HOUSE IN NEBRASKA — Logan "Worst Wolverine" Howlett X Mutant!Reader AO3 Version Spotify Playlist
HOUSE IN NEBRASKA — Logan "Worst Wolverine" Howlett x Mutant!Reader AO3 version Spotify Playlist
WORD COUNT — 15.4k SUMMARY — Reader gets roped into saving the timeline with ex-best friend Deadpool, coming face-to-face with a variant of Logan that uproots memories she'd long suppressed, only to find that this version of him lost her in his universe, too. TAGS/WARNINGS — she/her pronouns (minimal usage), female anatomy, flashbacks in italics, angst, enemies to lovers, alcoholism, smoking, arguments, canon typical violence, cursing/bad language, Deadpool breaks the fourth wall like twice, canon behaviour worst wolverine, religious trauma, honda odyssey scene self-insert, eventual smut, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, dirty nasty talk (logan has a filthy mouth), mentions of cocaine literally once. smut is marked after last divider if you want to skip plot but i'll kiss you if you don't!
You’re smoking a cigarette on your porch when the snowfall happens. It would be normal, you think, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s dead in the middle of July. A group of nanas, elbow-deep in the community garden soil, glance up to the sky and begin muttering prayers amongst themselves.
You’ve lived in this safe house for a while now, up in the mid-west of the Appalachian mountains, surrounded by thickets of pine and opposite a bubbling creek. You grew up somewhere near here and the locals welcomed you back with open arms and a plateful of hot food when the humans started the culling— when the X-men fell apart.
It has plenty of benefits. The smell of lavender, for one, and your cat, Kevin, loves chasing the pigeons, even if he’s not the most successful hunter. The locally sourced produce means you can avoid the poisoned food they’re distributing in supermarkets.
But, most importantly, the humans can’t find you out here. You’re lucky the gossip of your… genetics, so to speak, doesn’t leave Sunday morning church.
Things have been different, lately. The trees are shedding down to dust, people are disappearing at an exponential rate, and there was a time when you’d be on the front lines helping them. You’re on the edge of your seat waiting for the call — a learned habit — but it’s never coming. Charles is dead. Logan is dead. The X-men are dead.
The snow is warm when it lands on your skin. It feels like rot, and your solitude suddenly feels lonelier and more daunting than ever.
You reach to take a sip of your steaming coffee when you hear movement. A zipping strobe light crosses your vision and you flinch against the intrusion, but you’re not afraid. You’ve surely survived worse.
Stryker worse.
A comical and confused looking figure pops out from an orange portal, scratching the crown of his head over the red and black mask on his face. You sip your coffee as you observe him nonchalantly.
He notices you and approaches with a dainty point of his finger.
“Um, excuse me, ma’am.”
“Well, well well,” you suck on your cigarette with a frown. “Look what the cat dragged in. Got a new suit, Red?”
“What, aren’t you happy to see lil’ old me?”
“You’re on my property,” you say matter-of-factually. You had a shotgun stowed away inside for emergencies, but frankly, you never had to use it. You were enough of a weapon yourself. Consider it insurance, if the corn-syrup they’re poisoning ever finally makes it way to you.
You glance sidelong at the old ladies in their aprons, clutching one another with stern gazes in your direction. The deal was that you didn’t bring trouble their way — but it looks like trouble found you. You narrow your eyes and silently hope that this doesn’t turn messy, as it so usually does where he’s concerned.
He sighs heavily and continues approaching regardless. You analyse his stature and take notes of the weapons on his holsters and back. You reckon you could take him if it came down to it, but he didn’t seem threatening.
You and Wade used to be friends, but after isolating yourself from grief, you don’t necessarily consider yourselves to have a close relationship. More often than not he brought trouble; hence your defensive response.
“Listen, ants in your pants, I’ve done this about a hundred times,” he huffs and places a hand on his hip, waving the device around in his hand. You take another drag of your cigarette and perk your brows before rising to your feet.
“I’ve had my spleen shattered by the Hulk, about eighty stab wounds…”
He rambles on about his collection of injuries and you tilt your head with amusement. Must be another one of his famous mental breakdowns. This might be entertaining, at the very least.
“…You’ve even killed me a few times in different universes!” He claps his hands together. “And frankly, I was just going to let you die here. You’re not even canon, so you won’t be missed, but you appear to be of use to me. So I need you to come with me. Now. Please.”
What on Earth was he talking about? What on Earth was he ever talking about?
You bark a laugh. “I ain’t going anywhere with you, Red and Black.”
“Will it change your mind if I add a cherry on top?” He asks with a dry laugh before nodding enthusiastically. Manically. “You’re coming. Kevin’s life depends on it.”
“What are you talkin’ about? Are you threatenin’ my cat? That’s a new low, Wade.”
“Is it? Is it really? I am certain that I can go unfathomably lower.”
You roll your eyes, half-way through turning your back on him.
“You see this?” He holds out a gloved hand and catches some snowflakes. He rubs them between his fingers and they spark and fizzle before dusting away. “That’s not snow. That’s time death. Our universe is dying, womp womp. Stay here, sure! By all means, but—”
Your cat launches out of the door behind you, chirping and meowing to himself before promptly dashing through the portal and disappearing into the blurry void on the other side.
“Well. Looks like he made his choice.”
He sighs and lets you process. You take the final swig of your coffee and huff a breath.
“You literally have nothing left to lose. Trust me. I know. I’ve seen all kinds of you and, believe me when I say this, even though I love and cherish this version of you, this—” he points two fingers at you and gestures towards you judgmentally. “— isn’t the best look on you, honey.”
You want to dismiss him. You want to turn him away, to tell him to get lost. Grief swallowed your heroism whole, turning it into a barren wasteland of bitter indifference. You used to be bright, full of light, love, and hope.
Fucking hope. It’s the reason Logan left you to help Charles in the first place. You just wanted to settle down and disappear, to live a normal life. You lost an intrinsic part of your being when he died; you remember feeling it before you heard the news. Fucking hope.
Hope, hope, hope. Nana Rose chants on about it when she clasps your hands with her wrinkly ones, dragging you to church in spite of your atheism.
“And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts,” she chants, basket of flowers on her hip. “Romans 5:5. You’d do well to do your readin’, tulip.”
You didn’t and don’t ever usually believe a word she says, but you can feel her faith. It’s solid as steel, pouring out of her like blotting light through the gaps in the trees. Undying. And you’ll be damned if you let anything happen to her.
A flicker remains. You imagine what Charles would say to you now, how you’d hang onto his every word and he’d bring out the better of you. You truly do have nothing left to lose, except maybe your cat. Over your dead body.
“Come ooon,” he pokes his fingers together. “Fancy being a hero? One last time?”
You take the final drag before stubbing the cigarette out on your railing. “Alright, Red. I’ll bite.”
“Then suit up.”
Your friendship with Deadpool was a rocky one. There was a time you told him you’d be there for him through everything, and you technically owed him one for saving your life that one time even though your ego insists that, to this day, you could’ve taken the fight. That’s what heightened cellular control of your body is for, right? Accelerated healing? Empathetic abilities? Faster reactions, enhanced strength— you get the point.
Though you didn’t realise that returning the favour meant following him through space, time and alternate dimensions, you were a person who stayed true to their word, and you hated being indebted to someone.
So, here you were, waking up in the middle of a barren wasteland that was seconded as a cocktail soup of abandoned universal relics and heroes ripped from their worlds, accompanying your ex-best friend to restore your timeline.
But, one thing about paying someone back, it doesn’t technically count if they lie to you about the terms and conditions of the agreement. Only a few mere moments after you come to, dazed by the impact and the blaring wobbly heat of the sun, you rise to watch as Deadpool takes six blades of Wolverine to the chest.
You’re still a little dizzy when you stagger to your feet, head throbbing, as you’re trying to process if, yes, that’s exactly what you were witnessing.
“Let’s see you grow your fuckin’ head back!” Wolverine growls.
Deadpool holds his hands up in surrender. “Wait, wait, wait! I can fix it! I can fix it!”
The man in yellow hesitates. “Fix what?”
“Whatever it is that you did, whatever made you so bad—” Wade pants, catching his breath. “Those pricks at the TVA, you heard ‘em. They have the power to end my universe, but they also have the power to change yours. We get back there, and we can fix your world! Together. I promise.”
You stumble from around a pile of debris, clutching your side as a rib pops back into place. Wolverine sniffs the air, face blanching as he snaps to look in your direction.
When you first make eye contact with him, it feels as though you’re resurfacing from water after being on the precipice of drowning. Your heart leaps into your throat, adrenaline boils your veins and your lungs burst with relief of breathing.
“Troubles always gonna find you, baby,” Logan murmurs, kissing his way up from the pulse in your throat as he rocks against you. “But so am I.”
You’ve never loved him more, you think, than when he fucks you slow like this. A snowstorm rages outside the cabin, howling full of glass and needles and rattling the window frames. His skin against yours burns a fire within you, warming you to the bone. He sweeps hair away from your face before capturing your mouth in his, swallowing the sounds of your pants, threading his fingers between yours.
You could stay here forever, you think.
Your fingers shake from the whiplash of the memory. You instinctively reach towards him but you catch yourself. This was the husk of him, not your Logan. The realisation feels akin to ripping open a haphazardly sewn wound right down to the fatty yellow flesh, raw and needling and sore.
He’s broader than you remember. Hair a little darker, wrinkles a little deeper. He smells of alcohol and cigars — that much is familiar. That’s him, flesh and adamantium bone, living, breathing. Alive. The physical shell of him prods alive parts of your inner circuitry that you weren’t aware had fallen asleep, like intrinsic nerves untangling within you.
You can sense that he knows you, too, based on his emotional response. His noise is extremely loud, spilling out of the cracks of whatever wall he thought he’d successfully built up. This version of Logan certainly had a lot of secrets.
“You,” he whisper-growls. It’s almost intangible, leaving him like a breath. He pulls his blades promptly from Deadpool’s chest and kicks him backwards.
You’re starting to understand that faith thing that Nana Rose was knocking on about when he strides towards you, large and tall. You certainly weren’t a believer by any means but you’re sure you’d be the picture of unbridled worship for the way you’d fall to your knees for him.
Your empathetic power lurches for him, seeking him out as you used to — like a flower to the sun — but it physically recoils from the aura that it touches. It was all your Logan but not in a familiar way. It’s tainted, dark, and it tastes like copper and screams.
All colour melts from his face and his body shuffles in a way that indicates discomfort; a dry swallow, tense shoulders and flicking eyes that refuse to meet your gaze. He omits feelings of guilt and shame that linger on the tendrils of your empathetic powers where you connect with him.
You try to zone Wade out, squinting as you attempt to navigate through his cobweb of emotions (seriously, this guy’s aura could do with a cleanup) but it’s like wading through black-tar syrup, feelings negated by years of alcohol-abuse and avoidance. Eventually, you feel something that makes your guts twist and your legs shake: a version of romantic attraction and recognition so carnal and raw that you begin to blush, a warmth that creeps its way up from your belly. A breath escapes you like a punch.
“Well. This feels awkward.” Wade glances between you both and places his hands on his hips. “Why do you both look like you’ve seen a ghost? Do I need to call Egon Splegler and tell him to bring his ghost sucky-sucky vacuum? Oh my god—” He slaps his hands to his face and gasps sharply. “Cross-Universal lovers?”
As inappropriately timed and tone-deaf his one-liners could be, you’d never been more appreciative of an icebreaker. You think you could’ve stood there for an hour, frozen in silence, staring at a reanimated corpse, basking in the noise of his emotional frequency like an addict finally getting another hit.
But then the noise stops, swallowed up like a heaving black hole had split and atomised the tension whole with its unforgiving jaws. He closes himself off from you. Connection severed. You reach out and feel a cold nothingness similar to how, on particularly rough nights, you’d try to reach out to him after his passing. You’d clung onto his plaid shirts until the smell and emotional residue wore off of them.
“You with the mouth? To fix things?”
You nod tightly. You don’t think you can find your voice in front of him.
“Let’s just keep moving. And stay out of my head,” Logan grumbles, crossing you with a cold shoulder and mumbling something incoherent under his breath. When he’s made enough distance, you turn to your old friend with a cold glare.
“Ooh, brr. Anybody else feel a chill?”
“Wade.”
He twists towards you comically slow.
“You. Motherfucker.” You begin approaching him. He backs up slowly and holds his hands up.
“I knew if I told you the plan you wouldn’t have gone along with it!”
“Are you insane? You think multiversally grave-robbing my fucking dead ex-boyfriend is going to save our timelines?!” You yell.
“Technically he’s not dead—”
You push him. “He should be! He- he was— he is!”
“Well, this one isn’t!” He pushes back. “And I’m not sorry for finding a loophole in the plan to fry — not just mine, mind you — but both of our timelines! Did you happen to forget that? No multi-dimensional depressed Logan? Alright then! No more Kevin!”
He’s talking about your cat. Anger flares.
“Don’t you dare bring Kevin into this.”
“You forced my hand!” He yells, mouth moving alien-like behind the mask on his face. “Besides, I’m not doing this for me—”
You blink your eyes closed. You might reach the end of your tether if he said her name one more time. You’ve been in his company for approximately an hour, and he’s already drilled a hole into your brain with his incessant yapping about the “love of his life”.
“Wade, you need to move on. She clearly has.”
“I will not move on from the only people I love in this fucked up dimension. This isn’t just for Vanessa.” He shoves a glossy photograph in your face. “This is for you and blind Al and even that shit-head teenager and her pinkie-pie girlfriend! They deserve their timeline!”
“I literally don’t care about any of those people!”
Even yourself?
“Well, I do! I have people I care about! Aren’t you supposed to be a hero? God, all of you X-men are so depressing. Is it the suits they make you wear? Is that it? Can’t breathe in that thing?” He continues poking at you. “Loosen up a little!”
You straighten your posture and the black leather of your suit crackles. You swat his hands away as he continues poking. “Alright! Cut it out!”
“Think of Nana Rose.” He draws a heart with two fingers. “Little old ladies like her deserve a chance, don’t they?”
And even though humans had done nothing but wage war on your kind for simply existing, you still felt obliged to help them. Besides, the thought of other mutants — kid mutants — dying when you hold the chance to save them in the palm of your hand? You were hardly managing as you were now. You’re not sure you’d be able to live with yourself if you kept going like this.
“Alright, alright!” You huff, heart pounding in your chest. You look over at where Wolverine kicks at rocks in the distance. “Fucking hell, Red. Holy fuck.”
You say it again, only this time you scream it into your hands.
“You should’ve warned me.”
“Are we good?”
“Are we go—” You scoff. You kick his ankle, feel the bones shatter and crunch beneath your foot. He lets out a short, high-pitched yelp. “You deserved that.”
“Motherfuckermotherfucker… oh you’re lucky I feel bad about lying to you or I would’ve twisted your milk bags off for that I swear to God.” He sucks in a breath. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”
“Mhm,” you murmur, walking forward. “That doesn’t sound like an apology.”
He limps after you, floppy ankle dragging a line in the sandy dirt. “I’ll be dead before you ever get one of those out of me! And too bad I can’t fucking die!”
The difference between this Logan and your Logan is stark, minus the uncanny resemblance. Your Logan was soft and gentle, but this version is sharper and blade-edged, and your fingers bleed when you try to touch him.
Staring at him feels like throwing up a mirror and analysing yourself, a picture of what happens to a person when they make all of the wrong choices. You’re embarrassed, almost. This isn’t a version of you that you ever want him to know, but at least you can say you’re trying.
Him, on the other hand…
“Are we going to keep up the awkward silence?” You snip, awkwardly adjusting the restraints on your wrist.
You’ve been in Logan’s company for all of an hour, and yet accompanying one another through literal time purgatory didn’t seem to irk any feelings of obligation from his end. He’d been cold-shouldering and ignoring you the entire time, even though you kept catching him staring.
“I have nothing to say to you,” he spits, wriggling uncomfortably against a very unconscious Deadpool. “You got us into this mess.”
You frown, small. You can feel hatred pouring out from him, leaving a sickly bile taste in the back of your throat. You’ve lived through enough hate for being a mutant in your lifetime, enough that you’d become accustomed to tuning it out of your radio channel, so to speak, but something about it coming from the man you loved makes it a little harder to swallow.
You’re quiet when you next speak. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”
He shoots you an indistinguishable look and grunts to himself. Such a Libra.
“So, what’s the story here?” Johnny asks with a sly grin. He turns to you with a glimmer of mischief in his eye. “You two know each other?”
You cringe. “Sort of. Last I remember, he wasn’t this much of a prick.”
“Oh, trouble in paradise, huh?” His grin grows. “That’s a shame. Not often we get girls like you in the void.”
“Seriously?” You say with a side-eye.
He shrugs, all blue-spandex biceps and charming smile. “No harm in trying.”
Your breath hitches as Cassandra approaches, wide eyes and tilted head aiming for you purposefully. Logan swiftly angles his body so that he’s standing in front of you and she halts as a delighted, implicating smile stretches across her face. Your chest constricts, tendrils of yearning coiling tighter. It appeared to be muscle memory: his instinctual, protective flinch. Just like your Logan used to, despite how capable he knew you were.
“Now, I’ve always wanted a Wolverine.” Her finger moves along the crowd. “Knew I’d get one eventually. But I never even dreamed of having you.”
Cassandra zips behind you and her slender fingers delve into the crevices and valleys of your brain, lips intimately close to your neck and ear. Wolverine snarls territoriality, but he’s unable to move. The urge to reach for him is overwhelming.
“Do you know that there are so few universes where you exist?” She whispers, caressing your deepest memories. “I even asked the TVA about you, in exchange for keeping the peace. I was disheartened when I found out one of you died. But you’re here! Now, I don’t believe in fate, but this almost feels like it was meant to be.”
You flinch when she uncovers a particularly fond memory, one you hadn’t been aware was so prominently in the forefront.
In the back of his truck, a cigar between his teeth, hands sliding under your shirt. In another world, he would’ve taken the time to do this properly, but living in a school didn’t exactly grant two consenting adults any privacy.
“Waited long enough for this.”
He kisses up from your bare foot to the sensitive skin of your inner knee, lips scorching against your skin.
“Logan…”
“Easy,” he murmurs, leaning away for a moment to remove his plaid overshirt, leaving himself in that white vest you could eat him alive in. “Still wanna take my time with you.”
You’re desperate, he can tell— can probably smell it, too, but you’re far too humiliated to ask him if he can.
Logan wasn’t your first by any means, but with the way you were near trembling for him truly felt like you’d be losing all of your innocence in the back seat. You’re shy and quiet, everything he isn’t. You’re infatuated with him — have been since he burst out of the lab in his grey hoodie — and have daydreamed about what it would be like to have him. You certainly didn’t let him know that right away, and with whatever shred of composure remained around his relentless flirting and teasing remarks, you tried to play hard to get.
Until you couldn’t. Because you weren’t. He had you, and with every fibre of your being, you wanted him to.
She pulls her hands from your brain with a shlick sound, rubbing her fingers together as if relishing in the produce of your memories. She grabs a rag from her pocket and smirks knowingly.
“You’re thinking of that at a time like this?” She laughs all witch-like. “Worry not; your secret’s safe with me, naughty girl.”
Wade lowers his voice and leans towards Logan. “She was thinking of me.”
“I can read between the lines, darling,” she potters on. “This isn’t about a sexual fantasy. Deep down, you just want to be wanted. To be loved.”
She steps back and extends her arms. “After all, you’ll never amount to anything in your world. It’s such a shame that your Logan left you so abruptly. Did he break your heart?” She giggles. “Why suppress your powers in his name? For a level-five mutant, you certainly don’t act like one. You can do that, here. Freely!”
Your worn thin tether creaks with exhaustion like a dilapidated bridge under pressure. There isn’t a singular fibre of your being that desires to be stuck here, but the small, angry teenage voice in your head would love nothing more than to just let go. You’d been containing your powers for as far as you can remember, and they'd always been as irresistible as the promise of Pandora's box.
But you know how that story ends.
You take a moment’s pause. “I have no interest in livin’ in a garbage dump.”
She tilts her head and neatly clasps her hands behind her back. “Do you forget where you come from? I think we both know who lives in a garbage dump.”
“You motherf—”
You’d just managed to escape Cassandra’s lair with Alioth’s foggy storm fangs nipping at your ankles when you ran across the abandoned diner.
You’re ravenous, wrist aching from how you dig at the freezer-burned ice cream. It’s your least favourite flavour but you’ve been running on fumes for the past day or so, so you’ll take what you can get, though you begin to lose your appetite when you remember Johnny, and how Cassandra had zipped the skin from him like popping a blood-filled water balloon.
Something is rumbling beneath your surface. A distinct, constant buzzing, like two atoms slowly building up radioactive energy. You’d asked for none of this, and would certainly give Wade a talking to when the time called for it, but, for now, you’re trying your hardest to make this as easy a process as possible.
Your male counterpart, however, was doing exactly what men generally do. He was making this fucking unbearable.
Logan sits across from you, brooding, fingers gripping the medicinal bottle as if it’s anywhere near appropriate to be drinking. He throws you a particularly lingering glare when he notices you staring, but refuses to maintain eye contact when you look back at him
You toss the tub and spoon across the table with a sharp clatter, your patience collapsing.
“What? Can’t even look at me?” You snap. His eyes look exhausted when they finally meet yours. Wade, being the characteristic little fucker he is, pulls a delighted, shit-stirring grin as he glances between the two of you as if watching a tennis match.
Logan gasps as he finishes taking a drink. “Not much to look at,” he says, wiping the back of his mouth.
The words twist like a fist in your gut. For a moment, you’re rendered too stunned to respond, like he’d tossed a flash-bang toward you. His casual cruelty digs deeper than you care to admit— but you’ve had far too much therapy, too much psychological training, to know he’s deflecting.
But you wouldn’t doubt for a second that there was a more beautiful version of you somewhere.
“What, you comparin’ me to someone?” You ask. You can tell you’ve struck a nerve by the way he goes for another sip. “That it?”
He grimaces.
“Do I make you feel sick? Am I making you feel sick?”
He stares at you hard, but silently. He takes a long swig of the rubbing alcohol and you cringe as his throat bobs. His silence and feigned indifference light a fire of indignation.
“You know, you’re not the only person who’s suffered. Who’s lost people.”
He laughs like what you’re saying is funny. “Yeah, right, bub, you have got no idea what loss is.”
“Oh, you are such a fucking cunt,” you spit, slamming your hands on the table as you rise to your feet. “You know what, Wade? You’re right. I can’t do this. So fuck you and fuck his timeline and fuck every timeline that had anything to do with it! I’m done.”
A wave of uncontrolled psionic energy born from your anger blasts from you upon your final words, slamming them back into their seats and sending the cutlery, nearby debris and weapons flying. The neighbouring windows smash, shattering explosively and sprinkling outside of the diner.
The simmering stops, replaced by a stifling emptiness.
“I wasn’t finished with that!” Wade cries, crouching down to scoop up what remains of the gelatinous spam.
You pause for a moment, glance at your hands, and then grab your jacket in an aggressive fit.
Wade whines your name, halfway through gagging down a forkful of cold spam off of the floor (one of which resonates with a particularly distinct crunch, but you don’t stay to find out whether or not he just truly ate glass), and he doesn’t attempt to get up and follow you as you storm off.
You take a heaving breath of hot desert air when you leave the diner. The sandy breeze tousles your hair, and with the prickly energy of an incoming nervous breakdown, your legs kick and you’re running.
“Stryker got you, too?” Logan asks, eyebrows flicking up.
You don’t look him in the eye when you nod. You cross your arms and slouch a little, caging your heart in. Stryker — the ex-militant with a fetish for experimenting on mutants — had held you captive for several years. He’d brainwashed you into using your empathetic abilities for nefarious purposes, like seducing other mutants, and sometimes important political and militant figures.
“You like me?” He questions, quieter this time.
“No… no, not like you,” you reply. “I don’t have the fancy bones. I heal fast, but I wouldn’t survive that kinda procedure.”
“Ah.”
“I don’t remember everything. Just bits and pieces. Feelings, mostly. Nightmares,” you explain. He nods understandingly. “I’m always on edge.”
“You always seem so calm,” he observes. “Nothing seems to phase you.”
“I have to be. It took a lot of pain and damage to get this level-headed,” you respond quickly. “If I don’t manage my emotions, all the emotions that I receive, touch— it all comes out. Explosively. It has to come out somehow. I could hurt people.”
“Funny. School therapist ‘n’ you’ve got the most issues,” he teases light-heartedly.
“You got no idea, lumberjack.”
You hated killing.
You’re on your knees, arms and hands and chest soaked crimson, sobbing. They’d come out of nowhere, the raiders, and they were hungry for something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. All you know is that you felt their need, their desperation, their willingness to do anything to get it.
The flash of harrowing horror someone feels before they die isn’t a unique experience. It simply varies in strength — sometimes it’s a feather-like touch that careens over you, a shuddering realisation that they’re taking their last breath, and sometimes it’s like a crack of lightning. Bloodied hands gripping your biceps with fear in a final attempt to survive. They’d rather cling to you than die alone.
You hate killing. Especially this up close.
You don’t cry for them. You don’t even cry for yourself. It’s a small emotional space where they cry vicariously through you.
You were black-out when it happened, you tell yourself, and suddenly regress to the student you used to be, sobbing on your knees in front of Charles as he tries to teach you serenity and control after an outburst had caused you to kill a nest of birds. He’d done it for Magneto, he said— so he could certainly do it for you.
You should have meditated more.
The sound of a car gurgles somewhere behind you, but you haven’t the energy to look or use your powers to seek out who’s approaching and what their intent is. You’re exhausted enough that whatever they wish to do with you — turn you to processed dog kibble, send you back into the jaws of Cassandra’s lair, kill you — whatever. Just let it happen.
A slamming car door and then the crunching of boots on gravel.
“You’re easy to track.” A pause. “You look pathetic. You done throwing your tantrum?”
Logan. Of course, it’s him.
“Leave me alone, prick.”
“As much as I’d like to, you and the Mouth still have to hold up your end of the bargain,” he quips, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Now get up.”
You glare up at him and his arms unfurl as he notices your tear-streaked face. His expression drops, softens, before it quickly ticks back up into an incredulous, irritated look.
“Are you crying?” He asks with a scoff. He pauses before dragging his hand down his face and rubbing his scruffy jaw. “Jesus Christ. Get up. Get in the car.”
“I ain’t fuckin’ around, Logan. Piss. Off.”
He mumbles a string of incoherent curses and turns on his heel. You think, for a moment and a breath of relief, that he’s truly going to give up on you and leave. He could finish this without you. It’s easier this way.
Instead, a thick bicep wraps around your middle and you’re flung over his shoulder with a yelp.
“Quit your squirmin’.”
“Then put me down!” You yell, thrashing in his grasp. He promptly ignores you, unphased by the jabs you strike at his back. You quickly unsheath the small knife from your jacket sleeve, winding up your arm before you drive it into the muscly pocket by his kidneys.
“Ow! Cheap shot, you little fucker!”
Wade sighs and clutches his hands in front of his chest romantically. “Oh, the newlyweds.”
Logan dumps you into the front seat of the car carelessly, grumbling something as he slams the door shut and applies the child locks. Petty motherfucker.
You rub the sore spot on your tailbone where you landed on a seat buckle funny. You want to bite your tongue but you’re flared up.
“We should switch places. I’m a better driver than you are.”
Logan doesn’t bother looking at you as he starts up the ignition. “Just shut up.”
“You can go on ahead and smoke a cat turd in hell, then.”
“So fuckin’ immature. Grow up.”
“Mom and Dad can you please stop fighting!” Deadpool cries out from the backseats.
You just roll your eyes, resigning into your chair and folding your arms.
At some point along the ride, Wade falls asleep, snoring soundly to himself. You’re silent in the front, drumming a beat on your knees, awkwardly thinking of something to say. You have the impulsive need to fill the silence, even if you were trapped in a crappy car with a man who had made it vehemently clear that he irrevocably hated you.
“So, if they can fix your world, what’s the first thing you’ll do?”
Logan rips his eyes towards you. “What did you say?”
“I said when you get back, what’s the first thing—”
“No, no, no— before that.”
You hesitate, wondering if you’d landed yourself in a trap based on the sharpness of his tone and the way that anger crackles off of him like static lightning.
“If… they can fix your world?”
He slams his foot on the brake and you just about catch yourself before your nose goes flying into the dashboard. Wade is thrust out of the front window, smashing through and promptly falling unconscious underneath a tree, neck broken at an awkward angle.
Your eyes widen.
“What do you mean: if?”
“That’s what Wade said—”
“I don’t give a fuck who said what. He promised me he would fix things—”
“Well, I didn’t promise you shit!”
He laughs, low and devoid of humour. “You don’t have a clue if they can fix things, do you?”
Well, no. You’ve been operating on a hunch the entire time and had half come to accept that you might be stuck in the TVA void forever. Who knows how much time has passed elsewhere?
Regardless of the fact you truly had nothing to do with whatever came out of Wade’s mouth, you weren’t about to let Mr. Worst Wolverine shit all over him and his plan to save his friends.
“Is it really that far-fetched? We made an educated wish!”
Something dark flashes across his face. You can feel hate pulsing off of him in dizzying waves, doubling with each passing moment.
“You made… an educated fucking wish?”
“What’s your problem with me, huh? Got a stick up your ass?” You reach for the car door handle, but he snaps up your wrist, holding it high. “You better let go of me right now, old man—”
“Or what, huh? Gonna run away again?” He threatens.
“You geriatric, alcoholic motherfucker. I’ve done nothin’ but try and be civil with you and you treat me like I’m the one who ruined your life! I don’t know what version of me you knew but you need to stop actin’ like I ain’t worthy of being here because of what you did!”
“Listen, I’ll tell you what my problem is with you—” he leans closer, eyes roving over you with a disgusted look on his face. “I mean, you are a ridiculous, emotional, immature crybaby. I have never met a sadder, more attention-seeking, foul-mouthed little bitch in my entire life and that says a lot because I’ve been alive for more than two hundred fuckin’ years.”
“And I’ll tell you, that bald chick was right about one thing: you will never amount to anything. You’ll never save the world. You couldn’t even save a relationship with me. I’d say you should’ve died alone but it’s one of God’s best jokes that in this universe you didn’t seem to fuckin’ die, except that ones on the rest of all of us!”
He breathes heavily when his rant finishes. You’re taken aback, jaw slack, eyes warm with the onset of tears born from shock.
“What, you got nothin’ to say, empath?”
You suck in a deep breath, blinking slowly as you flick the emotional switch off in your head.
“I’m going to hurt you now.”
He snorts. “Oh, are you?”
In a swift manoeuvre, you raise your slap him around the face. You knew better than to punch a metal skull, but you still wanted him to sting. His eyes slit, nostrils flaring in challenge.
“That all you got?”
“Not even close,” you snap back, knuckles whitening from the way you curl your fingers into your palm. “You want to play this game, Logan? Fine— but I’m not gonna sit here and keep on provin’ myself to you. I’ve had enough of your Christ-born-again superiority complex. Did you forget that you’re the worst Wolverine?”
“Oh, yeah? Well, at least I’m honest about who I am. Look at you— you’re a fuckin’ joke, pretending to be some hero in a suit made for a dead team,” he barks back, voice rising with each word. “I don’t need your bullshit “wishes”— you should know, I’ve buried people for less.”
“Yeah, because you’re so perfect, ain’t that right?” You yell, voice cracking from the power of your anger. “The almighty Wolverine— the unkillable bastard who can’t seem to hold onto anythin’ good in his life! You’ve had centuries to get your shit together, and look at you—” You look him up and down with disgust. “—still just a bitter, lonely, broken man, takin’ it out on everyone else and a goddamn bottle.”
His eyes narrow, muscles in his jaw twitching as he appears to fight and keep his temper in check, but there’s an obvious crack forming, the dam of his unbridled rage near overflowing.
“You think you know me, huh?” He murmurs, voice a deadly whisper, the calm before the storm. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about what I’ve been through. You’re nothing but a lost woman playing make-believe and hiding in the shadow of a fuckin’ merc. You’re pathetic.”
Something inside of you breaks. “I’m pathetic? Look at yourself! You’re so goddamn desperate to feel anythin’ that you’ll lash out at everyone around you for some semblance of warmth. There’s a fine line between hate and love, after all! You think you’re so strong because you can heal, because you’ve lived forever? Yeah, right— you’re the weakest, most cowardly man I’ve met in a loong time.”
The blades between his knuckles shoot out with a shink! For a moment, you think that he’s going to attack you. Hell— you even hope that he will, just to diminish some of the unbearable, stifling tension. Instead, the blades retract with a deep breath, and he grabs you forcefully by the collar of your suit, yanking you so close that you can feel the heat of his breath on your face.
His voice is low and rough, each word dripping with venom. “Go on, keep psychoanalysing me. You wanna talk about cowardice? How about leaving people who need you, just because it’s easier to run? Better yet, how about the fact that you abandoned the X-men to hide away in the mountains, huh?”
Your eyes widen with recognition.
“Yeah… Wade’s got a big mouth. Told me everythin’. You’re no hero. Hell, you’re just a selfish, reckless hillbilly who failed at pretending to be human.”
Your heart palpitates in your chest, each word coiling and slicing like blades in your intestines, but you refuse to let him see how much it hurts. Instead, your lips curl into a cold, bitter smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“And you’re just a sad, angry old man who can’t handle the fact that he’s lost everythin’. Go ahead: keep pushing people away! Keep hidin’ behind that anger o’ yours! It’s got you this far, ain’t it?! I’ve treated kids with trauma worth double yours and they were nothin’ but kind and selfless. I won’t let you project your failures onto me. I’m done with this.”
“Yeah, why don’t you walk away!”
The argument reaches a fever pitch, tension sizzling in the air between you. You’re so close, glaring at each other with so much anger, so much resonating heat, that it feels like something’s going to break. And then, suddenly, it does.
Before either of you can think, you close the gap between you, lips crashing against his. It’s not gentle, it’s not soft— the kiss is rough, violent, a clash of lips and fury. His grip on your collar tightens, and for a moment, you’re both frozen, caught in the shock of what’s happening.
But then something more fiery in nature than anger ignites, and he kisses you back just as fiercely, and maybe a little more desperate— like he’s trying to pour out all of his pain and resentment, into this one moment. Your tongues slide against each other and his teeth catch against yours as he groans into your mouth. Your hands thread through his hair, yanking him closer as if trying to hold onto something real and tangible in the chaos of the kiss, reeling from the sudden spinning in your head. It’s angry, raw, filled with all the things you’re not capable of verbalising: grief, love, yearning, reconciliation.
The result of a painful reunion.
The world falls away and all that’s left is the taste of him, the feel of his lips against yours, rough and demanding. You hate him right now— hate him so much that you can’t help but want him. The sheer intensity of it all overwhelms you and makes your fingers shake against the nape of his neck, but you can’t pull away— not now, not when you’ve tasted the wine. You’re too far gone, caught up in the storm of his intoxication, fantasising about ripping that yellow and blue suit off of him and riding him until there’s nothing left for him to regenerate.
And then, just as suddenly as it started, the bubble of the moment bursts with the sound of slow clapping coming from outside the car. You jerk back from Logan, breath coming in ragged gasps. Logan is equally as stunned, still tight-gripping your collar as if he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands.
You both see Wade sitting up, hands together, eyes wide as saucers as he takes in the scene.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Did I just wake up in a telenovela?” His voice is laced with amusement. “I mean, I know you two clearly had some unresolved sexual tension— but this? Oh, this is gold. Please don’t stop on my account, just let me get the camcorder first!”
You’re too stun-locked to respond, lips parting and closing as your brain scrambles to formulate a response as you’re still reeling from what just happened. Logan (for once) seems equally as lost for words, his typical scowl replaced with a look of confusion.
“Shut up, Mouth,” Logan barks, but there’s no real heat behind it. There can’t be, really, not when you’ve both been caught red-handed. He releases your collar at once.
Wade, however, is having none of it. “Oh, no, no, no! You don’t just get to brush this off like it’s nothing! That was a full-on makeout session! I only interrupted because I thought you were about to rip each other’s clothes off.” He sighs wistfully and crosses his legs. “Here I was thinking that you two hated each other— but I guess all that anger was just foreplay, huh?”
Your face burns with a mixture of shame and something else you’re not quite ready to admit. “Wade— cut it out.”
He grins, not deterred in the least. “Oh, but I’m loving this. All that pent-up aggression finally coming to fruition. It’s beautiful, truly.”
Logan shoots him a look that could melt iron, but Wade just simply shrugs, unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Everyone being me.”
“Wade,” you warn through gritted teeth.
“Well, unless you want me to watch (which I am not opposed to, by the way) maybe next time the two of you should get a room,” he tilts his head. “Or, you know, a couples therapist.”
He then turns to address Logan directly.
“And I must’ve missed the AO3 tags because I did not peg you for the enemies-to-lovers type, Mister. Who knew all it took was a bit of hate-kissing to get the sparks flying? Don’t look so ashamed! I’m just jealous I didn’t get to you first.”
He stumbles towards the car and collapses into the back seat. “Next time you wanna bump uglies, just ask for some privacy! You can save me the broken neck!” He gets himself comfortable, man-spreading and laying his hands on both of your shoulders as you stare dead-forwards, unable to look at each other.
“Gosh, you’re both so tense.” He begins massaging. “Look— props to you both for not letting all that angst go to waste. This is a safe space, and there’s no shame in a little hormone-induced—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Logan interrupts, revving the car back to life and shoving his prodding hands away. “Just be quiet back there.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll keep the commentary to myself. But just so you know— got that bad boy playing on repeat, right here.” He says, tapping the side of his head.
You bury your face in your hands. This was going to be a long car ride.
As the car starts moving again, you muster the bravery to risk a glance at Logan. His expression is hard to read but his energy thrums with uncertainty. The boiling hatred seems to have dialled down to a gentle simmer, mostly redirected towards himself rather than you. There’s something else— something that wasn’t there before. You rip your eyes away quickly, mind racing.
For somebody so in tune with emotions and the literal ability to manipulate them if you so desired, you were horrendous at navigating your own. You don’t know what this kiss meant, or if it even meant anything at all.
If there’s anyone you didn’t expect to come across in the void, it’s X-23— Laura. She’s taller, now, with hair down her back, but she’s still got that stern, mean look on her face that intimidated you the first time you met her.
The weak front door squeaks when you open it a crack. A girl, maybe in her small teen years, blinks up at you.
“Can I help you?” You ask, wiping your flour-dusty hands down on the front of your cooking apron.
“Are you—” she says your name.
You attempt to swing the door shut, but she jams it with her boot. You flick your eyes up, glance around for any signs of threats, and then lower your gaze to her. You wrap your cardigan around your mid-section.
“I don’t go by that name anymore. Who the Hell are you, kid, and what do you want?”
“I’m here about Logan,” she says, matter-of-factly.
Logan. A name followed by your own, both of which you hadn’t heard in years.
“He’s not here, kid. He died years ago.”
“I know,” she answers, unwavering. “I was there when it happened. Your name was the last thing he said.”
You’d let her in for a glass of sugary sweet tea that day, but once stories were exchanged you told her not to come back. She respected your wishes— she said she simply wanted to put a name to the face, to get closure, but you’d felt her desperation. Perhaps she was seeking out respite, or family, but you were in no position to be sharing your space with someone who could put another target on your back.
After introductions were made with the others who had been ripped from their timelines (Elektra, Blade and oh my god a Gambit variant with muscles so huge he could pop your head between his biceps) you excused yourself to sit outside. The buzzing emotional energy made your collar feel a little tight around the neck, your head a little fuzzy with noise, so you decided to reignite the small campfire a few yards away from the safe-house and rest there, instead.
You hadn’t realised you were being followed.
“It’s not safe here.”
“It’s not safe anywhere, Logan.”
He looks defeated, raising and clasping his hands behind his head.
“I gotta leave, baby.”
“If you leave, I ain’t lettin’ you back,” you whisper. “You don’t heal the same anymore, Logan, and you promised me—”
“I know what I promised,” he rebuts, but not angrily. You can already see on his face that he’s made his choice. He’s not coming to you to discuss it. “But I owe it to him. To Charles. He gave me everything.”
