summary: when your neighbour's unsuspecting friends catch you trying to pick the lock to your own front door, they feel the need to call you out, but your desperate conversation gets the attention of emily prentiss.
wc: 0.9k+
Derek and Penelope stroll down the hallway towards Emily’s apartment with post-case bliss. They’ve just enjoyed a dinner at their favourite chinese place, and Emily and Spencer follow close behind them, carrying parcels that Emily’s doorman had given her. As the hallway sharply turns, Derek and Penelope pause, waiting for Emily to reach them so she can unlock her door. But while they wait, Derek and Penelope are met with a much more interesting sight.
Just a couple of door down the hallway, hidden from Emily and Spencer’s sight, a woman is struggling against a door, two bobby pins clasped in her hand as she tries picking a lock. “Excuse me!” Derek immediately calls out, grasping your attention. Your eyes go wide at the sight of the stranger, immediately aware of what this must look like. “Oh, hi!” You smile at the pair shyly, but keep at your movements in an attempt to force your front door open.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that.” Derek says with a hand held out towards you, looking close to calling the police on you. “No don’t worry, I live here.” Penelope purses her lips in an attempt not to laugh, but Emily and Spencer, who have noticed their conversation with someone, speed up to see what’s going on. When Emily pokes her head behind the corner, she immediately lets out a loud laugh. Your head snaps back to look at her, and your shoulders instantly slump with relief. “Emily, I locked myself out again.” You whine with a pout, and Emily takes slow steps towards you. She puts a hand on your back, and you instantly lean into her, letting go of your bobby pins.
“Did you call a locksmith?” She asks, and you nod “They said they’d call me back in half an hour.” Behind you both, Spencer, Derek and Penelope shoot each other amused glances. So you’re the neighbour Emily’s told them about. One night, many many drinks ago, a tipsy Emily muttered with rosy cheeks that she wishes she would have the courage to invite you over more instead of relying on hallway conversations with you.
Emily eases your bobby pins out of your door, asking “How was that working for you?” You huff, muttering “Not well. I even watched a video and everything.” Emily opens her palm to give you the bobby pins back, and you drop them loosely into your purse. It’s only when Emily catches a glimpse of your little vintage guess bag that she notices the rest of your attire. A short flattering dress with tall boots and large hoops that match with the bangles around your wrists. “Come on, I have a spare, remember?”
Your entire face morphs into one of realisation, and you wrap your arms around Emily’s waist and rest your head on her shoulder for a short moment before letting her lead you towards her front door. Derek chuckles when you walk past him, jabbing with “I told you I live here.”
Emily’s coworkers file into her living room, leaving you waiting in her entryway as she retrieves your key from her safety cabinet. She pops into the living room to tell her teammates to help themselves to wine from her kitchen before following you out with a key in hand. You stand by her as she unlocks your door, holding it wide open when she finally pushes it open for you. You thank her as she lets you through, watching as she removes the key from the door and puts it in her pocket.
“Good case?” You ask, trying to get her to stay for a little bit. She nods, leaning against the wall. “Yeah, good case. We went out for dinner just now. Good night out?”
“Yeah, we went out to a jazz bar downtown. I’d say we should go sometime but I like our days in.”
Emily smiles, humming in agreement. “Yeah, it’s nice to have good company on a lazy day.” You both stand in silence for a long moment, and Emily finally pushes herself off the wall, nodding her head towards the door. “I should probably go.”
You take a step towards her, and Emily puts her hands on your biceps to caress your bare skin softly. “Okay, thank you Emily.” She nods, seeing the way you take the tiniest step towards her, hesitant in your movements. So she stays where she is, giving you the opportunity to say anything if you need. Instead, you lean forward, pressing your lips to hers for a short moment. Emily doesn’t even have the chance to flutter her eyes shut before you’ve pulled away. She observes you as you swallow thickly, taking a step away from her, but Emily makes up the space by walking to you and cradling your face in her hands.
She sees the glimpse you take towards her lips before she finally kisses you, and she feels her heart swell in her chest at the way you immediately melt against her. She moves her hands from your face to wrap her arms around your torso and keep you close to her, letting out a soft noise when she feels your fingers lace in her hair. You break the kiss to look at her face for a short moment, then step away from her, forcing her arms to loosen around you.
“Your friends are waiting for you.” You tell her, opening the front door for her.
“Okay, I’ll be back tomorrow to help you out with this.”
Authors note : Unfortunately, I’m not the best writer, but when everyone started comparing Christina Koch to Hange Zoe… I knew what had to be done. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy! ♡
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• Hange was the annoying kid who asked their science teacher 400 questions all at once, and then corrected the teacher once they made the tiniest little mistake in their answer.
• once their teacher taught them about the space race and every mission that shaped history, They bought an absurd number of NASA shirts but somehow wore the same three constantly.
• after Hange grew up, they were still so fascinated in the possibility of humanity living somewhere besides earth and got into astrophysics!
• Their apartment has space posters everywhere. Some are framed beautifully. Others are literally taped to the wall with masking tape…
• Hange would most definitely have the most unorganized, chaotic, mess of a desk. Think coffee cups everywhere— some still having coffee in them, Tiny delicate models of spacecraft, tons of notebooks, and only 2,000 sticky notes filled with the most useless little phrases.
• day of launch, everyone is beyond nervous— except Hange. Hange is practically vibrating with excitement! Because let’s think literally, Why wouldn’t they be?
• The first time Hange sees Earth from orbit, they’re completely silent. Which is terrifying, because Hange is never quiet. They eventually whisper something like “it’s so much smaller than I thought” or “I was wrong all this time”.
• they end up taking all the photos of earth as they could, and eventually makes a folder dedicated to it. Hell, Hange isn’t a very big social media person but they might even post about this.
• When the mission finally comes to an end, Hange comes home thinking about all the sunrises they got to see and the educational videos they made, hoping that kids like they once were could watch them and feel that same fascination with things their minds could barely comprehend. Because as amazing as cameras are, they could never capture space the way Hange actually saw it.
Description: catching Hange in an act of violence; inspired by Jean saying "this isn't like you, Hange"; older Hange; non-binary Hange; reader's gender is not specified; hurt/comfort; established relationship; character study; canon material kept in mind; modern au; english is not writer's first language; part 1 out 3.
Word count: ~ 6,7k
Warnings: violence, light swearing.
The only lines Hange couldn’t truly cross were the lines of their own physical body. Whether they had a choice or not to try, whether they were self-aware of the attempt at all.
Grey webbed matter was just a container for their mind - a widespread network of information, constantly rearranging itself in ways that an ordinary human wouldn’t be capable of comprehending.
Therefore, the concept of lines being one-dimensional by design, the holy spirit of x,y, and z that Hange was - existed above such limitations. By design, they have always crossed the line simply by being.
And right now, they were being so unquestionably.
Rapidly heaving bursts of vapor, a bead of sweat sizzling down their summer scorched tile temple, and unshunnable pulsating sting in their winter cracked well knuckles overflowing with crimson.
How much more human could they possibly be? How more inherently blueprint liminal, if they crossed the only boundary they had - shooting bloom of pain at the first thrown punch? It was supposed to be the first, and the last.
It was their telos. Their purpose.
To keep finding balance on the threshold. Natural state being in between.
And to fulfil such purpose, they must continually leave whatever position they had just attained.
That is why Hange was restless. Aristocrat, researcher, military squad leader, commander. The mad scientist. Embodiment of hope. A free iconoclast. Curious and passionate. Ashamed and burdened. Genius and shackled. Violent and loved.
Id est, every threshold gave them purpose, and every crossing robbed them of a place to stay. They belonged, therefore, nowhere except in the brief violence between one side and the other.
Violent. Violent. Violent.
Violent is the lingering tremor of your body after you jumped from the bus straight into their arms, jokingly blamed on the government’s scrooginess in providing the city with modern, adequately heated public transport in the thick of harsh winter. Violent is the only colour of the glaring white city streetlamp washing over your drained face, its reflection still flickering in their glasses. Violent is the nervous bite of your lower lip, the fullness of it slipping through your teeth in place of any clear explanation when they asked what was wrong.
It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together when a stranger came staggering after you, only to veer just as quickly in another direction upon noticing you were no longer alone.
Nor when you caught them by the hand and hurried them back into their apartment under the pretence that it was too cold to linger outside, all the while glancing over your shoulder as though to make sure the winter-dark evening wouldn’t follow you across the threshold and into the warmth of their home.
But all that electrified, hot-summer restlessness went still with the shock of cold water thrown over it at the sound of snow crunching beneath your approaching footsteps.
The irritated grimace falling from their face just as swiftly, as their whole being seemed to zero in on your presence only.
They knew it was you by the way you dragged your feet. It was your little okay, fine, I do look funny act of capitulation, embraced after your comically oversized winter boots had made you the butt of the joke at the last gathering of friends – especially once your spirited defence of the folk wisdom that cold feet were at the root of women’s health problems failed to survive in a room full of scholars.
The shuffle of your boots stopped, followed by a deathly hush…
…ripped through only with a pathetic whimper at their hands. But that feeble throat gargle of someone in an even more pitiful state somehow gave you strength to find your voice. Maybe Hange was wrong. Maybe you could understand.
