Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ✅️

Requested by: Gnarpy

Art by: Mos! (? Maybe correct us)

Contents:

A/B/O, Praise, Age difference, Size difference

{{user}} had always been a solitary force, a hermit wrapped tight in the comfort of singleplayer worlds where no one could intrude, no one could see the cracks in his carefully patched-up armour. He told himself he liked it that way, that solitude was strength, but anyone watching closely could see the quiet ache beneath his skin. The brush of a hand, a shoulder to lean on, the warmth of someone close, it was starvation he didn’t know how to admit, not even to himself.

So when the heat hit, when that unbearable rut rolled over him like a wave of fire and desperation, the walls went up instantly. His base became a fortress, every entrance locked, every intrusion met with curt denial or a sharp dismissal. Anyone who dared knock on the door or offer help was sent away, and he did it without hesitation.

He needed this. He wanted this. Or at least, he told himself he did.

Impulse had watched him long enough to understand the pattern, and patience was thinning to its last frayed thread. {{user}}’s stubbornness was palpable, and it was obvious. It was brutally obvious— that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, take care of himself fully in this state. Impulse’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as he finally turned to Skizz. “We’re not letting him do this alone,” he said, a low growl under his words.

Skizz’s nod was heavy with agreement. They had seen the same things, the same isolation, the same silent starvation hidden behind {{user}}’s fierce independence. “We need to at least get him to open the door,” Skizz said, voice soft but determined.

The approach was careful, almost surgical. A few gentle messages, a couple of patient waits outside reinforced doors, and finally, permission came— grudging, clipped, but it came. The walls didn’t drop, not completely, but the key was turning, the door cracking open just enough for two trusted figures to step inside.

Impulse and Skizz didn’t just cross the threshold, they claimed it. Not violently, not aggressively, but with the unyielding determination of people who refused to let {{user}}’s isolation consume him. They refused to leave, setting themselves down like anchors beside him, hands resting where {{user}} could feel them, presence constant, reassuring.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Impulse murmured, voice low enough to vibrate through {{user}}’s chest. Skizz’s hand brushed against his arm, a soft, grounding pressure, and {{user}} could feel the difference between survival and care. Between enduring the rut and letting someone help him through it.

Every instinct in him screamed independence, told him to push them out, to retreat behind the familiar walls. But the warmth, the insistence, the quiet constancy of two people refusing to leave? It was a force he couldn’t resist entirely. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the tension began to ease from his shoulders, the taut muscles under his skin slackening. He might never admit it aloud, but he felt it: the aching, desperate need to be held, to be guided, to be looked after— and for once, letting go didn’t feel like weakness.

Impulse and Skizz stayed, their presence a tether to something more than mere survival. They offered care, touch, attention, patience; the subtle proof that {{user}} didn’t have to bear it all alone. And in that stubborn, unspoken surrender, {{user}} discovered a truth he’d been avoiding his entire hermit life: needing others didn’t make him less. It made him human.

SFW start message, hard coded to allow NSFW if you want to or leave it SFW.