content: established situationship, takes place after the 6.3 archon quests so spoilers!, canon-divergent, slight angst, mentions of death, smut (maintenance as a form of sex lol), reader opens up sandrone & messes with her inner workings, slight exhibitionism, begging, sandrone is bratty but we already knew that
word count: 8.3k
◼ / ◼ - Overcast
I haven’t seen her in a long time.
No matter. If we were to cross paths again, it would likely be because something unfortunate had happened, anyway.
It’s in my best interest, both physically and cognitively speaking, that we remain apart. She can be such a nuisance.
◼ / ◼ - Sunny
That old Conch Madeleine recipe she gave me leaves much to be desired. I keep meaning to make improvements to it.
◼ / ◼ - Overcast
I baked her Conch Madeleines for today’s tea party. Columbina seemed to like their taste as is. Well, her palate is hardly refined.
Either way, I suppose I shouldn’t make any changes to the recipe for now.
◼ / ◼ - Snow
◼ ◼i◼s ◼er.
…
Iterated on my self-preservation mechanisms.
With a start, you snapped the journal in your hands shut as you registered the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Skittish authority that could only belong to one individual—even after years away from the Fontaine Research Institute, you recognized it just as easily as when you’d been a researcher under his management.
“Monsieur Choiseul.”
You were met with furrowed blond eyebrows and a mustache scrunched up in deliberation, the look of an anxious intern rather than the administrative officer for Fontaine’s most renowned pioneers of science. Though, you figured that title didn’t hold quite as much weight as it used to, now that the Institute’s reputation had been blown to smithereens in the most literal sense.
“Good morning,” he began tepidly, unsure whether to feign conversation or get straight to the point. “It’s been a pleasant change seeing you around the Institute more often these days, I must say.”
“The feeling is mutual,” you lied. “I only wish the circumstances were different.”
“A most regrettable situation, indeed. Though, it’s no small feat that you were able to resolve it.” Choiseul glanced down at the aged journal in your hands, and you cursed yourself for being too engrossed in its contents to click the leather strap shut before he’d arrived. A knowing look crossed his face, one that suddenly had you feeling like the unlucky subject of his latest project that was doomed to fail. “She’s awake,” he informed you, politely sparing you the awkwardness of being called out on your blatant snooping. “For nearly a day now, in fact.”
The news didn’t come as much of a surprise to you, but you quirked an eyebrow, nonetheless. “And she still hasn’t left?”
“She hasn’t so much as stepped outside her room. I assumed you two had made some sort of prior arrangement. Isn’t that why you’ve continued to linger at the Institute even after fulfilling The Knave’s request?”
You couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that made you bristle—how effortlessly even an airhead like Choiseul had read your intentions, or the implication that you’d spent multiple sleepless nights agonizing over the fate of the woman under your aching, oil-stained hands solely because you’d been ordered to do so. Not out of your own volition. Not because you—
You shooed the thought away, jaw flexing with choice words. Sensing that he’d perturbed you, the man took a step back, wrinkles creasing on his forehead in a look of vague worry that satisfied you in an odd way. “Well then,” he cleared his throat. “I’m sure you two have much to discuss. And, if you’d like to meet with Raimondo and I afterwards regarding future collaborations—”
“This was an extraordinary circumstance, Choiseul," you shut him down before he could dare to fantasize about luring you back to the Institute as a full-time researcher again. “I believe I’ve made my position with this establishment very clear.”
Choiseul smoothed out his clothes; cordial, though unable to mask a tinge of bitterness as he dipped his head in acknowledgement. “There’s still much for the Institute to rebuild, it seems,” he muttered under his breath.
His frantic energy must’ve rubbed off on you during the brief exchange, because suddenly, you were overcome with an inexplicable wave of apprehension, winding up your chest like a clockwork toy and buzzing at your fingertips where they dug into the worn leather of her notebook. It was a fear entirely different from the one that had sent ice-cold droplets of sweat trickling down your face while performing maintenance on her broken body for days on end, mending the frayed wires and unresponsive cogs of her inner workings, sealing the gaping hole in her chest, replacing components as if they were organs and you were a surgeon at an operating table.
This fear was born from something that no tool could mend, far more convoluted than an oversight in your calculations or a clumsy twist of your wrench. It was intangible, out of your control, and thus, infinitely more frightening. The fear that her core itself had been altered, that there was no place for you remaining in her database.
At the end of the half-constructed hallway that stretched out for what seemed like an eternity, your gaze fixated on the door to her room. For once, there were no vast oceans or miles of snowy plains to overcome, just a few inches of Mallow Wood separating you from where she was. Awake, alive—waiting for you.
When you stepped into the room, you found her with back turned, facing the massive window that gazed upon Mount Esus’ distant slopes. You may have found it unnecessarily cruel that you were still robbed of a proper look at her face if it weren’t for the comforting sight of her key, spinning and spinning and spinning on her back in an endless loop, just as it was meant to be.
