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midnightbears · 2 months ago

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✿ duskbound, afterlight.

#STARRING: cybertronian fem reader & other characters.

#TAGS: trauma. talks of character death. hopelessness? mentions of prostitution. no appearance of canon characters because this is an intro. hunger games reference!

#NOTES: hi! still alive, just not writing for kny atm because my head is like a powerpoint presentation with all my hyperfixations and i can't write for requests when it is on another slide. hope that makes sense. this is the first chapter of my megatron x reader, a strangers to lovers to enemies featuring pre-war cybertron, a magnanimous amount of lore, a lot of non-cannon stuff like sparklings and stuff because i can do whatever i want, and my flickering motivation to finish it. i don't have a specific transformers i'm basing the timeline off, so we will see. i thought of publishing it on ao3 or smth but i have better judgement so i just figured i would upload the first chapter on tumblr. the new transformers movie was soooo good and it inadvertently rekindled my transformers obsession. enjoy? let me know if you like it, i would appreciate it if you have questions or anything :) THIS BITCH IS LONG SO BEWARE

part two | part three | part four | part five | part six

"Y/N, my optics hurt."

"I know, sweetspark, I know."

This place reeked. Pure flowing smoke and vapor, stinking energon, and the smell of the gray coal and ash that powdered the laborers' and miners' bodies like scintillating glitter filled the pavements of that day—such fragrant poetry.

The barely perceivable light that shone down could not even be called proper illumination in the first place. Every once in a while, the wells of your optics danced up to gaze toward where the sweltering sunlight was supposed to be.

Still, your spark did nothing but wail at you when, each time, all that you caught were mountains upon mountains of pitch-dark vapor, dull particles of dust from the mines, and the visualization of the austere whispers of despair and anguish among the workers of one of the mining towns from one of Cybertron's Primus-forsaken satellites, Nuna 5PY.

Even if you turned to look towards the downtown streets, the particles infiltrated your vents and blistered your optics.

Some workers used gas masks, while others retreated to the mines, where the synthetic stench wasn't as foul, but most were forced to return to work. They snatched up energon everywhere they could, recharged in fits and starts among their screaming. You seriously needed to leave.

As Vaportrail coughed onto the city street, you held her small servo. Even with the torrential acid pouring last night, the smog got to her well before the rush hour.

You realized things would not improve today, so you hurried in fear of the younger developing tear-streaked optics and a headache to match. It saddened you that Vaportrail would never know what a normal life would be like. It was as though they had collectively given up years before she was born, which was unjust to her and all the future sparklings.

You grabbed her and pulled her into the cart. Traveling was enjoyable, but not at the price of introducing additional hazardous particles into the environment.

Mining Outpost R–02 was one of the towns from Nuna 5PY, where unnamed members of the lower classes labored interminably, tediously. The gloomy, smoky shambles of a metropolis required the Communication Grid to communicate with other areas and locations simply. It was no place for a sparkling.

The infant cybertronian lay quietly on the sulfurous mine carriage attached to the railway, more vulnerable than the glass that was painstakingly constructed for the masses of the High-caste buildings and just as giddily colored.

You wondered if her peds are dirty; how would you know? You pondered what she ate back when Starlight was still living in this downtown slum; where did her mother get energon to nourish her?

Your servos were callous from several scars and defects, and a part of you ached to sweep her up in her arms and shelter her eternally. But. How could you ever live with yourself if you didn't allow such an innocent being to live a tranquil life?

"I'm sorry about your carrier," You told the sparkling wistfully, making sure she was comfortable for the long ride from here to where your late best friend wanted her youngling to go if something ever happened to her. You gave her a small pad which contained personal information like her name and situation, along with a plead for somebot to take her to safety, "Cybertropolis is a nice place, just make sure you reach the police station safely, they'll know where to take you."

"Thank you," Vaportrail squeaked out, her knees pulled up to her chest plate.

The train inevitably started, and you walked in tandem with the slow speed of the carriage just to get a good, final look at the sparkling's dainty, cheerless face. Vaportrail would surely be a problem when she got older because all of the mechs would swoon over her—deservingly so.

With those optics and a grin as charming and gauzy as that, she was the very picture of the youthful beauty who had once bored the name of Starlight. You believed she was the sweetest femmeling on the planet.

"I love you, okay? And I'm sure your carrier is so proud of you. Good luck!"

Eventually, you had to withdraw from the train, which only allowed you to stare at the vanishing small frame of a waving Vaportrail, whose response had been forever lost in the sad, sepulchral winds of the town.

Despite that, you could still stare at the sparkling's naive, callow features and find colossal gratitude and admiration in its place, which made a lump form in your voicebox and squeezing palpation beat inside your spark chamber.

