#sense and can be predicted with precision

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Director's Obsession - Phase 6

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Word Count: 4,442

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Phase 1 , Phase 2 , Phase 3 , Phase 4 , Phase 5 , Phase 6 , -

A/N: Are you ready to see husband!Krennic? 👀

Phase 6 : Strategic Bond

You had not planned on kissing him.

It simply happened, like breath after drowning, like lightning without warning. When the projection dimmed and the ashes of Cinderis vanished into streams of scattered data, the silence between you cracked open. And you stepped into it.

Your lips found his with all the force of everything left unsaid. Heat, hunger, anger, gratitude. It burned in that kiss like the aftermath of war. He met you there, one hand firm on your back, the other brushing your hip, anchoring you. For a moment, there was only him. The taste of him. The pressure of his mouth moving with yours. His breath caught just as yours did.

Then he stopped.

His hands did not leave your body, but his lips pulled away, leaving a thread of heat that barely cooled in the space between you. His forehead pressed against yours, breath uneven. He was not pushing you away. He was choosing restraint.

"Not now," he said softly. "Not here. Not on the Death Star. Not on Scarif."

You could hardly breathe. His nearness still flooded your senses. But something about the way he said it. Measured, gentle, unflinchingly clear, it made you understand. There were lines he refused to cross, not because he could not, but because for once, he wanted it to mean something.

"When it happens," he continued, voice barely louder than breath, "it will be somewhere that does not carry the memory of destruction. Somewhere that belongs only to us."

You stayed still, chest heaving from more than just desire. Neither of you moved. You both stood in the silence that followed, hearts thudding in your ribs, waiting for the storm inside to settle.

Then, at last, his voice broke through.

"I am sorry."

You blinked, surprised by the words. "For what?"

His eyes fluttered shut, as if holding in something heavier than anger. "I should never have left you alone."

The admission was quiet but heavy, and it landed somewhere deep in your chest. You reached for him without thinking, letting your fingers brush the side of his neck, grounding both of you.

"No one could have predicted what happened," you said gently. "You didn’t fail me."

You swallowed hard. "You saved me."

The words hung in the air between you, not a compliment, not even a thank-you. They were a truth. And he did not refute them.

"And," you added, more breath than sound, "you blew up Cinderis. You killed Joric. For me."

A dry chuckle escaped him, just short of bitter. "Did I?"

He tilted his head slightly, a faint shadow of amusement touching his mouth. "Well. I suppose I did. What can I say? When I retaliate, I do not hold back."

You gave him a look. But you knew he was not trying to be clever. Not this time.

His face shifted again, something darker settling beneath his expression. Something heavier.

"You survived being taken. You were hunted, beaten, dragged through hell. Rebel or not, you were the victim. And I do not allow anyone to harm what is mine."

The heat that rose in your chest was not just emotion. It was something deeper. Something more dangerous.

Then his next words dropped like cold steel.

"We have to meet the Emperor."

You went still. "Is it because of me...?"

He adjusted his cuffs with mechanical precision, the gesture as much armor as habit. "Because I destroyed a planet. And while I am prepared to take responsibility for it, the motivation behind it was personal. And personal motivation, in front of the Emperor, requires explanation."

Your breath caught. "I am not ready."

He took one step closer. Close enough to fill your vision, close enough that you could feel the subtle warmth radiating from his skin.

"You are," he said simply. "You survived what should have broken you. You spoke and made the Empire listen. You made me listen."

You looked up at him, feeling the knot of fear in your stomach loosen just slightly.

"And you will not face him alone," he added. "Not now. Not ever."

You nodded slowly. The fear had not vanished. But it no longer defined you.

Then his eyes drifted to the bruise along your jaw.

"Do you want to hide your scars?"

You lifted your hand and touched the fading cut near your mouth. You remembered how you got it. Remembered the dirt, the pain, the taste of blood. You lowered your hand and straightened your spine.

"No. I want him to see them. I want him to see what came out of Cinderis. What rot looks like when it breathes. I survived it. And I am still standing. That is the story he needs to hear."

Krennic stared at you for a moment, his mouth tilting slightly into something that was not quite a smile, but not far from it either.

"Good move," he said, voice low. "Let them see what survival looks like."

And when he said it, he looked at you like you were the most dangerous thing in the galaxy.

******

The throne room was colder than anything you’d ever known.

Not the kind of cold that came from temperature, but something far deeper. The kind that made your bones feel small, your voice too loud even when silent. You stood beside Director Krennic beneath the vaulted ceiling, with its jagged black columns like teeth closing in on the weak.

And seated in the center of it all, surrounded by darkness, was the Emperor.

Governor Tarkin stood slightly to the side, arms folded, gaze like a blade honed by spite. No one spoke until the Emperor’s voice, dry and rasping, cracked the air.

"You destroyed a planet," he said slowly, looking past you to Krennic. "Without sanction. Without directive."

Krennic’s shoulders were square. His voice was firm, but not defiant. “It was a rapid decision, my lord. Circumstances required swift resolution. The planet housed a rebel faction. One that kidnapped an Imperial agent vital to the Death Star’s development. And not just her. There were other prisoners from Imperial Citizen and stolen weapons from us.”

Palpatine’s yellowed eyes narrowed. "You took initiative. Some might call that recklessness."

Tarkin stepped forward slightly. “If I may, my lord… perhaps now is the time for a change of stewardship. Director Krennic’s contributions are noted. However, a military project of this magnitude—”

Krennic cut in, voice clipped. “Without me, there would be no Death Star, Governor. You’d still be reviewing memos about structural flaws while I was laying the foundation.”

“You’ll find I’ve never needed fanfare to leave a mark,” Tarkin replied dryly.

“Gentlemen,” Palpatine snapped. The silence that followed was immediate.

Then, the Emperor turned to you. His gaze settled on your face, unreadable. “You,” he said at last. “Speak.”

You stepped forward. Your bruises still ached. Your lip had only just stopped bleeding. But your voice did not tremble.

“My lord,” you began. “I am honored to stand in your presence. I was taken from within ISB headquarters. No warning. No offer of negotiation. The rebels did not strike at military targets. They struck civilians. I was just one of many.”

Palpatine’s gaze sharpened slightly.

“And the planet they dragged me to was Cinderis. Was not a center of power. It was rot in disguise. I was born there. I know it better than any of your officers. That place was never a resource. It was starvation, disease, desperation.” You paused, letting your voice harden. “When I was a child, I envied insects. Because they could chew leaves to stay alive.”

A silence rolled across the chamber like thunder. Especially for Krennic, who, for the first time, truly understood the weight of your struggles growing up.

You went on. “Joric Stone wasn’t a rebel. He was a butcher. A supporter of Gerrera’s ideology with none of Gerrera’s discipline. He starved the people he claimed to free. He tortured children to keep them afraid. And he would’ve built a new rebellion with their bones. The Empire didn’t lose an asset when Cinderis burned. It removed a virus.”

“Strong words,” Tarkin muttered.

You ignored him. “Director Krennic acted. Not for himself. For the Empire. For me. And for the children who were still trapped there with no future.”

You inhaled slowly, then delivered the final blow.

“The Empire now has the chance to turn those children into something more. Let them see who saved them. Let them grow up knowing stability came not from rebels, but from order. That is how loyalty is built. Not with promises. But with proof.”

The Emperor leaned back in his throne, fingers steepled. “You believe we can turn rebels into loyal citizens.”

You held his gaze. “You did it with me.”

Palpatine looked at Krennic. His voice lowered.

“This asset of yours. She’s clever.”

“She’s effective,” Krennic said quietly.

The Emperor looked back at you.  "I will have you in my service, girl. You will report directly to me. I expect no objections."

You swallowed, throat tight. "Of course, my lord."

"Good. You may go." The Emperor stood, robes sweeping across the floor like a shadow that consumed everything in its path. He gave a final glance to Tarkin. “You may continue to advise on the Death Star. But its future belongs to those who earned it.”

Tarkin’s face soured, but he said nothing. He glanced at Krennic, gaze cutting as ever. "Enjoy your brief hour of glory, Director. The Death Star is a tool. But politics is eternal."

He swept past, silent as a blade.

And then it was just you and Krennic.

You didn’t breathe until he turned toward you and placed both gloved hands gently on your shoulders. You almost collapsed under the sudden release of pressure.

“Did that just happen?” you whispered.

Krennic nodded once, his voice quieter than you expected. “Yes. It did.”

********

The speeder slid to a halt outside the ISB headquarters. The lights above the entrance hummed softly, cold and impersonal, but you barely noticed them. Krennic stepped out first, his gloved hand briefly brushing yours as he helped you down. His touch lingered just a second too long, as if reluctant to let go.

Waiting by the entrance were three familiar figures. Mia and her daughters. You exhaled, your shoulders sagging with relief as you hurried toward them.

The older girl sprinted forward first, arms wide, and the younger followed, her little legs barely keeping up. You dropped to your knees and wrapped them in your arms, the scent of their hair and the warmth of their little bodies grounding you.

“You’re safe,” you whispered, brushing their cheeks, holding back tears. “Thank the stars, you’re safe.”

You rose and turned to Mia, pulling her into a tight hug. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t strong. But it was real.

Once you stepped back, your voice cracked as you asked, “No one followed you? No one tried to hurt you?”

Mia exchanged a look between you and Krennic, then back to you, lips pursed. “We did feel someone watching us,” she said, lowering her voice. “But before I could panic, these soldiers just… appeared. Next thing I know, we’ve got a whole squad guarding the apartment.”

She tilted her head, her expression sharpening as she looked you over. “Dear stars,” she breathed, her eyes trailing the bruises on your face. “How long were you there?”

“Not long,” Krennic answered smoothly.

Mia turned, squinting at him. Her arms folded across her chest as she closed the distance between them with calculated annoyance.

“You know,” she said slowly, “I really hate you for stealing my friend.”

Krennic’s mouth quirked at the edge. “Borrowed,” he replied dryly.

“And I hate that you ruined her date,” Mia went on, not missing a beat.

“She looked miserable,” he said. “I improved her night.”

Mia raised an eyebrow. “I was this close to using my father-in-law and my husband’s influence as senators to get you fired.”

“I welcome the challenge,” Krennic said with a smirk. “Though I doubt they would enjoy crossing me.”

She stared at him for a beat, then sighed, sticking out her hand. “But… you blew up a planet and killed the bastard who murdered our parents. So… you’re alright in my book.”

He took her hand with the same practiced ease he used at political summits. “We’ll get along just fine.”

It was then one of Mia’s daughters, the younger one, stepped forward. Her wide eyes scanned his crisp white uniform with wonder. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched the edge of his cape.

“Is this made of snow?” she asked, voice small.

Krennic blinked, clearly uncertain what to do. His lips parted like he might ask for help, then closed again.

“…No,” he said awkwardly. “It is… wool.”

You stifled a laugh behind your hand and stepped in. “Alright, girls. Come on, let’s make tea.”

The girls let out happy squeals and ran to you, throwing their arms around your waist. You bent to kiss the top of their heads, your heart full and aching all at once.

Behind you, Krennic watched.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. But the image carved itself into his memory. The way your eyes softened, how easily the children folded into your arms, how natural it looked. How right.

For a brief second, he saw it. A room. A future. You. Him. And children that looked at him not with awe or fear, but with laughter. And then, as fast as it came, he crushed it. Buried it deep.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, voice low.

You turned. “You’re not staying?”

It shocked even you that you asked. A few months ago, the very idea of Orson Krennic in your home was laughable. But now, after everything…

He shook his head. “You need rest.”

You could tell from the pause that he wanted to stay. That he hated the thought of walking away. But he had no real home. No permanent quarters. His life was a station made of steel and classified projects. Perhaps it was time he started looking for something… else.

Mia called out, “Alright, kids, say goodbye to Uncle.”

“Bye, Uncle White Cape!” the girls chimed, waving enthusiastically.

Krennic blinked, visibly caught off guard. His arm twitched like he might return the wave. Instead, he nodded stiffly, turned on his heel, and left.

And you watched him go, the corner of your mouth curling into something dangerously close to fondness.

******

A few days later, cleared by a physician sent directly by Director Krennic himself, you stepped back into the ISB headquarters.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

You moved through the pristine corridors with measured steps, your boots clicking softly against the polished floor. As you walked, you felt it immediately. The shift. The weight. Eyes darted toward you, but few dared to meet your gaze directly. Agents you had passed every day now paused mid-step to give you room. Others offered stiff nods of recognition or murmured subdued greetings under their breath.

It was as though your presence had changed. No longer just another asset in the ranks—you were something more now. Something sharper. Untouchable.

You rounded the final corner toward the command offices when a familiar voice halted your thoughts.

"Agent."

You turned.

Major Partagaz stood with his usual clipped composure, but there was something new in his eyes. Approval. Relief, maybe. A subtle softening of the lines that usually never cracked.

"Major," you said formally, standing straighter.

He walked toward you, hands behind his back. "We were informed you were recovering. The medical report is… thorough." He eyed you briefly, the way a superior did when confirming that his soldier was still intact. Then he leaned closer, just slightly. "It seems Director Krennic was rather insistent about your care. Called in every favor available."

You blinked at the weight of that comment. He did not elaborate. He did not need to.

"Regardless," Partagaz continued, straightening, "you are back. And just in time. Congratulations, Agent. You are promoted."

You frowned slightly. "Promoted, sir?"

"Effective immediately, you are to serve as Chief Imperial Communications Strategist. Your clearance has been updated. You will work directly under the Emperor’s communications wing, across all major sectors."

Your breath caught.

"You will be summoned at any hour. You are to be prepared at all times. No delays, no hesitation. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Major."

There was a pause. Then, quietly, you asked, "And my work with Director Krennic?"

Partagaz's lips twitched, but the smirk never fully surfaced. "His project is complete. Unless he begins a new one, which… knowing him, I would wager he will. When that happens, I expect he will contact you. Personally."

You flushed, eyes lowering for a beat. "Understood, sir."

He nodded once. "Dismissed, Strategist."

As you stepped away, you allowed yourself a quiet breath. Strategist. A far cry from the desk you once sat behind. You moved through the corridor, trying to ignore the tight coil in your stomach.

You had just turned a corner when you spotted her. Dedra Meero, leaning against a side pillar, her face pale, drawn, but intact. Her eyes caught yours, and a faint smirk formed at the edge of her lips.

"So, let me get this straight," she said. "While I was being interrogated and treated like a traitor, you went to a gala and wore a dress sharp enough to gut a man?"

You slowed, guilt pressing into your ribs. "Dedra, I did not know they had pulled you in. I would have—"

She waved you off, her expression tired but not bitter. "Not your fault. I poked around where I was not cleared to poke. I should have known better."

You stepped closer. "Are you alright?"

"Mostly." She glanced down at the badge pinned to your chest. Her gaze lingered. "Well, look at you."

You followed her eyes. Your new rank.

"Congratulations. Strategist now, are we?"

"Thank you. Though it feels… strange."

"It should. You earned it. They do not give out titles like that for nothing."

You hesitated, then asked, "Anything else happen while I was gone?"

Dedra folded her arms and leaned a little harder against the wall. "Well, I was in a cell. So I missed a lot. But the biggest buzz was that Jung got demoted."

You blinked. "What?"

She nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. "Something about misconduct. Though no one is saying it outright. It is all whispers. I would be careful around him if I were you."

You nodded slowly, absorbing the information, though your thoughts were already elsewhere. Somewhere far away. Somewhere with a white cape. A promise. A storm. And Jung is inside the storm. 

*****

A few days ago.

The silence in the chamber was not peace. It was pressure. It wrapped around Lonni Jung’s throat like a tightening collar. The room was sterile, humming faintly with surveillance tech, but there were no blinking lights, no distractions. Just the sound of his own heartbeat, and the slow hiss of the door sliding open behind him.

Director Orson Krennic entered without hurry, the air around him altering like gravity had shifted. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence alone flattened the atmosphere.

There was no rage on his face. No dramatic threats or barking fury. Just stillness. Lethal, calculating, and somehow more terrifying than shouting. His cape moved in smooth folds behind him as he walked, circling Jung like a raptor drawing a perfect line around its prey.

He finally spoke, voice as soft as ice cracking on glass.

"What’s your name?"

Jung stiffened. "Y—Jung, sir. Agent Jung."

Krennic stopped walking. Turned.

"I didn’t ask for your rank. I asked for your name."

Jung’s mouth went dry. He swallowed, then answered quietly. "Lonni Jung."

A flicker passed through Krennic’s expression. Something close to a smile, but colder. A baring of teeth.

"Lonni Jung," he said, tasting the syllables with slow amusement. "The loyal ISB agent. The mole. The reason she was taken."

Jung didn’t breathe. He couldn’t.

Krennic stepped into his space, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret meant to carve flesh. "You’re the one who smiled at her every morning. Nodded in meetings. Took notes. Laughed at the right moments. All while feeding her name to wolves."

He took one step closer. Jung didn’t dare move.

"Do you know what they would have done to her," Krennic murmured, "if I hadn’t arrived when I did? Do you know what she looked like when I found her?"

The silence became unbearable. Krennic’s gloved fist flexed, slow and deliberate. The sound of leather stretching filled the air.

"People like you," he said, with absolute precision, "are why I do not sleep."

He pulled back slightly, letting the words settle.

"But here’s the irony," Krennic continued. His tone shifted, cooler now, almost detached. "Your betrayal… was useful."

Jung blinked. Confused. Waiting.

"Your information helped us find her before they could move her off-world. Before she vanished forever."

Another pause. Krennic’s gaze sharpened.

"Which is why," he said slowly, "I am going to let you live."

Jung flinched, his breath catching. "You’re… sparing me?"

Krennic tilted his head, eyes narrowing just enough to make Jung wish he hadn’t spoken.

"Oh, do not thank me," Krennic said, stepping forward again, his voice a quiet snarl, his words brushing close like the edge of a blade at the throat. "You will stay here. You will work. Quietly. Obediently. And every breath you take from now on, you will take with the knowledge that I allow it."

He turned then, as if Jung were beneath any further effort.

But at the threshold, he stopped. Without turning.

"One more thing, Jung."

Jung’s spine snapped straight. "Yes, sir."

Krennic’s voice dropped to something colder than a blaster’s barrel.

"One more betrayal, and you won’t live to explain it."

Then the door hissed open. And Krennic was gone.

Jung remained, frozen, staring at the spot where the Director had stood. He was still breathing, but it didn’t feel like mercy. It felt like a sentence. And he knew, with sickening clarity, he would never sleep peacefully again.

*******

From the viewing deck, the Death Star loomed like a myth made real. Its size was impossible to measure with the eye. Entire continents of steel and shadow, a godlike silhouette drifting in the black. Even now, with it finally operational, it still felt too massive to belong to anyone. But it belonged to Orson Krennic.

Partagaz stood quietly beside him, arms folded behind his back as they both observed the slow orbit of their creation. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual.

"So this is the Death Star," he murmured. "Almost twenty years. It’s a miracle we could finish it."

Krennic said nothing.

Partagaz glanced sideways, noticing the unusually pensive look on his friend’s face. It was subtle, but not invisible, not to someone who had spent years watching Orson Krennic charm, threaten, and manipulate his way through the most dangerous political corridors in the galaxy.

"Krennic?" he asked, a touch of suspicion in his voice.

Krennic didn’t take his eyes off the viewport. His voice was low, almost too casual. "Do you think I could be a family man?"

Partagaz blinked.

He looked at Krennic as if the man had just announced he was giving up military command to become a chef on Naboo. That was not the question he expected. Not from him.

Orson Krennic. The white-caped perfectionist who had once threatened a senator over a scheduling delay. Who scoffed at weekend leave. Who, in all the years Partagaz had known him, had never once spoken about building a life that wasn’t built in blueprints and weapons contracts.

He remembered when they were all young, back when they were just graduates of the ISB academy. Most of the alumni had families or partners. Except for Krennic.

He loved working more than anyone else.

And that was why he held a higher status and carried greater responsibilities than anyone.

Even Krennic himself laughed when someone once asked if he wanted a family. ‘Me? Could you imagine me becoming a husband?’

But look at him now. People change. Even someone like him.

"...You?" Partagaz finally said, blinking again for good measure.

Krennic’s silence was answer enough.

Partagaz composed himself. He drew out the beginning of his reply like a man weighing sarcasm and survival. "Well. You’re quite the taskmaster. Built the Empire’s most terrifying weapon under constant sabotage, bribed every senator who mattered, survived Tarkin’s scrutiny without strangling him, and somehow still find time to maintain a cape collection that rivals the Emperor’s."

Krennic raised a brow, but didn’t protest.

Partagaz pressed on, his tone shifting just enough to betray a smirk. "So yes. I think you need something else to obsess over. Might as well try being domestic."

Krennic exhaled, the sound landing somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"You think I’d obsess?" he asked, deadpan.

"Oh, please," Partagaz scoffed. "I’ve seen how you look at your cape when it gets dusty. I can only imagine what you’d be like with a baby."

There was a pause. A strange one.

Partagaz didn’t expect his words to land. But Krennic, for once, didn’t fire back. He just looked out through the thick glass at the stars, his eyes darker than before.

It clicked.

"You’re thinking about her," Partagaz said quietly.

Krennic didn’t reply. But he didn’t have to. The angle of his jaw, the way he suddenly couldn’t look Partagaz in the eye, it all told him everything.

The hardened Director of Advanced Weapons, the terror of resource meetings and budget hearings, had been cracked open by something far more dangerous than politics.

"Well then," Partagaz muttered, adjusting the datapad in his hand, "stars help the child who inherits your spine."

Krennic’s gaze didn’t shift. "My child will be brighter than most of the Emperor’s advisors," he said, voice sharp and certain. "I will raise someone so sharp the Empire will have no choice but to be impressed."

Partagaz blinked again. "Is that pride in your voice, Orson?"