“You silly, you said you were going out to take out the trash… and forgot to bring the trash bags.”
What a carefully curated neutral tone, too genuine to imply anything other than the obviously stated.
You didn’t even clear your throat. As if this gently distant approach was always in reserve for them. For how they were so observant, especially with you, the suddenly visible eggshells laid out between you was a system crashing discovery.
Their mind was suddenly a two-dimensioned webbed plane, silky fragile strands snapping and recoiling at the weight of one wind-blown pebble of information: whatever faith you had placed in them in your time together had never actually taken root.
Because why wouldn’t you just address the situation directly? It was clear as day even in the nightfall. Hange knew that detour was either courtesy or fear based, for which it was with you - Hange preferred none.
In the narrow service alley behind the apartment block, hemmed in by brick walls and overflowing rubbish containers, your soft voice didn’t stick and settle into the ugliness of the place. It bounced from wall to wall as though rejected by it, folding in on itself until it became a single weft edge that cut clean through the taut tendons in their hands, loosening them in a matter of a second.
The collar of the barf-stained jacket slipped through their unsteady fingers like silk, taking the stranger attached to it down with it onto the dirtied, snow-slushed ground.
They expected another groan to emit from his fucked-up mouth – something crude enough to breathe fresh air into that cold seethe always burning inside them, sacred and inextinguishable.
And they had always been self-aware that there was enough dampness in the corners of their being for something like this to keep burning only unnaturally. Enough mould to explain the violence as anything short of pure will.
And they really had only one will: to not lose their mind while dancing on the tightrope of their equilibristic nature. Rage gave their scattered being a balancing stick. A sharp point to gather itself around. It was rational in the way nothing else about them was – one undamaged impulse to damage, only a little stronger than the many, many others fighting for priority every second.
But what their ears caught was a stomach full sob.
The man - no, a guy much younger than them – had drawn his legs to his chest. Twigs, really, swallowed by black tracksuit sweatpants as he curled himself into a ball like a frightened hedgehog. A creature of darkness and resilience in a merry coated warm downtown full of coffee shops, their overpriced lukewarm coffee, and lazy policemen.
Hange wondered what was so encouraging about you to the prickly pig.
Was it the impartial little smile playing on your lips like specks of sun on waves? Was he pulled in by pacific ocean behind your eyes? Almost inhuman acceptance for all wee breeds of violent creatures.
…And… how much did you allow for it to gather speed…?
Hange just couldn’t picture you saying no.
Their arms dropped to their sides, as they regarded stranger turned acquaintance through fists with mad clarity.
They could see fractured lateral cartilage, ruptured vermilion border, and counted how many sutures would be necessary to dissolve over time.
Except none of it, not even the memory of his shaky, dilated pupils, or the way he’d failed to string words into actual sentences when they slammed him against the wall and hissed the sort of things a cat might while playing with a mouse before sinking teeth into its neck, could stir anything in their chest.
“I was taking out the trash,” they finally said, voice stripped of all accentuation.
If you had said anything along the lines of mirrors and unrecognisable reflections, they would’ve remained silent as shame for not being ashamed swelled. But you directed conversation (in)direction of round bushes, and they had no choice but to follow.
The plastic rubbish bags rustled in your hands as you stepped closer - not towards Hange, nor the pervert crumpled at their feet, but towards the bins. Perhaps you couldn’t spot the difference…?
You swung two bags and two curt words into the already-open container.
“Classic, Hange.”
Had the lid been shut, there would have been no virtuoso display of discus throwing; you would’ve pulled a face at the filthy handle and abandoned the bags beside it for somebody less particular to deal with.
“What?”
Your voice was laced with a hollow sort of sarcasm. “No pun intended, am I right?”
You stared at the inside of trash container for a second, right hand twitching in and out of a fist by your thigh before you mechanically turned on your heel.
And whatever summer heat had been raging through Hange moments before, began dropping fast from the instant you arrived at this padding unworthy at confession scene.
By the time a circle was inscribed by your compass heel in the snow, the temperature of their matter had fallen below zero and snowflakes no longer thawed caught in the mop of brown hair tied at the back of their head.
Hange became acutely aware that most of the human body was water, because every drop of theirs seemed to crystalize at once, puncturing the membrane of cell after cell with the sharp, agonizing onset of fear.
You didn’t even give them a chance to see your face. To see whether your eyebrows were knit, whether your lips mouthed an inexpressible emotion, whether there was a translucent filter on your eyes. You simply turned and walked away tout de suite.
And it didn’t take a second before they followed.
Eye wide and fixed entirely on your back.
They would have tripped over the body slumped across the ground if not for some strange, animalistic stealth that took possession of them for perhaps the first and only time in their life – muscles pulling taut, steps falling unnaturally quiet, their whole body narrowing itself into pursuit.
Fear was gathering every restless point of their being into a single drive.
And that drive was the sound of your quickening footsteps carrying you away from them.
Their head was buzzing with speculation. Somehow, they had said the wrong thing. Somehow, they had tipped a scale they hadn’t even realised had been gathering weight inside you for who knew how long. Somehow, they had crossed the one line you had always kept drawn for them without ever telling them where it was.
Somehow… you were cruel like that.
Because they were sure you knew.
Surely you had already worked out that their particular character profile had never been appropriate for mutual, domestic love; that they were hopelessly ill-fitted for the finer mechanics of romantic heart; that, for you, they were ready to flatten into a two-dimensional plane for your crafty hands to origami them into a real flying one; at your word transcend into x,y,z, and w. Anything cleanly even.
Surely, you had figured that without you – the last screw – the mechanics of compromising wouldn’t spin. Otherwise, Hange was unscrewed, but with you – totally screwed.
They could not make themself into anything for you without your guiding hand. So, they had followed it blindly, trusting the indirection, only to discover it had led them here: to the sight of your back.
They were sure you knew.
They called your name, once, twice, thrice, already short of breath, matching your pace only a small distance left between you. They didn’t catch up. They didn’t let themselves fall behind, either.
“Young lad’s just fine. And that was a valuable lesson for a lifetime.” Mirth in their voice, swinging thurible full of burning myrrh. Wonderful. They were out of breath because digging your own grave is grunt work, obviously.
What they should have done was deliberately flipping the flippancy into soberness. That’s what they concluded you needed most from them, second to leaving you alone, of course.
Knowing when to stop had always been embarrassingly close to a no-brainer for everyone except them. As it so happens, they had too much of brain, enough of it to press against their skull in bouts of migraine and not have a single concussion for all the numerous times they tripped.
When did enough become enough? Ethics and morality had always been slopes too slick for Hange to trust their own systematic, on-balance judgement on when it came to one person and their feelings. Their judgement wasn’t designed to see people individually, but to weigh masses and choose to compromise the smaller one.
Usually, they shielded their brow with a hand in search of a bright side to anything, but there wasn’t one here. This was a simple two-way division: either you knew, or you didn’t. And once the lesson had begun, there was no changing seats in the class.
Hange let out a little self-deprecating chuckle.
They really didn’t know how to purposefully take things seriously.
That was why the switch between clownery and impassiveness bore hundreds of fingerprints from overuse.
Professional solemnity, though, came easier. They could slip effortlessly into the gravity their work demanded, and, yes, there was something bittersweet in the particular sombre that settled over them when Levi brought up the names of lost comrades, back from the days the two of them had been three prominent figures in the military; the smartest, the strongest, and the leader.
But with you-
Hange was soap in your wet hands.
And you had never squeezed.
So there had never been any reason for either of you to acknowledge how easily they might slip away. The possibility remained concealed beneath the bubbles of estranged family: they were fun, and you were always smiling, and all was well.
Because yet again they crossed the border of self-assigned definition – slippery – and were sticky from sweat, rough from crusted blood on their knuckles, and grippy in pursuit while you were trying to be the one who slipped away.
A part of Hange wanted to blame you for being so endlessly malleable. Shapeable soap foam, in this case. For quietly moulding yourself around every sharp, erratic edge of their life without ever asking them to blunt it. You had surrounded them so completely with yourself that eventually they had mistaken losing themselves inside you for being found there. For being held.
But what was balmy would remain pliant at any force… and smear.
And now you were smearing in the opposite direction.
Because you didn’t answer.
And when the lit entrance to Hange’s apartment building came into view, you didn’t turn towards it. You kept trudging through the fallen snow. Towards the bus stop.
Another pitiful attempt at your name escaped their frown. But the dry winter air cracked in overcharge of electricity burning the call away.
“Where are you going? Your bus was the last one tonight, remember?”
Another hollow chuckle followed, recalling your frantic refusal when they’d offered to pick you up earlier, while you were already hurrying towards the stop near your own apartment.
Ah, something about how much you enjoyed buses at night – the dim interior, the near-absence of people, the movie-like aesthetic of watching a snow-covered city slide past the window with your favourite playlist in your ears.
The initial, bestial focus was beginning to subside now that Hange returned to their self-awareness and could make out the next few steps ahead of them. Oddness within and without was being rationalised bit by bit.
