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rotworld · 1 month ago

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18: Heart of Steel

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

you are a relic of a bygone era, a being created to interface with both man and machines when a tenuous peace still existed between the two. after millennia of stasis, you awaken to a horrific future of endless war. the ones who found you are convinced that you're a living avatar of their machine god and their worship is relentless, invasive curiosity.

->warhammer 40k. original skitarii characters/reader. explicit; contains non-con, gangbang, depression, mentions of self-harm via personal neglect/refusing to eat, surreal robot sex, power imbalance.

Explorator Fleet Spira Mirabilis is unshakably certain that they found God on a failed world smoldering in the glare of twin suns. Whatever lived there once was driven underground by a catastrophic atmospheric generator failure, solar radiation and blistering heat scouring a surface pockmarked by ancient wars. Nothing but rust and ruin remained above ground but the Hephaesian detected persistent electrical currents and the steady thrum of advanced processors—the heartbeat of ancient machinery somewhere beneath the blowing dust.

What they found was a subterranean city-complex dating back to the Dark Age of Technology, magnificent and treacherous with its scan-scramblers and buzzing swarms of malicious code injector-nanites, defenses that confirmed the pricelessness of this discovery. What they found was a single operational stasis pod of unknown make or model, a relic in its own right with a sloping white frame of synthesized organo-mechnical compounds operating in perfect, self-repairing harmony. What they found was God in the machine, a symbiosis of human-born and human-forged perfection. An avatar of the Omnissiah, divine and dreaming.

What they found was you, and you have suffered ever since.

“Query: Are you well?”

Your ears hear a heavy clanking-clicking metallic gait and garbled mechanical vocalizations like the grind of printer components. Could be anyone. But your neural nodes identify Laurintius and deny a probing attempt at wireless connection. It doesn’t matter that speechless, direct communication would be more expedient. You don’t want him in your head because he always starts poking and prodding, and then there’s no hiding from the constant stream of unsettling worship. “Most holy host-vessel god machine anointed one syncretic masterpiece-being,” on and on and on. You curl up on your side in bed and roll over to stare at the candles slowly melting into white, waxy puddles in their alcove. If you look the other way, there are steel pews. A polished floor. A red carpet rolled down the aisle.

Where there was once an altar, there is now a bed. Enormous and rounded rather than rectangular, the metal frame sits directly on the ground with purely decorative protrusions jutting from the exterior. The mattress is stiff and the sheets are all the same stark white, the entire thing meant to mirror the eerie skull inside a cog crest mounted on the wall.

Where there was once an altar, there is now you. They come in droves seeking guidance you don’t have and wisdom you can’t fathom.

“I’m not god,” you’ve said more times than you can count. “Please listen to me. Please. I’m not.”

“A riddle,” they say, and begin debating mathematical logic. “Determine: set of all deities that excludes Omnissiah? An empty set.”

Laurintius clatters closer. “Requesting access to your nodal pathways.”

“Denied,” you mutter.

He tries anyway. You roll over and glare at him when he runs up against your firewall. If he has a face under his hood and behind a mass of respirator apparatuses, glowing ocular sensors and coolant tubes, you suspect it doesn’t look apologetic. His faith requires the asking of questions and his personal proclivities permit the pushing of boundaries. God is a mystery to unravel and it’s his moral imperative to investigate. “Objective: medical scan,” he says innocently. His mechadendrites squirm in the air like metal serpents, each tipped with some grasping limb or vicious equipment meant for dismantling.

“You don’t need access to my nodes to run a medical scan,” you say.

“Improved efficiency, data yield.”

You run the scan yourself and send the results. Laurintius’ oculars, a spider-like arrangement of six cyan lights set in the metal mask of his face, flicker briefly as he checks the data. “Sleep deprivation. Stress hormones. Malnutrition,” he reads, the vox projector hooked directly into his throat crackling with outrage. “Hypothesis: faulty hibernation protocols impacted self-preservation instinct. Body systems interconnected. Disregard for flesh-components negatively impacts neural node function. Level of concern increasing.” He pauses when you roll over again, ignoring him. He says, only very slightly softer, “You are harming yourself.”

