ms--lobotomy - Tumblr blog

ms--lobotomy · 24 days ago

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Hand Forged

curvy gn!reader x Ferrus Manus

A/n: i got nervous to post this because it’s very… specific. and very earnest. hope it doesn’t read too weird. i just really like the idea of someone being held like this. As usual no italics. They are necessary, but I am tired.

Cw: sfw (for now :3), body/belly worship, machine man found softness and lost god

You hadn’t meant to stay.

The workshop wasn’t locked — not to you, at least. You had clearance. You told yourself you’d only look. A quick pass through the auxiliary forge-bay, just to see the layout. Just to observe.

But the room smelled like him.

Warm metal. Engine oil. Scorched electrosilk.

And beneath it — something darker. Hotter. Human.

You drifted to the workbench like a sinner to an altar.

The tools were arranged in mathematically perfect alignment. Not a smear. Not a misplaced clamp. Every servo-driver and magnet-spindle glistened like it had been cleaned minutes ago. Like it was touched with reverence.

You found yourself hovering over a set of micro-constructors — small, but complex. Moving parts. Chrome-bright. Designed to build circuitry you’d only seen diagrams of. The metal flexed slightly under your fingertips, as though it remembered being molten.

And that’s when you noticed it.

Not the tool.

The glove beside it.

If it could be called that. Smooth. Seamless. A cast of Ferrus’s hand — not severed or discarded, but crafted. A training model. Or perhaps a replica for calibrating haptic pressure matrices. It was unmistakably his — the same size, the same silver sheen, the same impossible blend of alien fluidity and godlike strength.

Your breath caught.

You reached out. Just to feel the tips.

You touched it.

It was warm.

“You shouldn’t be in here.”

The voice was behind you. Unmistakable.

Low. Steady.

Not angry. Not yet.

You froze.

Ferrus stepped into view like an eclipse, the light shrinking around his form. He wasn’t armored. His forge leathers hung loose over bare shoulders, sweat-sheened from recent labor. His neck glinted with the threads of metal filament laced beneath the skin — faint currents pulsing like a second heartbeat.

He didn’t move toward you. Just watched.

“That’s a prosthetic unit I discarded three years ago,” he said. “You touched it like it was a relic.”

You opened your mouth. No words came.

“Why?”

A single syllable. Heavy.

You turned toward the bench, staring down at your fingers — the way they still hovered near the curve of the metal digits. You didn’t know what to say. That you’d been curious? That you’d wondered how it felt? That you’d imagined those hands pressing against your back, your hips, your—

He moved. Slowly. His real hand — not prosthetic, but no less inhuman — lifted and spread palm-up toward you.

“Look.”

You blinked.

He turned his hand in the dim light. It caught the gleam like polished steel. There were no joints, no seams. Just smooth, living metal shaped into a palm broad enough to cover your face, fingers long enough to reach your throat and still slip between your thighs.

“You’re not the first to stare,” he said softly.

Your breath stuttered.

“But most flinch when they see what I can do with them.”

He stepped closer.

You didn’t back away.

His hand rose — not to touch. Just to hover. A breath from your cheek. A question, unspoken.

“You didn’t flinch.”

The silence pulled tight between you.

“You liked the thought of them, didn’t you?” he murmured. “What they might feel like inside you.”

Your lips parted. You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

He smiled. Not cruel. Not gentle.

Just... knowing.

“Then we’ll take our time.”

...

He didn’t move immediately.

Just stood there — silent, still — his hand still partially raised between you. Not as a threat. Not even as an invitation. Just... present. Something waiting to be used.

You weren’t sure who stepped closer.

Maybe it was both of you. Equal halves of the same pull.

You reached out first this time — not for the prosthetic on the table. For him. The real one. The hand he’d shown you.

And when you touched his palm, it felt like intent.

Smooth. Warm. Perfectly still, as though it hadn’t been made to grip, but to receive.

His fingers curled, slowly, cradling yours in return. You felt how easily his hand could have swallowed yours whole — but he didn’t close around it. He just held it there. Studied the way you touched him.

“You’re not hesitant,” he murmured.

“I didn’t expect to be.”

He lifted his gaze to your face. Searched for something.

Then — still without letting go — his other hand came up, this time lower, and brushed the outside of your hip. Just a simple contact. No pressure. A pass of metal fingertips across fabric.

Your body responded immediately — not pulling back, but moving into it, heat rising to the surface.

His hand paused. Drifted.

Not lower. Just... around you. Mapping the shape of your side.