You were no longer disappearing into that grey mass of endless possibilities. You were being impulsive, perhaps more plainly than you had communicated anything in all the time they had known you, and Hange wasn’t about to pretend they couldn’t hear the dog whistle.
They placed their own boots carefully into the footprints you left behind in the snow while observing how quickly something inside them recoiled from that first violent pull towards you.
Hange puffed a white cloud, eyebrows drawn.
That was new.
Everything between you had always existed within the same tolerable range of clothed affection and attraction, the bare nakedness of true vulnerability kept safely beyond its perimeter. You occupied the bubble of their life without ever puncturing it – always somewhere nearby, impossibly patient, forever an audience to whatever sprawling speech happened to be pouring out of them.
Hange had never been the one who pushed people away.
They were the one who ran.
But you had never been a concrete place they could stumble into and then scramble desperately out of once the windows closed and air became too stuffy.
You were carbon to the chemically volatile table of their life: unassumingly connecting loose ends together, unrejected by other elements of their life, too structurally uncomplicated and necessary to simply be brushed aside like soot.
You were the origin of life.
…And they were the abomination of it.
…
You reached the bus stop and stopped beneath its light like a deer caught in headlights.
Entranced… and why aren’t you moving?
It was the clearest destination. Finally, something familiar bright from above as you were beginning to believe this endless geometrical thicket was below get away.
The streetlamp overhead had been beckoning to you since the mouth of the alley, pale and as warm as the blood in your hands, bleaching the pavement, the shelter, the churned snow beneath your boots. After the close, sour stench of rubbish and wet concrete, the open street was covered in a sheen of white, almost sterile.
Cars passed every so often with a gassed whoosh, tires spinning the wheel, threads of disturbance into a blanket to pull over the uncomfortable silence that followed you several measured paces behind.
You had brought yourself somewhere other people had already been.
Snow beneath the shelter was crowded in day-old traffic, overlapping and covered by thin layer of more to come, swallowing the uncanny doubled trail you and Hange brought.
Maybe the traces of an ordinary bustling day – people waiting for buses, stepping on and off, going wherever they had somewhere to be – could keep you from exaggerating the feeling that you two were the only people left in the city without a direction.
You needed the openness of a gaping night sky above to make yourself small again. Needed the larger glass booth to stop them from growing simply by comparison.
While you were shifting weight from one restless foot to the other, eyes jumping across indistinct objects around, Hange remained motionless the same short distance to your left.
Perplexed, perhaps. They were merciful like that, giving a moment longer window for the external world to rearrange itself around their presence before it jumped to another threshold.
Everything was covered. But the snowflakes danced around your nakedness. That is why you were trembling.
They sniffled but didn’t lift their arm to wipe their nose on the sleeve of their coat. The movement would break their teetering on invasive focus. You could tell that- from the nervous dampness gathering in your palms. The way your shoulders were closing in on you.
Usually, when Hange got caught in this odd study of you, you tampered with the data with a sweet peck on their lips. Super anti-empirical, that they would lean closer to lick away the sugary lip-gloss off your lips. And then, unprejudiced, go on about how cancerous it is.
Your hands clenched and unclenched, amplifying the sensation of uncleanness from handling filthy trash bags.
You couldn’t form a solid picture of how they looked right now, not even in low resolution.
You had no idea how Hange looked.
Their face dropped in quality all the more you struggled to reconstruct it, wide awake in bed, even with them drooling at your side, hand secured beneath your shirt, legs tangled with yours. Panic would rise in your chest, and you’d lose the battle against checking the outlines of their ambiguous face again.
They were just a few steps away, so close- close enough that you must crouch and do it conventionally.
That was it, wasn’t it?
You could never form a solid anything about Hange.
And you had always faced that truth like a champ. Mostly because you never sat around long enough to feel cornered by what you didn’t understand.
You kept putting in the effort, hoping to turn that zero into one over time. Steadily, patiently, collecting brief glimpses of Hange day by day and refusing to look away. To understand them in the premise of it. In the promise, that, eventually, you might.
You never bit more than you could chew. But you were chewing, and chewing, and chewing…
The fabric of your heavy woollen winter coat rustled and pooled at your ridiculous boots as you lowered yourself, sacrificing one knee to the melting snow for the sake of balance. You needed all the support you could get – even the uncomfortable kind – to keep your head from turning towards them. A magnet, really, instead of a brain, pulled to iron in their cracked knuckles.
That was yet another novelty for the both of you tonight.
Hange’s breathing, uneven long past the point when it should have begun settling back into rhythm, told you they were thinking much the same thing. Each inhale came in a two-tiered rise; each exhale fractured into several small descents of their chest. It was the way they kept themself conscious whenever they encountered something unprecedented – something so new they had no established method for handling it yet.
Because from the first day you saw Hange, you couldn’t look away. You knew they were magnificent. Charismatic, magnetic, electric – and, with the kind of certainty you had never possessed about anything else, the only one there would ever be for you.
You scooped up a handful of white snow from a patch untouched by shoes or the dirty slush thrown aside by the occasional car crawling through the sleepy streets. It hardly melted in your numbed palms. Your hands were shaking, and you knew Hange had noticed-
“If you want my sick-day special soup that badly, just say so. There’s no need to actually catch a cold.”
-and hadn’t even bothered pretending it was because of the winter.
There it was again: the usual tease. Affectionate smile tugging at the corner of their velvety collected voice. Something so completely at odds with the distress twisting through your insides that it almost felt exemplary. Another illustration laid neatly before you of just how differently the two of you seemed to be built.
Opposites, perhaps.
Or worse – two parallel lines. Made to face the same indirection, to remain beside one another at precisely the same distance at any point, and never, by the very design, touch.
Before you met, neither of you had been condemned to something so sad. You had done that yourself.
You had been young then, and terribly infatuated. So certain that earning a place beside someone as extraordinary as Hange required becoming extraordinary yourself. So, you took the matter into your own hands. Worked yourself to the bone, because they were infatuated with skeletons. Sanded down whatever might inconvenience them (i.e. uncooperativeness), disciplined every excess (your stuffy idealisation), trained yourself into reliability and lack of interest in anything until you had managed to become Hange’s most extraordinary opposite:
Extremely ordinary.
Perhaps that had been your first and only true act of selfishness.
Because you had made a decision for both of you without ever asking what Hange wanted - whether they even wanted the raw you – something ever authentic and considerate Hange had never done to you.
You rubbed the meltwater into the palm of your right hand with your thumb.
The hand Hange always took in theirs and swung dramatically while walking the cosy downtown streets; while showing you off to their good old friend Levi for the first time with such enthusiastic pride you wished for the ground beneath your feet to split and swallow you whole; the hand they squeezed encouragingly while dragging you into their bedroom, as your bird-heart was thrashing against your rib-cage.
You alone had decided to become the layer between a mind that could never quite contain itself and a world forever offering somewhere for each scattered piece of it to go.
To stand between the genius and the heavy sack of responsibility fastened to its back – to keep one tethered to the other, because the weight, blood circulation cutting as it could be, was also what stopped Hange from disappearing entirely into their own mind.
You had decided that Hange would dedicate their heart to the world, just as you would dedicate yours to them.
To love them. To love them. To love them.
And now – as they called your name again, with nothing but humour, compassion, and curiosity in their voice, trying to coax you out of your stupor – that name crossed the distance between you on their behalf.
Because you had always deliberately made yourself accessible by all means. You had arranged yourself into something Hange could always find just by one step, because to you -and anyone else, really – Hange had always been fundamentally unreachable.
They weren’t made to be crossed by ordinary means, after all.
The streetlamp flickered. You clutched your fingers together, meltwater dripping through them.
That they did not step closer, same distance remaining, you had no one to blame but yourself.
Blood gushing through your eardrums you failed to pick up on the way their breath stilled, brown eye widened to encompass your whole frame, hand grasping the metal corner of glass booth, blue paint flaking off – all to prepare themself for absolute concentration. Final push: the perpetual provocation. Dressed in irreproachable cordiality. As if this was their first day on earth, and they just had a lot of questions for its self-important humans.
“What are you doing?” Waiting for direction.
“What are you standing around here for?” Because it hasn’t arrived.
Followed by puzzled. “Hey?”
Silence encouraged them to continue. “You’re not responding to me because you’re shocked, is that it?”
“Or are you so angry that you can’t even look at me? Maybe betrayed because that was uncalled for and ‘not like me’? Which is it?” They speculated out loud.
You shook your head.
That little communication stopped their train of thought in its tracks for a moment before they opened their mouth again. “No, as in you’re not shocked. No, you’re not angry? Or you’re not feeling betrayed? Neither and something else?”
A car swept by, loud techno beats bursting through the alloy shell.
They glanced at the street, half-distracted. “All of the above and you just want me to leave you alone?”
You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your lips into a thin line in attempt to keep the bile from reaching your mouth.
…They really didn’t have any faith in you to take you for granted, did they?
Yes, you were shocked, angry, betrayed, but above it all you were terrified of the way Hange was talking to you right now. The blood on their knuckles brushed off with puns was startlingly serious, and Hange was seriously being the same as ever.
