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newtype-difference · 1 month

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Your mission is simple: provide fire support from a distance while your comrades engage the primary target. You've been specifically chosen for this job. You've always excelled in long-range engagements, and this is a perfect opportunity to stress test the prototype long-range cannon your sponsor has been developing. You don't know the name of it, you were just given the machine and told to make it work. A piece of cake for you, given your experience.

The cannon you were told to use is heavy. Heavier than anything your suit has ever carried before. There's a twinge of worry that the servos and joints might buckle under the weight, but you trust your machine to carry you and the payload to your destination. It always has.

You arrive at your sniper's nest and prepare the cannon for firing. This thing is massive. The barrel is long, and thick, made of high-quality alloys that even you can't quite recognise. The firing mechanism and bolt action nature of it is simple, yet powerful. Setting this up on the ground is like assembling a mortar. Multiple pieces, big and small, but all forming to make something so much bigger than the sum of it's parts.

You revel in the sounds and feel of the assembly - the clicking and snapping of smaller parts, the sound of friction when metal slides on metal, the delicate nature of it all. There's no way a pilot can do this on their own without their mech, the machinery is simply too large and complex. You work alongside your suit, controlling it as the optical scanner guides your vision and thought process. It is the mind, and you are the hands.

Within minutes, you are finished the assembly. Faster than anyone else could have ever hoped to do it. There's a while longer before the mission is set to start, so you take some time to appreciate this machine of war. Trace the fingers of your mech's hands along it, and feel the grooves and imperfections through the haptic feedback of your controls. Inspect the bolt, the cartridge that holds your ammunition, the scope, everything. Everything about this is perfect to you. It's like this was made specifically for you to use. It's beautiful. It's love, and it's hurt, and it's yours.

It's almost time.

You lay the cannon on the ground, with the tripod attacked to the barrel sticking into the dirt. You use the mech as an extension of yourself in order to position yourself comfortably. Your legs fall to each side of the cannon as you lay above it, almost as if you intend to mount it. Your feet dig into the ground, preparing yourself for the inevitable recoil that firing this artillery will bring. Your knees fall to the ground, for further stability, and your body is mere inches away from touching the hardened steel of this machine below you. Your dominant hand reaches for the trigger, and your free hand holds the top of the barrel down to prevent it from flying away when you fire. You position your head perfectly in line with the scope, and you can see your allies now engaging with the target. You are ready to fire.

Your breath is shaky, heavy and getting faster. This is... exciting. You can't wait to pull the trigger and see how much damage this cannon will do. You're already thinking of names to give it, of how to modify it to make it more reliable, of how to make it yours. All yours. Your eyes are trained on the target, and you're listening to the comms channel for your order to fire, though your focus only allows you to parse half of what is being said.

Finally, you hear the order. Through half-understood chatter, you hear a loud and stern "fire". You pull the trigger.

Time slows.

First, you feel the recoil of the firing mechanism pushing back against you.

Then, the deafening, piercing sound of the combustion that propels the bullet forwards towards your target.

The cannon pushes back against you and pushes you both back several feet, leaving a trail of dug-up dirt and sediment around where you and your weapon are planted. You feel the joints of your suit scream against the strain of the sheer force, and the haptic feedback from your controls is going haywire.

Everything hurts. This hurts to use.

But it's worth it. You feel amazing. You feel alive.

A sudden gasp leaves your mouth, and you start breathing heavily. The ringing in your ears, the tingling feeling in your hands, the pain you feel must be the same way your suit feels in this moment. You are as one. You are together.

But there's no time to revel in this feeling. You have a mission to complete. Another round needs to be prepared before your comrades are struck down. This is what you're ultimately here for.

You don't even have a chance to look at the damage this cannon dealt, you simply start reaching for the next cartridge to load.

You pull back the bolt on the cannon, feeling the friction of it sliding against the body of this gargantuan weapon.

The used cartridge falls to the ground, cracked from the force of this machine, with wisps of smoke trailing off of it.

You hastily slide the fresh cartridge in, holding it in place with one hand as you push the bolt forward to lock it in place.

The strained joints of your suit ache and tremble as you use all of your strength to push, and eventually you load the next shot.

The barrel is still red hot, and dangerous to the touch, but you have no choice but to stabilise it like you did before. There's no time to worry if the heat will melt you suit's hand onto this thing. A small part of you wouldn't even mind if it did.

You readjust your sights and focus on the target again, and finally, you can admire the damage that this cannon did. It's a miracle that your shot didn't finish the job, but that's okay. You have plenty more.