Krennic tilted his head, just slightly. "Call it foresight."

Then, softer, as if the bravado couldn’t quite cover the truth: "But do you think I can?"

That gave Partagaz pause.

He’d seen Orson furious, triumphant, cruel. He had never seen him uncertain. That single question, spoken so plainly. Landed heavier than all the firepower in the Death Star.

"You blew up a planet for a woman," Partagaz said, staring at him. "I’d say you’re halfway there."

Krennic finally turned to him.

And he smirked. That familiar, dangerous gleam returning to his eyes.

"I always finish what I start."

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[fischlcatgirl]

Nahida being implied to have picked a side between Kaveh and Alhaitham and choosing Kaveh is so funny to me. about alhaitham she's like "yeah he's really smart but he's also an annoying know it all and nobody likes him" and about kaveh she's like "most of his ethical views align with my (god of wisdom) own :) the way he sees the world is so cool and epic"

Like yes alhaitham is her acting grand sage. Yes he helped save her from her 500 year imprisonment. He's also. An asshole. Kaveh is nice and makes cool buildings :)

[coffeeworldsasaki]

In less than a month I listened to a year's worth of a podcast that got at least 3 episodes published monthly

[3liza]

i said this YEARS ago when the 'vibes based literacy" discussion started because i had been reading about dyslexia to try to help my partner at the time, who was undiagnosed: the book about dyslexia that i was reading described precisely the techniques used in the "contextual guessing" reading education system, but as dysfunctional adaptations by dyslexic children. the contect guessing and memorization thing is a way of teaching entire generations of children to be functionally dyslexic, a profound and devastating disability, when they do not have dyslexia and do not need to have it. it's horrifying. it was how my partner read things, and watching him try to read something out loud was extremely demonstrative of the struggle he was having.

ken goodman probably had dyslexia and didn't know it, it's the most common learning disability in the world, an estimated 20% of all humans on earth have some degree of it.

In the paper, Goodman rejected the idea that reading is a precise process that involves exact or detailed perception of letters or words. Instead, he argued that as people read, they make predictions about the words on the page using these three cues: 1. graphic cues (what do the letters tell you about what the word might be?) 2. syntactic cues (what kind of word could it be, for example, a noun or a verb?) 3. semantic cues (what word would make sense here, based on the context?) Goodman concluded that: Skill in reading involves not greater precision, but more accurate first guesses based on better sampling techniques, greater control over language structure, broadened experiences and increased conceptual development. As the child develops reading skill and speed, he uses increasingly fewer graphic cues.

he's completely wrong, this not how fully literate people read. this is how dyslexic people read. fully literate people are using phonics and the alphabet all the time, that's how we read so fast and so easily, even texts that we're unfamiliar with or that aren't in our native language. i can scan a page of italian, french or norwegian and get the gist of it even though i don't speak the languages. i can sound out those words and pronounce them, even if im pronouncing them incorrectly, just by reading the actual letters and phonemes.

relying on context to predict which word comes next is what leads to the kind of aphasia dyslexics often exhibit not only while reading, but when speaking aloud. my partner would swap words that were contextually correct but not what he actually meant all the time. for example if he wanted me to hand him a blue comb lying nearby on a table, he would say "could you please hand me the green brush?" or if he was describing a cat he saw, he would often swap in another contextually-related word, one that sounded the same, like "bat", or one that was conceptually related but incorrect, like "dog". as a result i had to ask him to clarify or repeat himself many times to figure out what he was trying to say. it created profound problems for him and separated him from me and everyone else. the worst part is that he was barely aware of this. when he was driving it was extremely difficult for him to follow or give directions because he would swap out "left" and 'right" randomly.

you cant actually read like this.

She thinks the students who learned three cueing were actually harmed by the approach. "I did lasting damage to these kids. It was so hard to ever get them to stop looking at a picture to guess what a word would be. It was so hard to ever get them to slow down and sound a word out because they had had this experience of knowing that you predict what you read before you read it."

[lascvitae]

ON MY MIND ✵ NISHIMURA RIKI.

❀ ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚ alt. YOU MAY BE ON MY MIND

EVERYDAY BABY, SAY YOU’RE MINE .ᐟ

ᝰ.ᐟ you ask your boyfriend to narrate your makeup video and he says yes, but you don’t expect what he leaves in.

ᝰ.ᐟ pairing. gamer bf!niki x fem!reader ᝰ.ᐟ genre. fluff ᝰ.ᐟ warnings/tags. teasing, you do vlogs/make videos, established relationship, domestic fluff, niki lowkey bullies you

ᝰ.ᐟ wc 1k

(🎧) now playing — cool with you by njz.

masterlist.

NIKI SLIDES ONTO YOUR DESK chair like he lives there. (he kind of does at this point.)

you left hours ago, sending him a link to the footage and a simple message:

“do my voiceover plz haha”

he sent back a thumbs up emoji and a picture of him playing valorant at your setup with a bowl of dry cereal.

but — finally — the video’s up on your editing laptop. you’re centered in the frame, lips already glossy, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder like you didn’t plan that. he rolls his eyes and hits record.

“alright. this is my girlfriend. she’s about to spend thirty minutes proving she doesn’t need makeup by putting on a full face of makeup.” he says, voice flat.

you hold up your primer and flash a peace sign at the camera.

“step one: mystery goop. i think it makes your face sticky. which is apparently good. don’t ask me why.”

you start patting it in with your fingers, totally focused.

“she’s acting like she’s doing heart surgery right now. it’s not that deep, bro.”

a moment.

“okay, maybe it is. her skin looks good. whatever.”

next up is foundation. you dot it on with practiced precision.

“here comes the skin colored lotion. as if her face isn’t already smooth.”

you blend quickly with your sponge, mouth moving like you’re talking to yourself off camera.

“she’s definitely complaining about something right now. probably the sponge. or the time. she’s never on time.”

concealer comes next. you do a triangle under the eyes, and a to the chin.

“she does this everytime like she doesn’t sleep whenever she can. like it doesn’t make sense.”

you lift a brow at the mirror. he mirrors the look automatically, smirking.

“she makes that face every time. like she’s surprised it’s turning out cute. babe. it always turns out cute.”

you do your brows now. you go in with small, controlled strokes and niki hums under his breath.

“this part? she zones out completely. i could be talking to her and tell her i crashed the car and she’ll make faces then respond ten seconds later.”

then eyeshadow. you hesitate. consider. then go for the neutral and pink shades.

he nods like he predicted it.

“she does this every time. pretends she’s gonna experiment with brighterer colors and then picks the same color she always uses. at this point it’s muscle memory.”

eyeliner next. you draw a clean wing with one hand, barely blinking.

“i can’t look. i always think she’ll poke her eye.”

you pick up your lash curler and glance at the camera like you already know he’s going to say something.

“yep. the torture device.”

you clamp it, curling your eyelashes upward.

“why are you not even scared? like you’re not squeezing metal near your eyeball right now. couldn’t be me. actually, literally wouldn’t be me.”

you curl the other side with the same calmness.

“she does this in the car sometimes. i don’t know how she does it while moving. and i just have to sit there and pretend i’m not witnessing some shit out of final destination.”

you reach for your mascara next, open it and apply it to your lashes.

“this is the lash grower. like it’s literally magic.”

you pause mid swipe, mouth open, brows slightly raised like you’re trying not to mess up.

“this is the mascara face. you know the one. mouth open, eyes wide, like a fish.”

you finish one eye, then the other, blinking carefully toward the ceiling.

“honestly? she ate that. i’ve never seen someone do this without stabbing their own eye. i flinch just watching it.”

then blush. you apply it to your cheeks and the tip of your nose.

“she’s obsessed with this part. but i like watching it. it makes her look pretty and soft. and the way she uses like, nothing, and it still spreads out—“ he catches himself, laughing under his breath.

“yeah. i like this part.”

you smile at something off camera now. probably at yourself. or maybe at the joke you were thinking of when you were filming. whatever it was, it makes his heart squeeze.

“she smiles like that and i forget what i was talking about.” he says quietly.

highlighter next. it’s just enough to catch the light and you tilt your face toward the window.

“there it is. that little head tilt. she does that every time too. look at her trying not to smile. she knows she looks good. i hope she trips on her way out. just kidding. i’ll catch her.”

you’re reaching for your lip liner now, dragging it gently along the edge of your lips with precision.

niki squints.

“okay, now we’re doing… outlining. this part’s lowkey a scam. she lines her lips just to fill them in again. but i’m not allowed to question it.”

you lean in a little, still focused, overlining the top lip slightly.

“look at her. just casually redrawing her face like it’s a coloring book. i said something about it once and she was like ‘it’s called enhancing.’ okay then. my bad bae.”

you cap the liner and grab your lipstick next, a nudey pink, your go to. you tap it on lightly, almost like a stain.

“this one’s always in her purse. i don’t even know what shade it is but i like it.”

finally: lip gloss. his real enemy. you swipe it on, press your lips together, and pout a little.

niki sighs dramatically. “this part ruins my life. i go in for a kiss and she’s like, ‘nooo you’ll mess it up.’ like girl. you just spent thirty minutes turning into the human version of an angel and i don’t even get one kiss?”

you pose and he continues to talk.

“then when i finally get to kiss her i become one of those sticky mouse traps. but it’s okay. i secretly like it.” he admits.

you laugh at yourself then reach to cover the camera and the screen cuts.

he leans back in your chair, hoodie sleeves half pushed up, hand hovering over the stop button.

the room’s quiet again. the file’s done. he could stop recording.

but he doesn’t.

not right away.

he exhales, taps the desk once with his knuckle, then mutters under his breath, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s still talking into the mic.

“she’s so pretty it actually pisses me off.”

he pauses.

then speaks softer. more to himself than anything.

“…i’m so down bad for her it’s insane.”

click.

taglist — @saysirhc @blissfulflw @yuyuy90

[meownotgood]

forwards, beckon, rebound. / machine herald!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is fem bodied, angst, size difference, fingering, choking, dry humping, praise, russian terms of endearment, somewhat toxic relationship, mild augmentation kink, way too many emotions, mix of arcane + league lore / spoilers. word count: 16.2k

read on ao3

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Viktor enjoys making you feel helpless. 

Technically, it isn't enjoyment so much as it is a responsibility; you'll repeatedly show up at his secluded lab in the Undercity, and as he does with everyone who comes to his doorstep worn and destitute, he'll take it upon himself to give you what you need. You are like the rest of his endeavors — meticulously examined, ambitiously furthered. But unlike his various grandiose experiments and his pursuits for evolution, it isn't just his mind you occupy. 

There is some dusty, disregarded hole in his once-perfect mechanical heart, and if the hypothesis he's formed but doesn't want to acknowledge is correct, you are the most probable cause. Or perhaps, you'd be the cure. 

Carefully, with his usual amount of precision, Viktor pulls his leather glove from his hand. He allows his fingers to flex: scarred skin improved by intricately-crafted metal joints. He's positioned above you, large and imposing while he keeps you pinned beneath him. The firm, steel surface of his giant worktable feels cool against your bare back. The room itself is dim, worktable lit by an overhead lamp that burns when you happen to look directly at it. Thankfully, Viktor's armored form above you, encased in dark shadow, blocks out most of the light. 

The Hextech third arm on his back grasps your wrists unwaveringly, and keeps them in place above your head, utilizing an exorbitant display of strength. You can't move a muscle, not even if you tried. Lingering heat sears into your skin, radiating from the metal — from where the laser he's perfected could easily sever your wrists from the bone. 

What's more, you can hardly think. Your head is spinning; your heart pounds from between your ribs, fiercely yet uselessly. You can only stare at the glowing, emotionless eyes of Viktor's mask, and wait for him to decide what he plans to do with you. Gentle. With the way you're looking at him, you need him to be gentle, this time. 

He presses his palm to the center of your chest, where he can feel the erratic beat of your heart. Slowly, he begins to drag his hand down. It's a knowing, practiced motion — not as soft as it ought to be, considering his cold, purple-veined hand and calloused fingers. As his touch is brought down to your stomach, your waist, you shiver, and your body relaxes. Finally, fully. 

It doesn't take long for you to arch into his touches, just as he predicted, just as you always do. Your flesh loves to sing for him. 

This dance has been performed by the both of you numerous times beforehand. Viktor questions if you'll ever grow tired of it. Of the pirouetting, of revolving constantly around unspoken, trembling complications, just to return, to let your mind and your heart reel all over again. 

What he feels for you — what he has evaluated from you, because machines do not feel — is something unexplainable, foreign, futile. He knows this, this dynamic you've fostered; it hardly makes sense. You are allies with no common goals. You were friends, some disregarded years ago. Every other night, you stumble into his lab to interrupt his work, and he lets you. 

No, he indulges you. 

"You are quivering," Viktor hums, voice muffled and deepened by the mask's filter. A usual, matter-of-fact statement, but the edges of his tone sharpen in the wake of a held-back, dark chuckle. "You want me to touch you. Say it." 

The powerful, vastly-superior Machine Herald already has you right where he wants you. 

Slightly riddled with static, the way his thick accent curls around the words only serves to make you shudder more. Your breathing is choppy, your chest rapidly rising and falling. 

Not from fear, if Viktor had to guess. His scans of your heart rate would come across much differently if that was the case. This is from arousal. Clear, easily definable arousal. Just from his thick voice, his soft touch, and the imagery provided by his large body above yours. 

The sight of you is addictive. Addiction isn't a sensation built into his mechanical repertoire, but it's the best word he can think of to describe this. You are small when you're underneath him. So malleable, so fragile. So human. How abnormal. The compulsive surge that runs through his veins should not, according to all of his tests and conclusive research, be occurring. 

Viktor supposes this type of behavior would be more fitting of the past version of him. Presently, he doesn't have room to let time go to waste. His vision is all that matters. The old him, though, the Viktor you once knew would've given you whatever you desired without a second thought, even though he hardly deserved it. 

He was weak, once. For you, perhaps a part of him still is. 

You are intelligent, you always have been. He has cast away much of his past in pursuit of chasing a better, more important future, but still, he remembers each and every moment he shared with you quite vividly. They play in the background of his mind sometimes, persistent like a system error, recurrent like a late-night looping television program. 

Your inventions often kept pace with his. Your smile was bright, brighter than the pillars of light that shone from Piltover's grandest lighthouses. Starry-eyed and driven, you wanted to improve, as a person and as a scientist. You challenged him to push further right alongside you. 

Of course, you knew him better than most, but Viktor wonders: did you ever expect him to go this far? Did you ever plan on retreating back to Zaun with him, to fall further into madness together? 

By now, you must be smart enough to know he is different. What you might've had, a friendship or a partnership or something delightedly improbable, it is now nothing. Nothing more than another one of his shed weaknesses and old, discarded memories. 

Perfect machinery does not feel. Not even for you, no matter what it once felt. Scientifically, it can't. You should understand this relationship is not beneficial. He could and would gladly break you, it's what he built himself to do. And yet, as he's starting to realize, perhaps being broken by him is exactly what you want. 

"Please touch me," You're begging, as his palm caresses the all-too-human curve of your side. Your voice is warm, lustful. A sweet, familiar taste settles in the back of his throat, as you coo the old nickname you still reserve just for him. "I need you to, Vik." 

And just like always, because of you, because of his predisposed sense of responsibility, or perhaps because of an unrecognized fault in his complex machinery — Viktor gives in. 

He revels in your vulnerable, quivering limbs and your heavy, desperate gaze. The grip of his Hexclaw tightens on your wrists, your hands closing, fingers tensed. He drags his palm down your stomach slowly, carefully. His gentleness is calculated, but it is yours, all the same. 

Your legs spread for him on impulse when his hand reaches your thigh. He squeezes, before he brings his hand between them, allowing the end of his index finger to brush your clit; his touch is precise, with all the efficiency and learned confidence of a flawless, apathetic machine. He could make you fall apart for him so easily, every part of you perfectly attuned to his touch, and his touch alone. 

Yet, he's teasing you, careful and slight touches barely grazing where you're oh-so sensitive for him. Your thighs shake, and spread wider; your body is exposed to him, soft and sweat-soaked expanses of skin contrasting splendidly with his bulky, armored chassis of metal. Now, instead of his index, Viktor uses his thumb, providing more friction and a slightly firmer touch. You squirm, the pretty features of your face washed over in pleasure, before you breathe a small, satisfied whine. 

"That's it," He murmurs firmly. "To think this is all it takes to make you submit." 

Viktor allows his thumb to trace circles onto your swollen, needy clit, and your breath proceeds to hitch so deliciously for him. An action, and reaction. Repeated experiments make for predictable results. Hextech hand practically digging into your wrists, Viktor brings his free, metal hand to your cheek. Oddly tender, his cold palm cups your face. He isn't surprised at the response it gets out of you, your chest heaving with a deep, trembling sigh. Every part of your skin tingles, as you lean into his faux, steel touch. 

"Earlier, you wished to be defiant. Disobedient." Viktor scolds, his thumb flicking over your clit while his fingers brush your cunt, gathering your dripping slick on the digits. He takes his metal hand away from your cheek, and he presses it flat to the table, right beside your head. Your brows pinch disappointedly, clearly unsatisfied with his subtle form of punishment. 

"And now look at you. Wet and desperate." 

He's barely touched you, barely even begun with you, and you're already dripping. 

"I wasn't- I'm not disobedient," You're countering, although it's damn near impossible to keep your voice sounding steady when his persistent touch is toying with you. He's teasing, circling your clit agonizingly slowly, just to make you squirm. "I brought you everything you asked for. Like always." 

"Yes, and you did well," Viktor praises flatly. As though he's reading off a trained script, rather than watching the way your eyelids flutter as his knuckles brush your entrance. "Our current project will run smoothly now, utilizing the tech you acquired for us. But when I told you to wait, to bring the tech after I had finalized our plans, you did not listen." 

You admit simply, foolishly, "I missed you." 

Those words are familiar. You'll often tell him you missed him when he returns to the lab, home at last after finalizing a few affairs elsewhere. You said you missed his face the first time you saw it, your hands gently holding his cheeks, caressing metal and skin — despite how different he looks now. Despite the scars, the mechanical parts. 

He knows you missed him. In a soft, delicate way. In an indecent, desperate way. His form of longing is much, much different. When the mortal matter and fraying wires of his brain yearn to have your presence beside him, with him, under him, it is strong, it is carnivorous. It is encompassing. 

"You nearly comprised everything we've been working towards." Viktor's third arm tightens even more, making your wrists and arms go nearly numb. "There is only so much I can do to protect you. I disposed of the last enforcers to attempt tracking you down, but if you were to lead them here, you will not just be putting yourself at risk. You are threatening our entire vision with your recklessness." 

Carefully, his index finger finds your entrance: sensitive and wanting. He deliberately pulls his hand away when you whine, instead placing his palm back on your inner thigh. Your skin is soft to the touch. Your gaze stays steady on him, on the unflinching shape of his mask, your eyelids heavy, pupils blown with clear arousal. As though he encompasses all you need, anything you could possibly want, and everything that could devastate you. 

You are frustratingly beautiful. 

Viktor hums, the sound low, somewhat mechanical. He gently guides his hand over your neck, just how you like, until large, metal fingers are wrapping around your throat. Not squeezing, just tightly holding. Enough to ground you, to remind you of who you belong to. You let go of a sigh, your eyes growing heavier. Your heart is skipping, and with his hand around your throat, the subtle vibrations of your quick pulse shudder through his complex machinery. 

"Viktor-" You start, voice weak, barely there. "I'm-" 

"I know you want more." He squeezes your thigh, applies just enough pressure to your throat to make your mind go fuzzy. "Tell me what you have been waiting for me to give to you, what you desired so strongly that you ran to me, instead of following the plan. And perhaps, I'll let you have it." 

You tremble: a full-body, tingling shudder. Viktor — the Machine Herald — is so much larger, so much stronger than you. He's augmented himself to be significantly taller, significantly more imposing, and underneath him like this, you must look meager. Pathetic. Fully bare, your legs spread open for him. Giving yourself to him so easily. Your chest heaves, your mortal heart skipping and wavering at the sight of him above you, pinning you beneath his heavy, metal form. 

"Breathe, zayka," Viktor murmurs, his grip on your neck loosening up. "Your heart is racing. Focus on me." 

Taking in slower, deeper breaths, your mind quiets, your pulse calms. Stars and static thrum in the corners of your vision, your thoughts a knotted up blur. Viktor — his touch is all you can focus on — traces his fingers further up your thigh in approval. 

"There. Very good. You're alright." 

"Your fingers," You pant, "Please." 

Viktor scoffs, his tone mechanical and rough, "You can do better. Try again." 

Huffing, your head knocks the firm worktable when you toss it backward. 

"Bastard." Your hands clench and unclench, your wrists giving a poor attempt at struggling against their hold. To no avail, of course. "Are you at least going to let me touch you?" 

"No. Answer me. Do not make me repeat myself." 

You briefly gnaw on your bottom lip, your jaw tense, thighs shaky. "I need your fingers inside me, Vik. I've missed you, I need you, please. I'm going fucking crazy." 

Viktor's unmoving, glowing eyes examine you carefully. "That's it. That is much more sufficient. So exquisite, when you are begging. Take what you need, then." 

You're well aware he isn't the same man you once fell for, nor is he the soft-spoken, bright scientist you once knew. Rumors paint him as a maker, a monster, a machine. He is cold to the touch. He isn't supposed to feel, he removed such functions ages ago; they were useless to him. As were his failing lungs, his weak legs, his heart. A heart made from machinery never skips. It can't be blinded by love, or lust. It cannot be distracted by old, unkindled flames, in the same way you often are. You envy him, somewhat. 

But Gods, when it's just you and him in his lonely little corner of Zaun, and when you are at the pleasant mercy of his perfected touch, you swear, he feels more human than anything. Nothing else truly matters, because still, he is yours. 

