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fkinkindagauche · 2 months ago

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How You Turn My World, You Precious Thing

Written for @steddie-spooktober day 30 prompt - "Where in the hell did you find that costume??"

Rating: Explicit | WC: 2,271 | CW: None | Tags: Getting Together, Blow Jobs, Coming in Pants, Steve Harrington's Bisexual Crisis (brought to you by David Bowie)

Title is of course from "Within You" by David Bowie from the Labyrinth soundtrack.

"I don't understand why you're doing a couples costume with Eddie," Steve said, a look of disgust on his face. "Am I not your platonic soulmate? Have I been replaced?"

Robin sighed and scrubbed a hand over her face. "For the last time, Steve, I just wasn't interested in any of your costume ideas, and I was interested in Eddie's."

"So, to be clear, you discarded the idea of going as Goose to my Maverick to go as the moody teen to Eddie's David Bowie from a children's movie?" Steve asked, hands on his hips.

"You haven't even seen Labyrinth, dingus, don't sound so unimpressed," Robin replied. "Eddie put together a pretty great costume. And my costume was a lot cheaper to put together than a believable Goose costume would be."

"Yeah, because it just looks like something you would wear, only you have a hideous black wig on," Steve said, giving her a once-over. "Sometimes I doubt your commitment to our soulmateship."

He wasn't going to let this go. They'd all gotten close in the months since the worst spring break on record. He even hung out with Eddie on his own sometimes. But that didn't make the knee-jerk friendvy reaction any less jarring. (Robin had told him "friendvy" just sounded stupid, but he preferred to consider it an adorable and genius portmanteau of "friend" and "envy").

Robin sighed as they pulled up to Vickie's house. She was hosting a Halloween party, mostly for theater and band geeks, but Steve hadn't exactly gotten any other invites so he agreed to come. Any chance he could take to bust out his highly flattering Maverick costume in an attempt to get laid.

"I think you're actually really gonna like Eddie's costume," Robin said, giving Steve a significant look as they walked toward the house.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked sharply.

She shrugged. "I saw the looks you were giving him when we went to the Hideout last weekend."

Steve spluttered, blushing. He'd been avidly avoiding acknowledging his nascent attraction to Eddie to himself in his own mind, and he certainly wasn't ready to talk about it with Robin. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm here for one purpose only - boobies."

Robin groaned and smacked him on the arm. "You're disgusting," she said.

"Would you prefer breasts? Knockers? Bosoms? Jugs? Tits?" He rattled them off so quickly she couldn't get a word in between them.

"Jesus, Steven, stop it," she said, shoving him harder. "I can't take you anywhere."

Steve graciously left off his litany of boob euphemisms once they got inside, Robin scanning the crowd.

"Eddie!" she yelled, walking over to a corner where a man with long, spiky blonde hair was standing, wearing incredibly tight pants with knee-high boots, and a ruffled shirt under a black vest.

Steve looked around for a few moments, searching for Eddie, until Robin approached the corner and pulled the blonde man into a side hug. He turned, and Steve let out a shocked gasp, realizing it was Eddie.

"Where in the hell did you find that costume?" Steve asked, mouth hanging open as he took in Eddie's elaborate make-up to go along with the clothes. "And where's your real hair?"

Eddie threw back his head and laughed, baring the long line of his neck, now draped with multiple necklaces. Steve swallowed hard, eyes drawn to the light dusting of chest hair he could see in the ample amount of chest exposed by the open neck of the shirt.

"Is that vest supposed to look like a corset?" Steve asked, enthralled as he reached out a hand to touch it, feeling the warmth of Eddie's skin through the fabric. His eyes tracked further down, to the obvious bulge he could see in Eddie's tight pants. "I thought this was a children's movie!" He knew he was blushing, could feel the heat in his face.

Eddie locked eyes with him when he finally looked back up, smirking. "Eyes up here, big boy," Eddie said. Steve's face grew even redder, and he wanted to melt into a puddle of goo on the floor and never look at Eddie again.

Steve felt his dick stir in his pants at the thought of Eddie's cock, right there in front of him, practically on display. He couldn't manage to get any words out, just kept staring at Eddie with his mouth open.

"Everything okay there, Harrington?" Eddie asked, smirk changing to a look of confusion. Robin was looking at Steve with something like glee on her face.

"I need to… use the bathroom," Steve managed to get out, turning away from them and pushing through the crush of people to a hallway. He managed to find an open bathroom and slipped inside, shutting and locking the door behind him as he slid to the floor against it.

He put his head in his shaking hands, trying to slow his racing heart. He couldn't really deny it anymore. He was attracted to Eddie. He'd never been attracted to a man before, bar that one fleeting moment in the shower with Billy Hargrove, when he'd been simultaneously aroused and infuriated.

But Eddie - he was something else entirely. Steve was finally admitting to himself , here on this bathroom floor, that he was physically attracted to Eddie. He'd known for a long time that he loved his smile, and his laugh, and his self-deprecating humor, and his willingness to help any of his friends, whatever they needed. Now he was finally acknowledging a physical attraction, and he was fucking terrified.

A knock on the door interrupted his spiral.

"Steve? You in there?" Eddie's voice asked.

"Can you send Robin in?" Steve asked pathetically.

There was an awkward pause. "Um. She said she had something she needed to do and that I should go check on you. I don't know where she is."

Fucking typical. Robin was trying to play cupid in the midst of his bisexual crisis.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asked when he got no response from Steve. "You sick or something? Can I come in and help?"

Of course he wanted to help. Saint fucking Eddie.

"I'm fine," Steve said, sighing. "Go away."

"You don't sound fine, man," Eddie replied. "Fucking wait a minute okay?" Eddie yelled, probably to someone in the hall. "Steve, let me in," Eddie said in a lower voice.

Steve stood and opened the door. Eddie came in and shut the door behind him, locking it again.

"You gonna puke?" Eddie asked. "You and Robin must've been going hard before you got here."

Steve looked at Eddie again, with his delectable wispy chest hair and his stupidly beautiful smile and the sizable bulge in his pants. Steve made an impulsive decision, the only kind he seemed capable of making these days. He put both hands on Eddie's chest and pushed him so his back was against the door, then leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't that different from kissing a girl. He could feel the beginning of Eddie's stubble coming in, scratching lightly against his chin, but his lips were just as soft and warm as a girl's. Eddie gasped into his mouth, tensing up for a moment before relaxing against Steve, kissing him back.

Steve tentatively licked over Eddie's lower lip, and Eddie opened his mouth, allowing Steve's tongue inside. Steve slowly licked into his mouth, tangling his own tongue with Eddie's, moving to explore the roof of his mouth, the sides of his teeth. He pushed a hand into Eddie's ridiculous wig, pulling it askew, as Eddie wrapped his hands around Steve's hips and pulled him more firmly against himself.

Steve could feel Eddie's cock now, hard against his thigh. He slotted a leg between Eddie's thighs and pushed up. Eddie groaned into his mouth and pressed down onto Steve's leg as Steve moved his thigh back and forth, rubbing. Steve was sure Eddie could feel his own cock now, straining against the confines of his jumpsuit.

Steve's hips involuntarily bucked up into Eddie's hip, seeking friction. Eddie's tongue was meeting his in a ferocious clash, both of them vying for control of the kiss. Steve broke off first, trailing his lips down Eddie's neck, to the vee in his shirt. He bit the skin there as one of Eddie's hands came up to grab a fistful of his hair, tugging.

Steve sucked a bruise into Eddie's skin next to his tattoo, one that would be visible when they returned to the party. Eddie was panting above him, still grinding his cock down onto Steve's thigh, when Steve dropped to his knees.

His absolute favorite thing to do with women was give head. He felt a sudden urge to see if that was the same with men. He looked up at Eddie, who was staring down at him with a shocked look on his face, one hand still fisted in Steve's hair. His wig was askew, tendrils of his curly brown hair escaping around the sides, and his makeup was smudged from their frantic kissing. Steve had never seen anyone more beautiful.

Steve tugged lightly at Eddie's pants, giving him ample opportunity to push Steve away. He didn't push Steve away, so Steve pulled harder, bringing the skin-tight leggings down. As Steve had suspected, he wasn't wearing underwear beneath them, and his cock sprang free, hard and huge.

Steve had always thought himself well-endowed, compared himself to the other guys in the locker room and found himself above average. But Eddie was in a whole other league.

Steve's mouth dropped open as he considered that he may have made a huge mistake. How was it even going to fit? He took a deep breath, psyching himself up, then bent to lick a bead of precum off the head.

Eddie thrust his hips up minutely, clearly struggling hard to keep himself under control, and let out a breathy gasp. The hand in Steve's hair tightened as Steve licked around the head, taking just the tip into his mouth. He held the base of Eddie's cock in one hand, like he remembered girls doing with his, as he slowly sank further.

Steve pressed his tongue against the underside of Eddie's cock as he began to move his mouth up and down. He was only getting about a quarter of his cock into his mouth, but Eddie seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it, if the increasing amounts of precum he could taste were any indication.

"Fuck, Steve," Eddie said as Steve hollowed his cheeks out to provide more suction. Eddie was making little breathy noises, like aborted moans, and Steve could feel the strain in his hips as he tried not to fuck into Steve's mouth.

The weight of Eddie's cock on his tongue combined with his musky scent and the noises he was making were enough to have Steve's cock aching. He started to cup himself with his free hand, pressing his palm into his cock and rubbing as he sucked Eddie off.

Just as his jaw was beginning to ache, Eddie seemed to lose control of his hips, starting to thrust into Steve's mouth a little. "'M gonna come soon, Stevie," Eddie said between breaths. "Might want to vacate the area."

Steve snorted back a laugh, pulling off to say, "Come in my mouth."

Eddie thumped his head back into the door and groaned. "Fucking shit," he said under his breath as Steve took his cock back in his mouth.

Steve started to press his palm harder into his own cock as he bobbed his head on Eddie's, spit slicking his hand now and making it easier to stroke the length of Eddie's shaft that wasn't in his mouth. Steve could feel his own orgasm building, spurred on by the moans falling from Eddie's mouth.

As he felt the first hot spurts of Eddie's cum in his mouth, he rubbed frantically over his own cock, bringing himself to orgasm as he swallowed every drop of Eddie's cum. Steve continued to suck long after their orgasms were finished, enjoying the feel of Eddie's cock softening in his mouth.

Eventually, Eddie tugged at his hair, and Steve finally let his cock slide out of his mouth. He wiped a bit of cum or spit off the side of his mouth and looked up at Eddie.

"If I'd known dressing up as David Bowie would get Steve Harrington on his knees I would have done it a long time ago," Eddie said, pulling Steve up to stand. He reached for the zipper on Steve's jumpsuit, but Steve stilled his hand before he could start to undo it.

"Not going to let me reciprocate?" Eddie asked, looking a little hurt. "Was it just a little experiment for you?"

Steve shook his head vigorously. He grabbed Eddie's hand and moved it down to the wet spot spreading near his cock. "Not at all. Got a little carried away."

Eddie's eyebrows shot up. "You came in your adorable little jumpsuit while you blew me?"

Steve nodded, blushing.

"Fuck, you're unreal. I'm dressing up as Bowie every day," Eddie said.

Someone banged on the door, startling them, and yelled, "What the fuck are you doing in there? Some of us have to piss!"

"Shit. I didn't even get to see you naked," Eddie said, pouting.

"Next time," Steve said, reaching for the door as Eddie pulled up his pants.

"There's gonna be a next time?" Eddie said, eyes twinkling like a kid on Christmas morning.

"There's gonna be a whole lot of next times," Steve said, opening the door.

divider by @steddiecameraroll-graphics

#steddie #steddie fic #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie #steddie fanfiction #stranger things #my fics #steddie fanfic #steddiespooktober

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robolvrr · 2 months ago

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Hi! I’m 19 just to clarify in case of anything.

Can I request HCS for TFA Optimus and Megatron with a childish human female reader, that basically yaps a lot and is energetic asf?

