#Labyrinth Seals | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

meownotgood · 2 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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lepospondyl · 9 months ago

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glowworm cave stratum

If atlus won’t give us EOVI then we have to make it ourselves. In the rbs put your ideas for plots, new classes, labyrinth concepts, and more!! Have fun or smth idk

#rb #etrian odyssey #i actually have a bunch of ideas for the antarctica yggdrasil that ive slowly been reworking into a ttrpg setting so ill drop them here #the home base town is a tiny freezing cold research outpost that might be a mafia town and the labyrinth goes down into the ground like eo1 #the first stratum is freezing cold underground caverns. lots of sliding puzzles of course.#the second stratum is still cold but is “tundra” cold instead of “arctic” cold. lichen covering the rocks and maybe some giant mushrooms #at the third stratum you finally won't die of hypothermia. it's a forest stratum but all of the plants are retinal-based (purple) and #the yggdrasil tree itself is at the center of the stratum on all floors creating a ring-shaped map. lots of going up and down a la eo2u s4 #the fourth stratum is the aforementioned glowworm cave. this is where you start seeing machinery/signs of habitation. theres water on #every floor in this stratum and the water level can be raised or lowered with levers in certain locations so it has the two-elevation floor #like nexus shrines. the fifth floor is a colossal underground landfill where all of the garbage (and relics?) of the past era are stored.#the sixth stratum is a sealed garden ecosystem ruthlessly maintained by security drones. since your party are foreign entities to the syste #the s6 boss (a mechanical monster known as the Apex Predator) is immediately sicced on you. you can fight the s6 boss then and there #but it would be incredibly difficult. so you go through the entire stratum with the boss as an f.o.e. chasing you and reaching the end #means that the fight becomes more fair. there are other f.o.e.s that make up other puzzles but you can use them to distract the boss.#idk how much of this is translateable to a ttrpg setting but we ball #arch's house

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lizzy06 · 11 months ago

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Naruto Fic Recs!! (AO3)

Fandom Masterlist

Hey guys these are my favorite Naruto fics!! Hope u enjoy them too <3!!

No Paring

becoming the memory✨💖 by iinsomniatic(Time travel fix it, Jiraiya raises naruto) Out of options and about to die, Jiraiya writes a seal he’s sure isn’t going to work anyway. Then he wakes up, and damn it all, it’s October 10th. [ONGOING] From me to you: Unsent letters ✨✨by Lady_Ye(oneshot, suicide note)This made me cry so hard!! [COMPLETED]

Naruto Uzumaki x Sakura Haruno

Artistic purpose ✨by StormyInk (one shot, fluff) sai gets his new inspiration of drawing from his friends with which he also sets something off!! [COMPLETED] Just like me by bendingwing (oneshot, fluff)The beginnings of narusaku [COMPLETED] The Children of Omelas byFangirlJo (oneshot, Utopia, Dystopia, inspired by the one who walks away from omelas)She was 8 when she noticed the blonde boy in ragged clothing with bruises, sores and cuts all over him. She doesn't think the adults ever noticed him despite his bizarre looks, but she did.[COMPLETED] Date Night by TwinEnigma(oneshot Wingman sasuke, funny)In which Sasuke tries to do something nice for Naruto and Sakura's first anniversary. Hilarity ensues. [COMPLETED] Of pink and orange by FairyLetters (oneshot, reader is a spectator, fluff and angst)You watch as Sakura Haruno and Naruto Uzumaki come to an understanding that Sasuke Uchiha has left again.[COMPLETED] What now? by Kameodash(oneshot, after war)Naruto and Sakura try to cope with the trauma of the war together.[COMPLETED] Leaving You by THE_MAN42(oneshot, Love confession ,Sad ending)Naruto dies in her arms.[COMPLETED] Shinachiku and the Multiverse of...Wait There's a Multiverse?! by DuchessofChaos (time travel,falling in love) shinachiku travels to a world where his parents don't exist[ONGOING] Open Hearts by gabriella0807(post war,fluff)After the war there is a lot of work left to be done and many problems to be solved in the Shinobi world, while our heroes need to heal and move forward with their lives. [COMPLETED] Baby its you ✨by Behla(fake dating, friends to lovers, crush's wedding, single bed) Haruno Sakura finds herself in desperate need of a date for the wedding of a man she's been pining after for over eight years, in order to convince him and his bride that she's getting over him.[ONGOING]

Nara shikamaru x Ino Yamanaka

Red Ribbon by amuk(one shot,humour, friendship)They made a promise and Ino spent three years searching for Shikamaru to keep that promise. Time changes everyone, though, and Shikamaru looks cozy with his coworker, Temari. Some promises can't be kept. [COMPLETED]

In the forest 💖💖💖✨by SenkaHitomi(LadyTegan) - (post war, mission gone wrong, slow burn) shikamaru returns in catatonic state from a mission and ino must go into the labyrinth of his mind to bring shikamru back! [COMPLETED]

Its her again... ✨✨by atmymercy (Highschool au, pinning) Ino gets jealous of the girl who sits beside shika on his train and this leads to a whirlwind confrontation of her feelings..[COMPLETED]

Uchiha sasuke x sakura Haruno

Before the storm ✨by crissy_writes_garbage(Time travel to past, pregnant sakura)Sakura is pregnant and lost, a combination that leads to more trouble than necessary. Specially when you're lost in the past. [COMPLETED]

Gaara x Sakura Haruno

words that tie, ties that bind by Binxxx(soulmates, angst,SHUKAKU THE THERAPIST)During the chaos of the Chunin Exams, Sakura discovers who her soulmate is. [ONGOING] The four heavenly treasures by IRinna(arranged marriage, politics, friends-to-lovers)Princess Sakura of the Land of Fire is offered in a political alliance to the Land of Wind to help survive the incoming war. There she meets Gaara, leader of Wind and one of the champions of the Four Heavenly Treasures. [COMPLETED]