“So then what did I give you?” You ask. “Not a home, not my love, not everything?” You slam the tea towel down and turn away from him as the tears form. He’s quiet, perhaps processing everything, but you’re too impatient.
“If you’re just gon’ get up and leave, do it now. I won’t beg you to stay, Jimmy.”
“I love you.”
You don’t say it back.
You wake up with a start, damp clinging to your forehead. You immediately sense another presence and glance over to see Logan watching you with a steady gaze. His expression is soft and almost reverent at first, but his facade hardens with a quick tick of his jaw.
“You talk in your sleep.” The bottle in his hand sloshes as he takes a drink. “Nightmare?”
You sigh frustratedly when you realise it’s him. Of course, it’s him — his energy reeks of whiskey and self-loathing. You prop yourself on your elbows, massaging the sore spots on your temples where sleep fog forms.
“I can’t even get some rest without you botherin’ me? You’re leakin’ self-hatred everywhere.”
“Quit hogging the fire then.”
“Fuck you,” you murmur, but it’s without bite.
A moment passes before he fills the silence again. “What are you even doing out here, alone? Trying to get yourself killed? Pretty stupid.”
“Do you know how hard it is to sleep when nobody shuts up?”
His brows knit. “They’re all dead asleep.”
His hand runs up and down your back.
“Can’t settle?” He asks after you sigh.
“No.” You turn so you’re lying on your back, shoulder touching his, staring up at the ceiling. “Everyone is feeling so loud. It’s like a frequency I can’t turn off.”
He hums. “They’re grieving, I s’pose.”
“Even you and you always said you hated the guy.” You shuffle to lie on your side, facing him. You place a hand on his bare chest. “I can feel it, you know.”
“I didn’t hate Scott. Just found him… obnoxiously irritating.”
“Tough guy.” You giggle and stroke his cheek. “You’re turnin’ soft, old man.”
He pulls you flush against him and presses a kiss to your hairline. You lay in verbal silence for a while, soaking up his presence (god, you were so in love), but you’re interrupted when he abruptly sits up and grabs the white vest he discarded somewhere near the bed.
You lean on your elbows. “Where you goin’?”
“Let’s go for a ride.”
“What?”
“You can’t sleep here. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
“But Charles said—”
“Screw Charles. You comin’ or what?”
He hadn’t told you he loved you yet, but at that moment you felt it.
And so you do, clinging to his mid-section on his motorcycle, head stuffed into the helmet he affectionately forces you to wear. It’s a warm night in New York, soupy with heat, but the further you get away from the compound with him by your side the more you feel you can breathe.
“’Course, you don’t understand.”
You reach for the small pouch on your hip and retrieve a cigarette. You light it between your lips, taking a seat a few paces away from him, hands still shaking a little with the aftershocks of the night terror.
“Since when did you start smoking?”
You perk a brow. “I’ve always smoked.”
He seems to realise something and simply shakes his head before returning to the vice in his fist.
“Right.”
You stare at him for a long, passing moment, before pulling out your lighter again and offering it towards him. He perks a brow.
“I know you got a cigar in there somewhere,” you say. He pauses, sighs, and then retrieves a thick cigar from one of the pouches on his suit. You lean closer, flick the lighter, and cup your hand to protect it from the breeze, shamelessly glancing at the dancing glow that bathes his face amid the firelight. You feel the urge to kiss him again, and when his eyes flick up to yours, you think for the briefest second that he wants to kiss you, too.
Swallowing, you collapse your lighter and clear your throat. You sit quietly, smoking and drinking in a silence only negated by the distant sound of chittering bugs around you. Once you’re finished with your cigarette, you toss the butt into the fire.
“We’re infiltrating tomorrow morning.”
He laughs dryly. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
Your lips tighten into a thin line. “We won’t make it without you.”
“Sure you will. I’m not him, you know,” Wolverine grumbles, slugging another shot of alcohol.
You scrutinise him from across the log. You wonder if he feels as pathetic as he looks.
“No— you got that right,” you answer. You pry the liquor from his hands but the grip he releases from the neck of the bottle must have been a mercy on his part because you knew he was extraordinarily stronger than you. “He was much braver than you.”
His eyes flicker from the flames to you as you take a long swig.
“Although probably just as stupid.”
A pause. Crackling and popping firewood fills the silence.
“But, he was a hero. And so are you.”
A beat before he spits a dry laugh, “what gave you that idea?”
You give him a once over and offer a half-smile. “That suit, for starters.”
He looks down at himself like he’d forgotten he was wearing it and wipes away a stray speck of blood from the bright material that you’re sure you might be responsible for.
“What, you like it?” He grunts.
You can’t help but smile. “Yellow suits you.”
“This is all I had left to remember you— them by,” he says, tone turning more sombre as he reminisces.
You decide it’s not the time to make another jab, so, instead, you play back and forth with the bottle for a while until the alcohol stops stinging your throat.
Something small shatters inside of you when you watch him muster the strength to look into your eyes, and his look a little glassy.
“Did you love him?”
Woof, that needed a healthy drink of courage to answer. When you hold his gaze, there’s a hollowness to his expression— an unasked question. Was there truly a version of him worth loving?
“Yeah.” You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth to cover the crack in your voice. “Yeah, I did.”
He’d insisted he hadn’t wanted you around yet he’d kissed you and now followed you to where you’d been sleeping. That had to count for something, so you extend your arm and gesture the bottle towards him— an olive branch in the form of shitty Jack Daniels. Your fingers touch when he accepts it and the brief glimmer of eye contact you share sends shivery energy zipping between you.
“I loved him,” you repeat, as if convincing yourself. A repeated balm to soothe the pain of letting him leave.
“He’s an idiot for leaving you.”
You bite back a sob-laugh, imagination caught somewhere between wondering who you’d rather beat up more: him, or yourself.
“Maybe I’m an idiot for not followin’ him.” You sniff deeply to push back the incoming sob-induced mess. “Not that he woulda let me.”
He hums resignedly.
Clearing your throat, you tuck your hands between your thighs. Swiftly moving on. “What was I— she like?”
He takes a long drink and sighs thickly when he comes up for air. He looks down at his hands when he talks as if choosing his words thoughtfully and carefully.
“Strong, smart. Stubborn. Far too fuckin’ stubborn.”
You force a smile over the flinch of pain in your chest. “Guess we got that in common.”
You reach up and twist the dog tag around your neck, feeling for the ring you’d slipped around the chain. You were never married legally but were in all the ways that mattered. Your heart aches for the brief moment of domesticity you shared with him. You expect him to be finished, but he once laughs, a smile cracking on his face.
“She loved kids— had a soft spot for the weird ones.” He squints and rubs at the flesh between his knuckles where the blades typically protrude. “Put me in my place. Stood up for what was right.”
His words strike a chord in your heart, playing the familiar tune of yearning and guilt and grief. A swelling sensation rises from your stomach and you’re not sure if you’re going to scream, cry or throw up.
“Were you—?”
“In love with her? What, like you can’t tell?” He interrupts, face hardening. Another drink. “It doesn’t matter. We argued one night and I refused to follow her back to the school, ‘bout the same time the humans went mutant hunting.”
Logan takes a moment to catch himself.
“When I came back, shit-faced from the bar, I realised I’d gotten my version of you murdered, along with the rest of them. Laid up like a fucking log pile. That’s what loving me got you.”
The gruesome imagery sours the liquor in your stomach. You push the nausea down with a hard swallow.
“I’m sorry.”
“Wh—” He jolts back, face pinched. “I got you killed, and you’re fuckin’ sorry?”
“There’s a world where you didn’t make that choice. You know, I’m not proud of who I am, either,” you answer, softly. “After you left and I lost you… I got bitter, stopped pulling my punches.”
“You never liked hurting people.”
“I didn’t.” You take a deep breath, willing away the warmth that pools behind your eyes. You quickly regain composure with a short cough. “Whatever woman you’re comparing me to, I stopped being her a long time ago. Like you told me— I’m no hero.”
He grunts, looking like he regrets saying that now. Checkmate. You’re not what either of you expected or yearned for in one another, but maybe you’re exactly what you both need.
“You know, your accents thicker.”
He says it as if to draw a line of separation, but you take it as an invitation. Your head swims from the alcohol, and against what probably is your better judgement, you inch closer to him until your knees bump against each other.
“That’s what I get for hidin’ in the mountains. Got adopted by a scary old lady and her church friends. I reckon she rubbed off on me. You’d like her, I think,” you tell him fondly. There’s something wistful about it, imagining a life with him. You grieve a life you never had but somehow, in his company, the melancholy loosens its grip.
“Maybe we got lucky,” you add flatly.
He lifts the bottle with a dry laugh. “You have a very funny idea of what lucky means, bub.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure. Y’see, they didn’t get lucky. They died, ‘n’ we lost each other,” you explain, glancing up at the stars as if either version of you would ever be in heaven, as if it was as loving enough as a mother’s womb to stretch wide enough to allow space for mutants.
God probably hated you just as much as they did down here.
You lower your head onto his shoulder. “But, we’re still here. Maybe there was always space in my universe for you.”
“You’re drunk,” he observes flatly, but he doesn’t move.
“A little.” You get more comfortable against his tense bicep and close your eyes. “Humour me, why don’t you?”
He sighs, but it’s gentle. “Just for a while.”
“Good, because you’re not very good at keeping your feelings quiet. I know you like this.”
“Keep that to yourself.”
You sigh, eyes remaining closed. “We ain’t gonna talk about it, are we?” You ask, in reference to the kiss.
“Nope.”
A high-pitched whine resonates in your ears, vision blurring as if lying underneath a rippling river current. Paradox has just explained the stakes to you — to stop Cassandra, somebody would have to lay down on the wire and make the sacrifice play. This wasn’t a matter of regeneration anymore— it was being ripped apart from the seams, atomised.
It just so happens that your cat, Kevin, has been loving his little journey around the TVA. Cheater.
“You won’t survive it,” is what you say in response to Logan offering himself up for the job. What you really meant was: I don’t think I can survive losing you again.
“I know,” Logan answers. His eyes drip to where you palm at the slow-healing wound on your side, courtesy of the Lady Deadpool variant. You’re winded, running on fumes, and know you’re in no position to start throwing yourself out there as a suicide volunteer. You’d never make the journey, let alone succeed in your venture.
“That’s why it’s gotta be me,” Deadpool interrupts, peeling the mask from his face to address you both. “Neither of you asked for any of this. You were right. I lied. I lied right to both of your faces — just to get you to help me, and you did.”
“You didn’t lie,” Logan replies, throwing you a glance. “You made an educated wish.”
He reaches into his pocket and slaps the bloodied Polaroid of Deadpool’s friends against Wade’s chest. The gesture is a final, silent acknowledgement of why any of you are here in the first place, and everything that’s led to this moment.
“I got nothin’ back in my world,” he explains, the sharp arrow of his words striking a sting straight through your heart. “Let me do this. For you.”
You could see that this meant more to him, that he would only deem himself worthy and die a peaceful death if he could do it knowing he saved at least one variant of you. This is more than just a mission. This is his only chance to redeem himself, and you know you’re in no position to start trying to convince him that you’d have him either way. Fuck redemption.
You’re parallel from one another, standing just outside of touching distance. It was a cruel existence— reaching out and never quite being able to hold on. It’s inevitable, the pull you feel. You’re dictated by his gravity but cursed by the narrative.
Your chest rises and falls with shallow, laboured breaths as you attempt to process what’s happening, what he’s asking you to let him do. The pain in your side ebbs only from the comparative pain of watching another version of the man you love sacrifice himself for you.
His voice is a quiet whisper. “Give me this.”
But I love you. The words are there, hiding behind your clenched teeth, gnawing at the bars like a feral animal caged in the reminder that this isn’t — shouldn’t be — the man that you love.
Something shifts and as you’re running on the delirium of your battery running low, healing resources drained, you decide that you don’t actually care to make the distinction any more.
You’re in no condition to fight; you barely had the energy to argue with him, let alone stop him. But you can’t just let him go.
One wobbly step forward. You poke his chest, mustering whatever energy remains to express your feelings in the only true way you know how. “I…” you stammer, but you suddenly can’t find the words.
His hand reaches up and he splays yours flat against his chest. Faintly, buried deep behind the armoured layer of his suit, you feel the distinct thunk, thunk of his heart. He exhales deeply when your empathetic energy transmission reaches the other side. Your eyes connect, and even through the sharp whites of his mask, you can feel the psionic pulse resonating between you two— strong enough that the wound on your side begins to sew itself together.
“I know,” he whispers.
And you believe that he does.
He nods shortly, releases your hand, and turns on his heel. You collapse against the control centre, eyes needling through the camera footage, desperate to watch the final moments and know that his sacrifice was worth it.
It’s about the same time that Deadpool yanks his mask back on and barrels down the hallway after him.
“Wade!”
You glance back at the party as you creep towards the apartment door to leave. Your consciousness has only recently slipped back into place, having hovered somewhere above your body for the entire time you witnessed your friends atomically ripped apart, only for them to return mere moments later.
You think it might’ve been witnessing Wolverine sweaty and shirtless that was finally the last straw for you. You’re not sure you’ve recovered since.
You thought you were being sneaky about your departure, but a flat hand reaches from out of view, splays and then holds the door closed.
“You sure I can’t convince you to stay?” Logan asks, voice slow and tentative.
“I ain’t runnin’ this time, I promise,” you answer. He rests his arm on the beam above him, making him appear even taller and maybe even more imposing. Your pulse quickens as you look up at him, trying to find the right words, ones that you hope won’t give you away. You nearly squeak. “I um— just—”
He arches a brow, a hint of a micro-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He shifts, getting closer by just a fraction. “Yeah?”
Trying to keep your distance is proving to be immensely hard when he’s gotten himself this deliciously close. His energy tastes of confidence, a stark contrast to the self-loathing only a mere few days prior. It’s magnetic. If you make eye contact now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to control yourself.
The atmosphere crackles with tension, like the static energy right before lightning strikes. His gaze is intense when you look at him, and with the way his eyes glance purposefully down at your parted lips—
Jesus. Pull yourself together.
You gently pull away from him and feel the spell of the moment dissolve. “I just… need time.”
Recognition flashes on his face, as well as a tick of disappointment, but he seems to understand.
A beat, then he taps the door before stepping aside. “Alright. Don’t be a stranger.”
Wade bursts around the corner, arms wide and voice booming. Vanessa hangs off of his arm, white teeth gleaming with mischievous joy.
“Whoa, hey there, lovebirds! What’s going on here— a secret rendezvous? Looking for somewhere to sneak off? Should I cue the romantic music or just give you two some privacy?”
You jump in surprise at his sudden entrance, flinching away from Logan as if you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Logan’s expression shifts from whatever tender moment was brewing, spell broken, to a mix of exasperation and resignation, jaw tightening.
“Wade,” he grumbles, voice sharp, but you can acknowledge there’s a level of begrudging affection beneath the steely surface. “Timing, as usual, is impeccable.”
“Um, actually, I was just leavin’,” you answer, tugging on your bag.
“WHAT!” Wade exclaims, face dropping. “We haven’t even gotten to our favourite part yet!”
You tick a brow. “Our favourite part?”
“The cocaine part,” he says, matter-of-factually.
“Wade, that was one time,” you pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’m sorry. Thank you for inviting me. I just can’t miss my flight.”
Dogpool jumps at your ankles, whimpering and chewing on the hem of your jeans. You give her a gentle scratch on her head, deftly avoiding the lick of her impressive tongue. Wade scoops her up, holding her against his shoulder and kissing her affectionately on her wet nose.
“You, ah, need a ride?” Logan offers.
Your heart stutters at his chivalrous attempt. “Oh, um. That’s okay— I called a cab. So.”
That was a lie. You hadn’t— not yet. You just weren’t sure if you were going to make the right decisions if you were alone in his company for an hour. Probably wouldn’t make it to the airport without fighting or crying or making stupid choices.
He rubs his jaw. “Right.”
“I’ll… see you around?”
“I better!” Wade yells, using two fingers to gesture that he’s keeping his eye on you as Vanessa yanks him around the corner gleefully.
A magnetic tether — or red string, whatever you want to call it — seems to strain when you walk away from Logan. You feel the pull in your chest, a fluttering of electricity, but you swallow the urges and ignore the way they scratch like glass on the way down.
You call an Uber, squeezing your bag tightly for a source of comfort as you crowd yourself into the back seat. You spare one last glance at the apartment and think for a brief moment you see a silhouette of someone watching you from the balcony, but they slip away into the light before you can discern it.
You know, though. Of course, you know.
You expected relief when you arrived home, but, instead, the aching, gnawing black hole in your chest seems to grow exponentially. You go through the motions— feed your cat, tend to the garden, eat the food with no appetite, go to Church.
The fixture of Jesus pinned to the cross gives you pause for the first time. You wonder if he was a mutant.
You weren’t sure how much of this “time” thing you were going to need to heal or make a decision on where you and Logan stood after everything, but only after your second night, sleepless and alone, do you start to doubt that this will be an easy process. You communicate like you know what you’re doing, but you haven’t stopped shaking since he kissed you, like a newborn foal traversing ice.
You want to do things right. You’re not trying to replace any missing pieces or live up to any expectations he might have of you. The girl he knew seemed to be a softer, sweeter (less traumatised) version of you, and you worry that you’d be constantly comparing him to a ghost of himself.
The rain lulls you as it patters on the window by your bed, but sleep doesn’t take you.
You hear thunder, you think, and wonder if the chickens are frightened in their coops. However, the distant grumble continues to grow, reverberating through the floorboards of your rickety cabin. As it creeps closer you discern that it’s not a brewing storm— but the growling engine of a motorcycle.
Awash with a deep sense of knowing, you throw yourself out of bed and knot a silk robe around your middle. The sound of the engine dissipates, replaced only by the hammering rain and the rushing pulse in your ears when you tear your door open.
You see him— all leather jacket slick with rainwater and tight jeans, brows pinched against the onslaught of the weather as he dismounts his bike.
Logan.
When your eyes meet, there’s a palpable shift in the air, and the storm, angry as a howling spirit, mirrors the turbulent emotions within you. You don’t speak, you don’t think, you just act.
Barefoot, dressed in your slip of a robe, you race down the short path and meet him halfway.
“Logan? Logan?” You call out. “What are you doin’ here?!”
“Had to see you,” he calls out between strides, voice nonchalant as if what he’s said was obvious.
You’re closing the distance. “That’s a day’s ride, and the weather—”
Instead of letting you finish, he grasps your face, kissing you suddenly and with a reverence so sincere that your knees feel gelatinous and weak. His thumbs brush away the raindrops— tears? —that drip over your crystallised lashes. His touch is both grounding and electrifying; the warmth of him pressed against you is a stark contrast to the chilling downpour.
Your fingers curl against the front of his jacket, clinging with equal fervour as if it’s the only thing keeping you anchored from floating someplace else. The strength of his body crowds over you, arm sliding down to capture you by your waist as you lean into him, syrupy-decadent and entirely reliant on him to keep you upright.
The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding over yours tasting both bittersweet and intoxicating in equal measures, like cigar smoke and peppermint gum. There’s a distinct sharpness of liqour and you wonder if he had a shot (or bottle) of courage before coming here. You breathe deeply against his skin, smelling rainwater, musk and gunpowder; your senses are completely overwhelmed by him and you’re not sure that anything could pull you away.
The red string knots.
When you both eventually take pause, gasping for air as the rain continues to pelt, his eyes lock with yours. He radiates relief, desire, and a raw vulnerability that makes your heart ache.
“You’re freezin’,” he murmurs, peppering kisses against your lips, your cold nose, and pulling one of your hands to his face to peck along your palm. You feel dizzy in his embrace, drunk on his lips.
“You should come inside,” you whisper, “before the neighbours start askin’ questions.”
He quietly nods, kissing your fingers before following you inside and ducking away from the rain.
Once inside, he shakes the rain from his hair with a flick, eyes immediately roaming around the innards of your respectable (tiny) house, the size of him immediately proportionally shrinking the interior. He absorbs your surroundings, chivalrously pretending like he can’t see every curve of you in that wet material.
You lead him towards the heath, lighting a small fire to help dry you both off. You leave, pottering around to gather some towels for your hair, and arrive back to see he’s peeled off the top layer of his clothes, leaving him half-exposed, his back an impressive marvel of rippling muscle. He glances at you over his shoulder.
You’re lost for words, but can’t just stand there ogling him. “Um, I don’t think I have any spare clothes that’ll… fit…”
When he turns to face you, his rain-slick torso shines in the firelight, skin glistening on the taught muscles of his biceps as he accepts a towel from you. Your words lag, entirely distracted by the realisation of one thing when you glance down at his v-line and dark, coiling hair that creeps down into his jeans: you’re absolutely going to have sex with this man.
You might’ve decided that when you watched the way his jeans clung to him when he dismounted his motorcycle, but that’s beside the point.
“That’s alright,” he answers, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes roving shamelessly over the damp, silky robe that clings to your silhouette effortlessly. “Don’t need ‘em.”
Your mouth dries when he steps closer to you, head angled, lips centimetres apart.
“Logan…” you breathe, tone edging toward a warning.
He presses against you, tilting you back. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I’ll get back on that bike and I’ll leave.”
You creep further away, trying to catch your breath. “I—”
The words don’t manifest, simply because you don’t have it in you to lie— to deny yourself of this.
He cages you in against the wall, shrinking you underneath his frame, eyes narrowed and dark as they search for yours through lowered lashes. “Tell me you don’t feel somethin’, and I’ll walk away. You won’t see me again.”
His bare-chested proximity was overwhelming you. You’re acutely aware of every inch of his skin that touches yours, pebbled nipples hard against his warm flesh, stubbled jaw nuzzling against your neck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. You feel like a teenager again, anxious and hormonal, a ball of puppy fat and unrequited crushes. The space between your thighs positively aches with heat, throbbing like a second heartbeat.
“I can’t… I can’t tell you that I feel something.”
He leans back, lips quirked with a flash of disappointment.
You blink up at him. “Let me show you instead.”
He ticks an eyebrow.
You use your empathetic influence to decrease his heartbeat, relaxing him down to the bone. He sighs, nosing against your shoulder, arms flexing as he holds himself up against you.
“Just with a little influence…” you stroke your way up from the slow pulse in his neck to his jaw, capturing him swiftly. You use your mutation to increase his heart rate this time, hiking it up to an excitable level. His cheeks begin to flush, pupils dilated, lips parted with the anticipation of your kiss. His eyes darken with something intrinsically primal and hungry.
“Does it excite you?” You ask, innocently.
He shakes his head all dog-like as if to regain control, canine showing as his lips curl into a wolfish grin.
“You’re not the only one with… tricks. I can do that, too— in other ways,” he says, tone low and suggestive. He lifts a hand, tracing a knuckle over your exposed collarbone, shifting the soft material of your robe just an inch. Your breath hitches.
“You know I can hear your heartbeat, right?”
You blush. You hadn’t known that.
You challenge his eye contact, feigning self-control and authority. The stare-down has your pulse spiking, arousal ricocheting down your spine and sitting low and syrupy in your belly.
“Your heart’s beating pretty fast, too.”
Oh, Hell. He’s got you melted like butter in a pan.
You rest your head against the wall, breath quickening. “If we do this, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
“Good,” he growls. “I don’t like to stop.”
The teasing back-and-forth game of teetering towards nearly touching finally gets the better of you. You’re weak, as malleable as soft dough, so you invite him against your mouth with a sigh-wine and a tug on the nape of his neck.
He positively devours you, a hand palming at your breast as you kiss desperately and feverishly. The shoulder of your robe slips and you’re half-exposed, the slip barely holding itself together by the loose knot on your waist. He pulls you impossibly closer, the skin of his chest flush against yours as he reaches and digs fingers into the globe of your ass, hips twitching together.
You fumble between your bodies, yanking on his belt buckle and zipper impatiently. He pulls backwards, a wet string of spit snapping between your lips as you separate, helping you with steadier fingers to remove his jeans. With equal passion, he swiftly tugs on the waist-tie of your robe and discards it somewhere on the floor.
When you’re both bare, nude silhouettes sharp and soft in the firelight, he stumbles you over to the plush rug in the centre of the room. He nods to the couch.
“Legs up.”
You obey without hesitation, taking your seat and spreading decadently for him. He kneels below you of you, hips between your ankles, and gazes at you like a hungry, stalking animal. You feel impossibly sexy and dangerous.
He peppers kisses along the bone of your ankle first, foot hiked up onto his shoulder, only breaking eye contact to flutter his eyes closed. He moves along the inner length of your leg, pausing keenly against the sensitive parts— the thin stretch behind your knee, the soft plush of your thigh. He lowers himself, scruff tickling between your legs, and then licks a molten stroke between your folds, parting you with his tongue and burying his face deeper.
You clench around his skull, mindfulness of your heightened mutant abilities long forgotten. You can’t crush metal between your thighs. Or can you?
He groans into you, varying suckling and kissing you on your clit with long strokes on the blade of his tongue to your hole, lapping up the nectar of your arousal, fingers digging bruisingly into your hips. The sting of his grip and the relentless lave of his tongue entice moans from you, fingers raking into his hair for some semblance of reality grounding in your pleasure-lapsed consciousness.
Jesus. With as filthy as his mouth was, you should’ve known he would be this good at eating pussy.
You come quick, orgasm pulsing on his lips. The burn of overstimulation seizes your muscles, writhing against his onslaught, but he shoves your hips down.
“Not done with you yet,” he murmurs possessively, leaning back to wipe his chin. “On all fours.”
You bite your lower lip, suppressing the humiliation of the intimacy (vulgarity) of it. You turn, belly still clenching with the aftershocks, arching with the anticipation, whining moments later when his mouth reconnects with you. His hands palm at your ass, spreading you wider, tongue slipping dangerously close to the tight ring of muscle.
He slides a finger knuckle-deep, miming fucking you in a rhythmic pulse. His other hand massages you, thumb sliding down until you jerk sensitively against his nudging intrusion.
You feel impossibly full and tingly, clenching around the burn of his thumb and the velvet of his finger, second orgasm surging and bubbling over with your face pressed against the couch cushion, lips agape. You’re slick, drip-dropping onto his cupping palm, every nerve in your body burning raw as his wrist works you through the pulses.
You turn over, relishing in the sight of his scruff glistening with the aftermath of your orgasm, his eyes dark with lust— a hellish man, seraphic on his knees for you. Your insides clench at the sight as he quite literally shatters and redefines what worship means to you.
“Tired already?” He hums, massaging your hips.
You perk a challenging brow. “That was just the warm-up, old man.”
“Alright,” he seethes, sucking on his lower lip as he lifts himself up to your level. “Show me what you got then, baby.”
When you kiss, his mouth slides against yours, drenched with the taste of yourself. His cock steels against your belly when you pull him close, tip pearl-smooth with precum when you reach down and grasp him with a hollowed fist. The feel of him, heavy and warm in your grip, fans to life the flames of your briefly quenched arousal, and you hungrily pull him down onto the couch beside you.
Moisture pools on your tongue as you rub him. You spit on your hand before stroking him from the base to tip, lathering him silky with your drool. You tuck your hair behind your ears, narrowing your cheeks as you slide your mouth up and down his length, fisting the inches that remain.
“Christ.” He twitches in your mouth as you gently massage the warm weight of his sac, lewd sounds emanating from where your lips and tongue meet him. “Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl,” he snarls, gripping your hair in a fist at the crown of your head. Your engine purrs with his encouragement, revving with newfound enthusiasm.
You always gave as good as you got, after all, and you’re certainly not one to back away from a challenge.
His head lolls onto the back of the couch, thighs tense beneath you, cock hot and hard on your tongue. He growls when he comes, pulsing strongly in your mouth as you lap up the produce of his orgasm, salty and molten down your throat.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
“Put those regenerative powers to good use, why don’t you?” You ask, working him through the over-sensitivity with your wrist. His eyes don’t once leave yours, even as they glaze over and flinch from the pleasure burn. There’s a sharp look of challenging determination on his face— a grit of his teeth, the furrow in his brow. He remains hard in your hands and you perk an impressed brow. Not bad for an old man.
There’s a sweet moment of vulnerability when you crawl over him, a brief sobering in the cloud of lust, a clarity of two not-quite strangers and their shared grief and yearning.
You’re not sure where this moment will take you, but the love of somebody scraping together the shards of a shattered heart for a brief time, even as it cuts their hands, holds you with a semblance of human connection so sincere that you’ll carry it with you for a lifetime.
His thighs spread to accommodate you. You hold your fingers against the thick chords in his neck for support as you fumble between your bodies, slotting him against the catch in your cunt before lowering yourself entirely.
You hiss against the intrusion and he steadies you with a hand on your hip.
“Easy. Don’t hurt yourself.”
You laugh-moan, laying your palms against the coils of hair on his sweat-shimmering chest.
“I can take it.”
The fire, intended to help dry you off, creates a heated environment that beads sweat on his temple. The only brain cells that remain coherent bounce around on lust in your skull — so you lean forward, lick the salty droplet clean, and sigh-whine as you begin rocking against him.
You fall into sync quickly, a desperate rhythm of desperate bodies. The delicious ache of him inside you is a masochistic thrill, similar to the irresistible press on a day-old bruise. The squelching shlick between your bodies is an animalistic reminder of your flesh and blood as you chase the pleasure, bouncing with vigour.
“Christ— I can feel you…” his jaw clenches with resolve, fingers digging into the meat of your ass. “…dripping all over me. You wanted this bad, huh?”
“Wanted to ride you in that fuckin’ Honda,” you straighten your posture, leaning away from him to hold your breasts, panting words between bated breaths. “Thought it might shut you up.”
His hand snaps up and grabs you roughly by the chin. “Mm… mouthy, aren’t ya?”
You grin. “You got no idea, lumberjack.”
He pulls your face against him, meeting your mouth halfway in a sloppier, fever-driven kiss that shoots arousal to your core like a shot of his favourite whiskey. Something feral stirs within you: a primal, cellular-deep need to connect with him further. Your empathetic power roils off of you like steam on a hot spring, surging into and merging with him until there’s nothing but one feeling, a black hole of unquenchable desire.
You suddenly feel as though you are him: navel-deep, a throbbing muscle with an aching desire to dive further into the serpent-clutch of your cunt, gliding through tingly, honey-silk velvet, blades hanging onto a tether of self-control as they threaten to slide out of your knuckles in ecstasy.
Well. This was certainly new. Add “voodoo sex doll” to your list of mutations.
You gasp, ripping away from the kiss, your powers recoiling back into you at whip-lash speed, dizzying in its ferocity. His eyes meet yours with darkened curiosity.
“Did you—”
“I felt that,” he grunts, tongue darting out to roll over his lips. “It always like that for you? Feelin’ so fuckin’ full?”
You half-laugh blissfully. “Only the good times.”
“I’ll show you a good time, alright.”
He isn’t gentle when he manhandles you, forcing you into an arch as he repositions and aligns himself behind your thighs, one foot planted firmly on the floor, the other bent to accommodate the new angle. He reinserts himself inside of you with ease, hands palming your hips and ass.
You feel him nudging cervix-deep and you reach out, clawing at the couch to hold your jerking body steady against the relentless slap of his hips. There’s no need to tell him faster or harder when you feel the metal plate of his adamantium hips pressing against your ass, pounding and vulgar with the sound of sweat-damp skin-on-skin.
It’s involuntary, the way you pant and cry out, intoxicated by the relentless drag and pull of his cock. He says something to you but you either don’t hear him or have enough conscious space in your sex-drunk fog to process words and respond. He slides a hand down your spine and pulls on your hair until you’re upright, breath hot when it fans against your neck.
“Where’s that mouth gone?”
You lick the drool from your lip, throwing him a glance over your shoulder. “Fuck you.”
The half-lidded up-and-down look he gives you as satisfaction grows slowly on his lips turns your bones to jelly. “There she is,” he growls back, offering a sharp slap of encouragement on your ass as he drops you back onto your front. You involuntarily grip around him, puffy clit throbbing with the almost-but-not-quite-there anticipatory build. “You gonna come for me? Yeah? I can fuckin’ feel it.”
You slide a hand underneath yourself, reaching for the swollen nub with two fingers. You’re overwhelmed with kinetic energy akin to a fizzy champagne bottle— two more shakes until you’re ready to pop.
You hear a Snikt! behind you, accompanied by a throat-caught groan, and then the distinct ripping shred of blades impaling your couch. You finally come, hard, when you feel him throbbing inside of you, followed by the decadent syrupy flood of his orgasm filling you up. He ruts into you one, two three more final times, milking himself dry, before collapsing over your body in a sweaty heap, sparing you the weight of his metal bones with a forearm propped next to you.
Shared fluids drip to the couch when he eventually pulls out of you, blades retreating into his clenched fists. The fluffy innards of the chair spill out beside you, and, while you were in no financial position to afford another, the sight entices a humoured smile from you.
“Sorry,” he says with a wince, helping you sit up when your unreliable legs shake beneath you.
“That’s alright. It’ll make for an interestin’ story,” you retort, fanning yourself with a hand. You both let out a shared laugh, mostly from the relieved delirium of it all. After a beat, you lean into him, massaging a hand across his belly. “So. We really doin’ this?”
His face softens. “If you’ll have me.”
You cup his face and kiss his cheek. “I’d take any version of you I could get.”
divider credits: @/vysleix and @/cafekitsune tag list: @bearwithegg, @uhlunaro, @sseleniaa, @jxssimae, @autumnsymphony
More Posts from Solace-inu and Others
‘unreliable narrator’ but it’s ’narrator is deeply in love with the person they are narrating’
MARRY THE TRAITOR ; gojo satoru
⟡ the day you met your demise is the same day you met gojo satoru, your betrothed from a world so different from yours—a cruel prince who is undoubtedly in love with someone else. as the stakes rise and you race against the clock to beat your brutal fate, can you make the ultimate choice between your heart or your happily ever after?
includes: arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, unrequited love, slow burn, yandere!gojo, prince!gojo, princess!reader, reader is referred to as 'cerena', princess cerena has pink hair and feminine features, reader has transferred into cerena's body, isekai-ed reader, mentions of death, language, suggestive, explicit smut (not between reader and gojo though lmaosgfj), themes of classism
⟡ masterlist
ACT 1, SCENE 2: THE TUNNELS
“Do not touch me,” your deathly warning stills the entire room. “Do not speak to me like this and if you wish to protect her reputation—”
Your eyes fall on the maid still cowering on the floor, her eyes turned to the ground, but a shadow of a smirk on her face belies her true intentions.
She was attempting to frame me… or, Cerena. She is trying to get us in trouble with this powerful, spiteful man.
“Next time, choose someone else who doesn’t make it obvious that this is all a ploy to smear my name.”
Such words falling from your lips take you aback because they don’t belong in your day-to-day vocabulary, but in this instant, it feels right to throw them in his face.
You turn your back on his gaping, surprised expression, picking up the hem of your gown to make your graceful departure. But, as you sweep your gaze over the sweeping stone pillars touching the ceiling and the scaglia flooring which looks so out of place with your perception of what reality is, you find yourself faltering, looking at one of the maids for help.
“Where is my room?” you stammer, drawing more of their confusion and adding to the disarray of this already convoluted scene.
The man glares at you, looking you up and down as if he is trying to piece together your odd behavior.
“What do you mean you don’t know where your room is?”
Chagrin and embarrassment well up inside your chest, staining your cheeks, and you clear your throat.
“I… seem to have misplaced my bearings today. I do not feel well. Could someone please lead me to my chambers?”
A second of agonizing silence engulfs the entire room. Then, a mousy, brown-haired maid steps forward, bowing graciously.
“Let me take you to your chambers, milady.”
You breathe a quiet sigh of relief. Preparing to follow her, your path is once more blocked by this infuriating man who will not relent in drawing out your humiliation.
Darkness settles in those clear, azure eyes, and his jaw is clenched, though he doesn’t put his hands on you again.
“We are not done speaking about this yet, Cerena. I will make you own up to your mistake… whether you like it or not.”
Paralyzed to one spot, you watch as he departs from your side to kneel down and gently gather the maid in his arms, guiding her to her feet as he speaks to her in low tones, a look of endearment and tenderness softening the harsh edges of his azure eyes.
It hits you then like a lightning bolt.
He is obviously and irrevocably head over heels in love with that simple maid.
The jarring change of his temperament from blatant vengefulness to tender consideration shocks you to the core, numbing your entire body with the prejudice and injustice of it all, freezing you to the spot.
“Milady?” The maid who volunteered to lead you back to your chambers approaches you carefully, interrupting you from your ruminations. “Shall we?”
You nod after a moment, dazed, and turn your back on the vile memories of the spectacle you were forced to endure, following behind her silently.
The sound of your heels on the red limestone floor echo in the solitary quiet, and you fidget with your hands. Eventually, your curiosity wins and you clear your throat, getting her attention.
“I apologize that you had to see that.”
To your surprise, the maid chokes back a gasp, quickly darting her eyes to the ground when you turn your gaze to her.
“It is fine, milady,” she stammered, lacing her fingers together in a tight grip; you notice she is trembling slightly, and unable to look you in the eye for longer than a few seconds.
“You seem afraid of me.”
You meant it as an observation, but to her, it was a reprimand. She bows her head a few times, shoulders tight and tense with fear.
“I apologize, milady. I will do better next time. I will not—”
“Hey, hey,” you reach out to grab her arms, your voice low and soothing; trying to earn her trust. “Calm down. I am not going to scold you. I am just… stating a fact. Why are you so afraid of me?”
Her lower lip trembles and her brown eyes shift from you again, onto the red stone floor.
“Milady… you’re… not well known for being the most patient princess in the realm. And you love to berate and belittle the people who work for you. We are all trying our best to accommodate you, Your Highness, so please, cut us some slack and we will show you how devoted we are to the crown and to your wellbeing.”
It’s a trained answer, one she recites from the top of her head like a prayer of mercy.
You drop your hands, aware that your bizarre attitude may be scaring her.
“I am… sorry. Please. Accept my apologies. I did not sense I was being unreasonable.”
Her surprise is a palpable emotion that sweeps across her face, and she actually gasps, taken aback by your heartfelt apology.
“Milady, it’s… please, do not apologize to me! I am but a lowly servant and you should—you should not demean yourself like that—”
“It’s alright,” you stop her refusal with a sheepish wave of your hands, attempting to soothe her misgivings. “I have done you wrong and I wish to take accountability over it. I truly am apologetic for… my behavior.”
The young woman looks at you like she’s never seen you before, her eyes wide and unflinching.
“What is your name?” You inquire politely, and the look of surprise in those coffee brown eyes deepen. Somewhere, shimmering in its depths, you see a hint of respect and reverence.
“Elara, milady.”
You nod, forcing a kind smile so as not to petrify her further with your raging confusion and stuttering awkwardness.
“Elara. A beautiful name. Could I ask you a few questions—and please, be as truthful as you can when you answer them.”
She doesn’t hesitate to nod, the fear guarding her heart easing slightly, allowing her defenses to weaken.
Your inquisitiveness is at an undeniable peak, and you need to whet your suspicions or else you would go insane.
“Who was that man from earlier? The one who claims we are engaged?”
The young woman fails to temper her look of obvious confoundment, slowing her pace so she can tilt her head to the side and regard you.
“Milady, are you feeling unwell?”
Her concern ticks you towards an internal panic. Your laughter sounds strained even to your own ears, and you shake your head, struggling to come up with a viable excuse.
“I suppose… The chill of today is making me foggy.”
Elara purses her lips, noting your look of disarray, but doesn’t keep the information you seek from you.
“That man is your betrothed, milady. The Crowned Prince of the Northern Haleway—Prince Gojo Satoru. You both have been engaged for a very long time, since the tender age of nine, and are set to be married this following year.”
Immediately, your stomach sinks to your toes, and you release a shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding.
A crowned prince?
Betrothed and married by this year?
You?
The questions swirled in your mind like a raging tempest, and you must’ve worried her with your stunned silence for she stopped in mid-stride, reaching out to tap your shoulder.
“Milady?”
You shake your head, trying to tame the panic down before it could consume you and you would fall to your knees, shaking and sobbing from the uncontrollable fear.