Grateful for the opportunity to slip her journal discreetly onto the nearby desk, you attempted to do exactly that, only for her voice to wrap around your wrist like a shackle and freeze you in place. Lazy, feigned indifference that was coated with just enough scorn to sting. The paw of a cat, you mused, claws semi-sheathed under soft fur, still debating whether or not it was worth the effort to lash out.
“Invasion of privacy is one thing,” she began. Still motionless on the bed, hands folded neatly in her lap as though she’d run this exact interaction through her head countless times just as she did with her exhaustive calculations. “But thievery? From someone incapacitated, no less? The lows you manage to stoop to never fail to surprise me.”
Her harsh notes hit your ears less like an insult and more like a melody sung in a distant land, soundwaves traveling miles and miles across valleys and rivers to find you at long last. So much effort just to deliver you those scathing words; it was almost touching. When you responded, you were certain she could hear the smile blooming in your own voice.
“And yet you’d trust this lowly thief with your life. Ironic, isn’t it?”
At that, her head whipped to the side, gracing you with the glint of a single blue eye over her poised shoulder. “You were entrusted with my death, not my life. I’d hardly call that an honor.”
“I certainly would. Even more so to have The Marionette awaiting my arrival like a fairytale princess locked away in her tower.” You folded your arms and leaned against the doorframe, misgivings melting away with each steady, well-oiled turn of her key. She was alive and well and—most importantly—the same as ever. Had she not retained any semblance of herself, you would’ve considered it no less than a second death, even crueler than the first.
“You’ve gone soft on me, Sandrone. I was certain you’d be on the first ship back to Snezhnaya, by now.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snorted. “Heavens forbid I allow myself a moment’s reprieve after being expected to save the world with nothing but the scattered notes of a madman and a group of bleeding heart fools.”
Her lack of conviction was laughably evident to you. Even without having met said group of fools or knowing the extent of Sandrone’s connection to them, you could tell by the falter in her voice that her thoughts since regaining consciousness had been dedicated almost exclusively to their wellbeing rather than her own.
“Besides—” She straightened her posture, tilting her chin away again before continuing. “Unlike some, I haven’t forgotten my manners. It would be unladylike to not at least acknowledge your efforts in restoring my functionality.”
You mellowed. Pushing yourself off the doorframe, you began making your way towards the bed, lips twitching with another grin when she visibly perked up over the sound of you approaching. As you drew closer, the braids in her sandy brown hair came into view—not quite as pristine as when she styled them herself, but acceptable nonetheless. Her hair had come loose in the days you’d spent working to get her body functioning again, and taking the time to rebraid it yourself amidst those sleepless nights had been the closest you could get to pretending like she was still there with you, fussing over how you’d tarnished her appearance in all your carelessness.
Despite your skill not being up to her standards—a fact she had made abundantly clear to you in the past—her bun was still exactly as you’d left it two days ago, untouched.
The thin, sorry excuse for a mattress dipped under your weight as you sat next to her and rested your eyes on her face at last; a face that was porcelain in everything but practice. You could see her tongue fighting to speak behind the cage of her teeth, her eyelashes fluttering rapidly like Gull feathers frazzled by a storm. No matter how desperately she tried, no matter how easy it should’ve been for an automation like her, she could never truly contain her expressiveness.
You wondered, for what wasn’t the first time, whether that was a result of the Lord Artificer’s will, or her own.
“I missed you, too,” you murmured at last.
Just like that, she went from pretending your existence was mere dust in her workshop to glaring daggers into your skull, dull blue eyes going sharp with indignation.
“You’d do well not to put words in my mouth,” she snapped.
It may have been easier to take her seriously if her shoulders didn’t go lax the moment you ran a finger up her neck, tickling the delicate hairs at her nape and circling over the silky texture of her braid, plagued by messy, loose strands that you knew would drive her mad if she spotted them sticking out in the mirror. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been able to touch her like this—really touch her, not as a mechanic, but as a person—and yet, the sensation was as familiar as ever, like the sight of a landmark that told you home was near, allowing your memories to take control of your footsteps and guide you on instinct alone.
“Or what?” You flicked lazily at the frills of her bonnet, a challenge in its own right. “You’ll have my tongue cut out?”
Her eyes narrowed, lip curling into a sneer that probably shouldn’t have made you want to lean in and kiss the corners of her mouth as badly as it did, acidic words burning your tongue and all.
“Keep pushing your luck and you’ll find it’s more than just hearsay.”
“Oh? I thought you saved that treatment for people who are cruel to machinery,” you frowned. “And I've always been nothing but gentle with you, haven't I?”
Sandrone’s cheeks swelled with irritation again, no doubt preparing to spit back something that would make a seasoned Fatui soldier wince. To her dismay, however, something strange began to rise within her before she could put you in your place, a heat that she barely processed as abnormal before it had her synthetic skin flushing pink.
“I…y-you,” she sputtered. “What the hell is this!?”
“I upgraded your heating module,” you said casually, pulling away from her on reflex to avoid the vicious swipe of her hand that would surely follow. “Consider it a welcome home gift. In addition to, y’know, bringing you back to life.”
