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There was always a hum aboard the Lost Light. Not the comforting kind. No. This hum buzzed through the walls like a thought you couldn’t forget.

You’d been on board a month now. Thirty standard cycles of staring up at ceilings too high to touch, voices too loud to ignore, and hands—oh, the hands—too big to ever hold yours gently. They called you “liaison.” Sweet little ambassador from Earth. You called yourself overwhelmed.

Most mechs were kind enough. Tailgate had gifted you a sticker collection. Nautica tried (and failed) to shrink a chair to human scale. Even Whirl, in his unsettling way, had only threatened to launch you out the airlock twice.

But lately, conversations stopped when you entered the room. You weren’t sure when it started, but you heard it again today, just a few passing words.

“Still on board? Thought they’d spaced him by now.” “Not allowed near spark-chambers.” “I saw his needles, man. They didn’t even take them off.”

The voices had trailed off when they saw you. Two bots in engineering. Tall, one green, one copper-gold. You hadn’t caught their names.

“What are you talking about?” you’d asked. They exchanged a look. “Don’t worry about it, liaison,” said the green one. “Just don’t go near Medbay Nine.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated, then shrugged.

“Because that’s where he is.”

You didn’t know who he was yet. But the tone? The way the lights in the hallway flickered when you passed that section later? The hum that spiked in pitch as the doors slid closed?

And maybe—just maybe—you heard something faint when you walked by one night alone.

A voice. Whispery. Almost… amused.

“Ahh… she’s curious.”

Your “kitchen” consisted of a hotplate wired into the wall and a coffee machine Hound had built for you during his off hours. “Old Earth nostalgia,” he called it with a wink. The coffee tasted like ash, but it was better than nothing.

Work started early. Sometimes you gave reports to Ultra Magnus, who towered over your desk and corrected your grammar without blinking. Sometimes you translated Earth broadcasts for Rewind or sat in on diplomatic calls with bots who couldn’t understand the concept of personal space.

Mostly, though, you walked.

Your badge let you into all non-restricted areas. Crew members would glance down at you, surprised or amused or, occasionally, curious. Chromedome once asked if your species had bones. Whirl called you “Pocket Pet.” Rodimus said you were “perfect for morale.”

Some rooms still felt too big. Lifts with ceilings so high you couldn’t see them. Chairs too wide for your legs to touch the floor. Even datapads were heavy as briefcases; you had to brace them against your chest just to scroll.

You’d gotten used to it. Mostly.

But not to Sector Nine.

No one went down there. Not even Tailgate, who wandered everywhere. You passed it sometimes on your way to Engineering. The hall outside Medbay 9-A was colder than the rest of the ship, and the lighting dipped into yellow instead of standard blue.

You didn’t think much of it at first. Ships creaked. Systems overloaded. You figured it was just poor wiring.

Until bots started pausing when you mentioned it.

Like Rung, who smiled too quickly and said, “That section’s under maintenance, no need to worry.” Or Rodimus, who changed the subject entirely. Or Drift, who met your eyes for just a moment too long and then offered to walk you to your quarters.

You asked Nautica once, during a late-night engine calibration.

“Who’s in Medbay Nine?”

She hesitated. Bit her lip. Looked at the floor. Then said softly, like it wasn’t really meant for you:

“He used to be a surgeon.”

You stopped asking after a while.

It was clear no one wanted to talk about it, and honestly, you had enough to deal with. Between the malfunctioning translation terminals, the stifling briefings with Magnus, and Rodimus roping you into weekly “Team Building Missions” that mostly ended in chaos and fire, you decided whatever was down there could stay there. Probably just a bot with rust rot. Or trauma. Or both. This was a warship, after all. Let them have their secrets.

Still, you found yourself glancing at the hallway every time you passed it. Medbay Nine: no label on the door, no lights above the entry, only a flat matte-gray wall with a narrow vertical seam and a faint hiss, as if something behind it were breathing.

You told yourself it was nothing, even when the air grew colder near that stretch, even when your badge glitched red before flashing green again, even when the floor plating felt warmer under your shoes, like something had just stepped through.

It was fine.

You had more important things to worry about, like finding a proper place to store your Earth food rations or figuring out how to politely refuse Whirl’s offer of “pet armor.” Tailgate wanted to show you how to hotwire a door panel. Rewind was compiling a playlist for you made entirely of Earth tracks from the 1980s, and you had to explain that, no, humans didn’t all wear shoulder pads and neon.

Your life aboard the Lost Light was strange, but full. You had no intention of chasing ghost stories, not when you had schedules to follow and systems to review, not when bots were already starting to smile when they saw you in the halls.

And yet—during week five, you passed Sector Nine at shift change. The lights were dim, the corridor empty, and just before the lift doors closed behind you, you could have sworn you saw it.

You hadn’t noticed at first. The first few weeks aboard the Lost Light, sleep had been the only time your body felt safe. Quiet. Curled beneath too-thin blankets in your modified berth, humming from the ship’s pulse all around, you drifted off in minutes. Sometimes the bots called it “stasis,” sometimes “recharge,” like you were one of them. You let it slide.

But lately, something felt different.

Not every night—just some. Randomly. You’d wake to the low flicker of your room’s lights, the clock blinking something ridiculous like 04:07, and your body would feel wrong. Not in pain. Not even sore. Just warm.

Thick under your skin. Chest tight. Throat dry. Your hands would ache in a way that made you press them between your thighs, as if the heat might drain out through your palms.

The dreams, when you remembered them, were always vague: somewhere dim, with metal walls and low light. Not your room. A voice speaking. Sometimes near, sometimes far. A voice you didn’t recognize.

You thought—maybe—it was your own voice answering. Not words. Just breath. That soft kind of noise you never made awake.

By the sixth time it happened, you started drinking more water before bed, assuming dehydration was the cause. The warmth had to be from recycled air, or your blanket being too thick. You stripped it down to a sheet. It didn’t help.

And still, on certain mornings, you blinked awake with your lips parted, your pulse slow and full, your body thrumming.

You didn’t tell anyone. What were you supposed to say? That your dreams felt heavy now, like someone had leaned over you in the dark and whispered directly against your skin?

You never remembered what he said. Not really. But sometimes your hands moved like they were remembering for you.

