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streetwalking · 2 months ago

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𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑

eddie x reader x volt

summary: eddie and volt treat you right in the back room of the breaker box.

warnings: grinding, fingering, clit play, some light electricity play (i couldnt help myself), being pampered n praised the breaker box back room, eddie cums in his pants (teehee)''

a/n: good morning. drops this. runs away. dont know how far writing characters from date everything will take me but here goes nothing!

wc: 967

The breaker box was nothing if not notorious for the drinks, performances and the gorgeous host. But after so many nights, you left thinking of both Volt, and his counterpart, Eddie.

Strikingly gorgeous, you couldn’t choose just one of them. Especially not after Eddie caught you as you fell from the ladder. Catching him blushing over your kind words and willingness to help out around the bar sealed you in to the deal.

Finding out both dangerously electrifying men felt mutually towards your reciprocated feelings, they reacted by giving you some deserved pampering.

There you found yourself in a back room of the breaker box, four hands exploring your body.

Eddie held your waist while you sat in his lap, his hips bucking into yours from below ever so often. Other than the occasional grunt and huff of his breath, he remained quiet for the duration of your weight on him.

Volt on the other hand, was all over you. His jacket placed on a chair behind him gave you a perfect view of his muscles outlined by the cloth of his shirt.

“Sure you don’t want a turn, Eddie?” Volt's alluring voice asked.

“Not this time. I’m good right here.”

But how you wish he'd break the rules and run his hands up your back or at least give your neck a good massage. Eddie was so, so good with his hands.

“Whatever you say,” the English man replied.

Eddie’s voice was enough to spur you on, much less the hot breath on the back of your neck. Volt’s live hands traveled over your torso, sending jolts of electricity down your spine.

"Mmm.. that's so good, V."

"Isn't it? You're just a bundle of fun. But what if I... did this?" He continued, shoving one hand into your pants. By the look on your face, he can tell you're just aching to be touched. When he finds what he's looking for, two of his fingers swipe through the abundance of arousal between your legs.

"A cheeky one, you..." The vibrato of Volt's voice lowered, his eyes going dark. "Our pet here is so overly excited, I can't believe you hadn't jumped on us upon the club door opening."

"There were guests—" you're cut off by a light electrical shock to your clit, catching you off guard. "Volt~"

"Ah ah, I would've taken you right over that stage if Eddie wasn't so adamant about wanting to keep you all to ourselves."

All you could do was moan in reply, Volt's words perfectly set to throw you off guard. He did it to you without even trying.

Another roll of Eddie’s hips underneath you did nothing to help the case.

“E, please touch me… I need you…”

“But I thought you were having fun with Volt. Is he not enough for you?” Eddie’s condescending tease in that gruff voice against your ear had you biting back another moan threatening to fall from your lips.

“You’re the reason I couldn’t choose just one of you. Please…” you whimper.

“Come on, Eddie. Give them what they want.”

“Fine. Only because you asked so nicely.”

“Thank you… thankyouthankyou…”

Eddie’s hands started up your back, just like you’d imagined, pressing his fingertips into your back to massage your muscles. The callouses only added to your pleasure, sighing with content at how each man’s hands moved on your body.

Volt’s fingers moved downwards, prodding at your entrance.

“May I?” He asked, familiar smirk on his lips.

“Yes, please, Volt…”

“Hm. Such a good pet.” The white haired man hummed, pressing two of his fingers into you so, so easily.

Just as he curled them against your most sensitive spot, you dropped a moan of his name that would transcend any sound you’d made before in their presence.

“Ah, there we go. You like that, don’t you?”

Instead of replying, your sounds continued, noting Eddie’s hands movement from the muscles of your back to the front of your chest. Ever so softly, his palms grasped the plush of your breasts and massaged again.

The dark haired man felt your nipples harden under his touch, chuckling to himself with pride. Another press of his hips into yours from below. His length grew hard as time passed, half wishing your brain hadn’t shut off from the mind blowing pleasure you were receiving.

“Ed…” was all you were capable of whimpering as your hips gyrated against his.

“I know, I know. Another time. Tonight is about you, babe.”

Volt, feeling a tad left out, quickened his fingers inside you and added his thumb on your clit to the mix to throw you off guard.

There you were again, putty in his hands. Your head fell forward, catching on his broad shoulder, chuckling to himself. His laughter in general sent you soaring, like he was mocking you for being so sensitive. You weren’t used to attention from two men at once— what you were experiencing was so overwhelming.

As each of the four hands worked your body closer to release, a slew of moans and curses fell from your lips. Both Eddie and Volt found this so amusing and continued their movements to spur you on further.

“I’m gonna—“

“That’s it, sweet one. Come for us… there you go.”

You couldn’t hold back any longer, your chest heaving while each of the men’s hands worked you through your release as it washed over you. Eddie’s hips stuttered along with yours, a groan of release washing over him as well.