Uchiha Madara x Sakura Haruno

The Black bull by Vesperchan (oneshot, beauty and the beast elements)Based on the classic Scottish fairytale The Black Bull of Norroway.[COMPLETED]

Itachi Uchia(xf!reader)

Ikigai ✨by MissWriter97(arranged marriage, senju reader, alternate au) Uchiha Itachi gets married to the women he does not love to prevent the massacre! This is a lovely fic...[ONGOING]

Senju Tobirama(xf!reader)

A Step in Time by MizzGinger (senju tobirama x Princess! reader ,arrange marriage, time travel, second chances) This is and alternate au story with a lot of war time drama going on!! It has a brilliant set up!![ONGOING]

The Home I crave✨✨ by cafeinthemoon93( arranged marriage, angst, slowburn, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers )I really loved this fics, the detailing and pacing were chef's kiss!![HIATUS]

Some other pairing stories

Iruka x reader

Growing along the line✨✨💖 by FreakyPseudWriter(fake dating, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, fluff)After a really bad day at your workplace you meet Umino Iruka, who quickly makes you open up to him. But you certainly didn't expect him to suddenly claim you two were romantically involved! [COMPLETED]

Sasori x Sakura Haruno

Bait and Hitch✨✨ by Aelynthi (fake dating, coworkers, crush's wedding)When Haruno Sakura finds out Sasuke is engaged, she does the only thing she knows to do in order to save her pride—she lies.[ONGOING]

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beiibeiii · 5 months ago

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do you think i have forgotten?

arlecchino x f!reader angst

how its like falling out of love with arlecchino

cw: angst, slight fluff at start, slight miscommunication??, reader crying, arlecchino changes drastically after marriage, reader is unaware of arlecchino's real name, implied cheating??

art creds: ahriii7 on X

not proofread, u can tell i got lazy halfway through, its also been a while since i last posted, sorry, tsw is getting bad again + i've had a bit of a heartbreak ahaha </3

she told you it was 'love at first sight.'

all her life, arlecchino had thought she was walking this hellish place called earth. that she was born a curse, another devil of this world, only to cause destruction and sorrow. arlecchino had always isolated herself, telling herself, over and over again, that emotions are weak, absolutely pointless. and for the longest time, she believed it all, until you shone a light into her life of misfortune. you was an angel in her eyes. despite her unapproachable self, no matter how many times she tried to push you away, you still smiled sweetly at her, your soft, carefree personality stood out to her so much. effortlessly piercing each wall of fire enclosed around her heart.

you might not of known it, but you saved her unfortunate soul from desolation. you opened her eyes and showed her that, 'maybe this world wasn't so bad'.

and so, from that day onwards she had always devoted herself fully to you. allowing you to break down her walls and see her vulnerable side, her true self. arlecchino thought something was wrong with her. these sick-ish loving feelings all stirred in her heart. she would feel her gaze soften when her eyes laid upon you. her ears constantly heating up around you as her heart started thumping louder against her chest. for once, she would struggle and be at a loss of words. you were such a contradiction to her, you made her feel such repulsive symptoms, but made her feel at ease, relaxed and.. understood.

arlecchino felt like a fool for believing in something as stupid as 'love at first sight', but god, she had completely fallen for you. she treated you with respect and gave you everything you wanted. you still remember when she first asked you out with a love letter. it was the sweetest thing she had ever given you.

'for this heart has been stolen and sealed only for you, my dearest.'

reads the last line. you still remember it fondly, always cherishing it close to your heart. you immediately said yes.

you just remember getting home from your first date and just rolling around you bed, squealing like a kid at a candy shop, feeling your cheeks heat up, blushing furiously at how just beautiful and gentle arlecchino was - despite her harsh resting face. she never complained, she was such a gentlewoman, always understanding you and just.. loved you for who you were. she always would always make the effort to write poems in her letters to you whenever she was busy. they were always the most beautiful poems thats captured your eyes, glancing over each word over and over again, mesmerising you with her words. it was just to show that you were always, running through the messy labyrinths of her mind, constantly.

and so, after so many years of being together arlecchino made the first move. the atmosphere was perfect. you were just watching the sunset with her standing shoulder to shoulder. she turned to you before getting down on her knees at a beautiful beach and proposed to you on the pier. you felt your breath hitch in surprise. you heart swelling with so much love as you watched her present a stunning diamond ring in front of you. you felt tears well up in your eyes. she.. was proposing to you.

the orange hues of the skies coloured your face beautifully. god you looked ethereal in her eyes. she had always had nothing in this life, nor has she ever wanted anything. but she so desperately wanted this one thing. to have you say yes to be hers for ever, and for her to be yours. she wanted so badly to show her devotion for you.

"will you marry me, my love?"

the words left her mouth. you felt as if time slowed down as she looks up at you, her loving gaze meeting your surprised, teary ones. your eyes lit up as you repeatedly said 'yes' like a mantra. you had the biggest smiled stretched across your face, your eyes were curled in happiness as tears ran down your face. arlecchino smiled softly. she let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. she felt so relieved, that she had something in her life.

arlecchino pulled you into a soft, tender kissed, your lips meeting hers as the tears trickled down your face. you didn't even have to think twice about accepting her. you knew she loved you and you loved her. you both pull away as arlecchino slips the engagement ring onto your slim, soft fingers.

"i love you so much." she mumbles softly under her breath, gently bringing your hand to her lips, kissing your fingers with your new engagement ring on it tenderly.

before you knew it, it had already been 4 years. as time went on, everything felt like it was only going up. arlecchino had kept her promise, she was always softer to you, treating you with respect, treating you as her wife. you both had gotten married and was living fulfilled, comfortable lives.

not until she started to change. you can barely remember when you starting noticing her newfound, avoidant tendencies. it was only small things at first like how she stopped updating you about her whereabouts, stopped any unnecessary conversations with you and stopped staying in bed a little bit longer in the mornings with you.

