#a line appears motherfuckers

[leupagus]

One thing I find interesting about the negative reactions to Kaos

Or more specifically, the negative reactions to the Orpheus/Eurydice plotline in Kaos

(Cut for spoilers!)

Is that almost all of the negative reactions are something along the lines of "they fucked up the perfect love story! They made Orpheus too obsessive! Who does that bitch Eurydice think she is, NOT being in love with him too!"

When in fact the original myths never says dickshit about whether Eurydice is in love with Orpheus. Yes, Orpheus braves the underworld for his wife; yes, he cares enough to get her "back." But the original myth isn't about what love can achieve because Orpheus fails in the myth. Love isn't enough, because he doesn't trust her, doesn't believe she followed him all the way out of Hades and back to the earth. He turns around because he doesn't think it worked, and he was right because he fucked it up.

Orpheus, in the myths, does not love Eurydice enough to have faith in her, and Eurydice is completely silent in the myth. Did she want to follow Orpheus? Did she love him back? Did she want to live in the world again? We have no idea; we just assume.

And it's so funny to see viewers of the show get angry that their interpretation of the myth isn't catered to, because the show itself deals with this exact problem — people in the Cave watching Orpheus torture himself for their amusement, gods being annoyed that Orpheus might not be able to do it (or terrified that he will). Even Orpheus gets angry (though kudos to the writers, they don't have him indulge in it for long) when Eurydice falls in love with someone else, because that's not how the story was supposed to go. Viewers both in the show and of the show are mad because the two people/characters actually in the story are making different choices, or aren't who they want them to be. Just like real life.

The whole storyline is an exploration of why people — including the audience — want Orpheus and Eurydice to be a love story to the detriment of the actual characters involved, and why sometimes the happily ever after is something different (possibly something better) than a love story.

[leupagus]

This was the photoset I sent to my friends to persuade them to watch it so maybe it will work on you guys too

Prometheus & Charon | Kaos (2024)

[384302]

I love love love the moment in Gideon the Ninth where the Third challenges the Sixth in a clearly unfair move, and Gideon, half-on-instinct, still faking a vow of silence, simply unsheathes her sword, at which Harrow doesn't miss a beat and says her "The Ninth House will represent the Sixth House" line, while Gideon just smiles.

In Gideon's head this is "I am not standing for this shit anymore. For the love of God, Harrow, please understand what I'm doing and back me up here. Oh thank fuck you've got it. I'm so happy I could kiss you."

In Harrow's head this appears to be "For fuck's sakes, Nav, what do you think you're doing. Ok, think. Can't give anything away. Have to project unity, but fuck you, Griddle, for making me do this."

But for everyone else this is the legendary, mysterious, terrifying, bone magicians of the Ninth House, with no warning, stepping between the Sixth and the Third. The skull-faced cavalier who hasn't said a single word simply drawing her sword. The shockingly powerful and inscrutable necromancer matter-of-factly declaring an alliance that no-one, even the supposed allies, knew about. The sinister smirk on the cavalier's face. And the line from Harrowhark: "Death first to vultures and scavengers."

I love it so much and I love additionally the moment that this sets up in the climax, which is essentially the same emotional beat, the key changes being 1) both Harrow and Gideon have become open and vocal with each other; 2) both Harrow and Gideon are working together consciously as well as instinctively; 3) their opponents don't back down so they follow through. "Nav, show them what the Ninth House does." "We do bones, motherfucker."

[trashbagmike]

Been rewatching the Deadpool and Wolverine movie on a loop for about three days now (cause I’m insane)

Here are my favorite lines (in order of appearance):

Look, I´m not a man of science but you seem INCREDIBLY passed away

I hope fire finds your body and finishes the job god didn’t have the nuts to do.

Pegging isn’t new for me friendo, but is IS new for Disney.

*chuckle* are you OK?! (To crucified Logan)

I´m eating my feelings...

not ALL of you was asleep

*snort* OH are you?!

YES! Yeees, let this man cook!!

MY GOD! Read the room

Jesus just ASK sometimes…

No! Stop! Piss off!!

Welcome to the skull fuck club, paradox! You know she doesn’t wash that hand

He has risen, babygirl!

Alright! Put your greasy tits away, you preening slut

AND my fav interactions:

- You trying to kill me, motherfucker?! - I’m not the one dousing everything on salt, motherfucker _____________________

-(...)and where the TVA sends people ♪that. dont. play, nice with the rest of the multiverse♪♪ -like you? -AND you _____________________ -shh, shh shh, almost done -almost done WHAT?! _____________________ -Gambit?

-I never knew my daddy but I know I shot out of his dick ready

_____________________

- There’s only ever been ONE blade. There only ever gonna be one blade

*stares at the camera like in the office*

_____________________

-whats it gonna be girl? Original recipe? Or van milder here

-oh that’s funny! I can gently tap the fourth wall too 👁️👄👁️ the proposal

-what the fuck was that?! Bitch! You think that’s what I do?!

_____________________

-what’s the wind resistance on those blowjob handles?

-grrr

[hwan-g]

cigarette smoke. BANG CHAN (18+)

pair. mechanic! chris x fem! reader genre. motel setting, romance, angst, smut warnings. use of pet names, flawed characters, smoking, explicit sexual content — read at your own discretion! word count. 3.7k

synopsis. fingers sink into the supple skin of your hip, the rest of him God knows where, impossible to tell as he ravages your sleek cunt, pistoling with the ferocity of a man unhinged, a man pathetic enough to think he can possibly carve a place for him inside of the body he wants to dominate more than anything else, against his greedy nature for the rest of the world and all it offers.

“I’m going to cut that motherfucker’s hands off next time he tries laying them on you.”

Chris was in deep shit.

Deep fucking shit.

You cross your arms over your chest, rubbing the skin, trying to keep warm. “You don’t have the balls.”

He smirks, chuckling to himself, and unlocks the door to his room for the time being, gesturing for you to get in first. “Watch it, angel. You might say something you’ll regret.”

You remain where you stand, stubborn as ever. Of course. Nothing’s ever easy when it comes to you, he should’ve known. So, why the fuck did he bring you here? What goddamn reason did he have for thinking you would, for once, once, do him the favor and comply with anything he requests of you?

Chris sighs. Drags a hand over his tired face, and scratches at his jaw, sensing his patience’s about to run out. Lucky for you. You’d probably love it. He thinks God must’ve put you on this Earth to get on his nerves and laugh mockingly as you watch him lose his fucking mind.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You prod, scoffing. Still not moving. “You get a hard-on every time someone tells you no.”

The mechanic growls, temper rising exponentially, and snatches you by the arm, shoving you through the door and locking it behind him, throwing the key haphazardly on top of the beaten down dresser with the cracked vanity and your lipstick stains from the previous night all over it. You don’t miss the way his biceps flex, all those delicious veins popping up the surface with the rough movement.

The one on his neck is constantly pulsing, angry and defined. You focus your gaze there, putting a hand on the bed’s mattress to keep from falling as you try to find your balance. Chris appears unbothered as he rids himself of the heavy biker jacket and rider boots. You contemplate pissing him off a bit more, just to get him where you really want him.

He really only ever chokes you out if you’ve crossed a line. You want him to go back to being familiar, to hatefuck you until you remember your place. You want to forget last night; how gentle his hands were, how softly he kissed you as he watched you two through the mirror, labored breath on your shoulder, fingers lightly wrapped around your bruised neck.

You didn’t want that—couldn’t want that. Violence is what you know. What you’re good at. Tenderness doesn’t last, it never does. Not with you. You’ll never deserve something like that.

Your hands move on their own accord, as you hear the click—four times—of his lighter. You smell the tobacco, see the smoke swirling and rising to the ceiling, with no escape.

He’s sitting on the rutty armchair by the TV, forearms propped on his knees, leaning forward, in nothing but a gray tank and unbuckled jeans, silver bracelet dangling as he taps his cigarette on an ashtray full of butts in front of him.

Your chest tightens at the sight of him. You bite your lip, and ignore the lump forming in your throat. You reach behind you to unhook the clasp of your bra.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asks harshly, upon noticing your undressing.

He sounds exhausted. There’s a raw raspiness to his voice, hours of chain smoking and dealing with grease, yelling over loud motors, then cursing every fucker who dares harass you at the bar. You haven’t thanked him once for looking out for you in there. If it wasn’t for him, who knows what would’ve happened to you, where you’d be.

Chris has the annoying tendency to make you his business, to keep involving himself with you, and taking your bullshit in stride. A good man in an ocean of so many bad ones, and you’ve no idea how to treat him, what to do with him. So, you push him away, hope it’s enough, hope that someday he’ll prove you right and become just like the rest of them—that he’ll get sick of you, and—and dump you. Just like you deserve.

It’s been a year.

By everyone else’s definition but your own, you’re his girl.

You’re sick with emotion you’ve no name for.

“Are you going to fuck me or should I leave?” You ask, sounding bored, feeling terrified.

Being naked in front of him will never stop feeling like the very first time he ever saw you that way. Back then, he’d run a calloused hand over your thigh, all the way up to your breast, and then had proceeded to crush you to his chest and push his thick, hard cock inside you, in the gas station outside of town.

Other places—the women’s bathroom at the bar, the kitchens after hours, the back room of the auto repair shop, his car, his second car, the bike currently parked outside, the shower of the apartment you share with your coworker, up against the fridge, the balcony with the potted plants you forgot to water months ago—and all those times, in all those places and positions, and times . . . He never once looked away.

He faced you fully, unafraid, not as a problem, but as an answer, and perhaps he’d been waiting for you or you’d been waiting for him, because Chris has been the only man that’s ever willed to take you upon himself as he has. No one’s ever stayed this long and not ran for their lives at the first sign of crazy.

Which is what you are. What you offer to his humble responsibility and sense of duty.

He doesn’t answer for a long time, instead studying your body as if a map has unraveled in front of him, uncharted waters and unclaimed lands. All dips and dives and curves, rounded corners and mountain sides.

The tip of the stick in his mouth burns red, hands coming together, overworked fingers interweaving. Dark eyes obscured by even darker wispy locks, plump mouth set in a hard line, completely unreachable, impossible to read.

You’re defiant. You refuse to cave under the weight of that gaze. Why else would he bring you here at three in the morning? Why else would he sit on the bar counter nursing whiskey after whiskey, counting down the minutes till you closed so he can take you with him?

You’re not good at a lot of things.

“Do you want to leave?” He asks, finally, voice muffled around the cigarette. “Am I holding you from something?”

“Fuck you.”