This next one should do it.

Once again, your focus is trained on the comms channel, waiting for the firing order.

Breath getting faster, heavier, warmer. Heart beating out of your chest. Feeling pistons, servos, joints, every mechanism of your suit as a part of you.

"Fire"

#mecha #robot #i was having impure thoughts about robots on my walk #tee hee

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saetoru · 1 year

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✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。12:06 AM — SAMPO KOSKI.

notes: friends/acquaintances to lovers, mutual pining but seemingly unrequited love, confessions (kind of lol), happy ending !!, not proof read and also idek if it’s in character but idk i just want to kiss him but he’s also rly punchable so we had to work with that okay

sampo is a bit shameless—it’s what anyone would tell you. personally, you would have to agree.

“so,” he drawls, “how about it, huh? you, me, a fancy little date—”

“no,” you interrupt—it’s immediate, your response, it comes through grit teeth. “you can forget it.”

“alright, alright,” he raises his hands in surrender, “no need to get all aggressive. the sampo koski will change your mind soon enough.”

you’ve lost count how many times he’s asked you this same question. maybe it’s admirable—the way he’s so persistent. maybe it’s dangerous—the way he always gets what he’s after. most people describe sampo koski as an added headache to the already difficult life of the underworld. he’s a bit too lively for his own good, you think. but you’d describe him as pretty words and perfect teeth and cologne that makes your head spin.

you hate it.

“there won’t be any mind changing,” you say promptly.

“oh, c’mon,” he insists, voice effortlessly honeyed and so painfully alluring. “what’s the worst that could happen, huh? we have a good time?” his lips curl into that smile if his. you swallow and look away.

a lot, you want to say. the worst that can happen is a lot.

and it’s easy, you think—to reach over and fix that strand of hair that’s fallen to the wrong side of his face. it’s easy to bump shoulders with him or turn and brush your noses together and feel his hot breath as he exhales.

but that would be toying with overstepping dangerous boundaries, boundaries that are very much set in place by yourself for your own sake. sampo has saved you one too many times from a hard spot—but he’s always managed to disappear just when you think he’s reliable too. he’s too good at bending things in his favor, a little too good at getting what he wants out of everything.

it’s not hard to think what he wants from you—and it’s not hard to imagine him disappearing once again once he’s got it. the difference is you think this time…well, you think this time might just crush you.

“sampo, do you want me to punch you?” you huff, crossing your arms.

it’s late. you’re not sure why he’s gone out of his way to walk you home, but he does and you’re a tad bit grateful. you’d rather not run into a vagrant on your way—and if you do, that’s happily sampo’s problem now.

there’s something about it, about the way he’s dedicated only when there’s something to gain out of it, about the way he’s so sweet and charming as he butters you up with his actions, about the way his smile is gentle around the corners just perfectly to crack your resolve.

he’s so good at what he does—and so painfully bad for your heart. your poor, fragile heart that’s so carefully locked away from his awaiting hand. you think to give it to him would be to hand the devil your soul and trust it’s safety.

you’re not so foolish.

“hey, we’re pals, you and i,” he nudges you with his shoulder. the contact is enough to make your breath pause. “how can you be so cruel?”

there’s a pout on his lips. a perfectly rehearsed, theatrical and conniving pout on his lips that’s meant to add to his charm and chip away at your composure until you give him exactly what he’s after. for a moment, you debate whether or not you’d rather just take on a vagrant or deal with the (very attractive) disaster next to you.

“we’re acquaintances at best,” you purse your lips. “very faintly acquainted acquaintances at that.”

“well that’s just mean,” he gasps, “after all the business deals we’ve had together? i thought i’d be on your good side by now.”

that’s all you think he sees anything as. a good business opportunity. maybe he’s a good friend—he never leaves you for dead and he never really lets you down when you need him most, but perhaps that’s for his own benefit at the end. how else can you have connections if they’re all dead? but you don’t think intimacy is a word sampo uses in his every day vocabulary—much less his every day routine.

“sampo,” you snap, “drop it.”

“hey,” he eyes you, “everything alright?”

you hate that he acts like that—like he cares as his lips curl into that soft frown and his eyes gloss over in concern. it’s so carefully crafted, that mask of his, the one he can turn on to mimic every emotion he might need to fool you that he really cares and he really wants to know if you’re okay.

and you’re not—but he doesn’t need to know that.

“everything would be fine if you quit asking for your stupid date,” you grumble, “cross me off your list for the day.”

he stops walking. you kick yourself for immediately noticing the lack of warmth as soon as he’s not beside you anymore.

