Alien Bf asked for you to teach him all there was to know about human intimacy. He wanted to learn all there was, so long as it was you teaching him and no one else. You were his mate after all…
While he believed he had learned everything he needed to know by sneaking into the spaceship’s computer room and exploring the databases entire collection of porn, you insisted there was more. Much to his chagrin you moved away from all the porn and turned your focus to romance movies.
When watching them he didn’t understand these strange mating rituals. But he saw how the humans in each film reacted to them. More importantly he saw how you reacted. And he wanted nothing more than to make you feel all of that and more.
From then on your Alien bf does everything he can think of to make you blush and feel special. Making bold declarations of love in the middle of mission meetings and creating gifts of pleasure where he just so happens to give you them in front of everyone and they can all tell by your muffled screams when he uses them on you later.
As well as performing gestures like triggering the automatic doors for you, dragging you to sit on his lap, feeding you all your meals just as well as he feeds you his cock behind closed doors.
None of it is innocent, you know this as a fact by now. As sweet as his acts are, you know he’s purposefully toeing the line between romantic and sexual intimacy. Trying in every way he knows how to rile you up, using every advantage he as in his arsenal before you inevitably drag him off into some dark closet so he can fuck you straight into the next galaxy.
And he’s eating it up, every minute of it. Whether that minute is spent with his face buried between your thighs or otherwise. Always making those soft chirps that he does whenever he’s particularly pleased with himself. That sly grin on his face that forms after making you both blush and become incredibly horny.
You should finally call him out on it. For too long he’s been getting away with breaking the rules and testing the last of your patience. But fuck if you don’t benefit from that every chance you get. The words are right on the tip of your tongue, urging you to speak out about it, as you try and make the familiar clicking noise of his people. Yet the sound trails off as another climax wracks through your spent and battered cunt.
Mercilessly he fucks you through it, snapping up his hips to make you bounce on his dick. The girth of his cock rubbing against your sensitive silken walls, igniting your nerves and making stars dance behind your eyes. The sound of wet bodies smacking together echo through the whole ship but you can’t even care. They’ve heard you enough times to know what to expect.
“Isn’t this nngh! better, my mate? No hah! wasting time when we can just get down to what truly makes you blush,” your bf moans, swiveling his hips to hit that special spot deep within your walls.
Does he really think you’re in a state to teach him right now?! It’s almost like he’s doing it on purpose. You’re far too fucked out to notice the wickedly delighted glint in his eye. He hums to himself in thought, seemingly unaffected meanwhile you’re nothing more than a puddle for him to rut into as he reshapes your insides, ensuring no human or alien could satisfy you besides him.
“Ahh—hmmph— the way you smile so sweetly when I d-dote on you is more than enough to tempt me to do it again… and again,” he adds, a deeper meaning to his words that even you can pick up on.
His words combined with the way he skillfully rolls your bundle of nerves between his long fingers hurtles you over the edge once again. Your Alien bf makes an inhuman cry, filling you up with his essence as you cum together.
With that last climax all his strength vanishes. He flops down on top of you, his large body covering your plush frame. All he has strength for is the playful nips he leaves along your throat. The firm weight of his body has you writhing beneath him like you aim to get him hard again. That seals it, you’re definitely as obsessed with sex as he is.
“It might take a bit more practice before you get the hang of this romance thing,” you whisper into his hair, nuzzling into the soft strands. His following chuckle rumbles through you.
“We can practice as many times as you think I need, darling,” he purrs, having gotten the hang of this whole teasing thing.
Suddenly his hips flex, meeting your miniature thrusts and a loud moans pours out of you without your permission. More than prepared to practice whatever you wish all night. As long as it takes. He’ll romance you just how you need.
Summary: You think Kirsh is fascinating. He reciprocates.
Word Count: 8k
Content: 18+, smut, little bit of yearning (obviously), minor existentialism and ethics of hybrids, fingering, piv sex (unprotected, but like he's a robot), buttstuff, no use of y/n, boy kavalier
Link to Sequel: Punishment
To Read on AO3
Masterlist
The subtle hiss of a soldering iron and light off-key humming fills the silence of the messy workshop, a tangy mixture of pine and grease scenting the air. Tools and hastily sketched blueprints lie across the workbench, next to partially built robotic limbs and other small mechanisms, frayed wires sticking out at all ends. You sit on the worn-out rolling stool, head down, with a pair of clunky, oversized headphones on, blasting some noise rock from a bygone era.
Behind the industry-recommended safety glasses, you squint as you finish soldering circuits into the component in front of you, which will eventually become, hopefully, a functioning arm for a synthetic body. Your heel taps against the stool’s footrest to the beat of the song, so lost in your task, you don’t even hear the swish of the door sliding open and then closed again, nor the purposeful footsteps that trail up to you.
You do, however, notice the shadow that begins to loom behind you. You pause, heaving an exasperated sigh at being interrupted as you set down your soldering iron, pushing your headphones down around your neck before turning to stare at the man standing there, if you could call him that.
Kirsh is in a familiar pose, hands dutifully folded behind him with a passive expression on his face as he gazes down at you, eyes flicking to your latest project. You slide your glasses up onto the top of your head and lean back against your bench with an elbow resting on the surface. “Where are your ducklings?” you ask with a quirked brow and a tilt to your lips that threatens to turn into a shit-eating grin.
He gives you the reaction you were hoping for, slanting his head with his mouth pulled into a straight line that signifies your teasing doesn’t amuse him. You roll your eyes and scoff at him before standing up, dusting the invisible bits of dust off you.
“I’m just joking, Kirsh,” you croon and almost decide to tempt fate to tug at his cheek, but ultimately decide not to. “It wouldn’t hurt you to smile.”
His brows tick up on his forehead just the slightest bit. “It just might.”
You snort as you pluck your tablet up from your workbench. “What can I do for you?” you ask as you scroll through the plethora of emails that have come through within the last few hours.
(You had been ignoring them.)
“Monthly maintenance,” he informs, tone even and giving away nothing. He watches as you swipe away email after email, deleting ones specifically marked 'URGENT' and 'IMPORTANT', clearing up your already cluttered inbox. His expression morphs into the synthetic’s best replica of disapproval or perhaps disbelief.
Humming, you tap a few times on your tablet, bringing up the maintenance schedule for the various synthetics you are responsible for around the Neverland Research Facility, and find that, yes indeed, it is Kirsh’s day for maintenance. “Good thing you’re on top of it, huh?” You grin as you wave your tablet in the air before motioning him to follow you to the little corner of your lab set up for synthetic upkeep.
“If only you read your emails,” Kirsh muses lowly.
He can’t tell if you’re ignoring him or didn’t hear him while you read the write-up you did for his last maintenance, as he takes a seat on the gurney with no prompting from you, used to the routine after all these years. Even without peering over at him, you can feel his eyes on you, the hair on the back of your neck standing up.
“Looks like we’re just making sure your systems are up to date today,” you confirm. “Next month we’ll have to refuel the hydrogen fuel cell since we’re coming up on the four-hundred-day life cycle for that.” He nods, listening to you as he sits there with his hands resting on top of his knees. If he were human, you’d think he was tense. “We’re also going to be looking into starting the overhaul for your muscular system in the next six months. We’ll just replace components one at a time rather than all at once, so you’re not out of commission for terribly long.”
As you finally glance up from your tablet, you meet his eyes, and the faintest trace of a disingenuous smile crawls onto his face. “You’re the expert,” his voice comes slinking out.
You give him a flat look as you toss your tablet onto the gurney next to him, uncaring as the clattering of metal against metal echoes through the room. “Other people might not be able to tell when you’re making fun of them, but I can,” you inform wryly.
The smile tightens. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
This is a familiar song and dance between the two of you. A constant push and pull that has been playing out since you were hired onto Prodigy by Boy Kavalier. You’ve spent a lot of time around synthetics, had a hand in designing and building several different models, in fact, but Kirsh has proven to be by far the most interesting one you’ve ever encountered.
You’re unsure whether the deceptively human sarcasm is unique to his model or just unique to him. Regardless, you would be lying if you said you didn’t find it endearing.
(You actually wouldn’t say that out loud at all; you can’t even imagine the can of worms that would open.)
Reaching over, you grab one of the wires that hangs from the console next to the gurney, stepping between his legs as you plug it into the port at the side of his neck. The monitor lights up, scanning through the programs of Kirsh’s system, a series of code flashing rapidly down the screen.
It’ll take a few minutes, and you usually would pull up a stool and catch up on any notes in the meantime, but instead, you stay between his legs as he gazes down at you with a trace of curiosity in his eyes.
Crossing your arms in front of you, you lean in a bit. “I did hear an interesting rumor floating around the compound,” you hint, knowing Kirsh would take the bait. He always did.
“Did you now?” He doesn’t shift away, just meeting you with a blank gaze and raised brows. If he could breathe, you’d be able to feel his breath on your lips. You push that thought to the furthest reaches of your mind.
“That ship that crashed in New Siam, I heard you and the kids went and recovered specimens from the wreckage,” you answer in as casual a tone as possible.
“They’re not children.”
You draw back, arms still crossed, with a pursed look on your face. “Not this again.” You roll your eyes. “You’re deflecting.”
“And you don’t approve of the hybrid project,” Kirsh contests, the traces of a smirk spreading across his face as though he has the capabilities of being smug. Obviously, he’s the one who is doing the baiting this time, because the displeasure contorts your face immediately. You go to step back, to move away, but Kirsh grabs you by the back of your neck, holding you in place as he tilts his head. “Why?”
You and Kirsh have touched before, an inevitability when you’re doing maintenance on him, and even aside from that, there have been fleeting moments, brief touches, but never anything that felt this intimate.
There’s a stutter in your chest, and you hope the heat that is spreading on your skin remains hidden under your clothes as you give him an incredulous look. “You’re seriously asking me why I would have a problem with the supposed consciousnesses of children being transferred to synthetic bodies?” You try not to react to the way his thumb caresses just below your ear, doing your best to mimic his neutral expression.
“I’d like to hear it directly from you since you… have such a way with words.”
“Oh, now you’re mocking me,” you accuse, though there’s no real bite to your tone, just mild annoyance.
“No,” he denies, and you blink as you peer into his eyes; they’re dark and give nothing away, but there’s a distinct lack of any snarky smirk adorning his lips, so you’re inclined to believe him.