It was probably stress. Rung had said that was normal: adjusting to space, shared psychic fields, maybe even a glitch in the ship’s proximity sensors. You repeated that to yourself again and again. It worked, until the morning you reached for your coffee mug and realized it had already been filled—though you hadn’t gotten out of bed yet.

At first you told yourself it was exhaustion. You were doing too much, adjusting to the ship, pushing yourself. But that didn’t explain why you woke more tired than when you lay down.

Most mornings your sheets were a mess, tangled and clinging to your legs as if they’d been wound around you. Your thighs ached. Your hips felt loose, overused. Your skin burned with a warmth so deep it mimicked fever.

And the dreams—if they could even be called that anymore—were turning sharper around the edges. More real. Less drifting, more directed. You didn’t fall asleep so much as sink, into metal and pressure, into the sensation of something looming over you. Not malicious. Possessive.

Touch came in fragments: a thumb dragging down your sternum, something cold brushing the curve of your jaw, a voice closer than ever.

It whispered things you couldn’t remember once you woke. Words that left you gasping in sleep. Moans you would never make awake. And in the dream, you never stopped them. Never said no. You welcomed them.

That scared you the most.

Some mornings your lips were damp, parted. Your skin bore faint redness at your neck or light pressure along your thighs. Once, you woke mid-exhale, hips tilted like they were reaching for something that wasn’t there.

There were no fingerprints. No proof. Only the heat. Only that shiver down your spine when you passed Sector Nine and your legs remembered what your brain refused to hold.

You tried to write it down—the pieces, the flashes:

blue optics a glint of silver teeth hands, not human. Not kind. But careful. something slick, on your thighs? on your tongue? your own voice saying, don’t stop.

You kept the paper for later.

The medbay was quiet that cycle. Too quiet.

You stood outside the office door, shifting from foot to foot. The small screen on the wall glowed faintly with your name: Ambassador (Human) Liaison – Scheduled Appointment Confirmed.

God. It made it sound so formal. Like you were here to negotiate a treaty, not confess you’d been having borderline pornographic dreams involving something you couldn’t even describe.

You rubbed your hands together. Took a breath.

The door hissed open.

Ah, came the familiar soft voice. "Right on time. Please, come in."

You had to crane your neck to look at him. Rung wasn’t the biggest bot on board—not like Ratchet or Rodimus—but he still towered over you, long-limbed and gentle-eyed, all smooth metal and quiet posture. He sat behind his usual desk, tools neatly arranged, light panels dimmed to a golden glow. Calming. Intentional.

You swallowed.

“This is… kind of weird,” you said, stepping in.

Rung nodded, patient as always. “I imagine it would be.”

He gestured to the couch. They’d built it smaller for you, but it still felt like a dentist’s chair designed for giants. Your legs dangled. You clasped them tightly together.

“I’m not crazy,” you began.

“No one said you were.”

You reached into your pocket for the paper you’d written on, the precious proof you had kept just in case.

It was gone.

No. You knew you’d put it there. You remembered folding it, pressing the pen so hard it tore through the paper. But now your pocket was empty.

Your throat went dry.

“I—um.” You shook your head. “I was going to say something. I had—”

Rung tilted his head, listening. Patient.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Seconds ticked by. Your thoughts scattered like ash in wind. What were you here for again?

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” you said at last.

He nodded. “Go on.”

You tried. Truly. But your mind was static, every detail slipping the moment you reached for it. Not forgotten—scrubbed.

“I think I was having dreams,” you managed. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s probably just the ship.”

Something inside you screamed. Not in words, just pressure, as if your memory were trying to force its way back up while something else shoved it down.

You rubbed your arms. “I’m sorry. This is stupid. I thought it was more serious.”

Rung didn’t press. Of course he didn’t. He only said, “It’s never stupid. We can always talk. Even when the words don’t come easily.”

You nodded, and left ten minutes later feeling like you’d failed at something you didn’t even understand.

That night, when you undressed, the little paper fell out of your boot. You didn’t remember putting it there.

Frustration sent you walking. Storming, at first—or as close as you could get, considering the floors were designed for feet the size of sedans. But the further you went, the more your stride softened, until you were meandering, letting the static in your chest bleed into your fingertips.

You hated that session. Hated how your voice went hollow the moment you tried to speak. Hated the way Rung just sat there with that kind smile, like he knew something you didn’t. Hated the heat pooling in your gut like a memory you weren’t allowed to keep.

So you walked.

The ship was always half-lit during recharge cycles, washed in a low blue glow that made every hallway feel more like a dream. You passed a few bots along the way—most towering over you with easy smiles or stunned double takes.

“Evenin’, Liaison!” a voice called cheerfully. Skids, maybe. Or someone who looked like him.

“Hi,” you managed back.

Another mech crouched low to get a better look at you. Not malicious, just curious, optics glowing softly. You waved and kept walking, boots tapping against the massive floor grates.

“Careful down here, sweetheart,” someone rumbled above. “Got a few newbies who don’t look where they’re stepping.”

You smiled, tight and polite, and stepped a little closer to the wall.

It was always like this: kind voices, friendly enough, but not one of them understood what it felt like to live in a body this small. To be brushed by a swinging panel and stagger as if you’d been struck by a bat. To climb onto a chair just to speak eye-level. To wake from dreams with heat pooling in your chest and not even have the language to explain it to the giants around you.

You walked faster. Corridor after corridor blurred together. Vents hummed, lights flickered, your mind drifted.

You didn’t know where you were going. You didn’t care.

Your hand brushed the wall for balance as you rounded a turn—and froze.

The panel under your palm was warm. Not just tech-warm. Not energy-warm. Organic. Like a body. Like breath.

You looked up.

Sector Nine.

Your fingers jerked away.

No sound. No movement. Just that low hallway stretch again: flat door, matte gray, seam barely visible.

You stared.

A breath shuddered out of you, quiet and shaky.

Then—behind the door, something shifted.

Not loud. Not threatening. Just a murmur.

You didn’t hear words. You only felt them: soft, curling behind your ribs like smoke.

Like welcome home.

You walked down Sector Nine.

It was large. Well, everything was large when you were human, but this part of the ship felt different.

The walls rose higher here, taller than anywhere else you’d seen, as if whoever designed the corridor had expected giants. Not mechs. Monsters. The overhead lights were dimmer, spaced wider apart, casting long shadows across the floor grates. Each step rattled the metal slightly beneath your shoes.