“You're... softer than I expected.”

It wasn’t an insult.

If anything, it sounded like a problem he hadn’t prepared for.

He shifted closer. His hand trailed along your waist — the curve of it spilling under his palm, wider than he anticipated. You saw the subtle furrow in his brow, like something had misaligned in a schematic.

“You don’t fit in my grip.”

He didn’t mean it unkindly. He said it like a calculation. Like data that surprised him.

But his voice had changed.

Lower. Closer to breath than speech.

His fingers curved gently around your side again. Not tightening. Testing. As if to see if this time your body would yield the way it should.

It didn’t.

You spilled out of his palm like heat against metal.

“...No,” he murmured. “You don’t fit. That’s...”

He didn’t finish.

You watched the line of his throat work around the words. His hand stayed where it was, cupping your waist, and you could feel his thumb move slowly against the edge of your stomach — thoughtful. Still not groping. Still not rushing.

Just feeling.

“May I continue?” he asked.

You nodded.

You didn’t trust your voice — not with his hand already cradling your waist like it was a problem he hadn’t solved yet.

Ferrus didn’t speak again.

He simply shifted his stance — widening it slightly, centering his weight like a craftsman bracing for long work — and brought both of his hands to your waist.

He held you there for a moment. Still. No movement. Just his palms spreading across the sides of your body, fingers gliding across the seams of your clothing, following the slope of your waist until they met resistance.

Not a wall. Not bone.

Curve.

His thumbs pressed inward, slow and exploratory, meeting the soft flesh of your belly. His breath hitched once — so slight you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t holding yours.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

You felt the weight of his attention in his hands — how he tested the give of your stomach beneath the fabric, like he was waiting for it to spring back.

It didn’t. It welcomed him. Took his pressure and kept it.

“You hold,” he said softly. “You don’t recoil.”

His palms swept up.

Fingertips grazing just beneath your pectoral muscles, tracing the outer swell where your shirt pulled ever so slightly. You shifted, not away — just to breathe. To remind your lungs that they were allowed to move.

He noticed.

“The garment restricts you. Your body resists the pattern of the cloth.”

His hands moved higher, tracing the sides of your ribs. You felt the spread of his fingers along your back, the impossible span of them as they mapped across your body like calipers.

“Your ribs sit deep,” he said. “Framed in density. Protected by layer. That’s… uncommon.”

His hands never stopped moving — but never rushed.

Now he was circling your back, both palms sliding around your waist again, dipping lower, following the full, heavy line of your hips — and lower still, cupping where you curved outward, where your form exceeded the neat mechanical symmetry of anything he’d ever calibrated.

You heard his breath.

Just one, sharp inhale.

Like he’d discovered something that contradicted a principle he thought was absolute.

“You… spill,” he said.

His hands squeezed gently. Not to grope. Just to test capacity.

His thumbs dipped into the dimple above your pelvis — that deep, warm fold between hip and thigh. The way you overflowed his palms there made him still again.

“There’s… too much for containment,” he murmured.

Not frustrated. Not disappointed.

Awed.

“You keep going,” he added, quieter. Almost reverent.

He moved lower.

His hands cupped your thighs now, broad enough to reach nearly to your knees — but not around. He slid them upward. Over the meat of your legs. Where your body pushed back, soft and steady, no matter how he tried to wrap his hands around you.

He kept trying.

And then — with both hands pressed to the outside of your thighs — he let out a low, thoughtful sound in the back of his throat.

“This was not in the schematics.”

Your knees wobbled.

He looked up.

“Hold still. I need more time.”

He didn’t hesitate.

Once his hands had traced the roundest part of your hips — fingers pressing gently into the base of your back, just where your weight tilted naturally forward — he sank to one knee.

It was nearly silent. No grunt. No weight-slamming impact. Just the motion of something massive deciding, without a word, that your body was worth descending for.

And then his hands were on your calves.

Not gripping. Not squeezing.

Just touching.

As if skin, real skin, still caught him off guard.

His thumbs slid up the backs of your legs, along the natural tension behind your knees, while his fingers smoothed over the curve of your calves — finding the softness there. The weight. The heat beneath the skin. He rotated one calf inward slightly with both hands, testing the way it moved — the resistance of meat and tendon beneath your form.

“You’re heavier at the bottom,” he said softly.

A clinical observation. But his voice had thickened. Just a little.

“Gravity pulls differently through you. It doesn’t taper. It holds. Carries.”

His hands slipped lower.