"arle, whats going on with you?" you ask her firmly. finally mustering the courage to ask her after a week. your fed up of it now, fed up with her. you know she wasn't one to wear her heart on her sleeve, but why wouldn't she just talk to you!? she used to always listen and take any worries off your chest, and you wanted to do that for her too. you were her spouse for crying out loud. she casts her unwavering gaze down to you. you feel the silence thickening between you two. her breath no longer paused for a second. her eyes didn't soften this time.

"nothing is going on. i have places to be, farewell." arlecchino dismisses you apathetically.

what the fuck? is that all she had to say after a week of avoiding you? your lips part, your mind racking up something to say to get her to listen. before you can even get a word out, she walks right past you. her gaze shot through you, as if you were just a ghost to her. you frown, turning around in exasperation at her, she had left the front door already.

you softly pinch your nose bridge with your fingers, letting out a small irritated breath. you tried to not think much of it, it was probably just another one of those days where she was busy and stressed. you told yourself that she was just clearing her mind, thats she would talk to you after her mind wasn't working 24/7. she always avoided as much conflict as possible with you, even if that meant distancing herself. right?

it wasn't until her avoidance got more frequent, her schedule was less busy but she still didn't spend any quality time with you.

"are you free today..?" you voice mellow. you somehow managed to catch her while she was sat at on the couch reading a book. you had sat yourself down, leaning your head on her shoulder. she doesn't move from her spot or push your head away thankfully. your eyebrows furrowed lightly, trying a softer approach this time.

"busy.." she mumbles lowly, clearly uninterested. she doesn't even spare a glance at you. why was she being so difficult?

she stopped picking up your calls, came home after you slept and left before you would wake up. she stopped complimenting you and stopped physical touch with you, she stopped everything regarding you.

she had gone completely cold. you didn't feel like you stood next to her anymore, you felt your self worth plummet to the ground right beside her. her gaze was as colder than it was when you first met her. her words were always laced with annoyance, you felt like such an inconvenience in her life.

she had changed so much, she promised to be good for you, to love you forever, to always be with you throughout the thick and thin. you don't even recognise her anymore. she used to be so good to you, always prioritising you over everything, no matter how hard work was. she used to always try her best to comfort you and constantly reassured you with hugs and kisses, even if she wasn't the most positive person you know.

you knew that the arlecchino from back then would never of dared to even think about treating you like how she was now.

it all clicked when you had woken up in the middle of the night one day while she was still getting ready. it was probably 4am, you didn't move or anything, just laying there with heavy eyelids. you were exhausted. you can feel the moonlight as you see her figure swiping her wedding ring off her finger and pocketing it.

your heart dropped, shattering into thousands of pieces. you shift a little in the bed from surprise. you hear as arlecchino hums in curiosity. her sharp gaze turning to the bed. you immediately regret it, squeezing your eyelids shut in hopes she doesn't notice you're awake. but apart of you wanted her to notice. what would she say? would she be apologetic? would she be mad at you perhaps?

it didn't matter what she reacted with, that wasn't what concerned you. you just wanted to hear her voice, to talk to her again. even if she was shouting at you. you didn't care if she was angry with you, at least it was still about you. you were astonished by the fact she was still sleeping in the same bed as you, as long as she was just around.. nothing mattered right?

thankfully, you were saved by her phone ringing quietly on the bedside table. she walks away from the mirror and picks up her phone. answering the call as she sits on the side of the bed, right next to you. her hand lowers, resting it on the bed as her other hand brings her phone to her ear.

her pointer finger idly taps on the mattress as she crosses her legs. her expression aloof as usual. the mumbles of the person on the other side of the phone could be heard, but you could make out some parts of their speech.

at first it was just usual work related things, they were just talking about things you didnt even know of. until suddenly..

"is your spouse home arlecchino?" the voice on the other side of the phone asks.

arlecchino pauses for a while. turning to face you. she could see the exhaustion on your face despite being 'asleep'. it must've been hard for you these past few weeks. she thinks to herself.

"i don't know what you're talking about. i don't have a spouse." she lowly mutters.

she was lying.. you felt like everything she once told you was lies, every word that dripped like venom from her mouth. every word she uttered haunted you in every living moment of your life. how could she pretend you didn't exist..

arlecchinos hand absentmindedly makes her way to your hair, twirling your hair between her fingers. despite her cold demeanour, her touch was somewhat gentle. it brought back memories of when arlecchino used to play with your hair any chance she got. it left a deep hole of painful nostalgia through your chest. you wanted to just cry at her familiar yet so foreign touch.

unfortunately, old habits die hard.

"really? don't lie to me peruere." the voice laughs.

your feel her grip on your hair tighten a little, you try your best to hold back yelping at the sudden pain. her eyes narrowed as her gaze. she watched as your eyebrows furrowed a little. she still hadn't you were awake, right?

"i told you not to call me by my real name, peruere, you understand?" she lowly growls back, averting her gaze from you to her hand in your hair.

peruere? you had never heard that name before.. was that really her real name? how did this person on the phone know about it when you didn't? you were married to her, surely she would've of told you.

even her name was another fucking lie..

eventually arlecchino hangs up with a sigh, pulling her hand away from your hair to rub your cheek with the back of her finger for a second, gazing at you. the call perhaps giving her second thoughts, you hoped. her touch was light before quickly pulling away again. she stood up from the mattress, turning away. her gaze narrowing.

"what a fool.." she mumbles to herself as she leaves the room, shutting the door behind her.

you now find yourself alone, by the balcony. tears running down your face as you hold back from sobbing your heart out. your blurry vision gazes at arlecchino's car disappearing in the distance. you chew your lip hard, fuck your chest feels so tight. you now glance down at the diamond ring wrapped around your finger. the very same one from all those years ago. the diamond still lightly glimmers in the moonlight. it was as if it too was grasping onto the last specks, the last glimmer of hope. what love did to you back then, love did now. it gnaws through you, decaying your bones.

her words coming back to your mind, echoing and taking over you. what do you with all this grief, with all the love you had left to give her? your lips purse, recalling how she thinks tears are the product of emotion and weakness. god you really were just weak weren't you? what made you think you deserved someone so high ranking as arlecchino, no.. peruere..? god you missed who she used to be so bad.. how can you be haunted by the words of someone who is still alive?