Their composure was starting to get under your skin. You really were starting to feel extremely ordinarily stupid and immature for acting this way. For buying time with refusal to think before speaking.
Hange heaved a convincingly troubled sigh. “If you don’t speak, I won’t know…”
You heard the click of their glasses as they pushed it up their nose with a bruised knuckle. “I’m curious because that’s how you normally don’t act.”
They added. “I’ve never ignored someone intentionally for this long.” It wasn’t guilt-tripping. It was a genuine attempt at showing you that they were trying to understand you from their own inexperience.
You hugged your knees and buried your face between them. “What… did you follow me here to make fun of me?” You knew they weren’t really making fun of you. But they weren’t taking you seriously, either. Or maybe not? It was unclear like always with Hange.
“Hm?” Hange let out a surprised noise. “What do you mean? I followed you to talk.”
You sniffled. Right. You had no idea what was going on inside their head.
The intricate map behind your slumped back of coloured bus routes bore multiple burns from cigarette butts and black sharpie scribbles. It was unintelligible, and reflective.
In the spur of the moment, you felt so exhausted.
You didn’t know how to stitch whatever this is that’s not even maimed. You and Hange were alright, right?
You’ll continue trying to understand them, and they will continue being the same. And the dread sitting heavily in your gut will dissolve by morning.
Just how can you explain yourself to Hange, anyway? Since they want to talk… how will you tell them that after seeing them so capable and willing of violence - a live reenactment of Levi once solemnly heeding a warning We’ve killed countless people, you better never forget that – walking away where there was light and other people felt like the only ordinary choice at your disposal?
But you understood. You understood. That back in the days of war, there was only one motive for your people, for them - to fight for freedom. Something they had the complete freedom to never give up on in a much different way than anyone else.
They were subordinate to Erwin and only had to trust his decisions. Because he stood tall with death beneath his shoes.
Then his death fell beneath Hange’s shoes.
They weren’t ready to get trapped inside their own humanity to fight for only a part of it. But they didn’t have a choice, many were depending on them, and Erwin believed in them. Thus they decided and acted, decided and acted, and kept moving forward for everyone.
But after the war settled into a tense peace forced only by greater loss, that hope for better days was gone too.
And instead of winged hope, only weariness stayed behind in Pandora’s jar.
So, they retreated into the dingy laboratory and buried themself in medical texts. Not because it really piqued their interest, but because saving lives instead of deciding which ones to sacrifice was the least they could do as free again.
They were dead and may have rested in peace between the damp walls of a laboratory situated somewhere in the basement, somewhere in cold earth. Until you poked your head through the door they forgot to close and grinned Can I come in? The way you guided them through a light-hearted conversation was so unassuming, they started noticing all the mess and grimness of their workplace for you.
It didn’t take long for you to bring life into their life. You were quick like that. And peace kept cold in their travel mug above the ground amongst living. Your hand in theirs, guilt was simply seen.
You willed yourself out of rumination, unresponsive tongue as if it was dipped in the snow instead of your hands.
“I’m sorry.”
That came out feebly, direct enough to splash like a tiny bug on the windshield of a passing car.
You pressed your closed eyes into your knees hard enough to see stars, and opened your mouth again to show off what a studious pupil you were in rambling 101 class.
But your lower jaw dropped with your heart at the sound of snow crunching beneath Hange’s boots. You felt them crouch in front of you, knees popping, the hems of their coat brushing against your shins.
They let out a frustrated little noise while digging their holed pockets. You had never entrusted them with the knickknacks you collected from all your dates for that very reason, or pennies, too. Hange was perhaps the biggest sponsor in the market of lucky pennies found on the pavement, ensuring it was booming alongside the demand and supply for lottery tickets.
You felt an assertive but considerate hand snake through the little gap left between your chest and thighs. A little clumsy at first, they finally found your nose and squeezed it with a balled up, deteriorating piece of toilet paper that smelled of spending months forgotten in Hange’s coat pocket.
A note of concern slipped into their voice after they cleared their throat. “What are you sorry for, hm?” Maybe a little more tender. A little more careful. Just a bit contemplative. Just a little bit pensive.
Your heart really clenched in want. How pathetic you felt for clinging to notes that mean nothing when separated. It was just Hange’s deep abstruse voice capable of transmitting many things at once and nothing at all.
You were glad their hand moved away after wiping away your snot - retreating a little, to exchange warmth with the skin of your inner thigh through jeans - and was out of the way of a hot bubble teardrop high diving from your lower eyelash springboard into snow between your boots.
Hange would have to pull out their torture kit back from the day to drag out into streetlight that biggest insecurity worm eating at your insides - heavy as the other evil resident dread – and apologising for you.
And they did. What a painful little instrument their callused thumb is, causing immeasurable agony with reassuring rubs against your jeans. Somehow, they were cruel like that. Because you spilled the beans at surrendering speed.
“For failing to consider that maybe I have to keep trying, so hard, to be the right kind of person for you is because I’m not.”
Their thumb stilled. They were merciful like that. They got what they wanted, the forbidden truth.
They took a considerable amount of time to process your words.
Or maybe to give you time to catch your breath because what is there really to contemplate? It sounded lame because it was. Right, yes.
What you truly fell short on was Hange’s crestfallen face.
“Ah. I see.” They murmured.
The two of you crouched still listening to the sounds of the still world around.
You remembered the two cups of imported tea left on their kitchen counter, probably no longer emitting colourful steam of spices. Their dogs, Bean and Sawney, were probably chewing at the soles of your slippers, left unsupervised for so long. You had work tomorrow. But before that you would call Hange to disturb their deep night owl slumber, distracting yourself from the scratchiness in their voice with the hem of your shirt.
You really wished time to keep moving-
And for it to stop- when their long fingers twitched and closed over your thigh with newfound pressure.
Digging into the soft flesh and pulling apart folded limbs that were just about ready to give out from muscle tension itself.
You yelped, losing balance, about to sit in the snow-
-before two rough hands gripped your forearms and pulled in.
You stumbled into their crouching frame, knees digging into their thighs as their own dipped into the wet cold below.
You frantically caught their eye in question, right where their disappointment was blooming. Directed at you or at themself? Directed indirectly, maybe. The knit of eyebrows half-obscured by the dark leather eyepatch and dark frantic strands sticking to their forehead making it more grave.
“Is this what you’ve been up to thinking to yourself all this time?” Scold scalding cold.
And for the first time, Hange really felt older than you.
…Because despite the decade dividing the two of you, Hange was always just Hange.
They were their own age, their own category, their own generation. If anything, you always felt to be the one making sure to be reliable.
The one to always water down the fun by smiling warmly and nodding as they tried to convince you into doing something ridiculous. The one who prepared baths for them that always ended up shared against your clothed will in the bubbly steaming water. The one who piled containers of food in their fridge, easy to grab and not spend lunch on an empty stomach.
And now that you tasted the tender authority, you wished for nothing more than to cling to them.
Stick to the licked lolli like a dust bunny. Bury your face in their chest, fingers catching onto the unbuttoned collar of their crinkled dress shirt. Slacken in arms traced by years of grunt work. And let them figure this out for the both of you. They were good at that, weren’t they?
But you knew that they wouldn’t love a burden. They had enough of it already.
Thus, you made yourself even lighter by letting a new batch heavy hot tears slip down your cheek and burn the snow away with salt.
You gaped for more air but managed to give out your own amateur attempt at lightening the atmosphere. “Yeah, fuck you.” That was about as mature as you could go. Soft grinned with lips drained of colour. Because what did they expect asking a question? Anti-matter instead of an answer?
Hange glumly scoffed, shaking their head, erratic strands of dark fringe sticking to their forehead instead of bouncing agreeably.
Your heart began frantically beating, pumping the adrenaline to ready hands for lunge. For untying the knots in your mind and speaking your mind unfiltered.
You breathed out. “Hange-“
But they interrupted it by catching your hands and hauling you both onto your feet with a grunt.
Ignoring the snow clinging to their knees that could still be swept away before melting even further, they asked with a serious tone. “Where do you want to go?” Eyebrows kept drawn beneath the dark leather eyepatch obscuring one of their greatest guilts.
They searched your face, eye switching between noting the pressed line of your lips and the panic surging in your eyes.
They looked away. And shortly nodded to themself. “I’ll take you home for tonight. We can continue this conversation tomorrow.”
They tugged at your right hand, walking around the glass bus stop.
“Why?” You plead.
It wasn’t like their words weren’t spreading over your gut like balm. You were relieved this could be postponed. Because what if ‘this’ really is, is the ‘end’? But it was much unlike Hange to take breaks in their investigation.
“Because I need to think,” they said it in distress, as if it was the most obvious thing ever.
“About what you’re thinking.” They dragged you like an injured soldier through battlefield. “About what you think I think.”
Their long legs taking wide strides on the narrow little trail towards their apartment complex, making you trip over your own feet numb from squatting.
“And it seems I’ll be busy the whole night.”
You wiped your eyes with sleeve of your coat, scratchy fabric leaving a burning trail on winter and salt dried skin.
They threw a glance over their shoulder.
Their urgent pace slowed by a notch.
