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brookghaib-blog · 2 months ago

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The ghost I left behind- III

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Note: I kinda wanted to make this more of a filler chapter, because I didn't want to write the whole movie when it doesn't really make sense for this idea, I promise you a more fullfilling chapter next, and the emotions and action will be there!

Word count: 6.3k

Chapter II, IV

O.X.E Research Lab. - Malaysia

The hum of fluorescent lights was constant — like static pressed against Bob’s skull. The air was cold, colder than it should’ve been for a place buried under the jungle. Concrete walls closed in around him like a tomb.

He sat alone on the cot in the corner of his cell — no, not a cell, they called it a room. White-walled, sterile, like something out of a hospital, only there was no comfort here. Just observation windows and cameras that never blinked. On the wall across from him, a single metal shelf held the only thing they’d let him keep — a small, worn photograph of Y/N, curled slightly at the corners. She was smiling in the picture, standing barefoot in their kitchen, holding a mug of coffee. Her hair was messy, her eyes tired but warm.

Bob stared at that picture like it was oxygen.

He hadn’t seen her in months. He hadn’t heard her voice, hadn’t felt her hand on his back when the nightmares got bad. But he remembered everything — the sound of her laugh when she teased him about the chicken suit, the way she’d breathe when she fell asleep next to him. The feel of her lips against his shoulder. The way she’d told him she was pregnant — shaking, terrified, and hopeful all at once.

He remembered what he’d said to her that night.

“I’ll get clean. I’ll be better. I want to be the kind of man our kid looks up to.”

And then he left.

He hadn’t told her. Hadn’t said goodbye. He boarded a plane with a one-way ticket and a pocket full of cash he’d scraped together, believing that leaving would present her with a greater good. They promised change. Power. Control. All the things he’d never had. All the things he thought he needed to deserve her.

And now?

Now the power was eating him alive.

The door to the room opened with a hiss. Two armed guards stepped aside as Dr. Lenhart entered, clipboard in hand, eyes cold behind her glasses.

“Subject 44. The team is ready.”

Bob didn’t look at her. His fingers grazed the edge of the photograph once more before standing. He didn’t resist as the guards strapped a control collar around his neck and led him down the corridor.

The room he entered was massive. Sterile. Circular. Glass walls separated the observation deck from the inner chamber. Bob stood in the center, machines humming to life around him, sensors pulsing against his skin.

“Begin neurological synchronization,” a voice echoed overhead.

Bob closed his eyes.

At first, there was silence.

Then came the whispering.

Not in words — not exactly — but in feelings. Rage. Hunger. Emptiness.

He clenched his fists, his breath growing erratic. The air around him shimmered, warped. Lights above flickered, then dimmed to nothing. A black mist seeped from beneath his feet like smoke rising in reverse.

“Restrain output—he’s losing control!” came a panicked voice behind the glass.

But it was too late.

The shadow lashed out like lightning — instinctive, desperate, alive. It slammed against the walls, shrieking with a sound that wasn’t made by any throat. Two technicians in hazmat suits tried to flee, but the black tendrils struck faster than thought. One hit the floor, his body shriveling in seconds. The other screamed — then there was only silence.

And in the middle of it all stood Bob, hovering inches above the ground, his eyes pitch-black, veins glowing faint blue beneath his skin.

Then — darkness.

Bob woke up on the floor, shivering.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours?

He pulled himself to his knees, the collar around his neck heavy like guilt. His head pounded, his limbs ached, but worse was the silence in his mind — not peace, but absence. Like something had used him, then left.

He looked up and saw the bloodstains. The security footage, replaying silently through the tinted glass window. Two lives lost. His hands.

“No,” he whispered, scrambling back, pressing his back to the wall.

His breath hitched as he fumbled for the shelf — for the photo.

There she was.

Still smiling. Still beautiful.

Still waiting.

“I didn’t mean to…” His voice cracked. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this, Y/N. I just wanted to be enough.”

He buried his face in his hands, shaking.

“I miss you,” he whispered into the silence.

A sob broke loose. He clutched the photo against his chest like it could stitch his soul back together.

“I’m trying to fix this. I swear I’m trying. I just… I thought that I would be dead by now.”

No answer. Only the sound of the distant hum of machines and the slow drip of water somewhere in the corner of the room.

He leaned his head back against the cold wall, eyes glassy, voice no louder than a prayer.

“Please… wait for me.”

2 months after

The corridor had no way out, and the new team was looking for an exit, Bob just stays put.

“Bob,” Yelena snaps over her shoulder, pausing. “You’re falling behind.”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are hollow, shoulders hunched under the weight of guilt and grief. The ground beneath them trembles—security drones are drawing near.

“I'll stay” he finally says, voice like crushed gravel. “I’ll just slow you down. It's better for everyone if a just...stay put.”

Yelena walks back toward him. “No, Bob, if you stay you will die.”

“Well it's...whatever” he breathes out. His jaw is tight, his fists clenched. “I don't deserve people saving me, I'm just being a burden to you guys, it's ok, go.”

Yelena’s expression softens, barely perceptible beneath her hardened demeanor. She steps closer.

“Hey, hey, wow, ok, I get it, we all have a void inside of us, we all feel like shit, and alone, but don't let that consume you, you are someone. You just have to control it.”

Bob doesn’t answer. His jaw trembles.

“What do you do to control it?”

Yelena gives him a small smile. "You push it down, like down, you push it."

Walker turns, a huge hole he punched in the wall. “Hey! If the therapy session is over, we have to go.”

She walks ahead without waiting for a response.

He starts walking behind her.

Back in New York

Across from her, Mr. Cooper grunted as he settled onto the floor with a sigh of relief, one leg stretched out, the other bent to cradle his back.

Sunlight poured through the open windows, warming the small apartment with its soft, golden glow. The living room was a mess of wooden planks, screws, and folded instructions spread across the floor like a chaotic puzzle. In the center of it all, Y/N sat cross-legged, squinting at the manual with a furrowed brow and a pencil tucked behind her ear, like that somehow made her more capable of interpreting the impossible hieroglyphs IKEA had decided passed for “assembly instructions.”

“I think I pulled something just by looking at that Allen wrench,” he muttered, rubbing his hip.

Y/N giggled softly, setting down the manual. Her belly, now visibly showing as she reached five months, shifted with the movement, and she instinctively rested her hand on it. “We’re not even halfway done. Are you telling me you’re tapping out already?”

“I’m old, sweetheart,” he said with a gruff smile. “I tap out every time the weather drops below seventy.”

She shook her head with a grin and leaned over to pick up a wooden side panel of the crib. It was pale honey-colored oak, sanded smooth, gentle with age. It had once belonged to Cooper’s granddaughter, and now it would belong to her baby.

“You really didn’t have to give me this,” she said, her voice softening.

“Yes, I did,” he replied without missing a beat. “No child deserves to sleep in one of those plastic nightmares. And no mother should go through this alone.”

That word — mother — still settled strangely on her shoulders. Like a coat she was trying on, not quite fitted yet.

She glanced at him, her smile more subdued now, thoughtful. “Thank you.”

He waved it off, leaning back against the wall. “Enough of that. Tell me how the new job’s going. Still wrangling tiny lunatics all day?”

Y/N laughed, genuinely this time, the sound echoing off the walls of the small room. “Yeah. It’s chaos, but kind of... perfect chaos. I mostly work with toddlers. I feed them, change them, read stories. Try to keep them from painting on the walls or eating glue. It’s exhausting sometimes, but... I really love it.”

Cooper watched her closely as she spoke, the weariness on her face dulled slightly by something new—something lighter. Peace, maybe. Or the distant shape of it.

She picked up a small wooden bar and held it like a sword. “Today one of them tried to put mashed peas in my shoes. Another fell asleep on my lap mid-story and started snoring like a little old man. And during snack time, this one girl kept hugging my belly like she knew. Like she knew, you know?”

Her voice softened. “And every day I’m there, I realize more and more... I want this. I want to do all those things with my baby. The feeding, the stories, the naps. I want to see them take their first steps. Hear their first words. I don’t want to miss that.”

She paused, tears stinging lightly at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away before they could fall. “I stopped looking for couples. I think I knew deep down I couldn’t go through with it. I was just scared... not of the baby. Of doing it alone.”

Mr. Cooper didn’t speak right away. He reached over and gently patted her hand. His weathered fingers were rough but warm.

“You’ve been through hell and back, Y/N. And you’re still here. That baby’s lucky already.”

She gave a teary smile. “Sometimes I still hope he’ll come back. That Bobby will just... walk through the door one day, stupid grin on his face like nothing happened.”

“That kind of love,” Cooper said, after a long moment, “is the kind people go their whole lives never finding. But love’s only half the battle. Raising a child, choosing to stay... that’s the rest. That’s the hard part.”

Y/N nodded, looking down at the crib pieces. Her fingers grazed over the smooth wood, the future taking shape beneath her hands. She felt a soft flutter inside her, the baby moving, stretching gently like they knew she was talking about them.

“I just want to give them a better start,” she whispered. “Better than what I had.”

“You already are,” Cooper said.

They sat in quiet for a while, sunlight casting long shadows on the floor. The crib still unfinished, the future still uncertain—but for the first time in a long while, the air felt different.

A thought crossed her mind. "You think he's okay Mr. Cooper?"

He looked at her, a sad smile in his face, "I hope so sweetheart, I really do."

Bob was indeed not okay

The room was colder than he remembered.

There were no windows. No clocks. No reflections. Only the hum of warm orange lights above. He was laying on a bed, rather confortable if he's allowed to say.

The door creaked open, slow and theatrical, and in walked Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, a ghost in high heels and silk. She didn't sit immediately. She liked to hover, to stalk, her movements measured and deliberate.

“Hi Bob! How are you? <Are you confortable?” she said casually, as if they were old friends catching up over coffee.

Bob didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, but he kept his eyes on the floor. The room felt like a trap, but he was too tired to pretend he wasn’t already caught.

“I imagine you’re wondering why you’re still alive,” she continued, circling him. “I thought you were another failure, turns out here you are.”

His breath hitched. “Where am I?”

“Home, for now” she said sweetly.

She finally took the seat across from him, folding her arms on the table like a therapist in disguise.

“You’re a miracle, Bob. My miracle. A walking success story. Do you know how many billions were poured into the O.X.E. Project before we got it right? You’re the first. You’re what we’ve been trying to make for years. You’re the product of patience. Genius. Sacrifice.”

“Don’t,” he muttered.

Valentina’s voice sharpened. “I’m not here to coddle you. I’m here to offer you purpose.”

“You signed up for a medical study, which was, as advertised, at the cutting edge of human improvement. But not everybody could handle the amount of greatness that we had in mind—”

His gaze flickered up to her, hazy and wet. “You used me.”

“We made you,” she snapped, then caught herself, letting the corners of her mouth twitch back into a smile. “And you’re more than even you realize. You just need someone who believes in you. Someone who knows what you’re capable of.”

Bob swallowed, teeth gritted. “Where's Yelena ?..., they’re good people. They don’t deserve whatever you’re planning.”

Valentina tilted her head. “They’re weapons, Bob. Trained killers. Criminals really. You think they’ll stop if I tell them to go after someone? You think they won’t? That’s the kind of world you’re in. And that’s the kind of world she’s in, too.”

She slid a photograph across the table.

His heart stopped.

It was her.

The same photo he almost forgot he had on his room in the facility he went to for the experiment.

Bob reached for the photo like it might disappear if he blinked. His fingers trembled as they hovered over it, then finally closed around the edge.

“She’s okay,” Valentina said, almost kindly. “Five months now. Still looking for you. Still crying over you. Still believing in you. Kinda of a bummer that she's alone isn't it?”

A tear slipped down Bob’s cheek as he stared at the image. “I never wanted to leave her. I—I thought if I got better, if I could just fix myself, I could come back. I wanted to come back.”

Valentina leaned in, voice low. “You can.”

He looked up at her. "Where is she? How did you find her?"

“I know a lot about you. I know about your mom’s mental illness, I know about your addiction,your fathe. But does that matter? You can come back stronger. Better. As someone who can protect her. Provide for her. Be a real father. A real partner. But you have to work for me, Bob. You have to give me loyalty. Just a little time. Just a few assignments. And then, I promise—on my name—she’s yours again.”

Bob shook his head slowly, horror creeping in. “You’re threatening her.”

“I’m protecting her,” Valentina said calmly. “From you. From the others. From this world that doesn’t care who she is or what she’s been through. You want to keep her safe? You work with me. You do what I say. Because if you don’t... there are people out there who won’t hesitate to use her against you.”

Bob’s hand clenched around the photo, crumpling the edge.

“You don’t understand my love,” he said, voice cracking.

“I don’t have to,” she replied. “But I can use it.”

He looked at her then, really looked. The truth was a blade in his chest. He was powerful, but powerless. Strong enough to rip holes in the sky, but too broken to say no.

“She’ll hate me.” he whispered.

Valentina stood, brushing invisible dust from her lapel. “Maybe. But hate is a lot like love, Bob. It sticks. It burns. It means you still matter.”

She walked to the door, heels clicking.

“I'll be back when you're feeling better, it's your best interest to control yourself and all your powers.”

The door closed behind her with a final click.

And Bob sat there in silence, holding the photo of the only person who ever saw him as more than his darkness.

His fingers trembled as he whispered her name.

“How did I ended up here baby...”

Y/N's pov

The lights were dimmed in the small examination room, a soft hum of fluorescent bulbs vibrating overhead. Y/N lay back on the cold, paper-covered chair, the crinkling noise far too loud in the silence. Her shirt was rolled up, exposing the gentle curve of her belly. She was twenty weeks now, and this was her first real appointment.

She hadn't meant to wait this long, but money and despair had a cruel way of making even basic things feel unreachable. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Cooper, gently reminding her, pushing through her deflection, she might’ve kept pushing it off until she gave birth alone.

The doctor entered with a warm smile, her presence calm and kind, a middle-aged woman with soft eyes and a practiced touch.

"Hi, sweetheart. I’m Dr. Hale. Let’s have a look at this little one, okay?"

Y/N nodded, her throat too tight for words. She tucked her hair behind her ear and tried to relax. She hated that her hands trembled.

Dr. Hale squirted the cold gel onto her stomach, and Y/N winced. "Sorry about the chill. It’ll warm up in just a second," the doctor said, already moving the wand across her skin.

The screen flickered to life beside her. Grainy black-and-white shapes slowly came into focus — shifting, fluttering motion, something alive. Her baby.

Y/N stared. She forgot to breathe.

"There we are," Dr. Hale whispered, smiling at the screen. "Look at that heartbeat. Strong little one, isn’t he?"

Y/N blinked. “He?”

"It’s a boy," Dr. Hale said gently. “Congratulations, mama.”

Y/N’s mouth opened but no sound came out. Her eyes welled up fast, tears rising before she had time to prepare for them. Her lips trembled and she brought a hand up to cover her mouth, the other resting gently over her belly.

A boy. She was having a son.

“He’s measuring well, right on time,” the doctor continued, her voice soft, respectful of the emotion clouding the room. “You’ve done a good job, keeping him strong.”

But Y/N was crying now — quiet, broken sobs — as she stared at the screen. Her baby. Bobby’s baby. And she was seeing him for the first time. A little fluttering shape that would one day have Bobby’s eyes. Maybe even his shy smile.

Dr. Hale handed her a tissue. “It’s okay. First appointments can be overwhelming.”

Y/N laughed softly through the tears, nodding. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”

“Your partner must be so happy too,” the doctor added casually, glancing at the monitor. “First-time dads are always in awe during these appointments.”

Y/N’s face froze. She didn’t correct her. She just offered a small, practiced smile. “He is. He… just couldn’t be here today. But he..he's really happy.”

Dr. Hale nodded, not pressing. “Well, this little boy is lucky. You clearly love him very much.”

Y/N looked back to the screen, to the blurry shape moving softly on it, and swallowed hard. Her fingers tightened around the paper sheet beneath her.

“He’s everything.” she whispered.

2 years ago

The scent of warm fries lingered in the car, mingling with the soft hum of the engine and the quiet tune playing from the radio—something 90s, something nostalgic. Rain tapped gently on the windshield, coating the windows in glistening beads that shimmered under the glow of the streetlight outside the McDonald’s parking lot. The inside of her old sedan was cozy and dim, fogging slightly from their breath and the comfort of shared laughter.

Bob was in the passenger seat, slightly turned toward her, his long legs awkwardly folded into the too-small space. A crumpled paper bag sat between them, half-spilled fries poking out. He held a burger in both hands, but he hadn’t taken a bite in at least a minute—too caught up in the way she was telling her story, animated and full of wild hand gestures, her eyes lit with mischief.

“No, no, wait,” Y/N laughed, nearly choking on her own drink as she swatted his arm. “You have to picture it—this man, right? Full suit. Hair greased back like he’s somebody’s boss. He’s barking at me because his order had pickles when he said no pickles—like it was a personal betrayal. So I’m standing there, biting my tongue, trying not to say ‘Sir, I don’t make the sandwiches, I’m just handing them to you.’”

Bob chuckled, already smiling because he could hear how this story ended. “And then?”

She grinned, pausing for dramatic effect, fries in hand like a microphone.

