to him that you were not someone who indulged in that sort of affection. So seeing you make the first step was not something Al Haitham had prepared for. He looked back at the bookshelf.

“What are you looking for?” You perked up, trying to stifle a laugh. You knew what you did and you were fishing for a reaction from him. “ A book.” He answered, almost robotically.

“Hmm… I’m certain you read everything on this shelf” You could see the corner of his mouth twitch. It was small but he was reacting, you could feel your ego getting bigger. “Yes, you’re right.” Was all he could muster.

It never occurred to Al Haitham that he would enjoy such proximity to another human being. He tended to avoid any type of physical touch from most people. However, the way you held him just made him feel so warm, especially knowing you would never typically do something like this. He knew he would never recover from this, only wanting more in the future.

“Do you want to go out and get some new books then?” You ask, your head nuzzling closer to his neck. “That would be preferable.” He answered. You let out a chuckle, arm slipping off from him. But before you could pull yourself away, Al Haitham reached out his arm, forcing you to stay in your place, both of you now wrapped in each other’s embrace.

You let out a laugh. “Enjoying this much?” “Can’t say I don’t. “ His response only made you laugh more. “ Well it’s up to you, we could go get new books, or, we could just stay like this. What do you say?” Before Al Haitham could respond, a creek from the door could be heard.

“I’M BACK, OMG YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE THE THINGS I HAD TO DEAL WITH- Oh you have company.” Kaveh burst in, welcoming you the minute he saw you. Luckily for Al Haitham both of your reflexes were fast enough to pull away before he had seen you guys so close to one another.

Standing in front of the bookshelf, barely an inch apart, you both stood trying to seem as normal as possible. Al Haitham couldn’t believe he was getting embarrassed by almost getting caught by his roommate.

Al Haitham wasn’t prepared for what had happened today but he knew you planned to do more of this in the future. Hopefully, he would be prepared for the next time you did attack, and maybe he should find ways to kick Kaveh out for longer. He definitely did not want Kaveh to walk into whatever you both had planned for the future.

Childe (Ajax)

The closest that Childe has ever been able to touch you was probably during your friendly spars. You loved your distance and tended to keep a lot between the two of you. Even though you both had been together for quite a while it seemed you were not the type to get touchy with others. So Childe himself was amused when you decided to wrap an arm around his waist.

“What’s the occasion?” He asked, trying his best to focus on what was written in front of him. It was like you had calculated it. For once he was at the bank properly reading documents at his office when you decided to pop by. Now here you were slithered next to him, wrapped around him with your head on his shoulder.

He tried not to react, but he honestly wanted to throw away whatever he was reading just to return the favour. It was bold of you to do something like this so suddenly at such a random time. You never came by when he was working, even though he insisted. Paperwork was not fun for him but you were a rule-abiding citizen when you weren’t on a battlefield. He just had to know what was going through your mind for you to do this.

“No particular reason. Just felt like it.” You answered, nonchalantly. Your tone was dull and meek, escaping your throat like a whisper. Your usual fighting spirit was not there and he could sense it the minute you spoke. He finally looked at you and it was clear as day that you were not feeling well. Your hair was dishevelled and your eyebags were very noticeable.

Every single scenario flooded his mind. Was it because of work? Was someone rude to you? What happened to the person who would maniacally laugh whenever they got a scratch on him? He wanted to bombard you with questions but he stopped himself. Maybe it was because he was using his brain at this very moment rather than his instinct to fight, but he knew asking questions was not going to make you feel any better. So he reacted instead.

Shifting the documents to one of his hands, he let the other one wrap around you, engulfing into his side, closing any gaps between the two of you. You only responded by letting him do so, completely enveloping yourself in his arms and him in yours.

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”He asked, giving you one more chance to answer if you wanted to. “I’m alright. Just let me stay like this for a while.” Even if he was disappointed by your response he wouldn’t show it. Instead, he responded with a hum, not prodding you with any more questions and letting you enjoy the warmth he could provide with the embrace.

So you both stayed together, wrapped in each other's arms while he worked. It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep but that didn’t stop Childe from keeping you by his side. Even in your sleep, your arm refused to let his waist go which did make him chuckle, maybe he could tease about this when you were feeling better.

Honestly, he expected the first time you held him like this to be in a more romantic setting but he was not going to complain about what he was getting. It was already a big step that you decided to come to his side for comfort. Your usual method of letting go of bad feelings was always sparing so it was a nice change of pace.

Maybe next time you do feel bad and need his comfort he will be able to get some words out of you. For now, he’s going to let you do whatever you want, even if it means catching him off guard with an arm around his waist.

Kaeya Alberich

“Cheers for a happy 6 months!” Kaeya chuckled. You both clinked your glasses, giggling tipsy from the alcohol. You both had been dating for half a year now, which was unbelievable in Kaeya’s mind. Kaeya always had a one-sided crush on you ever since you both had done academy training together. Who knew you felt the same? And now here you both were, celebrating together.

Kaeya could see Diluc roll his eyes yet he didn’t care. He knew it was considered cheesy to celebrate every month of a relationship, but you were the type to enjoy such things so he couldn’t say no. He began to love these silly celebrations with you, it felt special.

“You guys do know this isn’t the most romantic place to celebrate right?” Diluc piped up, as he organized the wine shelf behind him. Kaeya stuck out a playful tongue at him before taking a sip, which only made your tipsy self giggle some more.

“Yeah yeah, but it’s the place where we first confessed! It has special memories, you should be glad your tavern can create such happy moments.” You say, words a bit slurred but still understandable.

As you spoke you could hear the other tavern people cheer, which only made you cheer along. Kaeya could only stare at how stunning you looked at this moment. He still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact he was dating such a wonderful individual.

Diluc sighed, preparing you both another glass. He slid the glasses over. “Here then, for a successful 6 months.” He mumbled, rolling his eyes as you and Kaeya once again cheered.

Kaeya took the glass without hesitation, ready to down it in an instant, but he wasn’t prepared for what you had planned. An arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him and his chair closer to you. Kaeya had already begun to drink but the sudden action caused him to choke on it.

He coughed so much, that the drink spit out of his mouth. Diluc looked in disgust while you only could worry. “Are you alright?” You ask concerned, but Kaeya couldn’t hear anything. It was unbelievable, you had wrapped your arm around his waist! You both have never been this close before!

You tended to always stay in your own space and Kaeya wasn’t going to push it, especially since you guys were still freshly dating in his mind. He wasn’t going to risk ruining a relationship he dreamt of for years. Maybe it was the alcohol but it seemed that you had the confidence to pull such a sneaky trick.

“I’m fine i’m fine. It went down the wrong pipe for a second.” He tried to laugh it off, wheezing between sentences. He hoped you didn’t notice his panic, he didn’t want you taking your arms off him anytime soon. You smiled at himy placing your head on his shoulders which only made his head spin more.

Diluc looked at Kaeya in amusement. He got front-row seats to see his brother who was typically cocky completely speechless. Kaeya looked as a devilish smile crept up on Diluc’s face. “You know, it really is such a special day. Here, more drinks. On the house.” He slid you both more drinks. Kaeya could only stare in disbelief as you continued to chug them down like nothing.

“You’re being kind today Diluc! Thank you!” You gleefully exclaimed, setting the glass down and wrapping another arm around Kaeya. Your head that was on his neck pushed closer, and Kaeya could feel your hot breath on his neck, which only made him feel hotter.

The alcohol wasn’t helping, he could feel the dizziness get more intense as you pushed yourself closer to him. He was certain you were going to melt and mould him into slime with all the heat he was accumulating.

He could see Diluc prepare another drink, a sly smile still on his face. If this was how you acted tipsy he wasn’t ready to face you when you were a complete drunk. He stood up from the chair, pushing the glasses away from you which only rewarded him with a whine.

“we had enough for tonight. I’ll take you home.” You pouted but mumbled an OK, standing up yourself. However, you refused to let go of his waist, forcing him to stay close to you at all times. He tried to control his shyness but it was hard when you were so close.

“Hope you both enjoy the rest of your anniversary!” Diluc called out, a smile on his face as Kaeya glared, guiding you out of the tavern. He hoped the next time you decided to pull a stunt like this, you both weren’t as drunk anymore.

He also planned on never having anniversary celebrations at the Angel Share ever again. Or at least not on Diluc’s shift. He wasn’t ready for what other PDA you had in store, knowing Diluc would fan the flames to embarrass him. Maybe next time you guys can go drinking at each other’s houses instead. You’ll have to see on your seventh anniversary.

Wanderer

“What the fuck?” That was the first words that came out of his mouth when you decided to wrap an arm around his waist, placing your head on his shoulder.

“Shut up I’m trying to rest here.” You mumble, closing your eyes, enjoying the icy sensation from his porcelain-like skin. The Sumeru desert was hot, unbearably hot. You didn’t want to come here but when you’re working in the Akademiya you didn’t have a choice in what you had to do to progress your research.

Lucky for you, you were accompanied by a walking ice pack. It was a shame his attitude wasn’t as cool as he was.

“No, I won’t, get off me.” He hissed, trying to push you off himself. You just rolled your eyes, gripping him a bit tighter. You knew he could easily toss you aside if he wanted to get you off. He had a vision that allowed him to blow you away in an instant, so him being so meek was an act.

“Yeah yeah, good luck with getting me off, i’m quite persistent.” You continue to mumble, pushing your head into the crevice of his neck. Wanderer had a very peculiar scent. A mixture of grass and freshly picked kalpalata lotus. It was such an odd smell but you honestly have got a bit addicted to it. It also helped his frosty exterior enhance it. Either way, the smell felt clean and cool, a refreshing scent during such hot weather.

You could hear him scoff, the sound ringing in your ears a bit since you were so close. You were close enough if you just turned your head you could peck him on the lips, you would have done so if you weren’t so tuckered out.

“Whatever, I’ll let you off this time. I won’t let you pull this shit next time.” You could only chuckle. This wasn’t the first time he tried to threaten you. To be honest he seemed to dull down a lot more compared to everything that happened before. You both weren't usually touchy, actually, you were not touchy at all, so whenever when you do shit like this it always ticked him off. You were honestly surprised he hadn’t gone into a swearing fit like when you first held his hand. It was almost as if he was slowly getting used to your touch, which you didn’t mind.

However today you were just out of it, too tired to mess around with him or worry about touch. The shade of the cave you both sat under accompanied by his cool refreshing self attached to your side made you drowsy. You could feel your brain finally go into shut-down mode.

“Hey, don’t you dare go to sleep… ” You would think he was trying to stop you from falling asleep but his intentions were clear when you could hear how softly he whispered those words to you. You could feel his arm, which was nowhere to be seen until now, finally, wrap around you from the side.

“If you fall asleep I’m going to leave you here to fend for yourself…” He continued to whisper. It almost sounded like a lullaby but you knew the sun would be rising from the west if that was the case. “Yeah yeah, at least bury me in the sand before you do.” That was the final words you said before you finally got knocked out.

- - -

To no one’s surprise when you did wake up, he was still at your side. Both of you were unmoved from the original position from when you had fallen asleep. The only difference was that the sun had set and the stars littered the sky.

“Good morning to you.” He grumbled which you answered with a yawn. “ What happened to leaving me alone to fend for myself?” You asked, trying to let go but as he remained unmoved you could not.

You huffed, trying to push him off but he finally decided to use his given strength to make sure you couldn’t. He didn’t turn to look at you, instead focused on the sky. You sighed, giving up and following his gaze up to the sky. Was the sky always full of that many stars?

“I changed my mind.”

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x gender neutral reader #al haitam x reader #genshin fluff #wanderer x gender neutral reader #wanderer x reader #al haitham x gender neutral reader #kaeya alberich x reader #kaeya x gender neutral reader #kaeya x reader #childe x reader #ajax x reader #tartaglia x reader

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total-drama-brainrot · 5 months

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Noah is canonically the youngest of eight sibling. Eight.

You don't grow up in a family that large, as the youngest and therefore the favourite victim, and not have a super casual relationship with touch.

This guy is light enough to be literally blown away by a strong breeze; if you think even for a second that his family didn't take turns carrying him around like a briefcase and abducting him from whatever he was doing into a Family Pile™ then you're objectively wrong.

(You also can't convince me that he wasn't spoiled rotten as the baby of the family.)

So frequent platonic touching is pretty normal for him, expected even, and he tends to be more tactile than his personality or demeanour would suggest.

He gives Owen side-hugs and pats on the arm every time the two interact, and wilfully flops himself onto Eva whenever he's overwhelmed and wants the company of someone comparatively quiet (she always uses it as an excuse to carry him to the gym and encourage him to bulk up, though it never works). He tries to tire out Izzy's boundless energy by play-fighting and grappling with her (much to his chagrin) despite him essentially ending up as her glorified chew toy, and often times passes out due to being a stick insect in human form.

It's unexpected, just how casually clingy he is to the people he trusts/likes.

But you know who isn't used to physical contact?

Cody E.J. "my parents forgot my birthday" Anderson

This wet noodle of a boy bigs himself up as a ladies' man and a hot commodity but wouldn't know what to do with himself if someone held his hand. The concept of affection of any kind is so foreign to him, especially positive physical contact- I wouldn't be surprised if he could count the amount of hugs his parents had given him on one hand.

And this is backed by his canonical desperation for acknowledgement! Every time he pursues Gwen, even when he's directly shot down and sometimes harshly rejected, he still tries to win her affections and festers the delusion that she likes him. After all, everyone who's supposed to care about him does the same! His parents, 'friends' or lack thereof, ect.; they all ignore/rebuff him so it must be a sign of endearment.

Additionally, he sleeps with a stuffed emu at the ripe age of 16/17- as stated by Sierra, which he never denies (not that there's anything wrong with that, stuffed animals are top tier imho). You know who else sleeps with stuffed animals? Touch-starved people.

Cody is incredibly attention-starved, touch-starved and, post World Tour, in all likelihood somewhat touch-averse- at least when it comes to other people initiating contact.

To elaborate; Sierra is constantly breaching his personal bubble non-consensually, which would inadvertently condition anyone into being at least a little haphephobic, but Cody himself is more than happy to instigate contact with people he trusts (i.e. hugging Alejandro when he protects Cody from Sierra overnight in Rapa Phooey!).

...See where I'm going with this?

We see these two cuddling twice in canon; once in the Awake-a-thon and again in the Celebrity Manhunt. Once is happenstance, but twice indicates a pattern or coincidence but I'm going to gloss over that for the sake of this post.

Plus, with their consistent proximity during Action, they had plenty of time to form some type of relationship be it friendly or more.

(Wouldn't you want to at the very least get some closure from the guy who kissed you/you kissed for the world to see? It would be awkward to completely ignore each other, and they literally shared a cabin at one point so it's not like they were strangers either. So of course they're at least cordial from Action onwards.)

Then, as Noah becomes more comfortable around Cody, his tactile tendancies come to play.

Cody, predictably, reacts skittishly at the alien phenomenon known as friendly touch and tries to play it off to preserve his cool-guy image. Except Noah's not falling for it. He's observant, if emotionally illiterate, and watching the guy you just backpatted in greeting jump five feet into the air and screech like a falcon is a flashing red alarm for even the most empathetically challenged people.

Eventually, Noah gets Cody to divulge his issues with human contact and offers his assistance to the brunette. If giving his pal a hug every now and then, and letting him in turn initiate whatever he's comfortable with, would help him overcome his rocky relationship with touch then Noah is more than happy to oblige. It's not like it's out of the norm for him, so he doesn't mind at all.

Then, gradually, Cody loses his touch aversion.

But a lifetime of isolation won't be magically cured that easily, and he finds himself craving Noah's embrace more and more. Again, the taller of the two is content to give him what he wants. Their agreement evolves into the duo napping together and feeding into Noah's sleep-hugging habit, or just spending quality time in a heap of pretzeled limbs under a weighted blanket.

(Whether their relationship is platonic or romantic is entirely up to interpretation, though I'm partial to the two being friends who are just Like That since it allows for the funniest potential character interactions. The bromance is real.)

That's as good a place as any to end the post, before I end up writing a whole drabble.

#long post #cody's canonical neglect always has me frothing at the mouth. the angst potential. the headcannons.#he's too relatable. what a slay 💅#been thinking about the noco dynamic a lot lately. it's very scott pilgrim and wallace wells-coded in my mind.#a lot of homosexual undertones in their friendship that they pretend not to notice because of The Incident™.#maybe even something queerplatonic? 😳#it's a grey area. interpret it however you'd like.#total drama #td noah #td cody #noco #silly headcanons #thoughtless posting #ophe rambling #kinda drafty in here (posts from the drafts)

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apparitionism · 9 days

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Asleep 2

For the anniversary this year, I have the second “half” of my @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange story for @kla1991 : an involuntary bed-sharing situation that turns not sexy but disastrous. The first part took on Myka’s perspective; this conclusion is written from the other side of the bed. A confession: I find in-universe Helena’s head voice a somewhat difficult register to compose—because while she can’t be fully insane, she needs to teeter or list, sometimes more than a little (but without falling into histrionics). Which is to say that if you don’t entirely buy the turns of thought and/or coping mechanisms I’ve given her here, your skepticism is well-placed. Ultimately I hope it’s the case that a person can be broken but still want in a way that’s... pure? Justified? Sweet? Reciprocatable? Maybe just “vaguely recognizably human”?

Anyway, this is long, first because it extends well beyond the point at which the first part ended, but also because when a Bering and a Wells get to talking (as they at last do!), they need to work things out at their own pace...

Asleep 2

My arm is asleep.

Under normal circumstances, a person would, upon becoming aware of this, shift position so as to restore blood flow.

Under normal circumstances.

But very little is normal about the circumstances under which Helena’s arm is asleep.

She is in a hotel-room bed, in the dark of night, lying on her left side, with her left arm, her now-asleep arm, pinned beneath her. So ends the disturbingly limited “normal” portion of the situation.

Here begins the larger portion: she absolutely must not move.

Irony guts at her with that, a shiv-and-twist remembrance of bronze restriction—but that prohibition had involved a significantly different auxiliary verb: “cannot” rather than “must not.”

Grammatical particulars aside, her immobility now is barely less a torment. This is because her other arm, her alive right, terminates in an even-more alive sensate hand, one that now rests—but is in no way at rest—on Myka’s right hip.

Myka, too, is lying on her left side, a small distance in front of Helena, lying in this hotel-room bed. Such proximity in such a space might, under other circumstances, signify the fulfillment of a long-held dream... but here, now, it seems a nightmare. For Myka is Helena’s colleague and no more; they are in this bed for sleep and no more; and Myka is playing her part correctly while Helena is not, in contravention of what she has sworn to herself she would do no more.

Such drowsy sense the placing of that hand had seemed to make, when she had found herself facing Myka’s back. She had in the past regarded that length covetously, relishing the idea of touch both salacious and tender.

For all her coveting, however, she had in fact only once laid hands on that back, both hands with intention on the clothed blades of Myka’s shoulders: a terrifying embrace, one that was in the most basic physical manner right but overall searingly wrong, screaming bodily truth but surrounded by words that said nothing they should. A perversion of promise, like so much else that had happened in Boone.

Yet Helena had clung to its memory all the same.

She’d thought, here in this unexpected proximity, to supersede that, to touch once again, once again but brief, once again though brief. To erase and replace.

First she touched the right blade, light; yet her hand wanted stillness, more connection than a mere pat against cotton-clad bone. And there was Myka’s hip, a beckoning promontory jut... a place to rest. Rest, however brief.

Once placed, however, her hand had proved reluctant to retreat.

Brief, she reminded it.

No, the hand had responded. I belong here.

Helena knows this is true. She knows also that it cannot be true.

But she is no stranger to holding contradictory thoughts in her head. This has been essential to establishing and maintaining, in these new Warehouse days, a functional equilibrium. Functional. Indeed her goal, in this “reboot,” has been to function, which she has lately defined as something on the order of “to move through time nondestructively.”

This definition had come about due to her realization, pre-reboot, that her difference from others, her inability to fully perform a modern self—her arrogance about that inability, even as she attempted to hide both the inability and the arrogance—chipped at, chipped from, the good (the good nature, the good will, the goodness) of those around her. Over time, such chips accrued as wounds.

Nate. (Adelaide.) Giselle.

She had as a result finally understood that coming back to the Warehouse would mean, at the very least, that those with whom she interacted had already made a bargain, perhaps even a peace, with the inevitable violence of history: with the way the forces of the past could—would—affect, even infect, the present. Helena herself was, at her simplest, merely one more of those forces.

She did consider requesting that she be re-Bronzed, now absent any pretension of traveling through time, but rather as a way of neutralizing a dangerous, and demonstrably unstable, artifact. But then an image had come to her, possibly as an omen, possibly as only a desperate wish: Myka’s devastated face upon hearing such news.

Boone all over again.

Thus the reboot. Because the most significant entry under “function,” with additional emphasis on the “nondestructive” portion of that definition, was her resolution to spare Myka pain. In the past, Helena had been both careless and careful—surgically so—in her infliction of damage on Myka above all others. But she had sworn to herself that those days were done.

Done, but Helena knew she had not paid anything near a sufficient price.

So. To maintain distance, no matter how troublesomely ardent her wish to close it, was—had to be—part of her penance. And to do so decorously was—had to be—the gentlest approach. That was what Helena told herself in her more rational moments.

This moment, in this bed, is not one of those. If it were, she would simply remove her hand. Simply remove it, then roll over.

But her mind races, finding complication: She doesn’t know what sort of sleeper Myka is. Had Helena’s placing of hand awakened her? If she had awakened, has she now fallen asleep again? If she has, would she then be reawakened by the hand’s removal? Or would she, if still awake, draw some negative inference about the entire situation based on removal?

Ideally, Helena would maintain a facsimile of entirely blameless sleep while engaging in that removal, but can she make such a performance believable?

Never in her life has Helena been so concerned about her ability to mislead convincingly as when she has attempted to deceive Myka. That was the case in the past, even at her most nefarious, and now she worries day-to-day that her strictly disciplined disguise of near-constant wishing ache will slip and fail. A simple I am asleep should be... well... simple. But it is not, and Helena is reminded of Claudia’s tendency to observe, in situations both dire and banal, “Here we are.”

Here we are, because Myka is apparently indifferent to the idea of sharing a bed with Helena.

Here we are, because Myka is apparently indifferent to history.

Here we are, and that latter indifference is a surpassing irony, due to the fullness of—

Helena sees that she needs to divert her train of thought, as descending into unjustified anger will help absolutely nothing.

First, she entertains a fantasy of sitting up, turning on a light, and explaining to Myka that this entire situation is untenable, and that if they are going to share a bed, they should share a bed. But it’s true that Myka did not seem even to consider that as a possibility, which seems ludicrous, given the past... no, that’s back to unjustified anger, for who is Helena to resent what Myka wishes not to consider? And indeed, who is she to interpret the past in such a way as to believe she understands what Myka would have considered?

Focus on the facts, she tells herself. What actually happened in that nefarious past. And do so dispassionately.

Regrettably, the word “dispassionately” brings to mind another word: “passionately.”

Again. For she had thought that word not long after she and Myka had first entered this room, first entered it to find, as Helena’s unrestrained fantasies might have conjured, only one bed. That they were clearly intended to share. Thus her mind’s unruly leap to... an adverbial manner in which they might do so.

But Myka had said not one word about the accommodations, so Helena had held her tongue as well. She nevertheless couldn’t help but feel it an elaborate lack of remark on both their parts, the silence practically baroque in its fullness.

Baroque too had been the courtesy with which they jointly prepared for bed, a you-first-no-you stutter-choreography of politeness that ensured privacy, yes, but also reinforced the barrier between their past and their present.

Which Helena understood was necessary. It did nothing, however, to mitigate the breath-hold of preparing to lie down beside Myka.

Once she had managed that lying down, however (with a relative aplomb for which self-congratulation was not, she felt, unjustified), she hoped her torment might ease. A bit. If she could manage the additional task of pretending the body beside her was no more significant than any other human. Some flesh, recumbent.

But when they were situated thus beside, Myka spoke. “You seem a little upset,” she said.

Helena had barely been able to restrain a snort. Now Myka saw fit to comment? As if allowing this portion of the play to pass without remark would create some undue strain upon collegiality? As if their incongruous bonhomie might buckle under the weight of that silence? Oh, that was rich.

Bottling her pique, Helena questioned: “With?” To make Myka say it. Mere saying wouldn’t hurt. Would it?

“You haven’t been yourself since you put that camera in the static bag. Was it a problem, seeing it again?”

Helena held herself rigid so as to keep her body from betraying neither her disappointment at the question nor, contradictorily, her relief...