He leans back on the chair, mansplaining, arms raised behind his head. The glint in his eye is mischievous, is teasing. You bite down on your tongue, and get on the bed on all fours, facing away from him, giving him a good view of what he could have if he quit fucking playing games—it works, you hear that sharp inhale you’d been looking for, the choking down, the teeth grinding—before you get comfortable on your knees, hands on your lap, turning back to face him properly, blinking innocently, stomach churning with anticipation.

“Maybe,” he contemplates. “Answer me, (Y/N).”

Your brows furrow. Was there an actual question? “Answer what?”

“If I don’t fuck you tonight, are you going to leave?”

Whatever had been building up inside you shrivels and dies. You freeze all over, a terrible shiver running from the top of your head down your spine. He cannot be serious. So many things bubble up to the top, words you’d never speak out loud; confessions and thoughts, pointless black prayers you’ve whispered in dark, empty rooms. None of it is the correct answer.

You don’t think you’ll ever be ready for what is the correct answer.

“Did you think I was going to stay?” You spew acid, instead, deflecting, refusing, ignoring.

Chris seems to have expected it. He smashes the butt on the ashtray and gets up slowly, running a hand through soft looking hair. You could’ve been tugging at it by now, following the snap of his hips as they dig into your sopping cunt, but instead, here you are, talking in riddles about complicated, stupid feelings that you’d rather never discuss, never bring up, ever again.

“Do you have to cuddle with me to have me now? Is that it? Have you gone soft, Chris?” You reach to grab your shirt from the foot of the bed, to get dressed as fast as you can, to leave this ridiculous room and this even more ridiculous man. “What are you going to say next—are you gonna domesticate me, too, perhaps, like a fucking cat? Would you like to make love to me, wash my hair and sing me lulla—”

It takes all but three strides to reach you. He has you on your feet in an instant, standing so tall in front of you you have to crane your neck, and even knowing this, you feel ashamed. His hands grab the sides of your face, burying into your hair, as he forces you to look into his bloodshot eyes.

Fully clothed to your embarrassing nakedness, and yet you feel the bulge in his pants as it brushes your lower stomach, ever growing and so very hard already. See, this is what we both know, you want to tell him, to scream at him. Why do you need to make it difficult? Can’t you tell I’m already yours?

“Do I?” He mumbles close to your lips, tobacco on his breath, his muscular scent enveloping you in blissful familiarity, the word home home home beating inside you loud and clear. “Do I, angel?” He repeats, searching for answers in your eyes, diving deeper, beneath your skin, to your heart.

“Do I have you?” As he presses his lips to yours, grabbing a fistful of your hair and holding you to him, your body turning liquid, pulverizing into a million tiny pieces begging to be found by him.

Your entire being is screaming for him, raging against the instinctual fear and the agonizing dread of being left alone after you’ve encountered something as forceful, as devastating, fucking obliterating as Chris, and what if he snatches it all away? What if he leaves you with nothing but the unbearable gaping hole you’ve made for him in your chest?

What he’s supposed to fill and fill—what if, one day, he chooses not to? What if he abandons the fortress, declares retreat? What if he never comes back? What then?

“Why can’t you just slip inside me and get lost?” You whisper in his ear, your hands on his massive shoulders, pulling down, wanting to fit as much of him as they can. “Why isn’t that good enough?”

His hands are on the move again traveling south—cupping your mound with one palm, cursing at the sensation of your hot pussy on his fingers. He presses one of them between your lips, feeling your slick, rubbing the bundle of nerves that sends you over the edge every time.

Your knees wobble. He keeps you steady, holds you around the waist. You let him suck on your neck, lick down to your collarbone, all the while his fingers work on you, juices making a mess on his jeans, a leg propped to keep your thighs open.

“You’re afraid, sweetheart,” he says hoarsely, taking your mouth in his again. You let him. You let him do everything. You moan and you writhe and you come apart, and he’s patient, so patient with you.

“Don’t know what the word means,” you retort, ever the hard headed woman he fell in love with.

He chuckles lowly, letting you unzip him, before throwing you on the bed, and climbing after you, his broad figure over yours, unspoken promises and so many fucking things he’s yet to do to you.

“Of course you don’t,” he says affectionately, staring into your soul. “Fear, commitment, obedience—lost fucking concepts.”

You hum, wiggling your hips so your cunt is level with his swollen erection. “Never stood a chance.” When you grab him in your hand, big, so, so big and ready for you, he hisses and clamps a hand over your wrist, stopping you.

“As much as I wanna bury myself into this tight little fucking pussy right now—” He brings that same hand that held his cock to his lips, kissing your open palm. You ogle, surprised, speechless. You’re leaking so bad you feel the covers soaking underneath you.

“Shut your mouth for a second,” he demands sharply, seeing you’re about to rebute. “I need to make fucking sure first—Do I have your full consent to try something new?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You groan, aching with how empty you are, as you try to grab hold of his dick and shove it inside you, to end your suffering. “Chris, are you fucking—we’ve screwed fifty ways into the sun, now’s your time for this?”

He says nothing. He waits with a pained look, a sort of self inflicted wound, like he’s the one scared, like he’s risking everything here.

“Yes,” you let up. “Okay, yes.”

“I love you.”

He might've as well slapped you. It would’ve had the same effect.

“What?”

“I love you.”

“Chris, this isn’t funny.”

“I love you.”

You’re drowning. You’re going down under, sinking, sinking, filling up with water, and your lungs aren’t working properly, and there’s a solid case of hysteria twisting in your gut, and you’re suddenly very, very afraid of letting it get out, because if it does—if you crack open and it explodes—it’s going to ruin the perfect fucking quiet around the words the man on top of you won’t stop saying.

What is it that he’s saying again?

You can’t hear over the liquid in your ears.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, grabbing you by the hair and smashing your foreheads together. “You hear me? Forget about it. You’re mine, and I’d fucking eviscerate for you, and you have me. All of me, angel.”

His tip teases your entrance and you buck into him, delirious for friction, delirious for anything other than words you’ve no idea what to do with, words you’ve never been good at. He kisses you roughly, and bites your bottom lip, your cheek, your ear.

“I’m a pain in the ass,” you say way too loudly, maybe, and it comes out high pitched and dismayed.

Chris, attuned to you and your needs, buries inside your cunt to the hilt with one swift movement and stays there, elbows digging into the mattress on either side of your face. He’s smirking, and it reminds you—you hate his stupid, handsome face. So much. So much you  can’t live without it.

“Very,” he agrees, and one of his big hands reaches down to cup your ass, squeezing savagely.

“You hate my hotheadedness.”

He shakes his head, working you up to a quick pace, just how you like it.

“I’d be a terrible—girlfriend,” you force the word out like it burns you. “I’ll drive you up a wall.”

Chris smiles, and hushes you. “Already done that,” he murmurs softly. “I’m beyond myself.”

Oh. “Which is why you’re talking crazy! Look, I can’t—”

His mouth is on you before you can get anything else out. It stays on you for a long time, just as his cock plunders you, the taking savage, selfish, like this—you, you—should’ve been his from the very first moment, completely, thoroughly, unreservedly, because he swears, he fucking promises—as soon as you entered the threshold of his shop, a wild and panicked thing looking for a person—him, him—to assist you and your smoking car, so goddamn clueless about motor oil and antifreeze fluid and their part on keeping a vehicle running—he’d been irrevocably, stupidly yours.

And now, as you are, naked and arching, and moaning under him, lost to your pleasure, he understands why he brought you here. That night, and all the nights after. You’re in possession of so much more than you think, so much more than he’s willing to lay bare in front of you. Not only his heart, the foolish thing he wears on his sleeve and has given away so willingly time and time before, no. Something vital, something that beats inside him similar to the drumming of the bleeding muscle, but which has no name, no etymology, just a vast sense of dreadful blackness that fills him with terror as the truth grips him—there’s absolutely not a single fucking thing he would not do for you, for your safety.

The dark, and the buried. The voice that wraps his hand around your pretty neck and squeezes, the voice that tells him you can take it, the thing that drives him over the edge, the very thing that turned deadly earlier at the bar when that man wouldn’t take the fucking hint. All his mortal, destructive tendencies—they’re yours to do as you please, to pull and tug and maneuver. You have the shadows of his mind dancing to your whims, obeying you like a rotting dog would a master.

And you have no fucking idea, do you?

Fingers sink into the supple skin of your hip, the rest of him God knows where, impossible to tell as he ravages your sleek cunt, pistoling with the ferocity of a man unhinged, a man pathetic enough to think he can possibly carve a place for him inside of the body he wants to dominate more than anything else, against his greedy nature for the rest of the world and all it offers.

He’d rather stay here, in this ratty motel room, wasted on you, until he can remember nothing but your name and how good it feels on his lips.

“Chris . . .”

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles against your open mouth, a hand coming to push away strands of hair from your eyes, the touch raw, tender, like a self inflicted wound. “So damn beautiful . . .”

You meet him halfway, your face wide with a feeling that twists like a knife inside him.

He fucks you slow then, his cock moving torturously unhurried, deliberate, a sedation you can’t help but fall into, a lulling pace, something dangerously close to—

“I’m scared,” you let yourself admit, your forearm falling over your face, embarrassed, overflowing with dread for what you promised yourself you were never going to succumb to, the emotion red and pumping and terrifying, terrifying.

Chris grabs the arm obscuring you from him and pins it above your head, measuring you with steady eyes, determined to make you see, to make you understand.

“I know,” he says, and it sounds a lot like: me too.

There’s no stopping the tears now, and he won’t even give you a second, not a single moment—he’s still burying you alive, wrapping you in his scent and his words and his coffee eyes, warm warm warm, scalding, and your body betrays as it always does, because you—because it’s—

“You could hurt me,” you whisper. “You could hurt me really badly.”

“Never.” His arms wrap around your waist and bring you over him, on his lap, the change of position delightfully unbearable, his entire length so incredibly deep, so much deeper than before. “It took me a long time to find you, angel, to bring you here.” You move against him, falling against his shoulder, and he holds you, he lets you do whatever you want. “Never, you hear me? (Y/N) . . . fuck, baby.”

“I’d let you,” you continue, sadly. “I’d let you do anything.”

He shushes you, leaving a kiss on the top of your spine, and leans back on defined muscle, arms flexing under his weight. When he focuses on your body and how it arches on his dick, watching you ride him, swallowing him deep in your folds, grabbing onto his thighs for support—he loses it.

“You’ve no fucking clue how you look right now, baby girl . . . Fuck on me, c’mon, that’s it, that’s it, you’re almost there, let me see you . . .” There’s a high you’re chasing like no other—no one’s ever been able to give it to you like the man opposite you, coaching you to your release. It’s unbelievable how blind you’d been; to accept what he offers, meant accepting this too, letting it in, a flash flood endangering everything you’ve believed, tearing through and down your walls, demanding, never angry, yet somehow always horrific.