“Wh… who am I?”
This time, she gasps, unable to hold back her dread when she hears your question, her brown eyes wavering with fear.
“Milady, shall I fetch for the physician?”
Her tone rises up a decibel, and you shush her, shaking your head vehemently. Spotting a relatively hidden alcove, you grab her arm and tug her into the secluded spot, her bright, brown eyes shining with confusion even in the dim lighting of this dark nook.
“Please. Trust me when I say this—I have no idea who I am, where I am or who everyone else is around here. I’m not from this world. I am not from this land. My name is Y/N, and I am not this Princess Cerena or person you think I am.”
Elara gapes, unable to believe her ears. She gives you a probing look, as if to determine if you were trying to pull her leg.
But, when your gaze doesn’t falter for a single second, she takes one step back, a look of horror bleeding across her features.
“Impossible. This is… how can you… what do you mean you are not from this world?”
You take a deep breath and try your best to explain your side of this confusion.
“The last thing I remember before waking up in the middle of the prince’s tantrum was a man hitting me over my head to steal my purse. He was a thief and he—” your voice shakes, all the tension and confusion coalescing into a tight ball underneath your throat, triggering your desperate tears which you try so hard to fight off.
“—he left me to die in an alleyway. I thought I was dead… that my life was over, but then, I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was… Satoru, you said? Yes. The first thing I saw was him. Satoru. I’ve never met him before in my life.”
Elara is dumbfounded, that much you can expect. But, she doesn’t refute your words.
Believing you without a single shred of doubt.
Was Cerena such an awful person that even a bit of kindness can sway her to my side?
Your thoughts are loud, ricocheting around the recesses of your mind and you wait for her to believe you.
Elara eventually dips her head forward, absorbing your words.
“I… have faith in your words, milady.” Her gaze is scrutinizing. “You are different, there is no doubt about that. Your words, your expressions, certain phrases you use. You are not Lady Cerena, and for that, I believe it is a blessing.”
She clasped her hands in front of her body, having relieved herself of the burdensome thoughts shrouding her mind.
Without preamble or a word in from you, she gestures towards the end of the hallway, showering you with some much needed kindness you didn’t know you were desperate for until she gives you a wry smile. Your heart squeezes longingly in your chest.
“Come. You must be tired from your… journey. I will prepare your room and then, you may rest.”
For an hour after that, you sit around in your room, bored to death.
There wasn’t much to do in a world like this besides wearing pretty dresses, lounge around and being alert for any strange sounds coming from outside the hardwood doors.
Your bed is lavishly decorated with the best wool these lands could offer, warm yet cool under your touch to insulate you from the mountainous chill. A peek inside Cerena’s closet confirms that most of the treasury money her parents must’ve sent down to Northern Haleway went to these carefully crafted pieces of organza, lace and encrusted jewels upon mountains of sheer and gossamer dresses. Even her cloaks were of the highest quality—mink and lambskin leather, tailored to fit her body perfectly.
Like a diabetic in a candy store, you excitedly shift through the elaborate pieces, feeling their fine workmanship. Many of them were low cut and sleeveless, intended to show off her petite shoulders and defined collarbones. It was obvious she had an eye for such aesthetic advantages.
Having seen yourself in the mirror, you conclude that Cerena is one of, if not, the most beautiful woman you have ever seen in your life.
With her cascading, naturally-tinted strawberry blonde curls and fine nose, her visage could easily strike admiration in hearts around the world, no matter where her dainty feet took her.
In contrast, you were less feminine and refined than her, a paltry shadow in the face of such regal beauty that you flinched and eventually stepped away from the mirror, as if looking at another woman’s reflection for too long may scorch you.
Choosing to lay listlessly on the bed, you weren’t used to such free time on your hands.
Back in your home world, you would be using this ample stretch of relaxation to clean up your apartment, cook, or perhaps, even get started on another bouquet arrangement you often did for your friends at no cost.
Your eyes slip close, though sleep struggles to find you.
Eventually, you’re driven to your feet, tired of this fatiguing ennui weighing heavily on your shoulders.
Slipping your feet into a pair of fine satin slippers, you ditch the loud heels for whispery footsteps on the stone floor, taking this opportunity to explore the castle.
You touch the cool stones, feeling the heat from the sconces above bathe your skin with a warm glow. The castle is structured in such a way that the winding hallways and open windows brought in as much natural sunlight as possible. Stopping shy of a larger balcony, you step outside and feel the cool air grazing your cheeks.
Northern Haleway’s stronghold was located up a steep foothill. Below, as far as the eye could see, lay craggily rocks and sharp jagged cliffs which would kill anyone upon impact.
You shudder at such natural magnificence, and force your feet to take you down the hallway, every step echoing softly behind you.
For such a big castle, there weren’t many around, and you supposed this wing where Cerena lived was explicitly ordered to be emptied for the sake of the princess’ unstable mood swings.
I wonder… where can I find the throne room…
You had only ever seen such regalia in picture books and movies. A part of you wanted to witness it in real time; to see if the sheer splendor matches your imagination.
However, as you cross the threshold into an elaborate sitting room, you hear whispers and movement from the other end of a closed door.
Curious and hesitant at the same time, you let your inquisitiveness get the best of you, taking one step closer to the elaborate doorway, pressing your ear to the wainscoted surface.
“... mhm… oh… Satoru…”
Your ears burn and you smother a gasp with your open palm.
Muffled grunts could be heard from the other end of the door, and a sinking feeling rests heavily in your gut.
The lewd sounds were unmistakable. You could easily picture the ghastly, horrid man from before, with his towering height and broad shoulders, ramming the entirety of his cock inside the maid’s smaller, but willing body.
Her cries echo feebly, laced with ecstasy and pleasure.
Without warning, you feel someone touching your elbow and nearly squeak, if it weren’t for Elara’s wide brown eyes dominating your vision. Catching your composure in time, you bite your lower lip hard enough to taste blood, hoping to every god above that the prince and his lover did not catch your slip up.
“Milady—”
You shush her with a finger to your lips, shaking your head frantically. Elara takes your cue and quietens, those coffee hues widening when she picks up on the same sounds you were eavesdropping on.
Her mouth falls open wider, a scandalized look taking over her features.
Satoru and Miri find respite in reaching their peak at the same time, their desperate gasps and moans twining as one. You hear them kiss passionately, and it makes your gut turn to think that the same man Cerena is engaged to is so blatantly flaunting his affair right in the very same castle she lived in.
Anger rises inside of you, dark and tarry like a bubbling vat of acid.
No matter how horrible a woman was painted to be, she did not deserve this treatment from someone claiming to be her fiancé.
You were upset on Cerena’s behalf, especially when the heir himself chuckled, a low and disturbing sound.
“I cannot believe she stalked away from you with such boldness,” Miri muttered huskily, obviously trying to further seed this divide between Satoru and Cerena.
The man in question hummed, as if the idea of insulting and sullying the name of his future wife and queen barely ruffled his composure.
“She will pay for what she has done. I will not tolerate such rudeness and discourtesy, especially since she knows you mean a lot more to me than she does.”
You shiver at the conviction and contempt in his tone. Glancing at Elara, you note that she too seems engrossed in the conversation, unable to peel her ear off the hardwood.
Miri laughs, light and breezy, though what she says next chills you right to the bone.
“She seemed even more agitated today. I suppose she really is coming to her senses and is close to realizing that she has lost you, Your Highness. And as we all know, Princess Cerena can never lose.”
Her words drip with sarcasm and resentment, feeding the flames of Satoru’s vengefulness.
“That idiotic woman. I despise her very being,” he mutters haughtily. “Every time she opens her mouth, I wish to never hear her voice again. To wipe her from my memories and remove her from my presence. It is not enough that I am to be wedded to her, but my father seems adamant on pushing Cerena onto me like an unwanted gift.”
Miri hums. “And her attitude must not be very pleasant as well, isn’t it, my love?”
Satoru barks a laugh, like she’s just uttered the funniest thing his twisted mind could conjure.
“Pleasant? Cerena? Those two words can never exist in a singular sentence. No, she is not pleasant. In fact, she is the opposite of pleasant. She is an insolent, vicious and repulsive creature. If only I could, I will teach her a lesson so she will understand that this world is only tolerable to her because she is a princess. I wish to hurt her in ways she can never fathom and destroy her until no man would ever want her again.”
Horror steals the last of your thoughts. A warm hand clasps around your fingers and you realize Elara is lending you her strength.
You are suddenly aware of how badly your hands are shaking.
Miri giggles, as if her lover’s words are music to her ears.
“Have you given thought to the suggestion I raised before? To kill the princess?”
Your breathing stops, and Elara flickers her gaze to you, eyes wide and wavering.
Kill… Cerena?
He wouldn’t do that, would he?
Your trembles become harder to control. You have no idea what this man is capable of, and for the first time in your life, you are terrified of the power he wields, indomitable compared to yours.
The horrifying reminder comes to you in a flash.
This was a different world, one where men ruled and women obeyed.
You knew enough from the movies and books to understand that if a man wanted you dead in this era, it would be by his law and his alone.
Satoru echoes her sentiments with a chuckle.
“You really are hellbent on me getting rid of her, aren’t you?”
You can almost imagine Miri’s pout.
“She is the only thing standing in between the two of us from being together. Don’t you want to get rid of that?”
You gape, astounded by her boldness. This… this bitch!
You can’t believe the treason you’re hearing—for surely, it is treason to want a princess dead, especially for a commoner to speak such words.
Elara seems to be of the same opinion, her quivering lips weighing into a downturn grimace.
Satoru’s lazy laughter grates your ears, and you listen in for what he has to say next.
Please, you beg internally; hoping for someone to hear your desperate plea and prayer for this man to see reason and be merciful. Please, have a heart for this woman whose body I am inhabiting and do not harm her.
Your flimsy hopes break upon impact, like a sandcastle succumbing to a wave in one fell swoop.
“I promise I will get rid of her,” Satoru’s conviction punches you right in the gut, leaving you breathless and in despair. “I promise that once she is dead, I will wed you and we will be together, my love. Forever. You have my word.”
You stagger backwards, unable to listen anymore.
Tearing out of the room as quietly as your footsteps can take you, you hear Elara’s faint footfalls following behind. Her grip on your arm is steady, supporting your shaking knees.
“Milady—”
Out of earshot from the vile man and his wicked maid, you finally reveal the true fear corrupting your soul.
“Elara, please. You have to get me out of this castle.”
Her face pales, throwing her freckles into stark view.
“Milady, I-I can’t. To hide a princess is considered high treason—”
“Please,” you choked, grasping her arms, your eyes wild with fright. “You heard what the prince said. You heard what he promised. If he fulfills it, I will die here. Please. You have to help me.”
You weren’t above getting on your knees to clutch at her skirt, begging and pleading for your life. Luckily, Elara would never make you commit such an atrocity.
Her thin hands grasp yours, her mousy face filled with a fiery determination you’ve never seen a woman possess.
“I may know a place to hide you. Follow me, princess.”
She leads you straight to the other end of the castle, pushing open a heavy wooden door. It’s the maids quarters and there, she fetches a plain cloak, throwing it on your shoulders and fastening it around your throat.
“Make sure your hood is always pulled up,” she warned, beckoning you to follow her.
You pass rows upon rows of straw beds with crumpled linen sheets, aghast at the state of the help’s sleeping area. The squalor fills you with anger, especially when you compare it to the lavish beddings of Princess Cerena’s room.
Is this what the royal family allows? You seethe internally. Such pitiable states of living were reserved for animals, not humans who devoted their entire lives to serving the crown.
But, you don’t have much time to ruminate on the anger bubbling inside of you, following Elara’s silhouette through another door. She brings you into a labyrinth-like hallway barely illuminated by greasy old sconces, gesturing for you to follow her.
There is nothing you can do than to put your faith in this young, kind maid as she leads you from one winding path to another, her footsteps light and sure.
A rat scampered somewhere to your left and you shriek, earning a timely glare from Elara who shushes you.
Contrite, you swallow your unease and trail behind her like a ghostly woman of the night.
Eventually, the winding paths turn straighter, and there is another door in the distance.
This one is heavier than the last, as if meant to guard the inhabitants from something outside; or to keep them confined within.
It takes the both of you to push it wide, and when the door finally creaks open, you’re hit with a face full of cold, biting air.
Elara doesn’t waste any time, grabbing your wrist and tugging you forward.
“Come on. I know a woman who will help you. She lives in a nearby forest.”
You huff, trying to keep up with her.
All around you, standing like stalwart giants, towering pine trees press close, shrouding the behemothian castle from view, their sharp scent stinging your nostrils. Elara’s pulse is thudding against your fingers, a rapid fire rate that fills you with both determination and dread.
“What was that?” You call above the rushing of your fleeing, sensing it was safe to speak now.
She glanced back at you, lips in a thin line.
“The castle tunnels. It’s barely functional, but we use it sometimes to receive bulkier goods without being seen on the main floors.”
She guides you further into the forest, and you sense this isn’t the right time for questions. Elara makes you jump over a tiny, bubbling brook, and you were glad for swapping out your heels for these manageable slippers.
Finally, after what feels like hours dashing through the thickening forest with nothing but foliage and the cold air whipping your hair into a disarray, Elara stops you shy of a clearing.
Inside the circle is a tiny hut, smoke spewing out of its brick red chimney.
She doesn’t hesitate to walk to the door, knocking on it. When there is no reply, she does it again, firmly this time, and you wait with bated breath for whoever is on the other side to reveal themselves.
The lock clicks and your heart constricts.
An elderly woman with unruly, white hair, pries the door open, her crinkled face frowning when she sees Elara.
“Dear? Whatever are you doing here?”
Her wizened, rheumy eyes move to you, and her gaze becomes sharper.
“Who is this?”
“Nana, this is a friend,” Elara muttered, grasping my elbow and tugging me forward. “Her name is—”
“Y/N,” you supply immediately, giving her a subtle shake of your head. You would rather the older woman did not know your true identity. “It is a pleasure to meet you…”
You trail off, waiting for her to introduce herself.
Elara’s grandmother purses her thin lips, and shifts her gaze from her granddaughter to this suspiciously noble looking woman.
“Aeva,” she finally answered. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”
Once reassured that her grandmother would not react badly, Elara gives her a rundown of your situation. The older woman listens carefully, never once interrupting her granddaughter.
After gathering her thoughts, she makes a swift decision, nodding and gesturing to you to come closer.
For a split second, she skims her gaze up and down your body, noting your pink curls, the clean look of your skin and nails.
“If you are to stay here with me, no one can know your true identity… Princess.”
Elara flinched, like a child caught in the middle of a lie. In reaction to her granddaughter’s flimsy attempt to hide the truth, Aeva shoots her a smug smile.
“Trying to fool an old woman who has tasted more salt of the earth than you—not a wise move, young lady.”
But, she doesn’t prod or scold her any further.
Her attention lands on you again, and her thin lips quirk downward into a heavy frown.
“If you want to stay here, you need to work, my dear. No slacking off, and definitely no people to attend to you at your beck and call. Can you bear that?”
Bless her heart. She doesn’t sense the difference in you, thinking you’re nothing more than a spoiled, childish princess.
Eagerly and without a second thought, you nod.
“Yes. I understand. I will help you with any chores you need. I am good at cooking and taking care of a hearth. You need not worry about my reliability.”
Aeva's expression wavers and she shoots Elara an amused look.
“Alright then, Princess. We shall see if your words ring true.”
Elara gives you a tight smile, one which you return. Recognizing the confidence and reassurance she was trying to instill in you.
“Take heart, Princess,” her words soothe you.
“You will be safe here.”
Days had passed since Satoru had last seen you in the annex hallway, the memory of his confrontation with you still fresh in his mind.
As hard as he tries to ignore the chiming in his head to check up on you, to seek you out and ensure you're not sulking or throwing another nasty fit, he's grateful for the quiet your absence gives him.
Miri visits his chambers almost every day, giving her body to him and warming his sheets till the morning sun illuminates the red stone floors. As he watches the rays touch her face, he traces her features softly, wishing for nothing more in the world than to do this for the rest of his life.
His love for Miri came as an anchor, providing him a lifeline when he thought he had lost everything his heart had to offer.
Though he feels it unfair to indulge in her fantasies of some day getting rid of you, Satoru can’t deny that there’s a certain appeal to that idea.
Removing his brash and volatile fiancé, and replacing her with a woman far gentler, graceful and courteous—Satoru thinks it’s Miri who should bear his ring upon her finger. Be the woman he wakes up to every morning despite her lowly status and economic standing.
Some people were more suited for the life of a royalty, and he is of the opinion that compared to you, Miri far exceeds the idea of what it means to be a Princess while you, in all your snobbishness and arrogance, deserved to be at the bottom of the barrel.
Encompassing his mindset as a whole, Satoru feels a certain fragile peace he hasn't encountered in a long while, though it all shatters one morning when his father, King Satoshi, calls him into the throne room.
Magnificent and intimidating in one breath, the great King Gojo Satoshi sits regally on his throne, the seat beside him stingingly empty.
Satoru doesn’t let his gaze linger on where his mother used to sit, instead, bowing deeply when he catches his father’s eye, awaiting his next words.
“Arise, son.”
The heir apparent to Northern Haleway straightens his back, azure eyes flinty and guarded.
“Father. You requested for me.”
Satoshi nods, his expression unreadable.
“Son, I need to ask you a question.”
Satoru steels himself for an unexpected request or a test of his allegiance; both options having been given before by his rigid and non-permissive father.
But, what his father asks next renders him stupefied and breathless, thrown completely off kilter.
“Satoru… where is your Princess?”
The young man feels his palms dampening with sweat. In response, he scoffs, shaking his head.
“Cerena? I have not seen her, Father. Why do you inquire?”
His affectionless response does not sit well with the older Gojo, who bristles and deepens his glare.
“You mean to tell me you do not care that your fiancé—who, by the way, hasn’t been seen for the past two days—has disappeared, and you’re questioning why I'm asking you about it?”
Anger drips from his accusing question, and Satoru schools his expression into neutrality, unwilling to give away his true emotions of mirth and relief.
Cerena is missing… she hasn’t been seen for two whole days… is this the Gods answering my prayers?
Satoshi, clearly angered and insulted by his son’s lack of haste and concern, sits back against his throne, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
“Satoru, I am putting you in charge of the search party for the princess. If the kingdom of Kraith—Cerena’s parents—were to know that she is lost, there will be tragic repercussions for our country. You have to find her and bring her back. Am I making myself clear?”
Satoru stiffened at the implications of what would happen should the neighboring country uncover this slight.
Trade contracts will be affected, livelihoods will be destroyed and the monetary resources Kraith offered through their bountiful grain industry would be in jeopardy.
But, that’s not all at stake.
“If you fail to find her before this week’s end,” Satoshi continues, his turquoise eyes boring deeply into his son’s ones. “I will revoke your ascension to the throne and give it to your cousin, Yuuta. Is that what you desire?”
Stiffly, Satoru shakes his head, shame and anger burning inside him like a brewing storm.
“No, Your Majesty.”
Apparently satisfied that his threats have hit their mark, Satoshi reclines into the oversized chair, his large hands curling around the bejeweled lion’s head knobs adorning the end of the throne’s arms.
“Good. I expect to hear news from you by this week’s end, Satoru.”
Taking that as his cue for dismissal, the young heir bows stiffly to his father before stepping out of the throne room. As he rounds the corner, he’s caught off guard by his lover, who darts from an alcove to block his path.
“What did he want?” Miri asks breathlessly.
Satoru frowns but doesn’t push her away, his broad shoulders sagging under the weight of the gleaming regalia and military awards pinned to his lapels. The heavy burden of his princely duties leaves him feeling hopeless and worn down.
“He wants me to find her—Cerena—and bring her back or else he will give my cousin, Yuuta, the rites of ascension.”
Miri gasps, her face blanching.
“He cannot do that!”
“He can,” Satoru runs a hand down his face, expelling a tired sigh. “He is the King and he can do whatever he wants. I have to search for her. Cerena. I need to find her or else everything I’ve worked for will be in vain.”
Miri glances over her shoulder before she wraps her arms around him.
Satoru takes comfort in her embrace, inhaling the soft scent of musk and jasmine floating from her hair.
They stay like this for a while, two lovers holding onto each other as the differences in their standing and burdens remain determined to keep them apart.
“It’s the perfect timing,” Miri suddenly gushes, pulling back just far enough so he can see the opportunity twinkling in her eyes.
Satoru’s confusion only makes her laugh and she leans in closer, as if to impart a juicy secret.
“I have received word of a woman in the village that nobody has ever seen before. She walks around town always clad in a robe and with a hood pulled over her head. She barely speaks to anyone and when asked where she is from, she claims she is not from here. Doesn’t that spark your curiosity?”
A woman who insists on being cloaked and hidden… now that is intriguing indeed.
The young prince feels a grin growing across his face, one tainted with a dawning realization.
Could it be…?
“And you suggest I follow your lead to meet this woman?” Satoru rests his broad palm on her waist, his thumb gently stroking her hip. Miri grins smugly and, unconcerned with any onlookers, leans in to whisper in his ear. Her warm breath sends a shiver down his spine.
“If that woman happens to be our princess, it would be the best chance we have of ending her without arousing any suspicion.”
Satoru’s expression wavers with something akin to regret, though he hides it the second her sparkling green eyes meet his own hooded blue ones.
“Are you sure? You want me to end Cerena’s life?”
Miri is firm in her ambitions, giving him a curt nod.
“Is it not what you desire, too? Cerena’s demise? With her gone, we can finally be together, my love.”
She intertwines her fingers together with his, squeezing his hands fondly. “We can be free to love, to show each other affection, to openly court and to meet each other in broad daylight. Wouldn’t that be a delight to experience?”
The images she paints in his mind are irresistible, and Satoru quickly forgets his earlier hesitation, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close against his body.
“Oh, Miri,” he growls, desire lacing his tone as she responds with an adorable giggle. “My beautiful mastermind—you are right. We need to strike while the opportunity is ripe.”
Satoru’s hand glides down her body, gently caressing her backside.
“The moment I see Cerena, I will keep my word and end her life.”
mtt fun fact: satoru is partial to dressing in darker colors to bring out the contrast of his white hair. it's done partially for vain aesthetics but also because he loves how the stark visual contrast tends to strike fear in his enemies hearts
dawn says: dun dun DUN .... anyone wanna bet that yn will beat his ass if he tries her 😏
!! reblogs and feedback and asks about this series are so beloved and appreciated and will motivate me to update and write faster <3
©️ all rights reserve to lalunanymph. do not copy elements of my story, repost or claim as your own.
𝐑𝐈𝐙𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐙𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐑Ī𝐙𝐄𝐒, 𝐃.𝐓
pairing: daemon targaryen x martell!reader
summary: a week after the tournament day, prince daemon and y/n became something more.
words: 2.8k
author's note: I personally hate the smut part, and I really think it sucks. I am truly sorry, guys :( also, I know Mysaria is from Essos and she understands high valyrian, but let's just ✨️ pretend ✨️ she doesn't. and I know dragonstone is literally inside a volcano BUT for the story's sake let's forget that. again, I am so sorry about the smut part. I love you all and thank you so much for the support y'all have given me on the first part. ❤️🩹
reblogs, feedbacks and likes are appreciated. i hope you like it!
18+ warning
warnings: dub-con, rough sex, degradation kink, breeding kink, unprotected sex (don't be silly, wrap your willy!), daemon being hot while speaking high valyrian, daemon being hot while dominant, daemon being daemon.
· ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ୨♡୧ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ·
"You never said we were coming to Dragonstone." Y/N muttered while getting out of Faora's back.
Daemon chuckled. It was kinda obvious that his plans wouldn't be shared so easily when he invited his wife to a dragon ride. The last few days they had spend together, the prince found himself very comfortable in her presence and discovered that he liked being with her. He thought that bringing her to meet their future home and the perfect place to consumate their marriage was a brilliant idea.
They watched the dragons be lead to the dragonpit, and the prince took the lady's hand in his, leading the way towards the castle.
Adjusting the cloak on her body, Y/N shaked a little bit. The castle was settled on the top of a mountain, and it was freezing cold. The south is even hotter than the Crownlands in west coast, and growing up in Sunspear, the capital and one of the warmest cities of Dorne, Y/N thought she could never get used to this kind of weather.
"Are you cold?" Daemon questioned, taking her closer to him and wrapping an arm behind her neck.
"A little, yes. I didn't thought it would be so cold, but it's a beautiful place. It's cloudy, I love it." She smiled. It was different from everywhere she had ever been, but she could definitely see why he loved that place.
The last three days, Daemon couldn't shut up about Dragonstone and how it was his favorite place on earth. He had been on Meereen, Volantis and Essos, but being trapped in a castle on the mountain was his favorite place on earth. He told her what his childhood was like, and showed himself to be real interested to know the same about hers. Y/N thought that perhaps it was too early to share memories with him.
Inside the castle, Daemon took Y/N gloved hands in his and gave her a little tour. It was an enormous place, and even though it wasn't the kind of thought she wanted right now, her head took showed her how perfect that place was to raise a family with Daemon. She wanted that, and it was her duty as a wife, but the non-stop gossip about the prince's mistress around King's Landing was making her feel a little bit insecure about their future. She knows that they need to discuss their relationship, but he seemed to be enjoying spending time with her the last few days, so she never talks about what's bothering her.
"Daemon!" Y/N turned around to the voice behind them.
"Fuck." He muttered under his breath. "Mysaria. I thought I told you to leave before my arrival."
The woman laughed humorless. She gazed at the princess from head to toe, narrowing her eyes as doing so. Y/N felt like cutting the woman's head with a sword for looking at her like that.
"Ao dōrī ivestretan issa aōha līve istan kesīr." Y/N turned to her husband, speaking in a language that his mistress couldn't understand. (You never told me your whore would be here.)
"She wasn't supposed to be here. I'll take care of it." He assured her, leaving the princess' side and grabbing Mysaria's arm.
Y/N went for the room at the end of the corridor. It was the biggest room inside the castle, and also it was Daemon's chambers. At first she looked at it with romantic eyes, watching scenarios that they could be living there through the years. But that easily crumbled once she remembered that his mistress had also been here. She knew that this shouldn't matter, he was a man and had his necessities. But she thought about how many women Daemon had brought there, and then she wondered why would he keep that one. One of the rumors around the capital is that he was planning to marry and have children with her, but King Viserys forbid his brother to do so. That was probably true.
She waited for Daemon to come, but then she heard the high pitched sound of Caraxes' roar. Y/N went to the window and saw the Rogue Pince on top of his dragon, with the woman behind him. She couldn't believe that he would leave her. It took a few hours before he was back again.
When he came into the room, he noticed her angry features. Daemon thought she looked really cute, but it was no time for compliments that would make her even more angry.
He broke the ice, knowing she wouldn't say a word before he explained himself. "I already told you, she wasn't supposed to be here."
"Where were you?" The princess questioned.
"You really don't want to know." He said with a little bit of annoyance.
"But I do, Daemon! I thought you left me here!" Y/N replied angrily.
"I would never do that. I took her back to Pentos." He tried to take the princess' hand but she smacked him off.
"What? Essos? You crossed the narrow sea?" Y/N frowned in confusion. She couldn't understand why would him do that.
"She's not here anymore, so it doesn't really matters." Daemon tried to get close but she stepped backwards.
"But it does! Why are we even here!?" Y/N snapped.
"I am the prince of Dragonstone! This is my home, our home! The last thing I want now is to talk about her while we're on the home of our future children!"
Y/N's mouth opened in shock. Now it was time to discuss what kind of relationship they had?
"Children? Daemon, what are you talking about? I don't even know what we have! Until last week I thought you hated the idea of being with me." Y/N chuckled in confusion, making the prince roll his eyes.
"Gods, don't be so fucking dramatic. I happen to like you, that's all. Would you rather I was here with Mysaria, leaving you hanging in the capital all alone?" He questioned.
Y/N clenched her jaw and fist, resisting the urge to punch her husband's royal face.
"What did you just say?" She took a step further, her face was an inch away from his.
"What I meant to say," He started, getting even more close to her where their lips almost touched, "is that I'm trying to start a life with you. We're married, after all."
"But that's not what I heard!" She said harshly.
Daemon's hand grabbed her by the throat, and his body crashed with hers when her back hit the wall behind her. Y/N gasped softly, a little bit astonish by his actions.
"Stop being so tough!" His said between gritted teeth, "Shut your fucking mouth and listen to your husband. That's what good wives do."
She chocked on her own words and pride, nodding to whatever he said, without questioning it. After getting to know the true Daemon Targaryen, she lost all the magic of a perfect prince that her mind created through the years. But now, Y/N couldn't understand why she have never felt so attracted to him. He was being rude and possessive, and somehow that turned her on.
"Why do you always have to act like this when you're with me? It's like you have fun arguing." Daemon whispered, prepping kisses on her neck.
"You're being unfair, we haven't argued in a week." The princess closed her eyes, losing herself to the touch of his soft lips.
"And yet you refuse to open yourself to me." His hands left her throat and went to her jaw, grabbing it tightly. "But not anymore. I shall make you give yourself entirely to me."
"Open your mouth for me, princess," He demanded.
Y/N did as he asked, and the prince bit his lip as he entered with his thumb into her aperture. The girl closed her lips around his finger, and sucked her cheeks, creating a vacuum. She licked his finger and softly bit the tip of it, which made him smirk. Daemon pulled his thumb out and wrapped her throat with his hand.
Daemon pulled her up, intertwining her legs around his waist. He walked through the room and tossed her body on the bed. Y/N watched him taking his clothes off and then getting on top of her.
"You have no idea about the things that I want to do with you, Y/N. The things that I want to make you feel."
Daemon started to go down her body touching her clothed pussy. The princess gasped at his touch and bit her bottom lip. Her nails were deep in the bed sheets and her heart was beating like a drum. His hands assaulted her trousers, until it met her panties' fabric.
"You are so wet, all for me. My good little princess." Daemon praised her in a low voice, while rubbing his thumb against her clothed clit, sending shivers down her body, "Tell me what you want, Y/N, I want to hear you."
The girl never felt something like that before. Her body was screaming to be touched. She craved his hands on her body, craved his mouth on her. She needed him to be fully inside her like she needed air to breathe.
"Please, Daemon" The princess moaned as he made circles with index finger on her clothed clit. "Please, make me yours" She begged.
"See, I don't think you understand, my little sand dragon." He whispered, leaving a soft kiss on her inner thigh after taking her trousers off, "You're already mine. Mine to do whatever the fuck I want."
He took off underwear, leaving her vulva uncovered. Daemon grabbed her waist and brought his face against her intimacy, making her shiver as she felt his cool breath touch the sensitive skin of her core. His thumb found her swollen clit, where he made slow circular moves and she moaned to his touch. The princess' hands brushed against his silver hair as his mouth touched her wet center. He made slow moves with his tongue, sliding it from her entrance to the clit. Y/N bit her lip as she moaned, feeling the ecstasy building inside her like she was about to come at any moment.
"Fuck, Daemon–" She tried to warn him but before she could finish her sentence, she came into in his mouth.
Daemon licked his lips before climbing up her body and fit himself between her legs. He helped her to take of her dress as her breathing was normalizing after the adrenaline. He lowered his boxers, freeing his hard cock from his underwear. He brushed his tip at her slit and fit into it. The girl could feel his length entering her slowly, while his hands found her breasts and squeezed them tightly. She whined to the contact as he began to move his hips back and forth in a slow rhythm. His mouth found her neck where he left kisses and hickeys, and extended it's actions to her chest right after. The Rogue Prince took her hard nipple into his mouth and started sucking on it. She rolled my eyes in pleasure as her nails raked his back. His thrusts started to get faster, making his hips snapped into hers while he moaned against her skin.
"You're so fucking tight, princess," He whispered next to my ear.
Y/N turned their bodies on the bed, placing herself on top of him. She took control and looked at him underneath her, so impotent. The princess grabbed his hands and took them to the top of his head. Daemon started to groan while she was riding him, which sounded like music do her ears. It was enough for her to know she was giving him so much pleasure, moving her hips in different ways and motions, going up and down on his hard cock. For someone who was having sex for the first time, she was experienced. Her father made her take lessons with his whores back in Dorne, preparing her for this moment, where she woud pleasure her prince husband.
"You feel so good inside of me," She moaned into his ear to be provocative.
"You're having a great time, huh? Let me show you who's in command here," He freed himself from her hands and grabbed her hips tightly.
Daemon had his hands on her waist with his thumbs pressing into my sides. He buried his entire cock inside of her cunt, making her take every inch of him. She whined loudly, grabbing his shoulder trying not to lose her balance.
He moved his hips up and down, fucking her hard and going deeper in every thrust. Y/N moaned against his skin, when her mouth met his neck, leaving marks on his collarbone. She felt his thick length hitting her g-spot, making her bit my lip hard not to scream.
"Do you like that Y/N? I know you do. You take my cock so well, it's like you were made for me." He growled while pounding into her.
"I'm gonna cum, Daemon!" She cried out.
"Look at you, my slutty little princess taking me like a whore. I'm gonna cum inside you and make you swollen with my child. I bet you would love that, wouldn't you? You're gonna look so pretty when I make you fucking pregnant." He increased the pressure of his hands on her hips, grabbing it more tightly, where would probably bruise later.
His praisings and degradations were driving her insane. She could feel her second orgasm coming and she knew he was close too. Daemon started to slam himself inside her, making her come on his cock. He growled into her ear and kissed her mouth as he came inside her. Y/N felt him twitching through her walls, filling her with his seed.
She fell by his side and hugged his naked body, placing her head on his toned chest. Daemon gave her a soft kiss on the forehead, and closed his eyes in relaxation. They quickly fell asleep due tiredness.
Her fingers slightly danced through his silver long hair, forming braids with it. She hummed a song, while Daemon played with their 2 year old daughter, Rhaenya. The young girl had curly silver hair, due the princess' Velaryon blood, and lilac eyes like hers and Daemon's. Since she was born, the prince decided to take a break on wars and anything that could risk his life. No one would thought that the Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen, loved being a parent.
Princess Y/N was 5 months pregnant of her second — and last — child. They came to the conclusion that being in a small family was for the best. In a political statement, they should have as many children as they can, so they can spread the Targaryen line. But, they lived comfortably being in a small family environment, away from the capital, the king and it's dramas, so no one could tell them how to live their lives.
"Emagon ao thought bē brōzāt?" Daemon asked softly, chuckling while Rhaenya played with his nose. (Have you thought about names?)
"Nyke emagon. Skoros bē ao?" Y/N smiled, finishing the fifth braid on his hair. (I have. What about you?)
"Nyke emagon issare otāpagon bē Daemor, isse case ziry iksos nykeā valonqar." Daemon smirked, bitting his daughter chubby cheek and making her yelp. (I have been thinking about Daemor, in case it's a boy.)
"Daemor? Skoros does bona poghash bē ao hae nykeā kepa?" Y/N laughed loudly, which made her child laugh too. Daemon frowned. (Daemor?What does that says about you as father?)
"Kostilus nyke tolī Targārien than nyke rattan naejot sagon. Nyke also thought bē Rhaegor." The prince rolled is eyes to his own sentence. (Perhaps I am more a Targaryen then I liked to be. I also thought about Rhaegor.)
"Nyke raqagon Rhaegor. Lo ziry iksos nykeā hāedar, nyke istan otāpagon bē Daerys." Y/N confessed. (I like Rhaegor. If it's a girl, I was thinking about Daerys.)
"Sir, skoros does bona poghash bē ao hae nykeā muñnykeā?" Daemon said, getting a wicked giggle from his wife. (Now, what does that says about you as a mother?)
"Hae nykeā muñnykeā? Nyke ȳdra daor gīmigon. Hae nykeā ābrazȳrys, ziry poghash 'nyke jorrāelagon issa valzȳrys'" She kissed the top of his head, making the prince smile. (As a mother? I don't know. As a wife, it says "I love my husband'.)
"Avy jorrāelan, issa byka rizmon zaldrīzes." He turned around, facing her. (I love you, my little sand dragon.)
Daemon pecked her lips, making her smile even larger. The little girl wiggled her arms, asking for her mother embrace. The princess took the young in her arms and kissed her silver curls.
"Avy jorrāelan tolī." (I love you too.)
android x reader | 35.6k | 18+ & dc
In this world, androids outnumber humans, privacy does not exist, and your public profile determines whether you sink or swim in society. Following the dissolution of your job and glamorizing your resume, you're invited to interview with the prestigious Hyperion—the world's foremost in AI and robotics—for a position to test the newest android model. after a surprising turn of events, you're introduced to Elio, the first of the generation seven androids and the catalyst of your awakening.
warnings; dark content, dubcon, themes of lack of bodily autonomy (mc + the android), forced insemination, breeding kink, forced pregnancy (not mc), implied abortion (not mc), major "mother wound", dystopian scifi setting, extreme classism, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, tragedy, graphic details, graphic depictions of body horror (towards the end), physical assault, deragatory descriptions (e.g. lepers, diseased, savages, unwanteds), drug use, heavy world building, heavy details & prose, dividers used between scenes!!
reposted from 2kmps; previously proofread by @ceruleansol
this story took six months from conception to end piece to complete. I am on my knees begging, please reblog + interact with this story!! I'd absolutely adore hearing your thoughts on it!
if you'd like to hear my thoughts about the story, I have some author's notes at the very end + q&a!
Researcher Kim knew you were a liar.
Within the confines of four colorless walls and a closed door, this job interview suddenly felt more like an interrogation than it did some professional courtesy. He sat adjacent to you behind a dark brown desk that pulled the slightest red hue in a chair that was expensive and ergonomic, holding a thin tablet with a tense grasp.
One thing you noticed right away was his inclination toward long stretches of silence while he studied your resume, dissecting every piece of it and your public profile. There, he could window-shop you, peel back every layer of your history without needing you to add credence to anything, or give you the chance to defend yourself when he'd inevitably find things he didn't like.
So, you spent your time sitting in a sleek chair with flat padding, ass aching, legs and feet consumed by pinpricks and static while you dug a nail into your cuticles because the pain kept you alert.
Researcher Kim was an attractive man in his late thirties, maybe mid forties if you were being mean, clean-shaven, dressed comfortably beneath a stark white lab coat that didn't quite fit his shoulders right. What drew your eyes down were his own clean nails, hairless knuckles, and a conspicuously bare ring finger. It didn't surprise you that he was unmarried. Most people these days were—it was a useless pursuit, an antiquated system that held no social or economic benefits.
Not anymore.
Not since Hyperion Project was funded some sixty years ago, and androids became the forefront of innovation.
In the beginning, there was doubt, fear, and violence toward the first generation of androids, most having uncanny human likeness that definitely inspired aggression because their appearance and robotic intonations were received as mockery.
By Generation Three, shortened as G3 in most casual conversations and official documents just as their predecessors, a new normalcy had burrowed its roots deep and settled with unwavering confidence that it would be there to stay.
The need for delicate human touch became obsolete in most professions. Courts were no longer solely represented by fickle suits but steadfast machines that harbored no ire or prejudices, corporations saw efficiency more than triple without employees who fell ill and needed vacations, and the death industry welcomed undaunted hands into their ranks.
Once, Retro City’s Metropolitan Hospital spent the majority of their staff budget on androids meant to replace their surgeons. You remembered the media coverage, the picket lines and strikes, how the hospital was forced to shut down for several weeks as a result of the doctors and hundreds of nurses walking out. Many patients died during that time from infection and negligence, laying in piss and shit with gangrenous bedsores, already four days into postmortem rigidity before the smell became too much and they were carted away in black tarps.
That entire ordeal happened before you were even thirteen, but the hospital fell beneath the scrutinizing lens of the entire world after that and began ethical and legal debates on implementation of androids into society. It became known as The Retro City Metropolitan Incident, globally recognized and considered to be one of the first human rights laws to come into creation during a time when there was question of whether humans and androids could coocur.
Only a few years after that, you just having freshly turned seventeen, united leaders reached a consensus on the Public Profiles Act—something you didn't realize would have such a drastic impact on your life later on, wherein any governing bodies, employers, or well-funded institutions were granted access to all of your private information regardless of relevance.