“He turns too fast, slips on his own spilled soda, and I swear to God, it was like a slow-motion movie scene. Both arms flail, legs go out, and bam—on his ass. The sandwich goes flying. The drink lands on his lap. And everyone just… stares.”

Bob was wheezing, struggling not to spit his drink out. “You’re lying.”

“I swear,” she said, holding up two fingers in mock oath. “The ketchup packet even exploded. Right on his white shirt. Like something out of a damn Tarantino film.”

They both laughed so hard it hurt, leaning toward each other in the cramped space of the car. Bob wiped a tear from his eye and looked at her, still giggling with her hand pressed to her chest, eyes watery from the laughter.

He couldn’t stop looking at her.

He’d never met anyone like her before—someone so unapologetically alive. She wasn’t like the people from his past, people who only spoke in hushed tones and looked at him like he might break. She was loud and kind and brilliant and chaotic in the most mesmerizing way. And somehow, for reasons he still didn’t understand, she liked him.

Y/N caught him staring, mid-fry. She tilted her head. “What?”

Bob blinked, startled. “Nothing. You’re just…”

“What?”

He gave a shy shrug, reaching down for the last fry in the bag. “You’re just…funny.”

“Funny?” she repeated with a smirk. “That’s it?”

“And cool,” he added quickly. “And smart. And, uh—” he hesitated. “Your storytelling is…top-tier.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes playfully and leaned back in her seat. “You’re weird, Bob.”

He smiled at the dashboard, face warming. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

She nudged his arm with hers, shoulder to shoulder. The warmth of her touch buzzed through him. “Wanna come back to my place?”

His eyes snapped to hers.

“I mean,” she added, lifting an eyebrow. “We could watch something. A movie or whatever.”

Bob turned red instantly, so red it almost glowed through his hoodie. “Uh…”

“Oh my God,” she laughed, leaning toward him with her lips curled in amusement. “What were you thinking I meant?”

“N-Nothing!” he stammered, though his voice cracked. “Just—just a movie. Yep.”

She tilted her head and smiled wider, teasing. “You totally thought I was seducing you.”

“No, I didn’t!” he said, his voice too high, too defensive.

“You absolutely did.” She laughed again, softer this time. “I could see it in your eyes. You went all deer-in-headlights, Bobby.”

He looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean… It’s our third date…”

“And we haven’t even kissed,” she said, more gently this time. She was looking at him, really looking. “That’s okay, you know.”

Bob nodded slowly, still not meeting her eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

The car grew quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward—just full of unspoken things. The rain was heavier now, soft and steady, a lullaby on the roof.

Then Y/N leaned over slightly, not enough to make it too serious, just enough that her shoulder brushed his again. “So… you wanna come over or not?”

He turned toward her again, finally smiling that crooked, shy smile of his. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

She winked and started the car.

Y/N unlocked the door with one hand and flicked on the hallway light with the other, her apartment filling with a warm, amber glow. It was a small space—cozy more than cramped, cluttered with personal touches: a stack of books that lived on the coffee table, mismatched throw pillows that had clearly been collected over time, a framed Polaroid of her and some friends stuck to the fridge with a glittery magnet shaped like a donut. It smelled faintly like vanilla and old incense.

“Home sweet home,” she said, kicking off her sneakers and tossing her keys into a little ceramic bowl by the door.

Bob stepped in behind her, moving like he didn’t want to disturb the air. His eyes flicked around the space, taking in everything, silently noting how her this place felt. It was lived in. Warm. Safe.

“Nice,” he said with a shy smile. “It’s… you.”

She grinned. “That better not be your way of calling it messy.”

“Messy’s charming,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, uh… where’s the TV?”

She pointed to the living room. “Couch is yours. I’ll get the snacks. No movie night without popcorn, it’s illegal.”

Bob shuffled into the living room and plopped onto the couch, sinking slightly into the cushions. A large fuzzy blanket was already thrown over one armrest, and the TV remote rested on the other, just waiting for someone to grab it. He picked it up and started scrolling through her cable channels—no Netflix login anywhere in sight.

From the kitchen, she called out, “Don’t bother looking for Netflix, by the way. I refuse to pay for it on principle.”

Bob blinked. “Wait, what principle?”

“The principle that I already pay for internet, rent, utilities, and my crippling caffeine addiction. Something’s gotta give.”

He laughed, glancing toward the kitchen where she was pouring kernels into an old stovetop popper like a professional. “So, no Netflix. What are our options then?”

She popped her head out from behind the doorframe, holding up a giant metal bowl with flair. “Cable roulette, baby. Let the gods decide.”

Bob chuckled as he continued to flip through. A couple of random sitcoms, a rerun of a baking competition, something that looked like a low-budget horror movie.

Then he paused.

“Oh—this one,” he said, perking up. “It’s just starting.”

It was one of those timeless adventure films—part comedy, part heart, with a little magic thrown in. The kind of movie people quote years later like it shaped their childhoods.

She returned a minute later, carrying the giant bowl of buttery, still-warm popcorn, and proudly presented it to him.

“Tada.”

Bob looked up at her, eyes soft. “Is it bad that all your surprises are food-related?”

She gave him an offended gasp. “Food is a great love language.”

He took a handful of popcorn and grinned. “I’m just saying—at this rate, our next date’s gonna have to be a jog.”

“You calling me out on my snack habits, Reynolds?”

“Just looking out for future me,” he joked. “Don’t want to get fat and slow while trying to impress you.”

They both laughed as she curled up beside him on the couch, pulling the blanket over their legs without even asking. She sat close, the bowl between them, legs pressed lightly against his. He tried not to think about how good that felt—how even the slightest brush of her thigh against his sent a heat curling into his chest.

The movie played on, and they made the occasional sarcastic comment under their breath, snickering over cheesy dialogue or pointing out ridiculous plot holes. Bob tried to focus on the screen, but every so often, his eyes drifted to her. The flicker of the TV cast soft shadows across her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek, the way her mouth twitched when she was trying not to smile. She didn’t know she did that. He found it endlessly fascinating.

And then, their knees bumped again—just slightly—and she turned her head, catching him.

He froze, mid-popcorn bite, like a raccoon in a trash can caught with a flashlight.

She raised an eyebrow. “Something you like ?”

He flushed instantly, face going pink. “Wasn’t— I wasn’t—”

“I’m gorgeous, I know,” she said with a grin, bumping his leg. “You’re so lucky.”

He let out a small, bashful laugh, looking down at his lap, embarrassed beyond belief.

But then, she shifted.

Her teasing smile softened into something quieter. She reached out, gently brushing her hand against his arm, and leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, then slowly, against his chest. She tucked herself under his arm like she belonged there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I really do like you, Bobby,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Like, a lot.”

Bob didn’t breathe for a second. He just stared down at the top of her head, her hair catching the light. He felt her heartbeat, steady and close, against his ribs.

And he knew.

He wrapped his arm around her, holding her close, letting himself melt into the moment he didn’t think he’d ever deserve.

“Guess I was the one who got the lottery ticket in the end,” he whispered.

The soft flicker of the television still lit the room, casting warm shadows over the now half-empty popcorn bowl that had long gone cold on the coffee table. The movie had played on quietly in the background, its third act slowly winding into an emotional crescendo neither of them saw coming—because somewhere between one of her whispered jokes and his quiet chuckles, they had both drifted off to sleep.

Y/N stirred first.

A sudden loud crash from the film’s climax jolted her upright, eyes wide and heart pounding. She blinked a few times, trying to process where she was. The room was dim now, just the blue glow from the credits rolling across the screen. Bob, still curled up beside her with his head resting slightly back against the couch cushion, blinked awake seconds later, startled.

“Wha—what happened?” he mumbled groggily, sitting up, his voice rough with sleep. “Did something explode?”

Y/N grabbed her phone from the armrest and squinted at the screen, the harsh light making her wince. “Shit—it’s past 1 a.m.”

Bob straightened up quickly, suddenly aware of the late hour. “1 a.m.?” he echoed, rubbing at his face with both hands before reaching for his jacket on the couch arm. “I should get going then. Damn, I didn’t mean to pass out.”

She sat up beside him, still blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Wait—are you seriously going to walk home right now?”

He was already halfway standing, slipping his phone into his pocket. “I mean... yeah? I live like forty minutes away, but it’s not that bad—”

“Bob,” she said, more firmly now, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. “It’s freezing outside, it’s stupid late, and you’re literally half-asleep. I’m not letting you walk home like that. Stay.”

He looked at her, hesitating, his hand resting awkwardly on the back of his neck.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice softer now, uncertain. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” she said without missing a beat. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want you to.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, but she was already grabbing the blanket from the couch.

“You can take the bed,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s comfier. I’ll grab some blankets and crash here.”

Bob's eyebrows shot up. “Wait—what? No, no way. You’re not giving up your bed for me.”

“Bob—”

“I’ll take the couch. Seriously. You already cooked the popcorn and laughed at all my dumb jokes. I’m not about to kick you out of your own bed.”

Y/N stopped mid-step, holding a pillow against her chest.

She looked at him, a little sheepish now, something almost shy in the way she bit her lip.

“Well…” she started slowly, “the couch isn’t exactly five-star hotel material. Springs kinda poke you if you sit the wrong way.”

Bob blinked.

She hesitated, clearly fighting her own nervousness, and then said it:

“We could just… share the bed?”

Bob froze.

It wasn’t a suggestive offer—it was soft, hesitant, spoken with a touch of nervous laughter that told him she wasn’t trying to rush anything or make it weird. Her cheeks were pink, and she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“I mean,” she continued quickly, “we could do the whole back-to-back thing, or throw a pillow wall in the middle. Just sleep. It’s really not that big of a deal, right?”

He could feel the heat rising in his face, all the way to the tips of his ears.

“I—uh…” He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Okay. That makes sense.”

She looked up at him now, really looked at him, and smiled—gentle, reassuring.

“We’re comfortable with each other, right?”

Bob nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

A few minutes later, they were both in her bedroom.

It was small and soft, the kind of room that smelled like lavender detergent and something warm and feminine. There were string lights hanging above the bed, giving off a golden glow, and the sheets were already turned down from earlier.

Y/N had quickly slipped into a pair of pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt in her bathroom, her hair tied up messily. Bob stood at the edge of the bed looking impossibly awkward, holding a folded blanket in his arms like it was a shield.

“I promise not to snore,” she teased lightly, climbing into her side of the bed and fluffing her pillow.

“I make no promises,” he mumbled, still blushing, as he awkwardly lowered himself onto the other side of the bed, fully clothed, stiff as a board.

They lay there for a moment in silence.

Then she turned to him slightly. “You okay?”

He exhaled. “Yeah. Just, you know… never done this before. Like this. Not with someone who—” he paused, “—who makes it feel like something more.”

She smiled faintly, turning her face toward him in the dark.

“Good. Me neither.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other—barely visible under the soft fairy lights, but everything was clear in their expressions. They were still new, still learning, but something about it already felt like home.

Bob shifted slightly, adjusting to face her fully. His arm folded beneath his head, and hers rested lightly on her pillow, fingers curled near her chin.

“That movie sucked,” Y/N whispered with a grin.

Bob laughed under his breath. “You were the one who picked it.”

“Excuse you, you said it looked ‘promising.’ I distinctly remember that.”

“Only because the poster had, like, three explosions and a dramatic tagline,” he teased.

She snorted. “Yeah, and it delivered… exactly none of that.”

They giggled together quietly, their voices softened by the late hour and the closeness of the room.

Bob let the laughter fade into a quieter breath, and for a beat, he just watched her.

She noticed.

“What?” she asked softly, her lips curving gently.

He hesitated, visibly battling the nerves crawling under his skin. His fingers twitched slightly on the sheets between them.

“I…” he started, voice quiet but sincere, “Can I kiss you?”

Her breath caught slightly, a small smile forming — but not a teasing one this time. It was soft, touched with warmth and surprise.

“Yes,” she said, her voice just as quiet. “Yeah. Please.”

He moved closer, slow like he was approaching something sacred. Their noses brushed, and he hesitated one last second—then kissed her.

It was gentle. Soft. The kind of first kiss that made the world feel like it shifted ever so slightly beneath you.

She responded immediately, her fingers lifting to gently brush his jaw, encouraging him, guiding him. The kiss deepened slowly, breath mingling, hands finding each other. It was warm, explorative, delicate — but full of something real.

Bob’s hand slid around her waist, his thumb stroking just under the hem of her shirt. Her own hand, featherlight, slipped under his t-shirt, her fingers skimming across his chest. The touch made him gasp softly against her mouth, his heart racing.

Then he froze.

Just for a second.

He pulled back slightly, breath shaky, eyes searching hers with something between awe and panic. “Sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to—was that too fast? I didn’t want to mess anything up, I—”

She only looked at him, calm and radiant in the glow of the lights, and leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Hey,” she murmured, brushing her fingers through his hair. “It’s okay.”

His eyes blinked up at her in awe, lost for words.

Then she shifted, slowly, confidently — straddling him with ease and grace, the quiet rustle of the sheets following her movement.

She pulled her shirt over her head and let it drop to the floor beside the bed, the strands of her hair falling loose around her shoulders. There was no nervousness in her gaze—only love. Trust. And a bit of playful spark.

Bob's breath hitched, his hands hovering as if afraid to touch something so precious.

She leaned down and kissed him softly, her lips brushing his cheek before she whispered close to his ear:

“Do you want me, Bobby?”

His voice came out in a breathless rush. “Yes. Yes.”

She smiled at his answer, biting her lip. “Then you’ve got too many clothes on, Bobby.”

He looked up at her, stunned and overwhelmed in the best way, his heart thudding so hard it echoed in his ears.

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nasa · 1 year ago

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Athletes Go for the Gold with NASA Spinoffs

NASA technology tends to find its way into the sporting world more often than you’d expect. Fitness is important to the space program because astronauts must undergo the extreme g-forces of getting into space and endure the long-term effects of weightlessness on the human body. The agency’s engineering expertise also means that items like shoes and swimsuits can be improved with NASA know-how.

As the 2024 Olympics are in full swing in Paris, here are some of the many NASA-derived technologies that have helped competitive athletes train for the games and made sure they’re properly equipped to win.

The LZR Racer reduces skin friction drag by covering more skin than traditional swimsuits. Multiple pieces of the water-resistant and extremely lightweight LZR Pulse fabric connect at ultrasonically welded seams and incorporate extremely low-profile zippers to keep viscous drag to a minimum.

Swimsuits That Don’t Drag

When the swimsuit manufacturer Speedo wanted its LZR Racer suit to have as little drag as possible, the company turned to the experts at Langley Research Center to test its materials and design. The end result was that the new suit reduced drag by 24 percent compared to the prior generation of Speedo racing suit and broke 13 world records in 2008. While the original LZR Racer is no longer used in competition due to the advantage it gave wearers, its legacy lives on in derivatives still produced to this day.

Trilion Quality Systems worked with NASA’s Glenn Research Center to adapt existing stereo photogrammetry software to work with high-speed cameras. Now the company sells the package widely, and it is used to analyze stress and strain in everything from knee implants to running shoes and more.

High-Speed Cameras for High-Speed Shoes

After space shuttle Columbia, investigators needed to see how materials reacted during recreation tests with high-speed cameras, which involved working with industry to create a system that could analyze footage filmed at 30,000 frames per second. Engineers at Adidas used this system to analyze the behavior of Olympic marathoners' feet as they hit the ground and adjusted the design of the company’s high-performance footwear based on these observations.

Martial artist Barry French holds an Impax Body Shield while former European middle-weight kickboxing champion Daryl Tyler delivers an explosive jump side kick; the force of the impact is registered precisely and shown on the display panel of the electronic box French is wearing on his belt.

One-Thousandth-of-an-Inch Punch

In the 1980s, Olympic martial artists needed a way to measure the impact of their strikes to improve training for competition. Impulse Technology reached out to Glenn Research Center to create the Impax sensor, an ultra-thin film sensor which creates a small amount of voltage when struck. The more force applied, the more voltage it generates, enabling a computerized display to show how powerful a punch or kick was.

Astronaut Sunita Williams poses while using the Interim Resistive Exercise Device on the ISS. The cylinders at the base of each side house the SpiraFlex FlexPacks that inventor Paul Francis honed under NASA contracts. They would go on to power the Bowflex Revolution and other commercial exercise equipment.

Weight Training Without the Weight

Astronauts spending long periods of time in space needed a way to maintain muscle mass without the effect of gravity, but lifting free weights doesn’t work when you’re practically weightless. An exercise machine that uses elastic resistance to provide the same benefits as weightlifting went to the space station in the year 2000. That resistance technology was commercialized into the Bowflex Revolution home exercise equipment shortly afterwards.

Want to learn more about technologies made for space and used on Earth? Check out NASA Spinoff to find products and services that wouldn’t exist without space exploration.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

#NASA #tech #technology #space #ISS #Olympics #weightlifting #martial arts #swimming

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catgirlredux · 5 months ago

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It’s lonely, being a pilot. You get a lot of looks from the others - they think you don’t notice, but of course you do. You’re used to keeping tabs on everything around you, even without an augmented sensor array. Your hearing, trained to track the trails of distant missile volleys, also picks up mutters of “zombie freak” and “clumsy-footed menace”. The rare occasion when you have to report to a non-WAF officer, they practically bleed discomfort the whole time you’re there, letting out a not-soft-enough breath as soon as you turn to leave. You learned a long time ago not to take your meals in the mess with the ‘regular’ soldiers - one dropped tray or nudge on the shoulder could leave you shaking, knife to a corpsman’s neck, before you even realize what happened.

