English Is Not My First Language, I've Never Written A Fanfic Before

English is not my first language, I've never written a fanfic before

Ramattra x GN!Reader

CWs: Slight NSFW(?)

Summary: Ramattra enjoys having repairs done to him way too much

You cautiously reach deeper inside, with your hand disappearing up to the elbow in his chest cavity through a small opening in his midriff, each section of his "abs" detachable if need be.

There's enough room to wiggle your soft flesh without touching the surrounding machinery. You're sat in his lap, with his visors burying holes in your forehead from underneath the emotionless plate of his face. The pressure is driving you wild, and you lose yourself briefly trying to decide which is hotter: his insides, where the scorching wind from his fans licks your skin, already sleek with sweat, or your cheeks, flush with embarrassment.

You're not an engineer. Far from possessing any meaningful prowess in mechanics, only having fixed house appliances a couple times in your entire life. But you're the best thing he can count on, and the task is more than simple: you just have to replace an extremely distinct knob just under his shoulder blade, easily accessible from the inside if you are lucky to have hands small enough to fit through the access hole. He sighs, flexing his giant palm idly. If he wanted, he could've closed his fingers around your thigh with ease.

You locate the knob, feel its melted form and unscrew it as carefully as you can while the edge of his armor digs into your skin, drastically reducing the freedom of movement you have. With your fingers tiptoeing around a ruined part of his, your eyes track every movement of the rest of the omnic's body. You don't trust him, just as much as he doesn't trust you. He sighs, his giant frame shuddering, vents creaking open and fans whirring louder as his head comes to rest against the wall he's leaning onto. You continue.

The knob falls into your palm eventually, and you can almost feel his disappointment of being empty as you retrieve it, completely pulling your hand out of the oven of his chest. He puts a heavy hand on your hip - a gesture you interpret as him making sure you don't run off without installing the new part in place of the ruined one. You shift against his thigh, and he grips harder as you plunge your hand back inside, bolder now than before.

Rough movements of your palm, metal being dragged against his insides as you try to insert the new knob where it belongs, failing miserably. He groans, and you feel every single one of his slender fingers dig into your flesh. You are sloppy, way too confident, a stray wire catching onto your finger as you screw in the knob. His heavy breathing replaces all your senses, leaving only the task at hand and the heat enveloping your body. Why would an omnic breathe anyway?

This time you can't even get your hand out without trouble. You're stuck in a rat king of his inner workings, your fingers slithering along the edges of his machinery, tracing thick wires in an attempt to find a way out of the endless loops, and to your horror you feel him tighten around you, heavy breaths turning into gasps and whimpers as you become more frantic, trying to free your hand from the scorching hot trap. Your lower body comes flush against the plate covering his groin as he drags you with both hands now, moving your flesh closer to his metal torso, deliberately grinding against the softness of your belly - you are too scared, too concentrated on the wires ensnaring your wrist to read him. You think he is in pain.

Your ass is the perfect size to fit in his palm, meat squeezing between his fingers as he holds you in place while his hips buck to meet your welcoming curves. He moans, silver caps on the ends of his flat cable "hair" clanking against his shoulders as he throws his head back and relaxes as suddenly as if he'd pressed his own power button.

You remain in his lap, playing with the limp wires until he wakes up.

Surprisingly, omnics turn out to be way more open to the idea of having portraits of them painted than you'd expect. While Echo might just be curious, the monks of Shambali see it as a form of meditation, a way of pondering their existence no camera would be capable of. There's still slight unease when your prying eyes trace the net of their battle scars, picking apart every hastily plastered wound to translate their pain into art. You explain, mostly just to confirm your own thoughts, that it's the highest form of love.

