veryroundbirdfics | Arknights

Rating: Spicy
Words: 1509
Characters: Silence, Ptilopsis
Relationships: Silence/Ptilopsis, past Silence/Saria, past Ptilopsis/Dellareed
Summary: Dr. Silence is irritable, touch-starved, both angry at her ex and pining for her, and deeply concerned about Ptilopsis's well-being. Ptilopsis is pretty sure she knows how to fix all of this at once.
Notes: Request for 2021 Pride Month!

Content Notes:

Non-penetrative sex, brief dream body horror

Both of them are consummate professionals (Dr. Olivia Silence has scored near-perfect performance reviews both at Rhine Labs and Rhodes Island; Joyce herself is well-liked by the staff at Rhodes Island, although she does not quite understand why) and both of them are good friends (renewed as per Dr. Silence's admission, as of twenty-two days ago; no reason to need further confirmation). Therefore, it is perfectly reasonable for Joyce to be logging additional data on Dr. Silence's well-being.

She is worried (within usual parameters, but at high end) and she is irritable (within acceptable parameters when Operator Saria is present). She is concerned (for Ifrit, for what Saria's presence means, for Joyce's condition), and she is—something Joyce recognizes immediately. She is lonely.

It makes sense. After all, with Operator Saria so close and so far, and still holding herself apart, it would recall unhappy instances from memory. Furthermore, Dr. Silence is predisposed to accept overflow load from other Rhine Labs alumni (alternate meaning: disgraces), even when she has no additional bandwidth.

And, again, she is Joyce's good friend. Therefore, one might describe some of Joyce's own motivations as selfish in proceeding with her chosen course of action, but as far as Joyce is concerned, it solves several problems at once, the chief one being that Dr. Silence needs an outlet.

Also, Dr. Silence's face turns a cute shade of red when Joyce suggests it. This is one of the selfish little things about it.

"This is hardly a time for jokes," says Dr. Silence, ducking her head to look very studiously down at her hands.

"Apologies." Analysis indicated that Dr. Silence would need some convincing, so it's hardly off-putting. "However, Dr. Silence, as—your friend, the definitional qualities of friendship include looking after one's friends' well-being." The next bit is something of a gamble. However: "Research has indicated that released oxytocin contributes to better-quality sleep. The simplest way to achieve that is—"

"I know! Just—let me... let me think. Just—a moment. Please."

Joyce is aware that Dr. Silence is concerned for her sleep quality, due to the interference of Device #9; long-term data analysis concludes that Dr. Silence also is more motivated by the welfare of others than the welfare of herself, a common quality among medical staff at Rhodes Island.

Dr. Silence has a slower processing speed; Joyce can practically see the calculations behind her eyes. The way her hands knit together, anxious, self-soothing (tentative emotion identification: self-consciousness, affection, loneliness). The way her eyes flick toward the door and then flick back, like she's expecting to be caught in something (tentative emotion identification: guilt); the way her expression focuses into a frown (tentative emotion identification: spite, determination).

Then—she reaches out a hand. Slowly, hesitantly, expression softening. Joyce catches it in her own, thumb brushing up and down the skin over the radial nerve, and Dr. Silence shudders visibly, exhaling.

"If you're really—really sure—"

One area in which Dr. Silence's analysis is very deficient is when it comes to judgment on her own cuteness, but her perspective is hardly the best one. After all, she can't see the way her feathers fluff up when she's flustered, or the way her eyelashes flutter when her eyes are half-lidded.

"Of course," Joyce says. "For you, Dr. Silence—I am always, always sure."

Joyce's memory supplies recollections of a time she was more hesitant, more self-conscious in the way that Dr. Silence is. In a way—that self feels so alien, sometimes, that she might be a different person, even though she can remember inhabiting that perspective. Remembered sensation—a flutter in her chest, the too-heavy intensity of eye contact, even when desired, even when she wanted Della to look at her—

She cannot get lost now. That was another time, and now—she registers every minute movement, the rise and fall of breath in Dr. Silence's chest. Even the flow of Originium particles in her veins, under her skin. Joyce could watch her for as long as she was allowed, but she has a singular purpose at present, and that purpose begins with guiding Dr. Silence toward the bed.