'find what you love and let it kill you, because it is much better to be killed by a lover.'

arlecchino once write to you.

perhaps she was writing about her old self. the one that didn't believe in love. not until you killed took her old heart and replaced it with one that showed she was capable of love.

but now, maybe your the one getting 'killed' by her now. she was taking your heart and ripping it to shreds, right in front of you.

so you should just give in, let her 'kill' you, because you really do love her.

#bei works #bei randoms #arlecchino x reader #arlecchino angst #arlecchino x reader angst #super sad face #sobs i wish ppl didnt change #arlecchino x female reader #arlecchino x you #arlecchino #genshin x reader #genshin x you #arlecchino genshin impact #arlecchino fluff #genshin impact x you #genshin wlw #wlw #genshin impact #genshin angst

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thoodleoo · 22 days ago

Note

okay so you can trap one ancient roman in a labyrinth where they’ll have wifi, seal two of them in a pear wiggler together, and put one on a cruise ship where all the other guests are clones of them. who do you put where.

1. how many people have you sent this to

2. brutus in the labyrinth crassus and pompey in the wiggler cicero on the ship

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unfgvien · 3 months ago

Text

seeds of a dream chapter one

pairing - dom!mother rhea x sub!mummy reader

summary - Rhea and Yn, are devised to find out that yn has endometriosis The condition causes inflammation and pain, impacting yn's fertility. They research fertility treatments like IVF, donor eggs, and surrogacy, but the medical terminology feels impersonal. Their love and commitment guide them through the challenges, proving their resilience and shared dream of parenthood. In a fertility clinic, they face the responsibility of finding potential sperm donors, each contributing to their future child. Their love serves as the foundation for their journey and their shared journey.

word count - 5.5k

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the polished wooden floor of Rhea and Yn’s apartment. Dust motes danced in the golden light, a serene scene at odds with the storm brewing within Yn. The crisp white envelope sat on the coffee table, unopened, a silent, yet menacing presence. Rhea, perched on the arm of the sofa, nervously flipped through a magazine, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a quiet anxiety that mirrored Yn’s own. The air crackled with unspoken fears, the comfortable silence of their usual evenings shattered.

Yn finally reached for the envelope, her fingers tracing the sharp edges as if hesitant to break the seal. She knew what it contained, the results of the tests she’d undergone, tests that had hung over her like a dark cloud for weeks. The weight of possibility and dread pressed down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She ripped open the envelope, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The words swam before her eyes, blurring into a chaotic mess of medical jargon. Endometriosis. The word hit her like a physical blow, a jarring truth that stole the breath from her lungs.

She sank onto the sofa beside Rhea, the paper crumpling in her hand like a discarded autumn leaf. Silence descended, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, each tick a relentless reminder of the passing time. Rhea, sensing the gravity of the situation, gently took Yn’s hand, her touch conveying a silent promise of support. The warmth of Rhea’s hand offered a small measure of comfort, a lifeline in the sea of uncertainty that had suddenly engulfed them.

“What does it say?” Rhea whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and apprehension.

Yn’s voice trembled as she read the report aloud, each word a painful confirmation of her fears. The doctor's explanation replayed in her mind: the endometrial tissue growing outside her uterus, causing inflammation and pain, significantly impacting her fertility. The dream they had both nurtured for so long, the dream of building a family, felt suddenly fragile, threatened by a medical condition they knew little about.

Tears welled up in Yn’s eyes, hot and stinging. The image of a family, a happy, bustling household filled with laughter and love, flickered like a candle in a strong wind. The reality of their situation crashed down upon them, the weight of it almost unbearable. Rhea pulled Yn close, holding her tightly, offering the comfort only a loving partner can provide. In that moment, the cozy apartment, usually a haven of warmth and intimacy, felt cold and sterile, a stark reflection of their suddenly uncertain future.

They spent the next few hours lost in a whirlwind of emotions. Fear, anger, sadness, and a deep sense of loss washed over them in waves. The initial shock gradually gave way to a grim determination. They wouldn't let this diagnosis define their future. They would find a way. They would fight for their dream.

Their research began immediately. They spent hours scouring the internet, poring over medical journals, and seeking information from support groups. The world of fertility treatments felt overwhelming, a complex labyrinth of procedures, medications, and probabilities. IVF, donor eggs, surrogacy – the options felt both hopeful and daunting, each path fraught with its own set of challenges and uncertainties. The sterile medical terminology felt cold and impersonal, a stark contrast to the intimate and personal nature of their desire to have a child.

The initial despair gradually transformed into a focused energy, a collaborative effort to navigate the unfamiliar terrain of infertility. They learned about the different types of endometriosis, the various treatment options, and the success rates associated with each. They discussed their options openly and honestly, their communication a testament to their enduring love and commitment to each other.

Yn's pain became a shared experience, a bond that strengthened their relationship even as it tested its limits. Rhea learned to understand the often-unseen struggles that Yn faced – the chronic pain, the fatigue, the emotional toll of dealing with a condition that affected every aspect of her life. They were a team, facing a daunting challenge together, their love a beacon in the darkness.

The weight of their decision hung heavy in the air. Each option presented a unique set of challenges. IVF was expensive and invasive, with no guarantee of success. Using a donor egg would mean that Yn wouldn't be genetically related to the child, a thought that initially brought a pang of sadness. Surrogacy presented its own set of logistical and emotional complexities. Each path involved sacrifices, compromises, and a leap of faith into the unknown.

The conversations were long and sometimes difficult. Tears were shed, doubts were voiced, and fears were acknowledged. But through it all, their love remained a constant, a unwavering force that guided their decisions. They found comfort in each other's arms, in shared silences, and in the quiet strength they discovered within themselves as they faced this new reality. Their love story wasn’t just a fairytale; it was a testament to their resilience, a demonstration of their unwavering commitment to their shared dream of parenthood.