With Vaportrail gone, the smell of blazing smoke burned your olfactory sensors and induced you to cover them with your suitable servo. You had never before realized that the shrilling blare of the injectors, the drills, the massive excavators, and the wheels of the trucks could be so overwhelmingly loud, either. From the corner of your optics, the flashes and instants of the sparks that aimlessly flew around whenever metal met metal brought you out of your bewildered daydream.

But then you turned and saw the portrait of shattered ambition, lost hope, undetermined origins, opaque bitterness, damaged honor, futile dreams, and wavering will that assembled the cybertronians of Nuna 5PY.

It was a blow to the back of your head.

Starlight was dead.

If you closed your optics, you could still see the glow on her metallurgical protoform, the spark that no longer burned, and the sound of her laughter that still reverberated in your audio receptors and processor.

Oh, you missed her desperately.

She'd spent her days as a young and daring cybertronian who didn't let the vacillating shame of her prostitution career ridicule her or anything she was. A good, pleasant, and kind femme that thrived and existed, only for some mech to tear her from her home and forever close her laughing optics. She was a femme, a friend, a sister, and a carrier.

She was someone.

"Oi, femme!"

You knew that whoever was calling that word in such a degrading manner was referring to you and you only. You were aware that you were one of the few femmes working on that hellhole.

Sourly, you turned your helm to the source of the voicebox and found your boss—if he could even be called that—staring at you rigorously from across the street. Other mechs were beside him, and in their hungry optics, you could see hunger, amusement, a blatant lack of respect, and other things—all of it for you.

"You said five minutes. Start moving your aft before I tell someone to move it for you."

The group of despicable mechs started laughing at the humorous, unique, spectacular, utterly not-ever-done-before knee-slapper comment. You wondered what comedians told to get a chuckle or two out of their audience nowadays.

You detested yourself when you started walking back to the mines with crystal-clear coolant forming in your optics and with the words caught inside your voicebox.

Even the clicking of your battered timer had a languid touch in the fading light of their (your) chamber as if it were a spark-beat at rest. The perpetual rhythm of it became more of a white noise inside the transparent yet spurious safety surrounding your beguiling, chimerical space bubble.

The memory of the lingering perfume of Starlight's aromatic utensils saturated you far more intensely than it did only days before, making you want to pound and bang your head against the wall until you ran out of energon inside your body.

Your spark chamber was wrenched apart in the core by a hollow cavity. It had been there for forty-eight groons. Faithless and cynical, the pit that took form inside of you pulled you to the very depths of your revolted mind.

You were immobile, your bare servos lying at your sides and your digits tinkering with the berth. Everything within the room drove you crazy and made you want to tear out your optics under the scrutinizing, deep-rooted omnipresence of both the carrier and the sparkling.

Vaportrail was not napping on her carrier's bed; her small chest plating was not rising and falling according to her mellow, smooth breathing. You remembered how she would spring from Starlight's berth just to greet you after every single burdensome solar cycle of nothing but suffering under the cruel comments and sometimes spiteful actions of mechs and their superiors.

You knew and understood that she left for a better life in Cybertropolis, yet you just can't comprehend why you are not hearing her dulcet giggles and her voice as soft as a feather.

"Y/N, look at me!"

You turned your helm lightly toward the soft-spoken sparkling from your spot on your berth.

One of your stabilizers was crossed over the other, your servos snuggly behind your helm. Due to your horizontal position, you were seeing Vaportrail in a somewhat awkward manner, whispering something to her carrier excitedly, which made you turn your whole frame so you were resting against your side, lifting your helm with your right servo.

"What is it, V?"

Vaportrail, who had her mother's laughing optics, stood proudly atop Starlight's berth beside her laying figure, servos on her hips and grin on her dermas, meekly waiting for you to look at her so she could show her spectacular stunt.

She was no bigger than a mining pickaxe, which is why she was never let out of Starlight's and your’s shared chamber. She was still tiny, even for a youngling her age, but that was not unusual, as the impoverished environment and the mediocre energon didn't do much to help anyway. Primus knows what could happen to someone so small and so weak.

Her confident, puffed-up stand made you laugh casually, as while typically Vaportrail was a modest sparkling, never one to demand attention or directly ask for what she wanted, whenever she got like this and let out her inner childishness for the silliest of things, both you and Starlight would get tons of laughter out of it.

"Go on! Show Y/N what you've been practicing," Starlight encouraged.

When you nodded at Vaportrail, signaling that your attention was entirely on her, her optics lit up. She walked towards the end of her carrier's berth, planting her peds at the very ends before turning around.

Vaportrail crouched, and with a slight push from her servos and an impulse from her peds, she successfully rolled forward in the berth, landing on her bottom before scrambling to get up and putting her servos up in the air, muttering a small 'Ta-da!'

You had smiled warmly, watching Vaportrail giggle to herself giddily. Starlight clapped for her and swarmed her in a big hug, proud of her sparkling and happy that she had gotten her little trick right. Honestly, you were a bit jealous. You wished you could be this happy by doing something as simple as a gymnastic maneuver.