His rough hands grab your hips and slam you on his rock hard cock, determined to finish this, to show you there’s no room to regret, to backtrack and run off the minute it’s done—because you might, because he knows, because he’s not going to let it happen and you’re a little more grateful every time he meets your eye with glorious belief that this, you you you, can become something else, something more, something potentially wonderful.

If you let him. If you allow.

Nothing but your labored breathing and the sound of skin on skin, then—a growl, raspy and guttural, as his body stills and he shudders inside you, hot semen spilling down your thighs, where you meet. It’s hard to swallow but you manage, as your own heartbeat sounds erratic, your own release mixing with his, the smell musky and erotic. His chest collides with yours, sweaty, ripped, and you blush, despite yourself, refusing to curl in his arms how he wants you, how he’s trying to have you.

His mouth is everywhere, peppering open mouthed kisses on your shoulders, your neck, your hair, and his hands, that intoxicating touch that silences you every time, it climbs to your cheek turning your head so his lips can find yours. You try really hard to find it in yourself to stop acting like this; like you’re under his spell with no escape, but it’s a weak argument and an even weaker case.

Something changed. Something changed and you let it.

“I don’t have to hear it back,” he murmurs in your ear, content to just have you as close as possible, if you’re not willing to face him fully yet. “All I want is you.”

“You deserve better,” you argue numbly, staring at the point where he ends and you begin. “This is—”

“—whatever you want it to be,” he finishes for you, reassuring you. 

You shake your head. 

He sighs, patient.

“Got on your nerves already?” You ask, a bitter smile stretching your features.

Chris fists a handful of your hair and smashed his mouth on yours, rough and heated. You gasp into him and melt almost immediately.

“Every—single—day,” he rasps, in between breaths. “Fucking torment me,” and then, manners an afterthought, “Please.”

You snort. 

He bites your lip as punishment.

[leupagus]

OP how does it feel to be psychic

Kaos has very romeo + juliet aesthetic vibes

[saintobio]

⊹★⋆ two wheels and a hot guy.

pairings. gojo satoru, fem!reader tags. 1k wc, biker boy x biker girl au, non-sorcerer au, crack, fluff, dirty jokes (?), satoru rides an s1k, biker!sukuna mentions, same au as my other fic. sparked by a random idea bcos why haven't we thought abt biker!gojo honestly? he would be so funny on tiktok if he was a biker boy lmao

You’ve all heard about Biker!Sukuna. That famous biker boy on biketok who has tattoos and rides a blacked out Yamaha R1. 

But have you heard about Biker!Gojou? 

Well… For starters, Satoru Gojou wasn’t a seasoned biker. 

In fact, he was more of a poser than anything, but you’d never catch him admitting that. His prized BMW S1000RR, the crown jewel of superbikes, was more about image than skill. The sleek, aggressive lines of the machine, combined with the prestige of the BMW logo, were all he needed to keep up appearances on TikTok. And he learned that appearances were everything, especially when Sukuna, with his obnoxious face tattoos and natural charisma, hogged the limelight (especially from all the girls!) with every post, even with a girlfriend already in tow. The sheer audacity of that scum was enough to drive Satoru up the wall. Fine, he had to admit. He was jealous of Sukuna’s popularity and the fact that he snatched a cute booktok girlfriend as his backpack. 

Suguru, his best friend and fellow biker, didn’t let him forget it either. As they stood by their bikes outside Barnes & Noble to spot booktok girls, Suguru glanced at Satoru’s liter bike and smirked. 

“Pretentious motherfucker,” he muttered, slinging a leg over his Yamaha MT-10, the less flashy but undeniably badass naked bike. Unlike Gojou, Suguru didn’t care about clout. The MT-10 was all about raw power and agility, the kind of bike a real rider appreciated. “You only got that thing because it’s a BMW. You gonna actually ride it for real one of these days?”

“Shut up.” Satoru rolled his eyes, adjusting his white Alpinestars riding gloves while holding his phone up to go live on TikTok. Starting with a 1000cc as a beginner bike wasn’t a very wise choice, but still... “People love the S1K, you know that.”

And let me tell you about Satoru’s favorite time of the day (or night). It was whenever he would go live, and the comments would pour in as soon as his stream started. That was when he could lavish in his social media presence the most.

user19463: Bro, when are you gonna show us some actual riding content?

anon875biker: All that thirst trapping. Bet you don’t even take that thing out of the garage. 

harleysRbetter: U punks R ruining the riding community! 

Gojou grinned at the screen, winking at both his followers and haters. “Alright, boomers, calm down. I’ll post some riding content soon. Don’t cry too much before then, yeah?”

r1.skn: Sir, can you do wheelies? 

Suguru found that comment hilarious, recognizing the username and knowing exactly who it belonged to—Sukuna. But Satoru’s competitive nature kicked in instantly while he continued to scroll through the comments. “Yeah, I can do wheelies. Ignore Sukuna, guys. Focus on me!”

msbikerluvr: Still looking for a backpack, Gojou? Lmao.

“About the backpack… you know, I’m just waiting for the right one. Applications are still open—” He was about to launch into another witty retort when a sound cut through the chatter of his stream—it was a deep, throaty rev that sent a shiver of excitement down his spine. Satoru’s head immediately whipped to the direction of the sound, just in time to see a flash of race blue zipping down the street.

There you were, riding a Yamaha R7, your black Dainese jacket hugging your curves as you leaned into the wind. The way you handled the bike, so smooth and confident, it was as if the motorcycle was an extension of you. 

“Damn, she’s hot.” Without a second thought, Satoru ended the live stream abruptly, “Gotta go, guys. Someone just stole my heart,” and pocketed his phone.

“Did you seriously just—” Suguru started, but Satoru was already mounting his S1000RR.

“Catch you later, Suguru!” he called, gunning the engine without even looking at his best friend. Soon enough, the 1000cc bike roared to life when he shifted into first gear, and he sped off in pursuit of the blue R7.

He caught sight of you at the next red light, the signal holding you in place just long enough for him to catch up. Thank God there was no sign of a biker boyfriend around when he pulled up alongside you, visor down, adrenaline still kicking him alive. He tried to get your attention by revving his S1K, and you turned your head slightly, barely acknowledging him as you pulled your visor up and revealed the prettiest eyes Gojou had ever seen. 

Satoru flipped up his visor too, then flashed his most charming grin. “Hey there,” he said, trying to keep his voice smooth and casual. Like it was a normal encounter. “You’re fast. I like that.”

You may have rolled your eyes, but he could tell you were smirking underneath the balaclava as you talked through the Cardo intercom linked to your AGV K1s. “And you’re obnoxious. I don’t like that.”

Oooh, she’s spicy. He laughed at the silly thought in his head, unbothered by your dismissal. “Come on, don’t be like that. I’m just trying to get to know the girl who stole my heart in the middle of a live stream.”

“Your heart, huh?” you teased, revving her engine just slightly. “Sounds like you’re more interested in what’s under my jacket.”

“Now that’s a baseless accusation,” he retorted, leaning in slightly. “I don’t do anything on the first night, you know. I usually wait until the second, after a nice dinner. I’m a gentleman like that.”

His remark made you snort, shaking your head at his boldness. “You’re a ridiculous guy.”

“But I’m also serious,” he added, his voice sincere despite the playful glint in his eyes. “Let me take you out, just dinner. No strings, no funny business—unless you’re into that kind of thing. I don’t mind that, either.”

Your laughter sounded like a sweet melody to his ears. “You’ve got guts, mister. I’ll give you that.” Has anyone told you how hot you looked while leaning into your bike? Damn. Satoru was distracted, checking you out for a moment until you spoke again, “Fine. One dinner. But don’t think you’re getting into my pants just because you ride a fancy bike.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he promised, grinning from ear to ear.

The light turned green, and without another word, you revved your engine and took off with Satoru right on your tail. The chase was on, but this time, it wasn’t just about the thrill of the ride. 

For Satoru Gojou, it was about something far more exhilarating—winning the attention of the most intriguing biker girl he’d ever met. 

And perhaps, the biker boyfriend and backpack girlfriend content he’d been hoping to post on Tiktok may slightly change into a different direction than he expected. 

[vivs-fics]

Selfish (Part 2)

Logan Howlett x Reader

Part One

Warnings: Smut. So much smut. Just an ungodly amount of filth. (Abandon all hope ye who enter here.), slight angst, self-loathing Logan, confessing feelings

“Logan, what the actual fuck do you think you’re doing?” Your brows knit together in a healthy mixture of concern and confusion. The office he’s pulled you into is crappy at best, but the desk seems clean enough. The scuffed hardwood harbors a lone ashtray, stacked to the brim with half-smoked Camel cigarettes. The light above you is yellowed from years of continued exposure to tobacco, the bulb flickers every so often. You have no more time to ponder the electrical workings of this establishment though, not when you have a 6’3 hulking Wolverine in front of you, hands running through his hair frustratedly.

“I can’t do this anymore, baby. I just can’t.” He steps closer to you, his warm breath fans over you. His eyes search your face, brows scrunched together, deepening the lines in his forehead. His lips are set in a narrow, straight line.  

“What can’t you-”

Logan cuts you off with a firm kiss, “I can’t keep pretending that I don’t want you the way I do. I fucking- God, baby. Do you even know what you do to me?” He cups your face in his hands and gazes on you like you hung the moon in the sky. His honeyed eyes trace the features of your face. He looks upon you as if he is gazing upon the Divine. The admiration behind his eyes surpassed that of centuries of people kneeling before their gods in awe.

“Baby… baby, you are everything to me. And if that makes me a selfish motherfucker, so be it.” He presses his lips to yours once again, passion flows between the two of you. The invisible string that connects you seems to wind around the expanse of your bodies and pulls you closer together. Neither of you can help it- the need for this proximity.

“Logan. Wait, wait.” You sigh out, attempting to halt the panting and pleading, almost putty in his hands already.

“Yeah, princess? What is it?” His thumbs rub up and down your cheeks soothingly.

“I had no idea you felt this way. You always- you know-” You shrug, albeit a bit sheepishly. A smile appears on your face, and he kisses you, once, twice, and again and again. He drinks in the radiance of your grin; he relishes in the light of it.

“I know, and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that, and I thought I was protecting you by bein’ like that.” He stops for a moment, shuffles forward and places his hands on your hips.

The feeling is familiar, good. Great floodgates open inside your heart, it flows through your chest, out to the tips of your fingers and toes. It envelops you. Your nails rake over his scalp and your fingers thread through his thick locks. A strangled groan escapes his lips when you give his hair a hefty tug. “I thought it’d be selfish if I went about it any other way… but…” Logan stops in his tracks, his need to taste more of you is completely overwhelming.