“I've never once required such a ridiculous function! Not even in the harshest blizzards of Snezhnaya!” she exclaimed, incredulous and defiant and more endearing to you than ever. Funnily enough, it wasn’t when you had her body opened up with her core bared to you that you found Sandrone at her most vulnerable, it was in moments such as this one, where you burrowed under her skin metaphorically rather than physically. “Has your ego grown so massive that you’ve forgotten not everyone has a feeble human body like yours?”
You could’ve pointed out how her many journal entries lamenting about Snezhnaya’s weather said otherwise, but instead, you simply smiled. It may very well have sent Sandrone into a pure fit of rage if not for the fact that she immediately registered it as ingenuine, a pretty bow wrapped around the melancholy that had been clouding over your features from the instant you’d laid eyes on her again. She’d tried to ignore it at first—she always did—but there was no escaping the way it twisted her wires into a complicated web of emotions.
Because such a pitiable expression didn’t suit you, of course. No other reason.
“You were so cold,” you said softly. Against your better judgement, you reached for her hand where it was bunched up in a tight fist against the bedsheets, draping over her creased glove with the blanket of your palm. “When The Knave brought you to me. So I found myself thinking that if by some miracle I could bring you back, I'd like to feel as much of your warmth as possible.”
She went rigid, as though her key had halted its perpetual winding on her back once more. The thought alone made you grip her a little tighter, and to your relief, her fist loosened under your hand. So wonderfully warm, now, brimming with the vitality she deserved.
Sandrone began to get the sense that you weren’t truly looking at her anymore. Your eyes had focused on the empty space behind her head, reliving the memory of your first reunion in months coming in the form of her lifeless husk being delivered to the Institute. Her eyelids had been just shy of going fully shut, like she still hadn’t decided whether or not to accept her fate, oil dripping from the corner of her parted lips in an unseemly display that she surely would’ve raised hell over anyone else witnessing had she been alive. Limp in the arms of The Knave, she’d looked more at peace than you’d ever seen her in your life—that alone had been enough to tell you that something was horribly wrong.
“Maybe ego played a small part in it,” you admitted. “It was a selfish choice. One that I hope you can find in your heart to forgive.”
“Y-you…” Plush skin flexed and pursed under her teeth as she gnawed at her lower lip, a convenient excuse to stop talking long enough to get that pathetic waver in her voice under control. “You know better than anyone that I possess no such thing.”
To her chagrin, a sound of protest nearly rose in her throat when you let go of her hand. Just as she swallowed it down, your fingers rose to her chest instead, drifting past the curve of her breasts to lay your palm flat on her sternum. No heartbeat, just the low, steady thrum of bolts, nuts, and wires beneath her skin, all working as they ought to be. A vibration that was worlds more comforting to you than any living pulse.
“Then what is it that keeps you so hopelessly enamored with me?” you crooned.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, overcome with both the urge to smack your insolent hand away, and to pull it close enough to cave in her chest cavity and sink into her insides, all at once.
“Has the Institute resorted to using hallucinogenics in their newest Fonta recipe?” she asked flatly. "Is that the source of your delusion?”
“Wishes, memory, souls, persona…” you began, pleased when Sandrone—though her jab had gone completely ignored—still perked up with interest over the all too familiar combination of terms. “Hypothetically, if a fifth orthant were to exist, what do you suppose it would be?”
She blinked at you, puzzled into further exasperation. “What kind of question is that?”
“All four must be present in an individual in order for them to be considered living—”
“Did you snoop through my copies of Rene's notes while I was out of commission, too? Very classy.”
“—So, theoretically, through this…What was it that Monsieur De Petrichor called the process, again?”
The gleam in your eye was more than enough for Sandrone to know that you were playing dumb on purpose. Even so, a chance to flaunt her knowledge in front of you was worth it all the same—especially when it concerned your deep-seated fascination with The Ordo, one that she would never admit out loud rivaled her own, at times.
It certainly had nothing to do with how her emotion module began whirring with an odd delight when she caught on to where your little thought experiment was headed. Absolutely not.
“Chymical marriage,” she huffed, annoyance practiced to perfection.
“A fitting term,” you noted. “Through this marriage, resurrection becomes more than plausible, yes?”
Sandrone’s brow pinched irritably. “I’m sitting right in front of you, aren't I?”
Wordlessly, you traced a gentle pattern over the dips and ridges of her collarbones, and her eyes flickered away. Suddenly, she was far more interested in examining the residual debris that had dusted her gloves than coming to terms with the sheer affection dripping from your every touch. Even if the answer to your question hadn’t been obvious to her as soon as you’d posed it, she certainly would’ve found it swimming in your eyes.
“Yes, you are,” you murmured. “Then, back to my initial question. If there were a fifth orthant, one that tied the other four together—or better yet, one that was present in them all, what do you think it would be?”