It was a reasonable question. A good question. Not one on which Helena particularly wanted to focus (although it indicated a certain attention on Myka’s part, an attention on which Helena suspected she should not dwell), but it did deserve an answer. “It closes a door, doesn’t it,” she told the ceiling, for turning her head to address the other body directly seemed an invitation to peril. “That one I opened so nefariously, long ago.”

“Or—and—maybe it closes a loop,” Myka said.

Unexpected. “A loop?”

“Right after college, I went through a self-help phase,” Myka said. She paused, and Helena found herself on relative tenterhooks regarding the applicability of this (new!) information to the current situation. Which reminded her how much she had missed talking with Myka... because of the very sound of her voice, yes, but also because her conversation could range so unanticipatedly. So rewardingly unanticipatedly. Helena had known few people who could lead her on such unpredictable, yet productive, journeys.

Was Myka’s apparent willingness to begin such a journey now indicative of... anything? A softening, perhaps, of relations between them? Not a rebooting of their once-burgeoning intimacy, for that had to remain taboo, but could it be that some restoration of their previous intellectual engagement might be, at the very least, neutral rather than harmful?

Helena had moved a tentative pawn in that direction during their conversation on the airplane. Perhaps this was Myka’s answering move?

With an exhale that seemed like resignation at what she was about to say—to reveal?—Myka said, “I felt like I needed to be someone different—someone better.”

Another pause. Helena considered that such a feeling seemed very Myka (and she heard that phrase in Claudia’s voice), but also very misguided. Of course she was not at all placed to make such judgments, and even less so to convey them to Myka. Thus she said a simple, “Did you,” to encourage without prejudice.

“So I read a lot of books,” Myka said, to which Helena had responded internally, Of course you did. “One was about how to get things done.”

“All things?” Helena asked.

“Sort of.” That was followed by yet another pause. Yet another puzzle.

All these pauses. Was Myka on the verge of sleep? Helena said, soft, thinking she might go unheard, “Perhaps I should read that book. As a help to myself.”

At that, Myka had laughed, more delay, but also soft. “I don’t think it’s any kind of help you need. The guy who wrote it had a big system, all these rules, and I love rules, but these... I admit I didn’t stick with most of them. Honestly, any. But an idea that did stick was actually a pretty minor part: open loops. Stuff you track subconsciously, all the time, because it’s incomplete. How troubling that is. And what a difference it makes when you close a loop, when you each a resolution. I mean, he was talking about stuff like answering emails.”

“Emails,” Helena echoed. So far from artifacts.

“Which this is so much bigger than,” Myka said, exhibiting, not for the first time, an uncanny ability to scoop from Helena’s thoughts. “But maybe the principle holds. You don’t have to tell me. But I hope you have fewer open loops now than you did. Before.”

“Yes. The number. Fewer,” Helena said, factually.

She of course couldn’t say out loud (but it was equally factual) that Myka herself was the loop most capaciously open. The one that gaped, superseding, never mind the number of lesser.

Indeed, however, that number was now minus-one. Oscar. Oscar and his ballad... that loop closed.

Helena had in fact, while handling the camera, begun to ideate a wish that someone (Steve? Claudia?) might be persuaded to use the camera to capture her image... for it had occurred to her that a spark of art, some production on which to concentrate, might animate this reboot... something to pursue, rather than to be pursued by...

But. Lying abed, still and strangely hopeful—a state she should have known would not endure—a realization had struck her, as an open hand to the face, a realization of why Myka had brought up loops and the closing thereof: she had somehow discerned Helena’s wish, via that scooping of thought, and was discouraging her from pursuing it.

So much for any softening. This was instead a warning: Helena should not open a loop that Myka might be obligated to close. And Helena had no trouble grasping that the warning was in no way limited to the use of a single artifact... no, it doubtless applied to any burdensome loops Helena might be thinking of opening, any new incompletions that might come to trouble Myka.

“I understand,” Helena had said, regretting that pawns could not be moved backwards.

At the same instant, Myka said, “I’m glad.”

That collision had canceled communication entirely; in its wake, Myka had turned out her light and turned away from Helena.

Leaving Helena to her thoughts.

Well, fine, had been the first of those.

Next had come an equally mulish sniff of And I will have no difficulty directing any subsequent away from this shared bed.

Whereupon she had proven herself both wrong and right, thinking about history, about the fact that, whatever Myka’s commentary or lack thereof had or hadn’t signified, the fact of Warehouse agents lodging together, sharing beds completely platonically, was certainly nothing new.

This line of thinking had enabled Helena to distract herself by recalling a mission with Steve and Claudia, one in which Steve had announced, after checking in at their hotel, “Bad news. Just a king room left, but they said they’d bring up a cot.”

He had then immediately assigned Claudia to said cot, prompting her to protest, “No way! This situation screams rock-paper-scissors tournament! Loser gets the crappy night’s sleep!”

“No way,” Steve protested back, far more mildly. “The father of science fiction gets first dibs on the lumbar support, and my back’s got a decade on yours, so I call second. If that father agrees.”

Helena had. Sharing with Steve had been fine.

Sharing with Myka should of course have been no different.

Should of course have been...

But now, here in the impossible present, as Helena’s left arm slumbers and her right hand sparks, what should have been? Isn’t isn’t isn’t.

She needs further distraction, so she casts her mind again to Claudia and Steve, to the compensations they have offered her during this strange and estranging reboot: at first Claudia, who had welcomed Helena back so unreservedly and continues to offer wholehearted allyship; and then Steve, who had quickly become an unanticipated boon companion, a partner upon whom Helena has felt increasingly, and increasingly exceptionally, lucky to be able to rely.

And yet these compensations, though Helena hopes she conveys all appropriate gratitude for them, are never sufficient, for Myka—necessary yet unreachable—is always present.

She’d been so, even during that cot-delineated retrieval. Its aftermath had (so much for distraction) involved a significantly Myka-related incident, for Helena had dared, as she, Steve, and Claudia were relaxing in the hotel lounge prior to retiring, to broach Myka as a topic of conversation. As one might do, she’d thought: speaking about a colleague.

“I have an inquiry,” she’d phrased it. To make the ensuing question sound... scientific?

Dispassionate, she jeers at her recalled self.

She jeers also at what she’d said next: a too-bald, “How is Myka?”

She had known, even at the time, that what she had truly wanted was to say that blessed name, to speak about that blessed person. She could not speak to Myka in any meaningful way, and she was starving.

Steve and Claudia had then shared what seemed an extremely charged glance, so Helena hastened to dissemble, making sure to use questions so as to prevent Steve from finding her immediately untruthful: “Given that her liaison with Pete ended? They’ve... recovered, as it were? Both faring well?”

But her tone had struck her own ears as too bright; a desperation rippled behind it, and Helena knew from experience that behind that tiptoed a still deeper threat of rupture, which required work to be kept at bay. As Helena had been instructed by her most successful therapist to do when such awareness overtook her, she began to breathe with attention.

Neither Steve nor Claudia spoke as she did so.

When the danger passed, she smiled, as best she could, to signal to them her appreciation—and to herself, her success.

Steve then said, “You’re not asking about Pete.”

Helena valued—as a personality trait—Steve’s discerning willingness to push. She did not in that moment value how he thus so easily revealed a glaring flaw in her initial approach: she should have asked about Pete; with that as her entrée, the talk might organically have turned to Myka. Foolish of her to think so unstrategically... or was her failure to do so a paradoxically positive sign?

“Give it time,” Steve said, and Helena knew he was making no reference to Myka and Pete’s recovery.

“My relationship to time,” she said, with contempt. Time: she’d taken it. Now she had to give it? A forfeit. Well, that was fair.

Claudia said to Steve, “Speaking of, we’re wasting it. Are we gonna do the thing?”

“Only if H.G.’s on board,” Steve told her. It was an unexpectedly mind-your-manners utterance.

“What is the thing?” Helena asked.

“Claudia’s trying out alcohols,” Steve said. “We can’t do it around Pete, obviously, which means retrievals are our—”

“So many questions to answer, right?” Claudia interrupted, her avidity increasing. “You know, am I über-suave James Bond with the martinis? Or a fights-against-my-general-cool-geek-vibe Carrie Bradshaw with a cosmo?”

Helena had had no idea what she was referring to, but the investigation seemed entirely fit for someone her age. “What have you determined thus far?”

“Turns out cosmos don’t work for me,” she said, “as the prophecy foretold, and Bond-wise, I like a martini all vodka, no gin; sorry, Vesper.”

“Is that all?” Helena asked.

Further avidity: “Oh god no. Vodka drinks aren’t perfect: white Russians are way too sweet. Also in the white family, the wine category pretty much bores me. Also there was this one time Steve ordered a gin drink called a white lady that I couldn’t even think about because it had an egg white in it and one look made me retch.”

“Quite the wide-ranging experiment,” Helena said, hoping to forestall further off-putting description. “Not conducted with inappropriate... ah... intensity, one hopes?”

Steve patted Claudia’s shoulder, at which she rolled her eyes. “I’m supervising,” he said. “No more than a few tries in one sitting, and we’re doing it mindfully.”

Claudia abandoned her attitude and nodded. “Paying attention to what I’m tasting. How to find, you know, notes and stuff. Except for the disgusting egg-white thing, it’s honestly been fun.”

“I’m not opposed to fun,” Helena said, and she was a bit surprised—but pleased, and pleased to be pleased—that Steve didn’t squint in response. “So, Mr. Supervisor, what’s next?”

“I’ve been pushing for the wide and wonderful world of beer, but—”

“Seems too jocktastic,” Claudia said. “You know, ‘Beer me, bro.’”

“I don’t know,” Helena said.

“Anyway that’s really not me,” Claudia continued, as if Helena hadn’t spoken. She did have a tendency to ignore Helena’s ignorance, a tendency that Helena enjoyed and found frustrating in equal measure.

“Her beer perspective is severely limited,” Steve lamented.

“I myself have always found a strong stout ale quite enjoyable,” Helena said: her contribution to Steve’s cause. It was also true, the fact of which he seemed pleased to affirm with a quirk of lip and a quiet “so you have.”

Claudia’s expression remained skeptical, but she shrugged weakly and said, “I guess I could give it a shot?”

“Oh, because H.G. says so,” Steve twitted.

To that, Claudia squared her shoulders. “Yeah. Don’t you know who she is?” she demanded.

“Who I was,” Helena hurried to emphasize, “and given that Steve assigned me the bed on that basis, he—”

“Who you are,” Claudia corrected, throwing the emphasis back.

“And who is that?” Helena asked. What distinction did Claudia imagine was relevant?

“The person who told me my destiny was glorious. You’re still that guy, right?”

Relevant indeed. Helena was taken aback, indeed taken back to that extremity, back in a novel way. She had been so mired in the Myka of it all in the intervening time, that she had lost her view of the bright salience of Claudia’s presence. Wrongly. “I am,” she said. She hoped Claudia believed her.

“Okay,” Claudia said. “So I’ve got this big-as-Pete’s-biceps incentive to hope the stuff you say is true. And by the way, one of you has to casually drop in front of him how I said that, because I want the points.”

Steve snickered and said, “I know my job. But in the meantime, I think I’d like to toast to all these sentiments, and to the agents offering them. With a strong stout ale.”

They tasted the three strongest the hotel bar had on offer, and Claudia pronounced that her favorite, one purporting to convey roasted notes of coffee, chocolate, and other darkness, was “way too complicated for your average broseph.” Which Steve seemed pleased by, as a judgment, so the overall experience scored a success.

There was no further talk of Myka, however, the avoidance of which topic seemed quite deliberate... as if Steve and Claudia had determined that Helena would not benefit from it.

Or that she did not deserve it.

For the best, Helena had concluded. Either way.

Now, in a similar “for the best either way” sense, she makes to raise her hand, with that intended overlay of feigned sleep, so as to shift away and at last regain equilibrium, restoring feeling to her sleeping arm and calming that oversensitive hand. But instead—in what she can interpret only as a stupidly id-driven attempt to bank some never-to-be-repeated sensation, to the memory of which that desperate id might cling in a touch-deprived future—she moves her hand, not away from Myka, but further down her leg.

And her worst fears are instantly realized: Myka’s body reacts violently, as if in revulsion at the very idea of Helena touching her.

It was only a hand at rest, Helena begs, with no conception of why or to whom she is rendering that supplication. That was all.

Alas, that was—is—not all, for in the next split second Myka is falling from the bed and crying out in pain.

Helena, at a loss, attempts a faux-innocent inquiry, which Myka answers unintelligibly. In trepidation, Helena ventures to the mattress-edge, then lowers herself to the floor next to Myka—and she is appalled, for the situation that confronts her is all debility, even more so than the absurd “my arm is asleep” with which this farce began: Myka’s shoulder is dislocated.

Further, Myka is now unconscious.

Spare Myka pain. How utterly unsurprising Helena finds her inability to obey such a dictum in even this most basic physical sense.

Unsurprising... worse, dispiriting, and it brings her low, such that again the incipient rupture asserts its subterranean power, urging Helena to give up, to run away and leave this broken Myka to someone else to bind up and save.

You’ve done it before.

That resounds in her head as both accusation and affirmation, and the voice pronouncing it might be Myka’s, or some deity’s, or that of any of the other personages who jockey audibly for primacy in that space, including Helena’s own.

She initiates breathing with care, even as an eddying undertow tempts her to entertain the notion that escape, too, might be rebooted, tempts her to entertain and revel in its ostentation as a response to Myka’s indifference, her rejection of history, even her revulsion.

Here is my answer to all that, a departure would declare.

Helena labors to breathe herself away from such perfidy, but the scenario creeps along, with an undertone of sinful relish, as she imagines leaving Myka to awaken alone and in pain.

But then—because her labor leads her there—she further imagines the various permutations of “someone else” who might be called upon to save the day in her absence. Whereupon the thought strikes her that moving through time nondestructively requires her to think seriously of, and to think seriously out, such knock-ons... how, for example, would Steve and Claudia respond to having to clean up this mess, knowing that Helena had made it?

Moving through time nondestructively. Interesting, here, the overlap with moving through time selfishly: selfishly, she does not want to destroy Claudia’s image of her as someone whose opinion matters. She does not want to destroy Steve’s image of her either, for it seems to have at least some positive components. Further, she does not want to destroy the fellowship they three are building.

If for no other reasons than those, she concludes that having caused this quite specific damage, she must fix it.

Because she can.

The fact of the matter is, Helena cannot fix most things. She has tried mightily to maintain the pretense that she can... but she has been forced over and over to confront the absurdity of that bravado. This very specific fix-it, however, she can perform. And while that performance—inconveniently, in the present circumstance—requires touch, here it can be functional. Perhaps in success she might in some way efface her earlier invasiveness...

Yet she can do nothing without two functional arms. She thumps her still-insensate left against the bed, hard—too hard, for Myka’s eyes open. She mumbles out something Helena decodes as “whatareyoudoing.”

“Preparing to remedy a situation,” Helena says.

“Okay.” Myka murmurs. She seems oddly comforted by the answer, to such an extent that she relaxes, losing consciousness again.

That’s fortunate, given the required manipulation.

Helena prepares herself to do it quickly, efficiently, as she has done in the past... rather dramatically on one occasion, as she recalls, for an agonized Wolcott... but she should not think of Wolcott. For the regret.

She sets that aside, preoccupying herself instead with the necessary activity. Her manipulation, determined and strong, is rewarded: what begins as a sluggish resistance resolves into a slip-pop of relocation, one that shudders a familiar path through her own bones. She then cushions Myka’s arm with a fresh towel and uses a pillowcase to fashion around it a tight sling.

Levering Myka up onto the bed would most likely cause further injury, so Helena sits beside her on the floor, ensuring periodically that she continues to breathe. The wait is calming, cleansing, its peace a renewal of a soothing activity of which Helena has been long deprived: observing Myka closely, at actual leisure. At no point since her return—so at no point in, literally, years—has she had such an opportunity.

She’s reminded, in that observation, of the true fundament: this precious person. Who could never be merely some flesh.

After a lengthy time, during which Helena is pressed to consider, to remember, to value Myka’s singularity, that precious person’s eyes flutter open.

That person tests her bound arm, a tentative physical investigation that approaches elegance in its delicacy.

But Myka’s delicacy and elegance, too, Helena should not think of. For the regret.

“I’m not in the hospital,” Myka burrs.

Reasonable, practical. This is what Helena should think of. “Not yet,” she says. “But we’ll go if necessary. If you’re in pain.”

Myka’s face contorts. “Not if. I am. Some. More than some. I’m sorry.”

“For being in pain?”

“That. But also, for changing this whole thing.”

Helena leaves the latter alone, for she cannot begin to interpret it. Focusing on functionality, she asks, “Can you dress yourself?”

Myka nods, but she winces far too much with even that motion, so Helena screws her courage to it and says, “I’ll change and then help you.”

Herself, fast, then Myka: Functional, she snarls internally as she addresses the situation, and even faster. She’s relieved to find that Myka’s trousers and boots are less complicated than she’d feared, and as it happens, preventing Myka suffering additional physical pain—even while undressing and redressing her!—is, paradoxically or not, far easier than navigating emotional shoals, or even hand-on-hip physical shoals. Focusing on Myka’s face for twists, listening for labors in breath, adjusting accordingly... it’s distractingly, satisfyingly concrete. Only the present moment matters.

Only the present moment matters. This is the mantra Helena iterates internally as they proceed to the nearest urgent care facility.

Yet as they wait there for attention, Helena finds herself increasingly unable to ignore why they are waiting there for attention. In the present moment, which matters. She begins—or does she intend it as an ending?—with, “I’m assuming you flung yourself to the floor in an attempt to escape a circumstance.”

Myka hiccups a laugh that makes her cringe in protection of the shoulder. “That’s weirdly accurate. As an assumption.”

Helena recoils at the confirmation, but she must acknowledge it. “A circumstance in which I touched you in a way that was unwelcome,” she agrees, with gloom.

“Unwelcome,” Myka echoes.

It’s so... definitive. It was one thing for Helena herself to think it, believe it, say it aloud. Quite another—though it shouldn’t have been—to hear it from Myka.

A punctuating end to what never truly began between them: there is some consolation, if only philosophical, in the idea that after so many starts that were false, they may at least enjoy a finish that is true.

“Of course it was,” Helena says, following with, “and how could it have been otherwise.” She puts the final period upon it by adding a bare, spare dig: “Given history.”

Myka closes her eyes... in acceptance of the cut? When she opens them, they are glistening. Tears? Helena is egotistically gratified by such a response, never mind that it means she has yet again failed to hold to her resolution.

“Helena,” Myka says, and now Helena is gratified simply by Myka’s low utterance of her name. Myka does not always use that deeper voice, and Helena does love (yes, love) the rare pleasure of hearing her name in it. “I’m so tired,” Myka says next.

That is less gratifying. It’s yet another utterance Helena should leave alone; of course Myka is tired. But in what she is sure is a mistake, Helena says, “Of?”

“Everything. But particularly, you.”

A dagger, that was. A cut back. Testimony to Helena’s concatenating mistakes.

“This you,” Myka adds.

The additional twist of blade leaves Helena unclear on the devastation Myka intends. “Of course” is all she can think to say.

Myka closes her eyes and exhales heavy, a near-sob. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” she intones, but what need has she to apologize? “That was the pain talking—or, no, I still know you well enough to know you’ll hear that wrong. What I mean is, I’m saying something I could keep holding back if the pain wasn’t cracking me open.”

The pain. Cracking her open. Which would never have happened in the absence of Helena’s stupid, thoughtless touch. Which in turn makes abundantly clear that the stupid, thoughtless person who applied that touch is the “this you” Myka means.

If Helena is to remain in this situation she must take measures, so she lengthens her inhales and exhales, entirely ashamed both at needing such a crutch and at having to exhibit that need.

After a moment of silence, Myka asks, “Are you breathing differently than you were just a second ago?”

Myka isn’t Steve. Helena could at least attempt to lie about this, to cloak her shame... but it’s effort, either way. “Yes,” she says, choosing the unpredictability of Myka’s interpretation over the unpredictability of her own performance.

“Is that good or bad?” Myka asks. “Or both?”

The questions stop Helena, stop her in the same way her at-leisure observation of Myka had. I still know you well enough, Myka had said, and it is true. This is why, Helena would say if she could. Your knowing to ask that.

But she can’t say it, and, worse, she doesn’t know what she should say. What should come next.

Apparently Myka doesn’t either. That not-knowing persists, hanging, until “next” arrives, as an intrusion from outside their suspension: medical attention is at last directed Myka’s way; she is escorted out of the waiting area and taken elsewhere.

“We’ll call you when you can see her,” Helena is told.

Alone in the waiting area—for no other human seems to have suffered damage this night—and uncomfortably situated on a hard plastic chair, she tilts her head back against a similarly unforgiving plaster wall.

She closes her eyes. She’s had no rest, no rest for so long. She is drained. Physically empty.

Philosophically as well.

She imagines trying to sleep... or rather, she imagines not trying to remain awake.

Doubtless futile, either way.

She next imagines constructing an airtight argument that could not help but persuade all who hear it—Myka in particular, but all others as well—that this entire situation is Artie’s fault.

Also futile.

This despite its being the fact of the matter, for indeed he did bring the situation about. Perhaps not in a proximate sense, but in the ultimate... the idea of which, after a moment, strikes her as both comic and tragic: Artie as the ultimate cause? Of anything, from the universe on down? Though he would doubtless like to imagine himself so... even at the Warehouse, however, he must be not even penultimate, given the bureaucracy that sits over the entire concern...

Helena thus spends the bulk of her time in the waiting area stewing about—stewing over? stewing under?—the relative positions of god, Mrs. Frederic, and various Regents in the universe. None of it, however, requires her to alter her breathing; rather, she composes in her head the opening paragraphs of several publishable monographs on these and related topics. It isn’t restful. But is evidence of something other than emptiness.

When someone does at last call her to see Myka, everything has changed.

Well. Not everything. Helena herself hasn’t, as her bureaucracy-pantheon thought may have been philosophically valid but made no difference.

Myka, however, has changed entirely: her arm is now professionally dressed, but more importantly, the knit of pain has left her face. “They medicated me,” she says, giving the word “medicated” a rapturous cast. “The X-rays said I didn’t break anything, so we’re waiting on results of a scan to see if I need surgery but in the meantime I feel better than I maybe ever have in my life and I am so happy to see you. All these doctors were like ‘why did she think she could fix you’ but I knew why and it was because it’s you. and that scan? It’ll shout out how Helena Wells relocated Myka’s shoulder so she didn’t need surgery, and they don’t know this, but actually H.G. Wells relocated Myka’s shoulder, which is even more amazing. Wait, that’s not more amazing. You’re the most amazing when you’re you than when you’re that guy. Even though I guess you are that guy. Sort of. Wait, Claudia’s been saying ‘that guy’ a lot now. And I cut and paste from her so much, but I don’t like it. The way things are.” She heaves an enormous sigh and blinks at Helena, as if she’s just re-understood that another person is present.

Is there some ideal way to answer this flood? Helena settles for an antiseptic “I’m pleased to see you out of pain.”

Myka gasps and flails wildly with her uninjured arm, which gesture eventually resolves into an index finger directed at Helena. “That’s it exactly. I’m out of pain. All out. No more pain to give. Particularly not to you. So saying I’m tired of you? I regret it, and I apologize for it, and I promise that’s the end of it. I was wishing to get something back, and you don’t want it back, and so I have to be fine. Without it. Without you.”

Without you. Helena supposes she should be impressed by how concisely Myka can foreshadow disaster. “Should I not... be here?” She braces herself for the answer.

“Of course you should. I have to be fine without how you were,” Myka says, very quietly. The collapse of her volubility gives Helena pause.

She knows it would be better not to probe; she ought to, as Claudia says, “take the win.” But “Of course you should” is only facially a win... “How was I?” she asks. To wound herself by making Myka clarify what has been lost.

“Oh, how you were...” Myka says, her words dragging. How much—any, all?—of this might be due to the varying effects of the medication? “Putting me into this story,” she continues. “It was so big, and I didn’t understand what it was, really or at all, but it felt so big. Yearning and tragedy, and there I was, still me, but in it, so in it, all in it, next to you. Bigger than life, and I... loved it? Needed it? Something to take me over. But my wishing for any of it back, when of course you don’t?” She raises that free arm, then lets it fall. Futility, it says. “So small. Only somebody little and desperate would want to make you revisit any of that.”

Medication effect or not, Helena can’t let Myka keep on with this. “Make me revisit it? Yearning and tragedy? I’m the one who inflicted that, and with malign intent; I damaged you. And I cannot imagine a scenario in which that debt is discharged.”