Dr. Silence worries about her continued functioning. In this, at least, she can be convincing. There's no reason to hesitate, after all.

"I still—feel like this can't be real," Dr. Silence murmurs, Joyce straddling her legs, fingers carefully undoing the fasteners of her shorts.

She doesn't bother to say that she'd know it was a dream—that in her dreams, when Silence is there, her skin blossoms like a red flower, splitting open to reveal the delicate stamens of her ribs, fragile and fleeting, beautiful and quick to wither, only leaving the shining black glow of her crystallized heart.

No, this is what's really selfish. She can reassure herself—she can reassure herself that she's not dreaming, that Dr. Olivia Silence, her cherished friend, won't dissolve under her fingertips.

Dr. Silence looks a little bit like she's about to, though, touch-starved as she is. "Joyce," she breathes. "You're—"

"Awake," Joyce says, hitching the hem of her shift up. "Real. I can confirm with a certainty of one hundred percent, Dr. Silence."

Dr. Silence huffs, her hand cupping Joyce's face. "If you're really serious, call me Olivia. It's too weird to be called 'Dr. Silence' when you've got your hands in my—oh—"

"Designation 'Olivia' accepted," she says, and finally gets her hand properly into Silence's—or, rather, Olivia's—panties.

Like she expected, every part of her is cute, cock included. Joyce is able to palm her entire hand against it at once, and Olivia's hands catch in her hair in a way that approaches the intensity with which she approaches work, grudges, field medicine, and Joyce, who so rarely now experiences feelings without intention or deliberation, has the distinct pleasure of a gasp escaping her own throat.

It's nice. It's so nice that Joyce temporarily suspends her more accurate terminology to describe these sensations, bright sparks against her physical perceptions so often dulled by the overwhelming flow of information around her, and lets Olivia pull her down into a kiss.

Joyce is, at her own admission, not a very good kisser; it's hard for her to do so many things at once. What she is good at is being singleminded, and she has a lot of work to do. Once she has Olivia's shorts all the way down, she pulls the crotch of her own panties aside—damp, her cunt slick with her own affection.

Olivia is attentive; it's one of Joyce's favorite things about her, in fact, and here, she traces the gentle curve of Joyce's hips to get fingers between her legs. That won't do, though; Joyce plucks her wrist away, pinning it to the bed.

"That's not—should I not?" Olivia murmurs, brow furrowing, even as a flush spreads across her face. Tentative analysis: positive (95.7% confidence).

"The thought is appreciated, Olivia," says Joyce, lowering herself against Olivia's soft cock and getting the satisfaction of a reflexive buck of those slim hips. "But my objective is to see you satisfied a minimum of three times."

"Oh—that's, that's—a lot—?" Olivia half-protests, a little bit of throaty whine creeping into her voice, but it's definitely not a whine of protest as Joyce slides along the length of her, catching the sensitive head of her cock against her own clit.

Olivia moans, and hooks her one free hand around the back of Joyce's head to bury her face against the crook of her neck, and—she really is so attentive, picking things up so fast, noticing the way Joyce's movements stutter when teeth find her skin, the tiny "ah" that escapes her mouth. That, more than anything, is able to undo her; it's everything Joyce can do to keep steady, driving Olivia toward climax.

When Olivia comes, her hips jerk hard up against Joyce's, and her head tilts back against the sheets, back arched; her eyes are glassy, and her features—slack, relaxed, peaceful, in a way Joyce hasn't seen in a long time. Maybe never; it feels like a secret entrusted to her.

She files it away, carefully; a long-term storage memory. She's sure she'll want to remember it again and again.

Olivia reaches to put an arm around her waist, and murmurs, a little hazily—"For you, was it..."

Joyce just tilts her head to the side, and then, very deliberately, without breaking eye contact, starts pulling her dress off properly. "Log data shows that you were informed I would not be satisfied until you were satisfied at least three times, Olivia."

For once, neither of them gets very much sleep.

In the dark, Joyce lies naked, head bowed against the human form in her arms, slowly melting like wax out of her grip, features losing any recognizable qualities.

She is dreaming. She knows she is dreaming. So she can wait until the glow behind her subsides, until the sun returns, until she and Olivia are reunited in the waking world.

Arknights | Dreamless