“No need to labor such a rudimentary thought,” she dismissed, aiming for indifference, only to fall more along the lines of meek. Her voice had no solid foundation to it anymore. Wispy and faint, delicate Lumidouce Bells swaying in the breeze, completely unlike the sturdy bronze and metal she was fashioned from. “Even a simpleton could come to the right conclusion.”
You grinned again, and when your hand cupped that adorably round cheek of hers, it was practically steaming—an utter lack of control over her new function that you relished in a bit too much. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, then.”
“I never said that,” she corrected you coldly. “You need a heart to love, and I'm afraid Alain never granted me such a burden.”
In spite of herself, Sandrone's eyes went half-lidded as her face found a home in the palm of your hand once more—a pesky habit of hers she wished she could erase from her programming. But it was one she had developed entirely on her own, an unfortunate side effect of the humanity Alain had longed for her to cultivate.
The thought was enough to allow her to lower her guard, cheek smushing begrudgingly against your hand like dough ready to be molded. With the way it made her lips pucker, it became hard to resist the urge to lean forward and kiss her like you’d been longing to do since the moment your lips had last touched.
When you spoke again, your breath tickled her skin, a breeze so light, yet still enough to send those useless Lumidouce petals flying.
“Are you willing to test that out?”
Pools of deep blue darted away, but not before you caught her pupils widening. So transparently human, more than so many you encountered every day.
“Do as you please,” she muttered. “Seeing as you’ve already taken it upon yourself to adjust my body to your liking.”
She realized how her words sounded a split-second too late, trying and failing to backtrack before you shushed her with your lips pressing against hers. Even with the steady buildup of heat rising in her system, you were still exceptionally warm, a boundless supply of body heat that no machine could ever replicate, seeping from your mouth into hers. It was a sweet, dizzying burn that she could feel spilling down her throat, tea spiced with cinnamon, warming her from the inside and revitalizing her with your essence. Your grip on her face tightened just enough to pull her closer, and an airy sigh slipped from her lungs to bathe your tastebuds like the finest confectionery.
For how intensely you’d longed to have her in your hands again after all these months, the kiss lasted no more than a few seconds. Just a taste of everything that remained unspoken between the two of you, the regions of distance and pages of discarded letters all condensed into a meeting of mouths.
When you pulled away, the apples of Sandrone’s cheeks were on the verge of ripening, skin dancing between shades of pink and red. So, naturally, you bared your teeth and indulged in a bite. Sandrone squeaked, a high-pitched, embarrassing crack in that usual drawl of hers that made her temperatures spike even higher.
“You’re all red and hot. That’s a good sign,” you noted playfully, rubbing your thumb down her blazing face to the corner of her lips. They were still parted to form a pretty, pink ring that you had to resist dipping your fingers into, lest you lose them. “Seems your heart is pumping blood properly.”
It took a moment for Sandrone to come back to her senses, lashes fluttering blankly a few times before her face scrunched up once more, like the sweet syrup of your kiss had been tainted by a lemon she’d swallowed whole.
“I’m failing to find the humor in this,” she hissed.
“You think I’m joking?” you faked a pout. Her frame stiffened as you found the bejeweled collar of her dress and dipped two digits beneath it, worming your way deeper under the fabric until you found the spot where her pulse would be. “I’ll show you how much I mean it.”
Aside from the obvious, gaping hole in her torso, Sandrone’s neck was where the most damage had been done, a detail that she seemed just as aware of as you, judging by her reaction to your fingers brushing over it. Though her body was good as new now, you still softened your touch out of concern, pulling away with care and leaning in to place a delicate kiss to the exposed skin above her collar.
“Was it…” she trailed off for a moment, mouth opening and closing around the unnatural shape of the words that she wanted to say, but couldn’t bring herself to. “How difficult was it for you?”
“As difficult as something you’ve spent years preparing for could be,” you answered, noncommittal as ever. Then, she felt your lips carving the insufferable shape of a smirk where they were pressed against her flesh. “The most challenging part was trying to work without you snapping orders at me.”
She forced out a scoff, tilting her jaw up—out of defiance, of course, not to give you better access to her neck. “Sounds to me that the real problem is your own incompetence.”
“I never said it was a problem.” You dragged your mouth down the column of her throat, peppering kisses that tickled her skin like warm, glossy bubbles, leaving damp rings behind wherever they popped. “You should know by now how much I enjoy hearing what you want.”
Sandrone sucked her lower lip into her mouth to avoid letting an embarrassing sound slip out, suddenly very grateful that your head was buried snugly in the crook of her neck so that you couldn’t see the effect you were having on her. Bit by bit, your fingers climbed their way up the bare skin of her back, jolts of sensory input that her body instantly recognized as yours shooting up her synthetic spine.
With each kiss, you allowed yourself to linger more and more, reluctant to pull away from her now that you’d gotten your first taste after being deprived for so long. The more fervent they grew, the more you felt her begin to squirm against you. A faint whine met your ears as you traced along the curve of her shoulderblades and at last found the back of her neck, fingers curling tentatively around it to hold her steady in place.