You don’t move and you don’t speak. Laurintius stands there for a long time in silence. You can hear his internal cooling systems whirring loudly as his processors heat up in frantic contemplation. The slow, slithering approach of a mechadendrite makes no sound but your nodes detect movement behind you. The warning is the only reason you have time to react. Laurintius’ reflexes are faster. By the time you’ve turned around and scrambled upright, he’s already at the edge of the bed, metal tendril raised like a stinger and curled all the way around you, a direct interfacing knob poised at the nape of your neck. The port there, a silver aperture meant for maintenance set into your skin, just barely slams shut before he tries to force entry. You feel metal strike metal, a hiss of sparks. The knob bounces off your port’s shutter and scrapes uselessly across your skin.

Laurintius’ oculars dim and he steps back quickly. You don’t like to encourage his assertions of godhood, but you can’t help a petty jab. “That seemed like sacrilege,” you say. His mechadendrites flinch, retreating behind him like scolded dogs.

“Statement false,” he insists. “Intention: render aid.”

“Please leave me alone.”

Laurintius stares at you for an unsettlingly long moment in silence, and then he bows stiffly. You watch him walk back down the aisle, vanishing into the cavernous halls beyond the chapel. Too easy, you think. He never leaves without more of a fight. Just as he vanishes from range, a cluster of new familiar signatures register.

A truly incomprehensible number of crew populate the Hephaesian, a ship so gargantuan it generates its own gravitational forces, but only a handful are permitted to interact with you directly. Most are exalted tech-priests but there are exceptions, and those very exceptions approach the chapel now. Their footsteps are lighter than Laurintius but louder when they move in perfect lockstep. There are ten of them. They file into the chapel single-file and fan out in two rows of five once they stand before you. Each kneels in unison. Each bows their head. Quiet prayers and shrill conversions of hymnal data into crunching, staticy audio fill the air.

These are the skitarii—soldiers devoted to the Adeptus Mechanicus until death, red cloaks draped over patchwork bodies of flesh and steel. This was the team dispatched into the buried city where you slept for millennia. They were the ones who stumbled upon your stasis pod and, on Laurintius’ orders, activated the waking cycle. Their faces were the first ones you saw and their voices were the first ones you heard. It confounds the tech-priests of the Spira Mirabilis that it isn’t the most devout and enlightened of their order that you willingly invite into your presence but rather their lowly servants. Some have taken it as a test of faith while a less frustrating subset have begun to ruminate on what your behavior might mean.

Laurintius is far more astute and pragmatic than the rest. He understands it’s a matter of simple preference: you like the skitarii. He’s more than willing to use that to his advantage.

The first to lift his head is Unit AM/TZ-3B-Rubedo, Vanguard and squad leader. The sight of him without his helmet—the sight of flesh, however little—still startles you. He has a sickly, pallid complexion, green eyes framed by brown curls. His veins are prominent and discolored from combat stimulant use, blackish-indigo straining under the skin. His lower jaw and neck are a black synthetic material, segmented and flexible. It stifles his smile, limits it to his remaining upper lip, but you’re no less charmed than the first time you saw it.

“It is the greatest honor to stand before you,” Rubedo says, his voice only slightly modulated.

“It’s good to see you again, too,” you tell him.

The skitarii worship you, but they’re less stubborn than the tech-priests. They listen when you ask them to address you without honorifics and staggering, minute-long warbling binharic titles. They acquiesce when you beg them not to prostrate themselves on the floor whenever you make a request. You try not to think too much about the fact that this is by design. They were made this way, raised in the cult of the Mechanicus and forged for absolute obedience to their superiors. They are willing to humor you, at least. To pretend you’re not too sacred to touch. When you gesture for them to approach, they crowd around you like children gathered to hear a bedtime story. “Are you bored today? Can we bring you anything?” Rubedo asks, eyeing the stack of thick, yellowed tomes piled beside the bed. Historical texts, mostly. Ancient relics Laurintius provided to keep your mind off your misery. You haven’t opened even one of them yet.