Viktor's index finger slides inside you slowly, just barely stretching you around its thickness. You're wet enough that he could press it in easily, could have you melting and drooling over whatever you're given — but instead, he chooses to let the digit fill you languidly. The feeling is slight, enveloping and enthralling and familiar, yet not enough to make you feel full, at the same time. His fingers are long, dexterous. Pretty and scarred. 

You've watched him work on plenty of augments and automatons, hands tightly grasping a wrench to turn it, fingers carefully holding the ends of thin wires to thread them together. Each action swift, exact. 

With the same level of precision, Viktor presses his finger deep inside you, and crooks it upward to nudge it right against your sweetest spot — and you whimper, your whole body shivering, collapsing. 

"One is never enough to satisfy you," He asserts; he gently pumps his finger into you to a steady, easily manageable pace. "Isn't that right?" 

If his mask weren't there, you're sure you'd see him speaking through a slight grin, maniacal and crooked, impossibly him. Your heart pounds. You're doomed, you must be. 

In response, you nod your head fiercely. Another shaky moan tears through you as he works you on his slender digit. Pressing in, dragging out. Calculated and perfectly steady, like the continuous beats of a metronome. 

"Or," Viktor questions, "Should I have you come undone around just one?" 

"No," You snap quickly, although you're obviously in no position to be making demands. Your eyes flutter open, your face contorted in a mix of pleasure and frustration. He finds your desperation strangely satisfying. All for him. It's the same sort of hungry satisfaction that comes with working on an automation, striding closer and closer to a job well done. He adjusts, pushing your legs apart with his large knees when they tremble and threaten to close. 

"Give me two," You're pleading, "Please." 

Viktor hums, the sound low and vibrating. 

"Guiding you to your peak would prove trivial, even without the means of penetration. You are simple. Easy to unravel." His low, intimidating voice effortlessly sends goosebumps careening down your spine. "You could most likely be led to cum against my shoe or my thigh, from modest friction and my voice alone." 

"Viktor," You almost wince at how pathetic you sound. "Stop talking." 

Viktor eases his index finger as deep inside you as you can take, and heat surges across your form in thundering, breaking waves. "Why would I stop when you are enjoying it?" 

Oh, he knows you far too well. 

"Dammit, at least-" You exhale, trembling through a moan, and Viktor's Hextech arm holds onto your wrists impossibly tighter as your hips roll into his hand — desperate to feel more of him. It works, momentarily. Until he is using his free hand to firmly grip your waist: thick metal fingers digging into warm, pretty skin. He pushes you back against the worktable, holding you in place. 

You groan in frustration. "At least quit teasing me." 

"Such impatience. I am working you upwards, gradually conditioning you to take higher levels of stimuli. It will make the process as a whole much more pleasurable." 

"Gods if you weren't wearing that stupid mask, I would shut you up in no-" 

"I always satiate you, milaya," Viktor answers calmly, as he slowly drags his finger out, leaving you quivering and empty. The nickname he uses is tender, familiar. It reminds you of your once different life. Vividly, it forms blossoms in your chest, unfurling flowers and delicate petals. Tugging sweetly at your thudding heart, despite the cold artificiality of his manufactured tone. Milaya. His darling. 

Though, the Machine Herald does not covet. What he desires, he takes and makes his. 

"Interesting," He's muttering, seemingly mostly to himself. "Your neediness has greatly increased since the last time we convened. Normally, you are capable of controlling yourself. To a certain extent." 

He tsks, metal hand caressing slow, reassuring circles onto your waist, while his other palm dives back between your legs. His fingers drag over your cunt with an irrational sense of clumsiness, considering the motion is coming from him. He lets his fingertips search for nothing in particular, getting them slick with your arousal, nudging your clit carelessly with his knuckles until your back is arching, and your sighs are sharpening. 

"Sorry." You mumble a half-hearted apology, eyelids softly fluttering. 

"It was not a complaint." Viktor presses his fingertips close, dangerously closer. 

Your body needs him, needs what only he can give to you. His hands, his fingers inside you. Every inch of you screams for his touch. As though you are a solved puzzle, a piece of technology broken down to let him understand each individual part. Your thighs shake, and that's part A. Your chest heaves, your shoulders go tense. Significantly human responses. Components labeled B, C, D, V. Your lips quiver, before they mutter another breathless, desperate plea of his name. 

Predictable, and understandable. Yet, for certain, you are a delight to decipher. Those pieces and budding sensations come together as he thought they would, and they — and you, are primed to be bent at his will. 

You expect him to tease you further. When he falls silent, becoming more impossible to read than he already was, you feel your arms and your thighs tense with what must be anticipation. Surely, he can sense how eager you are. 

But Viktor doesn't falter, he does not hesitate. He guides his metal hand underneath your back, predicting its arch, and he presses two of his fingers, his middle and ring, to your drooling entrance. They slide into you with a filthy, wet noise; it's almost obscene how eagerly your cunt accepts them. How you plead with whiny utterances of yes, yes, your voice breaking, eyes closing. He eases them inside you slowly, fills you with them completely — until his scarred knuckles are nudging against you, and you're sobbing through a half-sigh, half-moan. 

He doesn't wait to hear you beg for more. You're given a calculated amount of time, just enough seconds to catch your breath and get used to the stretch of both digits inside you. He fucks you on his fingers, pumping them in and out to the tune of your broken whines and gasps for air. It's a gradual process. A coded, mastered technique well-baked into his mind, his heart, and his hardware. 

Of course, he's long since learned just how to make you fall apart. He has studied you, he's proceeded to subconsciously store your data in the most important vault in his mind. It is simply a matter of getting you there, of drawing out your pleas for him and your tremors and your pulses, to push you even further past your previous crescendos. 

You can always be louder. Finish harder. You deserve to. And when it comes to any and all of his endeavors, including this one, he is persistently, unquenchably ambitious. 

"Vik-" You're babbling, in a wavering voice he might logically, astutely label as precious. His quiet lab echoes with the whirr of various displays and devices. With your soft noises, echoing alongside the wet squelch his fingers make each time he presses them deeper. "Please, I just- I'm so- I want you so much-" 

"You have me," He answers rigidly. Prepared and intentional, his fingers move slower, drawing out your moans and your shudders of pleasure. "Or were you demanding more?" 

"I always want more with you." A faint, endearing pout forms on your features, the kind of look only he can draw from you. "Want- I want you to fuck me." 

It isn't anything of importance; just an aimless, desperate plea. The kind you might be expected to ask of him when you're in this state — your mind wandering, your body relaxed. You need fuel for your building fire, you need to hear him outline through words what he can't through actions. You cannot make him feel as you do, but Viktor is kind enough to let you play pretend. 

Though, for whatever strange, unrecognizable, illogical reason, he goes against the fixed line of actions he was previously adhering to, and he hesitates. He contemplates. He twitches, circuitry briefly inoperable, fuzzy and working against him. His center, his self-regulating core, hums with marginally more force than it did before. The hand he has pressed to your back trembles. It thrums with artificial, built-up heat, before he grips you much tighter. 

Fortunately, he rediscovers his composure as quickly as it waned. Viktor quirks his fingers into your sweet spot to make you cry out for him, and then he drags them half-way out — every moment agonizingly slow, so he can admire the way the digits glisten in the lamplight. 

"Filthy little thing." His voice is thick. His words are stern, making you picture how his jaw might be tightened. "I am already providing you everything you asked for, and yet still, you act greedy. Human desire is terribly intemperate." 

"As if-" You're squirming, sweating, your hair a mess, warm gaze and moon-wide pupils locked onto his obscured face. "As if you feel nothing from this." 

"I cannot feel. You are well aware of this reality. I suggest you do not continue to persuade yourself otherwise." 

"Bullshit." 

"In fact, I do feel nothing." Viktor brings his thumb to your clit on his next press in, rubbing it roughly, circling it precisely. "I am incapable of experiencing desire," His fingers crook and spread. "Nor enjoyment." They pump slowly, while they stretch you around their shape. "Or affection." 

"But you were worried about me- fuck- when I went off on that stupid mission," You're mumbling, barely able to speak through ragged gasps for breath, "You were fretting over my safety. You- hah, you stopped everything you were doing just to check on me, because you felt relieved, you felt happy when you saw me walk in, didn't you?" 

Did he? 

Hours earlier, you returned to his doorstep, and he knew it was you from the way you knocked; he put aside the small automaton he was working on, and hurried to meet you at the door. He gave you a quick once over — in this form, he is vastly larger and taller than you, to the point where you have to crane your neck to look up at him — but you assured him you hadn't been injured. When you fell against his armored chest in something of an embrace, he didn't push you away. Nor did he protest when you pulled his heavy, bulky shape on top of you as you fell back against the nearest surface, his additional sensors picking up your already increasing breathing and heart rate. 

He recalls your arms around him, hands tugging at his cape, removing sections of his armor, fingers threading through his hair. Soft lips pressing to cold steel — 

Viktor tenses. You are plenty capable on your own, capable enough that he rarely considers whether or not you'll return. You always do, after all. This mission was considerably riskier, though. Considerably more worrisome. 

If anything had happened to you, if he discovered you were injured or captured or worse, his subsequent reaction would be less than logical. His mental processes would malfunction, and he would lose the ability to think rationally. The stifling, unstoppable force that would build within him could be compared to something like rage, something like love. 

You swallow thickly, and the room swirls around you in a dizzy haze as Viktor slowly pulls his fingers from you. Leaving you empty. 

He murmurs, "Look at me." 

It's a little difficult of a command to follow, with your head spinning and your eyes all heavy. Still, you force yourself to breathe deeply, to steady, in the wake of the sudden lack of attention. 

You look up, and his hand, fingers slick and filthy, momentarily moves to grasp your chin. He tilts you towards him, to make sure you're watching. Viktor reaches up, and he presses a mechanism on the side of his mask. It hisses, releasing air, small puffs of steam streaming from either side. 

He removes it tentatively. He tosses it aside with a bit less caution, causing it to clink, spin, and nearly fall when it hits the upper edge of the table. 

You're met with messy brown hair, scarred skin, and familiar moles. The entirety of his jaw is made of metal, reconstructed into intricately crafted steel that continues down his neck and underneath his armor. His skin is overly pale, to the point where you can notice deep eye bags, and the criss-crossings of several individual, purple-hued veins. His expression is stern and deadpan, his brows slightly creased. He takes you in, gaze flickering down for a moment, then back up — and searing eyes, dark purple pools and bright orange suns, finally meet your own. 

"Your legs," He's instructing; his voice, no longer filtered through the mask, sounds warmer, clearer, a little less deep. Despite everything, terribly familiar, and blissfully human. "Place them around me." 

Unable to stifle a smile, you lift your thighs, casually locking them around his back at the ankles. You rarely get to see his face, and it's impossible to keep your eyes off of him, nor can you stop your heart from pounding. Viktor returns your gaze, cold and unflinching. It's like he's examining you, regarding you with the same restrained interest as he'd have for the subjects of his experiments. 

"There you are," You're cooing, head tilting, "Vitya."

Viktor's expression finally shifts from his usual indifference, his brows scrunching up to form a slightly irritated scowl. 

"Defiant again. As expected." 

"You used to like it when I called you that. Am I not allowed to tease you now?" You're laughing, and your smaller frame, still pinned underneath him, shifts somewhat when he loosens his grasp on your wrists. A faint amount of mercy. You offer him one of those radiant smiles he can't stand — can't resist. "You can be such a hypocrite." 

"Open your mouth," Viktor sneers coldly, "So it can be put to better use." 

With a firm, metal hand, he holds the curve of your soft side, measuring your individual tremors, paying attention to the steady movement of your lungs. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your lips. Your breath hitches, and your mouth forms a line. You can't help but roll your eyes. 

"I can just leave, you know," You mutter, your voice still playful, yet noticeably a few volumes lower. "But I'm guessing you don't want me to." 

Funny. You seem to think you could escape from his grasp. 

"Open. Your. Mouth. Before I give in, and do something I shouldn't." 

"I'm not-" 

Your protest fizzles out into a surprised noise and a subsequent sigh; Viktor grabs you, he pulls you closer in tandem with surging forwards, and his mouth promptly crashes into yours. 

Finally. 

The kiss tastes sharp, like iron and ash, like something distinctly him when his tongue slowly brushes against yours. You allow your eyes to close — but Viktor hardly leaves you any room for air as he practically devours you. It's deep, enthralling, and clumsy. Needy, on your end, and hungry on his. The kind of kiss that possesses you, consumes you. Your mind is dizzy, your breath is gone, but you need to kiss him more than you need to breathe. 

You melt into him gently, naturally. Like you were always meant to. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheek: a motion far too soft, far too important. 

When he pulls away, finally giving you some breathing room, your eyes immediately meet. Your chest is heaving, your heart warm and pounding to a tempo made just for him. His gaze is once again sharp, once again perfectly composed. 

You miss the softness of his lips already. "Vik." 

And he needs you, needs more of you. He's wanted to feel your lips against his for far longer than you or even he could have realized. Since those days when you were both young and stupid, when you vowed to achieve your dreams together. As though your gentle voice pleading his name is just tender enough to push him over a metaphorical edge, to flip some hidden switch in his complex mechanics — He kisses you again, again, again. 

All of this, it isn't meant for him. It is unfathomably human, from the way you breathe fervently against his mouth; stuttered breaths, quicker than his, heavier than his own could ever be. To the way he touches you, a half-machine's best imitation of intimacy. His still-human palm moves to brush your neck, then glides further to hold the back of your head. Your body is all awkward limbs and soft edges and smooth skin, but you fit underneath him oh-so perfectly. 

He can't stop. It doesn't seem real; Viktor imagines he must have fallen into a different reality, he's in a different body with a different, mortal heart. None of this makes an ounce of logical sense otherwise. Then again, when do you ever make sense? 

He can't focus on anything but your lips on his — because for a few fleeting moments, he isn't defined by metal and machinery; he is himself. He is a mess of muddled thoughts and imperfect touches. Your legs around his back pull his figure closer to yours, and you have him wondering what it might entail without any steel in the way. Just skin against skin. 

It'd be impossible for him to feel such a thing, when there's little skin left. His entire arm, his legs, his torso, his spine; they've since been replaced, improved upon. Is this the closest he'll ever get to you, to love? 

Waves upon waves of warmth wash over you, they drown you, they envelop you. Even once Viktor has finally pulled apart from you with one last soft kiss, you still aren't able to breathe. Your heart pounds against your ribs, so fiercely it almost hurts. 

He settles back above you, and as you calm again, he holds your gaze. His slender fingers move to trace the column of your throat, where they not-so-subtly seek out your pulse. It's racing for him. He looks remarkably composed now, compared to how disheveled you're sure you appear. 

Gently, he trails his hand upwards. His thumb swipes your kiss-swollen bottom lip. Your mouth parts instinctually, allowing him to carefully press the digit into your warm mouth, onto your wet tongue. 

"Do not leave," Viktor murmurs, an analytical edge already returning to his tone, in spite of what transpired between you. He pulls his thumb from your mouth, brushing it over your bottom lip again, smearing your lips with your saliva. "Stay for tonight." 

"Are you asking? Or is that a demand?" Your breath on his skin is foggy and hot. When it's clear he isn't going to answer, his gaze regarding you inquisitively, you propose another question. Your hands clench, they briefly push against the unyielding grip of his Hexclaw. "Will you let my hands go now?" 

"Tsk. Only if you are capable of keeping them to yourself." 

"C'mon…" You hum disappointedly. He appears routinely unaffected by your pouting. So, you change your approach. 

You shuffle, trying to get more comfortable. The table beneath you feels especially firm. "What if I say please? Is that what you're looking for?" 

"Go ahead. It will not affect my decision." 

"Seriously? But I want to touch you. You're so pretty." 

Viktor hesitates, but only briefly. He senses the whirring in his chest, the usual hum of his augmented components. Substitutions where imperfect pieces should be, strength replacing frailty, mechanics coming to life once more as his mind becomes forcibly unclouded. His systems are working as usual again. All it took to experience a malfunction was your lips on his, and all he needed to do to rebuild his composure was pull away. And you are still a gasping, heavy-eyed mess. 

Still, there is something troubling him. The same illogical functions that've been prodding at his mind since the very beginning. Lingering errors. Faults in his perfected frame. When he looks at you now, he strongly senses the push and pull of those inaccuracies. 

If he allows you to touch him, each framework, every mechanism — Everything he's been carefully constructing might come crashing down. 

Would that be so bad? 

Pretty. How ridiculous. Viktor scoffs, his jaw tensing up, his next words arbitrary. "Most are afraid when they look at me." 

Perhaps they should be. Perhaps you should be. 

But you just smile, your expression growing soft as you tilt your head, and you answer in earnest: "I don't think I've ever been scared of you." 

Again, there goes his worthless, thrumming, obsolete heart. 

You should be afraid of a man who's designed himself to fit an image you no longer recognize. You shouldn't try to get so close to him, when his compulsive obsession to destroy and remake borders on a clear line of danger. This new chassis embodies perfection. It has long since relinquished any weaknesses, but if you detested him, he wouldn't blame you. Others are reluctant to embrace his vision, save for a select, fortunate few. You and him have history. History that would make seeing him like this rather difficult, he assumes. 

Usually, Viktor is able to keep any oversights from throwing him off course. He can't be distracted from achieving his goals. The people of Zaun need him. This new body poses no hindrances. Pain doesn't disrupt him; it can be turned out, like anything else. Pain of the body, and pain of the heart. 

You, though. Any thoughts he has of you start as small blips. Tiny, persistent sparks. They build overtime, burning brighter, hotter. Until he sees you, and you look just like how you did back then, so, so long ago. There are tired lines on your face, faint scars, and he knows they're his fault. All at once, his mind is threatening to become a mess of discordant, fraying parameters, of processes that are refusing to function in the manner they should. 

He wants to keep you far, far away; far from him, from this lab. Far from this terrible, awful place you both grew up in. If he could, he'd have you go somewhere so very distant, where you couldn't distract him — where you could be happy and free. You will see the sky, feel the sun's warmth, and breathe fresh, cool air. It'd be what's best for you. And he will continue to further his endeavors in evolution. Alone, as intended. 

But ultimately, no matter what he winds up doing to his mind or his body, he would think of you. Of holding you or unmaking you, sometimes he isn't sure which. If you were truly afraid, if you ran, he wouldn't follow on your heels. But along with you, you'd take a piece of himself, a faint trace he would never get back; for better, or for worse. 

Viktor listens to the sound of your breathing: steady, deep. His gaze studies you, but it lingers on your eyes for longer than intended. You are still looking up at him, smiling, sparkling like a sky full of stars. As though he is a sky filled with stars. 

Your breaths become heavier when he presses his palm to the center of your chest. He drags his touch down, down. You are more sensitive this time, he notes. You lean into him once his hand caresses your pelvis, your waist, and you loosen your legs from around his back to become more comfortable. His fingertips trail up your inner thigh, and you shudder, you shiver. 

He thinks of kissing you once more. A couple times more, maybe. Proper judgment tells him he should resist. The thought remains there, lingering and burning between you. 

"Viktor…" You murmur, your voice a bit broken, but he's hanging onto every word. "Touch me again." 

Pleasant sensory inputs glow within him; tingling veins, reverberating wires. Overwhelming heat fills his shoulders, the back of his neck, his head — the heat of machinery, the warmth of his soul. 

Viktor grabs your waist assertively, metal fingers digging into your hip. His gaze doesn't waver from yours as he guides your thighs to spread. Suddenly, he pushes himself against you, until you are hopelessly pressed between steel and metal. Between him, and the worktable. 

You feel his weight, you feel the intricate ridges of metal plates and hard edges, the artificial heat of his much larger body radiating against your bare skin. Now, you are completely pinned, practically chest to chest, pressed underneath the Machine Herald so closely it's enough to make your head spin. You wonder if he can feel your heart beating. Perhaps he can hear it. Or maybe, he just knows your heart must be pounding for him, as it always does. 

Your limbs tremor with excitement. As his palm squeezes your thigh, you can't help but arch into his touch. Thin, skillful fingers press close and feel how wet you are — still so sensitive, already dripping out onto him. You aren't teased, you aren't even able to catch your breath, because two of his fingers are swiftly dipping inside you, giving you exactly what you need. 

It feels so right. Viktor reaches for your cheek. He encourages you to continue meeting his gaze when your eyes flutter and nearly close. 

Your gaze on his, you let his name leave your mouth in a series of sharp gasps, and desperate pleas. He fills you slowly, but wastes no time building a rhythm; his fingers pump into your sensitive cunt gently, then methodically. Satisfied, Viktor hums, and he carefully shifts his other arm down. He holds your back as it arches, further pressing you against himself. 

Now, the way he pleasures you is deliberate, it isn't enough, but Gods, you'll take anything he gives you. 

"That name," Viktor starts, speaking in a smooth, level tone, perfectly contrasting the airy huffs and whines you utter for him. The name he hoped to relinquish, his name. "It sounds best when you are pleading it." 

You smile through a soft moan. "It's my favorite. Such a sweet name." 

Precisely, determinedly, his fingers crook into the spot within you he knows all too well, and you crumble, you sob. 

"The tech you brought to me will accelerate the completion of our latest prototype," Viktor is explaining, matter-of-factly. As though the conversation is as simple as it is necessary. Like he doesn't have his large body shoved against you, and his fingers knuckle-deep inside you. It just serves to excite you further, honestly. 

"I will install the heat core, and adjust its interior components accordingly. We could have its systems operational by tonight. However, I doubt I will be able to focus." 

You take a forced, deep breath. "Yeah? Because of me?" 

Obviously, he wants to say. You'll be here, staying in his lab, as you usually do after a tough afternoon or a previous sleepless night. He doesn't mind. Your chatter might occasionally be disruptive to his work, but your voice is nice, it is calming. Your presence itself might be a distraction, an interference that his mind tells him he should discard, but having you here is a nice change of pace, compared to the long, lonesome hours he's grown used to. He has never minded. 