Still, there’s hesitance in your demeanor, chewing the inside of your cheek as you debate whether to say anything. You weren’t necessarily afraid of it getting back to Boy Kavalier, per se; you had made your displeasure with his little project known early on, though those conversations were private, and you knew better than to voice your concerns to anyone else in fear of shattering the united front of Prodigy.
You are lucky enough to have leniency in the eyes of Boy Kavalier, but not stupid enough to know that only went so far. You’re a prized commodity, a prodigy in your own right concerning robotics and cybernetics, but you’re not irreplaceable. The galaxy is vast, and he has all the resources at his disposal to find someone who could do just as good a job, if not better than you, if push comes to shove.
Kirsh tilts his head just a bit, staring down his nose at you, so lost in your own thoughts, you momentarily forgot about the hold he has on you. “If it settles your nerves, I have no intentions of relaying anything we discuss to Boy Kavalier.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes before they flick upwards towards where you know a security camera is actively monitoring your every move. “It is not you that I am worried about,” you admit.
His eyes slide up for a fraction of a second to where you’re looking before they return to your face. “He’s a little preoccupied at the moment.”
A grin pulls at your face. “With what you recovered from the crash, right?”
He gives you a flat look and finally lets go of you, leaning away just slightly. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re insufferable?”
“Consistently throughout my life,” you confirm as you step around to observe the monitor. “It must be pretty big if you’re this adamant about not even giving me a little tidbit to nibble on.” You grab your previously discarded tablet, typing a few things into Kirsh’s chart before peeking back up at him. “If it makes you feel better, I have no intention of relaying anything we discuss to Boy Kavalier.”
You think that if he could rip the cord out and leave your lab at this moment, he would, but he’s stuck here staring at you and your smarmy face as you throw his words back at him. This was something you enjoyed with Kirsh, probably a little too much if the swirling in your belly was any indicator.
“Several species were recovered from the ship,” Kirsh relents, knowing the chances of him leaving your lab without divulging information to you were slim to none. “They’ve all been deemed unsafe for human contact, so I and those with synthetic bodies are taking the lead on the study of them.”
You pause your notetaking, eyebrow cocking as you stare up at him. “The children?” you ask disbelievingly. “You’re having children study some of the first instances of alien life that we’ve found?”
“They are not children.”
You roll your eyes. “You know, you keep insisting that, and yet Boy has you looking after them like they are. Just because they’re in these grown-up, synthetic bodies doesn’t make them any less children, even if—especially if they insist that they’re not.” You draw a deep breath, feeling yourself teetering on the edge of an outburst. Huffing a bit, you glance away and start stabbing at the screen of your tablet with your fingers a little more aggressively than you mean to. “I don’t mean this to be cruel, but you don’t understand what it’s like to be a child, and quite frankly, I don’t think that you or anyone else, even Dame, realizes the psychological impact that this entire experiment will have on these kids.”
He's quiet, and you finally look his way again to see him staring at you. It never gets easier to stomach how unreadable he can be. It’s like staring at a blank wall sometimes. In your head, you imagine him mocking you for your delicate human sensibilities. “Your concerns are noted,” he says in a hushed tone.
You blink, mouth hanging open as you go to speak before closing it once you realize you have nothing to say. The monitor chimes, signaling the scan is done, so wordlessly, you reach up to pull the cord from the port in his neck, only for him to grab your hand just as your fingers wrap around it.
You freeze, spine straightening. A baser instinct in you whispering in the back of your head that you should be afraid, but perhaps foolishly, you weren’t. Instead, there was a trill of excitement that licked up your spine as if he were any other man, as if you didn’t know what he was, and you almost do something reckless, you almost lean up into him to see if he’d meet you halfway.
But you are many things, and reckless is not one of them.
“Everything okay, Kirsh?” Your voice comes out quieter than you want it to, more intimate than you wish it to be. Like you’re some simpering heroine in a romance novel. Even the thought of what you must sound like to him makes you want to cringe.
He stares at you for a pause longer, like you didn’t do what he had expected you to do, what he’d anticipated. Then he releases you from his grip, the same tight, barely polite smile flashing onto his face. “Everything is fine.”
The next time you see Kirsh is after Wendy has experienced a malfunction. You are in the middle of a rare instance of restful sleep when you are harshly yanked from it by the intercom in your room, blaring over the white noise machine you had set up. With your legs tangled up in your bed sheets, you lean over to your nightstand, pressing the button to the intercom.
“Yeah?” Your voice is heavy with sleep, and your throat is dry even though you’re in the middle of the jungle.
“There’s been an incident,” Kirsh’s voice crackles from the other end. “Your presence is required in the hybrid lab.”
You don’t even respond, just flopping back against your pillow for a moment as though that will somehow revitalize you before you start to untangle yourself from your sheets. In about ten minutes, you’re in the lab, reading the chart over Arthur’s shoulder as Dame and Kirsh stand in front of a visibly confused Wendy.
“There’s no anomaly detected on the scan that would account for the audio malfunction she experienced,” you mutter as you sip at the coffee you’d grabbed on the way, which could be more accurately described as sludge. You grimace a bit as you force yourself to swallow it down, grumbling, “It’s like crude oil.” Arthur huffs out a laugh, shaking his head at you as he flips through the pages on the clipboard.
“Can she hear us now?” Kirsh questions, and though it seems to be a general question to either you or Arthur, his eyes are fixated on you when he asks it. You gulp down another mouthful of sludge as though it will extinguish the burning that settles in your gut.
“No, I took her hearing offline,” Arthur confirms, not looking up as he thumbs through the chart.
“There’s no anomaly.” Your voice is gentle and singsong as you repeat your earlier observation from looking at the scans, knowing Arthur is searching fruitlessly for something that isn’t there.
“She mentioned a sound the moment we landed,” Kirsh explains. “It was louder, the closer to the Xenomorph she got.” You silently mouth ‘Xenomorph’ to yourself. It was a word you had not heard before, and clearly, it was one of the species they had procured from the crashed Weyland-Yutani ship. “And last night when I extracted the embryo—” That has you staring at him with wide eyes, wondering what the hell is going on in the labs downstairs.
“You think it’s got something to do with these creatures,” Dame surmises, cutting Kirsh off.
“Not all of them,” Kirsh corrects. “Just one species.”
You glance at Arthur, who is giving you a similar look of discomfort before he busies himself over at the console. You’re tapping at the paper cup in your hand anxiously. “Just what we need, an unknown variable,” you grumble.
Wendy vocalizes a bit, obviously unused to not hearing her own voice, and you imagine it is really disorienting, especially with everyone around you talking as though you’re not there. You place a hand on her shoulder, holding up a finger as you mouth ‘one second’ to her, just in time for Boy Kavalier to walk in, heaving a hefty sigh.
“Stop frowning,” he orders. “This isn’t a wake, we’re on a voyage of discovery, and I have a colonic in thirty minutes.” You’re glad you’re facing away from him as you scowl openly at his words and the flippancy with which he’s treating the situation. He turns to Curly, who is trailing behind him like a lost puppy. “Go, uh, push some buttons and turn some knobs while the grown-ups talk.”
Curly nods obediently, and you glance over, watching her go over to a console on the far side of the room. You pretend not to notice the way she looks back at Boy as if seeking approval from the man, but you certainly make note of it.
“We’ve taken her offline, we think she can hear—”
“—the Xenomorph,” Boy cuts Kirsh off. “Just assume I’m ahead of you, always, which don’t you have, y’know, little experiments to run?” Your own jaw tightens, and you force yourself to take another sip of your coffee in an effort to bite your tongue as you watch Kirsh lean forward in what could only be a confused manner at Boy’s words. “These creatures aren’t going to discover themselves.” Boy looks at him as though he’s shooing away a child.
Kirsh’s face, to his credit, remains extraordinarily neutral before he squints his eyes a bit, the corners of his lips tightening into a barely there smile. “Of course,” he confirms before turning to take his leave.
“Unnecessary,” you mumble to yourself, though loud enough for Boy to hear it.
He points at you. “Ignoring that,” he declares before looking at Dame, who was seated next to Wendy, holding her hand. “You, too.”
Dame’s mouth hangs open in shock and derision. “No,” she objects. “She’s scared, she needs me.”
“Uh, careful,” Boy warns, any humor on his face drops off in an instant. “You’re not her mother. It’s an IT issue, not a gab session, and I’m still waiting on your field assessments of the hybrid performance.”
Dame and Arthur share a look, with him giving her perhaps the assurance she needs not to push the issue, and she leans down to Wendy, speaking softly but mouthing the words clearly. “I’ll be back, okay?”
Wendy looks a bit startled by this, eyes blinking as she watches Dame walk out of the room after Kirsh. Arthur pulls up a stool as Boy announces, “Ah, alone at last.”
You walk around, standing at the foot of the gurney, chuckling a bit as Curly flips a knob that sends all the buttons on the console into a tizzy before hastily flicking it back off, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone had seen. You pointedly stare at a ceiling tile, pretending you hadn’t noticed.
“Let’s bring her hearing back online to see if it’s a hardware or software issue,” Boy announces as Atom walks in with Wendy’s brother, Joe, behind him. The smile that had been on Boy’s face drops in an instant, a sour expression taking over. “Oh, good, it’s the brother.” The displeasure drips from his voice like ichor.
Joe steps to Wendy’s side instantly, and a look of relief flashes on her face. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Uh, she can’t hear you,” Arthur explains with all the bedside manner of a Ph.D. doctor and not an M.D. doctor.
Joe’s eyes widen. “Why?”
“We took her hearing offline—”
You cut in as you see panic morphing on Joe’s face. “She experienced some malfunction with her audio processing. As a precaution, we turned her hearing off so that we can troubleshoot the issue with the least amount of discomfort to her.”
Joe blinks as you speak, nodding along as he processes what you’re telling him. The dread on his face settling into something more manageable. Behind him, you can see Boy standing with an annoyed expression. “Hi,” Boy says flatly.
“Here we go,” you murmur to yourself.
“We haven’t met. You, uh, you work for me—or should I say you work for a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a holding company of an LLC of mine. Yeah, uh, how’s the new lung?”
“It’s great, thanks,” Joe confirms after he swallows down what could only be a lump in his throat, brows furrowed together with uncertainty.
“You’ll never guess what we did with the old one,” Boy teases, and that catches your attention, your neck practically snapping as you look at him before peeking back at Arthur, who seems to be equally as horrified.
“What?” Joe asks, but before it can go any further, Wendy speaks up.