He licks, kisses and sucks down the expanse of your neck, stopping ever so briefly to graze his teeth along your collarbones. He steps back, succumbing to the urge to commit the marks he left on your skin to memory. “So fuckin’ beautiful.” He mumbles, the words barely above a whisper. His eyes move back up to yours and with a quick, sharp exhale, he’s back on you.

“But I don’t care. I don’t fucking care, baby.” Strong, calloused hands move under your shirt and Logan gropes your waist. He drinks you in, gasping, thirsting, yearning for you. Hazel eyes bore into your own, fierce desire barely concealed inside his steely gaze. “I need you so fucking bad… And I don’t care that I’m being selfish.” Logan lifts your shirt and discards it; his pupils dilate as more of your soft skin is exposed. “I’m a selfish bastard, and I want you all to myself. I can’t fucking get enough of you, princess.” His mouth moves down to your own, he captures your lips in a rough kiss. Logan licks his tongue into your mouth, desperately trying to capture your taste. He’s ravenous, a caged beast finally let loose. You moan out in pleasure into his mouth, his heart pounds against his ribcage.

Every fiber of his being burns for you. The very cells of his body scream out your name in worship. You are all-encompassing, you smother him in your splendor, and he still finds it hard to believe that you would even consider gracing him with your ethereal presence.

He is jagged, tainted. Fire and brimstone. All rough edges and serrated ends. You are soft, so fucking soft, he thinks to himself, and he has kept himself away for so long. But no longer. His cock strains against his dark wash jeans. A fiery blaze of need burns within his system, it crackles and frizzles, engulfing his very spirit. All he sees, all he smells, all he knows is you. He wants to fall into you and take you apart, just to put you back together again.

Logan’s hands move up to your breasts and he squeezes them once, twice, before slipping under your bra and rolling your peaked nipples between his pointer finger and his thumb. He drags his hands down, out, and to the clasps of your bra. The rough pads of his fingers leave a burning trail across your skin. Logan pulls the soft material off your body and discards with no more effort than a breath. His attention never falters, his gaze never strays. He’s finally admitting to you what he’s kept inside since the day he met you. The rumbling, snarling, rabid possessiveness that he convinced himself was wrong spurts out from him in leagues.

He wants to taste you, feel you, mark your skin so that the world can see who owns you. His lips trail down your neck and onto your chest, he takes a nipple into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it. His tongue laps against your tit, his lips suckle on the pebbled skin. Logan’s hand moves to tease your other nipple, and you gasp. Your head falls back, hitting the wall behind you, gasps and pants escape your lips. You look up to the heavens, which is just a slightly water-damaged ceiling in this shoddy excuse for a manager’s office, knowing that no divine light could shine as brightly as his eyes when he sees you. No promise of all the worlds riches could coax you away from the pleasure he gives you. The thought crosses your mind that perhaps he craves you as much as you crave him. Your back arches off the cool, off-white wall of the office as his free hand moves down to touch you under your skimpy excuse for a skirt.

Your panties are soaked, and a rumble resonates from his chest upon discovering this. “Wet for me already, baby?” He enquires, lips abandoning your tits for the soft slope of your neck, fingers moving under the thin material of your underwear and finding your clit. The tips of his index and middle finger circle over the sensitive bud. He presses soft, delicate kisses down from behind your ear to the expanse of your collarbones, his beard scratches along your skin delectably.

“Does my princess need me to touch her?” Logan drawls, his head tilts closer to you. His brows furrow in faux concern. “Hm?”

“Oh, fuck. Lo-” You start, but are quickly, rudely, deliciously, maddeningly cut off by the abrupt feeling of fingers moving inside your soaked cunt. A lewd moan escapes you and rings out through the small room, muffled only the tiniest bit by the music spilling in from under the door.

“This all for me? Huh, baby?” He teases, voice low as his fingers work your cunt.

All you are able to do is nod your head and let out a string of clumsily worded confirmations. Pleasure courses through your body. Your thighs shake from the intensity of it.

A smirk appears on his wickedly cruel lips, and he continues his ministrations on your clit. His fingers dip in between your folds every so often, gathering your slick to keep your clit wet. “There’s my girl… Always so fuckin’ good for me, aren’t you? So eager…” Logan continues thrumming your clit with the pads of his fingers, keeping a pace he knew you made you melt.  

“Are you close already, baby?” He purrs, voice dropping lower. Lust practically spills from his words. He pumps his fingers into your sweet, dripping cunt. Logan shifts his gaze from watching his digits disappear into your cunt, over and over, to the blissed out, desperate look on your face. His rhythm remains steady as you start moving up and down on his fingers, chasing your high. He returns his focus to your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bud. Your hips stutter. The coil in your belly is taut- it tightens and winds and tenses and the burly man that looms above you, bound in denim and leather, talks you through your orgasm.

“There she is… good fuckin’ girl.” He keeps his pace steady, fingers reaching that soft, spongy part of you that almost always made you tip over the edge. “Always make me so proud, baby. You took my fuckin’ fingers so well, princess.” He cocks his head to the side and stares down at your trembling form, so clearly happy with the work he’s done.

Logan ushers you to the hardwood desk placed in the middle of the room, soon after you recover from the seismic orgasm he gave you. He lifts you to sit on the edge of the cluttered surface. “You alright, pretty girl?” He ducks his head down and lifts your chin with two fingers.

You bat your eyelashes at him, a hazy smile on your face, “Alright is… certainly one way to put it.”

He grunts, satisfied, moving his hands down to either side of you. He traps you between him and the desk. “Baby? I need you to know something.”

You tilt your head upwards and give him an encouraging nod.

“You’re not someone who should ever have to endure a casual relationship. Okay? You are… resplendent. You are everything anyone could ever want and infinitely more. I- I want to do so many fuckin’ things with you, alright? I don’t want to fuck and go home- I need you to be my woman. I need you to be on my arm and I need you to fucking dance with me. Seeing you with that guy-” Logan’s voice catches in his throat and he brings his fist to his heart and beats it against his chest a few times. “I couldn’t bear it. I cannot stand it to be without you, Y/N.”

“Logan?” You enquire, voice almost swallowed by your surprise. His name hangs, suspended, in the air for a moment before it is engulfed by the flood of his confession.

He couldn’t stop talking, not if he tried, not if he wanted to. He’d kept it all inside for so long and now, here you were- eyes wide and vulnerable, the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. “Fuck- I just- I promised myself I wouldn’t do this… You, baby, you’re so fucking good and pure, and I’ve got too much hurt on my heart to let you come close.”

“Are… are you scared I won’t be able to handle it?”

“I’m scared you will. I’m fuckin’ terrified that you see it and take it on and that taints you- that it hurts you to see what I’ve done.” His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before his hand comes up to your face and cups your cheek gently.

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous, Lo.” You sigh, leaning into his touch, almost making light of the monumental declaration.

Logan is slightly taken aback by your callous statement, but it comforts him all the same. Of course, you wouldn’t shut him out because of his past, of course you’d be understanding and as wonderful as ever. He shakes his head, the corners of his mouth tilt upwards.

“Hm. That’s not something I’ve been called often, princess. You sure ‘ridiculous’ is the word you want to go with?” Logan’s thumb strokes your cheek softly- his touch, his eyes, everything is full of a gentleness that could only come from a man completely smitten.

“It’s a hill I am ready and willing to die on.” The bright smile on your face triggers an even brighter one on his. A rare sight. One that you hold close to your heart.

His heart swells, “I mean it though, baby. The only reason I kept you so far away was because of all of this shit.” He gestures to himself vaguely. Your stomach drops, the smallest amount.

“I want you, Lo. I want all of you.” His eyes shine, his heart soars upon hearing this. It’s all he’s ever wanted, he thinks. It’s certainly the thing he’s wanted most. “Will you let me have it, Logan?”

A quietness falls over the two of you. You smile at him, half-agony, half-hope. A blanket of heavy silence coats you and Logan in it’s warm embrace. He clenches his jaw, just once, before nodding. “Yes. Yes, baby. You can have it. Have me. I’ll give you anything you fuckin’ ask for if you keep lookin’ at me like that.”

You break out into simultaneous, smiling sighs of relief. Your hearts feel tethered to each other, an intangible connection present and strong between the two of you. “Logan…”

He nods, “Fuck, baby. That’s the prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard.” He draws you closer to him, his breathing suddenly jagged. “Say it again. Say my name again.”

You comply, the whirlpool of beautiful emotions swirling in your chest makes you stutter, “L-logan.”

“Again,” He demands. “Louder, princess.” He bends his neck to bring his lips down to your neck, they brush against the sensitive skin just below your ear. His hands roam across the expanse of your body. He takes handfuls of you and massages, his skilled fingers kneading your flesh. You feel a familiar heat pool in your belly as he moves his hands around you, it’s intoxicating. You give him what he wants, you cry out his name to the heavens- a declaration to God and man alike that Logan fucking owns you.

He guides your hand down to the bulge in his jeans, moving your wrist ever so slightly, encouraging you to cup his clothed cock. “You feel this, baby? Can you feel what you do to me?”

A desperate whimper falls from your lips at the utter filth he’s speaking. “F-fuck. Fuck me. You’re so fucking hard for me.”

Before you know it, you’re leaning against the table, back arched up, moaning, whimpering and babbling- begging for Logan to keep fucking you. He pumps his thick cock in and out of your soaking cunt. Filthy, wet noises of pleasure echo in the small room. He picks up his speed, hand coming down to smack your ass a few times. “Fuck, baby. Always so fuckin’ wet for me, aren’t you? My desperate fucking princess. You need this, don’t you? Tell me. Tell me how badly you need my cock.”

“Oh, fuck…” Your pussy clenches around him as those filthy words fall from his mouth and drip down onto you. “I fucking need- oh, God- I need you, Logan. I need you so fucking badly... Please, please make me cum.” Your voice is a mixture of wanton pleasure and fervent desire.

“You wanna cum, baby? You want to cream all over my fuckin’ dick? Hmm?”

You buck your hips back into him, he groans. The sound is rumbling and gruff and wanting.

“Fuck, princess.” He fucks himself into you harder, his dick hits your g-spot, and his hand moves around your body to allow his fingers to play with your clit. “You’re gonna be good for me, aren’t you? You gonna cum nice and hard for daddy?” His voice dips with the addition of the name he knew drove you wild.

He brings you right to the precipice with his rough, rhythmic thrusts and then, with all the power of a raging tidal wave, your orgasm hits you. Pleasure rocks though you from your core, you moan out lewdly. Loudly. You couldn’t give a fuck who heard you right now.

He preens, spurred on by the spasming of your pussy around his cock.

“Cum inside me, Logan. Oh God- pl-please.”