Ukrainian ram and zen on shopping spree or smth they still need to feed the pet (Genji)

English is not my first language, I have a very limited experience in writing

CWs: none

Zenyatta/GN!Reader

Summary: fluffy description of you painting Zenyatta's portrait (you love him) (nothing much really happens, I just wanted to be nice to him)

"Zenyatta," your soft voice cuts the silence with way less certainty than you have in your brush strokes, "are you meditating right now, as I draw you?"

"I find it to be the easiest way to pass time while being completely motionless. So yes... Why do you ask?" You heard the sharp wheeze of his vizors' shutters opening and, even though his stature remained still, you knew he was, in fact, startled awake. Joints locked to hold the pose perfectly, he was the best muse you could've hoped for.

"I just thought that would be very in-character," your eyes scan the thoughtful expression he's permanently frozen in, and you catch yourself reading way too much into the emotionless faceplate, denying the omnic a chance to actually express himself. Humans love their assumptions. "You can stop holding the pose so diligently, you know. It's a portrait, not a still life."

Your words hang heavy in the air, accidentally bearing more meaning than intended. No matter how hopeful Zenyatta might be towards humans, there's still a soft pleasure for him in knowing that to you he's never been a "thing", something that he's been considered one too many times in his life. You care enough for him to always be a person.

The monk imitates a cough, rubbing the scruff of his neck as his joints click free one by one. He stretches, and you recognize him moving in a deliberately animated way to ease the tension. "I suppose I misunderstood the nature of having a portrait painted," his voice is calm, soothing even, "But if I move, wouldn't that interrupt your drawing?"

"I just want you to be yourself," you stumble on your words, trying to pick the right meaning, the snowball of your thoughts growing more and more dangerous the lower your eyes crawl along the shapes of the omnic's body. He's incredibly pleasant to look at, a perfect amalgam of form and function, the golden ratio personified. He looked effortlessly divine in every pose he chose, and drawing him felt like breathing - a need, something you'd die without.

You have to chase the fleeting thought as you note the way he tightens the grip on his knee, a pang of strictness that brings you back to reality. "...Just be yourself. I know you don't usually meditate completely still, do you now?"

He chuckles, bringing his fingers up to cover the place his mouth would occupy. "That is truly unlike of me. If you insist..." You track the orb he effortlessly levitates out of place as it makes its way around his arm, coming to rest a few inches above the pool of his palm. He toys with it, spinning the ornate object in place without touching it as he tilts his head to the side. Looks deeper into the magic he possesses, tries desperately to connect to the energy hidden beyond the interaction that looks so simple under his command.

There's warmth in your chest, a fuzzy feeling that somehow feels akin to the way a ray of sunshine hugs Zenyatta's form with upmost care. The composition of the portrait finally falls into place: your muse has always been so much beyond the expressionless metal flesh that a mere thought of his true glory makes yor heart swell.

Content under the cut is strictly 18+

MDNI

English is not my first language, I have very limited experience in writing fanfiction.

Antonio (Violinist) x GN!Reader

CWs: NSFW, readers anatomy is referred to as chest + h*le/entrance/s*x, reader may or may not wear makeup, reader wears tight clothes, reader drinks alcohol and gets intoxicated, reader perceives situation as dangerous, now that I think about it it can possibly be viewed as dubcon although not intended

Word count: 1903

You do this because you love yourself.

Of course that's the case. You doll yourself up before you go to the bar, a good long hour of preparation always includes a fragrant shower that leaves your body soft and well-moisturized, makes you feel like a divine being, a manifestation of raw beauty itself. After your skincare routine you settle in a plush chair in front of the mirror to do your makeup. It might not be much, just a small touch-up to accentuate your natural beauty or hide an aggravated pimple, it might be a lot if you're feeling fancy, a dramatic look feels like a fun bit of masquerading. You might skip this step altogether. You deserve it.

You do this because you hate yourself.