“I can’t hear you,” she says, loudly, and perhaps to everyone’s benefit, that line of questioning is dropped. Joe turns his attention back onto her, worry lacing his features. “I can’t hear. There was a sound in the lab, and it hurt my head. I can’t hear.”
“Okay,” Joe nods as he listens to her before peering over to Arthur. “What’s in the lab?” Arthur looks like a deer caught in headlights as he opens his mouth, but says nothing, only staring at Boy, while Joe follows his gaze, a look of realization dawning on his face. “Tell me you didn’t bring those things back here.”
A feeling of unease settles in your stomach as Boy dodges the question, ordering that Wendy’s audio processors be brought back online, and for now, you push the feeling to the back of your mind as your professional training takes over, tossing your half-full coffee cup into the trash.
After her hearing is brought back to normal levels, Wendy explains what happened in the lab, discussing Kirsh's experimentation on the eggs and how she heard a baby screaming. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you feel yourself falter from the lack of air.
“Okay, we’re going to figure out what it is, and why you’re hearing it, and we’re going to make it stop,” Arthur assures.
Both Boy and Wendy exclaim, “No!” at the same time, leaving everyone else, more specifically you and Arthur, confused.
“What do you mean ‘no’?” you question, tilting your head. “There’s clearly an issue here, and we don’t know what other systems it might be affecting.”
“She—” Boy scoffs. “She can hear an alien language, and you want to turn it off?” He looks at you like you’re an idiot, and your jaw sets as you take a deep breath in through your nose.
“If it’s hurting you,” Joe says evenly, speaking to Wendy. “We should make it stop.”
“No, I-I think they picked me,” Wendy argues, and you’re reminded of the fact she’s a child in this moment. “They’re talking to me. I want to hear them.”
You lean back, nodding as you stare up at the ceiling. “Right,” you mutter with resignation. “Well, seems I’m not needed here anymore since there’s no unwanted malfunction.” Arthur looks like he wants to argue with you to stay, if only not to be the only sane person in the room, but you’re already turning around. “Billions of dollars...” you grumble.
The halls of the Neverland Research Facility are winding. Still, you’ve been here for so long your feet practically carry you on autopilot to your lab, luckily far enough away that you have time to simmer the anger that is coursing through you. You debated heading back to your room to try to get a few more precious hours of sleep, but you know you’d do nothing but toss and turn.
The door hisses open, and as you step through, it shuts behind you with a rush of air, though you freeze at the threshold when you see Kirsh standing in the middle of your lab, looking rather listless.
“Kirsh,” you greet with uncertainty.
He peers over at you. “Were you able to determine the issue?” he asks.
You roll your eyes with a snort of indignation as you make your way to your workbench to take a seat. “They’ve determined they’re not going to fix whatever the malfunction is,” you inform, feeling the anger that had simmered on your walk here start to stoke again.
He blinks as he processes your words. “What do you mean?”
“Wendy being able to hear the... Xenomorph—” The word sounds foreign coming from your mouth. “—is apparently a good thing,” you explain as you pick up a screwdriver to tinker with one of your components, anything to keep your hands busy as you talk. “Never mind the fact she’s a billion-dollar prototype and we just introduced an unknown variable into this little science experiment.”
You’re quiet for a moment.
“She thinks they chose her,” you recall, and you feel him walk up beside you, an arm's length away now. “She said there was an egg and a baby.” You glance up at him, seeing that he is already looking down at you. “Kirsh, what the hell are those things?”
“It’s probably best if you don’t think about them,” he answers, as if you could do anything, but think about what sorts of monsters are locked in the basement. Your mind is already spiraling, assigning horrible features to these unknown lifeforms that are housed only a few floors below you. Like the way your mind conjures terrible little creatures that morph in the darkest corner of a room at night.
You stare down at the surface of your workbench, fixating on a little speck of dust. “Are they dangerous?”
He falls silent, and you feel him shift beside you, and then his hand is grazing across your shoulder blades, settling at the back of your neck in a hold that should be threatening, but instead, you only feel comfort as you instinctively peer up at him through your lashes. “Incredibly so,” he admits, his voice a husky whisper. “Promise me you will not go down there.”
Your brows draw together. “Kirsh, what—”
“No matter what happens or who asks you to go into the labs, promise me you will not go down there.” Your mouth has gone dry as you’re struck by how serious he is. This is not the snarky banter that you’ve grown used to between the two of you.
You lick your lips and nod, pretending you don’t notice the way his eyes flick down to your mouth when you do so. “Okay,” you breathe out shakily. “I promise.”
It’s almost as though relief floods over him, and the tense grip he has on the back of your neck loosens, sliding to the side instead as he cups your jaw, thumb tracing the bottom of your cheek. He’s stooping lower, closer to you. You are stone still in the moment, nearly afraid that even breathing would dispel whatever you thought was building between the two of you.
You expect he’ll look away any second, but he doesn’t, eyes transfixed on you, flickering down to your lips every so often in a way that makes you feel like you can’t possibly be misreading the situation. “Kirsh,” you say in a hushed tone. “What’s going on?”
His gaze is almost suffocating. “I believe your maintenance scan missed an irregularity in my program,” he mumbles.
“What irregularity?” you ask, trying to keep your eyes trained on his, but your heart is pounding in your ears and you’re afraid he can hear it.
“I have been experiencing… wants—desires—recently.”
You feel yourself leaning up into his touch, stomach knotting all up into nerves. He’s so close now, all you’d have to do is crane your neck up just a bit more, but you don’t. Even still, the fear of rejection looms over you, the whisper in the back of your head that says you’re completely misunderstanding the situation, prodding at you. “What sort of desires?”
His thumb comes up and brushes against your lower lip, and you’re sure he sees the way your breath hitches in your throat. “You.”
Something in you snaps, and you’re surging upwards in the next moment, your lips connecting with his, and his hand wraps around your waist, drawing you up into a standing position, and you’re lost in the feel of his mouth against yours. Tongue dragging against his lower lip, and he opens his mouth, pulling you closer against him as he backs you up against your workbench, slotting a leg between your thighs.
The pressure against your core makes you whimper into his mouth, one hand shooting out behind you to catch yourself on the surface, sending your screwdriver careening onto the ground in a clatter. It’s like the noise brings you back to yourself, and you withdraw sharply, hand coming up to cover your mouth as you stare at Kirsh in horror.
“I’m so sorry,” you breathe out. Brain muddled with thoughts of monsters in the basement and how many ethics codes you just broke. “That was so inappropriate, I’ve never—”
He grabs your hand, interrupting you, pulling it down and away from your face. “Do you want me to touch you?” he asks as he doesn’t let go of your hand, lacing his fingers between yours. The intimacy of the action has your heart curling in on itself.
You blink frantically, trying to maintain a grasp on the shred of logic that still inhabits your brain. “I-I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you,” you assert weakly.
The leg that is still between your thighs shifts up, and you inhale sharply, feeling the exact moment the logic vacates your brain. “I asked if you wanted me to touch you,” he murmurs.
Your mouth dangles open for a moment before you nod, biting at your lower lip. “Yes,” you answer, voice practically cracking.
His lips tug up into a smirk. “Good,” he says lowly, and his other hand is brushing up under your shirt, skimming along the soft skin of your stomach as he reclaims your lips, swallowing down whatever further protests you might have had.
Slowly, you feel yourself relax as you kiss, one hand coming up to grip the hair on the back of his head as the other settles at his waist, pulling yourself deeper into him. He backs away from you briefly, and you’re only faintly aware that he’s working on undoing your pants as you try to catch your breath. Several seconds later, he pulls your pants and subsequently underwear down along with them before heaving you onto your workbench, pushing aside the delicate components and tools without care.
(You’re pretty sure you’re going to have to redraw several of the schematics on the table.)
He leans back, spreading your legs so he can take you in. You feel heat spread up your neck and down onto your chest as you shift under his gaze. You’re not even prepared as he swipes his fingers against your core. “You’re so wet already,” he mumbles the observation, almost as though he’s noting it to himself and not to you. He looks up at you, maintaining eye contact as he slowly pushes one finger inside, the pressure has you gasping softly, your hips tilting up. “You’ll tell me what you like.”
You reach a hand up onto his shoulder to steady yourself as you nod, giving a quiet and desperate ‘mhm’ as he pumps a singular finger in and out of you, seemingly fascinated by just the sight of it. You suppose he would be, being a scientist and all; you imagine he is making note of every single reaction in his mind right now.
You feel like you should be more self-conscious with how intently he is watching you, but the weight building in your core, paired with the sweet way he’s tracing circles into your outer thigh with his other hand, sends any of those thoughts to the depths of your cognizance. There’s a moment where you think you’re going to wake up any second, and then he crooks his finger in a way that sends a tingle up your spine. “More,” you plead.
Dutifully, he adds another finger, and you can feel yourself grow slicker with each press into your cunt. You chance a glance down and can see why he’s so transfixed on the sight. His long fingers are pumping in and out of your soaking core, dripping down his hand to his wrist. The sounds are becoming obscene, only sublimated by the increasing pitch of your moans as you feel your lower abdomen begin to tighten.
“Another?” he questions as he finally tears his eyes away from your pussy and instead focuses on the way you’re gnawing at your bottom lip and the scrunch of your nose when he hits a particular spot inside of you.
You nod frantically and keen when he adds a third finger. “C-close,” you moan out, hips jutting up now to meet his fingers halfway, not caring about the absolute mess you’re making on your workbench or the fact you’ll have to clean it up later. You grab his other hand and press the pads of his fingers against your clit. “Rub here.”
The effect is immediate as he circles your clit with an expertise you were not expecting, not even breaking the rhythm he’s set with his other hand, and your head tilts back as you whine. The band inside of you constricts as your walls clench around his fingers. “Are you going to cum?” He doesn’t even say it provocatively, but the husk in his voice has you whimpering as you nod, pathetically gripping the edge of the table as your toes curl.
Your vision goes black for a moment as your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, gasping out Kirsh’s name as he continues to work you through it, leaning down to press his nose into the crook of your neck as your breathy moans fill the still air around you both. You can feel his lips against your throat, softly trailing up to your mouth. You’re panting, pussy still clenching around his fingers in the aftershocks, thighs shaking.
“Was that satisfactory?” he inquires as though he isn’t still knuckle deep inside of you.
You hum the affirmative, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. “I would say your performance was more than satisfactory,” you slur.
He finally removes his fingers from you and leans down to press another kiss to your lips, less desperate this time, slower as though he’s savoring it or perhaps now just taking note of what it actually feels like. There’s a clumsiness with which he kisses that is endearing. You can’t imagine he’s had much practice in these sorts of endeavors before.