Even your Handler doesn’t know how to act sometimes. They’re gentler than the others (at least, they try not to stare). They love you, at least you think they do in their own way. But they make no effort to hide the fact that everything about you, from your emaciated arms and bloodshot eyes to your lopsided shivering limp, is abnormal.

She’s different though. She understands your trembling arms and the weight you need to feel in your hands. The heft of a lance balances your gait even as she pumps you full of electric strength. Your sudden movements translate perfectly into her body; your distant, disjointed stare has helped keep the two of you alive more often than you can count.

When she wraps you in her chilly embrace and folds darkness around you, she frees you from the petty stimuli of their world. The earth stops shaking and nobody’s faces are even big enough to be important. The beat of her cannons steadies your heart and her eyes flood your brain with music and the smell of blood and oil reminds you that you belong to her and her alone.

#cheetah writing #mechposting

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dreamofhircine · 5 months ago

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There's a blinded pilot (traumatically, ritually, self-inflicted, you were never quite sure) in your squadron that can still see through their mech's sensor suites & remote drone buoys, stitching together a dozen different PoVs at any given time so long as they never stray too far from their mech-self.

They can see you approach as soon as you're in the hangar bay they spend so much of their life in, tracking your path from side-entrance to the cot they've claimed as their living quarters. Their target tracker software has already projected six different paths you could have taken and modeled three future movement vectors to anticipate every approach.

But they still don't twitch their head in your direction, still don't get up from out of their meditative rest-position. Only the whirring of swiveling sensor pods indicates any knowledge of you at all, only the slight twitch of muzzled weapons tracing you gives away the attention. They don't even raise a hand up to stop you when you stand over them and reach for the neural crown on their head.

It takes a bit of force to detach it, clamps and connectors and magnetic locks releasing with a sigh and the briefest full-body shudder through the pilot as it is +truly+ blinded again, almost the same from their mech-self as the pods all move back to neutral positions, weapons resetting as the puppet strings are cut.

It whimpers, slightly, as it hears the crown clatter to the ground beside it, still connected to the cables trailing back into the cockpit-cradle it wants nothing more than to crawl back into. It flinches when your fingers touch its cheek, wiping at the tears starting to roll down its face, un-traced radar targets glittering to the ground beneath it.

#mechposting #mechsploitation #writing tag

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jinx-xxed · 1 year ago

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Feral Desires

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; This feels like a crazy jump from my first smut I posted lmfao 🫡 it was also crazy writing this, I haven’t written omegaverse in forever despite it being a favorite

Summary; You’re on a mission for the First Order, well away from your alpha, which means it’s the perfect time for your heat to start out of nowhere.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, omegaverse, omega reader, alpha Kylo Ren, mated to Kylo, heats, ruts, nesting, fingering, piv sex, knotting, biting/marking, scent marking, breeding kink, A LOT of breeding kink, protective and possessive Kylo, also very loving Kylo, tiny bit of size difference kink, conservative views on omegas (mostly pertaining to suppressants), omegaverse terms (kids referred to as pups), fluff

Wc; 6.4k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

You thought it would be fine.

It should’ve been fine.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, gods, this was not supposed to happen.

Your heat was not supposed to start a month early right when you leave on a mission.

Everything had seemed okay at first; you gathered your troops after getting your assignment—investigate an uninhabited jungle planet’s surface and find out what the First Order could gleam from it. You had bid farewell to Kylo Ren, the Supreme Leader and also your mate. Through your bond both in the Force and in the bite mark on your neck, you could tell how apprehensive he was to let you go. It had taken some convincing, but he’d allowed it. If he wasn’t swamped in a million other responsibilities that come with his new position, he would’ve joined you.

The trip to the planet had gone without a hitch, and everything had seemed like it was in perfect order. You were the first to step foot on the surface once your ships’ doors had opened with a hiss of depressurized air. It was quite beautiful when you took it all in; covered in lush vegetation and impossibly tall trees covered in moss, a few of which your ships had unfortunately crushed on their way down. Sensors indicated that the air was nontoxic and clean so you had gladly taken a deep breath. Smells came stronger to you with your aberrant status, meaning you could practically taste the planet on your tongue. It was damp and full of the smell of wet leaves and bark, along with the reek of wild animals you didn’t know the names of. Said animals were calling through the trees in chirps and barks. It was quite nice.

Stormtroopers fanned out, beginning to take notes of anything that seemed of importance or interest. You and your lieutenant, a beta named Mallory who’d been by your side for many years, were in charge of placing down beacons and sensors that would give you every piece of data you’d need. It’d tell you what’s beneath the planets surface like ores and minerals and what kind of regeneration systems it had. It’d be a slow process; taking scans of an entire, huge planets surface wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. That’s why you were given a weeks timeline for this mission. Easy enough.

Until you’d gotten a prickling on the back of your neck, until an odd amount of sweat started to build at your collar, until you could barely hold on to your data pad because of how slippery your palms had become. You’d tried to ignore it, tried to ignore those telltale signs because surely your heat wouldn’t be starting now? Surely it wouldn’t have been catapulted forward a month because your body got confused by you leaving your alpha and was doing what it needed to in order to bring him back?

“General? Are you alright?” Mallory asks you.

You realize you’d been standing there looking at your data pad like an idiot while warmth and sweat builds beneath your uniform. You look up and try to blink the haze out of your vision. Suddenly all those smells from before are so overwhelming. “I think I need to go back to the ship.” You mutter. You’re not stupid, you do realize it’d be irresponsible to try and ignore this. Hell, you can’t even get yourself to take a step forward when all you want to do is go back to your ship where the scents are familiar.

Mallory tenses, noticing the flush in your face and the way your demeanor is so off. She may be a beta but she’s still able to recognize the onset of a heat, especially yours after being your lieutenant for so long. That’s why she goes with you everywhere, to keep an eye on you. She’s perfect for times like these. “Okay. Let’s go, quickly.” She says, a gentle hand on your arm guiding you back the way you came.

She says commands through a radio while you walk, instructing the next in charge—a fresh-face captain—to continue the observations so they can at least get something out of this. You feel guilt pierce through your roiling stomach, cursing yourself over and over for not being able to see a very simple mission to completion. It’s embarrassing. It makes you wish you were able to take your damn suppressants again.

You haven’t taken them for about three years, ever since you became mated to Kylo. As soon as that happened, all of your suppressants were tossed and every medic on the Steadfast was strictly forbidden to give you any. If any were discovered, you knew exactly what price they’d have to pay. Before all that, you’d taken them regularly to give you some peace aboard the ship and keep your position as general safe. People were more willing to trust you with things if your omega status was… muted. It was easier to ignore.

The only reason you really got to keep your job was because you were damn good at it and you kept being an omega from getting in the way, so nobody cared. It was simple. Then Kylo came along, discovered you were Force sensitive, began to train you, and you fell for him hard. You ended up becoming his mate, his teeth laying claim to the skin where your neck meets your shoulder, right where your scent gland starts. He bears a similar mark from your own teeth. He was gracious enough to let you remain as a general, even if every primal instinct he has tells him to keep you away from your job because it’s dangerous. All because he knew how upset it’d make you if he took it away, and because you’re actually competent.

However, it puts you in situations like this where you’re trying to fight off an oncoming heat while you’re on an unknown planet in an unknown space and your alpha is a galaxy away from you. You’ve learned that your status as an omega comes before your position as a general.

Mallory gets you back on to your ship that’s specifically assigned to only you two for your own safety. Never before have you been so grateful for that. She heads towards the cockpit immediately, taking her seat in the pilots chair and flipping switches. You slink towards the back of the ship, craving an enclosed space and cold air. Your heat hasn’t hit you full force yet, but you know it’s a matter of hours. You know it’s a matter of hours until your brain is pure incomprehensible mush, until your body is on fire, and until there’s a need inside so deep that it consumes your entire being and only one man can satisfy it.

It always starts out slow, with everything feeling just a bit too sensitive and your temperature rising. Then you feel it in every gland you have, a slight throb to them as your scent changes and pheromone production skyrockets. You get sweaty and those stiff uniforms the First Order requires feel like they’re boiling you alive—hence why you’re removing your jacket now. Next is the nesting, creating your own little safe space where nothing can hurt you and it’s only for you and your alpha.

It’s extremely difficult in a sterile, empty ship. You can feel your omega start to panic as it realizes there’s nothing to nest with besides your own jacket and a thin, scratchy blanket from an emergency kit in the ship. Nothing with Kylo’s scent, nothing to keep your alpha close, nothing safe, it’s not safe, oh gods-

You whine low and sad in the back of your throat as you hopelessly try and try and try to rearrange your two items into something satisfactory in your little corner. It doesn’t work of course. It only serves to send you into more of a frenzy, wishing for anything else, wishing you were back on the Steadfast, back in you and Kylo’s shared rooms where you could make as big a nest as you want with his full closet at your disposal. Comfy sheets, pillows, big capes covered in his scent… thinking about it is not helping.

The ship rumbles to life beneath you and you can feel its vibrations from how your body is pressed against the floor. The cold metal helps to keep the fever raging through you at bay. You’re curled in on yourself, your hands at your neck massaging your aching glands and the bite mark that resides there. It does little to soothe your pain but it’s all you have. You faintly hear Mallory talking, though it’s drowned out by the buzzing in your head. Until a familiar, deep voice crackles through the ships comms and has you sitting up immediately, your attention laser-focused.

“I want her back on the Steadfast immediately.” Kylo says. He sounds angry, livid perhaps. It’s enough to make you feel the need to submit despite the fact he’s not even mad at you. Hearing him does something to your bond akin to reigniting it across the distance between the two of you. It gives you the smallest bit of a connection to cling on to and you wrap yourself in it, enjoying it while it lasts. You can feel his emotions, his need for you like you need him. He’s angry he isn’t there, that he can’t provide for his omega like a good alpha should. He’s irrationally scared too—scared that something might happen to you, that some other alpha might try to get to you. He’s like a ticking time bomb, ready to go off on anyone he deems fit.

“Yes, sir, I understand.” Mallory says. She looks over at one of the monitors, pressing a few controls on the screen. “Based on what fuel remains and if I avoid active fuel preservation, it should take about five standard hours to reach your coordinates.”

Five hours. By the time you reach the Steadfast, you’ll be well intro the throes of your heat, accelerated by the fact Kylo isn’t there to help you. You haven’t had a heat without your mate for a long time and your body is not happy about it. A wave of depression and anxiety washes over you, your fingers digging into the blanket and threatening to rip it.

Kylo can sense that, sense how panicked and upset you are and it only makes his rage grow. He knows he can’t do anything about the length of your return trip and it makes him feel useless, like a sorry excuse of an alpha. You almost feel bad for the staff back on the Steadfast. “If anything happens to her, I’ll have your fucking neck.” He snaps, voice crackling through the comms.

Mallory takes the threat with neutrality. It’s nothing new to her. “Yes, sir. You have my word that I’ll keep her safe.”

Kylo calls your name suddenly and it has you stumbling to your feet and towards the radio. You grasp at the back of Mallory’s chair to keep you stable. “Alpha?” You ask, voice unable to hide your desperation.

“I’m sorry this happened. It’ll be better soon.” Kylo promises, his tone softening just a bit when he talks with you. “Be good in the meantime.”

You nod even though he can’t see it. “I will, alpha.” You’d do anything he asks.

With that, the radio clicks off and he’s gone. It felt like the only support keeping you upright was just ripped away from you, his presence in your bond fleeing and leaving you with nothing. It made your chest constrict and heat lick down your back, everything seeming to spin. Mallory rises from her chair after putting the ship on autopilot. “Go lay back down. I don’t want you to collapse.” She says. “And take these.” She hands you two bottles of water that were brought along in case of emergencies. You’re going to need them more than anything with how much fluid you lose during your heat. You down one of the bottles immediately.

You obediently take the other back to your “nest”, spending another ten minutes trying to rearrange your blanket and jacket. You eventually just give up and flop down with your knees tucked up to your chest, trying to ignore the ache across the entirety of your body. Your thoughts are still coherent at least, though you can feel them steadily slipping away. Your omega just wants Kylo, wants him more than anything. Wants his scent, his strong arms, his lips on your gland, his knot.

There it is. You whimper, your nails digging into your palms hard enough to draw blood as you feel the first trickle of slick seep into your underwear. Your breath comes out in pants that fog the metal paneling under you, your face feeling like it’s on fire. You writhe on your blanket, distracting yourself with movement and trying to find any kind of position that provides relief. Squeezing your legs together helps a little, putting some pressure on your clit and releasing more slick. You know this pair of underwear is going to be unsalvageable by the time this is over.

You can feel the slick start to stain your pants, creating a wet spot that’ll keep spreading. The ache has moved lower, now settling in your stomach and making you nauseous. Its comes in waves of cramps and hot flashes and gushing slick, creating a combination that feels like actual hell. You know that that’s how it’ll stay with the intensity increasing as the hours pass without your alpha inside you. You wish so badly you could just sleep the time away, close your eyes and open them again to Kylo there to take care of you. But you don’t feel safe enough to fall asleep. Your nest is shit, the ship is too unfamiliar, and you’re right at the beginning of your heat when you’re most vulnerable without your alpha who’s supposed to protect you.

These next five hours are about to be the longest of your life.

» ☆ «

Time passes in a haze.

A haze full of desperation, need, fire raging in your blood, and slick coating your thighs. Your vision is blurred, like a film was put over your eyes. You try to focus on the feeling of the ship underneath you instead of… anything else. The state of being in heat is all you know now, you don’t even remember what it’s like to not be making a drooling mess of yourself over the thought of your alpha’s cock sinking into your aching cunt.

Mallory has been trying to ignore you the whole time for her own sanity; your whines, moans, panting, and the desperate whispers of Kylo’s name passing between your lips. She’s stayed well away in the safety of the cockpit, focusing on just getting you both back to the Steadfast. Even though she’s a beta and has no specific inclinations, she can still feel the headiness in the air, sticking to the back of her neck and making her skin prickle. This isn’t anything particularly new to her, she’s been by your side for years. She knows what it means to be an omega.

That’s why she’s glad when a final jump through lightspeed sends her sensors beeping and the massive hulk that is the Steadfast appears at the top of the viewport. She keeps her hands from shaking by gripping the controls of the ship, guiding it towards home base. She has no reason to be afraid really, Kylo Ren wouldn’t do anything to her without reason after she’s proved to be so faithful, and he’ll be too focused on you anyway. Still, she can’t help the little kernel of fear in her chest as your ship is latched onto by a gravitational beam and power is taken out of her control.

All of the commotion breaks you from your stupor. You prop yourself up weakly on your elbows, your jacket and blanket soaked in slick in a heap under you from all your twisting and turning. Your face is flushed like the rest of your body, your remaining clothes stuck to your skin because of the sweat. From your place on the floor you can just barely see through the viewport, watching as the ship pulls into one of the hangars. You can sense him now. He’s so close. It’s too bad your legs are too weak to support you, otherwise you’d use them to run out of the ship to greet him.

You feel the ship shake as it settles on the ground and you hear the sounds of it powering down. Mallory rises from her chair to get to the ramp controls, a hiss of depressurized air sounding as it lowers. She steps aside and bows her head as he enters. Finally.

Kylo instantly commands the entire space around him as soon as he comes aboard the ship. It’s like everything else around him fades away because nothing else matters. His black robes do a perfect job of outlining the muscles beneath them, his fractured helmet covering his face and making him look akin to death itself. He locks onto you, you can feel it, and instantly there’s a whine coming out of your throat. Your mate is here, your alpha is here after you had to wait for so long. Your excitement is like a buzzing that encompasses your mind to the point you can’t think about anything else.

And then his scent hits you. It’s musky and heavy, amplified by his rut that was triggered by his omega’s heat. He smells like a campfire in fall, smoky and laced with something like cinnamon. When you inhale it, it’s easy to imagine being in the forests of his home planet with a nice fire to keep you warm. There’s undertones of your own scent mixed in from your mating, creating a nice combination of the two to let anyone know that you belong to one another. His scent instantly becomes the only thing you know and starts your heat all over again, fresh waves of slick pouring from your cunt and cramps seizing your stomach.

Kylo smells it, it slams into him like a freight ship, sending him reeling. He resists every feral instinct in him telling him to pounce on you right then, to pin you down and fuck your heat away, to finally take care of the constant bulge in his pants, knowing that he needs to get you somewhere safe first. Somewhere other alphas won’t be tempted by you, even if you’re mated. His scent on you sometimes isn’t enough to deter the most depraved; his hands clench into fists at the thought, the leather of his gloves creaking.

“Alpha… please..” you whimper, reaching your arms out towards him, needing so badly just to feel him, to touch him. You can barely think straight, the only thing in your head being him, him, him. He can’t deny you anything. The metal panels beneath his boots thunder with the power of his steps, it makes you quiver. Alpha is so strong, so capable.

