happy pride month to mr swings both ways puppy play, mr nonbinary emoji amazing new mexico sunset, mx he/they projekt revolution, and mr it’s about time #gaysex nft bro <3
knight machine herald x royalty reader. throws this at your head and runs away so fast.
The Machine Herald swore his life to his sovereign Majesty over a decade ago; his monarch, whom brought him back from the brink of exile, whom gave him mercy and elected him a position as a knight; and as the heir's closest, most respected paladin, he has vowed to always serve them with his utmost fealty. But, nothing in all of the lands has tested his endurance quite like this.
He has felled dragons for his sovereign. He has protected you from rogues, and armies, and miscreants posing as potential suitors. The cavalries of the opposing kingdoms fear his name. In the royal court, he relinquished the sins he was exiled for to give his mind, body, and soul to his servitude of its whims. There is not much left that does not belong to you.
When he rises in the morning, hours before he might wake you — dawn has not yet cracked over the horizon — he feels the hum of machinery beneath his breast, he notches the intricate steel of his prosthetic arm into place.
He palms water into his face before he swallows a bead of rosemary root — it goes down easier, in this way — because it is meant to dull one's emotions. To sharpen the senses.
These days, he is unsure if it has any effect whatsoever.
"Viktor," You coo from your position on your featherbed, your satin nightclothes rustled along with the silken sheets; and it is a coo, a pretty plea for him. Curses, his name on your tongue is enough to crumble mountains. "Won't you come closer?"
"Perhaps if you would permit me to tuck you in for rest, your Highness." Viktor's accent rolls the words like thunder. It is unlike your own. Unlike anyone from this region, rather.
You grumble. Candlelight graces your collarbones. Viktor has lit several wax columns, as well as rose-sweet insense, per your request. The both of you know it is merely tradition, and will do little to soothe you to sleep.
"I cannot rest when I must meet with Sir Lucas Finch tomorrow." A deep exhale escapes you. "I am less than keen to discuss trade with him. He talks for hours."
"All the more reason for you to retire early."
Viktor watches your chest rise and fall, as you gaze at the ceiling listlessly. He squares his shoulders. His armor clinks together lightly. Beneath his steel mask, he clenches his jaw, and yet —
"Vik," You extend a hand, as if reaching for him. "Come here. Do not disobey my order."
He should. But he would never.
Your bed shifts to accommodate his weight when he perches on the edge. The room is dark, the sky outside the palace blanketed by crystal starfall. But he can make out the glint in your eye. The smile upon your lips.
You reach for his hand. You run your nails over the leather of his glove, for a moment. Viktor watches, silent as you remove the garment, placing it onto your nightstand before you gently squeeze his scarred fingers.
"I wish I could run away with you, this night." Your words are hushed. The Machine Herald is the only one permitted to guard your chambers, but other knights would be stationed in the hallway, perhaps occasionally pacing by your door. There is never a moment alone. Unless — "I want to visit the ocean with you, as we did once... We could return by sunrise, no-one would even know we were gone."
A hint of anxiety, pleading, lingers in your eyes. You are not ready for tomorrow. Viktor thinks of the sea at your heels. White foam and sparkling blue.
He is biting his tongue, because you are getting the rim of your day-clothes filthy with seawater; the tailors will have his head for this. But he sees so many practiced smiles, little waves from your carriage or half-grins as an aristocrat presses his forehead to the ground before you. And Gods, as you splash droplets upwards with your palms, you are smiling like you never have before. So Viktor can let it go, just the once.
"Majesty," Viktor unfortunately argues, "You would be exhausted."
"Then, if you cannot grant me this... at least stay by my side?"
"I always do."
"No." The sheets rustle when you shake your head. Viktor finds his gaze fixating on the bare curve of your neck. "Discard your armor. Lie with me."
You have a certain fire about you. Viktor bathes in the embers, and knows he is already doomed.
(On the bridge of your nose, a scar sits, like snow on the cap of a cliff.