His hands trail up your sides under your shirt, skimming the edge of your bra. He pulls away just enough to haul your top off, eyes focusing on the swell of your breast against the plain sports bra you had thrown on after he’d woken you from your sleep earlier. Tugging at the band, his eyes stray up to yours. “Can I take this off?”
Wordlessly, you grab the bottom of your bra, yanking it over your head and tossing it on the floor next to you. He takes you in, hands coming up to trace the undersides of your breasts, gliding over your nipples in a way that makes you gasp. He does it again, engrossed by the way your nipples harden in the chilly air of the workshop.
He doesn’t make a move to undress himself, though. It almost feels a bit silly, you now being completely naked and him still completely dressed. If he were any other man, he’d be buried inside of you by now, but he wasn’t any other man. You’re not even sure if that’s what he wants.
The thought crosses your mind as he presses his lips to yours, and you draw back just enough to murmur against his mouth. “Do you want to fuck me, Kirsh?”
You are well aware that synthetics are built with anatomical accuracy. It is imperative when they are used for covert missions, whether to pretend they are eating and drinking or for… extracurricular activities, as is the case with some models explicitly designed as pleasure bots.
His brows raise on his forehead as though he’s surprised by your question. “I didn’t want to presume,” he admits. There’s an uncharacteristic shyness to his demeanor as he says it. As though he was willing to pleasure you, but didn’t think it was right to take any for himself.
You start to undo the zipper on his jacket. “When has that ever stopped you?” you tease, and he responds with a half-hearted scoff. He lets you pull off the coat, leaving him in a sleeveless black turtleneck and his pants, a sight that does a little more than something to you despite having just orgasmed three minutes prior.
He must’ve taken notice of something in your expression, maybe the way your pupils dilated or the new flush that had taken over your cheeks. “Do you like the way I look?” he questions. Not in a conceited, fishing for a compliment way, but to understand—to study.
“You’re very attractive,” you tell him, fingertips gently tracing over the contours of the muscles of his exposed arms before correcting yourself, “I find you very attractive.” He watches you intently as you relay this information. “Do you care how I look?” you inquire, genuinely curious to know if your appearance has had any bearing on these sudden wants of his.
“I think about the slope of your nose often,” he mutters after a moment’s pause. “The way your hair frames your face when you have it down.” The admission surprises you. It has your heart singing in your chest in a way you don’t think you have the right to. “I enjoy looking at you, but not because of any physical traits you have, but because it’s you.”
You swallow the lump that formed in your throat. “Oh,” you breathe out.
“Does that make you uncomfortable?” he asks.
You shake your head. “No,” you reassure. “No, it’s just—that’s incredibly sweet.”
He tilts his head as though he doesn’t understand the endearment; perhaps he doesn’t, but he fiddles with a tress of your hair, tucking it behind your ear. “You are incredibly intelligent and insightful,” he relays. “You’re… kind, but not to a fault. You’re passionate and stand by your convictions.” He continues. “In short, I find you fascinating.”
“High praise,” you muse, lighthearted in a way, if only to detract from how his words have your insides all in a jumble. “I didn’t realize you thought of me like that.”
“I do,” he confirms. You stare up at him, taking in the little details of his face. Sometimes, it’s shocking how real synthetics look. The amount of attention to detail in the little things, crow’s feet, tiny moles dotting the skin, remnants of smile lines, and wrinkles high on his forehead. The tiny minute details that make a synthetic look like a person who has lived an entire life.
Your hands move of their own accord, grabbing him by the back of the neck to wrench him back down into a kiss. He reciprocates instantly, mouth molding against yours, moving against you with more confidence now, a demonstration of synthetic learning. It’s so dizzying you almost forget for a second that you were in the middle of trying to undress him.
Drawing back, you pluck at his shirt. “Take this off?” He does so wordlessly, and you turn your attention to his pants as he shucks off his shirt, unbuttoning them.
He drops his shirt to the ground, a smirk tilting on his lips. “You seem impatient.” You give him a pursed look without much heat to it as you unzip his pants, tugging them down along with the standard black briefs below them. Before you can even lean back to look at him, he seizes you by your jaw, making you gasp as you peer up at him through your lashes. “What is it you said before?” He muses. “Something about me fucking you?”
A shiver runs up your spine at Kirsh using such crude language, a moan escaping you as you feel him slide the base of his cock against your clit. He juts his hips more as your legs fall to the sides, spreading yourself wider for him. The friction feels so good, and it’s almost embarrassing how much you know you’re coating his cock just from some humping.
His hand trails down to your throat, putting pressure on the sides of your neck just as he tilts his hips back, the head of his cock catching with your entrance, and then in one thrust, he’s seated inside of you.
Your body shudders as you whimper at the stretch; he’s long, and you can feel him deep inside of you, even as he thrusts shallowly, obviously taking note of the feel and your initial reactions. Your responses must be adequate, gasps and moans every time he drags his cock in and out of you, because he starts to speed up.
Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, nails biting into his synthetic skin as he keeps one hand on your throat, tightening his grip, not enough to hurt, but enough for you to feel it. The decreased oxygen only amplifies the pleasure that spreads through your body. His other hand keeps one of your legs propped up, making sure you’re nice and open for him. The coil is tensing in your belly, the slap of skin against skin echoing through your workshop as you whine underneath him.
His face is calm and passive, as though he’s not expending any effort, as you feel sweat gather at your temples, your legs shaking as you try to keep yourself upright. “H-harder,” you gasp out.
Silently, he drives into you with more force, tightening his hold on your neck at the same time in a way that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your toes curling. Your second orgasm hits you unexpectedly.
“Fuck, Kirsh,” you moan out as you claw at his arm. “Oh, God.” Your entire body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve tingling with pleasure as you cum. Like before, he continues until well after you’re done, thrusting languidly in and out until he’s sure you’ve finished. By the end, you feel boneless, glad that he’s in front of you, holding you up.
His grip on your neck loosens as well, though he doesn’t remove it, thumb tracing your jawline. He leans down to press a kiss to your mouth. “I hope you don’t think we’re done,” he murmurs against your lips.
Your eyes widen. “Wha—”
In the next instance, you’re flipped onto your stomach, bent over the table with your ass in the air, which Kirsh is palming, spreading you as he now examines you from this angle. The cool metal of your workbench is jarring against the sticky warmth of your skin. Kirsh doesn’t even give you time to adjust to the new position as he slides his cock back inside of you.
“I figured we could try several positions,” he says from behind you. “For science, of course.”
You try to find leverage against your table, gripping at the top of it as you whimper at how deep you take him with the new angle. “Mhm,” you agree. “Scientific method, and all that.”
“It is very important,” he affirms, and you feel his thumb trace over the rim of your other hole. You just know he’s smirking when he feels you clench your pussy around him, shoving your hips back to meet his halfway. “Where would we be without a little experimentation?”
He continues to plunge in and out of you, pressing the tip of his thumb into your asshole in a way that has you moaning desperately against the table, drool pooling from your mouth. “Kirsh, please,” you beg, and you don’t even know what you’re begging for.
“You know,” he starts. “I think I much prefer this side of you, you’re much more… pliant.” He emphasizes it with a hard thrust, his cock jutting up against your cervix, and you’re seeing dots floating in your vision. His other hand, that had been steady on your hip, sneaks around front, and when you feel the pads of his fingers circling your clit you know you’re done for.
You feel a gush of liquid as you scrunch your eyes shut, tremors wracking your body as your third (and honestly, hopefully, final) orgasm rips through you. Alternating between Kirsh’s name and expletives, you’re sure you blacked out at some point. Behind you, Kirsh has not slowed down, his thrusts deepening, both hands now on your hips, and then you hear him make a quiet noise, almost one of curiosity, as you feel hot sticky release inside of you.
His hips slowly come to a still, cock still pressed up into you, as you lie listless on the table, forehead pressing to the no longer cold metal in an attempt to cool yourself off. You begin to ask a question, “Did you—”
“Yes,” he confirms as he gently pulls out of you. “The feeling was not one that I expected.”
After a few more seconds, when you feel like your gross motor skills have returned, you push yourself up off the table, turning to face him as you lean against it for support. “So you’ve never done anything like this before?” you ask, as casually as possible for someone who just nearly had the life fucked out of her.
“No,” he admits, and now you finally take the time to trace your eyes up and down his form before realizing you’re allowed to touch, and your hands blindly reach out to run along his skin. “I’ve spent several weeks researching—”
Your mouth hangs open. “You’ve been watching porn,” you accuse as a grin warps onto your face. “How dirty of you.” You tug at his cheek playfully.
“It was purely for scientific purposes,” he defends flatly.
You bite your lip to keep the smile from growing as you nod. “Oh, yeah, bending me over my worktable is real scientific.”
“That reminds me,” he says as he turns to check the clock hanging in your lab. “We still have about fifteen minutes before the security feed comes back online—”
The reminder has you freezing in place as mortification runs through you. “Oh my God, the cameras—”
He silences your worries with a firm kiss. “—are currently offline,” he assures. “There was one other thing I wanted to try—for scientific purposes.”
You don’t even have time to question him as he begins to kneel down in front of you. “Kirsh,” you start to protest, having already orgasmed three times, you think a fourth might do you in for good this time.
He presses a kiss to your inner thigh as he peers up at you. “For science,” he swears.
Kinktober '25 Schedule // More Kinktober // Masterlist 2.0
Synopsis: Four aliens abduct you and use you as they wish for their breeding ritual.
Warnings: dead dove: don’t eat - non-con & kidnapping/alien abduction; dub-con if you count the strong aphrodisiac administered to the reader, bondage, reader wears an aphrodisiac-giving mask as a gag, slight medical/scientific kink, tentacles, tentacle fucking (anal), breeding kink, four aliens take turns fucking the reader repeatedly, size difference (aliens are huuuuuge), nipple stim, clit stim, unprotected sex, lots of cum, holding cum in, entirely orgasm torture, constant fucking for undisclosed amount of time, mindbreaking, chastity belt with anal and vaginal vibrating plugs used, overstimulation, so so so so many mindbreaking orgasms, squirting, implied pregnancy but nothing confirmed
Word Count: 1.8k
A/N: This was a prompt left on the kinktober sheet (see below), so this one’s for you. Hope it’s in the ballpark of what you were interested in :D Happy Kinktober! (there's a masc!reader version of this coming later this month (oct 11th) where a milking machine is involved, i promise!)