Every time you go there it starts the same and ends the same, too. You buy your own drink first to get in the mood, something you know will knock you out the fastest. It's been a while since you've last chosen your alcohol by taste instead of percentage. The glint of intoxication gives your eyes a catty appearance that few can resist, gives your spine a curve you rarely see in the mirror - an inviting shape, the small of your back begging to be caressed by a knowing palm. You can't afford it sober, with all your responsibilities your body's mental image contorts into a creature most resembling Atlas holding the world on his shoulders. No room for a hug at all.

Soon your figure finds itself in a sardine can of wet breaths, skin rubbing against skin through the skimpy outfits people usually wear to such places. The pheromones work you better than any substance you could ever try. You've been bought enough drinks by now to fit right in with the dancing crowd, your whole being traveling through it like plankton through the thick of the sea, hardly paying any attention to the way the jerky moves of someone against your flesh get replaced by a thoughtful sway of hips, a gentle touch that stops your slow drifting, slender hands gluing the bottom of your stomach to a muscled set of abs. You feel a pulsing vein where his bare skin dips under the rough fabric of his pants, the speeding heartbeat and a dishonest smile pulling tightly on his cheeks sober you up just enough for disgust to settle. You deserve it.

"What is a bella like you doing in a ditch like this?"

The smell of his sweat, tinged with woody cologne that's nearly overshadowed by the stench of smoke and a rich dry rye aroma - you write it off as him having drank a particularly strong unfiltered beer - all get into your head, and he gladly takes your laughter for an answer. With him having already taken your body in his arms you have to ask yourself what else he is planning to take from you. You deserve it, in any case.

The next however-long-he-wants you spend tightly pressed against his chest, barely able to keep up a simple dialogue, let alone count the time between him laying eyes on you and him taking you home. Your arms find his long hair, and something cracks in your fingers as you pass the locks between them, smooth strands turning into what feels like dry grass, and you furrow your eyebrow when you feel a spikelet somehow stuck in there as well. You don't pay much attention, though, as he quickly draws your thoughts elsewhere, asking if you like the music here. You press your cheek against the well-worn decorated leather collar of his coat and admit that you hate it, describing roughly what you actually enjoy. He picks a two-word description for the genre quicker than you're able to recall the name for it, and you're sure that he's just made it up. You laugh, because it's still spot-on.

"I'm a musician, you know. Maybe I could write you something you'd actually like?"

Do you really deserve it?

You still allow him to take you back to his place so he could play you something. The cold night air turns into chills slithering down your spine as you watch him pull his rusty motorcycle off the road to a non-distinct farmland, and his honeyed whisper in your ear promising that he "knows a spot" sounds less like a good prospect and more like finding yourself in 10 separate bags by the dawn. For now, you get comfortable as your back meets a cushy haystack and your vis-a-vis shuffles closer to you, trying to squeeze against and under your body so you're practically in his lap. Did he always have a violin with him?

You watch his adam's apple move in sync with his hearty laughter as he throws his head back, his warm fingers sliding up your thighs, a tender gesture coming to a sharp end as his claws dig into the flesh around the ridges of your ilium. You suppose it's the blinding white pain that illuminates your dark corner of the hayloft when the bow touches the strings, but as you open your eyes after wincing your vision is captured by the way his fiery fingers operate the violin, the whole left side of his face drowning in golden light. In your enchanted state you almost wish to be it - right until the moment his other set of arms digs deeper under the warm safety of your clothes.

Your ears work slower than your eyes, and the sound of him calling you a galore of Italian diminutives gets drowned in the melody he plays, your thoughts follow the notes as the man dives to pin you against the fragrant haystack. "Tesoro" as he presses his foxy smile against your neck, sharp teeth sliding along your vein in a silent threat until he decides to grace your nerve endings with an open-mouthed kiss that starts under your ear and wraps around your jawline towards your throat, where he bites. "Cara mia" as the bow rips the song off the strained strings, and the sound drips down your legs that now hug the musician's waist, licking your shaking body, laying thick in the bottom of your belly and the back of your clouded mind. “Amore” as the fabric of your skin-tight top is peeled off your body, the violinist catching the galloping goosebumps in his warm hands, his hot breath snaking its way down your sternum giving you enough heat to not even shiver against the cold night air. "Dolcezza" as he uses both of his real hands to rip apart your underwear.