Vaportrail cheered along with her carrier, excitedly thumping her peds against the surface of the berth. Then she turned to look at you, her optics gleaming with happiness. "I did it! I did a forward roll!"

"Oh, did you?" After your rhetorical question, you languidly returned to your original position, lying with your back plates on the berth and your servos behind your helm. You cheekily turned to Vaportrail and Starlight, a sly, good-natured smile pulling at your dermas; you closed your optics. "I wasn't looking."

"Y/N!"

Both femmes happily laughed at the moping undertones of Vaportrail's voice.

"Just kidding!"

That day was a long time ago, at least it seemed to be; it felt like it. Those words were spoken in the same chamber you slept and resided in. That comical stunt was performed in the berth across from yours. They were not here anymore. Even if you wished they were back together, that deceitful dream would only be achieved by death.

No one can pursue their dreams or be free enough without it. Freedom is for the rich because dreaming costs money.

Starlight wasn't there to hold her youngling and hug you when you needed it. You weren't hearing her voice either, singing lullabies to help you both fall into a much-needed recharge. Her presence was so needed, so sought; in places like this, femmes like her were what one needed to forget about the harsh burden that was the act of being alive. To think that only forty-eight groons before she was still living, she was still here.

Her memory made you miserable because best friends comprehend you like no other. Starlight was overly protective and brutally honest—as if she ever needed that. You felt so enraged and resentful at not being there to protect her that you feared you might break.

Although you dug Starlight's grave, blatantly refusing to let the body of your best friend turn into waste parts or scrap metal, a part of you still suppressed the image. One day, you would properly weep for her, but first, you had to accept that she was truly gone. A part of you would never be able to accept that Starlight would never appear, skipping around a corner to tease you for falling for her clever joke.

‘How can she be dead?’

Harsh knocks against your metal door made you jerk from your position on the berth.

"08, are you in there?!"

The boisterous tone of the mech standing behind your door made you remember that you were still real and breathing inside your crude, undeserving, unworthy existence. Your bubble-turned crystal cocoon inevitably started collapsing at the reminder that life could still go on without Starlight because, after all, no cybertronian knew who Starlight is—was. No cybertronian knew who Starlight was. The world moved on without her.

Without thinking much, you got up from the cold berth, chills flourishing in your metallurgic skin before walking the small distance towards the oxidized door and swinging it open. You would not have considered the thought of opening (being too engrossed in your self-pity and wallowing in grief, you know?) in the first place was it not for the genuine undertones of chipper motivation that were painted over H–01's usually harsh, asperous voice.

Wait, why was he at your door anyway?

His hulking, rusted frame was as corroded as ever, and it was honestly a little sickening to look at. Despite the awful veil of dust and ash that littered him, the grayish, crimson, and dull turquoise glares of his deteriorated paint job could still be peeked at; his wheels were decaying, and his melancholic optics had lost their love for life— as had everybot else's.

Ancient as a cosmic star and twice as intelligent, with his towering structure and terse personality, H–01 was by far one of the town's most elderly seniors—and, may you add, one of the most cordial.

You remembered the day you first arrived here, back when you were still an inexperienced femme in life, gullible, back when you dreamed dreams.

After an accident in your old work establishment,—one of the mech coworkers had stepped over the line with you, resulting in a mining pickaxe protruding from his knee plate and a lot of energon spilled around— you had been sent to Mining Outpost R–02, and H–01 quickly took it upon himself to become a mentor of some sort as you shared letter unit.

You recalled that he laughed as he had never before when you told him the story of why they had banned you from your previous workplace. Later, you met Starli—

"08?"

You blinked owlishly, and realizing that he was calling out to you, you grounded yourself and met his preoccupied gaze.

"What did you need?"

He frowned at your mediocre attempt at lying. H–01 was by no means stupid, and sadly, you didn’t give enough credit and didn't acknowledge how easily he could pick apart your facade, layer by layer, until your shell was utterly ripped apart.

"Kid, I may be rusty, but I'm shrewd enough to know that you're not well." You became conscious of how absurd you must have seemed in his words. He continued. "I'm sorry about your friend and her sparkling."

There it was again, that funny feeling, that blow to the back of your head. You felt your spark wail painfully, and your limbs tensed up, your optics frantically searching into H–01's face plates for any sign of mockery. You found none. You almost crumbled at his sincere words until your response was unwillingly driven back to your tanks when the piercing siren started blasting across the halls of the chambers.

Instinctively, you covered your audio receptors at the discomfort. At the same time, H–01 merely stared into the speaker device right up against the wall, a bit far away from them. From the corner of his optics, he saw many of the workers exiting their chambers, each of them confused, some of them covering their audial receptors as well, and others staring, irritated and visibly vexed at the gadget that was currently stripping them of their much-needed recharging hours.