Now cupping your ankles, he lifted one foot — slowly, letting it hang in his hands like a piece of raw material he needed to weigh. His thumbs swept across your sole. Your arch. That tender space beneath the ball of your foot where nerves lived close to the surface.

You twitched.

He paused. Not in hesitation — in analysis.

“That was involuntary.”

You nodded, dazed.

He tilted his head slightly, the way he might when examining a corrupted piece of metal — something flawed, but fascinating.

His fingers skimmed along the outer edge of your foot. From heel to toe. He held it up with both palms, like he was checking the imprint left behind — seeing what part of you would press deepest when forced to stand.

“You carry weight through the inside.” A pause. “Efficient. But unbalanced. You’d be unstable in long marches.”

You almost laughed.

And then he placed your foot down — gently — and began again.

This time, slower.

His hands moved back up your calves, higher now, thumbs beginning to knead into the softness behind your knees. He liked how the skin gave. How your thighs tensed and wobbled as his hands climbed.

He spread his fingers as wide as they could go across the back of your thigh — but it still wasn’t enough.

Your flesh pushed outward, escaping the span of his palm, and he made a low, thoughtful sound.

“You displace my hold,” he said.

And there was something under the surface of those words now. Not just interest. Not just thought.

Hunger.

Not the carnal kind — not yet.

But the kind that came with unsolved problems.

“I want to see what happens when I press both hands in.”

His grip tightened — just slightly.

You felt the faint pressure as his thumbs pushed into the deepest part of your thighs from the back, hands cupping where you were most plush, most shaped by weight and curve and resistance.

He didn’t knead. Didn’t squeeze.

He just pressed, and waited to see what you did. What your body did.

You felt your breath quicken. Heat pool.

And he was still kneeling.

Still learning.

“There’s more. I know there is,” he murmured. “I want to see all of it.”

His hands slid up — past the swell of your thighs, slow and unrelenting — until his palms met the tender crease where your legs curved into your hips.

There, he paused again.

You felt the full span of his hands, wide enough to engulf much of your thigh, but not enough to reach your hips completely. His thumbs brushed along the inner seam, just barely avoiding more intimate contact. Not teasing. Not delaying. Just… respecting the border.

For now.

He exhaled through his nose.

“It resists compression here,” he murmured, voice low. “Even with pressure applied.”

You shivered.

His hands tightened just a little, thumbs pushing inward, fingers wrapping deeper around the tops of your thighs — and the way your body spilled against the motion made him still.

His eyes narrowed. Not in displeasure — in calculation.

“The density is different here. Not fat. Not muscle. Something else.”

Your breath hitched.

He glanced up. Not seeking permission — just confirmation. That you were still with him. Still present. Still offering yourself to be touched, piece by piece, without shame.

You nodded once.

He moved again.

Slowly, his hands slid upward — not to your chest. Forward. Over the curve of your lower abdomen. The warmest part of you. The softest. Where your belly rounded just beneath your navel and arched into the tender place between your thighs.

He laid both palms flat there.

And stilled.

Like he was suddenly afraid to move. Or didn’t want to.

You felt his breath again — low and slow, his thumbs parting slightly to follow the contour of your stomach. You weren’t holding yourself in. There was no point. You weren’t sucking anything back or trying to look smaller. You were just there. Soft and steady and curved like the lines of a world he hadn’t been allowed to touch until now.

His thumbs passed beneath your belly. Cradled it.

His voice came out quiet. Strange.

“It...sits.”

You blinked. “What?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just moved his hands slightly. Like testing the way the weight shifted under his palms.

“It rests. It folds into itself. It stays.”

He looked up at you — and for the first time, there was something uncertain in his expression.

“How have I never touched this before?”

You couldn’t breathe.

He ran one thumb gently — gently — along the lowest edge of your stomach, where the softness deepened. His eyes followed every shift of skin. When your thighs trembled slightly, he paused.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

He watched you a beat longer.

“Responsive.” he said, mostly to himself.

His thumbs moved in slow, small circles. Not rubbing. Tasting through texture.

“There’s no instruction for this.”

He brought one hand to your side — just beneath your ribs now — and pressed his palm across the full curve of your belly, until your weight settled fully into him.

He held you like that for a long moment.

Both hands framing the parts of you that couldn’t be bracketed, braced, or made small.

“You don’t… fit,” he said, almost reverent. “And I don’t want you to.”

A beat.

“I want more time here.”

And then he did something wholly unexpected. The Primarch bowed.

He bowed to you.