“I know. I’m here now.” He says as he scoops you easily into his arms, voice crackling through the modifier in his helmet. It sends pleasant shivers down your spine. You can hear how ragged his breathing is, can feel it when his chest is pressed against your cheek. You cling to his padded tunic, the material familiar and comforting beneath your fingers. You become surrounded by his scent and it brings some relief to the pain you’ve been feeling, putting your omega at ease with your alpha finally with you.

You shrink yourself as much as possible in his hold as he walks down the ramp of the ship, your face buried against his arm. There’s a spike of anxiety in your chest once the bright lights and all the different smells of the Steadfast reach you; the sharp metal tang, the hints of sterile cleaning products, and then the sweat and musk of every aberrant in that hangar. It’s overwhelming when you’re fresh into your heat, but Kylo is quick to soothe you. His body produces more of his own scent to mask everything else, pheromones changing ever so slightly to have a more calming effect on you. He’s still not entirely used to the way everything about him is so tailored to you and only you even after all this time, but he loves the pride he feels when he successfully gets you to relax.

All of the workers within the hangar stay well away from Kylo. Nobody is stupid enough to approach the Supreme Leader and his mate with the state you’re in. It would only end up getting their heads detached from their shoulders. He’s given a wide berth while walking through the halls of the ship, taking whatever shortcuts he can to reach your shared rooms faster. Everything feels so hot, your breath coming out in pants and your clothes so unbearable because of the way they’ve been drenched in your fluids. You’re whimpering in his arms, sounding so sad and pathetic as your fingers knead into his chest. “I know,” he says again, softer this time, “I’ll make it better.”

There’s the beep of a control panel as Kylo gets the hydraulic doors to your rooms open, bringing you inside and letting them bang shut behind him. You’re greeted with fresh, cold air against your burning skin and comforting familiarity—your safe space. Kylo goes to set you down and you nearly wail at the thought of losing contact, not able to bear it after being without him for too long. “Just one second, I promise.” He tells you, laying a large hand against your cheek, the leather warm from the heat of his palms. You listen to your alpha like the good omega you are, standing there squeezing your legs together while he removes his helmet. His beauty always manages to enrapture you. His sharp features and pale skin dotted with freckles, the black waves of his hair that fall around his face. There’s a slight flush to his cheeks, his pupils blown wide with desire. He carelessly puts his helmet aside.

Then he’s on you. His lips press against yours, hot and needy and wet, his hands coming up to grasp each side of your face. You can’t help but moan into his mouth, your arousal spiking even higher from the urgency in his kiss. You’re surprised you can even produce more slick with how much you’re already covered in but you feel another wave of it drip down your thighs anyway. His tongue licks against your teeth, exploring your mouth that you’ve willingly opened for him.

His hands are heavy weights on your hips. He moves them down to cup your ass, then lifting you easily so your legs are wrapped around his middle. His raging erection presses slightly against your aching cunt and you gasp sharply as a shiver shoots up your spine, causing you to break from your kiss. You can’t help but try to grind down on it, creating a wet spot on his pants from your slick. He groans against you, trying not to drop you from the stimulation.

He’s quick to bring you into the bedroom, kissing you with more fervor. You manage a glance backwards and see just what Kylo’s done to your shared bed. You both barely make it to the haphazard nest he’d made for you in his own desperation, his mind wanting to protect a mate that wasn’t even there and driving himself insane over it. It’s full of dark blankets, pillows, and just about every article of clothing from his closet—soft tunics, capes, undershirts—piled onto the bed so it’s positively drenched in his scent. It’s absolutely heavenly as you fall back into it, surrounded entirely by your alpha. Kylo follows after you, shedding his clothes as he goes and merely adding them onto the nest, the scent of them fresh and potent.

“All for you,” he breathes against you, sticking his face into the crook of your neck, “everything is for you.” He inhales against your gland, tongue darting out to lick sensually at it. You squirm beneath him, moaning openly as your swollen, red gland is finally given attention. His bare hands slip beneath your white tank, pulling it up and over your body, the cold air making your nipples perk up instantly. Your pants and underwear are next to come off and you squeak when your slick becomes chilly against your skin.

“Fuck,” Kylo groans, “smell so good.”

“Alpha,” you whine, wrapping your arms across his wide shoulders to bring him closer, “alpha please…”

The ache and pain you feel is starting to become too much. You need him, you need him to fuck you, to pump you full of his cum and plug you up with his knot. Just the thought of it is enough to make your legs quiver and for your cunt to flutter. He knows exactly what you’re thinking of and he feels the need in himself just as much. He needs to take care of his omega, to make sure you won’t want for anything, and guarantee that you become swollen with his pups. A growl rumbles in his chest, his cock jumping at the idea.

His hand that was on your hip moves lower and he doesn’t hesitate to sink two fingers into your heat. They meet no resistance, sliding in and out with complete ease from the way your body has been preparing yourself for this for the last five hours. You throw your head back, mouth falling open at the relief you feel from finally having something fill you, cunt clenching in appreciation. The sounds your body makes are disgusting, copious amounts of slick being sloshed around by Kylo’s fingers. It’s wet and depraved and nasty and you’re enjoying every moment of it. He uses his thumb against your clit, rubbing back and forth and nearly making you scream. That combined with his mouth altering between the glands on either side of your neck makes it very easy for you to cum. Your body seizes, muscles constricting as pleasure wracks your body.

You can feel part of that fire within you finally die down, but it’s still not enough. There’s still an ache nestled deep inside you that his fingers can’t help with. “Please! Alpha, please, more..” you cry, grabbing at his arm to try and pull him up, to make him give you what you want so badly. You need his cock, the thing red and begging for attention, standing tall against his abdomen and dribbling precum.

His fingers withdraw from the warmth of your cunt and it makes you wince and whimper at the loss, your legs immediately trying to close and rub together in an attempt to get some friction. “What a desperate thing you are.” Kylo mutters, bringing his soaked fingers to his mouth and running his tongue along them to gather your slick. You’ve seen him do this countless times but it still has your face blushing furiously. He hums his delight. “Delicious, as always.”

He gets his hand under your back, scooping you up and flipping you onto your stomach. He tugs you towards him harshly, repositioning you like a doll so your ass is in the air, your face pressed against the materials of the nest. Kylo’s scent overwhelms your nostrils, heady and aroused. A mixture of slick and cum oozes from you, dripping down the lips of your cunt and your clit and onto the bed below. You wiggle your lower half, trying to entice him. “Please… need you..” you say, voice muffled by the pillow you’re currently hiding your face in.

Kylo’s hands run from your breasts, down your sides, and settle on your hips, the rough texture of his callouses making you shiver. “My beautiful mate.” He whispers, enthralled by your body as his eyes trace over it. The head of his cock prods at your entrance and you suck in your breath. You nearly sob as he sinks to the hilt inside your cunt not even a second after, your nails digging into the blankets below you from how full you feel. Kylo stretches you to your limit, getting so deep into you it’s like you can feel him in your stomach. He sighs in relief, his massive body bending over yours so his forehead rests against your shoulder. His chest is so warm against your back, his big muscled arms braced on either side of you. You’re basically caged in and pinned down, completely at his mercy. You couldn’t be happier. Your omega keens at the attention, at your alpha displaying his complete dominance over you.

His first thrust is bliss—sliding out of you almost entirely before slamming back in, his pelvis pressed sharply against your ass. He does it again, and again, getting steadily faster with each one until he’s built up a steady rhythm that has your entire being shaking with the power of it beneath him. Your mouth hangs open, drool falling from your lips, your eyes rolling back into your head. His grunts and groans and rumbles fill your ears, your own moans rising to meet them. He presses his lips against the gland that bears your bite mark, breathing you in again and moaning. “My mate, my mate,” he says reverently along your skin, “fuck- m’gonna fill you so good. You’ll give me pups, won’t you? You’ll make me a strong heir.”

“Yes! Yes, anything!” You wail. To your heat addled mind, nothing sounds better. Nothing sounds better than him filling you so full of his cum that there’s no way you don’t get pregnant. You want him so deep that he gets directly to your womb. You want to satisfy your alpha, you want to show him how obedient you are. Yes, you’ll do whatever he wants.

“My good girl.” Kylo praises, sucking your gland into his mouth and making you scream from the pleasure. It’s so shockingly intimate, warmth blooming in your chest and spreading along your body. He’s always been obsessed with your glands, even before you were mated. Your scent brings him so much comfort, such a feeling of home that he can’t stay away. He has his nose buried in the crook of your neck whenever he can and he it turns him on when he’s able to get his tongue on them. Your scent sticks to the roof of his mouth, it becomes the only thing he knows, the only thing he can taste. He fucking loves it.

“So good, sweetheart.” He gasps, sweat dripping from the ends of his hair. He watches where his cock disappears into your cunt, entranced. “Needed to fuck you so bad..”

If your brain wasn’t pure mush right now, you’d agree with him. But you can’t think with the way his cock is splitting you open, each thrust piercing your cunt and hitting that spot right at the top that seems impossible to reach without him. It makes it feel like lightning is igniting your blood, your vision flashing white. You didn’t realize how hard you were gripping the blankets until his large hand perfectly eclipses yours, his fingers slipping between your own so you hold on to him instead.

You hear his growl by your ear as his thrusts become more erratic, knowing he’s getting close. His free hand reaches under you to your clit, fingers playing with it roughly. He’s going to make sure you go along with him. You jerk from the added stimulation bordering on overstimulation from the constant pounding of his cock and the sensitivity from you already cumming once. Your moans get louder and louder, punctuated by each thrust he gives you, breaking in the middle and becoming more high pitched than usual. Your breath is pushed from your lungs, the pillow beneath you is soaked in drool.

“Mmn, shit-“ Kylo groans. He sounds drunk when he talks, his words slurred by his rut and pleasure. “Gonna give you pups. M’gonna knot you, you’ll be so good. My perfect mate.”

Yes, yes that sounds like everything you could ever want. “Please, please! Please alpha I need you-“ you beg, finally finding some semblance of your voice. “I need your knot!”

Kylo grunts his acknowledgment, his thrusts picking up the pace as he teeters on the edge. Then you feel it. Swelling begins at the base of his cock, steadily getting bigger. His movements are forced to slow along with it, becoming more and more restricted as his knot grows. Just as you feel like he’s stretched you to the brink, he lowers his head and sinks his teeth into your bonding mark. You scream. You scream so loud you wouldn’t be surprised if someone walking by outside your rooms heard you. Your vision is pure white, you feel like you can’t breathe, and you feel such a deep connection to Kylo in that moment that it pushes you over the edge. You cum harshly around his cock and his knot, cunt spasming. He cums at that same moment, hot ropes of his seed coating your walls white and his knot plugging your hole to keep it all in.

Neither of you move for a good minute because quite frankly, you’re not able to. The aftershocks are enough to keep you frozen, simply panting and trying to catch your breath. Your entire body is buzzing with pleasure and it feels like you’re floating in the clouds. Kylo is the one to come-to first, getting his arms under you to flip you both on your sides so that he’s spooning you, chest pressed firmly against your back and his big body practically engulfing you. The movement jostles his knot and makes more cum spurt from his cock and it sounds like he chokes on his breath.

He sighs, kissing the back of your neck before shifting his attention to your bond mark. Kylo’s tongue runs over it soothingly, almost like an apology for biting you. He just felt the primal need in him to refresh the mark, to let anyone else know that you belong to him. With the way you’re absolutely covered head to toe in his scent, you think everyone across the galaxy will know. “You okay?” He murmurs once he’s satisfied.

You nod, even though it feels like too much work. “Mhm.” You’re exhausted. Your heat was completely fucked out of you… for now at least. You know it’ll come back in an hour or two, ready for the same thing all over again. At least your alpha will be with you this time.

“You did so good, sweetheart.” Kylo says, his voice so full of love and adoration for you. He kisses along your jaw to the back of your ear. “My sweet omega.” You love his praise, you love the moments after when he’s so soft and gentle with you. It makes you feel so safe and happy, like you have everything you could ever ask for. And you do, really, because he’s so willing to get you anything, to provide you with everything.

He’s quiet for a moment before kissing your gland again. You can tell something was bothering him. “Never should’ve let you go on that mission.” He mutters, anger biting at his tone. “I should’ve known it was too close.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t expect it either.” You say, taking his hand that had been wrapped around your waist into your own. “It’s fine now.”

“I could feel when you were going into heat,” he continues, burying his face in your neck to remind himself that you’re here, “I could feel it and I wasn’t there… it drove me fucking insane. I needed to get to you.”

You can only imagine how it affected him, sensing you across the galaxy and being so incapable of helping you at all. You get glimpses of those past emotions through your bond; how angry he was, how agitated and scared. He’s far more attuned to the Force than you are, so it was much easier for him to connect to you than it was for you to connect to him. He had to just stand back while you suffered.

“Kylo, it’s okay.” You murmur again, bringing the back of his hand to your lips to break him from his thoughts. “I’m here now. You took care of me so well. You built such a good nest.”

That seems to calm him down. “I did? I just threw what I could on to the bed.”

You nod. “It’s far better than what I had in that ship.” You nuzzle into the soft materials. “Good for pups.” Just the mention has his cock throbbing inside you and pushing out more cum, as if making sure that that actually happens. You both groan.

Once he’s done, you sigh contentedly and look around. “Though… maybe just a few things could be fixed.” You say, reaching out to fix said things as you do. They’d been bothering that primal part of you that enjoys the nesting for a while. A pillow was just a bit out of a place, a blanket wasn’t fluffed up enough by just a tad, and one of his capes was just slightly askew. It makes you feel kind of crazy, but it puts your mind at ease. The whole thing has Kylo chuckling.

He brushes hair back from your face. “You should rest while you can.” He orders. “You’ll need it.”

You’re already starting to feel drowsy again, so you can’t even argue. The low, rumbling purr that’s started in Kylo’s chest adds to it. It’s such a soothing sound—just like a cat’s purr, instantly making your body relax against him. You can feel the vibrations from it reverberated in your back. You curl up as best you can in his hold with his knot still in you, his strong arms secure around your middle. There’s no need for a blanket because Kylo keeps you plenty warm—he’s like your own personal heater.

Laying there in your big, comfy nest with your alpha holding you close and his scent all around you, with your heat finally satiated… it’s so, so easy to fall asleep.

2K notes · View notes

meownotgood · 3 months ago

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steel kisses supernova. / machine herald!viktor x reader

A botched mission results in fixing the Machine Herald's mechanics, brushing your hands to wires, and indulging in the traces once left by emotion. tags: 18+, reader is gender neutral + fem bodied, reader uses they/them pronouns, wireplay, inappropriate use of hextech, bonding through near death experiences, divine machinery, reader has a prosthetic arm, repairing the machine herald, fluff + angst, praise kink, sexual tension, fingering + clit stim, size difference, protecting you with their own body trope, yearning, good lord you guys need to stop yearning, mix of arcane + league lore, vik's anatomy isn't mentioned. (terms used for reader: cunt, clit, no mentions of chest anatomy, dear, sweetheart, spark, love, adorable) word count: 49.5k note: hey!! please keep in mind, this fic is unfortunately too long for tumblr due to the word count + tumblr's post block limit... so you'll be able to read the first part of the fic here! the full fic is available in its entirety on ao3. apologies for the inconvenience, and happy (late) year of fucking robots... read on ao3

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The deepest fissures in the depths of Zaun are usually, thankfully quiet. Perfect to hide something you'd expect not to be found.

You breathe deep puffs of simulated air through your gas mask. Your ear presses to the cold steel door, sealing off the entrance to the Chem-Baron vault. There shouldn't be anyone present, not at this time. Enforcers know little of the darkest labyrinths of Zaun. It's too risky to even have guards stationed here. Predictably, you're met with total, resounding silence — save for the echoing beep and ping of Viktor's self-made sonar device.

Lowering onto your knees, leaving yourself eye-level with the door's intricate set of five locks, you cast one more glance towards him. Viktor — the Machine Herald — completely towers over you, especially from this position.

It makes the back of your neck prickle on impulse. The two of you hardly resemble partners. Creator and creation, more like. One another's opposite image. A bright purpose for sets of technical, controlled executions. A fragile, too-emotional human, and a composed, powerful machine.

As though his complex steel form, an expression of the limits of his work and technology, was made to be admired.

Some people do. They come to him when they need him; just as you once did, ages ago. They worship him like a deity. Perhaps you're starting to see why.

Viktor hardly resembles the man you remember. And yet, there's a certain thrum to him. Mechanical beats and impulses. Familiar gear and hardware that delightfully push the boundaries of science. Vibrant, intricate, self-built components that demand your curiosity.

The Machine Herald captivates you, just as strongly as Viktor once did.

Viktor's mask voids him of expression. His orange, glowing eyes are the only light to illuminate the room. Still, there's urgency to the way he moves, stepping closer. His cape billows in the chamber's low draft, his iron boots clank when they hit the ground. His thumb flicks a thick button on the side of the sonar device.

The third arm jutting out from his shoulders tremors, before it comes to life. It scans the door with a bright red sensor, then twitches, shuts off. The sonar reader chimes approvingly in response.

Viktor gives you a nod. His gaze runs hot and intense, enough to burn right through you.

"The Hextech crystals are here. The device is picking up several readings," He discerns, modulated voice rumbling evenly. "If we are fortunate, we might return all of them."