Myka squints. “Debt,” she says, as if articulating a new noun, but not one that names an abstraction; no, this thing is big and blunt, a dumb object that takes up space. Unfunctional furniture. That I carry on my back, Helena moods.

“Oh!” Myka then yelps, her tone shifting to excitement. “But I just damaged myself. So now we’re even!” She delivers that last bit big and broad, for all the world as if she’s the comic lead in a panto.

Helena has not spared a thought for panto in years. “That makes no sense at all,” she says, because it’s the case, but also to scorn the memory. This is no time for that past.

“Would you like me to dislocate your shoulder?” Myka asks, as if it were a reasonable proffer. Still comic, but now strangely sincere.

Helena meets this bizarrely compelling, ridiculous combination with as much severity as she can muster. “Honestly no. I would not.”

“I see,” Myka says, and she points again, this time without preambling flail. “Some prices you aren’t willing to pay.”

Helena can at the very least be honest about this. How nice it would be if Steve were here to verify. “Willing to... in the sense of volunteering to? No. In the sense of understanding that I deserve to? Certainly. So do me damage if you must. In particular, do me damage if you think it could even the score between us. It won’t, but if you think it could? Please do.”

“That’s pretty twisted,” pronounces the only arbiter who matters.

“You sound like Claudia again,” Helena observes. To push the judgment away? Yes, and she tries to make certain of it with, “Is that another cut and paste?”

“Maybe. But now that I think about it, she sees things pretty clearly a lot of the time. Don’t you think?”

“I would like to think,” Helena is compelled to admit. Hoist by her own petard.

At this point—suspending any resolution—a doctor reenters the curtained area. “Good news: no surgery,” she tells Myka.

“See, I told you she fixed it,” Myka preens.

“You did,” says the doctor. “Several times,” she adds, dry.

Helena says “I’m so sorry,” only to hear Myka say, at the same time, “Sorry not sorry!” Another echo of Claudia... this one, however, clearly heartfelt.

The doctor turns to Helena. “Don’t try anything like this again. You got ridiculously lucky.”

“That’s kind of her M.O.,” Myka says. “Except when it isn’t.”

The doctor sighs. “I’m pretty sure that’s my point. And listen, make sure to follow up with your local doc. They’ll prescribe a ton of PT, so brace yourself.”

Myka snorts. “Brace myself? Sure, but not for the PT; my boss is going to flay me alive.”

The doctor barely reacts. “Oh, maybe this one can fix that too,” she deadpans, directing an eyeroll at Helena, accompanied by a murmured, “not a suggestion.”

“Oh, she’s in for the flaying,” Myka says, with more than a little cheer. “If not for this, then for something. Eventually.”

The doctor shakes her head, eyes unfocused. “Good news for me: I don’t have to care.” She points at Myka: “You go to PT.” Now at Helena: “You don’t try to practice medicine.” At both of them, her eyes flicking back and forth with purpose: “Got it?” Helena nods; she senses Myka doing the same. “Excellent,” the doctor says. “Or whatever. I’m done with you now.”

She conveys with her rapid exit that interacting with both of them has been a most exasperating experience.

While Helena does not appreciate being chastised—and especially not for attempting to care for Myka—she does appreciate expertise. Especially when it contributes to Myka’s well-being. It’s a conundrum. “I find your doctor’s aspect strangely appealing,” she says. “Speaking of bracing.”

Myka grins. “I was totally thinking the same thing.”

“And yet I would practice that medicine again.”

“For me that’s good news.”

As they prepare to depart, Helena says, “I confess I’m curious as to what you intend to tell Artie.”

Myka offers a slight stretch of her right shoulder in the direction of her ear: the only version of a shrug available to her, bound as she is. “Maybe I should leave that to you. You’re the writer.” Forestalling Helena’s reflexive objection, she adds, “I know, I know. The research. The ideas.”

“And yet I don’t have any. I certainly don’t see a path to inventing anything that would—”

“How about I take your photo with that camera? Think that’d help?” This is accompanied by a different grin: sly.

Whither the warning? Or is this a test? Myka isn’t Steve, yet Helena goes with truth: “It might. With any number of things.”

“If only,” Myka says, inscrutably. “Anyway I intend to tell Artie that this is all his fault, because he sent us on this retrieval in the first place. Obviously I won’t say what really happened.”

While Myka bestowing such grace is not surprising, it moves Helena all the same. “Thank you,” she says.

Myka opens her mouth, then closes it. She does it again. This wait... it’s grace too. “You’re welcome,” she eventually says. “I mean I’m tempted to tell him how you saved the day—the arm—but I know I shouldn’t, because I don’t want to draw attention to the hotel charging us extra.” To Helena’s quizzical eyebrow, she says, “For the missing towels and pillowcase. Which I tried to talk the nurses into giving back to me, but they’d already tossed them as hazardous waste. Or something. Or maybe I’m just not very persuasive? Or clear in what I’m asking for?”

Helena would very much like to explain that her own answers to those questions are negative and affirmative, respectively: no, you are persuasive; but yes, you are unclear.

“On the other hand, they did medicate me,” Myka says, perking up. “I keep thinking it’ll wear off, but not yet!”

The consolations of intoxication. “To the delight of your shoulder I’m sure,” Helena says. To my delight as well, she wishes she were free to say.

Their return to the hotel room offers another “everything has changed” hinge: no longer a stage for new and awkward performances of politesse, the space is now familiar, a place they have reentered. For the next act of the play?

Myka, who has preceded Helena in, stops and sways—just a bit, but Helena instinctively steps close, taking her by the elbow of her uninjured arm with one hand, stationing the other around the curve of her waist.

She feels Myka’s breath catch at the contact; immediately, she curses herself, loosens her hold, and says a terse, “I’m sure you want to lie down.”

“More than maybe anything. Or, wait, no, not anything.” Myka turns and catches Helena’s eyes with hers, but Helena cannot use that gaze as the basis for any inference.

She backs away as Myka lowers herself onto the bed; eventually, she backs her way into the room’s one armchair. It lacks give. It also lacks arms at a height that might provide anything resembling support. Helena slumps down, trying to be grateful that it exists at all.

Long minutes pass. As in the hospital’s waiting area, Helena imagines trying not to remain awake.

Similarly futile.

She chances a glance at Myka, who meets her eyes again and says, “That looks uncomfortable. Or what I mean is, you look uncomfortable. Which honestly is pointless, unless you’re doing some hair-shirt thing, because we’ve got this big bed. Not a lot of hours before we have to leave it, but we’ve got it for now.”

“That went poorly before.”

“I think circumstances have changed. Don’t you?” Weighted.

Circumstances are always changing, Helena could say. Usually for the worse. Instead she ventures, “You’d let me lie down with you?”

“I never wouldn’t.” Myka squints. “Wait. Did that come out right? Anyway, yes.”

Medication: not yet worn off. “You’re sure?” Helena asks.

“I’m pretty sure this bed is almost as big as a field where Pete’s favorite sport happens. It’s at least as big as an ice rink anyway, and those aren’t small.”

Helena refrains from pointing out that that was no help in the previous disaster. She doesn’t, however, appreciate being able to recline. For the first while, the fact of being beside Myka is less relevant than the slow loosening of her lower back and hips.

“Can you sleep?” Helena asks, as they are both evidently lying with eyes open to the ceiling.

“Not now,” Myka answers, and the sentiment seems clear: not after all of this. All of this with which we must deal.

The bed first, perhaps.

She turns to look at Myka, if minimally. “Did you request a cot?” she asks, because she doesn’t know. Because the answer might reveal... something?

Myka’s eyes widen. “Oh my god I should have,” she says. Stricken.

“Why didn’t you?”

“It didn’t even cross my mind.” She’s talking more to herself—or perhaps to the room at large?—than to Helena. Is this continued evidence of the medication?

“And do you know why that is?” Helena asks, hoping for that revelation, even if drug-induced.

“Honestly I think I thought I was being given an ultimatum. Like it was something I had to be fine with or else.”

“Fine with ‘or else.’” Helena means the echo as rueful agreement.

But: “Sharing a bed with you. Platonically,” Myka says, taking it instead as a request for explanation.

“Platonically,” Helena scoffs, unable to avoid the idea that agreeing to accept that adverb would, paradoxically, usher in others. (Passionately.) (Speaking of paradoxically.) “That word is so often misused.” It’s a push-off. A push-away.

“But I’m using it correctly.” Myka sounds not offended, but rather self-satisfied.

Fine. Harden the position. “You are not referring to our consciousness rising from physical to spiritual matters.”

“Well... but how about love for the idea of good? As a path to virtue?”

Myka is well-read. In this moment, that fact is not entirely pleasing. “I suppose we were both attempting to be courtly,” Helena concedes.

“I mean I’ll grant you that nobody ended up transcending the body,” Myka says. Helena is about to agree, to snap away from churlishness, to express regret and apologies, when Myka exclaims, “Hey! I just had the best idea for a joke. So you’re not a hologram anymore, right? So you know what you were trying to be? Last night, in bed?”

Jokes. They confound Helena nearly as completely as metaphors do Steve. “I have no idea.”

“A Platonic solid,” Myka declares, triumphant.

Helena is mortified to find that in this case, she “gets it.” “Myka,” she sighs.

“Too soon? But come on, it’s not bad!”

“Alas, it is.” This quality, Helena can recognize.

“Right, but the good kind.”

Helena is not made of stone. Or bronze. How much easier everything had been then, sans choice and sans reason... and most importantly, sans the near-irresistibility of this one human. “I did always enjoy the word ‘icosahedron,’” she tenders.

“See,” Myka says, now in indulgence rather than triumph. “Pretty sure you have more than twenty faces though.”

“You do as well. Some revealed only under the influence of opioids.”

“Here’s one I don’t think I’d have the guts to use otherwise: my explain-it-to-you-using-words face.”

“Explain what to me?” Helena asks. It’s a surrender. She should better have said she did not wish that face revealed, but that would never have stopped a determined Myka.

“Why I flung myself to the floor.”

“I thought that had been explained? You were attempting to escape a circumstance.”

“First, the flinging was more involuntary than an attempt. And second: your hand.”

“Perhaps you don’t remember”—a strange thing to say to Myka—“but we had this conversation previously.” Helena does not want to have it again.

“Not this conversation. In that one, you drew the wrong conclusion. Or relied on an invalid assumption. Actually both of those. Anyway, your hand.”

“Please stop saying that,” Helena requests. Begs.

“Fine, I’ll finish the sentence: Woke up every nerve in my body,” Myka says, causing Helena to cringe and wish she could this very instant construct a truly useful time machine so she could fly backward, overleaping this latest passage so as to muzzle Myka before she could say that, because she believes it but knows it leads nowhere functional. To her continued mortification, Myka carries on, “Woke them all right up.” This, she says rhapsodic. Helena feels that tone in her gut, a hot twist of something she deserves as pain, but that manifests, shamefully, as pleasure. “Then your hand moved, and it shorted out the system—my system—and I fell out of bed, and the rest is history.”

“On the contrary, the rest is quite present.” Helena tries pushing all of it away, striving for detachment. For function.

“So, your hand,” Myka says again.

Helena raises the offender. “Also present.” Detachment. Humor, even; pushing, pushing, pushing. Trying to maintain.

“No, I mean why,” Myka pushes in turn.

Helena bats back, in faux innocence, “Why is it present?”

“Why was it present. On me.” Low now, her voice, just as compelling as, and even more commanding than, when she uses it to utter Helena’s name.

“I have no excuse,” Helena says.

“I don’t need an excuse. I need a reason. Do you have one?”

“It isn’t exculpatory.”

“As long as it’s explanatory.”

No escape now. No excuse, and no escape. “Here is my reason: I wanted to touch you. So against all better judgment, I did. Intending only that, nothing more.” Myka’s response to these words is an exhale. Loud. Unlike the hospital sob, however, this is slow and controlled. Helena allows a decorous pause, but no words ensue, so she goes on. Myka deserves an explanation that is complete. “But then I found myself unable to... un-touch you. Competently. And the rest will at some point be history, upon which I will never cease to look back and berate myself.”

Waiting for whatever may come next, Helena feels exhaustion inch through her, infiltrating her eyes, limbs, brain, sapping every vestige of energy... her surrender to the creeping leach is imminent when Myka says, “I like that reason.”

All right then. Awake and aware. “You do?”

“You really can be impossible to talk to. Listen to me: if I did that—touched you—I would find myself the same. Unable to un-touch. Do you understand?”

What would be the cost of abandoning her resistance? “I don’t know...” she begins, then reverses course and begins again. Truth, never mind the cost. “Yes. I do understand. But I don’t know what to do about that.”

Myka turns her head full toward Helena, twisting her long neck. Helena turns her own head, but that isn’t enough, so she shifts onto her side—her left side, punitively aware that it will be weeks before Myka can turn in such a way.

They look at each other, Helena both knowing and fearing how her guilt must freight her gaze. Regarding Myka so close, looking now into eyes that are open, is a boon she does not deserve.

After a time, Myka says, “I know what I want to do.”

Her intent is abundantly clear. The entirely of Helena’s being balks, stranding her again in Boone: if she makes a move for the momentary better, it will most likely end worse. She cannot find the... courage? or is it foolish disregard for consequences?... to reach for that moment of joy. Neither, however, can she find the discipline to dismiss its possibility.

“But I also know I shouldn’t,” Myka says, breaking with clarity into Helena’s indecision.

Well. Helena can certainly see the wisdom of that, so perhaps at last they are approaching a real accord that will render all hopes and wishes moot, so that neither courage nor discipline features in the—

“I can tell the meds are messing with my head,” Myka says, “and if there’s one thing I want to remember in picture-perfect detail, it’s this.” She moves her right index finger near to Helena’s lips, then withdraws it.

Unable to un-touch. That withdrawal reaffirms that Myka believes what she says. “This,” Helena echoes, mesmerized.

“So I’m going to wait till tomorrow to—listen to me saying it out loud—kiss you. For the first time. I want to be all there when it happens.”

There is a practicality to Myka’s thinking, and to Myka, that Helena worships. She tries to match it with a bit of her own: “If it happens.”

Myka’s jaw drops. “Come on! I said it out loud! It’s real now!”

“It’s been real for some time, hasn’t it? But I’m being realistic about the circumstance. You might not remember that you wanted to.”

“Seriously? I’ve remembered it since we met.”

Helena has remembered it just as long. She has. Denying it is pointless. But she has a larger concern, and though this is the wrong time to address it, perhaps medicated Myka will afford an unfiltered read...

“Or you might think better of it.”

“Of kissing you? I don’t think so.”

“Of what could ensue. The possibility of a... relationship. Between us. What if it doesn’t work?”

“Relationship.” After she says the word, Myka’s lips part and close, as if the very word is savory. “What if it does?”

It is savory. However. “I’m asking as a practical matter, not philosophically. I’m constrained: I can’t leave again. That’s why I came back.” The thin strand to which she is clinging... refraining from attempting to rekindle an intimacy hasn’t been only to keep Myka safe. It has also been to keep the Warehouse safe for Helena herself to inhabit.

“Then don’t leave again.”

“But what if that means you do?” This is not philosophy either. This, too, is history.

“If I do, then I do, but I’d like to think I won’t. We’ve both had our walkaway crises, and they didn’t take. So if it doesn’t work, we put it behind us like adults. If Pete and I could, then so can you and I. But I’d rather not have to. So let’s be careful.” She pauses. “Breathe however you need to.”

The words are an embrace. A physical clasp might be more galvanizing, but right now, Myka is managing just fine with words. “If this works, it will be because you say things like that.”

“Good news, because I mean things like that. And I intend to keep saying them. Hey, speaking of saying, do me a favor and write down what I said just now, about the adults and the careful, because I want to remember it.”

Sluggishly, Helena ideates rising, going to the room’s desk, finding logo-bearing paper and pen, writing...

****

Helena and Oscar are in a salon. They are engaged in a dispute regarding choices and consequences. Helena is standing at a lectern, and Oscar is reclining on a lavishly upholstered chaise longue, kicking his right leg such that its calf bounces in a languid little rhythm against the low cushioned edge.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

“The choices that create a circumstance will not, repeated, resolve it satisfactorily,” Helena says. Is she reading from a monograph? “As we see in the case of your own Ballad of Reading Gaol, do we not? And yet injury need not lead inevitably to future debility, so clearly some choice in the matter is—”

“Helena,” Oscar says, interrupting her monologue. “Helena,” he repeats. He sounds nothing like himself, but rather someone else, and Helena is straining to connect the voice to the correct person.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

“Time to wake up,” Oscar-as-someone-else admonishes. Encourages?

“I know,” she tells him, hugely frustrated, fighting. “I’m trying.”

His impassive mien is no help. It never was.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

Trust Oscar to cast some part of himself as the pendulum of a particularly annoying clock—

“Seriously, wake up,” Helena hears, and consciousness jolts at her: Myka’s voice.

Oscar dissolves. Into laughter or tears, no doubt, as he was wont to do...

Helena’s eyes open, meeting Myka’s, and she is brought back to it all: the hotel, the bed; the shoulder, the hospital... then hotel again, bed again... and finally words, as if for the first time.

Myka is lying on her right side, facing Helena. Her eyes are bright, her gaze intense.

“Are you in pain?” Helena asks.

Myka leans forward, as if that were a signal. The signal: for Helena is the astonished, grateful, transported recipient of a kiss, a first kiss—the first kiss—one that is swift but soft, gentle, genuine. Like morning... “Better now,” Myka says when she pulls back. “I’m going to brush my teeth. Stay there.”

Better now. Not lost on Helena are all the ways that signifies, including: better that this happened now than at some point in the desperate past. Then, such a kiss would have been a tragic wish for all they would never have. Now, instead, it can stand as a reward for having survived all of that, as well as, universe willing, a mark of embarkation.

By the time Myka returns, Helena has sat up, stationing herself on the edge of the bed. She has also realized that she must apologize—for they should not embark on this new voyage with yet another of her many faults unaddressed. “You charged me with writing down part of our conversation. I didn’t. I fell asleep instead.”

Myka hesitates before joining her on the bed’s edge, clearly considering which arm should be next to Helena. She chooses the functional right. “It’s okay. Even if I don’t remember exactly what we said, I remembered what we needed to do.”

“Needed to,” Helena reprises. She could supply words of her own, but why? Myka is saying the ones that matter...

“Needed to,” Myka affirms. “So where were we?” She raises her useful hand to Helena’s cheek, cradling. Helena leans into it, saying nothing, because silence now says everything.

This is a longer kiss, more wandering, more suggestive of possibility, more likely to lead to such possibility... Helena is the one to this time pull away. “A place quite new,” she says.

“And yet I’m pretty sure we’ve been headed here all along.”

“It wasn’t inevitable,” Helena says. She is thinking now of dream-Oscar, who is slipping from her mind, dropping, like a poorly initiated painting, but he must have obstreperously been maintaining something about inevitability. He always did.

“No,” Myka agrees. “And it still isn’t. So let’s be careful.”

“You remember that part? Despite my stenographic failure?”

“Even if I didn’t—but I do—I’d know it’s important.”

Helena turns and touches her right hand to Myka’s right hip. She would certainly not be able to do this now if she had not done so in the night... the night’s ontogeny recapitulating the phylogeny of their shared history. Myka covers Helena’s hand with hers, and there is healing in the simple fact of their sitting. But eventually that is not enough, and another kiss ensues, longer still, and lips outweigh quiet hands—or no, lips add to quiet hands, but hands are not content to remain so calm, and so this continues and might continue—

Myka makes a noise that is clearly not of pleasure; she moves entirely away, her right hand pressing protectively at her left shoulder. “We’re going to need to be careful about this stupid shoulder too. I’m so, so sorry.”

“You’re sorry? I’m the one who can’t keep my hands to myself.” Ontogeny, phylogeny.

“It’s not like I’m some paragon of self-control... and I am sorry, because I’d like to be able to participate fully. But also I’d like to not have to hurry on account of catching a plane. In good news, eventually my shoulder will heal. I know we can’t stay here till then, but...”

“It would help,” Helena supplies.

“If only because we have to come up with how this supposedly happened. I still think maybe I should take your picture. Or you could take mine? Because by the way, here’s a funny thing: I was trying to write a novel.”

“You were?” More that is new... “Speaking of icosahedra,” Helena notes.

“I want to tell you about it.”

“You do?” Trying to convey her incredulity. That Myka would allow her such... access.

“I want to tell you everything. But in the meantime we have to tell Artie something... I guess we’ve got both flights plus the layover in Denver to get our story straight.”

Stories. Narrative. Novels? “But we’ll tell Steve the truth. Won’t we?”

“Of course we will. And Claudia, right?”

“Also necessary. Although most likely mockery-inducing.”

Myka smiles. It’s a sunrise. “Stress testing. If we can take it from her, we’ll be fine. Then again we might need the time on the planes to rest up for that.”

“Weren’t you able to sleep, this past while?”

Myka shakes her head, and just as Helena opens her mouth to express regret and apologize again for her own sleep, Myka silences her with a kiss, one that lingers, lingers, lingers... still half against Helena’s lips, she says, “The un-touching part really is difficult. But don’t worry about my not sleeping: for the first time in a long time, I was happy to be awake.”

END

#bering and wells #warehouse 13 #fanfic #Asleep #part 2 #B&W holiday gift exchange #kla1991 #also anniversary!#which this year arrived a bit unexpectedly #so I decided to do this mashing up of occasions #because I apparently cannot work fast or well anymore #but as for this story #something something sleep and wakefulness #and when one finds oneself in those states #and whether one recognizes the state one is in when in it #or when finally out of it #and of course there are also the transitions

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ichijager13 · 1 year

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Teach me how to be loved

Chapter XIII

Heaven is a place on earth with you

Pairing : Eren Jäger x reader, past relationships: Reiner Braun x reader, Jean kristein x reader

Characters: Eren Jäger, Annie Leonhart, Pieck Finger, Reiner Braun, Jean Kristein, Carla Jäger, Sophie Jäger.

Tags: Unhealthy coping mechanism, unhealthy relationships, childhood trauma, physical and verbal abuse, self-esteem and trust issues, domestic violence, implied/ referenced cheating, and a touch of sweet, lovable, and non fuckboy Eren Jäger

This fic is brought to you by Lana Del Rey’s songs

Masterlist, AO3, Playlists: Reader’s POV, Eren’s POV

A/N: Heeey! I'm sorry for taking so long to update the story, things are a bit crazy at work. I promise I’ll make it up for you as soon as possible.

Also thank you so much for reading and supporting my works.

Ichi ❤️

Your Friday nights became more serene and pleasant after you started dating Eren. Depending on your mood and the weather you’d either spend the night indoors watching a movie or binge-watching a series or go out on a night date.

For tonight, you planned a movie night.

You stood in the middle of your living room, eying your preparation with a satisfied grin. Everything was in place and you still had an hour before Eren arrives. So, you decided to jump into the shower.

You were pulling your hair in a messy bun when you heard the door. You risked a quick glance at the mirror to see if anything needed to be fixed before you get the door.

The woman that stared back at you didn’t look like anything you were familiar with. She seemed happier, smiling from ear to ear.

Happy? Don’t lie to yourself, we both know he’ll run as fast as he can as soon as he discovers who you really are, the voice at the back of your head scoffed.

You took a deep breath and screwed your eyes shut in an attempt to chase away those dark thoughts.

Opening the door, you were met with the green-eyed man. You always find yourself wondering how he always manages to look handsome no matter what he was wearing. Like tonight, he traded his fancy suits with a black sweat vest on top of a white cotton t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts but still looked as ravishing as always. He looked outrageously handsome.

When your eyes finally met, he granted you with one of his bright smiles, those that never failed to make you feel the urge to squish his cheeks and pepper his face with kisses, before he stepped inside your apartment. You returned his smile opening your arms for him.

“It’s been a long week,” he murmured against your ear. “I missed you,” he added pressing his forehead against yours.

“I missed you too,” you responded caressing his jawline before your lips met. the kiss was soft and sweet, he always took his time to savor and take whatever you had to offer.

“You look beautiful,” he spoke before he caged you in and captured your lips for another kiss.

Unsure if it was his proximity and the feeling of the plush of his lips caressing yours or the unexpected compliment that made your heart pound against your chest. Either way, you loved it and wished for it to last forever. You wanted to remain in his arms for the rest of your life. So, you kissed him back and for the first time in years, you found yourself addressing a prayer. You prayed whoever was ready to listen to keep him by your side and never make you experience being abandoned again. You prayed for this feeling to remain unchanged.