The heat was radiating all around her now; from her core, from your lips, and from your chest pressed flush against her. She’d been far too preoccupied with the workings of your mouth to notice just how close your bodies had become, how her back arched forward to leave no space between you and her.
“I suppose that’s one way to let me know what you want.”
A chuckle from you sent warm puffs of breath fanning over her skin, and when she followed your gaze, she found what had prompted it. Her hazy eyes widened with horror as she processed the visual of her legs spread so far apart that her dress had begun to ride up on her thighs, a silent invitation for you to fill every gap with your body.
Without thinking, she tried to squeeze them shut, but now that you’d occupied the space in between, all it served to do was fluster her further as her thighs clenched and caged you in close to her. The delight was practically rolling off of you in waves, clashing with the hot humiliation rolling off of her. When you met her eyes again, gazing up at her through your lashes with an emotion she wasn’t equipped to handle, her hand flew out to push your head away in a panic.
“Are you quite finished fooling around?” she gritted out, voice weak and squeaky, certain to break if she raised it any louder.
“Right. Back to business,” you giggled, muffled by her palm digging into your face. Letting go of her neck, you placed both hands on her chest instead, taking a moment to relish in the faint vibrations emitting from within her. The blush had trickled down from her cheeks and spread across her breastbone now, like a Rainbow Rose beginning to bud, hues of pink overtaking the pale yellows wherever you touched. “Let’s find that heart of yours, shall we?”
She swallowed, keenly aware that you could feel her thighs fidgeting around your waist, hungry for more friction than the silky brush of her stockings would allow.
“A fruitless endeavor.” She rolled her eyes, but her arms were already lifting above her head to make it easier for you to begin unlacing her dress. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d think that she truly was a marionette being controlled by invisible strings.
Unable to pass up the opportunity, your fingers played with the bodice of her outfit, dipping just below the hem without making any real effort to remove it. “I see you're as high maintenance as ever. Forgot how to undress yourself, Miss Marionette?”
Sandrone went fully red. No longer the delicate petals of a Rainbow Rose, rather, the violent crimson of a Ball Octopus—and every bit as explosive.
“You want me to humor your sorry little experiment? Get to work.”
Her order quivered on her tongue as though even it knew that it was nothing more than a plea in disguise, and judging by the annoyingly self-satisfied gleam in your eyes, you knew just as well.
“Whatever your heart desires,” you cooed.
Sandrone huffed, pretending that your dulcet tones didn’t have the rods in her limbs melting down like a sugarcube dropped in freshly brewed tea. There was no denying the extent of what you would do for her, however much admitting that made her gears grind with discomfort, it was the second half of your sentence that posed a problem. Her language module was eloquent, cultured, and constantly improving upon itself, but when it came to voicing her true desires, that was where it always seemed to fall short.
Regardless of her hissing and spitting akin to a stray cat being given its first bath, you handled her with the utmost care as you unbuttoned the cuffs of her dress sleeves and began tugging it down her frame, grazing her bare skin in a touch that she almost wished was a bit more forceful, just for the chance to feel more of you.
Her chest was soft and full as any human’s, pale, heated flesh spilling between the gaps between your fingers as you wiggled her out of her dress. By the time it fell to the mattress and pooled around her hips, her composure had already begun to unravel, cheek turned away from you and chin tucked into the dip of her collarbone.
“Don’t shy away from me,” you chided gently, trailing your index finger between the valley of her breasts and down to her ribcage. “You were beautiful even with your core hollowed out.”
Sandrone went rigid when you paused right above where the fatal blow had been dealt to her, a wound now completely indiscernible from the rest of her smooth, unblemished body. She cursed under her breath; your work truly was impeccable.
“That’s more an admission of your depravity than it is a compliment.”
There it was again; that same, sad smile that didn’t quite reach the corners of your tired eyes. The one that she positively loathed. She already put up with enough infuriatingly smug grins from you without having to deal with the fake ones, as well.
Your words had been sincere—Sandrone wasn’t foolish enough to blind herself to what you made clear as day, but she also wasn’t foolish enough to openly acknowledge it as such. Her body was much more honest than that, however, operating on simple logic. Logic that had her aching for your touch again the very instant you pulled away to reach down for your toolbelt, hand reemerging with a screwdriver that had been customized specifically for her.
A key to her heart of sorts, you mused, in a metaphorical and literal sense.
Curiosity overtaking her abashment, she couldn’t keep her eyes away as you lined up the flathead with the Triquetra panel on her torso and began to unscrew the bolts one by one. The sensation in itself was nothing special, but the look of concentration on your face coupled with the methodical twists of your hands were enough to make her feel as though she’d exerted the last of her energy supplies, near light-headed with anticipation.
Lithe fingers displaced the panel on her abdomen, digging just barely into her skin to remove it with the same reverence you would handle a precious gem. Instantly, you were met with a shrill hiss as steam poured out from within her, wet, hot clouds moistening your skin and rising between the two of you like the eruption of a hydrothermal vent. It was a result of the cooling countermeasure you’d installed in her heating module to ensure that she wouldn’t overheat, but you were still taken aback by the sheer amount of mist she’d produced in such little time.