Viktor is but a knight in training. An assassin is holding a knife to your face, and Viktor does not hesitate. He splits him in two with a focused laser of flame magic, and he thinks he is there to cover your eyes before you turn them to the bloodspray, but he cannot be sure. You shake in his arms.
Thank you, you tell him, hours later, in the privacy of your personal derobing room. Thank you, thank you, I'm sorry. I do not wish to die. Your tears form ripples on the water in your bath.
He isn't even meant to be here. You are the one who invited him into your chambers, insisting he protect you in case another cutthroat arises. Before him, your practiced mask breaks for the very first time.
Perhaps he will never let the people know of your worries, including the members of the royal court, but he will remember. The Machine Herald will use this memory to know of why he must always keep you safe. So you might never shake with fear again.)
Not a soul is permitted to touch the royal monarch, unless you are royalty yourself. Viktor is a member of the royal guard, but that matters little, when he first came from the slums.
Still, Viktor traces the ridges of his knuckles over your plush cheek, as though you are delicate like the finest porcelain.
(Again, the fire in you commands him.
A secret of yours is that you enjoy a light touch when you are troubled, and so Viktor pulls you aside before each royal meeting, he squeezes your shoulder or strokes your back, metal against flesh. He knows it is rare that anyone touches you.
He can see it, shimmering in his mind like gold: you, warm and almost giddy as you take the sky-hued — shades of blue and sunset and cloud-white — flower crown Viktor brought for you after two nights and a day elsewhere. You, grinning like a madman as you twirl, holding onto his hand, and it isn't Viktor's duty to teach you how to dance, he is quite terrible at it, but he cannot turn away from the spark in your eyes.
There is a pool in the depths of the royal gardens, lined with moss and lilypads, and Viktor only remembers it so fondly because it was there that you breathed his name like a prayer, palms to his waist as you pressed a kiss to the front of his mask. Warmth billows from within him, like smoke, though he cannot feel your lips. He sighs, amidst the clockwork ticking of his innards.
This shouldn't be, he thinks. Even as you are cooing sweet nothings, on your tiptoes so you can reach his nape. Viktor. My beautiful Viktor. Thy heart is made of gold, not metal. I would give everything to you, if the court had not forbade it.
Everything. You are everything he isn't, and everything he cannot have. He is not human. He will never be worthy of the throne.
But, in the moment, who is he to deny his Majesty?)
He says, voice muffled underneath his mask, "Is that an order?"
"A suggestion." Your lashes are watery. "Please, Viktor?"
In the sovereign's royal chamber, there is little sound. A gentle clinking — to a perceptive ear, perhaps it is the sound of discarding armor, gauntlets and a pauldron and a breastplate. The rustle of sheets. An inhale of two breaths.
Viktor lets you trace the line of his jaw with your thumb, where a gruesome split of metal solders into his skin. His left eye is milky in the wake of a scar, an unsightly lightning-ripple that carves from his brow to his mouth, the sort aristocrats might gasp at as they cover their faces with a fan.
You smile. You brush your thumb over the mole above his mouth, as though its a star to be mapped. Viktor believes he would let you do anything.
"My knight," You breathe. Yes, he is yours. "My Machine Herald."
Your nose brushes his. Heavy-eyed, your knight charts the shape of your lips with his thumb, as no-one ever has; how foolish of your suitors, he thinks. He could trace them for all eternity. This is how kingdoms fall. This is how the drag of time slows to a halt.
The inhuman heat of him creates a furnace beneath the blankets. Moonlight spills from a stained glass window. He has forgotten what a heartbeat might feel like, after carving his out — such organs are a weakness, of course. But, in the quiet, he can nearly hear the patter of your own.
Damn him. He is the fool here, is he not?
Viktor. You murmur his name, the name only you still recall, softer than a cloud, a meadow, a beauty he only knew when he began to fall for the one person he most certainly should not fall for. You said his name when you knighted him, the edge of a sword to his shoulder. You say it once more, as if only to savor the sound.
