#THIS THING JUST KEPT GOING OH MY GODSSSSSS

[outoutdamnspark]

Human

Inspired by the Robo!Submas x Reader au by @nc-eikin​ - because this bitch (affectionate) has a death grip on my soul. I’m such a robophiliac, you have no idea.

(Was listening to Matsudappoiyo’s cover of Talk of the Past while writing.)

*cracks knuckles*

AIGHT. Robo-romance, here we go!

(Cw: Panic attacks and mentions of dissociation, brief themes of ableism(???) Tenderness, non-sexual body [hand] worship, pining. Robots in love. Shifting narration focus. Reader is called “lady” but is left genderless. Submas x Reader.)

soa have mercy this got so out of hand. no pun intended.

===

The entire day has been awful from the start.

You’ve suffered through bad days before - many times - but no matter how many, you’ll never quite get used to the extra long shift, or the endless slew of technical issues that all seem to spontaneously appear back to back to back, or the people being rude as hell when you're just trying to send in a report or a request for replacement parts. (And you’ll never, never, get used to how, on top of all of that, the miserable weather, dreary, wet, and cold, is causing your phantom limbs to ache.)

You’re exhausted by the time your shift is at its blessed end, fed up, in pain, and nearly ready to break down in frustrated tears as you quicken your pace towards what you desperately hope is safety in the ‘Employees Only’ corridors.

But it is not to be.

You'd always been so careful of your gloves, making sure they were as well-maintained as the delicate mechanisms your grandfather taught you to build and repair. Any loose thread, any thinning seam, and you were quick to repair or replace the fabric barrier between your prosthetic limbs and the judgemental world around you, and this meticulousness had served you well for oh so long.

But even the most vigilant of individuals can fall victim to blind chance, and blind chance is exactly what puts the snagging ends of a frayed wire in just the right place inside your pocket. It catches on the side of your glove as you pause in your walking to reach in and search for your employee pass. The tiny copper fingers seize your glove, hold it, tear it, find a weak spot in the seam and break it open. You pull your hand back out of your pocket to the soundtrack of shredding fabric.

It’s bad; the way the thread had pulled had ripped the seam in both directions, leaving the entire side of your glove split apart and the metal of your prosthetic beneath it to shine in the overhead lighting of the subway platform. You grimace. Not wanting to endanger the remaining material any further, you peel it off.

You hope no one notices.

(You hope in vain.)

“Wow, cool!!”

A small child - maybe seven or eight years old - dashes in front of you with sparkling, excited eyes trained directly on your exposed metal arm, blocking your path to the employee door just as you start to try and move.

“I didn’t know they had a lady robot here, too!”

A lance of ice and clawing shame plunges itself between your ribs and straight into your lungs, knocking the breath from your lips. Suddenly you’re shaking, too aware of how loudly the exuberant child is being, of how crowded the platform actually is.

Heart rattling, you say nothing to the child as you attempt to step around him, to cross the last few yards to the employee door and the eyeless hallway beyond. Unperturbed, the child simply moves along with you, keeping pace, darting erratically from your side to practically under your feet and then back - and all the while his incessant questioning gets louder and louder, like he thinks you can’t hear him.

“Hey! Hey lady! You’re a robot, too, right? What kind are you? How come you don’t have fake skin like the other robots? Are you broken? Can I see your hand?” He nearly trips you when he gasps and stops close enough to your foot that he’s practically standing on your shoe. “Can I have cool robot parts, too?!”

You don’t mean to almost knock him down, you really don’t.

You don’t mean to slap his grasping fingers away as he reaches for your metal limbs, nor do you mean to bolt like a wild animal towards the employee door, abrupt enough to earn you the child’s (loud, loud, so loud!) cry of surprise and his nearby mother’s angry reprimand.

They couldn’t understand. No one ever has.

Because while it may have seemed like an innocent enough encounter on the surface, just like always, you can feel the eyes of everyone within earshot turning towards you, burning along your skin. Just like before. Just like always.

(You're so, so tired of being stared at, of being bombarded with questions, of being the focus of pity and fear and morbid curiosity.)

Without slowing down, you smack the pad beside the door with your ID, barely waiting for the latch to click and the light to flash green before yanking the door open with more force than flesh-and-blood limbs would ever have allowed.

You nearly sprint down the corridor, taking the turns through sheer muscle memory as your vision blackens at the edges, until a familiar (safe-safe-safe!) door comes into view just up ahead.

It’s empty when you enter, but that’s okay. You don’t think you want your friends to see you like this - you don’t want to tell them why.