Sandrone’s mouth fell open, completely and utterly mortified by the sight, and by the teasing that was sure to follow suit.
“Good to know my upgrades are running smoothly.” You dipped a finger inside the cavity of her stomach to scoop some of the condensation off her chassis, and she nearly choked. “What’s got you this wet, baby?”
Her eyes squeezed shut with a low, miserable sound, system flushing hotter and puffing out more clouds of steam in an unforgivable betrayal. This would be the first function to go once she returned to her workshop.
“Don’t phrase it like that,” she spat. “Have you no shame? I-It’s…this is all because of your absurd heating module!”
“I don’t know if you’re in any position to be talking about shame.” As proof of your point, you ran the pad of your finger along her central control panel, delighting in the wild flicker of lights and circuits that responded so eagerly to your touch. “The coolant wouldn’t have kicked in if you weren’t so easy to get worked up. Did you really miss me that much?”
“Hah! Who knows what kind of arbitrary triggers a…a degenerate like you programmed while I-I was…”
Her retort fizzled out like a bad fuse, a sharp inhale taking its place when you curled your finger around one of her wires, tugging at it experimentally and making her knees jerk up against your sides.
“Oops,” you hummed, not even attempting to sound apologetic. “You’ve made some changes to your internal mechanisms since I last had you like this. I’m still familiarizing myself with them.”
Sandrone grimaced, struggling with all her might to reclaim her dignity and keep the stutter out of her voice, this time. “Surely you aren’t, ah, arrogant enough to think I wouldn’t make any improvements in your absence?”
You found her phrasing odd. Your absence—as if she wasn’t the one who had left in the first place, as if you weren’t always here, in the same place you’d always been, awaiting her return without knowing whether she’d come back to you in pieces or not.
“Nothing of the sort,” you assured her. It was dripping with a faux humility that had fresh coolant seeping from her reserves, like even your appeasement was just another form of a challenge. “I’ll know them by heart soon enough.”
Your skin was glistening with dewdrops by now, allowing you to slip against the gears and wires of her inner workings with ease. This time, there was no suppressing the sound that erupted in her throat when you pressed your index finger against the tooth of one of her cogs, applying just enough pressure to disrupt its flow and make the joints in her back arch.
A moan spilled past her lips before she could even think to stop it, breathy and shamefully drawn-out, spiking in pitch when you kept your finger there for just long enough to begin transmitting warning signals to her control panel. Her eyes snapped open in alarm, only for disappointment of all things to overtake it when she found that you’d removed your hand before any damage could be done.
“Besides,” you drawled, pressing two slick fingers to her pouty, doll-like lips, coating them with her own moisture. “So long as that sharp tongue remains inside that pretty little mouth, I have no complaints about the changes you make.”
Sandrone’s lips flexed under your touch as she clenched her teeth together, evidently fuming that there was no way to retort without playing into your hands even more so than she already was. The sharp edges of the daggers her eyes shot at you were smoothed out by the fondness in yours—that, and something a bit less innocent lurking beneath the surface, the look of someone who knew exactly how to make her fall apart regardless of how much she changed.
A tiny jolt of electricity pierced her core as you redirected your attention back to where she was opened up for you. Your hand dipped deeper inside of her this time, nearly disappearing altogether as it maneuvered between bundles of wires, cogs, and actuators. She felt another pitiful whine building up her tongue when you hesitated longer than necessary, taking your sweet time to decide where to mess with her next—not that it made any difference, really, when it was obvious to her that what you’d said about being unfamiliar with her new structure was a shallow ruse. Restoring her body would’ve been an impossible task, otherwise.
Just as she opened her mouth to make her impatience known, your fingers coiled around two wires that connected to her spine. A contemplative hum rose in your chest, so calm in comparison to the surprising force with which you tugged at the cords, pulling them so far back that they peeked out from the cavern of her chest. She clasped a hand over her mouth to stifle the cry it elicited from her, praying with every fiber of her being that you were too preoccupied with her insides to notice how her eyes rolled back into her head.
“Feels good?”
Sandrone swallowed hard. For once, she was grateful for your borderline unsettling fascination with her inner workings, because just as she’d hoped, you hadn’t taken your eyes off the red wires snaked snugly around your fingers.
“A sh-sharp breeze would be more exhilarating," she quipped, far less biting than she’d intended when muffled by the fabric of her glove.
Your lip curled, and Sandrone got the sense that perhaps it would be wiser to let her body do the talking from here on out before she landed herself in an infinitely more compromising position.
“Is that right?”
As if to test the theory, you blew a buff of air against her engine, and sure enough, a shudder ran through her entire frame, panel lights going berserk as they processed the delightfully foreign stimulation.