The workers of the 8th unit, otherwise known as the H unit, approached the oldest mech from their division, questioning themselves about what was going on. Their optics wilted, and there was a slight lolling to their helms, drunk with weariness after a session of an endless cycle of mining.

"01, what's going on?" One of them asked rather loudly, trying to shout over the siren, coming up to them just as you got used to the loud siren and pulled your servos away from your audial receptors.

You moved out of the entrance of your chamber to shut the door behind you, joining H–01 by standing beside him. They shared a brief glance, one filled with puzzlement, the other brimming with uncertainty. But before anyone could share their answer or even make a single move, the horrendous blaring of the alarm stopped.

The speaker against the wall went completely silent, and a single red light started beeping. The Cybertronians looked at each other, baffled.

Someone talked via the speaker.

:: Attention, all workers. You are summoned to the patio at this instant. Once you reach the area, stand in your respective branch line and don't question your current predicament; ignoring this order will result in immediate offlining. I repeat: ignoring this order will result in immediate offlining ::

I need to leave. I need to leave. I need to leave. I need to leave.

That was what you were thinking when you, H–01, and the others walked among the congregation of cybertronians—you would have said mechs were it not for the few femme 'nurses' among the outer lines of the crowds, who as far as you were concerned, were the ones who took care of the workers who suffered minor accidents like infected optics, fractured limbs or something along those lines.

It was not like they counted anyway. Primus knew what they were actually in this town for and what they did to survive.

The patio, used for Cybertronians during their spare time, was circular, wide of range, and littered with damaged devices and compartment containers, a whole mess of passed-down gear and materials.

Whenever they got their energon rations and stopped here to rest, H–01 would remark that only the fuel granted to them wasn't recycled—well, that and the smoke. The patio boulders formed a patchwork, with stones obtained as useless scraps and waste from renovations resting together as lovely as crystalline statues from the High-caste buildings. It had artistry to it, as well as smoothness. You and H–01 used to sit there together.

You saw the executives of Mining Outpost R–02, violently shove some of the workers towards their specific department, yelling something at them that you couldn't quite catch. Considering the calm and easy-going attitude of the mistreated miners, you could just tell that they were the prissy, fastidious mechs of the upper divisions, maybe the 1st or the 2nd, where they didn't get punished for slacking off or harassing other workers along with the bosses just for the fun of it.

Your unit quickly got on its respective branches and neatly stood in line. You all exchanged terse nods, mentally preparing yourselves for whatever was about to happen.

In front of you and the rest of your division were the mechs of the 7th unit, and behind them were the workers of the 9th, and so on. Judging by the others' facial expressions, they, too had no idea of why they'd been called here nor could muster up a word, which only fueled your desire to learn what was going on. The patio got tighter, more claustrophobic as cybertronians arrived.

You were the last number in your unit, meaning that you were placed in the furthest spot from your old friend. You lightly reclined your helm backward to attempt and catch a glimpse of H–01, but to no success, as you saw him and all the other mechs, for that matter, focused on the temporary stage ahead of them.

It held a podium, a small staircase, and fifteen glass balls with electronic chips on them. One for each unit of the Mining Outpost. A chill went down your spinal plate at the thought.

An overwhelming, ominous silence suddenly governed the patio when a mech no one working here had ever seen before climbed up the staircase. The way he moved caused cybertronians to stare at him in fear.

The mech was brawny and towering, and the way his helm fell over his lifeless, devoid optics and left shadows smeared on his cheek plates made others shudder. He was directly in front of the plain, pitiful microphone stand. However, an almost charming smile crossed his dermas.

"I suppose you're asking yourselves why were you brought in here."

Because of the microphone, his voice, profound and with a baritone tone, boomed across the patio, making you wince lightly at its loudness. You, of course, were desensitized from loud noises due to the continuous straining sounds of the mining machines around you day after day, as everyone else was. However, his statement caused many cybertronians to look among themselves, clearly disturbed.

"Gentlemechs, my name is Bullway, and I've come all the way here from Kaon to offer you a choice. I intend to give fifteen of you the chance of coming to Kaon with me and becoming gladiators."

Hushed whispers and inaudible sentences started falling from everyone's dermas at Bullway's words and what they implied. From the corner of your optics, you saw most of the mechs look at each other in mute amazement at what they had just been offered.

Their superiors, who were at the base of the set-up podium, quickly took it upon themselves to silence everyone with a loud yell, the absence of sound appearing once again.

"Think about it! Money, power, glory, fame, all laid at your digitprints!" Bullway threw his arms out to emphasize his words. "Join me, and all you have ever dreamed of will come true. A life of nothing but recognition! Isn't that what you deserve?! Isn't that what you dream of as you stare at the ceilings of your measly stations?!"

Dreaming cost money. Dreaming cost money. Dreaming cost money.