I was also wondering if you could make a NSFW version too? Tysm☺️🙏💕

hey non! gladly. 🤖

nsfw under the cut.

all charged up! ⊰⁠⊹ฺ⚡

tfa! optimus & megatron headcanons for a childish/energetic reader (fem! human)

"no, don't touch that. wh -- no, don't touch that either! oh, by the allspark, hellooo!"

optimus prime

remember when i said optimus stressed out protecting humanity?

yeah, this was primarily the source of why.

he's always got tons of responsibility placed on his shoulders.

his team, for one, is always managing to get themselves into trouble and while he cares for them deeply, he's gonna start gaining faceplate dents like ratchet.

so when you get fumbled in the crew? he thinks that maybe karma is out to get him from some past transgression.

"can i touch that?"

"no."

"how about.. this!"

"wh-- no. are you trying to lose one of those things?"

"fingers?"

"not the point. it's an axe, not a toy."

he chides you just like everyone else out of love.

if he didn't care (which just isn't in his circuits, is there a rusted piston anywhere in that heroic frame?) he'd let you go wild.

when the threat of death isn't looming though?

finds your characteristics to be rather charming. he is after all familiar with bee and the twins and sari.

you have a strange way of encouraging him to relax, believe it or not. remind him life isn't just work and balancing the universe in his servos.

when he isn't in a mood, he likes to listen to you ramble.

you have a unique perspective. like how you talk to him for hours about how you thought ghosts were real and ask silly questions about his culture like "do you guys eat rocks?"

he goes to you the most to consult about earth.

hyperfixations? he may not understand a lick of yours or just what "my little pony was and how it changed the internet for years to come", but he lets you animatedly describe every thought on every inch of your brain.

let's you sit on his shoulders.

similar to your planet, you've gotten him warmed up to you.

"just how much longer do you plan on prattling, little one?"

megatron

he's mean.

i mean, what do you expect from an galactic warlord?

not to say he doesn't find amusement in the behavior. his lackeys frequently argue and get into ridiculous situations and arguments on a cycles basis.

however, he doesn't like organics. given his predicament, fiending without the power of a frame to push his narratives for so long builds resentment.

at first he finds you an absolute nuisance. you were really a comment away from having shockwave get a hold of you instead.

he's kidnapped you from the autobots because similar to that meddlesome doctors offspring, they clearly hold high regards for you.

you just didn't stop talking.

yes, you got the large glass jar treatment.

yes, he did rattle it once when you asked him if "decepticons sounded like band name."

when he's feeling boredom, he'll demand you try to say anything interesting.

he holds little regard to your feelings. though he does find the need, almost craving, for you to constantly be restless.... somewhat entertaining.

think of how one looks at a mangy mutt. (isn't he a gentlemech?!)

nsfw.

optimus prime

"hahhh.. hff. just h-how long can you keep up this pace, haha!?"

you have the libido of a bunny.

optimus learns the hard way, when you first start to get intimate.

you're eager -- you both are -- but he finds your wandering hands to be almost overwhelming as you just can't keep still.

you ask him lots and lots of questions. how big is he? can you lick his valve? are those fluids toxic? do you need to get protection?

his helm is hot to the touch. he ends up putting his digit in your mouth as a distraction.

interfacing with you is never slow. it's why he has to concentrate every control filter to not slamming into you when you claw at his array and whine at him to stop being a bully.

he's about to correct you but of course, you're talking. his audials are close to setting on fire.

you shove yourself on his spike and he bites his dermas hard, because you're just so eager and he's way too big. just the tip is enough to create a bulge at your mound and suddenly, his intake feels very, very dry.

you're so talkative. too talkative.

"ha... mmn! your spike is so, so good! i-i can't believe i'm doing this! sex with a giant. ahn! robot!!! this is the best day of my life!"

his optics are burning and bright. your excitement drips down his shaft.

when the compliments get to be too much, he ends up grabbing your wrists and pinning them behind you, bouncing your body against his hips.

he silences you a lot with kisses. not out of annoyance (though sometimes you do get too loud and he's not trying to risk waking up the entire base), but because you fluster him so damn bad.

when he overloads and you're squealing, he lifts you up just to see the sticky transfluid roll down your ankles.

".... another round?"

"another!?"

megatron

"not so chatty now, are you little one?"

megatron's cruelty does not stop at the berthroom.

his way of dealing with your nonstop buzzing? is to simply frag it out of you.

it's painfully indulgent. you're the size of nothing compared to him, a behemoth of a being outside your comprehension. he treats you like a sleeve.

you ask the stupid notion if maybe he needed to get his frustration out in a more "fun" way.

then maybe he wouldn't be so gloomy all the time!

the look he gives is terrifying. that smile isn't helping either....

all that energy and innocent glee? he plans on putting to good use.

now, he finds your cherub nature enchanting. how you whine and chirp out silly protests, huffing how he's just a "big, bad meanie" and you were gonna "make him regret it, so help it!"

"yesss, yesss. cry harder, little human."

takes you from behind so he can stick a single digit in the pocket of your cheek. you loll your tongue out in a way he finds appealing and stupid.

when you go on rambles amidst his planning, primarily when you are bored and lonely, don't be surprised if he opens his panels at your chin and pops it in between your lips.

"am... i... ffff.. a-am i gonna get pregnant with your little ro--"

"don't finish that imbecilic question unless you want this to be the last time, girl."

megatron's human concubine. there's a first time in history for everything, after all.

deep down? he doesn't want you to change a bit. he rather likes breaking you down.

#transformers optimus #transformers megatron #tfa #tfa optimus prime #tfa optimus #tfa megatron #optimus x reader #megatron x reader #maccadam #headcanons #transformers animated #first contact au #valveplug

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fiber-optic-alligator · 8 months ago

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(Not a request dw) (I had to get this idea out of my head real quick.)

The idea of Drift swallowing his Little One to protect them from another mech trying to take them for themselves. The pair of them had been sitting, and idly chatting (Even if it was mostly a one-sided conversation.) when another mech had come along. Clearly interested in getting their servos on a tasty little human. It'd start with Drift growling lowly as a part of his warning to the potential human-thief that it'd be a bad idea to try his patience. Obviously he'd want to talk things out first, but a small possessive part of Drift loathes the idea of being separated from His Little One. So the "chat" is intermingled with his growling.

The next action Drift would take if the intruding mech persists. Would be to scoop his Little One up to keep them out of reach of the other mech, the growling of his engine growing more intense to dissuade the mech from taking things any further.

But if all else fails, Drift is probably just gonna make a show out of swallowing His Little One. Before growling loudly one last time out of possessive irritability, and walking away from where he'd been seated. He loathes acting like that, as it reminds him of his Deadlock days, but he wasn't about to let his Little One be stolen away by someone who wasn't going to be Nearly as careful with them as he is. It just wasn't going to happen. Speaking of which, he has some apologizing to do to His Little One after he gets back to his Habsuite, and retrieves them from his tanks. Oh dear.

Ok, but, the feeling of being swiftly (But carefully) swallowed by Drift while he's growling up a storm would be Far more jarring than the experience of being swallowed typically would be. The world around you shaking rhythmically, loudly as peristalsis drags you further down into Drift's humid depths. But even when you know Drift would never hurt you, (On purpose) being swallowed, and so thoroughly rattled by his animalistic growls fills you with dread as you sink deeper within him. You land in his stomach as he lets out a more aggressive growl. His tanks clench close around you, just as possessively as your mech is behaving externally. But when you feel him get up, and walk away his tank releases it's hold on you allowing you to breathe again.

It's different when he growls with you in his tank, than when he purrs. The sounds of his gentle purring lulls you to sleep most nights, and results in only a slight shaking sensation. But his growls rattle you to your core, and leave you feeling threatened by the typically placid mech. Drift, who loves you too much to let you leave fall into the servos of someone who can't give you the care you need. Like he can. Like he will.

HRRRRRRRGH THIS IS SO GOOD!!!!

I’m sorry I HAD to write something about this. I know this wasn’t a request but this scenario is honestly so, so good. The way you worded it was beautiful. GOD, what I wrote isn’t half as good as what you sent but I was inspired. What I wrote isn't a carbon copy of your idea, but I still really enjoyed putting this idea into story form. GOD I STILL CAN'T GET OVER IT. Drift certainly does love you too much to let you be taken by someone else. He loves you too much to let you leave. After all, you are is little one. There's no changing that.

PLEASE let me know if you like the little story I wrote. THANK YOU AGAIN FOR THE INCREDIBLE ASK! I'm gonna look back at reread at least twenty times now lmao.

WARNING! WHAT IS WRITTEN BELOW THIS CONTAIN SOFT VORE. If this is something that makes you uncomfortable, please do not read!

“Hey, are you going to have that?”

Drift looks up. The mech staring back at him is stocky and short. He has some grime splattered across his chassis and arms: oil. An engineer. A name does not stick to the face, and Drift takes a quick moment to try and recall it. Nothing.

“Excuse me?” is all his confusion will allow him to say.

“The human.” The stranger gestures to the table. “Are you gonna have it?”

Drift looks down. On the table is a datapad displaying a sparkling’s story with funny little illustrations. Observing the pictures is you. The library is a quiet place. Drift comes here frequently to either read or simply clear his mind. He enjoys bringing you along as well; ever since you found out there was a library aboard the Lost Light, you have shown a strong fascination with Cybertronian writings. He doesn’t know if you get the gist of what they mean, but you give him such excited, pleading looks when he lets you observe them, that he can’t help but let you indulge. So, he provides you with simple readings. The ones with pictures are what you seem to enjoy best. You’d sit there for hours if you could, looking at the datapad and trying to quietly sound out the Cybertronian words to yourself. It’s not something you do well, but Drift finds it so adorable. You attempting to mimic his language just proves how clever you are.

He loves to watch you do this, and he frequently jumps in to help you say certain words right. Most of the time the two of you are quietly repeating them to each other in a sort of simple lesson. It’s one of the many things the two of you do as a bonding experience. Primus, Drift loves it.

So who the hell is this random mech to barge in and interrupt by asking if he can have you?

“Um.” Drift chuckles in disbelief. “They’re not for sale. Sorry.”

“Oh, no, nonono.” The mech shakes his head and laughs too. “I don’t want to buy them from you. I want to borrow them. I’ve never had the chance to get my servos on one of these little beauties. It’s rare to find a human that doesn’t already have an owner.” He leers at you, swiping his glossa over his lips. “If you let me have a taste, I’ll pay you. However much you want, name your price.”

You, who has been silently observing this entire interaction, shrink back nervously. Drift sees the way you look at the other mech in fear, and his mood immediately darkens. Something sour builds in his spark. He slowly reaches forward and curls his digits around you. It’s an obvious display of possessive protection.

“They’re. Mine,” he growls. The sound is deep and dangerous, continuing on after he spoke his words. Though he doesn’t notice, you are clearly shaken by it. Chirping softly, you press your hand against his palm, trying to get his attention. But he only tightens his hold, never breaking eye contact with the threat before him.

“Dude, I know they’re yours.” The other mech is clearly unaffected by Drift’s hostility. “You can spare a bit of time with them, can’t you? C’mon, just let me have a taste.”

He makes a grab for you. Drift’s instincts kick in, and he snatches you away. You yelp when he presses you against his chassis. He makes a mental note to apologize to you later, but right now he needs to play the part of big bad mech. There can be no sign of weakness here. This stranger is clearly bent on stealing you from him. He won’t let that happen. You are his little one. His.

Drift rises to his pedes, his growls elevating. The other mech doesn’t show any ounce of care and growls back, armor rising to clack. “I’ve waited for so long to try one of these things,” he says. “This might be my only opportunity! Just let me have them!”

“They aren’t a thing,” Drift hisses. “They are a human. And if you can’t show them the proper respect and care they deserve, then you have no right to own this one, let alone any.”

“You think just because you're third in command to the captain that you can lecture me on how to treat a human?” The mech gets into Drift’s face and flashes his fangs. “You don’t even know me! I’m not going to hurt it! I just want a taste! Is that so hard for you to allow?”

“When it comes to a bot like you? Yes. It is.” Drift doesn’t waver. He’s taller than this mech. Stronger, too. Faster, and better at fighting. If it comes down to such actions unfolding, then so be it. He will do anything to protect his little one.

Speaking of you…you cower in his servos, trying your best to appear invisible. He looks down at you, debating on how to handle this. The other mech obviously doesn’t intend on backing off any time soon, and if things do come down to a fist fight, he obviously can’t defend you like this. His best option for keeping you safe is swallowing you.