His hazel eyes go wide, and you swear you can feel something flip inside him. His thrusts become erratic, desperate. He wants this, he needs this. He would let himself fall into you a thousand times over. No amount of time spent with you would ever be enough. He feels something warm and light and pure and new spread through him. It ignites in his veins, seizes his muscles and courses through him. ‘Fuck, what is this? Am I fucking in love with this woman?’ He thinks to himself briefly. Logan leans forward, discarding his thought, too concerned with how good your luscious pussy feels wrapped around him. He presses hot kisses against your shoulder as he fucks you.

“Baby, baby I’m gonna- Oh fuck-” He spills inside you, hips slowing as his orgasm washes over him. He keeps his cock inside for a while- fucking his cum into you, relishing in the feeling.

He turns you over and presses the gentlest, most soulful kiss onto your lips. “You’re fucking perfect, princess. Did so good for me.” Logan praises.

You take a moment to catch your breath, your body sagging against his slightly. “Y-you… Logan Howlett… Are a different kind of animal.”

“Fuckin’ right I am.” You can practically hear the smirk in his words. He presses a tentative kiss to your forehead, then one on your cheek, and your other cheek and suddenly, your face is being cradled in his large hands, jaw nestled in the warmth of his palms.

“I’m yours, you know that, right?” your eyes lift to meet his.

“That’s all I ever wanted to hear, baby.” His eyes soften, a smile falls onto his lips. His heart thumps steadily in his chest. This is right, this was always right. Logan knows there’s no other alternative to this. You’re it, for him. “And uh- just for the record, princess... You’ve fuckin’ got me. You are everything, fucking everything. And I swear to God I’ll be the man you deserve.” Your simultaneous admissions sit together, twisting into each other and solidifying into something glorious.

The height you’re soaring at is dizzying, the fact that you get this man all to yourself- it is almost too much to comprehend. One final thought sits in your mind as Logan holds you close to him, hands stroking up your spine and lips whispering sweet words into your ears… Thank God this man was selfish.

Hi hi! Here's Part 2 as promised!! I hope yall like it <3

Xoxo, Viv

Tag list:

@angelofthorr @journal3sposts @jameshetfieldsslut

[dansformations]

"Man of the future"

Alan was 20 years old gay guy that turned his passion for video games into a career as a streamer. Every night, he sat in front of his computer, illuminated by the lights of his setup, and connected to play with his thousands of followers enchanted by the fact of having a popular gay and handsome streamer. That night, however, something different happened.

While chatting with his audience and viewing the comments in the chat, he noticed a message that stood out among the others.

@ yourbroski: "Try this game, 'Man of the Future'," said a donation message with a link.

@ yourbroski: "Its my game, i create It"

- You Did!? No way - Alan replied

He clicked the link, opening the Game just for being nice, the title didnt sounded like something that the girly Alan would enjoy.

Within seconds after the click, Alan found himself downloading a game he had never heard of. The title, "Man of the Future," glowed on the screen.

The game was a complicated obstacle course and shooter that quickly engrossed Alan into the digital word.

- Hey, this is indeed fun

But the fun ended quickly. When he died in the game for the first time - Which was pretty fast -, a screen appeared with the saying, "C'mon Bro, you can do better" along with an strange music, almost hipnotazing music.

- Whoa, did you guys see that? - Alan said, leaning back in his chair. - This game is savage! 'C'mon Bro, you can do better'? Challenge accepted! - he answered.

However, the second attempt didn’t go any better. When Alan died again, the message changed to, "Don’t be a noob, Bro."

Alan face reddened with frustration. "Okay, Bro," he muttered under his breath.

- No way am I letting this game call me a noob. Let's do this! - He turned to the chat, determination blazing in his eyes. -You guys with me? This game’s going down, Bros!

Took a sip of His... beer? He didnt remenber being drinking beer, he didnt even remenber enjoying beer but he was so centred on beating that game that kinda ignored It.

- OOOOOUUURRRP - he belched - dang, sorry bros - he said a bit ashamed... Just a bit. He was too centred to being ashamed.

Meanwhile the coments were going crazy.

"Whats happening With all those 'Bro'? Thats off character"

"@ yourbroski: Nothing to be ashamed! Better out than inside my Bro!"

"Are we sure this Is Alan? Lol"

He keep playing moving his fingers as fast as he could, he was doing Better and when he almost reached the wining flag - a flag decorated only With White and black lines - he got killed by another player.

- Son of a bitch! - he yelled - that motherfucker killed me at the very last BRARRRRP - belched - moment!

"Dont be a pussy" The screen said this time, as knowing he was whining.

- No way this game just called me a "pussy"! - he said ofended - Im not, and in gonna show them all - he said while opening his legs in the chair in a more relaxed position, tooking a moment to scracht his balls in front everybody before starting the new round.

In that position everybody could apreciate some strong arms and legs that people didnt knew Alan had abd Alan didnt remenber to have worked on.

"Sexy" a guy comented.

He was gay, but for some reason reading that from a guy, maked him feel angry.

- Dont be a weirdo, dude - he said

He was gay, right..?

Then started playing again, not releasing every time his character died, a part of His persona did too.

Yelling, coursing, chugging beer and burping, acting with a cocky attitude more and more, every round, less nice, less gay, less him, until...

- BROS, I-OARRRRRP -He couldnt contain a burp - I DID IT!

His character was holding that black and White flag.

"Now youre a real alpha" the tv screen said With that strange music still.

"Now youre the Man of the future"

And with that, the remains of Alan were erased, he didnt remenber being a girly gay guy anymore, he always had been an alpha, a straight, gassy, jock that loved playing videogames and humillating the noobs and "queerdos" on the games.

Alan started doing a "celebration dance" that basically was doing hip moviments to show his bulge. Like he were fucking someone.

- This Is for you, @broski - Alan put His microphone close to his ass and ripped a big, loud, smelly fart on It - i beated you - he said proud. Between laughs he added - Nah, GG bro, youre talented, definetly gonna share It with the bros.

"Whats happening with Him?!' someone comented

"@ yourbroski: That flag send the fag away"

Alan didnt even read those coments, he was busy trying to fan away the fart with his hands.

That Night the strange transformartion of the gay gamer Alan was trending everywhere, but before His friend Group had read something, they receive link to a Game from Alan.

"Alan: Best game of the month broskis"

The group of friends made up of gay guys and nice straight guys thought Alan's writing was odd, but without knowing the situation they gave more atention to the link, opening it, ready to play a life-changing game, "The man of the future."

(This is just fetish writing)

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#381

“Wakey wakey.  Time to wake up….  Don’t try to move around too much.  As you are realizing, you are in a predicament.  You are lying in my basement, buck naked, tied up, gagged, collared, with a fuck pillow under your pelvis.  You ain’t going anywhere, anytime soon….

“We’ve never met, but we know each other.  We both do the same thing for work, but we are nothing alike.  This is what’s happening.  I am part of a nameless organization that takes faggots, trains them to be slaves, and sells them to buyers from around the world.  From what I’ve been told over the years, the faggots delivered to me want to drop off the grid and sold into slavery.  They turn themselves in to a collector, who then has them delivered to me.  I don’t know if that’s true as I don’t let any of the faggots talk other than to say, ‘Yes Sir!’ 

“Now for you, I was told your backstory.  It seems that you are a collector for a different kind of group.  I train fags who offer themselves up for the taking.  You seem to prefer the non-consensual abductions of twelve- to fifteen-year-old girls.  I don’t care that you prefer pussy over dicks, but I do draw the line with their age.

“As I said, I was told what you are.  That never happens.  Ever.  But it appears that you approached the ten-year-old niece of one of higher ups in the organization, and he recognized what and who you were.  That stupid move brought you here. 

“I have no idea who the higher up is nor do I care.  Hell, we don’t know any of the men that are in the other parts of my organization, let alone hear from them.  So I found it surprising to get a call from a higher up—who I haven’t heard from in a few years—that I am to train you personally.  You better fucking believe that I’m going to train the fuck out of you.

“I have been training faggots for nearly forty years.  This is my farm you are on.  Twelve hundred acres.  Twelve hundred acres with some of the most advanced surveillance and anti-escape deterrents.  I know of every person who steps foot on my property, and I know if a slave is ten feet away from where it is supposed to be.  The ankle cuffs, wrist cuffs, and collar have tracking devices in them.  The collar can deliver a shock to keep you in line at a moment’s notice.  And the ankle cuffs are set up that if you go beyond a certain perimeter, a numbing agent is injected causing your legs to go numb and become useless.  Escape is not possible.  In my twenty years at this location, I have only had one slave make it off property, but it was collected within three minutes of doing so.  That slave was brought back and tortured in front of all the other slaves as a deterrent.  And that was before all the tracking technology was put in.  So keep that in mind if you decide to do something stupid.

“Now,… for the past five minutes, I have been telling you the predicament you find yourself in.  I have been watching your reaction.  Being gagged, you can’t say anything, but your body language says it all.  You seem too calm and not surprised at the description of my organization.  No reaction really.  That tells me that you are familiar with an operation like this.  When I tell you that you were collected for stalking that niece, you don’t look shocked by that accusation.  That pretty much confirms what I was told,… not that it matters otherwise. 

“No, the only reaction I saw was when I tell you that I am going to do your training.  You looked panicked.  Your eyes went right to my bulge.  Oh yeah.  I noticed.  You are straight indeed.  I should say, ‘were straight.’  From this moment on, you will never go back to that life.  The only cunt in your future is the one I’m about to make out of this hole between your legs.

“You have a great ass, so flawlessly smooth.  On any other slave, this ass would be a huge selling feature.  But for you, it’s a source of pain.  I need to put out my cigarette somewhere.  Your asscheek is the best place to do it….  Scream motherfucker scream.  Your perfect ass is going to go through some changes, from being daily whipped to being used as an ashtray.  You are going to be scarred up for sure.

“For the next part, I need to take off my boots and get out of these overalls.  You are going to get acquainted with Otto.  That’s what some of the fag slaves and some of the trainers call my dick.  Otto, it means ‘eight’ in Italian.  I’m actually closer to nine inches, but nine in Italian is ‘Nove’ which doesn’t sound right.  It doesn’t roll over the tongue as nicely as Otto.  Hehe.

“Look up at me.  Look shithead!  Here’s Otto.  Look at the cock that is going to own your life.  Half hard, it’s bigger than yours.  Keep staring at my foreskin.  Otto needs to piss.  You will be trained on drinking piss.  That’s all the liquid you will be given.  And if you are wondering if that means that you will be trained on becoming a full toilet, let me say we stopped training our slaves on that a while back.  It was too time consuming, and the buyers weren’t interested in that feature.  But for you, the higher ups want you trained.  But that will have to wait.