Almost as if he had read your mind, H–01 subtly leaned his helm forward to take a peek at the workers of the section he conducted. Most of them remained stoic, and he was very glad to see that, but what worried him the most right now was H–08.

His facial plates morphed into that of slight disturbance because as he peered into your face, he clearly saw what could only be described as contemplation, doubt, and consideration, which both bothered and worried him.

Bullway smiled at how he had you under a forged delusion and continued his speech, "See the crystal globes here? There's one for each unit of your Mining Outpost. They all contain chips with your respective electronic signatures. Each vorn you have worked here, your signature will be entered an additional time. You can figure out the rest, so let us begin!"

Each vorn?

You suddenly realized that the globes were not in order because, in the same minute that you let the circumstances sink in, Bullway had already slipped a servo inside one of the spheres and grabbed one chip from it, reading it aloud so everyone could hear the letter and number clearly.

"G–10!"

All of the divisions started looking among each other, searching for the (not) lucky mech, a pregnant silence following suit as the group in front of them all glared sympathetically at the chosen one, who stood frozen in place, optics blinking several times, wishing to Primus that Bullway had read the designation incorrectly and it wasn't him who was just chosen.

You felt a shiver run down your spinal plate when one of the guards roughly seized his shoulder and made him start walking toward the platform, ignoring the mech's begging and lightly dragging him across the patio as everyone stared in horror. Your intake suddenly went dry when Bullway moved to the next globe, grabbed an electronic chip, moved to the microphone again, and read it aloud.

This time it was from the upper divisions, A–07, you heard.

Just like that, another mech was whisked away from his branch line and thrown across the patio. He then ascended the flight of stairs to stand beside G–10, who apparently was still encapsulated in deep denial, continuously shaking his helm in disbelief. It was tenaciously obvious that Bullway did not concern himself with their worries and imminent fear as he once again moved toward a globe and grabbed another.

You wished cybertronians would step outside their own frames and oversee from the outside what was actually happening at that very instant in Nuna 5PY. Plucked from their workstations like flowers in a garden, sent off to Kaon for the purpose of entertainment for the Upper class with the bombastic excuse of 'MONEY POWER GLORY' behind it.

Prisoners inside their own bodies, trapped to fend off for themselves on a planet where no one cared about them.

Electronic signatures continued rolling off the mech's glossa like energon from a wishing well. The mechs that were chosen always did the exact same thing. They stood completely aghast for a few nanokliks, staring at the soot-stained ground in front of them in absolute shock, their frames deflating like rubber balloons, dermas parting in awe at themselves because they just couldn’t believe it.

F–03.

I–11.

D–04.

E–07.

K–15.

O–02.

When they got prodded by one of the guards, they stared at them, silently begging for compassion, but they found none. Eventually, they were pulled out of their place and shoved towards the staircase on the stage, where Bullway gleefully welcomed all the newcomer 'gladiators' just to grab another electronic chip and call out yet another designation, and so repeating the cycle.

C–01.

M–06.

B–09.

L–01.

J–02.

N–14.

Oh, there was still a globe left. The H unit.

The crowd drew in a collective breath, and then you could hear a pin drop. You were feeling nauseous, your servos clammy, your whole frame tense, your processor hurt, and your spark ached. You longed to see Starlight, you wanted to chase after the train where you sent Vaportrail off to Cyberpolis, and you didn’t know how much H–01 was desperately hoping that it wasn’t you, that it wasn’t you, that it wasn’t you.

"And the last one! H–08!"

#midnightbears #megatron x reader #megatron #d 16 #d 16 x reader #orion pax #optimus prime #megatron x you #megatronus #tf one #transformers prime #transformers one #megatronus x reader #tf #transformers #transformers prime x reader #elita one

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chaostheoryy · 3 months ago

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Touch Me [Walter X GN!Reader]

Summary: You and Walter are currently the only two people awake on the colony ship headed for the outskirts of the galaxy. And while most people would find the company of a synthetic to be unsettling, you have come to realize you much prefer his presence over that of other humans. And perhaps you enjoy his company even more than you originally thought.

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Making out, implied sexual thoughts

Reader: Gender Neutral

Word Count: 3.1K

Notes: I recently rewatched the entire Alien franchise and rediscovered my love for Walter. Because of course my dumbass feels connected to an autistic-coded character...There really isn't much plot here, just self-indulgence via smooching a big, wholesome android. And, as always, no beta. I die a warrior's death.

Living with a synthetic is easy. Like a faithful company android should, Walter has always done exactly what he’s supposed to when he’s supposed to. He never interrupts your work unless absolutely necessary and he doesn’t dare disturb your sleep unless following explicit instructions from you or MUTHUR to wake you in time to complete your tasks.