The engineer puffs out his chassis and revs his engine. It’s a challenge.

Drift accepts it. But not in the way he is thinking.

He raises you high above his faceplate and lets you drop a little, until he has the back of your shirt pinched between his forefinger and thumb. You kick your legs and squeal, alarmed, and his spark wrenches at the sight. He wants to comfort you. He needs to comfort you. But he can’t, not while he’s making a show of this in order to prove he isn’t someone to be messed with. So despite how disgusted he is with taking advantage of your fear, despite how this makes him feel like a little piece of Deadlock is rising from the grave, he goes through with his decision and decides that if he wants to keep you protected, he needs to scare the other mech off…even if you are scared shitless too.

He lets you go. Your high-pitched scream is abruptly cut off when you land in his intake and he quickly snaps his jaws shut. Slicking you up with solvent, he tilts his helm back and swallows you, swiftly, but gently. He makes sure the other mech can see you travel down his throat. You are nothing more than a little bulge that disappears into his chassis and is quickly consumed.

The engineer stares. His mouth is open like he wants to say something, but no words come out.

Drift licks his lips and continues growling, as loudly as he can. He watches the other mech’s helm lower, optics on the floor. Intimidated. Good.

“Never come near me or my human again,” he says. “They’re mine. Do you hear me? Mine.”

The challenger offers no protest. Drift pushes past him and leaves the library, not looking back.

You have never seen this side of Drift before.

When he swallows you, he is always careful with you. He takes things slow, allowing you to move along with his pace, giving you every opportunity to tell him no, you don’t want this right now.

However, this case is entirely different. He didn’t even give you a chance to gather your bearings before he was tossing you into his mouth and gulping you down with a rushed sense of urgency. Oh, he was gentle. Of course he’s always going to be gentle with you. But after watching the way he interacted with that strange mech, who you know wanted to eat you just from the way he had been looking at you like a lion looks at a fresh piece of meat, you can understand why he’s being so quick. This is being done for your preservation.

But god, that doesn’t mean this isn’t terrifying.

Everything around you shakes as you are pushed deeper and deeper within him. His esophageal muscles are tight, the rolling sensation of being swallowed not as soothing as it should be. His growls ring in your ears and leave you feeling rattled. He sounds dangerous. He sounds like an animal.

It scares you.

When you make it to his stomach, you are practically shoved inside. There is no chance to catch your breath, no opportunity for you to nestle in and get comfortable. The walls move in to give you the tightest squeeze of your life. You are squished uncomfortably between living cables that pulse with the bright, possessive desire to never let you go. Every angle is taken up by him. All you can see is blue biolight. And all you can hear are his throaty rumbles.

There is no end to it. Even when you feel his stomach gently sway with the rest of his body as he walks away, the organ only holds you closer, gurgling possessively. You feel like you are being told that you are his. Because you are.

You should be consoled by this fact. But no such feeling comes to compete with the claustrophobic dread that fills you.

Drift is fuming when he stomps back into his habsuite. He paces back and forth, then drags his chair back and sits in it with a heavy puff of exhaust. Tapping his digits against his desk, he imagines his fist grabbing that engineer by the back of the helm and smashing his faceplate into the nearest wall. How dare he? How dare he just waltz up to him and ask to taste his little one? The nerve of some bots!

I’ll have to put in a word to Ultra Magnus, he thinks. That engineer should be dismissed. He shouldn’t even be on the Lost Light. Disgusting behavior like that should be punished. It has to-

He hears a soft whimper. His digits halt their fidgeting. He looks down at his middle and has his internal sensors scan your little form. Your heart rate is through the roof. Your breathing is erratic and unsteady. And…oh no. Oh, no, no, no. You're trembling.

He loosens his grip on you and gives you room to move. But when that doesn’t do the trick, he decides that keeping you in there while you are in this state will only distress you further. So he clenches his tank muscles again, and pushes you upward, back through his esophagus and into his mouth. He slips you into his servos with practiced ease, turning you gently so you are on your back. You are covered in his solvent, chest heaving as you look up at him. Then, to his horror, you turn away from him and curl up into a little ball. You are still shaking. His spark sinks.

He gently deposits you onto his desk and fetches one of his fluffiest blankets to wrap you in. You don’t resist him. You just sit there, giving him those big sad eyes you have whenever you are scared.

“Little one?” Drift whispers.

You chirp softly and hide your face. He whines. “No, no, don’t do that.” He hooks his index digit under your chin and tilts your head up. “Look at me, little one. Please.”

You're still so afraid. He realizes that his big act in front of the engineer really affected you. Guilt rises. There has to be a way to get through to you and show you that he’s still the gentle Drift you know.

He leans forward, cupping you close. Lowering his helm to be at your level, Drift coos out the call you always make when you want his attention. “Hello,” he murmurs in the foreign tongue. “Hello. Hello, hello.”

You perk up a little when he mimics your calls. Tentatively, you say it back. “…Hello.”

Drift beams. “Hello, little one.” He ruffles your hair, chuckling when you lean into his touch. “I’m so sorry I scared you. I…I had to show him that you are mine. I don’t want anyone trying to take you from me. They could hurt you. And if that happens…I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

You seem to understand that he’s asking for your forgiveness. Sighing, you shuffle forward and reach out, pressing your hands against his nose. You chirp; much of it is indecipherable. But then…you begin to speak. Not in your language. In Cybertronain.

“Love you,” you say to him. “Love you…love you, Drift.”

He doesn’t know when you learned it. But he knows it’s the first time you’ve said it. He is your first I love you.

He can’t contain himself. Drift purrs louder, cuddling you. “I love you too, little one. I love you so, so much.”

You like cuddles. You deserve them. Today was a rough day for both of you. But knowing you still trust him is relieving. And he promises you…he swears to you, he will never allow anyone to try and threaten you again.

#gator answers #gator writes #desperation vs domestication #drift x reader #tasty au #first contact au #transformers first contact #transformers first contact au #soft vore #safe vore #sfw vore

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lychniis · 6 months ago

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⚘ — SILVER FOX // JING YUAN.

i. SYNOPSIS : your lands refuse to grow your crops and the days trickle down to the last vestiges of your desperation. and so, you call upon a huli jing. ( jing yuan x reader )

ii. WARNING(S) : this is so messily written guys look away IKUHGFGH, fox spirit jing yuan, not much romance, it's pretty short to and is mostly a brain blurb spare me.

# masterlist

He comes to you quietly in the dark, after nine nights of praying — first as a small silver furred fox, then a man with moonbeams in his hair, pattering out of the shadowed corners and into your line of sight.

He seats himself on the floor before you and you place your offering forth: one fish, painstakingly hunted from the nearest river and some unseasoned rice in a chipped wood bowl. You think of your dead lands, and the starvation and the despair and the debt slinking at the bottom like a pacing tiger and you tell yourself to be brave. There’s more to lose, turning him away with fear. There’s far more to lose, with your dead lands.

“Pour me a cup.” he speaks up, passing you a jar of baiju, then two glasses. “And one for yourself too.”

“Yes sir…lord…” you stutter and do so, first for him, with yours after.

The fox spirit laughs. You prickle up, staring into the clear drink with helplessness pulling at your throat. “Are you nervous? Just call me Jing Yuan.” He takes a sip before he settles with his fish and rice. “You’ve fed me, after all. I’m less inclined to eat you now.”

You shoot him a horrified look.

“I jest.” he sighs after a few bites. “Now tell me, what do you need? You can ask me for one thing.”

You stutter. “I…” Replenish our fields. “I…I don’t know.” It feels like too much. Like an offer too willingly handed out with an air of ease. It was foolish, you think now, dealing with gods and spirits and their chaos. Foolish.

He barks, and you have a feeling that perhaps, he is unsurprised. “You humans seem rather indecisive sometimes,” he admits. “I could never understand your ways. My forests and land are mine and I simply take what I need.” The gold in his gaze reflects into the rippling baiju. It’s a sun, a fire, a molten piece of metal. It burns. He doesn’t lie. They are his, for his claws to tear and reap and devour.

Still, you speak. “I’m not sure what to expect.” you admit, feeling stupid. Jing Yuan smiles. There’s a flash of white, the deathly glint of a too-sharp canine and you wonder if they’ve tasted blood. You might not be the first in the end. Huli Jings could be benevolent on one good day and let in abundance. On others they revel in the miseries of men.

“Your caution isn’t uncalled for.” he muses. “But I keep my word, if that’s an assurance. I can heal illnesses, replenish your fields, win you a few battles. Maybe even spark some lightning if you like that.” he waves his hand as he rattles out his points. “And maybe I could bless you with a child. But I see no spouse and I doubt you need another mouth to feed.”

Your face flushes. “Your generosity is appreciated.” you look to the side, a little lost. The lands. The lands meant the crops could grow The lands meant the debt from those two catties of rice could be paid off. “My lands.” you finally relent. “Replenish them please, milord.”

Jing Yuan narrows his eyes. A calculating shift darkens sunny aureate to simmering amber. “Is that all?” he asks again.

“Yes.” you nod solemnly. “That’s all.”

“Alright then.” he muses. “Wake at dawn tomorrow and plough the soil. Do not stop till it’s done.” he tilts his head. “I reward hard work, and I trust you will earn it.”

“Of course.” you reply quickly. A part of you is peeved that no divine design is thrown aloft, no spectacle or show. But the unabashed authority, almost expectant in a sense, humbles that voice down quickly. It’s fair you put your salt into it. It’s fair. “I will. Thank you, milord.”

( There is always more to lose. Food, medicine, comfort for the coming winters; and what is plowing to your fields compared to the aching pangs in your stomach that scream and scream and scream for more than the meager bit of dried vegetable and rice you have once a day? )

Jing Yuan’s lips curl. He finishes the last of his fish, stifles back a sleepy yawn. You blink — and he’s gone, leaving behind the cleaned utensils laid before you.

You do what the Huli Jing asks of you. The sun bares down on your back. The plow is slippery against the sweat in your hands. Still, you work, and work, and work till you collapse into the night after the deed is done and every bit of dirt is scoured off rocks and dug into.

The next morning, you see the first signs of it.

The tiny bits of green poking out of the damp earth.

There is a silver fox within the bushes, watching you with an air of smugness. Your eyes meet and you smile at it, a little more than grateful and it stills, the tiniest wag of it’s tail betraying some contentment, at least.

( You place another bit of fish out for him that night. An empty plate is returned to your doorstep later ).

AINE | 2024. do no plagiarize, repost or rework this piece.

#&&. my writing !!#jing yuan x reader #jing yuan #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #x reader #jing yuan x you

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imagine-darksiders · 3 months ago

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Eden's Heir, chapter 6.

Prison break.

Summary: You manage to get your hands on Vulgrim's precious artifact. War is nice to you in his own, strange way, and Strife is his usual self.

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War has never been one to hide his true motivations behind crooked smiles and sly glances. Their eldest, Death, used to say that of all the Nephilim to be born from the dust of angels and demons, War was always the most forthright. Abnormally so.

Even among his ilk, he was the odd-one-out. Too fair, too just, 'getting to be a little too much like those damned birds.'

Why? Because he doesn't care for lies? As if Angels can't be just as underhanded and amoral as demons. Still, those who threw critique his way usually ended up leaving sadder but wiser, and often sporting broken bones and a new gap between their teeth courtesy of either himself or Fury. Death was more the sort for dolling out verbal degradation, and Strife... Well, Strife wasn't around a lot when War was still a whelp.

Regardless, perhaps it's that very forthrightness that means it doesn’t concern War in the slightest to be staring at you as he is, nor that you’ve been casting several, perturbed glances up at the underside of his chin before snatching your eyes away again every few seconds, evidently rattled by his unwavering attention.

Conversely unashamed and indiscreet, War has absolutely no qualms about frowning down at the small human in his arms, regarding you as one would a piece of mildly interesting trivia he’s never encountered before but is determined to decipher.

Truly, you’re nothing at all like the humans he’s heard about.

Humans aren’t fighters. Eden was a historically peaceful place, the name itself synonymous with Paradise. And yet only moments ago, War had borne witness as one of its prior denizens pulled a tiny blade from out of nowhere, and with a feverous desperation carving lines into your face, you’d plunged that blade into the hand of the gumptious demon who snatched you up.

