i like when people draw machine herald viktor with only half of his chest augmented (the side by his heart) but I can't help but wonder if the remaining nipple is extra sensitive
guys my account is about to get hacked I can feel it I know it's gonna get taken over maybe by aliens I don't know but if you see some suspicious posts appearing it wasn't me. it literally. was not me
guys my account is about to get hacked I can feel it I know it's gonna get taken over maybe by aliens I don't know but if you see some suspicious posts appearing it wasn't me. it literally. was not me
viktor opens up his steel chest cavity to perform some routine maintenance, but after the span of about ten minutes, he gets distracted and starts playing in his wires while thinking about you
knight machine herald x royalty reader. throws this at your head and runs away so fast.
The Machine Herald swore his life to his sovereign Majesty over a decade ago; his monarch, whom brought him back from the brink of exile, whom gave him mercy and elected him a position as a knight; and as the heir's closest, most respected paladin, he has vowed to always serve them with his utmost fealty. But, nothing in all of the lands has tested his endurance quite like this.
He has felled dragons for his sovereign. He has protected you from rogues, and armies, and miscreants posing as potential suitors. The cavalries of the opposing kingdoms fear his name. In the royal court, he relinquished the sins he was exiled for to give his mind, body, and soul to his servitude of its whims. There is not much left that does not belong to you.
When he rises in the morning, hours before he might wake you — dawn has not yet cracked over the horizon — he feels the hum of machinery beneath his breast, he notches the intricate steel of his prosthetic arm into place.
He palms water into his face before he swallows a bead of rosemary root — it goes down easier, in this way — because it is meant to dull one's emotions. To sharpen the senses.
These days, he is unsure if it has any effect whatsoever.
"Viktor," You coo from your position on your featherbed, your satin nightclothes rustled along with the silken sheets; and it is a coo, a pretty plea for him. Curses, his name on your tongue is enough to crumble mountains. "Won't you come closer?"
"Perhaps if you would permit me to tuck you in for rest, your Highness." Viktor's accent rolls the words like thunder. It is unlike your own. Unlike anyone from this region, rather.
You grumble. Candlelight graces your collarbones. Viktor has lit several wax columns, as well as rose-sweet insense, per your request. The both of you know it is merely tradition, and will do little to soothe you to sleep.
"I cannot rest when I must meet with Sir Lucas Finch tomorrow." A deep exhale escapes you. "I am less than keen to discuss trade with him. He talks for hours."
"All the more reason for you to retire early."
Viktor watches your chest rise and fall, as you gaze at the ceiling listlessly. He squares his shoulders. His armor clinks together lightly. Beneath his steel mask, he clenches his jaw, and yet —
"Vik," You extend a hand, as if reaching for him. "Come here. Do not disobey my order."
He should. But he would never.
Your bed shifts to accommodate his weight when he perches on the edge. The room is dark, the sky outside the palace blanketed by crystal starfall. But he can make out the glint in your eye. The smile upon your lips.
You reach for his hand. You run your nails over the leather of his glove, for a moment. Viktor watches, silent as you remove the garment, placing it onto your nightstand before you gently squeeze his scarred fingers.
"I wish I could run away with you, this night." Your words are hushed. The Machine Herald is the only one permitted to guard your chambers, but other knights would be stationed in the hallway, perhaps occasionally pacing by your door. There is never a moment alone. Unless — "I want to visit the ocean with you, as we did once... We could return by sunrise, no-one would even know we were gone."
A hint of anxiety, pleading, lingers in your eyes. You are not ready for tomorrow. Viktor thinks of the sea at your heels. White foam and sparkling blue.
He is biting his tongue, because you are getting the rim of your day-clothes filthy with seawater; the tailors will have his head for this. But he sees so many practiced smiles, little waves from your carriage or half-grins as an aristocrat presses his forehead to the ground before you. And Gods, as you splash droplets upwards with your palms, you are smiling like you never have before. So Viktor can let it go, just the once.
"Majesty," Viktor unfortunately argues, "You would be exhausted."
"Then, if you cannot grant me this... at least stay by my side?"
"I always do."
"No." The sheets rustle when you shake your head. Viktor finds his gaze fixating on the bare curve of your neck. "Discard your armor. Lie with me."
You have a certain fire about you. Viktor bathes in the embers, and knows he is already doomed.