Sleep is less of a necessity for him. Resting for a handful of hours a few times per week is usually enough to keep himself operational. The torn leather couch he keeps in his quarters is there just for you. He no longer needs to eat in the typical sense, although he still needs to recharge burned energy. He keeps stocked up on the foods he remembers to be your favorites. 

It's strange, out of everything he's forgotten, he still remembers such useless, trivial details. Each and every detail about you. 

Without you, this space — the adjustments he's made to accommodate your presence, the dip in the couch from where you always sleep, your articles of clothing strewn over the floor and the couch arms. His lab would feel so empty. 

His next words sound much gentler than usual. Warmer, more desperate. 

"Because your voice will not leave my mind. Begging for me. Breaking for me," Viktor murmurs. He nudges his fingers against your walls, testing, teasing you. "Pleading my name." 

Once more, he challenges your limits; his fingers slide into you deep, so deeply you can feel them everywhere. Nudging at your core, filling you perfectly. As if on queue, you whimper a broken plea of yes, and as your eyes flutter, you're cascading into a needy mess of pleasant, shaky gasps. You writhe, your pinned hands trembling, wishing for something to hold onto. Though, he keeps you in place underneath him, blissfully unrelenting. 

"Say it," Viktor demands, "My name. Tell me who it is you need." 

"Viktor," Your voice is light, clumsy and slurring slightly, but in the way you say his name, there's an unmistakable lilt of pure adoration. You need him, you need to feel him everywhere: his practiced touch, his soft skin, his steel-built anatomy. You want him to not have to leave you, to not need to choose between you and the Undercity's future. 

You feel completely, utterly dizzy. You want so much. You want his hands, flesh or metal, to study every intricate inch of you. You want him to stop holding back, you need the both of you to make up for the stupid amount of time you've lost — "I- hhah- I want…" 

With your eyes nearly shut, static and stars flickering at the edges of your vision, you hadn't noticed how close he'd become until Viktor's voice echoes warmly, right against the shell of your ear. 

"You want me to fuck you?" 

And holy shit, his tone is sultry, his accent is thick — you shiver so hard you're sure he's left feeling the aftershocks, your body still pressed up right against his, even through his layers of metal armor. Viktor doesn't stop the steady pace of his fingers, pumping and arching and working you so well. Nor does he quit speaking, simply because he knows this is what you want to hear. What you need to hear. 

"You are insatiable," He scolds, although there's little emotion in his level tone. Just an obvious, already-known sense of acknowledgement. His voice is a thousand times more intense when it is curling directly into your ear; "You wish for me to render you even more weak than you currently are, so you can be shown exactly who you belong to? Oh, and how I'd fuck you. How I would take you. I would make a mess of you, I'm sure. You'd be begging to be given all of me. To be used by me." 

It's merely theoretical, a set of fake promises and dirty words to put pleasant visualizations into your mind — calculated, like everything he pursues. And it works. Predictably, your entire body shudders with pure, forceful need. You pulse around his fingers, throbbing like a heartbeat. You sob, and try to twist to face him, although it's impossible, considering you're still tightly pinned beneath his figure. 

You want to see his face, he figures, so Viktor shifts up. He re-puts himself in the center of your vision, and you glance towards him, eyes flickering across his face; your gaze on his is practically teary-eyed. Desperate and eager, you find ways to plead without words. 

You want to let go. Of course you do — always forced to be strong, you need nothing more than to melt at the hands of the last person left in Zaun that you trust. Even if he is more machine than person. Even though he is not right for you. 

For a moment all too brief, Viktor wonders what it would be like to push those boundaries. To truly have you, beneath his hands and in his heart, to feel you resounding beside him like the echoes of a rippling, rolling wave. 

How would he take you? No, how would you want him? 

He formulates a few possible outcomes. Perhaps you'd want him hard and desperately. You need to be put in your place, to feel him as close as he could possibly be while he molds you to his shape. You want to be obedient. A good little subject. You want to be called good, very, very good for him while he pounds you into the table, or maybe while he leans back, glowing, masked eyes focused solely on you, your hands gripping his armored shoulders so you can bounce on his lap however you'd like. The Machine Herald's perfect little pawn. He wagers with such filthy actions and words, he could make you even louder than this. 

You'd be pinned underneath him, and instead of his fingers, he'd fill you with all of himself — carnal and raw. Warm and sweat-soaked. Yet still, your body pressed to his would be agonizingly tender. 

Or maybe you'd want him in a different way. In a much softer way. 

Tenderness has never been afforded to him, it's hardly a concept he knows, but perhaps it's what he once hoped for. With you, it's what he once pictured. 

Every touch would be slow, delicate. Your hands interlocked. Bodies pressed together, galaxies against galaxies. So close, they could be mistaken for the same shape. He would learn you truly, and honestly. Warm and gentle, you would touch him soft enough to make him human again. 

Your voice would beg for him, whispering sweet nothings into his ears, against his form. Useless, perfect declarations of love. Viktor shudders. He imagines your hands, pretty and delicate, brushing the space between his shoulder and his steel spine. Feeling his scarred skin, alighting fiery sensations he assumed he'd long since lost. 

Compared to who he was before, he is much stronger. He must be strong, must be forged of grit and iron, he must not submit to worthless, human desires. But you make him oh-so weak. 

He isn't supposed to be weak. 

"Please," You're gasping. You are barely able to speak at this point, babbling sweetly between broken noises as he fucks you on his fingers; it's just enough to make you shut your eyes and imagine more. "Fuck- Vik- Oh, p-please…" 

Splintering, throbbing with mechanical heat, his inner workings surge with a sublime abundance of molten, unbridled energy. Burning, it's burning him up from the inside, melting him down and making him fragile. 

You've gone fuzzy beneath him — No, his vision is fuzzy. Your edges are blurred, your chest is heaving as his fingers barely leave you before pressing back in. His hand adjusts, allowing his thumb to brush your puffy clit on the next press in. When you whimper his name, as you've done countless times before, he swears he sees nothing but flickering, colorless static. 

Burning and heightening and building, he must be malfunctioning, experiencing crucial gaps in his design. This shouldn't be happening. He should not feel, and this isn't feeling, but there is something building inside of him, something with your name on it. 

No, no, your name is flickering through him, pounding against his mind like a drum, and he has to establish control. He has to fucking fix this. 

He needs to be closer, so much closer. He needs you in an unexplainable, all encompassing way. In a way that shouldn't be occurring. He doesn't want anything, he can't experience the sensation of wanting because it isn't meant to exist. 

Truthfully, he's past the point of no return, and you might be all that's left to hold him in place. Impossible. The only thing he's ever desired is progress, evolution. Improvement is what matters. Improving, fixing, augmenting. 

You are going to be the death of him. He needs to be pressed against you, holding you, in you, examining your inner workings, guiding you to reach your true potential — 

Something snaps. 

"Do you know," Viktor grasps your face, roughly tilting you in his direction. The newfound harshness to his tone is exhilarating. "How impossible it is to resist breaking you?" 

He laughs, the sound sharp, almost chilling; his smile is crooked, barely recognizable, showing off even more crooked teeth. His gaze holds your own until it practically burns into you. His body is hot. To the point of overheating. You feel the heated metal against your skin, pressing to your chest, your thighs, faint puffs of searing steam pouring out from gaps in the plating. 

The grip his Hexclaw has on your wrists is so tight it nearly hurts. But it's faltering, his hands are twitching. He seems to recognize he might be hurting you, and so he lifts off of you slightly, he forces himself to loosen his hold. 

There's a sound coming from him that echoes like grinding gears, like the hiss of burning filaments. Like something is crumbling. Fighting against itself. 

"It is all I have ever known, milaya." Viktor lets go of something akin to a sigh, although he has no need to breathe. He is utterly ruined — the poor excuse for a heart he once placed between his ribs is aching, shuddering with the anticipation of a touch, soaring with the softness that comes with a kiss. Is this what it feels like to be dizzy, to be lovesick? 

You shudder as his thumb rubs your clit, and he digs his metal fingers into your side, feeling the space just beneath your ribs. "You will soon understand," He murmurs, "And if you are incapable, I am still willing to teach you. To make you into so much more." 

There's a stirring in his chest at that, at the thought of completing you; a deep-rooted abnormality he can't quite pinpoint. Is it excitement? Guilt? Lust? 

You swallow. You're crumbling, as he sends tingles through your veins in the wake of more enthralling words. 

"You are mine. Your fundamental place is at my side." Viktor senses the building heat of his inner workings, a deep wave rolling up from his constructed spine to settle onto the back of his neck. Building, burning, breaking. "I cannot wait to unmake you." 

Pulling you apart would be delightful. 

Your pieces would be disassembled, separated by each individual, pretty, dizzying section, so you could be redone carefully, gently, with a sense of tenderness only he could manage. He wants to understand you. To know exactly what makes you tick, down to your most basic of functions. To be close. Indistinguishable, the both of you made from the same materials. If you were constructed in his image, your components marked by his influence, there would be no doubt who you belong to. 

Through breaking you and mending you, he wonders if he could find new ways to make you sing. You'd relax under each touch, shuddering and breathing his name as he completes your newfound enhancements. Gazes locking. Touches lingering. Metal soldering. Viktor trembles. Gods, how he wants you. 

Furthering your potential and heightening your pleasure both require similar sentiments. Trust, and vulnerability. Opening your chest to watch your heart pound for him is the same as measuring your hitching breaths, growing heavier the deeper and faster he presses his fingers into you. 

Because delicately pulling you apart just to put you back together is some metaphor for intimacy. Carving out a space for you within the confines of his fake heart is some synonym for tenderness. Holding onto his memories of you, replaying everything he can't quite forget to the point of near insanity — to the point where he attempted to forcibly remove you, by removing those emotions. Only to fail. Feeling these sensations for you when he shouldn't is some form of devotion. 

You shouldn't feel for him either, right? 

Having you there from the very beginning meant something; you were beside him when he only dreamed of becoming someone greater. When his ideas for evolution were just prototypes, when he first put the full extent of his weight onto both his legs. Didn't it mean the world to you too? 

You were equally misunderstood. By your peers, by the world. Just as you believed in him, he saw light in you, from the very start. He thinks you could burn bright enough to melt anyone who stands in your way. And now, years down the line, when he is seen as less than human, you only see him. Not what he's become. It's infuriating. It's unmistakably loving. 

You are panting. Getting close. Your bottom lip quivers, and your body tenses, each shudder more forceful than the last. His fingers echo a filthy, wet sound each time they pump into you, and your back is arching, you are simply begging to fall apart around him. For him, because of him. You deserve to. 

And you sing, voice trembling like plucked strings, "Just p-please. You can do whatever you want to me, I trust you- I've always trusted you. Vik, I need you. I'm yours. All yours." 

All his. 

Whatever he turns into, whatever becomes of his body, memories, and heart, you would still follow. No matter what his goal might be; to destroy this city for what it did to the both of you, or to work in unison to try and remake it. Or perhaps, he plans to become more. An example of perfection. A God. As if he isn't one already. 

The first time he touched you, when he felt the softness of your skin and heard the plea in your voice, and knew you were in his heart still, still, wasn't it akin to a prayer? 

Oh, he is going to unravel you. 

Viktor allows his grip on your wrists to finally, fully loosen; his Hexclaw presses flatly to the table, helping to support his weight. Relaxing, you exhale a deep breath, but you don't hesitate for long. Your arms waste no time wrapping around him, pulling him close. When you kiss him, a hand cradling his cheek like he is something breakable, and not a perfected piece of unstoppable machinery, the tender press of your lips to his feels undoubtedly inevitable. 

All he knows is since the day he pretended to forget about you, when he decided to become something more, his new heart beat steadily, his enhanced mind was clear. But his systems wouldn't stop buzzing. 

When he hardly knew where you were or what state you'd return to him in, the noise grew sharper. Fervently pulling, Hextech whirring, unsated electricity sizzling like fireworks underneath his skin. Having you in his arms once more only made the static form so thick, he thought his mental processes might completely go haywire. All he knows is that now, as he's kissing you, feeling your lips on his, your body against his own, and your hands tangling through his hair — for once, the static is silent. Blissfully silent. 

And he kisses you, harder than before. Softer than anything and everything. 

"Faster-" You're pleading brokenly against his mouth, between breathy kisses, your voice echoing through him, "More." 

Faster, harder, more. Whatever you desire, he's going to give it to you. Viktor mumbles, "Of course." 

Finally able to move, you hook one leg around his waist, you use it to drag him in even closer. You rock into his hand when his fingers spread and crook inside you, and you grab tight, messy fistfuls of his hair. His lips on yours, kissing you over and over, leave you little room to breathe. 

Once you've pulled away, you're gasping for air, and his gaze fixates on yours: examining, devouring. Viktor takes note of your every movement. How you grind into his fingers when his thumb teases your clit, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, brows pinched. How you fall back against the table when the sensations overwhelm you, eyes shut and limbs weak. Pulsing and tensing around him, so sensitive. So close to falling apart. 

Your arms wrap around him again, and he tries to keep the pace of his fingers steady, while you begin placing hurried kisses to his cheek, his neck. You kiss the side of his face, soft lips on soft skin. Then, your lips continue down, they press to his steel jaw. He tilts his head to let kisses fall over the expanse of metal that runs down his neck. Tingling phantom sensations curl into him and split him open. 

"Close," You're muttering, so quiet he nearly doesn't hear. You hold him as tight as you can manage. Your breath is warm on the side of his face, tickling his skin, making him feel even warmer within. 

"You are close?" He repeats for confirmation; his hand finds your side, and you grip his shoulders, hands brushing over thick plates of metal, desperately searching for something to hold onto. Your nails dig in, firm enough that he thinks the steel might chip. Viktor breathes a slight laugh, "You sound so sweet." 

"So- I'm getting so-" You swear, "Oh, f-fuck…" 

The only way he might quench what's come over him and steady his systems is by watching you come apart. Pleading his name, while you melt into a needy puddle of all the emotions and pleasant sensations he could never let himself have. Brought to your peak by his touch, his voice, because you are his, all his. 

Viktor's free hand traces up, cool steel carefully finding your collarbone, your neck. Then, his fingers are wrapping around. He squeezes your throat just barely, just how you like, enough to make you fall back with your arms sprawled above you. Your head is perfectly dizzy, as his fingers work you steadily, his thumb flicking your needy clit much faster. Pushing you closer, closer. 

Until it's far too much, and you are at his mercy, guided right to the edge of an exhilarating, electrifying precipice. 

"Let go. I have you," Viktor instructs, "Let yourself submit." 

Everything you've been building towards, all of his touches, all of this ecstasy, and how terribly you've missed him coalesces into this. Into a single, shuddering moment, waves upon waves of pleasure pushing you over the waterfall's edge. You're melting, cumming hard for him, your arms shaking, until he's removing his hand from your throat and giving you something to grab onto — delicate fingers laced with thick, strong, metal ones. Perfectly contrasting. 

Your vision goes white. Your body tenses and then goes limp, like you've been shut down. The high is forceful, before it becomes soft, ebbing over you with gradual warmth, his hand in yours enough to steady you. Heart pounding, you take quick, loud breaths. 

You can't help but feel disappointed when Viktor's hand releases yours to return to your waist. He holds you carefully, cold fingers brushing your skin reassuringly. Every touch feels deliciously raw, alight and sensitive. 

Your eyes open slowly. Viktor's hair is a mess in his face, likely caused by you. He seems flushed, if only slightly. His unflinching gaze flickers across your form, before it settles back on your eyes. 

"Breathe," He instructs carefully, gently. His hand grips your side a bit tighter; he's clearly affected by the way you sigh. You do your best to follow along, the aftershocks fading as your pulse slows, and as you start to calm. 

"There. Excellent, you have done so well," Viktor praises. He smiles slightly in satisfaction. "You have never been this breathless." 

Whatever words you could've formed in response don't come. They can't, not when his fingers are still inside you; not when Viktor is pressing them into your sensitive cunt just barely, squeezing your side as he delights in the way you whine. Pleasure, white-hot and familiar, surges through you fiercely. 

It's so much, it's so much, it's too much, he's already fucking you with his fingers, and before you can fully wind down, you're swiftly building towards another high. Your body needs this. You just aren't sure if you can take it. 

"Ah- shit," You murmur; reaching up, you tangle both hands in his hair, gripping tight for leverage. His expression remains infuriatingly calm. "I want- I need more. It feels so good, Vik," You're practically purring those last words, your whole body shuddering through another wave of ecstasy. "But I don't- I'm not sure if I-" 

"You can." Viktor interrupts, assured and composed. "You can cum for me as many times as I dictate." 

You're smirking now, obediently spreading your trembling thighs wide, while you roll your hips into his touch; his fingers are so thick, so impossibly, perfectly deep — "Hah- and you said I'm the insatiable one." 

"Yes. You are the most insatiable human I have ever known. And it would seem you are particularly insatiable with me." 

"You were once- Oh-" 

Your head falls back as Viktor nudges that sweet, tender spot inside you, and your body becomes limp once more. 

He takes the opportunity to bring the Hexarm's hand to your cheek. It's large enough to eclipse your face, the same way it was big and strong enough to easily pin both your wrists in its grasp. The heat radiating from the metal makes your eyes briefly flutter, before he trails it down to your throat. Perfectly responsive, your eyes grow heavy. He provides you with your favorite, much-needed pressure. 

You've watched him use this very same hand to solder metal and create machinery. The device could heat to a temperature a thousand times hotter than it is now, it's capable of firing off a single ray of concentrated energy potent enough to slice through steel. And he has that hand wrapped right around your neck. 

Fuck, that shouldn't excite you. It shouldn't have you quivering more and whimpering, shaking while you try your best to keep meeting his eyes, all because you so desperately want to hear him speak again. Praising you — You are doing so well for me, so pliant, so adorable. Or scolding you — Pathetic, aren't you? Quivering like a rabbit, and all it took was a little brush with danger. You are amusing. 

Whichever he prefers. Because Viktor is so much stronger, so much smarter, and it hardly matters what he chooses to say, when any and all of it still gets you off. 

Deep within your heart, you know he'd never hurt you. He would take away your pain if you asked it of him, so you wouldn't have to feel it again. His words can be sharp, simply because he wants to protect you. He wouldn't even attempt to put his hand on your throat like this if he didn't have complete, total control over the Hexclaw's laser. Carefully, he observes your every movement for any sign of discomfort, calculating and controlling each aspect of your pleasure — and it only serves to make your heart pound faster. 

Of course, he can tell when you start to truly shake. He knows every inch of you is melting with overstimulation, and he's going to give you more. 

"Take it. I know you are capable." His voice gives you goosebumps, while his fingers press into you shallowly, but the smallest movements are more than enough to make a mess of you. "There, perfect, you are performing excellently. Relax. Continue breathing deeply, nice and slow breaths. I will take care of you, love." 

Love. 

"Don't-" You choke, trying to keep your eyes on his despite the way your vision wavers and blurs; your reaction is immediate, predictable, and instantly satisfying. "Don't stop…" 

You're beautiful like this, when you're underneath him. Since his enhancements, compared to his new body, you are now much smaller. He had to learn to adjust to the touches you need, to be gentle. Like you once were with him. Your roles, reversed in such a crucial way. You are undoubtedly strong in your own right, but when it comes to him, you are as sensitive as you are receptive. He needed to study how to keep from holding you too tightly, how to regulate his temperature to not burn your skin underneath his hands. 

You are a pretty sculpture of quivering limbs and glistening skin. Your chest heaving, eyes fluttering. As beautiful as you were back then, before this. Before he lost the warmth he felt in his chest every time he saw you, before feelings on their own became mere faded memories. His iron consequence, locking away his dying love. 

He gives you another. Three fingers press inside your dripping cunt, stretching you, filling you. A hand grips your side, his third lightly squeezing your throat — he works your pleasure for all it's worth, and has you gasping as he wrings out your aftershocks. 

Viktor's mouth can't help but twitch into the slightest smile. "Look at you. You are worthy of the world." 

He would give it all to you. 

The Machine Herald will have this city in his hands. His vision is moving fast and accomplishing much, so it is only a matter of time. If you wanted more, he'd just have to reach even further. Relinquishing his human emotions left him without the need to be happy, nor content. But you, your happiness, keeping you safe, seeing you smile. It is stupid, foolish, doesn't make sense; his mechanics stutter, until he thinks he is choking on his own contradictory tenderness. 

His body is betraying his mind. There is heat at his center, more than the normal amount emitted by his internal components. A very human, very filthy amount of heat. His skin underneath his armor is flushed and warm, his chest is aching from the weight of your heavy destruction. You are destroying him, and he can do nothing but allow it. 

"I missed you," You murmur earnestly, voice weak, close to shattering. Your eyes are closed. Why, why are those words making his hands and his limbs and his heart shudder? "I missed you so bad- don't stop, keep fucking me Viktor- don't, please don't stop talking…" 

Is that what you're imagining? 

So he doesn't stop. 

As you fall back against the table, Viktor removing the Hexclaw and letting go of your neck, he leans in to speak right against your ear. "I am proud of you, lubov. Infiltrating Piltover must not have been simple. You brought me more than I required, you did so with much efficiency. And you returned to me safely. Allow me to reward you. Fall apart for me, cum like I know you so desperately need to." 

Your body curls, your hands move to his shoulders and grip them impossibly tight in an attempt to keep yourself steady. "Vik- Viktor-" You're gasping, you're close, "Kiss me, please kiss me-" 

His hand holds your chin, the cool, rigid steel of his thumb swipes over your bottom lip; teasing you, making you whimper. Sliding further, into your mouth, until you're tasting the sharpness of metal. Until you're gently sucking, feeling the intricately crafted notches and joints on your tongue. When he pulls it out and kisses you hard, when his lips press to yours and your high-pitched moans become muffled on his mouth, you cum on his fingers hard enough to see the afterimage of stars. 