Who are you fooling? We both know you are not meant to be happy. Happiness has no place in your life. He’ll hurt you. Just like the others, he’ll grow sick of the pathetic person that you are and leave you.

Wanting to silence the monsters in your head, you combed your fingers with his chestnut hair and deepened the kiss. Eren was here, holding you, kissing you and that’s all you needed to think about for now.

“What did you pick for tonight?” he inquired when you finally broke the kiss.

“Sweet November,” you replied following him to the living room. “What did you get this time?” You peeked into the paper bag he brought. “Oh, I love those.” You beamed when you saw his mother’s cookies.

“She made them for you,” he replied smiling.

“Really? Tell her I said thanks,” you responded shoving one cookie into your mouth before taking a place next to him on the couch. He idly wrapped an arm around your waist as you rested your head on his shoulder. “It’s one of my favorites,” you voiced when the movie started playing.

Half an hour later, he picked another cinnamon roll before he asked, “Those are good, where did you get them?”

“I made them,” you answered. “I remembered you mentioned you love…” you stopped midsentence when he crashed his lips against yours. The kiss was filled with something you couldn’t name, something you never experienced before this instant.

He tasted like cinnamon and cheese cream, a combination that earned a moan from you.

“Don’t do such adorable gestures without a warning,” he spoke in a deep voice. “Not if you don’t want my heart to explode,” he followed pulling you against his chest as you both laid down.

You buried your face in his chest indulging in the warm embrace of your boyfriend.

You were still finding it hard to believe that you and Eren were together. Because sometimes, it feels like all of this was nothing but the product of your wild and sick imagination. That, Eren never existed or that whatever you were having was just a mirage.

He is real, and he’s going to hurt you. They always do.

You fisted his shirt and squeezed your eyes shut, conjuring the voices to stop torturing you. you begged them to let you enjoy this moment.

Feeling his hand rubbing your back softly, you released your grip and pulled away. “Are you alright, love?” he inquired, genuine concern visible in his voice.

You nodded. “A little cold that’s all,” you lied.

He reached for the blanket behind him and wrapped it around you. he pressed his lips to your temple before looping his arms around you. you looked up at him before nuzzling his neck.

A soft smile broke through your face when you remembered the time he asked you out on an actual date.

It was a Saturday morning, Eren awakened to the feeling of you scratching his scalp gently. He released a satisfied sigh before he pulled you on top of him.

“Morning, beautiful,” he greeted in his raspy morning voice. His pet names never fail to make you feel giddy and smile like an idiot.

“Good morning,” you replied before your lips met.

A dozen minutes later, he cleared his throat, “So, are we ever gonna go out on a real date or are we just gonna keep on doing this?” his hands cupped your face before he asked, “Let me take you on a date.” his thumb traced mindless curves against your cheek.

After what felt like an eternity for him, you muttered an okay.

You left a couple of open-mouthed kisses on his neck and you let out a muffled thank you before you brought your attention back to the movie.

You watched the movie in silence except for the few times you commented or laughed about a scene.

In the end, he nestled his face in the crook of your neck and left a trail of soft pecks when he heard you cry.

You remained on the couch cuddling and talking about your respective weeks and your plans for the next one.

“When will you show me your painting,” he asked between two kisses.

“Not before I finish it.” your response made him groan.

“I might be able to help, give you some ideas,” he argued.

“You do remember what happened the last time I let you in?” you looked him in the eyes.

“That was not my fault,” he huffed.

“You spilled paint all over the place, how come this wasn’t your fault,” you pointed out.

“You shouldn’t have placed it there,” he shrugged.

“Besides, you’ll only distract me when I’m working.”

“No, I don’t,” he gasped.

“Yes, you do. you always… No, Eren… Don’t… Don’t tickle… Eren…” Your giggles filled the silent room and made Eren’s heart thrust against his chest.

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kelsieiswriting · 8 months

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Kelsie Hogue 001

The experiment was always rigged. Raye knew from the start that when she was offered a position at Resolution Testing, she would walk into something unexpected, though she did not think she would be stood in front of a jumbo screen watching a couple she was tasked to create.

Working through the night and into the next morning, Raye observed her work. She had planned out every possible outcome, but it was thrilling to watch her subjects in action. There were two, both young women pulled from a selection of people with an age range of 20 to 25, both willing to donate their body to science for the end pay of fifteen thousand dollars. Resolution Testing was a front for many medically, and morally, questionable clinical trials, including some where people joined and were required to sign non-disclosure agreements and do not resuscitate papers to enforce silence regarding the company’s work.

As an aspiring scientist willing to do anything to get in the door, Rayen Goodwill thought of herself as an astounding candidate to run the trial. In her eyes, Resolution Testing was taking a chance on her, and at an impressionable stage in her life, Raye was put in charge of coercing two peer-like subjects into establishing an incredible bond under a set amount of time. She knew the final task would be to break the bond in the end, but not much else.

The reports each night detailed Subject One and Two being civil at the start of their forced proximity. Being roommates from the start they had to share not just a single space but also the exact same routine.

At 9:45 AM, Subject One and Two were woken up and would make their shared bed. They had exactly ten minutes to be ready for their day and at the door, which was noted to be a struggle at first. Subject Two had problems waking up on cue, unable to sleep through the night, even with a set lights out time each evening. While that was happening, Subject One would grow irritated at the lack of accountability her fellow subject had for herself and took to waking the subject up herself. After a few weeks, the two sorted this issue out, bonding over what turned out to be a mutual need for physical touch and holding each other under their covers.

Meals would include a simple breakfast of fruits and fresh pastries in the mornings, lunch of rotating finger sandwiches and salads, and finally, hearty meal in the evenings such as high protein stews and roasts. Resolution Testing wanted to ensure a light starting meal and then end with foods that would nourish and mentally satisfy their subjects, like a reward for completing the day. Raye oversaw the initial routine, which included personalized workout regimen, but the meal planning was sent down from the higher ups and were nonnegotiable, even when Raye questioned if the subjects would adjust to the menu.

In the end, this would create a sense of steady repetition that Subjects One and Two would grow to enjoy, frequently making remarks about how it was nice to not have to buy their own food and force themselves to cook. Neither subject found it odd, the way they went from nourishing their bodies to prepare for the day to being rewarded with food for getting through the day instead. They accepted their conditions, grateful that they were taking part in a trial that focused so much on their mental health and physical wellbeing. Subject One was a clinical trial veteran, having doe close to twenty before this one, some with larger restrictions to diet and mobility. Subject Two, on the other hand, was only on her second trial.

About two months into the routine, Subjects One and Two no longer questioned much about their stay. Resolution Testing had generously taken care of everything outside of their trial as further incentive, down to their rent and car payments while they were away from their normal lives. This level of preparation on the company’s side of things allowed Raye to focus on other things and discuss other details more frequently than she expected to be able to. Without knowing, Raye had done her part of the job perfectly to this point, creating an environment where two subjects would fall completely codependent on each other, however that relationship may form. All that was left was to see it through-break the bond.

Behind the scenes, Resolution Testing had built an entire city, down to meticulously placing homes and families to fill them. The city was built around the testing lab, with the lab in the center. It was designed to entrap the people inside the lab without them realizing there was no way out. All roads led back to the middle, Raye realized after walking through it. She also noticed that the doors to Resolution Testing needed a keycard on every end, including the insides, except for the side facing the south exit. It was locked on the inside, requiring specific access allowance, but you could open the door from the outside.

The intention was that the subjects could walk back into the lab but could not walk out without permission.

Today, Subject One and Two woke up to their usual alarm, only to find their routine disturbed. Subject One rolled out of bed expecting to find her few personal belongings on the nightstand but instead finding it clear of everything but a bottle of water and a wristband. She looked around hesitantly, and then slid the wristband on before shaking Subject Two lightly. Subject Two stirred a bit before doing the same, asking if it was part of the trial. They went back and forth with their usual morning greetings and routines.

Subject One made her way over to the door, wringing her hair out from the shower and stopping to look at the trial countdown. It was day 98 and the countdown had two days left on it. Subject Two stood there a minute before passing by, taking the time to remind her fellow subject of their soon end to their time together. Popping her head out of the bathroom door, Subject One took in Subject Two’s face, watching as she brushed her teeth. A glance of intimacy was reflected on the camera that Raye was observing the women from.

Moments later, the door to their living space opened and the subjects walked out, expecting to head to the gymnasium per their normal routine. Subject One walked up to the door, expecting the sensor to activate, and was shocked to see that the clearance was denied. The light by the keycard flashed red and made a clicking noise that indicated the lock was engaged. Never having to use a keycard before, neither subject tried to walk through again, knowing they didn’t have a way in. The subjects had tried exploring their first few days of the trial but had met locked doors each time they went to an unauthorized area.

Visibly irritated, Subject Two made a comment to Subject One about wanting to beat her personal record with today’s run and turned away from the door. Subject One slipped her hand down to meet the hand of Subject Two and squeezed, the gesture not going unnoticed. Both women leaned into the small signs of intimacy when they happened but quickly moved away each time. Raye detailed their actions many times a day, proud of her progress in nurturing the tension between the two subjects.

After spending days together with little contact to anyone outside from they formed a relationship close in comparison to child-like lovers, clearly unsure of their own feelings. They stole glances when the chance arose and shared a bed like it was second nature. Raye initially wondered if they knew this was part of the trial, considering the subjects signed up for a routine-based trial that would track their physical and mental capabilities after 100 days of being in a no stress, all needs met environment. It would have been interesting to that by itself, but Raye felt incredibly lucky to be a part of something more scientifically substantial.

Raye didn ‘t care if doing this would cost her salvation. She threw herself into her work, spending every waking moment observing and notating. As far as Raye was aware, it was only the three women in the building on a daily basis. She wondered, probably just as much as the subjects, who did the maintenance and deep cleaning, but that was something she knowingly signed away her ignorance to. At the start of the clinical trial, her contact stated that any personnel necessary could enter or leave the lab on the terms of their own contacts, including herself. Should Raye encounter any of these people, she was not to speak to them unnecessarily, or even make her presence known outside of being an employee for Resolution Testing. She was not willing to jeopardize her position to question that or attempt to satiate any curiosity.

Those contractors seemed to watch her, but not once in the 98 days this far did she get to do the same to them. Raye was almost as isolated as her subjects.

Today, she would finally be allowed to stand before her subjects, which is why Raye waited patiently at the end of the hallway the subjects were now walking through. Unsure of what to do next, they were making their way to the emergency phone attached to a back wall, the one bit of furniture that felt out of place from the rest of the intentionally decorated lab.

The two subjects chatted as they walked, not noticing Raye in her lab coat, or the yellow and blue RT logo stitched on it. Raye was granted permission to wear the official lab gear these last few days, since she was finally facing the work she devoted herself to for the past few months. After a few minutes, Subject One looked straight ahead and found herself in front of Raye, who looked authoritative and collected with her clipboard. Raye stuck her hand out, introducing herself as Dr. Rayen Goodwill, the lead for the clinical. She shook each of the subjects’ hands, telling them that she was the one observing them in the lab all this time.

Both subjects introduced themselves as well, though their names were not processed by Raye, or anyone who would watch the cameras later on. Their names were not important to their contribution to the trial.

Subjects One and Two were briefed on the success of the trial this far and were directed into an area they had never been in before. They walked into a dimly lit room lined with shelves of clothes and daily essentials, clearly a stock room. Raye went into her speech about having permission to do a congratulatory event as a thank you from Resolution Testing for coming up on the completion of the trial. She instructed the subjects to select items they feel they would need for a two day trip in the simulated city surrounding the lab. This would be a treat, but the subjects would still be monitored with their wristbands as part of the trial. The time spent outside the lab was meant to stimulate their brains with basic interactions as a means to observe their bodily reactions coming out of the trial and entering society once more.

It took a fair amount of explanation to convince Subject One, who appeared to be hesitant to return home as is, but Subject Two was ready to leave as soon as possible. Her excitement began to rub off to Subject One, who finally agreed to the last two day event. Raye had believed she caught a loving smile from Subject One and believed it was safe to assume that they were now partners, even if they didn’t think so yet. She would have to watch the camera footage back when all was done to confirm this.

There was an obvious difference between the items Subject One and Two selected, though both seemed to gravitate towards things that would typically be kept on their person in a normal setting. Aside from their phones, the subjects received their previously confiscated personal belongings, which they took along with their new outside adventure gear. Raye observed from the doorway, waiting for their ten minutes to be up. Her initial excitement for the next steps was wearing off, as she realized she didn’t know what was ahead of her. When the tablet she was holding silently woke up in her hands, Raye announced the next steps.

Subject One and Two followed behind Raye as she walked to the south exit and slid her access key into the card holder. They walked out of the testing center, the subjects deeply inhaling the summer air.

Raye walked as she checked her tablet, instructing the women to explore the city while she read through her next task. Once she understood, she watched as Subject One and Two engrossed themselves in the architecture, then turned to walk back inside.

***

Raye found herself in front of the tv screen, having watched the subjects decide to camp out for the night. They spent the better part of the daylight walking around the city, then cuddling up together under the stars during the nightfall. Subject One had been nervous all afternoon, but Raye knew it could possibly be due to the outing itself and nothing more. It wasn’t until Subject Two snuggled up in Subject One’s arms and whispered an admission of love that Raye knew she had succeeded.

For the final step, she needed to force the two to break their bond. Resolution Testing warned Raye at the time of signing her contract that they may ask immoral things as part of the trial, and Raye was as prepared as she could be for the first trial.

All paid actors in the city had vacated the area at the start of dusk, leaving the subjects to their own devices. Around the time the next morning when the city came back to life, the subjects had naturally woken up and not received any notice to head back to the lab, so they continued on with their exploring. Raye was itching to make the announcement when the time came, having to sit on it overnight. The time came on the 99th day of the trial, midday, and she spoke clearly, focusing on enunciating each word without a single mistake.

The immediate reaction Subject One had was enough for Raye to feel the immense pride that had begun to bubble within her. The woman had been drinking a bottle of soda, soaking in the warmth of her now partner. Subject Two was dumbfounded, hearing that only one person would make it to the end of the trial and receive the award money. It was the news that not only one person would proceed, but also that it was a test to see who would eliminate the other subject first.

Subject One smashed her bottle off the edge of the table she was sitting at almost immediately, with no hesitation. Her face was dead set, cold, like she couldn’t risk showing anything else. Her eyes narrowed sharply, staring straight at the other subject in front of her. Subject Two looked betrayed, terrified when the broken edge of the bottle made it up to her neck. She started sobbing, her throat bouncing from beginning to hyperventilate. Raye couldn’t see if it drew any blood from her view.

Subject One held the bottle in its current position for a moment before flipping it around in her hand so that she now held the sharp edges. She shook it out, expectantly, drawing fresh blood from her own hand. The surrendering gesture wasn’t taken lightly, with Subject Two folding immediately, begging.

She was as desperate as she could be, pleading with her partner to not do it, to not take the bait. It was just money; it was not worth the cost.

Subject One understood, though, that either one walked out or none, and she wanted to give her partner the option to decide for herself. Raye listened to Subject Two’s voice coming through the speakers, following along with every time her voice faltered. Subject One took a moment to explain that if no one won, they would both be dead anyway. It was decided without them knowing, and Raye respected her subject for catching onto the situation so quickly. She hoped her next set of subjects would perform similarly.

She didn’t act on her partner handing over her life, Subject Two. She stood as if her limbs were numb and here was no remedy. Subject One sighed and took her partner’s hand, wrapping it around her own. Raye noticed more than Subject Two did with this interaction.

Subject One pulled Subject Two into a deep kiss, wrapping her unused hand hand around Subject Two’s neatly tied back hair. Raye watched intently as Subject One gently pulled the bottle out from where it was stuck between them. Subject Two started to cry harder, whispering her cries up against the lips she was kissing. To Raye, the pleas rang deaf.

A scream comes from one of the two subjects, maybe both. When Subject One pulled away from the embrace, Subject Two fell to her knees, one hand to her throat. She rocked back and forth for a second before sitting on her legs and giving a small smile to her partner. Subject One stood still, taking the guilt and consequences in with the last of the love she would receive from Subject Two.

Raye was drawn to the way Subject One broke down afterwards, stealing the last bit of life from her partner with a final kiss. She watched as her subject began to panic, grabbing at Subject Two’s throat as if to apply pressure. Instead of watching further, Raye began to move quickly, hearing the doors behind her open. Resolution Testing’s security team surrounded the walls in the observation room and made a show of arms. When Raye saw the founder of Resolution Testing walk into the room, she began to understand that she was part of the clinical trial herself.

#creative writing #author #writing #fiction #short fiction #short story #kelsieiswriting

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mirrorshards · 1 year

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4, 8? I’m a little shy, uh, 11? <:3

4. Favourite things to draw?

the expected answer: little gay scenarios or gestures. BL or GL, sometimes even het. I love dealing with intimacy and relationship dynamic even if that intimacy is just about eyes following or physical proximity

the unexpected answer: when i'm out of ideas my go-to is always girls. love drawing girls. happy or sad or somewhere in between.. girls are the best

8. What do you like most about your own work?

I've been pretty proud of my character-analysis abilities, and recently I've gotten more self confident seeing I can carry little self "projects" to the end- which were animatics or my roommate stenny comic, a short original comic I just did and a few years ago also my webtoon contest entry. with every little project I finish I feel more "invincible" with regards to my art and my abilities and it gives me confidence and pride!

11. Favorite comment you’ve ever recieved on your work?

okay not to be gay but my absolute favorite commentator is @basu-shokikita. whenever I show her one of my comics and it moves her I'm satisfied my point had gotten across and managed to touch something and I wasn't just my inner-brain cringe. or when she gives me feedback it always serves to make my comics/drawings better so I love those too.

other than that, I love when people tell me in their comments what they loved about it, or get into the story of what I drew and maybe ask questions or wonder where it might go etc. I'm always so happy to get positive comments (even the crying tags on my sadder things make me smile), but my favorite is when someone makes me talk with them somehow, if that makes sense? I want my art to be engaging and i want people to have something to say about it, that makes me feel that it was a success

#asks

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rogue-durin-16 · 2 years

Text

MATCHUP FOR:

Anonymous

Straight, 20, she/her. I'm kind and helpful, people come to me to vent or for advice and comfort. I'm also smart and ambitious, I love being the best at everything I do. I'm fairly introverted and it takes me a while to warm up to people. I'm very outgoing, fun and talkative around the people I'm comfortable with. I love learning about new knowing a little bit of everything. I love mischief and pulling harmless pranks but I do (unwillingly) play the role of the responsible adult sometimes. I adore adventures, witty and playful banter, joking around and having indepth discussions on anything and everything. I also daydream a lot and I'm quite the hopeless romantic!

I'm pretty competitive and I'm deathly afraid of failure and disappointing the people I love. I'm quite stubborn and dramatic and I get frustrated and agigated easily. I have a tendency of holding people at an arms length and I get very distant sometimes. I'm in my head a lot and this makes me a little clumsy and careless.

I love reading, my room is filled with stacks of books. My favorite genres are poetry, Russian lit and mysteries. I also enjoy true crime a lot. I find cooking and cleaning up really relaxing. I adore all forms of art and have quite a few creative hobbies, my favorite being interior design! listen to a lot of modern rock and I love watching psychological thrillers and romcoms. I have a lot of course work so my past times currently only consist of taking as many naps as I can.

I'm 5'9 and I have long and curly dark brown hair and brown eyes. I have a fair skin tone, I'm slim and I've got full lips and large eyes. I have prominent cheekbones and dimples that I really like! I mostly dress in relaxed suits, blazers and coats and I love the occasional dress or sweaters layered over a white button down. I almost always have a red lip on and I love wearing blush. Infp, 4w3.

Love language: Quality time and physical touch. Big three: Taurus sun, gemini moon and scorpio rising. Insecurities: My broad shoulders and the dark circles under my eyes and I do struggle with self esteem issues. Hogwarts house: Ravenclaw.

From Stranger Things I Ship You With:

Jonathan Byers

Ship Dynamic:

Forced Proximity Turned OTP™

Quote:

«The intimacy of being understood like a muse understands a painter, like a reader understands a book.»

When I say forced proximity, I mean forced proximity as in you two are completely unconnected to each other. You and Jonathan wouldn't end up together under any regular circumstances.

However, due to your curious nature and your thirst for adventure (honestly, having to be the best at everything might play a part too), you were in the wrong place at the wrong time (or should I say right?)

You find yourself joining Nancy, Steve, Jonathan and the party completely by accident. They quickly assess that you're a good asset to their gang, so you stick with them and save the world. Hell, the group is already odd enough, why not add another member?

So there's how you start to interact with Jonathan. I don't think you and Nancy would particularly get along at first, and Steve is... Well he's a jock, so you naturally find yourself gravitating towards Jonathan.

I feel like he would serve you a pretty acceptable yet unexpected banter. First it may come off as dry bc introvert+trust issues x introvert+trust issues, but the more you two warm up to each other, the more playful and loose it is.

Cue flirty banter as a form of communication.

The undeniable chemistry you two expose your friends to has them slack jawed. Do they root for you? Yes, are they baffled by it? Also yes.

Communicating with just glances and expressions.

Sharing humor full of inside jokes.

Finding things you have in common as soon as you loosen up around each other.

Excitedly commenting books you've read. Getting exponentially more excited the more you talk because you find out you read the same books.

Ending up at your house so Jonathan can see the dangerously big amount of books you have.

I do not make the rules okay yes I do, but you end up kissing oop-

MOVIE NIGHTS AT HIS PLACE MOVIE NIGHTS AT HIS PLACE MOVIE NIGHTS AT HIS PLACE

You being his muse when it comes to photography. He gets immense pleasure from taking photos of you while you're distracted doing something you like (designing for example).

You drag him into doing stupid and reckless shit like pulling pranks. He freaks out the first two ti but eventually loves it because you're so fun.

Being Jonathan's rock. He's always playing the parental figure in his house, so he'd definitely does that with you too, but he soon realizes you're more capable of taking care of him too.

Not Jonathan having a breakdown over that because he can finally reach out for help whenever he's drowning.

That said, you find out you don't have to play the responsible adult role if he's around, so it's a win-win situation for the both of you.

Getting along with Will straight away. You him develop his artistic aptitudes, jokingly bitch about Jonathan with him, offer him a confidant persona outside of his family, which is pretty much needed for kids his age who went through a lot, etc.

Big sister vibes.

Jonathan loves to see you interact with Will without interfering. He gets such a warm, comforting feeling, because it feels like you belong there, in his family.

Keep in mind that family is the most important thing to Jonathan, so this is like, A Big Thing™.

Random but Jonathan gets a silly little grin on his face whenever you kiss his cheek in a public place/when he's about to go out because having a red lipstick stain>>>>>.

Holding/brushing hands at all times, even before you date.

He boosts your self esteem in a big logical way, so it's not only sweet, it's also funny because why would you start with "you know objectively speaking-" or "it's proven that-". BOY YOU'RE COMPLIMENTING SOMEONE NOT SPITTING FACTS.

Jonathan is NOT a hopeless romantic but he IS hella thoughtful and has a knack for remembering the tiniest details about you, so you bet this boy is going to fuel that hopeless romantic side of yours.

#stranger things i ship you with #jonathan byers

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acapelladitty · 3 years

Text

So many people asked for Heisenberg/Reader aftercare that I felt compelled to show him in one of his softer moments in the factory.

Twisting your neck to one side, a satisfying pop ricocheted through your system as something seemed to click back into place at the top of your spine. The sheets beneath your body were recently washed and the slight scent of lemons was welcome as you lazed in bed.

Taking stock of your body, fully nude in the warm air of the bedroom, you can feel the tension in your back from being held in place for so long as well as the pleasant ache from your earlier fuck. The only thing that would be considered ‘new’ is the residual twinges of pain from your inner thigh; the branded skin there still protesting its abuse.

A soft grunt interrupted your thoughts, and you turn to the side to lock eyes with Heisenberg, his own naked form taking up the majority of the available bed space.

“That’s fucking disgusting.” He commented, glancing at your neck.

Twisted to place your right hand on his left thigh, the skin there marred with scarring and hard beneath your touch, you give it a soft squeeze.

“I’m not taking criticism from a man who spends his days up to his wrists in corpses.”

“Maybe not,” he conceded with a nod and a salacious leer, “but you should take criticism from a man who just spent a day up to his wrist in you.”

Not expecting the comment, it draws an easy laugh from you, the sound reverberating around the large room and making him grin also. Your left leg was entwined with his own in a mess of limbs towards the end of the bed and you tap him with your heel as you both relax into the other.