“And how about you for a change try to keep a quiet mind?” You could hear an irritated smile forming on their lips. “Hm?”
There was no fight in your body. Tongue was loose. “…Is it really that difficult for you to accept that maybe I wish to stand beside you with pride? What’s wrong about putting in the effort to be the best version for you? Isn’t that how healthy relationships stay healthy-?”
You were abruptly stopped in your speech with a muffled crash into their side.
They turned to you with stealth, looming closer with a tipped head. “What do you mean with pride?”
Your face scrunched in frustration at them picking apart your words and forcing you to explain yourself to a wall.
They didn’t give you an opportunity to voice your irritation. “You think-“ They leaned even closer in disbelief, the white cloud from their mouth mingling with yours. “A person like me takes a lot of pride in who they are? In what they’ve done?”
You were robbed of words.
Seeing your own reflection flickering in their glasses. Confused and hurt. And clueless.
Their face twisted as they pulled away as if burnt away.
A moment passed of them struggling to lift their eye at you. Many emotions were passing through them but before you could even start to count, they turned again and tugged you gently to keep walking towards the red rusted truck sleeping somewhere in the parking lot of their apartment complex building.
“…and that ambition of yours, regardless how honorable, is interesting indeed.”
But a boundary-crosser needs boundaries in order to exist as a boundary-crosser.
summary: months of constantly asking hange to spend time with you without their work calling for them every minute, they finally take you on a vacation. only problem is it’s not really a vacation, it’s a work trip. what could go wrong, right?
pairing: afab!scientist!hange zoë x fem!reader x scientist!shoko
warnings: 18+ MDNI / porn with very little plot / implied consent / established relationship / hange uses they/them, shoko and reader uses she/her / three sum / hange cuck hehe / shoko and hange college bffs! / lots of spit. like i mean Lots of spit / dom!shoko dom!hange / pussy slapping / cunnilingus (r receiving) / overstimulation / begging begging begging / passing out / no use of y/n / pet names / there’s no cheating rlly but it kinda almost gets to that but NO CHEATING / smoking / major dirty talk / dumbification / mild face slapping / use of strap (gets referred as cock too) / squirting / i think thats it… it’s basically porn / wc: 7.2k
"No—I'm so done with this, Hange!"
You roll your luggage into the hotel room carelessly. Letting it crash down onto the polished floors with a loud sound.
"I've been telling you, begging you, to just at least spend a day with me—your wife—without any interruptions. And now, here I am, fully believing that you planned this entire nice vacation as an apology..." you chuckle sarcastically," ...it's a work trip for god's sake!"
You're hysterical. Walking back and forth in the small living room of your hotel room. Almost hyperventilating with how stressed you are right now.
Hange, who you've been married to for three years now, approaches you with regret drawn all over their face. Their lips press together, their inner brows curling up. Hands trying to reach yours in hopes that they could calm you down.
"Baby, baby—I know, I should've told you it's a work trip," Hange says in a rush, trying to come near you. They really can't. "It's just my boss allowed me to treat it as a normal vacation. Everyone in our team brought someone with them. They're treating it as a vacation too!"
You blink at them, dumbfounded at their response.
"I don't care if they're treating it as a vacation," you tell them, trying your best to keep your voice leveled. "You are here on work hours, Hange. You have responsibilities to do."
"Tell me, what do you plan on doing tomorrow, huh?" You demand. When they fail to respond, their lips pursing together in a tighter line, you huff, "See? You're working tomorrow. God knows what kind of specimen you're looking for, or what kinda experiment you gotta conduct at some nearby—I don't know!" You throw your arms up in frustration. You kept your head staring up at the ceiling, desperate to keep the waterworks in.
Some part of you feels guilty; Hange's never been short of an amazing lover. You married them exactly because of it, because of how loving, caring, and unintentionally charming they are.
Had you known there'd be three of you in a the relationship—you, them, and their work—then you would've maybe, just maybe, thought twice about marrying them.
The heavy silence between you two was suffocating. Hange could feel their hands itching to intertwine with yours, desperate to feel your skin against theirs. As much as they understand your sentiments, as well as their own lapses as your partner, they just couldn't leave their work any time soon—so they hoped that maybe this would've worked for you.
Clearly it didn't because you had your head in your hands, shoulders rising and falling intermittently.
Hange says your name cautiously, taking quiet steps towards you as your sniffles filled the air. Before they could close the distance, you snap your head up at see them eye-to-eye.
I just want to be with you, alone. I want your attention. Everything. You think everything you couldn't say, hoping that maybe they could hear them through their mind.
"We need to clear our heads," you say to them, swiping your hands across your face.
You didn't want to cry. You're not going to cry.
"I don't... I don't think we need to be around each other right now." You stand up, rubbing your palms on your sides. "I'm sorry. You can have the room. Get some rest."
"Baby." Hange's calls fall short as you grab your bag, walking to the door as fast as you could.
Just as you go out, your body halfway through the door, you look at them. Their stiff shoulders, rounded eyes.
"We're... We're okay. Just do what you need to do then come back to me, okay?" Your voice lowers to a plead. The very words sparking a sense of hope in their eyes.
"Yes," they say almost immediately, "I'll finish this as soon as I can then I'll take care of everything. I'll make this trip worthwhile, I promise."
As much as you hated to admit it, Hange's soon is clearly not the same as your definition of soon.
It's been two days already. You two've kissed and made up already, although still somewhat distant. You just couldn't let it go easily.
Here you are now, at some fancy floor of the hotel, wearing what you were supposed to be wearing had Hange not been called for an emergency meeting. At which point you just couldn't be bothered anymore.
Hange's missing out, not you. That's all that matters.
"A manhattan, please," you tell the bartender, scanning the surroundings.
There were old men everywhere. Just the usual. Not much people your age which you liked. At least then you didn't have to worry about crashing into someone you probably know.
"That and a whiskey highball."
The seat behind you is suddenly occupied by a woman in a neat white button-up long sleeve. It hugs her torso perfectly, enticing you just by a small small amount. The ends of her sleeves were still cuffed and the shirt was still tucked in so you assume she just got off of work.
What you notice more wasn't her attire, or her long pin-straight brunette hair, or even the dark shadows under her eyes that makes her look... well, hot; you notice the stream of smoke that escapes her lips.
You watch as she takes the filter in between her lips, drawing in a breath as the other end of the cigarette glows. She lets it simmer between her lips first, prompting your eyes to lift and lock with hers. The emotionless look in them setting off butterflies you didn't know were still in you.
The bartender places down two glasses just in time. Her lips parting to let the smoke out in silky grey threads, blowing out the air calmly.
"You're smoking," you open the conversation, finding yourself surprisingly intrigued.
She chuckles softly. The cigarette finishes in no time, her slender fingers crushing one end of it on the provided ashtray.
"It's a cigar bar for a reason, no?" She responds, quirking the corner of her mouth in the slightest bit.
You keep quiet, turning your attention away and looking at the other patrons lounging around instead. Most of them were alone, a chosen some had some form of arm candy on them though.
"My name's Shoko," you hear from beside you. "Shoko Ieiri."
Your lashes bat unintentionally. The sly stretch on their lips doing no help for your inhibitions whatsoever. A moment passes by with the live jazz playing at the far end of the bar before you decide to return the gesture.
It was simple really. You just told her your name then turned your back to her again.
The rock on your finger is still there. You're not hiding it. She's not blind either, surely she can see your wedding ring considering how obvious you're holding your hand out.
"I'm guessing it's a bad day with the mister?" They take their glass, indulging in a hefty sip.
You blow off a breath. Rubbing the skin of your arm calmingly. "Something like that, I guess."
Deciding to make good on what she's given you, you take the cocktail and sip it carefully. Lips smacking against each other as you taste the bitterness on your tongue.
"What about you?" You sneak a glance at her hands.
There was nothing on both.
Shoko lifts one hand, checking the inside and outside of her palm before shrugging. "Don't bother. There's no mister to worry about."
After some time where your manhattan's slightly halfway and she's on her second highball, she decides to converse again.
"Here on vacation?"
You couldn't help but scoff. A droplet of liquid making its way on the corner of your mouth.
"How many cigarettes have you smoked?" Your question comes out before you even think about it. Eyes widening at the bundle of cigarette butts on her ash tray.
She laughs, "I asked you first."
You blink at them, huffing out a breath, "No, I'm not here on vacation." The words come out snippier than you intended, your eyes rolling back instinctively as the fight with Hange from days ago resurfaces. The grudge still fresh, definitely long before it's fully buried.
"Oh," she says with slightest knit of her eyebrows. "That doesn't sound good."
"It's not." You take the remainder of your drink and down it. Still having half a mind to place it down softly as the bartender shot you a curious stare from the side.
"Well then," Shoko pauses, adjusting herself on the stool so she's facing straight at you. She twists, picking up something from her hip.
An elegant silver casing with a button on the side. She extends her hand at you, applying some pressure on the button before it clicks open.
It's a cigarette case. Of course.
What'd you expect from the woman that probably outsmoked every old guy in the bar within twenty minutes?
"Do you?" She asks.