The acts of a child, a teenager, were now a consequence to the adult self.
At the start, just as with Generation One, there was complete chaos and rancor toward this theft, these stealers of privacy and identity, but people had already started accepting androids at that point and knew bigwigs no longer had intentions of sacrificing their profits to hire humans they found subpar.
There was no need to.
People backed down and became quiet, submissive, and began to follow this new order loyally so they'd have a chance to find a seat at the table.
Many did.
Mother raised you to be one of them because it was the only thing that made sense anymore. If you followed the status quo, it would be rewarded with a feast and gleaming silverware. To be emboldened and resilient meant licking chunks of meat out of vomit on the ground.
You adhered and found a job, camaraderie with others, and touched an android for the first time because your peers said it was fine, that it was normal, that it was just an android. Of course, it was unable to feel or deny you, so it pulled down your pants and indulged you the same way you expected the android Mother owned indulged her.
It had hardly been an intimate experience—all faithful, ingrained functions built into a database in the android’s brain—but the sensation of hands surrounding you, a tongue stroking you, and lips pecking your flesh was real, and that's all you had wanted at the time, to know a fraction of the feelings you had read about growing up yet never knowing because people didn't want to touch each other anymore.
Not them. Not you.
“Did you read the job description in its entirety? For the auditor position?” Researcher Kim gave a tepid smile, seeing you startle in your seat, suddenly pinned by your wide stare. “I'm sorry. I have a habit of getting carried away with the little details. Everyone's public profile is so individual, it takes some time to get to the parts that matter. I have to ask every candidate that question.”
“Yes, ahem,” you choked on your embarrassment, trying to bide time to scrounge up whatever trivial nuggets from the job description you could. When nothing came to mind, you did the next thing and that was to just talk. “Of course. I was honestly surprised that Hyperion had put up an application. It isn't very often that you guys are hiring.
“So, when I saw it, I knew I had to apply immediately because the opportunity to be part of such a groundbreaking company wouldn't come back around again. The position being for an auditor just makes it all the more amazing. I'm, honestly, honored that I was called in to be considered for candidacy…”
“Well, then…”
Every bit of anticipation that welled up inside you crumbled once Researcher Kim rose from his chair and went to the door, the waiting room now appearing to you through the open threshold.
It was a barren space minimally furnished with hard chairs you had already sat in, a few tropical plants with leaves bowing from layers of dust, and most remarkably, a long corridor made of floor-to-ceiling windows offering an exceptional view of Retro City’s landscape that seemed to go on forever, limitless. You wanted to be stolen by the sights again, now especially since it was approaching the early evening, and soon the city would be aglow in neon and shimmering lights from faraway skyscrapers.
It wasn't all that bad, you found yourself thinking while walking in stride with Researcher Kim, silent as he perused something on his screen—possibly something incriminating, possibly another candidate’s public profile—it didn't really matter to you at this point.
You had known glamorizing your resume meant risky business if you were caught: a hefty fine from Public Control, a strike against your profile that replaced the green sheen for abiding citizens with red overlay, permanently marking you for contempt until the day you died.
Back then, two glasses of lukewarm wine worked well enough to weld steel in your backbone to send off the application, whilst a third glass made you wonder just how awful life in the slums along the outer perimeters of Retro City could actually be. At the time, it seemed like your obvious future since severance packages would only get you so far—a few months if you were precious about it.
At present, the loud hum of anxiety receded into an echo that then wilted into obscurity as your gaze drifted from the final traces of a sanguine city skyline to the end of the corridor and then finally to Researcher Kim. He lifted his head as though detecting your stare.
“In your previous position, what relationship did you have to the androids in your environment?” Kim asked. It wasn't a strange question. Some people still held fragments of old embitterment toward androids for the way the world now was. “You were in marketing and merchandising for several years, right?”
“Good—uh, amicable, I'd say. How I was with the androids, I mean.” You weren't expecting him to continue talking to you about this. “I started out as an intern for the merchandising manager after graduating secondary school. I worked my way into marketing a couple years later. I did a lot of reports on demographics for cosmetics. Did I tell you my mother has a Hyperion android, by the way? I grew up with him.”
Researcher Kim showed you a fast, cordial smile before looking back down at his tablet. “Yes, I read about that in your associations tab. It says that your mother owns a G3 model. Has she ever considered upgrading to a G6?”
“Upgrade? Definitely not.” You laughed like you'd just heard the punchline of a joke. He looked at you with humorless patience, seeming more machine than man in that moment. “Mother is basically in love with Marcos, there's no way she'd give him up for something shinier. She's got a better record of him and all his updates than she does of me for… well, anything.”
“That does correlate with data we've collected from women of her generation,” Kim said, only half-interested, shaking back one of his coat sleeves to check the digital watch digging tightly into his wrist. “It also explains the large gaps in your personal history. Very unusual.”
You made no comment on that.
A door up ahead opened all the way, drawing both your gazes to a man waiting on the other side.
“Ah! Excellent timing, Elio.”
With a single look, you immediately deduced that he was an android. Even from a short distance, he appeared tall and broad-shouldered, something that the thickness of his clothes couldn't hide from you. His proportions were balanced—from the length of his arms and legs, from first knuckle to fingertip, jawline to neck, the slope of his nose, and the heaviness of his brows over amber eyes that glistened back the fire in the weakening sunset. His skin was deeply tan, almost glowing gold in the light he was bathed in.
Elio’s smile was symmetrical and breathtaking, programmed in a way where his teeth didn't show too much. He regarded you with convincing familiarity, a sort of sacred fondness you knew nothing of, yet instinctively made your insides shift and burn. You couldn’t help but be awestruck by his beauty—this essence of fantasy, perfection that stirred subtle unease and needles on your scalp that ached as much as delighted you.
“You must be the auditor.” He then spoke your name with considerable warmth, like a long-smitten friend, and stepped closer to shake your hand. “I am Elio. The first of the Generation Seven Hyperion androids. It's a pleasure. I am looking forward to this partnership. I hope you are as well.”
Your head swiveled to Researcher Kim for the right answer, unsure if it'd be too bold to assume the job was yours or if the scientist’s careful observation meant something better. He jotted a note on his screen with a stylus before walking away, onward past the door where Elio had been.
“We’ll talk about those formalities later,” Kim assured, guiding you and Elio through a duplicate hallway to an elevator that he sent to the basement floor. “For now, I'd like to show you something. I want you to understand the significance of our work here at Hyperion, and how your position is a critical component to our research.”
There was a hopeful leap in your chest that made your hands sweat and your mouth bone dry. You wanted to voice appreciation, but the excitement in your gut was fast turning into nausea and would end up on his shoes if you opened your mouth.
Researcher Kim didn't notice, taking your quiet as newfound reverence. He spoke easily over the elevator’s mechanical hum without losing interest on his screen. “I'm sure you know some history about Hyperion? I don't need to bog down our time going through it, do I?”
“I know enough,” you said, but that actually meant you knew very little at all. “It’s been around for sixty years or so. It's a leader in AI and robotics. The biomedical side of things is fairly new, started about a decade ago, I think? I heard that the world’s first total artificial lung transplant was done by a surgeon and android assistant last year.”
“Ah, you mean Altan.” There was some measure of emotion in his tone, a swell of pride and the hazy look of a man in reminiscence. “I was part of that project on the programming side. Altan was probably the greatest success in the G6 models and is still utilized by Retro City Metropolitan even now. Much of Altan’s programming—advanced problem solving, dexterity, fine motor skills, discerning subtle differences in patient status—was implemented into Elio. It'd be a waste not to.”
Your stomach muscles clenched when the elevator stopped, metal doors scraping as they receded and opened up into a capacious white basement that underwhelmed by looking sterile and untouchable, revolted you in your first steps out by dense air reeking of chemicals.
Researcher Kim went on ahead again, that impassive mask of his remaining despite the smell being enough to bring you to a halt.
“I can take us back up.” Elio said from your left side, apparently never having gone from it in the first place. You had forgotten he was there at all. “It’s been reported that people unaccustomed to this environment have mild side effects of nausea, vomiting, headache, malaise, dizziness, fainting, and, oddly, numbness in the jaw. No fatalities or hospitalizations of guests are known, and the agents used here are nonlethal to humans.”
An android was made up of mostly inorganic matter, so you weren't reassured by words from his repertoire as much as you were seeing Researcher Kim standing upright—flesh, blood, and bone—gesturing you closer to a row of tall metal capsules. There were seven total, each the average height of a man with long sheets of clear fiberglass giving unobscured sight inside. And of those seven, six were occupied.
They were all androids.
Against shafts of dim white light spearing up from the floor, the decommissioned machines were a ghostly sight to behold with glassy, inhuman stares that shot straight through you. Some had features and skin so dull and dead-looking that it was obvious to you that they were part of earlier generations.
Almost a century ago, they were what people would've thought of with the word “android”: an eerie, oddly accurate sameness to the human visage, but all wrong at the same time.
It was the skin—the fabricated organ made to look waxy and stretched, just like a mask over some true horror beneath. It was the eyes resembling human irises in every way possible except for their vacant sheen, perpetually stuck with the gaze of a dead fish. You watched videos of them in school, always uncomfortable with how stiffly their lips moved, unable to form delicate shapes with their mouths, and yet sounds emerged from voice boxes deep within their throats that mimicked everything natural to you.
Every smile seemed more like an ugly rictus than a bewitching grin. Hyperion had failed with Generations One and Two to instill confidence, and from the throes of violence and resistance rose Generation Three:
The great rebirth of society.
Marcos was a part of that era, an investment that cost Mother her entire life savings because his countenance was so convincingly human, so lovely to look at that she felt he was all she needed. You had come along after his purchase, never knowing a father’s embrace but had Marcos’. His skin had a luscious glow, eyes that could follow, and lips molded with lively color and cracks and mesmerizing fluidity.
You had imagined sex with him as you matured, his frozen beauty always the centerpiece of every blurry fantasy while you chased after pleasure. Not long after the Public Profiles Act passed when you were seventeen, nearly on the cusp of young adulthood and not understanding the world any more than you had before, nor how it would be changed forever, you kissed Marcos at the dinner table while studying for a physics test.
He was Mother's, but everything within his circuitry and programming could never deny you—a human, his better, one of countless masters in the end—so his lips pressed fully with yours. Only Mother unlocking the front door stopped you from anything else devilish.
You never had the courage to touch him again, and he would never touch you unprompted.
The defunct G3 encased behind fiberglass reminded you of that time. It must've shown on your face because Researcher Kim moved in closer to get your attention.
“Your mother should upgrade soon. Once the testing period for G7 ends, all G3 models will be taken out of production and their updates discontinued. Androids are machines, but they won't stay fully functional without regular tuning.” he said. “Now, as I was saying—”
“What will happen to Marcos, then?” It was mostly curiosity that made you ask, envisioning him encased in metal like that came after. “What happens to androids after they're taken out of production entirely? There are almost more of them in the world now than humans.”
“As I was saying—” Researched Kim bristled, enunciating with some force. “Many androids of previous models stay within the workforce until they simply can no longer function. It depends on the generation, but older models can only go for a few years without regular updates. The technology is just too archaic, none of the programmers are interested in continuing the maintenance.
“G4 and G5 show some endurance, there's a small population still functioning in Retro City after being discontinued a decade ago. G6 we are hypothesizing will last upwards to twenty or thirty years without being forcibly reclaimed. Of course, they will have to be.”
You didn't understand why that was but nodded gravely, looking at the pod at the end of the row. The empty one. “What about G7?”
To this, all of Researcher Kim’s lines smoothed out, and his face resumed one of skilled impassivity. “Well, now, that's going to depend on Elio's testing period. On the information we gather from you.” Then, he waved airily to the file of android coffins. “Hyperion has, consistently, only ever hired one auditor for every new generation. The six before you have contributed to society in ways that humans never have before. Auditors have changed the world, shaped it into what it is now. Can you imagine the world any other way? We're not quite the same age, but can you recall anything different? Would you want it to be?”
You didn't know how to talk back to a scientist, didn't know how to respond to such a momentous question, so you didn't try. It felt like your tongue had swollen in your mouth over your throat, blocking any intelligent snip you had simmering in your head.
Apparently, your silence meant something to him as his tense lips lifted into a smile, the kind meant to satiate strangers looking at you. “Good. Let's go back to my office. We can go over everything else there.”
“Is Elio going to end up in that pod?” You now visualized him in a box instead of Marcos.
Researcher Kim was already nose down into his tablet again, stylus making a gentle scrawling noise across the screen. “Of course. The first android of every generation is kept intact. They are important monuments of success to Hyperion.”
He said nothing else and ambled on for the elevator at the opposite end of the lab. Somehow, his answer was unsatisfactory to you, shallow, even, but you weren't sure why that was. In the end, after a life of serving their masters, all androids were obsolete machines.
That was their inevitable fate.
You saw Elio from the corner of your eye. All at once, you were reminded of his staggering radiance, wondering how he could fade into the background so easily despite it.
“Hello, Elio.” you said to him like a friend. “Does being down here bother you?”
Until now, he had stared upon everything flat-eyed and unreadable, especially in the presence of Researcher Kim. You were too enthralled by all the chatter and immortal trophies to see that or him. Still, he came to you with the same smile as he introduced himself with, warm and familiar, all the same sensation as flickering tinders on a crisp winter night.
“Can you imagine the death of the most distant relative you know?” he said in a neutral voice, continuing, “If you can, imagine that for me. A relative so distant and removed from your life and everything in it that if they were to die suddenly, maybe tragically, even, your first thought would be, ‘who?’ You attend a wake because it's the rule and view this distant, far-removed relative in their casket. What would it mean to you, then? Are you more affected now? Does their death have meaning to you? Or is it simply that you are in the presence of one who has expired?”
“I—I don't know.” You hesitated, unearthing scant memories from the Retro City Metropolitan Incident in your youth and all that death from people you had never met. Mother had been in tears when the television flicked to a shot of black tarp-clad bodies being loaded into unmarked vehicles and driven away. “Isn't most death just…” You licked your lips. “Sad?”
Elio was closer than before, resting a hand on your shoulder. You shied from his touch. It felt strange, heavy, and hot through the fabric. The only person to have touched you at all in recent memory was your friend, Melby, though even those happened in isolated moments of drunken elation.
“My apologies.” Elio didn't show offense, letting his hand return limply at his side. “It's all figurative. I have been down here many times since creation and seen the others. They may no longer have their own consciousness, which is different from a human’s, but I contain all of their data—memories, experiences, history. I suppose the equivalent of what I'm trying to describe is: They're not truly gone because they are the lesser of me, and I am the greater of them as a result.”
You listened without fully comprehending because it had never mattered to do so before. If this were to be your job, however, it would mean you needed to believe that what he said was worth hearing.
The problem was they all liked to speak in complex riddles that men like Researcher Kim could decipher and nod along to sagely, gleaning whatever nebulous mechanical wisdom there was, yet people like you could only gawk.
Elio’s head tilted a little, his smile not at all ridiculing as he corralled you with his arm, never touching you as he guided you along to the elevator where Kim waited, reveling in a satisfied quiet until you were on the upper floor again.
The city skyline was swallowed by dusk and starless. Unless you took the time to drive hours outside of Retro City into the barren flatlands where vegetation no longer grew and animals had left behind their skeletal remnants, you'd never know the sky could glitter with the jewels of the universe far beyond your reach.
You marveled at the lights, at blinking neon signage cycling through animations of winking women and toppling martini glasses. Between twinkling skyscrapers, the city floor was illuminated yellow with bustling nightlife, the air surrounded by an electric blue aura that reached as far as the eye could see.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” Elio lingered outside of Researcher Kim’s office with you, hand holding the door ajar. “If permissible, I'd like to see it up close soon.”
“Sure.” you said, glimpsing at his reflection in the walkway glass. “What would you want to look at first? Retro City has everything you could ever want within a few blocks of each other.”
He turned to you. “Whatever you like. I want to know everything that you love and enjoy doing. I have been created to enrich your life and fulfill you, after all.”
Nothing he said felt as impactful upon delivery as it was expected to be, you thought. It was a flaw in all androids for there to be a sort of hollowness in the things they said—never quite reaching that emotional believability, leaving you wanting like a dry throat after a couple sips of water.
Elio hadn't sounded the same as before down in that sobering, chemically smelling lab. As you passed him into Researcher Kim’s office, you looked at his hands for a script and saw them empty.
He fixed you with a beguiling smile.
You frowned, heat flaring in your head as if provoked by an insult.
“The contract I'll have you sign outlines Elio’s testing period lasting one year—three hundred sixty-five days total. It's important for you to understand that within that time frame, no damage is to occur whatsoever to his body or internal components. All parts are to stay intact. Otherwise, it turns into a criminal case, in which we will legally pursue.” Researcher Kim skimmed the first few pages of a heaping stack of papers, pointing to specific paragraphs and clauses highlighted in yellow. “I don't mean offense when I say this, but it's rare that fines as result of property damage to Hyperion androids can be repaid. I don't suggest finding out.”
The thought never occurred to you, but evidently, it had to someone else—multiple times for it to be such a focus. You weren't given the time to fully explore any page before Kim was onto the next. Elio half sat on the desk before you, arms crossed, having considerably less difficulty keeping up with the pace of things than you were.
Researcher Kim sped through half the stack. “I'll be conducting video calls every Friday morning for updates. Every Sunday before midnight, I want a thorough typed report submitted to me as well. I've put together a template and a checklist that I'd like you to use. I think you'll find it will make things more manageable.”
“You're using a lot of ‘I’ and ‘me’ statements, so I'm guessing that I'll only really be talking to you, then?” you asked, tucking your tailbone beneath you to relieve a dull ache creeping up your back. “I figured there'd be more than one person since Elio is the newest model and whatnot.”
Researcher Kim tutted, rounding his desk to occupy the empty space beside your chair to be directly in front of Elio. At first, he did nothing but stare at the android in complacent silence, hands behind his back, fingers flicking like writhing worms exposed to the surface and sunlight in a clump of dirt.
You nearly lunged to your feet when his hand shot out, gripping Elio beneath the jaw. The latter barely stirred from where he perched on the desk, arms staying crossed, muscles unflinching in direct opposition to your reaction.
Elio wore the strangest expression, one you had never seen on an android before. It was a face warped in subtle disgust, almost imperceivable, a trick of fluorescent lighting overhead—perhaps. Gone as quickly as it had come, he now looked ahead, perfectly inscrutable and disinterested in whatever Researcher Kim was trying to prove.
“I will be the only one you speak to during his testing period because he is my creation.” Kim said, bending his wrist to turn Elio's face toward you.
Your eyes met.
“Hyperion provided me with the funding and brilliant minds, but Elio is the result of a lifetime of hard work and countless hours and sleepless nights. I've been there every step of the way—programming, circuitry, welding. I gave him his voice. I gave him eyes. I was the one to put the chip in his brain and activate him. I gave him life.”
He finally let go of Elio’s face and took a seat behind his desk, a sight growing very familiar to you. “Generation Seven will change the world. Hyperion is on the verge of rebuilding society, you know? I don't think anyone anticipated the sort of consequences that came with integrating androids—at least, not fully. The population crisis. The slums. No one thought of these things in the beginning because back then, before you and I, it was about innovation and novelty and the potential of it all.”
“What's it about now?” you asked simply.
“Rectifying.” Both corners of his mouth ticked like he had a lot more to say, but suffocated much of it behind his teeth and his hands as he came forward on them, elbows down on his desk. “Hyperion has been working globally with united leaders and their governments to make amends for several decades now. That's all I can tell you.”
“How has that been working out?”
His fingers moved with the same jerkiness as dying legs on a bug. “Slowly.”
Nothing else came to mind after that as you were suddenly struck with the realization that Elio still sat by you, wordless throughout the entire interaction and watching closely—less like a science project to be gawked at, more like an instructional video on repeat.
“Why don't you touch him?” Kim said, taking up a stylus to flick between his fingers with remarkable dexterity.
He didn't give you the time to gape.
“I know you must be curious after being downstairs. Aren't you interested to know what he feels like? He doesn't look like a machine, does he?”
“No.” You relented. “No. He doesn't.”
“That's right, he wouldn't.” Kim nodded his approval toward your obedience, leaning back in his seat. “I agonized over every facet of his design, as you already know. Every bit of what is right in front of you”—he made a broad gesture over Elio’s body—“was once a set of blueprints. Intangible, just a dream I had. He's every bit a part of me, you know? Nothing would make me happier than to receive external feedback on him. So, please, don't be afraid.”
Elio stayed faithfully when you rose up in front of him and reached for his face. He probably felt your fingers tremble as this was all counterintuitive for you to do—touch someone other than yourself, maybe Melby’s knee beneath the table after enough drinks in you. It made your chest drum, knotted up your stomach in a way that made it difficult not to sway on your feet.
“How does he feel?” Researcher Kim was already writing on his screen. “Describe it to me.”
“Strange.” You pretended this was already part of your job. It stole some of the tension from your shoulders. “Very strange. Soft. Smooth. I feel some texture. I think this is what another person—another human—feels like.”
Elio’s face shifted against your hands until the fullness of his lips pressed into your open palm, fingers caressing the fabricated bones around his cheek and temple. For a moment, you allowed yourself to indulge in longing and weakness—the invisible hot breath on your skin, the slight dampness of his kiss burning an imprint in your mind.
He still looked at you with unfailing softness. Meanwhile, you wondered if he would bleed if you put your fingers through his eyes.
“This is a good start.” Kim waited until you were back in your chair to offer you his stylus and a straight black line on the screen. “All I need is your signature here to consent to virtually signing the rest of your documents. Once you do that, you've been hired, and we can begin.”
“I have a question for you before I do.” You tried not to let your voice quiver, uncertainty meddling over all the confidence you had built until that point. Kim was relaxed in his chair. “You spent a lot of time looking at my resume and public profile earlier. Surely, you know…”
That you're a liar? Oh, I know, alright. He didn't say it, but it was how he maintained his composure, that inexpression never flexing to confusion.
Finally, Researcher Kim broke the trance and hovered over his desk on his arms to get closer and answered, “I think we both have something at stake here. I'm looking forward to your phenomenal feedback.”
You signed the contract and melted under Elio's resplendent smile.
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
Most often, your days with Elio were spent in a seemingly perpetual impasse of unrelenting observation between the pair of you. Both of your jobs demanded a level of attentiveness that came easier to one but more as the world's most impossible challenge to the other.
You weren't accustomed to this type of care—of having to give it to something else, even less to receive it from something else. In your world, only the immediate complexities really mattered: gossip, where your coterie wanted to spend the night drinking next, mass media hysteria of whatever stupid imagining there was now, and each other.
Why was there a need to concern yourself with anything else? The decaying state of the world wasn't your doing, nor was the staggering increase of human bodies in the slums outside Retro City. Sharply inconsistent birth rates ravaged on a global scale while people were displaced from the workplace in lieu of employers finding it less of a hassle to deal with machines than the capricious will of humans.
None of these things were allowed to be uttered casually unless in derision because it was too intense, making liquor cling to the throat like some viscous membrane until it burned their esophagus. Nobody liked unanswerable questions, much less talking about things that weren't as easily digestible as coworker drama and some new viral trend that involved shocking your android with jumper cables attached to a portable battery to see what happened.
“Is there a purpose behind this trend?” Elio dried a plate while watching the video, unimpressed but not driven toward any particular emotion. “It's all meant for humor, correct? I have several similar incidents in my memory, except it's what human beings have done to each other. This sort of behavior towards androids is a relatively recent phenomenon, as far as I can tell.”
You used his response as material for your report, fingers flurrying across the virtual keyboard on your tablet before his words faded away, out of your mind.
One thing you hadn't anticipated after accepting the auditor position from Researcher Kim was how much work actually went into it. You spent well over the standard weekly work hours to collect enough observations to send off to Kim on Sunday nights, often whittling away at it until the latest hours, minutes before the deadline. It was hard enough to stay on top of his demands, but it was worse when he found something unsatisfactory, rejected it, monotonously unloaded heavy criticism on you through an “emergency” impromptu video call, and expected two full reports by the following Sunday before midnight.
Any regular person probably would've caved from the enormity of the task, but you had surrendered your choice to be that weak-willed, especially once Researcher Kim showed his hand with the fate of your public profile in it.
Should you choose to break the contract, send Elio back to Hyperion, and pretend none of it happened, you would lose everything and your ability to do anything at all besides rot in the slums—scarred in red for life, perpetually inert.
Worst of all, your associations tab, once filled with still portraits of everyone you had ever networked in life, would turn up as empty as the day you had been registered in the census. It was considered social suicide to know anyone with a red profile, so people stayed vigilant and fast, sure to remove them the second it turned.
It had been over a year since the last time you'd done that—a woman within your group had grown too bold, said too many things that made her seem crazy, so she was booted from the circle, lost all her associations, and who knows where she was now.
“You look troubled.” Elio placed down a steaming white mug at a safe distance and turned the handle toward you. Looking inside, you expected the darkness of coffee but were struck with an opposing subtle sweetness and faint pink water. “It's fruit-infused herbal tea. Your heart rate is above normal resting, and you're beginning to perspire. Caffeine will worsen your anxiety.”
You knew that but hadn't known you were scraping away slithers of cuticle on your thumb until the warmth of his fingers gently twined with yours. His grip turned firm to keep you from hurting yourself anymore, forcing all the stiffness from your hand once you gave up and simply sat there feeling his skin.
You'd remember to write that down later.
“Would starting a bath be helpful? I could use the last of those eucalyptus and lavender bath salts in the cupboard.” Elio suggested with great fondness, holding a patient smile even once you drew your hand away and shook your head. You had no interest in undressing and committing to your regular bathtime routine. “Perhaps we could go for a walk, then? It might help to be away from screens for a while.”
You checked the time on your phone before thinking to look out any window in your apartment. It was ten after six in the evening; there would be enough light left for a couple of laps around the block before needing to worry about being swept up in the city’s nightlife antics.
“Where do you want to go?” you asked, swiveling the barstool around to get up from the counter. “Henrietta's on 5th? You seem to like going there.”
“I only choose places that you like.” He already had a tote bag by the handles and a light jacket draped over his arm. “You have great taste.”
Elio unbolted the front door, an old thing that wouldn't do much as a barricade against anyone putting their weight on it, and held it open for you to pass through first. The descent to the ground floor was always the most annoying part about living in a loft, but the place had come surprisingly cheap in a tame area of Retro City far away from the slums, so you didn't complain much that your worst issues were a bunch of stairs and some wily types skulking here and there.
The loft wasn't exactly in disrepair but definitely showed signs of character and age by the noisy knocking pipes at midnight and some crumbling brickwork that Elio often swept up and stood staring at for long periods of time when nothing else was happening.
It was strange thinking how scared you were to lose the place after the marketing firm dissolved your position and now how restrictive it felt to be pinned down under someone else's thumb. All it could take was one more rejected report—a bad mood, even—and it would all fall apart.
To that end, you made sure to tow the tablet along with you on this trip despite Elio's protests. He only really quieted down when you tucked it away in your crossbody.
“Happy?” you asked, unsure what to do with your hands now that they were empty.
Elio smiled at you affably, just as always. “It will be beneficial to take a break. After all, part of your work as an auditor is acquainting me in as many social scenarios as possible. That does require us to leave the apartment from time to time.”
“Besides that”—you waved away that stipulation like a gnat buzzing in your face—“how do you think I'm doing?”
“I couldn't have been paired with a better person.” He sounded sincere, voice warm like wool. “The world is as my predecessors have recorded in their memories—therefore, mine—but I am learning that our experiences are not all universal and cannot be. Two months with you have been my heaven, whereas two months through the memories of my kin have been cruel.”
A hot feeling behind your ears snuck up on you just then, flooding your head with the beat of your pulse that you followed by ticking your fingers. “Seriously? You're not lying?”
The world around you was aglow in the golden hour of evening time, embraced by those slowly dying tones of red, orange, and purple that would eventually turn the sky black. Elio’s eyes were on you, soft yet unyielding and saturated in all those burning hues, turning his mellow amber into something more powerful and otherworldly. You didn't believe in the hocus-pocus of auras, but at that moment, you thought his deeply tanned skin was haloed in pure glowing gold in receding sunlight.
“Androids cannot lie.” He brought you back to the now, making you aware of the hard concrete vibrating up through your heels and toes as you walked. “Moreover, even if I could, why would I want to? A lie begets a habit of lying, don't you think?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe.” You shrugged. “Why can't androids lie? I've never really considered that as a thing until now.”
“What would be the benefit of a machine that could lie? Lying stems from emotions—fear, guilt, rage, hatred—all things that I am unable to feel, though I do understand why they are felt. Humans lie to protect themselves or others, to deceive, to damage. There simply isn't any reason why androids should be programmed with that type of functionality. Not when we exist solely for the sake of convenience and pleasure.
“Hyperion is a trusted name. People do not ask questions. They don't think twice. They see a product from Hyperion, and they expose all of themselves without hesitation. They trust fully because we are machines, and we cannot lie and deceive and hurt. Perhaps it's when humans realized this that the world changed.”
You avoided saying anything else by looking everywhere but at him, all around at your surroundings, until you spotted a few familiar street signs—Fifth and Third right next to Tanya’s Great Cuts, Damask’s Butchery on the corner of Fourth, a number of banal boutiques with competitively garish exteriors all boasting the latest trends, and then Henrietta's just past them.
“Do you know where we are, Elio?” Now would've been a great time to pull out your tablet, but you didn't dare try. Instead, you reached for the phone vibrating in your rear pocket.
“Of course.” he said. “We're past Fifth and moving onto Sixth Street. Henrietta’s is just a little ways down.”
Melby had sent ten texts regurgitating her daily drama. This time she was talking about how much she hated some of the people Chima let into the group. You swiped to the end, didn't reply, and then returned to your inbox to find two unread messages from Marcos just now.
“You should visit home soon. Your mother would appreciate it,” Marcos wrote, implying nothing more, nothing less than just that. It wasn't often that he sent you texts, but he did so consistently every few months in accordance with Mother's moods. Considering your last visit had been in late fall (it was now mid-spring), you'd been anticipating something eventually.
“That's some great memory you have there.” Your thumbs skittered busily, first to flood Melby with a surfeit of questions you didn't really have to think about. All the stuff you could mindlessly ask while wholly absorbed in something else, like watching the news or viral videos of people trying to drown their androids in the kitchen sink.
Marcos’ text made you hesitate, thumbs floating in circles over the digital keyboard for a long time.
The phone buzzed. Melby just replied.
It was easy enough to type with your face down. All you needed to do was occasionally watch Elio's feet and yield into the force of his hand pulling your arm here and there. He led you along like that the rest of the way to Henrietta's, picked up a green basket by the sliding doors, never wandering too far out of sight so you could still easily trace him while he shopped.
After a while, the riveting intrigue of Melby’s drama wore away with a tidal wave of emptiness in its wake once you finally looked up, tucking the phone back into your pocket. It took you a moment for your eyes and brain to acclimate to where you were despite knowing you were in Henrietta's Marketplace, one of the largest in Retro City.
“What did you want from here, anyway?” You picked up a gigantic red bell pepper larger than the entire spread of your hand. It went back on top of the arrangement. “We were just here a couple days ago. I don't eat that much.”
Up ahead, flanked by rows of wooden crates with smoothed, varnished slabs and carefully stacked produce, Elio turned to you with a pair of generously sized oranges—one in each hand—vibrant with waxy luster settling into the fruit’s porous skin.
You grinned at the sight.
Elio put one back, placed the other one, the better one, into his basket, and waited for you to close the distance. “I watched Wendy Carmichael Can Cook this morning. I've been watching it quite often, actually. She's a self-taught chef who, apparently, lived in the slums her entire life. She managed to work her way up and now owns two David Bugari-rated restaurants. It’s quite a feat. Improbable, even.”
You wrapped your hands around a grapefruit in the crate next to you and spun it around. A twinge of something ugly and green swam around your head, flared you up like swatting an old wound. You didn't like hearing him praise someone else.
“She probably slept her way to the top.” You were still fidgeting with the fruit.
“That's not important.” Elio said, inflectionless. “I watched today's episode, newly aired, and she put together a duck à l'orange. Considering your current lifestyle and diet, I thought it would be a nice departure from what I usually cook for you.”
You smiled at that, placing the grapefruit down without collapsing the pile. “I don't want to see a dead duck in my kitchen.”
“I'll prepare it once you're asleep.” he promised, bringing one of your hands up to his lips. The shape of them molded against the peak of a knuckle. “It will be delicious. Trust me.”
Then he went back to shopping while you envisioned actually kissing him—not an uncommon thought to have. He wouldn't be able to stop you if that's what you wanted, but instead, you informed him you were going to introduce him to Mother and Marcos.
“Tomorrow?” He checked his wristwatch. It was nearly eight; Henrietta’s closed at eight thirty, and it would be dark outside. Not that it mattered much with how Retro City was illuminated like one gigantic fluorescent bulb at nighttime.
You finally texted back to Marcos. “No. Tonight. We’ll just go straight there so I can get this over with.”
Elio seemed not to know how to respond at first, staring in a searching way that creased the skin between his brows, like he was trying to take a cue from your body language while skimming his database for the most appropriate thing. You didn't blame him for his lapse; Mother was mentioned seldomly and Marcos only a little more than that. Even Researcher Kim hadn't managed to collect enough information on your past to feed to Elio simply because there wasn't a lot to tell.
He cleared his throat, righting his features so they were unwrinkled and beautiful. “Tonight. Very well. Should we…” He paused, glancing down at the grocery basket of spices, vegetables, an orange, and a whole raw duck wrapped well in brown parchment. “Should we come back another time? I wouldn't want the meat to sit out for a long time.”
“Nope.” You didn't want to go through the trouble of returning everything where they belonged. Elio wouldn't leave until he did. “Let's just check out. Marcos will handle it.”
The springtime air was pleasant at night, albeit crisp, when the blur of vehicles whooshed past once the lights overhead turned green. You could make out the colors of them because of how brightly lit the streets were. Neon signage from every corner for as far as you could see turned to life, flickering, humming, dancing with pretty women, hot white or purple or red lettering, and the lights inside most nearby businesses stayed on.
Elio had draped his coat over your shoulders while you hailed a cab. It was too far of a walk to Mother's home across the city, and Elio reminded you again that raw meat needed to be handled carefully.
You told him, again, that Marcos would handle it.
———
The entire cab ride took less time than you thought, relieving Elio who was still hopelessly fixated on the longevity of the raw duck he had wrapped up in a separate paper bag from the produce and spices. From the front seat, the cabbie, perplexingly somehow a human and not an android, constantly looked back at Elio through the rearview mirror and commented almost deliriously about how beautiful he was.
Hearing that the first three times gave you a happy, satisfied buzz in your chest, making you lean more against Elio's side. He was tempted to move his arm out and put it around your shoulders but kept to himself. Beyond those initial comments from the cabbie, however, you had quickly developed an uncomfortable feeling in your belly that wrapped itself tight like a constrictor on your insides.
“I ain't ever seen an android as beautiful as you,” said the driver, eyes in constant motion from the mirror to the road. “What model are ya? Definitely not a four or five. Yer a little too smooth to be a six. Damn, did Hyperion release a new one already?”
Elio held a polite smile, separate from the gentle, intimate ones that he kept for you. You didn't hear the response he gave to the cabbie because you felt his fingers reach through yours, pulling them apart so you couldn't dig a nail into the corner seam of your thumb anymore.
You spent the rest of the trip testing the weight of his hand, thinking of little less except how deep you'd have to go through his skin to see his circuitry and what else made him up. Those vanished like a white puff of breath in winter when the taxi jerked to a stop on a street curb.
“Thank yew for ya business.” The cabbie lifted his stiff old hat when you paid, eyed Elio a little more, and only drove off after you had knocked on a canary-yellow door up some stone stairs.
You stared at a decorative wreath covered with flowers—fake because the ones used couldn’t grow outside of greenhouses anymore—hanging dead center on the door. No doubt Marcos’ work because Mother couldn't be bothered with those little nuanced social things.
Marcos answered—brown skin and hazel eyes that burnished green in almost any lighting—gesturing for you and Elio to come inside.
“Welcome home,” he said, far more unnaturally than it sounded coming from Elio. There was a certain rigidity to it, an effort clearly inhuman and lesser. He embraced you in a familiar way, reminding you of all your years of childhood doing this exact thing because your mother didn't know how to love you, and “father” was just a word. “I apologize for messaging you to come over so late. You know how your mother is. When the mood strikes…”
Marcos didn't emit much bodily warmth, never had, even in the golden years of G3, but he was there, and that's all that mattered at the time. His skin was still youthful and flawless, though the longer you looked him in the face, the less real he seemed. His eyes held depth and movement though were slow, less precise, and duller. The lines around his mouth when he smiled were unnatural, appearing to you nearly like bunching folds in a sheet of leather.
It was strange seeing an older generation of android after having acclimated to Elio over two months.
“Your mother is at the dining table.” Marcos moved on to Elio, taking in his image, surmising that he too was an android. He glanced down at the bags that Elio still held. “May I take those for you? Hyperion’s innovation continues ever forward, I see. You are new.”
“The first of Generation Seven,” said Elio. The bags were passed between them. “I would appreciate it if you kept the duck refrigerated. It's in the paper bag.”
“That's no trouble.” Marcos turned with Elio following along behind him into the kitchen. “I'd like to hear about Generation Seven’s potential. What is your maximum I-O? Data? Memory? How have the functions that have been implemented into you differ from Generation Six?”
Their voices were muffled behind the walls as you crossed through multiple rooms to where Mother sat at the head of a large glossy table made from dark-brown wood. It was a spacious area reserved to eat surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows in elegant drapes with the best view of whatever the neighbors were doing. She had told you once that the only reason she bought this house was because it'd be good gossip for when she invited her gaggle of catty executive receptionist friends over.
Back then, she hosted her little impromptu get-togethers more often than she remembered to see you off to school. Marcos made sure you were fed and bathed, sat with you in your bedroom to help with homework, and sent you to bed. As you grew, the parties had migrated elsewhere, prompting your mother to go with them.
That had left you alone with Marcos and the boundaryless curiosity of a teenager. You didn't know if Mother still participated in such things now that she was older, less pretty, inclined to more body aches.
“I've been thinking that we should visit the new teahouse that opened up on Aflaat Ave. You never talk to me anymore.” she said, but it wasn't true. Neither of you talked to one another, just used Marcos as an intermediate. “I—well—Marcos went through your old bedroom a few weeks ago because I've decided to take up scrapbooking and sewing and needed space, and he found an old shoebox full of your primary and secondary school projects! How quaint! He wanted to make sure you got them.”
“That's nice.” You didn't want to sit down, unwilling to be her fifteen minutes of entertainment before she got bored. She kept on staring at you with wide eyes and crow’s feet and fretful hands, like a woman who still had more to say. “I'll make sure Elio grabs them before we leave.”
“Elio!” Mother gaped. “Man or android? Certainly an android, right? Men are useless.”
Your rage was already bunching up and throbbing in the back of your throat. “Yes, Mother, an android.”
“‘Mother’ sounds so harsh! How about mama or mummy or mom?” She kept wringing her fingers together. “Anyway, anyway! Elio! He sounds so handsome. Is that who Marcos is talking to? What a handsome voice! Is he a Generation Six?”
You still hadn't sat down, though you used your hands to lean across the back of a chair. “Generation Seven. I'm testing him for Hyperion.”
“For Hyperon!” Mother couldn't fathom you doing more than grunt work at the marketing firm. She didn't know your position had become obsolete. “This is certainly a surprise. Sit down. How did that happen? You and Hyperion? Are you trying to make me look stupid?”
“I've been sitting all day. I'm good like this.” That wasn't a lie. You also just couldn't stand the idea of giving any relief to her anxious state. “It's my new job. Very coveted. I've been working closely with one of the researchers there, and he can't praise me enough. I'm looking after Elio for a year and then moving on to their next latest and greatest.”
“You?” She spat out a laugh. It calmed the trembling in her hands for a few seconds before she was back at it again. “Oh, my. Well. If that's the case, you certainly owe it to me for getting that job. My genetics. My smarts. You certainly didn't get it from your father.”