He's trailing kisses down your jaw while you pulse around him, your thighs shaking, your head tilting to let his mouth find your throat. In the wake of his soft kisses, his foggy breath, you melt, and fully succumb to your shuddering high. 

Working you back down is a slow, patient process. A kiss onto your neck for every gasp you take in, the feeling of gentle teeth once your body starts to fully relax. Everything you've wanted, everything you missed; far too tender for who he's become. 

There are faint marks on your neck by the time he pulls away. Signs he was there. Proof he is softer than he is meant to be. 

You could stop here. Instead, the next few moments happen in their own special space of reality. 

Away from this city, away from his lab. A different plane made for just the two of you. Your mind feels dizzy, heavy. Viktor meets your gaze, momentarily scanning your face, waiting to make sure you've calmed. 

He is all you can think of, all that has ever mattered. And even when he is right here, you miss him so, so much. 

You tremble from the end of your spine to the top of your shoulders when he carefully pulls his fingers from you. He brushes his palm from your thigh to your side in one steady, soothing motion. You can feel the scars on his palm, the slight hesitant tremor to his still-slick fingers. You're reaching up, palm pressing to his chest. You absently feel the various ridges of metal. Smooth to the touch, armor radiating the faintest flickers of heat. 

He glances down, watching your movement as your palm brushes further, further. Delicate fingertips trail the dips and outlines that continue down his stomach. Eventually, you reach as far as your arm will let you, your fingers drawing circles onto the rib-like sections of steel crossing just above his hips. As he glances back up to you, he finds your soft, pleading gaze to be already looking at him. As sweet as he's always remembered. 

Your breathing is heavy. "Vik," You're begging, "We shouldn't- I'm sorry. This is stupid. I know we should stop, but…" 

He is going to regret this. 

Before he can stop himself, before his mind and his systems can even be led to form a single rational thought, Viktor is pressing the palm of his Hexarm just above your head, flat to the table. He is leaning over you, he is finding your cheek with a soft hand and a gentle touch. He's pulling you in, crashing his lips against yours, and he knows you're right — you shouldn't continue. He shouldn't allow this. 

Machines do not feel. The Machine Herald feels nothing, and wants for nothing besides evolution. But Gods, you're kissing him like his lips are a drug, all you need after wanting to kiss him for so, so long. Since before you both became dim shells of what you once were. Your legs are wrapping around him, your fingers are brushing his face with such devastating tenderness, and Viktor believes he is feeling everything. 

He's reaching down between your gasps for breath that make gaps in your kisses, and he's deftly activating a set of small, circular mechanisms on either of his sides. The armor on his chest unlatches with a clicking noise, platings becoming loose, unaligned. 

The larger, more cumbersome sections of his armor, including his gauntlets, cape, and shoulder pieces have been discarded from the start, making the portion of chest armor come off as two simple halves. He has to pull away, sit up straight, and partially slide off of you to remove it all the way. Both pieces of armor hit the ground with a particularly heavy thud. 

Most of his body has been replaced. Underneath the metal armor, there's just more metal; sections of iron that've been fused to replace muscle and skin, alloyed parts that reinforce his thin frame. 

You have only seen him like this once. He was fixing some miscalibrated platings on his side, a wrench in one hand, the Hexclaw's laser busy welding a suitable replacement. Two thirds machine, and one part still human, he was definitely much different from what you remembered. Still, there were small sections of pale skin on his back, split where his spine had been reconstructed. And jagged scars, adorned by faint, dark moles. His messy hair still falls around his face just like you remember it. 

You wanted to touch — he says he can't feel, but would he sense your fingertips as they traced his scars, would he shudder as your hands felt his skin? If you kissed what remained of him, his hand and each of his fingers, his back and each of those pretty moles, his chest down to his stomach, could you alight new sensations in him? 

You've never wanted to touch him more than in this moment. 

The bottom portion of his armor comes off much easier, leaving just the thick sections that cover his thighs down to his legs, including the steel brace mechanism. You're only able to catch the faintest glimpse, before he's pulling you into another deep kiss — a kiss that burns with every moment lost, his body pressing you against the table and beneath him. Your arms wrap around him, palms trailing across his back. 

As they've always longed for, your fingertips feel the back of his neck: the ridges and hard edges of his spine, the solid base of the Hexarm, his soft skin. Viktor physically shudders. When one of your hands tangles in his hair while the other falls, landing upturned beside you, he kisses you harder, he absently finds your hand and holds it in his. Your fingers lace together. His hand feels so warm, still slightly larger than yours. His skin is scarred, your thumb brushing over calloused knuckles and thin, purple veins. Every touch is so tender, earnest, human, it's nearly unbearable. Your hand was meant to be in his. Even if it won't last. 

It's a strange sensation, when his body presses ever closer to your own. Metal leads down from his navel, across to his pelvis, trailing underneath the armor on his thighs as one smooth, solid construction. Partially welded into his skin, but seemingly designed to make some sections removable. It is warm like the rest of him, designed with faint ridges and indents. 

Your legs, locked around him at the ankles, encourage him to press ever-closer. He devours you, kissing you deeper than you thought possible. You sigh against his mouth, and hold on tightly to his hair. His body rocks against yours in an instinctual, clumsy motion. Close, pressing, grinding. Warm metal and those perfect little ridges grind between your legs, against your core, against your clit. And you practically jolt. 

Oh. You break away from the kiss to toss your head back with a breathy, pretty noise. Pleasure threads through you, thick and unrelenting. 

Viktor mumbles something that barely registers in your ringing ears: Should stop, you manage to make out. And then, Are you alright? 

"Yes, I just-" You mumble, panting hard, "Don't. Don't stop." 

So Viktor grasps your waist in a tight, yet careful grip. His eyes never leave yours, gaze burning with a fire you've never once seen. He guides you to press against him, grinds his body against yours until you're making a mess of the metal. Until the faint ridges are nudging your swollen clit just right, until the heat of the iron is burning through you, into you, and your slick arousal is glistening on the steel. 

Your mind and heart are racing. 

"Oh, fuck-" You're swearing, your words surely seeming broken; he finds your cheek, he tilts your head up towards him, and you can't decide if the gesture is tender, or possessive. "I need you, I really, really do." 

His body feels as though he just touched the surface of the sun, and Viktor hardly knows if the warmth is coming from his overloaded systems, or if it's surrounding him, heat drawn thickly from the friction between the two of you. Perhaps it's a mix of both. 

Either way, he is losing himself. It's all happening so terribly fast; when his body rolls against yours, and you whimper through a filthy utterance of his name, there is a clear, undeniable response. A tingling in his veins, an eager sensation that shoots from his back to his chest to his core, consuming everything like a wildfire, and threatening to envelop all of him. 

He doesn't even know what to do with this. How to silence these disruptions, how to get his stupid brain to stop picturing you shuddering beneath his form as he presses against you, presses inside you, and brands every inch of you with his own name — 

"Milaya," Viktor hums, and you swear, his tone sounds lighter, his voice sounds strained. "I have always needed you. I'm not- No, I want- I shouldn't…" 

Trailing off when you cry out, he swallows. His thumb brushes your bottom lip as he continues to guide you towards him. Sweat beads on your chest, your thighs. He instructs, partially shakily, "Keep looking at me. Please." 

You've rarely heard him stutter or falter, never seen him anywhere close to worked up. You hardly knew if he had the capacity to feel this way, even though he certainly wasn't built to, even though he definitely isn't supposed to. And isn't it all because of you? 

The way your gaze locks with his as he rhythmically rocks against you has your heart skipping beats. There's a slight softness to his cold eyes, to his expression, that you're sure no-one else has seen before. Not since back then. You are impossible to resist, and this definitely needs to stop, this is definitely too far — it's going even further when your hand reaches down, fingertips clumsily tracing the edges of the metal seared into his navel. 

He knows what you want. You're greedy, a glutton for punishment, a sweet, terrible fool. But if he's honest with himself, perhaps he is worse. You are pleading his name again, the sound echoing unendingly in his ears, and Viktor is removing the front-most section of the metal enhancement: a thin plate that forms a triangular shape from his hips, all the way down. 

When he presses against your form, the next sensation to bleed into you is much different. It's smooth, soft latex, shoving against you. The last layer remaining between you and him and — 

And you can feel him. Straining hard and heavy against his underclothes. Firm and warm as he rocks into you, grinding all of him onto your throbbing cunt. You aren't thinking, you can't think anymore. Not when Viktor is hard, and when your heartbeat is so damn loud in your ears, you couldn't possibly hear anything else. 

"Viktor," You're murmuring, your chest pleasantly aching. Pleasure welds with emotion, walking the same shaky line, until your heart is unfurling with delicate petals that fill your throat sweetly, consuming you wholeheartedly, "I love you." 

If Viktor's mechanized heart was still capable of faltering from its pre-programmed rhythm, he's sure it would be fucking pounding. 

Every part of him is set alight. Burning, he feels smoke in his throat, and swears he tastes fire. He's overloading, practically overheating, like a fragile body trembling with need and want, like a system with too many programs open at once — and oh Gods, it just keeps opening more. His vision has long since gone blurry, and every sound in his ears is thick, as though he's been submerged in deep water. 

How long have you wanted to say those words? He thinks of quiet days spent with you in Piltover, the lingering glances and faint touches he tried his hardest to forget. 

How long has he needed to hear you say them? 

Honestly, he could cry, if he was at all still capable of crying. His mind is a mess. Heat is threading through his circuits, devotion and desire, a terrible softness; he's so soft inside, it hurts. It actually hurts, and he believed he taught himself how to forgo any pain. 

Electricity and faulty Hextech sizzle in his core, radiating, echoing. His damn foolish, worthless, synthetic heart. He needs to hold you, fuck you, break you. To encode this sensation into his head and his blood, because forgetting the way your voice strummed those words would be worse than admitting he is too weak to discard them. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

He doesn't deserve this. He was not built to love. Love should be thrown out, along with everything else. Love is a weakness. You may be fine with placing your heart on railway tracks, you might not think twice before putting yourself in danger, but if anything were to happen to you, he might be entirely consumed. 

With his mechanized existence, he could soon become immortal. This longing would surely stick with him after you're gone, an eternity of something he could never understand. Swallowing him whole, holding onto him tight. Endlessly painful. But right now, when he is here and stuck in a dream at the same time, when he is more of himself than he has ever been, and you are all that exists in his veins, could he ever manage to stop? 

You are so close to so much more. So close to ruining everything — just one last layer, one more touch. One movement, one press of his palms to your figure before he slides into you, one last massive, unfixable mistake. 

"Vik, please, please, I'm-" You can barely hold on anymore, as much as you've been trying to. You curl into him, grinding back against him hard; "I can't, I can't fucking- hhah- I'm so close-" 

Your bodies rock together desperately, beckoning and wanting more of what they shouldn't have. His heat radiates into your skin, and your breath fills the air in thick, heavy huffs. You're still so wet, and it makes every movement slick and simple. Your hands feel his back, his shoulders, his steel jaw, his face. Anywhere you can touch, you're making the most of it. 

Viktor finds your chin, he holds it delicately, and when he says your name, it feels personal; devastatingly so. Like he could make a home with the familiarity laced through each syllable. He breathes them like he did back then, coveting you so deeply. Muttering it as one final plea. 

If he can't fix this, perhaps you can reconstruct this part of him. Could you show him how to live again, could you instruct his mechanized heart, and finally teach it how to skip? 

"I have you," Viktor sighs, because he's sure you want to hear his words as much as he needs to say them. He doesn't require a working heart, when he can let all of himself echo through his still-human soul. "I love you." 

Your chest bruises with sparks in the wake of his gentle voice. Still somewhat robotic. Spoken as though each individual, inevitable word is one he is learning to speak. I. Love. You. 

Your legs and arms wrap around him, holding him as close to you as he could possibly get. Exhaling shakily, your whines are broken, your nails digging into his back. They'll leave red marks onto his pale skin; he hopes they do. His chest is pressed right up to yours. Viktor allows his forehead to rest just barely against your own, utterly tender, and he melts, as your thudding heartbeat echoes through him. Body to body, scarred skin on softer skin. Delicate limbs held around a partial chassis of firm, strong metal. 

Helpless. Perhaps for you, he is the helpless one. 

It doesn't matter; everything is crumbling away, and the both of you are thrown right back into reality, because you are falling apart for him at last. One last time. 

You shake, liquid hot pleasure drips over you like burning wax, and you're left at the mercy of your blistering, final high. Another few deep grinds into each other are all you need — the both of you throbbing, his jaw tensing, Hexclaw twitching, stiffening, and radiating a powerful amount of heat. His eyes flutter, the artificial glow behind them flickering like a dying lightbulb. You hold onto him tighter, and he lets go of a slight noise. A quiet, shaky, all too desperate moan. 

You stay rocking against one another even while you're cumming, even after your voice is sore from chanting Viktor's name so loudly, you briefly worry that anyone just outside of his lab might've heard you. 

Finally stopping, you only begin to relax once your whole body is entirely spent. 

You breathe slowly. In, and then out. Deep, calming breaths. Your heart pounds with force. The room refocuses around you, the harsh light of his various lamps burning into the back of your eyelids and making you see colorful spots. Viktor waits a few moments, before he shakily pushes up to prop himself above you. 

There's a hum of ambient, grinding metal coming from him. The hiss of steam. The echo of small shudders, and forceful gasps. Your vision is still fuzzy, your limbs incredibly weak, but you notice when he reaches for something; the thin metal plating, which he secures back onto himself. 

Once your eyes are completely clear and your heart is beating to a normal tune, you're finally able to focus on him above you. In barely any time, with a half-machine's perfected efficiency, Viktor has already regained every last aspect of his composure. 

"Stay. You require rest," He instructs matter-of-factly, his tone filled with his usual sternness. His gaze scans you up and down methodically. "I will supply you with a change of clothes." 

Right. Viktor's heart can't shudder like yours. Soft sensations have no need to linger. You'd almost forgotten. This is what you were always bound to return to: you, an ally. And he is just a machine. 

Through heavy, lovesick eyes, you admire the sight of him above you. His thin figure, enthralled in shadow, light reflecting off of the metal sections of his outline. He runs a hand through his hair to push it from his face, a gesture you find particularly endearing and human. 

"Oh, don't worry," You hum casually, stretching your arms and legs out. Your voice is light, foggy and still weak. The table beneath you feels firm against your back, but with how lightweight your whole body feels, you couldn't care less. "I don't think I'm moving even if I wanted to." 

Viktor raises a brow just slightly. He taps your neck with a single smooth, metal finger. "And something needs to be done about these." 

Briefly, your expression shifts into confusion. You tilt your head, allowing his fingers to trail further, and they examine the base of your neck down to your collarbones; the marks he left on your skin are swiftly darkening, forming blotchy, pretty bruises. 

Realizing what he's getting at, you smile smugly. "Worried someone's gonna ask questions?" 

"Half of Zaun acknowledges you as my right hand. I am not worried. But they will ask. It could prove arduous." Viktor explains, his tone exceedingly controlled. "Come. Hold onto me." 

When you don't immediately move, he stares at you expectantly. So, despite your tiredness, you listen, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his middle loosely. Viktor lifts you with ease. His heavy boots clunk with each step, and he carries you just a few paces from the table, setting you down on your back, and onto the familiar, ripped-up leather couch. It shifts, accommodating your weight and his. Compared to the worktable, when your back hits the soft yet worn cushions, you feel like you're resting on clouds. 

Viktor shifts, starting to move away, but you keep your arms wrapped around him, and speak before he has the chance. 

"Vik…" You're purring, "Stay here." 

A brief look of contemplation crosses his face, categorized by the slightest pinch in his thick brows. You smile, and nearly wind up kissing him again. He doesn't attempt to pull apart from you when you drag him closer to yourself, your lips gently brushing his cheek. 

At first, he's overly stiff. His arm fits underneath your back to hold you out of mere obligation. In contrast, his metal arm is kept beside you, refusing to touch, steel-jointed fingers flexing absently. But once your hands trail up, your fingers tracing the back of his neck, before they run through his hair, he honestly, earnestly relaxes. 

Your body underneath him is comforting. Limbs entangled, your legs brushing steel and the rigid metal brace. His head leans gently into the crook of your neck, almost hesitantly, as though he isn't entirely sure where to place it. He can't help but fall against you, bodies pressed into one another naturally enough to form the same grave. If he ever came face to face with death, he would refuse to accept it, unless it was just like this. 

You let your tired eyes close. You allow yourself to focus on his warmth, on the weight of him, and you can almost pretend this is natural. That you are in the past, or perhaps residing in a much different future. You are both lovers, as you wished you would be; simple and uncomplicated, nothing more, resting together in the dizzying comfort of your afterglow. 

It'd be nice. Nicer than anything you've been afforded. The only problem is Viktor is all firm steel and hard edges. His metal hand shifts to hold your side, and his fingers are digging into your skin, gripping a bit too tight. His weight on yours is making it damn near difficult to breathe. And right now, he is very, very hot. 

You frown, your eyes fluttering open again. "You're overheating." 

"My internal temperature is regulated by a liquid cooling apparatus," Viktor murmurs, after a moment. "It seems to be malfunctioning." 

His voice is smooth, as it always is, but it sounds much warmer, much quieter, when it's spoken this close to your ear. You sigh softly, and shuffle a little under him, trying to get more comfortable. 

"Ah. That sounds concerning." 

"The device will adjust itself in time," Viktor clarifies. "If it does not, repairs will take a few minutes, at most." 

Your fingertips brush over his back. They feel the thick ridges of his spine, and the thin steel shape of the Hexclaw's base. It feels cool and lifeless under your palm. "This is cold, though." 

"It is inoperational. It stopped responding, I will need to reset it individually." 

"That so?" You huff in response, laughing a little. You hold onto him tighter, and lean your head into his shoulder. "Whatever. Just don't let go of me." 

He doesn't. You exhale a long, weak breath. Your hands tremble slightly, as they uselessly grip onto the sections of cold steel that frame his shoulders. Viktor stays perfectly still, and he allows you to hold onto him as tightly as you need to. This might be the last moment you'll have together. For a while, at least. He has much to attend to, after this. Some tasks he can work on at your side, with your assistance, preferably. Some missions he must complete alone. 

The next time you speak, your voice is so fragile, he thinks he should be holding it in his palms. Or else it'll break. 

"We shouldn't- or, I guess I shouldn't have said… you know." You shudder, shaking all over before you tense. You're holding him too close to allow him to see your face, but he can picture your expression: slightly playful, to attempt to hide your uncertainty. "Gods, I'm so stupid. But I meant it. And I just-" You laugh, "I'm sorry, Viktor. Maybe you were right. I've been way too reckless." 

Viktor has no need to ponder his answer. "I know. Don't apologize. You should be resting, our conversation can continue tomorrow." 

You breathe deeply, and he quietly murmurs, his voice echoing through your ears, "I love you, milaya." 

Fake. Expected. A ghost of choked-back emotions, of all-too tender moments already slated to become forgotten memories. But something is there, something that tells you he's trying. For now, you'll take it. It's more than enough. 

You are close to falling asleep; every one of your nerves, washed over by warm, inviting waves, enveloped in his persistent heat. As though he can sense your building exhaustion, Viktor rubs your back with slow, reassuring circles — as best he can manage, considering your shapes are pinned too close together. Your breathing evens out, and you relax into his touch. Your mind feels as heavy as your weary, weak limbs. 

Your love would be soft, he considers, distracted. Gentleness personified, warm like your smile, like the radiant sun shining down on one's skin. Patient and alighting. Like being pulled by the wrists, wrested out of a rocky, dark sea — finally alive, and finally able to breathe. The still-human part of him feels in measures of softness. The mechanical part is much, much different. 

Heat is running through his veins. It's racing through his system, and he knows it isn't from any sort of malfunction. It burns. The taste of it is like sharp blood on his tongue, it spins in his head like the dizzy grinding of gears, sears through him with fraying wires and sizzling static. Pain and softness, forming a mix he might certainly call love, but might also swear to remove. 

There's a certain sharpness gnawing at him. A flickering, raw bruise, brutalizing him from between his ribs, regardless of his attempts to try and ignore it. Your efforts are failing. You are feeling, and that means you have failed. Even dying embers burn out the same as raging flames. 

You've drifted off, it would seem, your breathing slow, your body limp. So Viktor holds you just a bit tighter. 

For once, for the first time since he truly decided who he wanted to be and what he wanted to accomplish, he is lost. 

In the end, he is going to have to make a decision. One that will benefit his vision. Or one that will destroy him from the inside out. He must carve out these distractions, remove the sections of his heart that are faulty, or he must learn what it would mean to embrace them. 

It scares him, truly. Viktor, the Machine Herald, genuinely scared over something meant to be so trivial. Fretting over the one person he never wanted to lose, even though he was sure he'd already lost you. He wonders what his opposition would say, what those who view him as soulless might think, if they knew the truth. And if you knew? 

Just having to tell you, forcing himself to push you away, or coming face to face once more after he's altered his brain to completely forget you — No, the thought alone might be enough to seal his fate. 

He'll make up his mind before you wake. His head will become clearer, eventually. When your voice is gone from his ears, when your phantom touches tracing his skin have finally disappeared. Besides, this moment won't last, and he wants to savor what's left of it. 

Whatever happens next, wherever he takes this, he knows you will follow — to a different path, to a better future. Or to the ends of the earth. 

[drewswife]

summary — spencer goes easy on you in a game of chess

pairings — s1!spence x shybaufem!reader

a/n — part 2 of this also requested so thank u! also when they talk they sound so nerdy so just smile and nod

The gentle hum of the jet engines had become a familiar soundtrack to these impromptu moments with Spencer. This time, the battlefield was a chessboard, the pieces miniature soldiers poised for strategic combat on the small pull-down table.