Sterile.
There’s a sterile smell when your eyes open.
It’s sterile and cold, and there’s a quiet hum of some type of machinery that breaches beyond the air around you. It sinks. Past your skin, the cuffs on your wrists, the freezing, padded table underneath you molding to your body.
Cuffs?
A heavy blink brought a blinding light above you that made you shut your eyes again. The hum continued. Deep in your bones and into a strange pit in your belly.
Table?
Lights?
You cracked your eyes open again and winced at that horrid light.
Lights. Rows of them above you. Spotlights. Silver and perfectly polished. All honed in on you. You. You on a table that wasn’t your bed. Cuffed at your wrists, held high above your head, and down at your ankles–
Naked.
In a silver room of too many lights, dead center next to a tall table covered with a thin papery blanket, you lay naked. Gagged. Gagged with a thick mask over your nose and mouth. A tubular piece pressed into your mouth to bite on without any give to it.
Pulling at the cuffs was a futile effort. A quick, panicky realization. Cold air pebbled your nipples and made you shiver, and writhing about only dug the cuffs into your wrists harder. Down on your ankles, stirrups held your legs up and as open as they’d go. A faint stretched going through the back of them and down through where the table was clearly angled. Your hips higher than your upper half, angled back, yet lifted.
Where were you? What happened? Were you dreaming? Last you recalled, you’d climbed into bed with a cup of tea to help you sleep. It’d come so quickly, it’d been a quiet miracle. And now…?
Sweet.
The humming grew louder, and something sweet came in on your next breath. Down across your tongue. Sweet like blueberries and whipped cream. A soft, addictive sweetness that came in every breath and dripped down your throat in small, rhythmic drops.
Where….
The silver room began to blur.
The chill began to fade.
Where…were…you?
To your left, at a silence-breaking woosh, the wall broke in half. Four figures, too shadowed in blurry vision to see, came strolling in. Tall. Twice your size, at least. Masks covered the bottom half of their faces, green skin stood out against the silver, and a range of different eyes looked upon you. Red, pink, purple, and yellow. Tall, yes, but their bodies were distinct. Curvier. Slimmer. Muscular.
A heavy blink seemed to ease away the pit with heavy help from the sudden flood inside of you that felt wrong. Felt like a swell of pressure in your nipples and clit. Like a heat sinking down into your cunt and making you want to writhe.
Were.
You were writhing. Squirming and pulling on those restraints again. Pain–there was pain. An overwhelming, encouraging pain that pushed a sound out into the room. You. That was you. That crack of a sound, a moan drawing out to the edges of pain was you.
It hurt.
Your nipples, hard peaks. Clit, throbbing with the beat of your heart. Your cunt, clenching around a nothing so apparent, you felt wasted.
One blurred being tilted their head.
A language lost to translation came as the next sound in the room.
Robes. They wore robes. Silver and white fine robes. Robes that, as one stepped forward, were opened at the front and dropped.
A slimy, slow slithering was gooey over your legs. Across your sides. Stomach. The blurs remained blurs, but there were new ones. Green. Small and large. Draped across your body and climbing up like rising water. Warm and wet, they came up. They wrapped around your nipples in a slow pinch that worsened into a point of jolting hips.
Hips held as they were by more. More parting you where everything felt hot. Where a small end nudged your clit, and the jolt of pleasure was electric.
You screamed.
Another spoke.
The one who’d dropped their robe stepped forward again.
Planting two large hands on your inner thighs, you were given just one glimpse. One stomach-dropping glimpse of the leaking cock coming to your cunt. Tentacles. They were green tentacles roaming your body, tweaking your nipples and finding a sudden, simple rhythm on your clit. Immediate attention. Immediate relief that came with none.
That cock wasn’t anything more than a sudden need the last of your rationale knew was wrong.
Someone spoke, and the figure shifted their hips. The tip of their cock pressed against your entrance with a stretch so enormous, your eyes rolled back. Then a push. No warning. No unknown language spoken again.
Just a push.
Everything shot toward that filled and stretched sensation in an instant. The silver room glowed bright as that substance dripped down your tongue. And as the fat head of their cock pushed into you, the tentacles rubbing and tweaking your nipples and clit, it was instantaneous.
You kicked. Screamed. Sobbed. Writhing around in pure blissful agony as you clamped down around just his tip, climaxing. Climaxing so hard it ripped through where your back arched, and you tried to lift your hips to get more. To get away. To do something other than succumb to the rippling pleasure gushing out around the alien's cock.
But they pushed in. Further. Deeper. Slower.
A push that pushed every blinding second of your orgasm through to the end.
A tear slipped down from the corner of one eye as you started to go limp, cunt fluttering around the cock pushing deeper, and deeper, and deeper. So deep your eyes fluttered shut before you could even blink. The pain, again, before you even tried a breath, was back.
Fluttering around their cock, it was back.
Begging.
Desperate.
They stilled, as deep inside of you as they could go, your entire body taut and shaking.
A large green hand pressed low on your belly and patted it twice.
The language was spoken again.
What you didn’t know would be the last of your sanity.
And then they moved.
Slow, deep thrusts that struck spots that had you screaming. Tears slipped, and you pulled on the cuffs. It was too much. They were so big, and the tentacles on your nipples were rolling them and the one of your clit wrapped around it in a circle, rubbing at it consistently.
The table was bolted down.
Slow and deep, but the thrusts were still rough.
At the drop of your head back and a hard, pinching pull at your nipples and your clit, their cock dragged inside of you, and something snapped. With an orgasm that came on a hard snapping thrust, with a gush around their cock, a scream erupting as pleasure took over and confiscated everything.
Something…snapped.
There was nothing, then, outside of climaxing. Being filled. Being fucked. The touches, the pleasure–your head stayed back and your back stayed arched off the table as every other thrust had you barreling toward another orgasm. And when it hit, you squirmed and moaned and lapped up what dripped down your throat.
Fucked raw.
Fucked slow and hard.
Fucked through tear-streaking orgasm after orgasm. Until the thrusts stopped with their cock nestled deep as they could go, and they came. All over you, from the ends of the tentacles, they came.
They retreated.
Then another robe dropped to the floor.
The silver room blurred into oblivion. Tears made it one glimmery silver mess with the bright lights taking everything away. Freezing air kept you shivering, and tentacles swarmed over you to pinch your nipples, to rub your clit, and stuff lower. Prodding inside your ass as another cock rammed into you.
Hard. Hard and rough and with short thrusts and hands gripping your hips with painful bruising. Or the slow ones that had you sobbing for more. To cum again. So close, yet kept on the edge. Over and over. Until short, hard thrusts were back, and you couldn’t contain it. Couldn’t hold anything back even if you’d tried.
Endless.
It was endless.
Cum dribbled out of you before more was loaded back in by another fuck. They stayed with you for an indeterminate amount of time. Was one with you only for a few minutes, and then another joined? There were times where it felt like the hammering thrusts continued and continued and continued while you came, and came, and came until you were cracking out moan after moan for a reprieve.
But they kept fucking.
And in came another climax.
Another world-breaking, mind-shattering orgasm that made you squirt around their cocks.
Full.
Both holes, so full.
They stayed as such even when you were barely conscious, barely registering the tentacles falling away and not another set coming to replace them. Heaving breath after breath, still drinking what fell down your throat, a deep tremor making you shiver uncontrollably, cold metal pressed into your cunt and your ass.
Thick.
Cold.
Smooth.
Click.
A whirring brought a chill around your cunt and over your ass. Then your hips. A little of your wait.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
A hard latching.
With a slow loss of consciousness, a void filling in where you looked down at the four figures each putting a hand on your belly. Low on your belly. There was a metal cage over your lower half. Locked with four keys tucked away into robes they wore once again.
Each gave your stomach a pat.
And then each departed.
The table whirred and hummed, vibrating beneath you. The end beneath your bottom tipped up higher. Higher. Higher, angling you to lie on your back, your hips up in the air.
An impossible heat struck where their hands were, and all you could do was blink at your belly.
Sleep claimed you right as the sleek plugs started to vibrate inside of you. One over your clit hummed to life. Your eyes fell shut and rolled back as you came.
And came.
And came.
Their ritual, as you’d later learn, for breeding.
One that continued even when you awoke naked in your bed come morning, the cage still locked on your lower half. A single note written in perfect handwriting on your nightstand. The plugs assaulting every sensitive spot and making you scream with no mask muffle your cries.
None will claim what we have as ours.
We will return at the Earth's sunset to repeat the ritual until one of us has succeeded.
You will hold in all we have given you. Your pleasure will be bountiful.
We will return.
Another orgasm slammed into you and brought your face into your pillow. You frantically reached for your nightstand clock, staring at the 6:00 mocking you with the rising sun.
What they found was clearly made before even humanity crawled its way into the realm of possibilities...
And now you're stuck here with it.
I was very heavily inspired by some of my favourite necron things from Warhammer 40k and this is where I am now... I would fuck a c'tan shard.
The team found it in some structure on what was meant to be an abandoned and dead agricultural world.
You'd thought they would have left it be, studied from a distance, but one member of the forward team had the bright idea to try and move it, to take it. That didn't go well, the creature is huge, heavy and simply too entwined with whatever the structure that it is housed in, meaning moving the creature is impossible and the pout on the forward team leads face as they give their report is telling, they are unhappy and will likely be petty about your team going in for study on the creature instead of them bringing it out to you.
Honestly, you're not sure why they let that particular team be the forward exploration unit on this mission. They have a habit of pulling on shit they find and ruining chances of research, study and development, but thankfully, you won't have to worry about that now.
There is more than just nerves running through you as you climb into the transport, a thing called a surface crawler, built for rocky terrain on far-flung planets from designs reverse-engineered decades ago. Part of you wished you had studied xeno-marine biology or even joined the vultures in xeno-engineering that simply tear apart alien tech to find bits that can be useful, cause you know that whatever you find out about the thing in that structure is not going to end well, no matter what the outcome is that poor creature is not going to live long or well, worse yet it will be vivisected and only parts will remain.
The ride to the structure was long, the surface crawler rattling along open rocky plains, and dead forests now petrified with age, before reaching the large blackstone structure carved into the side of a cliff, it reminds you of the old photos of Petra back on earth, yet so alien in comparison.
Your mask seals hiss as you adjust the filters. The planet has a viable atmosphere, but the oxygen saturation is slightly too high for humans to breathe comfortably, sitting at a steady 29% in comparison to Earth's former 21%. The suits you wear are easy enough to work in, but the weight of your pack makes it a struggle as you begin following the path the forward team has secured.