In addition to being an efficient and reliable worker, Walter has also proven himself to be a surprisingly pleasant companion. Conversation, it seems, comes naturally for him and his seemingly endless internal database of poetry and literature means he can recite any one of your favorite stories upon request. Though it’s strange to admit, there’s a pleasantness to his voice that makes every encounter with him comforting.

In fact, the more time you’ve spent together, the more you’ve come to realize just how much you truly find pleasant about him. The mesmerizing tint of his electric blue eyes. The imperfection of his crooked smile when you tell him your worst jokes. The gentleness of his touch despite the inhuman strength of his body. You know these are all things that were programmed into him by some random company engineer years ago, but you can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to him than a bunch of 0’s and 1’s. He’s not just a robot designed to serve man, he’s…Walter.

The stronger your connection feels over these first few weeks of travel, the bolder you get when it comes to exploring your affection for him. It starts with accidental brushes of the hand against his arm or a gentle press of your palm between his shoulder blades when you squeeze behind him in a tight corridor. Fleeting touches that can easily be written off as necessary interactions given the nature of your environment. He, of course, doesn’t seem to mind at all. Every time it happens, he responds to your apology or “excuse me” with a courteous little grin and a brief utterance of reassurance.

On a particularly bad day, when nothing seems to go right and the loneliness of space grips at your heart, you ask for his comfort and he obliges. His hand rests on your shoulder until it simply isn’t enough and you ask him to hold you. No request is too much for Walter, so sure enough you find yourself wrapped in his arms with your head resting on his chest. Even despite his lack of fleshy internal organs, you find he’s just as warm as any human would be. And when he murmurs soothing words in your ear, you realize that no human could possibly comfort you the way he can.

“Walter?”

“Yes?"

“Hugging you like this,” you murmur quietly into his charcoal sweatshirt, “Does it feel good for you?”

“If you’re inquiring as to whether or not I enjoy embracing you, yes. I find it quite satisfactory.”

“Good.”

“Is this embrace satisfying for you?”

“Very."

“I’m glad.”

To your surprise, the hand that had come to rest in the center of your back begins to move in slow circles. When you shift beneath his touch, the movement ceases.

“Apologies,” he says as he abruptly steps away. The loss of contact leaves your body yearning for the comfort.

“No need to apologize, Walter. It’s fine, really. I…” You hesitate for a moment. “It felt nice.”

You stare each other down, both of you searching for answers to questions neither of you have asked. You know it’s probably just your mind playing tricks on you, but it seems as though he looks nervous. Then again, hard not to notice an aura of uncertainty coming from a presence that is usually nothing but certain.

“Have you ever touched someone like that before now?” You ask.

“No. I’m afraid it was never the company’s intention for synthetics such as myself to engage in intimate contact.”

You try to stow away some of the sheer sadness you feel knowing what he’s said is undoubtedly true. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Because that doesn’t seem fair. Being surrounded by people your whole life and knowing that none of them will ever hold you. Knowing that the people who created you never even wanted you to be held.”

“Fair or not, it is simply a part of my programming.”

You frown. It frustrates you to no end. No matter how many times he or the little voice in the back of your head tells you that he is simply an android following his programming, you want to argue that there’s more to it than that. That he genuinely exists and deserves to live.

“Aren’t you curious?”

“In regard to what exactly?”

“Touch. Don’t you ever wonder what it’d be like to truly be touched? To be held and caressed and cared for by someone else?”

“It is something I have pondered over from time to time, sure.”

Your heart is racing in your chest as you consider your words. It’s crazy, you know it is, but you can’t help yourself. “Would you like me to touch you?”

Walter’s head tilts to the left ever so slightly, much like a dog who’s heard his owner utter the name of his favorite toy in casual conversation. Those dazzling blue eyes blink a couple of times as he considers your question.

“Yes, I believe I would.”

An inaudible sigh of relief slips from your throat. You nod, more to yourself than to Walter, and step forward to close the distance between you. He doesn’t move in the slightest, just stands there and watches your every move with the scrutiny of a scientist at work.

You start by taking his right hand. Pulling it from his side, you raise it up into the space between your bodies. Your right thumb traces over his knuckles while your left hand gently pushes the sleeve of his sweatshirt up toward his elbow. Just like any human you’ve ever met, there are delicate hairs all along his forearm that jump back into place as the fabric of his sleeve slides past.

After watching those little hairs shift around exploratory strokes of your hand along the backside of his arm, you turn it over and trace the now exposed lines of his palm. You feel like those storied fortune tellers of old Earth who search for hidden meanings in the imperfections of a person’s skin. But instead of seeking out some clue to the distant future, it’s as if you’re seeking the very essence of humanity in Walter’s palm.

“You have a soft touch,” he notes as you ghost your fingertips over the almost velvety surface of his inner wrist.

Your eyes flick up to his face to find him still watching you with a nearly unreadable expression. “Does that bother you?”

“Not at all.”