You reach the far corner of the little room the Station Masters call their own and brace yourself against the wall. Shaking, you slide to the floor and try to get your breathing under control.

-

They’re ashamed that it takes them almost an hour to find you.

There hadn’t been cause for concern at first - they’d simply realized you’d never clocked out, which meant there might still be a chance to see you again before you left for the day. It had been a happy thought, one that had them eagerly sneaking away to go and look for you.

But you were nowhere to be found.

They’d checked everywhere they knew you’d had work to do that day, thinking that maybe a task had run longer than expected. Then, they’d checked the live camera feed to see if they could spot you that way. Still nothing. Thinking perhaps you’d simply forgotten to clock out and had already left for the evening - which would have been horribly unlike you - they’d resigned themselves to waiting until the morning to be graced with your presence.

And then they’d gone back to their storage room.

There, in the corner, tucked away where the camera’s eye didn’t quite reach, was you.

The Station Masters hover nearby, processors overloading with concern as they watch you, unresponsive, sitting hunched against the wall and staring at nothing with the remains of tear tracks still drying on your cheeks. Your gloves are clenched so tightly between your fists that the fabric looks on the verge of tearing as you hold it, twisted taught between your metal fingers. Dissociation, their automatic index tells them; trace indicators of sweat and adrenaline, their cursory scans conclude.

A quick bluetooth conversation is had between them, and they determine that no, they've never seen you like this before, this isn't normal.

They approach. You don't react.

(The twins wonder if this is what it feels like to wish they could cry.)

‘Should we contact medical assistance?’

‘I... don’t know.’

They look to one another, silently hoping their brother will have the answers they do not.

(Now that they know where you’ve gone, they search back through the security logs and follow your path in reverse, tailing you backwards until they see...

Oh.)

“Oh.”

-

You’re peripherally aware of the twins as they step in perfect unison to flank you, slowly kneeling at your sides until they no longer tower over your crumpled form. You want to move, want to respond when they call your name, let them know you can almost hear them - but your body refuses to cooperate.

Instead, you stare at the empty space between the far wall and the floor and try to collect enough pieces of yourself to find your way back towards their light.

“Darling?” one of them calls - it doesn’t matter which.

“Can you hear us?”

Barely, but yes. You can make out their words as though from some far-away shore, muffled and weak. It’s a comfort, regardless.

(You trust them, you think. More than you ever have another human being.)

Through foggy ears, you listen to them speak. They murmur, coax, gently plead, come back now, please, you're scaring us, are you alright? They tell you they saw what happened, how they’re sorry they weren’t there - but that’s silly, you want to tell them. It wasn’t their fault; there was nothing they could have done to circumvent what always, always happens.

(It doesn’t stop a tiny piece of your heart from wishing they had been there beside you, with kind words and protective stances.

Maybe then they wouldn’t have to see you as you are right now.)

There is movement.

Gently, so gently, the brothers lean into you. You can feel them pressing their arms against your own, the contact oddly warm from their internal functions. Your skin prickles at the touch - but pleasantly so, instead of the crawling bad that physical contact usually brings.

With deliberate, worshipful slowness, they each take one of your mechanical hands in their own, weaving their fingers together with yours, loosening your grip on your gloves until they can be safely pried from your grasp. One of them, maybe 3MM-ET, carefully lifts your hand and brings it to his lips, resting it there reverently. The other, probably 1NG0, lifts your other hand and gingerly uncurls your fingers so he can press your palm against his cheek.

Neither one of them speaks for a time. 3MM-ET brushes his lips over your prosthetic fingers repeatedly, ghosts of kisses he isn't wholly brave enough to properly give; 1NG0 closes his eyes and holds your hand to his face with both of his. He nuzzles into your touch, lips gliding across the heel of your palm but never pressing down.

"Beautiful," one of them whispers.

"Verrry beautiful," the other agrees.

You don’t know how long you all stay like that, with your heart gradually thawing with each and every word that spills from the speakers hidden in their throats. Their warmth and the weight of them grounds you, little by little pulling you back towards that distant shore. Your lungs work without you to fill with fresh air, replacing the stagnation that’s settled deep inside while you’d been lost to the void inside your own head.

The twins continue to murmur praises, reassurance, fondness, steadily growing into whispers of devotion in between the spaces of their spoken words. They adore you, they say, you're wonderful, so human and so alive and so very, verrry lovely; you don’t realize at first that they're talking about you.

It’s like a riptide when you do.

You gasp as you slam back into your body from that foggy mire inside your mind, the burn of a sharp inhale rivaling the way it feels like something’s finally been released inside your ribs. Freed, lanced like an ill-healed wound.