You pull your gas mask from your face. It hangs loosely from your neck. The vault's thick, partially-filtered air hits your lungs hard. One deep breath in feels like you've filled your chest with half clouds, half sawdust.

You're trying your best to focus, examining the locks with your eyes squinted, when a gentle, yet firm hand places onto your shoulder.

"Do not rush," Viktor instructs. "We have time. This should be handled as quietly and discreetly as possible."

Artificial heat bleeds from his touch. Sparks of warmth, like black holes and galaxies, expand and implode beneath your skin. There's a sense of loss, when he carefully pulls his hand away. Allowing the cold to seep back in.

Your jaw clenches. Finally, you turn towards your metal arm.

The edges are smooth and shiny, recently welded. It's second nature to test the flexing of your fingers, even though you can't feel them; the metal creaks, but holds, gears turning, rigid platings twisting. Intricate patterns, in deep shades of silver and amber, line the frame. Fused together with a powerful ray of heat. A clear sign of his handiwork.

Recalling Viktor's instructions, you find a small notch on the underside. Press here, then pull this panel open. A thin lockpicking tool emerges from your palm, easily held between your steel-jointed fingers. Fit with its own handy flashlight.

It helps illuminate your work as you start on the first lock.

"How long do you think it'll take before they notice?" You're asking. Swearing to yourself, when the lockpick meets some resistance.

Viktor fiddles with the sonar device. "They will eventually. The crystals are nothing more than a bargaining chip. In all probability, once they attempt to sell them back to Piltover- Well, they will be in for an unpleasant surprise."

"We're making enemies of top and bottom side, then."

Viktor answers, "As anticipated."

It certainly wouldn't be the first time. This is all deathly familiar — working beside the Machine Herald, stealing tech to help those in Zaun. Though, this mission has been easy, in comparison. Perhaps a bit too easy. Your first tango with Zaun's upper echelon should've posed more of a challenge. All the crystals are right here, in an unguarded vault. No strings attached.

Viktor's boot taps against the ground to an impatient rhythm. So, you aren't the only one on edge.

You try to make conversation. "Thought about what you're gonna say to Miss Glasc?"

Rummaging through a Chem-Baron's property is one thing, certainly a dance with danger. Messing with Renata Glasc would be like prancing underneath a guillotine. She's influential, cunning, her connections nearly as bountiful as the coin that lines her pockets — and she's Viktor's benefactor, most pressingly. An important supplier of sheet metal, hardware, and painkillers.

"Glasc possesses no knowledge of this place. It is beyond her territory. Nevertheless, our alliance is not so easily relinquished, considering the rate of mutual benefit."

You put on your best faux, overly fancy voice. "We're her most beloved pawns, after all."

Viktor expels an amused huff in agreement.

The first lock ticks. When you move on to the second, it pops open around your lockpick in one smooth, simple movement.

You scoff, clicking your tongue, "As rich as these people are, you'd think they'd have a better security system."

"Our work here is not yet complete," Viktor replies, firmly and mechanically. He closes the sonar device, and he kneels down to hand it off to you. With your hands full, you're reaching around awkwardly, breathing an annoyed huff as you stuff it back into your pocket. "We still need to wipe the security cameras, and dispose of the thermal detectors."

"We?" The third lock clicks. "Pretty sure that's just my job."

"It is."

You throw him a quick, indignant glance. The fourth lock clicks open harshly, as you hastily jam your lockpick past the threshold.

"Almost done," You're mumbling, mostly to yourself.

"Excellent work," Viktor practically purrs, praise reverberating through his voice filter. "The new lockpick functions for you naturally, I see. We will be finished here soon."

Your spine tingles, like there's a lightning storm underneath your skin. Your heart pounds. It threatens to throw your composure off-kilter. To be praised by the feared, indecipherable Machine Herald is a wonderful, thrilling, head-rushing thing.

But you've stopped working on the last lock. The end of your lockpick taps the door idly, to no rhythm in particular.

Viktor notices.

"I thought I would provide you with some motivation. But here you are. Pouting, as expected."

A steel palm glides up from the small of your back, leading to your shoulder as he stands upright.

"First," Viktor explains, "I will obtain the crystals. Then, you will head to the security room, and I will stand guard in the event we are ambushed. We already discussed our plan. Have you forgotten?"

Your eyes roll. He says it like a taunt — you should try to remember, because he doesn't plan on reminding you twice. Although, in truth, there's little force behind the words. There never is, not when it comes to you.

"Actually, I remember being promised a reward in my future." You glance up at him, gaze playful, star-like. The lockpick twirls around your metal fingers. "Y'know, for all my hard work. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about that, right?"

Viktor hardly falters. "Once we return to the lab, we can discuss."

"Hm." You stare blankly at the last lock. Dramatically squinting your eyes, tapping your index to your chin. "I think my lockpick is broken."

Viktor grumbles, "You are ridiculous."

Your shoulders shrug. "Just clarifying our terms."

It's rhythmic — the way you instantly return to your work, turning away to hide your shit-eating grin. Your partner falls silent, for long enough to let the tension build. Metal creaks and scrapes together when his fingers clench. Either way, you're going to get what you want. You're certain. The push and pull between you always ends in your favor. It has to, because there is one exception to his rule. One weakness, amongst his perfected layers of inhuman machinery. An unacknowledged line connecting you and the Machine Herald.

If it were anyone else, if Viktor was made of less flesh and more machine, he might've attempted to circumvent this, to remove the aspects he deemed distractions, but you —

Viktor sighs, hard enough to push steam out from the edges of his mask.

"When we return, anything you desire from the lab is yours. Or I will add another modification onto your arm, if you prefer." His steel hand returns to your shoulder, this time giving you an authoritative squeeze. "Now, focus. First, the Hextech crystals. Then, the security system must be dismantled. Deciding will come later."

Anything you want.

The smirk on your face must make you look stupid, but you're having a difficult time holding it back. Continue to play your cards right, and one of those crystals might be yours.

"Alright, V." A single turn of your lockpick clicks open the final lock. You rise to your feet, and the lockpicking module folds back into your arm with a simple button press. "I'll get it done, yeah?"

Viktor approaches the door. You swiftly step aside.

"Good."

The vault is small. The metal door opens with a loud, grating creak. A flickering overhead light turns on automatically, revealing walls decorated by various rudimentary weapons, and tables littered with blueprints. Canisters of shimmer are stacked neatly in a corner. Unfinished machinery parts collect in piles on the floor. Resting atop a table in the far-right corner, graciously reflecting the light, you spot your target — a glass case, with a set of Hex Crystals suspended inside.

You stride in. Viktor grabs his staff, still leant up against the wall, and he follows you into the vault.

Your hands clasp together and rest behind your head. You glance around, examining the entirety of the room. A large blueprint is pinned to the wall; stolen, most likely, as it's signed with various Piltover clan symbols. It seems to detail a process to make similar crystals artificially. There's no cameras on the ceiling, or in any of the four corners. You lightly kick one of the piled-up automatons with your foot. The springs in its center make a dull popping noise. A clear sign that they're entirely broken.

"Wish you'd be a little nicer, though," You're humming, musing idly. You kneel down, sifting through the pile of components on the ground. A chipped gear, a loose screw, a broken lever. Why would a Chem-Baron vault be filled with useless, rusty parts? "You said it's a psychological thing, right? When humans are influenced by their emotions. Positive reinforcement, I guess."

Beep, beep, beep.

You rise to your feet, and Viktor answers from behind you. Voice dangerously close to your ear. Low and stern enough to make you tense. "Don't move."

Unfortunately, you're not listening. You spin around to face him, arms crossed in front of you. Your fingertips toy with a loose wire on the panelling of your forearm. Viktor is twice as imposing when he's close; he towers over you, with your head barely coming up to his metal chest. Glowing eyes meet yours, and although it's usually impossible to determine what he's thinking, you can instantly tell something is wrong.

He glances to either side of the room. His fingers drum against his staff quickly, almost nervously.

Both arms fall loose at your sides. "I'm teasing, Viktor-"

"Do not speak," Viktor snaps, his tone controlled. He grabs your shoulder, hard enough to nearly make your weak legs stumble. "And don't move."

Beep, beep, beep.

Oh. Prevailing over the silence is an unmistakable noise, getting louder, getting faster —

Fuck. You're freezing up, as still as a fancy Piltovan statue. Your hands start to shake, and now you're chipping, threatening to crumble. Sweat beads at your forehead and the back of your neck, trickling down like sharp ice shards. You're both screwed.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

Valves fall open; a loud hissing sound cuts through the air like a blade, as the room quickly fills with billows of smoke and sharp gasoline. Burning your eyes, choking your lungs.

Viktor's staff hits the ground with a clatter. He grabs you, pulls you into his chest before the fear in your mind has caught up with your body. Your breath catches, your vision blurs, your ears ring — and all at once, the vault crumbles into destruction, blown to bits in the wake of a deafeningly loud explosion.

—

"Hold still. Is there one single instruction that is not immediately lost on you?"

"I'm trying, Vik. Geez."

Viktor presses an old cloth to a long scrape on your forehead, fabric ripped and dirty with oil stains. The disinfectant stings your skin lightly. You try your best not to flinch away. Your stool creaks when you awkwardly shuffle back and forth, digging your nails into your leg, and Viktor's scrapes the concrete ground when he shifts closer. A cold metal hand tilts up your chin, holds you firmly in place. He brushes the rag over your jaw, next. Meticulous, as he cleans the faint scrapes left by glass fragments, and so, so gentle. Your heart twists inside your chest, grinds and sings like a music box wound up too quickly.

You force your breathing to steady. Your eyes stare into where his would be. Soft and golden, honey-drenched suns. The light of his pupils burns when you look at them too long. The artificial glow behind his mask carries amber-hued traces of what you remember, but he's utterly unreadable. Would he be looking at you with annoyance? Disdain? Guilt?

Another corner of the rag is brought to your neck, and you roll your sore shoulders back. Trying to find a distraction, your gaze trails to the table behind him.

Stray parts are scattered about. There's scalpels, messy rolls of bandages. Tools are sorted into piles: various wrenches, different sizes of pliers. In tonight's chaos, a few screwdrivers have rolled onto the ground already.

And at the edge of the table rests a small glass case. The lid cracked, the surface charred. Each Hex Crystal remains suspended inside. Completely, tauntingly unharmed.

Emberflit Alley is quiet and secluded, especially once night has fallen. Viktor's lab hums to its own familiar, comforting rhythm. It allows you to finally breathe again.

Experiments you've been working on together litter every flat surface. Breathing devices, prosthetic outlines. A prototype hand takes up its own corner of his desk, parts separated neatly. There's a makeshift bed by the door, surrounded with discarded cans, left by the stray cat you both have been feeding. A couch rests in the room's corner, cracked leather showing its age. Stacks of your clothing pile up on the arm, neatly folded. You're sure you'd last left them in a heap on the floor.

The adjacent end table houses an ashtray, littered with your smokes. Coffee stains burned into the wood form halos around your chrome lighter.

(Viktor made it ages ago, to replace the ones you kept losing. It never leaves your pocket. Your thumb likes to trace over the jagged, uneven edges, welded from scrap material. You flick the sparking gear until there's a flame. Molten and warm, reminiscent of his heat — over and over again.)

Finally, Viktor leans back, satisfied. He turns in his stool, tossing the rag onto the table. He sifts through his tools for a moment, metal clanking together, before he turns back to you, wrench in hand.

"Your arm." Viktor instructs simply, holding out his gloved hand; and you're quick to extend it for him, allowing him to grasp and examine the broken gaps between your forearm's metal platings.

The memory of the evening's events flicker dimly through your mind. You both were lucky, all things considered.

You fucked up, must've tripped something. The vault shook, a bomb went off, and everything was a blur from there. A mix of hazy sensations. Ears ringing. Head throbbing. Rubble pinning you into place. Thick fumes choking you, burning in your chest, making your eyes water. Suffocating the cramped vault and mixing with the heavy air of the fissures. Pressure assigns itself a stronger definition. Its force pushes between your ribs, as though it hopes to split them open.

Viktor's greys and oranges took on a watercolor swirl in your teary vision. He pressed your gas mask to your face until you were breathing again. He helped you to your feet, carried you when you were starting to fade in and out —

Right. Viktor shielded you. He purposefully pressed you beneath him with seconds to spare, to ensure most of the rubble would damage him, instead.

His chassis was mostly unscathed; the advantages of steel, you suppose.

Your arm is busted, undoing all of Viktor's recent enhancements. Your lungs still ache. Your body hurts. The sort of hurt that crests like a fully-encompassing wave, the form of hurt you can't name. Not a this is sore here, or a this is injured there.

It hardly matters, in the grand scheme of things.

If the explosion damaged the canisters and blew through the shimmer, if it reached the crystals and sparked a chain reaction, the decimation would have been unrecognizable, you're sure.

A dangerous chill laces up your spine. It taps you on the shoulder, reminds you of the risks. Viktor adjusts the crooked lockpick-panel on your palm. He holds your hand in place when your fingers start to twitch.

You're alright, though. Alive. The realization perplexes you. It makes your chest ache, the memory a tender blade, pressing deep.

Viktor saved you. And for the faint, blurry moments in between, it felt warm, to be held in his arms. It felt safe.

This feels safe, familiar — Viktor skillfully glides his gloved hand down your forearm, examining where the frame has buckled in on itself. Metal components have been warped by heat. The outer armor is digging into the steel skeleton, blocking several axles and hinges.

He reaches behind him, exchanging his wrench for pliers. You're watching him think as his fingertip taps your arm rhythmically. You can practically hear the vibrations of his memorized voice, echoing through your mind. The skeleton is unaffected, but the outer shell has been decimated. Most functions are rendered inoperable. Additional augments can be repaired in time. For now, returning function to the joints is the primary objective.

It is a simple adjustment. You are in good hands. As you always are.

Viktor has no problem with wordlessness. But matters between the two of you rarely get this silent.

He holds your arm in a tight, unmoving grip. Pliers in hand, he works on bending each plating back into place.

It reminds you of the past, pleasant and persistent. Viktor's been working to improve your prosthetic since you met. When the line between you sealed into a knot. When tension brought you together, two ships on stormy seas, and you decided to turn your sails and bond over the shared struggles you had to overcome — your arm, Viktor's leg. Piltover was less of a grave, and more of a home, then.

Weakness, experimentation, and danger followed Viktor as a second shadow. Ultimately, it only made sense to rush after him. No matter where he returned to, no matter what he was slated to become.

Without Viktor, you might find yourself flexing your handmade fingers, staring at the piece of him you're doomed to carry with you. A reminder of the half to your whole. Like the connection between gears. Like what the hammer is to the nail. Bright light to a systematic solar panel, crisp air to weak lungs. A hacksaw to fragile flesh. Inseparable.

Viktor finishes adjusting the armor on that very same arm, and he begins to reach for your shoulder. His glove brushes your skin. Gentle, but you swiftly realize it's meant to be a distraction, reassurance. Crooked screws dig into the separation between your shoulder and your arm; Viktor tightens them carefully, and you wince, tensing up.

Low and soft, Viktor's words crunch through his partially-damaged voice filter. "Tell me if I am hurting you."

"No, no," You're answering, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just a little sore."

You shut your eyes. Viktor tightens the last screw. Fuzzy stars blanket your eyelids once they flutter open.

His Hexclaw reaches behind him, handing him another tool. Ever-so careful, he examines a dainty set of wires leading through your forearm. He pushes them aside, attempting to reach a line of broken pistons set into your wrist.

Metal clinks against metal. The lab hums quietly, jars bubbling, vents thrumming.

"I cannot believe you waltzed right in."

Oh. Viktor shatters the silence — and your placidity, along with it.

"We're gonna start with this now?" You're huffing; the steel tip of your boot taps the floor anxiously.

Viktor stops. He tips his head up, glowing eyes with rings of circular, mechanical pupils glancing at you. Expectant, intimidating.

Your entire body weakens when you sigh, jostling your arm, making him hold you tighter to keep you still. The firm grip he has on your forearm's frame screams annoyed.

"How the hell was I supposed to know they had the place tripped?" You argue, "And weren't you supposed to detect it? With that device, like you did with the cameras?"

"Thermal cameras give off a unique heat signature, which the device was tailored to analyze," Viktor explains evenly. The end of his multi-tool extends to reveal small tweezers, which he uses to delicately remove specs of rubble from the joints in your wrist. "The Hextech crystals, as well. The energy they radiate is relatively equivalent. Failing to detect the tripwire indicates a clear error of design. It will be adjusted for our next mission. Now, your wrist. Test how it functions."

Viktor sits back, and you twist your wrist in either direction. The joints swivel smoothly, and the modified pistons hold firm when you clench your hand.

"Perfect. This will suffice," He concludes, with the familiar air of pride he always regards for his creations. Grasping your forearm once more, he returns to working on its inner mechanisms.

"We needed those crystals, Vik," You're continuing. Fiery gaze fixated on him, even though he's focused on his work. "Our current procedures aren't cutting it anymore, and you know that better than anyone. Hextech has the potential to save so many people. I'm not like you. I can't just… sit around and calculate every possible outcome before I make a move. We can never make progress without taking-"

"Risks only serve as obstacles when they threaten permanent consequences. Progress is not linear. It comes to those who are patient enough to know when they should further it."