… Belatedly, War realises he’ll have to tell Strife to be more thorough the next time he goes snooping for hidden weapons.

Humans adapted well to their new home on Earth, faster than anybody thought they would. They’re sturdy and solidly built, well-defined in body, and often ungainly in how they carry and present themselves; perfectly suited to learn the pursuits of agriculture, crafting and gathering.

You, however, stand as a stark contradiction to your entire species.

You’re soft. Graceful in your extravagant raiment, but inarguably fragile, far more-so than your fellow human, which is saying something.

War has felt the jarring give of your skin under his blade.

Strife has not.

War has tested the pressure of his grasp on your limbs and found them astoundingly delicate.

… Strife has not.

It’s why his brother’s actions riled War so fiercely after throwing you across a Creator-forsaken pit of lava onto this stone platform. He’s not certain Strife quite grasps the magnitude of the situation, nor the implications of a human being here in the first place. For you to turn up in the Void, speaking Common, dressed like a pampered Seraphim… it raises a series of rather urgent questions.

But to even have a hope of getting them answered, he and Strife ideally need to keep you alive...

… If only he could figure out how to get that notion through his brother’s thick skull…

Blinking out of his musings, War sees you raise your eyes to peer up at him again, although in this instance, much to his unspoken surprise, you don’t look away. Whilst certainly anxious, there’s a spark of something else tangled within the labyrinthine strands of your unusual irises, something that nearly has an invisible thread tugging at one corner of his mouth.

At last, it seems you’ve rediscovered the same nerve that called you to defend yourself from the demon.

“Put me down,” you utter quietly in a voice that quavers with the effort of keeping it level. You even maintain bold eye contact as you say it.

Again, War almost has to admire your gumption to demand something of one of the Four...

Almost.

If he were a curious Nephilim like his brother, he would probably concede that, yes, there is something about you that invites fascination. Like a mystery that hasn’t yet revealed its secrets.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, merely holds your watery gaze expectantly until you either remember yourself and lower your eyes or-

“Please, put me down?”

And just like that, War’s unspoken admonition is knocked off its tracks.

He hadn’t been expecting… He thought you’d just…

… Oh.

In hindsight, he supposes it was rather foolish of him to expect a human to adhere to the same social rules as another species, and he has to remind himself that just because you’re still meeting his stare, you aren’t being deliberately provocative.

Just… naive.

But why would you know of his reputation? Or of the tall tales whispered by nervous, fledgeling angels who like to try and frighten each other with stories… Stories about what happens to those who are unlucky or unwise enough to look the Horseman, War, in his eye.

Your ‘please’ is foreign to him. He knows of its usage, of course, but to hear it spoken so liberally… It’s as though you assumed ‘please’ was what he was waiting for. Is offering it a human’s way of showing deference?

Curious…

“Ahem…”

The sound of a throat being cleared snaps through War’s thoughts like the crack of a whip.

Quick as a flash, the scowl that had been gradually lifting from his expression slams back into place, and he turns his heated glare onto Strife, who stands in front of him with his arms folded neatly across a silver chest and his helm cocked to one side, eyes narrowed accusingly.

“You done being greedy, or are you gonna share?”

War’s scoff, and your huff occur at the same time, leading the two of you to share a brief glance before the former gives his eyes an exaggerated roll and finally, finally obliges, lowering you to the ground as swiftly as he can while maintaining a strange air of caution that betrays how breakable he thinks you are.

Large, metal gauntlets slide out from underneath your legs, depositing you on a flat piece of stone that’s relatively clean of demon blood.

The very instant you’re free, you only hesitate long enough to squeak out a hurried ‘thanks!’ before tearing yourself away from the gauntlet that hovers behind you and stumble several paces off to the side, putting some much-needed distance between you and the Horsemen. You almost trip over the train of your dress in the process.

Clinging to your elbows, you have to stuff your teeth into your lower lip to stop the sound of despair bursting out through pursed lips.

Your legs may as well be replaced with toothpicks for all the support they’re giving you. Terrible possibilities have begun to swirl across the mire of your brain.

What if you hadn’t found your nail file in time…?

What if Strife had never returned your bag?

You shudder, overwhelmed by the feeling that you’ve landed on the right side of a coin-flip, by no other will than dumb-fucking-luck.

You’ve never come that close to certain death before. You never want to come that close again.

At your back, unseen, Strife gives you a fleeting once-over, only returning his eyes to your veil when he doesn’t spot any immediate damage.

With his typical flair for bad timing and inability to read a room, he stretches his mouth into a hidden, cocksure grin, gives an approving nod and declares, “You did good, kid.”

Giving a harsh sniff, you tip your head towards the ceiling and let out a sharp, brassy laugh, utterly devoid of humour.

“Good?” you echo, rounding on the Horseman, your lungs still feeling two sizes too small when you draw breath, “GOOD!? I could have died! I almost did!”

“Almost!” Strife parrots eagerly, venturing a few steps towards you and spreading his arms out wide, apparently unbothered by your brazen reproach, “You almost died. But you didn’t.”

“That isn’t reassuring, Strife!” you wail.

Shaking fingers lift to try and thread through your hair, only to meet the barrier of your veil. Thwarted, you let your arms flop bonelessly back down against your sides and curl your hands into fists. “I’m not…-!”

But the words won’t come. Instead, you fall silent, realising how redundant it would be to say, ‘I’m not like you,’ out loud.

Christ, what an understatement.

You’re not the type to look at an ‘almost death’ and consider it a triumph. It’s a nightmare. You want to avoid death! That’s the most human instinct of all.

You shouldn’t even be here. You’re not like these two larger-than-life beings from another world. You can’t shoot guns like a master marksman, you can’t swing a sword that’s longer than you are tall, and you certainly can’t make impossible jumps that seem to defy gravity itself.

Hell, you can’t even stand up to your own fiancé and his family…

Sullen, despondent, you allow the adrenaline to seep out of you like water from a leaky pail, leaving you with limbs that feel far too heavy, and a head that’s tired as death.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” you eventually murmur to yourself, resisting the urge to scrub at your eyes lest you spread mascara all over your face. Your heart thunders inside your chest, palms slick with the heat, but more so with the creep of dread that rises in your belly as you picture the demon’s rancid maw in your mind’s eye and grit your teeth, unable to quell the waves of anxiety crashing against you like breakers that pummel a rocky cliff.

All the while, Strife is busy trying to pluck a response from midair, racking his brain for reasons as to why you can’t just ‘get out of here.’

Then, to his surprise and your own, the silence is broken, and it’s War’s stoic voice that brings a pause to the hopelessness dragging your soul down into the pit of your stomach.

“That was a Slag Demon.”

Blinking, you knit your brows into a frown and lift your eyes to the Horseman’s hoodless face. “Excuse me?”

And War, evidently sincere in every aspect, assumes you didn’t hear him, and repeats himself. “That was a Slag Demon.”

Once again, your eyelids flutter in a series of rapid blinks. “Yeah, I… I heard you,” you reply falteringly, “I just-“

“That demon,” he cuts you off, sending you a pointed look, “was forged in the deepest blast furnaces of Hell. They’re deceptively fast, almost invulnerable, and notoriously hard to kill.”

When he falls silent and doesn’t continue for several moments, you shift your weight and awkwardly drawl out, “… Oh-kay~?”

What the Hell is he getting at?

The way he’s peering down at you is… odd, you decide. He still has that perpetual scowl on his face, but the eyes under his furrowed brow seem… brighter, somehow, not quite as piercing and disparaging as they were before.

You’re not sure you like it any better.

Appraising you for a few more seconds, War gives a solemn nod, and states, “You found a weakness. You used what you had at your disposal to gain the upper hand.” Then, after taking a brief moment to consider his next words, he must eventually deem you worthy of them because he averts his gaze and scowls off at the distant stalactites, grunting, “It was a good kill.”

… Your jaw nearly hits the ground.

And judging by the way Strife’s helmeted head snaps around to send a wide-eyed stare at his larger brother, you suppose War must not say this sort of thing very often.

Looking down at yourself, you take in the meringue wedding dress, the ruffled tulle and overall extravagance of your attire.

“But…” Your tongue darts out apprehensively to wet your lips, “But I didn’t even kill it.”

Turning away from you, War begins to march back over to the grate, stopping only long enough to retrieve his enormous sword from the ground.

He barely takes a second to mull over his next answer as he slings the blade into its proper place along his spine. “You created the opening that gave Strife a clear shot,” he tells you, coming to a halt above the iron bars set into the floor and twitching his head towards you, his profile obscured by long, ice-white hair, “It counts.”

And with that, he reaches up to thread large, metal fingers into his hood and flips the crimson fabric up and over his head, once again hiding his face in dark, familiar shadow.

For… quite some time, you’re left speechless, gawping at the back of War’s head, and reeling now from the near-death experience and the unexpected approval of one of the scariest men you’ve ever met. A glance down at your hands confirms they’re still shaking, fingers tight and rigid like the bones under your skin have locked up.

“…Well,” Strife chimes in, heaving his massive shoulders in a shrug, “Good thing I don’t mind sharing.”

Sauntering over to you, he lifts an arm as if he’s about to drape it across your back, but the moment you see him coming, you lurch into motion and start after his brother, following the path War had picked through the dead imps, all the while trying to avoid glancing down at their cold, dead eyes.

Only thrown for a moment, Strife is quick to recover, waltzing after you and continuing, “So! Big day. You killed your first demon, kind of. How d’you feel?”

Your mouth twists up into a grimace. “Like I’m going to pass out, throw up, have a heart attack then die. In that order.”

Which is eerily similar to how you felt walking up the steps to the church.

The panic is… well, it’s definitely still there. The threat of a downward spiral haunts the edge of your mind, always keeping itself in the periphery. But for now, War’s stoic assessment has apparently shocked you so much, it broke the nosedive you were about to take into a total fit of hopelessness.

The Horseman beside you barks out a laugh and takes a few loping steps until he’s swaggering along beside you, the heavy ‘clunk’ of his boots drowning out the ‘clicks’ of your heels. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep a closer eye on you, next time.”

“Next time?” you sputter, brows shooting up towards the top of your veil, “I-I am not planning on doing this again.”

“Eh.” With a dismissive waft of his hand, he replies, “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Now c’mon! Sooner we get the artifact, the sooner we can be outta this heat.”

Well. You suppose you have to agree with him on that front.

The sudden clatter of metal skittering across the ground nearly has you jumping out of your shoes.

At your side, Strife jerks to a halt, his boot lifted halfway off the ground and his helm tipped down to search for the thing he’d inadvertently kicked with the toe of his sabatons. His keen eye latches onto it at once, and he utters a sound of intrigue at the back of his throat.

Following his gaze, you hone in on the little object that’s still skidding several paces away from you before it slides to a stop, laying small and shiny on the dark stone.

Stooping down, Strife reaches out a hand to gather the little object into his palm.

“Huh, guess it was knocked when I shot that big bastard...” he mutters, rising to his full height and unfurling each finger one by one, peering down at his prize, “I thought you didn’t have any weapons in there.”

Turning towards you, he holds up your bloodied nail-file as he jerks his chin at your bag.

Admittedly, you’re surprised to see it again, and even more surprised at the surge of gratitude that courses through you at the prospect of being reunited with something from the real world.

“Technically speaking,” you sniff, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “A nail file isn’t a weapon.”

Bringing it close to his visor, Strife tilts his head and squints at it, humming dubiously as he runs the pad of his finger over the coarse metal, giving the end a testing tap.

“… It looks like a dagger,” he points out, “… A very small dagger.”

“Or a toothpick,” his brother grumbles up ahead.

“Well, it isn’t either of those things… It’s just something I use to keep my nails tidy…” At the incredulous glances you receive – one from Strife and one from War who deigns to cast you a bemused look over his shoulder – you breathe a weary sigh and thrust your hand out towards the former of the pair expectantly. “Look, can I just… have it back?”

In truth, you half expect him to refuse, whether to simply get a rise out of you or to mitigate your temptation to attack them with the nail file – not that you’d be so foolish.

So, when Strife extends an arm and holds your ‘weapon’ out towards you, you can’t help but let your jaw drop open in undisguised shock.

“Sure,” he says breezily, “I ain’t gonna keep it. More of a gun man, myself. And War’d be embarrassed to be seen with a blade this small.”