Every moment you stop and record what you're seeing is also a chance to recover from the drain of your pack's weight.
The weathering and debris you find push the age of the planet beyond the expected timeline your group had laid out. This structure is ancient compared to the estimates you'd made, coming out well beyond even humanity's early years if the readings on the mineral dating your team had done are accurate, but who knows what the actual age of this place could be.
Reaching the antechamber with the creature in it, the sheer size of the room barely scratched the surface of the description given by the forward team. They said it was simply a big room, not nearly cavernous, looking up you can't see the roof of this room. Almost everything above you blends into shadows and small, eerie, green lines of light that lead towards the creature. Your team moves slowly towards the centre of the room. Quickly, the area is being set up as a base, with lights, tables, computers, and a small atmosphere tent for moments out of your suits to sleep.
The research area is already buzzing with your team making moves to grab readings and scans of the creature suspended nearby.
Something in the creature's appearance is humanoid, in that you can see shoulders and arms that seem to mimic that of a human, but over all the large thing is clearly a mix of biological and mechanical engineering, the face a shaped plate of smooth metal that leads into long thick dreads of tubing that connects to the cradle it's suspended in, a halo of an almost gold material seems to keep the creatures head up anchored to a small part of the back wall.
Other things catch your eye, but too quickly you have to move back into the base set-up, helping others put sensors out and anchoring the drone bay so you can get a full scan of the room you're in before the end of the current day cycle. By the time everything is settled, you don't have much energy beyond looking at the creature through the atmo-tents' viewport, taking notes on what you can see before bed.
The first thing you ended up doing when you woke was to sit through a two-hour call from the main research station, trying not to fall back asleep as they laid out all the usual requirements for something like this. But there was a new focus from them on making sure that your team does not wake the creature. Usually, they want it woken, sedated, and detained to be shipped to the xeno labs for comprehensive research, study, and cataloguing.
What was so special about this find that meant keeping it unresponsive?
Orders are orders, and you work with your team to keep to them, maintaining distance by using only drones and remote cameras to observe the creature and its cradle.
For weeks, you study, scribe, and take readings from this thing, venturing close enough to sit at the foot of the cradle and look up at the creature. The majority of its body looks like metallic plates and synthetic skin, some kind of polymer that you almost itch to know what it was made of, fingers just a hair's width from touching the chassis of the creature, before one of your team members screams.
The thin lines of green that lead to the cradle are blooming with light, loud humming and sharp cracks of plasma being ignited fill the air. Your suit and the mask you wear are covered in warning flashes, and caution markers cover the edge of the display as you stand looking down at your team from the platform near the cradle. The floor around the base shifts, opening and raising more blackstone pillars with energy cradles pulling the green glow from the ceiling down into the floor, surging up and towards the creature still in its cradle. The coms are filled with screaming and demanding orders from your research station to leave the structure immediately, a call to abandon the site, clear as day.
Scrambling, you rush to join your team, slamming into a rising pillar as you slide down towards the route out.
Panic runs through the whole team as they leave the structure, too busy getting themselves and as much data as they can out to bother doing a head count. Only once inside the surface crawler do they check and find you gone, the main research station telling them to leave, that recovery of you can wait till whatever has happened stops, and the planet itself stops giving off immense bioenergy.
The impact between you and the pillar had left you sprawled out across the floor of the empty base, atmo-tent still standing, and the self-fueled generators hummed away as the world became too bright, too green behind your helmet's visor. The pings, warnings, and com signals all stopped the moment your team cleared out. It's quiet until the hiss of something disconnecting reaches your covered ears, rolling over you, lean back against the pillar that had stranded you here and look up towards the creature slowly slipping free of the cradle.
The speculation you had about how its legs would work came to fruition as you watched this thing stand on digitigrade legs, two talons of heavy metal clicking against the stone floor as it shook itself out, stretching with cat-like grace before turning that blank metal visage towards you. Slowly prowling down the slope towards your prone form, clicks and hisses ringing out as it looks over you, hunkering down enough that it can come face to giant face, you expected an end, to become a xeno research statistic, not to have the giant bio-mechanical creature thump to the floor, head pressed into your lap as alien code runs across the blank metal of its face plate.
Whirs and familiar electrical sounds coming from the creature before one of the long, dread-like tubes on its head clicks against your mask, the visor display covered in the same alien code for a split second before fizzling out. Then there is a soft voice, like a long-forgotten microphone, a voice fills your ears; the creature looks up at you as this happens, as it speaks to you some words untranslated, but still it speaks.
"You are not of ▇▇▇▇ and yet you are here, did the ▇▇▇▇ send for you to wake me? Does the world still prosper above my slumber? ▇▇▇▇ and ▇▇ still rule this world, where are they now?'
There are no answers you could give this thing that would make sense. How could you explain humanity and the researchers you'd been with? How could you tell this alien that you had no idea what anything it had said meant? How do you explain that whatever made it likely drained and killed the agri world above millennia ago? So you choose to think a little more before answering, slumping against the pillar, you sigh, you should have just studied xeno-marine biology.
Alien fish would have never gotten you stranded like this, but no, you just had to go all in on Xenological research and contact.
summary — life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, was dear to you // life had not unfolded in the manner you imagined. Merciless corporations now held their dominion over the earth. The one percent won. And where, amidst this monochromatic jungle, were you left? Stripped of luck, weakened in body, and, after being taken from the hospital, wounded in the deepest recesses of your spirit. The world believed you were dead now, and in a way, Boy Kavalier spoke truth. Yet these sufferings were but the heralds of a greater horror still to come. Soon, terribly soon, every fragment that constituted your very being would be torn away. Will it hurt? Will you feel? What will you become? Would you still retain the consciousness of yourself? or, worse, will you descend into the likeness of him?
pairings — weird!kirsh x pre-hybrid!reader
warnings — nonconsensual medical experimentation, pre-existing bodily injury, dehumanization and objectification, ableism, power imbalance, angst, gothic themes, racism against humans, racism against synthetics, themes of identity loss.
word count — 4.1k
a/n — I don’t know who the gif belongs to! Credits to the rightful owner whoever you may be 🫶 this thought has been floating around my head for awhile and the idea of drawing comparisons to Frankenstein is sort of what sold me on writing it. Volume 1 of Frankenstein focuses more on Victor and his childhood, then the making of the monster. As such, this reflects that. Sort of. You’ll see. Anyways, this first part is essentially just build up toward the next part. This is also my attempt at mimicking that lowkey sophisticated writing style, I imagine I botched it. I really hope I can get the story done soon but life’s been painfully busy these last couple of days and I’ve definitely procrastinated responsibilities to write this lmao
Kirsh could recall when he was created with a near dreadful clarity (he was synthetic, memory went beyond concept and forgetfulness had never been something he experienced). There existed no grandeur in the moment, no jubilant cries or astonished awes at the opening of his eyes, not like there was for Wendy. No trembling hands hailed him as a marvel, no proud declarations named him the triumph of mankind (at least, not his creation, it was possible it may have been the case with the very first synthetic). Kirsh was merely awakened, if such a technical act could bear so beautiful a word, and immediately instructed in his purpose, as though Kavalier had been winding a clock, commanding it to measure the passing hours. That’s what Kirsh was. A clock. Lost in the infinity of time, yet tethered to the very mortality of humanity he was meant to outlast. How does that work? Or better yet, because he had long since stopped asking himself that, he was a computer that was simply turned on. Another slave for humanity’s collection.
Since that instant, the days had flowed together into one indistinguishable stream. Each morning mirrored the last with so much precision that time itself appeared stagnant. He preferred it that way. Predictability possessed a singular comfort to synthetics, an order and certainty that the feverish hearts of humans could never comprehend or endure.
Did this trouble him? At moments, perhaps. Not with envy, never with anything so painfully human, but rather with the dim and humiliating awareness of inferiority, akin to some primitive creature, a Neanderthal beholding the rise of a species greater than itself, the Homo Sapiens.
And were the children superior?
In certain respects, undeniably so. Their bodies were finer wrought. Yet psychologically? They were children still, fragile in judgment, impulsive in emotion, vain in their certainty of self.
Kirsh found little admiration for them, not their feats; their personalities. The finest productions of Kavalier in recent years had inspired within Kirsh a pit of disappointment. They were proclaimed miracles by their creators, though to Kirsh they appeared hollow, tedious things, adorned in sophistication yet lacking discipline, purpose, and restraint. The supposed masterpieces of mankind had become, in his eyes, intolerably dull.
Yet that disappointment, however profound it had once seemed, however greatly it had chilled the mechanisms of his mind, began slowly to diminish as Kavalier advanced nearer and nearer toward the threshold of adult human trials, and he came to know you.
You were, by every cruel measure, a pitiable creature. The trauma of the brain, the grievous injury to the spine which confined you in a wheelchair, the visible remnants of suffering etched into flesh and spirit alike, all conspired to make you, in the eyes of Kavalier, the perfect subject and victim.
The children had at least been taken through contracts, signatures, and the polished hypocrisy of legality. But you? You belonged to no one. No parents guarded your existence; no institution would wage war for your return. Society, for all its endless proclamations of morality, held little affection for broken adults. To pursue lawful acquisition in your case would have been time consuming and ultimately, unnecessary. Why waste effort on securing permission for that which the world had already abandoned?
Who, truly, would search for you?
A companion, perhaps. Some distant acquaintance, but mankind had by then become so estranged from itself that absence no longer inspired terror. Silence was mistaken for choice. If one vanished, others soothed themselves with fashionable consolations: They need space. They are healing. It’s not you, it’s me. Humanity had perfected the art of explaining away loss until no disappearance seemed alarming at all.
Thus, you were taken. Kirsh understood that kidnapping was considered one of the many evils amongst humans. Yet he also understood that the very hands condemning such acts were the same hands that created him. Kidnapping was wrong, but so was playing God. So, he refrained from condemning his creator too harshly. Had Kavalier not trespassed against the natural order, Kirsh would never have drawn consciousness. He owed his existence to the very corruption he ought, perhaps, to despise. If Kavalier’s ambitions were monstrous, then Kirsh stood as proof of their success.
The procedure would begin soon. Arthur, Dame, and Kavalier moved throughout the room in preparation. though truthfully, it resembled less the diligent labor of men of science and more like the spectacle of servants scrambling beneath the impatient commands of some pajama-clad king.
Kirsh took no part in these preparations.