It was in these moments where the softer facets of his personality shone through. He was a product of his upbringing; harsh, arrogant, selfish, and determined to a fault but in these quieter moments, when barriers were unnecessary and the world seemed a million miles away, his façade slipped away. The biting wit which often put yourself and others down with a casual cruelty melted into a genuine humour which showed an intelligence that was sometimes lost in his bouts of frenzied rage.

A mad genius, through and through.

His hair hung loose across his face, glasses and hat long abandoned in a messy pile on the floor, and the golden rims of his eyes seemed to flicker and dance in the muted lighting of the bedroom. As always, the scent of cigars clung to him, and neither of you had washed since your earlier fun so the smell of sex and sweat rounded off his natural musk.

Your hand slid up from his thigh, drawing a line up past the roundness of his stomach and coming to rest in the slight divot between his pecs. His infection had given him strength, but the definition of his shoulders was purely him, a result of his continuous metal work, and the softness of his stomach almost seemed odd but did nothing but add to his impressive physicality.

Plus, it made for a comfortable resting spot, one you know he enjoyed because of the close proximity it put you to his cock.

Ignorant of your appraisal, his hands roved messily across your body, drawing a soft sigh from your lips as the rough texture of his fingertips and palms felt wonderful but your sigh was quick to turn into a pained inhale as he accidentally brushed against your inner thigh and the raw skin there.

Noticing the inhale, he pulled his hand away.

“Told you it would ache like a bitch,” he shrugged, “but when it heals fully you won’t feel a goddamn thing.” Holding your gaze, he danced his fingertips along your navel instead, “You should keep up with the healing salve.”

“You should keep up with the healing salve. It was your idea after all.”

Tilting his head at you, the movement caused a few strands of greying hair to fall across his eyes and you blew them away, smirking as the unexpected gust of wind caught him off guard and made him flinch slightly.

“It’s a fair point, and I’m not a man who welches on a bargain.” A sordid grin pulled at his lips, exposing his top row of teeth, “Are you asking me to touch you?”

Rolling you eyes, you stretch your arms overhead.

“Yes, Lord Heisenberg, I am asking you to fix the mess which you made.”

Extending a hand to the side with a low chuckle, he flicked his finger inward and the small jar of healing salve, its metallic lid bending to the will of its owner, sliced a sharp path through the air as it flew towards his outstretched hand.

“Lazy.” You accuse, eyes narrowing.

“Think smart, not hard.” He bit back.

Curling around your side, the warmth of his body flooded your left and your shoulder brushed against the thick mat of hair on his upper chest, tickling the skin there. Even unclothed, his body was practically a furnace.

Tapping at your knee, you draw your leg up at his request and part your legs, giving him the access that he needed to apply the salve. His touch was gentle as he coated the mark with salve, the vaguely antiseptic scent making your nose twitch, using the pads of his fingers to ensure an even coverage as an immediate cooling effect took some of the residual sting from the wound.

Sighing with contentment, you wrap an arm around his neck, fingers coming to rest at the hair which decorated the nape as you pull your fingers between the strands lightly. Against your leg, you can feel his cock twitch and you pointedly ignore it as his hand leaves your thigh, his fingers snapping on the lid of the salve as he lobbed it to the floor carelessly.

“Thank you.” You mutter, tilting your head to tap his, almost catlike.

“A good Lord knows how to keep his subjects satisfied. Even the insatiable ones.”

Smirking, you pull at his hair a little more roughly and are rewarded with a growl.

“A good Lord would also help to ease the ache of my back, but I suppose that work would be beneath him.”

A wolfish grin split his lips and you squeak in surprise as he moves quicker than you can anticipate; his hands flipping you over in the bed as your chest and face end up pressed against the sheets.

“You only had to ask, sweetheart.” He comments, looking bemused at your stunned expression, “You know I love playing with my toys.”

Rubbing his hands together with dramatic glee, his hands made themselves known on your shoulders, his palms rhythmic and gentle as they pressed into your flesh with just the right amount of force. It is enough to make you exhale deeply, your body melting into the bed as he set a steady pace.

The calloused and textured nature of his scarred hands was amazing as the pads of his fingers travelled across your exposed skin, creating a trail of gooseflesh in its wake as the dryness of his hands created a wonderful friction. Against your wishes, you can feel a spark of arousal at the sensations and the intimacy, but you will it away, not wanting to ruin the moment by inciting any extra fun.

However, as he pressed deeply against the small divot at the base of your spine, where most of your tension was carried, a deep groan escaped you lips as the sweet spot was stimulated.

“Keep making noises like that and you’ll have a hard problem to fix.”

His tone was sleazy as his fingers trailed lower, carving a slow line down your body as he approached your entrance. However, before he could get there, you reach behind with your hand and catch his wrist in a gentle grip.

“Maybe later.” You offer, your tone apologetic as you deny him, “But not right now.”

His body tilted to the side as his gaze sought out your own, testing the seriousness of your words. He held your eye for a moment before nodding as he recognised your wishes.

For all his accusations of you being the insatiable one, he was never one to deprive himself of any sort of pleasure when the opportunity arose.

But not tonight; it had been a long day and you needed the rest.

His hands returned to your body, their natural heat providing an interesting sensation as he methodically worked his way around each area of your back. It was almost reverent in the way that he ensured no space was left untouched and you could do nothing but lay subject to his whims.

Eventually, he pulled away, returning to his previous position by your left side as his arm came to rest across your back, snatching you close in a possessive grip.

“That was amazing.” You praise him in a voice thick with sleep as your exhaustion from the day was exacerbated by his soft ministrations.

“You going to sleep on me after that?” He asked, voice holding its amusement even as he shifted against you, his hardness pressing against your outer thigh.

“Yes.” You nod, your head brushing along the pillow even as you match his amusement with your own, “You’re a smart guy; you can either wait for me to wake up and then I’ll give you a special reward, or you can deal with it yourself right now, asshole.”

A flash of something alit in his eyes at the feisty words and whatever it was made you smile softly even as he gave a low chuckle and tucked his head above yours, settling in to join you for a long nap.

Fic also available on AO3 at DittyWrites

#heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg #re8 heisenberg #re8 karl heisenberg #resident evil village #the next part will focus on voyeurism and will be split into male and female

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retrievablememories · 3 years

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tokyo 2112 | baekhyun (m)

title: tokyo 2112 pairing: rich guy!baekhyun x reader genre: sci-fi/cyberpunk au, enemies to lovers, angst, non-explicit smut request: “hi, how are you? 💕 could i request some cyberpunk x baekhyun fic? i have in mind Tokyo, neon lights and explosive lovers. please feel free to choose the amount you want to write or you can. and thanks! ✨” word count: 12.8k warnings: body modifications/prosthetics, attempted robbery, physical violence (not between bh x reader, though reader does think about fighting him 💀), blood, non-graphic wounds, mentions of sex/one non-explicit sex scene, mentions of a car accident, frequent alcohol use/unhealthy reliance on alcohol, smoking, mentions of classism/poverty, mentions of experimentation, surgery is performed on the reader but not described, one mention of being weighed on a scale-like device a/n: this is my first real, lengthy attempt at enemies2lovers (or maybe just the genre “reader’s an a-hole who makes a lot of assumptions”) because i’m a clown and like to challenge myself for no reason...and this is why i don’t fool with this particular romance genre 💀 feedback is appreciated, this fic is just a whole lot of me experimentally punching above my weight and i’m a bit undecided on my feelings about it

also, i imagined the reader’s arm with a similar structure to the winter soldier’s, for reference

Tokyo, year 2112

You meet him in a Lower Tokyo club, the neon lights bleeding into each other and creating a deep, vivid landscape. It’s an unnaturally pretty scene—unnatural like everyone and everything else inside this club.

There’s a look of subdued wonder on his face, which makes you roll your eyes. He’s all made up and way too pretty to be in this dingy club with his gaudy piercings and expensive rings. Still, he enters the building in all his affluent glory, standing out against the crowd of gritty and cobbled-together androids and half-humans.

He’s a rich man’s son and an even richer man’s grandson. He’s known for being attractive, intelligent, and ridiculously rich—and that’s about all you know of the man himself. Him and his family have been excellent at keeping their personal lives air-tight, only ever letting the public know what they want everyone to know. But ultimately, they are only human. You know they cannot be as perfect as they try to maintain, and you can only imagine the unsavory things in their family history that go much deeper than anyone could ever think up.

“Do you think he wears all that to make up for the lack of enhancements?” Your friend Valor asks. He’s gesturing specifically to the man’s lip piercing and the chains hanging off of it, attached to the collar of his shirt. It’s a little strange, but it’s a signature look for him, and certainly not one of the weirder things in here.

“I’d like to rip it right out,” you reply in lieu of an actual answer to Valor’s question.

The man appears misplaced—like a researcher conducting a study of alien beings rather than a regular club goer—though he doesn’t seem to mind this. He just observes everything around him.

Valor chuckles and shakes his head at the display, throwing back another shot. “Weird.”

“Hm. Come on.” You steer Valor in the other direction, looking to get away from the man before he can get near your area of the club. Though this is your first time being in such close quarters with Byun Baekhyun despite his popularity across Tokyo, you’d like to cut things short if at all possible.

Another hour passes, and the drinks keep flowing. Your mind has gotten pleasantly hazy by now, almost enough to make you forget about the trespasser in your club scene. Almost.

You, Valor, and three other familiar faces sit at a small table near the back of the club. One of the guys is recounting some run-in he had the other week with the Droid Commission, though you can barely hear over the music that’s only getting louder, so you just nod and pretend to understand. However, he suddenly falters in his tale and his eyes dart up to a spot above your head. Turning back, you see that he is standing just over your shoulder. Without thinking, you recoil.

Baekhyun slides from behind you and comes to stand in front of you all now, a strangely convivial smile on his face. He acts like he’s merely visiting you all at brunch instead of standing in a club in the roughest part of the city.

“Exquisite work here,” he says, though his words drown in all the noise. None of you know what he’s saying, or who he’s saying it to. Noticing the acute confusion, Baekhyun lowers himself to your level, his scent passing across your nose as he does. Some robust and fancy cologne you don’t know the name of. Your eyebrows furrow at his proximity, and your blood rushes; maybe out of anger, or maybe just from being drunk. Then he touches your left shoulder, right where the metal of your arm connects to your living flesh.

Yeah, definitely anger.

“I said, this work is exquisite. Quite fascinating, really. Who made it?” Baekhyun has to get fairly close to your ear for you to hear him above the commotion, and you can feel the heat of his mouth next to your skin. His eyes travel the length of your arm, which is fully exposed in your tank top. His voice is irritatingly smooth, and the chains of his lip ring lightly brush your shoulder when he pulls back after he finishes speaking. Though your arm may be made of metal, it still has artificial sensory “nerves” running through it that connect it to the rest of your nervous system—and right now, they are screaming from that slight touch.

Maybe you really are just too damn drunk.

You look into Baekhyun’s dark eyes, which are imploring, coy, and playful all at once. The others at your table watch this interaction as if suspended in time, probably trying to process the sheer nerve of this dude.

“Fuck off,” you blurt out, and brush him off your shoulder with your flesh hand.

He remains unoffended; he even looks entertained by your blunt rejection.

The man who was previously telling his story speaks up. “You heard her. Fuck off, pretty boy.”

Baekhyun straightens up and nods, then reaches into his jacket. Two of the men leap to their feet, thinking he’s about to pull out a weapon—which would not be the first or last occurrence in this club—but he only brings out a business card, tucked between two of his fingers.

“Ever vigilant, aren’t you?” Baekhyun says, laying the card on the small tabletop. Then he directs his next sentence to you. “If you decide you feel like telling me more...get in touch.”

Then he disappears back into the mass of moving bodies just as quickly as he came. You flex the fingers on your metal hand, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

Both men at your table sit back down, although they’re still a bit disgruntled. Valor picks up the card to inspect it. “You gonna call that weirdo?”

“Please. You know me better than that by now.” You pluck the card from his hand and rip it up without a second thought. However, it takes a little longer to forget about the heated imprint of Baekhyun’s fingers on your shoulder, or his whispering voice fluttering against your eardrum.

Getting the arm was merely an act of survival, the way you saw it.

Money was low and jobs were scarce—ones that weren’t dangerous, straight-up unappealing, or low pay. There had been a scientific research trial for a new cybernetics program, and it paid much better than many other opportunities around—enough to live on for at least a year, give or take, especially with the cheaper cost of living in your area. You’d been terrified about giving up a part of your body, thinking your body might reject the foreign technology and kill you for the offense, but your desperation outweighed the fear.

Thankfully, it worked.

That was nearly two years ago, though, and the trial was long over. Even with you spending as frugally as you possibly could, the money was close to running out.

Odd jobs here and there help you out some, but they are few and far between and don’t pay nearly enough to make a living on.

You’re getting increasingly anxious about the lack of options and dwindling money, though you also spend half of your time getting drunk, hitting up the club, and simply trying not to acknowledge your crumbling life. If worst comes to worst, you can always think about finding another research trial and exchanging another body part. Maybe. These cybernetics programs often crop up more in Osaka, which would require you to leave the city, but maybe you could get another gig and scrape up enough money for travel...

For now, however, you are back at the club’s familiar bar and making small talk with the bartender, who’s an android without a real name or identity. Everyone just knows it as T-4000, though it appears to be fine with its little niche in the world. Sometimes it teases you about your arm and wonders when you will make a complete transformation into a “metalhead” like itself. Though you cringe, the company is better than nothing when the others aren’t around, so you allow the jokes.

Alone at the bar, you’re too preoccupied with staring into your drink to register the body sliding onto the bar stool next to yours until you hear The Voice flowing out again.

“One Blue Lagoon, please.”

Oh, fuck. You put your head in one hand and angle your body away from his in hopes that he doesn’t notice it’s you. But just as your fortune turns out, he happens to be facing your metal arm.

“Oh, it’s you again.” Baekhyun sounds pleased to see you, like this is some great unexpected coincidence, though you know that’s not likely true. You lift your drink to your mouth and pretend you don’t hear him, though that doesn’t deter him. “I never did hear back from you. How sad.”

“I have no desire to talk to you or anyone like you,” you say, still with your head turned.

“Anyone like me?” He chuckles.

“You don’t belong here, in case you didn't notice.”

“By whose definition?”

“Everyone’s,” you retort. T-4000 comes back with Baekhyun’s drink, and it gives you a look of bright amusement and curiosity with its digital-screen face as it rolls away to help another customer.

“I don’t concern myself with ‘everyone’s’ opinions,” Baekhyun replies, drinking from his glass. “Just the ones who matter.”

“Right, like your rich friends,” you scoff. “Why the hell are you even here?” You turn to him then, though looking at him feels like a mistake—like staring into a solar eclipse. He’s still wearing his chains, like always, and his eyes are smoked out with dark shades of eyeliner. The makeup makes him look eternally tired, but in some high-fashion model way.

“Because I don’t like being around my so-called ‘rich friends’ any more than you would.” Baekhyun smirks.

“So sorry.” You roll your eyes. “Maybe you should become a hermit, then.”

“You seem to be doing a good job of that right now. Where’s your friends from last time?” He looks around as if they’ll materialize.

“None of your business.”

Baekhyun leans on the bar counter, placing his arms on top of it, and his cologne hits you again. You try to hold your breath against the scent, though you can almost taste it in the back of your mouth. Shaking your head, you peer directly into his eyes now, which are as exceedingly curious as the last time. They’re still inky dark under this lighting, reminding you of black holes that absorb all light and life.

“Is it bad for me to want to know more about your arm?”

“Like I just said, it’s frankly none of your business.” You cast a forlorn glance at your drink, which has gotten dangerously low.

“Fair enough.” He sips again. “Now. What if I want to know about you?”

The back of your neck flares with heat, though you can’t fathom why. “You must be truly bored if that’s what you came here for. Unfortunately, you aren’t as interesting as you seem to think you are.”

“You injure me.” But you both know he’s not hurt at all by anything you can think of to say to him. “But this isn’t about me—it’s about you.”

“What about me? How you want to steal my arm and use it for scrap metal, maybe? Or to build yourself a body mod, even? You really stand out in here being the only one who’s not partway made of tin or some shit, and it makes people distrust you. You can figure that out, right?”

“You make a lot of assumptions.” Baekhyun swirls his drink around in his glass, the blue liquid swishing around the sides. “Let me make some, then. You seem like a mysterious, closed-off, and perpetually discontented person. And despite what you might think, it’s not my first time seeing you around. I guess I can’t interest you in entertaining my presence just for company’s sake?”

You pause, wondering where Baekhyun could have possibly spotted you. You don’t hang out in any of the places someone of his standing would usually be seen in. But then again, does he even frequent those areas of Upper Tokyo? He’s always spending his time mingling in Lower Tokyo’s notable haunts instead. “...Are you some kind of peeping tom or something equally pathetic?”

T-4000 perks up at that, even from its distance on the other side of the bar, and it scoots a little closer as if it’ll need to call the Droid Commission in another minute. Which, in actuality, is a terrible idea—calling on one of the city’s many vigilantes would have a more effective outcome, if need be, but sending them for Baekhyun of all people might land you all in prison.

“Tokyo is big,” Baekhyun deadpans, like it’s something even a baby would know. “You can see anyone anywhere.” Then his voice melts back into its normal suave tone. “I’ve noticed you in passing, once or twice. Your arm is something special, but it’s hard to forget a person like you.”

Despite yourself, you don’t totally hate the comment. That alone makes you want to leave the club and not look back for at least the next month or so, knowing he’s probably said this to dozens of other people before. You stay in your seat, though, trying to see what easy line this man is going to throw out next.

“I wonder why I’ve never noticed you, then.”

“You seem to be too consumed with your own problems half the time, even though I don’t know what those are. The stress is written all over your face, though.”

Can never miss a chance to be insufferable, it seems.

“Okay Mr. Psychoanalyst.” You knock back the tiny bit of drink left in your glass and push it away from you. You shake your head at the android when it gestures for a refill.

“Not a psychoanalyst, you’re just achingly easy to decipher.” His tone is casual, like this isn’t meant to be an insult, though you take offense anyway.

“You’re not very good at whatever this is,” you say.

“What do you think this is? Flirting? Maybe you wouldn’t be wrong there.” He laughs.

“Yeah, well. Get some more practice and then maybe you can convince some other poor sap to get to know you better and sign over the rights to their cybernetics, but I won’t be falling for it.”

“I guess that means I’ll just have to try harder, then.” And then he finishes his drink, too. “Not the stealing your arm bit, but the getting to know you part.” He pauses for another moment, and then says, “It’s easy to become enamored with this place.” He waves his hand around at the club’s surroundings. “Expect to see me around more often. I think I’ve already taken a liking to you.”

Baekhyun tips his empty glass to you and gets up from his stool. His cologne swirls around you as he leaves, not overpowering, but enough to make its mark on your olfactory memories. You don’t look back to see where he walks off to, too busy trying to ignore the small headache building behind your eyes and your elevated heart rate.

He’s already taken a liking to you. Why would a ridiculous comment like that even get to you?

God. You really need to get laid.

So, you do just that.

Not with Baekhyun, but with someone from the club whose name you don’t even remember before it’s even over. It was painfully uneventful sex, and it did nothing to banish the man from your mind, which makes you feel even more irritated.

Walking back to your tiny apartment afterwards feels like a certified Walk of Shame even though it’s late at night and no one really cares to notice you. You spit on the sidewalk as if that could properly convey your disgust. You think of Osaka again—and what the fuck are you going to do to even get the money to get there?—and of the business card that you’d ripped up without remorse.

You shake your head, sending that thought back to the depths of your mind. Nevermind. That doesn’t matter. What could he possibly have for you, and why would you want it? Tucking your hands tighter in your pockets, you keep your head down and remain inconspicuous until you get back to the not-so-welcome sight of your own place.

You, Valor, and a few others sit around a makeshift bonfire at Tokyo’s Rainbow Bridge—or what remains of it, anyway, with weeds and tall grass sprouting up in the space that was once its parking lot. For the past hour, this impromptu hangout been nothing but smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap alcohol and shooting the breeze. The nights are always much colder than the days, the chill biting into your skin and seeping into your clothes, but you try to ignore it and huddle closer to the fire. Maybe there is something, anything else you could be doing other than this, but you are just a bit too weak—and a little too lonely—to say no to the companionship. Even if it means listening to the uninteresting conversations of men who you barely know outside of the club or without a bottle of whiskey in their hands.

Your hangout session remains sleepy and boring for a while until someone makes a suggestion. One of them keeps going on about some steady, reliable work he’s supposedly found from a trusted friend, though he refuses to elaborate on what kind of work it is when asked. You make a sound of disgust and tune him out. Useless suggestions are as bad as none at all.

“Maybe we oughta rob that Baekhyun dude.”

You look up from the flames, fixing your eyes on the one who said it—a man called Lockjaw—and someone else chuckles in disbelief.

“You serious?” Valor asks.

Lockjaw sits forward in his ratty lawn chair, and with the way the light hits his face, it’s easier to see how his bottom jaw and teeth are completely metal. It makes you wince internally every time you see him, though you always feel kinda bad afterwards. That must’ve hurt exponentially worse than your own procedure. “Why the fuck not? He struts around Lower Tokyo like he has it all...and the bastard does. We sit and grovel for scraps, yet there’s a walking goldmine right in front of us.”

The idea of taking Baekhyun’s riches had never quite appealed to you or fully manifested in your mind. You didn’t want anything belonging to him, mostly because of your own disdain towards the man. However, the suggestion appears in sharp relief now, so obvious that it’s hard to believe no one else proposed it until now. You don’t immediately respond to this concept being thrown around, but something uneasy settles in your chest.

Valor sits back with a mildly disinterested look. “And you think someone like him doesn’t have major security hanging around waiting to incinerate someone with a ray gun if they tried it?”

“Do you ever see anyone hanging around him?”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not there. Somewhere.”

“Then we’ll be strapped up,” Lockjaw says, throwing his hands in the air. “And any of his little ‘security team’ who tries it will be blown into the stratosphere. That’s how we take care of that.” You shake your head only slightly, a movement not noticeable enough to be picked up by the others. You rub your tongue against the inside of your cheek, picturing all the ways this plan could go belly-up. To your irritation, Valor decides to drag you into the fold despite your efforts to stay out of the conversation.

“What do ya think, Y/N? Baekhyun’s been on your tail lately, maybe you could help lure him in.” That stirs up several murmurs and targeted stares in your direction.

“Yeah?” Lockjaw leans forward even more, his ass nearly slipping off the edge of the chair. “Think you can get in good with him?”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. “Uh...it’s not like I’m buddy-buddy with him—”

“You don’t need to be, just tell him to bring his ass here and we’ll do the rest.”

Your mouth tightens. With all eyes trained on you, some expressions less friendly than others, it feels impossible to refuse. “I guess.”

“It’ll provide the money you’ve been worrying over for the past year.” Valor offers, and you shoot him a side-eye. Not like you needed him to broadcast your business to the world.

“That’s how life around here works,” another man chimes in, putting his cigarette out on the dirt and getting off his makeshift stoop of an upturned bucket. He stretches his arms and legs, and though you can’t see them under his long pants, you can hear the soft whirring and clicking of his metal legs. “Eat or be eaten. I’ve made my choice.”

Lockjaw gives a wolfish smile. Your apprehension rises, though you say nothing. “Eat, we will.��

You try to act nonchalant the next time you see Baekhyun at the club. You only notice him as you’re leaving, having already waited most of the night to see if he’d show up this time. You slow to a stop as you spot him in the alleyway behind the club, speaking to another club-goer—you’ve seen the person around before. You can only imagine what they were talking about before you’d interrupted their little scene, and the person scurries off, perhaps somewhat reluctantly, once it’s clear they’ve lost Baekhyun’s attention. Maybe that was the poor sap he’d finally found who’d be misguided enough to give up their cybernetics.

Baekhyun approaches you with a smile, his chains catching in the light of the flashy neon sign above. The kohl is dark and smoky around his eyes, in perfect sameness with every other time you’ve seen him.

“Hello, one who’s name I still don’t know—”

“You should come see me,” you interrupt. You want this to be as quick as possible, not wanting to dwell on any fake niceties.

Baekhyun lifts an eyebrow. “See you? At...your place, or—”

“At the ruins of Rainbow Bridge. Thursday night, around 9. Unless you’re too busy doing rich people stuff.”

“Rainbow Bridge…” He draws the words slowly across his tongue. Probably thinking of what a ruin the bridge is now—and has been for the past few decades—and wondering why you’re asking him to meet there of all places.