“Not bored,” you admit. “Just sad.”

The skitarii puzzle over your words. “Sad. Sad? Chemical response to distress. No danger detected.”

“Like…” You try to come up with something comparable. They’ve all had emotional dampeners installed. “Like when you’re in battle, and your leg is injured. Something hits you hard enough to knock you down and a wire snaps, or your hydraulics are damaged.”

“That triggers retaliation protocols,” Rubedo says.

“After that,” you insist. “After the battle’s over and you get back to the ship, and you realize you need repairs. It might be a while before you’ll see combat again.” They let out a collective trill of solemn understanding.

“You were damaged?” a ranger asks, clutching the bed frame so hard that his metal fingers leave a dent. “What is responsible? We will hunt it.”

You shake your head. “No damage. There are other things that can make someone sad.”

Rubedo seats himself on the edge of the bed, offering his hand. His sleeve slides back to his elbow, revealing a sturdy limb of rigid armor plating atop digits with inhuman flexibility and articulation. It’s not flesh—it’s not even warm—but it’s a familiar shape. A palm to slot yours against, fingers to lace with yours. Slowly, he guides you into his lap. It doesn’t matter that it’s awkward to straddle his stiff codpiece and firm, metal thighs through the thick material of his fatigues. He holds you and no one else will. You rest your head against the skull crest emblazoned on his breastplate and listen to the chugging rhythm of life support systems and synthetic organs while his hand smooths over your head in soft, soothing motions. The other skitarii press in as close as they can, masks and respirators nuzzling against your legs.

“The Archmagos forwarded a concerning report,” he says gently. You take a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “I understand his methods may have caused additional distress, but he is trying to help.”

You frown against his chest. “I don’t want his help.”

“If you tell him what is making you sad—”

“It’s everything, Rubedo,” you insist. “Everything makes me sad. I hate being stuck on this ship. I hate being treated like a specimen, or a reliquary. I hate the whole galaxy and what’s happened to it. Why are you always fighting something? Why is there war everywhere, all the time?”

“TACHYCARDIA DETECTED.” Your jaw is grasped, firmly but carefully, by knife-like fingers. Unit K-LW-105-Argyros crouches on your other side, his knee threatening to rip a hole in the mattress. He’s a Ruststalker, more machine than the rest of them, head enclosed in a gas mask and legs replaced with powerful digitigrade structures that make him loom over you.

“Gently,” Rubedo reminds him. “Flesh bruises.”

Argyros makes an unpleasant sound like a bad vox connection. “UNIT REQUESTING COMMAND.”

You smile sadly. Argyros strokes your cheek with the utmost caution, a careful caress with the dull back edge of his curved dagger-fingers. “I don’t have any commands for you, Argyros. I’m just having a bad day. I appreciate that you’re here.”

“Would you like it if we brought you meals instead of Laurintius?” Rubedo suggests. “Perhaps we could stay with you while you eat. Keep you company.”

“Aren’t you too busy for that?”

He gives you that ghost of a half-smile, a sweet expression that makes your heart beat faster. “We have been retasked.”

“To me?” you ask, incredulous. “Isn’t that boring?”

The skitarii make a simultaneous sound, incessant beeps and grating noises. Disagreement, you’re guessing. “No. Not boring. Never boring,” they all chatter at once, eager to have your attention. “Combat prowess will remain unaffected with regular sparring. New training regimen focused on defensive formations.” They’re probably getting rewired, you realize, converted into bodyguards who get a rush of reward chemicals for maintaining your safety. Selfishly, you don’t mind. You’d rather they remain here than die forgotten on some distant battlefield.

“I think I’d like that,” you say.

They’re quiet suddenly. You look up and find Rubedo and Argyros staring at one another, probably having a conversation on a communication channel you aren’t privy to. Rubedo strokes the back of your head. Argyros’ head bows slightly in what looks like reluctance.

