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Blurin never had to think about the way Immerred made her feel. The way things fell just right, to the way her presence built a home right where the gremlin’s thoughts were constant.
A wall in her mind and standing before it is none other than Immerred, annoying and as captivating as ever.
Blurin crosses her arms, half from habit, half to steady the jitter in her fingers. Her stance is bristled, defensive—but her eyes don’t leave Immerred’s face. Not for a second.
The automaton’s boots click softly against the floor, each step calculated, infuriatingly slow. Immerred moves like she owns the ground between them. Like crossing it means claiming something.
With that ever present smirk the automaton proclaims proudly, “Only I make sense in your chaos. And only you make sense in mine.” It sounds outrageous, insane even. But, Blurin doesn’t deny the automaton this. And when Immerred takes another step closer, the gremlin stills as cold hands come up to cup her face.
As they always did.
Blurin’s breath stutters in her chest. Not loud. Not visible. But present. She clenches her jaw, unsure if she wants to slap the hands away or lean into them.
Immerred’s thumbs brush against her cheekbones—gentle in a way that doesn't belong to cold metal.
The automaton smiles, so sickly sweet that it should be alarming. “May we never part.”
Blurin thinks she chose the wrong option, and she doesn’t mind it.
It should’ve been easy to scoff, to shove her away with some snide remark or roll her eyes and walk off. That’s how these things used to go—Immerred would push, Blurin would bite back, and the strange, smouldering tension between them would reset. Safe, if only because it never crossed the line.
But this time, something’s different.
Maybe it’s the way Immerred says it—not demanding, not desperate, just… certain.
Like a vow made in a quiet apocalypse.
Or maybe, she herself had changed.
Blurin’s throat tightens.
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly unsure what to do with herself. There’s no attack to brace for, no cruel joke to deflect. Just Immerred’s eyes, locked on hers, unwavering.
It makes her feel seen. Worse—it makes her feel known.
And in that instant, she’s not sure what unsettles her more: the idea of never parting, or how easily she believes it.
Immerred’s hands are still cold against her skin, but the chill isn’t what makes her shiver. It’s the closeness. The terrifying realisation that the automaton is no longer something she can ignore, or outrun, or rationalise away.
Not when she fits so perfectly in all the places Blurin thought she’d buried.
So she swallows hard, averts her gaze, and speaks—not to dismiss, but to deal. To say something before the silence swallows her whole.
“You’re like weight on my back,” Blurin begins, hands clutched at her sides. “Every step I take you’re there, and it all feels heavier than the last. Every single moment I’m here, I’m reminded of my worn-out sleeves you cling to endlessly.”
A pause.
Green eyes flicker to red.
“With each second you stand near me, I feel like I’m being pulled apart—only to be pieced back together the next instant.” Hands come up to clutch metal wrists.
Her grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground herself. The edges of Immerred’s plating are smooth, but Blurin can still feel the faint hum beneath them.
A reminder that the automaton is alive, in whatever strange, persistent way she exists.
And it’s true.
Blurin’s starting to feel things. Annoyance, mostly. But there—tucked into a little nook all on its own—something softer lives. Something... fond of the automaton’s presence. And that—that just might be what breaks the camel’s back. Or in this case, whatever tethered weight Immerred has wrapped around her heart, pulling her in tighter with every word it speaks.
She hasn’t arrived at the conclusion fully. Not yet. Nor is she ready to bargain with her heart about what comes next.
“You make me feel beyond exhausted.”
It’s supposed to sting. Supposed to feel exhilarating—because for the first time in forever, Blurin’s complaining. Showing more emotion than she’s let slip in a lifetime.
But it doesn’t.
It feels lacklustre.
Too dim.
Not a single ounce of it pushes Immerred away.
Blurin sucks in a breath through her teeth and steps back—half a step only. It doesn’t do anything. Immerred follows, like gravity with legs.
Their noses almost touch. If either of them moved an inch, it’d be done.
Instead, the automaton leans in further, like the complaint was a kind of compliment. Like she was being praised for knowing Blurin well enough to wear her down just right.
It’s infuriating.
It’s comforting.
It’s both—and Blurin hates that she doesn’t know which bothers her more.
Immerred’s presence sinks into her like static—sharp, constant, impossible to tune out. And maybe, just maybe, Blurin’s stopped wanting to. The weight she spoke of earlier? It’s still there. But she’s no longer sure it’s something she wants to shrug off.
There’s a danger in comfort.
And Immerred wears it like silk.
Her shoulders tense. She rolls one back in a vain attempt to shake off the creeping awareness blooming down her spine. Her jacket suddenly feels too heavy, like it’s holding more than fabric—like it’s soaked with history.
Immerred watches her every move, head slightly tilted, like studying the crack in something fragile.
Blurin shifts, like her own skin is starting to itch with the awareness. The walls she’s put up are old, worn, and Immerred—persistent as ever—knows exactly where to press.
“You don’t stop, do you?” The gremlin mutters, more to herself than anything.
A soft hum in response. Not a word. Just knowing.
And that’s when Blurin realises it: she’s been circling the edge of something irreversible. One more step, one more look, one more breath taken too close—and she’s gone.
Yet… that doesn’t terrify her as it once did.
Their foreheads brush, accidentally or not. The contact zaps through Blurin like static. She doesn’t pull away.
A war drum pulses under her skin—but it isn’t rage this time. It’s something slower. Something close to surrender.
Her hands are cold, the lower part of her face is freezing. But her heart, it’s warm. And for a second, just a single second, Blurin wonders if Immerred could feel the heat on her cheeks.
“I think you broke me.” She admits after a bit. Blurin brushes her fingers along the metal, grips it again, but gently this time, removes Immerred’s hands from her face. Then, in an act that would never happen again, she presses her lips to them.
The touch is brief, reverent. Lips against steel. It’s absurd. It’s real.
Immerred goes completely still. Not frozen—just… quiet. Like she’s processing something too big for words.
Blurin glances up in the moment, and what she sees shocks her.
Immerred’s… surprised.
Blurin doesn’t move right away.
The taste of iron and ozone still lingers on her lips, and for the first time, she wonders what that means—kissing something that was never meant to be kissed. Holding something that was never supposed to hold back.
Immerred’s hands twitch once in hers.
Just a flicker. A mechanical hesitation. But it’s more than Blurin’s ever gotten.
A breath catches in her throat. She lets it go.
“Didn’t think you had it in you,” the automaton murmurs, voice softer than it’s ever been—lower, almost unsure. Like if she speaks too loud the moment might fracture, splinter into something unrecoverable.
Blurin huffs. “Neither did I.”
Another silence settles. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just… full.
A shared quiet stretched between two things that shouldn’t have fit together, and yet, somehow, always have.
Immerred recovers first. Always does. Her smirk returns, less smug than before. Less like armour. More like instinct.
“You going to run now?” she asks, head tilting, crimson gaze sharp but no longer cutting.
Blurin shakes her head. “What’s the point? You’d follow.”
Immerred’s grin widens. “Damn right.”
And maybe that’s the problem. Or the solution. Or both, tangled so tightly together that Blurin’s stopped caring which is which.
She turns, not away, but toward.
Just a fraction.
A lean into the gravity that’s always been there—subtle, inevitable.
“I’m tired of fighting you,” she whispers, barely more than breath.
“I know.”
And she does. She always has.
That’s what makes it so hard. And so easy.
Blurin closes her eyes, lets her forehead rest against Immerred’s. Cool metal, steady hum.
Home, in the strangest shape.
“I hate how much sense this makes.”
Immerred doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t need to.