You don’t know whether you’re supposed to take offence to that or not.

“Here,” Strife offers again, lowering his upturned palm in the private hopes of coaxing you closer when you just continue to gape at his appendage, “Take it.”

Warily, you start inching your hand up towards his, keeping your eye on the silver helm and those piercing, golden eyes that drill right into you with attentive wonder.

Swallowing thickly, you dare to flick your gaze down to the nail-file, still sitting pretty at the centre of his palm… Up this close, you spot something that threatens to turn your stomach inside out.

“Ew! There’s blood all over it!” you exclaim, retracting your outstretched hand like he’s trying to give you a live snake.

Indeed, it isn’t the silvery metal that’s glinting in the firelight, but a coating of thick, shiny blood that’s already begun to dry on the file’s roughly-hewn surface.

Strife – who had given a start at your exclamation – pauses, then blinks and cocks his brow down at the offending blood sticking to your weapon.

“Oh, so-rry, Princess,” he chuckles, lifting the file to his cowl and wiping it several times against the fabric, smearing dark flakes of blood into the wool before he holds it out towards you again, “That better?”

Tipping your nose into the air, you give the file a thorough once over. Deeming it adequately clean, you at last reach up to pluck it from his grip, holding it gingerly between your thumb and forefinger. “Much. Thanks.”

You’ve turned away before you can see his eyes glow brighter, considerably pleased with himself.

By the time he stops sticking out his chest, you’ve already reached his brother, stopping a respectable distance away near the opposite side of the grate.

War doesn’t even spare you a cursory glance. Instead, he stands still and strong as a statue, his frost-blue eyes scrutinising the bars with rigid focus.

You don’t dare ask him why he hasn’t retrieved his ‘artifact’ yet.

“Hey, War. What’s the holdup?”

Apparently, you and Strife are on the same wavelength. How disconcerting.

A metal elbow suddenly brushes against your side as a titanic body disregards your own personal space and sidles up next to you, pulling a gasp from your lips that goes entirely ignored while Strife addresses his brother over the top of your head. “You gonna grab the artifact or what?”

Grumbling under his breath, War raises his eyes to fix his fellow Horseman with a stony scowl.

“The grate,” he retorts darkly, tossing a hand at the ground as if the answer should have already been obvious, “It’s locked.”

“Oh,” Strife answers flatly, though it isn’t long before he plants a decisive fist on his hip and declares, “Well, then we’ll just have to find the key…” Swivelling around in place, he casts an eye around the chamber and adds, “Maybe the demon had it?”

… You hate to point out the obvious, especially when you haven’t been invited to do so, but…

“Um… You mean the demon that just fell over the side?” you venture.

A thick, uncomfortable silence ensues, during which you’re sure you must have offended him somehow, because Strife’s body goes utterly motionless, and War huffs a breath through his nose.

“… I see your point,” the former concedes at last, and you realise he isn’t angry, just... bashful.

Another derisive sound escapes from the larger Horseman’s mouth, prompting Strife’s helm to snap towards his brother. “Well, you’re the strong one,” he gripes, “Just tear out the bars.”

Now it’s War’s turn to stop and ponder. He casts a sideways glance down at you, regarding you briefly from the shadow of his hood. By the time you’ve lifted your eyes to his face, he’s already turned away, cracking his neck with an audible ‘Pop!’

“Very well,” he rumbles.

It’s a little prideful of him – and Creator knows Death would expect better - yet War can’t help but wonder if you’ll be awed by a show of might. Maybe you’ll be afraid... Moreso than at present.

Pounding a fist into his gauntlet, he lowers his immense bulk down onto one knee and slides his fingers around the bars, rolling his shoulders as he prepares to demonstrate the raw, physical strength of the Red Ri-

“-Can’t you just… reach in and grab it?” you ask, cleanly derailing War’s train of thought and knocking the wind from his sails, “I mean, it looks small enough to fit through the bars, right?”

… Well, War supposes that’s a fair suggestion, but for one not-so-small problem.

Without turning to look at you, War simply holds up his gauntlet and flexes the metallic fingers into a fist. “I would not get my knuckles through,” he states simply, bobbing his head sideways at his brother, “Nor would Strife.”

“Oh,” you falter, shrinking backwards and stuffing a canine into your bottom lip whilst the Horseman curls his hands around the bars once more.

“Um, why don’t I take a crack at it then?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you find yourself wishing you could snatch them out of the air and stuff them back behind your teeth.

Of all the fool things you could have said, why on Earth would you offer to put your hands anywhere near a stone that’s glowing like raw Uranium?

But it’s too late.

Strife has turned a thoughtful, wide-eyed gaze onto War, who returns it with the slightest parting of his brows.

“… Why didn’t we think of that?” Strife posits.

Before you can verbally – and physically – backtrack, War has already twisted his torso about and wrapped his colossal fist around your forearm, notably aiming for the one he hadn’t sliced open with his sword.

Warm metal engulfs your appendage all the way up to your elbow, and though you try to resist, he hardly seems to notice your efforts as he tugs you towards his side, then lowers his hand, leaving you with no choice but to follow its weight and drop to your knees in front of the grate, wincing as they bump against the hard stone beneath your dress.

“Here,” he says firmly, allowing you to snatch your arm back in favour of pointing his finger down at the glowing crystal, “Reach down and take it.”

Curling your hand into your chest, you give your head a shake and protest, “I can’t!”

“You just said you could!” Strife rebuffs.

That you did… “But-!” Wracking your brain, you add, “But what if it’s like… radioactive or something!?”

Visibly, the Horseman balks. “Ray-dee-oh… what?”

War’s eyes start to roll towards the ceiling as he listens to your back and forth with his brother, and he considers whether it would have been faster to rip the grate out of the stone after all.

You proposed a solution however, and in his frank opinion, you ought to stick by it.

The massive gauntlet enters your peripheral just as you open your mouth to shoot another argument up at Strife, but no sooner have the metal tips of War’s fingers ghosted across your arm than you wrench it away, whipping around to face him with startled eyes.

Hastily, you hold up your hands in surrender.

“Okay! Alright!” you acquiesce, “Jesus, just… give me a second…”

Flicking part of the veil over your shoulder, you lean forwards and brace yourself with one hand on a bar, lowering your torso down to stretch your other hand down and into the pit below, fingers blindly fishing around for the Vulgrim’s precious artifact.

When they brush against a warm, smooth surface, you can’t refrain from yelping and snatching your hand back as if it had moved.

The leathery smack of a gun being drawn from its holster reaches your ears.

“You okay?” Strife demands, shifting his weight restlessly.

Swallowing back your embarrassment, you nod and reply, “Uh, yeah, yeah. It’s just hot!”

“Hot enough to burn you?” War cuts in with a rough growl.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you brave another go, reaching down and brushing your fingertips hesitantly over the surface of the crystal. Though it is disconcertingly warm to the touch – no doubt from the ambient heat in the atmosphere – you realise with a third stroke that it isn’t anywhere near as hot as you feared it would be.

“No,” you sigh, only partially relieved.

The massive presences surrounding you relax slightly.

“Good,” Strife murmurs, raising his voice to add, “Can you get it loose?”

You can, as it turns out. Quite easily in fact. The crystal isn’t being held in any kind of clamp. To your mounting astonishment, it seems to simply float in midair.

“This is so freaky~,” you sing to yourself as you slide your palm down the long side of it, feeling for the pointed base and cupping your fingers around it with an audible gulp.

The whole crystal seems to buzz and hum under your touch, sending an eerie tingle racing up the length of your arm and raising the hairs all the way up to the back of your neck.

According to all sense and reason, this thing is nothing more than a pretty, pink crystal. But here, where sense and reason have been turned on their heads, pulled inside out and shaken up like a vodka martini, the thing in your hand is no more a mere crystal than the Horsemen are mere men.

Trying very hard to ignore how much the fluctuating thrum beneath your fingertips reminds you of a pulse, you clench your jaw tight, close your eyes, and pull… with a little too much force.

It’s lighter than you expected it to be. Nearly weightless. And it slips straight through the bars of its prison without even dinging against the sides.

Letting out an undignified bleat, you teeter backwards and land painfully on your backside, the crystal smacking against your bosom before falling from your trembling fingers and sliding safely into the soft, white fabric of your skirts.

Cracking your eyelids apart, you blink down at your lap, chest stuttering on a breath. “I… I got it?”

That was…decidedly easy…

Well, aside from almost getting eaten by a demon in your quest to find the damn thing.

The soft, pink glow of the crystal lights up your face as you peer down at it, glittering off your wedding dress and bathing the fabric folds in warmth.

“Wow,” you hear yourself whisper.

With cautious awe, your fingers wander towards it and slip gently around your rescued prize.

You’re so busy admiring the smooth, faultless lines that you don’t notice the shadow of a hand falling across your shoulders until War’s gauntlet has slid beneath your arm.

Aside from blurting out a squawk, you helplessly have to let yourself be lifted with unnerving ease onto your feet, still clutching the crystal close to your breast.

“Good job, kid,” Strife declares, slapping a palm on your back.

If War’s fingers hadn’t tightened around your arm at the moment, you’re sure you’d go tumbling over onto your face.

The force of the larger Horseman’s warning growl sends tremors through his gauntlet and down into the toes of your shoes, rattling the teeth in your skull.

Strife, pleasantly unfussed by his brother’s idle threat, leans over your shoulder as War releases you, and together, you all stare down at the crystal in your arms.

“Wonder what this thing’s worth to that soul-sucking ghoul,” Strife remarks after nobody breaks the quiet hush that’s fallen over you, as though he can’t bear to sit in silence for too long. Bringing his gauntlet up to rub at the chin of his helm, he thoughtfully adds, “We could always convince Vulgrim to throw in a little extra…”

At his suggestion, a tiny frown-line blooms to life between your brows. It is a very pretty gem… but while you know next to nothing about demons, you aren’t sure you like the idea of trying to bargain with one, not when your run-in with one of Vulgrim’s ilk had almost ended so disastrously.

You don’t know if it should come as a shock or not when War’s shoulders bristle moments later, and he bares his canines at Strife, his cavernous chest puffing up until you have to lean sideways to avoid getting jostled by it.

“The artifact, in exchange for information,” he snarls dangerously, “We will honour our agreement.”

‘Honour among Horsemen of the Apocalypse?’ you muse privately, ‘Wonders will never cease.’

Though only in War’s case, evidently. Strife just heaves an obnoxious sigh and tosses his helm back, “Ugh, you have no ambition… Why’ve you gotta be such a killjoy?”

War’s lips start to curl even further apart.

“So!” you quickly interrupt the broiling fracas, “We’ve got the… this thing-“ You shrug the crystal in your palms. “-H-how exactly do we get back?”

That, at least, gets the pair of bickering brothers to fall silent and pivot their attention from one another onto you. War’s expression is still as stony as ever, but you consider it a win that he looks marginally less murderous.

“Huh,” Strife says, “That’s a good question.”

Rumbling at the base of his throat, War grunts, "It would be prudent to find a way out of this realm as quickly as possible."

"Oh?" A mischievous glint sparks in his brother's keen gaze. "And here I thought you were.... warming up to the place."

Unbidden, a short puff of laughter is scoffed right off your tongue, more amused by how bad the joke was than the joke itself.

Either way, Strife's chest fills out proudly as his helm quirks towards you, one eyelid flashing closed behind the visor in a wink.

Oblivious, War just grumbles, "You know your humour escapes me."

And quick as a whip, Strife returns, "All humour escapes you."

Giving a brusque shake of his head, the larger Horseman decides it isn't worth getting into this argument for the umpteenth time. Turning his attention down to you and the crystal in your hands, he beckons with a gauntlet for you to step closer.

"Come. If we retrace our steps, we may be able to-"

You never get to hear the end of his sentence.

It isn’t that you’re particularly unlucky, you think… God, you hope. You’ve never thought yourself significant enough that the Universe would have it out for you personally, after all.

But when the ground suddenly disappears from under your feet in a blinding flash of vivid, blue light, and the deafening rush of air buffets your dress and boxes your eardrums, you can’t help wondering if you’ve somehow - in some unwitting way - slighted the powers that be, and now they’re playing their revenge card.

Which is a hassle for you, because you’ve had just about enough of portals and getting whisked off to places unknown for one day.