Lowering his face and pulling you closer. His forehead rested just beneath your navel now — not pressed hard, but placed. As if the weight of your belly resting forward, touching the crown of his head, was something he needed to feel before he could continue. One of his hands curled around your side again, the other still flattened over the very center of your stomach.

He was holding you like you were warm bread fresh from the forge oven. Like he didn’t want to tear it, or cut it, or ruin it by touching too fast.

Just… experience it.

His voice was low. Thick.

“You weigh differently here.”

His thumb moved again — slow circles around your navel. Gentle, perfect friction.

“Everything else I’ve touched reacts with tension. Muscle. Tendon. Torque. But this...”

He pressed in slightly. The weight of your belly shifted, spreading under his palm.

You whimpered.

He froze.

“Too much?”

“No,” you gasped. “Just—”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. Neither could he.

He moved his other hand lower, beneath the gentle overhang of your belly, and cradled it. Like he was lifting it. Like he wanted to feel how it sank back into itself.

“I didn’t know skin could do this.”

He said it like a man seeing snow for the first time.

“It doesn’t return to shape instantly. It folds. Keeps. It... rests against me.”

He looked up then. Just slightly — his chin still nestled against your lower abdomen. You felt the faint exhale of heat from his nose across your skin, like he was breathing you in. Studying the scent of you, the softness of you, the complete contrast to every sharp, shattering thing he’s ever known.

“No part of you is resisting me.”

His hand smoothed upward again, this time sliding under your shirt — skin to skin. And when his palm touched your bare stomach, his breath stopped.

You watched his fingers fan wide.

Watched his jaw flex.

He needed both hands now. One at your side, cupping the slope of your belly from the left. The other palming the front, his thumb tracing the edge of the softest place — where warmth and weight gathered like a secret.

“This,” he whispered. “This wasn’t in any design.”

He moved closer — not with hunger. Not with possession. But with a need to stay.

And when he leaned forward just slightly more — pressed his face, his full cheek, his mouth into the plush center of your stomach — you felt the exhale first.

Warm.

Heavy.

Unspoken.

“I could stay here.”

The sentence wasn’t meant for you.

It was fact.

...

He didn’t move.

He meant to. You saw it—his fingers twitching faintly against your waist, the subtle coil of his muscles as though some part of him remembered there were other places to touch, to study. But then your belly shifted, barely—just enough to nestle against the corner of his jaw, and that simple pressure rooted him.

His hands softened.

And stayed.

The right remained splayed across your front, fingertips spread wide and failing to cover the breadth of your stomach. The left was behind you now, cradling your underside with mechanical tenderness, the way one might support a length of warm, heavy cable—something valuable. Alive.

And then he did something wholly human.

He closed his eyes.

And breathed you in.

Not just the scent.

But the weight. The heat. The pressure of your belly resting against his cheek. He turned slightly, just enough that his nose brushed skin, his lips grazed you, reverent and aimless, like a man dreaming in the dark.

“You hold heat here,” he murmured. “More than anywhere else.”

His voice was low. Not distant. Present.

Measured like breath in a sealed vault.

“I could log your temperature gradient from this point alone.”

You exhaled shakily. He didn't move.

Instead, his palm pressed in again—not deep, not testing—just anchoring, reminding you both that he was still there. Still kneeling. Still holding all of you that he could fit.

“You shift around me,” he whispered. “But you don’t push back.”

He tilted his head. Rested his forehead more fully into the warm center of your body. Your belly cradled his brow like a curved, living pillow—too soft to resist, too whole to ignore.

He sighed.

Not with frustration.

With surrender.

“I’m losing time.”

Your hand moved—slowly, gently—to the back of his head. Your fingers found the hard lines of the metal lattice just beneath his scalp. Warm from your body. From his.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

He turned his face, just slightly, and pressed his mouth—closed, soft, unmoving—against your belly. Not a kiss. Not a claim.

Just contact.

Stillness.

Need.

And then his voice, so quiet you barely heard it over the hum of the forge:

“I didn’t know I could be soothed.”

He stayed there.

Minutes passed.

Maybe hours.

You stopped keeping track when his thumb began to move again—small, unconscious motions, tracing the slight give of your lower belly like a man slowly forgetting what it meant to be anything but here.

-----------------to be continued--------------------

Thank you for reading!!! Would love opinions or reactions (good and bad), did I do us/him justice? Either way tysm!!!!!

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21 @thisuserislilsilly @nebulaegem @iluminatka16 @kit-williams

#im goung to go feral #ough #my POOKIE

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