They were not simply a couple facing infertility; they were partners navigating a challenging journey, their love strengthening with each step. The journey would be challenging, full of uncertainty, but their determination remained firm. They would find a way to build their family, together. Their love was their strength, their compass, and their unwavering hope.

The diagnosis had been a blow, but it hadn’t broken them; it had forged a new strength in their bond, a determination that would guide them through whatever lay ahead. Their path might be unconventional, but their love was the foundation, solid and enduring. The seeds of their dream, though planted in challenging soil, still held the promise of flourishing.

The sterile white walls of the fertility clinic felt a world away from the cozy intimacy of their apartment. The air hummed with the low thrum of unseen machinery, a constant, almost unsettling background noise to the hushed conversations of other couples navigating the same complex terrain. Rows of identical chairs lined the waiting area, each occupied by a couple wrestling with their own hopes and anxieties. Yn clutched Rhea’s hand, the familiar comfort a small anchor in the sea of uncertainty that surrounded them. Rhea squeezed back, offering silent reassurance.

The counselor, a kind woman with gentle eyes and a calming demeanor, greeted them warmly. She guided them through the process, explaining the extensive database of sperm donors, each profile a carefully curated collection of information – physical attributes, medical history, genetic predispositions, personality traits, even hobbies and interests. The sheer volume of information felt overwhelming, a stark contrast to the simplicity of their initial desire: to have a child, together.

They spent hours poring over the profiles, a meticulous process that felt both clinical and deeply personal. Each donor was a potential father, a genetic contributor to their future child. The weight of that responsibility settled heavily on their shoulders, the gravity of their decision echoing in the silent clinic. They discussed each profile in detail, their voices hushed, their words carefully chosen. Did they prioritize physical resemblance? Genetic compatibility? Or did they focus on qualities they hoped to instill in their child? The questions felt endless, the answers elusive.

Yn, ever practical, focused on the medical details: genetic screenings, family history, and potential health risks. She meticulously checked off boxes, noting details that seemed insignificant to Rhea, yet held profound importance for her. Rhea, however, found herself drawn to the personal narratives, the snippets of life offered in the brief descriptions. She searched for a glimpse of personality, a spark of connection, a sense of shared values. It felt strange to choose a father for their child based on a carefully constructed profile, on a collection of data points, rather than through the familiar dance of love and attraction.

The process felt impersonal, almost mechanical. The clinic, with its clinical sterility, seemed to stand in stark contrast to the intimacy of their shared dream. They were creating a family, but the act of creation felt strangely detached, lacking the raw, organic energy of natural conception. It felt surreal, navigating the world of sperm donation, a world they hadn't anticipated when they envisioned their future family. Yet, here they were, determined to navigate this unfamiliar landscape, together.

They studied photographs, each image a snapshot of a potential father they would never know, a stranger whose genetic material would shape the life of their child. The smiles in the photos were generic, devoid of the warmth and intimacy of their own relationship. Rhea found herself searching for a resemblance to herself, a shared glint in the eye, a similar curve of the smile. Yn, however, focused on the factual data, seeking genetic compatibility, an assurance of health and well-being for their future child. Their different approaches, however, reflected a shared commitment to making the best possible decision for their family.

Days blurred into weeks as they immersed themselves in the process. They debated, discussed, and argued, their anxieties and hopes interwoven in a complex tapestry of emotions. The clinic became a second home, a space filled with both anticipation and apprehension. The weight of their decision pressed upon them, a constant, persistent pressure that challenged their resilience. Yet, their love remained a constant, a steadfast anchor amidst the storm of uncertainty. They relied on each other, offering comfort, support, and understanding. Their conversations were long, filled with both joy and apprehension, each word carefully weighed, each decision pondered.

The donor profiles became less like documents and more like stories, each containing a fragment of someone's life. They started seeing glimmers of potential parenthood in these brief descriptions, weaving narratives about the potential father and the child he might help them create. They imagined the child's future, their personality, and their potential, a tapestry woven from the threads of their love and the genetic blueprint they carefully chose. It was a delicate balance between practicality and emotion, a dance between the scientific and the deeply personal.

One profile, in particular, caught their eye. The donor was a musician, a graduate of a prestigious university, with a history of philanthropy and a passion for outdoor activities. His medical history was impeccable, and his genetic profile matched well with Yn's. The accompanying photograph showed a kind smile, intelligent eyes, and a gentle demeanor. He seemed like a good fit, a responsible and caring individual who would be a good genetic contributor to their child.

But the process didn't solely involve analyzing data and photographs; it was also about exploring their own hopes and expectations for their child. They talked about the kind of person they envisioned their child to be – intelligent, kind, compassionate, resilient. They discussed their dreams for their child's future, hoping that their offspring would lead a fulfilling and meaningful life, one filled with joy and purpose. Their conversations were a testament to their love, a reminder of their shared vision, and a testament to their commitment to building a family.

The final decision was a culmination of weeks of careful consideration, a mix of data-driven analysis and heartfelt intuition. It was a compromise between their individual preferences, a balance of logic and emotion. As they finally selected the donor, a wave of emotions washed over them – relief, anticipation, and a touch of bittersweetness. They had made a choice, a pivotal decision that would shape their future and the future of their child. It was a choice born out of love, determination, and the unwavering hope that their dream of building a family would come true. The sterile environment of the clinic receded into the background, replaced by the vibrant vision of their expanding family.

The weight of the decision didn’t vanish completely, but it felt lighter. There was still anxiety, the uncertainty of the unknown lingering, but now it was accompanied by a cautious optimism, a sense of hope and anticipation. They had chosen a path, a seemingly unconventional one, but a path paved with their love, their resilience, and their unwavering commitment to creating a family.