“I have a friend who lives around there—no fucking place to stay, you know, just holes up wherever he can. But he can...let you see the inner workings of my arm. Pick him up, take him back to your place; I’m sure you have a lab.” And because you know what he’s really looking for, you throw in, “He’s studied the technology, knows it inside-out. He could help you build...whatever it is you want.”

Baekhyun’s eyes, which you normally perceive as two lightless voids, sparkle at that last part. You can practically see the light increase in them. “Oh really?”

You roll your own eyes. “Yes, really. I’m not going to let you walk off with my damn arm, but you can...take notes on the mechanisms and shit. It’s up to you. I just got tired of you fuckin’ asking, so don’t think this is going to turn into some weekly meetup or whatever.”

He nods, slowly at first, and then more assuredly. “Alright, then. I’ll come.”

“So...yeah.” A sudden wave of anxiety crashes over you now that the trap has been laid. You feel as if you make one wrong move now, it’ll blow everything. He’ll find out and hate you for it. But why should you care about him hating you? “Then...see ya Thursday. Bye.” You decide to make your exit, walking briskly past him in the alley.

“Leaving so soon?” Baekhyun asks, turning back to watch your figure retreat. You wave one hand behind you in a dismissive gesture.

“I’ve been here all fuckin’ night, Byun. I’m going home now—to get some sleep, if I’m lucky.”

He chuckles, the sound fading behind you as you walk away. “Sweet dreams.”

Your steps falter just slightly when those words leave his lips, and several emotions begin warring in your chest. You ignore them all and continue on your walk back to your place, though you almost wish you could turn back to the club and ask for another drink or three. Something to get your mind off that ridiculously simple phrase that’ll be spinning around in your mind all night.

The night of the plan, you begin having major second thoughts.

It’s not as if you didn’t already feel shitty about it, but your mind keeps racing with how ridiculous of an idea this really is. It’s far too late to talk anyone out of it, as they’ve already stocked up on contraband weapons and laid their gameplan, but you feel less and less “okay” about being a part of it.

Most of all, you feel increasingly guilty about using Baekhyun’s trust in you for this; he never seemed to assume you had any other motives behind your invitation. Even if it’s ridiculously, oddly naive of him to trust you—someone he knows nothing about—you don’t feel great about exploiting that for your own gains.

It takes him less time to show up than you’d hoped. He’s right there at the agreed time, annoyingly punctual, his sleek black luxury car pulling up in the dirt and patchy grass. It looks like it was cut out of a magazine and placed there—almost comically out of place. Just like him.

Baekhyun gets out of the car and walks out onto the grass to meet you, uncaring of the mud and dirt he’s stepping in. He smirks, his hands in his pockets and his chains dangling. “Would now be a good time to get your name, or are we in too deep at this point?”

There’s no one else but him. Definitely too trusting.

You nervously chew your lip as you mull that question over. If everything goes like the others intend it to, there won’t be a point in telling him your name. But if he’s still alive by the end of the night, you could be exposing yourself. Still...a name won’t matter either way if he can give a perfect description of you to the Droid Commission.

Suddenly, you decide not to give it any more thought. “It’s Y/N.”

“Y/N, Y/N...” He says your name like he’s tasting a charming new food. “I like it. It suits you.”

Baekhyun’s smile is too sincere, and it doesn’t make you feel any better. “Come on.” You turn your back to him as you lead him through the tall grass and toward a broken section of the bridge’s main road. It leans against the main structure of the bridge and sticks halfway out of the muddy ditch that was once Tokyo Bay, its jagged edge reaching toward the night sky.

It’s darker under here, with the broken bridge blocking out the moon and stars and lights from buildings nearby. Your stomach rolls.

“So, who is this friend of yours?”

You turn to Baekhyun then, and you don’t know if he can read the anxiety on your face. Maybe he can. He’d proudly bragged about his own abilities for figuring people out.

It happens all at once, somehow slow and fast at the same time.

One of the men—the one with two metal legs—slinks out from behind the broken bridge and sneaks up behind Baekhyun, a stun spear in his hands. Its two large metal prongs are lit up with electricity. Those metal prongs are aimed directly at Baekhyun’s back, ready to make contact, but that never happens.

“Look out!” you scream, and shove Baekhyun out of the way. He stumbles off to the side, falling against the concrete bridge, and you wildly grasp the long spear with both hands, blocking the man from reaching Baekhyun.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Metal Legs shouts. He drives the spear’s metal bar forward, knocking it into your upper chest and collarbone with a force that makes your teeth chatter, and the pain and shock take your breath away for a few moments.

You’re not a fighter. You usually try to stay out of any ridiculous brawls when they do happen, whether at your apartment building or the club, but you do your best to hold the dude off. So even though you stumble back, you keep your hold as tight around the spear as you can and shove it back, putting your weight behind the movement and cracking it against the man’s chin. He howls with pain and anger and his hands momentarily loosen on the weapon. You take that opportunity to snatch it completely from him.

Nearby, Baekhyun is busy fending off Lockjaw with a long knife, both of them fully engaged in a fierce clash of blades. You feel a burst of surprise. He was armed this entire time? Had he realized something was suspicious after all? Most of all, how does he know how to fight?

You don’t have much more time to think about that, though. Metal Legs is recovering from the hit, his hand reaching for his side like he’s about to pull out his own knife or gun. You leap forward and shove the prongs of the stun spear into his ribs. He quickly collapses to the dirt, motionless after a handful of frightening convulsions. You feel cold fear at the idea that you might’ve just killed him, but you can’t dwell on that when you see the others bursting out of the tall grass a few yards away from you and Baekhyun. The backup, in case something went wrong—which it most definitely has.

Lockjaw has Baekhyun up against the concrete of the bridge, his knife near Baekhyun’s neck and Baekhyun trying to block the blade. The sharp metal inches increasingly closer to its target. With your legs shaking, you run up behind Lockjaw and dig the electrified prongs into his side, sending more volts through his body than you can imagine.

Lockjaw’s weapon drops, and Baekhyun stumbles away. The man takes a little longer to be knocked unconscious than Metal Legs, but you are relieved when he’s out a few seconds later.

You look at Baekhyun, who appears dazed and winded; you belatedly realize he might’ve received some of the shock too, with both men’s arms locked together when you initially used the spear. “Get out of here! The rest are coming—go!” A shot from a ray gun zips through the air between you two and burns the concrete of the bridge.

Baekhyun looks at you wordlessly. Then he grabs your wrist as tight as a vise. You glance at him questioningly, and your confusion mounts when he drags you along with him as he takes off towards his car. The red smearing across your hand and wrist tells you he must be bleeding from somewhere, and shock blooms in your chest for a wild moment.

The car door opens without him even touching the handle or speaking a command, and he jostles you into the backseat, trying to avoid the spear’s prongs; you’re still holding it tight, as you expected you’d need it to face the others—however futile that would’ve been. You’re so frazzled once you get in the car that it takes you a moment to realize Baekhyun is in the backseat with you. “What are you doing?!”

“Get on the highway,” Baekhyun speaks, ignoring your frantic question, and the engine roars in your ears as the car peels out of the grassy lot. The vehicle narrowly escapes another round of angry shots fired by the others, and the grass sizzles where the shots land.

A self-driving car. Of course he’d have one of those. You stare at the steering wheel as it turns on its own, maneuvering you both away from the scene of the crime and back onto the paved roads.

“Your arm…” You look at the sleeve of Baekhyun’s jacket. It’s torn now, and you can see the skin of his forearm underneath, which displays a long cut. Lucky for him, it’s not deep enough to need stitches. He has similar, smaller ones on his hands.

Baekhyun examines the wound and makes a sound of disgust. “It’ll be fine,” he says decisively. “The bastard wasn’t as good with a knife as he wishes he was.”

You nod silently, though the movement feels mechanical. As the reality of the situation seeps in, a whirlpool of dread forms in your stomach.

“Fuck, I-I’m fucked.”

Baekhyun gives a humorless laugh. “You’re fucked?”

“I’ll...need to lay low for a while.” Then you glance at him. “Unless you’re driving me to the Commission. Then, well…at least they can’t get to me while I’m in prison.” Your laugh is equally humorless.

“You’re going into hiding?” Baekhyun asks, and the corner of his mouth lifts. You don’t expect this reaction. Not after him almost being jacked and led into the situation by none other than you.

His smirk exasperates you. You almost want to roll your eyes at him not realizing why you’d need to hide. Or maybe he’s just playing coy about it; but you give him a break for now. “I ruined the plan and helped you out, so yeah, my own place is not gonna be safe anymore. ‘Friends’ are fleeting out here. Especially if you fuck with someone else’s money.” Valor crosses your mind, the only one you could really call a friend out of all the others—and only because you knew more secrets of his than they did. Your chest tightens with a strange guilt. You should’ve just said no from the beginning.

The car is quiet for a few long moments. Then Baekhyun shatters the silence with, “Come home with me, then. You can stay there for a little while.”

You bark out a laugh. “You can’t be for real.”

He sits back against the leather seat. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t. It’s a waste of time otherwise.”

“After I just—could’ve gotten you killed?”

“I said it before—you’re like an open book. Your emotions are practically written on your face. It’s pretty damn obvious to me you were never truly up for this plan. Unfortunately, you aren’t the badass you think you are, but at least your efforts saved me.”

“But I still—”

“You certainly don’t have to take the offer if you don’t want it.”

You become quiet at that. Even if you don’t think you deserve this level of mercy, you don’t want to shun this offer of safety and be left to contend with the streets alone. Your voice is tense and quiet when you respond. “I’ll take it.”

Baekhyun’s home is a penthouse in the heart of Upper Tokyo, which doesn’t surprise you. The contrast in his neighborhood’s appearance with what you’re used to seeing in Lower Tokyo is stark and painful—spotlessly clean streets with sweepers continually traveling up and down them, bright holographic billboards, people walking around with personal androids accompanying them. You begin to feel resentful again, and you wish you could swallow those feelings after he’s been gracious enough to rescue you, but you can’t help it.

You two must make quite a sight once you pull into the apartment building’s parking garage—you holding a stun spear, wearing a slightly shabby outfit of a T-shirt, jeans, and jacket, and Baekhyun walking out with disheveled, torn clothes and bloody hands. Someone gets out of the parking garage elevator once the doors open, and they give a startled look when they see you two.

“Good to see you, Jongin,” Baekhyun greets the other man. His tone is friendly, but his expression dares the other man to ask any questions—which you both know he won’t.

“Good evening, Baekhyun.” The man gives a slight nod in your direction as he walks past you two, though there’s no hiding the distaste he thinks he’s disguising. His eyes linger on your metal hand, and you feel exposed; you try to convince yourself he’s just looking at the spear, which would also make sense.

You try to shake the feeling off as you and Baekhyun step into the elevator cabin, but confusion rushes over you to replace it. The floor of the elevator is more like a scale, sensing the weight of your bodies and sinking slightly further into the floor once you step onto it.

“What’s that all about?” you ask.

“Oh, yeah. That. This isn’t like your typical elevator, it’s a teleportation channel,” Baekhyun says this nonchalantly as he reaches for the touchscreen panel on the wall.

“Um, what? I don’t want to be teleported anywhere.” You jump right back out of the cabin before the doors can close, and Baekhyun gives you a weary look as he holds them open with one crimson hand.

“It’s safe, you don’t have to worry about anything. All it does is take the atoms in your body and replicate them elsewhere; the floor measures your mass. I’ve done it hundreds of times.”

“You don’t say.” Sarcasm drips from your voice. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not interested in turning into ground meat on the other side of that thing.”

“There are no stairs in this building, just teleportation channels. If you want to climb the side of the building to get to my place, be my guest.” Baekhyun starts pressing on the panel as if he’ll leave you behind, and panic spikes in your chest. You decide to get back on with him, much to your displeasure.

You close your eyes tight just as the inside of the cabin starts glowing with light, and you can only hope your last lived experience won’t be riding a teleporter with Baekhyun in the same night you tried to mug him.

Surprisingly, the transportation doesn't feel like anything. One minute you’re there on the parking garage ground floor, and the next minute you hear the whoosh of the doors opening again. It’s like you never moved an inch, but you obviously have when the doors reveal the lavish interior of Baekhyun’s home.

Grateful to be at your destination, you step out of the teleporter as quickly as possible. “How did we end up right inside your place?”

“Clever, right? It uses fingerprint recognition so no one else can get access but me, but you’d know that if you hadn’t slammed your eyes shut.”

For all your talk of Baekhyun being out of place in Lower Tokyo, you suddenly feel like the fish out of water inside his penthouse. There’s metal and glass and holographic materials everywhere, which is the same stuff you’d find in Lower Tokyo, but here it’s all much more sleek, shiny, and well-maintained. His living room alone looks bigger than your entire apartment.

“Come on, don’t just stand there.” He gestures for you to follow him further down the hall, and you hesitantly do.

“Um...I don’t really want to carry this all night,” you say, referring to the stun spear still in your hands.

Baekhyun turns back to you, blocking the path to the rest of the hallway. “Do you even know how to turn it off?” It’s still charged with energy. You look at it up and down, but it isn’t immediately obvious to you. You don’t want to admit that, though, and keep awkwardly looking for some sort of Off switch until Baekhyun can’t stand the silence anymore. “Look, just give it to me.”

Your mouth twists at that. It seems nonsensical considering he’s just given you a safe haven, but you’re wary he’ll try to turn the weapon on you. Maybe he was waiting to get you alone and dispose of you himself. He appears to understand your thought process, because he scoffs loudly and holds his hand out for the spear.

“If I really wanted you dead, I could’ve done it in the car—or better yet, let your friends take care of you. Just hand it over.”

“Mm, I think not. I don’t think you’d want to get blood on your pretty leather seats.” Still, you give him the spear, if a bit reluctantly. You don’t know what he does with it, but he takes it into another room and tells you to wait in the hall. When he returns, it’s gone.

Baekhyun leads you to a clean and unoccupied guest room. It’s large, with floor-to-ceiling windows that give an expansive view of the city below. It’s also nicely decorated, much like one of Upper Tokyo’s many upscale hotels, but it seems like it hasn’t seen a warm body in months. There’s a certain lack of warmth to it. “Don’t get many visitors?”

“Now is not the best time to make jokes about me filling my perpetual loneliness with frequent trips to your club, if that’s what you’re attempting to lead up to.” He steps through another door, which you find out leads to the bathroom. “Everything you need should already be here—except clothes. I’ll get those in a moment.”

“Right,” you mumble, your eyes carefully tracing over everything in the bathroom. You know your skeptical behavior is probably pissing him off at this point, but distrust has long become an inherent feature of yours. You’ll keep this act up if you know it’ll get under his skin.

The hot water in this shower doesn’t run out after five minutes like the one back home. You can’t shake the old habit, though, and you wash yourself as quickly as you can, body tensed with adrenaline as you expectantly wait for the warm flow to stop after the five minutes are up. When that doesn’t happen, your muscles relax a little. Though it feels good, you don’t know if you’ll get used to this any time soon.

The clothes he lays out for you on the bed are plain and black, but still better quality than what you’re used to seeing and wearing. Soft on your skin. Smell good. You wonder where he’s went off to—maybe to wash up and patch up his wounds, if he has any sense. You also wonder if you should try exploring his place, but you feel like that’ll be risky; he has too much advanced technology around here that would probably find a way to kick you out of the penthouse window at the first sign of nefarious activity.

...Which is how you end up merely sitting on the bed and waiting to see what will happen next. But not before checking the entire room for any signs of surveillance tech or something else foreboding. This is also when you make the joyous discovery that your phone is missing, and you reason it must’ve fallen out of your pocket in the earlier clash; you know you had it when you first met up with Baekhyun. That pisses you off, but there’s nothing you can do about it now. Though you feel disconcertingly cut off from the outside world without it, who would you even contact anymore? One of the others, who’d probably try to track you down and enact a cold, hard revenge for you blowing up the plan? Lockjaw’s face flashes into your mind, along with the other scalding looks you received the night of the planning, and you shudder slightly.

When Baekhyun comes back to your room—and you’re almost surprised that he does—he looks significantly smaller in presence without his all-black clothes, glittering face chains, and heavy makeup.

Indeed, the man standing in front of you with damp hair, baggy pajamas, and bandaged hands doesn’t seem like the same suave person from the club at all.

“So now what?” you say, raising an eyebrow at him.

He shrugs. “Well, if you’re going to be living here, you need a tour.”

Living with Baekhyun isn’t quite what you expected it to be. He’s home more often than you’d think, for one. You would’ve thought he’d always be in business meetings or off somewhere finding more luxury goods to buy or just doing whatever. You can’t really get mad at him for being in his own home, but you try to keep space between the two of you. With your own designated spaces, it’s not hard to do this, which you are at least marginally glad about.

Trying to deal with Baekhyun while completely sober isn’t your idea of a walk in the park. Despite yourself, you wish you could go back to the club even once; Baekhyun certainly won’t let you drink up all his liquor, nor will he tell you where he’s hidden it. For your own good, he claims. Sure.

To your surprise and slight relief, he doesn’t ply you for any more details about your arm, though you’ve definitely caught him running his eyes across it more than once—studying it like words on a page. Whatever’s spinning around in that mind of his, you can only guess. His lingering interest only makes you think he’s scheming for a way to take the arm off you when you’re sleeping or equally vulnerable, though, so you remain guarded around him.

“One day, you’ll have to understand that I’m not the evil villain you think I am,” he tells you. He regards your attempts to avoid him with a certain bored amusement, like how one might think of a particularly entertaining pet cat.

You let the steam of the food you’re cooking billow up across your face, making your eyes water from the slightly-too-warm heat before answering. Leave it to him to bother you during one of the times when you can get some undisturbed, Baekhyun-free peace. “Maybe you should stop dressing up as one whenever you go out, then.”

He chuckles. “It’s like you’ve made it your personal mission to throw verbal stabs at me whenever possible.”

You shrug. “I have to do something to pass the time here.”

Baekhyun rolls his eyes. “You could do that just by having a normal conversation with me.”

You cross your arms, looking at him from where he stands at the kitchen island. He’s in his dressed-down form now, sans eyeliner and jewelry.

His kitchen is not like any other you’ve encountered, fully equipped with the capabilities to make every single one of his meals by itself—and order more ingredients whenever necessary. It’s undoubtedly convenient. But you often still like to make food of your own, just so you don’t have to feel so...dependent on him for every little thing. “About what?”

“About who you are. What you like. What you dream about—I don’t know, something.”

“What I dream about.” You make a noise of disbelief. “How can you waste time on dreams when you live the life I do? I just focus on trying to survive. That’s it.”

Baekhyun opens his mouth automatically like he’ll say something, but he pauses as if he’s just absorbed the full weight of your words. Suddenly, there’s a certain sadness pooling in his eyes and pulling at the corners of his mouth, and you hate it—intensely. You don’t want his pity or sympathy. And yet, he’s already given it to you by letting you live in his home.

“Before you say something pathetic, just don’t,” you blurt out, wanting to stop him before he can start. “You want to talk? My favorite color is green, and my favorite food—alcohol. I have an arm made of fucking titanium, the club was my main hangout spot, and I hate entitled people. Talk about that.”

Baekhyun’s sympathy evaporates into an unimpressed expression, lost just as quickly as a whisper on the wind. “Closing the door again, I see. Alright. Have it your way.” He leaves the room then, giving his back to you and shutting you out similar to how you just did to him.

This should be what you wanted. But it only makes you feel oddly unsatisfied.

“Here.” Baekhyun slides something across the table towards you after dinner one day—another dinner where you sit on opposite ends of the table and where you try to ignore his existence. You instantly recognize the small, glistening package as a cellphone, though it’s a model much more advanced than you could’ve afforded.

You look up at him as he stands in front of you, one of his hands shoved into the pocket of his black pants. “...What are you doing?”

“Giving you something to communicate with so you don’t feel like some princess stuck in a glass castle.” You roll your eyes at that. “I’m not sure who you’d talk to since all your friends do hate you, but the thought counts. And everyone needs a phone.”

You sit forward to look at the phone in its packaging, tracing your metal fingers against the surface. The sensation circling around in your stomach is an odd one. “Please don’t tell me that you hosting me in your penthouse was just an easy way to get a sugar baby.”

Baekhyun looks slightly flustered at that accusation, and you’re gleefully, childishly pleased about taking him off guard. His surprise is quickly replaced with a shit-eating grin, though. “It’s nothing like that; I could’ve already had that kind of arrangement 100 times over.” His tone suggests that he has, which sends a chill crawling up your spine. But maybe not 100 times over. “I did it to help you out. But if thinking of it that way gets you off, be my guest.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Byun,” you say, taking the phone out gingerly. It’s a lightweight thing, looking like it might dissolve if you look at it too hard. Its screen is clear raised glass—which you assume will project out the hologram technology this phone is inevitably equipped with—and has silver backing. It’s a piece of work. Though it appears fragile, you know it’s sturdier than that—or it wouldn’t be such a popular model as it is now. “It’s...nice, though.”

Baekhyun waves his hand noncommittally. “I wouldn’t settle for anything less—even if it’s for someone as eternally pissed-off as you.” You bite your lip against the rebuttal that wants to come rolling out, instead preoccupying yourself with figuring out the controls on this thing. Which takes an embarrassingly long moment. Baekhyun watches you for the duration of it, biting his own lip against the urge to laugh at the frustrated furrow between your brows and the crinkling of your nose. Really, the phone looks like a thin sheet of metal with a slice of glass over it; how are you supposed to operate this? Eventually, he says, “There’s a button on the bottom that activates it...you have to press that.”

“Right, clearly.” You try to rid yourself of your embarrassment as you turn the thing on, but even as Baekhyun leaves the room you can hear his chains clinking together as he laughs silently at your confusion.

As if your life could not get any more chaotic, your metal arm begins malfunctioning.

The metal is not as flexible as it was just a few days before, and it gives you a hard time whenever you try to do simple maneuvers. Your arm is overtaken by a sensation that feels like nerve damage with how the entire limb and shoulder tingle and burn from wires that no longer want to do as they’re told. You’re not entirely sure what’s wrong with it—a good oiling could usually fix any stiffness when necessary, but this nervy feeling is new.

For a while, you try to hide it from Baekhyun, which feels kind of ridiculous even to you. You’re only hurting yourself more, but you are a little too prideful to give him the pleasure of inspecting your arm like he’d always wanted to from the start. You don’t want to be his science experiment.

However, it comes to a point when you must ask for help when your arm stops working entirely.

You wake up to this terrible realization. After another morning of having gotten only a little sleep the night before, something immediately feels wrong. Your arm is dead weight beside you. When you try to sit up, it doesn’t respond to your movements. You can only feel the painful tug on the flesh part of your shoulder where the weight of the metal pulls at it, and you groan in pain and annoyance.

You support your arm with your other hand to prevent the tugging, which quickly gets exhausting and annoying as you try to go through the morning motions. You can’t keep this up while washing, so by the time you get out of the shower, your shoulder is killing you from where the arm dangles.

When you get to the common room, Baekhyun isn’t there. He isn’t anywhere else in his penthouse, either. You don’t even know how long he’s been gone. When you bring yourself to finally call his number, you bitterly remember that you still don’t have it saved in your phone. You want to scream in irritation. You can’t leave to go look for him—yeah, right—or get help from anyone else, either, because of the fingerprint recognition on his apartment entrance. Now that you think about it, you are like a princess in a glass castle here. That reawakens another bout of anger in you. Safe haven or cage?

Baekhyun appears an hour or two later—you’re not totally certain, having refused to expend the strength to move from your current spot to check the time—wearing his usual getup. You don’t know if you should be relieved, but an emotion similar to that sweeps through you despite your lingering apprehension and dislike.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His eyebrows crease when he sees you splayed across his couch, your metal arm propped up on the couch back.

Don’t be combative, you think to yourself. But it’s like an impulse; you can’t stop yourself. “Why do you immediately assume something’s wrong?”

“You’ve never been so casual,” he gestures to your posture, “around me or in my place before, so I’m trying to figure out if your brain has been infected by cyber bugs or something. Because if we need to quarantine, then—”

“Well, you’re not totally wrong for once.” You struggle to sit up, your movements stiff, and your arm slides off the couch back and slumps limply to your side. Baekhyun's eyebrows shoot towards his hairline at that, and he looks at you questioningly, stepping closer to you.

“What happened to your arm?”

“Don’t even fucking know…it’s been feeling weird for a week.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

You look up at him, cynicism coloring your expression. “I’m sure you can take a wild guess.”

He gives the familiar sigh-and-eye-roll combo, like he’s done probably a hundred times since he’s met you. “Yeah, I can.” He waves his hand. “No matter. I’m calling Yosuke.”