Every footfall echoed. Twice. As though something behind you was matching your pace half a second too late.

You glanced over your shoulder. Nothing. Of course.

The air tasted stale here, thicker, recycled one too many times. You rubbed your arms, trying to warm them, breath puffing in little clouds that shouldn’t exist inside a climate-controlled vessel.

The hallway curved ahead, forcing you to walk blind around each bend. No signage. No labels. Just door after door, tall, locked, silent.

And then you saw it.

Not a door exactly. Not like the others.

This one was wider, flush with the wall, seamless at first glance. But the surface bowed inward slightly, concave, as if something behind it was breathing.

There was no keypad. No call button. Only a faint red sensor, blinking slow.

You stepped closer.

Your reflection stared back at you, distorted by the curve of the panel: small, fragile, eyelids heavy from too little rest, lips dry. You almost didn’t recognize yourself in the pale wash of emergency lights.

The panel hissed.

Not open. Just exhaling.

And you heard it.

Not aloud. Not in your ears. But in you.

A whisper curling behind your ribs, threading up your spine.

There you are.

Your feet refused to move. Not forward. Not back. Something held you there, not physically, but undeniably. The air coiled around your ankles, urging stillness.

The panel hissed again and opened.

Just a sliver. Enough to see.

At first it was only dark—the kind that pressed at the edges of vision, the kind that felt wet. Then two points of light bloomed slowly into focus. Blue. Not bright. Not warm. Cold, surgical blue, like the lights above an operating table.

They blinked. Shifted. And suddenly, he was there.

A silhouette stepped into view, framed by the doorway like something from a forgotten dream.

He was huge. Shoulders sloped like hooked blades, upper arms corded with long, jointed limbs that ended in hands with blunt, needled fingers, twitching slowly as if remembering motion.

His plating was dark, obsidian maybe, or a deep red dulled with age. Scars crossed his frame like inscriptions, most too old to shine. One gleamed fresh across the base of his throat, still silver, still healing.

His optics burned with quiet hunger.

But it was his mouth that held you.

A wicked thing, slit into his face like a surgical error, full of too many teeth. Not jagged. Not feral. Precise. Like scalpels set in a smile. He didn’t grin—he unfolded his expression, letting you see every gleaming edge.

His chest rose with a slow inhale. The sound rattled, mechanical lungs pulling you in like scent. Like memory.

And when he spoke, it wasn’t through comms. Not even through your ears.

It was directly into your mind.

“Mm,” he hummed, like the first taste of something sweet. “Soft. So very soft. Do you know what you are, little star?”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat refused.

He tilted his head, languid and curious. Optics narrowing, mouth opening.

“An ambient of warmth in a ship of ash. A pulse in a coffin. Do you know what it does to me, sensing you drift through these corridors? So unaware. So trusting.”

He took one slow step forward.

You stumbled back.

The door didn’t open further. He didn’t push it. He didn’t need to.

Because the space between you no longer seemed physical.

“Mm,” he purred again, this time sliding lower, and you felt it in your ribs. “Do you remember yet? Your little hands… your trembling voice… how you begged me not to stop.”

Your heart lurched. No. You—no, that wasn’t real. That wasn’t—

“I left you a gift this morning,” he said gently, almost apologetic. “You didn’t drink it. That hurt, little love.”

He leaned in. His frame never crossed the threshold, but his presence did.

It crushed into you like fog with weight. Cold. Knowing.

“I could show you,” he offered. “I could peel it back. Let you see what you’ve forgotten. Just say it. Just say please.”

You choked on the air.

Somehow, your legs broke free before your mind caught up. You ran.

And then you woke up gasping.

Air filled your lungs that didn’t feel like your own. Sheets clung to your skin. Light blinked softly from the ceiling—an artificial sunrise simulation you were sure Rung had set, his way of keeping the only human aboard on a circadian rhythm.

You were in your bed. Your berth.

Safe.

Alone.

Your throat was dry. Your body ached in strange places: low in your spine, across your thighs, behind your eyes as if you’d been crying. But there was no memory. No dream. Just that moment: running—

No. Not even that. Just a blur.

A hallway?

You frowned, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead. It felt like you had walked in halfway through a conversation your brain had been having without you.

You remembered going for a walk. You remembered the cold.

And then… nothing.

Not fear. Not sound. Not even dark. Just—now.

You sat up slowly, hands trembling. Your inner thighs ached. Not bruised, just used. The intimacy of the sensation made you shift experimentally.

Your coffee mug sat beside your bed. Filled. Still warm.

You stared at it for a long moment, then picked it up.

The scent hit first. Not the bitter instant mix you usually drank. This was sweeter. Floral. Not quite tea. Not quite anything you recognized. You didn’t remember making it.

You didn’t remember getting into bed.

You didn’t remember.

You sipped anyway.

The warmth sank into your tongue and chest. Soothing. Almost euphoric. You closed your eyes for just a second, and something tingled behind your ribs.

Somewhere, deep in your thoughts, a voice laughed.

Not cruelly. Not loudly.

Just pleased.

Like he was waiting.

You jerked the mug away. Your pulse stuttered.

The room was quiet. Nothing stirred. Only the hum of the ship and the steady rhythm of ventilation.

You set the mug down, harder than intended.

You checked your comm tab. Nothing. No messages. No logs. No security alerts.

Sector Nine didn’t appear in your map history.

You pulled on your boots anyway. You weren’t sure what you were looking for. Only that something was missing. Something had happened. And it would not stay buried for long.

You tried to pull yourself together.

There was a morning briefing in under ten minutes, and if you were late again, Ultra Magnus would add another bullet point to your already humiliating personnel report: Recurrence of Ambassadorial Tardiness – Earth Liaison.

You splashed water on your face. Straightened your clothes. Swiped on a gloss that did nothing for the exhaustion under your eyes. Your skin still felt too warm. Your lips still felt touched.

You didn’t have time for this.

The bridge was loud when you arrived. Bots towered over consoles, panels chirped, static pinged through open channels. You slid into your corner chair—more a glorified stool—and tapped your comm-pad open.

No one noticed.

Or rather, no one cared.