The last thing you see as you throw your head up and open your mouth to release a scream that’ll be sucked away with you as your atoms once again rearrange themselves to fit through a spatial rip, is Strife’s luminous, golden eyes flaring hotly like bursting stars – a direct contrast to the cool, ethereal blue of his brother’s, who’s own gaze opens up in surprise and, you think, alarm, one gauntlet outstretched in your direction.

And that’s all you manage to glimpse before the light overtakes you, and your body is yanked like a fish on a hook into the luminiferous aether.

#Eden's Heir #Darksiders #Darksiders Genesis #Strife x Reader x War #polyamory #Friendship #Reader #fem reader #x reader

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juniper-sunny · 2 months ago

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The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 7

An unexpected detour brings new people into your life, along with a different side to Silco that you've never seen before...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Fix-It || TW: Alcohol | SFW | WC: 3.6

beta reader: @silcoitus <3

ao3 || Masterlist || Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

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“This is The Last Drop?” you ask, surprised. You wonder if that’s why the pub is so cozy; if the Children are always on the lookout for new members, then it’s in their own self-interest to make their home turf an attractive place to visit.

“Sure is,” the bartender says with a proud grin. “All proceeds go towards helping the good Children of the Lanes.”

You raise your eyebrows, impressed by the mercenaries’ ingenuity. Good alcohol is always in demand in the Undercity, so the Children are sure to never run out of money. “That’s pretty smart.”

“You should buy a drink if you’re on our side,” he says cheerfully. His unserious manner tells you that he won’t mind if you don’t, though. “You sure I can’t get you anything?”

“I would if I could,” you say regretfully. “Do you have a tip jar?”

“A woman after my own heart,” he says warmly. He grabs a beer mug, thumping it down enthusiastically on the counter in front of you.

You finally locate your money bag and pull out a handful of golden coins, dropping them into the mug. The man’s eyes widen in delight as the money clinks and rattles against the glass.

“Cheers, sweetheart,” he says gratefully.

After stashing the mug away under the counter, he puts his fingers to his mouth and whistles sharply. The sudden and loud noise makes you jump. He waves at someone behind you, gesturing for them to come over.

“I’ll drink next time,” you promise the barman. “This place is really nice… my friend made it sound like a war room.”

“Oh? Who’s this friend of yours?” he asks. He glances away from you, waving more insistently.

“Silco.”

The bartender’s cheer turns to curiosity as he leans on the bar, squinting at you. Self-conscious, you stand a little straighter under his scrutiny, scooting over to make room for the tall woman who takes a seat next to you.

“You got my drink?” she asks you, bored.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, here—” you move one of the glasses closer to her.

She takes it with a nod of thanks.

“What do you want, Vander? I still have the meet today,” she says, annoyed.

“Think he’ll still want to do business with you after you smashed his friend’s face in?” Vander laughs.

Sevika rolls her eyes. “He deserved it.”

“Just as well. This lady here is going to be much better company,” the barman nods at you. “I’m Vander, and this lovely lady is Sevika.” He jerks a thumb at the woman. She ignores you, sipping from her drink.

You introduce yourself. Vander nudges Sevika with his elbow, which earns him a steely glare from the woman.

“Don’t be like that, Sev; she’s a friend of Silco’s. Any friend of his, is a friend of ours,” he says sincerely.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you say with a smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you both.” Silco had described his brother-in-arms as a big man with a big heart. As first impressions go, he certainly fits that description. As for Sevika, Silco praised her toughness and loyalty, a woman with a surprisingly kind heart hidden underneath a thorny exterior.

She seems more interested in nursing her drink than making small talk, so you hold your hand out to Vander. But his attention is caught by someone walking behind him; he turns over his shoulder to wink at them.

When he looks back at your extended hand, he takes it and turns it gently, lowering his head to kiss your knuckles. His calloused fingertips slide against your palm.

“Oh—” you stammer, startled.

Just as Vander’s lips are about to make contact with your skin, Silco appears behind him.

“Vander, we’re out of—” Silco says, annoyed.

He does a double-take at the sight of his friend kissing your hand. His mouth drops open, the pub lights reflecting off his chipped teeth.

“Silco! Hi!!” you squeak out, embarrassed. When you yank your hand back, your heart rockets into your throat, a full heated flush steaming your face hot enough to make you want to take off your jacket. The drink in front of you looks tempting for your suddenly parched mouth.

He says your name, incredulous. “What brings you here?”

“I—I was just in the neighborhood,” you lie. The excitement of meeting Silco’s friends almost made you forget about your stalker. Remembering them drives a spike of anxiety through your heart, and you fidget with your sleeves. But you’re not about to tell Silco about that, especially in front of his friends.

And it wasn’t a complete lie, either—you’re just taking a detour before you head home.

Silco narrows his eyes at you. You smile innocently at him, the very picture of honesty.

Vander grabs two more glasses and tops them up, shoving one into his friend’s hands.

“Here’s to our comrades, new and old,” the bartender toasts. He downs his drink in one gulp while Sevika takes another slow, appreciative sip.

Silco doesn’t drink, still staring at you with suspicion.

Flustered, you reflexively drink from your own glass, accidentally taking an extra-large mouthful. The spicy and earthy drink hits you hard, a punch to the face with a fiery, honey-sweet aftertaste. You cough so violently you fumble for a stool, taking a seat next to Sevika.

Silco rushes around the counter. He stands on your other side, rubbing your back in concern. Worried, he asks, “Are you alright?”

The alcohol burns in your mouth, an uncomfortable tingling tracking from the roof of your mouth down your throat. But you try to smile at Silco, coughing out, “It’s good to see you.”

Because it really is. His smile soothes you better than any glass of water could. He takes a seat next to you, his hand lingering on your back. You bump his shoulder playfully with your own.

“So how’d you meet our man here?” Vander asks, grinning as he refills your glass.

“Oh, um…” you glance at Silco. “Saved him from Enforcers.”

Sevika glances at you from the corner of her eye, curious. Vander lets out a bark of a laugh before he asks, “Pretty little thing like you? What’d you do, blow a kiss at them?”

Silco tenses at the compliment. His hand on your back moves up to your shoulder, squeezing you protectively. “Please don’t judge my companions too harshly. I assure you, under most circumstances, they are perfectly capable of behaving themselves.”

“I just dropped paint on them,” you answer with a shrug, ignoring Vander’s remark. This time, you take a little sip of the drink. In smaller quantities, it’s quite tasty. You let it linger on your tongue to better enjoy the fruity notes.

The larger man leans forward, brows furrowed. If you thought he was watching you too closely before, he stares openly at you now. You stare at the liquid in your glass, swirling it to avoid the bartender’s eyes. “You’re the muralist?”

“Uh…” You look at Silco questioningly. “I’m working on a mural right now, yeah.”

“Well, I’d like to thank you if Silco hasn’t already. He forgets his manners sometimes,” Vander says, giving his friend a playful punch in the shoulder. “Couldn’t have gotten our most recent score without your help.”

“I’ll have you know, I’ve thanked her plenty already,” Silco says impatiently, rolling his eyes.

“You might as well be one of us now,” Sevika says to you. For the first time that night, she smiles, a sharp smirk that transforms her face into something gleeful and young. She shares a knowing look with Vander before finally turning to look at you head-on, assessing you properly now. “Saving Silco’s ass is pretty much a rite of passage for the Children.”

“I believe our ledgers are equally balanced in that regard,” Silco scowls. His hand leaves your shoulder to pick up his drink.

Sevika snorts. “Sure you don’t want me taking over the accounting? ‘Cause I keep better track of our numbers than you do.”

“Now, now, kids,” Vander snickers. “No fighting in front of the new recruit.”

“…Wait, what?” you ask, confused. When you turn to look at Silco, he’s frowning but flushed red from embarrassment. He sighs and pinches between his eyebrows, looking down at the counter.

“I had hoped that my friends would know better than to surprise you,” Silco says in an annoyed tone. He looks up, still avoiding your gaze to glare daggers at Vander. “I merely asked them to consider extending a formal invitation to you. I hadn’t realized that the final decision had already been made without my input.”

The bartender pouts in apology, his watery eyes widening in an impression of a Poro. “And here I thought you asked her already.”

“If you got your eye on her, she must be good people,” Sevika pipes up. She raises her drink at you before finishing it off.

“Exactly,” Vander says to you. “Silco likes to leave most of the recruiting to me. You must be something special if you caught his eye.”

You clutch your glass tight. A confusing cocktail of emotions swirl in your chest, not helped by the alcohol: triumph at earning the approval of Silco’s friends, clashing with self-consciousness at being the center of attention.

“I was just in the right place at the right time, that’s all,” you hunch over the counter and mumble.

“I’m so sorry,” Silco says earnestly. He looks at you directly now, eyes wide with distress. “I should have discussed it with you first, I only meant—”

“Silco, it’s okay,” you reassure him. “Can we talk about this later?”

He nods, his knee bouncing rapidly, restless and nervous.

“It was nice meeting you all,” you say, giving Silco an affectionate pat on the arm as you step off the stool. “Have a good night—”

Silco looks crestfallen as his friends break out into a chorus of protests.

“Are you really going home after just one drink?” Vander asks, turning his sickeningly sweet puppy eyes at you.

“Let’s play for it,” Sevika says, whipping a pack of cards out with a flick of her wrist. She shuffles them expertly, dealing the cards swiftly on the counter. “If you win, you get to go home. If I win, you stay and I’ll tell you how Silco fucked up his teeth.”

“That’s—that’s not necessary,” Silco sputters. “Don’t you have a meeting today?”

“He’ll come back if he knows what’s good for him,” Sevika says dismissively. She looks at you expectantly.

You drink again to buy yourself time to think. You have fun hanging out with Silco, his friends seem welcoming enough, the alcohol is tasty… all very persuasive reasons for you to stay.

“Sure,” you tell Sevika cheerfully. “What are we playing?”

Her explanation of the rules is short and straightforward, but you find yourself distracted when Silco scoots his chair closer to yours. When you ask Sevika to please repeat herself, your friend says he’ll help you.

He hooks his chin over your shoulder when you pick up your hand of cards. He’s warm and solid next to you, his breath grazing your cheek. The contact has your heart racing, your heartbeat so loud it almost drowns out his whispered instructions in your ear.

Maybe it’s because of the alcohol, but you find yourself leaning into his constant touches instead of away from them. Indulging in the fantasy that he’s not just being chummy, but that he wants to escalate your friendship into something… more.

You quickly down your drink in one gulp, slamming the glass down too hard on the counter. When Vander asks if you want another, you shake your head vigorously, making yourself dizzy. You tell the bartender that you just need some water. Silco tells you to slow down when you chug the whole thing as fast as you can without choking.

But you want to drown that thought before you can pursue it. Wishing only leads to disappointment, after all. Building an icon for a small faith only for it to be struck by lightning. Leaving behind nothing but ashes in its wake, all your hopes going up in flames and trailing away with the smoke.

Besides, you’re trying to make a good impression on Vander and Sevika. Trying to laugh at their jokes and answer their questions.

Trying to ignore Silco’s long and handsome fingers as he touches your cards.

Trying to focus on the game instead of the tapestry of lines and scars on his skin.

You ask Vander what his favorite drink is, and he points out different bottles on his shelf.

But your eyes are instead drawn to the column of Silco’s throat as he swallows. His tongue tracing the outline of his thin lips after downing shot after shot of vodka.

How he always smirks first before teasing his friends, mischievous and playful. Then he’ll smile bright and joyfully as he chuckles, a low and soft sound compared to Vander’s booming laughter. The trio use pointed words with each other, but they never cut deep enough to hurt.

You’ve stopped drinking for the night since you have to wake up early tomorrow. But you’re still enjoying yourself, bonding with Sevika and Vander over stories of Silco’s youthful antics. Already flushed from drinking so much, Silco turns even redder when Sevika tells you of the misadventure of his broken teeth.

From any other storyteller, it would have been a heroic retelling of his courage and defiance in the face of an indomitable goliath. And yes, teenage Silco was very brave in an encounter with multiple Enforcers. But Vander breaks into uproarious laughter when he talks about his friend dodging their punches expertly only to trip and fall open-mouthed on an Enforcer’s boot.