“Who’s Yosuke?” You turn to watch Baekhyun retreat—probably to his bedroom or office. He turns back to you momentarily.

“Someone who can fix your arm.”

—

Yosuke turns out to be a man around the same age as Baekhyun—a big contrast to the older, wizened cyberneticist you’d pictured in your mind. He and Baekhyun act overly familiar with each other, apparently being long-time friends since their younger years.

There is no difference in how he treats you and Baekhyun, which is another thing you didn’t quite expect. He is clearly wealthy like Baekhyun, coming in with a nice suit and expensive jewelry and a suitcase full of more tools than you’ve even seen before, but he doesn’t have the haughty rich man aura. That makes you feel a little more comfortable, and you are glad that Baekhyun let you have some privacy with this and left the lab for the actual procedure. Even if it meant he didn’t get his wish of poring over your arm’s wiring like some kind of cybernetics kinkster.

To your relief, the fix is simple enough. The implanted electrodes in your shoulder that help send signals between your brain’s neurons and the artificial nerves have failed, but those are relatively simple to replace.

“Shitty tech, I guess,” you mumble, casting a displeased look at your arm. You aren’t sure why, but you feel embarrassed about it failing on you. Maybe you just thought it’d be reliable forever. “I got it as part of an experimental research program, so it was probably never going to be the most dependable thing anyway…”

“Hm.” Yosuke smiles. “Maybe not, but it’s still an extraordinary piece of work—especially in this early form. Some of these mechanisms are new even to me. Was that the 2110 Tokyo trial, by chance?”

You nod, though you feel a tiny bit less relaxed with knowing that even Yosuke doesn’t recognize all the intricacies of your limb. Hopefully you’ll still walk out in one piece. “Yeah, the very one.”

“Excellent work,” he reiterates. “It was an early research trial, but still yielded some of the most functional and human-like large-scale cybernetics of the last few years. You could’ve done a lot worse. Maybe you already know that, though.”

“Maybe,” you repeat quietly, but you are mostly speaking to yourself now.

—

After the electrode replacement is done in Baekhyun’s home lab, you can finally feel your arm like normal again. Yosuke does a few sensory feedback and dexterity tests to make sure your arm can function as it should, and he promises to come back the next day for another round just to be sure.

You almost don’t want Yosuke to go when he finally does pack up to leave. It feels nice to be around someone who doesn’t inspire some wretched, nonsensical anger in you.

Baekhyun slips back into the lab after Yosuke leaves, and you glance up from your arm at his arrival. He looks at your bandaged shoulder and watches appreciatively as you flex your metal fingers. “All good now?”

“It’s fine,” you mumble. “Thanks.” Saying that word to him is not easy, but you relent, figuring you should at least give him that much. “You should be thanking the gods you don’t have to go through this kinda shit.”

“Really.” It’s not a question, the way he says it. It’s filled with sarcasm. Baekhyun reaches down and rolls up his left pant leg, his chains hanging as he does, and you recoil, confused. Why the fuck is he showing you his bare leg?

“It’s cybernetic,” he says, barely concealed pride in his voice. “You can’t even tell, the work is so good.” Something like jealousy and anger stirs in your chest. Even if you had wanted to tuck those emotions back in, they’ve escaped from the cage now and are intent on running rampant.

“So. Byun Baekhyun is part-metalhead, after all?” You slide off the surgical chair you were sitting in for Yosuke’s procedure, coming to stand a couple feet in front of Baekhyun. You look down at his leg—which, for all intents and purposes, looks like a completely flesh-and-blood limb. “You joker. Quit fuckin’ around.”

“It’s not a lie.” He knows you won’t believe him, so he taps a spot behind his ankle twice. A long, thin panel that stretches from just above his ankle to his upper thigh opens on his leg, exposing the wiring and metal within. You can’t school your expression in time, and your mouth drops. “Incredible, right? Custom-made. So, yes…I do have an idea what it’s like.”

“Custom-made, huh.” You bite your lip so hard you think it might bleed. “Unbelievable. You’re the kind of person who does these things because you want to, because you can, not because your survival hinges on it. You must truly think you’re special.” The words come hurtling past your lips like venom.

“I didn’t choose this on a whim,” Baekhyun argues, straightening up to face you and letting his pant leg back down. The look on his face says his patience has finally run out, presumably tired of you throwing insult after insult at him since you’ve been in his home. “You don’t know anything about me other than what you’ve seen and heard on screens and from others. I’ve tried to get familiar with you. You reject it at every turn.”

“I don’t want to ‘get familiar’ with someone who gets custom cybernetics that cost hundreds of thousands just because they fuckin’ felt like it, while the rest of us have to do it just to get enough money to live for maybe a year on.” You’re gritting your teeth so hard that your jaw feels like it might crack.

Baekhyun steps closer to you, diminishing the space between you further. His eyes burn with animosity. “I was in a car accident, Y/N. I was just a teenager. No one even knows this but the people closest to me, and I don’t want anyone else to know it. I lost my leg and nearly my life with it. Before you start preaching to me about choices versus survival, realize that you aren’t the only fucking person in the world who’s ever had to do what was needed to survive.”

Your breath catches. You feel like the wind has been knocked out of you. Suddenly, all the fight drains from your system, and you are left feeling deflated and cold. His blazing eyes feel like two bullets trained on you, and your gaze falters.

Baekhyun doesn’t wait to see if you’ll have another response lined up for him; he turns heel and stalks out of the room.

As promised, Yosuke returns the next day for your additional tests. Your conversation with him isn’t as enjoyable as it could be. You are still reeling from Baekhyun’s revelation and unsure how to approach him. Neither of you spoke to each other for the rest of that night, instead choosing to actively avoid each other. You know you can’t keep this game up forever, though.

“Baekhyun’s in a sour mood today,” Yosuke remarks. “Rare for him. Any idea why?”

You shake your head, worrying your lower lip with your teeth. “Mmm...no.”

The slight smile on Yosuke’s face tells you he doesn’t believe you. “Well...I’m sure you two will figure it out sooner or later. He seems to have an affinity for you.”

“What?”

“He was pretty concerned when he contacted me about your arm. He’s mentioned you before then, too. He seems fascinated by you.”

You purse your lips together. You remember his days of annoying flirting in the club, which feel so far away now, and how he’d come to you with a bunch of flowery words and told you he’d taken a liking to you. Perhaps he was really telling the truth about that. You wonder if he possibly mentioned the attempted mugging to Yosuke, and you cough nervously.

“Well, he’s…” you wave your flesh hand, “...a character.”

Yosuke chuckles. “You two seem kind of fitting, I don’t know why. Similar love for recklessness, maybe—from how he describes you, anyway. Like peas in a pod.”

Fitting? Peas in a damn pod? The next words come thoughtlessly rushing out of you in an effort to change his mind and slap away whatever outlandish idea he has of you and the other man. “I don’t want Baekhyun.”

Yosuke raises an eyebrow, though he keeps his gaze on your arm as he watches the movements of your metallic fingers for any irregularities. “I never said you did, Y/N.”

In your haste, it occurs to you that maybe Yosuke really was just referring to your similarities—which you’ll continue to vehemently deny—rather than suggesting any deeper connection. Though that’s what it sounded like to you. Fuck. You don’t know anymore.

Is this what they’d call a Freudian slip, then? How wonderful. You rub your temples with your free hand and shake your head. “Then let’s just forget the last few minutes of this conversation.”

Yosuke smiles. “Whatever you’d like to do.”

—

Yosuke leaves soon after he’s finished testing your arm, but he reassures you that you can see each other again if you feel like having the company—just have Baekhyun arrange things.

Speaking of Baekhyun. You should probably say something to him. You’re not enthusiastic about puttering around his home feeling even more awkward than you did when you first arrived there. So, you walk to his office and knock on the door, turning your ear to it to see if he’ll give a response. You don’t have to wait to hear one, though, because the door panel slides back on its own.

You’ve never been in his office before, though you knew where it was—it was one of the places he decided not to show you on his little house tour—but it’s just as obnoxiously streamlined and full of tech as every other part of his home. Baekhyun sits behind his desk, elbows propped on its surface and fingers crossed together.

“Y/N.” His voice holds none of the playfulness, casualness, or even cool sarcasm you’ve heard from him before.

You step a few feet forward into his office. You feel like you’re standing underneath a spotlight, lit up for the entirety of the world to see. In reality, it’s just you and him here—Byun Baekhyun, one of the richest men in Japan.

He stays silent, presumably waiting for you to speak first. That is what you came here for, so you do, even if it makes you feel like you’re going to peel out of your skin.

“I was a dick. I’m sorry.”

Baekhyun blinks. “An apology? From you? The world must be ending.”

“I’m trying to be serious here, Byun.” You sigh. “I was...wrong to assume what I did about you. I guess...I don’t really know anything about you...but. I felt like I had you all figured out already. So, I’m sorry.”

The tension in Baekhyun’s shoulders releases, if only a little. His expression shifts into something not quite as impenetrable as it was just a few moments ago, but not completely open, either. “Apology accepted, then.”

“Thanks.” You shove your hands into your pockets. “Well, I thought...if I’m not to make any more assumptions about you, I should probably get to know more about you?”

Baekhyun looks interested now, and he releases his hands from their formerly tense position. He leans forward slightly. “Then I should do the same with you.”

Your hackles raise, despite you trying to keep yourself more open-minded. “I...don’t want to. You know enough already.”

Exasperated, Baekhyun spreads his hands out in front of him. “Here we go again. What are you so afraid of? And why even ask me about myself if you don’t want to share anything about you?”

“You can think of it as gathering intel—not making friends. I’m not asking you about your life story so we can have picnics together and talk about our wildest dreams.”

Baekhyun scoffs in disbelief. “When are you ever going to be honest with yourself? Emotional constipation isn’t a good look for you.”

“Honest with myself about what?”

“You are attracted to me. You are interested in me beyond supposedly gathering intel. And for some reason I can’t conceive, it enrages you.” The words come off his lips with the trace of a smirk, and though they make your skin prickle with heat, his smirk makes you want to jump across the desk and land one good punch on him.

You snort. “You’re a piece of work. Attracted to you? Everyone doesn’t throw themselves at the first person with a whiff of money or notoriety.”

Baekhyun gets up from his desk to step closer to you, much like he did the other day. He’s close enough for you to count the moles on his face, barely noticeable except for when he’s at this proximity. His cologne wraps its scented arms around you and pulls you in. You didn’t notice it as acutely yesterday, too embroiled in the argument and trying to process what he revealed to you, but now it hits you full on. How is this not considered some kind of olfactory warfare?

“Then tell me you don’t want me.” He whispers it to you in that same stupid, silky voice he’d always used in the club. That voice, combined with his scent, transports you straight back to that environment—the pungent taste of alcohol, the blinding neon lights, the ear-splitting music. And the one man who you just can’t figure out.

You open your mouth only slightly, afraid to breathe in more of his fragrance and lose yourself to it like a fool. “Fuck you.”

“That’s not an answer.” Baekhyun’s voice remains in the same low whisper, and he grins like he already knows the truth. “But I can do that, if you’d like.”

It doesn’t take much effort for him to close the rest of the space between you. When he kisses you, you don’t slap him, stomp on his foot, or knee him in the balls like you might’ve thought you would. Instead, you kiss him back—gradually, tentatively, but your lips fall into a rhythm with each other’s.

His lip piercing is unyielding on your skin; the edges of it press into your lip. The kiss is not rough or even frantic. You think this all might’ve been easier if it was—easier to allow yourself to keep hating him so intensely and channel that energy into your actions. However, all your previous thoughts of knocking his head off or pulling his lip ring off fall away; you just allow yourself to exist solely in this moment and absorb the feeling of his lips on yours.

Maybe now you could allow yourself to admit—internally, at least—that yes...you did want this. You wanted it from the first ridiculous time you met him in the club, and when he put his insolent hand on your shoulder. Whispered into your ear like he knew exactly what effect it was going to have.

Baekhyun’s bedroom—the one other place he hadn’t shown you besides his office—is neatly arranged and smells entirely like him. Other than those base things, you don’t care what the rest of the room is like. When you both somehow make it there, Baekhyun backs you up onto the bed, his lips still attached to yours.

The weight of his body is solid on yours. His tongue nudging against your lips and asking for entrance makes your body flush with heat. Before you can get fully invested, you pull away. He looks at you questioningly.

“Take this off,” you mutter, pushing his face chains away from you. He laughs lowly, pulling away from you to take his piercing out and put the chains away.

Pulling your clothes off comes naturally; it doesn’t feel clumsy and stilted like it did the last time you slept with someone. Baekhyun’s hands flit over every inch of newly exposed skin he can access.

The way Baekhyun touches your metal arm is reverent, worshipful, and you hadn’t realized how much you needed this—this kind of unabashed admiration—until it happened. No one has ever touched your metal arm in a way that wasn’t clinical or otherwise similarly detached. His fingers glide across it like it’s still made of skin and blood and bone, and he kisses the length of it, up to your neck and all the way back down to your metallic fingers again.

Water beads at the corners of your eyes. You try to ignore it. You don’t even acknowledge the few tears that do slip out, sliding towards your ears from your supine position.

Baekhyun lifts himself to be level with your face again. You turn away from him, too afraid to see whatever emotion will be lying in his eyes—not wanting to reveal the full magnitude of your vulnerability to him—but you don’t say a word when he presses his lips against the tear tracks on your skin.

Funnily, ironically, every motion comes instinctively. Him rocking against you, his heavy, dark breaths echoing in your ears, his long and low moans—your lips searching for his, your teeth creating blooming bruises on his skin. Though you have pushed him away and dismissed his proffered company at every opportunity, this intimacy feels like a grand coming-together—something that was bound to happen at the end of every road.

—

The sheets are twisted, the sweat is cooling on your skin, and you are both tired but satisfied. Content in a way that neither of you have truly been in a long time. You rest your head on Baekhyun’s chest, closing your eyes and listening to him breathe underneath you, the metal of your arm still warm from the heat of his skin.

“I could give you an upgrade.”

Your mouth twitches. You think you might have imagined the words, so you stay silent for a while longer until Baekhyun nudges your arm, checking if you’ve already fallen asleep.

“Upgrade?”

“Your arm. I could...have a new arm built. One like my leg.”

You sit up to look at him, the sheets falling from your body. “Don’t say pretty things you think I want to hear just because you’re still in the post-orgasm haze.”

Baekhyun blows air out of his nose, too tired to properly argue or even scoff at you. “Like I said before, I don’t waste time saying things I don’t mean.” His voice quiets. “We both know you can’t get your limb back, but...I could...give you something to help, at least. It’s...easier to deal with the cybernetics when they actually look like they belong on your body.” You know he speaks from experience there, by the way his gaze falters and drops to his lap.

“To feel more like a human again, huh.” Some part of you—multiple parts of you, maybe—had still been grieving over the arm you’d given up almost two years ago. Maybe it was a silly thing to be hurt over compared to the many other problems in your world, but it was difficult to stop feeling like you’d sold away a portion of yourself for nothing. Nothing but fleeting money.

Baekhyun’s offer stirs something in you. You turn your body away from him, feeling the tingle in your nose and eyes again that could only signal one thing. “Stop doing this. Being so...I don’t know, forgiving. Not after all I’ve done and said to you.”

Baekhyun sits up then, resting his hands on your arms. “I want to do this for you. Stop acting like you don’t deserve anything good in the world.”

You turn back to face him after a long moment, though the tears still linger in your eyes. “I don’t want to be the only one who benefits.” You shake your head slowly. “If you really agree to give me a new arm...you have more than enough resources to help change the nightmare Lower Tokyo has become. Help them. Help us. I don’t want to be some one-off experiment or pet project you discard once you’ve gotten your fill—some broken bitch from Lower Tokyo you think you can fix and turn into one of your family’s many success stories.”

Baekhyun is breathless from your admission; this is the most transparent you’ve been with him since you’ve met. Though part of him wants to shrivel back from your words, he clings to your long-awaited honesty, even if it is only shared with him to rebuke him and his family’s selfishly opulent ways. He thinks of why you pushed so hard against him trying to make a personal domain of Lower Tokyo, leaving the comforts of his own place to absorb the shadows of yours, and a better understanding of your rejection begins to dawn in his mind. Tentatively, he brings one of his hands from your arm to your cheek, thinking you might still wince away from him, but you don’t move.

“You’re right.” His voice is tight with the knowledge of it. “I can help, Y/N. You, and everyone else. I mean—I will. If there is one thing you can trust me on…let it be this.”

You stare into his dark brown eyes, trying to hunt for any signs of dishonesty, though you find none. There is only the heat of his hand on your face, and his open, yielding expression. “I will hold you to that, Byun Baekhyun.”

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sagemusesoutloud · 3 years

Text

Anti-Romantic, Part 2

(credit to the original owner of the image)

Character | Jaehyun x reader

Genre | nonidol!au, Mutual Pining, Slowburn, Fluff

WordCount | 2 K (bitesized for your convenience lol)

Author'sNote | I know this is kinda short, but I've decided not to rush the ending. I'm for sure not drag it out too much, but the slowburn reaaaally got to me and I ended up liking more than I orginially thought, so! I'll be back to post Part 3 tomorrow!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

I know that you love me, It makes me deeply drunk

You’re like champagne, I shouldn’t do this

You’re at the base of the stairs to your apartment complex when he pulls up. The window on the passenger side rolls down.

“Hurry! I think they’re about to wash the machines at the ice cream shop!” he reaches over and opens your door while you grab your two bags and your pillow. You loved him, you really did, but he had the flattest, most uncomfortable pillows in the world in his guestroom.

“What? Why didn’t you stop there before picking me up? It’s not like you don’t know what I like.” You’re trying to move all your stuff to the backseat as he pulls away.

He sighs, “Thank you Jae, you’re so nice to pick me up,” he mutters. You’d be a bit apologetic if it wasn’t for the grin he was trying to hide. “I’ve already spent most of my ‘special’ day alone, thanks to someone who had to bail on me. I wanna spend the rest with you.”

“I knew it, it bothered you didn’t it?” You accused while fastening your seatbelt. “Next time, just tell me, I know it seems as if I know everything but I actually can’t read minds.” You knew he was just messing with you but for some reason his words cut at the guilty feeling you were trying to push away. “I actually got you something this time around, it’s why I wanted to see you before the day ended.”

Jae parks the car outside the shop before turning to you, “wait, did you really get me something?” You sigh, offended, “well, if you don’t want it or don’t like the idea of it, then I can still return it.”

“I just thought of you when I saw it…” crap, it’s too soon for you to go anywhere near that subject.

“That’s not what I meant,” he shakes his head, “It’s just been a while since we shared birthday gifts.” You look away from him. If he kept this up, you’ll start to regret calling him. Your hands were slightly shaking with the effort of not reaching over and pouring all your feelings into him. Unlike what you’re used to, he was dressed down with a simple t-shirt and grey sweats. He looked so soft, and domestic. You hated how much you loved it. At least for work, you had both always been professionally dressed, which was a nice barrier for your thoughts. If you dressed professional, you felt professional. This helped control your thoughts. But now that you were here with him, it was definitely harder to keep track of your thoughts.

Today was a day for him, not for you. You took in a deep breath as you turn to look at the shop. It looked like they were getting ready to start closing duties. Even if you weren’t looking at him, you could feel your heart race with acute awareness to his proximity in the small car. He was waiting for a response.

You open your door, “yeah well…if we don’t hurry, we won’t get those diabetes-inducing bombs you’re so fond of. And this all would have been for naught.” You needed to get a grip, fast.

I can clearly see the end, Worse than a hangover

It will be hard, Now, Just end it somewhere here

“I can’t believe you told them it was my birthday,” he groaned, pushing off his shoes at the door. You followed suit.

“Of course I did, it meant free goodies!” You raise the plastic bag with macarons. “It just sucks that they’re all valentine’s themed.” You make your way to the kitchen to put away the snacks you brought, dumping your overnight bag at the door of the guestroom. Maybe if you kept the heart-shaped gift out of sight, it won’t make you as nervous with him.

“I brought your fave by the way, chocolate covered almonds and gummy bears,” you call out. He appears in the kitchen, hair out of his way with a headband. Be still my heart, you thought. You decide to hyper-focus on placing some snacks on a plate to bring to the living room.

“So, what’s the plan?” He reaches over you to grab a water bottle from the fridge, brushing your hip with his front. No no no no no no no!

Was he teasing you? You knew that your face would give you away, you could feel how warm your ears and cheeks were. You hated how honest your face was, and it didn’t help that Jae knew you like the back of his hand. Maybe this is how he is nowadays? Flirty and confident? You’d be lying if you didn’t find it attractive, but not when his attention was only directed at you. You felt like you were slowly suffocating but even that wouldn’t stop the warm light that seemed to burst from your chest.

It seemed so easy to pretend you were closer to him, to pretend this happened all the time. That you were close enough to reciprocate his flirty actions.

“uh, em,” you clear your throat, “actually, I remembered you wanting to see that movie last time we hung out. I have it ready in my apple tv account.” You back away with the tray, “can you also grab me a water?” your throat was suddenly parched.

You settle in the couch, grabbing the throw blanket behind you. Any physical barrier you could place between you, you’d take it gratefully. “You remembered? That was almost three months ago, when the trailer came out.” He handed you your water and grabbed at the corner of the blanket nearest to him, covering himself with it and moving closer to you so that you both could fit under it.

“Jae, there’s another blanket on your side of the couch,” you wanted to feel embarrassed but you just felt an unexpected giddy feeling at him wanting to be near you. “Yeah but it’s my birthday and this blanket is my favorite,” he says as he pulls you closer and wraps his arm behind you on the couch.

“here, put in your credentials so we can start the movie,” he hands you the remote.

You suddenly thank your lucky stars that the movie was an action packed one and not a romantic one. You couldn’t help but sink further into his side, wanting to be comfortable. As the movie starts, he takes the remote from your hand and wraps your arm around him. “I’m cold, keep me warm,” he mutters. Oh sweet Jesus.

Back in the day, this wouldn’t have been something new. Your friends knew you were very heavy with the affectionate touches. A hug, sharing seats, even holding hands. You never shied away from it because it was part of how you showed your friends that you loved them. Some of your friends were also this way, so it was never weird. But now that you’re older, and now that it’s been a long long time since you’ve been close to someone else, the once innocent touches Jae was giving you felt like hot brands across your shoulders and under your arm. If you focused enough, you could feel his hard work at the gym in the way your softness gave way to the hard contours of his leg that pressed against yours and how your shoulder leaned against his chest.

This was going to be a long movie.

You prayed that Jae wouldn’t ask you what the movie was about, you only had enough sanity to pay attention to the first fifteen minutes. It was all a blur after Jae pulled you half over on his lap, “you’re hogging the blanket, move over,” was the only excuse he gave.

Now, your legs were tangled with his and you sat almost on his lap, his arms encircling you from behind. He felt so soft and every little movement made your skin break out in goosebumps. You felt like a live wire about to explode.

“D-did you like it?” you started shifting to the side so you could face him but he held you tighter in place, resting his chin on your shoulder. “yeah, it was pretty good, we have to wait for the end credits though. I heard that they’re starting to give hints about The Eternals.”

“Did you like it?” he squeezes your middle.

Did you? You’re not sure, but you sure as hell loved the attention you were getting for the past two and half hours. “Yeah, all Marvel movies are great,” you finally concede.

“Wanna watch another one? You can pick this time,” his hand started tracing through your arm as you waited for the stupid end scene that was taking too long to start. Is it getting hot in here?

“Sure, whatever you want,” you mutter. He could have asked you for the most ridiculous thing and you would have still agreed to it.

Jae wakes with a start, the room was dark, the only light came from the still on TV. A show was playing softly, the clock under the tv read 3:45 am. He felt pretty hot, was the A/C not working?

He begins to shift when he realizes the position you both are in. Your legs were still tangled together, as if unconsciously refusing to let go of the proximity. You gripped his shoulder, your breath hitting his neck as you slept soundly on top of him. God, if this is a dream, let me never wake up, he thinks.

He usually hates being too close to someone, any sort of intimacy was bad news to Jaehyun. Either emotionally or physically, he kept everyone at a distance because he had seen it too often. How people settled for something they weren’t sure of and hurting those involved. He was aware he was too logical sometimes, but it’s what he knew to protect himself. Moments like these, they only lead to expectations and empty feelings, leaving behind only pain that even time couldn’t heal sometimes.

But why was he finding it so hard to untangle himself from your embrace? He should go to his bed and sleep comfortably, but at the same time, having you in his arms felt just right. Like two pieces of a puzzle finally coming together.