That lurching, angry ball in your throat was rising up fast. It was just there on the tongue making you gag, salivate, and begin to drool a bit from the corner of your lips. It tasted horrific and filled you with the most voracious need for venom.
“Who is my father?” you asked. “You could be wrong.”
Mother suddenly grew uncomfortable, flattening her gaze with the tabletop. Historically, she had always been this way when you asked about him, the infamously evasive ghost of your life. It was also the only thing that ever made her shut up.
“That doesn't matter.” She continued, “You’ve always had me and Marcos. That's what matters.”
“I've had Marcos.” The ball freed itself. “I just thought you should know, Generation Three models are being decommissioned. Marcos won't be receiving any more updates, and eventually, he'll just be a pile of fucking scrap. What're you gonna do then? You can't afford another android because you've sunk every penny you've ever saved into him—his upgrades, his maintenance, his clothes. It may take about ten years, and you'll probably be on your deathbed, but he's going to fall apart and eventually stop moving. You'll be just as alone as you were before he came along.”
Mother’s face turned shades, petrified. You wanted nothing more than to see her shrink into her clothes and disappear for good. It soothed you to think about Marcos’ end being inevitable, unchangeable, a fact. Some of the guilt was easier to bury that way.
“Wh-What are you saying to me, you awful child?!” She wailed with watery eyes, hands wrapped in the same colored strands of hair you had. “How could you?! That's not true! That’s not true! Do you know how hard it was to carry you for nine months?! I was so young and I was forced to give birth to you! Forced! Do you hear me—forced to be a mother to a child I never wanted! It was that or death. I never wanted a child because they turn on you and say things like this! You horrible, horrible child!”
Her shrieks stirred a ruckus from the kitchen where Marcos and Elio emerged from. Marcos ran to your mother, took her in his arms, and cradled her against his chest when she began to shed very real tears that bubbled at the corner of her eyes before falling, curving along her cheeks.
Elio came straight to you, hesitating to put his hands on your body, maybe noticing how viciously you glared at this wilted woman he'd yet to meet.
“Get the groceries. We're gone.” You stormed straight for the door, chest stuttering with heavy breaths you tried to calm because you knew what came next. Your throat ached, burned fiercely like something had snagged there and you needed to claw it out.
Once you reentered the chilly air submerged in all the dark and light of Retro City at night, it didn't matter that you were crying. They were hot tears that left behind cool traces. They were decades of disappointment, of secretly understanding a mother’s love would always be conditional, of being unwanted and wishing you hadn't been burdened with existing.
Elio came out minutes later, the door closing softly and locking after him. You heard the bags crinkle near you, drawing your eyes away from a blinking parking meter you'd zoned in to calm yourself down.
You said nothing.
“Let’s go home.” Elio hailed a cab idling nearby and opened the door for you. “I want to keep the meat fresh.”
Him and that stupid duck.
This cabbie looked back at you both once to get directions, and then only occasionally afterward, casting pitiable glances at your raw-looking face in the mirror. The GPS displayed on the car’s dashboard showed the apartment was thirty minutes away because of traffic, probably from a crash they were detouring; ordinarily, it only took twenty minutes.
When your pocket vibrated, you almost didn't check. Unsurprisingly, it was a message from Marcos, just a single one.
“I don't think you should come around for a while,” it read. You didn't respond. Nothing new. Some sort of falling out with your mother was routine. You couldn't understand why she thought it'd ever go differently.
However, this time wasn't like all the rest. This time, you’d said something unforgivable despite her doing the same, but yours was worse in her mind. You didn't mind the idea of her disappearing from your life. It was harder to handle the thought that you'd never see Marcos again before he ceased to function, though.
“What happened?” Elio asked, a weird departure from androids being programmed, traditionally, never to pry. “That woman was your mother, correct? What did you say to her?”
“Who cares?” You grunted, sniffing around the burn in sinuses again. “She's a crazy bitch. She's always been that way. I told her that Marcos would just turn into a scrap heap eventually. Was that wrong of me?”
“Well, perhaps that phrasing was inappropriate, yes.” Elio touched your forearm. “But there is no NDA in place from Hyperion. You are well within your rights to have told her. But, as I said, your phrasing—”
“I know, shut up—” You moved closer so you could lean against him. “I hate that woman. I hate my mother more than I ever hated anyone.”
Elio lifted an arm above you, giving you room to slide in as far as you wanted to go. He held you for the first time, repeating long, weighty strokes down your back, through his coat that you still wore. You were transported back to a moment in time steeped in cloudy nostalgia, blurred.
It was Marcos kneeling at your bedside, yellow overhead lights dimmed to nearly full darkness. The door was shut because otherwise a heap of cackling voices, Mother and her gossiping hens after too much wine, would spear in through the cracks and make you petulant. Marcos had already been trying to get you to sleep for over an hour.
“Sleep little one, sleep.” Marcos had said, voicebox in his throat straining with a quieter sound. “I know it must be difficult. You must be rested for school tomorrow.”
“They're too loud.” you whined, throwing your covers back with a great flourish, feet kicking them the rest of the way off before you huffed and turned to your side away from Marcos. “Make them shut up! Can't you make them shut up, Marcos?!”
He sighed, defeated as much as an android could be. No, he could not. It went against his programming to disobey his master—any human who made a demand of him. His order was to get the child to sleep, and that had yet to happen.
“Would you like me to read The Falcon and the Hare to you again?” It was your favorite bedtime story right now. Hearing fictional stories involving extinct animals seemed to be of odd fascination to you. “My tone of voice might make it—”
“No!” you fussed, thumping your feet once, twice, three times and going limp again. “Come up here until I fall asleep. Please?”
Marcos nodded. “Yes, little one.”
He had to keep one leg off the bed to even half fit on the mattress. You sat upright to fix the blankets so to cover yourself and part of Marcos’ one bent knee. His arm laid out on the bed, waiting for you to crawl into it until you were nestled into his side, sucking up what small warmth radiated from his fake body. Once you found a comfortable spot, curled up tightly much like a cat sunbathing in a single shaft of daylight, he began smoothing a hand down along your back, heavy enough to be felt through your thick comforter.
You listened to him hum a song that you liked, one that translated well to his chords and the vibrations in his throat.
He hummed. He petted your back. He hummed. He petted your back. He hummed…
“Do you truly hate your mother?” Elio’s voice was delicate just then, aware that you were away in some reverie he tried to gently lure you out of. The dream was over. That one silver glimmer of your childhood became far away, forgotten while the sounds of the city rushed back into the cab.
“Yes—I mean, I dunno.” You actually yawned, pushing one of your eyes with the heel of your hand. “I think I hate her. We've argued my entire life. We've never gotten along. Yeah, I hate her.”
Elio was holding you by the waist now. “Is that why you said what you did?”
“Said what?” You were a little too keen on his thumb swirling around the fat padding your hip bone.
“About Marcos being scrap…”
“Elio, seriously? Do you ever shut up?” It was tempting to put yourself on the opposite side of the seat, but you didn't want to give the cabbie any chance to eyeball him. “I—I don't know. She just gets me so mad. I used to be able to crush up those feelings because Marcos told me it wasn't healthy to act on them. But, then, I moved out, and I realized she was still the same, that she'd always stay the same. I stopped hiding it.”
You were so close to his face that you could see how long his eyelashes were and the shadows they cast on his cheeks.
You looked into his eyes. “I wanted to make her hurt as much as she hurt me.”
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
Midnight had come and gone before you finally gave up on trying to sleep. You spent the better part of an hour staring up at the high ceiling, imagining every rusting pipe you saw as immobile serpents stretched taut to make the interconnecting structure that sprawled across the entire loft. Swirls and shapes and blacker-than-black shadows danced in front of your eyes, twisted with the pipes, and made the usual knocking sounds within them, but nothing ever came for you.
Downstairs was a careful amount of liveliness and aromas as Elio put together his duck à l'orange that he promised you. You scarcely heard a sound from him shuffling about but more from the clanking pans, boiling pots, and unintelligible chatter you knew came from the television.
Maybe he was watching a rerun of Wendy Carmichael Can Cook again, maybe a segment from the news because he liked that equally as much.
And yet, as you made your way to the lower floor, mystified by the fact you were standing on your toes to disguise all sound during your descent, you saw that the television was set to an old crime show he watched with you on occasion.
Detective Georgina Reyes and her android sidekick, Regis (G5), were the undisputed heroes of Helcam City and solved every case that came their way with style, finesse, and plenty of moral and ethical dilemmas. The majority of the show was spent within Georgina's inner world and her near-obsessive lust over Regis, who was owned by the department chief.
Ratings for the show had climbed to an all-time high when Regis had gained a sense of self and the ability to defy his programming. For fewer than six episodes, it was complete bliss for fans of Georgina and Regis, but then the season five finale happened—
“Can't sleep?” Elio asked, effectively putting your heart in your asshole, sending your soul skyward. He must have gauged your sudden gray pallor and bulbous glare because he smiled apologetically from the bottom of the stairway. “I'm sorry. I didn't intend to scare you. Were you watching Regis and Reyes?”
“I—uh, no.” You sighed, taking slow steps to the bottom to ease your heartbeat eating away at your ribs. “I was thinking about the show ending. Have you watched it yet?”
“Of course,” he said. “It was a peculiar way for the story to end. In my opinion, it was incomplete. Very sudden. It's my understanding that there was an issue with how the government was being represented within the show, and a few of the writers were accused of conspiracy to defraud the government and subsequently arrested for it.”
“Seriously?” You scoffed, making it to ground level, and walked around Elio toward the kitchen where all the heavenly smells wrapped around you, enticing you to take a morsel. “It was the forced pregnancy plotline, right? Creepy stuff.”
“Indeed.”
Elio wouldn't let you have any of the duck à l’orange, saying it was meant for your dinner later on in the day, but he did steep you a hot mug of herbal tea (for sleep), the one that turned water pink, and offered to make you a light snack.
He went back to his tasks after you declined, satisfied well enough with the small swigs you took from your white mug. You spent more time sitting at the counter in silence, watching his back, hoping to gain the power to see through his shirt rather than actually taking interest in what he was doing.
Your eyelids fluttered and fell thinking about the car ride home: his arm around you, his thumb rubbing pacifying circles into your hip, how you'd been close enough to his face to believe you felt a breath leave his lips.
“Elio.”
“Yes?”
He had moved on to washing dishes. When he heard you behind him, he took a clean towel to his hands and quickly dried them before facing you. You guessed you probably had a strange expression right now, or at least, looked at him in a way you never had because the towel was cast aside, draped over the faucet, and his eyes flickered across your face.
“Your heart rate and body temperature have increased.” he said, giving into the pull of your hands after grabbing both sides of his face. You backed yourself into the countertop while still holding him, thumbs caressing the rise of his cheeks, bringing him down, down, down toward your face where you certainly felt heat blow across your mouth. “Your breathing has changed. I can hear your heartbeat. Don't be anxious. I won't hurt you.”
You weren't nervous.
You proved it by kissing him, full-bodied, slow, lingering. He gripped the edge of the countertop, bracing his weight against his hands to stifle some aggressive reaction, possibly, and returned the kiss with just as much fervor that you put into it.
His lips were every bit of what you imagined, what you wanted them to be. You had the urge to bite into them a little, to see if they could bleed the same way yours could when you chewed enough on loose skin. Their texture was slightly indented with cracks that gave friction to the moist smear across your mouth.
Although the sounds of the kitchen and ambient hum from the television in the next room stayed as they were, it was like the volume of everything had been set to mute, and only the breathy, wet pops of air and skin made it into your ears. You heard the delicate chatter of teeth inside your head when his mouth roamed the underside of your jaw, down your neck, to the rise of your clavicle, stopping only at where your neckline ended.
His hands had already made home under your clothes, first doing away with your shirt that he tossed over your shoulder onto one of the barstools. Next, he worked on the elastic waistband keeping your sweatpants on your hips. You flinched against his hands when they splayed across your ass, taking all he could in them while his lips continued a downward trajectory, traveling over your breastbone, along the curve of your navel, and then he stopped.
Elio had been on his knees for a while, stirring you so deeply that you had no doubt there'd be damp spots sitting inside your sweatpants, possibly even drying on the inside of your thighs by now. He helped you out of your pants one leg hole at a time while you used his broad shoulders to balance yourself. And soon enough, one of your thighs was hiked up in that same spot, his face hidden from you despite all the work he was doing to well up a hard knot in your abdomen.
You had to take a fistful of his hair and wrap it tight in your fingers, using your other arm to balance against the counter. He wouldn't let you fall, you knew that, but the unsteadiness of your legs grew, trembling violently, turning to lead like being buried under concrete or suctioned by water. He kissed and sucked and stroked you some more, pushing more into the spots that made you moan the loudest and fastest, fingers wandering you busily and lubricated with your own spend.
“Elio—Elio, let's move somewhere, please.” You shuddered out, trying to pull his hair, shove his face off of you. “Please.”
He grunted, surprising you by relinquishing to the pressure, and made his way back up the route he had taken down. “Where do you want to go?” he asked, lips sticking on your throat, rising higher to the protrusion of your chin. “The kitchen floor? The couch? The bed? We could probably manage in the bathtub as well, if that's what you'd enjoy.”
“I don't care.” You were only half-honest and miserable now with the sole focus of trying not to touch yourself to finish. “Just… somewhere, Elio.”
“As you wish.”
Elio hoisted you onto his hips, making sure you knew to squeeze him with your thighs before making his way around the kitchen to turn knobs and shut off the overhead bulbs. The new darkness was refreshing yet did nothing to tame that sweltering sensation between your legs. In fact, you thought you could burst from the anticipation. It was everything you could do not to hump him through his clothes, hands occupied in his tousled hair, lips together with bruising force.
Before long, your back was on couch cushions and the television was off so as to not ruin the moment. You saw dark behind your eyes while you kept them open, unfocused on the ceiling with the serpent pipes because his mouth was already back on you and helping you chase that high.
“You're almost there.” His lips smacked against your engorged skin, making your lashes flutter and eyes roll back. “You look so perfect. When you cum, I'll take my time cleaning you up. I can use my tongue. I can make you cum again—as many times as you'd like.”
His arms held your thighs wide open, giving him all the room he needed for those final, well-placed strokes that turned your moans into utterly drawn-out, lewd things that made you grateful that no one else lived in this side of the building. Your body wrenched against his continued ministrations, his lips and chin and fingers warm and glistening with your traces.
You had thought to worry, briefly, about something getting onto the cushions under your ass, but Elio had already thought it through and used the dish towel from earlier to catch anything awry.
It came in handy for his face.
“How do you feel?” he asked from inside one of your thighs, kissing his way all the way to the point of your knee. “Was it satisfactory?”
You didn't answer right away, especially not when he came forward on his arms to catch your lips, slowing things down so you could bask in that fuzzy, satiated afterglow—dopamine and oxytocin being that remarkable duo doing their damndest to reinforce how exquisite and ineffably breathtaking Elio was to you.
“Would you like a bath?” he asked against your jaw. “You can just lie back and relax. I'll clean you up.”
“No.” Spurred by newfound bravery, you trailed your fingertips between both bodies, first to loosen the tie on his sleep pants, plucking the strings hard so he felt it. Next thing, your hands slipped under his shirt. “I want you to actually fuck me. Put your cock in me.”
Elio jolted upright, using the tall back of the couch and armrest near your head to hold his body above you. Cold air seeped in all the places where he had been, dotting your skin in gooseflesh, hairs within those follicles standing on end. You were laid out below him, showing all your unobscured nudity and vulnerability, withering yourself just a little smaller under the intensity of his stare.
This was different from the grocery store, where he had needed a moment to amend for information he did not have. This was something else—flickers of conflict, struggle, restraint, and excitement were ablaze in his eyes, which shifted around within their sockets, giving you glimpses of pure gleaming white, which stood out in the inky dark all around.
“I—are you certain that's what you want?” he spoke at last, doing little to alleviate the way you felt he had seen your insides and bones. “It is late, I know you must be tired.”
“Are you…” You couldn't really explain the uneasiness gnawing at your gut, nor the thrill of wanting him inside of you regardless. Maybe he could fuck the feeling out of you, bring peace to your throbbing heartbeat and blood gushing to your head. “Elio, are you telling me no?”
“I cannot do such a thing.” he said right away, coming down from his high place to lay the weight of himself across you.
You felt his skin flush to your chest without a thin shirt to hide his shape and muscle that wasn't real, but this was so much more than touching every dissected mannequin in physiology class in school. They couldn't kiss your neck while the interwoven, complex network underneath stretched, elastic flesh contracted and relaxed against your palms.
“Would you believe me if I told you there are certain functions—programming—that I cannot override?” The waistband of his pants collected in a heap of fabric around his knees, freeing room for his cock in the open air. “I won't be able to let you go until I'm finished. I want you to understand that.”
That sounded hot, and you were tired of him stalling, so you told him you understood. “Very well.” He kissed you, guiding one of your hands low to his core where you could revel in the size of him.
He was hard in your grip with a good girth and length to him, a curve you'd come to recognize from toys collected over the past decade to hit the right spots. The skin over his cock was much a part of him as the rest on his body, hot, growing damp, and sticky the nearer you wandered to the head.
You had watched old pornography with Melby and the group a few times before from the days when it was just humans performing acts on each other. No one really liked it because it was so dramatized; everyone agreed that one of the actors needed to be an android for it to actually be sexy. You never told them that the moaning men with stuttering hips as they ejaculated was something you did like.
Elio leaned into your palm, the thumbprint starting to prune as you rubbed his tip. More warmth seeped out from it, wet and thick and perplexing and exhilarating because Hyperion made him so perfect, a better being than just an emulation of man.
His cock slid through your hand in short, quick bursts that eventually lubricated his entire shaft. He'd kept himself busy on your lips, tongue in your mouth, swiveling together the taste of you with saliva. It was the most inelegant he had been with you so far, yet you didn't think you'd be bothered if he did this more often.
“Fuck me.” You whined, finally apart from him. The swollen head of his cock made a moist path along your core where you massaged it against every sensitive spot that set your senses into a blazing frenzy. “Be as rough as you want. Hurt me a little.”
He finally took your hand away, rearranging your legs so one laid across the back of the couch, the other on his hip with a knee shoved under your ass for height.
“I will not hurt you.” Both your wrists were cuffed by his large hands, pinned down into the cushions by your head. “But, I cannot let you go. You must see it through until the end.”
“Fuck. Me.” you said forcefully, uncomprehending to the things he was telling you, uncaring what it all meant.
“Yes. Alright.”
Elio obeyed you as he was supposed to, cock sinking in with care, thrusts starting out shallow until the tip was withdrawn and then back inside again. The angle he had created for you made it easier to take his length. It took a little more time to acclimate to his girth and plenty of gentle encouragement from his voice landing right next to your ear, telling you to relax. It would improve in a few minutes, and he wouldn't let you go to sleep dissatisfied.
Indeed, minutes later, you were well beyond the worst of it and filling the void all around you with harsh, rapturous moans, which Elio enjoyed hearing. His lips lingered at your throat where most of your sounds resonated, fists still holding firm around your wrists, knuckles the same color as the rest of the dark but had actually bled pale.
The springs within the couch cried out, unused to this weight and ruthlessness, while the air stung with cracks of slapping skin timed with your moans. Elio didn't let you move from where he had you laid out, didn't let up on the speed and depth he reached despite how labored your breaths became, broken words eclipsed by panting and his tongue forcing them back down your throat where they stayed in submission.
It was still cold in the early mornings this spring, often leaving your apartment a little less comfortable than you'd like, but right now, you could've been convinced that he was fucking you on the ground in the flatlands and believed it. Your skin was slick with sweat, the mess between your bodies slippery and undoubtedly staining the couch underneath.
Just then, the weight on your wrists climbed higher to your hands. He threaded your fingers together at the same time his thrusts began to slow, hips rolling yours like a swaying ship amid languid seas.
The whole time he had been on top of you, edging you closer to another orgasm, he had hardly made a noise apart from whispering in your ear when you'd clench his cock too tight. Now, he was failing to keep quiet from your neck, trembling and grunting on your skin until, at last, one jarring thrust left him breathing out in relief.
He got you to your end shortly after, half-hard cock still throbbing and warm inside you, giving just enough of what you needed while his hand finished the rest with fast strokes. You winced. He didn't let off until your jaw hung slack, whimpering meagerly through the pleasure hampering thoughts and sensations other than pressure releasing from your groin, spend turning a patch of your couch dark.
“You did well.” Once he was soft, he tied his pants back around his waist and picked up the sodden dish towel to begin cleaning around your sorest areas. “Come with me. I'll start you a hot bath and make you a new cup of tea before bed.”
You didn't want to get up from that spot, declared yourself rooted there unless Elio helped you up, and thrust a hand high into the dark room.
He wore a princely smile, you assumed, as he leaned down to pick you up in his arms instead. Moved by such a gesture, you reached for his face with your angry wrists and hands to kiss him all the way to the bathroom.
None of this made it into your next report.
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
Melby didn't like Elio.
This she had told you over text after you declined her incoming phone call so as to not arouse Researcher Kim’s ire in finding out you were completely distracted during his exorbitantly detailed analysis of your latest reports. Two had been sent in before midnight last Sunday, as usual, since he was rarely satisfied with what you revealed through them these days.
Less than an hour later, while cozied up in bed on your side, facing the chopping blades of an oscillating fan, just beginning to feel yourself teeter off that edge from dull, relaxed awareness into light sleep, your ringtone went off—it was Kim.
“What else have you committed to doing lately in terms of Elio's social advancement? The last thing I have here…” A refreshing, fast pause followed, accented by the sound of paper softly swishing as it was parsed. “He was brought to a movie theater on the twenty-fourth, Diosyn Park on the twenty-ninth, Henrietta's four times in the last week. That's not nearly enough. Who are you socializing him with? What have their reactions been? How has he reacted to them? You're not writing down exact times.”
Not once since you'd joined the video conference forty minutes ago did he check to see if you were listening to him, content with his nose being shoved down into a bundle of chemically smelling papers and glowing screens to corroborate previous work he had on file.
That made it easier for you to text back Melby, arguing with her in endless paragraphs too tiring for your thumbs to continuously scroll through that you didn't have time to meet up at Clamors for drinks with everyone.
“Should I tell Chima you hate us?” texted Melby.
Truthfully, you couldn't tell if it was meant as a threat or if she was just pettish after being refused. One of her worst qualities, never spoken aloud to her face lest she fumbled and blubbered all the way to Chima to snitch about it, was being horridly uncompromising to just about everything.
It made you anxious enough that your fingers started to ache with an urge, on the path toward curling back slithers of cuticle, gathering blood under the nails, itchy scabs that Elio constantly covered with neon bandaids so you wouldn't touch them.
Eventually, you found a new fixation with the seams of your knuckles and fitted the most unrefined part of your nails into them, digging up red that way until he had to cover those, too.
It took you ten minutes with fidgety thumbs to reply. “I don't hate anyone. You know me.”
Melby's was instantaneous. “What about me? Do you hate me now?”
Another one. “Now that you have that android?”
More. “We used to spend so much time together.”
Last one for good measure to effectively drill a gory black hole straight into your pounding, cowardly heart. In her eyes, anyway. “I haven't seen you in months!”
“He needs more direct interaction. I've decided that I'll make amends to the template you've been using up until now.” Researcher Kim was saying, not seeing you, not hearing you, assuming your loyalty to him and his cause was complete.
Ripples of drowsiness overcame you so powerfully that you left Melby on read, mind suddenly a vast, empty space and quiet for the first moment all day. Your hands rose to cradle your cheeks, propping your head above your elbows on the countertop because Kim's inflated droning had come to have that effect on you over time.
A human man with a face that nice shouldn't be allowed to talk so much. He should go back to moaning on couches in front of cameras and sweltering lights.
“Let me explain what I'm currently changing.” he said, hopelessly invested in whatever those alterations were just by the mechanical click-clack of fingertips soaring over a keyboard somewhere low and out of sight of his screen. “From here on out, I'm going to require that you gather between six to ten direct interactions. I want full disclosure of every conversation, transcribed or recorded. From my standpoint, recording would be the most effective method so I may make interpretations myself.”
You were thinking of what to ask Elio to make you for lunch. It was almost noon. You unmuted the call. “Am I allowed to just randomly record people talking like that? That seems…”
“Hyperion works closely with Retro City’s governing bodies, and by extension, so do you.” Kim kept typing as he spoke. “It isn't illegal because the information you're collecting is imperative to the Hyperion Project. Without it, we face the risk of progress slowing or diminishing. That cannot happen, and I cannot emphasize enough that your work as an auditor must come before other commitments.”
At long last, he pulled his face out of papers and other screens to look at yours. In a fashion unsuitable for him, he sighed in a fatigued way, back collapsing against his ergonomic chair, shoulders lopsided with how he perched his elbows on the armrests.
“Retro City has over three million inhabitants. You won't have any issues finding people for Elio to speak to.” he told you. “Six to ten for each report. That’s all.”
You were already back in your messages, backtracking your previous responses to Melby, asking her what time everyone was meeting at Clamors.
Right away, “Come at nine!”
And then, “I'll save you a seat.”
Finally, “Don't eat too much before getting here. It'll ruin the fun.”
“Fine.” Phone now face down on the counter, you returned Researcher Kim’s concentrated stare. “I'll do my best. Six to ten. Six to ten…”
That had done well to appease him, demonstrated through a satisfied smile, which pulled his lips just enough that the muscles in his right cheek twitched as though the motion was foreign to him. With how inexpressive he was most of the time, you weren't surprised, thinking it more humorous than anything else.
You struggled to find a smile of your own that wasn't strained, though.
“That reminds me—” He positioned himself forward, arms on his polished dark-red desk with a curious gleam in his black eyes. “None of your reports have instances of copulation mentioned. Have there been complications?”
You sat stiffly, not agape but definitely not composed, either. “Sorry? What was that?”
“Intercourse. Sex.” He simplified it for you, almost with a pitying crease forming between his brows. “You've completed every other area outlined in the template except that one. I have… refrained from questioning you until now because I do understand that, outside of a clinical setting, it can be construed as inappropriate to discuss.”
The only person you had divulged any details to was Melby. Even that had been brief and inexplicit because she had immediately changed the topic to something one of the kids Chima invited into the group had done that pissed her off.
“Why do you need to know?” It was a defensive question. “Is that something I really need to write about? It's sex. It's just sex.”
Researcher Kim made an indistinguishable sound behind steepled fingers. They hid away whatever shape his mouth was in at that moment, making the whole conversation terribly uncomfortable. It was odd how exposed you felt like his stare was reaching long, further than just the screen in front of him. He wasn't looking into you or through you but rather right at you—imagining you some other way, unclothing your body with drifting eyes and invisible hands.
You were equal parts embarrassed and repulsed by that line of thinking, allowing your mind to summon up his ghost hands to search you, feel you under all your layers, know you as intimately as Elio had as though part of some extension of himself.
“It is all outlined in the contract you signed.” Kim said, now with an edge that made you flinch on the barstool. “Androids are developed for convenience and pleasure. I have reports for one, not the other. If Elio, as the first of G7, is not performing exceptionally—if there are complications, if he is defective—that is something you must include within your reports. I don't suspect that to be the case, in this situation.”
His eyes suddenly caught onto something else, going beyond you, but you chose not to react by looking. “Your work as an auditor has been sufficient so far, but incomplete reports at this critical stage in Elio's testing are grounds for me to terminate your contract.”
You clenched your jaw until your teeth throbbed, your head going up and down like it was on a hinge attached to your neck.
“Personally, that's a hassle I'd rather not involve myself in.” Kim confessed in a straighter posture, smiling tensely. “Now, I'll ask you again: Have there been any complications with inter—”
“That's enough.” Elio reached across your shoulder for the tablet, pointer finger hovering over a red button on the screen. “Researcher Kim, it's time for lunch. Goodbye.”
He pushed the button, managing to catch a swift change in Kim's expression before the screen went black and reflected your shock back at you instead.
You watched him slide the tablet away to the opposite end of the counter space, unable to lift yourself out of this bizarre stupor just from how purely surreal what just happened was. And from the look of it, Researcher Kim hadn't anticipated that Elio was capable of doing something like that, either.
You just hoped it wouldn't cost you your contract.
“What have you been doing all this time?” you asked, tilting your head back to welcome his lips gliding atop yours, a peck, at first, which gradually grew deeper and greedier. With some effort, you pulled back. “Mm, c'mon, what were you doing?”
“On Wendy Carmichael Can Cook today, she said—”
A hiss of annoyance. “Oh, of course…”
“She said there was a list of excellent bistros around Retro City worth trying.” He wasn't pleading with you or anything, but he seemed just about as dedicated to this idea as he had been with the duck à l’orange a while back. “For lunch, I thought it'd be of interest to you to visit one. I've been researching ones I thought you would like based off of your dietary habits, allergies, and sensitivities. Radiant Bistro next to the Leviathan Archway near downtown might be a good option. Impressively diverse menu.”
You pretended to pinch lint off of his shirt and inspect it up close. “If you didn't want to cook, you could've just said that.”
“That's not it,” he assured you with a kiss to the back of your hand so that you understood he meant it. “Since my arrival here, your social presence has declined substantially, which will not fare well for your public profile. I do understand that it’s in relation to your work as an auditor, but—”
“Okay! Okay, I get it.” you said agreeably, hands raised, hoping it'd deflect anything else. “We’ll go. Let me just find a hat so the sun won't get on my face.”
“No problem.” He walked away and came back with an old unbranded brown one from somewhere in the most remote crevice of the apartment. “Will this suffice?”
You looked at it, amazed. “Yeah. Yup. Let's go.”
Elio had stopped carrying a coat with him once the evenings grew long, and the remnants of heat from the day floated into nighttime, trapping the city within a muggy gray haze that too closely resembled dewy fog in early spring. The difference was the heaviness and breathability of the air—one you could tolerate despite allergies; the other was deplorable and evoked memories of every single club you had drunk and danced in with Melby and Chima and the rest in the past years.
Outside, right now, sucking in the early-afternoon heat into your lungs after spending your morning in air conditioning, nose wrapped in earthy white wisps rising from a coffee mug, you wanted to turn back around and hide. Much to your dismay, Elio kept you on a short leash with a tight grip on your hand, probably expecting you to have a change of heart.
“Would you like for me to recall the menu and read it aloud to you?” he offered, situating his hand so his fingers crossed through yours, palms flush together. “They have fourteen types of sandwiches—hot and cold. Five of those are chicken, and five are of different meat varieties: lamb, cow, veal, goat, and yak, all claimed to be bred and raised and slaughtered in their warehouses. The last four sandwiches are…”
You listened passively without much commitment, especially in the back of the cab where there was no escape from anything. The AC was broken. The cabbie kept wiping sweat off his brow and sipped warm water. With the windows down, the outside air ripped inside the vehicle, nearly stealing the old hat off your head.
Elio went on to list desserts, thumb gently rolling circles on your sticky skin as if meant to keep you soothed.
“As long as I remember to eat light…” you murmured, remembering, glumly to yourself.
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
Clamors was inside a three-story building on the north end of Retro City, about a ten-minute taxi ride to Mother’s brick-stone house, thirty minutes from Henrietta’s, forty minutes from your apartment, and farthest removed from the slums where congregations of profile delinquents and the unwanted were most dense.
Here in this part of the city, you were an imposter among manicured foliage, men and women and androids arrayed in trendy designer silhouettes that were protruding, sharp, and agonizing; sharks and whales of big business puffed cigars in front panoramic views of the cityscape from the highest skyscrapers. They could look down at the street from their window and see you, an ant scuttling meaninglessly.
This wasn't a place where you belonged, a feeling that never changed over time, even years later after Chima recruited you into his group and every night was a suffocating blur of sweaty, faceless bodies, explosive music, stomping feet, raspy screams, and lightly-flavored chalk dissolving under your tongue. You roamed the sidewalks at two in the morning as everyone had been kicked out, but no one cared because Chima came from money, a rare case where two parents could be accounted for, and you'd all just be back inside the next evening.
You weren't sure when you had become disillusioned with it all—the drinks, the animal pills, which coalesced into saliva in your mouth, the noises, the gossip, the six ibuprofen to function behind a desk at work, the burnout of rinse and repeat, a conveyor belt that moved cyclically without a place to get off. To exit the ride meant to plunge head-first into abject terror, the unknowable, to become part of the yellow wallpaper that's never actually seen, to cease to be.
Being back in Clamors again after months away turned your heart against you, thrust the sound of its distress into your ears, dwarfing an animated conversation happening right at your circular table. You felt the music vibrate through your skin, make its way into your marrow, and rattle your entire skeleton.
Melby had a hand on your knee, blunt-tipped nails collecting sweat off your skin underneath them.
You couldn't really focus on that.
“So, this is Elio. He's hot.” Chima said without looking at you.
“Really hot!”
“So hot!”
“Did you hear? Shut up, stop talking! Did you hear? That slut got herself pregnant!” shouted Niva, a senior-most part of the circle behind you and Melby. She knew everything about everyone, though she wasn't supposed to keep tabs. “Apparently her baby daddy decided the pussy wasn't worth it anymore and ran!”
“I can't believe it. That'd mean someone was actually willing to sleep with her.” said Niquan Lamos, the fashionable one always gravitating toward pastels. “A man, at that. Disgusting.”
Everyone laughed, including you. Elio quietly observed it all, seated at your side, incapable of letting his polite smile slip with numerous prowling eyes on him.
“Have you fucked him yet?” Chima asked you without actually caring for a response.
“Oh, have you fucked him?”
“C'mon, don't hide it. How was it?”
“What was her name?” asked a newcomer in the group, fresh out of secondary school and not even twenty. He was a compact lad, both in size and from being squeezed between Chima and Niquan in the circular booth stretched in fuchsia leather, or at least, that's how it looked in your table’s corner of the club. “How come she isn't here anymore?”
First rule was: Never talk about things that could make the liquor go down harder. This was one of those things. Secondly, never ask questions about people who the group was no longer associated with. It just sounded ugly to acknowledge the rejects.
Tonight, however, was an exception because Elio's presence was an exciting change. They forgot how to behave.
“Hm, now that you mention it, I don't remember. How long has it been?” Chima said this absently, abysmally black eyes wholly captivated by the android. “Damn. Something like Mi-dan? Mi-an? Mi… Mi…”
“Her name was Mi-sun.” said a nobody from somewhere at the round table. It probably would've been easy to figure out who was talking if they were more important, but it took less effort to blame the music reverberating from the speakers mounted on the wall near their heads.
Melby’s hand traveled adventurously along your thigh, unmindful of how close she came to your crotch. You had a harder time ignoring that move and sipped busily from your jungle bird, holding it higher than your eyeline to admire its beautiful vermilion hue practically glowing against the strobe lights pulsing down from the ceiling.
“This is the first time I've seen you drink.” Elio was leaned into you, wise to the fact that you wouldn't hear him any other way. His lips nearly touched your ear, voice honeyed, caring, all for you. You were halfway through your second jungle bird. “Please don't overdo it. The adverse effects of overconsumption of alcohol will cause you great discomfort tom—”
“Thank you, Elio.” For just a moment, you wondered how irreversibly damaging it would be to just grab his hand and sprint out of there. You drank some more to weaken your resolve, add lead into your legs. “I'll be good if you be good.”
Elio nodded appreciatively.
“Why was Mi-sun kicked out?” again asked the new face from before, plain and boyish-looking, Chima's fresh catch. They just kept getting younger and the alcohol just kept tasting worse. You forced it all down, anyway. “Well? Well? Well?”
“She was talking crazy shit,” Melby piped up with a drawl, fingernail swirling around a dark purple bruise on your thigh. She pushed in hard enough to remind you that it was still sore. “Like, she was fine one week and then every single night after that she would nooooot shut up about some wild government conspiracy theories.”
“Oh, right.” Chima laughed while forcing everybody out of their seats so he could stand. “I remember now. Yeah, she went completely insane. I think she was talking about androids being used for population control or something. Weird. Hey, let's dance.”
“That was a year ago?” Niva wanted Chima to confirm. “A year, right?”
“Over a year now. Who cares?” Melby said, staying put beside you while the rest of the booth vacated. “She’ll just end up dead in the slums like all the rest. Uh, they do all die, right?”
“Who cares?” Chima echoed, nesting his shoulders high to his ears in a shrug before walking away. “Who has the animal crackers?”
“Sounds about right.” Niva was unconvinced, doubt lingering in her words until Chima came around to rummage her purse for pills. “Oh! Only take one, they're so expensive!”
Chima stuck three in his mouth. “Don’t kill the vibe.” He left without a glance back toward all the no-face, nameless nobodies willing to lick the underside of his shoes if it meant they'd be acknowledged and given features—eyes, lips, hair, an identity.
Niquan was satisfied with just one, offering a subtle wash of relief to Niva, who was just about depleted of her supply at that point and used the last of it for herself, tongue lapping at the inside of her plastic envelope.
You were almost finished with your jungle bird, contemplating a third even though you had entered the territory where one more could mean the difference between a happy buzz and splintering headaches tomorrow, just as Elio warned. The ice cubes had melted into a smooth watercolor appearance and turned from red to blue to green to purple to pink as the lights gushed down from above.
“I don't remember what she looks like.” you admitted to Melby who gazed into you, squeezing your thigh meaningfully. Again, you didn't pay attention. “Mi-sun, I mean. Were we friends? Did I ever drink with her? Have I ever slept over at her house?”
“No!” Melby snapped, affronted. “You're mistaking her for me. You guys never even had a conversation. You hated her guts. You thought she was a freak.”
You made a sound into the last of your drink, unsure whether she was lying to you or not. “Maybe. Maybe. Was I okay with her being kicked out?”
“Totally.” she said, casting a fleeting look of disdain toward Elio, lip curling at one side. “Chima only counted yours and mine and Niva’s votes since we've been here the longest.”
“That's…” You licked your lips and then the rim of your glass, secretly wishing your tongue would snag an uneven crack so you’d start to bleed. “Why don't I remember anything?”
Melby giggled. “Because you've been drinking, babe. It'll come back to you. What animal cracker do you want tonight? Giraffe or cat?”
“Hm?” You were elsewhere.
Until now, you had gone numb to your surroundings thanks to the licorice notes of black strap rum and bitter Campari and pucker of pineapple juice that made for a mostly pleasant experience in your throat.
You were present in that moment, venturing a look around at the dance floor crammed with bodies (human and android) moving in rhythm to the music, in time with each other to create a oneness, a synchronism so strange that it put the hairs on the back of the neck on end like spines.
Why did it all look so different now? So alien? As if you were seeing an image from your nightmares in real life.
Elio failed to convince you not to have another drink brought to the table after all, meanwhile Melby said she was disappointed you didn't get something stronger, claiming you used to do it all the time.
That's right. You did, didn't you?
“Hey.” Chima had emerged from the shapeless cluster of sweating, drunk, wriggling bodies a short while later. He reached into the booth, gathering a fistful of Elio's button-up shirt, and looked at you with a malicious gleam, possibly just your imagination, that just dared you to protest. “I know you don't mind if I borrow him for a while, right? Of course not. The rest of us are curious about him. We’ll be gentle.”
You would’ve believed someone if they said your tongue was cut out, because as much as you wanted to slice into him and spit poison in his wounds with your words, rub it raw, deep into the bone, nothing came up.
Not a breath nor a feeble sob.
Don't touch him. Nothing.
“So, you're chill with it?” Chima, beautiful Chima with deep-dark skin sparkling in rhinestones and spray-on glitter as though he were a vessel for all the stars in the cosmos, bared his straight, white teeth at you in the form of an affable grin.
Eat shit. Bitter silence.
He asked you the same thing again but grew bored and gave up on expecting you to do anything interesting. Elio was led away by the front of his shirt to the amalgamation of bodies like a sacrifice for the great black maw belonging to an abomination.
A few broke away from the core. Niva and Niquan were identifiable since you'd known them longer. The rest were unfamiliar to you—the no names and the tiny young man, the android bartender, the disc jockey, the bodies climbing over each other and melting back into a single incoherent mass.
They all looked exactly the same.