Yes, your Highness? he answers, ever compliant, ever faithful. You simply drag him closer.
Viktor does not pull away when you cup his cheek and kiss him hard, and perhaps that is his greatest sin of all.
today's strange and unhinged viktor thought. he reads your heartbeat with a stethoscope, places it gently to your chest and listens to your heartbeat and asks you to breathe slowly for him so he can hear your lungs. he has to excuse himself from the room shortly after because now he's Horny
mad scientist!machine herald viktor x gn!reader, medplay, kidnapping, knife (scalpel?) play, blood play, bondage, wound fucking (fingering), dubious consent
18+, minors dni
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"Poor little thing," Viktor coos. He isn't even trying to sound concerned. "You will be good for me, yes?" His voice lowers. Smooth, dead-serious. "Or will I need to catch you once more?"
Your breathing comes in quick, sharp pants, like that of a panicked animal. Beneath the squished press of your cheek, the operating table you're sprawled over is ice cold. Viktor's body, metal, impossibly heavy, keeps you pinned in place. His chest is pressing against your back, where you can feel his artificial warmth, his mechanics, rhythmically thrumming. The gears of his heart, the pistons of his lungs. Vibrations reverberating to a methodical, unsettling tune. He has your wrists pinned to the table, held down with both of his hands, and his third arm, the Hexclaw, is pushing with moderate force at the back of your skull.
Still, you shake your head as best you can manage.
Viktor goes silent, considering. Then, he guides your hands up, pulling them above your head. With great care and precision, he presses your wrists together, securing them with a leather binding, and fastening them to a curved metal hook that juts out at the end of the table.
He hums to himself, and when it seems evident that he's restrained you properly, that you won't — or can't — move, he pats your shoulder, approving.
"I can forgive you, as you do not understand what is truly necessary, nor can you grasp the entire extent of your contributions to progress." Viktor's metal hand snakes under you to grasp your chin. He squeezes your jaw, more firm than affectionate, he lifts your head and holds it at a near awkward angle. "You are my research subject, the most glorious lab mouse to have ever graced me, in fact. You are cherished. Even if you do not believe it."
In front of you, a large steel canister acts as a makeshift mirror. Wires lace from its edges to its open core. It drones idly, murmuring electricity. In it, you can see a curved picture: the dirty walls of Viktor's lab, hollow machine-bodies littering the floor, and a nearby side table, strewn with syringes and tools. Something twists tightly in your chest. Is he- is this what he plans to use on you, this time?
You can barely make out Viktor's shape, all metal armor, inhuman and daunting. He seems even larger when you're underneath him. His eyes, burning pools of amber light, fixed to his mask, meet yours in the reflection.
"I will only say this once more." Viktor leans in close. "You know that I am stronger than you, I am more knowledgeable, more perceptive. Do not run from me. There is no reality where I will not find you. Do you understand?"
You nod feverishly. (Your imperfect heart is thumping, you're stumbling over your feet like a helpless fawn; a laser, precise and burning hot, slices a line in front and behind you, cutting off all escape paths. Maybe you only ran from the Machine Herald because you knew you'd be caught. And subsequently praised, or even punished. You'd be pleased with both.)
You've never felt so pathetic.
The Machine Herald laughs, victorious. "Good pet. Hold still. I would hate to have to restrain you any more than this, after you have shown such sublime obedience."
He reaches for the small table. Overhead, the lights flicker, dull, sizzling. Your heart batters your ribs. Your eyes must be wide, pupils blown into fearful dark moons. Viktor adjusts his hand, he cradles your cheek, tilting your head to the side.
A needle kisses your neck. Thick, crimson liquid fills a silver syringe, held deftly between patient metal fingers. Small particles swirl inside, like dotted stars, like shards of sharp glass.
"Breathe in for me. Excellent. Breathe out, now." Viktor brushes his thumb over your cheek. You could almost mistake it for tenderness. "The lack of anesthesia should serve as an adequate form of punishment."