“Are you…  you are…!  You’re crying!  About time!  Hold still.  Let me wash away those tears for you.  Piss is the best antidote to tears.  There’s no feeling in the world like starting to tear down a once proud man by simply pissing on his face.  It’s getting me hard.  Otto likes what he’s doing to you.  But he wants action.

“Normally, you would be sucking the last few drops out of my foreskin.  But I ain’t ungagging you yet.  Besides, Otto needs to turn a virgin ass into a gaping cunt. 

“Your hole is perfectly displayed, like it’s ready to be destroyed thanks to that fuck pillow and how wide your legs were spread and secured.  Oh look.  Your cock and balls are just hanging there,… exposed,…

“…Damn! Even with my bare feet, I can deliver one hell of a ball kick.  Ha! Ha!  Your screams mean everything to me.  You know, each and every one of my personal slaves are kicked in the balls every morning.  They need to be reminded of their place on a daily basis. 

“Now, you will be spared that daily torture.  And that’s not because I would never have you as my personal slave, and don’t worry I wouldn’t own such trash.  No, I’m going to castrate you, in one of the most painful ways.  I haven’t decided how yet.  I do know that I will leave your empty sack intact.  We have a urologist that will make changes to your dick so that you lose all ability to get hard and with a few snips to the nerves in the area, all physical sensation will be gone.  Essentially your dick will constantly just hang there and be utterly useless… other than to piss out of.  Every time you reach down there, you will only feel the shell of what you used to be.

“Awww you’ve done full on sob.  Here let me collect some of your tears.  Tears of cunts are the best lube. 

“Do you feel Otto at your hole?  Feel his weight in your crack?  He’s ready to go.  Can you feel his leak.  Lucky for you, you really got me leaking.  Feel that wetness?  That’s all you.  Virgin cunt meets wine bottle thick dick.

“Don’t fucking start resisting.  Your cherry is going to be popped.  Here goes. 

“Don’t fucking fight me.  It’s only going to be more painful for you.  You are making my dick even harder.

“LET ME IN!  I’m coming in.  Oh, you got my head.  You are really starting to piss me off.

“Urg!  There.  Normally I would let a cunt relax before I begin, but you don’t fucking deserve that.  Right to the… goddamned… root!  Fuck, you’re tight.  By the end of tonight, you will be a gaping mess. 

“Not only have I been lucky to have such a big dick, but I can cum multiple times a night.  My first load is always quick, but the second one goes on for hours.  Then I have a gang bang lined up for this cunt. 

“I’ll let someone else pop the cherry in your throat.  There’s no way I’m going to let Otto near your mouth, at least not while you still have a mouthful of teeth.  Oh yeah, those will be coming out as part of your transformation.

“Keep crying.  Oh man.  Oh fuck.  I’m getting close.  You ready to be bred?  You ready to make your transformation to cunt complete?  Here it cums.  Here it goddamned cums!  Ahh! Ahh! Fuuuuck!

“Holy shit!  That was… fuck. 

“Your cunt has one of my biggest loads in it.  That should help lubricate you up a bit for round two….  Don’t try to push me out.  Otto will come out when he wants to.  Right now, he just wants a minute to catch his breath.

“Cunt, you have nothing but hell ahead of you.  There will be no let up.  Today is about breaking you in.  Tomorrow will begin your life of pain.  We have a shitload planned for you.  I don’t know how long it will be for you to with us, but each day we will strip away what made you a man, a human. 

“You know, when we put a slave up for auction, we have transformed the fag into the best slave it could be.  We don’t do it for its wellbeing.  No, we want top dollar.  And we get top dollar.  That’s our reputation.

“But for you, I was given the instruction that your transformation should be so extreme that when you are put up for auction, without a reserve price, that you are so repulsively distorted that you are sold for the lowest amount we ever had for a slave.  That shouldn’t be a problem with all the branding, scarification, tattooing, deteething, and so on.  Your previous profession will be shared with your new owners so that they can keep up your hell. “Oh fuck.  All this talk of your pathetic life is getting me hard again.  I’m ready to begin round two.  This should last a few hours.”

[steviewashere]

Pumpkin Pie

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Recreational Drug Use (Marijuana), Alcohol, Inebriated Steve Harrington Tags: Post-Canon, Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Sad Steve Harrington, Insecure Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Kisses, Cuddling, Sharing Food, The Intimacy in Sharing Pie From the Same Tin on The Same Fork, Sappy Ending For @steddie-spooktober Day 24 Prompt: Pumpkin (My probably only fic for spooktober because it got away from me)

🎃—————🥧 Eddie wakes up to a cold bed next to him and a bladder that’s screaming.

It’s not unusual for Steve to get out of bed in the middle of the night. Sometimes from a nightmare. Maybe because he needs a glass of water. Occasionally for the bathroom. But for his side to stay cold? That’s what’s unusual.

He pulls up his pajama pants, washes his hands, and makes it out of their ensuite bathroom. Well, it used to be just Steve’s ensuite and bedroom, but it’s theirs now that his parents have completely moved out of Hawkins. Leaving their too big house in a trust fund—the only thing that’s in the trust fund, it seems. Steve agreed that he’d pay the bills, so long as his parents didn’t fully sell it; surprisingly, they gave in.

The downstairs is completely dark. No life in the living room. No flushing toilet from the downstairs bathroom. Nothing. It’s almost as if Steve isn’t even home. Though, the back porch light is on. And in the light layer of autumn fog, glowing from the pool lights, is Steve laid back in one of the pool loungers.

Heaving open the heavy sliding glass door, Eddie chances stepping outside. The cold bites him—teeth marks, flesh missing. His t-shirt and fleece pants aren’t going to fend off the chill. And Steve’s outfit won’t do any better either. Considering the fact that he’s in nothing but some ratty sweatpants. How can he sit out here, Eddie briefly wonders. A waft of something skunky and earthy flares his nostrils alive. He shuffles over so that he’s in the adjacent pool lounger, sitting on the edge, arms wrapped tight around himself. Looking on at Steve’s profile, who is completely zoned out, bringing the joint to his lips mechanically. There are goosebumps on Steve’s shoulders, his cheeks bright red, the area under his nostrils a little shiny. He’ll get sick out here.

“Steve?” Eddie softly calls. Though, it startles Steve anyway. Hazel eyes meet his: bloodshot, glistening, his pupils expanded to their full extent from how dark it is. There’s dark circles under his eyes, heavy eye bags. His skin is pasty underneath the flush. Already looks sick. “What’re you doin’ out here, sweetheart? It’s warmer inside.”

A sniff. Shrugged shoulders. Steve looks back out towards the pool, but his eyes aren’t bouncing over the water—from where Eddie follows them, they appear to be mapping out the horizon line, a blue expanse coated with fog. “My parents called”—he takes a deep pull from the joint and the cigarette paper crackles into use, breathing it into his lungs, puffing it lightly from his nostrils—“they aren’t coming,” Steve croaks, the rest of that smoke billowing from between his chapped lips.

“They called at midnight?”

Steve gives a heavy nod. Another drag. Billowing smoke. “Motherfuckers are in London right now, livin’ it large with all their stupid business friends. Mom’s tryin’ to keep Dad from chasing tail.” He blinks slowly and lets out a longwinded sigh. “It’s whatever. Tried to keep in touch with my family, made them a bunch of nice food, and this is what I get. Fuckin’ whatever.” Steve’s smiling by the end of that sentence, this humorless, lifeless thing. He goes back to the joint again on autopilot, lips wrapping around the end, taking in another big hit, letting it settle, and blowing it out with his next sigh.

Eddie looks around Steve, the crumbles of burnt joint on the lounger, what looks like a near empty glass bottle resting near one of the legs, another smoked roll but it’s just the filter at this point. He purses his lips and furrows his eyebrows. Looks at that bottle again—Smirnoff. He takes a deep breath, oh boy. “Don’t you want to go inside, sweetheart? We can talk about all this in bed, y’know. It’s warmer,” he tries again.

“Nah,” Steve drawls. “I’m warm already”—another fucking hit—“’t’s fine.”

“How much have you had to smoke, Steve?”

He shrugs again. Nonchalant like none of this is worrisome. Whatever that phone call was must’ve shaken him up pretty bad. Especially for him to come out here and party like it’s 1983? Yeah, must’ve been pretty fucked.

A cloud of smoke. “Dunno,” Steve says, “put some money in your…your lunchbox. Gutted some of my cigs. Bada-bing, bada-boom, right?” He puts the roach out on the arm of his chair, leaving a shallow crater in its wake. Steve points loosely towards the leg of his chair. “Hand me the…the uh…the drink?”

“No, Steve,” Eddie responds firmly, “I’m not gonna give that to you. We should go back to bed. Talk about that phone call in the morning.”

Steve scoffs and hefts himself up enough to come off the back of the chair, just barely reaching over into Eddie’s space. His eyes are glossier than they were before, heavy lids, Eddie can smell the alcohol on his breath when he speaks. “What’s there to talk about? They don’ fuckin’ love me. ‘M not enough for them to stay and now they’re startin’ over without me.” He collapses back. A wet breath from between his lips. “It’s whatever,” Steve spits. Swallows and sniffles and—

The first tear rolls down his right cheek.

“Steve,” Eddie breathes.

“Nothin’ to talk ‘bout.” He wipes aggressively at his cheeks with the hilt of his palms. Mutters, so quiet Eddie almost doesn’t hear him, “Don’ fuckin’ love me.”

Eddie’s silent for a few minutes. Sour in his stomach from Steve’s soft sniffles, the tears he won’t admit are there. He looks out at the forest, the dark expanse of sky. Lets out a calm, solid breath. “Are you hungry?” Eddie asks quietly.

“Sorta.”

“You want some of that pumpkin pie I made?” Steve nods to that. “Okay,” Eddie whispers. “M’gonna get you some water, too, alright? Enough of the weed and alcohol for tonight.”

“But”—

“No, Stevie, baby,” he shoots down as gently as he can. “It’s not gonna help.”

Before Steve can protest again, Eddie swipes up the bottle of vodka and retreats back into the kitchen. He pulls the tin of pumpkin pie from the fridge, grabs a fork, a bottle of water, and heads back outside. Along the way, though, he snatches a hoodie of Steve’s and some socks for the both of them.

The water and pie are set in Steve’s lap, fork laying gently across its top. He scrunches up the hoodie and pulls it over Steve’s head for him, guiding his arms through, letting it fall loosely over his stomach. And he treats the socks with the same reverence, a pair for each of them. Finally, he digs a bite from the center of the pie tin—a hideous scrape of fork prongs in the center of what he made—and brings it to Steve’s lips, who takes the scoop gingerly.