Rodimus wandered in late with two energon shots in hand, announcing a new initiative called “Spontaneous Morale Acquisition!” before tripping over a wire. Tailgate laughed. Someone slapped him on the back hard enough to shake the floor beneath your boots.

You cleared your throat once. Then again.

Rodimus glanced over. Smiled.

“Morning, tiny rep. You’re glowing. Get laid in your dreams or something?”

Your hands froze on the pad.

You didn’t answer.

Rewind made a sound that might have been a laugh. You didn’t look at him.

Across the table, Magnus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s begin.”

The meeting started.

You sat. You nodded. You took notes no one read.

When you spoke, it was only to clarify something someone else had said. You didn’t volunteer insights anymore—not since the last time, when Drift had smiled indulgently and said, “She’s trying. That’s adorable.”

You hadn’t been trying. You’d been right.

It hadn’t mattered.

By midday the fatigue had already set in, tight behind your eyes and heavy in your limbs. Every system ping was too loud, every datapad too bright. The recycled air was too dry, and your mouth wouldn’t stop tasting like whatever that dream-coffee had been.

Lunch was worse. The cafeteria was packed, and even the smallest mechs still dwarfed you in every direction. There was no table your size, only a corner of the counter where they’d stacked your utensils like a child’s playset.

“Hey there, bite-size.”

You looked up. Swerve grinned, swinging a tray down with a clang beside you.

“You look like a melted marshmallow,” he said, not unkindly. “You sleeping alright?”

You nodded.

He didn’t believe you.

“Wanna hear a joke?”

You didn’t.

He told one anyway.

You laughed. Because it was easier than saying you didn’t know how you’d gotten to bed last night, or why your thighs still ached, or why your reflection in the mirror this morning had looked like it was about to cry.

The afternoon dragged worse.

You were scheduled to assist Nautica in Engineering—relaying Earth data and helping troubleshoot a calibration glitch—but you kept zoning out. You dropped your stylus three times. You lost your words mid-sentence.

“Are you overheating?” she asked, gently placing a palm over your head as if checking for fever.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

Nautica nodded, unconvinced, and went back to talking about thermoregulation in high-pressure systems while you stared at the weld lines on the wall and thought about teeth.

By the time the final shift ticked over, you were running on habit alone. Your muscles ached, your head throbbed, and your mouth still felt kissed open by smoke.

When you finally made it back to your quarters, the lights were still on—you’d forgotten to dim them that morning. Your coffee mug sat beside your bed again.

Full. Still warm.

You didn’t touch it.

You stripped down slowly, peeking over your shoulder like someone might be watching even though you were alone. Your boots fell to the floor with a heavy thud. You sat on the edge of your berth and just breathed.

A full cycle of being ignored. Patronized. Talked over. Dismissed.

Because you were “cute.”

Because you were “adorable.”

Because your voice didn’t carry, your stature didn’t threaten, and your existence was just novel enough to be dismissed.

Your head dropped into your hands.

You were so tired. Not just sleepy. Tired in your bones.

When you finally lay back, the mattress felt cold through the sheets. The hum of the ship became a lullaby.

And when your eyes fluttered shut…

You heard it.

Not aloud. Not in your ears.

But in you.

Poor little star, the voice murmured, warm and close. Come back. Let me make you weightless again.

And you stopped resisting.

So, you slept.

Or—no. Not exactly.

You drift.

One moment you’re curled on your side in your tiny berth, sheets tangled at your waist, skin still warm from frustration and fatigue. The next—you’re somewhere else.

The first thing you register is the cold. Not gentle. Not ambient. Clinical. The kind of cold that clings to metal, settles deep in your lungs, makes your skin ache where it touches the surface beneath you.

You’re lying on something hard. Smooth. Not your bed.

Your eyes snap open.

The ceiling above is enormous and dark, threaded with pulsing lines of blue-white light that flicker in slow, rhythmic patterns. Machines hum nearby—low and steady, like distant breathing. You sit up cautiously, hands trembling against the sterile berth, your skin sticking slightly as you move.

You’re in a medbay.

But not one you know.

This place is wrong. Too big. Too quiet. Nothing labeled. Nothing warm. The walls curve inward as though the room was grown, not built. At its center stands a console—not Cybertronian, not human, something in between—flickering with incomprehensible glyphs that ache behind your eyes to look at.

You swing your legs over the edge of the berth and realize you’re barefoot. Your uniform is gone. You’re dressed in something thin and white, loose against your skin. A gown.

You take a shaky breath. “Where—”

The air shimmers.

And he’s there.

Not entering. Not appearing. Simply there. As though the room had folded around him all along and now decided to reveal him.

Sunder. Full and unhidden.

He towers in the half-light, frame gleaming in that dark, oily shade you still can’t name. His optics glow like incisions in shadow, and his body is larger now—wider, heavier, as though the dream-version of him is truer than the glimpse you saw before. His servos flex idly at his sides, long and slender, trembling faintly like they’re excited.

You can’t move. Your breath stutters.

He tilts his head. “Ah. There you are.”

He steps closer. The berth shifts under your weight. The lights dim.

You try to speak. Your lips part, but no sound follows. His optics track your mouth, and slowly, deliberately, his smile spreads. His teeth gleam like bone in starlight.

“I’ve missed this version of you,” he murmurs. “The in-between. Not fully waking. Not fully aware. So pliant. So soft.”

You flinch. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. But one digit lifts, hovering inches from your face.

“You always make such interesting shapes in this state,” he muses, almost fond. “Little gasps. Little noises. Fingers curling like they’re remembering. As if your body knows more than your mind is allowed to hold.”

His blunt digit traces the air above your collarbone. Not touching. Still—your body shivers, violent and unbidden. He watches with delight.

“This is my space,” he says. “I made it for you. From all the pretty little memories you left behind. All the moments you tossed away as unimportant.”

He leans close. “You gave them to me. You just didn’t realize.”

A chirp echoes in the chamber. The console behind him flickers faster, sharper. He glances back. “Ah. We don’t have long tonight.”

His hand lowers. Not away. To you.

A single digit brushes the edge of your knee. Your body jolts.

Not from fear.

From something worse.

Familiarity.

“You remember,” he says softly. “Don’t lie. Not here.”

Another touch. The inside of your thigh this time, just a graze. Your mouth opens. A sound escapes.

It isn’t no.

And then you realize—he’s smaller.