“I can’t believe you still managed to fight them off,” you tell Silco in awe. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

“Did y’know… I have the fewest arrests compared to these two,” Silco slurs drunkenly. He swings his glass at them in a wild, unsteady arc, his drink spilling out of his cup. Sevika scowls when the alcohol splashes onto her poncho.

“Still the worst of us at holding his liquor, though,” Vander says, chuckling. He throws a towel at his friend’s face. Silco’s head thumps onto the counter as the towel falls into his lap. “Take care of that spill, will you?”

The bartender walks away to help another customer. Sevika shoves herself out of her seat, shoulder-checking Silco as she stalks off to the restroom.

You reach out for the towel, gingerly picking it up before you wipe the counter dry. Silco watches with sleepy, half-lidded eyes as you fold the towel neatly.

“How are you feeling?” you ask him, amused. It’s almost fascinating to observe Silco’s total loss of composure; for someone who lives in a bar, his tolerance for alcohol is lower than you expected. Maybe it’s because he’s skinnier than his friends.

“M’good,” he mumbles into the counter.

“Here.” You slide your glass of water closer to him.

You pat his back, encouraging him to sit up so he can drink. He raises his head slowly, swaying dangerously as he sits up again. When he makes a grab for the glass, he almost knocks it over. You catch it just in time. Some of the water spills out onto your hand.

You take it upon yourself to hold the glass up to Silco’s lips. When he opens his mouth, you tilt the cup carefully, careful not to pour too much too fast. He drinks with small gulps, little by little until your glass is emptied. You can’t help but imagine him as a houseplant, and the image makes you giggle.

“What’sss’funny?” Silco asks as he lowers his head onto the counter again.

“Nothing,” you say quickly. You lay your head down on the bar, folding your arms to use as a cushion. Even when looking at him sideways, his handsomeness is undeniable, his long nose pressed into the counter and his dark hair draped over his sharp cheekbones.

You wonder if he’d let you push his hair out of his eyes.

Silco mumbles something under his breath that you don’t quite catch. Just as you scooch closer to listen, his eyes droop shut. He slumps completely limp, mouth falling slack.

You poke him in the face to wake him up. When he doesn’t respond, you stroke his cheek with the back of your hand, knuckles gently grazing his skin. He’s soft and warm to the touch as you trace the contour of his cheekbone. He babbles something incoherent, his lip twitching upward in the ghost of a smile.

You jerk upright in your seat, glancing around frantically. Sevika hasn’t come back and Vander is still busy with other customers. You’re glad that neither of them were around to see your moment of weakness, but that means they can’t help you with Silco either.

“Silco…” you lean in to murmur into his ear. He responds with a questioning hum. “You live here, right? Where’s your bedroom?”

Something about asking that question makes you blush, and you’re glad his eyes are still closed as he waves towards the far side of the pub, his fingers hanging limp.

You squint past customers and furniture to see a doorway encircled by a curved steel beam. It’s not very far away, but the real challenge is getting Silco to his feet.

“Silco…” you say again patiently. “Please get up.”

“Mmm… why…” he mutters.

“You need sleep, Silco,” you say gently.

“Mm’sleeping righ-now…”

“You can’t sleep here, dummy,” you chuckle.

“Why not…?”

“It’s bad for your neck and back.” You also can’t deny that you’re curious about Silco’s sleeping quarters, but you keep that thought to yourself.

“I’ll go if y’come wi me…” Silco cracks his eye open, a drop of turquoise peeking out at you from under his dark eyelashes.

“Sure,” you say, amused.

Your friend grins. He sways upwards with a wobble and pushes the stool away from the bar. You catch him under his armpit just as he slips off the stool, his weight forcing your knees to bend. He’s heavy like a waterlogged backpack, the strain on your back only slightly lessened when you throw one of his arms around your shoulders. The pair of you almost careen into another bargoer, and you apologize to them through gritted teeth as you steer Silco towards the doorway.

The light from the pub leaks through just enough to illuminate a short flight of wooden steps that lead into a hallway. With some prodding, Silco perks up just enough to slide off your shoulders and onto the wall. He oozes down the stairs one at a time before catching himself on a doorknob on the left. When he pulls the door open and stumbles into a room, you follow him.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, and in the dark you almost miss another flight of stairs. Startled, you yelp as your foot falls through the air and you catch yourself on a handrail.

“Sorry,” Silco’s voice floats to you. You hear a switch clicking, then a muffled flop of him landing on something soft. A lamp turns on, weakly illuminating the room with a warm yellow glow.

It’s a small, cozy kitchen with a long couch and a small armchair, both orange with squishy cushions and colorful square patches of blue, purple, and red. An old wooden door repurposed into a coffee table sits between the couch and armchair. The lamp on the table is small and electric, illuminating Silco’s face as he lays on the couch. A large and brightly polished gramophone sits on top of a red barrel in the far corner. Framed and unframed photos on the walls give the place a homey feel. The shelves above the stove are stocked with clean glass jars, cutlery, and mismatched plateware.

Silco lies on the couch, sleepy eyes blinking at you as he smacks his lips. He turns on his side as he watches you walk over to the sink.

“You good here?” you ask. You grab a jar and fill it with water.

He hums in the affirmative, smiling at you appreciatively when you place the jar on the table close to him.

“You should stay,” he says through a yawn. “’S too late f’you to walk home.”

“Are you sure?” you ask. Normally, you would decline and insist on walking home if it weren’t for your stalker. A shiver crawls up your spine at the prospect of leaving the safe haven of The Last Drop. You imagine them descending on you as you try to dodge them in the Lanes. The cold fear kept at bay by your friends and the alcohol creeps into your veins again, rooting you to the ground.

“Yeah… I’ll take care of you…” he trails off, his eyes falling shut.

You yawn quietly, conscientious of Silco falling asleep again. His hand uncurls next to his face, his body fully relaxing like an unknotted rope. The sound of his deep breathing fills the room, low and peaceful.

Slowly, slowly, you tiptoe over to his feet and unlace his boots. It takes some awkward maneuvering of his legs to finally get them off; you hope he won’t remember you manhandling him in the morning. You place them gently next to the foot of the couch before unlacing your own. Your own boots look so much smaller when you place them right next to his. Then you take off your jacket and drape it over Silco, pulling the collar over his shoulder. Only then do you finally take a seat in the armchair.

“Goodnight, Silco,” you whisper softly, your own eyes drooping shut as you switch off the lamp.

He doesn’t respond. You pull your knees up to your chest and rub your arms for warmth as you drift off, joining him in slumber.

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Chapter 8

#Arcane #Arcane fanfic #Silco #Silco Arcane #Arcane Silco #Silco x Reader #my writing #The Art in the Heart #TAITH #tw alcohol #alcohol tw

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moodymisty · 1 month ago

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Author's note: What are you gonna do? Kinkshame me?

Relationship: Mortarion/Fem!Reader (to call it a relationship is kind of a stretch you only have his last name cause the vet paperwork requires it)

Warnings: NSFW, Nonnegotiable pet play (hampter), Degradation, Dehumanization, Kidnapping(?) Stockholm syndrome, Brief mention of reader having enough hair to put into a hair tie, Collar and leash, I dunno this is weird, This is totally unrelated to the Morty and his hot wife fic as much as his (future)wife would be down for being his pet, Inspired by @lemon-russ and her Mortarion pet fic series <3 and by inspired I mean like half of this fic is the exact fucking same cause i had trouble with the last half

The festering, bloated form of the Imperium was good for something, Mortarion thought.

Logistical tasks were nightmarish beyond all belief, shipments of requisitioned goods sent from place to place in the thousands if not millions. Many shipments disappeared outright; A planet now without food, a desperate front line without weapons. Efforts doomed purely on logistical error due to the sheer amount of traffic having to be handled.

It made slipping things between the cracks quite easy, however.

The box in Mortarion's hands is small by his standards, but for a human it would be quite sizable. They had offered to bring it to his quarters but he instantly refused, and Garro reiterated to the serfs that no one- including his own men- were to be near let alone in his quarters.

Not anymore.

When he enters the privacy of his chambers his shoulders relax slightly, and he hears the soft jingle of thin metal. It's quiet now- it used to be far louder but now that your cage is a bright display of plush blankets and toys, only weight on the exterior of the cage, and the metal of your collar, create any noise.

He smiles at the wide, excited look in your eyes, your fingers wrapped around the thin bars as you rise to your knees. The little dress you wear is still clean but a decent bit wrinkled, an array of lace and frills.

He'll have to change it; Along with a myriad of other chores he'll need to go after leaving you alone for so long.

"How are you, my little pet?"

You perk up and eagerly watch as he comes to let you out, but not too eagerly.

He doesn't like when you yelp and rattle the bars. He always wants you to be quiet above all else, especially during living hours.

"I have some new things for you, excited? Sit, and I'll show them to you."

You obediently listen legs curled to one side and nod, watching as he lowers himself to the floor on one knee. He grimaces and his bones crack and pop, but he manages. You look at him a bit worried, but you know he'll be fine.

You always love when he gets new things for you; New blankets, new pillows, new toys. Whenever things break he's always quick to get you new ones. It's so exciting to see what wonderful and colorful things he gets you from all of the places he's been, stuffing your life so full of plushness, soft fabrics and pastels.

The corner of his bedchambers your cage is in far more filled that it was when you'd first arrived, stuffed with spare things and little lights. If you were to just look at him, it would be almost funny; How lively and cute your home is in comparison to himself. His desk directly adjacent to you is solid wood, covered in burns, stains, and various bottles and jars.

In the moment it's nice, the free food, the blankets, the security; But when you think about it, its...

It's humiliating.

Degrading.

You feel less than human, though you suppose that's his intent; If anyone you knew ever saw you like this crawling around on all fours like a-

If any were alive.

Your planet was vicious, unforgiving. How you'd survived as long as you had was a miracle. To live there was to scavenge and fight for day to day survival, no thinking of the long term. You don't know if anyone you knew has even survived in few months you've been gone.

Has it been months?

Here, you're showered in plush toys and blankets, bowls and bowls of food. By a primarch no less. You were plucked from the sky by a being that from the sparse teachings of your forgotten planet was a man of incomprehensible power, a military of thousands at his disposal.

You even have a heating pad; Mortarion keeps the switch within your grasp after you wouldn't stop whining for him to turn it on.

For all intents and purposes, you're pampered. You are his pet, but you're safe, well taken care of, and loved.

It could be worse.

...could it?

You are still fully cognizant of that past life, before him. But why would you yearn for it's return- to a nightmare of struggle and fighting- when here, you're pampered and pet and fed until you're plump? You don't have to worry about anything. Your primarch does it all for you. Here you can sleep in a warm bed, eat your food and wait until master he returns and you can get some time out to stretch and play.

If you're very good, and he doesn't have any duties that take away his time, he'll let you sleep on his bed with him- not complaining when you crawl up to lay your head on his thigh.

He's been busy for a few days now, multiple nights you haven't seen him leaving you alone in the dark. It gets lonely, but you're patient- napping in your bed or playing with the myriad of toys he's given you. They keep you busy, but your little mind always wanders back to worrying if he's left you forever.

Reaching for the latch of your cage he undoes it and chuckles as you eagerly crawl to the entrance, almost visibly vibrating from excitement.

It's been days, and now he's going to let you out! You struggle to contain the excitement.

He opens the box and briefly shows you a peek of the things he's gotten you, before he gets distracted by something else.

"Your hair is such a mess. Come out."

He doesn't put a leash on you, letting you come out and stretch your legs a bit before getting back down. He sits at his desk, and motions for you to come by hitting his thigh.

When you do so, he begins to undo the tie in your hair and try to redo it. You wince a bit and move, earning a grunt of displeasure from him that turns into a mild coughing fit. Once he's finished coughing and clears his throat, he speaks at you.

"Stop wiggling."

You try to hold perfectly still as he fixes your hair, styling it the way he likes it. Sleeping in your bed for the past few days has made it messy, and you didn't have the tools to fix it yourself. Master does it for you anyways. He does it the way it should be, same with your clothes.

When he's almost done, he gestures for you to turn around so he can judge his own handiwork.

Something on his desk however begins making noise, and he looks in it's direction with no small amount of disdain. When he looks back at you, he grips your jaw and mushes your cheeks upward. It doesn't hurt, but it is a bit uncomfortable.