"Your move," Spencer said softly, his gaze steady across the board.

You considered your options, a nervous flutter in your stomach mixing with a spark of anticipation. He had a remarkable ability to make you feel both challenged and completely at ease, though the former often made your cheeks flush. You moved your knight, a calculated risk, your gaze flicking up to meet his shyly before quickly returning to the board.

Spencer’s eyes flickered over the board, a thoughtful pause before he responded. His move was swift and precise, countering your advance while subtly positioning his own pieces. You couldn’t help but notice that he seemed less intensely focused than usual. Almost indulgent.

"Interesting," you murmured, studying the new configuration. "Are you perhaps taking pity on my distinct lack of chess prowess, Dr. Reid?" The question was soft, laced with a hint of self-deprecation.

A faint smile touched the corners of his lips. "Pity? My analysis indicates that you possess a developing strategic mind. Though perhaps lacking in aggressive tendencies."

"Aggressive?" you echoed quietly, fiddling with the base of your queen. "I prefer a more cautious approach. Less confrontational."

He chuckled softly, a low rumble that made you jump slightly. "A pacifist on the chessboard. A novel approach." His eyes flickered up to meet yours, a hint of amusement in their depths. "Though sometimes, a well-timed offensive can be surprisingly effective."

"Perhaps," you conceded, a small, shy smile gracing your lips. "But I find a well-defended position rather comforting." You moved your rook, a safe, predictable move.

"Comforting, perhaps," Spencer replied, making his next move. "But comfort rarely leads to victory."

"Maybe not victory in the traditional sense," you countered softly, your gaze lingering on his thoughtful expression. "But perhaps a quiet draw has its own merits."

"A draw," Spencer echoed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "An interesting proposition. Though I confess, I find the pursuit of a decisive outcome rather compelling."

"I can imagine you do," you murmured, your cheeks warming slightly. "You do seem to have a… decisive nature."

"I believe in efficiency," he corrected gently. "And in identifying the optimal solution."

"Even if the optimal solution involves letting me one across the board almost capture your knight?" you teased softly, your gaze finally meeting his with a touch more confidence.

A genuine smile now touched Spencer's lips. "Sometimes," he said, his voice softer than usual, "the optimal solution involves a more nuanced approach."

@sleepysongbirdsings @spencerreid66 @starrii-sturns @khxna @raysmayhem-72

[eepwtf]

UNPUNISHABLE—soldier boy boarding school au! x catholic boy

find part two here ⤷ part two

“i’m sorry,” you whispered hoarsely, your voice breaking. “God, ‘m sorry, i’m sorry.” but the words were hollow, meaningless, drowned out by the frantic beating of your heart and the unbearable ache in your body.

he cut you off with a hand on your wrist, his grip firm but not unkind. “feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. the heat in his gaze made your stomach twist, your cock twitch in your hand. “bet you’ve been pent up for weeks, huh? poor fuckin’ thing...”

warnings; religious guilt and themes , power dynamics , getting off to underwear , degradation and humiliation kink , voyeuristic elements (mirror use) , handjobs , use of the words “filthy” , and “pervert”. wc: 5.4k

benjamin had been at this boarding school long enough to know exactly how it worked. the social hierarchy, the petty squabbles, the hazing rituals—they were as predictable as the smell of old books and stale coffee in the library. he didn’t care about most of it. he played his part: good grades, a cocky smile, and enough charm to skate by without making any real enemies. but the start of a new term always brought fresh blood, and benjamin had a sixth sense for spotting the ones who wouldn’t last.

and then, there was you.

you arrived late to the term, which was already a death sentence. the first few weeks were critical—the time when the hierarchy solidified, alliances were formed, and survival strategies were locked in. worse, you might as well have walked in with a neon sign flashing fresh meat. everything about you screamed out-of-place: the polished shoes that gleamed a little too much, the perfectly ironed shirt tucked with military precision, the rigid way you carried yourself, like you were bracing for a slap. you walked into the dining hall that first evening with your tray balanced so carefully it might as well have been a Eucharist offering, eyes darting around the room like you were waiting for someone to shove you back out the door. you didn’t even have to open your mouth for everyone to know: Catholic boarding school.

it didn’t take long for the other boys to catch on. they had a nose for blood, and you reeked of it. whispers followed you during study hall; cruel nicknames were hurled across the lacrosse field. someone replaced the water in your sports bottle with holy water one afternoon, which left you blinking back tears while everyone howled with laughter.

benjamin wasn’t sure why he noticed you, exactly. maybe it was the way you always seemed to be clutching a rosary in your pocket, running the beads through your fingers like a lifeline. maybe it was the way your cheeks flushed red every time someone snickered “Father” as you walked past. or maybe it was just boredom.

whatever it was, he found himself jogging after you one afternoon, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a halo as he called out, “hey!”

you stopped abruptly, startled, and clutched your books like they might shield you from whatever this was. “uh, hi?”

“you’re the new guy, right?” he asked, all casual confidence as he fell into step beside you.

“i’m not—”

“you are,” he cut you off smoothly, flashing an easy smile. “trust me, i’ve been here long enough to know. you’ve got that ‘lost lamb’ look.”

for a moment, you just blinked at him. his smile didn’t falter, though. Instead, he slung an arm around your shoulders like you were already old friends. “look, this place is a jungle,” he said, steering you toward the courtyard. “and you’re walking around with a target painted on your back. but lucky for you, i’m feeling charitable today.”

you hesitated, your whole body stiffening under his touch. “thanks, but i’m fine.”

“no, you’re not,” he said bluntly, his grin widening. “you’re fresh out of Catholic school, right? i can tell. you’ve got that whole... thing about you. like you’re waiting for a nun to materialize and slap you for breathing too loud.”

that earned him a faint flush of red creeping up your neck. you straightened your shoulders, clearly bristling, but instead of shoving him off, you sighed and let some of the tension drain from your frame. “yeah, well, i’m used to it.”

“doesn’t mean you have to suffer through it alone.”

from that moment on, things changed. benjamin took you under his wing—not that he’d ever admit to something so noble-sounding. it started small: little tips like which table to avoid during meals (definitely not the one near the windows, unless you wanted to end up as the debate team’s entertainment) or how to cut through the north courtyard to bypass the rugby team’s hazing gauntlet. when he noticed you sitting alone in the dining hall, bent over your tray like you were saying grace, he’d saunter over and drop into the seat across from you, grinning like you were his favorite person in the world.

“you’re not gonna survive this place with just prayer, you know,” he teased one evening, stealing a fry off your plate before you could stop him.

your ears burned, but you still muttered, “i don’t need your help.”

“sure you don’t,” he replied easily, resting his chin in his hand as he watched you squirm. “but humor me.”

you weren’t blind to the whispers that followed after that.

“never seen ben hang out with someone like him before.”

“you think they’re...?”

“no way. ben’s just bored. or maybe it’s, like, charity work.”

their words stung, but less than you’d expected. maybe it was because benjamin never seemed to notice—or care—what anyone else thought. he had a way of brushing off insults with that cocky grin of his, and slowly, you found yourself learning to do the same.

but for all his charm, benjamin was infuriating. he’d swipe your homework to “check something” and then return it with a smirk. he’d drag you into conversations you didn’t want to have, poking fun at your strict upbringing and coaxing stories out of you about priests, penance, and purgatory. he was relentless, and you hated that it made you feel a little less like the walls were closing in.

benjamin was everywhere. his laughter echoed in the halls, his golden hair glinting like sunlight, his voice as smooth and warm as honey. it didn’t matter where you were or what you were doing; he was inescapable. and at first, you didn’t mind. at first, you liked the way he looked at you, like you weren’t invisible. the way his arm slung so easily around your shoulders, the way he’d steal your fries or lean in too close just to watch you squirm. he made it look so easy, weaving you into his world with a smirk and a casual confidence you could never hope to emulate. he defended you from the worst of the hazing, diffused the cruel jokes with a well-timed barb or a cutting smile, and made sure you were never left sitting alone in the dining hall.

but then it started to change.

you started to change.

at first, it was subtle: a quickening in your chest when he leaned over your desk, close enough for his cologne to fog your senses. a tightness in your throat when his hand lingered on your shoulder, his thumb brushing the edge of your collar. he didn’t notice the way you froze when he stood behind you, leaning in to murmur some joke meant just for you. it was in the way he sat beside you during study hall, his long legs stretched out like he owned the space, his golden hair catching the light in a way that made your chest ache. it was in the way he teased you, his voice low and warm, always managing to say just enough to make you blush but never enough to cross a line. it was in the way he looked at you sometimes, his emerald eyes lingering just a moment too long, like he was searching for something in you that you didn’t even understand yourself. but you noticed.

you noticed everything.

the curve of his jaw. the warmth of his touch. the way his lips parted when he laughed, his head tilting back, throat exposed like an offering. it felt like blasphemy to see him this way, to want what you shouldn’t want. It felt like the serpent in the garden, whispering in your ear, coaxing you to look a little too long, to want what was forbidden.

and that’s when the shame began to take root.

it crept into your thoughts like a sickness, coiling around your heart. you began to see sin in every glance, every touch, every laugh that left you breathless. you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining things—things you couldn’t say, couldn’t even think without bile rising in your throat.

you prayed. oh, God, how you prayed. every night, you knelt beside your bed, fingers clutching the rosary so tightly they left indentations on your palms. you begged for forgiveness, begged God to deliver you from this sickness of the soul. you whispered Hail Marys into the dark, choking on the words as you begged the Blessed Virgin to intercede for you, to make you pure again. but your prayers felt hollow, empty. each whispered plea was drowned out by the memory of benjamin’s voice, the sound of his laughter, the way he had looked at you that day in the courtyard, sunlight haloing his head like a saint in a fresco.

you told yourself it wasn’t his fault. how could it be? he was just being benjamin, just being kind. he didn’t know what it did to you when he leaned in close, breath warm against your ear. he didn’t know about the nights you lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the air between your beds a chasm you longed to cross but never would.

the fault was yours alone. your weakness. your sin.

and yet, no matter how many times you dragged the blade of guilt across your soul, the feelings wouldn’t go away. they festered, spreading like rot, turning your prayers into cries of anguish. you thought of the words of Matthew: “if your right eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away. for it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body be thrown into hell.” and yet your eyes lingered on him still.

you began to pull back. at first, it was subtle: excuses to leave study sessions early, mumbling about assignments or the need to pray. you avoided his gaze, kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap when he reached out to touch your shoulder. you stopped laughing at his jokes, stopped letting him get too close, stopped letting him into the cracks of your armor.

but it was impossible to escape him. he was always there—leaning against your desk, lounging on his bed, sprawled out in the dining hall, his smile a temptation you couldn’t resist. you tried to flee from him, but he followed you everywhere, even in your thoughts. his voice was there when you knelt before the crucifix, his laughter echoing in the back of your mind as you begged God to cleanse you.

and the worst part was that he noticed. of course he noticed. the worst part was that you wanted him to. some small, desperate part of you wanted him to press, to dig, to uncover the thing rotting in your soul and absolve you of it.

“hey, what’s going on with you?” he asked one evening, lounging on his bed with one arm tucked behind his head. his shirt was rumpled, the top few buttons undone, and you hated the way your eyes were drawn to the hollow of his throat.

you couldn’t look at him. couldn’t bear to see the hurt in his green eyes, the confusion on his face, you couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that it was your own weakness, your own sin. you couldn’t tell him that his mere existence was unraveling you, that every time he touched you, it felt like temptation made flesh. “nothing,” you said quickly, focusing on the textbook in your lap as if the words on the page could save you.

“bullshit,” he said, sitting up, his sharp green eyes piercing through your feeble lies. “you’ve been acting weird all week. did i do something?”

you flinched, the weight of his concern pressing down on you. you could feel the truth clawing at the back of your throat, desperate to be let out, but you couldn’t speak it. to confess was to condemn yourself. “no,” you said quickly, too quickly.

“then what is it?” his voice softened, but the hurt had already started to seep into it. you wanted to shove him away, to tell him to stop caring, to stop looking at you like that. stop making me feel this way. “you’re not... you’re not letting those assholes get to you, are you? ‘cause if someone’s giving you shit, i’ll—”

“it’s not that,” you snapped, harsher than you intended, your shame turning sharp as a blade. his expression faltered, and guilt twisted in your chest like a thorn. you dropped your gaze, your hands trembling as they gripped the edge of your book. “i just... i need space, okay?”

“space,” he repeated, the word flat and unfamiliar in his mouth. “from me?” he didn’t understand. how could he? to him, you were just the awkward Catholic boy he’d taken under his wing. he didn’t know about the fire consuming you from the inside out, the way his very presence felt like a test of faith you were doomed to fail.

the silence stretched out, suffocating. you could feel him staring at you, searching for something—an answer, a crack in your armor, anything that would make sense of this. finally, he exhaled sharply, the sound like a wound opening. “fine,” he said, standing abruptly. the bed creaked under his movement, the sound echoing in the quiet room. his voice was colder than you had ever heard it, laced with a bitterness that made your chest ache. “whatever you want, Father.”

the door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone. alone with the shame, the guilt, the terrible longing that refused to let you go. you pressed your hands together, the rosary dangling between your fingers like a lifeline, but even as you tried to pray, all you could think of was him.

but the distance didn’t help. if anything, it made things worse.

benjamin was always there, in your mind, no matter how hard you tried to shut him out. the memory of his smile haunted you during morning prayers. the sound of his voice echoed in your ears as you tried to focus on your studies. at night, in the dim light of your dorm room, you could hear him breathing in the bed across from yours, and it felt like a cruel reminder of everything you couldn’t have.

you hated him for it. you hated yourself more.

you had always been devout, a faithful son of the church. your rosary was your shield, your Bible your sword, your faith the fortress that had kept you safe from the temptations of the world. you clung to the Word of God like a drowning man clings to driftwood, trusting it to keep you pure, to keep you upright. but benjamin made you falter. benjamin made you doubt.

and worst of all, benjamin made you want.

the dreams had come slowly at first, creeping into your mind like thieves in the night. they were innocuous, almost innocent: his laugh ringing out like church bells, his hand brushing yours by accident. but they grew darker, heavier, like a storm gathering on the horizon. you began to dream of his hand lingering too long on your shoulder, sliding down your arm, his fingers warm, deliberate. you dreamed of his lips—pink, soft, sinful—hovering too close to yours, his breath ghosting against your skin. you dreamed of his hand, sure and unrelenting, sliding down your stomach, your cock throbbing under his touch as his name fell from your lips like a prayer you’d never dare to speak aloud.

you always woke from those dreams shaking, drenched in sweat and shame. your body betrayed you, your cock hard, insistent, as if it hadn’t just condemned you. the guilt came in waves, crashing over you, dragging you under. you’d fumble for your rosary in the dark, clutching it tightly, the beads biting into your palms like thorns. you’d sink to your knees on the cold, unyielding floor, whispering, “forgive me, Father, for i have sinned.”

your voice trembled, cracked, as you poured yourself out to a God who surely couldn’t love you anymore. you recited the Psalms until your throat was raw, until the words blurred into each other and the ache in your chest grew unbearable. you told yourself you were strong enough to resist, that the dreams meant nothing, that they were merely a test of your faith.

but the dreams kept coming.

and worse, some dark, treacherous part of you didn’t want them to stop.

one night, long after benjamin had left for the evening, you found yourself restless, the shame coiled tightly in your chest, suffocating. you paced the small dorm room, your rosary clutched in one hand, muttering prayers under your breath like a desperate incantation. but they didn’t help. they couldn’t stop the image of him from searing itself into your mind: benjamin sprawled out on his bed, his shirt half undone, his laugh warm and unguarded, his scent—clean, sharp, him—lingering in the air like incense.

you told yourself to stop, to look away, to think of anything else, but the pull was too strong. you walked into the bathroom, hoping the cold tile and harsh light would cleanse you, give you some clarity. but then you saw them.

benjamin’s boxers were draped carelessly over the counter, a remnant of his presence that felt like a physical blow. your heart lurched, your breath catching in your throat. you froze, your breath catching in your throat, shame flooding you before you’d even moved. you shouldn’t touch them. you knew you shouldn’t. this was wrong, disgusting, unforgivable. but before you could stop yourself, your hand was reaching out, trembling as it closed around the fabric.

they were still warm.

you brought them to your face, your chest heaving as his scent hit you like a blow. it was intoxicating, maddening, him. you inhaled deeply, the cotton brushing against your lips, and you could feel your body reacting, your cock straining against the confines of your jeans.

a strangled sound escaped your throat, half-sob, half-moan. you were shaking, trembling under the weight of your sin, but you couldn’t stop. the shame rose in you, thick and choking, but it only seemed to fuel the fire burning inside you.

your free hand slid down to the bulge in your jeans, your fingers fumbling with the zipper as you gasped for breath. “i’m sorry,” you whispered hoarsely, your voice breaking. “God, ‘m sorry, i’m sorry.” but the words were hollow, meaningless, drowned out by the frantic beating of your heart and the unbearable ache in your body.

your hand slipped into your boxers, your cock hot and throbbing in your palm. the fabric of benjamin’s boxers pressed against your face as you stroked yourself, the sensation overwhelming, sickeningly good. you bit down on your lip to stifle a moan, tears streaming down your face as the guilt clawed at you, sharp and unrelenting.

you hated yourself for this.

you hated how much you needed it.

each stroke felt like a lash against your soul, each gasp a plea for forgiveness you didn’t deserve. you thought of the saints, their eyes turned heavenward, their bodies pierced and broken for their faith, and you wondered if they would weep for you or turn away in disgust. you thought of the thorns pressed into Christ’s brow, of the spear that pierced His side, and you felt like you were driving it in deeper with every desperate, shameful motion.

you were drowning in sin.

the rosary clutched in your hand felt heavier than ever, its beads digging into your skin like penance, a crown of thorns wrapped around your fist. each bead you touched felt like a tally mark against your soul, a reminder of the countless sins you’d committed in thought, in word, and now—oh, God forgive me—in deed.

benjamin’s scent clung to the fabric pressed to your face, clean and sharp, with that faint musk of sweat and skin that was undeniably him. you could taste it on your tongue, could feel it seeping into your lungs like incense burned in offering. it filled you, overwhelmed you, until you couldn’t think of anything else.

your body betrayed you.

your cock throbbed in your hand, slick with the evidence of your shame. the other gripped the rosary so tightly that the crucifix bit into your palm, the tiny Christ pressed there like a mute witness to your depravity. tears streaked down your face, hot and bitter, dripping from your chin onto your bare chest. you felt split open, like the veil of the temple torn in two, laid bare before God and man.

“i’m sorry,” you gasped, the words breaking on your lips, no more than a breathless whisper. “fuck, ‘m so sorry.”

but even as you prayed, even as you begged for forgiveness, your hips jerked forward, thrusting into your fist. the friction was maddening, too much and not enough all at once. you couldn’t stop. you didn’t want to stop.

the shame was suffocating, thick as smoke, but it only seemed to fuel the fire raging in you. the boxers in your hand felt like a relic, a profane artifact that held power over you. you buried your face in them, inhaling deeply, and a strangled moan escaped your lips.

your fingers tightened around your cock, stroking faster, harder, desperate to chase the release you knew would damn you. you bit your lip, hard enough to draw blood, trying to stifle the sounds rising in your throat. they escaped anyway, broken gasps and half-sobs that echoed off the tile walls like confessions shouted in a cathedral.

the bathroom door creaked open.

you froze.

your heart stopped, then slammed back to life, pounding so loudly you thought it might burst. slowly, your eyes flicked toward the doorway, and there he was.

ben.

his green eyes were wide, his brows drawn together in confusion and concern as he stepped inside. “hey, are you—” he stopped mid-sentence, his gaze dropping to the scene before him.

your cock in your hand, hard and aching. his boxers clutched in the other, pressed to your face. the rosary tangled in your fingers, beads slipping between them like the blood of your guilt.

“fuck,” he breathed, his voice low and rough. his eyes darted back up to your face, and you could see the realization dawn in them. the pieces clicking into place.

the shame was instant, white-hot, burning through you like fire and brimstone. you dropped the boxers as if they’d scorched you, scrambling to cover yourself. words tumbled from your lips, incoherent and panicked. “i—i’m sorry, i didn’t—”

benjamin stepped closer, his movements deliberate, measured. his expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—curiosity? amusement? want?

your breath hitched as he crouched in front of you, his hand reaching out. you flinched, expecting anger, rejection, disgust. but instead, his fingers brushed against yours, prying the rosary from your trembling grip.

“hey,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “relax.”

you shook your head, tears spilling over again. “i can’t—i’m so sorry. i shouldn’t—”

he cut you off with a hand on your wrist, his grip firm but not unkind. “feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. the heat in his gaze made your stomach twist, your cock twitch in your hand. “bet you’ve been pent up for weeks, huh? poor fuckin’ thing...”

you wanted to protest, to tell him to stop, to push him away. but your body betrayed you again, leaning into his touch, your breath hitching as his fingers wrapped around your own.

“let me help,” he said, his voice low and rough, almost horse. you didn’t respond. you couldn’t.

he guided your hand, his grip firm and sure, stroking you in a rhythm that made your head spin. his other hand picked up the boxers from the floor, holding them to your face once more. “go on,” he murmured. “you want it, don’t you?”

a sob tore from your throat as you inhaled deeply, the scent of him filling your lungs. it felt wrong, filthy, perfect.

benjamin’s hand gripped your cock with a firm, unrelenting pressure, his fingers curling around your length as though he’d done this a thousand times before. the confidence in his touch was maddening, a sharp contrast to your trembling body and fractured thoughts. his palm was warm and sure, his movements measured, deliberate—stroking you with a pace that was just slow enough to make you ache, to keep you teetering on the edge of sanity.