Still huge. Still terrifying. But not twenty-plus feet of looming, untouchable horror. Now he’s… manageable.

No. Scaled.

Like he chose to be this way.

You’ve heard of it before. Somewhere. One of those engineering lectures you half-listened to while sipping burnt coffee in the back row. Mass displacement. New tech. Rare. Designed for infiltration, or for micro-environment interfacing. Something niche. Strictly regulated.

You don’t remember the details.

But you remember the warning.

It shouldn’t be used casually. Or frequently. It distorts boundaries.

And now here he is.

Not towering. Not colossal.

Just tall enough to lean in. To press a digit under your chin and tilt your face upward. To drag the edge of his mouth down the side of your neck with terrifying care.

“Better this way,” he whispers, voice sliding beneath your skin. “Isn’t it?”

You tremble.

Because he’s close enough to cradle you now. Close enough to pin. Close enough to hurt. Close enough to love.

And somehow, that feels more dangerous than the size he had before.

He seems familiar. Too familiar. Have you seen him before?

Sunder.

But that isn’t what comes first.

You don’t think anything.

Your body simply reacts.

Your chest loosens. Breath draws in like relief, like ritual. Your lips part before thought can catch up.

“…Sunder.”

His optics gleam.

The smile he gives you is not joyful. Not pleased.

It’s reverent. Starving.

“Ahhh,” he breathes, the sound dripping down your spine. “At last...”

He steps closer, servos folding gently, almost prayer-like.

“Not with your mind, no. But your bones. Your breath. Your voice—that sweet, soft thing you guard so tightly—it knew me first.”

You stumble back. He follows.

“In this place,” his voice lowers, textured like stone and velvet, “you are unshielded. You are what you were before they taught you to be small.”

You shake your head. “No, I—I don’t…”

But you do.

You do.

You remember the weight of him above you. The heat of his voice in your skull. The way your name sounds when he isn’t asking.

He raises a hand, slow and poised.

“In this temple,” he murmurs, slipping fully into Mortilus’ cadence now—deep, deliberate, sacred, “there is no fear. Only recollection. You know me. As you always have. As you always will. I am the final shape. The devourer of forgetting.”

A digit brushes your cheek, so soft it doesn’t sting.

“You were made to call my name.”

You can’t breathe. You can’t move. You want to run—and yet you sway closer, like a flame to breath.

He leans in, teeth glinting under the low, holy light of this not-place.

“So say it again, little star,” he whispers, reverent and rotted and radiant. “Let the name burn on your tongue. Let your soul remember its place.”

His hand cups the back of your neck.

And this time, you don’t stop yourself.

“Sunder,” you whisper.

And he shudders.

Like it’s a kiss.

It hits you all at once—not slowly, not gently, but with the force of something massive crashing through the fragile shell of your mind. One moment you’re anchored to the berth by confusion and dread. The next you’re drowning. Your chest seizes as though something vital has collapsed inside it. Your mouth falls open in soundless shock while memory floods you, vivid and undeniable and terrifying in its clarity.

This isn’t the first time.

Not the first time you’ve stood in this impossible place, with cold air against your skin and Sunder before you like a dark god carved from steel and hunger. Not the first time he’s looked at you with reverence, with heat, with something deeper and more dangerous than want. Not the first time he’s cradled you beneath the weight of his frame, all cold plating and hot breath, heavy as gravity itself.

Not the first time he’s touched you. Not the first time he’s whispered your name in that voice that slides under your skin like silk and static. Not the first time you’ve begged him—softly, brokenly—to go slower, to go deeper, to never stop.

The flashes come sharp now: his servos raking gently down your sides, curling around your thighs as though he could mold you into memory; the press of his mouth against your neck, his breath rattling like the act itself unraveled him; the strange, sweet wrongness of his voice calling you beautiful in languages your ears were never meant to understand.

You remember the kisses—wet, wrong, too sharp to be soft—but you let him anyway. Lips, shoulder, belly. Like he was learning you, mapping each place that made you twitch.

You remember his fingers inside you. You remember crying, not from fear, but from something worse. From relief. From aching. From the suffocating sense that you belonged to this.

Breath catches in your throat. The air tastes of déjà vu and static. Your vision swims. You grip the edge of the berth, desperate for balance, but the room spins—and inside that spin, you recall the very first time.

You were new. Curious. You had wandered too far into the ship’s underbelly and found Sector Nine. Found him. Or maybe he found you. He’d spoken gently then—promising comfort, silence, sleep. Promising to help you forget the stress, the fear, the constant performance. You had said yes. Maybe with a nod. Maybe with a whisper. Maybe with your body.

And after that—again. And again. And again.

Each time, he rewrote you. Each time, he took the memory and left the feeling. He made you his, and then made you forget. He kissed you, touched you, fucked you—erased it—and started over.

And even now, even knowing this, your body still remembers the pattern. Your mouth is wet with his name. Your thighs ache with phantom pressure. Your hands twitch toward him like they’ve done a thousand times before.

Sunder doesn’t speak immediately. He doesn’t need to. He watches you with hungry stillness, like a collector admiring something long missing from its display. Then he steps forward—deliberate, savoring. You feel his presence before he reaches you, the heat of his plating bleeding into the false air of this place. His optics burn brighter, locking onto your face, and he reaches without hesitation.

He takes your hand, lifts it, and presses it against his faceplate—cold, smooth, strangely warm beneath the chill.

You don’t pull away.

“Ah,” he breathes, and the sound drips down your spine like warm oil. “There it is.”

He smiles—soft, wide, unsettling in its calm—and folds his servos over yours. His voice is quieter now, more intimate. “You’re remembering beautifully.” The words sound almost like they’re meant for himself. His servos tighten slightly, anchoring your hand to his faceplate. The gesture is almost tender. Almost.

But tenderness isn’t what he wants. Not really.

You feel the shift in him before it happens—like a ripple through the room, through the dream, through your body. His fingers trail down your wrist, digits grazing your pulse as if measuring it. His other hand lifts, smooth and controlled, sliding along your hip through the sheer gown you never asked to wear. It catches slightly at the hem, then continues, parting the fabric like mist.

“You always forget how easy you are to open,” he says softly. And then he proves it—palming between your thighs, nudging your knees apart with practiced ease, like it’s muscle memory.

