How to Repair a Mechanical Heart - By J. C. Lillis Page 0,57
up my chin and kisses me lightly. “Let’s not frighten you further, darling.”
“I’m not.”
“You are, but it’s fine. We can work with this.”
“Okay.” I’m starting to shake. A good shaking. I think.
“So what do you think you’d like?”
“I don’t know.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Don’t freak. I won’t judge.”
“I know. But it’s like, I don’t even have the words.”
He pauses. Long pause. Then I hear the shower door creak open, and I feel him slip away.
I twist the water off and scramble out of the stall. He’s pulling on a white bathrobe, raking his hands through his wet hair with purpose. I’m losing him. For crap’s sake. I can’t even take a half-naked shower with someone without—
“Come on, Bran.” He throws me the other robe.
“What are we doing?”
He peers at me over his shoulder and grins.
“Imitating art.”
***
I follow him into the bedroom. He flops onto the first bed and grabs the open laptop.
“Um…”
“So you know this happens in every fandom, right?” he says. “Especially real-person shipping?”
“What?”
“Here, sit here.” He pulls me down next to him and kisses my cheek. “There’s always that fic where they find all the fic their fans wrote about them, and they pretend to be all shocked and horrified at first, and then they read it together—”
“In some fancy hotel room.”
“With cute matchy-matchy bathrobes. And then they get drunk on cheap champagne, and as their inhibitions melt away they end up—”
“—acting out their favorite scenes,” I sigh.
“Exactly.”
“Oh my God.”
He hits his bookmark tab and scrolls down to the bottom. “I think this one was kind of hot. The one where we do it in the bowling alley—”
“Abel!”
“It’s useful, Bran. Trust me! This way you just point to the stuff you want to try—oh. Except that.”
“What?” I hide my eyes.
“Right, I bookmarked this fic to laugh at it. Sorry.” He giggles. “This sorcha doo person needs an anatomy lesson. Did you read this one?”
“I skim the sex scenes.” I uncover one eye, see the word slick, and re-cover fast.
“Yeah, in that position, your first time, in a bathroom stall? I think dizzying heights of ecstasy are out.”
I cringe. “I figured.”
“And honestly—I hope you’re not disappointed when I say this.”
“What?”
“I don’t think I can unbutton your shirt with my teeth.”
“That’s okay.”
“Here, this one’s pretty good, though.” He clicks on retro robot’s “You Can Drive My RV” and scrolls down. “The part that starts Abel’s back hit the wall with a thud? Definite possibilities. Just look.”
“Yeah, I can’t.”
He leans over and nips one of the fingers that cover my eyes. I grin. He nips another one, and another one, until I smack him away and coax my eyes back on the screen.
I make myself read the words this time, instead of skipping to a safe part. The first few lines are like medieval torture, but then the shock wears off and it’s pretty okay, not much different from the Cadsim fanfic I used to sneak. It’s creative. Ridiculous. Funny. Sort of hot, if I ignore the fact that they’re straight-girl masturbatory fantasies about us. We spend the next half hour taking our time with it: laughing at the bad scenes, poring over the good ones. I go through my backlog of embarrassing sex questions, all of which Abel answers with casual directness, like a wet and sexy stranger giving directions to the post office.
“Okay.” Abel stretches and cracks his knuckles. “So definitely that bit from the steampunk AU except minus the brass goggles and mechanical claw, and then we mix in some ‘Three Little Words.’ And—what else?”
I scroll down shyly to “How to Repair a Mechanical Heart.”
“Chapter 18,” I say. “I’d like to start here.”
“Is this the one where we conjugate the verbs?”
“Yeah. But the scene right after.”
He skims it. “Nice. A little overheated, but whatever. Okay. We’ll keep these up for inspiration, but we’ll improvise too. Plan subject to modification at any time, depending on our mood and your comfort level. Sound good, Captain?”
I nod fast. “Yep.”
He tosses the condom on the nightstand. “When and if, okay? Don’t look at it; it’s like a little foil packet of intimidation.”
He reaches across me and snaps off the lamp, so the only light left in the room is a gleaming rectangle of laptop screen. He pushes that off to the side. Cold prickles tick across my neck. All my elevator bravado whooshes away.
No more jokes.
We’re doing this. For real.
Oh God.
“So first,” he murmurs. “I’m supposed to tenderly reveal your sculpted chest, as if unwrapping a gift.” He kisses me, whispers