Arknights | Eyes Wide Open

[veryroundbird]

Rating: Spicy
Words: 1114
Characters: Weedy, Whisperain
Relationships: Weedy/Whisperain
Summary: Whisperain finds herself needing to distract Weedy from a date night movie that doesn't quite hit the mark for both of them.
Notes: 2021 Pride Month request! Also they're watching Arknights Crimson Peak.

Content Notes:

Handjobs, clothed sex

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It's a Friday night, and Whisperain could say she is forming a unique new kind of memory. Specifically, the experience of excited anticipation giving way to... frustration.

All things considered, Whisperain wouldn't say that there's a movie she dislikes; even when they're haphazard or oddly-paced or stilted, she can always find something to enjoy, and furthermore, she knows where to place her expectations, when it comes to film. Perhaps that's the problem: she's still not very good about knowing what to expect from people.

Perhaps she should have expected this, though. What she likes about Miss Weedy from engineering is that she's fastidious, forthright, and detail-oriented, and not one to overstep boundaries too eagerly, having so many of her own. The problem is that Weedy is the tidiest person that Whisperain knows by far and this film takes place in a crumbly, mouldering gothic mansion in Leithania. And Weedy cannot stop herself from keeping a running commentary on potential household safety hazards.

"The roof has a hole in it!" Weedy mutters, arms wrapped around her knees in her chair and looking deeply horrified. "Everything is going to get mold. Everything!"

"Shh," murmurs Whisperain. "You could think of it as... a metaphor. But I think something's about to happen—"

The heroine turns on the creaky, rusted water faucet, and Weedy shrieks even before the reddish sludge comes out of it rather than water.

Truth be told, Whisperain's not even entirely sure Weedy realizes she intended this as a date. Maybe, with things going like this, it's better if she doesn't think of it as such. It's a little depressing, that... with something like this... she'll just end up missing what-might-have-beens instead of things that were.

No—no, she talked at length to the Doctor about this, and... the Doctor, after what she said about her own life, understands better than anyone, doesn't she? So—

So, there'd been something else she was thinking about, anyway. Slowly, delicately, she rises from her seat and turns, situating her long legs astride Weedy's lap.

"Wh—Miss Whisperain—" Weedy jerks her head up, no longer biting her lower lip in worried concern. "What are you doing—"

"The movie seemed... a little distressing for you," Whisperain says, leaning in a little bit; even in the dark, she can see a little flush rise across Weedy's pale skin. And her hands... balled on her thighs, and... shaking? Oh—it really was that unsettling to her.

She doesn't quite meet Whisperain's eyes, keeping her hands curled tight. "Really, though—this way you can't see the movie, either, and... ah, this is one you were looking forward to, wasn't it...?"

Weedy's throat bobs a little bit as Whisperain curls in against her smaller frame, settling their foreheads together. "There were other things I was... looking forward to, you know," says Whisperain, and inhales; this close she can smell the tang of cleaning solution and something a little bit like sea air. Lovely. "If you'd be amenable. I think... the movie can wait."

"Oh." For a moment, Whisperain's a little worried that Weedy is about to expire. "I'm—not very good at—touch—"

Her chest rises and falls heavily, and Whisperain sits back on her haunches. "I'm sorry," she says, glancing down at her hands. "Perhaps I didn't make my intentions clear enough—"

"No! No," says Weedy. "I was... no, I... understood," she says, grimacing. "I think... you're very nice. There's just a lot of touching I don't like to do, and I'm not very interested in kissing... but..." She pauses. "If you wanted to touch me, that'd be—fine."

Whisperain's heart flutters in her chest, like a butterfuly emerging from its cocoon—unsure and awkward, but something bright and growing. And very gently—gingerly, even—she rests her hands on Weedy's bare thighs, tracing her thumbs up the insides. "Like that?"

Weedy shudders under her palms, head tilting back; the poor dear must be touch-starved, a small gasp issuing from her throat even at that. She leans back on her gloved hands, into the seat, and Whisperain nudges the hem of her dress upwards—

From behind them, there's an ominous, ghostly groan—both of them sit up very straight, and then... Weedy laughs, sharp and breathless, and Whisperain realizes it's the first time she's seen Weedy smile properly, as serious-faced as she is. It's beautiful, and—the kind of thing she never would have seen, to be able to remember or to forget, if she hadn't taken this chance. She'll treasure this.

She finds the gentle form of Weedy's cock, palming at it through the fabric of her panties, and Weedy makes an absolutely anguished, needy whine. "Please—" she says. "Just—it gets messy, so—"

Whisperain hums quietly, and tugs it free of the fabric, stroking her gloved hand up and down the length. "I think I understand," she says, gently; every single one of her reactions, Whisperain wants to remember. Or rather... maybe, she just wants to see this as much as she can. "Let me take care of you, Miss Weedy. You work so hard..."

"Ah—" Weedy practically bucks into her hand, precum starting to dampen her glove. "Ah, that's—perfect. It's perfect—"

And unexpectedly, she pitches forward a little bit, leaning her face into Whisperain's chest—all of it fully covered, but Whisperain can't help but flush herself, easily visible through her near-translucent skin; from Weedy, it feels particularly intimate, even though her curtain of silver hair hides her face. It's clear why after a moment, though, Weedy raising hands to grip her shoulders; she's shaking, practically vibrating, as Whisperain strokes her to climax, cock twitching eagerly until she finally tips over the edge, spilling into Whisperain's hand.

She can't help it, looking at her face—she leans down to nuzzle against her forehead, eyelashes against skin. "Lovely," she says, pulling her gloves off to keep the mess contained. "You're lovely, Miss Weedy."

There's still a little color in Weedy's cheeks, and she ducks her head, a little. "I—thank you," she says, very quietly. "You're very—admirable. Er—which is to say, I like you very much, so—"

"I know," says Whisperain, and sits back, smiling. The movie's going on behind her, and it sounds like someone's being chased, but she can find out how it ends another time. "Next time I'll pick a movie we can both enjoy properly."

Startled, hopeful: "Next time?"

Whisperain hums lightly. "If you'd like."

Weedy reaches up with a hand, and after a moment of hesitation—sets it lightly at the join of neck and jaw, cupping Whisperain's face. "Then," she says, "next time. But—maybe this doesn't have to end just yet, either."