“shhh,” benjamin murmured, his voice low, soothing, a sharp contrast to the roughness of his hand. his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he spoke, his breath warm and unbearably intimate. “you don’t want anyone else to hear, do you? just me. just us.”

you whimpered, a helpless sound that only made his smirk widen. the way his fingers curled around your cock, stroking upward with just enough pressure to make your thighs tense, sent bolts of heat racing through you. his thumb grazed the sensitive tip, spreading the slick pre-cum there with an unhurried, almost lazy motion that had your hips bucking forward without your permission.

“desperate already?” he asked, his tone mocking but soft, as if he was speaking to something fragile. he pressed the heel of his palm against the base of your cock, applying just enough pressure to make you ache, to keep you right on the precipice of pleasure without tumbling over. “you’re gonna have to work for it, sweetheart.”

the bathroom was suffocating, steam and guilt mingling in the stagnant air. ben’s grip on your wrist tightened, steadying your trembling body as he tugged you upward, his strength unyielding. you stumbled to your feet, barely able to think, barely able to breathe as he guided you toward the sink.

"look at yourself," he murmured, his voice a low growl that reverberated through the tiles. his hand cupped your chin, forcing your head up, making you confront the reflection in the mirror.

your face was a mess: tear-streaked, flushed, mouth parted in desperate gasps. your chest heaved, sweat glistening on your skin. and below, the evidence of your shame—your cock, swollen and slick, gripped tight in ben’s firm, unforgiving hand.

"god, look at you," he rasped, the words rough and dripping with derision, yet tinged with something darker, something hotter. his green eyes burned as they flicked between your reflection and the reality of you standing before him, shaking, broken. "so filthy."

you whimpered, your knees threatening to buckle under the weight of his gaze, of his words. "how do you think God would feel, huh?" he asked, his tone mocking, cruel in its softness. his lips brushed against your ear as he spoke, the contact sending shivers down your spine. "seeing you like this? crying and moaning like a fuckin’ sinner. bet the saints are turning away right now."

“stop,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, hoarse from the tears and the shame that choked you. but you didn’t pull away. you couldn’t.

benjamin’s hand tightened around your cock, stroking it with slow, deliberate precision. he watched your reflection, studying every flinch, every gasp, every broken sound that escaped your lips. "stop?" he echoed, his smirk deepening. "you don’t want me to stop." he tilted his head, his eyes locking onto yours in the mirror. "look at yourself. you’re loving this. bet you’ve been dreaming about me, haven’t you? thinking about my hands on you, my mouth on you..."

your knees buckled at the insinuation, and his arm shot out, catching you around the waist, holding you upright. you tried to shake your head, to deny it, but your body betrayed you. your hips jerked forward again, seeking the friction his hand so cruelly denied you. “please,” you gasped, though you didn’t know what you were begging for—for him to stop, for him to continue, for absolution, for release.

he chuckled, low and throaty, the sound rumbling through your chest. "poor thing," he murmured, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "all those prayers, and this is where they got you. on your knees, jerking off with my fuckin’ boxers like a desperate little pervert."

your stomach twisted, shame coiling tighter, but the heat in his voice, the weight of his words—it ignited something inside you, something primal and unbearable.

benjamin leaned closer, his breath warm against your neck. his lips brushed your shoulder, soft at first, then firmer as his teeth grazed your skin. he nipped at you, not enough to break the skin but enough to make you gasp, your cock twitching helplessly in his hand. "fuck, you’re so easy," he hissed, his tone laced with contempt and fascination. his free hand slid up your chest, his fingers ghosting over the line of your throat before gripping your jaw. he forced your gaze to stay fixed on the mirror, his green eyes burning into yours through the glass. "look at yourself," he demanded, his grip tightening on your chin just enough to keep you compliant. "take a good, long look."

your eyes flicked to the mirror, and the sight made your stomach churn. your face was flushed, your eyes glassy and wet from unshed tears. sweat clung to your skin, your hair disheveled, and your lips swollen from where you'd bitten them raw. your cock was still hard, leaking against your stomach, throbbing with need as benjamin stood behind you, as he pumped you in slow, devastating strokes “does this feel good?” he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. his voice dripped with mockery, sending a jolt of humiliation through you. "getting all hard for me, like some filthy little pervert? huh?"

your hips jerked forward involuntarily, chasing the friction of his touch, and a broken moan tore from your throat. the sound echoed in the small bathroom, a damning confession of your weakness. benjamin smirked, his grip on your jaw tightening just enough to keep you in place. "that’s what i thought."

your knuckles turned white as you gripped the edge of the sink, the cold porcelain biting into your palms. you tried to look away, shame prickling your every nerve, but benjamin’s grip was unrelenting. he tilted your chin higher, forcing your gaze to stay fixed on the mirror. “don’t you fucking look away,” it was a command, sure, but also quiet request, one you couldn’t bring yourself to refuse. “i want you to see exactly what you are. a filthy, desperate pervert, getting off to the thought of me. say it.”

your breath hitched, a broken moan tearing from your lips as your hips jerked forward, chasing the friction of his touch. the sound seemed to please him, his smirk widening as his other hand moved to your waist, holding you steady against the sink. “say it,” benjamin murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. his hand on your cock moved faster now, his strokes rough and unrelenting, dragging you closer to the edge. “say what you are.”

“i—i can’t,” you gasped, your voice cracking under the weight of your shame.

“yes, you can.” his tone softened just enough to make your chest tighten, to make you hate how much you wanted to give in. “say it, or i’ll stop.”

your head snapped up, panic flaring in your chest as you met his eyes in the mirror. he smirked at your reaction, his grip on you tightening just enough to remind you who was in control. “you don’t want me to stop, do you?” he teased, his voice a low purr as his fingers wrapped around your cock, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur. “you like this too much.”

“i’m a filthy pervert,” you finally choked out, the words burning like acid on your tongue.

“good boy.” benjamin’s smirk deepened, his hand moving faster now, dragging you toward the precipice. “now tell me what you want.”

“i—” your chest heaved, your hands gripping the edge of the sink so tightly your knuckles turned white. “i want you.” the confession tore free like a prayer, desperate and raw. “I want you to touch me, to—to make me cum—”

benjamin chuckled, the sound low and satisfied as he pressed his lips to your neck. “that’s more like it,” he murmured, his voice dripping with approval. “go on. let go for me. i want to feel you come apart in my hand.”

his words were your undoing. your body arched against him, trembling as the pleasure surged through you like a wave crashing against the shore. benjamin’s grip was firm, steady, grounding you as you came with a shuddering cry, your release splattering against the mirror in thick, messy streaks.

“fuck,” ben breathed out, his tone heavy with awe as he watched your reflection. his hand didn’t stop, coaxing every last drop from you, his strokes slow and deliberate now, like he was savoring the way you unraveled beneath his touch.

when it was over, you sagged against the sink, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. ben’s hand lingered on your cock, his fingers slick with your release as he pulled away, his smirk softening into something almost tender. “look at that,” he murmured, his hand sliding up to grip your chin, tilting your head back so your eyes met his in the mirror. “such a pretty mess.”

you swallowed hard, the shame creeping back in like a tide, but ben’s thumb brushed against your jaw, grounding you. “you okay?” he asked softly, his voice lacking the teasing edge it had carried before. you nodded weakly, your throat too tight to speak.

“good.” his smirk returned, softer now, but no less infuriating. he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “because you owe me a clean mirror.”

© 𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐰𝐭𝐟’𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐲! 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋!

[hoshifighting]

I can’t wait for the day you decide to give us staff woozi😭🫶 Like yes give me that man ⚰️⚰️⚰️

staff!woozi

WARNINGS: suggestive, wet dream, mentions of animes.

staff!woozi who’s practically part of your nervous system, making sure your mic is hot and those earbuds don’t fry your brain mid-show. he’s always just there—like this phantom, gliding in with his little toolbox, brows furrowed in that way he thinks makes him look tough, but honestly, you’re kinda finding it cute now. he doesn’t even have to look at you anymore; just one twitch of your finger, and he knows exactly how to tune your sound to perfection.

you’re halfway through soundcheck, squinting against the stage lights that feel hot enough to cook you alive, when your left earbud goes all staticy. and before you even manage to do your little signal—a quick point down—he’s already behind you. no warning. just his voice in your ear, all low, like he’s got some big secret: “left one’s crackling again?”

you turn, one eyebrow up. “damn, woozi, you psychic now or what?”

he just huffs, pulling the earbud from your hand with this look like, duh. “you’re predictable,” he says, but there’s that ghost of a smirk, just the tiniest hint of it, which—yeah, okay, it gets to you a bit.

he’s fiddling with it, fingers so precise you swear it’s like watching magic. “you keep playing with ‘em too much. one more yank, and i’m replacing it.”

“not my fault they suck,” you mutter, grinning when he gives you that little glare, one that says i dare you to test me.

“try it again..” he mutters, his voice dry, clipped. he’s already yanked a whole mess of cables and tested every single one, but well, it’s jihoon. he’s on his perfectionist shit.

“testin’… one, two…” you go through it, all monotone, like you’re recitin’ a grocery list.

he glances up, hands fiddlin’ with some random connector piece, but he’s noddin’, brows all scrunched up like he’s concentratin’ on the meaning of life. and then, without even lookin’ at you, he says, “speak up like you’re actually performin’—not just for me.”

staff!woozi, in his worn-out, slightly-too-tight black t-shirt, earphones looped around his neck like some kinda edgy fashion statement, looks too good for your eyes.

“i am performin’,” you toss back, brows raised. “just, y’know, waitin’ for the tech crew to keep up.”

he scoffs, and finally, he looks up, an eyebrow quirked in that way he does when he’s two seconds away from roastin’ you to death. “keep up? alright, superstar, let’s get your fancy ass mic workin’ then.”

staff!woozi who's always fumbling with your clothing as he fix the mic return on your back. mumbling something about the mic feedback being all off. and with this stage clothing, the skin-tight fabric practically painted on you, there’s no space to breathe—let alone to move. so when he reaches to adjust the receiver on your back, the boy have no gentleness to tidy it up.

“how can you even breathe in these? hold still.” he sulks. his fingers brush against your skin, just under the edge of the outfit, and you swear his touch is cool, like ice, but somehow it sends this weird heat up your body. his hand skims along your back, his fingers grazing just under the fabric, feeling way more personal than it should.

“this is… really necessary?” you breathe out, tryin’ to keep your voice casual, even though your heart’s doin’ that embarrassingly loud thud-thud thing.

he doesn’t even look fazed, just gives you a quick, smug look, like he can sense your pulse trippin’ over itself. “unless you want the mic feed to sound like a dying robot… yeah, this is necessary.”

his hand lingers just a second too long on your skin before he adjusts the strap at your shoulder, his thumb grazing the edge of the outfit. you’re caught somewhere between wantin’ to annoyingly roll your eyes or “hornyly” roll your eyes.

staff!woozi who somehow, always ends up next to you on the road, no matter where you sit, and by now, you’ve kinda claimed his shoulder as your own personal pillow. he doesn’t complain—just settles in, eyes closed, arms crossed, and lets you drift off.

but today, as your head leans into that familiar spot, his voice pipes up. “y’know, there are other seats.”

you crack an eye open, only to see him smirking down at you. he’s lookin’ all pompous, like he’s finally pieced together your little routine. “it’s just… comfortable,” you mumble, shoving your face back into his shoulder, feelin’ the soft weight of his hoodie, and okay, maybe the solidness of his arm too.

he chuckles, a sound that’s too close to teasing. “oh, so i’m a human pillow now?”

“pretty much,” you mutter, pretendin’ to yawn. “it’s just… efficient.”

next thing you know, you’re both out cold, side by side, and the crew’s gotta wake you both up at the next stop. you stumble out of the van, all bleary-eyed and yawning, both of you with puffy eyes, while the rest of the team’s trying not to laugh.

staff!woozi who watches animes during his breaks. you’re sittin in the dressing room, half-done with your makeup, feeling that pre-show buzz, and there’s woozi, huddled over his phone, totally zoned out in his own world. you’ve seen him do this before—earbuds in, watchin’ his anime.

so today, curiosity gets the best of you. you wander over, leanin’ over his shoulder, catchin’ a glimpse of bright colors and characters moving around on his screeng

“you’re into this?” you ask, unable to hide the smirk as he looks up, caught.

he pulls one earbud out, glancin’ at you like he’s deciding whether or not to share his “serious” interest. then he sighs, almost reluctantly, but starts explaining the plot, his voice just a little too enthusiastic. and you’re nodding, totally faking that you get it, but he’s so damn into it, you can’t help but get a little wrapped up in his excitement.

when you’re waiting for the other idols to finish up their set, the two of you are back in the dressing room, side by side, watching some random episode. you don’t know half of what’s going on, but jihoon’s talking fast, pointing out characters, explaining every little detail like it’s life or death. you just follow it because staff!woozi is hot.

you don’t know how you ended up here, exactly— n woozi’s hotel room, in your freshest hoodie and sweats, hair still a bit damp from your after-show shower. but you’re here, a slice of pizza in one hand and woozi right next to you, already deep into the latest anime episode like he’s watching some masterpiece.

it started simple enough, you mentioning anime to him once. you barely know the basics, honestly, but your friend is an encyclopedia of every single plot twist, so you could at least fake it a little. and you’d swear woozi’s eyes practically lit up when you said you’d “totally be down to watch something with him, if he had recommendations.” it became your thing on tour—grabbing a pizza, lounging in his room, and watching the latest episodes like two kids after school.

but right now? you’re barely paying attention to the screen. woozi’s sitting next to you in this black tank top, arms looking like he’s been lifting soundboards for fun, thick enough to make your mind drift way off the anime plot. his shorts? even worse. you didn’t even realize a person could look that good just sitting down, like he’s giving you a whole show without even trying.

“are you even watching?” he mutters, catching you totally off guard. woozi raises an eyebrow at you, smirking. damn, he knew.

“oh, yeah, totally!” you stammer, nodding way too enthusiastically. “i know… exactly… what’s going on here.” but that smirk just grows, his gaze sliding back to the screen as if to say, yeah, sure you do.

staff!woozi, who hardly tears his eyes from the screen the whole night, so focused it’s like he’s analyzing every frame. you’re beside him, bundled up in his bed, head lolling as the exhaustion finally takes over, pulling you under. he glances at you every so often—at first just a quick look to make sure you’re out, catching the soft rise and fall of your breathing, the way your lashes brush your cheeks in the low light. you’d been running on fumes all night, so seeing you drift off wasn’t a surprise.

but then, he hears it—his name, whispered under your breath, soft like it’s the only thing on your mind even while you’re dreaming. his focus shifts. your back arches just the tiniest bit, your brows drawn together, thighs pressing tight like you’re holding onto some sweet secret even he isn’t supposed to know.

and suddenly, he’s more tuned into you than the screen, pulse pounding in his ears.

woozi pretends this never happened. or tries to.

staff!woozi, who’s suddenly got a whole new edge to him the next morning, acting all distant like you didn’t just watch an entire anime season in his bed last night. on the plane, you figure things’ll be back to normal—you’ve got this routine where you always end up leaning on his shoulder, especially after long nights. but today, he’s keeping a solid inch between you both, arms crossed like he’s suddenly allergic to any kind of closeness.

you try once, shifting a little closer, giving him that sleepy, half-pouty look that usually does the trick. he just leans away, adjusting his earbuds like he didn’t notice.

you huff. “yo, what’s your deal? i’m just trying to sleep, and you’re over here playing hard-to-get?”

he glances over, raising an eyebrow.

“don’t act like you’re too good for it.” you roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “you let me last night.”

“yeah, well, I’m not your pillow today. i gotta keep my neck in one piece.”

you nudge him with your elbow. “since when did you start caring about your neck, huh? you’re literally hunched over soundboards for a living.”

he shoots you a side-eye. “and maybe that’s why i need to protect it now.”

you snicker, leaning back, but there’s that stubborn pout on your face. “whatever, woozi. don’t get mad at me just ‘cause you didn’t sleep enough watching the show without me.”

you’re still leaning back, sulking a little, when you hear it — just a low mumble under his breath. “not my fault you were… moaning my name last night…”

your head snaps around so fast you practically pull a muscle. “excuse me?” you whisper, eyes wide as saucers.

he stares at you, lips parting slightly as he realizes he definitely said that louder than intended. his eyes dart away, and he’s already sinking into the seat like he might disappear.

you blink, heartbeat going wild as you piece together last night, flashes of the dream you’d had flooding back—heat and skin and his name on your lips. you remember waking up in his bed, flustered and warm, rushing back to your own room before he could see the look on your face.

“so… you heard that?”

his hand goes up to rub the back of his neck, cheeks reddening under that deadpan expression he’s clinging to. “yeah, uh… kinda hard to miss...?”

you bury your face in your hands, groaning, but you can’t resist sneaking a glance at him. he’s biting his lip, looking anywhere but at you, and you swear there’s a faint smirk he’s trying to hide.

“god, woozi, you could’ve just… i dunno, woken me up or something!” you mutter, feeling the burn creep up your cheeks.

“yeah, right,” he snorts, glancing back at you now with this smug little glint in his eyes. “like you’d want that.”

[22ayla21]

I've read your ifa post (seriously how handsome he is) x reader, and I have to say that I loved it. What's more, I would very much like to see more scenes with this couple. When you can, there's no rush. My proposal for the future is related to the fact that the girl has that gift with both children and saurians/animals and that ifa dropped the issue of starting making a family... (I need to see this man as a dad so bad)

It is related to this last issue, that is to say that for example the girl is pregnant but does not yet have symptoms of it (the only thing is that the period does not come like every month), and both have noticed that the saurians and animals are more fond of the young woman (so by their heightened senses)

Whisper of Hearts and Paws

When the saurians start to stick to his beloved more than usual, Ifa notices something in their behavior that can change his life forever.

A few days passed. The tent was again filled with soft light, the smells of herbs and medicines, but something in the atmosphere had changed. Ifa noticed it in the morning.

The saurians began to behave strangely. More precisely, not aggressively or excitedly - on the contrary. They began to literally stick to his girl. Before, they were drawn to her - this was understandable: she was warm, affectionate, did not scare them. But now they followed her everywhere, lay down at her feet, purred, rubbed their cheeks against her palms, even argued among themselves about who would lie closer. One particularly persistent baby saurian hid in the folds of her clothes and did not want to come out.

At first, Ifa was amused. Then - it alarmed her. She laughed herself:

"What's wrong with them today? Am I covered in honey?"

He grinned, but inside he felt a memory from the past surface. His friend once told him about his saurians - a faithful female named Lely. She suddenly began to behave strangely - she did not leave her mistress, circled around, meowed (?) anxiously and tried to drag her mistress into the nest. It turned out later that the woman was in the early stages of pregnancy. Lely sensed this long before her mistress realized it.

Ifa straightened up abruptly. His gaze slid to the girl, who was just treating one of the little ones to cookies and laughing. Her face was shining, her movements were light. At first glance, everything was as usual.

But... she had complained of fatigue a couple of times recently. She also said that her period was a little "late", although she attributed it to stress and the change in climate. He did not attach any importance to it then.

But the saurians... they feel. Their sense is sharper than that of many other animals. They sense life, new life. Quiet, barely breaking through, but already real.

Ifa caught her breath for a moment.

He leaned on the table, watching his girlfriend deftly hug the saurian and laugh when he licked her cheek. Her hands were so caring. Her voice was warm. Without knowing it, she was already weaving life into the world that no one else knew about.

He felt his heart beat faster. He would not tell her now – it was too early. He was not a doctor of people, but he was not a fool either. He would give her time, give himself time. Perhaps she would soon understand. Perhaps she should quietly prompt, ask, support.

But for now… he would be there.

He would come up to her, put his arm around her waist and, as always, in a slightly playful tone, whisper in her ear:

"The saurians know something that we don’t know yet…"

She would look at him questioningly, not immediately catching the hint, and he would simply grin and add:

"It seems that my prediction about you as an ideal mother may come true sooner than you think."

This time she would not pat him on the shoulder. She would freeze. Ifa would feel how she slowly turned her gaze to the saurians sleeping at her feet. Then – to her stomach. Her lips would slightly part in silent surprise.

And he'll be there to catch her if the excitement hits. To hold her and whisper:

"It's okay. We'll get through this. You're not alone."

[lyn31]

Well that was close

Summary

A moment of heat, a sudden interruption, and a desperate scramble to keep a secret under wraps—just barely.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader College AU, mature, playful, banter, interruption/almost getting caught, short one shot.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door shuts behind you with a quiet click as you step into Zayne’s dorm, the weight of the afternoon settling in. It’s been a long day—lectures, note-taking, barely resisting the urge to sleep through the most boring professor in existence—but now, you’re here. And so is Zayne.

He tosses his bag onto his desk, already reaching for his books. Predictable.

You, however? You have other priorities.

Zayne barely has time to pull out a chair before your arms slide around his waist from behind, pressing your body flush against his. Warm. Even with the slight chill of his skin, you can still sense the subtle warmth beneath.

“You’re not really about to start studying, are you?” you murmur, lips brushing against the fabric of his shirt.

Zayne exhales, already weary, though you catch the subtle way his fingers tense around the book. “That was the plan.”

You hum, letting your hands wander a little—fingertips tracing the hem of his sweater, slipping just underneath. His stomach flinches at your touch, and you feel him take a sharp breath.

“We just got back from class,” he says, voice dipping lower.

“Mhm.” You press closer, lips grazing the edge of his jaw. “So?”

The book shuts in his hand.

Zayne turns, a flicker of something dangerous in his gaze—something that sends a sharp thrill down your spine.

“So,” he echoes, voice even, “you’re really insistent on making my life difficult.”

You grin. “Always.”

And that’s all it takes.

Zayne’s mouth finds yours in a claiming kiss, heat surging between you in an instant. He maneuvers you toward the bed with precise movements, barely breaking contact. Clothes come off in rushed, impatient motions—sweaters, jeans, until all that’s left is the press of bare skin and the way he fits perfectly against you.