Out pours the blood and pain of years of bottled emotions, of facial expressions you trained yourself not to make, of the shards of at least one barrier you’ve held tall and strong for an age. And with it all there comes the pent-up toxins of the day, spilling out over your eyelashes in a new wave of tears, tracing down the paths left behind from before. It hurts. You’re glad it does.

You don't just sit there silently as you blink the saltwater from your eyes this time; instead, they pour like a swelling river over its banks, and you lean forward with the weight of them. A low, pitiful sound pools inside your mouth and slips past your teeth before you can stop it - a quiet, keening whine that breaks and stutters into a single sob.

Then another.

And then a third.

Your shoulders jerk as you start to drop, but before your body can fold itself in half, there are arms around you, gentle and firm, holding you steady.

Your hands are relinquished and the arms cross one another over your chest like a brace, their own hands coming to rest on your shoulders opposite where they each kneel. A second pair of arms wraps around your back just above your waist. The duo hold you upright, keep you from falling, pull you close in perfect equidistance between them; one rests his cheek on the crown of your bowed head, the other rests his chin in the dip of your shoulder.

You shake as you cry, letting out the long stretch of the day, your hitching breath the only sound you make through clenched teeth, and through it all they hold you. Even as five minutes turn to thirty and the tears finally ebb, and you can feel yourself slot back into place within reality, the arms encircling you stay, the murmurs continue, their presence remains.

They ask you if you're alright.

You simply nod your head.

With a glance at one another that holds another private conversation, you’re sure, the androids slowly shift, slowly stand. Their arms do not move, and you find yourself pulled along with them as they lift you from your spot on the floor and guide you to a battered old loveseat along the wall - something your grandfather must have brought in years and years ago.

In perfect unison they sit, bringing you to rest between them so close that their sides, their thighs, their shoulder all press against your own once more with comforting pressure.

"I should...go. Let you recharge," you say at last. You make no move to get up.

3MM-ET hums, thoughtful. He lets his arm slide from where it crosses your chest like a seatbelt and gingerly takes your hand. Warm, gloved fingers slip in alongside yours, soft leather against sleek and shining chrome, and 3MM-ET runs the sides of his fingers back and forth between your own like gently rolling waves. With each pass he gives a light squeeze so that you can feel the hidden ball joints of his knuckles. He delicately pinches your ring finger next, your middle, your index, twisting them ever-so-slightly as if examining them from different angles. Despite the strength you know his artificial body contains, his touch is never anything but kind.

(From anyone else, you might find it uncomfortable, invasive. But not from him. Not from them.)

"...You are gorgeous, you know?" he says in his usual soft monotone. His quietude belays the strange, awed tint to his words, the softening of his synthetic smile in a way you've never seen before.

From your other side, you can see 1NG0 slowly nodding from the corner of your eye. Like his brother, he, too, finally shifts his hand from your opposite shoulder and brings it down to cover your free one. He curls his fingers around the metal plates that make up your knuckles, cradling them like something invaluable. The pad of his thumb brushes over the hinge of your own, back and forth, back and forth.

"Gorgeous," he says in agreement, uncharacteristically quiet. "And perfect."

You scoff, wet and choked. "I'm not--"

But 1NG0 raises faintly glowing optics to meet your gaze and your protest dies behind your tongue at the sight of something raw behind his eyes.

"You are human," 3MM-ET says beside you. "Something we will never be."

You turn away from 1NG0 then, and twist your neck to look at his brother with furrowed brows. But 3MM-ET’s smile is achingly fond and he shakes his head before you can speak. "It is the truth," he states simply. "We are not human." He shrugs - and it's such a distinctly human gesture, one that you know can be programmed or learned through behavioral study, but usually never properly applied in subtle ways. Here, it is subtle, and for a moment you forget which of you three is made of wires and which is made of flesh.

But 3MM-ET isn’t done. He turns your hand over in his grasp and runs his thumb down the inorganic lines of your palm. His gaze lowers to watch it, as though he’s unable to meet your eyes. “...But you treat us as though we are.”

1NG0 shifts, leans forward to study you in profile. “We are flawed in mechanical ways,” he says, voice still soft and tender and warm. “You are flawed in human ways. We can be programmed to emulate human flaws, but it’s nothing more than an illusion, a lie of perfection. Or of imperfection. Whatever the one writing our code wants us to be.”

The arms still curled around your waist squeeze you in gentle, almost nervous tandem as both the androids hug you close.

3MM-ET’s thumb changes direction on your palm, circling counter clockwise. “We are aware of this.” His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly, but it’s still enough for the sensors in your metal hand to detect. “Of our artificiality. Sometimes we forget, but not for very long.”