Viktor compares a few different sized gears in his palm, eventually choosing the smallest one. It fits perfectly into the juncture of mechanics just below your wrist.

He glances up at you once. Then, he calmly returns to adjusting your arm. "Impulsivity will get us nowhere."

You groan, tossing your head back.

"They tripped a vault. With explosives." You're gazing at the ceiling, focused on the large, Machine Herald shaped shadow Viktor casts as he works. "Why even store the crystals there if you're just going to blow them up the moment someone nabs them? It doesn't make sense."

"This was not about the crystals. They are sending a message. The Chem-Barons will not hesitate to dispose of us, if we continue to cross them."

The pieces click into place, in hindsight. Voices flit through your memory. Takeda's shimmer-drunk drawl as he leans back in his leather seat and counts his coin. Make sure you tell your tin-can he still owes me. Veraza's cold tone as she crushes a purple petal between her fingers, the thick air of her greenhouse planting roots inside your lungs. Careful, now. The other Chem-Barons believe you are pulling at your leash much too tightly. Do not let them break your neck.

Ah, the crystals were bait. An expensive trade-off. And the vault simply housed the things they were trying to get rid of. Unauthorized weapons. Stolen shimmer. You, and the Machine Herald.

Physical pieces slot where they're supposed to, as well, when Viktor finishes adjusting the chain of gears that line your steel skeleton. This was the easy part. He rolls his shoulders back in frustration, as he attempts to adjust some warped, particularly stubborn strips of framework.

"But this discussion is about you," Viktor grits, as though the words are spoken between bared canines. "What in the world could you have possibly been thinking? Or were you failing to think at all?"

Your eyes roll. "You know what? I don't even want to get into it."

"We are not getting into anything. It is a simple conversation," Viktor swears under his breath. He pulls and pulls at the thin cylinder but the broken metal won't give. "And I believe you should contribute."

"I think it's best if we don't talk about it. We're both stressed, and just-"

"I disagree."

"I'm fucking tired, Vik," You're huffing, free arm rubbing the sore nape of your neck in emphasis. "My whole body hurts. Sorry if I'm not thrilled to sit here and listen to you scold me, because somehow, this is all my fault."

Viktor rebuttals, "You are missing the point."

"Oh, I think I understand it perfectly."

"I am merely asking you to consider your actions." Viktor pulls at the last broken strip hard. It snaps, and he tosses it onto the table behind him with an equal display of impatience. "From now on, precautions must be put into place. Especially in situations involving the Chem-Barons. And you must promise me, if we find ourselves in a comparable situation, for once, you will listen."

"Fine."

You're yanking your arm away the moment he finishes closing the platings. You examine it quickly, front and back, flexing your fingers. Some sections are still chipped, but it'll do. Clear, delicate care has been put into the intricate assembly of each division, each joint, to ensure movement is as comfortable and responsive as possible. Viktor's work is always articulate, but doubly so, when it comes to you.

His adjustments have already taken considerable weight off your shoulder. Surges of warmth kindle faint flames in your chest — but you're sighing, arms crossing, brows pinching.

"Next time, I'll stay here. Keep the place warm, since it's all I'm good at."

"I did not-" Viktor weakens in the wake of a sigh, as if the air is shuddering through his makeshift lungs. "I apologize, I should not have made it seem as if I was blaming you-"

"No," You interrupt. Teeth gritted. "I'm tired of feeling like all I do is get in your way."

You know you're being unreasonable, but you hardly care. The words simply tumble out, like they've been toppled from the knots in your mind. You glance down. Your fingertips fiddle with a line of screws embedded into your forearm.

Whatever rebuttal Viktor was planning dies as quickly as a blossom in a snowstorm. He drops forwards; his fingers lace, he rests his forehead against them. Tension buds in his body like you've never seen before. Finally, he runs a hand through his hair, and he sits up.

His voice fizzles with heavy, husky, insuppressible static.

"I could have lost you. That is what you do not understand."

Your spine tingles. As though it's laced in gold. You can feel the pull of guilt and tenderness — like gravity, in your heart, in your chest, in your flesh. The words must flicker differently through a mostly mechanical system, if they mean anything to him at all.

You stand slowly, kicking your stool away half-heartedly.

He's grabbing your wrist before you can get far. Your real wrist. He holds you there, hesitant. (The changing of seasons rarely reaches the depths of Zaun; you're gradually beginning to forget what they're like.) But Gods, Viktor's steel touch feels the same as the heat of summer, artificial warmth resembling basking in sun rays, dipping your wrist into candle wax. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the frigid chill of winter. Cool metal reminiscent of the sharpness of ice.

"Lay down," Viktor instructs, as though he plans to give you little choice in the matter. "It is late. You should rest."

Perhaps you truly do have a problem with listening.

Because even as Viktor is speaking, your gaze is travelling across him, eyes narrowing as they catch downwards. Your partner hates asking for assistance, but you're used to reciprocity — to completing something for him, in exchange for what he does for you. To further the cycle of fixing and repairing. Little losses and small victories, strung between the fate of you, and the Machine Herald.

Viktor's hand slips from your wrist. He follows your line of sight, and there's a look in your gaze he's long since come to recognize. Pure persistence.

Your palm reaches out to him, makes a grabbing motion. "Screwdriver."

Viktor drums his steel fingers against his iron thigh, making metal rhythmically clink against metal. Your stubborn nature is a stake, driving into him intimately. Like it never really left.

Leaning his elbow on the desk, he reaches behind him, to hand you the particular screwdriver he knows you'll need. Flat-tipped, handle weighty. A light smile paints satisfaction across your expression. He continues to keep his gaze on you as you're sliding down — your frame appears small, when compared to his, simply because you're only human; this state amplifies the difference between your mortal form, and his large, metal chassis. Eventually, you're settling on your knees in front of him.

The column of his leg is busted. It's functional, sure, but a few of the plates were crushed under rubble, the brace-like mechanism has springs loose and cogs twisted. Everything might crack, under the strain of continued usage.

For now, you can fix the platings. You've done it before. On his arms, a few times. On his back, once. You'll reinforce the gears and tighten the framework back into place, to keep it stable, until he has the time to make a full replacement.

You decide to start with his ankle, and work your way up. You're lifting his heavy leg, exhaling a weary breath as you place it close to your lap. The end of your screwdriver finds the seam on the back of his calf, screws crooked and stripped. Your jaw grits. You forcibly push the steel back into place, tightening each screw as far as it'll go.

(And you're aware this is stupidly reminiscent of a lifetime before, although Viktor is twice as metal, and half as human. Emotions and sentiment are among the many things he swore he discarded.) Yet, he's leaning back. Relaxing, almost. Giving in to you, to this.

Unable to sit still for long, Viktor twists. He finds the two broken halves of his staff, resting them in his lap, pressing them together. The Hexclaw twitches, before its laser hums. He begins to expertly weld both halves together.

After a while, you're breaking the silence. "Vik?"

Viktor doesn't look up. He examines the end of his staff, fiddles with a few wires and jacks. It's still out of power, predictably.

"Yes?"

"Back then, when the bomb went off." Your fingers trail his knee, admiring the smooth, solid structure. "You tried to protect me. Why?"

"I thought you did not want to talk about this."

You breathe a slight tch. "Just answer me."

You're glancing up at him, but Viktor is pointedly not looking at you. His Hexclaw curls behind him to set his staff on the table, and to grab another part. In tandem, he's reaching for his throat, pulling its front panel open.

He tilts his head back. Thumbs through the wires and exposed circuitry to yank a small part free, so hastily it seems like it'd hurt. He shoves the new voice box inside, until it clicks into place. Viktor rolls his neck once the panel is shut.

"The explosion was inclined to originate from the entrance, perhaps aiming to trap us inside," He explains, voice strikingly clear, this time. "As soon as it convened on the shimmer or the crystals, the entire room would be set ablaze. Fortunately, it did not. It was a poor plan. But, regardless of their failures, you are… not suited to withstand such conditions. The only option was to use my construction as a shield."

Your chest splits with an arrow-shot ache, because you know he's fucking right. If Viktor wasn't there, or if the fire had spread just a little more; if you weren't standing so close to him, or if your gas mask had broken, or if anything had changed —

You swallow hard enough to make your eardrums prickle, and you busy yourself with fixing the drilled-in brace, just above his knee.

"I guess that makes sense."

"And our mission was a success," Viktor reasons. "Was it not?"

"We got the crystals. But-" Your grip tightens on the screwdriver's handle. You breathe a long sigh, heavy enough to make your lungs hurt. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you, for acting like an idiot, for everything. I should've known it was a setup. The stupid vault was filled with junk. And I was standing so close to those shimmer canisters, I could've-"

Your head shakes; your breath does, too. "Nevermind."

Viktor's gloved hand grasps his gauntlet, where the power source feeds energy into his palm. You swear you catch his fingers trembling just slightly, as he deftly pulls the panelwork apart.

"My body will not take long to fix," He replies. Metal fingers clenching individually, while he prods deep into his own arm. "If that is your concern."

Your palm glides up his thigh slowly, exploring every dip and notch in the shape. Firm steel curves under your fingers. Beckoningly smooth. "I know. I want to make this up to you, is all."

A steel index finger drifts underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards, in his direction.

It's momentary. Viktor takes his hand away to grasp his gauntlet again, snapping the panel on his wrist shut. The molten light on the back of his hand glows brightly, indicating a newfound charge of energy.

"I need you to listen carefully."

"Mmm," You hum. You're warm, pliable, electricity traveling from the base of your neck to the end of your spine, like gliding gentle touches over tender bruises — "I'm listening."

"This was a minor setback, nothing more," Viktor continues. "Betrayal from the Chem-Barons was anticipated. Your safety is my only concern. On that subject, I believe I have made myself clear. There is no need to hold yourself responsible. You do not owe me anything."

Right. Just your life.

You take your time on the last screw in his upper leg. Rising to your feet, you toss the screwdriver onto the desk, causing it to roll all the way to the edge. You give him a swift once over.

The back of your hand taps against his chest. "Something's broken in here. The platings are all misaligned."

"Potentially."

Viktor grasps your hand. Squeezing, first, before he pushes it away. Gods, you know it's artificial and intentionally practiced — Does a machine's best attempt at replication still count as intimacy? — but it makes your head spin, all the same.

"I will handle it," He concludes, assured. Words thick and accented as they rumble through his filter.

Your head shakes. "No, it's- this isn't some kind of obligation. I want to fix this for you."

"Spark, you have done enough for me. You may rest, now."

The next breath you draw in aches to say his name.

So, you let it.

"Viktor," You murmur, although a hard, determined edge is returning to your voice, one that doesn't intend to take no for an answer, "Let me help you."

You can feel the vibrating thrum of machinery beneath your palm, with your hand pressed flat to his chest. You half-expect another argument to ensue. You're preparing for it, as you worry an impression into your bottom lip. Instead, Viktor shifts, sitting up fully.

He reaches down. Thumbs pressing a set of latching mechanisms, one on each of his sides. The armor around his entire midsection begins to hiss approvingly, releasing small puffs of pressurized steam.

"This," He starts, although he's already popping open the structure of his central system, "Would prove much more simple if I chose to complete it myself. But I will teach you. If you are willing."

Your smile shows your canines. "Of course."

The moment Viktor has his platings fully opened for you, armor swiveled to the side like doors on hinges, a thick blanket of smoke pours out, filling your lungs. You cough, batting it away. The sound of his machinery is so much louder: ticking gears, moving pistons, the hum of various pumps. Your eyes squint, and you place your hands on your knees, bending down to peer inside.

It reminds you of the automatons you've worked on together. The blueprints he followed for his own structure must have been similar, at least. But this won't be like operating on a person, nor an automaton. The little fixings you've done for the people of Zaun, fusing organic with inorganic, pale in comparison to the complicated system before you. Viktor's system.

Viktor's fingertips dance over the inner edges of his armor, pressing a few more latches into place. Locking functions, you're guessing. To keep the platings open.

"At odds with your expectations?" He questions, noticing your hesitation.

"Well, I suppose," You're answering, throat dry. "This wasn't what I was expecting, no."

"Ah. I will take it from here, then."

"No, just… give me a minute. Need to get my bearings."

A lull takes over. Viktor leans back slowly, he rests his elbows on the desk behind him; hands clenching, as he resists the reflexive tick to busy them. You allow yourself to kneel, still propped up enough to put your gaze eye-level with his mechanics.

It's… a lot.

You couldn't even begin to describe every individual intricacy. Different mechanisms all work in tandem, pushing out steam, clicking gears into place, powering various motors; and there's hundreds of wires, leading every which way like veins. They connect through a diverse array of parts, but they all inevitably curl into one central space — like the crest of a wave, like a Fibonacci spiral, an unintentional golden ratio. Bridging into a singular unit, runes carved on its edges. A small crystal suspended within.

You're reminded of Viktor's words from years prior, when his newfound form first perplexed you. When you steeled yourself and simply asked, because your gaze kept catching on the jarred organs surrounding his workspace, despite his declarations that he'd relinquished all of himself. Because you're watching him dig a scalpel into his forearm, skin dead and pallid like snow, obsidian-hued blood trickling into the gap between sizzling, split circuitry.

It was practical, this way. To replace imperfect organs with a consistent, mechanical system.

Actually, the configuration before you is anything but.

The mechanics show signs of Viktor's own handiwork. Welded edges, carefully constructed synapses. Bundles of wires have been grouped together messily. Displaying a clear motive: to focus on making a functional system, not a pristine one.

The central unit, housing the crystal, is surrounded by two large pipelines, interconnected by steel conduits. Their purpose is lost on you, but one is smaller, the pipe closest to the unit. Like the way one lung is smaller to give room for the heart.

Some of the parts are recognizable, albeit a bit rudimentary; they're prototypes you remember improving upon ages ago. Viktor must have deemed them still functional. Or perhaps, he hasn't had the time to replace them. It humanizes him, in a strange, opposite way. Viktor is so busy with the rest of his endeavors — evolving his plans for the Undercity, assisting others, including you — he hasn't been able to rebuild himself.

And there is something beautiful about it, about him. Something worth worshipping. Alluringly, divinely synthetic, self-made by his hands. Everything within him vibrates with electricity and life. Resembling a tangible, second soul.

(You're starting to understand those who pray for their flesh to be replaced with mechanics. Those who worship their image of the Machine Herald, despite not knowing he was once a man, just like them. Because still, every time you see them, knelt in reverence before a statue or a stained-glass depiction of the Grey Lady, you can't help but think of Viktor, and yourself.)

Your heart hammers wildly inside your chest, a perfect contrast to his steady, exposed system. Your breath echoes so sharply through the lab, you're sure with the proximity, he can hear it, too.

Maybe it's the circumstance — this is Viktor, after all. You're giving yourself a headache, trying to figure out how you should work on your own partner, how to understand the Machine Herald's stupidly ornate insides.

And it's exciting, interesting. You've never worked on anything so complex before. He's a puzzle you desperately want to learn to solve.

But, more than anything, this feels personal. Intimate. It's a thrilling, entirely new way to admire him, yet you're finding it difficult to stay relaxed. You think of the Viktor you once knew. Of how it would feel to be shown the softness of his guts. To be asked to dig through his sinews and his lungs and his innards, instead of wires and mechanics and gadgetry. Palms brushing a body made of fragile bones and pallid skin, not metal.

Fucking hell. You'd do it, either way. Without hesitation.

"Okay," You breathe, attempting to place yourself back on course. You rub the overwhelming tension from your temple, allowing your tired eyes to close for a fleeting second. Then, you're pulling up your stool, sitting across from him to continue your examinations.

Beneath his mask, Viktor's gaze stays magnetized to you. To the pinch in your brows, to your hands folded in your lap, moving with the bounce of your knee.

The curious, ambitious, lost-in-thought side to you is always impossibly enthralling.

"This is sort of familiar, actually," You reason, as though you're trying to convince yourself. "Kind of like Blitz, just… way, way more advanced."

You focus on locating the parts you recognize, as opposed to the ones you don't. The center unit is definitely a main power source. The pumps and fans surrounding it are likely for cooling. It amazes you, honestly. Viktor must know all of this like the back of his hand.

"I will explain the process to the best of my ability." Viktor replies.

"I'm, uh- a little nervous, V. It's your body, and I just- I don't want to mess anything up. When's the last time someone poked around in here? Is there anything I definitely shouldn't touch?"

Viktor clenches his hands idly. He leans back a bit further. "Comply with my instructions, for now. Once the major repairs are complete, and we have eliminated all present malfunctions, you will be free to tinker with each apparatus, as you see fit."

"Okay. I can do that."

"As for your additional question, it has been quite a while since I have improved upon my own design. This would make you the only one I have… shown this to, for lack of a more acceptable term."

"Oh." You shrink up, recoiling your hands before they can reach for him. Jaw set, as you bite down your own nerves. "Should I- are you sure this is okay, then?"

"Yes." Viktor's head tilts slightly, analyzing. "Go on. I trust you."

Your heart races at that. Running circles around itself, abiding by its own laws of chemistry to create unbridled, newfound energy in your chest.

Without another moment of hesitation, you shift closer, and you stick your hands inside.