Leaving the clinic, hand in hand, they walked towards the sunset, their shadows lengthening, their hearts filled with a mixture of hope and trepidation, but primarily, with an unyielding love. The seeds of their dream were finally sown, ready to germinate and blossom into the family they had always envisioned. The journey would be challenging, certainly, but the path ahead, though unconventional, was paved with their love, and that, they knew, was more than enough.

The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of appointments, ultrasounds, and the slow, steady bloom of a life within Rhea. The stark white of the fertility clinic faded into a background memory, replaced by the warm glow of their apartment, now meticulously rearranged to accommodate the imminent arrival. Yn, ever the planner, had transformed a spare room into a nursery, a haven of soft pastels and gentle lighting, filled with tiny clothes and miniature furniture, each item a testament to their meticulous preparation and burgeoning love.

Rhea’s body, once a familiar landscape, transformed in subtle yet significant ways. The initial nausea subsided, replaced by an insatiable hunger that seemed to defy logic and reason. Yn, ever attentive, catered to her every whim, bringing her cups of chamomile tea in the morning, preparing her favorite meals, and gently rubbing her aching back at night. Their kitchen, once a space of shared culinary adventures, became a sanctuary of nourishing meals, tailored to Rhea’s ever-changing needs.

The first flutter of movement was a revelation, a moment both ethereal and profoundly real. It was a subtle shift, a faint tremor deep within Rhea’s belly, a sensation so delicate it could have been imagined. Yet, it was undeniably there, a confirmation of the life growing within her, a living testament to their shared dream. Tears welled up in Rhea’s eyes, a mix of joy, wonder, and a profound sense of awe. Yn held her close, her embrace a silent expression of shared joy and overwhelming emotion.

The physical changes continued, each day bringing new and surprising developments. Rhea's belly, initially a subtle swell, grew larger, more prominent, a tangible manifestation of the life growing within. The once-flat abdomen blossomed into a rounded curve, a living testament to the miracle of life. Her clothes, once comfortable and familiar, became increasingly snug, a constant reminder of the burgeoning life within. She started a pregnancy journal, meticulously documenting her changing body, her fluctuating moods, and the overwhelming emotions that accompanied this remarkable journey.

The weight gain wasn't just physical; it was emotional, too. The anxieties intensified, evolving into a complex mixture of excitement, apprehension, and the gnawing fear of the unknown. Rhea found herself overwhelmed by a wave of protectiveness, a primal instinct to shield this precious life from any harm. Sleep became elusive, her nights punctuated by frequent trips to the bathroom and the unsettling pangs of restless legs. The once-peaceful slumber was replaced by a series of interrupted moments, filled with anxieties and vivid dreams. Yn was her constant rock, a beacon of calm amidst the storm. She massaged Rhea’s feet, read her stories, and simply sat beside her, offering silent comfort and unwavering support.

The monthly checkups became milestones, each visit a small victory, offering a glimpse into the growing life within. The images on the ultrasound screen, initially grainy and indistinct, became clearer, more defined, revealing tiny fingers, tiny toes, and a tiny beating heart. With each visit, the reality of parenthood felt closer, more tangible, the weight of their responsibility becoming more profound. These regular checkups provided not just medical updates but emotional reassurance, each visit strengthening their resolve and nurturing their hope.

Rhea's relationship with her body evolved as well. She found herself strangely connected to her changing form, appreciating the subtle nuances of her burgeoning motherhood. The stretch marks that appeared on her abdomen, initially a source of self-consciousness, became badges of honor, marks of transformation and a testimony to the miraculous journey she was undertaking. The shifting center of gravity, the sudden fatigue, and the intense sensitivity – all were accepted as part of this extraordinary experience, a testament to the power and beauty of motherhood.

Their social life underwent a subtle transformation, too. Dinner dates were replaced by cozy evenings at home, conversations turning increasingly towards the practicalities of baby care and childcare. Friends and family rallied around them, offering advice, support, and gifts – a tangible manifestation of their love and support. Baby showers, filled with laughter, joy, and thoughtful presents, became a celebration of their expanding family. Rhea savored the warmth of connection, the outpouring of love and support from her loved ones.

Rhea's cravings became legendary. One day it was pickles and ice cream, the next, it was spicy noodles and orange juice. Yn, ever the accommodating partner, fulfilled her every whim, even at 2 am. Their shared laughter during these culinary adventures became a cherished memory, highlighting their unwavering commitment and the joy of shared experience. Their fridge became a kaleidoscope of strange and wonderful combinations, a testament to Rhea's ever-changing palate and Yn's unwavering devotion.

As the weeks turned into months, Rhea’s emotions ran a full spectrum. There were moments of pure joy, of overwhelming love, and intense excitement for the upcoming birth. But there were also moments of fear, doubt, and overwhelming anxiety. The unknown loomed large, a dark cloud hovering over the horizon of their bright future. The thought of childbirth, once a distant idea, now felt immensely real, filled with both excitement and trepidation. She sought reassurance from Yn, her words a steady balm on her troubled mind, a comfort in the face of uncertainty. They talked, they shared their fears, and their love for each other, and for the child growing within Rhea, grew stronger and more profound.

The preparation for the baby's arrival was more than just purchasing cribs and changing tables; it was a process of emotional and mental preparation as well. They attended parenting classes, read countless books, and discussed every aspect of newborn care – feeding schedules, swaddling techniques, and the art of soothing a crying infant. The once-distant concept of parenthood was now rapidly approaching, each detail a tangible step towards their dream of building a family.

Yn, ever practical, meticulously planned every aspect of the transition into parenthood. She researched different types of baby carriers, designed a detailed feeding schedule, and prepared a comprehensive list of emergency contacts. Rhea, however, focused on the emotional aspects of motherhood. She spent hours reading books about attachment parenting, imagining the joy of holding their child, the warmth of their skin against hers, the deep connection between a mother and her child.