You close your eyes tight, until you can't see anything at all — just vague colors, pulsating like veins.
"Ah, you are shaking… there is no need to be afraid." Viktor's velvet voice, the curl of his accent is electric; you can't help but go limp. Relaxed, and waiting. "I will be with you. I will always be right here."
He injects you.
A gasp breaks on your lungs; you twitch, you writhe for a moment. All at once, a strange feeling comes over you, heat blooming at the base of your neck. Vines gush down your skin, causing shivers to patter along your spine. You feel… insistent. Viktor's third arm grasps the base of your neck, to hold you still.
"Hm." Viktor examines you, verbally taking notes. "Accelerated breathing. Heightened body heat. Arrhythmia, synonymous with an irregular heartbeat."
He taps your cheek. "Open wide."
Metal fingers slide inside your open mouth. They taste bitter and metallic, segmented with intricate joints, exposed bolts. You resist the urge to lap at them, or to close your mouth and suck. Viktor rubs his fingers in a small circle onto the flat of your tongue, in a rather practical motion. He is careful to not push them back too far, but you begin to gag anyway.
"And an excess of saliva. How peculiar." Viktor wipes his hand off on your nape, cooling your skin with your own slick drool. "I assumed this mixture would incite a conflicting response. I designed it with the average human body in mind, but evidently, that was not good enough. There are many inconsistent factors at play… the potency of the drug… your precise level of endorphins, or perhaps it is the oxytocin… Ah, no matter. I suppose I cannot declare it a complete failure, quite yet."
While he's been busy monologing, your breathing has grown heavy. "V- Vik…"
Viktor's voice gets a touch softer. "Are you alright?"
"I think… I- I don't know…"
"That is just fine, sweet thing. Perhaps you would like an antidote."
(There is none, but you, poor, precious, unevolved and unaugmented you, certainly can go without knowing that.)
"Yes- please?"
"Then listen to me carefully." The Machine Herald settles his weight atop yours, pressing closer. A flicker of steam, his breath, exhales from beneath his mask to brush your face. "I am sure my little rabbit can accomplish this much."
You nod. Dumbly.
The lights are fizzling again. "Now, could you tell me the answer to eleven plus four?"
"Fifteen…" Your head is spinning — no, the whole room is spinning… "Ah-"
"Good. Very good job. And what colors are you currently able to see? Simple observations such as red, or blue, will do just fine."
"Grey." (Almost the entirety of his lab is the color of steel, of cold fog rolling through Zaun, of smoke brimming from busy machinery.) "Purple." (Beakers, bubbling with shimmer.) "Blue." (Formaldehyde. The liquid he typically uses to embalm hearts and livers, brains and small organisms, suspended in jars, in translucent receptacles.) "And… orange, maybe?"
"I see. Your cognitive functions are decent. That is good, at least."
A stab at your head. Your headache is trying to escape the confines of your bones. "Did I mess something up?"
"Oh no, no, of course not," Viktor purrs; he leans into your cheek, like a cat's headbutt. "You have been nothing but sweet to me, and I simply cannot express how proud I am of you. I will not give you anything more for now, but… I believe I should perform more testing before I administer this particular solution again. Perhaps on your blood, as well as your skin."
He sits up, and he touches your nape, where the needle mark is quickly bruising. You wince, to his satisfaction. (Hopefully, you will wear this mark for a long, long while.)
"And in order to accomplish that, I will need a piece of your flesh."
"Okay… okay…" You say, only slightly over-eager. "You can do whatever you want, Doctor Viktor…"
"Ahaha, there you go. I am incredibly pleased to hear that." His Hexclaw ruffles your hair, before it releases you. A small mercy. "I will be gentle. So please, do not worry."
Viktor makes certain everything is in order first. On the table, he's organized some bandages, some cotton pads to soak up the bleeding. Forceps, he may need those. Scissors, meat saw, bone chisel, no, that won't be necessary. Not yet. Not tonight.