Reassured by his response, you can’t help the tiny grin that pulls at the corner of your mouth. And as unbelievable as it sounds, Walter’s gaze seems soften at the sight of your smile.

Suddenly feeling as if you’ve been caught witnessing something you were never supposed to see, you hastily draw your focus away from his face and back down to the hand in your grasp. Your fingers trace the lines on his palm a few more times before you curl his fingers inward one by one. When every single digit has been bent into the familiar shape of a fist, you rotate his arm once again and bend his wrist back. Then, with painstaking patience that could drive a man insane, you slowly unravel his fingers with your own until your palms are flush against one another.

“Like Dürer’s Praying Hands.”

Sparing a glance upward once again, you see him gazing at your pressed hands with a nearly awestruck look in his eyes. The way he appears mesmerized by the very sight of this contact, you’d think he’s staring at the aforementioned German artwork itself.

You elect not to say anything, choosing instead to spread his fingers apart with your own. Once they’re fully splayed out, you slip your fingers in between those outstretched digits and tenderly grasp his hand. For the briefest moment, his fingers remain fully erect as if every joint in his hand is locked in place. But, like the sun setting upon its earthly horizon, they soon slowly fold downward until your hands are delicately intertwined.

There’s a tangible silence in the room as you both gaze upon your interlocked hands. The only sounds you can make out around you are the distant beeps of some far off console and the soft exhale of your own breath. And when Walter’s eyes shift from your hands to your face, that breath only grows heavier. He looks curious, anticipatory.

“I think I’m beginning to understand why humans hold hands as a gesture of affection.”

Your brow raises instinctively. “You like it?”

“It’s pleasant.”

“Would you be willing to let me touch your face?”

He blinks, seemingly processing the inquiry. Then he replies, “Of course.”

Using your free hand, you reach up and gently cup your palm along his jaw. As usual, he doesn’t even flinch at the new touch. He just keeps his eyes locked on you while you explore the new frontier that is his visage.

At first, you examine his face like a parent searching their child for minor cuts and bruises after an afternoon of rough housing in the backyard. It’s gentle, yet full of meticulous observation. Intimate in a way only familial touch can be.

But after a while, you become familiar with the feeling of his skin and allow yourself to truly caress the face before you. Fingertips press into the most delicate patches of skin at the back of the jaw. Your thumb tenderly rubs his cheekbone as the butt of your palm teeters at the edge of his mouth. It’s not your intention to feel his lips just yet but it can’t be helped when your skin brushes past them. And just like a human’s lips would be, they are tantalizingly supple against your skin.

Goosebumps crawl up your forearm when you feel his breath tickle the inside of your wrist. Witnessing him breathe is one of those things that never ceases to fascinate you or quell your incessant desire to prove Walter is more than just some carbon copy synthetic. What need would an artificial person have to breathe if they were simply meant to be servants for mankind? Why make them so incredibly real if they aren’t supposed to live a real life? Why strive to recreate the inherently flawed design of the human body if they aren’t meant to be human?

“Is everything alright?”

Walter’s voice draws you out of your thoughts so violently that he may as well have shoved you out of the airlock. You blink yourself back to consciousness and are startled to find your thumb resting at the edge of his top lip, your hand still cupped along the sharp line of his jaw. His breath continues to tickle your wrist with every exhale.

“Y-yeah,” you stammer as you reposition your hand away from his mouth, “Everything’s fine.”

“You’re displaying early symptoms of common influenza,” he counters matter-of-factly, eyes piercing right through the shield of your lie. “Your heart rate is elevated and your body temperature has increased by half a degree.”

Your body temperature may have only risen by a fraction of a degree but it may as well be several dozen considering the sheer heat scalding your cheeks. The thudding of your heartbeat has become incessantly loud and your breath nearly gets trapped in your throat.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt as you pull yourself alway from him.

His brow immediately furrows with confusion. And if you dared to study his expression any longer, you may find the look on his face hints at disappointment.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand why you’re apologizing. You’ve done nothing wrong. If you are unwell, I would be happy to tend to you in the medical bay.”

“No!” The urgency in your voice catches you off guard. You swallow the lump in your throat, hoping it will take some of the embarrassment down with it. “Thank you. But, I’m not sick, Walter, I promise. I’m just…Nervous.”

His head tilts again. If it weren’t for the fact that you’re actively staving off immense shame for your handling of the whole situation, you might actually be able to acknowledge just how endearing you find that little tick of his.

“May I ask why you are nervous?”

A breathy chuckle escapes the confines of your throat. A nervous laugh that you had no intention of letting out. Walter appears even more puzzled by the reaction.

“I’m nervous because I’m touching you,” you admit, “Because touching you is something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time now. And because now that I’ve done so, I want to keep doing it.”

“Then why did you stop?"

It’s a question you weren’t expecting. But, of course Walter would be the one to bypass formalities and outright ask the hard questions.

“Because I feel guilty.”