(On the bridge of your nose, a scar sits, like snow on the cap of a cliff.
Viktor is but a knight in training. An assassin is holding a knife to your face, and Viktor does not hesitate. He splits him in two with a focused laser of flame magic, and he thinks he is there to cover your eyes before you turn them to the bloodspray, but he cannot be sure. You shake in his arms.
Thank you, you tell him, hours later, in the privacy of your personal derobing room. Thank you, thank you, I'm sorry. I do not wish to die. Your tears form ripples on the water in your bath.
He isn't even meant to be here. You are the one who invited him into your chambers, insisting he protect you in case another cutthroat arises. Before him, your practiced mask breaks for the very first time.
Perhaps he will never let the people know of your worries, including the members of the royal court, but he will remember. The Machine Herald will use this memory to know of why he must always keep you safe. So you might never shake with fear again.)
Not a soul is permitted to touch the royal monarch, unless you are royalty yourself. Viktor is a member of the royal guard, but that matters little, when he first came from the slums.
Still, Viktor traces the ridges of his knuckles over your plush cheek, as though you are delicate like the finest porcelain.
(Again, the fire in you commands him.
A secret of yours is that you enjoy a light touch when you are troubled, and so Viktor pulls you aside before each royal meeting, he squeezes your shoulder or strokes your back, metal against flesh. He knows it is rare that anyone touches you.
He can see it, shimmering in his mind like gold: you, warm and almost giddy as you take the sky-hued — shades of blue and sunset and cloud-white — flower crown Viktor brought for you after two nights and a day elsewhere. You, grinning like a madman as you twirl, holding onto his hand, and it isn't Viktor's duty to teach you how to dance, he is quite terrible at it, but he cannot turn away from the spark in your eyes.
There is a pool in the depths of the royal gardens, lined with moss and lilypads, and Viktor only remembers it so fondly because it was there that you breathed his name like a prayer, palms to his waist as you pressed a kiss to the front of his mask. Warmth billows from within him, like smoke, though he cannot feel your lips. He sighs, amidst the clockwork ticking of his innards.
This shouldn't be, he thinks. Even as you are cooing sweet nothings, on your tiptoes so you can reach his nape. Viktor. My beautiful Viktor. Thy heart is made of gold, not metal. I would give everything to you, if the court had not forbade it.
Everything. You are everything he isn't, and everything he cannot have. He is not human. He will never be worthy of the throne.
But, in the moment, who is he to deny his Majesty?)
He says, voice muffled underneath his mask, "Is that an order?"
"A suggestion." Your lashes are watery. "Please, Viktor?"
In the sovereign's royal chamber, there is little sound. A gentle clinking — to a perceptive ear, perhaps it is the sound of discarding armor, gauntlets and a pauldron and a breastplate. The rustle of sheets. An inhale of two breaths.
Viktor lets you trace the line of his jaw with your thumb, where a gruesome split of metal solders into his skin. His left eye is milky in the wake of a scar, an unsightly lightning-ripple that carves from his brow to his mouth, the sort aristocrats might gasp at as they cover their faces with a fan.
You smile. You brush your thumb over the mole above his mouth, as though its a star to be mapped. Viktor believes he would let you do anything.
"My knight," You breathe. Yes, he is yours. "My Machine Herald."
Your nose brushes his. Heavy-eyed, your knight charts the shape of your lips with his thumb, as no-one ever has; how foolish of your suitors, he thinks. He could trace them for all eternity. This is how kingdoms fall. This is how the drag of time slows to a halt.
The inhuman heat of him creates a furnace beneath the blankets. Moonlight spills from a stained glass window. He has forgotten what a heartbeat might feel like, after carving his out — such organs are a weakness, of course. But, in the quiet, he can nearly hear the patter of your own.
Damn him. He is the fool here, is he not?
Viktor. You murmur his name, the name only you still recall, softer than a cloud, a meadow, a beauty he only knew when he began to fall for the one person he most certainly should not fall for. You said his name when you knighted him, the edge of a sword to his shoulder. You say it once more, as if only to savor the sound.
Yes, your Highness? he answers, ever compliant, ever faithful. You simply drag him closer.
Viktor does not pull away when you cup his cheek and kiss him hard, and perhaps that is his greatest sin of all.
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