He grabs his scalpel very carefully, inspecting the shiny, sterile blade. (The shape is nothing short of delightful, a perfect grip, measured approximately to his hand, and a lightly curved edge, like a delicate half-moon. Admittedly, Viktor has always cared little for simplistic inventions such as these — they are mere tools to accomplish a task, drops in the ocean, the bits and pieces that help to form the basis of techmaturgy.
And yet, he finds himself longing to indulge more and more these days. Is this the sort of madness that you inspire?)
He acquired this scalpel in particular just for this, just for you, after all. Light catches on its surface as he tilts it. Fish scales. Or polished ironwork, he thinks, yes, that is more appropriate. How divine.
A feeling the Machine Herald had long since forgotten, a sense of excitement boils deep in the forge of his heartbeat.
"Left or right?" He twirls the scalpel. "Choose quickly."
"Right."
Viktor hikes up your shirt. He brings the tip of the scalpel to your right side, beneath your ribs, but above your hip. It only takes him a moment to settle on the exact position. His free palm presses to the small of your back — to hold you still.
"Do you trust me?" Viktor asks. It's hardly a question at all, because there's only one way you can answer.
Once again, you nod, but Viktor seems unsatisfied.
"Say it."
"I do, I trust you…"
A breath, in unison. These conditions are hardly appropriate to perform a proper biopsy, but he shouldn't pay that any mind.
As long as you have placed your faith in him, your trust, in his vision, as long as he has you; more accurately, he owns you. You are his responsibility. And so —
Viktor begins with a small, loving incision, barely a centimeter in length. You tense, expectedly, but you do not cry. Not to start with, but you will. The blade cleaves your flesh like silk. Nothing compares to the sight of it. He cuts as far into the tissue as the scalpel will allow.
"It must be painful… poor sweetheart." Viktor removes the scalpel, if only to prolong the process. He leans a bit closer, wiping tear droplets from your cheeks with a warm metal thumb. "But you can be strong for me. I know it is possible. You may not see what I see, but I promise you, this is wonderful. You still possess such potent emotions. Pain, fear, adoration, and to be able to witness them on display… Oh. Your pulse is spiking. Look at you… you are exquisite."
You plead, stuck on the V of his name, for a moment: "Viktor… V-Viktor…"
"Yes, my dear? Ah, fuck me, I should not have answered. It is so much more enjoyable to hear the way you beg for me."
It's no use. Spiked and quick, pain lances out from your side. Your shoulder blades go tense, pretty wings grinding together; you grit your teeth, and for him, you bear it.
"Oh, you cannot answer? That is okay… yes, if you feel the need to bite your tongue, that is more than okay."
Viktor returns to cutting. He is experienced enough to do this blind, and so he does, he focuses on you. On your weak body trembling beneath his metal-mass, a toy for his examinations, your chest heaving, your bottom lip shaking so pitifully.
And to think, you were once one of his colleagues, worthy of his respect in your own right — but you will never need to use that lovely head of yours ever again, unless he asks you to, unless he plans to cut it open.
Blood, love-red plasma, drips down your skin and pools onto the table, vivid with oxygen — and Viktor is enamored, beside himself with ecstasy. He shudders, though his working hand remains steady.
"You have no idea how much it satisfies me to be inside you." Viktor huffs, and the air in front of him clouds with the release of pressurized steam. You resist the need to cough. "I think you are beautiful, you have always been entirely perfect. In truth, my infatuation is… unyielding."
But oh, you'd be just as beautiful with a few metal augmentations. Viktor rambles, "My little love. If you would allow me to open your pretty body, I could provide you with more efficient, self-sustaining organs- it would be such a sight to behold. Ah, or perhaps I could give you a set of metal joints, they would function very well for you- of that, I am certain. No other scientist nor mechanic is able to grant you such an upgrade. Their minds are too feeble, too enclosed to understand true potential. I am the only one capable, and I would give you anything, everything you desire."