Deep in the sensory overload you barely register the “ding” of his belt buckles sliding against each other as his nimble fingers work his jeans open. You are, despite everything, painfully aware of his cock easily reaching all the way up to your navel when he lays himself against your body, clearly showing off. His hips buck expectantly, waiting for your eyes to dart upwards to meet his gaze, see how he licks his lips that stretch in an impossibly wide smile, accentuated by his facial hair. He wants you to maintain eye contact as he positions his tip to slide effortlessly against your hole, lingering there to rub between your legs just to make you shiver, to let you feel the twitch of him against the most delicate parts of you. As a cold breeze licks your stomach, you can feel the trail of pre he left while withdrawing from you, and a pulsing vein wrapped around his shaft, his speeding heartbeat rubbing against your heat further confirms that he's been dreaming of this moment for quite some time. You gasp as he finally pushes in.

He makes sure to go slow enough for you to feel every detail of his shape, down to the texture of his skin as he presses his cock deeper into you. The ridge where his glans ends teases your opening just right, the spread open muscle at the entrance tightening while your body obediently wraps itself around his shaft. He gets impatient quickly, indulging your hole with a slow thrust that pulls him in over the halfway mark before he withdraws just to dive in the next moment, hips bucking faster than he can get a reign of himself. His rhythm is flawless, though, toned hips working perfectly to stuff you with a dick that massages your every spot, pulsing veins meeting nerve endings in engorged walls. His mouth is glued to your chest, teeth digging into soft flesh just to sharpen your senses without quite leaving a mark, wet kisses cut off by desperate gasps and Italian curses as his cock twitches inside of you, thick shaft buried to the hilt in smooth muscle. He counts your ribs with a light touch of slender fingers that would dig into the plush flesh of your thighs the very next moment if you didn't feel one of them slither downward along the curves of your torso, dipping past your navel and traveling further south until he can massage your sex, the pad of his thumb rubbing against the most perfect spot in the most perfect rhythm. You see stars when his hand falls in sync with his thrusts, you turn to mush when the frequency deliberately fluctuates to create a symphony on the strings of your nerve endings. A drop of sweat peels off his chest to fall onto yours, and you can swear it evaporated on contact. There's a tight knot where your bodies connect.

“Sing for me, bella.”

You feel too many hands snaking around your body, your blood freezes when smooth bone wraps around your wrists, a moment of hesitation more than enough to pin you down. You're in no place to fight, though, as the musician quickly maneuvers your lower half, palms hooked under your knees until they're pressed into soft hay just next to your shoulders. He thrusts triumphantly, hissing when he sinks impossibly deeper, just half a centimeter enough to knock a pathetic whimper out of your lungs. He bites his lip while he bullies your hole, a heated whisper of inaudible Italian words crawling inside of your mind as the violinist presses his lips against your ear is enough to nearly push you over the peak, a deliberate thrust that drags a thick vein against your soft spot finishing the job. Your body sucks him in as it raptures, a slew of noises from your swollen lips is music to his ears as his cock twitches hard before spilling, pressing thick cum against the muscle he was fucking into just now. There's enough seed for a drop of it to escape your body while his hips are still practically glued to your ass, more so as he withdraws just enough for you to relax, sore joints creaking almost audibly. He doesn't pull out, though, even as he settles against your chest, long brown hair falling onto your torso to cover the glisten of sweat on your skin. Even in the dark of night you can see his eyes, half-lidded and full of admiration as he nuzzles against you, love seeping from every pore of his body.

“Don't know what you were doing there at the bar, bella, but you deserve so much better. Stay away from hell-holes like that, promise? Do it because I love you.”