Volt reached to cup your cheek, those sweet, fucked-out eyes of yours locking with his.

“Live wire, how could we survive without you?”

“We couldn’t.” Eddie panted.

You remained in their arms until they both decided to carry you to bed for a nap and then eventual round two.

tags: @hailsweridspace

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streetwalking · 2 months ago

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He was taller than them.

Infinitely so.

They knew he wasn't that big - not compared to everything else around them, from the walls closing off his fortress to the island it sat on, to the silvery sea around it or the body it was still housed within. He wasn't even that big compared to them, and they knew that too: he was only about a bio taller than them, maybe a little more, maybe only half. A sizable, immediately noticeable difference, but it wasn't that much. It wasn't enough to make him appear so gargantuan and frightening. They had stood beside similarly large beings, and while a slight awe had made them queasy it had not been so oppressive.

But there was something about him that made him larger than life. Something that crawled out of him like white marble maggots from a white marble corpse, a strange perfect imperfection that made them feel minuscule.

Perhaps their incomplete number worsened it.

He watched them, impassive.

From how close they were to him (they could have walked up to him; they could have turned that small distance to zero and stood directly in front of him; but they didn't. They couldn't. Something inside them couldn't. Something inside them wouldn't.) they could notice that one of his eyes was not facing them: it was stuck halfway upwards, forever gazing into the sky, while the other continued to stare down at them without so much as a glint of emotion. Despite having all the appearance of a mistake on someone's part, that strange physical quirk had not been fixed. Evidently, it was not an anomaly.

"Good." Artakha said.

His voice held no warmth, no anger, no grief, no bitterness. It was clear and smooth, like polished crystal, and wholly pleasant in its completeness. Something about it almost had them recoil and flatten as if they had been just welcomed into a lethal trap of a lair by the famished growl of a gigantic drooling beast.

They had not expected he would have come to greet them himself. He never had before, delegating his disembodied words and the mechanisms of his fortress to do such a thing for him. Yet this time he had taken it upon himself to walk away from his chambers, from the pristine faintly hued greys that snaked behind him into the deeper parts of his small realm, to stand before them as he did now; in their arrogance, in their hope, they had thought upon coming back to their senses after the surprise of truly seeing him that it must have meant something.

But his tone was calm and empty, a white room with carefully set pastel toys, an environment so quiet and sterile that it smelled potently of the dust it looked to have been blanketed in.

In a strange way, it appalled them.

"You have come back to me." Artakha continued.

His mask glowed softly, golden and splendid. The runes deeply hetched upon it made it seem beyond ancient.

Against the barely visible backdrop of his reclusive kingdom, the glimmer distorted the kanohi into the garbled image of a small, sickly moon, incapable of offering all that sat around it the full strength of the light it could barely reflect.

He did not extend his arms towards them.

"Come now." Artakha ordered passionlessly. "Your work is done."

"There is no place for us in that world." Artakha cut him off.

Something about that shook them from the hazy torpor threatening to devour their brains in too small bites.

"We're here to help evacuate the inhabitants of the last remaining islands," Tahu explained, mortified that his voice was even leaving him and yet unable to place why he felt that way, "The robot's insides are not safe - besides, there's so much to be done outside, and we-"

He had not moved an inch.

They knew instinctively, uncomfortably, that his 'us' included them too.

"Our only purpose is here." Artakha stated. "We are not needed outside the bounds of this body."

"But there is life out there," Gali argued, though the mere act of speaking made her bones want to crumble in anguish to shut her up: "There are people who need us, who could use our help! There is so much to be rebuilt, and all of us-"

"You were made for this world, as was I." Artakha interrupted her.

Their lungs shriveled.

Their bodies hurt.

He remained unblemished in the face of their visible agony, perfect and still; his skewed eye ignored them as it continued to watch the now forever dimmed heavens, hanging lower and lower each day as the metal holding them aloft bent under the weight of age and abandonment.

"There is no such thing as a 'life' awaiting you in that world of real things." Artakha told them. "We are tools to be preserved: if your service will ever be needed again by Mata Nui, I will allow your deployment once more."

"And then?" Tahu coughed. He could swear his arms were melting off of him.

"Then you will return to me." Artakha answered. "As you have done now, because that is your purpose, and that is your only existence."

"And yours?" Gali hissed. Her head felt about to split into a thousand pieces.

"My purpose is to remain here and create, and see that you are used well." Artakha answered. "It is my only use; there is nothing other than this."

He spoke with the certainty of a man off to the gallows, the kind who knows well no dashing stranger or loyal friend will come to save him, and who thus accepts the coming execution with the mellow tiredness that brings the cattle into the slaughterhouse; but unlike the convict marked for death he held no sadness, no despair in his words, no roaring blasphemies nor tear-soaked regrets, not even that drowsy desire for it all to be done. He felt himself not a victim, and not like a victim he spoke, for that was not what he was.