“Guilt would imply that you’ve committed an offense or violation.”

“Running my hands over your body and caressing your face like you’re my lover sure as hell feels like a violation,” you argue.

Despite your tone growing erratic, he remains as stoic as ever. “I guarantee you, it isn’t. You asked for permission and I granted it.”

To your utter surprise, he reaches out and gently grabs you by the wrist. Despite your astonishment at his decision to reinitiate the contact, you don’t argue or pull away when he guides your hand back up to his face. Deep down you know this is the outcome you truly want, even if it’s one you never imagined you could have.

“Feel no guilt,” he says as your hand comes to its resting place along his jaw, “I want you to touch me.”

Your heart skips a beat at those words. It’s a statement that makes your mind race faster than any engine in the universe. Sexual innuendos and Freudian subconscious aside, the significance of his declaration isn’t lost on you. He isn’t just standing there, letting you explore his visage like some statue being admired by museum patrons. He’s now an active participant driven by his own desire to be caressed. To be caressed by you.

The mere notion of him wanting this is enough to conquer most of your hesitancy. Swallowing whatever fear remains, you bring your other hand up so that you’re cupping his face between them both. Your thumbs stroke at his cheekbones.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” His voice is soft, restrained. He knows it’s dangerous to spook an already anxious animal.

You dwell on his words for a moment. His eyes, sharp and disarming as always, seem to peer right through your orbital cavity and into your brain itself. If he looks hard enough, he may very well discover the thoughts that are tucked away inside your mind without you even needing to put them into words.

Before you can convince yourself not to, you say, “You’re beautiful.”

He blinks. It’s clear he wasn’t expecting that.

“The color of your eyes. The shape of your lips. The strength of your jaw.” You all but sigh as you trace the line of his jawbone with your middle finger. “I admire everything about you.”

“And what about the fact that I’m not actually human? Do you find that unsettling?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Why is that?”

You nearly scoff at the question. “Because you could introduce me to a hundred strangers on Earth and I can almost guarantee you that you’re more human than most of them. You have shown me more kindness and empathy than half the people I’ve met in my lifetime.” You slide one hand down to his chest, splaying your fingers out over the spot where his heart should sit. “It doesn’t matter what parts you have or what fluid flows through your veins. I still care for you, Walter.”

In a way, you feel exposed. You never fully considered just how deeply you feel for him. Though, the more you think about it, the more you realize that it shouldn’t be much of a shock at all.

“I would like to kiss you.”

Now there’s a shocking statement.

“What?” You stare at him in awe, unsure that you heard him correctly.

“I said that I would like to kiss you,” he states, “If you find such contact to be agreeable, of course.”

Words are unattainable for you in that moment so you settle for a nod.

He leans in and kisses you softly. He’s so careful, so unbearably gentle that it feels like his lips simply ghost over yours. It isn’t unpleasant, of course. It’s simply too delicate. The whole thing is over before your brain can even process what’s happening. It leaves you yearning for more.

When he pulls back to look at you, he can see the dissatisfaction painted on your face. “Did I do it incorrectly?”

“It wasn’t…wrong. It was just very quick. And much softer than I was expecting.”

“I see.” He thinks for a moment before adding, “Would you like to do it again your way?”

“You want me to kiss you?”

“Yes.”

His eyes instinctively lock on your mouth to watch as your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip. “Okay.”

You reposition your right hand from his chest to the side of his neck and pull him back toward you. When you kiss him, you do so with passion. Your lips find his like a drowning man resurfacing for air after being jostled by the sea. Not violent, but desperate, as if Walter’s kiss could save your life in the cold vacuum of space.

He may not know what he’s doing, but what he’s doing is right. When your tongue presses against his lip, he opens his mouth to welcome it. When you tilt your head to deepen the kiss, he shifts just enough to make it deeper. When your nails dig into his skin to drag him closer, his hands find shelter upon your waist to steady himself. He may be a synthetic by design, but it’s clear from the way he kisses that he is human by nature.

You’re nearly gasping by the time you break the kiss. The breathless wonder of a good kiss is a feeling you have sorely missed and, judging by the blissful look in Walter’s eyes, it seems he’s just experienced something similar for the very first time.

“I have to admit, I prefer your method,” he muses as a tiny grin pricks at the corner of his mouth.

You can’t help but return that grin with a big smile of your own. Your thumb grazes across his bottom lip. “Well, good news: you and I have a lot of time to explore more methods, if you want.”

“I fear there isn’t anything you could offer that I wouldn’t want now.”

#This went from a quick blurb to a full-on one-shot so fucking fast #Can you tell I'm a touch starved man who wants to love this touch starved robo-babe?#Need more Walter content ASAP #Walter One X Reader #Walter One X GN!Reader #Reader Insert #Alien Covenant #Alien Covenant Reader Insert #Walter One #Michael Fassbender X Reader

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