"Be quiet."

You nod- at least as best as you can.

He lets go of you and reaches to touch the device, and a voice starts talking.

"My primarch, Lord Fulgrim is attempting to vox you."

He lets out a loud sigh, clearing his throat once again. The dry scratchiness of it is palpable.

"Is it important?"

The man on the other side makes a contemplative noise, while Mortarion's rough skin brushes against the little hairs just in front of your ear. You tilt your head in the hopes he'll keep doing it.

"Lord Fulgrim did not specify when asked."

Mortarion pets you just a bit harder.

"...Let him through."

There's silence for a moment, before the voice acknowledges Mortarion and cuts away. A different voice fills the air a few moments later.

"Leaving Terra so soon Mortarion?"

The voice is smooth, melodic, and amused at Mortarion's expense. You continue to kneel silently between his legs. You lean against his calf a bit, lazily looking up at him. He looks down at you as he talks.

"I have many things that require my attention far more than your stupid parties, Fulgrim."

The voice on the other side chuckles, smooth and music-like.

"Fair enough. Guilliman and Lion were the same." He huffs before speaking again. "You think any of them would even miss my presence?

You perk up, but remain totally silent.

You missed him!

You missed every moment he was gone. Your cheek pushes against his leg harder in an attempt to show your thoughts without words, wrapping your arms around his calf, and he rewards you with a brush along your cheek. You smile happily.

"Probably not, though I could say that about more of the primarchs than just you." The voice quiets for a moment before speaking again. "Safe travels, Mortarion."

The voice is gone now and Mortarion returns his full focus to you, so you assume it's safe to make noise; Though you don't just in case.

"Good girl. You behaved." He looks at you. "Want a treat?"

A treat? Everything he gives you is so yummy, you nod and eagerly await whatever he's giving you. He gets up for a moment to retrieve it, before handing it to you.

You've tried taking food from his hands before, but he prefers if you just eat it from his fingers.

You take the treat, the yummy flavor hitting your tongue the moment your lips pull away from his fingers. There's a small something a bit hard in the middle, but you just chew through it. It doesn't effect the flavor in any noticeable way.

While you do, he latches your leash on the d-ring of your collar. You don't complain, just watching curiously as you chew your treat. He stands a few moments later, the leash wrapped around his hand.

"Come here."

You move to where he's going before the leash has a chance to snap taut, crawling onto his bed and onto his lap when he ushers you there.

"Did you miss me? It's been a few days."

You eagerly nod, hands gripping the fabric of his tunic. His lap is too big for you to straddle outright, so you straddle one of his thighs instead. When he raises that thigh, you instantly whimper at the feeling of pressure on your core. He sighs.

"Only a few days and you're already pent up again."

He sounds almost irritated, but he's quick to push around the fabric of your little dress to press his fingers against your cunt.

He toys and fiddles with your folds until they're nice and slick, whimpering in his grasp and trying to grind harder on his hand. Once he's done playing with you, he undoes the ties of his trousers to pull out his cock. It's half hard,

He leans back, pushing you until you almost straddle his hips and his cock lays rising between your thighs.

"Go on, pet."

You're so beyond pent up, even the toys he gives you weren't enough in the days he was busy. So it isn't long of grinding your sloppy cunt along his shaft before you're desperately trying to shove it inside of you, your master watching keenly as you move about awkwardly.

After only a minute or so of sliding up and down his cock do you feel a shudder run through you as a small orgasm rides up your spine, whining and biting your lip. Just the act of slipping him inside of you and feeling the stretch was so much, sinking into your tight heat. Your hands grip the material of his clothes tightly as he coughs, trying to hold them in enough to not be too loud for you.

"Poor pet, do you need more things to keep you busy while I'm gone?"

He mumbles something under his breath, something about an implant, but you're too busy trying to fuck yourself on him to really understand what he's mumbling about through the wet, sloppy noises.

It probably isn't stuff you should care about anyways. He handles all the complicated stuff, you just enjoy the things he gives you.

He tugs on the leash once, and you feel the fabric dig into the nape of your neck as you're pulled forward. You're beginning to tire, hips aching and sore. You slow down and grind down on him, groaning between your breaths.

"Do I spoil you too much? Are you getting lazy?"

No! You aren't lazy, just tired. Your mouth hangs slightly agape open mouth breathing, as he watches you.

"Keep going, pet."

You try and gather enough strength to continue, feeling his cock shift inside of you. His groans are louder and he accidentally begins pulling on your leash as he tries to steady himself with his arms, pulling you a bit forward as he finishes inside of you. The warmth and the feeling of his hips bucking up into you and jostling you around is what pulls another orgasm from you, whining over the sound of his groans.

After a few moments he slowly pulls from you, and you clench around nothing at the hollow ache, and feel some of his cum slip from you and dribble onto his cock.

He's quiet for a moment, before he sighs. You perk up expectantly waiting for what he has to say.

"You can sleep out tonight."

Your excitement is explosive, stretching your back with a squeak he finds endearingly cute. He needs to clean your cage he says, after a few days of not letting you out, the blankets are wrinkled and food crumbs are dusted around. Some of your toys need to be refilled with whatever treat was inside of them or some of another variety cleaned entirely, a thought that fills you with joy.

He lays a blanket on the foot of his bed, one of yours, and you move to sit on it and watch as he goes to change his clothes for sleep. When he returns and climbs into his bed, you watch eagerly before crawling closer.

You curl up next to his left thigh, laying your cheek against it. You look up at him and see the hollowness of his features.

He's so ghostly, yet he treats you so well. You've tasted and seen things you never knew existed.

Life...

It could be worse.

You could be scavenging for scraps- now you're curled up on your master's bed.

He reaches down and brushes his hand across the top of your head a few times, petting you. You push into his hand in a way that makes him chuckle.

"Good girl."

#im not tagging this with anything cause like. dear lord #mywriting #Mortarion and his pet plotline

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starhvney · 19 days ago

Text

𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐂𝐄

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: mys zane x reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: your best friend is still reluctant to open up to others, but you’re quick to reassure him that his hesitations lack any foundation.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: hurt/comfort? fluff, best friends who are (not ) secretly in love with each other

𝐂𝐖: none

𝐀/𝐍: eat up zane lovers i’ve come with another serving. hopefully this eats i'm not completely sure (@justhereforthefiction this one's for you hopefully you like it ^^)

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

quiet had settled in the kitchen for the past thirty minutes, save for the ambiance of cooking and preparing drinks as you and zane calmly bustled around the kitchen. even when you’d brush by each other or needed help with something, only a glance was needed for you to know what the other was saying.

this was how it always was between the two of you. zane always preferred not to talk when he could (at least that’s what he said—yet he could never shut his mouth when it came to talking to you about his interests or insulting everyone else. you wouldn’t tell him that, though, since you knew he’d get defensive about it even though you were absolutely right).

regardless, words didn’t need to be exchanged for you to know how the other felt, which is what brings you to finally speak again after a good thirty minutes of silence.

“what’s wrong?”

he glances up at you from where he is tightly securing the glass dispenser of spiked ale, his lips pursing defensively as he shakes his hair from his eyes. he needed to get a haircut soon.

“what do you mean?” he plays the ignorant card, ignoring your unimpressed stare as he situates the large jar where it wouldn’t fall.

“you have that tense look on your face. i can tell something is bothering you,” you sigh, pausing in your own task and walking over to him, cornering him between the wall and counter with no escape. “so what’s wrong?”

he tenses up, jaw locking for a moment as icy blue glares down at you. as soon as he sees your expression, though, he can’t help how his shoulders sag and face relaxes. truly, he couldn’t keep up his tough act in front of you. not when you looked at him like that.

clearing his throat, his hand reaches up to fiddle with one of his piercings, eyes flicking around as he searches for the words that had been rattling around his brain for the past half-hour. patiently you wait, feet firmly planted in place to show him you weren’t going to back down.

“i… just don’t know if this is going to go as you have it all planned out in your head.” he finally murmurs, biting at the inside of his cheek with a tense sigh exhaling from his nose.

you slowly nod at his words, moving to lean on the counter as you give him further silence to explain. immediately denying his worries would be pointless and rather insensitive anyway. considering his past with everyone here, including you, you already know what he means by that. a lot of your friends were still pretty reluctant about allowing him in the group, even with his brothers vouching for him.

“it’s—” he cuts himself off, blinking rapidly. “you’re very sweet. for being my friend even after everything i’ve put you through. but everyone else has a valid reason for wanting to hate me.”

“none of them hate you, zane.” you’re quick to cut him off this time. “sure, they have their reservations, but hate is a very strong word.”

“and one that i’ve used and felt towards all of them in the past. it’s only fair that the feeling is mutual.”

“you never actually hated any of us. and you know that’s the truth,” you murmur, hand grasping onto his when you notice him itching anxiously at his neck, nails leaving irritated red marks behind their wake. “have you ever hated me?”

he flinches, face contorting into a mix of guilt and nervousness as his eyes settle on your connected hands. “…no. never you.”

leaning forward, you peer up at him through your lashes with a gentle smile, relishing in the way he wasn’t pulling away from your physical affection. red blotches across freckled cheeks, spreading down to his neck. his eyebrows furrow as his eyes dart across your face, and you notice how he lingers a moment too long on your lips for just a close friend. still, you spare him from further embarrassment, knowing the poor man would likely only clam up as he usually did if you were to push his buttons.

“then i promise there’s no hatred or animosity. sure, you aren’t exactly friends with everyone. but once they all realize how much of a sweetheart you are under this tough and edgy exterior—” you send a few pokes against his soft stomach and arms, making him scrunch his nose in protest. “—i promise they’re gonna realize why i defend you so hard.”

his adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, dark eyebrows knitted together as he squeezes your hands in his. “i don’t understand how someone like you could be so kind to me.”

how long have you been nursing this friendship, and you still haven’t convinced him? shaking your head, you wrap your arms around your waist, pulling the tall man into a tight hug. his breath ruffles your hair as he rests his cheek on the top of your head, and the thudding of his heart in his chest is rather endearing to listen to.

but no, you could never tease him for something like this. sure, you two had your playful banter, but this friendship took a lot of sweat and tears on your end. you’d been nursing this friendship since it was a dead little seed, and even after so long he’s only just begun to bud. even still, you’re sure when he blooms you’ll be blessed with a beautiful flower; and then you can address his lingering stares and soft expressions.

he wasn’t ready yet, but you can be patient; especially when it came to him.

“it’s not too hard for me to do. but i know going out of your comfort zone like this is, so i’m glad you’re doing it. i can’t stand the thought of you being alone on the holidays.” you murmur, allowing the two of you to stay in the hug for as long as he’d allow.

your shoulders stiffen when the white flash of a camera reflects onto the cabinets next to you two, and you nearly stumble back when zane quickly pulls back. pushing down the disappointment at the loss of his arms wrapping around you, you look to the culprit of the crime.

dante stands with one hand over his mouth, the other holding his phone. it shakes in his hand as he begins to laugh silently, eyebrows raised as he glances down at the picture.

“oh, garroth is either gonna freak or love this,” he snickered.

of all the friends it could be, he was the worst one to have witnessed this; especially with how much zane still actively got annoyed by him. you eye zane from the side with a tense look, already knowing what was about to transpire. his teeth grit, jaw clenching as he glared down at the goofy, blue-haired idiot with an icy stare.

“delete that. now,” he says dangerously, and while you usually would stop him, the expression on his face was particularly attractive today.

plus, dante was being a jerk, especially when he responded with a smug, “no, i don’t think i will.”

the smirk on his lips was quickly wiped off when zane suddenly rushed him, a startled yelp leaving his lips as he took off to another part of the house. you stand in surprise—especially considering the fact that you’d never seen zane run that fast for anything, or even run at all. questioning voices of your friends meet your ears as they witness the chase, the group sounding confused and amused as dante is hunted down with murderous intent.

it was your turn to laugh when you heard dante dramatically screech from the other room, likely after one of zane’s longer arms snatched the back of his sweater.

hm… you would’ve actually liked to keep that photo. ah well, you plan to have many more like it in the future.

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#aphmau #aphmau mystreet #mystreet #mystreet x reader #mystreet zane #zane ro'meave #zane x reader #aphmau zane #zane ro'meave x reader

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