The final weeks of pregnancy were a mix of excitement and anticipation. Rhea’s body was now fully prepared for the arrival of their child. Her belly was large, and her movements were slow and deliberate. She spent her days resting, tending to her garden, and connecting with Yn. The connection between them grew deeper, strengthened by the shared experience of their upcoming parenthood. Their love was a constant, a steadfast anchor amidst the storm of hormones and anxieties.

The apartment, once just a home, was now a sanctuary, a place filled with love, anticipation, and the unwavering hope that their dream of building a family would soon come to fruition. The seeds they had carefully sown, nurtured with their love and determination, were now ready to blossom. The journey had been challenging, filled with complexities and uncertainties, but their love remained their guiding light, the unwavering foundation upon which their future family would be built.

The air in the delivery room crackled with a nervous energy, a palpable tension that hung heavy in the space between the whirring of machines and the hushed whispers of the medical staff. Rhea, her breath coming in ragged gasps, focused on the rhythmic contractions that pulsed through her body, each wave a surge of pain and anticipation. Yn, her hand clasped tightly in Rhea's, offered silent support, her presence a steadfast rock amidst the storm. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor provided a constant, if somewhat unsettling, soundtrack to the unfolding drama. Sweat beaded on Rhea's brow, her face contorted in a grimace of exertion, yet her eyes, despite the pain, held a spark of unwavering determination.

The room, initially sterile and impersonal, had slowly transformed into a haven of shared emotion. The clinical white walls seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the warm glow of the bedside lamp and the soft light emanating from the monitors. The air thrummed with anticipation, a tangible energy that vibrated through the room, connecting the three of them – Rhea, Yn, and the tiny life growing within.

The contractions intensified, each wave more powerful than the last, bringing Rhea closer to the brink of exhaustion. Yn’s words of encouragement, whispered softly into her ear, were a lifeline, a source of strength that helped her navigate the turbulent waters of labor. She stroked Rhea's hair, her touch a soothing balm on her aching body and troubled mind. The nurses, efficient and reassuring, moved around the room with practiced ease, their presence both reassuring and professional.

Then, a shift. A change in the rhythm, a subtle alteration in the intensity of the pain. Rhea felt a primal urge, a powerful instinct that guided her through the next series of contractions. The pain became more intense, more all-consuming, yet within the throes of exertion, a new feeling emerged – a sense of purpose, a clear understanding of what she was doing, of why she was enduring this.

With each breath, each push, Rhea felt a profound connection to her body, a newfound respect for its strength and resilience. The pain was immense, but it was also a part of something beautiful, something extraordinary. It was the pain of creation, the agony of birth, and the exhilaration of bringing new life into the world.

Yn, her eyes filled with a mixture of awe and anxiety, watched with bated breath. She held Rhea’s hand, her grip tightening with each contraction, offering unspoken support and unwavering love. Their shared gaze, filled with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, spoke volumes of their shared journey, their shared dream. The room was a sanctuary, a shared space where their hopes, fears, and dreams converged into one powerful moment.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the moment arrived. A wave of indescribable relief washed over Rhea as she felt the pressure release, the culmination of hours of effort, a release that signaled the beginning of a new chapter. The cry that followed was a primal sound, raw and powerful, a sound that echoed through the delivery room, filling it with the promise of new beginnings.

A tiny, wrinkled face emerged, a perfect miniature of their combined features. Lilly. Their daughter. The nurses quickly worked to clean and wrap the newborn, their movements swift and efficient. The first glimpse of their daughter was a moment etched in their minds forever – a moment of overwhelming joy, of profound love, of an emotion so deep it transcended words.

Rhea reached out, her trembling hand gently touching the soft, delicate skin of her daughter’s cheek. The sensation was extraordinary, a connection so profound, so immediate, that it brought tears to her eyes. The exhaustion, the pain, all faded into insignificance as she gazed upon her child, her heart overflowing with love.

Yn, overcome with emotion, moved closer, her eyes filled with tears of joy. She gently touched Lilly’s tiny hand, her touch both tentative and reverent. The overwhelming emotion was palpable, a shared sense of wonder and gratitude that resonated through the room. They were parents. Their family was complete.

The bustling hospital room, previously filled with the sounds of medical activity, now hummed with a quiet, peaceful energy. The beeping of the machines faded into the background, replaced by the gentle sounds of Lilly’s soft breathing. The room, once sterile and impersonal, became a sanctuary of love and new beginnings. The three of them – Rhea, Yn, and their precious daughter – were a unit, a family bound by an unbreakable bond.

The nurses left them alone, giving them a moment of private reflection. The silence that followed was not an uncomfortable silence; it was a moment filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet celebration of their remarkable journey. Rhea, cradling Lilly close, felt a surge of protectiveness, an overwhelming sense of responsibility. Yn watched them both, her heart filled with a depth of love that seemed impossible to contain.

Hours passed in a blur of tender moments. Rhea gazed at her daughter, marveling at the tiny features, the delicate fingers, the soft downy hair. Yn gently cleaned Lilly, her movements precise and loving, while Rhea recounted their journey, sharing their fears, anxieties and the sheer joy that had overcome them. They whispered stories and dreams, their voices soft and filled with wonder.

The journey to this moment had been challenging, filled with uncertainties and complexities. The path to parenthood had been fraught with emotional and physical trials, demanding perseverance and unwavering commitment. But they had overcome the obstacles, their love serving as a beacon, guiding them through the darkest moments.

This love, their shared dream, had blossomed into a tangible reality. The seeds of their dream, sown with love and nurtured with patience, had finally yielded its most precious fruit. Their family, unconventional yet profoundly real, was a testament to their resilience, their unwavering commitment to each other, and their profound desire for family. In the quiet moments, they whispered promises of love, commitment, and shared adventures to come. Lilly, nestled securely in her mother's arms, seemed to soak in the warmth and security, the love that enveloped her completely. This was just the beginning of their story, a story filled with the promise of love, laughter, and the joys of building a family in their own unique way. The sounds of the hospital faded into the background as they focused on this small, perfect miracle of love. The future stretched before them, infinite and full of hope.