He laments, briefly, that you are still fully clothed. He would have loved the opportunity to examine you even closer, to open up your ribcage, or perhaps he could thoroughly inspect the wet warmth between your legs —
Dizzy with affection, Viktor glides his gloved hand up your back, he presses firmly enough to feel the ladder of bones beneath.
"A design signed with my name, proof that you have given yourself to me, to the newly realized future of humanity… haha, or maybe… I think you might prefer a metal collar for you to wear, one you are unable to remove without my assistance. Perhaps we could start there. You would not get lost again, yes?"
"Viktor, please…" You sob, you are begging without knowing what for — for him, for Viktor to adore you in every way possible: the tangible, the surgical, the cannibalistic.
Viktor can no longer help himself. His free hand prods his neck. A puff of stream unfurls to greet him. Here, he finds a familiar coupling of thick, exposed wires, kinked and curling from his nape to his throat. He teases them with the end of one finger, then begins rubbing and pulling with two. The stimulation is acute, instant. It feels good. So good. Arousal melts along his body, gnawing at his inner systems; a closed circuit, lapping at itself.
When you arch your back, metal jingling as your wrists pull at their restraints, your ass presses into him; Viktor grabs your waist to keep you steady.
"Dear…" He clicks his tongue: "Tch, I have not dressed your wound yet." Shaky, exhilarated, he gently cups your side. Brushes his palm to his work, the perfectly circular cut, the sticky still-oozing of blood, and his head goes heavy, just at the sight of it. "What am I to do with you?"
A constant ringing persists in your eardrums.
Two metal digits begin to probe your open wound, toying with it, or perhaps attempting to dig out the circle of flesh. Your blood slicks the steel. The perpetual brain-noise swallows you whole.
You scream so sweetly for him. The Machine Herald doesn't doubt that your cries can be heard from halfway down Emberflit Alley.
"Shhh. Such trouble you are making for me once again." Viktor's Hexclaw, with the clumsiness of an untrained machine, gives your head a few stiff pats. "Quiet, now. I am the only one who needs to hear you. Yes, well done. The pain is merely a temporary hindrance. Eventually, you will learn to control its impulses."
He then glides his gloved hand up, beneath your shirt. It presses to your soft bare skin, where he feels the thump, thumping of your heart. So adorable, so precious. So needy.
Malfunctions are running rampant within his brain. Fractals fraying from emotion blocking chips, prefrontal enhancement devices instead choosing to bend to Viktor's ardent desires. In the simplest of terms: he wants to claim this heart, wants to feel you even closer than this, a beating thing in the curve of his palm.
You will be pliant for him, will you not?
"It's alright. Once we are done, I will take good care of you." A gross, wet sound echoes through the Machine Herald's lab. His mechanics are beginning to purr, inner gear belts grinding, cooling fans whirring to unreliable speeds.
"Rest assured that I am intimately familiar with how this must feel for you. The rippling pain. The pervasive sense of dizziness, the way it threatens to conquer what remains of your composure. But do you not understand, now? I am making you into something far better. You are loved so dearly. That is why I must do this."
"Mhmm…" You sigh, glassy-eyed. The air has turned humid, almost stifling. I am loved, I am loved, I am loved.
"Precisely." Were you speaking aloud? Viktor hums, pleased, as he admires the newfound lump of flesh in his palm: "What a good little test subject you are. You have impressed me, but we are not yet done. Let us continue with something more… gratifying, shall we?"
i think danganronpa is garbage and i don’t understand what kinning is but i think every person on earth kins komaeda. like it’s what makes us human. kinning komaeda separates us from dogs
knight machine herald... he swore his life to his highness and augmented his body to further protect them.... but it leaves him lacking in intimacy, there really isn't much left under his armor..... he is always at your side, helping you get dressed in the morning, running you a sweet scented bath at night, he knows absolutely everything about you but you still hardly know much about him...... perhaps if his highness asked him nicely....... yeah.............
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
origamiaround
turnnoffyourmind
jbbartram-illu
vaporwave
kianamaiart