His weight pins you to the mattress, grounding you as your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. His lips map a slow descent—over your throat, your collarbone—each touch leaving heat in its wake. His hand drifts lower, guiding your hips as he pushes forward, a sharp gasp spilling from your lips at the stretch, the slow, intoxicating slide of him sinking into you—

Knock. Knock.

"RA check!"

The sound slams into your skull like a gunshot.

For half a second, you’re frozen—so is Zayne. He’s still inside you, still hovering just above, his chest rising and falling against yours.

And then, at the exact same time, you both react.

Shit.

You shove at him, and Zayne, caught off guard, nearly topples over the edge of the bed. Sheer panic sets in. Clothes? Where? Everything is everywhere. The room is a crime scene. Zayne’s still half-naked, and you—oh god, butt naked—

"Give me a moment," Zayne calls out, voice so stiff that it almost sounds forced.

The RA doesn’t answer, but you can feel them standing there, waiting.

Zayne is halfway to his feet, hastily yanking on his pants, while you dive for your hoodie, slipping it on over your head with panicked urgency. The bed is a disaster, pillows askew, sheets very obviously disturbed.

"Where’s my—" You start to ask, but then you see it.

Your underwear.

On the floor. In plain sight.

You lunge for it, stuffing it under the pillow just as Zayne reaches the door. His shirt is only half buttoned, his hair an absolute wreck—but there’s no time.

You hear the door unlock, followed by the creak of it opening.

The RA stands there, arms crossed, scanning the room with a slow, calculating gaze.

It’s silent.

Then...

“…Huh.” The RA squints. “This place looks… occupied.”

Your pulse spikes. Judging by their expression, they probably thought someone was doing drugs—until their gaze landed on you both. Now, you're not sure which assumption is worse.

You and Zayne are sitting on opposite sides of the bed—way too stiff, way too guilty. His hands are on his lap, posture rigid. You’re tugging your hoodie down like it might somehow erase the evidence.

The RA’s gaze lingers on the extra pillow. The extra blanket. The general vibe of the room that very clearly does not belong to just one person.

"You two aren’t—" They pause. Reconsider. Their tone shifts, something dangerously knowing curling into it. "You don’t live here, do you?"

You force out a very casual, “Nope.”

Zayne, ever the composed one, simply says, “She just spends time here.”

The RA gives him a look.

The silence stretches.

Then, finally—

“…Right,” the RA says, dragging the word out just a little too long.

There’s no proof. They know what’s going on, but they can’t call it out outright. Instead, they exhale, rubbing the bridge of their nose.

“I better not find out you’re actually living here,” they mutter. “Because if I do—” Their eyes flick between the two of you. “I’ll have to report it, and you’ll be sent back to your own room. Understood?”

You nod so fast you probably give yourself whiplash. “Understood.”

The RA lingers for a second longer, but then, mercifully, finally steps back. “Keep it down,” they say. Then, with a skeptical glance at the still-messy bed, they shut the door behind them.

Silence.

Stillness.

You exhale hard, slumping against the bed. Zayne drags a hand down his face, tension leaking out of his shoulders.

“That,” he mutters, “was almost a disaster.”

You turn your head to look at him, still breathless. Your pulse is still racing—not just from the panic, but because you never actually finished. You were just getting to the good part, after all.

Your gaze drops to his lips.

Zayne notices.

His fingers twitch against the sheets. You see the moment it clicks for him—the way his eyes darken, the way his hand shifts just slightly toward you.

You lean in.

“So,” you murmur, voice lower now, teasing. “Where were we?”

Zayne exhales through his nose, tilting his head like he’s thinking. Then, very slowly, he shifts closer, his fingers sliding back to your thigh, his body pressing in just enough to make you shiver.

“I believe,” he says, voice steady but full of promise, “I was in the middle of something.”

And this time, no one interrupts.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

Before Zayne just played along with MC antics but I feel like now he could be starting it ahahahahaha

I was editing to add the rest of the series part but it was too long ahahaha so here's just the whole list: College AU list ✨

[melshifting]

❝ ACADEMIC WEAPON ❞ ― ULTIMATE SCRIPTING PACK ⋆.˚ᝰ.ᐟ

❝ Of course, you got a perfect mark. Again. ❞

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    Your ability to predict exam questions is almost scary. It’s not magic—you just pay attention to patterns, professors’ favorite topics, and how they phrase things.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    Your memory works like a web—once you learn something, it connects to every related topic you’ve ever encountered.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    Your handwriting is ridiculously fast yet still legible. You can take comprehensive notes in record time, capturing all the crucial information while barely looking down at the page.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    You always find the most efficient way to complete assignments. If there’s a shortcut, a loophole, or a way to recycle previous work while staying original, you’ll find it.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    You can glance at a page and mentally highlight the key information without actually using a highlighter—your brain just zones in on the critical bits.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    You can speed-read without losing comprehension. It’s not just skimming—you can absorb information at twice the usual pace while still retaining all the key points.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    You write/complete papers in record time without sacrificing quality—your brain automatically organizes ideas into a structured argument as you type.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    You have an uncanny ability to break down complicated topics into simple, digestible explanations—so much so that when you teach a concept to someone else, they walk away thinking you’re a genius.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    You don’t just memorize info—you internalize it. While others are cramming last-minute, you’re casually recalling facts like you lived them. Exams don’t scare you because the knowledge is already there.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    Somehow, you can recall the most random yet relevant details when you need them. A footnote you saw two weeks ago? Your brain pulls it up like a perfectly timed search engine.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    You never lose important documents—whether it’s notes, assignments, or an old syllabus. People come to you when they need to find something.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    You have a sixth sense for deadlines. Even if something isn’t officially due for weeks, you just know when you need to start so you’re never scrambling last minute. Your future self always thanks you.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    You can speed-watch lectures at 1.75x speed and still process every word. It’s not just passive listening—you absorb and retain the information, cutting your study time in half.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    Your brain treats multiple-choice questions like a detective case—even if you (somehow) don’t know the answer, you can eliminate wrong ones with surgical precision, using logic, and wording cues.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    Your time perception is elite. You can look at an assignment and instinctively know whether it will take 20 minutes or three hours. No guessing, no miscalculations.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    You can absorb information simply by listening. You don’t need to obsessively take notes or rewatch lectures—your ability to retain knowledge through casual exposure is incredible.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱    You have a ridiculously good memory for anything academic. Even if you forget where you left your phone, you can recall a specific definition from a textbook you glanced at three weeks ago.

[phoenixlevine]

Forgive me if this one sounds a bit off—I’m trying to do the guy justice. Once more, the Space Riders AU belongs to @onyxonline, not me.

This took a while since Kane's a bit of an oddball compared to the rest of the team. While everyone else has powers that work offensively and defensively, his ability is purely defensive. That means he'd be pretty weak on his own, which is why he’s the team captain—Kane knows how to rely on his team, and they can always count on him in return.

Kainar Nightshade (or just "Kane"—he’s not too particular) is the level-headed, strategic captain of the Aegis Team. Unlike his more chaotic teammates, he has a calm and resolute demeanor, always focused on keeping his squad safe. His power is purely defensive, creating powerful energy barriers that can withstand heavy impacts, but it leaves him vulnerable if he’s alone. That’s why he’s so good at being captain—Kane knows how to balance his weakness by coordinating the team to make the most of their collective strength.

He's also a firearms expert—name a gun, and he can probably use it like he was born with it in hand. Kane even has a collection back at his apartment in the Space Riders’ complex, ranging from antique revolvers to advanced plasma rifles. When it comes to combat, he combines his barriers with precise gunplay, setting up defenses while the others handle offense.

Home Planet: Astraeus Kane hails from Astraeus, a high-end, laid-back luxury planet located in the Centaurus constellation. The planet blends rugged, aesthetically refined landscapes—like rolling hills covered in golden grass, crystal-clear lakes, and vast canyons—with modern, luxurious architecture. Wealthy visitors from across the galaxy often come to enjoy Astraeus’s serene atmosphere, fine dining, and high-quality handcrafted goods.

The people of Astraeus are known for their relaxed, sophisticated lifestyle. They appreciate practical luxury and tend to avoid unnecessary chaos—making Kane’s composed demeanor a perfect match. Despite the calm and cultured environment, Astraeus still attracts its fair share of trouble, mostly from he Cult and smugglers. Kane’s upbringing on this planet taught him to value preparation, sharp instincts, and, of course, impeccable marksmanship.

Personality: Kane is calm, collected, and responsible. He’s known for keeping his cool even when Vael accidentally sets something (or someone) on fire. As captain, he’s supportive and patient, never one to berate his team for their wild antics. Instead, he subtly guides them back on track with a few pointed words. Despite his serious demeanor, Kane does have a quiet sense of humor, often dry and delivered with a slight smirk.

Hobbies: Maintenance and customization of his guns, collecting rare firearms, practicing at the shooting range, and quietly making sure the team doesn’t accidentally blow up the apartment. He also enjoys the occasional high-quality espresso, a nod to Astraeus’s appreciation for the finer things.

Powers: Defensive energy barriers. Kane’s barriers are strong and versatile, but purely protective—he can’t manipulate them offensively. They are most effective when he uses them to shield himself and his teammates in combat. Kane’s skill lies in reading the battlefield, predicting attacks, and setting up barriers in the right spots to protect the team while they take down threats.

[deonsx]

i saw you were taking requests o((>ω< ))o

i hc yukimiya, kaiser, and oliver to have the comfy but stylish fashion sense(lol), can i request them with reader who has a darker style like goth or vkei?

Hiii dear!! firstly in the event i write the characters I will write and unfortunately just kaiser here (I only write characters whose behavior I understand, so I can imagine them, but I don't have enough information about the others sorry(´-ω-`) lets add sae

Kaiser Michael

Kaiser, ever the center of attention with his magnetic charisma and effortlessly stylish flair, strolls confidently through the crowd. By his side is you the striking contrast to his golden aura. Your dark, layered outfit, inspired by a fusion of gothic elegance and visual kei extravagance, turns just as many heads. Your presence radiates mystery, drawing curious glances wherever you walk together

Kaiser grins, adjusting the collar of his jacket as he leans closer to you “I swear, people are staring at us because of me” he teases, his voice dripping with smug amusement “Or maybe they’re just not used to seeing someone as stylish as me with someone so… darkly radiant”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smirking “Or they’re wondering why a golden retriever is trying to keep up with a black panther” The playful jab makes his grin widen “Touché, mein dunkler Stern”

The two of you pause at a stall selling handmade accessories. Kaiser’s eyes gleam as he spots a black lace choker adorned with a silver crescent moon. He picks it up, holding it toward you “This would suit you” he declares with absolute confidence, then adds with a teasing smirk “But you’d look even better wearing something of mine”

You snort, crossing your arms. “You mean like your ego? Sorry, it’s a bit too heavy for my neck”Undeterred, Kaiser steps closer, lowering his voice “Keep talking, and I might just buy it for you anyway. A perfect gift for my perfect little shadow”

The faintest blush creeps up your neck, and you quickly divert your attention to another stall. But Kaiser follows, his laughter soft but triumphant as he takes his place beside you, unfazed by your aloof demeanor

As the night continues, you find yourself grudgingly enjoying his over-the-top compliments and relentless attempts to get a smile from you. By the time you leave, he’s carrying several small items he insisted on buying for you a delicate ring, a black-embroidered scarf and of course the choker

Sae Itoshi

Sae walks in, exuding his usual cool, detached confidence. Dressed in his signature minimalist yet high-end fashion, he glances around with faint disinterest, his sharp eyes scanning the room for anything worthy of his attention. Then he notices you

You stand near a dimly lit display of abstract sculptures, your goth or visual kei-inspired attire making you an arresting contrast to the sterile white walls and muted tones of the gallery. Your layered outfit is a work of art itself dark lace, leather accents, and intricate accessories that seem to tell a story all their own. The black polish on your nails gleams as you hold a glass of wine, your demeanor composed and enigmatic. Sae’s gaze lingers a moment too long

“Interesting taste” he comments, stepping closer. His voice is low and measured, as if he’s assessing the situation with the same precision he brings to the pitch. You glance at him, arching a brow “The art or me?”

He doesn’t flinch at your boldness. Instead, his lips curve ever so slightly a rare hint of amusement “Both, I suppose. Though one of them is harder to read” You tilt your head, intrigued but refusing to let him rattle you. “Let me guess you prefer things simple, minimal, and predictable”

Sae’s smirk grows “Not quite. I just appreciate when something stands out. Like this…” He gestures toward the piece you were studying a sleek, modern sculpture with jagged, chaotic edges “Or you”

You chuckle softly, meeting his intense gaze “Flattery from a guy like you? Color me impressed”Sae shrugs, his tone nonchalant but his eyes sharper than ever “It’s not flattery. Just an observation”

The two of you fall into an easy, if slightly sharp-tongued, conversation. Sae’s reserved demeanor contrasts with your dark, vibrant energy, but neither of you seem fazed. As the evening wears on, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to your unapologetic individuality, while you find his quiet intensity more captivating than you expected

Before the night ends, Sae leans in closer, his voice softer but no less confident “I don’t usually go to these things, but I’m glad I did tonight. You’re… different”

“Different how?” you ask, feigning disinterest but feeling your heart skip a beat. Sae’s gaze locks with yours, his smirk returning “Let’s just say you’re not as predictable as I expected. I’d like to see more of that”

Enjoy!

[cece693]

Hihi, may I request a Hannibal x Reader where the Reader has NPD and doesn't form a connection with anyone till he meets Hannibal? A bit self-indulgent, but I reckon Hannibal would be fascinated by the prospect of being 'special' to a narcissist.

My Mirror

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: no background info used when writing this, sorry in advance, vain male reader, hannibal indulges him, talk about superiority

You’ve never been one for emotional attachments—an understatement, truly. Where others might feel devotion or longing, you observe a mild, clinical detachment. People, with their petty wants and whining needs, amuse you for a time but rarely hold your attention for long. You’ve grown comfortable in the self-contained world of your own superiority.

In clinical terms, you’ve been labeled with narcissistic personality disorder—NPD. The label doesn’t disturb you. In your eyes, the world is simply out of sync with you; it fails to meet the high standards you’ve set. You don’t consider this a “disorder,” exactly. Yet you recognize that it isolates you. No one has ever managed to breach the lofty gates of your interest…until meeting him.

The first time you hear of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, you’re skeptical. Your colleagues and acquaintances speak of him in hushed, reverent tones: a brilliant psychiatrist, a culinary savant, a polymath of refined tastes. You grow used to overhearing their effusive praise, and it only piques a faint curiosity at best. Everyone extols him so highly—could he possibly live up to the hype?

Yet, from the moment Hannibal Lecter opens the door to his lavish Baltimore townhouse, you sense a shift. The warmth of candlelight glints off polished silver in the foyer. The faint aroma of roasting meat teases your senses. But none of these details hold your attention half as much as the man himself. Dark, composed eyes meet yours—eyes that see you in a way no one else has before. You feel an uncanny ripple of fascination, and it snags you before you can slip away behind your usual polite mask of distance.

Throughout the evening, you watch Hannibal with an intensity you typically reserve only for yourself. He tends to his guests with an elegant flourish, every word precisely chosen, every subtle gesture purposeful. It’s all done with a perfection that borders on artistry.

At dinner, you test him—sliding in a barbed remark about the “vapidness” of certain guests, just to see how he’ll react.

Hannibal raises his glass and murmurs, “You see them as uninteresting, do you?” There’s something in his voice, a mild fascination, that instantly pricks your pride in a pleasurable way.

“Don’t you?”

He offers a small, knowing smile. “Their concerns may be pedestrian,” he allows. “Yet, occasionally, there is merit in observing what they fail to perceive.” His gaze flickers to you, lingering. “And how do you find me?”

It’s a straightforward question, one most people would dodge, but you don’t. “Relevant,” you reply smoothly. “Rarely do I meet someone who isn’t painfully predictable.”

You expect a mild scoff, or perhaps a faint show of offense. Instead, Hannibal’s eyes gleam with a genuine spark of intrigue. “How refreshing,” he says, a gentle timbre in his voice that resonates.

As word of your growing closeness spreads among your acquaintances, it ignites a ripple of scandalized curiosity. After all, you’re you: proud, self-assured, never known to settle on anything or anyone that doesn't meet your standards. Many interpret your relationship to be built on purely superficial aspects—perhaps you're just dazzled by Hannibal's wealth (as if you don't have money of your own) or you seek to climb the social ladder (as if you would desire to spend your priceless time entertaining the mindless sheep for longer than necessary.)

They see your vanity, your precise grooming, your tendency to remark on the trivialities of others’ failures. They judge you for it. But what they can’t see is how Hannibal perceives you differently. He recognizes that your so-called “superficiality” is both shield and sword: you offer praise only where it’s truly earned, and you expect nothing less in return. He praises your refined tastes, marvels at your knowledge of art and culture. Far from dismissing your grandeur, he encourages it. In moments stolen away from prying eyes, Hannibal’s soft voice murmurs the subtlest compliments:

“You wear that suit as though it were designed exclusively for you. Magnificent.”

“Your insights on Baroque architecture are enthralling. Not many people appreciate ornamentation like we do.”

No one has ever spoken to you this way, not without an undercurrent of envy or mockery. Yet Hannibal’s praises feel earnest, almost reverential. His acceptance of your worldview—that you are remarkable—bolsters an unfamiliar warmth within you. You, in turn, find his own superiority mesmerizing. This is what it’s like, you think, to be understood.

If others see only the two of you exchanging indulgent remarks about fine wines, then let them. If they think it’s just a coupling of vanity and pretension, so be it. What truly matters is the inexpressible energy that crackles in the space between you—a reflection of two minds that appreciate the rare delight in one another.

[mya-valentine]

Headcanon: Working Closely with Dottore and Pantalone

Working with both Dottore and Pantalone is a constant balancing act. Dottore thrives in the realm of chaos, with his twisted experiments and disregard for ethical boundaries, while Pantalone is the epitome of control and calculated precision. Your role often involves navigating between these two extremes, ensuring that Dottore’s reckless endeavors don’t entirely destroy Pantalone’s well-constructed plans—or his profits.

When working with Dottore, you can never fully predict what kind of experiment or scheme he’ll drag you into. His workspace is full of dangerous contraptions and ominous, mysterious equipment. He treats everything like a puzzle he’s determined to solve, even if it means crossing lines others wouldn’t dare. He might request your assistance in something seemingly innocent, only for it to evolve into a disturbing and twisted experiment.

On the other hand, Pantalone runs things with the precision of a businessman. Every decision is meticulously calculated, and he expects nothing less from those who work closely with him. He’s always thinking several steps ahead, and his projects often revolve around securing wealth and influence for the Fatui. When working with him, you are exposed to high-stakes negotiations, economic manipulation, and subtle power plays.

You often find yourself playing the mediator between Dottore and Pantalone. Dottore’s mad scientist antics sometimes clash with Pantalone’s structured business endeavors. It’s not uncommon for Pantalone to become exasperated by Dottore’s unpredictable actions, and you’re the one who has to smooth things over, explaining Dottore’s reasoning—or lack thereof—while ensuring Pantalone’s operations aren’t compromised.

Joint meetings between the three of you can be tense. Dottore often speaks in vague, almost mocking tones about his experiments, while Pantalone raises a brow, always concerned about how much these ventures will cost the Fatui. You’ll feel the palpable tension as Pantalone tries to rein in Dottore’s more outlandish ideas, but Dottore never gives in easily.

While Dottore can be incredibly intimidating, there’s a certain thrill in working alongside someone as brilliant—and dangerous—as him. He occasionally lets you in on his more technical ideas, expecting you to keep up with his genius. He enjoys showing off his creations and theories, and if you’re able to contribute meaningfully, he’ll regard you with a mix of interest and amusement.

Pantalone, on the other hand, values your ability to manage things with poise. He expects you to understand the broader picture, the economy, and how to influence people subtly. He enjoys teaching you about the intricacies of wealth management and expects you to adopt his same level of attention to detail. If you manage to impress him, he might even offer you a more strategic role in the Fatui’s financial dealings.

Dottore has a twisted sense of humor, and you’ll often find yourself on the receiving end of it. He’ll make cryptic or morbid jokes about his experiments or the people involved, and you’ll need to keep your composure to avoid becoming another one of his “test subjects.” There’s a fine line between working with him and becoming part of his next experiment.

Pantalone, being a man of wealth, spoils those who earn his favor. If you manage to keep things running smoothly between him and Dottore, he will reward you handsomely—whether that’s through financial compensation, gifts, or special privileges. He values competence and loyalty, and he’s more than willing to show his appreciation through luxurious means.

Both Dottore and Pantalone hold significant power within the Fatui, but their power manifests in different ways. Dottore’s influence comes from fear and intellect, while Pantalone’s stems from wealth and control. You’ll need to navigate their distinct power dynamics carefully, knowing that they both have the ability to make or break you in the organization.

Earning trust from either Dottore or Pantalone isn’t easy. Dottore respects intellect and curiosity, while Pantalone values loyalty and efficiency. Over time, you may find yourself in a unique position where you’ve gained the trust of both men, becoming someone they rely on—Dottore for assistance with his experiments and Pantalone for managing the financial and strategic aspects of the Fatui.

Working with them can feel like being part of a dangerously effective machine. Pantalone’s resources fund Dottore’s more elaborate projects, and in return, Dottore’s inventions or discoveries can increase the Fatui’s power.

Working closely with Dottore and Pantalone is a challenging yet intriguing experience, requiring adaptability, wit, and a keen understanding of both chaos and order. It’s a delicate dance between madness and strategy, and if you manage to thrive in such an environment, you’ll earn the respect—and maybe even the protection—of two of the most powerful Harbingers in Teyvat.

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Masterlist