“REQUESTING NODE ACCESS,” he says.

You huff out a bitter laugh. “Is that why you’re here? Laurintius couldn’t get in so he asked you to try?”

“REQUEST…DENIED?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Argyros. I really don’t want—”

You hear a muted click of metal prongs sliding firmly into metal slots, a catch mechanism securing. You look up at Rubedo with wide, betrayed eyes. You see just a twinge of guilt before it vanishes; quarantined wherever he banishes emotions he has no time to process, replaced by steady certainty. His hand slipped down to the nape of your neck when you weren’t paying attention, pushing something into your port. “Rubedo?” you say hoarsely. He’s given someone remote access. You feel your firewalls fizzling out.

“Stating apology.” Laurintius' voice speaks directly into your head. “Deception necessary. Circumstances dire. It is not sacrilege if it deepens understanding.”

You bite back a sob. It’s not fair. You know he’s used the skitarii to nudge you whichever way he wants, watching through their eyes and listening through their ears, but he’s never been so direct before. You’re furious and you can’t do anything about it. You twist your fingers in the fabric of Rubedo’s cloak and he murmurs an apology, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “Get out!” you cry. “I don’t want you there! I don’t trust you!” You’ve barely raised your hands to reach for the back of your neck when Argyros lunges, trapping both of your arms behind your back in an unshakable iron grip. “Rubedo, please, help me!”

Rubedo cups your cheek with his hand. “I am helping you,” he says. “The Archmagos can heal you. Do not struggle.”

You struggle as hard as you can. There’s no breaking out of Argyros’ grip but you can make Laurintius’ search more difficult, partitioning off parts of your mind from his probing searches and overclocking your nodes. It’s a dangerous, foolish thing to do—you feel feverish, your head aching and a trickle of blood dribbling from your nose. Argyros pleads with you to stop in a deafeningly shrill voice like an emergency alarm. Rubedo risks frying his nervous system when he makes a tentative connection, his presence cool and soothing in the back of your mind.

In a panic, Laurintius fumbles something. Trips the wrong nerve cluster, maybe. You have no idea what goes wrong but a bolt of searing, mind-numbing pleasure shoots down your spine and you’re driven directly into climax between the skitarii.

Complete stillness and silence follow. You hide your face in Rubedo’s chest. You can just barely feel Laurintius plucking through your head slower and softer, checking for brain damage. Argyros is completely silent, like he just shut down in sheer terror. “Stating additional apology,” Laurintius says, sounding bewildered. “You are uninjured?” You’re still catching your breath. You nod weakly. You don’t want to think about the noise you made a second ago, or how you arched your back and bucked wildly against Rubedo’s codpiece. You feel overheated and tingly. “You are relaxed,” Laurintius says. His curious tone makes you sit up straighter in alarm. “That relaxed you immensely. Noting a sharp increase in serotonin and oxytocin.”

“No,” you say quickly. You try to move but Argyros is holding you even more tightly. Rubedo looks at you like he’s just glimpsed a miracle. “No, no, no, we’re not doing this. You can’t just—”

“Hypothesis,” Laurintius says, sounding far too excited. “Copulation will improve mood, cooperativeness. Uploading test program now.” There’s one last moment of calm before the storm, oculars glittering limbs twitching as the skitarii download new instructions and battle plans. Then they’re on you.

The skitarii move with the same perfect coordination they use in battle, positioning themselves around you in a strategic formation. You’re caressed by dozens of hands all at once, over and under your clothes. The ones with sharp, weaponized digits use only their blunt palms while the ones with softer silicone hand sheaths have the privilege of accessing your more vulnerable flesh. Argyros frees up his hands by tying your arms with a grappling cable and undresses you swiftly with several extremely precise swipes of his claws. Your torn clothes are carefully folded and set aside like precious treasures, never permitted to touch the ground.