I stopped, you wanted to share, but that'd only prompt even more conversation with the woman that's so similar yet so different with your significant other in every way possible.
So you don't. Instead you take a cigarette stick, unconsciously biting your bottom lip as you put it in between two fingers.
Shoko smirks. She clicks the case close again, placing it somewhere on the counter before holding out her lighter. Sleek and elegant as the case, only now with gold accents.
You place the cigarette in between your lips, color already staining your fingers from your lipstick. She flips it back with satisfying clink, thumb already at the spark wheel.
Your eyes flick up to hers. They were darker than Hange's, a deeper brown as opposed to your partner's light-browns. You catch yourself locked in their gaze longer than you preferred. Her eyes were just so... enticing. Like they were pulling you in, laying out breadcrumbs for you to pick up just until you were close enough for them her cage you in.
Inhaling sharply, you drop your eyes back to your cigarette.
Shoko easily gets the gist. Her thumb sliding down on the wheel as a well-formed flame sparks from it. You adjust the end of your cigarette, keeping it stable enough just until it's fully lit.
"Another one, please," you hear her say to the bartender as you focus on making sure you don't cough the smoke out like an amateur.
The nicotine hits you like a log of wood. Your mind spinning at the intense rush of flavor at your tongue. The quality of the cigarette evidenced by how dense the smoke is as it floats down to the center of your throat before you push it out your lips in a controlled exhale.
You've only ever tried those cheap ones you buy over the counter at gas stations. This one's new.
You glance at your phone on the counter. It's been sitting there silently the entire night. Not a single vibrate or ping. Hange's busy, you figure. Too busy to even ask you how your night is.
"It must be a pretty grueling fight if you relapsed 'cause of it," Shoko remarks.
You take another careful drag of the cigarette, contemplating whether the rush sensation you're feeling is from it, or from the woman that gave it to you.
"What do you mean?" You take it back in between your fingers, blowing off a little harsher this time. Tilting your head up so the smoke hits above instead of her face.
"You clearly quit smoking before. Not sure when, won't really ask why. You've been glancing on your phone too, waiting for their message perhaps," Shoko pauses, sipping her whiskey. Each observation hitting a mark. "Like I said, Your argument with whoever it is must've been exhausting if you're smoking again 'cause of it."
You scoff. Your teeth clenches together, unconsciously dangling your heel at the small footrest on her chair.
"You offered," you say with no particular tone, shrugging your shoulders.
Shoko snickers, moving all of a sudden as she takes the cig from your fingers. Your brows furrow in confusion, about to call her out on it when you see her simply tap off the ash on her ashtray.
Her lips draw a smile on, just lazy and sweet, making sure she has your eyes locked with hers before she brings your cigarette to her lips. Smoking it so casually—and sensually, though you hate to admit it—as if the grey clouds that leave her mouth was a part of her own soul.
You swallow. A splash of nervousness drenching you through your silk dress. You don't even notice the way her eyebrow cocks up in interest at the way your irises shake subtly.
She finishes the remainder of the cigarette, squishing it down with the rest before calling your attention away from your phone.
"I have mints in my room, if you want."
You're not born yesterday, you know what that means. You know what that look on her face clearly wants too.
It'd be a lie to say you didn't want her. No matter how much you try and keep up this saintly act of yours, no matter how much more you love Hange than her, the urge to throw away your logic for a single night swallows you in quicker than you could get away.
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips unconsciously, eyes dropping down to the alluring smirk stretching her mouth.
Fuck, you shouldn't feel this—this warm sensation bubbling at your lower abdomen, not at someone you hadn't even known for twenty-four hours.
But the air is intoxicating. The manhattan's catching up to you. You know you want her.
The voice in your mind deepens. Lulling you into a bottomless pit you can't quite claw out of. Your eyes screw shut for a moment, heavy breaths entering your nostrils and leaving through your mouth.
Her eyes watch over you, calm and collected as she waits there with her whiskey, sipping quietly.
You glance at your phone again. The pitch black screen pushing you closer and closer to the woman beside you. A foul sign from the universe really.
Hange. Hange. Hange.
Your brain screams continuously of their name. How it longs to see them again, to hold them, to have them hold you; sure, you've wanted to explore and be more daring at the bedroom but cheating on them is not exactly a synonym for daring.
Do you really have to think about that now though? You already have a chance to have a good time. Imagine the sex.
Shoko's glass clinks against the fragile counter, catching you staring from her peripheral.
She looks away, probably understanding your inner turmoil. You click your finger on the screen, counting one—two—three seconds for the empty lock screen before you turn to her.
"You... you two're workmates?" The air's kicked out of your lungs as you're faced with not just Hange in front of you, but Shoko as well.
The two had that conniving look in their eyes as they glanced at each other, just a small moment before two sets of eyes glue themselves onto your silk robe-clad body. Feeling a lot smaller than usual with these two watching you so closely.
Hange approaches you first, walking to the end of the bed where you sat on your knees, their textured palm gently tilting your chin up with a smile that made you swoon over and over again.
"Mhmm..." they hum, leaning forward until their lips brush against yours. "Why'd you think she approached all boldly like that, huh?" They press their lips to yours in a chaste kiss, a deep sound grumbling from their chest. "Imagine how proud I was when Shoko told me how hard it was trying to get you to say yes."
Their hand slithers down from yours chin to your collarbones, even farther down to your chest where they cup the undersides of your breasts, pushing them up just enough to land kisses on the skin peeking from your robe's cleavage.
"And even at Shoko's best, you said no." Hange smiles, teasingly digging their teeth on one breast just to make you squirm.
"Then why is she here?" You shoot her a glance from across the room, keeping your voice down just in case.
She was still dressed in the same get-up as earlier, though now with a three buttons unbuttoned from the top. Her lips in a lazy smirk as she watches the two of you so normally.
"I told you I'll make this trip worthwhile, right?"
And there's that glint in their eyes.
That glint that science took from you for like, what three months now?
Even with just that, your hips squirm impatiently. A pathetic whine desperate to be heard.
"But it's just if you want to, baby," Hange's voice shifts back to its usual caring voice. Their eyes widening just slightly as they take a moment to look at you. "We don't have to do this if you want to. I just... I just remember a secret you told me a while back." They snicker at the memory.
"I've tried to find the best date to make it happen and this work trip's the only best date." Hange stops their massage on your tits and holds your hands. There's still that apologetic tone in their voice that swells your heart.
"But Shoko—how'd you get them to agree to this?"
"Would it be more comforting if I say I've known Hange since we were in college?" Shoko cuts in, crossing her arms over her chest. "Didn't take much convincing, to be honest. I trust them, they trust me."
Hange gets your attention back with a soft squeeze of yours hands. "So? Your call, sweetheart. If you don't want to do this, we can—"
"Are you kidding?" You scoff, suddenly breathless, "Kiss me, Hange."
They don't even get to move as you pull them in, arms on their shoulders, kissing them so hungrily to the point that you hope the taste of your cocktail lingers on their tongue. You could hear Shoko's soft giggle somewhere, maybe even some rustling here and there too.
Hange wraps their long arms around your waist and torso, letting you deepen the kiss before they pull away with lust-blown eyes. Lips already swollen from just a few moments of liplock.
"Hmm, Shoko?" Hange turns their head, gesturing a hand towards the woman before looking back at you. Their eyes a world darker. "Just enjoy, alright? You can stop this anytime you want," they whisper to you right before stepping back. Shoko filling in their place with her hooded eyes and parted lips.
She calls your name with honey dripping from her voice, the butterflies inside of you crashing against one another.
"So you knew about me and Hange this whole time?" You can't help but ask her as she takes a seat to your right, letting you see your partner sit down on the plush chair situated at the corner of the room.
Shoko hums, her attention flickering down to your lips. "They're the one that told me you're at the bar."
Her hand lands on your thigh, over the silk fabric. You could tell she felt the warmth radiating from your body from the slight flare of her usually monotonous gaze.
Like some slow-form torture, she drags her hand right up to where your thigh and hip meet, dipping it ever so teasingly inward. Just enough to take that shaky breath right out of your throat before pulling it away.
"Does knowing they planned this make you feel a little less guilty?" Shoko tilts her head to the side of your face, whispering in your ear like the devil from earlier.
Your attention lands on Hange. The way they sit on the chair with their legs spread wide, one elbow on the arm rest, watching how their longtime friend slowly push you to let go with each seductive touch. They hold your gaze in theirs, lust swallowing their usually light brown pupils.
Faint kisses make themselves known on the corner of your jaw, the heat of Shoko's hand dipping into the opening of your robe.
"Answer me." You hear them command.
You gulp, hairs on your body standing up with how erotic this entire situation is despite all of you being fully-clothed. You look to your partner as if asking for some kind of permission—one that assures you they truly wanted—planned this.
When you notice the slight raise of their brows, a relieved breath—a weak breathy moan to a trained ear perhaps—is pulled from you. "Yes."
Her hand cups the naked heat underneath your robe, eliciting a gasp from your lips. Your knees parting on their own, providing her with room.