Warmth radiates off of him, sparking from the countless movements of parts and mechanics. It warms your face, envelops your palms as if you've held them to a campfire. It's definitely too hot, all things considered.

"Looks like there's a problem with temperature," You're commenting, although it's certainly obvious. You run your fingertip over a line of fan blades, set into the top of his chassis. You turn them yourself, and pick out a few tiny pieces of rubble. "Yeah, fans are all stuck."

"The fans are an auxiliary measure," Viktor clarifies, tone smooth and systematic. "The central pump must not be pushing coolant. Check the thermoregulation cylinders. They lead into the manifold."

"Vik." Your gaze flickers up. "Whatever you just said, it sounded like total mechanical gibberish."

"Give me your hand."

With his metal palm already extended, you lean forward, and you gently brush your warm fingers to his.

Viktor guides you carefully, steel digits closed around yours; the entirety of your hand fits in his palm with ease, it's at least twice the size of your own. Your fingertips slip past wires and circuitry, to hover over an intricate array of cylindrical conduits.

"Do they feel hot? The cylinders," Viktor clarifies. "Touch them carefully. Do not let them burn you."

His grip on your hand loosens. You're wincing, as you hesitantly press your fingertips forwards — but the metal isn't hot. Far from it, in fact.

"No, they're… lukewarm, maybe."

"Hm." Viktor leans back once more, elbows propped on the desk behind him. "We will begin with the fans. This fix will be the least complex."

"They connect to a main unit, right?" You're asking, even though you've already started moving on your own. The automatons you remember working on carry similar cooling systems. "If that goes out, they all do."

"Correct."

You follow a fan's wiring with your hands. It loops several times, before it plugs into a small metal box: sides caved in, surface smashed.

"Ah. Found the problem." You tap the surface of the power supply with your nails. "It's busted."

"Do not touch it yet," Viktor instructs. "Its processes may still be running, in which case, it could overheat. Remove each connector and extract the unit. I will add it to my list of obligations, I suppose."

You quickly pull every wire from the fan power unit, and you reach over his shoulder to place it on the desk. Viktor leans his head back. A few valves in his chest expel large puffs of steam, somewhat akin to a sigh.

"The main cylinders," He continues, "Do you remember where they are located?"

"Mhmm." You find the cylinders with your fingertips. Metal smooth, cool to the touch.

Viktor stretches, rolling his shoulders back, armor slightly clinking together. He tips his head down to study you.

"Shift your hand to your right. You will find a main cooling manifold. Open it. Flip both notches paneled into the intake. Up, for precisely three seconds. Then, flip them down. It will overclock the thermocore, enabling a full reactivation."

You nod slowly. Right, you've got all that. Open, flip, down, close.

Your fingers brush along the cylinders until you find where they lead into. The manifold's panel opens easily — slowly, with all the delicacy of opening up a ribcage. Fingertips to the notches, you push them both up; like tending to a wound, like softly tracing scar tissue. With bated breath, you keep count in your head. One. Two. Three. Then, down.

You click the front panel back into place, and the entire assembly begins to whir.

"Now, they will resume function. The systems are… cooling down- very good, well done." Viktor affirms, tone ripe with relief. Within him, sets of valves and pistons gently heave.

His praise makes you shiver. Selfishly, you want to hear more. The cylinders are starting up. They're still slightly cool, as you drag your fingers across them; but Viktor's warm voice has the opposite effect. Guiding heat to coil and ignite in your gut, like you've swallowed phosphorus and matchsticks.

You remove your hands carefully, settling them in your lap, and you give Viktor time to catch his breath.

The manifold shudders. Briefly overloaded by the extra draw of power, perhaps. Viktor's machinery works synchronically to reign it in; his shoulders tense, he reaches into his stomach and messes with a few components, flipping switches, thumbing regulators. He leans back, and the large central cylinders strongly push out smoky air, reminiscent of lungs.

Strong is a good way to describe the Machine Herald's construction. Complicated, durable, and intentionally intimidating. There's power behind the grind of every mechanical process. Parts are entrailed together haphazardly, vitals cased in metal, strung between wires — clearly not meant to be toyed with, to be examined by someone who is foreign to them.

And yet, here you are.

Old, rusted mechanics take the place of scars. Tracing your fingertips along his steel skeleton might remind you of brushing them over a defined ribcage. Individual colored wires form auroras, purposefully tethered. Able to be memorized — like you once did for constellations on soft skin, dotted in freckles and moles.

Oh, how you long to reach out and touch.

(It wouldn't be the same — but how would it feel? Would some wires be cool, rough, while some are smooth, warm? Fit with their own small intricacies: frayed insides, different electric charges. You could be gentle with some, and rough, with others. His pressure points would buzz underneath your fingertips. Shudder like a body arching into warmth. Would Viktor stop you, or would he give in — a betrayal of what he was made for, to finally pull you closer?)

Hands still in your lap, you fiddle with your thumbs. Viktor's chest reverberates. Every mechanic convenes into his center, feeding into pumps and wire splitters, like arteries. Powered by a small, perplexing device with suspended panels. The metal is carved in rune-work. Protecting a gemstone, illuminated in hues of faint, blue light. It strikes you as Hextech inspired, though clearly more machine than magic.

"Viktor, this crystal," You're asking, "What is it?"

"That," Viktor's gaze stays trained on you. "Would be what functions as my heart."

Your eyes sparkle. "Can I-"

"Yes," Viktor interrupts, disgruntled. He knows that look, and he doesn't intend on fighting it. "Inspect it if you must. The gemstone is not my only power supply. Simply one of many."

As your curious fingers approach, reaching into his chest, the device appears to open without prompting — panels shifting, sides unfurling. Coaxing you in.

Your fingertips meet the gemstone, gently admiring; the surface is smooth like a petal, like gliding a pen over paper. It pulses with rhythmic energy, akin to a heartbeat. Viktor shifts, he breathes a cross between a gentle sigh and a mechanical hiss. When the stone drops into your palm, it is solid, warm. Energy-rich and beautiful. It reminds you of an oyster's pearl. Cosmic shades of purple and blue shift within its shape.

"Vik- Wow." You let go of a small, tensionless laugh in amazement — you're literally holding Viktor's heart in your hand; "This is incredible. You're incredible."

Viktor tenses. Energy thrums from the crystal, sparking hard against your skin. You choke in a sharp, pained breath, and you take your hand away quickly, leaving the gemstone to return to suspension.

Ah. Viktor's heart just shocked you.

You're barely able to reconvene; his Hexclaw grabs your face, tilting you gently yet forcefully, guiding you to meet an expressionless mask and glowing, motionless eyes.

"Enough," Viktor asserts. "I require your focus. The central systems have cooled. We may proceed."

Then, his Hexclaw releases you, reaches behind him, and hands you a wrench.

"I will pull the sternum platings open, beneath the oxygen valves. Reach inside, and secure the pistons that sit above the energy reservoir. Is this understandable?"

Back to work already, it seems. "Yeah," You nod. "I've got it."

It's a relatively simple fix. Viktor reaches deep into his circuitry, pushing wires aside to pull both platings apart; surely this would have been cumbersome, if he'd opted to do it alone. Both sections of his sternum need to be held open, or they'll try to snap shut. Your hands are much smaller than his, as well, so you have no trouble reaching into his structure, and swiftly re-tightening the pistons.

Viktor closes the panels as you're reaching behind him to set the wrench on the desk. His Hexclaw twitches. His gauntlet and the generator fixed into his shoulder flicker with light, like a dying lightbulb, before energy surges within them, bright and molten.

You glance up. "Good?"

Viktor's body hums quietly, amidst his usual mechanical noise.

"Perfect. You are an expert already, yes? The Death Ray is no longer fueled by reserve power." Viktor rolls his neck to the side, until it gives a satisfying, motorized pop. "Now, as we continue, you will need to use your hands."

"Alright. I can do that."

"Use your flesh hand," Viktor corrects. "And promise me you will be careful. I would prefer to keep each of your remaining fingers intact. Do not get them stuck."

You form a faint, light-filled smile. "I promise."

"To your left, there is a diode controller. Here." Viktor finds your hand, steel digits brushing over your knuckles, and he guides you, once more. "Tell me which lights are displayed on the module."

Your hand presses to a small steel box, nestled into his chest. "There's a red light. I think that's the power, but… it looks like that's it."

"The explosion jostled its position, as I suspected. Inlaid into the underside, there will be a set of wires."

Sure enough, although several curving filaments obstruct the crooked controller, you can spot a few tangled wires, plugged in loosely.

You gently push a few of his mechanics aside, trying to get a handle on what you're dealing with. "You're planning on doing a full cold boot, right? So pull them all out, wait for the controller to restart, and then plug them back in."

What Viktor lacks in expression, he makes up for in vibrato, because you can practically hear the smile hidden within his voice. Equally calm and weaponized; as soft as a caress, and as powerful as a knife held to your throat.

"Yes," He hums, mechanical filter thrumming around the thickly accented syllables. "Look at you. It is impressive- how efficiently you learn."

You aren't trying to prove him wrong, but what's truly impressive is how easily he knocks the focus right out of you. You're grasping at what remains of it, as you stretch to guide your hand to the wires. With the controller pinning them between itself and his metal skeleton, it's a relatively tight fit.

Breath in your throat, you manage to find the first wire — and you blindly tug. As it comes free, Viktor's chest tenses, gears grinding, valves sputtering. He grabs your forearm, holding you still. Shaky mechanical fingers attempting to establish control.

"Gentle," Viktor instructs. His body hisses, expelling warm air that fans over your skin. "The wires- they direct essential currents of power. If you are not careful, you will overload the voltage."

He releases you gradually, then leans back fully.

"Sorry. I'll go slow."

You grasp the next wire at the head. Instead of pulling, you shift it back and forth, over and over, until it eventually comes free. With each discharged wire, his mechanics grow hotter, louder. Warmth radiates over your palm as the controller chugs, giving off a faint, high-pitched noise. It reminds you of the whistles of trains in Piltover.

"Better?" You murmur, heavy gaze drifting across him, hand already blindly grasping for the fourth wire.

"Yes," Viktor coos, content. "Keep going."

"Does this- am I hurting you?"

"No, you are not." His tone grits at the edges, buzzing rigidly through his throat. "The controller is applying a simulated curve. It is… an excess of pressurized fuel. A maelstrom of diverging currents. It is impossible to summarize in sympathizable terms, as your body is very different from mine."

The Machine Herald tends to select words purposefully. He calculates discussions and formulates terms like every negotiation is a game of chess — and yet, this description is remarkably familiar.

In the early stages of your alliance, the two of you rarely got along. Every sentence between you spun a web of new arguments. Viktor was insistent when it came to his vision, and weakness wasn't welcome, not within his new mechanized heart. You were a distraction. An unexpected miscalculation. A maelstrom, as Viktor described it.

For our mutual benefit, you should relinquish the memories you have of the man I once was. We are no longer partners. If you can suppress this needless bickering, we can continue as allies, perhaps.

"I'm depriving you of energy." You trail your fingertip over the ridges in the final wire. "Your systems are working overtime, to try and adjust."

Viktor's body relaxes — warm and reverberant and trusting. He affirms, "Precisely."

The last wire comes free smoothly. You take a languid, intentionally-long breath, giving the controller time to refresh. The wires have fallen loose, they rest a little further down in his circuitry. Leaning far forward in your stool, you bundle all of them in your palm, to make sure you won't lose them.

"They're out." You line up the first wire's plug with the controller's first socket. "Gonna plug them back in now."

"Firmer, you can be firmer." Viktor never begs, but this, despite bordering on a command, is the closest to pleading you've seen him come to. "The central system is acclimated to the fluctuations in energy."

Your cracked bottom lip briefly catches between your teeth. Bringing the wire right against its socket, you shove it back in — and Viktor tremors, visible electricity sparkling from his chest like shooting stars in a lightning storm. With the second wire, his head rolls back. When you press the third in, he breathes a low, barely-audible groan, and the sound drives into you like a saw, a chisel, a stake.

(You're lost in color, in the orange glow of his gaze and the coppery-steel of his body, as they paint stupidly vivid pictures in your mind. Viktor reaching for you, holding onto you for leverage. Static blooming at your fingertips, innocent experiments turning into purposeful coaxings. Stalling until he pleads, overwhelming him with surge after surge of energy, electromagnetic impulses and solar sparks that have him hot and only half-functional.)

You really need to focus.

"Okay." As you push the last wire in, the module's lights begin to flash, blinking faintly in a bright hue of amber. "I'm done."

"Reach your hand further inside," Viktor is already explaining, words rich, perplexingly breathy. "You must guide it around the gears, to the back of the module. Beside the sets of copper filaments, you will find a red wire."

You tilt your head down to peer behind the controller.

"Fuck." You breathe a slight tch. "It must've come loose. It's all the way back there, Vik."

"You may need to come closer, then."

For a moment, you chew on the inside of your cheek. Palm buried inside him — you should be the one in control, but Viktor relaxes; his head tips, and he gazes at you as though he's got you under a microscope. Perfectly, wholly deciphered. Your weakness is predictable, not simply because you are human, but because it is you. There's no surprise within him when you rise from your stool, only an addictive array of certainty.

Viktor leans back a bit more, spreads his legs to allocate space. And you straddle his thigh, heels rested on the spidery base of the stool.

The hard, uneven edges of his armor dig into the pliable flesh of your legs. One large thigh is easily enough to accommodate you, but you need to shift closer, to properly reach behind the controller.

You're reaching in, in, feeling around for your target. An unsteady steel hand braces to your side; Viktor holds you in place. You sigh in frustration, your fingertips fumbling past cold filaments, trying to find the smooth, elusive wire.

Gears gently press into your forearm. A small, rigid generator bumps your elbow. Your body curls, you reach further inside him. And you find it, just as you're close enough to rest your forehead against his. Metal to flesh. Cool against warm. Your eyes — bright and fascinating, like stars, he thinks — become lost in the artificial glow of his.

Your breath fans over his steel mask. "Got it."

"Good." Viktor's voice is low, intense, and fucking sultry. "Plug it in."

hey, sorry for interrupting the fic! unfortunately, due to the long word count of the fic and tumblr's post block limit, it's impossible to fit the entire fic into one post... :( if you're enjoying the fic so far, you can continue reading on ao3!

thank you for understanding... <3

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #arcane x reader #viktor smut #machine herald x reader #viktor arcane x reader

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matcha3mochi · 27 days ago

Text

GLASS BETWEEN US | II Pairing: Merman Rafayel x Scientist Reader

author note: tyy for all the love and support on the previous one! ive decided to write a second part to this! maybe a third part? who know :)))) anywho pls enjoy!!!

wc: 4,057

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Dr. Havers was already waiting when your shift ended.

He stood just beyond the junction outside Lab C, posture rigid, arms folded tightly across his chest. The dim security lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting bluish reflections across the glass walls of the corridor. You recognized the look on his face before he spoke—not disciplinary, not furious—but exact. Measured. Like the outcome was already decided and the only remaining task was to deliver the verdict.

“Walk with me,” he said.

You nodded, once. Your hand tightened slightly around the edge of your tablet, knuckles pale under the harsh fluorescents. Then you fell in beside him.

The two of you moved through the east hall without speaking. The air was too cold, dry from over-filtration. Every footstep echoed with sterile finality against the polished epoxy flooring. On your left, the wall-length display of Lab C showed only system diagnostics now—no live feed. The camera feed had been blacked out. You knew what that meant, and your stomach turned with quiet dread.

Havers led you through a security door you hadn’t passed since your orientation weeks ago. It closed behind you with a sound that echoed louder than it should’ve.

The briefing room was stripped bare—no windows, no active terminals, no live data displays. Just one heavy-duty table bolted to the floor and two brushed metal chairs. The walls were lined with sound-dampening panels disguised as blank white boards. Even the air inside felt different—stiller, heavier, like the pressure in a room seconds before a thunderstorm hits.

He gestured to the seat.

You didn’t take it.

He didn’t, either.

Instead, he pulled a slim black tablet from the inside pocket of his lab coat and tapped the screen. You heard a soft tone as the screen lit up. He turned it toward you.

It was paused on a still image: your hand against the tank wall, Rafayel’s claws mirrored against yours on the opposite side. His eyes locked to your face with unnatural focus. The background lighting bathed everything in a soft, immersive blue, as if you had both been submerged together in water.

Your breath caught—shallow, involuntary. You recognized the moment instantly. Not just the scene, but the feeling of it. The density of the air. The quiet vibration against the glass. The sense that the entire lab had narrowed into a single point of contact.

Havers didn’t speak. Not yet. He pressed play.

You watched yourself step forward on-screen, watched Rafayel respond—slowly, precisely, his body language unmistakably attuned to yours. The alignment wasn’t coincidental. It was intentional. He was echoing your movement with a kind of quiet precision that felt more human than instinctive. More conscious than reactive.

Then he spoke—his lips moved on the recording, though the volume was muted. You didn’t need audio to know what he said.

Free me.

The moment hung there, pixelated but real, hovering between you and Havers in silence.

When he finally stopped the video, he didn’t look up.

“This is not a reprimand,” he said.

But your muscles had already gone stiff. Your pulse was climbing, quick and uneven beneath your skin.

“Then what is it?” Your voice came out low, steady, but with a thread of static in it.