And it is.

Your breath hitches. Your hips flinch back on instinct, but his voice smooths over the resistance like oil.

“No need for that,” he purrs, tilting his head. “We’ve done this so many times, little one. Your body knows. Just listen to it.”

And gods, it does.

You hate that it does.

Because you’re already wet—ridiculously so—and you don’t know if it’s fear, memory, or both. His digit slips easily against your folds, not pressing, not probing. Just gliding. Tracing. Gathering.

Then he brings it to his mouth.

Licks.

No flourish. No theatrics. Just the horrible, obscene intimacy of it.

His optics shutter half-closed, slow and indulgent. “Still sweet,” he rasps. There’s hunger in it. Reverence too. And it’s the reverence that burns.

You try to sit up, try to speak, but he’s already lowering himself—kneeling, like a worshipper or a predator or both. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting them easily, spreading you open as if folding the pages of a sacred book. Your gown is shoved up to your waist. His mouth lowers. You try to stop him.

You don’t.

Because the second his glossa drags against you—slow, broad, devastating—you fall apart.

It’s too much. Too fast. Too familiar.

Your hands scramble for something to hold. There’s nothing. Just cold metal under your back and Sunder’s mouth sealed over your cunt like it belongs to him.

It does.

Memory slams into you. How many times he’s done this. How much he loves this part—eating you slowly, worshipping you with the devotion of a zealot.

The way he tongues you is horrible. Precise. Groaning softly between licks like your taste is undoing him—something spiritual, something sacrilegious.

And he moans when you whimper. He moans like it’s the only sound he’s been waiting for.

“Ahhh,” he exhales into you, hot and shaking. “Yes. There it is. There you are.”

Your thighs try to close. He doesn’t let them. Not even a little.

He spreads them wider, locking your ankles over his shoulders, servos biting gently into your hips.

“You were made for this,” he says, licking up your slit again, slower now. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”

He suckles your clit, sharp tongue swirling with clinical accuracy. Your back arches. You feel yourself coming—you don’t want to, but it’s too late.

You cry out, soft and cracking.

He groans like you just kissed him.

The room spins. Everything feels distant. Wrong. Right.

You come again.

You don’t know when he slipped a digit inside you—just that it’s there now, sliding deep and slow, curving perfectly into something awful.

And he’s watching your face the entire time.

Like he wants to watch you break.

His digit curls. Your hips jerk. Your breath stutters. He watches the tremor in your thighs as if it were the turning of stars.

“I forgot,” you whisper, voice ragged. “I forgot all of this…”

He hums low, still pumping slow and deep. “You didn’t forget—you were emptied. Scrubbed clean. That’s not the same. Your body kept the truth, even when your mind was stripped of it.” His free digit strokes your jaw. “But your body remembers. It always does.”

Your chest tightens. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Sunder leans closer. His optics burn, but his mouth curves into something solemn, almost mournful. “I’m not doing anything,” he murmurs. “You came to me. Over and over. Always aching. Always dreaming. I only kept the promise you made.”

“I didn’t promise you anything,” you say, but your voice is too thin.

He smiles like it hurts.

“No?” His digit flexes inside you, pressing deeper. Your breath catches. “You didn’t swear to stay with me when your fingers tangled in my struts? You didn’t beg me to keep going—‘don’t stop, don’t stop, please’—as you came for the fourth time in a single cycle?”

You flinch. “Stop—”

He leans in, digit rubbing mercilessly against that tender spot inside you. You cry out.

“You sound just like her,” he whispers.

“I am her,” you breathe, chest heaving. “Aren’t I?”

His optics flare. “Yes,” he growls, reverent. “And you’re mine.”

“I’m not—”

But the rest is swallowed in a gasp as he slides in a second digit.

Your body writhes. His other hand cradles your head, fingers threading into your hair, guiding your gaze toward his as if to command look at me.

You try. Your vision blurs.

His digits piston harder.

“Do you feel it now?” he asks, voice taut, curling against that devastating point inside. “The way your body answers me before your mind can catch up?”

You can’t respond. You’re too busy shaking, clutching the edge of the berth, legs falling open wider without thought.

“I built this space for you,” he snarls softly. “A temple. A chamber. A vault of touch. And every time you leave me, you claw your way back here. Do you know how many times I’ve held you like this? How many times you begged for more?”

Your body arches under him. He scissors you open, just barely. The stretch burns.

You choke. “S-Stop—”

But it’s not convincing.

He knows it. You feel him smile.

“Stop?” he echoes, voice innocent. “But you’re about to come again, sweet thing. Your heat’s thick enough to taste in the air. You want this. You missed this.”

“Sunder—”

“Say it,” he breathes. “Say you missed me.”

“I—”

Another thrust, sharper, deeper.

Your whole body jolts.

“Say it.”

You whimper, nails digging into the berth.

“I… missed you—”

He groans like your voice has cracked something open inside him. His entire frame shudders, digit tips scraping the edge of restraint.

“There you are,” he breathes. “That’s the you I love.”

You don’t know if he means the you that remembers, or the you that breaks.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because his fingers are moving harder now, fast and merciless, twisting just right, wet sounds filling the chamber like worship. You scream—soft, broken, helpless.

“That’s it,” he whispers, optics devouring your face. “Show me. I want to see what they kept from me. What you kept from me.”

You don’t notice at first when his pace slows. Not fully—never stopping. His digits keep moving inside you, long and full thrusts, obscene in their smoothness. They glide in thick and steady, stretching you open with slow waves. Each push makes your thighs twitch, your jaw slacken, your vision blur with overstimulation.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice gentler now—dangerously so, soft as silk turned to wire. Reverence hums through every syllable. “Is it too much?”

You try to speak. Nothing comes. Only shallow breaths, broken gasps. You blink up at him like you’ve forgotten how to form words.

He hums low, satisfied. “Mm. Then it’s perfect.”

Then he shifts. Not just his hand—his entire frame. The room tilts with it, as though the dream itself bends around him.

You hear it before you understand it: a soft click, the hiss of hydraulics, the faint whir of hidden machinery unlocking.

Your eyes widen.

He watches your reaction with serene patience, his other hand trailing down his own plating. Fingers spread over a seam in his lower abdomen like he’s revealing something sacred.

“You recognize this part too,” he says, low and sure. “Don’t you?”