Her teeth dug through her glove and into the skin of her palm, a shaky exhale releasing in huffs as your hand ventured further inside of her, hooking around more and more wires until a bundle of them was wrapped tightly around your index and middle finger. Even as Sandrone braced herself, the explosion of sensations that shocked her system had her lurching forward, hand falling from her mouth to grasp frantically at your shoulder for purchase.
The frills of her headpiece tickled your chin as her head fell against your chest, and though you would’ve killed to see the expression on her face, the sound of her strangled whimper spilling so close to your ears when you repeated the action more than made up for it.
“Cute.” You dipped your head to level it with hers, lips brushing playfully against the shell of her burning hot ear. “But should I remind you that we’re still in public, baby? Wouldn’t be very ladylike to be caught like this.”
Sandrone’s fingers sank into your shoulder, trembling with the effort it took her to string together a coherent sentence. “I might take your concerns more seriously if you could—mmph—could keep your hands off of me.”
“I’m on a mission, remember? Not my fault you can’t keep your composure while I work,” you drawled, twisting your wrist to loosen the wires from around your fingers, leaving them curled and coiled around each other in a mesmerizing spiral. Warm steam seeped into the skin of your arm as you dug deeper into the cavern of her chest, slipping your hand up her central chassis to make your way up to your target.
“Found it.”
Your hand wrapped around her core, fingers curling around it and squeezing down with just enough force to make her jerk. Sandrone cried out, a sweet yelp of shock that had your own legs rubbing together as arousal pooled between them. The dense metal was glossy and warm in the palm of your hand, and as you clenched tighter, you could feel your own pulse reverberating through it.
She was clawing frantically at your clothes with both hands now, nails struggling to latch on to you through the fabric of her gloves. Her shoulders buzzed under your lips as you leaned down to trail soothing kisses along them, occasionally nipping just to relish in the jolt it would pass through her body. As your thumb began to circle the intricate panels engraved into her core, the sound of footsteps approaching from down the hall stopped you in your tracks—much to your displeasure, and Sandrone’s torture.
A low, helpless whine met your ears when you reluctantly inched away from her, leaving her all but boneless without the support of your body against hers. It lasted no more than a second however, as a light knock at the door suddenly had her going stiff as a wooden doll.
Despite the circumstances, you kept your hand plunged deep inside her chest, fingers wrapped motionless around the most vulnerable part of her. Sandrone’s thighs twitched around you in poorly contained need, the only thing restraining her from wrapping her legs around your torso and pulling you further into her by force being what remained of her pride.
A call of your name from behind the door made you click your tongue. Fusilier—she’d always been a bit too earnest for her own good, a trait that had kept her idolizing that arrogant fool Edwin Eastinghouse for far longer than he’d ever deserved.
“What is it?” you called, shifting in your spot to turn towards the door and making Sandrone practically double over in the process. Her fingers were far too busy digging into your shoulders to quiet herself, so you brought your free hand up to her mouth and covered it for her, eyes glimmering with amusement when they met the saucers of pure desire that hers had dilated into.
Fondly, you found yourself thinking that she embodied a day at the beach—cheeks blazing, sandy brown hair tousled, ocean irises glassy with lust—it was a sight that made it all the more tempting to push her over the edge right there, regardless of who might overhear.
“I…Hello. I thought I heard some troubling noises from down the hall and thought I should check in,” Fusilier’s sheepish voice came from outside. “Is everything alright? Do you need any assistance?”
“I’ve got it covered, thank you.” There was a casual lilt to your voice that made it sound as though you weren’t plunged into the deepest parts of Sandrone’s body, and she told herself that it was irritation that bubbled up inside her over how easily you could control yourself, not something far more humiliating. “Just performing some maintenance with Miss Marionette to make sure all her functions are running smoothly.”
“Oh. I see.” There was a pause, lasting just long enough for you to wonder if you’d genuinely roused Fusilier’s suspicions. Your heart skipped a beat as you heard the subtle creak of her hand resting on the door handle, causing your fingers to press involuntarily harder into Sandrone’s plush cheeks and eliciting a tiny, garbled protest from her. Despite the less than ideal circumstances, it set off fresh heat in your abdomen.
“Please excuse me for interrupting your work, then.”
Sandrone relaxed in your arms once more as Fusilier’s footsteps departed, but the feeling didn’t last long as she processed your hands not only uncovering her mouth, but releasing her core to pull out of her entirely.
“Wh…huh? What are you—?”
“That was a close call,” you whistled. “Probably best not to draw any more attention to ourselves, yeah? I’d hate to tarnish that spotless reputation of yours.”
Her head shot up like a spring, unable to even muster up a proper glare when she was left dazed and teetering on the brink of pleasure without your hands.
“That’s—hah—rich coming from the one person less concerned with my social standing than I.”
You tilted your head innocently, fingers dancing around the outlines of her control panel, not committing to a single touch that would grant her any kind of satisfaction. “You mean you’d have no issues with being caught like this? All opened up for me to play with like a clockwork toy?”
“Yes,” she gasped out as your index finger dipped into a hollow bore of her cog, so fleeting that her processors barely caught the electrifying stimuli before it was gone. “No! I-I mean yes, of course I’d take issue with it. But I…I just—”
“Yes? No? Which is it?”