Steve hums with his eyes closed. “You’re a good baker,” he mumbles with a full mouth, “best…best boyfriend in the world.”

He snorts. “Mmm…that’s funny, I was gonna say that you’re the best boyfriend in the world. My favorite person, too.”

“Really?” Steve looks to him with his eyes as wide as they’ll possibly go, pupils still dilated, still glossy, but surprised. “Am I really?”

Eddie combs his fingers through the front of Steve’s hair, swooping it back off his forehead. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “sweetheart, you are more than best to me. You’re everything, Steve.” He offers another bite to Steve, watches as it disappears behind his lips.

There’s a small, pleased smile on Steve’s face. The corner of his eyes crinkled lightly, sparkling. He looks down at the pie tin, a crease worming between his eyebrows. Gently concerned, “Are you eatin’, too? ’T’s your food.”

“Two for you, one for me. I’m not that hungry.”

Steve hums. Still watching Eddie, as he finally takes a bite for himself. And then watching with more intent as he gets another bit of pie. There’s a smudge of pie on the corner of his mouth. Eddie wipes it away reverently with the tip of his thumb. He receives a kiss to it for his efforts, which he chuckles at.

“I love you,” Eddie breathes—easy as pie. “Love you so much, it’s almost ridiculous.”

There are tears in Steve’s eyes again. When he’s inebriated, his emotions are practically free flowing. They always are. It’s a shame he only allows himself to be this vulnerable when he’s like this, but it’s all the same real. Wetly, “Love you, too. You know that? Don’…don’t forget that. That I…I love you, Eds. So much. Love you so much.” His next breath comes out as a little, weak sob. A hiccup, this gentle burble.

He pets his hand through Steve’s hair again, gently swiping it down the side of his head, and cupping his cheek. His face is warm and his eyes are shiny and he’s still so beautiful—so wonderfully Steve—even when he’s like this. “Shh,” Eddie whispers, “I know, baby. I know. And I’ll remember, promise. Because I’m gonna love you for forever, Stevie. Just you and me.”

Another soft cry—delicate. “Kiss?” Steve asks quietly, “can we kiss?”

Instead of answering verbally, Eddie deposits the fork into the well of missing pumpkin pie. He cups Steve’s face with both his hands and gently invites himself in. Steve isn’t very coordinated, his lips too pursed, and his whole face scrunching in Eddie’s palms, but he makes do. It’s a saccharine kiss all the same—no tongue, just their lips, more smear than anything. But when Eddie pulls back a few inches, Steve is still positively dazed. As if it’s the first time they ever kissed, in which Steve looked the exact same: in love, entirely surprised his tactic worked, and still completely pleased with the results.

“I love you,” Eddie murmurs against Steve’s lips, mingling in the same breath, “no matter what, I’m gonna keep loving you.”

Steve rests in Eddie’s palms, going lax into his left hand. His face is squished, he’s flushed and warm. There’s a goofy, lopsided, syrupy smile on his face. “You…you taste like pumpkin, Eds.”

“Yeah?” he laughs out through a breath. “You do, too. You’re my slice of pumpkin pie, Stevie”—he pets his thumbs over Steve’s temples, down at the corners of his eyes—“slice of heaven right here in my hands.”

“Mm,” Steve hums. He moves forward in his chair, coming up off the backing again. This time, though, he wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist and squeezes. Snuggling in as close as he possibly can with Eddie still holding onto his face. There aren’t anymore tears, on his cheeks or waiting in his eyes—the best thing Eddie could’ve hoped for. With the way he moved, Steve’s cheeks are pushed flush to his eyes. His lips are pouty. Eddie can't help it, he plops a kiss to Steve's forehead, right between his eyebrows. Steve's voice is distorted and mumbling when he speaks, “You make me happy, Eds. Make me so, so happy. Love you. Don’ forget, m’kay? Always…always love you.”

For a few minutes more, they’ll be sappy like this. Slow and soft in each other’s space, sharing bites of pie off the same fork, exchanging the same words. They’ll hold close, forgetting about that stupid phone call. And eventually, they’ll head back to bed. Fluttering against each other under the blanket, Steve nestled against Eddie’s chest, drooling onto the same pillow.

In the morning, Steve will wake up, hungover. But Eddie will be right there, a glass of water and some painkillers in his hands. The same words again, “I love you.”

🎃—————🥧

[leupagus]

NGL

I'm equal parts annoyed and amused by the fact that most of the people vocally disliking Kaos do so by arguing that the creator of the show isn't a Real Fan of Greek mythology. Unlike the poster, who pointedly (some might say ostentatiously) pulls out some obscure lore to prove their own bona fides.

Yes, my babies, you win at being the one true Greek Myth Understander, now please run along and stop clogging up the tag.

[bookwormbynight]

Do you think either L or Light being a woman would change the story in anyway?

It definitely would. 100%.

Let's see... Taking away the context of the people writing the story, (Ohba and Obata very obviously fucking HATED women and did not try to hide it 😭) and attacking this only from an in-world perspective...

Let's start with L. What I've always taken is that he doesn't have a particular attachment to the idea of gender, gender roles, gender expression, etc - he doesn't pay any particular attention to his appearance and I'm fairly certain his neutral clothing is the way it is simply because he finds that the easiest and most comfortable. However, I think he's perfectly comfortable with being perceived as a man because he is cisgender, just kind of detached from it. (I would take an argument from others about apathetic nonbinary L tho.) This would probably translate if he'd been born female. I don't think, at her core, she would act any different at all, but she would likely be more aware of her sex thanks to the fact that everyone else would pay more attention to it. The fact that L was male automatically removed barriers that female L would have to face. It would probably take longer to get Watari to listen to her than it did in canon, she would probably allow people to assume she was the wrong gender and not correct them for ease's sake when she contacted people as L through the voice filter, and when she met the Task Force face-to-face, she might spend a hot second fielding weird awkward bullshit, because the Task Force knew and trusted her before, and this doesn't really change who she is, but it would definitely shift their perception at least a little and that dissonance likely wouldn't be handled tactfully. If she acts the exact same as canon L, though, which I imagine she would, whatever 'fears' would be generally dissuaded fairly quickly and she would have their respect due to the relationship they had already built, just like what happened when they saw canon L's appearance, although the Task Force would likely end up assuming she's a lesbian even though she isn't. (This would also probably mean that she's equally as subject to accusations of perversion as canon L.)

Light would be. SO FUCKING AWARE OF HER GENDER. Canon Light is 100% a very cisgender gay man with a good heap of lightly gay-flavored perfectly in-line gender expression, publicly adhering to gender roles as best he perceives them, and a disdain for the opposite gender. Female Light would have a double whammy of suspicion and dislike of the opposite gender (now men), and also internalized misogyny. How nice <3. She would likely go out of her way to be much more publicly sweet and demure, downplay her confidence much more than canon Light bothers to (so as to not be seen as a bitch), and have a good heaping of bitterness about her 'societal restraints' (that she's consenting to be stuck in because she'd be one of those 'play nice and eventually they'll respect you' motherfuckers). She'd probably honestly go for playing Kira even quicker than canon Light does, simply because her future prospects are not as bright as her male counterpart's and she would be very frustrated about that and this would be an outlet, and while canon Light was NOT afraid to murder a rapist on sight, female Light might end up even seeking them out when looking for 'the worst of the worst' (I doubt canon Light did), because she would now be a part of the population that lives under that fear, and those actions might skew her statistics. I think the face-to-face introduction of L into her life would fucking rock her world.

Moving to the topic of sexualities and romantic subtext, I think Light would be a gender-conforming femme closeted lesbian (I like to think she would have a particular weird thing about boobs and that would be the only thing that sticks out about her to her friends, because aversion to sex with men is not considered particularly notable in women in this patriarchal society - which fucking baffles me but whatever). If Misa's still a girl, I can't decide if she would decide that she's in love with this Light, or rationalize her devotion as more of a platonic thing, but since she would be part of the gender Light trusts and relates to more, even though she hates how vapid Misa appears (internalized misogyny + superiority complex!), their relationship might end developing to more closely resemble canon Light's relationship to Mikami. If Misa's a guy, their relationship would stay the exact same, just with the assumed gender roles swapped, and the imminent threat of Misa getting down on one knee and proposing to Light out of the blue at any time (and also maybe being more overtly sexually aggressive because society would have let him feel entitled to that). I personally think canon L is bisexual and as such female L's sexual bullshit would not have changed in the slightest.

The way Light is treated by the Task Force might start derailing the story when they begin to intertwine. Also I would not at all be surprised if male!Misa tries to babytrap Light by poking holes in the condoms and switching out her pills because he thinks she, a female with biological urges, will grow to appreciate what he did. (She will not.)

[weirdlookingsnakewithlegs]

Ik this is probably a rlly weird request but could you write about Megatron purposely attempting to get thundercracker and skywarp killed?

Probs for like better control over starscream of smth like that?

I know you probably wanted angst but I could only see this as a chance for Starscream to be the badass motherfucker that he is

To Make An Enemy

Words: 870

“What did you do?”

Megatron’s expression remained imperturbable, helm slowly cocking to the side. “Whatever are you babbling about Starscream?” He looked so high and mighty on that throne of his.

“My trine, Megatron. Novastorm’s trine just returned with them both.” The seeker’s lowered wings feign calm and he watches with great displeasure as a smile crosses the warlord’s face. “They were both close to red lining from energon loss, found under rubble near an Autobot outpost.”

“You sent your seekers to patrol an off limits zone?” Starscream wishes he could gouge Megatron’s optics out.

“You had told me that Thundercracker and Skywarp were to be sent to an off-planet station, not buried beneath rubble and left to die.” His wings twitch, the force he’s using to hold them down straining his hinges. “Were you planning to tell me their sparks flickered out on the way to the station or were you going to announce their would have been demise was your doing? Hm? Would you have painted me as lucky that it were them and not me?”

“Do not put such actions on me, Starscream.” Megatron’s voice is firm, optics narrowing down from his throne. “I don’t know why you bother with such company, neither of them are competent.”

Oh how Starscream feels his wires burn.

“Then perhaps I should take my company elsewhere.” The SIC straightens his back strut, wings shifting upward form their downward position. He takes great pride in hearing Megatron’s servo claw the edge of his throne, watching the warlord sit up. Good, that’s exactly what Starscream wants.

“And where exactly would you go?” The leader’s voice is challenging.

“There are several options.” Starscream responds, turning his helm to peer at his digits. He extends his claws, taking a moment to admire them just to piss Megatron off. “There are many seekers with the neutrals, I’m sure many of my seekers would be happy to reunite with their families.”

Megatron’s expression appears weary and Starscream finally looks back up from his servo, shifting his weight onto one pede. “The Autobots are also a decent choice.”