“what?”

it’s a simple question. one word. one syllable. yet it says so much. the hurt in his voice, the genuine confusion, the slight shock and the underlying betrayal.

“why’d you stop walking,” you raise a brow, “it’s late and i’m tired—”

“you’re changing the subject,” he cuts you off, “what do you mean list?”

“c’mon sampo, let’s not play this game tonight,” you sigh, “i’m really tired.”

“and what game are we playing?”

“the game of playing dumb,” you snap, and this time, there’s a bit more bite to your words, “the game of asking around to worm your way into everyone’s pants.”

“everyone’s pants? i didn’t know sampo koski had such a reputation,” he chuckles in that playful way of his—but there’s no charm this time, just dryness. “i didn’t know you believed it too.”

“so what am i supposed to believe? that you want to go on a date for fun?”

“that’s usually what people do on dates,” he shrugs, “have fun with people they like.”

he looks a bit wounded. it makes your heart bleed and you don’t like it. his shoulders are slumped and his eyes aren’t looking directly into yours for once—it’s like you’ve peeled off that confidence he wears like a second skin and left something a lot more tender and raw underneath.

something a lot easier to sting with the burn of rejection.

admittedly, you never thought you’d see the day where you’d feel bad for sampo after your rejection. you always thought you’d feel bad for yourself—saying no to everything you want but can’t ever really have. but he makes you feel like he wanted it too….that he’s been craving you just as badly as you’ve been craving him all this time.

“what are you—”

“listen, i….” and then he trails off. like he doesn’t have the right words. like he doesn’t know what he wants to say and has everything he wants to get off his chest all at the same time. like he needs you to know what’s on his mind. in the end, he plasters a grin on his face—one that’s tight and forced as he chuckles, “let’s get ya home, yeah? sampo koski will have you delivered to your door in once piece in no time—”

“sampo,” you sigh, “what do you want from me?”

there’s defeat in your voice. maybe hope. definitely caution.

“a date,” is all he says. “i’ve only ever asked you,” he adds, “if that’s what you’re worried about. no side deals or anything.”

that last part comes with another chuckle that really has no humor at all. it’s dry and empty and maybe even a little bitter.

“look, i appreciate the dedication, but i’d rather not be that fun hook up on the side that—”

“hey! that’s just harsh,” he gasps, “you’d think so lowly of sampo koski? after everything we’ve been through?”

sampo is good at one thing—playing the ever dedicated, ever conniving, ever charming business man. he knows how to lace in sweet words and tempting offers like how the devil whispers sins into your ears. he never cracks, never lets that facade fall even when he’s backed into a corner.

except this time, you don’t think it’s a facade. you think it’s a wall to keep you from noticing the pure heartbreak in his eyes.

it fills you with guilt instantly. it makes you almost hate yourself for not seeing good in him. it makes you feel blind for not noticing all the signs he’s been dropping for so long—signs you know he’s never given anyone else.

who else does he bump shoulders with and walk home in the dark and flick foreheads and make time for even when he’s on a tight schedule? who else gets to hear him talk about his day for just the sake of talking without and not a guise for a deal?

for a second you feel bad—and then you decide that for once, you’ll do something about it.

“sampo koski is always disappearing,” you say softly, taking a step forward, “what if he disappears this time too?”

“sampo koski always comes back,” he reminds you, heart on his sleeve as he meets you half way.

“always?” you ask hopefully.

he nods, like it’s the surest thing he’s promised. “of course.”

“okay, sampo,” you chuckle breathlessly, whether in joy or in disbelief, you’re unsure. maybe both. your hand cups his cheeks and when he leans into it, you decide it’s definitely both. “let’s go on your date. you’re paying.”

“you didn’t have to bring money into it,” he pouts—but the excitement in his voice is almost tangible.

you giggle, squeeze his cheeks together as his hands find your waist. it’s dark and it’s late and you’re tired—but sampo koski is here and nothing else has ever mattered more.

“i expect only the best date from the sampo koski.”

“good,” he grins, charming as ever, a little extra only for you, “because sampo koski never disappoints.”

you kiss him after that. and every day too.

i have been bewitched by the meathead guys 😔

#tee star rail debut ?? i thought my first piece would be blade but it’s taking me 8274 years to meet him. never expected sampo but good god #he gets you when you least expect it #sampo x reader #sampo x you #sampo fluff #sampo koski x reader #sampo koski x you #sampo koski fluff #star rail x reader #star rail x you #star rail fluff #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr fluff #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail fluff #teepods.writings #drabbles.

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