He spoke like a machine that knew why it had been made, and that its function was now unnecessary. There was no poetry about it, and there was no injustice either. The world had begun with duty, and with this new lack of duty it would simply stop to one day begin again: he had known it would have happened since the start.

He had been made to wait until the lack of purpose passed, to one day be put to work again.

But they could not accept it.

They could not, because they were not him.

They were not machines. Not fully. Not anymore.

"We can't leave it all behind," Onua said softly, because his throat was coarse and dry as though burning inside his neck, "We have our Matoran to take care of - our Turaga, too - our friends, our-"

"You have nothing but your duty and yourselves." Artakha corrected him.

They flinched.

"As I have nothing but my duty and my creations." Artakha continued.

Few were aware that he had no brother anymore.

They did not inquire how he had come in possession of such information: beyond their inquiry being a waste of time, certainly it had not reached him in the same way it had them. Like for his reason of existence he simply seemed to have already known, somehow, that his only kin's death upon return would have been inevitable.

After all, one does not keep a broken instrument.

"We're not complete," Lewa fought back feebly, struggling through the tightness that threatened to crush his middle into a jagged heap, "Kopaka and Pohatu - they are-"

"They will come to me eventually, as you have done." Artakha sentenced. "And in the most dire of cases, I will simply make them once more."

The weak glow of his mask sent chills down their spines and almost sent them to their knees.

He had said it so carelessly. Without any inflection, any intonation, any difference in his speech. His voice had remained polished and clean, sanitized, pale colors melting into a greyish nothingness as though the images he conjured through them had not been nightmares woven into song.

He watched them as the contorted and writhed in place as composedly as they could, still slaves to the stilling awe he commanded. He did not blink.

"How many times have you made us?" Onua wheezed. Dark spots stole the sight from his eyes.

"For now, once." Artakha responded.

They wanted to cry.

They wanted to scream.

They wanted it to be over.

"We can't stay." Lewa breathed. He felt only an impossibly wide, horrible, biting cold.

The waves rocked behind them softly, gently, anchoring them to their bodies and selves as they struggled to so so on their own.

He remained unperturbed.

"Come now." Artakha only repeated. "You are to be preserved in sleep: that is my duty as well. You overshot your time active - two weeks had been calculated as the maximum amount it would have taken for you to deal with any issue; after all that has happened whilst you were awake, I assume this will be a... Pleasant... Change of pace."

(He said 'pleasant' strangely. As though he was using that word only out of politeness, without intention, without understanding it. As though the very concept behind it existing was alien to him.)

Then he turned, and walked through the open gate once more.

He did not look back when it became clear no other footsteps would have followed his own; he did not stop when the heavy entrance to his realm closed definitively behind him and he found his fortress once more lacking his most useful tools.

He walked to his chamber, passing the Matoran he had been given across the millennia: they worked in thoughtless silence, as Matoran were always meant to do, some repairing the signs of age upon the floors and walls, some taking materials to their rightful places, some finishing up the count of this or that's inventory, more still tinkering away much like he'd long been used to - perfect clanging cogs of a well-oiled clockwork. Soon enough they would complete their endless work, for nothing else would be there to be done; only then they would stop, and sit, and wait, in a blank torpor that fools might have called sleep, in order to be ready to return to their duties when their toiling would once again be required.

He arrived to the room (not the forge, not for now) and stood before his useless throne; there he stopped, and sat, and waited, staring forth with one eye as the other gazed upon the ceiling in a vaguely aware torpor, patiently existing in a stasis borne of lack of duty.

He was ready to remain for ages.

He had been made to, after all.

But movement distracted him.

A crooked thing walked into the chamber, smiling.

He recognized not the vessel, but the neutral miasma which slithered from its mangled form: it wriggled through the space around him like larvae burrowing in prey, used to permeating every mind it touched, and only regarded him curiously when it found him impervious to the complex, confusing charm of its ever winding workings.

"You." Artakha said dispassionately.

The crooked thing stood before him, smiling.

"There is nothing in this world for you." Artakha stated simply.

"The toys belong to the box, the box belongs to the child, and the child belongs to the parent."

"Leave my realm at once." Artakha insisted without animosity. "There is nothing for you here."

"In the smith's forge the furnace is indeed king amongst the tools, but a tool itself nonetheless."

"I am aware of myself and my duty, my eternity." Artakha spoke. "You cannot impede my function."

"Of course I can!"

He stiffened suddenly; his neck bent under the weight of his head and his body sagged where he sat. His chest convulsed briefly, just enough to push a murky liquid through his crevices, coating his body in blackened rivulets doomed to dry out.

His mask laid cracked and half made dust where it had fallen from his face.

He did not move.

The crooked thing turned, and walked through the door once more, smiling as it crept out of the fortress amongst heaps of stilled machines, crumpled into a pantomime of its mangled shape and silent even of their inner mechanical song, that until moments earlier had been so hard at work on maintaining the broken life-sized diorama of a bustling holy island.

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