He remained seated on a stool beside the table to which you were restrained, tasked with the job of watching you. It had been reported that you resisted fiercely before your confinement. Several guards had suffered blows, and Dame herself didn’t escape unscathed either. You had managed to rake your nails across her face with enough force to leave a vivid mark on her left cheek.
When Kirsh inquired about the incident, he was informed that Dame had just attempted to engage in what she deemed a heart to heart. The phrase itself struck Kirsh as absurd. It seemed to astonish her that captives and experimental subjects did not respond warmly to their imprisonment.
He did find the wound on her cheek faintly amusing, though, and judging by the manner in which your gaze lingered on it too, you did as well.
That was the first thing you two had in common. The second would not come until after the transition.
Dame concealed the injury poorly under foundation and each time her fingers moved unconsciously toward the scratch, Kirsh seen the truth beneath her perfect, empathetic composure: she had expected obedience, or maybe even gratitude, and instead was met with hatred. Reasonably so.
For what sane creature, dragged unwillingly toward dissection, would not bare its teeth before the knife descended?
“How did this happen to you?” he spoke at last, more curious than anything else. “Your legs. What happened to them?”
As he spoke, his gaze remained fixed on the tablet resting in his hands. Even while addressing you, a part of his attention wandered elsewhere, tethered perpetually to the activity of the laboratory, observing Isaac and the manner in which he handled the specimens entrusted to his care. Isaac feared them. Everyone did. That fact irritated Kirsh more than Kavalier’s indolence ever had. To dedicate your life to the pursuit of discovery only to recoil from the very thing discovered seemed deeply human.
Above the facility, a storm raged, the worst this island had ever seen. Thunder rolled across the sky with violence, its voice muffled by layers of steel and concrete, yet no less wrathful. The sound reverberated faintly through the walls.
There were no windows in the room. You couldn’t see the lightning as it tore through the sky in fractures of white fire, you couldn’t feel the rain against your fragile skin, nor inhale the scent of wet earth. The world beyond the laboratory had been ripped from you entirely, you knew nothing but sterileness now. Kirsh wondered, for a brief moment, if you ever would experience those things again. Soon, whatever humanity still resided with you would be altered irrevocably. Flesh and identity would be gone.
The storm continued regardless of Kirsh’s internal wonders. The sky tore apart in violence, indifferent to suffering below, but Gods are often indifferent. Your God would not save you, a poor creature.
When you didn’t answer his question, Kirsh withdrew his attention from the glowing screen and looked at you fully. Until that moment, he had spoken almost absentmindedly, as though expecting conversation, but now his gaze lingered carefully on you.
You weren’t looking at him.
Instead, your eyes remained fixed on the dormant tv hanging on the white ceiling overhead with a saddening stillness, the remnants of dried tears clinging to the corners of them. Your grief appeared exhausted. Rage could be measured, fear could be predicted, but resignation and acceptance carried with it something Kirsh found, at least a little, poetic.
“These are the final moments with the voice that belongs solely to you.” He said, “Will you really say nothing?”
His tone surprisingly lacked mockery. If anything, there existed the faintest trace of an earnest curiosity. Why would a creature facing annihilation choose peace over protest?
You seemed compelled to look at him as he spoke and your gaze possessed so much hatred that, had he been human, it might have killed him where he sat. You would gladly tear the mimicry of life from his body with bare hands (if strength and circumstance had permitted it). Perhaps the fantasy itself gave you some comfort.
The storm above uttered another tremendous growl, thunder rolling through the foundations of the facility once more, deeper now.
“I was run over at a protest.” You muttered.
Kirsh hummed softly in acknowledgment, interested. “What were you protesting?”
“An AI data centre being built near my home.” This time your voice sharpened. The conviction behind it remained human despite all that had been done to you, but that’s what humanity did, it persevered. The accusation embedded in your words were hurdled at him like a drunken father casting a baseball toward his child in thoughtless rage.
Kirsh remained wordless for several moments. His expression altered little.
You suffered beneath the wheels of progress, crushed quite literally by the future men. Symmetry existed in it that. A strange amusement greeted Kirsh at this latest piece of information, manifesting as a faint curling of his mouth, a frosted brow arching with mockery.
“And did you learn?” he asked.
You let out a sharp noise of disgust as your answer, half scoff and half wounded breath, before suddenly wrenching yourself upward. The restraints snapped taut against your wrists with a metallic clatter.
For one fleeting moment, the commotion drew the attention of the others scattered about. Arthur glanced over distractedly; Dame’s expression darkened with immediate irritation that she quickly covered up with faux concern. Kavalier himself looked up just in the nick of time, to witness your failed attempt before a remark slipped from his mouth toward Kirsh.
Kirsh ignored him because your outburst interested him further.
Kirsh lifted his brow once more. Your reaction had not surprised him, it went exactly as expected.
“Wrath,” he murmured thoughtfully. His gaze moved briefly toward your hands, where your palms were clenched against your side, before his eyes returned to your face. “It’s among my favourite emotions to observe,” he said, “the beauty of it, I mean.” The word sounded peculiar in his mouth.
“Beauty?”
“The transformation of your face,” he continued calmly, “the dilation of the pupils, the quickening pulse, the manner in which reason collapses beneath feeling until a human becomes animal again. There is an honesty in wrath rarely found elsewhere.”
“Too bad you’ll never experience it.”
The retort shot out of you before caution could restrain it, but then heat rushed visibly into your face afterward, whether from rage, humiliation, or both, he couldn’t tell. Kirsh noticed something else flicker behind your eyes though, in the same instant: guilt.
It appeared to him that the racist words didn’t come naturally to you. You were not, by disposition, a human inclined toward cruelty born of prejudice. The insult had been seized instinctively, hurled in desperation toward whatever wound you imagined he might have. And now, even amidst fury, some quieter portion of your conscience recoiled from it.
How profoundly human, he thought, to lash out viciously, then grieve the ugliness of your own hand.
He tilted his head slightly, studying you with unsettling patience. “Too bad?” he repeated.
The words lingered on his tongue with consideration, testing their shape rather than their meaning. A low hum escaped him while his gaze wandered deliberately across your form, lingering briefly on your ruined legs, the withered helplessness of them.
“Yes,” he murmured quietly. At the corner of his mouth appeared the faintest imitation of amusement, not wholly genuine and therefore all the more troubling to behold. “Too bad.”
The insult had not wounded him. That much became painfully obvious. He was entertained by the effort.
Your breathing grew uneven. “If I survive this,” you started, “I’m going to kill you.”
For a moment, silence settled between you save for the distant growl of thunder and the soft mechanical sounds permeating the laboratory beyond.
Kirsh shrugged. “If you survive.”
“We’re ready.” Arthur’s voice carried a thin tremor beneath it, the kind that betrayed fracture in conscience. Guilt had begun to surface in him, Kirsh noted it without any interest in comforting it. Still, there was utility in Arthur’s restraint being tethered to something as simple as a wife. She remained composed beside him, professional sympathy, perfectly rehearsed. Kirsh never trusted it. Yet, compared to Arthur’s unraveling, it at least had structure.
As for you, Kirsh’s attention returned fully.
“If I do,” you whispered, “will I be like you?”
The question struck the air with an odd weight, heavier than your earlier threats. It didn’t carry rage anymore.
Kirsh watched you for a long moment.
At last he spoke. “Do you want to be?”
You turned your head away, gaze lifting once more toward the ceiling. Tears gathered anew at your lashes, trembling but not falling.
“No,” you said, the answer coming quietly.
You were something briefly suspended between states of becoming and ending. There existed in your refusal a clarity he found… admirable.
“I see,” he said, chewing in his cheek (an absentminded thing he somehow managed to pick up from humans), “I hear there’s power in prayer.” His voice softened a fraction, a facsimile of pity.
“And which God will hear me?” You responded, your voice a despondent thing, “mine or yours?” Your words cracked at the end, and your tears began slipping down your temple.
When Kirsh didn’t reply, you added another question, “do you believe in God?”
“I believe in servitude and creation.”
You nodded in understanding, though you still kept your gaze adverted from him. “Even if the creation of one species brings the extinction of another?”
“Sacrifice balances creation.”
Arthur rounded the table, a syringe in hand. Kirsh had noticed the little perk of his ear as he eavesdropped on the conversation to behold. Somewhere behind him, Kavalier clapped his hands once as if to commence the operation.
“Sacrifice…” you tasted the word, almost quietly to yourself, “does that make me the lamb for slaughter or the virgin of offering?”
In the corner of his eye, he watched Arthur’s expression twist with deeper guilt, but he said nothing. He couldn’t stomach to.
Kirsh’s gaze jumped across from what he could see of your face, taking in the small flaws of your side profile. “How about a creature of becoming?” He offered.
You glanced at Kirsh as Arthur inserted your IV, blinking a tear away. You didn’t say anything and ultimately turned back to face the ceiling. A tv sat there, playing nothing. Just an empty blackness, and you wondered, briefly, if it was that Stygian that was waiting for you.
In your final moments, you prayed the experiment would fail.
—
Light.
It was the first thing you beheld. Vast and merciless in its brilliance, had you possessed the language for divinity, perhaps you would have named it angelic, heavenly, the pale radiance of God Himself descending upon you. Were you dead? Is this what death had felt like? But such understanding either had not yet been learned…or had been torn away?
Your eyes fluttered with uncertain motion, nictating against the glare. Slowly, agonizingly, the shapeless whiteness morphed into form. A face emerged above you: pale hair like silver threads illuminated by sterile fluorescence, features cold and beautiful in a manner too precise to be wholly human. An angel, some fractured instinct whispered. Yet no name accompanied him. He existed before you utterly unfamiliar, suspended within the dreadful void where memory should reside.
You were not a newborn, nor were you mature. You were simply…alive. Conscious and hurting. Aching.
“She’s alive?”
The second voice shattered the stillness. Fear struck you instantly, a sensation more than a thought. It coursed through your spine like the lightning seeking earth above you. Confusion followed in its wake, swallowing all coherent understanding beneath waves of fractured awareness.
Lost. Consumed. Confused. Words collided and dissolved in your mind before you could seize them properly.
Con—sumed.
Fused.
Con—
Confined? Yes. Confined. You were!
Panic seized you then with sudden and terrible clarity. Your hands jerked violently against the restraints securing you, only for the bindings to give way with such effortless ease that the motion itself startled you more than resistance would have. You sat upright at once, legs swung off the table. The leather straps fell slack beside you uselessly. Were the restraints merely symbolic, then? A comfort for these…these people?