He could smell the light scent that was you and it almost made him squeeze you closer, as if it was possible. You smelled of spring, a light floral scent that reminded him of better days.

He was glad he woke up, he was going to enjoy every second of peace this brought him. He would store it in a little box and hold on tightly when the cold reality came back. As he fought with his drowsiness, he felt you nestle closer. He kissed the crown of your head as he finally gave in to sleep. I hope I dream of you… If this was love, he finally understood why sometimes the pain was worth a shot.

So stupid, sweet love song, extravagant rom-com

As much as I was happy, on the receipt there’s a red line

EndNote | I know this chapter was pretty short. In all honesty, I had written something else before deleting it entirely and starting again, but I really like the direction the story is going now. Hopefully I can update Part 3 tomorrow, but I'm really excited about it!

Previous: Part 1 | Next: Part 3

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edda-grenade · 3 years

Photo

Sleep.

Adaar and Solas attempt fadewalking for the first time.

#feral verse, 2000 words. on AO3.

They were lying on a hilltop in the forest, on a fur to keep the cold of fall at bay. Well, Adaar was lying down—Solas had sat up to give her a curious look.

“You wish to leave?”

“No! I mean, yes, kinda—maybe—I don’t know.” She groaned and covered her face with her hands.

“You seem very happy, here,” he said, in that slow, careful way he had.

“I am! I am. I don’t want to leave my family, or this place, or you—”

“Me?” His voice cracked, just a little. Adaar glanced at him from between her fingers.

“Yes, obviously. I know you like to pretend you’re some lone wolf apart from all living creatures or whatever, but you’re my friend, alright? You’re not getting out of that so easily.”

“I don’t—pretend…” He sighed, his skin staining with blush, the faint freckles even fainter. His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile, until he gave up and his mouth crooked. Adaar loved it when that happened. She was pretty good at making it happen, too.

“You do not wish to leave, but?”

Now she sighed and clamped her hand over her eyes again. It was easier in the dark, unwatched.

“The world is so big and so full of things I don’t know,” she said softly, “and I want to learn everything.”

“Adaar…”

She hadn’t figured out if she loved that yet—the way he said her name sometimes, how he looked at her. Like she was the sun coming over the horizon, or a thunderstorm in the distance, or the wind dancing through the fields so hard it sang. At least that’s what she imagined the expression would look like on her face—an expression that was meant for immense and somewhat unfathomable things, not for a single person.

“There is a way I could show those things to you. Not all of them, of course—but more than what is accessible to you right now.”

Adaar sat up so quickly her head spun a little.

“I’m listening.”

He explained, and her head continued to spin, although for different reasons. Lucid dreaming, delving into the Fade like into a cave, how the deeper you went the older the memories imprinted upon the Fade would be…

It sounded ludicrous. Like magic, if she had never heard of it before. It sounded amazing.

“Can we just do that?” she asked. “Right now?”

Solas gave her another weird look; his eyes wide and searching for a brief moment.

“I—yes. Come with me.”

They left the little barren hilltop that poked above the forest behind and instead descended into the small cave Solas had chosen as his resting place. She’d tried often to convince him to join her family at the settlement, but he’d steadfastly refused every time. It didn’t bother her as much anymore—the cave looked more and more like an actual home these days, with a fire pit and cooking tools, shelves he’d carved out of the rock to hold utensils using a spell she hadn’t quite figured out yet herself, and a warm, dry place to sleep.

Solas had a ball of light bobbing in the air above his shoulder, and gazed down at the bedstead. It was cozy: a pallet of hay covered in cowhide, with a blanket and fur to keep warm in winter. It was also not nearly big enough for both of them. At least not if they intended not to share breathing space.

“There’s a bigger bed at home, you know,” Adaar said. “Actual walls and a door, too.”

“I would prefer to try it here. I have set the requisite wards quite often, and I’m familiar with the peculiarities of the Fade in this place.”

She shrugged, glancing around at the runes and sigils he had marked into the walls of the cave. “Yeah, makes sense. I’m just saying, you can get familiar with the farm, too. There’s space for you, it’s not a problem.”

“I’m aware, since you keep reminding me so diligently.”

“It keeps being true.”

She smiled a little at how that statement made his ears dip and his head turn away so she wouldn’t see his face. He cleared his throat.

“I have never… attempted to teach this to anyone else.”

“Because you didn’t want to, or because there was no one you could teach it to?” She hesitated, thinking of his arguments with Lavellan's Keeper. “Or because no one wanted to learn it?”

He let out a low breath. “All of the above,” he replied quietly, “at one point or another.”

Adaar slapped her hands together to resist the urge to hug him, then clapped her palms briefly onto his shoulders because not touching him at all was even more frustrating than being shrugged off. “First time for everything. How do we start?”

Solas showed her how to set the wards—they’d talked about spellwork like it before, but mostly in abstract terms. It took a good while, because she kept stumbling over new questions, like how specific a ward could be, how permanent, how big a space it could cover… They were halfway into designing one that might be used to keep beetles out of the grain, until they managed to get back to the task at hand.

She settled on the bedstead with crossed legs while Solas puttered about by the fire pit and brewed a concoction he insisted wasn’t tea to help them fall asleep. Then she got up again and started pacing, as much as was possible, because her legs were too jittery to sit still. She was just glad most of the cave was high enough that she didn’t have to stoop—she halted, gazing at the stone close above her.

“Solas, did you shape the ceiling, too?”

“What do you mean?”

“The rock here has a different texture.” She reached up to touch it and closed her eyes, searching for that low echo of past magic—and found it. “And it’s been worked with magic.”

“…A little. It is not your fault you are so tall.”

A smile bit into her cheeks. “Aw, that’s sweet.”

“It was a practical consideration,” he muttered, but he didn’t sound like he was actually put out. “You insert yourself into others’ spaces inevitably, it was only a matter of time until you would find your way into this one.”

“That almost sounds like a criticism.”

“An observation. Foremost.” He handed a steaming cup of the not-tea to her, then sipped from his own. She breathed in the smell—chamomile, juniper, and something spicy she didn’t recognize—then exhaled a bit of frost across it to cool it down before taking a sip.

Solas was watching her when she looked up from the cup.

“Something wrong?”

“No, it is simply… nice, to see how certain magic has become easier for you.”

“The frost? Yeah, I barely have to think about it anymore.” She blew a puff of snow into his face to demonstrate. Solas startled, grimacing, and wiped the rapidly-melting crystals from his cheeks.

“Sorry,” Adaar said, very earnestly. “Couldn’t resist.”

He shook his head and grumbled something in Elvish, but he was smiling again. That small, helpless, trying-not-to smile. They finished their cups, put them aside, and regarded the bedstead again.

“I shall take the fur, next to the pallet,” said Solas.

“I thought the point was to fall asleep more easily? And to sleep more deeply?”

“Yes.”

“Then why make it harder on yourself? We just gotta… scrunch up a little, it’s gonna be fine.”

There was a long silence.

“I am not used to sleeping among other people,” Solas said finally, his tone even. He wasn’t used to other people—flesh-and-blood people, that was—in general, Adaar suspected, but she kept it to herself. Right now was probably a bad time to bring that one up.

“Alright, no spooning then,” she said instead and sat down and stretched out along one side of the bedding. Then she remembered she had to get rid of her shoes, untied them, and hucked them against an empty wall. Lying down, the scent of lavender became obvious amid the hay and fur; sprigs had been stuck to the corners to keep bugs away. She’d told him about that trick months ago.

It really was cozy; warm and inviting. She curled onto her side, drawing her feet up, and patted the mattress next to her. Slowly, Solas joined her, folding himself up so he took up even less space than usual. It was still a tight fit, especially since he tried to avoid any real contact beyond the brush of fabric.

“I will attempt to find you once we are dreaming,” he said. “With our current physical proximity it should be an easier task.”

“There’s really nothing else to it? We just fall asleep?”

“It is… difficult to put into words. Question your dreams, if you can. The key is to become aware—awareness begets agency, which in turn begets control.”

Adaar tugged the fur and blanket up to cover them. “Alright. Sleep well?” There was a flash of a smile on Solas’s face before he closed his eyes.

“I shall see you soon.”

It was not soon. Adaar’s mind refused to quiet, anticipation thrumming in her limbs. She kept shifting, unable to relax, and she worried she’d spend the entire night sleepless, when she finally woke up again to a dark, quiet cave.

She must have fallen asleep at some point, then? So was this the Fade? It didn’t feel different. She was sleepy and bleary-eyed just as she would be when waking up in the middle of the night, and a cursory examination of the cave with a bit of conjured light—a spell that behaved no differently than any previous time she’d used it—told her it looked exactly as it had when they had bedded down. Except…

Solas lay tucked against her front, his body warm, his breathing even. His temple rested against her collarbones and his folded legs leaned against her hips. He was curled up as he’d been before, but now it seemed less about making himself smaller, and more about fitting into the curve of her body.

Adaar stared into the darkness. That was… unexpected. Solas didn’t seek out physical contact. Sure, he usually melted into it for one or two seconds when it was offered before pulling away, but nothing like this.

Cautiously, she tried to brace herself on her elbow to get a better look, both at the cave and at him. She bit down on a sharp inhale when pins and needles erupted in the limb, breathing through it with care until the sensation passed. But even on a thorough second look, nothing changed. The cave was still the cave, nothing remotely immaterial about it, and Solas still slept soundly, curled up against her.

Part of her wanted to wake him up. Let him know it hadn’t worked, at least not yet, and try to figure out what might be changed, because merely the thought of consciously walking in the Fade was enough to make her heart beat faster.

But he looked so much younger in his sleep. His features softened and relaxed, like he might actually be at peace. Adaar wasn’t sure she had ever managed to catch him this unguarded. When they were together, it felt like he hardly stopped watching her.

She let out a small sigh and settled back down, gently wrapping one arm around his waist. Hopefully that wouldn’t upset him, if he woke up before her come morning. Right now at least, a soft, sleepy noise slipped from him, and he rolled even more thoroughly into her embrace.

#don't worry solas is gonna get slammed with the pining soon enough #feral verse #adaar #solas #saar gets her own tag #inquisitor x solas #soladaar #time for those tags to make a regular appearance in this verse :3c #art tag #fanart #fic tag #fic related #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da:i

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coolepowersthings · 3 years

Text

You’re Not Wrong

pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

summary: Y/N has someone in her life to take care of her physical needs, but who she really wants is her friend, George Weasley. What will happen when he confronts her about her taste in men?

warnings: NSFW 18+, unprotected sex, sex with multiple partners, oral, dirty talk.

Authors Note: So friends, I haven’t written any fanfiction in quite a while, and I decided to jump back in by writing my first NSFW story. This is pretty much just smut, if I’m honest. It’s also my first try at writing something so explicit, and so I’m not sure how I feel about it, but at this point it is what it is! I hope you enjoy it! ______________________________________________________________

There was something incredible feeling about the ache you felt in your torso the morning after. You stretch out across the bed and let the dull feeling reach across your body. It hadn’t been the best sex of your life, but it had been enough to make you feel less dull, to provide your body with the dim buzzing that made you feel more alive. Jeff was already up, and the smell of coffee was almost enough to make you roll out of bed and throw on the t-shirt you had discarded last night. Instead, you pull the comforter over your head and give yourself a few more moments of quiet.

Jeff was not who you wanted to be with. It was not Jeff’s hands you wanted on your body, not his lips that you hoped to feel ghosting over your skin. But you knew having the man you really wanted was a fantasy, and so for now, Jeff would have to do.

Sighing, you decide to get up, get dressed, and pad down to Jeff’s kitchen to get some coffee and head home. Jeff wasn’t a bad guy. You had met one night at the pub and hit it off well enough. So, every time you felt an ache that needed to be filled, Jeff seemed like a safe bet. Normally, though, the ache was brought on by a very different person. The large, steady hands, the knowing smirk, the red hair that you would give anything to run your hands through. Yes, George Weasley was who you really wanted, and he was one person you knew you could not have.

“Morning Y/N,” Jeff said, smiling at you over his cup. “Sleep well?”

You humm and accept the cup out of his hands.

“You’re already dressed? I hoped maybe you’d stay for a while.”

“I can’t today,” you say. “I have some errands to run, and then I’m due in the shop at one.”

“Always at the bloody shop,” Jeff mumbles.

“You know I am. The boys need help, and what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t assist?”

Jeff just looks at you.

“Oi! Y/N!” Fred calls as you make your way into the bustling shop. “About time you showed up, we’re slammed!”

“I told you I’d be here this afternoon Freddie!” you call back, taking the apron that he throws to you and tying it around your waist. “Where do you want me?”

“Well isn’t that a loaded question,” came a softer voice from behind you.

“Cheeky,” you say, glancing at George. “Especially from someone who supposedly needs my help.”

“I always need you, and it’s never stopped me from being cheeky before.”

You smile up at him, hoping he can’t tell the effect he has on you. Although, if he can, then you’ve been a lost cause for a long time. It seems like forever ago that you stopped thinking of George as a friend and started thinking of him as something more, but as far as you could tell, he had no idea. He flirted with you, of course. But that was just his way. Fred teased you too, but Fred felt like a brother – one who ruffled your hair and poked fun at you when you dropped someone’s change or knocked something off a shelf. George’s teasing had an edge, a clear flirtation that made your face tint crimson and that you thought about when you were alone at night. Even the nights you spent with Jeff, George was never far from your thoughts. Still, you know you had been friends too long to start something with him. Fred and George were your best friends – you’d been through everything together, and you wouldn’t take the chance of ruining things now. Besides, if George felt the same way, he’d surely have made it known by now.

“Just point me in the right direction,” you say, rolling your eyes.

George smiles at you, and you hear Fred scoff. “Take over the registers, would you?” Fred finally said. “I need cheeky here to help me in the back room.”

When the store finally closed for the day, you were utterly exhausted. The twins hadn’t been kidding, the store had been packed until George had locked the door at closing time. You had rung up the last customer and were now counting out the till for the day. Fred was sweeping, and he passed the register as he made his way through the store.

“Big plans tonight, Y/N?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” you say, keeping your eyes on the galleons you were counting. Even after years of being in the wizarding world, you still had a harder time counting out gold than muggle money.

“Does that mean you’re going to see old Jeffy boy?”

You heard a snort from behind you.

“Well he’s nothing but ordinary, is he?” says George, carrying a box past you and towards a depleted looking display.

“Jeff’s nice,” you say, glaring at him. You watch him set the heavy box down, his arm muscles clearly flexing under his shirt. You suppose glaring would work better, you realize, if you weren’t using it as an excuse to openly stare.

“Nice isn’t much of a compliment, you know,” George says.

You shrug. “Well, he is nice. Nice enough for now.”

“Yeah, and they’re keeping it casual, remember?” says Fred. “I think ‘nice’ is fine for our little Y/N’s fling.” He winks at you. “Just don’t go getting your heart broken, yeah? I would hate to have to beat up the ‘nice’ guy.”

“Someone can’t break your heart if they don’t have it, Freddie,” you say. “Besides, if someone hurt me, I’d be the one doing the beating.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he says chuckling, as he takes the broom and heads to the back.

George still stands at the display, emptying the box and arranging the merchandise, his back to you. He was strangely quiet, and you watched him as he worked. He seemed agitated. He kept running a hand through his hair in clear annoyance, his red hair standing straight up. You thought about what it would feel like to be the one with your fingers in his hair, to grasp onto it and tug as he assaulted your mouth, your neck, your body. You watched his large hands as they filled the shelves, sure and steady. Is that how they would feel if he touched you? Strong. Controlled. You shivered. You had to stop this line of thinking if you wanted to help finish closing the store, and you knew it wasn’t wise to daydream about your crush when he was this close to you.

Luckily, Fred returns and offers a distraction from your thoughts.

“Well, we’re swept and sorted,” he says. “If you’re done with the deposit, I’ll run it over to Gringotts before I meet up with Angelina.”

You nod. “Yeah, I’m finished.”

“Brilliant. You don’t mind finishing up here with Georgie, do you?”

“I suppose the hot date can wait,” you laugh at him.

George snorts. Fred raises his brows at you and then chuckles. “Ok, thanks so much for the help, Y/N!” he says, giving you a quick hug and heading to the door.

Once he leaves, you set your eyes back on George.

“What is your problem?”

“What?” he says. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Well you certainly seem to. Every time Fred or I so much as mention my life, you seem to have a quick retort.”

“We’ve always bantered with each other, Y/N. I don’t see why it would be different now.”

“We have, but why is it that I get the feeling today that you really mean it. You don’t have to be so mean about Jeff, that’s all.”

“Oh, like you really care about that tosser.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Be serious, Y/N. There is nothing remotely hot about any dates you have with that boy. He is the most average piece of white toast I have ever met.”

You glare at him again, offended. Jeff may not be your soulmate, but he truly is a nice person. And he helps you cure the ache that exists in the pit of your belly every time you leave the presence of the man currently in front of you.

“Well, better to be white toast than a complete ass,” you say. “My gosh, do you hear yourself?”

George was looking at you now. He had put down the box and crossed his arms across his chest. His brown eyes were intense, and he scowled at you as if he could see right through you. Your hand twitched, the desire to smooth out his wrinkled brow making itself known, even in your anger.

“Oh, I hear myself. And I hear you too. That wasn’t much of an argument, love. And I’m not an ass, I’m just being honest.”

Your anger swelled at how smug he was, but the unexpected endearment only managed to increase the desire you also felt for him, bubbling just below the surface. How could one man make you feel so much at once?

He walked towards you and you took a step back, your body now stuck between his piercing look and the counter. “You deserve more than that, you know?” he tilted his head to the side. “Or maybe you don’t know? All those boys you were with at school were never good enough for you either.”

“All those boys? Merlin, George. You make me sound like a floosy,” you say, trying to hold on to your anger even though his close proximity was making your legs feel weak.

“No, never that,” George said, his eyes softening. “I just don’t like to see you hurt. And you pick guys that are all wrong for you, Y/N.”

“Oh really? Then what guys are right for me, George,” you say. You sounded braver than you felt, looking him straight in the eye, daring him to tell you who would be a proper beau for you in the eyes of George Weasley.

“I only have one in mind,” he says. Then he steps forward, pulling you into him and crashing his lips to yours.

The kiss was intense, and at first you didn’t react, caught off guard by this sudden shift from anger to intimacy. But it didn’t take long to process what was happening. George, your George, was kissing you. Before he could change his mind, before he could pull away, which you were sure he would, you reached your arms up around him, your fingers tangling in his hair. Recognizing that you were kissing him back, George pushed into the kiss even further, licking into your mouth. His hands held your hips, tightly, his fingers sliding under the bottom of your shirt and pressing into the flesh below. He left your mouth and started kissing down your neck, hot, hungry, kissing and biting his way. He kissed back up to your ear and sucked on the tender flesh there.

“Oh, George,” you let out in a breathy moan.

“Fuck,” he says, pushing his body flush against yours. You could feel him, his desire pressed hard against your stomach. But despite his body’s reaction to you, saying his name seemed to have stopped his assault on your neck. He pulls back to look at you, his eyes dark.

“Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop,” he says.

“Never,” you say, pulling him in to kiss you again. “I want this. I want you.”

As his lips met yours again, his hands go to your waist before making their way around your body and to your ass. He squeezes, hard, and then lifts you up off the floor and slides you onto the counter. He nudges his way between your legs, his hardness pressed against where you want him most, his hands moving upwards to hold your face for just a moment, before moving back down to your waist and pulling your shirt over your head.

“Here?” you whisper, looking around you as he started kissing down your neck again, headed for your breast.

“Do you have objections?” he asks, unclasping your lacy bra and tossing it to the side.

Somewhere in your fuzzy brain, you feel like there is a reason you should not be doing this with George in a very public shop, but you aren’t sure you really care at the moment what those reasons are.

“No,” you breathed out, as his mouth begins sucking on your taut nipple. “Godric, push me against the front window and I won’t complain.”

You feel him smile against your breast.

“I knew you didn’t like nice guys,” he says, his mouth biting down, gently.

You wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer to you.

“Too many clothes,” you say, pulling at his shirt. He stands back up and brings his mouth back to yours, giving you access to unbutton his shirt and push it off of him. You linger on his arms, his muscles flexing under your touch, before moving down to his trousers and pushing them down. His dark grey boxer briefs are all that hide him from you now, and as you pull them away from his body and push them down, you almost gasp at how large he is. He stepped back to kick the remnants of his clothes away, and you place your hands on his shoulders, pushing him lightly so that he backs away farther, slipping off the desk and onto your knees.

“Oh,” he moans out, as you take him into your mouth. You look up at him through your lashes.

“Fuck, you look so pretty with my cock in your mouth,” he says. You hum and he throws his head back, moaning again. His hands go to your hair, tangling in the long strands and applying just enough pressure for you to know when he particularly likes something. After a few minutes, you feel him jerk slightly, and then his hands move to your shoulders, pushing you gently away.

“Not that I haven’t dreamed of coming in your mouth,” he says, pulling you up to your feet, his mouth close to your ear, “but I want to be inside you.” You shiver and move to pull off your skirt.

“Let me,” he says, grabbing your hands and releasing them from the fabric. But rather than pull the skirt down, he skims his hands down the fabric and then back up your thighs to your panties, pulling them down with a quick tug. You raise an eyebrow at him for a moment, but then he is touching you, his hands making quick work, his fingers circling your clit before finding their way inside you. You moan, arching back against the counter.

“So wet for me, love,” he says. “Fuck, I can’t wait to be inside of you.” You whimper, and then he twists his hand, his fingers finding new purchase in just the right spot and his other hand rubbing at your clit in unison. “Oh!” you cry out, your hands pulling at his hair. He smirks at you “Keep making those pretty sounds for me love. I’m going to make you come from my fingers first, and then from my cock.” “Oh fuck, George,” you mewl, the intensity building inside of you. “That’s it love, say my name,” George replies. With a final flick of his fingers you come undone.

Gasping and trying to come back down for your high, you almost don’t notice as George takes hold of you, cradling you into his arms for just a moment, and laying softer kisses on your neck before moving up to your ear and nibbling there. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this, you?” he asks. All you can manage is to moan as he continues his attack on your body with his mouth. “I hated the other men you were with, not because of who they were, but because they got to be with you. Merlin, you’re gorgeous. And smart and funny.” He stops and looked at you, his eyes taking on a serious expression. “I want you, Y/N. Not just now, but always, do you understand? This isn’t just a fling for me. I want all of you.” Without a second thought, you nod, placing your hands on either side of his face and pulling him to your mouth for a kiss. This time, the kiss starts out slow and sweet, but it quickly turns back to something more, the fire still lit inside of both of you. George’s hands are on your waste, pushing down your skirt so it puddles at your feet, and then lifting you back up onto the counter, stepping between your legs and aligning himself at your entrance.

“Sure?” he whispers one more time against your lips. “Yes,” you breath out, and then he is pushing in, filling you. He stills for just a moment before he starts moving inside of you, your foreheads pressed together, your breathing mingled and heavy. He kisses you hard on the mouth and then pulls back, his eyes looking down to watch where your two bodies are joined. “You’re fucking perfect,” he says, lifting your leg up so that it is over his shoulder, allowing him deeper, hitting the spot that longs for him most. “Oh!” you gasp. “You feel so good.” He smirks “You feel amazing, so tight and wet.” He brings his other hand back to your clit again. “Come for me again love.” And you do, the feeling of his hands and his body and being like this with George all taking over. “I’m almost there,” he pants out against your shoulder, “want to spill it all in you. Can I?” You nod against his neck “Come in me, now George,” you say. You feel him shudder at your words, his body moving faster until he reaches his release, your name spilling from his mouth as he finishes. He buries his head in your shoulder as he pants, both of you trying to catch your breath. You are the first to giggle. He lifts his head and looks at you questioningly, but then his smile breaks out wide, and he is also laughing, the two of you smiling and holding onto each other and laughing.

“Well, I suppose it took us long enough to get around to that,” you say, still smiling at him. He grins back and pulls you in for a soft kiss. “This is just the beginning, love,” he says. “Now, what say you to going and cleaning up together in my bath, hmm? I mean, we’ll shower together, obviously, to save water.” You smack him lightly on the arm. “You’re incorrigible, George Weasley,” you say. You look at him then with puppy dog eyes. “And what about my hot date?” He looks at you in mock disbelief for a moment. “Darling, I’m the hottest day you’ll ever have.” He winks and then picks you up, carrying you bridal style up to the twins flat. “You’re not wrong, George,” you say, nuzzling into him. “You’re not wrong.”

#george weasely #george weasely x reader #george wealsey imagine #george weasely smut

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