The hospital faded into a distant memory, replaced by the comforting chaos of their own home. Lilly, no longer a fragile newborn, was a tiny, gurgling bundle of energy, demanding and rewarding in equal measure. The transition from the sterile environment of the hospital to the warm embrace of their home was jarring, yet somehow profoundly right. The first few weeks were a blur of feeding schedules, diaper changes, and a sleep deprivation that stretched the limits of their endurance. The idyllic picture of parenthood they had envisioned, filled with gentle lullabies and peaceful moments of gazing at their sleeping child, was replaced by the stark reality of relentless exhaustion and a constant, low-level hum of anxiety.

Rhea, despite her own exhaustion, felt a powerful surge of protectiveness towards Lilly. Every coo, every gurgle, every tiny grasp of her finger was a source of immense joy. Yet, the relentless cycle of feeding, burping, and soothing quickly morphed from a sweet adventure into a relentless marathon. Nights were a particular challenge. The peaceful silence they had craved was replaced by the frantic cries of a hungry infant, the soft glow of the nightlight illuminating the frantic dance of feeding, burping, and rocking. Yn, her usually calm demeanor slightly frayed at the edges, would often take over during the night, offering Rhea precious moments of rest, her love and support a silent testament to their commitment to one another.

Their carefully constructed routines crumbled under the weight of Lilly's needs. The meticulously planned schedules, the romantic dinners, the quiet evenings spent curled up on the sofa, all fell by the wayside. Their lives, once their own, now revolved around the tiny human who had stolen their hearts. There were moments of frustration, moments when the exhaustion threatened to overwhelm them. There were times when arguments erupted, fueled by sleep deprivation and the sheer pressure of adapting to this new reality. But amidst the chaos, their love remained their anchor. They learned to lean on each other, to share the burden, to find moments of connection amidst the storm. A shared glance across the room, a silent nod of understanding during a particularly difficult night, these were the small moments that sustained them.

Yn, ever the pragmatist, took charge of organizing their new lives around Lilly's needs. She created meticulous charts tracking feeding times, diaper changes, and sleep patterns, her organizational skills proving invaluable. Rhea, more intuitive and nurturing, focused on Lilly’s emotional needs, soothing her cries, responding to her subtle cues, and building a strong bond through skin-to-skin contact and gentle rocking. They discovered that their different approaches complemented each other, their strengths balancing out the challenges. The division of labor, initially a carefully planned strategy, morphed into a fluid dynamic, adapting to the ever-changing needs of their daughter and themselves.

As Lilly grew, so did their understanding of parenthood. The early anxieties, the fears of inadequacy, began to fade, replaced by a growing confidence and a deeper connection to their daughter. The first time Lilly smiled, a radiant burst of pure joy, it felt like the world paused. The first time she reached for them, a small hand grasping their fingers, it was a moment of profound connection, a testament to the bond they were forging. They celebrated her milestones with a mixture of awe and excitement – her first roll, her first crawl, her first word. Each achievement felt monumental, a reminder of the remarkable journey they were undertaking.

Life wasn't always perfect, of course. There were still moments of frustration, moments of exhaustion, moments when they questioned their ability to do this. There were challenging days, filled with tantrums, sleepless nights, and the sheer overwhelming nature of raising a young child. But through it all, they found strength in each other, their love for Lilly binding them together, their resilience forged in the fires of shared challenges. They learned the art of teamwork, of finding joy in the small moments, of appreciating the preciousness of this journey.

Their unconventional path to parenthood had been challenging, yet it had also strengthened their bond in ways they couldn't have anticipated. The experience of creating their family, navigating the complexities of fertility treatments and overcoming the hurdles of unconventional family building, had forged an unbreakable connection between them. Their love story, woven with threads of determination, resilience, and unwavering commitment, continued to unfold, enriching their lives with the joy and challenges of family. They learned to navigate the delicate balance between individual needs and the demands of parenthood, maintaining their personal space while creating a secure and loving environment for their daughter.

They rediscovered the importance of communication, learning to express their needs and concerns openly and honestly. The exhaustion, the sleepless nights, the moments of doubt – they shared these experiences, finding solace in their shared vulnerability. They celebrated their successes, both big and small, cherishing the moments of quiet connection amidst the chaos. They learned to embrace imperfection, to accept the unpredictable nature of parenthood, and to find beauty in the messiness of family life.

As Lilly grew older, their focus shifted, but the challenges, though different, remained. The joy of watching her learn, grow, and blossom continued to inspire them, solidifying their commitment to one another and their family. Their love, their shared dreams, had not only brought them together but had created something profoundly beautiful – a family, unique and fiercely loved, a testament to the power of love, perseverance, and the unwavering desire to build a life together.

They sought support from other parents, sharing their experiences and finding comfort in knowing they weren't alone. They discovered the hidden joys of early parenthood - the quiet moments of connection, the laughter that erupted amidst the chaos, the shared sense of wonder at witnessing the growth of their child. The exhaustion was still a constant companion, but it was now tempered by the immense love they felt for each other and for their daughter. Their family, though unconventional, was undeniably strong, their bond woven with threads of shared experiences, unwavering commitment, and an abundance of love.

The challenges of early parenthood served only to strengthen their relationship, highlighting the resilience of their bond and the unwavering love that lay at its heart. They created rituals, small moments of connection that became anchors in the ever-changing landscape of their lives. Bedtime stories, snuggles on the couch, weekend adventures – these moments became sacred, preserving their bond amidst the demands of daily life.

Their home, once a haven of quiet intimacy, now echoed with the laughter and cries of a growing child, a beautiful testament to their journey together. They learned to adapt, to evolve, to navigate the complex terrain of parenthood, their love serving as their compass, guiding them through the joys and challenges. And as they looked at Lilly, their hearts overflowing with love, they knew they had found something truly special – a family, built on love, resilience, and the unwavering belief in the power of their dream.

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