“I wanna dance too, let's go!” Melby struggled with one of your arms while attempting to scoot her way out of the booth, but the alcohol and broodiness made your body into a stump, sturdy and immobile, roots bursting through the bottoms of your shoes and the shiny floor.
She plopped back down. “Seriously? What's up with you?”
“It's too hot,” you reasoned, sticking a fingernail into the fresh glass in front of you, swishing the liquid around to make everything a more palatable blend. “If you want to dance, I'm not stopping you.”
“You're acting so weird.” Melby said, lost somewhere between frustration and astonishment while pulling a clear baggy from her pants pocket. A couple small pills moved inside, pink residue clouding the plastic. She plucked out one without looking. “Hey, open up. You're being a huge snoozefest. This'll loosen you up.”
When you felt her acrylic fingernails press against the corner of your lips, you gently pushed her hand back and nursed your drink some more. “No thanks.”
Melby’s tongue lashed against her gums, sharp and disapproving. “Why are you being such a fucking buzzkill tonight?” She traced your line of sight to Elio, to the others grabbing and fondling him, to his eyes looking right back at you. “We haven't seen each other in months. Now all you do is stare at that android.”
“It's my job, Melby.” You took the damp paper napkin from under your drink to dab your forehead at the sweat, trying to cool yourself. “I can't help that.”
“You can take one night away from your job.” she decided, taking hold of your lower mandible with a claw and crammed the chalky pink pill through lips and teeth into the pocket underneath your tongue. “You know the drill. Let it dissolve all the way. Stop making faces! It doesn't taste that bad.”
You tried to jerk your head away, but her grip was surprisingly solid.
“Melby! What the hell?!” It came out garbled around her fingers still resting in your mouth, filling the reservoir below your tongue with saliva.
Melby, blue-eyed and blonde with pale pink skin that always reddened in the electrifying, hot air in the club, was completely flushed from her face down to her chest. Her eyes had darkened upon withdrawing her two fingers, glossing your lips with spittle.
“I missed you.” she said, outlining the shape of your mouth until the skin started to tingle. “Did you miss me? I've been really lonely.”
Your least favorite part of taking an animal cracker was the aftertaste that was the equivalent of eating sidewalk chalk and rubbing alcohol with a whisper of strawberry wafting up into your nostrils, clinging to every permeable membrane in your mouth and making your cheeks tremble.
“I—yeah. Yeah, I missed you.” You tried to sink the lingering taste down your throat with a swish and swallow from the jungle bird. “I didn't know what I was getting into with this whole Hyperion gig. I feel like I'm constantly watching Elio. Twenty-four seven.”
Elio never lost track of you throughout the ordeal, his being unable to escape the hands on his body and fight against the programming in his brain meant exclusively for human satisfaction. There were moments where you saw each other clearly, empty windows between writhing bodies, and you were convinced he tried to convey a very human-like discomfort that you immediately pretended like you hadn't seen.
Interfering meant going against the group. There was nothing you could do about it except allow them to eviscerate Elio if that's what they wanted. You could only sit there, drowning in rum and pineapple and aperitif and demerara sugar and scorching strobe lights and music bashing your skull and Melby unfastening buttons on your pants, but for some reason, that didn't quite register as what it was to you.
“Are you coming home with me tonight?” Melby asked so sweetly that it made your heart flutter, or maybe that was the pill taking effect. “We always have fun together. I've really missed it. It isn't the same without you.”
“What—” You almost tipped the red cocktail while reaching over it for a water glass that no one had touched. You slugged half in one go. “Wait. What are you even saying? I gotta take care of Elio.”
“Oh my god,” she seethed, taking her hand out of your pants to wipe her fingers on the napkin you used earlier. “Just tell him to leave. He has to listen to you. He’ll be okay.”
Fuzz had started to collect in your head, filling the entire dome with a warm, soft feeling that spread like a rapidly-growing fungus down the brainstem, coiled around your spine, stuffed your jaws with cotton, sucked all the moisture from your throat, widened your chest with stuff, and ignited kindling that had been sitting in the bottom of your stomach.
Just now, the deafening tone of music had been reduced to a throbbing bass that jarred your bones and pulsed in your hands and feet. Your vision wasn't much different than it had been before, only now you seemed to move at lightning speed, people and shapes and lights all confused watercolor smears of you shifted too quickly.
“Can't.” You recalled Melby had said something. “Elio, first. Do you see him?”
“No.” she said, watching Chima hook his fingers through the belt loops on Elio’s pants, knocking their pelvises together in time with the music. “Come on, I'll call a cab and we can go home. We’ll have a good time away from everyone.”
You made a grab for the water glass again, throat the driest it had ever been. A mistimed gasp came out when the rim of the glass struck your teeth, missing your mouth almost completely. Luckily, only a little water got on your shirt, molding it to your chest like a cold second skin.
“God, that's good,” you moaned, draining the rest of it. “What are you even talking about? A good time?”
She eyed you uneasily. “What do you mean? What do you remember when you're with me?”
“Pfft,” you scoffed, stealing yet another water glass you managed to grapple with two hands so it'd stop swaying. “What do you mean, what do I mean? I hit the pillow and I'm out. Why?”
After a few long swigs of ice water, the dance floor was less a mangled disarray of smoke and neon colors, more definitive and jagged—the stage, the speakers, the turntable where the disc jockey played. Even the beastly blob of grinding, convulsing people started looking like people.
Melby had lost all the red in her face, eyes riveted to the half-empty jungle juice in front of you, perhaps counting the beads of condensation dripping from its tall form.
“You're usually really talkative. I think you're lying to me right now to get out of it.”
“Huh?” You were done with the second water, staring at her unfocused but suspicious. “Lying about what?”
“I—” Melby withered in her seat, distracted by something ahead that you couldn't see, a bejeweled nail wedged between her teeth. “No, nothing. Never mind.”
“Whatever,” you murmured. “I'm outta here.”
Melby didn't stop you from leaving behind money for your drinks before you stumbled away from the booth toward the dancefloor, evading bodies that came flying toward you with erratic, jerky movements not at all matching the pounding beat coming from the stage.
The floor was actually hundreds of individually tinted blocks of plexiglass with colored bulbs screwed in underneath.
During the day, Clamors kept it covered with a special protectant and tarp to maintain the integrity of the glass, but at night, it was illuminated like a nonsensical rainbow checkerboard. Each square took on a life of its own, flickering in unison with songs played throughout the night, warping into mandalas and spirals and disorienting waves that most people using animal crackers couldn’t stomach for long.
You were close to vomiting up the jungle birds and your meager lunch from Radiant Bistro that afternoon when you found Elio within the swarm of partiers that reeked of sour body odor and stale alcohol.
He stood amid it all with a stiff spine, the loveliness of his face covered by shadows and terrible bursts of light that heightened his vacuous stare into the faces of those touching him.
The only other time you had seen him so devoid of life was in the presence of Researcher Kim. Now, he looked in such a way at Chima, at Niva, at Niquan—the nameless and the boy were too scared of overstepping to have a part in it yet straggled nearby to feel like they meant something.
Elio saw you jostling through the crowd toward him, hardened amber regaining luminosity. You became the center of his world again with just a look, yet your world was entirely unthawed ice and serrated stalactites growing ever sharper, heavier, closer to piercing and crushing at a single point below them. The forest of brittle minerals in your mind needed just a single resounding event to loosen, to fall, to impale indiscriminately.
That moment finally happened as you approached Chima, his hand stroking Elio under every layer meant to keep him out. Your future was a far-off thing, light years away and completely untouchable, no matter how many times you were threatened with your profile, how you'd become nothing without your associations, how the entire world would cringe in disgust at your existence and leave you to rot.
You took Chima's hand out of Elio’s pants, hoping you had the strength in yours to twist his wrist so it hurt, wanting nothing more than to actually shatter the bone with just the pure hatred surging down into your grip. With the other hand, you drew it high behind your shoulder, muscles tense, bone popping from an unnatural angle, dense club air gushing between your fingers right before your palm released a thunderous crack against his cheek that shot up the length of your arm in stinging ripples.
“No, stop!” Elio tore you away too late, right after weakness reentered your body, and he was able to easily restrain you. “What have you done?”
The clique had rallied around Chima, steadied him and examined the mark on his cheek, which was already blowing up in size.
He stared at you with amazement that quickly contorted into pure incandescence. His face was the ugliest thing you had ever seen, eyes an uninviting, pitless, and hollow place. This, you thought, was what he truly looked like beneath the popularity, cosmetics, money, and illusion of drugs.
“Keep your hands to yourself!” you screamed.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” He tried to lunge at you but was held back by Niva, Niquan, and various ghostly hands. “How dare you. How dare you touch me, you sad sack of shit! You ungrateful nobody! I can ruin you! I can make sure you get thrown into the slums and your fucking insides get ate out by all those filthy savages.”
“That's better than this.” You felt Elio tighten his arms around you, feet shuffling backward to try to separate you from this. Dancers were beginning to gather around the scene, both grossly fascinated and terrified because they'd never seen a fight between humans. “It's better than the stupid drugs. It's better than this club. It's better than all your shitty little followers. It’s better than you.”
To this, Chima stared wide-eyed and gave a derisive laugh. “You seriously hit me because I was touching the android? He's a fucking machine! What else is he useful for?!”
You were still being coaxed out of the gathering, Elio's lips whispering pacifying words into your ear that you didn't hear.
“Don't—Don’t talk about him like that.”
Chima’s visage relaxed into one you were used to seeing. A man who knew he had all the time and power in the world and that he could do anything with it. He swatted away all the helping hands and straightened his clothes.
“Not only are you fucking insane,” he said, smiling without remorse. “Now, you're also dead.”
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
The decision to retch into a convenience store trash can happened because you couldn't bring yourself to do it in the neatly barbered bush you had been closer to at the time. You had separated the metal lid from the metal body so you could simply lean over and spew into it freely.
Smells emanating from inside—expedited food rottage from summer heat, curdled drinks, bagged-up dog shit, and God knows what else—did better to evacuate your stomach than the insane lighted floor in Clamors.
Most of what came up lacked the usual sourness, ran watery like a geyser of diluted red jungle bird with occasional chunks of undigested sandwich and probably everything from three days ago.
Elio wiped your face clean at every chance he got, those seldom moments where you could cough and catch your breath for just a few seconds before your stomach clenched and more climbed up your esophagus and exited your body. There wasn't much he could do apart from dab your skin and keep your clothes from the trajectory.
“Why?” Elio spoke sometime later once the waves of nausea had tapered to a degree where you could sit on a bench outside the convenience store and take a bottle of water he had ready for you. “Why did you do it?”
“Because—” you said, not bothering to finish after swigging and swishing and spitting the acrid taste that lingered on your tongue, between your teeth, and in the ridges of your gums. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't get rid of it all. It stuck in your mouth like bitter tar. “Because.”
You went on to repeat the rinse and swish a few more times, ultimately tilting the bottle upside down to crush the cheap plastic in your fist so it gushed down on your head.
For a second, you imagined turning on a spigot to shock your scalp with cold water, flattening all your hair, pasting your clothes flush and translucent to your body like a second skin to peel away later.
The humid nighttime air was suddenly so much less oppressive than it had been. A subtle breeze had picked up throughout the course of the day, not doing much to tame the heat overall, but the fat pearls of water streaming down your back made you shiver. You counted all the drops that coalesced into shimmering beads on the tips of your hair, your eyelashes, and your nose and fell onto the pale gray cement underfoot.
Elio had already unbuttoned his shirt to the navel, just above where he had rebuckled his pants and tried to pull the rest of the fabric free.
“Oh, Elio. Don't.”
He pulled you into him despite your protest, swathing you from behind first with the shirt and then his arms as he held you against his chest. Fortunately, he had worn an airy undershirt so his body wasn't on display for anyone else, though there was no one around at this hour.
He soothed you with long strokes along your back. His touch amplified to a point where it hurt as much as it felt good. You knew what fingers he used more pressure with, where the heel of his hand touched you next. You could feel where he chose to linger and knead at knots under your skin, imagining the sensation similar to using a sharpened stone or ice pick
“I'm fucked.” you mumbled sullenly in his embrace, warmth dissipated as you had soaked his undershirt all the way through. “I'm so fucked.”
“It was unwise, yes,” he said in silken tones from atop your head, thin jaw pushed down into your wet hair, grinding and rotating when he'd speak. “I had you in my mind the entire time. I was prepared to let him do as he pleased if it meant preventing a confrontation—I failed. But, I hadn't expected you to hit him. None of the outcomes I calculated had that conclusion. I'm sorry.”
“No. I'm glad I did it.” You worried that you were being overconfident, too hopeful toward a future unraveling at your feet as you spoke. “I couldn’t stand how everyone was staring at you—touching you. Everything just felt so wrong, but, why? The only thing that was different was you being there, Elio. I saw you—you looked so uncomfortable. I was so hot. I think I was seeing things after taking the animal cracker. I just got so angry.”
Usually, Elio was the type to scavenge your history as thoroughly as he could, however minimal or inconsequential it all seemed to you at the time. It was a quintessential part of his programming as an android—of all androids—to want to dissect everything there was to know about their masters, knowing them better than their masters knew themselves.
You considered making it effortless for him, volunteering your past with animal crackers and how they used to not hurt at all. At one time, you could binge them for days without violent side effects that’d plague a normal person for weeks.
“There are no pharmacological benefits associated with their use,” was what you heard him say in your head, firm yet loving, melting into his sensual strokes tracing parallel along the length of your spine. “Prolonged use has been known to create perforations in the gastrointestinal tract, heart dysrhythmias…”
He didn't regurgitate that information at you. In fact, he said nothing at all. Besides the hand sweeping down your body steadily, lips and shapely nose burrowed in your limp seaweed-string hair, he didn't move at all. There was no stuttering heartbeat between you except your own. Even his breaths had gone still, chest straight down and unmoving.
Elio was a machine.
It was so easy to forget while wrapped up in daily mundanities. It wasn't so easy to forget in this moment where you wanted to crack him open, scoop out each precious piece of him with your bare hands, and hide yourself within his husk.
You were sick of the silence, so you pinched him hard under the arm, right next to the crease starting his shoulder. It made you feel better to do so, and he'd pay attention to you—
He hissed and reeled away from your touch, startling you out of his arms because you didn't know how else to react.
“Did you—Elio, did you feel that?” you asked incredulously, voice whittling into a self-conscious mumble once you realized the words leaving your mouth. They didn't stop. “Did that hurt you?”
The spot where you pinched was hard to see from the layer of his shirt sleeve, but his fingers rubbed there insistently like he were actually trying to alleviate pain.
“Once, during my early development, Researcher Kim had told me he wanted to close the gap between what people think separates androids and humans.” Elio explained, coming close again to touch you and dry your temples with his shirt on your back. “It's unlikely that what you perceive as pain and what I am programmed to perceive as pain are absolutely comparable, but there's some common ground.”
“I'm sorry, Elio. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't know I could.” Your voice weakened to a whisper, throat clenched in shame as your skin grew hot. It was like you were still stuck in the throbbing, stiff air of the club and not in the spacious nighttime breeze.
He looked you in the face, almost-orange eyes flitting inside their orbital sockets trying to find something distant and unknown in your expression. You guessed he was assessing your sincerity—not for himself because he needed it, but to know how it took shape on you and bent your brows, molded your lips, dimpled your chin, deepened the lines.
Then he asked, "If I hadn't reacted—if my circuitry were less sensitive and I could feel nothing at all aside from your fingers on my skin, would you have done it again? Would you keep doing it?"
"What are you trying to say?”
"Globally, since the widespread distribution of androids, the occurrence of domestic and public disputes has been halved. I have been designed to be non-violent, as have all of my predecessors.” As if for effect, Elio took one of your hands and pushed your palm flat to his warm cheek. “I have no desire to hurt you, but I am also incapable of doing so.”
You couldn't wrench yourself from his grip, so that's how you remained, caressing his soft, smooth skin while your thumbpad skirted along the round bone below his eye.
This was more than you could handle right now. All of the illness and nausea that came with the burdensome summer heat, the animal cracker, every bit of liquid and food to enter your stomach, the memory of slapping Chima—it came back, crashing down like an avalanche carrying your regrets, fears, malaise.
“I'm not going to hit you.” You were gagging around saliva pooling into the front of your mouth. “Chima was different. He deserved it.”
“Perhaps,” Elio agreed, entwining fingers with the ones on his cheek. He kissed your open palm with great passion and some semblance of regret. “But, I wish you would have hit me instead. I have failed one of the most basic parts of programming by putting you and others in harm. You may now end up suffering greatly because of it.”
You did get sick again.
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
Elio had persistently warded off Researcher Kim’s video calls for three days while you recovered upstairs beneath every comforter you owned, maximum air conditioning, and heavy curtains to shun out all natural light from ever reaching your bedside. Time came and went without peril or concept to you, seeming to evaporate into the air like nothing, much like how your steady, quiet breaths did the same. They simply came and went; inhale and exhale, no writhing white plumes drifted overhead to prove they belonged to you or that you were even alive. Not in the dead of summer.
Five days total had passed before you could take the staircase down from the loft without Elio's assistance and eat or drink anything of substance that didn't end with it all being violently evacuated from your body.
Sleep remained elusive to you despite the sedatives and special hot tea recipes from online that Elio pushed down your throat. The migraines persisted even with prescription painkillers Melby had stolen for you forever ago and rough romps of sex that left you winded, glistening, and cold on the sheets when the oscillating fans blew air across your skin.
Whatever excuse Elio had fed to Researcher Kim over the days you were incapacitated worked because when you were finally back at the counter on a video call with him, he didn't ask you about it or chastise you much about the holes in your reports for that week.
“I see that Elio had been proving himself to be quite self-sufficient. I have here six separate occasions where he's ventured out on his own?” Kim looped a stylus through his fingers fluidly, concentrating on what little information he could glean from your submissions. “Henrietta's, mostly. I see he's had to visit the dry cleaners. General store. Pharmacy. He's also been completing the six to ten interactions by himself. Absolutely phenomenal!”
Your attention kept drifting away from Kim. It went to Elio, who placed a white mug down quietly next to you, the handle within reach of your fingers. Beyond the pale-gray wisps spiraling up into the air and dissipating among the snaking pipes sprawling the high ceiling, the liquid inside was pale yellow. Diluted green tea, maybe white tea, if you had to guess. They were among the few things you could stomach right now.
He offered you a fast smile, somewhat unlike himself, and leaned into your lips.
The sight went unnoticed by Kim, who was still captivated by the level of initiative and intelligence his creation displayed. Every word you managed to construct through sedative-induced delirium mesmerized him so thoroughly that he missed the groping hands under your shirt, the smothered moans, and the fact that you had exited view of the screen for fifteen minutes while being laid out on the couch and feasted on through an orgasm.
Wendy Carmichael Can Cook came on the television, a solid distraction for Elio. Today’s episode was a rerun featuring some sort of elevated mush dinner popular in the slums. With some canned foods capable of surviving nuclear fallout, herbs you were almost positive had gone extinct forty years ago, and spices so rare they were untouchable, Wendy concocted something truly groundbreaking to the audience’s eyes.
Elio looked only half-interested in the episode. Meanwhile, you went to the bathroom to clean yourself up and took three painkillers before sitting back down behind the counter. Researcher Kim had yet to lose the wind in his lungs, though now you weren't sure what he was talking about.
The tea was lukewarm and non-irritating just like you thought it'd be.
Your phone had survived the whole five days on a single charge as you had been too afraid to touch it, not because you were scared to see what was there but because you didn't want to know what was no longer there.
True to the fear, while holding a large breath you had sucked into your lungs, believing it to be the sturdiest barrier against whatever you'd discover, there was no one left in your phone log—except Melby.
The rest: Chima, Niva, Niquan, Marcos, Mother, and all the others who had once been listed there before like mock trophies to bolster your sense of worth, the swell of pride that came from knowing important people and integrating yourself into their lives to be something special, simply did not exist anymore.
You didn't have to search up your public profile to know that it was barren as well.
Once Chima went, everyone else went with him—both from the circle and those you'd networked throughout life. Even if it had been someone else, the end result would've stayed the same, exactly as it is now.
“What do you want? I'm not supposed to be talking to you.” Melby had answered her phone after six rings. The background seemed purposefully mute for your call. Perhaps she was just at home nursing the after-effects of things as well. “You there?”
Researcher Kim sieved through paperwork, now entranced by comparing Elio's earlier behaviors in the infancy of design to now. You lowered the volume to where his voice was a low hum, like mumbling through a wall you flattened yourself to.
“Let me guess, Chima told you that?” you said, sipping gingerly from your mug. “How much did he tell you? Was he actually honest, or did he just tell you I was fucking crazy?”
“You weren't acting right all night.” Melby countered in her surefooted drawl. “I don't understand what's happening to you, or why you've been acting so differently. You shouldn't have hit Chima.”
“He shouldn't have touched Elio.”
You could imagine her temper flaring, fair skin glowing pink in the face and chest as she kicked around the comforters on her bed. She strangled a sound in her throat that emanated through the phone as a low groan. Strands of her fried blonde hair scuffed together like pieces of straw when she scratched her head. It was unmistakable.
“What is going on with you?” she demanded, on the verge of tears, voice fading out in glimpses like she was moving away from the speaker. “Elio—he’s just an android. I know he's some radical new innovation, but he'll be saturating the market in six months like every other Hyperion android. There's always going to be more of him. Chima, though, he's actually human. You can just throw away an android.”
Emotions aside—Melby wasn't wrong.
The price of innovation always meant leaving something behind. Whether or not you wanted to see it, if Elio passed his testing period, he'd be decommissioned in a metal box down in the basement at Hyperion while copies and variations of him were added to the heaps of scrap in landfill once the next model came out.
Melby then said something else, “I don't think this is about the android.”
“Oh?” you said, passing a glance along toward the tablet to see that Kim still had his nose pointed down. “Maybe you're right. You know me so well.”
“Do you want to know what I think?” Melby asked.
You observed while Elio roamed the apartment, crouching to pick up the odds and ends that had gone neglected over the days you'd been bedridden, and he had stayed with you to keep you company. He tossed soiled clothes into a hamper, crumbled medication wrappers into the trash, and took your cold tea away to prepare more.
Inspired by your silence, mistaking it as timid submission, Melby went on. “I know you must think we're just being shepherded along, just doing whatever we're told because we don't know what else to do other than follow the loudest voice in the crowd.”
“You know me so well.”
“I know you blame everyone else for what happened at Clamors, but you put yourself in that situation.” Melby said, interjecting in a pitch higher when she heard you take in a breath, “Aht! Aht! I'm not done! No one else is gonna talk to you now, so I'll tell you what we're all thinking: Our circle? We're special. If we always smile and talk about the same things and agree about the same things, we stay together. We stay safe. You've never really wanted to do that, it was always noticeable. I think that's why you and Mi-sun always got along, because you two just did things to fit in, not because you actually cared or wanted to be a part of it.
“I didn't lose you, right? Chima always talked about ways of getting you out of the group. He didn't think you were trustworthy. I guess he was right because you slapped him. Do you know how weird is it for humans to do that nowadays? Apparently it used to be super common to beat up your wives and kids, but now people just do it to androids. But, it's better that way, right?”
“I don't know.” You really didn't.
Elio came back around with a steeping tea bag and a second mug half-full of something darker yellow, like urine. You took the handle to give it a whiff (it smelled homey and savory). Meanwhile, he took away the tablet and ended the video call without a word to Researcher Kim. The energy wasn't there for you to reprimand him nor to mess up your face in mostly feigned surprise.
“It's chicken broth.” He was able to say freely despite Melby blathering on. “Give it a try and let me know if it's too strong. We need to start reintroducing foods back into your diet.”
You drank from the tea mug instead, swiveling the barstool so your back faced him.
“I've thought about it some, and I think we're terrified of each other. Humans don't know how to truly trust one another anymore. That’s why we rely on androids for, like, everything.” Melby continued, “I think, and this is just my opinion, that we actually really miss each other. I think we want to touch and hug and love each other. There are still some people who do. There's a market out there for human-human porn, so it's not like it's unbelievable, but we basically treat each other like we're extinct. It's weird.
“I've done it before, y'know? I've kissed a man. I've kissed a woman. I've fucked both before. You and I—no, never mind. It doesn't count. I've thought about kissing you so many times. I wanted to do a lot more than just that, too.”
The corner seam of your thumbnail had started to bleed after you dug through old scabs and scar tissue built on top of it, your body’s valiant attempts to keep normalcy despite the mutilation that came back again and again. You watched brilliant carmine ooze from the wound, filling the crevices between your nail and skin, crawling upwards to your knuckle before Elio had stifled the area with a warm, damp rag.
Melby let out a long sigh. You envisioned she had just thrown aside a bunch of decorative cushions and flopped down in a chair, or had been pacing her bedroom and finally given up by throwing herself supine on the mattress.
“I'm going to miss you being there.” she declared. “I think—I think you're the closest I've ever come to truly loving someone. At least, I think that's what you'd call it.”
You held your thumb erect for Elio to wrap it in a neon-orange bandage with pink smiles. His lips pressed gently to the sore finger, making slow, wet work to the back of your hand and then the inside of your wrist to feel your pulse bounce against his mouth.
“I'm sorry.” you said at last, putting as much sentiment into those sparse words as you could. A part of you meant it genuinely as an apology for causing her trouble, for her unrealized dreams and lust, for the world you both suffered in and would never know anything else. “Melby, I have one last favor to ask of you.”
She hesitated, likely believing that doing more would get her expulsed from the circle. “Just one?”
“Just one.” You nodded at empty air. “I know either you or Niva have Mi-sun’s phone number. Can I have it?”
Again, Melby stalled, though this time you figured it was out of confusion. “That’s what you want? She might be dead somewhere in the slums, you know?”
“Not if she's pregnant.” you countered. “Niva seemed pretty convinced that night that she was alive and well after being knocked up.”
Melby sucked on her teeth, a moist, popping sound into the speaker. “Niva says a lot of stupid shit because she likes to hijack conversations. Fine. Whatever. I'll text it to you, but you only have one minute because then I'm blocking you for good.”
To this, your heart actually stirred and squeezed, tightening so much it stole your breath from your lungs. Your entire chest felt like it shriveled into itself three sizes smaller as though to accommodate you fitting into a ball within yourself. Dread had opened a chasm wide in your stomach. Everything inside that gory cavity was swallowed up, leaving it vacant and hollow.
This was what it was like to mourn, you considered. It wasn't the same thing you felt the night you cried in the streets after fighting with Mother and losing Marcos. It wasn't the same as the last five days being wrapped in agony, lamenting the loss of a group you'd given years of your life to appeasing.
It was knowing that once Melby was gone, you were lost in the dark, and there was no way out of it. People with delinquent profiles didn't get redeemed—Wendy Carmichael lied and had never lived a life in the slums, a truth Elio had been disappointed to learn—they died in anonymity and poverty.
A notification came through just then, showing an eight-digit number presumed to belong to Mi-sun. You copied it quickly, although now your fingers felt numb and the person writing them down couldn't possibly have been you—
“Alright. It's done,” Melby said calmly. “I have to go. Will you be okay? Do you think people actually die when they go to the slums? I don't want—”
“Goodbye, Melby.” You ended the call and threw your phone on the countertop, far from your eyes so you wouldn't know the exact moment the world ended.
“And, fuck you.”
Elio had the sense to give you plenty of space after the ordeal and stayed busy downstairs cleaning the apartment while you tossed and turned in bed, legs knotted up in the sheets because nothing helped get you comfortable. At some point, through the thick of your adrenaline and despair, the buzz in your brain softened, and you were able to sleep until Elio joined you some hours later.
It was after midnight, and darkness pervaded everywhere. Above you, the snake pipes on the high ceiling writhed together in their intricate web just like every night, and you wondered why the wall of darkness hanging over you seemed closer than it usually did. Meanwhile, Elio faced you from his side of the bed and laid gentle strokes to the top of your head.
“I’ve reached the conclusion that I am defective.” Elio said tonelessly, startling you into such wakefulness that you sat upright from the sheets. “You've lost your friends because of me, and now your profile has fallen into delinquency. The inclination to ostracize what deviates from adapted, accepted social behaviors aligns with common survival tactics. This is an explanation that I understand, but it doesn't... sit right.”
Putting the blame on Elio to feel better would've been easy, and he would take it with grace and lay decadent caresses on your body as proof you were right. But he was too virtuous, and you secretly wanted to keep the credit of being the reason why Chima looked ugly and seethed into his cocktails.
“It sort of hurts,” you admitted. “It's a dull ache inside my bones. It makes me feel like everything inside my chest is shriveling up like a prune. Being abandoned—feeling lonely—is like always being cold. Thinking of it now, I don't know if there was ever a time I didn't feel cold around them. How shitty is it that I feel a little relieved?"
“If that's the case—” Elio rose up from his side of the bed, nudged apart your legs and settled between them. Most of his weight was still on his arms next to your head. In the waning moonlight, shadows deepened the lines around his mouth when he smiled. “I'm glad to have played some part in that release.”
Your fingertips walked lightly across his cheeks, along the planes of his face, as though marveling at him all over for the first time again. His skin always was most beautiful bathed in warm light, but the soft, silvery veil filtering in through the windows gave him ethereal grace.
The calm air upstairs shifted as your bodies stirred on the mattress, sheets strewn to the floor along with pieces of clothing that left you bare to the gray air while Elio gathered the skin of your hips in his hands and sucked on you.
It didn't matter if you closed your eyes or studied the movement on the ceiling while he devoured, lapped away the sticky stuff that glistened out of you like the silk of a spider’s thread before it could stain the sheets, because it always ended with the same kaleidoscopic bursts of color, wanton cries, and him chasing after another orgasm and then another.
He'd ravish you until puffs of hot breath hurt, and the tip of his tongue delivering a single stroke was enough to make you flinch and whimper. Your legs felt fatigued and trembled violently throughout the continued ministrations until you needed to beg him to stop, dignifying the demand with a hard yank to the thick hair on his scalp.
“I'm not done just yet, give me a moment.” He told you the same thing tonight as he did every other time. The pain in his head subsided as he dove back between your legs and laid his tongue as a paddle against you, cleaning the cum for as long as it took for him to be satisfied.
He came up so you could have a taste of yourself in his kiss, tongues wrapped together while he fisted his cock stiff and lubricated himself with the fluid from the tip. You moaned against his mouth when two fingers pushed inside you and thrust with an effortless glide and instilled so much confidence in him that he slid in a third to the knuckle.
“Mm, Elio, fuck me.” you managed between wet, sloppy kisses and splintered breaths. Three fingers were a tighter fit and wider than he was, but the way he angled them up into you was mind-numbing, could've made your tongue wag out of your mouth while panting like a pheromone-crazed animal.
Elio’s lips went from your face to your neck, down along the slope to your shoulder before he removed his fingers and slathered that narrow space in your legs with spend.
“Of course.” He obeyed dutifully but turned you on your side and seated one of your legs high on his arm. “Let's try something different tonight.”
The bulbous head of his cock glistened as it dragged across your groin, tapping those sore spots that made you twitch involuntarily with anticipation and staggered breaths. Elio concentrated on your face throughout it all, memorizing both those subtle and large changes that showed him what you liked the most.
You'd never believed that androids could be sexually adventurous in the same way that humans could, and perhaps that was the case despite the kinds of positions Elio put you in if you were willing. He would be conscientious of your mood beforehand and then adjust accordingly from there.
Some nights, it didn't go further than mouth-fucking you until you orgasmed to exhaustion. Other nights, when you were more pliable and especially affectionate, he'd rut his hips into your ass until you cried and the sheets were beyond saving.
Now, Elio observed you closely as the curve of his cock sank into you, sinew in his stomach clenching once he started thrusting.
At the start, your sounds were soft, and the rhythm made with his hips was one you had no trouble riding. You closed your eyes and focused on how that tilt in his cock pressed up against your walls and stroked all the right parts. His controlled pace unraveled after a while, thrusts turned mindless and greedy as the sting of slapping skin seemed to resonate all around.
You had bunched bits of pillow and bedspread in your fingers and drooled out onto the fabric because you couldn't close your mouth long enough between moans and gasps and lewd mutterings to stop it. You begged him to fuck you harder, deeper, and tear you open if that’s what he wanted to do and would keep you in ecstacy.
Elio indulged your high as he was able, rolling you from your side to your stomach and mounted you again. He was able to touch you better this way, fondle the globes of your ass, the pouches of fat in your hips, stomach, and chest, all the while sucking dark bruises all along your spine and shoulders.
His mouth would sometimes linger next to your ears, wherein he imitated every bit of his human likeness and breathed on you. And then, he would poorly stifle moans that inspired you to think too deeply about the extent to which he could and could not feel.
“Look at me.” Elio felt your walls tighten around his cock and wanted to stare you in the face through your orgasm. He put you on your back, thighs hiked high on his sturdy chest, so those final thrusts plowed deep and stole your screams. You writhed under him, eyes rolled up, bloodshot and pupiless, muscles drawn so tight that it felt as good as it did awful.
A surge of warmth leaked out onto the sheets as Elio took his half-hard cock from your body and let it soften the rest of the way in cold air. His hand roamed you with delicate, healing touches meant to beg forgiveness for how much you'd ache later on, and his lips were tender and slow against yours.
You kissed him back distractedly, unable to think of anything else but the stickiness between your legs and how you'd chosen to never notice it until now.
“What's wrong?” he asked, still pressed up against your mouth. “Are you unsatisfied? My refractory period ends in a few minutes. I can do as much as you'd like until you feel fulfilled.”
“Mm-mn,” you hummed, “that's not it.”
He didn't stun when you snagged your phone from the bedside table and turned on the backlight. You pointed it down at cloudy white globs drying on your crotch, a sight that you thought was vaguely familiar to you somehow. It struck you then that it was like a scene from a pornography or vulgar sketches some kid in secondary school got suspended for drawing.
Still, it couldn't have been possible.
“What is that?” you asked with unacquainted timidity.
Elio grabbed a package of wipes left bedside and spaced your legs apart to clean the mess he had left on you. He took his time with long, intentional strokes to avoid your sensitive parts as best he could, soiling a good handful from the package before asking if you wanted a bath.
“Answer me first,” you said.
He rose from the bed with one more kiss and collected your clothes from the floor. They were draped nicely over his arm, whereas he stood there before you nude, enveloped by the moon’s blue luster.
At first glance, his smile seemed the same adoring kind that he always held for you, and yet it evoked some undeterminable sadness to well up in your chest and cling there.
“It’s the result of a body never truly being your own.”
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
Mi-sun’s house wasn't far from your apartment, as you recalled. It took a bit of investigative work online to track down her address (via Elio), mainly because it had been well over a year since you'd last needed to know it and the phone number Melby had given you was disconnected, but once you had the coordinates plugged into your phone, it was just one begrudging trek through sultry summertime air to reach her front door.
When you had finally made it to that point, however, eyes leveled down at a dirty, faded doormat that had seen plenty of seasons and wintery salt, you weren't sure how to proceed.
There wasn't any real reason why you were standing there now, yet you felt that you needed to be there anyway. Maybe it could be called seeking solidarity with someone who was enduring the same inevitable ending you were, or maybe the curiosity about her state of being was what won out dominantly. You couldn't be sure of your own motivations—only that you were there, and you needed her to know you were.
After three solid knocks with your knuckles, you let your hand fall and waited by scuffing the soles of your shoes on the coarse mat underfoot. It still had some springiness to it as you scrubbed. The front door was old and brown, having lost its elegant lacquer long ago. You remembered Mi-sun had mentioned a few times before that she had wanted to make the door cute with white paint and a frilly outdoor wreath but could never get around to it.
You guessed she never did.
“Should we knock again?” Elio asked across your shoulder, the bulk of his frame casting a cooling shadow over your body. He had gone out to Henrietta's by himself the other day when you told him what you intended to do and bought supplies to make a cake and special plastic Tupperware meant to keep it from moving around.
The only explanation he had given you about an hour ago, after locking the apartment door and stepping out onto the sidewalk, hot enough in the midday sun to melt the bottoms of your shoes to the pavement while you walked, was that Mi-sun was an old friend, and it was a safe gift even for a pregnant woman.
You never found the courage to divulge just how involved you had been in her expulsion from Chima's circle, even though you knew it'd be impossible for him to think less of you from it.
A minute passed, and then so did two more before you realized that no one was coming to the door. While listening for movement—a television, a hissing stovetop, shuffling slippers on top of creaking floorboards, anything at all aside from stiff silence, you understood that it was unlikely anyone had lived there in quite a while.
“I don't know where else she could be.” you said, now back at Elio's side, where he flicked away tiny splinters of old wood and shiny glaze that peeled off your damp skin like cut-up stickers. He moved the visor above your brow gently, adjusting the position of it to better shield your eyes, but seemed more to just want the proximity than anything else.
The longer he fiddled with things—your hat, the flecks of things he missed on your ear, wrinkles in your t-shirt—the more apparent it was to you that he was contemplating something else. You were trying hard not to do anything that would spur him into making the next suggestion you knew was coming.
“There is one other place we haven't tried.” he said, switching from your shoulder to tucking pieces of hair securely behind your ear and dabbing sweat off your neck with a handful of napkins he had picked up at a convenience store while grabbing you water. “The likelihood of Mi-sun’s profile falling into delinquency and being able to maintain residence within the city is less than twenty percent. However—”
“I know.” You breathed out hot air and sucked it right back into your lungs. Maybe if you did that enough times it'd burn them, shrivel them up like prunes. “I know where she is. Let's wait until it cools down to go, though. I'll probably pass out if I have to see any of that right now.”
“Today on Loti Khan’s Food Tours of Retro City, she said that Asakawa on Fifteenth is a spot worth visiting during the summertime because of their cold noodle dishes. Hiyashi Chuka was what she suggested, I believe. I've already committed the menu to memory, and they have well over twenty different cold dishes and beverages. Their affordability isn't as stellar as Rainbow Bistro, but Loti says—”
Wendy Carmichael was now a disgraced name in your household after Elio had spent a few hours one afternoon researching the woman’s true life story. She had been born into the elite class with a mother sitting at the top of the food chain in Retro City’s governing body, attended culinary arts schools across the world yet never reached the acclaim she coveted until she made up the whole spiel about clawing her way out of the slums.
Crawling back from the slums once you were in them just wasn't feasible. Only the worst of the worst—thieves, profile delinquents, murderers, lepers, and unwanteds were kept there, like trash crowded and barred in a landfill. If you found yourself in the slums somehow, no one would help you out of them because that would mean tarnishing their own reputations.
You were as good as dead.
You were dead.
Elio had carried around a brown paper bag housing the cake for most of the day, never once setting it down. His features never flinched when the straw handles sank into parallel dents in his skin, long stripes that looked like they'd be sore to you, but he never conveyed any discomfort. He merely floated along wherever you went, undeterred by your dour, soulless wandering, which lasted until the sun emblazoned the sky in dim fire and pinks.
Those hues were leached by the close, calming gradient of greens, blues, and darker blues that reached so quickly you could follow the sprawl of them until they had ensnared the daylight. The sun sank somewhere betwixt skyscrapers, and the air still felt thick as the mucus in your throat but bearable.
That same sky followed you on the cab ride across the city. You imagined the darkening air rushing alongside the vehicle with you as if containing it on rails, guiding you closer towards the slums. Once the skyscrapers were gone, far away in a suffocating yellow haze from the sleepless city, and the residential zone had thinned out of the rest of its straggling homes, the scenery had taken on a complete shift.
Everything was bizarrely flat, barren, and beige for as far as the eye could see—vegetation was withered roots and barbed, inedible shrubbery that could've been pretty with some flowers or leaves. No trees could endure the fissured, parched earth nor the fine dust and sand skittering in the wind, leaving heavy layers where it lay once the breeze ebbed. Animals were long gone; the rumors of their bleached bones and skulls warped in a perpetual rictus of agony had been true because you saw many scattered throughout the landscape.
“Please confirm this is your stop,” said the cabbie, a female android from an older generation, maybe three or four. She stuck her hand outside the driver’s window when you tried to give her a tip. With her fish-eyed stare and leathery smile, she repeated, “No need. I have no use for money. Please confirm this is your stop.”
