♡ Whittle It Down ♡ // Whitty x reader

Chapter 3

A low humming sound echoed throughout y/n's mind. Thinking their alarm was going off, they reached only to roll off of the couch face first into the concrete. 

"Ouch..."

Eyes now pried open, y/n sat up with a groan, their spine cracking softly through every movement. Standing over at the table, Whitty pulled open a small metal door, grabbing two white steaming styrofoam cups.

"Oh, you're awake," he said, sitting down next to them. "I don't have any cutlery but here." A cup was placed in y/n's hands. Shocked by sudden temperature equivalent to a McCafe coffee, they dropped it onto the concrete, the contents spilling. Swarming over y/n's skin, a haze of bright red flourished, muscles pulsating. The hand, starting to blister, sent y/n to hunch over, the pain shooting up their nerves.

"How the fuck did you not burn yourself?" y/n said, straining their voice.

"Metal," he said, downing the cup in one go, noodles flowing into his mouth. The inner corners of Whitty's eyes turned upward. With no time to waste, the zip of his hoodie glided down his centre, the surface covered in murky black smudges. "Shit, go rinse your hand with cold water under the tap." Pulling off his shirt to reveal his dark toned body, he tore the fabric into strips with ease.

While the sound of fibres breaking breathed into the room, a splash of cold water ran over y/n's palm as small blisters broke and burn. Their hand tensed up. Stepping over to the sink, Whitty placed the strip of cloth on the counter. "Here." Softly, he patted dry their palm with a torn towel, careful to not irritate the burn further. 

The past few hours that they had gotten to witness Whitty where he is alone most of the time was unusually eventful. Glancing up at y/n, he placed the towel off to the side. He was gentle, yet it was strange. Worry loomed over them.

With y/n's train of thought coiling around their nerves, Whitty wrapped their hand up in his torn shirt, making sure it was fixed in place. "It should be loose enough to let it breathe. I suggest not using your hand for a while." Taking what he said into account, y/n's eyes wandered to his chest. Muscular, dark, but alarming. Two large cuts crossing over each other hung on his chest, the scar tissue white. Lines stretched across sections of his body, resembling metal plates.

Catching each others' line of sight, y/n's face grew slightly red. 

"Sorry. Does it look disgusting?" Whitty's gaze lowered to the ground.

"No no, it's okay; it doesn't, I promise," y/n said, placing a hand on his shoulder to console him, only to realise it was the hand that he bandaged up two minutes ago. Yelping, they pulled back.

"Careful." His hand wrapping around the back of his neck, Whitty looked off to the side. "I'm made of metal, among other things."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm serious," Grabbing the non-injured one, Whitty pulled their hand to his torso. Slowly,  y/n's fingertips grazed over his chest, feeling each plate with its intricate detail. The surface, soft yet strong, was warm to the touch, a small volt of electricity sending a shiver up their spine. Recoiling, y/n's jaw lowered slightly, an eyebrow rising just a little.

"How? It feels like metal but it also doesn't; how is that possible?"

"I'm a bio-mech."

"A what?"

"Nevermind," Whitty said, walking back over to the couch. Staring down at his chest, Whitty exhaled, looking up at the warped grey ceiling.

"Where did you get those scars from, if you don't mind me asking," y/n said, their burnt hand slightly throbbing. Slightly surprised, Whitty sat up, hunching over slightly. His fingers traced the scar tissue over and over, eventually managing to speak.