He swiped across the tablet again, this time bringing up a full behavioral overlay—sensor data logged over the last two weeks. Heart rate. Neural markers. Tail velocity. Cortisol-like stress proxies. All plotted in tight, color-coded patterns.

All tied to your schedule.

“He rises the moment you enter,” Havers said. “Activity levels stabilize within forty-five seconds. Sedation thresholds drop. Neuroresponse modulation increases. Mirror behaviors are precise, even anticipatory. Eye contact is sustained longer with you than any other observer by a factor of four.”

He paused.

Then, more quietly: “He doesn’t respond to anyone else now. Not even to direct provocation.”

You stared at the data, eyes scanning the peaks and troughs, remembering how those moments felt—not just as data points, but as experiences. As connections.

“I didn’t intend for any of this,” you said quietly.

“I believe you,” Havers replied. “But intention isn’t the problem.”

He finally looked up from the screen.

“The problem is attachment. One-directional. Immediate. And escalating.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but couldn’t find the argument. Your body tensed instead—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, fingers digging slightly into the base of your tablet.

“He’s not mimicking anymore,” Havers said, as if reading your mind. “He’s focusing. Every behavioral marker suggests a fixation, not a response pattern. When you’re gone, he doesn’t shift to baseline—he withdraws. When we attempted to replace your observation window with controlled stimuli, he ignored it. The tank systems detected a full physiological shutdown cycle.”

You swallowed hard. Your breath fogged slightly in the cold air.

“What are you doing to him now?”

“We’ve begun sedation rotation. Carefully dosed. Enough to keep him compliant while we recalibrate protocol.”

Your voice cracked without warning. “You’re drugging him to make him forget me.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he said, “We’re preserving containment integrity.”

And then, with quiet finality:

“You’re being reassigned.”

The world tilted slightly in your vision.

“What?”

“You’ll report to Neural Indexing, Sublevel 2B. Starting tomorrow. Your clearance to Lab C has already been revoked.”

He picked up the tablet and powered it off.

You stared at him. You could feel your chest hollowing, breath going thin.

“This will break him,” you said.

He hesitated—just for a breath. Then he said, “If it does, it proves he was never stable to begin with.”

And that was it.

You were dismissed.

No further discussion.

The first night in your new quarters, you didn’t sleep.

The room was a concrete cube, one meter shorter on each side than your old assignment bunk. The cot creaked when you breathed. The walls sweated faint condensation. No simulated day-night cycle. Just harsh fluorescents that flicked off at 2200 and left you in complete grayscale. No one spoke when they handed you the keycard. The silence had the flavor of punishment, even if they never called it that.

You turned over the same sentence in your head:

“You’re being reassigned.”

And the second one, delivered even colder:

“Your clearance to Lab C has been revoked.”

Your tongue kept finding the shape of it in your mouth. Revoked. Like a limb amputated with a signature. The moment the door sealed behind you that night, the silence was more than absence—it was separation. You could still feel the residue of the tank glass against your fingertips, as if your body hadn’t yet caught up to what was gone.

They said the reassignment was for “containment stability.” That the connection between you and Rafayel had grown too strong. Too unpredictable. Too disruptive to the scientific objectives of the project.

But you knew what it really was.

Control.

They couldn’t control him anymore. Because he had started responding not to data, but to you. And that terrified them.

You had expected the transition to be clinical. Procedural. A clean severing.

It wasn’t.

The new lab in Sublevel 2B bore none of the atmosphere that defined Lab C. There was no subtle dimming of lights to mimic marine depth. No soft thrum of oxygen injectors syncing with the artificial current. No hum in your bones that came from proximity to something ancient, breathing, and alive.

This place—Neural Indexing—was quiet in the worst way.

The kind of silence that didn’t make room for thought but pressed against it. You sat in front of rows of stimulation modules and feed monitors, reviewing endless neural scans: meaningless loops of synthetic cognition, shallow patterns designed to imitate thought, emotion, response.

There was no presence in the data here.

No gaze tracking yours across a pane of reinforced glass.

No ripple of bioluminescence in response to your voice.

You were surrounded by function but starved of connection.

The others in your department didn’t speak much. They had the tired, hollow eyes of people who lived too long with screens instead of subjects. You were the new variable now, a name without a narrative—transferred in the middle of a cycle, given no debrief, carrying a silence everyone had been instructed not to ask about.

At first, you tried to adapt. You told yourself this was necessary. Sensible. Safer—for everyone involved.

But the rationalizations peeled away by day four.

That’s when the dreams returned.

They started faint, like echoes.

Just fragments: salt on your tongue, the pressure of water folding around your body, the low vibration of something massive swimming just out of reach.

Then the fragments sharpened.

In the dreams, you stood before the tank again. But this time, the glass wasn’t there. Rafayel floated just a breath away, watching you with stillness so complete it felt like gravity. His eyes were brighter than you remembered—wide, expectant, but solemn. No words passed between you.

He didn’t need them.

But some nights, the dream changed.

You weren’t in the tank room. You were on a beach, barefoot, the water dark and glimmering as it crawled across the sand. The sky above was violet and streaked with long golden clouds, as if lit by a sun that had never belonged to this world. The shore stretched endlessly in both directions, flanked by black cliffs heavy with overgrown moss and deep blue vines. Strange constellations flickered in the sky overhead, unfamiliar and ancient, like stars from a memory long buried.

The surf was gentle, but its song was heavy—carrying something old, something mournful.

You stepped into the water.

And the moment it touched your skin, the dream transformed.

You were no longer on the shore, you were beneath it.

Submerged in a vast, tranquil ocean bathed in blue light. Columns of sunlight filtered down from above like cathedral beams, illuminating silt and floating motes of golden plankton. The water was cool but welcoming, dense with reverberant silence. All around you were ruins: ancient stone arches overgrown with bioluminescent coral, broken statues of sea kings swallowed by algae and time.

And then—he was there.

Rafayel.

He emerged from the shadow of a collapsed temple gate, his form luminous against the gloom. His hair flowed behind him in an ethereal halo, purple-mauve, drifting like silk ribbons. His body moved with impossible grace, every motion effortless as he cut through the water. His tail gleamed with streaks of cobalt and opal, curling around him protectively.

When he saw you, he stilled. As if time had paused. And then he came to you. Not with urgency. Not with hesitation.

With knowing.

You drifted forward to meet him, arms parting the water like a slow tide. Your clothes floated weightless around you, strands of hair suspended in the soft current. You reached out. So did he.

When your hands met, everything else disappeared.

The moment your palms pressed to his, you both inhaled. The water shimmered. Light flared from his chest and from your fingertips. You drew closer, your bodies aligning instinctively. His tail curled gently around your legs, not to trap but to anchor. His claws traced your waist, reverent, uncertain if you were real.

He pulled you closer, as if sensing your doubt. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips brushing your brow, not a kiss—a promise.

He would not let you go.

You rose slowly the next morning, the weight of the dream still heavy on your shoulders like wet silk.

There was something about that beach—those ruins—that felt impossibly distant and unshakably close. You told yourself it was just the brain pulling symbols from subconscious grief. But that was a lie.

It felt real.

Not just real. Remembered.

You couldn’t explain the familiarity of his hands on your face. The exact shape of his breath, the warmth of his chest against yours, the way your fingers had threaded together like you had done it countless times before.

There were moments in the day—quiet, disarmed moments—where you would touch your own wrist or collarbone and expect to find him there. As if some trace of him should remain in your skin. As if he had once been stitched into the very rhythm of your body.

The more time passed, the more the dream solidified, not as fantasy—but as truth.

The day passed in pieces.

You reviewed three sequences of neural pattern recognition, sat through one impersonal systems check, and responded to zero messages. Your hands performed the motions, but your mind lagged behind, half-anchored to that sunken city beneath your thoughts.

And then you heard it.

Two lab techs stood just around the corner of the central corridor, their voices hushed but not hushed enough.

“Still not responding.”

“Nothing since the last handler shift. He’s not eating. Not even moving.”

“He’s never been like this. Even when agitated, there was still... something.”

“Now? It’s like he’s just... stopped.”

You didn’t breathe.

Your hand hovered over the touchscreen you were pretending to use. The hall hummed with fluorescent lighting, the air too dry, the walls too close.

You stepped back, slowly, unnoticed.

You didn’t know how.

But you knew it was something you were not meant to forget. And it led you to a decision you never voiced aloud.

You stopped trying to make sense of the protocols. You stopped rationalizing the transfer. You stopped pretending he was better off without you.

Because the ache that filled your chest when you woke—the ache of almost losing him again—was worse than anything the facility could do to you.

The decision to access the archived feed wasn’t a conscious one. It wasn’t premeditated. It was something your body decided before your mind could catch up.

It happened on the ninth night.

You hadn’t planned on stopping at the terminal. You had intended to walk the long way around, avoid the side corridor near the equipment maintenance bay, bypass temptation entirely. But your feet slowed as you passed it. Your gaze flicked sideways. The hallway was empty, as always. The low hum of the wall consoles and the faint click of pressure valves were the only sounds.

And the screen was there. Dark, waiting.

You approached without realizing it, your hand already reaching. The screen lit up at your touch, a soft glow blooming in the dim corridor. The system prompted for access. You entered the override code. The one no one knew you still remembered.

A few seconds passed. Then:

ARCHIVED VISUAL LOG — LAB C TIMESTAMP: Day 9 – 01:46 HRS

The footage loaded.

And the ache in your chest returned full force.

There he was.

Rafayel.

At first, he was barely visible, curled in a shadow at the base of the tank. The lighting in the room was reduced to emergency-grade, flickering low blue and violet hues. Most of the central overheads were offline. The water itself was so still it looked like tinted glass.

He lay against the curved wall of the tank, his long body wrapped inward. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, tail looped twice around his torso. The sight was almost fetal in its stillness—too still. Not relaxed, not conserving. Withdrawing.

His head rested on one arm, turned slightly in the direction of the observation deck. His hair drifted gently in the motionless current, no longer radiant or alive with light. His gills fluttered faintly—shallow, slow. One flick every few seconds. Barely enough to sustain him.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t sleeping.

He wasn’t hibernating.

He was fading.

The vibrant shimmer that once pulsed across his body like underwater lightning had dulled to the color of bruises—indigo near his spine, violet near his chest, and something close to black along his lower limbs. The glow that had always signaled awareness—of you, of presence, of thought—was fragmented. It gathered dimly near his heart and left the rest of him in darkness.

There was no motion in his shoulders. No twitch of his claws. Not even a tail flick.

Stillness had taken him.

Then the camera angle shifted slightly.

And you saw his eyes.

They were open. Only half-lidded, but open. Just enough to confirm what you already suspected: he wasn’t unconscious. He wasn’t sedated.

He was aware.

And he was waiting.

Even now—silent, unmoving, forgotten by the staff rotating around him—he was still facing the same section of glass.

The place you had always stood.

Your throat closed. Your fingers curled tightly against the edge of the console as you leaned closer. The impulse to reach for the screen was overwhelming, but there was nothing there. No heat. No pressure. No connection. Just pixelated light and silence.

The feed time-stamped forward.

A technician entered. She moved through the chamber with a clipboard and an ambient monitor, barely glancing at the tank. Routine. Impersonal. She stopped, approached the glass, and tapped once.

Rafayel didn’t move.

She activated a low-frequency stimulus from her control panel. The pulse made the water shift.

Still nothing.

She made a note. Paused. Looked up again, perhaps longer than protocol required. But even if she noticed the difference—how still he was, how wrong his glow had become—she said nothing. Just turned and left.

The lights dimmed further after she exited.

You were left staring at the footage. Alone again.

And so was he.

Something cracked inside you: you couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. Your body understood what your mind had refused to fully face.

This wasn’t just a physiological decline. It was a psychological death spiral. They thought they had sedated him. Pacified him. Reduced risk.

But they hadn’t seen what you were seeing.

They hadn’t understood that his stillness wasn’t peace.

It was mourning.

And you knew exactly what it meant. Because you felt it too.

You pressed a hand to the screen, even though it couldn’t feel you. You sat there, shoulders rigid, stomach hollow, barely able to hold yourself upright.

He was suffering because they had taken you away. It was killing him.

You shut off the feed.

And for the first time in nine days, you stood up not as a staff member. Not as a researcher.

But as someone who was going back.

No matter the cost.

The tunnels were colder than you remembered.

Condensation clung to the curved ceilings, gathering in long droplets that slipped soundlessly to the metal grates beneath your feet. Pipes hissed softly with steam every ten meters, venting pressure from unseen machines. The walls were a patchwork of corrosion and riveted seams. Red emergency lights pulsed slowly along the floor, painting everything in alternating waves of rust and shadow.

The silence down here wasn’t the passive hush of the main halls. It was active. Watchful. Like something waiting to be disturbed. Every footfall sounded like an echo inside a steel drum. Every breath you took came back twice as loud in your ears.

The auxiliary entrance to Lab C was sealed, just as it had been for days. But the access panel hadn’t been wiped. Your code still worked.

The light on the console flickered, then shifted green.

The door groaned open, metal scraping metal, and cold, salted air rolled out to meet you.

You stepped into a room suspended in time.

The room was colder than you remembered.

Not by temperature, but by absence. The chill that came from a place left unattended too long. The tank’s filtration hum had slowed, its resonance no longer constant but stuttering every few seconds, like a faltering breath. A faint chemical tang hung in the air, sharper than before. The lighting had dimmed further—no longer the soft, ambient blue that mimicked ocean depths. Now the tank was lit from below, casting warped, ghostly shadows against the walls, like the inside of a body lit by its own flickering pulse.

And there he was.

Rafayel.

Floating in silence.

He was curled loosely, his arms hanging in front of him, palms relaxed and half open, the gesture somehow vulnerable. His tail hung like a long, unmoving ribbon in the water. His glow was barely there—a faint wash of violet through his chest, flickering intermittently like the last ember of a fire trying not to die.

The sight of him hit you like submersion.

It was too much, too fast, too familiar.

You stepped forward without thinking, boots echoing on the composite flooring. The air thickened with every stride, like pushing through static. Your heart drummed against your ribs, quick and uneven. You were afraid he wouldn't move. Afraid he wouldn't see you.

You reached the tank. Stopped.

“Rafayel,” you whispered, the word cracking in your throat like a fault line splitting open.

He didn’t respond.

But something shifted.

A flicker of movement along his spine. A ripple of light blooming faintly across his gills.

You held your breath.

Then—his eyes opened.

Slow. Bleary. At first unfocused, then… locked.

Right on you.

Recognition didn’t explode—it unfolded. Layer by layer, like thawing ice. His pupils narrowed. His chest lifted with a sharp inhale. The violet in his body surged brighter, edged with silver, crawling like veins across his arms and into the tips of his claws.

And then he moved.

Not swam. Not lunged.

He rose.

Weightless, effortless, he emerged in a slow, unfurling motion. The water parted around him in gentle folds. He drifted toward you, the sleek muscle of his torso shifting under the soft luminescence. He was broader than you remembered. Stronger. His body moved with the control of something ancient, practiced. But there was fragility under the surface—an ache in the way he carried himself, like a wounded predator willing itself toward the light.

When he reached the glass, he stopped just short, hands spreading flat against the transparent barrier. His palms trembled faintly. His claws clicked softly as they touched down.

You mirrored him.

Hand trembling, you placed your palm where his rested. A perfect match. Skin to glass. Heat to cold.

He blinked once, slowly, gills fluttering. Then his breath hitched, and a soft tremor ran through his shoulders. His face was unreadable—but in his eyes there was no question.

It was you.

He tilted his head slightly, hair drifting like a halo. You caught every micro-expression: the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched against the barrier. Not fear. Not confusion.

Emotion.

His voice, when it came, was a raw murmur.

“You came back.”

You nodded, a tear finally breaking loose and running down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

He leaned forward slowly, until his forehead pressed lightly against the glass. His eyes closed, and your breath caught.

You leaned in too, matching him, your own forehead meeting the cool barrier.

There was no sound but your twin breathing.

Then he opened his eyes again.

And they glowed.

Not violently, but with purpose. A steady, growing light. The silver along his ribcage rippled outward, trailing down his arms. The soft blue of his irises deepened to something oceanic, endless. His tail shifted behind him, wrapping once around itself like an anchor stabilizing him.

You stepped back.

His gaze tracked your movement, but he didn’t speak.

You turned toward the console. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hands didn’t leave the glass.

The screen lit under your fingertips. The system had locked you out days ago, but you bypassed the prompt using the old maintenance override. The keys clicked too loudly. Your heart beat louder still.

MANUAL OVERRIDE: CONTAINMENT LOCK Confirm: YES / NO

You hovered over the button.

Thoughts pressed in all at once—about consequences, about duty, about what would come after. But none of it mattered more than this moment.

Not after what you’d seen.

Not after what he had become in your absence.

You didn’t hesitate.

You pressed YES.

A low mechanical chime rang out. Steam hissed at the tank’s base. The floor panels lit red and the water level began to fall.

And you turned—slowly—to meet his eyes as the locks disengaged.

He didn’t rush forward. Didn’t break the barrier. He stayed exactly where he was, eyes locked on yours, waiting.

He simply watched you.

The moment stretched, suspended in steam and soft red light.

Then the tank opened.

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