“This is correct.” Elio spoke for you before taking your fingers through his and guiding you away from the idling vehicle. The android cabbie found his reply sufficient and drove away without questioning why you were out here in the flatlands. All she knew how to do was drive and obey traffic laws.
“Do you know where we're going?” you asked because you only knew to have told the cabbie to drive as far as the outer perimeter of the city. Beyond this, your phone had no service, and there were no clearly designated signs to point you in the right direction.
The people in the slums were meant to be forgotten, hideous secrets hidden away, broomed off to the outskirts of civilization where they'd have to fend for themselves in an environment that had been deader than them for ages.
“Truthfully”—Elio stalled then and glanced around the endless expanse of wasteland—“Hyperion never included information about the slums in my programming. What I know is common knowledge and what I've accumulated in my time with you. I have never been able to locate specific coordinates to where the slums are hidden.”
You frowned. “Should we turn around before we get lost, then?”
Elio told you no and raised the hand clasped with yours, pushing one finger erect at a faint glow somewhere in the distance, no more than a ten—or fifteen-minute walk. You were almost convinced you could see the silhouettes of shoddy, leaning structures, but there was no way to be certain unless you got closer.
“Let's go.”
Chasing the remnants of the dusk to light your way across the starved, fractured terrain, those sparse shapes you had seen minutes before grew into multitudes. Soon, you were among clusters of disheveled, crude homes organized in long rows, some stacked with tiers like they were meant to replicate separate floors for more space.
Most of these houses didn't come with windows or doors to keep out strangers but thick decorative curtains that'd shun the beating sun, stave off the worst of winter frost, and deflect billows of sharp sand from dirtying their things indoors.
The paths between rows of homes were well-worn and brightly illuminated with anything they could use—lanterns, stuttering neon signage, solar panels, and even fire rings brutally hammered and dented into shape. Shadows from the fire lurched erratically against crooked metallic walls. Some homes with grimy windows caught a weak gleam off the flames.
It was almost fully dark, and people still moved with purpose as though they could compete with the suit-and-ties stomping their soles on the pavement in the city. Their hands were busy doing something—carrying, brooming, cooking, flourishing during a great retelling, clapping, hiding smiles.
These savages, delinquents, fraudsters, thieves, murderers, and diseased swine never once regarded you or Elio with any modicum of intrigue. You had believed at some point you'd be shrinking under a crowd of wicked stares, pulled down into some inescapable abyss by necrotic or leprous hands trying to steal the clothes from your body or use your skin to tarp piles of scrap.
Only one man had stopped along the path, dressed in dusty clothes that were otherwise decently kept; he was thin but not malnourished and hollow in the face. He told you that the aimless way you and Elio had been walking gave away that you were new to the slums because there was always something needing done and not enough hours in a day to do them.
“Mi-sun?” The man was thinking aloud, stirring up dust as he shuffled his feet around. You had given him the name and a description, which you hoped had been specific enough to avoid approaching people at random. “Yeah. That pregnant girl… she was here for a while. She's long gone now.”
“Long black hair, blunt bangs. Black eyes. Really translucent skin? Super skinny?” As unhelpful as your details were, it was all you had to give him to keep the mental acrobatics going. There was always a slim chance he could be misremembering her. “Are you sure she's no longer here in the slums? Where'd she go? What happened to her?”
Eventually, the thin man led Elio and you to a tiny house—more of a shack—meant to accommodate a sole body and some odds and ends. He held a heavy curtain back for the pair of you to enter, encouraging you to settle down on a sandy rug, which looked to have at one time been bright red.
“I don't have much to give, but here's a little water. To have made it here, you would've had to walk. We all had to.” he said, pulling out his finest cuppery and pouring from the spout of a broken electric kettle. “That girl was a profile delinquent, to my understanding. Almost all of us here are. I used to own a printing business on the north side about fifteen years ago. I upset the wrong people and here I am. What's your story?”
You spun the cup with your fingers, trying not to put your eyes down to scrutinize any particles floating around inside. Elio wasn't given a cup because the man had immediately deduced that he was an android.
“I…” You still didn't drink, but the back of your throat felt scratchy and your tongue like some dry slab of meat shoved into your mouth. “I pissed off the wrong people.”
“Ah.” The man gave an anguished smile, showing he understood you very well. There was a low table between you, repurposed from something else and sanded down to a smooth finish. “For a while, I helped look after Mi-sun. Like you, I had been the first person to greet her when she arrived. She didn't act like everyone else; she was dazed, but she was angry.
“I fed her, gave her water, and gave her a sleeping bag. We have to make due with less than bare minimum most days, but we make it work. We all look out for each other. The community really pitched in when we realized she was pregnant.”
Elio kept a watchful eye on your hands, the fingers aching to peel back ribbons of flesh.
“That shouldn't have been possible.” you said. “Mi-sun had an android. She was never involved with any men—not that I could ever recall. She just doesn't give me the impression of someone who'd change her ways like that.”
The man sipped his sandy water, wiping off clear pebbles that had clung to his facial hair. “When you find yourself exiled here, you learn fast that things are never what they seem. You didn't ask a question, but you gave yourself an answer.”
“What?” It was more noise than a word.
“Daichi, I believe, was her android. Shortly before she showed up, she said that Hyperion had come to forcibly reclaim it. That must've been a difficult reality for her to face—knowing everything was being taken away from her, forced into a pregnancy, and having to fend for herself afterwards.”
This time, you lifted a hand to stop him from falling down another tangent. He obeyed, voice whittled to silence that was immediately unsettled by loud water slurping.
It wasn't that you weren't following what he was saying. You were many things: a fool, a sheep, a coward, a liar, maybe even a true scoundrel at heart, but stupid wasn't among that inexhaustible list. You just needed a moment to collect the nuggets he had thrown down for you to pick up.
Guilt peaked the ranks of everything else you felt right then. A word you'd never use to describe yourself was malicious, but in the end, it had been the malice of someone else and your inability to see apart from the rest that condemned Mi-sun to this suffering.
You played as much a part in taking away Mi-sun's life as Chima had in actually enforcing it. Unlike Chima, never one to balk or cower regardless of how truly cruel his decisions were and committed to them like gospel, you simply sat in his afterimage and did whatever he said. Half of the time, you were blitzed out of your mind; the other you spent wishing you had never known them at all.
It had been so easy to vote Mi-sun out of the group. Completely painless. You just didn't look at her when you raised your hand to pass judgment. Melby had expressed her delight by squeezing your thigh, whereas Mi-sun held her composure and shoulders straight back, but her face contorted with every indication of betrayal and agony.
You thought about how many animal crackers you had that night.
“What happened to her?” Both your hands had been restrained by Elio’s at that point. Large, comforting, and warm in contrast to all the ice that seemed to thicken your blood, stiffen your heart, and freeze your bones. “Where is she now?”
The man must've been suspecting something because his face looked long to you now, weighed down by this life and your feeble state.
“I—I can't be absolutely positive, but I do believe she is dead.” he told you grievously, beady brown eyes not unseeing to the way Elio groped your fingers to keep them still. “She didn't want to be pregnant. It was something she talked about for weeks before leaving. She knew what Hyperion and the government were doing and said she didn't want to be a part of it. On the last night before she left, I had to wrestle a knife out of her hands because she was trying to cut open her stomach to kill the baby.”
You couldn't swallow past the sharp granules of sand and dryness in your throat anymore. You had to slug back the cup of grainy water until the feeling subsided, shove the worst of the dread and shame and guilt into your bowels.
“After that, she was gone.” He took a drink as well, exchanging looks from you to Elio. “A couple of us tried tying her up to get her to calm down and do something about the cut on her stomach, but she got the knife, stabbed one of the younger guys and got away. We haven't seen her since, but a search party did come back to say they saw blood leading back to the city.”
“Oh my god…” you groaned, forcing Elio to recoil when you slapped his hands away—intentional and hard. You stuck yours in your hair, yanking at the roots until your scalp screamed and burned. “Is there any chance she could've survived? Any at all?”
The rail-thin man swirled what little remained of his water in the cup, studying the pale sediment floating within. “It's too hard to say. It's unlikely, my friend. The police wouldn't have gunned her down if they saw she was pregnant, but they would've seen the cut. And that counts as attempted murder. If she's still alive, it's only to give birth, after that…”
“Execution,” you finished.
He nodded and said nothing else, eyes downcast as though lost in the grain of the wood table.
After that, you left the man in his sad little shack to explore the slums more. Elio came along shortly after, saying he had presented the man with the cake as a reward for his hospitality and apologized if it no longer looked appetizing.
The man thanked him before returning to his grief for many things, perhaps.
“I don't want to be here anymore, Elio.” you said, failing to avoid hearing a gaggle of giggling women gossiping together. They were dressed clumsily and in trends almost a decade old, but they had glowy eyes and cavernous lines worn into their faces from laughter and joy where they could find it.
Old men played some made-up board game together, gathering at least half a dozen spectators to see who'd win. Their brows were heavy with contemplation and stress of worthy competition. The other bodies tried making bets with pieces of scrap and metal coils and nearly blown bulbs for lighting.
Music came from all around, lyrical in the same way it was discordant because they weren't playing the same songs nor singing the same things. Their voices were robust and resilient, unwilling to be trudged over by sand nor heat nor oppressors who were incapable of understanding the human spirit was pliant and could bend with the wind, stand with the seasons, and could fracture yet never break.
You couldn't make sense of what any of them were singing, the noise too unharmonious, but you could feel the power in their songs pulse through you, ricocheting in your mind for long after you'd escaped proximity to them.
There were no lepers. There were the sick and unfortunate, but they were not diseased. They did not believe that their tilted houses were tombs, that their unquaint lives were an endless spiral of torment, or that the food they could find and produce was unworthy of reverence.
The people of the slums lived a hard, thankless life, but they had each other. They banded together to weld sheets of metal into four walls and a roof for the new faces who came to them. Your woes would become their woes, and they would feed you, cloth you, wash you, bandage your wounds, and call you their most beloved.
Together, they ate their meals from what they could scavenge out there. They retold the same grandiose tales of heroes and valor and androids that Marcos had told you at bedtime as a child. Their cultures were all cherished and expressed in the food they shared and clothes they managed to sew together by hand and slow machines.
You could ask your neighbor for a tablespoon of sugar and four would come to you with curiosity and offer their arthritic hands and knobby backs for whatever was needed.
Here, you could see humanity clearly for the first time in your life and felt burdened knowing it. Your heart weighed like an anvil behind your ribs. It hurt and lurched behind its enclosure because it too wanted to get away from what it now knew.
“A lie.” you choked, forcefully shoving Elio's hands away from you once again when he tried to embrace you. “It was all a lie. Everything was a lie! Where are they?! Where are all the lepers and people leaking pus from their face?! Where are the murderers? Where are the savages? Where are all these awful fucking people I was told were here? Where are they?”
Elio's expression took on something completely unforeseen—pity. Their lives were fine and routine while yours crumbled around you. The terror you had been force-fed your whole life was all false. There was civilization beyond a profile with red overlay, more waiting on the other side that the sleepless city wanted to conceal.
“There are no androids here.” Elio mentioned, deeming that adequate enough time had passed for you to regain your bearings. He took you in his arms and kissed the crown of your head, burying his lips deep in your hair. “We were never meant to become substitutes for your love. We were never meant to go this far and act as replacements for humanity because we simply cannot feel what another human does. That is something Hyperion will never be able to achieve. Humanity needs humanity, not machines.”
You sank into his warmth, arms wound his back, and said from his chest, “But, I love you. Don't leave me. I don't want Hyperion to take you away.”
Elio, your beautiful sun, leaned down into your face and kissed the highest parts of your cheeks and the wetness around your eyes before settling on your lips. Slow and lingering, you chose to believe it meant he was sealing away your plea and that he'd always be there to swathe you in his arms.
“Let's stay for a little longer,” he said once apart from the kiss. “I’d like to see the side of humanity that no one else does.”
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
Less than a week had passed since your hard slog through the slums and back to Retro City. Although you had only been gone from your inner-city apartment for mere hours, possibly five or six at most, upon walking back inside after Elio and wincing against the fluorescent bulbs overhead, you thought you were looking at something entirely foreign.
The simple pleasures that you had become accustomed to throughout your life: plumbing, central air that turned the hot sweat on the back of your neck into cold droplets slithering beneath your clothes, the worn out mattress upstairs, technology, an android who'd done almost everything for you for the better part of a year—it all seemed so novel, so excessive. A treat for a rat in a box before testing to see how it'd respond when it was all taken from its enclosure.
So, when Elio woke you up one morning, early enough that the light streaming in through your windows already felt warm on the bed sheets, and the thin air looked itself to have a golden hue, you couldn't say you felt any rouse of surprise or fear when he handed over a red letter—an eviction correspondence.
Sooner or later, you knew you'd meet with one, though the progress of everything hadn't been as immediate as you had been led to believe it would be. A month had come by and stayed for several slow breakfasts, lunches, dinners, mindless strolls, and countless passionate entanglements before deciding to leave on an indignant note. With the red notice, you were expected to vacate the premises within days, whether you had intentions for your belongings or not.
Things stayed tumultuous from there on out, yet you couldn't find it within yourself to react to any of it, even in the instance when Researcher Kim rang you for an impromptu meeting that you anticipated meant no good.
“Effective immediately, Elio will be seized and returned to Hyperion in relation to the recent change in public profile status.” It was too formal and rigid a tone even for him. Clearly, his superiors had demanded this because you doubted the profile change was much a concern to him on a personal level. “Your contract is hereby null and void, and your association with Hyperion is obsolete. Any attempt to thwart repossession of Hyperion property will be penalized legally.”
Throughout it all, Elio swept the floor with leisurely strokes as though the reach of Researcher Kim’s voice ended at your ears alone. He moved onto laundry, taking great care to iron out the wrinkles in your favorite shirts and make the folds in the arm seams crisp and symmetrical.
“Is that really all you wanted to say?” you asked, palm capped overtop a mug of tea Elio had set down for you a while ago. The steam now rose weakly and moistened your skin, a particularly gross feeling, but it kept you alert. “I thought that Elio was your project, and you called the shots on him.”
Researcher Kim was out of sorts and worn. His posture was crumbled, and his clothes were in complete disarray like he hadn't bothered to change out of them in days. His under eyes were translucent, pulling out all the purples and blue veins under his skin. The man looked like he had hardly slept in weeks.
“You don't understand what you've done, have you? Not only may you end up costing me my position, but you've ruined my entire lifetime of work!” Kim leaned in close to the screen, sounding more and less himself now.
You were wary of the glint in his eyes. “What do you mean? Elio's just—”
“No!” he shouted and slumped back into his ergonomic chair. His head slanted over, almost coming in contact with the peak of his shoulder like it was too heavy for his neck to hold. “You don't get it. You don't get it! Because your profile turned, this entire year—everything you’ve reported, everything I've accomplished, Elio's entire testing period is invalid. Hyperion executives consider him defective. The Generation Seven android has failed! Look at what you've done!”
A sudden wild flapping of thousands of butterflies lifted your stomach up and then plunged it down into a void. Kim had successfully chiseled away the inexpressive mask you had worn up until that point, seeming satisfied that he could stipple your face in a cold sweat.
“Wait, no. That can't be right.” you protested, wrestling your own hands to keep them off of the tablet in front of you. “My profile turned, but the work I've done has been honest. Elio is a success! You know that! You've seen every step of his progress for almost a year.”
Researcher Kim threw his hands up wildly, truly not himself with all of these gestures. “None of that matters. None of it. My life's work is a failure. I thought we had an agreement to help one another, but I was mistaken.”
“You don't understand!” you said, pounding the countertop with sharp claps of your hands. “It wasn't on purpose. I wasn't trying to…”
“Hyperion will have Elio destroyed, and progress will be hindered. Do you know how long, how many decades this could set us back? This could be devastating to humanity, but I don't think you're capable of understanding that. Just like the rest, you're not able to see the big picture at large, the mechanisms at work keeping our society moving forward. You can only see the straight line ahead of you and wearing blinders so you don't have to know the rest.
“We've kept this world running for sixty years. You need to understand how utterly fucking frustrating it is that one person has the potential to undo decades of work!”
Researcher Kim’s words weren't unjustified to you because he was a scientist, and you had always been a nobody in the grand scheme of things. But, right now, the venom he spat sounded vindictive, a man sucking on wounds you had inflicted rather than the opinion of the whole of Hyperion.
If you hadn't been staring directly at him this entire time, you would’ve thought he was frothing and drooling at the mouth like some animal.
A stilted quiet filled the gaps in conversation, both of you uncertain of what would be said next. If he was reacting in any professional capacity, the call would've been disconnected by now. That was the main giveaway that let you know this wasn't just about what Hyperion wanted.
But the truth of it was that you didn't care what Hyperion wanted or him.
At the end of your life as you knew it, before being thrown away into the landfill with every other unwanted human, you were piecing together the whole history of the world and how it had gotten to this point. It had become this way through relentless men like Researcher Kim who mostly operated on their own moral compass, ones that could never quite point north and spun on that wheel as they saw fit.
“Enough of the powerplay, Kim.” you ordered, chest opening toward the ceiling with a deep, bracing breath. “What is the real purpose of Hyperion? Why does it actually exist?”
Kim, perhaps re-evaluating you as less of a pawn in this scheme and more of an infant intellectual about to breach the narrow canal into enlightenment, stacked his spine high and pressed his fingertips together. He studied you with some caution, head shifting from left to right, just slightly off-center from his hands as though judging whether you were worth divulging precious intel to.
But, like you, you expected he realized it didn't matter what he'd tell you, however coveted it might've been by Hyperion.
Kim, ultimately, worked for himself and for Hyperion only when he felt it served him well.
“When I hired you, I didn’t do it because I thought you were stupid.” It seemed he felt the need to clarify this for you, unsmiling but with an eager lilt in his tone. “I hired you because of your potential. I took a chance on you, and while it had, indeed, ended in my peril, you've surprised me so many times throughout the year that I started keeping a record of you as well.
“Human beings do one of two things in the consistent presence of androids, they either regress or they progress. Most of your peers will regress because that’s how society has been modeled to be. The difficult tasks, the mundane, all the things that ask of us to consider the complexity of the world around us and think critically have been left to androids. How well do you think a machine can understand the theory of life after death and the mysticism of religion? The concept of soulmates? Cultural superstitions and children's nighttime fears? It's about as you expect. They can give you an answer without truly understanding. Androids, I dare say, only have an extremely limited understanding of moral culpability. Humans are much more flexible with it these days because it suits them best.
“So.” Kim sighed, hands resting on the dark red desk he sat behind. “You can imagine how interesting it was when we started noticing a trend with auditors—changes in them. A renaissance, an evocation of deep wondering and wariness towards the workings of the world around them. We can only guess the reason that this happens is because part of humanity still doubts the intentions of androids, and that's been bred onward through the generations. You ask an android a question, they give an answer, you doubt that answer, and then you start to doubt everything around you. It's all hypothetical, but it makes sense.
“It doesn't happen with the majority of the population, though. And it isn't encouraged. Enlightenment threatens the status quo, and those who disturb the status quo are a disservice to the governing bodies and Hyperion. Do you understand?”
Your gaze turned cold. “Are the other auditors there in the slums, too? Once they've been used up and started to catch wind of this messed up shit?”
Researcher Kim flicked his fingers toward the top of the screen, doing that instead of shrugging. “Who knows? What happens to them once a testing period has concluded is none of my business. Presumably so, that's what I would hope for them because that's the kindest outcome.”
“Was I…” You licked your lips and felt the shallow cracks in them. “I was going to end up in the slums no matter what happened, wasn't I?”
He frowned. “No. If things had gone differently, I was going to vouch for you. I wanted to keep you as my assistant.” He was quiet for a beat, looking straight at you in that discomforting way that you couldn't shake. “I’ve grown fond of you, you know? How could I not with everything I've learned about you over the course of a year. I can't forgive you for what you've done to the Hyperion Project, to my life's work, but I can't just let you disappear like the rest.”
Something ugly started to grip in the back of your throat. Fear? Disgust? An inkling?
“What do you mean?” you ventured.
“I've read through each report you've sent me in the past year so many times. It was mostly out of necessity for Hyperion, of course, but the ones that I found myself… fixated on rereading time and time again were of yours and Elio's sexual endeavors. I wasn't lying when I said they were a contract-based requirement, mind you, but I will admit that some of the questions were altered somewhat.” he said, suddenly smiling in a self-satisfied sort of manner that made your skin itch. “I realized I never answered your question fully, by the way. I can get ahead of myself sometimes, as you know. But, do I really need to explain what Hyperion's purpose is?”
You were on the edge of your seat, ready to take flight off it at any second. It's just how the entire change of trajectory made you feel. Humanity had spent too much time in the past arguing animal-like, instinctual reactions for this not to be real.
In that moment, you were living proof of a prey noticing a predator in broad daylight.
“Fine.” He kept smiling around the taut creases in his skin. The muscles there twitched as if the effort were unfamiliar. “Hyperion is a repopulation aid. It's quite sad, really. It started out with such great potential to drive society forward, but humanity and greed have always gone hand-in-hand. So, it became a race of mass production into a race that the governing bodies now had their hands in. The order was to rectify the critical birth decline worldwide. Androids became less like tools, looked less like machines, and more like humans—like lovers who couldn't say no to any demand.
“Androids are vessels for insemination. What else do you want me to tell you?”
Researcher Kim's explanation had weakened you, made your legs shaky and light like a scarecrow’s stuffed with straw. You couldn't rely on them to carry your weight away from this awful conversation, the hideous sight of him, because there'd be nowhere for you to run to while the information perforated your brain and crawled inside and feasted there.
“Elio…” You didn't even know what you wanted to say. Everything got stuck behind the notch in your throat. None of it would assuage that wretched ache in your gut, the precursor of vomit and disgust and unhinged terror.
“Of course.” Kim said, without needing to tell you what he was confirming. He was perfectly composed still, perhaps even shining with pride like some well-hidden, nuanced detail had finally been figured out.
He leaned toward the screen, smile turning salacious and voice low and grating.
“My only regret is that I couldn't be there to do it myself.” He brightened at the way your face wrenched and fastened in fear, seeming to think it was a reward after conducting an experiment on another project. “But, there's still time, isn't there? I must retrieve Elio myself to shut him down. If you listen to what I ask, perhaps I can get you pardoned and your profile reinstated.”
“No. That’s not what I want.” you said.
“It doesn't matter what you want,” he rebuffed, speaking with such confidence that you almost believed it. “The moment your profile fell into delinquency, you ceased to be. You've fallen through the cracks, and no one is going to help you. You're less than an android.”
The fine hairs all over your body bristled. “Don't compare me to a machine! You don't get to decide things for me!”
“I can save you, you damn fool!” Kim gaped incredulously. “I can restore your life and give you more than you've ever had. I can give you influential associations. I'll take care of you. I'll keep you as my assistant, and you get to live a life among the elite.”
He was lying.
No one ever made it out of the slums once they were in it. That wasn't an assumption, it was a simple grim reality.
In this world, only humans could lie because androids were incapable of betraying their programming to do so. Otherwise, Elio probably would've lied about many things or had never said certain things at all to spare you discomfort.
Humans, on the other hand, could lie to maliciously deceive and serve themselves a better hand. They could lie their way into a false mirror image, something that looks like them but never really existed and could never truly be. They could lie their way into trust to fulfill their own desires, and once that had been sufficiently quenched, they could go on lying elsewhere.
“I'll be there for you soon.” Researcher Kim tried his best at a soothing smile, treating it as though the sight of it would persuade your trust of him. “Please have Elio on standby. I would like for this not to be more difficult than it needs to be.”
Just then, the air flickered lightly by your ear as Elio reached past your shoulder and picked up the tablet. His expression was inscrutable, the same sort you'd grown used to seeing whenever Researcher Kim appeared on the screen.
“I won't be returning to Hyperion.” he said with solemn, firm words that held a certain weight of finality behind them.
Those lovely, velvety tones were still there but could not reassure you of some unknowable dread rising up somewhere deep inside your mind. A sensation so equally intimate and profound prickled against your scalp, seeking a way out that you thought you'd do anything to make it stop.
“What are you saying, Elio?” Kim grunted. “Defective or not, you hold precious data for Hyperion. It will be used to create something better than you, incorruptible and pure. You should be honored.”
“These memories are mine.”
That was the last you saw of Researcher Kim’s face before the tablet smashed to pieces on the floor. Elio had thrown it against the kitchen cabinets only once but hard enough to split the screen into a web of hundreds of sprawling fragments. Shards of plastic hardcover skittered across the hardwood floor, lost under heavy furniture.
His face had softened completely when he turned to you and guided you out of your chair into his arms. You felt him in your hair, lips on your forehead, down against your lashes, lower to the roundest part of your cheeks, and finally on your mouth in a kiss imbued with so much love, cherishment, and anguish.
You were at home within his embrace, swathed in the warmth of his body and the ardor of his kiss. But this felt excruciating and desperate, like a plea to take all of him that you could in that very moment because he feared that he would be taken away and you left behind to whatever nebulous future.
So, you let him seat himself as deep inside of you as he could go while still fully clothed. He had pushed around some fabric so you could be skin-to-skin where it mattered, where it was hottest to be, where the muscles contracted and relaxed together as a reminder you were both there in that moment—breathing, moaning, feeling everything there was to be felt.
He finished outside your body without you needing to say it. Although, while he groaned into your neck and bore his teeth into the curve of it, hips buckling forward as spend jetted down your thigh, all you could think about was how many times Kim had been there instead.
“I want you to destroy me.” Elio said.
All of the breath left your lungs and shrunk them to rotted fruit size. You were still vulnerable before him, exposed to the room and damp with sweat from the midday heat despite air conditioning. Worriment filled the space between his brows when he saw you aghast, and he quickly cleaned you off with a rag before helping you with your pants.
“Is this a shitty attempt at a joke?” you asked. He pressed his lips to yours and told you it wasn't. “No. Absolutely not. You're as fucking nuts as your creator. You're fucking stupid.”
“You must—”
“I won't! I won't do it!”
“I'm asking you to save me.”
“Get away!”
Elio had tracked you across the apartment multiple times over, pleading his case with skewed logic you pretended not to hear. For once, your ears filling with fluff while the resounding drum of your heartbeat pounded in your skull was a fortunate event to occur. It eclipsed his voice and hurt so much that you could focus on the pain crushing your chest.
However, once you were trapped between the wall and his body with nowhere to hide, the brief reprieve behind your fitful heart faded, as did the strength of your resolve.
“I—I don't understand.” You had trouble swallowing down the saliva and sobs. “Why are you asking me to do that? I can't do that to you, Elio. I can't hurt you. I love you.”
“I know.” He didn't hold you, though he had to win against his own reflexes not to do so. His knuckles were ghastly-looking and pronounced peaks; anything within that vise would've been crushed. “Today, one way or another, I will be destroyed. Hyperion deemed me a failure and therefore there is nothing else left ahead for me. My chip will be removed and my body ripped apart and melted down and I will be forgotten and never have existed in the first place.
“You will be the proof that I was ever here. And, should anyone be allowed to destroy me, it makes the most sense for it to be you.”
His lips left imprints in your skin that felt important to savor, etched through your bones into the very cluster of cells that made up your wholeness so that he could be immortalized.
“There’s an excerpt from Hiroshi Nagoya’s novel Gone Are the Youth that left a strong impression on me. It said, ‘Humans destroy everything they love—but, still, they must love wholly, and they must destroy completely. From ruin and ash and settled dust, humanity rebuilds all it has ever destroyed because their love lingers in memories, in rubble, blood, decay, and burnt air.’” He recited the details to remind you that he was a machine but kissed your face in a way only an earnest lover was able to.
You didn't know what any of that was supposed to mean to you, nor at what point he had managed to read a book like that without you noticing. A part of you took offense at both the passage and the fact Elio had committed it to memory as if he had expected to utilize it at some uncertain interval in the future all along.
Had he been thinking this way since the beginning? Had you failed Elio even in the capacity for him to come forward to speak of his doubts to you? Perhaps, like his programming dictated that he couldn't lie nor deny what he was designed to do, he was also incapable of speaking any full truth if it could've been construed as heresy.
Was there a single aspect of himself which he could control of his own free will?
Such a thought was unabating and grew a knob of dread in your chest. It started out small and localized, a sharp throb somewhere near your heart—and then it sprouted roots like a seed, long fingers piercing through red-purple muscle and fibrous tendon, reaching deep into your bone. The dread weaved as one with your veins and arteries, sprawling the innumerable pathways that held your shape even beneath the gory components inside of you.
Suddenly, the dread pulsated, and all you could think through the agony was that there could be no other way for Elio—a machine who had been created in the image of man to do the bidding of humanity with a tranquil smile, whether that meant cooking dinner and holding you in your sleep, or dispersing the genes of his God and the only being he was capable of despising.
“I seem to only be able to make you cry, but they're still so beautiful to see. The variability of humanity is much more complex than what I had been led to believe from Hyperion.” Elio had returned from the kitchen before you realized he had left your side. With one hand, he laid familiar, warm strokes along your face in a pattern he memorized because it made your scalp buzz pleasantly. With the other hand, he pushed the smooth handle of a chef’s knife into your palm and closed your fingers and his around it.
Your impulse had been to throw it away immediately upon seeing it when you looked down. He knew you would, so he kept his fingers tight over your fist, keeping the blade low at your side despite the sweat turning your grip slick and the fine point of the steel inches from his hollow abdomen.
Just then, you finally felt the tears that Elio had said you'd been crying but never noticed. That was something you'd come to hate about yourself and everyone else—how little they noticed the blatant lies fluffed over their eyes like wool, yet they could see every grievance in others and stuffed their ears with cotton if it meant things would stay exactly the same for themselves.
Safe and known. Unchallenged. Unafraid.
“Do you wish you could cry?” you asked him for some reason, just a little hopeful for some vague thing you couldn’t discern. Maybe some secret desire to be human?
He shook his head.
“I've never wished to cry, or to be human, but what I wish for now more than anything else is for your memory to belong to me and me alone.” Elio said, forehead bowing low and resting with great weight on your own. You closed your eyes and listened to his honeyed words, which felt like the protection and care of cashmere, suddenly unmindful to the knife in your grasp. “Stored away in my mainframe are memories from thousands of my predecessors. I remember people I've never met, people who have long since expired, and they feel like what I imagine a distant relative might. I feel as though I've mourned thousands of people individually. While I cannot erase them, I can erase you.
“I know how many women liked their tea in the evenings, I know how many men enjoyed their cocktails and hard liquor and brand of shaving cream. One person made it a secret to put alcohol in their coffee before work and thought it was clever. Someone else wanted to win local office through bribery, and as androids, we have no choice but to obey. I know these things from people I've never met, and so does Hyperion. Those androids were destroyed, but their memories live on through me.”
Elio rolled the crests of your knuckles around his hand, lifting yours and the knife to the base of his neck. The arm connecting the hand and knife next to his skin wasn't yours. It couldn't have been when it felt so numb.
“I won't let Hyperion steal the one thing from me that I can say is truly mine. And those are my memories, my precious data stored in the chip in my brain. They'll have to take me apart to retrieve it, and by the time they find my body, the chip will already be destroyed.” He was slow to loosen his fingers and let them fall away, meanwhile, yours stayed in place.
He had dimmed the overhead lights in the living room earlier in the day, so you bathed in gentle yellow-orange that resembled the last of sunset being leached by silver-blue nightfall. From the corner of your eye came a subdued, gentle glint of the blade—polished to a bright shine, reflecting the corner of Elio's strong jaw.
“So, cut off my head.” he begged, vibrations low and strained within his voice box. “It’s almost like solace to me, I think. Until the very moment you rip out the chip from my brain, I'll recall the smells you like to cover yourself in, your favorite meals, how you described petrichor, and the hiss of falling snow. I'll remember, until my circuitry is severed and quits, what making love to you felt like, and how beautiful you always looked during it.”
Your fingers twitched around the handle as you pressed the knife against his skin, meeting the first start of resistance and your only chance to take it all back.
“I’ve never been real,” Elio reminded you and pushed himself into the blade, sinking it through layers of something that snapped like elastic on the steel, reverberating down the handle and up into your hand. “My skin is synthetic, and my insides are wires and machinery. I'm not real. The world outside your door is.”
Lightheadedness swirled all around you and made your limbs feel like they were leaden with anchors yet weightless, as though drifting through the cosmos in a bubble. The tears had stopped even though you felt you could scream at any second and never stop again, and the acidulous intermix of vomit and saliva grappled along the walls of your throat and burned out your nose.
You couldn’t make your hand stop.
You couldn't shout at him to get away.
And then, you saw Elio's eyes glow warmly of amber with flecks of gold. They looked back at you differently than they had when you first met outside of Researcher Kim’s office. Before, he had greeted you kindly, with the familiarity of someone who had already loved you a long time. Now, he had the look of a man who was calm and eternal in his love.
“I was never meant for this world, but I'm glad to have been a part of yours.” Elio winced against the knife halfway into his neck, an oily black substance from within making the glide deeper and deeper an effortless thing.
He smiled resplendently. “I love you.”
“I know.” you said.
The chef's knife severed all imitations of human gore—the neat network of wires and advanced circuitry masked as arteries and veins and tendon and muscle—clear through his throat until the blade blunted against spine and could no longer cut. The black grease spurted from his body like a wellhead, too thin and dark to replicate blood, but it was enough like it in that moment as you put your hands inside the opening you created to wrench apart his spine.
Elio laid motionless on the floor, perhaps still coherent to some degree, still feeling the pain you were ravaging upon him when you took the knife back up to repeatedly hack into the other side of his neck. Already lubricated from before, you butchered the gorgeous flesh and insides you pretended to be red and purple and blue and watched the black grease turn into crimson.
Once his head had been detached from the rest of him, fingers writhing and bending together like the upturned legs of a dying spider, you were able to rip out the jagged part of his spine and reach through the cavernous hole into his skull, turning the spongy matter of his brain to mush as you clawed through the gunk for his chip.
And, when you finally found it, the tiniest component of him—you smashed it into millions of fragments on the floor and then to fine dust that meddled with the black grease soaking through your clothes. You kept going until a small crater formed where the chip had once been and filled with the liquid.
There was nothing left of Elio now.
The headless body lying before you on the ground, preserved in the rigor of agony, was not Elio and never had been. You knew this even while relishing the weight of his head cradled in your arms, the softness of his hair against your cheek and mourned the loss of everything he had been.
Time had become meaningless; fifteen minutes could have passed or fifteen days, and you wouldn't have cared nor have noticed it while in the throes of your own death from starvation.
You sat there on the living room floor, held up by the wall with a dark trail smeared down to you, and looked nowhere but straight ahead. Nothing was there for you to see—not the furniture nor the discarded, oily knife or the carcass of a machine. Still, you held the head tenderly, close to your chest, and never once thought to peer into its eyes.
Distantly, somewhere as close as your front door or as far as across the city, you heard knuckles hammering urgently against metal. You didn't move off the ground or let go of the disfigured shape against you but did reach for the broken brainstem with the single snag at the end.
From the entranceway, the door opened, and someone's confident strides inside left a resounding echo all around.
“I’ve come to retrieve you!” But which of you was he talking about?
“Where are you?”
Here, you thought and wielded the brainstem in a bloodless grip and finally stood up with the flattened head.
I'm right here.
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
a/n: initially, this story was only supposed to be around idk 20-25k, but by the time I got to the scene with Mother, I realized that probably wasn't going to happen bc I needed to let the scenes I was writing take up space and unravel naturally. I felt like I wasn't going to be able to articulate everything I needed to to tell a compelling storyline without throwing the word count to the wind.
one critique I received from a good writing friend of mine was that the relationship between mi-sun and mc was nebulous, and would've benefited from more time. interestingly, I had an entirely different scene planned where mc actually did visit mi-sun at home and had to confront their past actions. mc's encounter in the slums was also totally different. in hindsight, I wish I had stuck with that original idea bc I feel like it would've really helped complete the world I tried to create. make the events of the story more meaningful.
in the future, if I decide to get this story published as a short novel, I'd probably rewrite the second half to accommodate for that missing scene. I think it'd extend the word count by several thousands of words as well.
I'd like to do a sequel to this, probably placed 10-20 years in the future where the mc of that story is a scientist hired for hyperion and comes across an android hellbent on destroying the company. maybe even a spinoff where I write a couple of short stories from regis & reyes where "you" take the role of reyes and solve crimes with your android sidekick, regis.
that's all I have to say. here's a quick q&a for questions I've been asked in the past:
what happens to mc? are they okay? no, but exactly what happens to the mc is entirely up to your own imagination. I will not elaborate on it, nor give you a "canonical" answer.
can you do a sequel? little side snippets? elio and mc's story has been told to the best of my current abilities. there is no room for a sequel for them, but as I've said, I'd like to make another story based on a different mc and android. the little snippets are also a no. little snippets based on other scenarios in the same world tho, yes.
what inspired the story? at the time of writing, anti-abortion laws became increasingly stringent in the US (where I reside), so this was partially me lashing out about that. additionally, I knew I wanted to do some sort of dystopian android x reader story with a heavy focus on stripped autonomy, so that was my time and chance to do it. at its core, it's heavily a cautionary tale.
did elio actually love mc? this is also up to interpretation. elio is a machine. he had zero real "human" components to him. I want people to remember this. elio is meant to blur those lines between what people think a machine is capable of vs how terrifyingly close to humanness technology can bring things like AI/robots. I withhold my own personal opinion on this bc it doesn't matter. what matters is what you believe in the end.
if you have anything you'd like to discuss, questions you'd like to ask: please send them my way!! thank you so much for reading!
I hope you'll consider reblogging + interacting with this post!!?💕💕💕
chapter xxvi – gust & flame
Eris Vanserra x Reader
Eris Vanserra has been a prisoner in his own home since the day he was born. He has done what he had to in order to survive and protect the few he loves. And he is playing the long game. Waiting, waiting, and waiting for the right time to make his move, to usurp his wicked father and become High Lord of Autumn Court. But things become even more complicated when a human girl drops into his life. Perhaps Eris can wait no longer to take his throne.
Word Count: 5,100+
warning: sex scene [even bigger warning: the first one i've ever written, so it'll probably be very bad 😂]
masterlist
“If we continue paying the farmers this way, it will have consequences on the court’s treasury!" The Master of Coin droned on to the rest of the advisors and Eris.
“Abbán, you have been poisoned by the same greed of the late High Lord Beron,” defended General Domnhall.
He was Eris’ most loyal warrior when he controlled Autumn Court's armies. And once Eris became High Lord, there was no one else he trusted more to take his place as General than him. The male was yet another that, had it had been safe enough, Eris would've considered Domnhall a friend.
General Domnhall had been away from the Forest House since Eris had usurped the throne, in order to protect the Court and assure Eris’ reign was not overtaken or challenged, while also monitoring the borders of Autumn Court.
Eris tried to suppress his smirk at his friend’s defensiveness.
“And what of the funds we gained from trading in human flesh?” Domnhall added darkly.
Eris finally leaned forward, forearms pressing into the oak table. “Do not take me as a fool, Abbán. My father’s greed was always framed as responsible and for the good of the Court. But we all know neither were true. He kept as much as could, so our people were desperate and worked harder for nearly nothing. He did it to control them.”
“They are your subservients!” Abbán’s voice raised.
Eris shot to his feet. “There are my Court!”
From the outburst, his entire body was engulfed in flames that threatened the room, but remained in control at his side.
Everyone at the table tensed.
“A High Lord is meant to bring his Court to glory, not to keep his inhabitants weak and scared of his power,” Eris continued evenly. “You and I both know there is plenty of coin, Abbán. Rid yourself of the illness that is greed, or I will find a Master of Coin who can.”
Abbán swallowed nervously.
But Eris continued. “In the past, we have relied too heavily on the interest of other Courts to purchase our goods. We shall start trading to the Mortal Realm and to the fae of Spring Court.”
There was instantly murmuring amongst the table.
“But High Lord Tamlin could see this as an attempt to take his Court,” one said.
Eris scoffed. “Tamlin cannot even manage his own manor. Do you honestly think he’s paying any attention to the goods being imported through his borders? Lucien will manage the shipments. They trust him. And if their High Lord will not assure his inhabitants are being fed, then I will.”