"Fuck, you're wet," Shoko observes, swiping two fingers across your slit with her bottom lip in between her teeth. She turns her head towards Hange's direction, "You're right, Zoë. She likes this. Matter of fact, I think she's growing rather impatient actually... underneath whatever this shy facade she's putting on."
She swipes again, languid motions of her slender fingers making you stick your knees back together as though trapping her hand in between your legs.
You whimper pathetically, clenching on nothing but the sight of the two of them exchanging knowing glances.
It made you feel hot. Burning, in fact. You don't know how long you can last like this, how long you could hold onto whatever was left of your self-control.
"Oh she's far from shy." Hange leans forward, getting a closer look at the way your body slowly melts in their workmate's hands. "Might take a moment to warm up to you, though I'm sure you can do it in no time, Ieiri."
Shoko returns her attention to you, a sense of determination drawn on her features.
Your eyes widen at her. The way she stares down at you felt like a predator indulging in her prey right before she bites. And you're right, it's exactly like that.
Her lips slot in between yours with a hunger you never expected from someone as composed as her. Rough hands undoing the tie of your robe before shoving it off of your shoulders carelessly. You hiss, feeling the cold air against your bare chest, nipples turning into even stiffer peaks.
Shoko breathes, taking one side of your face in their hands as the other massages your breast, rolling your nipples in between her fingers. "Look at them—look at Hange while you kiss me. Don't be shy about it," she says before claiming your lips again. Her tongue invading your the wet cavern of your mouth like it's her life mission to.
You could taste the whiskey on her tongue, the faint remnants of nicotine; your eyes screwed shut for whatever reason.
Then, a sharp pinch lands on your nipple. "I said look at them."
So you do. You peel your eyes open, immediately buckling when you see them staring right at you with their chest rising and falling heavily. Their lips were pursed together, watching you silently.
You tried your best to keep up with the force of Shoko's lips, tongue willingly submitting to hers. Your eyebrows jerk inwards, feeling their free hand move from your tits to your cunt.
Shoko pulls you away, swollen lips wetting themselves before she raises her palm and spits on it. She shoves it down, pressing the slob of her saliva in between your legs, grinding her palm before thrusting in two fingers unannounced. Your knees quiver, hands coming forward to hold her wrist, moaning weakly.
She pulls it back to her face, boldly extending her tongue and licking her palm all whilst you watch. She grins, standing up from the bed as she proceeds to pull down her pants. Leaving herself in nothing but her panties and button top.
She's amazing, fuck, you thought to yourself, feeling yourself drip even more as you look down at the lacy fabric of her underwear.
Shoko clicks her tongue, "Sit properly for me, c'mon—make sure you're facing them." You obey without a word, adjusting your body so you sat cross-legged, making sure you're in Hange's direct line of sight. The lewdness of it all buzzing through your bones.
She crawls on the bed to sit herself behind you. Her long legs appearing on either side of you as you feel her push back your shoulders to rest on her chest.
"Did I say sit there with your legs closed? No, I meant spread your fucking legs, sweetheart." Contrary to her words, she speaks that in the loveliest tone imaginable. "Gotta make this enjoyable for them too, greedy girl."
You catch Hange rolling their eyes at Shoko's antics, though still watching intently.
On any other day, had Hange told you to do that, you would've done so in a heartbeat. Maybe even spread them before they even tell you. But now, now you're cautiously spreading your legs apart, as if you were a virgin and it's your first time showing that beautiful, glistening wetness in between your legs to another human being.
Hange's breathing picks up. Their eyes blinking continuously as they all but grow even hornier from seeing your cunt pulse and drip so desperately.
"Fuck, look at that." You hear Shoko's voice from behind you, arms snaking to your sides as they push your thighs even farther apart. "Was this before, during, or after we spoke at the bar?"
When your eyes narrow at her, she laughs. "Just kidding. I'm sure it's after."
Shoko brings her right hand down to your center, cupping your heat shamelessly. "Could feel you clenching. Desperate for my fingers already?"
Her left hand comes on your chest. Giving your tits some well-deserved love, or perhaps taking your attention away from how they begin rubbing your clit in quick circular motions. Their fingers against your wetness producing a lewd sound every time.
You arch your back, feeling your breathing pick up as the pleasure boils in your stomach. Every delicious motion of her fingers pulling out a moan from you. Each time you try and push back against her, desperate to clutch something, you feel your sanity chip away.
"Sh—Shoko, fuck," you say in a broken gasp, legs threatening to close as your climax steadily builds with how fast she's circling your clit. Shoko easily hooks her ankles underneath yours, keeping you spread apart and visible to Hange.
"Tch, tch, no closing your legs, sweetheart. I know it feels good," she says with faux sympathy. "Still a long night ahead of us."
Your moans heighten, breathy high-pitched calls of Shoko's name; your hips jitter desperately, trying to grind your hips in time with their fingers. Walking yourself to the edge just to push yourself over, eyes screwing shut, the orgasm at your tongue already.
She slaps your tits, a loud and cracking sound that gets your eyes widening all of a sudden. A soundless screaming forming on your mouth as you tip over the edge. Her hand still continuously rubbing circles on your bundle of nerves even as you scrape your nails all over her wrists, legs trying to close.
Right before the overstimulation sets in, you feel her hand leave.
"Look at that!" She exclaims delightedly, pulling away the hand on your pussy only to slap it a two—three times. Each time making you twitch weakly. "That's a good start. Though you’re still not letting go, sweetheart."
You open your eyes tiredly, feeling your chest heaving already. "What are you talking about. I am letting go."
"No you're not. You're still holding back," Shoko says, pressing her lips all over the side of your neck. "No worries. I'll get you out of it."
Looking to Hange, you see their hands gripping the armchair tightly. The veins on their forearm prominent now. There's a tight smile on their lips, one of assurance and promise.
Shoko takes back your attention again as she roves her hands all over your body, kissing the sweaty skin of your shoulder blades before she finds herself back at your inner thighs. You feel her spread your folds, exposing you even further.
At your position, you're certain Hange can see everything.
By that, you mean everything you could possibly show them. Your labia, your pulsing clit; the way your walls clench around nothing. Even the sticky residue left on the small tufts of hair from your arousal.
They've explored every inch of you from tireless nights before but seeing you with your legs spread before them, another woman's hands presenting your pussy to them as if an open book—it's a new genre of erotic that they hadn't known before.
"Hange, spit on her pussy."
Shoko's order shocks you to your core. Your eyes widening, Hange just as caught off-guard as you are.
"Come on. Don't you two act so shy now," Shoko huffs, massaging the soft muscle of your inner thigh, enticing Hange even more. "Spit on her, now."
Your partner doesn't respond, but they stand from the chair, the light clink from where they place their glasses down. Your breath hitches as you watch them take two big steps to the end of the bed, dipping their body forward until their head's right above your sopping cunt.
Hange looks up, staring at you with their round brown eyes. Your mouth gapes.
Their mouth works, gathering a thick blob of spit before tilting their head down and spitting it right at the center of your clit. Shoko's fingers quickly moving to spread the makeshift lubricant all over.
You arch back at Shoko again, whining Hange's name as you desperately try to close your legs around them. She clicks her tongue, ordering them to spit even more—even messier.
Hange abides by her, knowing the way you so thoroughly enjoy being messy in bed; seeing how aroused you get the rougher they spat. You bite your lip, hands seeking purchase on the sheets as your body moves on its own, desperate for more.
Their head lowers down with each time they spit, the closer they are, the better it feels for you especially with Shoko so diligently spreading Hange's saliva all over your own wetness.
Just before their face drops to the surface of your pussy, Shoko's palm plants itself at the center of their forehead. "Not yet," she says, "I'll let you know when we need you again, Hange."
And there, Hange's glaring at Shoko again. Heading back to their chair, pulling it as close to the bed as possible before dropping themselves on it.
"Can I spit on you?" She asks, uncharacteristically soft and careful, then you remember you two haven't really been all that introduced formally.
You respond, pupils dilating as her smirk widens, "Yes."
"She wants me to spit on her too, Hange," Shoko chimes, moving to your side, clothed breasts pressing against your bicep. Her hand suddenly grips your chin, holding it to her direction with such roughness that your lips part instinctively.
Unlike Hange, she spits in your mouth loudly, shamelessly. A grin stretches on her face, "Want more?"
"More," you echo, nodding your head as best a you could.
"Knew it—fucking greedy girl you are," she laughs provocatively, "Tell me what you want—c'mon, tell me what you want me to do."
"Spit on me," you say, dignity slowly slipping away.
Shoko's eyes sparkles with mischief. "On you? Where exactly, sweetheart. You have to be specific—"
"Spit in my mouth!" You yell at her. Throwing every care out of the window as you all but plead for her own saliva on your tongue.
She hums in satisfaction, taking your chin in her hand again. This time, you roll your tongue out for them, awaiting the exact moment you feel her harsh spit hit the center of your muscle.
You swallow it without even thinking. Mouth opening wide for her again.
Shoko affectionately slaps your cheek, squishing them with slight aggression, loving the way color blossoms on your face.
"There she is." Your eyes snaps to Hange's voice, jumping slightly when you see them standing over the bed, arms crossed over their chest.