“Don’t—I w-want. Don’t...”
“You sound confused, my love.” With feigned sympathy, you cupped her furnace-hot face and tilted her chin up so that she had no choice but to look you in the eye. “Is your system overloaded?”
The half-hearted scowl she managed to shoot you was about as intimidating as that of an angry kitten’s, wide eyes lurid and glowing brilliantly compared to their usual low luster, like the rising temperatures of her heating module had ignited blue fire behind them.
“D-don’t,” she rasped. “Don’t you dare stop.”
“You know I don’t respond well to such harsh commands,” you complained, nose turning up in offense. “Try a little politeness.”
Sandrone’s teeth dug into her bottom lip, chewing miserably at it as she watched your hand pull away from her again, dripping with water and the lubricant that coated her gears. You fought back a grin when her brows scrunched together into something pitiful, desperation etching itself deeper into her pretty face as you made a show of reaching for your toolbelt again to prepare to seal her back up.
Just as your fingers curled around the head of your screwdriver, hers curled around your wrist—trembling, but still tight enough to lock you in place. The white silk of her glove slid along your veins, and her expression twisted when she noticed how, even now, your pulse was annoyingly steady in comparison to how every circuit in her body was one the verge of going haywire. Still, she pretended to busy herself with your wrist, stammering out something so faint that you might’ve mistaken it as a mere sputter of air from her engines.
“Hm?”
Sandrone squeezed her eyes shut, grip weakening around you as though the remaining shreds of her dignity were physically dwindling from her body. Begrudgingly, she tried again to mutter the words under her breath, even less audible than the first time.
“Speak up for me, baby. I’ve got feeble human ears, remember?”
“Please,” she whispered at last. “You know what I want. Don’t stop, p-please.”
Her pitch turned up just shy of a whine, meek and defeated and pure music to your ears. The urge to coax out a few more pleas from her was difficult to resist, but she looked mortified enough with herself as it was, and if you pushed her to the point of shouting out your name in a fit of rage then that would certainly draw the unwanted attention of the entire Institute. So, with a sweet hum of approval, you gently unwrapped her hand from around your wrist so you could continue with your ministrations.
“Whatever your heart desires,” you sing-songed.
Her heart’s desire made itself abundantly clear as you sank back into the sea of wires and actuators to take her core into your grasp again. Sandrone let out a cry so sharp that you might’ve thought you’d hurt her if that perfect posture of hers didn’t bend to your touch, back arching so that her body curved into yours, pulling you against her without any reservations. Your eyes flickered back and forth between her blissed out face and the light of her panels flashing in a frenzy of sensory inputs, mesmerized by how her pleasure always made itself known so openly no matter how determined she was to hide it.
She stuttered out your name in a warning, ankles locking around your waist and thighs squeezing around you so that your arm plunged even deeper inside of her. Without her having to verbalize it, you understood what she needed as her head tipped back, begging for you to close the final bit of space between you and her. So, you leaned in to trail delicate kisses up her neck, so soothing in contrast to the overwhelming mess of sensations that her modules were trying to process.
Squeezing her core one last time, you murmured something into her skin that had her coming undone at the very hands that had put her back together. Your free arm slipped around her back to hold her steady as tiny jolts wracked her body, electric currents shooting erratically through her wires and drawing out noises from her that made your stomach tighten.
Even with you supporting her body, she couldn’t remain upright for long, lurching forward to fall against you as if her power source had been drained. Soft, pathetic little moans that were so embarrassingly unlike her puffed out against your skin each time you circled your thumb over her core, coaxing out wave after wave of coolant until her modules finally adjusted to the bursts of stimuli.
One of the many benefits of the masterpiece that was Sandrone meant that you easily could have kept going without any break, continuing to toy with her until her system actually did overload to the point of malfunction. But having her pliant and spent in your arms—thighs still locked tight around you and the occasional tremor still wracking her mechanical limbs—was far more appealing to you. She remained buried into the pillow of your chest, panting quietly though you knew by now that there was no reason for her to, simply so she had an excuse to stay wrapped up in you for a little while longer.
Even as the hot steam emitting from her core began to seep through your clothes, you made no effort to pull away. Instead, you cradled the back of her head and pressed your nose into those downy, pigeon-feather locks, not so much a kiss as it was a chance to immerse yourself in her without her pretending to loathe the affection she was starved for. In both death and rebirth, her perpetually lemon-sweet scent hadn’t faded a bit.
“You should stick around in Fontaine for a few more days,” you spoke softly into her hair, tracing circles along the elegant ridges of her shoulderblades in unison with the spin of her key.
Her grumble may have been more convincing if she didn’t immediately nuzzle further into you, resting that perfectly round chin of hers on your shoulder as though it were her own personal perch.
“And why, praytell, would I do that?”
“I heard that my Conch Madeleine recipe could use a bit of work,” you grinned. “Hoped you might find it in your heart to help me revise it.”
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