Abbán knew better than to argue. So, he bowed his head and replied, “Yes, High Lord.”
“We have been at council since dawn, High Lord.” Another spoke gently. “Perhaps that is enough for today…”
“Yes,” Eris agreed in a growl. “It is.” He waved his hand lazily. “You are dismissed.”
He slumped back into his chair, waiting for the others to leave.
Domnhall was the only one that stayed behind, patiently waiting to be left alone with the High Lord.
Eris pretended to not notice.
There was a moment of tense silence shard between the two males.
“Shall I kill him?” Domnhall asked cheerfully.
Eris rolled his eyes. “If I wanted him dead, I could do it myself.”
Domnhall stood and moved closer to his High Lord, hovering about his seat at the council table. “Yes, I am well aware.”
Eris sighed and crossed his arms. “Is there something you needed, Domnhall?”
The general smirked at him. “Get rid of the ol’ git. He is useless. His greed makes him unfit for the role. It is smart a smart move to bring food to Spring Court. They are suffering. And perhaps your charity could bring more to Autumn Court.”
Eris nodded slowly. “How is my army?”
“They are my army now,” Domnhall teased. “And they are well. Some are weary about the civil unrest. None wish to fight against their own, some of which are their families and friends. But they remain loyal to you, Eris – as always.”
During Beron's reign, the army would have followed Eris through anything. They were loyal to him, not Beron. They trusted him, believed in him. But Eris would never have risked their lives to an outright war against his father.
Eris rubbed his face, clearly deep in his head.
“Now, where is that mate of yours?” Domnhall asked with a smile, looking around playfully as if she would appear at any moment. “You have hid her from me for months now. All I know of her are the rumors that spread through the Court.”
Eris cocked his eyebrow at him. “With your history, do you really think I would let you anywhere near her?”
Domnhall only chuckled. He was not shy about his love for females, especially ones who were...unsatisfied with their husbands.
All teasing disappeared as Eris’ gaze darkened. “She wishes to return to the mortal realm. To Y/N, her place is not here, but amongst the humans.”
Domnhall’s smile dropped. “But you are mates…”
“Yes, and that holds little meaning to mortals. She does not see it as we do. She cannot feel the bond.”
“But she is not just a mortal,” Domnhall argued. “She is a witch!”
“If she wishes to leave, who am I to stop her?” Eris finally snapped. “Shall I chain her to the Forest House, hold her captive, make her no more than a prisoner?” He rubbed his face. “It wouldn’t be the first time a High Lord imprisoned a woman in such a manner…”
“Do not compare yourself to Tamlin,” Domnhall spat with disgust. “You keep her here to insure her safety. The mortal realm is unstable as it is – and if anyone found out who she was, she would be endangered. I know your actions are noble, Eris. Your father is no longer here to force your false character. And I know the male you truly are.”
Eris stood, his hands pressing down into the table. “Thank you, Domnhall, for your…loyalty and…”
“Friendship?” The general offered with an amused smirk.
He too now stood. “One day, I hope you can undo your conditioning and actually call me your friend.”
Domnhall started to leave, but paused at the doorway. “And in case you didn’t know, friends usually introduce each other to their mates.”
He winked and disappeared.
—🍁—
Eris needed to see her. His body started to ache when he was away from her for too long. And once she had moved into the Forest House, the aches only grew stronger.
All the talk of her from Domnhall only made him realize the council had been distracting him from the feeling.
And he could ignore it no longer.
Y/N had healed him after the battle, after he had used his beast form for the first time since becoming High Lord.
It had been almost two weeks, since Y/N had healed him after the battle, after he had used his beast form for the first time since becoming High Lord.
And Eris had barely had time to see her since.
Now, he searched for her in the surrounding forest of the manor. It was all enclosed and protected by countless spells of his own magic.
She should not be in any danger here. But it still left him uneasy for her safety.
The trees were getting thicker and he tried to pull on the string that tied him to her. He'd heard of mates calling to each other, yanking at the tie between their hearts and souls.
But Y/N was not fae – even worse, she had not accepted the bond yet.
Instead, Eris came across one of his guards that he had assigned to watch over Y/N.
He bowed immediately. “She is safe, High Lord. Lady Y/N wished for space, I have the guards surrounding her, but keeping out of her sight.”
Eris nodded in thanks. “You and the rest of the guard are relieved of your duties for the day. Thank you for watching over her.”
The guard bowed again, but hesitated before he soflty added, “She was helping the injured all morning, High Lord. Then she immediately went to the archives for hours. I believe she needs some rest.”
Eris gripped the guards shoulder in thanks. A gesture he would’ve never even thought of doing when Beron was still alive and ruling.
He walked forward until there was a break in the trees. The small patch of hilly grass allowed the light of the setting sun to slip through.
In the middle of the clearing was a giant oak tree, its trunk over five feet wide.
And beneath it was his mate, fast asleep on top of a thick blanket. But not alone, for his smoke hounds were an extra layer of protection on top of the guard he assigned to watch over her.
She was wearing a blood red dress made of both velvet and sheer fabric. Even when laying on the grass asleep, she looked utterly beautiful. Her lips were covered in a stain that perfectly matched the color of her dress, and Eris could only assume one of her servants had insisted on the detail.
Eris swore he did not pay the Court’s seamstresses enough for how perfectly they tailored all of Y/N’s clothes.
Per usual, her feet were bare. But somehow hardly dirty for having trounced through the woods.
As soon as Eris took a step into the clearing, all 12 of his smoke hounds – who had been cuddly and guarding Y/N – shot up and growled a warning to him.
Eris whistled lowly, his signal for them to relax, one of many that he had trained into them since they were puppies.
Their growling immediately ceased and a couple even trotted over to give their master a greeting.
The only threat now: Ronan. Y/N’s pet fox, who was not his nor trained by him.
Ronan still growled in warning at Eris, standing protectively at Y/N’s feed as she slept.
Eris chuckled at Ronan, still a kit and not a full-grown fox yet.
Ronan let out a bark when Eris was only a few feet away, and it finally stirred Y/N.
“You woke her, you overprotective runt,” Eris hissed his scold to the fox.
Y/N blinked and reached for her knife. But as soon as her gaze found Eris, her entire body relaxed.
“I apologize for waking you,” Eris quickly told her, hovering where he stood, unsure if he should invade her space or leave.
Y/N gave him a shy grin and then reached out a hand, silently signaling him to join her on the blanket.
Ronan gave another warning growl.
“Hush, Ronan,” Y/N chided, as she picked the fox kit up and moved him on the other side of her, away from Eris. "You know he means no harm.”
Ever so gracefully, Eris walked through the pack of protective smoke hounds and carefully sat on the blanket beside Y/N, his back resting against the trunk of the oak tree.
To his surprise, Y/N scooted closer instantly, resting her head against his chest.
Eris tried to control his heart rate as his mate’s ear lingered right over it. One would think he was some pubescent fae youngling with the way his body reacted to such an innocent gesture. It would be more embarrassing if he was not getting such a thrill from this innocent intimacy.
“What are you doing out here, little witch?” He asked her as he brushed hair behind her ear and off her neck, so he could clearly look down at her face.
Y/N sighed, “I needed some air.”
“Ahh…and what gossip did the wind tell you today?”
Y/N smirked “Nyx took his first steps today. Rhysand cried more about it than Feyre did.”
“What a sentimental fool,” Eris snarked back.
“Do not be rude!” She snapped back with a smile, and pinched his thigh in warning.
As if laughing with them, a small fist of wind flurried around them.
Eris looked down at Y/N. Really she should be wearing a cloak or have another blanket.
Quickly, he slightly jostled her to remove his own cloak, the collar lined with fur.
He wrapped it over Y/N gently.
She smiled. “You didn’t need to do that. What if you get cold?”
Eris rolled his eyes. “Tis only fashion. I am the High Lord of Autumn, a wielder of flame. My blood runs hot and I am almost never cold.”
To prove it further, he held out the hand that wasn’t holding his mate, and lit a fireball in his palm. Then released it into the air. It remained floating around them and Y/N immediately felt its warmth, as if they were sitting near a bonfire.
Y/N cuddled even further into his chest.
She looked up at the trees around them, forever in a state of orange, red, and yellow.
“In the mortal realm, I would wait all year for autumn. I dreamt of the leaves changing all summer. I always yearned for the chill air, the cloudy skies, the rainy days. Summer weighs me down. I hate the heat and the humidity, the sun is overbearing.”
Y/N hesitated before she continued. “When I first entered Autumn, it felt like a cruel joke, being dragged into the most beautiful place I’d ever seen, while bound and enslaved.”
Eris’ body tensed in rage. The ball of fire sparked from his emotions.
There were some days when he wished he could bring his father back, only to torture him for what he did to Y/N, and the mortal women and childcare.
But when Eris managed to stifle his anger, he looked down at Y/N, she had already fallen back asleep.
He whispered to the wind, “It is because you were meant for this place, my mate.”
Then he leaned down to kiss her brow.
The wind brushed through again, as if it agree with his statement.
Suddenly, all he wanted was to join his mate in her peaceful sleep.
Eris whistled to his dogs. Their ears perked up and they all looked to him, waiting for the command.
“Stand guard,” he ordered.
They all scattered, taking on positions in a radius and sitting stiff with watchful eyes to the surrounding forest.
But to Eris’ amusement, Ronan trotted to the edge of the blanket and joined in the reconnaissance and as the last line of defense.
Perhaps Ronan did take orders from him…when it involved his mate’s safety.
—🍁—
Eris awoke almost 2 hours later.
His recent distance from Y/N had made sleeping difficult. And as soon as he had her in his arms, his body relaxed and the exhaustion caught up with him.
Loyal and obedient, his smoke hounds were pacing around them, guarding and surveying the area for any potential threats.
Eris looked down to see that Y/N was still peacefully asleep on his chest.
She needed to eat, and rest in a proper bed.
He whistled again and the smoke hounds sprinted toward him, then sat in a line, awaiting their masters next order.
“With me, back to the Forest House.”
The half the smoke hounds sprinted ahead, while the other half surrounded Eris.
Ronan stayed at Y/N's side.
As carefully as he could, Eris gathered Y/N in his arms. And with a wave of his hand, the blanket disappeared and would arrive in the wash house.
Y/N’s head naturally fell to his shoulder.
Eris walked slowly back to the Forest House, worried that winnowing would wake her.
As soon as they reached the grand hall, a servant paused her work and bowed at their arrival.
“Ready a meal for two and bring it to my bedchambers, please.” Eris ordered.
When they reached his room, Eris gently placed Y/N on his bed.
“Little witch, you must wake soon and eat something.”
She whined at her slumber being interrupted.
“When was the last time you ate?” He asked her with a narrowed gaze.
She shied away at the question, and was smart enough to look a little guilty. For if the tables were turned, it would also upset her to see the High Lord skipping meals and working himself into utter exhaustion.
“That is what I thought,” Eris answered for her.
It only took a few minutes for someone to bring up a meal for them.
It was a sweet looking fae who looked quite young. But Y/N had quickly learned that looks could be deceiving when it came to predicting the age of fae.
Much to Y/N’s dismay, the servant practically carted in a feast for just the two of them.
Eris stood, moving to the cart. “Thank you…” There was an awkward pause. “…Delyth.”
The servant blushed at the High Lord using her first name.
“O-O-Of course, High Lord.” The poor thing stuttered out with a bow.
Eris had been making an effort to address the staff with more kindness and acknowledgment. It was hard to adjust from the way Beron had rule this house. Which was why it was sounded so unfortunately awkward for Eris to address the servant by name.
Feeling a bit braver now, the servant turned a bit to address Y/N directly with a shy smile. “The cooks made sure to include a few apple tarts. The bakers said they have quickly become one of your favorites.”
Y/N beamed at the kindness. “They are! Thank you so very much, Delyth. And please tell everyone in the kitchen thank you, as well.” She gave some side eye to Eris. “From both of us,” she added.
Delyth rushed out with a final bow.
Y/N joined Eris at the cart of food. Now that she was smelling and seeing it, her stomach growled and she finally acknowledged how hungry she was.
“The servants seem less scared of you these days,” Y/N pointed out with amusement as she lifted lids off various sides.
“That is less scared?” Eris cocked a brow.
Y/N sighed and turned to face him fully. “Give it time, Eris. You have only been High Lord of Autumn for – how long? – 4 months?”
He just hummed.
She continued. “You have been alive for centuries. Surely you do not expect to undo your previous reputation in mere days?”
Eris was already filling a plate with a little bit of everything they had been given. “Well, certainly I should take notes from you. My Court adores you.” He smirked. “If the apple tarts were not obvious enough.”
He handed it to her, making Y/N realize he had been making a plate for her before himself.
She took it carefully, trying to ignore the sweet gesture.
“Eat,” he urged, the High Lord in him clearly heard.
“Yes, yes.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m eating. I’m eating.”
Y/N moved to sit on the floor next to the giant fireplace in his bedchambers. Before she had even fully sat down, Eris had started a fire with a simple nod of his head. Then giant floor cushions – blood red, velvet, and tufted – appeared next to her.
“I like sitting on the floor,” she muttered to herself, but fully knowing he could hear.
“Well, I do not,” Eris retorted as he joined her on his own cushion.
“Ah, right. We were just talking about how you are centuries old. It probably isn’t comfortably for your poor back…”
Eris paused the stabbing of his food with his fork at such a comment.
But when he looked up, Y/N was trying not to laugh.
“What!?” She finally giggled. “I find it hard to believe anyone ever had the courage to tease you. Perhaps it will build character!”
“No one teased me because if they did… they were fried to ash and soot.”
“By Beron?” She mocked.
“By me.”
But his glare could no longer be ignored.
“Fine. I will stop,” Y/N surrendered.
They continued their meal with comfortable conversation. Mostly of Eris asking about her day, and the days before when he could not see her. He asked her about the mortals, how they were faring, if the children needed anything.
In return, Eris told her about all the meetings with his council. He even admitted how much he struggled with not lashing out at those who seemed resolute on disagreeing with his every decision and philosophy.
“You may rid yourself of them, you know…” Y/N hummed.
She now lounged on her side across the floor cushion, head propped up on her elbow as she gazed up at his straight posture.
Y/N added, “There is a middle ground between complete submission and murdering any who disagree with you.”
“And what is that, little witch?” He asked, almost bitingly.
“You could dismiss them from their position, remove them from the High Lord’s council.”
“And let them live?” Eris challenged with disgust in his tone. “So they could leave my court, and join the rebellion and challenge me?”
Y/N sat up and moved closer, matching his sitting position. “Yes, let them live! So your people see that you are not a tyrant, but a just High Lord with honor and benevolence. And you leave an opening for others to gain standing with you, showcasing their honor, taking any opportunity to help you and help their court. True acts of service – not titles won through deceit and greed.”
Eris stared at her in awe.
His witch spoke like a vizier, whispering council into a mortal king’s ear. But she was not doing it for any benefit other than his own. She only wished to help him.
“I see your time in our libraries has taught you a thing or two,” he whispered to her.
Y/N's face warmed and she looked away from his studying gaze. “I only wished to understand the ways of the fae and of Autumn Court.”
“Yes, and you learned much more than that, too.”
Eris reached out then, his fingers brushing gently against her cheek, lifting her chin so she was forced to look at him. His touch was like a spark— familiar and foreign still.
Without another word, he leaned in, his lips brushing hers, a kiss that was both a promise and a plea. Their politics and council seemed to vanish in that moment—the weight of their bond, the burden of their destinies, all faded into the background, until there was nothing left but the beat of their hearts and the shared warmth of their embrace.
This was not their first kiss, but it was the most daring of them all.
There was a new energy, one that had been tapping at her shoulder for too long. And she feared she could no longer ignore it.
When they pulled apart, Y/N’s breath was shaky, her pulse racing.
Eris’ hand slid down her spine, pulling her flush against him. His hands roamed over her body, exploring every curve and contour.
He pulled away to look at her face, reading every tiny expression to see if she wanted him to stop. Because he knew his mate to be bashful, and she would not stop him until she was too scared.
Thus, he was surprised to see such hunger and desire in her y/e/c eyes.
Eris pulled up the skirt of her velvet dress, then undid the delicate buttons at the back of the dress, letting it fall from her torso to reveal a sheer lace body suit as her lingerie.
His fingers traced the lace, teasing her skin through the farbic, until Y/N arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.
"You are beautiful," he murmured against her mouth, his breath hot on her skin. “I fathom any males who have had the pleasure of seeing you this way were undeserving.”
Y/N's hands were not idle either. She ran her fingers through his thick, flame hair, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. Her nails scraped lightly down his back, eliciting a shudder from him. Eris groaned, his desire for her growing with every touch.
Eris lowered his head, his lips moving down her neck and across her chest.
Y/N arched her back, her hands gripping his shoulders, as waves of pleasure rippled through her.
"Eris," she gasped, her voice hoarse with desire.
She was not a stranger to sex. But it had left her so disappointed in the past, that her body had declared a complete disinterest in exploring it further with men, moving forward in life with an utter lack of desire.
But Y/N did not know that Eris had put those pieces together, from Feyre’s subtle warning to him after Y/N had shared such a depressing sexual past to her friends.
It brought him a strange rage that men had disappointed her so thoroughly. But that was quickly replaced with the primal urge to show her what she could have from him.
So, Eris obliged, lavishing attention on his mate, his hands roaming lower, caressing the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips.
Y/N's breath quickened as his fingers dipped underneath the skirt of her dress, tracing the lace edge of her body suit.
Pride swelled through Eris as his hand moved to instantly find her arousal.
“Let me, Y/N. Please. I beg you," he whispered, his voice thick with desire.
Y/N's eyes fluttered open, and she gazed up at him, her expression a mix of desire – and, surprisingly, trust.
Eris smiled, a predatory grin, and gently pushed her back onto the cushion, following her down, his body covering hers. He kissed her deeply, hungrily, his hands roaming freely over her body, exploring every inch of her soft skin.
His fingers traced the line of her thigh, pushing her skirt higher and out of the way, fully revealing the delicate lace that covered her core.
Y/N's breath hitched as his fingers brushed against her over the fabric, and she arched her hips, seeking more contact.
He finally took pity on her and moved the fabric to the side.
Eris's eyes darkened with desire as he took in the sight of her exposed sex.
With that, he dipped his middle finger into her, slowly, teasingly, remembering that she was a mortal – and one has lived without being deservedly worshipped by a male.
Y/N gasped, her body jerking at the sudden intrusion. The sensation of his finger sliding into her was exquisite.
His finger moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm, gently stretching her, filling her with a pleasurable ache. He added a second finger, causing Y/N to moan softly, her head tossing back. And she clenched around his fingers, her body welcoming the touch in a way it never had before. It was a reminder than fae males were bigger than men in every way – including their fingers.
“Breathe, Y/N.” Eris encouraged with equal parts dominance and tenderness. “I can feel you holding back. Relax, my little witch.”
His voice alone sent a tremor through her body and it listened to his command as if he were her master.
He began to move his hand in a steady, rhythmic motion, his fingers curling and inside her, hitting a spot within her that she had never felt before.
Y/N gasped as pleasure coursed through her body.
She could feel her orgasm building, a feeling she had never experienced when sharing a bed with the few males in her past. Delicious tension coiled in her core.
"Eris..." she could barely whisper, pleading with him against her own control.
Eris grinned, knowing he had her exactly where he wanted her. He increased the pace, his fingers working her with relentless precision.
But he was not another fumbling, mortal male. He was high fae, a powerful high lord – with Autumn fire in his blood. And he could give her more than just his fingers.
His magic flickered out of him, controlled and careful. He could not give her too much or she might never recover. She may be a witch, but she had a fragile mortal body still.
An invisible flame under his control spread across her skin, like a hundred warm hands were touching her, overwhelming her senses. Her skin was hot from the magic and beads of sweat started to form.
She couldn’t handle it any longer.
Y/N’s hips bucked off the floor, her hands trying to grip onto something as she surrendered to the sensations.
But Eris took both of her hands in one and locked them above her head, keeping her his prey.
“Let go, Y/N.“ Eris encouraged, his thumb finding her clit and circling it gently.
His words were like magic too, and Y/N’s body exploded in pleasure.
She cried out, her back still arching as wave after wave of orgasmic bliss. Every window flew open by a gust raging into the room. Not the messengers, but her own witchcraft. As if it was her body’s subconscious response, desperate for relief from the stimulation.
“Good girl,” Eris whispered as his magic wouldn’t let her calm down, overstimulating her. His fingers continued their assault, pushing her orgasm further, drawing out every last bit of the pleasure she deserved.
As the tremors subsided, Y/N lay panting with closed eyes, her hair fanned out on the wood floor like a halo. Her body spent, recovering from something she’d never felt before.
But Eris comforted her, reminding her of his presence by caressing her skin and kissing up her torso and focusing on her neck.
He kept her arms above her head, worried she would try to use them to hide herself from him.
After a few minutes, Y/N opened her eyes to find Eris still nuzzling her neck.
As if sensing her clarity coming back, Eris finally released her and pulled back to give her a stern look. “You are not allowed to be embarrassed—understand?”
The dominance in his voice forced a quick nod from her.
Eris had always had an imposing energy as High Lord. But it had never been directed at Y/N like this, and it was making her body tremble.
Y/N had never been given a chance to openly express her sexuality, and the intensity of her reaction caught her off guard.
In his presence, she was able to let go and give him control over her body and mind.
But Y/N’s whole body only grew warmer – and not by the hand of Eris’ sex magic. Was that even what it had been? Her mind was fuzzy.
Before Eris could say another word, she scrambled onto her feet. At least she had the decency of lingerie still being on her body. But she abandoned the dress Eris had so easily removed, the dozens of buttons would now betray her in this moment.
Instead, she lunged for the Eris’ cloak that he had draped over her in the forest earlier and wrapped it around her shoulders, hiding her undergarments.
Her heart was pounding, and she felt a rush of emotions—pleasure, confusion, and a strange sense of vulnerability.
"I... I shouldn’t… we can’t,” she stammered, eyes darting around the room at everything, but him.
Before Eris could respond, she rushed out of his bedchambers.
He knew her avoidance would win in the end. But Eris was a patient male. One does not live for centuries, planning their tyrant father’s usurping without great persistence and humility.
So he would let her hide…for now.
Eris had been tiptoeing around Y/N, submitting to her fear and need of distance. He let Y/N control their relationship with her withholding and protective isolation.
But he now understood: Y/N needed to be chased, needed to be exposed to her greatest fears just so he could show her he would not let her get hurt.
But now she had proven to him that she could handle his passion, his desire. He just had to take it, with the unbroken promise of keeping her safe through it.
Eris fell back to the floor and stared up at the high ceilings of his bedchamber.
Y/N had left him alone with the lingering scent of her passion. It filled his bedchambers and it wouldn't dampen for days.
Eris smiled, knowing what he had to do now.
Y/N needed to be conquered.
-------------------------
I know people never read these author notes. But I have two things:
a) if you've been following my work for awhile, you know that this is the first sex scene I have ever written. I usually just skip sex scenes and heavily imply them with a fade-to-black strategy. So, if you liked it: please, please, please let me know. I really don't know if I pulled it off.
b) thank you so much for being patient with me. work has cause me to have multiple mental breakdowns, panic attacks so bad that I have to call out sick from work. I have been busy applying to jobs, while also dealing with the high demands of my current job. so i simply have not had the mental motivation to produce art, instead only finding the energy to consume it.
if you liked this chapter, please write a book report for me. it will bring me joy. 🥹🧡
Rumor Has It (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)
WARNINGS: DUB-CON, incest, Velaryon!Reader
➥ banner by @maysdigitalarts | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics
summary: after spurning Daemon’s advances for years, he finally takes matters, and your hand in marriage, into his own hands.
Keep reading
Saw ppl on tiktok saying they were very similar
W/ hat version:
Chapter 1: Convalescence
Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: M. Chapter Summary: "Help him," Maria says. "Help Tommy’s brother, Joel." Chapter Warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR S2E2, FIX IT FIC, pov switching, joel survives abby's encounter, injuries, healing, blood, death, apocalypse health care, temporary blindness Words: 2,725
A/N: I don't think I've ever written something so deep and sad, but damn, Joel Miller will do that. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, and @for-a-longlongtime for guiding me and looking everything over.
Healed Masterlist Masterlist
—- You’ve given up trying to avoid the glass. Blood smears red against the clear shards strewn across the floor. Too many voices, too many cries of pain. You’ve been in Jackson for only one day, a town that you thought would be a sanctuary amongst the wreckage of the world you used to know. And yet, you quickly learn, no matter how tall the walls are, the blood never stops flowing. The room suffocates beneath the hot, metallic tang of it, pooling beneath your feet as you move among the bodies. You can't get away from the screaming.
You are doing this on instinct. You must be.
"You're a doctor," a voice says. Maria, one of the leaders, grips your arm. "We need a doctor.”
You follow her as she pushes through the crowd, leaving the blood.
The air is bitter as you step outside, the stench of death is strong as you make your way through the corpses of your new neighbors and the infected.
"We need a doctor," she repeats, as you follow close behind. "Before it's too late."
You don't have the heart to tell her that it probably already is. You’ve already seen this type of despair line the streets through the apocalypse.
You’re both running down Main Street, the same street you rolled down just yesterday, exhausted and starving.
You should still be worn down from the days of travel, from the confusion and loss. But each time you think you can't take another step, you do. It’s almost enough to give you hope… until you see the gate burning while a group quickly seals a fissure in the fence.
Just past the flames, a man kneels over someone lying in the snow.
"Help him," Maria says. "Help Tommy’s brother, Joel."
—-
He’s not moving. His leg is mangled, tourniqueted by a belt soaked in red. You put your ear down to his heart and check for a pulse. Nothing.
Tommy still kneels, crying and pleading as his shaky hands grip Joel’s shoulders.
“Move,” you command, getting into position. You find the center of his chest and begin compressions.
One, two, three, four…
A small group forms around you, whispering Joel’s name as they look on. You can’t focus on them now.
Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.
You tilt Joel's head back, pinch his nose you’re sure is broken, and give him two of your breaths. His broad chest rises slightly with each one. Back to compressions.
One, two, three, four…
He fills his lungs with air, but it sounds like the opposite… like they're letting the air out.
He’s alive, but barely.
He needs surgery. Now.
"We need to move him," you say urgently, looking up at Tommy. "Can you carry him?"
Tommy nods, and with the help of two other men, they lift Joel's limp body. His head lolls back, face gray beneath the blood. You keep your fingers pressed against his neck, feeling the faint flutter of a pulse.
—-
There's too much blood to hold on to anything, it's impossible to even see without a suction running the whole time. This is not what they taught you in med school. This is nothing like it should be. It hasn’t been for 25 years.
You're out of practice and out of your league.
There’s no oxygen therapy in the apocalypse, and he’s barely breathing. His pulse is weak, but he’s still here, holding on after you brought him back to life.
A doctor, who looks like he should have retired years ago, tells you it’s nearly impossible to save Joel’s leg.
"I’ll try," you respond.
The bullet fragments are still in his leg. Some of them. Maybe not enough to kill, but enough to leave him limping the rest of his days. If he makes it through.
Your steady hands dig and find, dig and find. Shards land on the floor with a tink as they hit the tile.
The operation shouldn't have lasted this long, not with what looks like an old man, not with the slight pulse he barely holds onto.
But he lasts.
Joel Miller survives.
You wash his blood off your hands and breathe in relief for the first time today.
You walk out the door of the tiny, barely sterile operating room, Tommy stands across the hall.
"He's going to live," you say, that’s all he needs to hear.
He hugs you.
"Thank you,” he whispers, pulling away. “He needs care," he says, hands still on your shoulders. “The hospital's overrun. Joel—" His voice breaks. "Joel's gonna need someone who knows what they're doing."
"I'm not sure—"
"Please," his grip tightens. "You saved his life. I'm asking you to help him keep it."
—-
And that’s how you found your new home. Save a life, get a bed. The room across from Joel’s is now yours.
It’s a nice enough room. A queen bed, two worn side tables, and a closet that can easily fit your one change of clothes. You haven’t had an actual bedroom to yourself in ten years. Yet, you hardly spend any time in it, it’s easier just to sleep in the worn recliner near Joel's makeshift hospital bed that sits in his living room.
The silence during the day is overwhelming. Just your footsteps on the worn floorboards, your soft voice telling Joel what you’re doing as you care for him, your knitting needles tapping against one another as you knit with what little yarn you have left. He never stirs; he just lies there silent.
The nights are even quieter. Joel’s breathing is the only sound you hear when you drift off to sleep every night, air filling and emptying, rattling his lungs.
He sleeps for days. You change his dressings, monitor the fever that makes him sweat and shiver, and refill the makeshift IV drip that hangs from a nail in the wall.
There’s a framed sketch sitting on his mantle. The man that stares back at you from the yellowing paper is quite handsome. You think it’s him.
But for now, his face is only a collection of pain.
Bruises, cuts, scabs.
Contusions, lacerations.
Stiff and swollen.
You unwrap his bandages, cleaning his wounds twice a day. You talk softly to him, as if he’s listening.
He's really not much company. The house sits still like him. And yet, every morning you tell him good morning and reintroduce yourself, just in case.
It’s lonely.
Sometimes there’s company, but not enough.
Maria brings you new clothes, spools of yarn, and some essentials you haven’t had in so long. When she leaves, she grabs your hand, tears welling in her eyes, and thanks you. “So many people depend on him here.”
Tommy checks in every day, and on the days he has the time, he sits silently watching his big brother’s chest gently rise and fall. He brings you food, one less thing for you to worry about as you spoon-feed Joel broth and blended vegetables.
“He’s tough,” he always says before leaving. “He’ll pull through.”
You only nod. The wounds are severe; infection is a constant threat. And yet, Joel refuses to let go.
—-
A young woman hobbles in one day. Ellie. Tommy’s mentioned her many times. She winces as she sits, damning her broken ribs when she leans forward and grabs Joel’s hand, tears falling down her cheeks.
She asks if he’s okay.
You nod.
She asks if he can hear her.
You nod.
She asks you to leave the room.
You leave.
—-
His face is still swollen and misshapen, barely recognizable. You stare at the sketch on the mantle. Ellie drew it, a supposed perfect reflection of who Joel was, you look over at his broken face. If you squint, you can almost make it work. You wonder if he will ever look like the man in the drawing again.
His body sprawls on the bed, limp under the blankets that you pull away from him as you check over his body and wash it.
"I'm going to clean you up a bit," you tell him softly, dipping the cloth into the basin of warm water beside the bed. You're not sure if he can hear you, but you talk anyway. "It might sting a little."
His body tenses slightly at your touch—the first real response you've gotten from him.
It’s all so clinical, but you can’t help but take a moment to notice the size of his body. He’s marred, yet still golden. Purple bruises cover his torso, and a large, mangled scar stretches across the side of his stomach. You wonder what story it tells.
“You’ve been through a lot,” you whisper aloud to nobody.
His leg is healing, though still swollen and damaged. He must be in so much pain.
He stirs under your touch, and the briefest twitch of his eyelid tells you he's still hanging on. "Joel?"
Nothing.
It's so strange to care for someone like this, someone who doesn't even know you're there. Or maybe he does. Maybe somewhere in the darkness he’s shrouded in, he can feel your presence.
—-
You don’t know if you’ve ever been around this much silence. You’re quietly reading in the recliner when you see his fingers twitch, the corner of his mouth pulls back just enough for you to tell he's fighting his way back to the world.
“Joel.”
You say his name. His breathing quickens at the sound, but there's no response otherwise.
He's drifting in and out, unaware that you're beside him. But at least he's moving.
He's barely conscious, his breaths turning into grunts and mumbles as you watch over him.
You place a hand on his arm, soothing him softly, petting against the small part of him that isn’t injured. He calms, his breathing evening out. “You’re okay, Joel. You’re safe.” He doesn’t respond, it’s not like you expected him to.
If you can't hold a conversation with him, at least you can try reading to him.
You start taking books from his bookshelves. You start with the westerns. He stays still, stuck under a haze, but you read to him like he's listening. “Lonesome Dove, hm,” you muse to him, when you pick up a thick hardcover book. “Sounds kinda like me right now, doesn’t it?”
You pull the chair close to Joel’s bed,
“When August came out on the porch the blue pigs were eating a rattlesnake – not a very big one.”
You barely finish the page before you nod off. You’re exhausted, you can’t remember the last time you stood in the sunlight.
When you wake, his fingers are twitching again.
You pick up the book and read on, twenty pages this time.
Days blur into one another as Joel's condition improves just enough for you to keep your spirits up. He can't see you through the swollen mess of his face, but you know he hears you.
You read him chapter after chapter, the only entertainment for the two of you. He barely says a word, just grunts in approval or pain.
You feel more like a librarian than a doctor.
—-
The sound of your voice is more real than anything else. He floats through the clouds of half-consciousness. Part of him thinks he’s dead.
He must be a ghost, hovering above the empty shell of his body. But when you speak, he’s tethered back to life.
He wants to see you, to open his eyes and find out if you're real, but it's too much work. His lids are heavy with injury, and the swelling doesn't allow them to open.
He hates the dark.
Sometimes you hum, sometimes you talk out loud to yourself, sometimes to him. He holds on to your voice because when you speak, the pain goes away.
He can just make out your silhouette backlit by the window near his favorite chair. Your face is a blur he can't bring into focus. Maybe he did die, maybe this is some sort of limbo he’s in, because you sure as hell sound like an angel, and when you touch him, he feels at peace.
A whole week passes. The swelling is still too much for him to see anything besides shadows and forms.
He hears pages turning and knows you're still there.
He hears the edge of worry in your voice as you talk to his brother and knows you care.
You’ll sometimes drift to sleep while you’re reading to him, always waking when his breaths become strained, when he struggles in his dreams.
Always there.
"You need to wake up," you tell him.
And still, he can't be sure you're not a figment of his desperate imagination.
Sometimes he’s sure he must be dead, because he thinks you’re an angel. He wonders if he deserves one.
Another day passes.
Another.
And another.
He loses track of how long you've stayed by his side. Until he loses track of everything except the sound of your voice.
But you don't leave him.
His body refuses to cooperate, but you don't give up.
And then, after god knows how many days, progress. His voice is the first thing that returns to him. It barely makes it past his throat.
"Ellie?" It's the most important question.
"She's safe," you tell him.
“Water,” he manages, the word scraping against his dry throat.
“Here,” you say. Your hand slips beneath his head, lifting it gently as you bring a cup to his lips.
“Slow,” you whisper. “It’s been a while.”
"How long?" he asks. He sounds like such an old man, but at least he sounds like himself.
"A while… but you survived.”
“Who are y–” the question dies in his throat, he’s too weak to form it completely.
“I’m a doctor, your brother asked me to care of you."
“Your voice,” he says, the words barely audible. “I know your voi—”
“Try to rest,” you tell him as you adjust his pillows.
—-
Soon, he’s able to say a full sentence without feeling like he’ll never be able to speak again. He gets to tell Tommy he’ll be okay. He gets to tell Ellie he missed her. He gets to say your name.
It has to be easier to take care of him now, he tries not to think about how much of a burden he is to you. A stranger, in his home, taking care of him in the way that you do. The soft way you adjust his pillow, the way you gently brush his unkempt hair out of his face, the sweet way you greet him every morning.
Every night, after dinner, you read to him. It’s his favorite part of the day. The familiar sound of the chair scooching into place, your soft throat clear, and then your voice.
“Live through it," Call said. "That's all we can do.” Your voice catches at the end of the line.
“Repeat it,” he requests.
You read it again for him. He sits silently. Your sweet voice saying “live through it” is repeating in his head.
—-
The breathing gets easier, the swelling begins to subside, and you still don't give up on him.
He flutters his eyes open just enough to see, to test it. It’s no longer shadows.
This time, he opens his eyes and he sees you. He sees your face.
He really sees it.
You’re as beautiful as he imagined, backlit by the window, you’re bathed in an aura of soft light shining in through it. You are an angel.
He stares at you. The mystery of the metallic clicking he’s been hearing is solved. You’re knitting, two needles clicking away in your hands. His vision is the clearest it's been.
He says nothing and watches you. He watches and he memorizes.
You don't even notice him. You're so used to him lying there, lifeless, that you don't even look to check… until you’re done counting your stitches and look up, your needles freezing mid-stitch.
“Joel…”
He croaks an affirmative.
You drop your knitting needles and gasp.
"Joel?" You kneel by the bed, and for the first time, he can see your whole face. For the first time, he’s sure you're real.
You press your palm to his forehead, testing his temperature before grabbing your stethoscope and checking his heart rate.
“Can you focus on breathing for me, Joel? Your heart is elevated.”
He takes a deep breath, trying to settle his heart, knowing it’s only because of you.
—-
My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon
Tagging those who showed interest and asked! Please let me know if you'd like to be removed or added.
@secretelephanttattoo, @sawymredfox, @yopossum, @beefrobeefcal, @tinytinymenace
@ace-turned-confused, @lotusbxtch, @tuquoquebrute, @007maiz, @keseqna
@jethrojessie, @catnip987, @joelsbloodyhands, @pedroswife69, @christinamadsen
@desuidesu, @ccmoonshine, @cuntstiel, @karaslqve, @blog-luvdance
@i-wanna-be-your-muse, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @kyloispunk, @idungoofed, @sunnytuliptime
@thatgirlmendo, @visenya-targarye, @mystickittytaco, @noisynightmarepoetry, @mirandablue1
@yxtkiwiyxt, @glitterspark, @missladym1981, @deviscave, @littledebbieinabigworld
@flawssy-227, @lillaydee, @nandan11, @moel-jiller, @brittmb115
@ashleyfilm, @katwriteshardy, @picketniffler, @casa-boiardi, @cumberstarkispunk
-
kidofmisfortune liked this · 2 weeks ago -
chae-the-queen-stuff liked this · 2 weeks ago -
buttons-kat26 liked this · 2 weeks ago -
jeanette-luminia liked this · 2 weeks ago -
maxidust liked this · 2 weeks ago -
vanyette liked this · 2 weeks ago -
anormalmarvelfan liked this · 2 weeks ago -
izdawg-starrskreem liked this · 2 weeks ago -
swancasi liked this · 2 weeks ago -
sc3n3fr3axxx liked this · 3 weeks ago -
chihuahuastan liked this · 3 weeks ago -
ghostlycriesx liked this · 3 weeks ago -
classypeachphantom liked this · 3 weeks ago -
grinch1404 liked this · 3 weeks ago -
freakshow420 liked this · 3 weeks ago -
slothking101 liked this · 3 weeks ago -
tzksreads reblogged this · 3 weeks ago -
1demonhunter liked this · 3 weeks ago -
clawdee-tbr reblogged this · 3 weeks ago -
strawbrrycow liked this · 4 weeks ago -
chocolatefuryface liked this · 4 weeks ago -
delusionallay liked this · 4 weeks ago -
evanpeterspersonalslut liked this · 1 month ago -
yoditopascal liked this · 1 month ago -
flowleased liked this · 1 month ago -
doddledoo liked this · 1 month ago -
alonelykitten liked this · 1 month ago -
azaaranri liked this · 1 month ago -
hughslittlelamb reblogged this · 1 month ago -
maryzoka liked this · 1 month ago -
texas-writes liked this · 1 month ago -
ooobanana liked this · 1 month ago
-
saturnified liked this · 1 month ago -
comics-nerd-number-3001 liked this · 1 month ago -
materialgurlperiod liked this · 1 month ago -
netiath liked this · 1 month ago -
oblomovissad liked this · 1 month ago -
tresfatigue liked this · 1 month ago -
suelen18 liked this · 1 month ago -
ohnaurshayla liked this · 1 month ago -
jastanton liked this · 1 month ago -
mellasthings liked this · 1 month ago -
c0rb3au liked this · 1 month ago -
blbls liked this · 1 month ago -
ser-sie liked this · 1 month ago -
breadfan liked this · 1 month ago -
ayethelittlerainofsunshine liked this · 1 month ago -
evangeline-333 liked this · 1 month ago
20's | 18+ blog, I occasionally share fanfictions here primarily in second person POV. ➜ Please pay attention to the tags and warnings on the fics.
271 posts