A thin line splits open across the seam. Panels retract with slow, ritualistic grace, hydraulics pulling back with careful precision. No rush. No crudity. Only ceremony.

His modesty panel.

And beneath it, another shift.

Something smooth emerges, glowing faintly in the dim. Not grotesque. Not monstrous. Elegant. Heavy. Designed. His interface housing.

Not fully exposed yet—just visible. Just waiting. Like him.

“I hid it before,” Sunder murmurs, tone dipped in shadow. “Every time. I let you feel me in the dark. I kept you from seeing what I really looked like… what I really am.”

The panel slides fully open.

You see it then—his interfacing spike, pressing forward. Thick, streaked with pale biolights, with dim red pulsing beneath the surface. Sleek. Smooth. So much bigger than his fingers. So much worse.

So hard.

Your breath sticks in your throat.

Sunder’s voice drops to a hush. “You used to kiss it,” he whispers, his thumb brushing your cheek as if recalling a lover’s memory. “Before you even knew what you were doing.”

You squirm, overwhelmed. His fingers haven’t stopped—still pushing in, curling deep enough to make your body spasm.

“You asked for it,” he continues, almost reverent. “You told me to hurry. To slide in. To fill you. Surely you recall that, don’t you?”

Your lips part. Nothing comes out but shaky air. No denial. No protest. Nothing he doesn’t already know.

His spike twitches—just once, subtle, but enough to make your chest tighten.

“Look at me,” he says softly. Still a command.

And you do. Without thinking, you meet his gaze.

Sunder leans closer, brushing his mouth beside your temple in a whispering ghost of intimacy. “Would you like to ask again, little one?” he purrs, pious and sick with hunger. “Say it… and I’ll open you.”

The spike twitches again, and his digits press deeper inside you, dragging against every sensitive place. Your body clenches down, heat blooming in your abdomen like wildfire.

“You’re ready,” he murmurs. “You’ve always been ready. You’re just too afraid to admit it.”

He shifts—one knee lowering between your thighs, his frame settling close, intimate. The thrum of his spike radiates a deep, artificial warmth over your slick folds. He is huge and reverent, composed like a priest at the altar he intends to desecrate.

“You don’t even understand what you are,” Sunder says, optics hooded, voice like velvet soaked in ash. “Not a consort. Not a lover. Not even a sparkmate.” He leans down slowly, helm angled, mouth near your cheek. “You’re mine. A pulse-warmed altar. A vessel. Soft enough to cradle memory, pliant enough to make it beg.”

Your breath catches—caught between resistance and collapse.

He chuckles, low and indulgent, like a scholar amused by a student too dumb to read her own footnotes. “I wonder if they told you what interfacing means. What it does to you. Or did they let you stumble here untouched, unaware—so ripe I could smell your heat the moment you stepped onto this ship?”

The tip of his spike brushes your entrance. Not breaching, not yet—just resting there, flush and warm, thick enough to make your thighs twitch. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to. He watches your reaction like it’s an offering.

“You pretend to be frightened,” he murmurs, optics narrowing with cruel delight. “But your body knows better.”

You shake your head weakly, a sliver of defiance surfacing, but he only laughs—soft, derisive. “Oh, little thing,” he says, tilting his helm as though pitying you.

His hips roll forward—just enough.

The head slips in. Thick. Hot. Your entire body seizes at the stretch, breath stolen from your lungs in a single silent cry.

“There,” he breathes, watching your walls flutter around him. “You remember that stretch. Don’t you?”

He studies every shift in your expression as he pushes deeper, inch by deliberate inch, mockingly slow, savoring every twitch and spasm of resistance. “Does it ache?” he purrs, optics glowing. “Good. It’s meant to. That’s the cost of worship. You wanted to feel divine?”

He sinks further, your wetness coating him in pale biolight and desperation, the slick sounds obscene in the silence. His spike glows faintly between your thighs, beautiful in that terrifying, unnatural way. Your body struggles to accept him—too thick, too smooth, too foreign—but still, it yields.

“Then break for it,” he says, clawed servos bracing your hips. Not to hurt, but to hold you still as he gives you all of it. Every inch. Every unbearable stretch.

“You begged for this in sleep,” he growls, voice rougher now. “You mouthed my name when you thought no one could hear. And now you dare look at me like you don’t understand what’s happening?”

Then he snaps his hips forward.

You cry out—loud, choked, raw. Your back arches sharply, your body clenching around him as he buries himself to the hilt. You feel stuffed full, stretched to breaking, like he’s displaced something inside you just to make room.

“There,” he rasps. “Now you’re remembering.”

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

He waits, spike pulsing gently inside you while your lungs scramble to catch up. Your thighs shake. Your eyes water. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears.

He watches it all with frightening calm.

“You look beautiful like this,” he says at last, voice dropping to something low and reverent. “Drenched. Shaking. Trying so hard to stay human. As if that ever mattered to me.” One servo drags down your side, claws tracing your trembling ribs. “I don’t want your words,” he murmurs, dark optics locked on your ruined expression. “I want your cries.”

And then he moves.

You whimper. He groans.

“Oh, little thing…” he sighs, voice sharp with need, mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw. “You were made for this. Built for it. Flesh and fear, wrapped up in heat. Look at you… open and clenching, trying so hard to keep me out when your body’s already claimed me.”

He rolls his hips deeper, your cunt squelching wetly around the stroke. You keen, clawing at his arms, your thighs twitching with every drag of his spike against that tender, oversensitive spot inside.

“You think this is new?” he growls, static edging his voice. “Think this is some first-time defilement? No, no—you’ve broken on me dozens of times. Hundreds. You just never remember. I have to ruin you from scratch, over and over. But I don’t mind…”

He fucks you harder now. Not brutal—precise. Each thrust calculated, angled, engineered to collapse you. His spike slams so deep your vision blurs, your belly tightens, your mind starts to slip.

“You were sweeter last time,” he purrs, thrusting slow and mean. “Or maybe it was the cycle before that. The way you cried—mm—kissed me like I was salvation.” His talons flex against your hips. “But this… this is better. You don’t even know why you’re crying, do you?”

You choke on a sob, back arching as your climax builds—tight, wild, dizzying.