One of the rangers gropes your chest, flicking your nipples with his thumbs. Another caresses your thigh with long, caressing sweeps before his fingers dip between your legs and rub your sex hard and fast. All of them touch anything they can reach, whether that means fondling your ass or squeezing your hips. They tease you mercilessly, working you right up to the peak again with nothing but their devoted, relentless attention. Rubedo curls his fingers beneath your chin and you feel him establish a connection the moment your eyes meet. Laurintius gave him complete access.

“Forgive me,” he implores you, an admission of guilt. He could blame this on the Archmagos if he really wanted to, could feign a complete loss of control, but that’s not what’s happened. He’s choosing this. Laurintius didn’t have to force anything. You feel him there, trespassing in your nodal network. You feel it like sparking heat and pleasure, a penetration that isn’t physically possible. Rubedo starts panting, organic engines rumbling faster. It might as well be sex; your body can’t tell the difference. He deliberately rubs against the same spot Laurintius stumbled across earlier, teasing it, whispering binharic that feels like electric shocks to the base of your spine.

His gaze strays down your bare, trembling body with half-lidded, shameful desire. Before you, flesh was weakness; merely the first stepping stone on the road to completion, never a place to linger. But you are more flesh than machine—your nodes depend on your organic body to run smoothly, seamlessly integrated and interdependent.

Elsewhere, the Adeptus Mechanicus can believe what they want. Aboard the Hephaesian, flesh is sacred.

“DETECTING…” Argyros slots against your back, running hot with his internal fans on overdrive. His vox skips, sounds repeating. “F-F-FAVORABLE…HORMONAL SHIFT.” He nudges into the nodal network through a different backdoor and you shudder at the sudden sense of fullness. A sharp finger drags down your back between your shoulder blades. Laurintius is a pervasive, oppressive weight over everything, the engulfing caress of a much larger body curled around yours. Rubedo is warmth like licking, plaintive kisses. Argyros is frenzied. He finds your pleasure center, the nerve clusters that send signals of ecstatic bliss, and locks on. You cum and you can’t stop because he pounds into it with tireless, mechanical speed and precision.

While the others fuck your mind, the skitarii continue to stimulate your body. They babble in static-laced whispers full of awe and desire.

“So soft!”

“Flesh, all flesh. Astounding discovery. Flesh is wonderful.”

“Is this forbidden? It must be forbidden. Anything as enticing as this…”

“It is a revelation. This is the will of the Omnissiah: complete and perfect merging.”

“The atavistic wed to the neoteric.”

“This is how all will worship, one day.”

You can’t take any more. Argyros forces another orgasm and you sob, neither your organic brain nor your synthetic nodes able to handle all of the sensations coursing through your body. Argyros pulls out first, sloppy and sudden. You slump back against him, feeling raw and wrecked. Rubedo is far gentler. His withdrawal is a slow drag and your mind tries to hold onto him, overwhelmed and disoriented. It makes him groan, his lower body twitching with small, slight thrusts of his hips as a long-buried reflex briefly resurfaces. He presses his forehead against yours, hot breath and steam-like exhaust fanning across your face every time he exhales. Overexertion spreads like a virus through the open connection and all of the skitarii drop where they are at the same time. Your bed frame creaks in protest.

You’re just barely aware of Laurintius lurking in your mind while your eyelids flutter, muttering something about adjusting parameters and extending duration for maximum effect. Clumsily, you eject the data stick Rubedo shoved into your nape and throw it as hard as you can, uncaring of whether or not it shatters against the floor. You don’t have the strength or the mental bandwidth to be properly outraged or upset just yet so you let out a long breath and curl up in a tangle of metal limbs and synchronized pulses.

Rubedo watches you drift off. His gaze is soft, half-lidded, utterly entranced by your fluttering lashes and how you keep trying to fight back to consciousness. Just as you teeter on the precipice of sleep, you hear a soft sigh and feel lips—half-organic, half-synthetic—press against yours.

You can’t decide what’s worse—being an untouchable God, or being one that is all too easy to reach.

#rotpeach writes #warhammer 40k #goretober #not really any gore to speak of today lol got really carried away with robot sex instead

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