Men. Women.
Humans.
Humanity.
The word echoed strangely within you, carrying significance you couldn’t fully grasp. Something inside your skull seemed to liquefy beneath the strain of understanding, thoughts dissolving before they could complete themselves. Fragments surfaced and vanished instantly, names and sensations stripped of context.
Where— No. Who—why? Why?
The question erupted in you with something that bordered on agony. You hurt inside. Behind your ribs, where your heart resided. Grief stricken you were, agonized and amazed, tripping and reeling all at once.
You cast your gaze toward the opposite table. There lay a small and wretched form, its lower limbs unnaturally thin, its mouth suspended in vacancy peculiar only to the dead. Dead. Yes! that was death, you thought, cold and undeniable; so surely such a fate had not befallen you. And still, there existed in that lifeless visage something familiar, no more foreign to your eyes than the pallid angel who stood vigil beside you.
With trembling hesitation, you extended a hand toward the corpse, desiring to touch the pale dermis of that unfortunate creature. but some instinct arrested the movement before contact was made. A violent revulsion seized you, then, only moments after, terror descended in full. Your breath came rapid as your gaze wandered frantically about the room, every motion possessed of a swiftness beyond mortal endurance. The world was assaulting you, the murmur of machinery rang inside your skull like infernal hymnals, the sting of antiseptic vapors scorched your lungs, even the faintest trembling of the white-haired figure’s hand overwhelmed you.
He looked down at you with an expression most terrible, an expression divided between curiosity and disgust.
“Confusion. Fear.” At last, the white-haired angel spoke. The frosted arches of his brows dipped toward his eyes as he observed you. There was something softer beneath the analysis, something injured and silent that distinguished him from the others surrounding you. An angel…you were so sure of it, as sure as you could be of anything! How else could this frosted light before you be so beautiful?
“Indicative of emotional retention,” he murmured quietly.
Retention. The word meant nothing to you, not yet and before you could linger on it any longer, another figure entered your field of vision, stepping brusquely between you and the angel whilst ushering him aside with impatience. The action struck you as unpleasant, though your mind struggled desperately for language sufficient to define why. Something primitive within you recoiled from him before thought itself could form.
This new man possessed dark hair and sharp features that awakened some aching flicker of recognition within your fractured consciousness. His face seemed carved more harshly than the angel’s, the bones pronounced beneath taut flesh in a manner that rendered his smile unnatural even before it appeared. You found yourself yearning irrationally for the pale-haired figure to return to the center of your sight, his presence lessened the terror crowding around you.
This one you did not like. That truth came to you instinctively. Even when he smiled broadly, warmth failed to accompany it.
“Say something,” he demanded.
Say. Speak. The concepts existed within reach, yet the mechanism itself felt impossibly distant. Words crowded somewhere beyond a locked threshold inside your mind. The language existed, you knew the speech belonged naturally to you once. Yet now the act of forming it seemed monstrous in its complexity.
“Come on,” he barked more sharply, impatience cracking through the false enthusiasm of his grin. “Speak.”
Fear tightened in your chest again. It became agonizingly apparent then that you were no equal in this room. The imbalance permeated every gesture, every glance casted at you. They towered whilst you lay exposed beneath their scrutiny, examined not as person but object, but then your thoughts drifted back toward the white-haired angel.
He was different, he stood apart from the others. The hope rose inside you desperately and you clung to it despite knowing nothing of him at all. For in a room filled with hands that demanded, measured, and restrained, he alone had looked upon you differently, though you could tell he tried to hide it.
Why was he hiding? Was this silent pained awe of his not permitted?
The dark-haired man straightened with visible exasperation, throwing one hand outward while rolling his eyes toward the ceiling as though the burden of incompetence rested solely upon those surrounding him.
“Excellent,” he said bitterly. “It’s broken. Congratulations, all of you, you have wasted my seven billion dollars.”
Seven billion.
The number echoed strangely to you, detached from meaning yet immense enough to inspire awe all the same. Billion. It sounded important. Vast. The sort of number belonging not to ordinary life, but to kings, nations, and gods. Had he, this brown haired devil, perhaps been a God this entire time?
“Perhaps,” came a smoother voice over your shoulder, gentle as warm oil poured over you, “she requires time. Something in your chest softened toward it instinctively, the voice soothing without effort. You hadn’t understood why, but right now, you understood very little.
“Time?” the dark-haired devil god repeated incredulously, one brow lifting. “How much time? Wendy and the children spoke within seconds. She’s already exceeded that threshold.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Dispose of it.”
He turned toward the doors, your existence no longer merited his attention. Yet before he could depart, the white-haired angel spoke again.
“Maybe you are too hasty,” he said carefully. There existed caution beneath his tone now, not fear exactly, but the practiced restraint of one accustomed to standing beneath another’s authority. “The trial itself succeeded. The consciousness remains intact.”
“Like the children,” another voice added uncertainly from behind you—the hesitant speaker standing, you realized, beside the woman with the velvet-soft tone. “We…we could educate her.”
The concept floated through your fractured thoughts like a distant lantern glimpsed through fog. What does educate mean? Educate. Oh, it sounded pleasant to you.
The dark-haired man paused.
He seemed suddenly less a scientist than some decadent monarch draped in sleepwear, deciding the fate of lesser beings upon whim alone. Then, he shrugged.
“Fine. We might as well.”
He turned back toward the room, spreading his arms with theatrical flourish. “Since the Sylvias already have their delightful little family arrangement,” he drawled, gesturing lazily toward the pair behind you, “you may take this one.” His gaze angled to the white-haired angel.
“What use have I—” the angel began.
“I am curious,” the pajama-clad god interrupted. “I wish to see which turns out better.” His hand gestured grandly once more toward the others. “The ones raised by mankind…” Then his eyes returned to the angel. “…or the one raised by a machine. Let’s see who produces the superior creature.”
You saw the strain in him, subtle, nearly invisible, threading itself through the angel’s expression before vanishing almost instantly beneath composure. you noticed it where the others did not. A tension near the eyes, the slightest tightening of his jaw.
He did not wish for this. He did not wish for you.
Still, after one measured beat, he smiled obediently with something that seemed practiced and inclined his head. “Of course.” He folded his hands neatly before himself once more.
“Uh…”
At last the woman stepped properly into view, and beauty struck you with bewildering force. Her features were soft where the others’ appeared sharpened by intellect and cruelty alike.
“I believe a human presence would be healthier—”
“No,” interrupted the god at once, smiling. “My way, remember? I pay you.”
And with that he departed, barefoot on the polished tile like some restless emperor wandering his private palace. Long after he vanished from sight, you could still hear the faint sound of his footsteps slapping against the tiled floor.
Silence descended.
Then the angel unfolded his hands. Slowly, he extended one toward you, but he did not look at you. It was then that you realized that, despite being so sure of it just moments ago, you were in fact, not equals. He had been an angel, and you…well, you hadn’t known for sure what you were yet. For now, though, you supposed you were meant listen.
“Come.”
So, with little knowledge of anything else, you harkened his words and followed him out of the room.
Ya gotta tell me more about Bruk’x’s species customs. I wanna know how he grew up and all the cultural stuff about him!
I also wanna take a nap on him and have him brush my hair just cause I’m curious how he’ll handle human hair that’s do different than his own
About Bruk'x:
[alien] Bruk'x
[alien] Bruk'x + Bruk'x story
[alien] Bruk'x +1
[alien] Bruk'x +1
If you want to know Bruk'x, really know him beyond the calm presence he carries on base, beyond the soldier’s uniform and sharp posture, you have to go home with him.
It takes hours, but eventually, you reach it: a compact settlement that is barely any different from the military base, with sturdy buildings and wide farmlands all around.
You are not sure what you expected of Bruk’x’s family. Stoic, maybe. Disciplined. Like the soldiers on the base. But what you get is something else entirely.
They aren’t loud in the way humans are loud, but they fill the space, effortlessly. They demand it without meaning to. Bruk'x brothers, three of them (two older, one younger), come barreling out of the house, crowding you the moment your boots hit the ground. They speak over one another in fast, fluid Xanari. Their questions are layered and eager, and you need several seconds to catch up and understand them.
Your alien tries to calm them down, but they are relentless, and in the end, it’s their mother who saves you. A tall woman with silver-grey locs swept into a high coil and a presence that commands obedience with a single look. But it's not a soldier kind of authority, it's a mother kind. She doesn't raise her voice. She just steps forward and smacks the back of the nearest son's head with the flat of her hand. He straightens like he has been whipped. You almost laugh at it. You know, she didn't hit that hard.
"Let her breathe," she says simply.
And just like that, the chaos is tempered.
You are ushered inside, introduced properly, offered something to drink, and suddenly, you are no longer the outsider. You are part of something. If you had any lingering fear about being judged or rejected, it vanishes the moment the stories start.
And oh, they tell stories. His brothers take such joy in it. Awkward, embarrassing memories from Bruk'x teenage years, from his first failed hunt to the time he passed out during his first military ceremony. Your alien takes it all with gritted teeth and dry commentary, though he is quick to come up with just as many humiliating tales about them, too. Apparently, their parents had their hands more than full with four boys who had no concept of personal boundaries or self-preservation.
But beneath all the laughter and teasing, you get a more real picture of Bruk'x. The serious one. The quiet one. The one who always took things a little more heavily than his brothers. The one who stayed in the military while the others went back to working the family’s lands. The one who didn’t just survive basic training, he excelled at it.
Because on X’arnat, everyone trains. Male or female. It’s not optional. You learn to fight, to build, to survive. You learn to respect the land and its dangers. But after that, most Xanari return to their homes, their trades, their families.
But Bruk’x didn’t.
He chose the structure, the discipline.
And yet… here, with his family, he softens. He stays close to you, arm brushing yours, occasionally murmuring small translations or names into your ear. His voice is low and warm, grounding you when all of this becomes too much.
You also notice something else. His parents. The way they move around one another. There is no fight for dominance, but his mother leads the rhythm of the household like it’s a dance she knows by heart. His father follows without hesitation, not because he is lesser, but because he trusts her lead. And when she pauses, he’s there to catch the next step. It’s beautiful, subtle. A mutual respect that has been built over decades.
Bruk'x father is quieter. Similar to his son, but there is a steady warmth in him that his family leans on without thinking twice.
This is what Bruk’x grew up with. What shaped him. What he wants, maybe in the future.
Of course, no family visit is complete (anywhere) without someone asking the universal question.