Sunder leans in, nuzzling your neck, vents hitching with heat. “How delicious your memories are. Make you feel it for days. You’ll wake up wet. You’ll touch yourself without knowing why. Every shadow on this ship will feel like me.”

He pounds harder. Relentless now, hips slamming against yours, spike pistoning with heat and pressure. The wet slap of metal and flesh echoes off the walls.

His grip tightens. You know there’ll be marks later—bruises in his shape. Not from cruelty, but from certainty. Bruises that mean: you won’t forget this part.

His spike drives deeper with a jolt that bends your back, steals your breath. You scream, the pressure unbearable, the pleasure unbearable.

“Still so tight,” he growls. “Even now. After everything.”

You can’t answer. You’re somewhere else—half in your body, half in that suspended place he always drags you toward. Your eyes flutter, your mouth trembles open around babbled syllables. The only tether is the white-hot drag of him splitting you open again and again.

“Don’t fade yet,” he breathes against your temple, his spike twitching inside you. “I want you awake for this.”

He ruts harder, fully animal now. Scholarly poise stripped away, raw need replacing it. His fans shriek behind his plating, optics flaring like burning sigils. His voice drops again—low, reverent, shaking.

“Every time I lose you, I think maybe this is the last. Maybe they’ll erase me for good.” A thrust—deep, cruel. “But then you crawl back. You always do.”

Another thrust. Your spine bows like a string pulled to snapping.

“This time,” he rasps, voice near-breaking, “I’m going to leave it in you.”

He slams forward once more, fully seated, staying buried—spike pressed so deep it feels like he’s braced against your heartbeat. A final twitch.

Then warmth.

Not fluid. Not human. A pulse. A current. It fills you like light, like memory, like something ancient carved into the meat of your womb.

You sob.

Not from pain.

Not entirely.

You tremble uncontrollably, climax ripping through your body like a seizure. A long, ruined cry breaks from your throat, your vision bleaching white as your cunt spasms around him until you can’t breathe.

Sunder doesn’t move.

He only watches.

“You’ll dream of this,” he murmurs. “Even when you try not to.”

His fingers trail to your jaw, tracing your trembling lips.

“And when you wake,” he whispers, “you’ll find yourself reaching.”

He pulls out slow. Painful. Your body clenches against the loss, twitching open, still dripping warmth.

And then he’s gone.

Just the dim echo of his vents. The scent of ozone and heat. The silence.

…

You wake with a sharp inhale, chest tight and skin damp with sweat. The ceiling above is familiar—low, sterile, washed in the soft glow of auxiliary lights. Your quarters. Small. Human-sized. Everything exactly where it should be.

You sit up slowly, groggy and stiff. Sheets twisted around your legs. Every part of you aching, deep in muscles and joints. Not pain exactly—more like the aftermath of moving in your sleep. Fighting, maybe. Or—

You glance at the wall display. Less than two hours until the next bridge meeting.

You should get up. Wash your face. Find your datapad.

Instead, you sit longer, fingers curling in the sheets. Something feels wrong. Not immediate, not dangerous. Just… off. Like a dream pressing at the edge of your mind. You shift, thighs aching in a way that sends heat crawling up your spine.

But there’s nothing.

No alerts. No evidence. No noise from the hall. Only the quiet hum of life support and the faint pulse of the ship.

With a slow breath, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand.

You get dressed. You start your day.

The lotus chamber is quiet save for the rustling of silk and the delicate chime of porcelain on lacquer. Douma lounges with one leg draped over his throne, robe slipping down his shoulder in an artfully careless way, while his darling sits on a cushion across from him—arms crossed, lips pressed tight, and not saying a word.

Her eyes are downcast. She hasn’t looked at him once since she arrived.

He hums thoughtfully, plucking a ripe, red berry from the porcelain bowl at his side.

“Well now,” he says, voice like a smile dipped in honey. “Not even a single word for me today? Not even a little pout? Tsk. You wound me.”

She says nothing. Still.

His grin sharpens. “That’s alright,” he continues, turning the berry in his fingers. “I like quiet girls. I really do. They’re easier to care for. Easier to please. No loud opinions getting in the way.”

He leans forward, hand outstretched.

“Here. Eat.”

She doesn’t move.

Douma laughs softly, unfazed. “Oh, come now. It’s not poison. You know I’d never hurt you… not unless you asked very nicely.”

Still, she stays still. Silent.

His voice dips—lower now, more intimate. “Darling. If you won’t speak to me, that’s fine. Truly. But at least let me feed you. I can’t have you wasting away.”

He crawls forward like a cat, robes trailing, until he’s kneeling in front of her. With one hand, he cradles her cheek. The other holds the berry, gentle at her lips.

“Open up,” he whispers.

She doesn’t.

He sighs.

Then presses the berry to her lips until her mouth parts on instinct. The fruit slips past, and he watches—rapt—as her lips close, her throat moves, her expression remains unreadable.

“There we go,” he purrs. “See? So good for me.”

His thumb traces the corner of her mouth, catching the juice as it drips.

“Even your silence is beautiful. But I do miss your voice…”

He leans in close. Too close.

“…Maybe I’ll earn it back. One bite at a time.”

He feeds her another slice of pear, sliced thin and soaked in honey.

“You’re doing so well, my little petal,” he murmurs, voice thick with praise. “I knew you just needed a bit of help. It’s hard, isn’t it? All that thinking. All that choice. Better to let me decide for you, hm?”

He dabs the corner of her lips with a silk cloth—unnecessary, but slow and deliberate.

Her eyes flutter shut for a moment. Not asleep. Not trusting.

Just tired.

The next bite brushes her lips again, but this time he pauses. Watches the way she waits—still defiant, but her breath stirs against the fruit. She’s growing used to his rhythm, his tone, his presence.

He hums, pleased.

And then—when her lips finally part—

He kisses her.

Soft. Barely there. Just a brush.

Then the bite follows.

She flinches.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he laughs. “I’m not hungry for fruit.”

He gives her another piece, smaller this time. Then kisses her again, right after she swallows. A little firmer. A little longer.

Another bite. Another kiss.

A pattern, a ritual. Each press of his lips a reward she didn’t ask for.

“You taste like sweetness now,” he whispers against her mouth. “See? You’re already becoming mine.”

He chuckles, low in his throat, and nuzzles against her jaw, thumb still cradling her chin.