The leader shoots out of his throne, pedes slamming against the floor as he starts for the SIC.

He opens his intake to yell only to be stopped by the nose cone of Starscream’s missile pressing directly against his denta. The seeker snarls at him, stepping forward to purposefully shove the missile into his intake.

“One wrong move and I’ll blast that oversized helm of yours back to the All Spark.”

Megatron doesn’t move, he only glances at his surrounding soldiers and TIC. Soundwave doesn’t look away from his systems but he notes the way Ravage is staring him down.

A thought crosses his mind.

Starscream thrusts his arm forward, knocking Megatron back slightly. “Don’t you even think of trying to get out of this with that fusion cannon of yours. My missiles fire faster than your stupid little cannon charges.”

He preens at the expression Megatron gives him, a smile tugging at the corners.

He takes a step forward, pushing Megatron back despite their size difference. Starscream’s expression is neigh unreadable to the leader but the few seekers in the room seem to be watching with interest. Wings twitch and helms cock.

“A good leader doesn’t kill off his soldiers just because they’re not trained for a fight.” Starscream’s voice gathers his attention, his movements forcing Megatron to his knees. “We are at war, not fighting in the pits. You may be a gladiator but we are not warriors, you have a many civil mech here and should you wish to eradicate those who were not made to fight you would lose half your army to your own hands and the other half to rebellion.”

The seekers wings twitch, optics watching Megatron’s expression. “Not to mention you have made an attempt on my trine’s sparks, therefore an attempt on my own. Give me one good reason not to-“

“Starscream: would gain nothing from killing Lord Megatron.” Soundwave’s voice sounds from the side, gathering the Winglord’s attention.

“Wrong, I would gain much satisfaction from snuffing his pathetic spark.”

The response is met with silence as Starscream’s optics meet Soundwave’s visor. There’s a moment where Megatron actually believes Soundwave would allow Starscream to continue.

And then the seeker exvents, turning his attention back to their leader. His optics narrow before his other servo moves forward, sharp claws twitching over his chassis. It’s the only warning he gets before his sensors flag pain.

The seekers sharp talon drags along his chassis, purposely digging into the metal. The intent to leave a mark hangs just as open as the fresh wound.

“There, nothing compared to what you let my trine go through but at least if you misbehave again I know where to aim.” Starscream’s voice coos, pulling his missile from Megatron’s intake. “Now enough gawking! Don’t you all have patrols to get to?”

The surrounding mechs, seekers included, scatter and Starscream gives Megatron one last leer before he too leaves the room, thrusters purposefully clicking against the floor.

“Suggestion: do not make Starscream an enemy.”

Megatron doesn’t respond to Soundwave, lifting himself off his knees as he eyes the exit of the room.

He carefully rubs the newly carved mark that sits above his spark chamber.

[rigginsstreet]

i beg you don't embarrass me, motherfucker

the upside of dating steve harrington was that he was hot as shit.

the downside of dating steve harrington was that he was hot as shit. and also kind of a bitch.

it's billy's fault, really. he should've known better when dating a guy nicknamed king.

the one good thing about being gay in indiana, though, is that secrecy is a requirement, which billy doesn't have a problem with. the thought of publicly displaying his affections makes his skin crawl. he's got no problem doing it with the girls he pretends to be interested in because that's all it is - pretend.

but when he really means that shit... it's a harder pill to swallow.

and none of this really bodes well with steve harrington's style of dating. billy knows from his brief overlap of being in town while harrington and wheeler were still a happy item that the guy likes to be clingy, needs constant attention and validation of his affections and he wants to put it all on display for the world to see. and billy can't give that to him.

so he goes looking for it elsewhere.

the one good thing about being gay in indiana is the secrecy, but that rule doesn't extend to billy's sister or his best friend.

heather was never supportive of billy's taste in men. warned him plenty of times that steve was a dick and a leopard doesn't change its spots. but billy had waved of all concerns by saying they weren't even in a serious relationship and that heather didn't know steve like he did. heather and steve hated each other, of course she was gonna see the worst in him.

max was supportive. at first. until dustin started coming around with stories of steve and the new girls he was picking up, gloating about him like he was some golden god of women. and max would come fuming into billy's room asking if he knew about this shit, and billy would sigh and explain to her that it was just steve keeping up appearances to throw the scent off their trail.

"oh, is that why he had his tongue down tina's throat?" max accused.

and billy would have to pretend like he wasn't embarrassed. like he was in on the joke.

the thing with billy is that he doesn't let himself fall often, because when he does it's like a ten ton boulder down the side of a steep cliff. and shame isn't a color he wears well. he's gotten enough of that for a lifetime from neil, and since he's thankfully fucked off now, billy doesn't want to face it ever again.

which is maybe why he snaps at tommy's party.

he came here with steve, but now he's currently watching him dance with some chick with ten pounds of hair and double the makeup. laughing his preppy little ass off as she gyrates her dainty little lady parts all over him.

and yeah, billy can handle a bitchy attitude and some temper tantrums. and he can even wave off vague flirtations that he only hears about secondhand.

but this shit? right in front of his face? that's where he draws a line in the sand.

so he crumples the red plastic cup in his hand, not caring that beer spills out from the top, spotting the hagans' carpet, and throws it full force at the wall beside him, causing those nearby to jump, probably wondering what the hell set him off, if there's gonna be some grand billy hargrove performance.

but no. they'll just have to make due watching his ass walk out the door.

-

billy's sitting on the steps outside his house the next day, smoking a cigarette, when the beemer pulls up.

it's half expected, half not. billy braces himself for a fight anyway.

"you ditched me last night," is what steve says once he's up the sidewalk, a few feet in front of billy. he doesn't sound mad really. maybe a little offended.

billy sucks on his cigarette. blows out the smoke, his eyes never leaving steve. "got hit by a sudden wave of nausea," he says. "didn't wanna ralph in front of the party. didn't think you'd notice."

"why wouldn't i notice? we came together. i was looking all over for you."

billy shrugs, taking another pull of his smoke. "you seemed preoccupied."

it looks like steve's playing a tape in his head of the previous night, trying to pinpoint what exactly the fuck billy's talking about until it must finally click. "man, are you talking about that thing with cindy?" he laughs. like billy's fucking joshing him. "that was nothing!"

billy finishes his smoke, flicking it into the grass before standing up. "yeah, well, it something to me." he turns to walk up the steps, leaving this conversation - and steve - behind, but he's stopped with a hand on his arm.

"aw, billy, c'mon-"

"don't!" billy spins around, hands shoving steve square in the chest. watches his face go from jovial to nervous in two seconds flat.

good. the prick should be fucking nervous.

"you think you can walk around doing whatever the fuck you want like you own this town, but guess what? you don't! and you sure as shit don't own me!"

steve watches him with wide eyes, clearly out of his depth. this isn't the meeting he came here for. billy doesn't really give a shit. "billy, i-"

"i stood up for you, motherfucker," billy seethes, shoving steve again with two pointed fingers. "you know how many times heather's tried getting me to leave your ass alone? how many times max has threatened to castrate you because you can't keep it in your fucking pants?"

"i haven't slept with anyone else!"

"i don't care!" billy bellows. he's making a fucking scene. he hopes the neighbors aren't home. "i'm prime fucking real estate, baby! back in cali i had guys lining up the fucking block to get a piece of this! you think i just give this up to anybody?" steve opens his mouth, but billy cuts him off. "don't answer that! i defended you, asshole. and you make me look like a fucking idiot."

"i didn't think you cared..." steve says after a moment of stunned silence.

and that stuns billy. but he recovers quickly. "of course i fucking care. i wouldn't be doing this-" he gestures between the two of them, "-if i didn't."

"well you don't exactly express feelings very well." it's mostly teasing, billy thinks, but still that undercurrent of signature harrington bitch. "but-" he takes a step closer. "-if you're serious about this, then i am, too." another step.

"i swear to god if i have to sit through an 'i told you so' speech from maxine or heather because of some shit you pull-"

"is this your way of saying you love me?" steve grins, all cocksure and obnoxious, closing the distance until he and billy are standing toe to toe.

"don't press your luck," billy breathes in the space between them. "i'm serious, steve. i don't do thi- this is new for me, alright? and, i don't know if you've noticed, but i don't really handle rejection well."

"yeah, no shit," steve chuckles. "i'll be on my best behavior from now on. scout's honor." he holds up the three finger scout salute in mockery, but billy thinks, hopes, there's a sincerity in his eyes that he can hold him to.

billy rolls his eyes, mainly at himself for wanting to kiss the idiot right now. he almost does, too, until he remembers where they are and prying eyes could be watching.

he settles for another shove, this time to steve's shoulder, before turning back towards the house. "c'mon," he says, nodding his head towards the door. "nobody's home. you can give me a proper apology."

billy hears footsteps behind him before he even gets his whole sentence out.

[deadwooddross]

Was chatting with pals and ended up writing some summaries of my settings...I used to talk about them more, but I tend to change things a lot and got a little shy bc i'm never quite sure what will stay Consistent BUT, their main conceits have all pretty much stayed the same, so, here's some summaries

Otiose: Quiet apocalypse heralded by the four horsemen (huge worms who swim through the air). there wasn't a war or anything, but something bricked the entire satellite and gps system, and everything just kind of fell apart in the modern (future sci-fi, 'designer baby' era) world with it

Ergosphere: FAR sci-fi, humans haven't found ANY sophonts until the Idul find them, uncannily familiar fungus homunculi. The Idul are very divided and one of the cultures core drives is sacrificing materials and people to a particular hungry god. it goes. a little bit bad and a little bit fine.

The Sprawl: There's a tear between the human world and the fae world and great roots are spreading everywhere like kudzu. The elves are Unpleasant motherfuckers. Figuring out how to adapt or dying trying to burn back the incursion ensues

Oddside: Sort of a strange limbo world, I haven't decided if its multiple planets or not, but at least one takes place on a brown dwarf. Humanity is built on a living corpse (not entirely literal but not entirely Not either) and billionaires have plugged themselves into a line of ambrosia not meant for them. Unclear mix of new weird and sci-fi, but mostly follows a baby immortal and someone who kinda wants to die. its got oyster mummies. the sun might be broken, or maybe just old

Archives: Earth got hit by a rock again, humanity moved everyone it could to a partially developed two planet system. One is colonists and one is so shitty but habitable it becomes a prison planet. You can imagine how this goes

Revenants: Death is broken and most people come back in one way or another. sort of low fantasy/early industrial era on a massive continent during an ice age. more of a sandbox, but one with lots of Fighting about how to handle the un/dead most of my characters have a "Home" setting between all of these, but they can appear in any of them because I loooove AUs