Your mouth twitches at his admission, not a frown but almost; he just shakes his head.

“You do not get it; you make us feel human. You. With you it is not forgetting, it is like we always were.”

On your other side, 1NG0 hums. “You have never indicated that you see us as things; you do not treat us as lesser in any way, when by nature of our inhumanity someone else might. Where another might see our personalities as faults, and our faults as something to be rectified, you treat them as though they are normal.”

3MM-ET nods. “As though we are human.”

1NG0 nods as well. His hand on yours twists, aligning his palm with the back of your hand. He threads his fingers together with yours. “Your humanity is what makes you perfect,” he explains. “You simply exist as you are, flaws and all.”

The arms encircling you slowly slide from your waist, gloved hands brushing along your back and sides until they fall away. 1NG0 brings a hand up to trace the back of a knuckle just under your eyes; when he pulls back again, there is a single droplet of moisture left on his glove.

(You didn’t know you still had tears left to shed.)

3MM-ET’s hand alights on your shoulder. He trials his fingertips reverently downward, tracing the seam where your skin meets metal - and even further down. He stops at your elbow, gently cupping it, and lifts your arm until it straightens out. The thumb that once drew patterns across your palm now carefully uncurls your fingers, and he adjusts his hold until your forearm rests across his own. Slowly, like he’s terrified you’ll pull away, 3MM-ET lowers his head and lifts your arm higher to meet in the middle.

Soft and whisper-light, he touches silicone lips to the ball joint of your wrist.

Your breath catches in your throat; this is all too much. You don’t know what to do with this tenderness, this gentleness, when all you’ve known for years is how to build your walls higher and higher to avoid the leering gaze of others. You cannot fathom, no matter your grandfather’s skill at breathing artificial life into cold copper and warm circuits, how these two (objectively inhuman) beings can show more humanity than members of your own kind.

And how they, technically perfect in their artificiality, can consider you the perfect one - because of and not in spite of, your failings.

Your mechanical fingers curl, unconsciously trying to capture 3MM-ET’s hand once more.

The brush of leather against your face pulls your attention back to 1NG0, back to a luminous silver gaze that meets your own and somehow softens as if you’d hung the moon and stars. He rolls his hand so that his palm cradles your cheek, and with his other he tugs at your fingers until he’s pressed your hand to where his core sits beneath his chest plate, holding it there like he’ll die if he lets go.

There is no need for him to breathe, no real heart that needs to beat, but you can feel the impersonations of them under your hand; the rise and fall of his chest in simulation of breathing, the faint thrum of the pump that forces hydrolic fluid through his internal structure. Even with your prosthetic, you can feel him.

“These are not flaws,” 1NG0 whispers, stroking your mechanical hand with his thumb. “They are simply a part of you.”

You feel the tickle of 3MM-ET’s lips against your wrist as he picks up where his brother leaves off, unwilling to remove his almost-kiss from your arm even as he speaks. “Therefore,” he murmurs, “these are perfect, too.”

You’d thought yourself dam-less, the cracks in your walls now laid bare as the banked-up river of emotions runs dry inside your soul. But as you look from one conductor to the other - one with his lips held to your wrist and his twin with your hand clutched to his core - you feel the tide come in anew.

1NG0 swipes at the trickle of tears gliding freely from your eyes, though his gentle touch does nothing to stem their flow. You shake your head to dislodge his hand.

Before either of them can react, you’re pulling back, tugging your appendages from their respective holds and reaching blindly out to grasp at their shoulders. You manage to find one of them through your blurry vision, 3MM-ET, and yank him to you. He lets you bury your face in the crook of his neck and rests his cheek against your temple.

Your free hand fumbles to find 1NG0 on your other side, but now that he can guess what you want, he puts himself in your path; you fist your fingers into his coat and pull him close until he’s pressed against your side with his forehead alighting just below your ear at the hing of your jaw. He ghosts his lips against the skin of your jawline and wraps both of his arms securely around your waist.

3MM-ET’s arms follow suit, coming to rest above his brother’s, as one of your own slips around his side to cling desperately at the back of his coat. You wriggle your other arm until it’s actually under the one 1NG0 has around your front and reach up to dig your fingers into his sleeve, hanging on like you’re afraid you’ll be washed away without him there to ground you.

The last dregs of overwhelming emotion wring from your exhausted heart as you allow yourself to be held and to hold in return - for once finding a hand extended in the dark behind your walls. You make no noise as you cry this time; there is only the sound of your breathing and the whispered words of two voices in your ear, telling you how glad they are to know you.

You’ve never felt more human.