They lean forward, Shoko personally holding your face to them. "Open wide for me baby." You do as you're told, laying out your tongue like you did to Shoko.
By the end of that spectacle, your body's a mess of spittle. Shoko's saliva spread all over your body; on your neck, on your tits, on your stomach, no part of you left untouched.
Now, Shoko has your cunt right above her head. Your face in between her spread knees, hovering just above her cunt. Hange's still watching from the end of the bed, getting perfect view of how Shoko's tongue drive you to the edge for the third time that evening.
You clutch her thighs for support, mouth agape as spit dribbles down at the corners. The way her tongue fucks in and out of your walls, exploring every wet orifice inside you whilst her pointer and middle finger circle your clit.
"Mmmhmm—god, fuck! Sho... shit." Your head drops weakly, sticking to rest on her thigh. "So good, fuck, ah—Ah!"
Your hazy vision tries to focus on Hange right now but you just can't—it's all too good. Shoko's too fucking good at what she's doing to you.
Tongue hitting all the right spots. Fingers all but tipping you over the edge as you break apart above her with a wail of her name. The tears of overstimulation welling in your eyes as she continues to eat you through your release. The contented humming she's doing vibrate straight through your core, your hips jerking uncontrollably.
"Keep your eyes open, baby," Hange's voice pulls you awake, fucked-out eyes staring up at them as they cradle your face in their palm. No longer able to stay glued to the chair. "Look at you... Shoko's mouth feels that good, huh?"
Your eyes roll back as a response. Nails digging into the skin of Shoko's thigh as you feel another high coming fast.
Hange watches you fall apart on her mouth, sobs falling from your lips, incoherently mumbling as your body quivers from the intensity of your orgasm. They capture your lips, kissing you for the first time that night.
You don't even remember much of their lips. Your body fully giving up the control as you let Hange move you however they want. Their gentle hand running across your shoulder blades, swirling their tongue with yours.
Shoko shifts underneath you, grabbing your leg and slipping away. The entire lower part of her face drenched with your release, practically dripping at her chin.
Hange pulls away from the kiss, a lewd string of saliva still connecting you both. They look up at Shoko. A wordless glance exchanged between them before Shoko captures you in a liplock again. Letting you taste yourself from her tongue.
Drowsy with the attention, your legs threaten to close as you feel a hand at your core. "He—Hange!" You hiss, still very much sensitive.
The two of them laugh at you. Shoko stepping off and back from the bed as she pulls aways. "Think it's time for your turn," she says, nudging Hange's arm. "Don't tire her out too much. We're not done."
"I'll do what I want with my wife, thank you very much." Hange rolls their eyes, turning to you as they crowd your sight. Your arms quickly hold them close, clutching them to your chest as they drop the both of you on the bed.
It doesn't take long for Hange to get you two going again. Your once-blank body now decorated with a plethora of lovebites after Shoko's own promise not to leave any on you.
Unbeknownst to you, Hange's already wearing their strap. That pretty purple dildo that has ridges at the side, curved ever so slightly upwards; the only one you've ever squirted on before.
Hange has that charming smile on as they pull you into their lap. Their legs spread, waiting for you to sit on them.
You wrap your hand around their strap, bringing it up for a moment to wet your hand with your own saliva before wrapping it around the strap again. Teasingly biting Hange's bottom lip as you jerk your hand up and down the strap, lubricating it thoroughly.
They grunt, deep and masculine, pulling your hips down until the tip of their cock kissed your entrance. The two of you stare into each other's eyes as their hands slowly push you down, feeding their cock into you with a hiss.
With a few experimental thrusts, the stretch begins to amplify the pleasure. The ridges on the strap rubbing so deliciously against your walls as Hange bit and sucked all over the valley of your breasts.
You pull the hair on Hange's nape, breathy moans escaping your lips as you bounce recklessly on their strap. Tits slapping with each other every timez
Hange's hands cage you closer to them, gripping your waist tightly as they thrust up into you. Meeting each bounce with their hips, loving every noise that slips past your lips.
"Ah, Ha-ahh... oh! Fuck, mhmm s-s' much—"
"What was that?" Hange questions breathlessly, their palms dropping to your ass cheeks. Landing one slap on your left, then another on the right. "Talk to me baby, use your words."
"T-t—fuck, ah, wait-shit, aaaaaahh." Your head falls back from the pleasure. The sloppy sounds of the silicone rocking into your wet, tight cunt filling the hotel room.
"Aww, are those tears I see?" You don't notice the waterworks, but they're actually there, threatening to fall all over their mouth. "Poor baby... Shoko's tired you out so much, huh. Can't even take my cock now, can you?"
There's a snort from behind you, but you don't pay much mind to it. Your walls clamp down on their cock, way too drunk on the pleasure.
"I can—don't stop, please. I can, ah, I—I can take it," you say in between whimpers.
Your head nuzzling against their shoulder as you pull them impossibly closer, wanting every inch inside of you.
"Who's fucking you right now, baby? Tell me." Hange's eyes flicker up to yours, hips slowing down.
You swallow, "You..."
"What?" Their pace slows down even more. A distraught plead leaving your lips as you move your hips desperately. They say your name, "Tell me who's fucking you right now. Is Shoko fucking you right now? Is she?"
You shake your head side-to-side, babbling out nonsense as you try to break away from the hold Hange has on your hips. They kept you still, hindering you from taking your orgasm yourself.
With your climax subsiding from the lack of stimulation, your words come out, "You're fucking me," you say, albeit hoarse and quiet.
"Gotta be more specific than that, baby—say my name, c'mon, I know you can rack it out from your pretty brain," Hange coos, pouting their lips as they brushed away the hair sticking to your temples.
"You—Ha—ahhh, fuck! You ass—ah, shit—don't stop, pleaseplease," you break into a sob, eyes screwing shut as Hange plants their feet against the mattress, thrusting up into you with such force and speed that every coherent thought leaves your brain.
The only thing in it was Hange, Hange, and Hange.
Their brows knit in concentration, teeth clenching together as they shift their hips exactly at the angle they've known from the start. The rubbery tip of their cock pummeling against your g-spot repeatedly.
Your orgasm crashes through you harder than anything. The sheer loudness of your scream was evidence enough of how mind-numbing, body-shaking it is as you all but convulse in their arms. Their deep grunts making you clench around them harder.
"Hange—wait, wait—" you tap their shoulder hurriedly, feeling a pressure quickly build up deep into your pelvis.
Your hands desperately try to push them away, too uncertain at the feeling; a big part of you scared that it's fucking pee threatening to spill all over.
Hange tightens their hold, focused on hitting that spongy spot inside of you more than the pace of their thrusts. Your arch your back, pushing against their tough body, only you feel another body behind you.
Fuck.
"Shoko." Your mouth gapes, seeing her kneeling behind you with such a wicked grin on her face.
Hange loosens their hold around your body, and you turn to them, a jumble of words right at the tip of your tongue when a hand slithers itself down between your and Hange's body.
"No, no—it's too much!" You sob loudly, shaking uncontrollably as the pleasure hits you in all directions possible. Shoko's hurried circles around your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure as Hange pounds dead into your spot again and again.
"You can do it, sweetheart," Shoko whispers over at you.
Unconsciously, your mouth parts. The gesture eliciting a giggle from her as she knowingly takes your face in their hand again, spitting straight down your throat. She wastes no time directing you to Hange. They spit down your throat as well, messily licking the mess of saliva that had missed your lips.
"Shit, you fucking love this," Hange struggles to say, their voice ragged from the continuous buck of their hips. "You're so fucking out of it baby, look at you, so hungry for us both. So greedy. All those orgasms wasn't enough for you huh?"
You shake your head, "N-no—aah! Close. Shit. I'm, Hange!"
Shoko rubs you even harder, desperate to push you to your limit. Hange too. Both of them working in a perfect tandem, you sandwiched in between them so pathetically.
Another climax crashes down on you. This time bringing with it a gush of wetness that sprays all over Hange's lap and Shoko's fingers. Your body falling on the latter's chest as you convulse, eyes screwed shut, mouth spilling with high-pitched shrieks.
Everything's a blur to you.
Your body losing control over its own muscles as you fall on whoever's body, limbs dragging all over. Your body twitches still, even as you feel the strap slide out of you, even as multiple arms hold you and move you in ways you can't be bothered to think of anymore.
"You tired her out," Hange hisses at Shoko.
"Me? You're the one that literally fucked her!" Case in point, Shoko's nudging her head at the purple strap dangling between Hange's legs.
Hange huffs, unclasping the harness from their hips.
"Get her water. She needs to hydrate," Shoko orders, the doctor in her coming out as she watches your body lay on the drenched bed with your eyes closed. She definitely thinks you're asleep.
They disappear to the small kitchenette, holding a few bottles of water in their hands. When they return, they stop dead in their tracks as they watch you spread your legs unconsciously.
Hange and Shoko stood there, staring at your dozing body. The two of them feeling the same buzz in their bones as your plump and swollen pussy lips call both of their names.
As if a light had gone off, they both glance at each other at the same time. That same smirk stretches on their lips.
Looks like the vacation is worthwhile after all.
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