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hitomisuzuya · 2 years ago

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Dom! Scaramouche x sub!fem! reader. Smut. Harsh degradation. Praise. Bondage. Fingering. Rough sex during a thunderstorm. Overstimulation. Mind break-ish? Yeah there is some big mind break here, you don't even have to squint.

a/n: It's been rainy, stormy, and windy all week since Tuesday night. Which is why rain has been turning up as some sort of constant theme lately. Please enjoy.

A thunderstorm had been rapidly building in the distance, painting the sky with various shadows of dark gray and greenish clouds. Lightning brilliantly flashed, cutting and cracking the sky.

The air inside your bedroom was already charged with electricity.

Scaramouche's Electro.

Gritting his teeth, his grip on your hair tightened as you began to squirm against him, pressing your back against his chest. Your hips were shamelessly bucking sloppily into his fingers.

"Stop squirming, you stupid, fucking slut," He growled, frustrated, giving your hair a threatening tug to remind you of your place.

Scaramouche let out a shaky breath, quivering with ecstasy at the absolute power he always had over you. He slowly scissored your gummy walls apart before withdrawing the two fingers he'd been abusing your weeping cunt with, soaking them in a fresh coat your slick before shoving them in back inside of you.

You let out a strangled cry of pleasure, making him laugh. He unceremoniously added a third finger, biting into your shoulder, groaning when he felt your walls clamp down on his fingers. "Scara...ah!...mouche! Please, let me cum already!"

He yanked his fingers out of you just to hear how sweet you sounded when all your hopes of cumming were shattered, making your body quiver upon denial.

"Listen to how pathetic you sound, kitten. The storm isn't even on top of us and already you are begging like a filthy slut to cum," Scaramouche scoffed, smirking as he groped one of your breasts, rolling and pinching your nipple to harden against the pads of his fingers.

You mewled, reaching down to massage your clit. Scaramouche's eyes flashed, making his eyes cloud darker with lust. He smacked your wrist away, licking against your neck. "Didn't I tell you to stop squirming," He sighed, bringing your fingers up to his mouth so he could lick them clean.

Scaramouche pushed you so that you tumbled down onto the bed. "If you insist on writhing about like that," He said thoughtfully, snatching up the rope he liked to use when he was feeling extra dominant."I still want you restrained while you fall apart for me."

You moaned when you felt him tightly yank on the rope to tighten around your wrists before securing it to the headboard. The rope felt rough against your wrists, making your skin burn as you strained against them. It wasn't soft like that velvety ribbons he normally used. You wrists were guaranteed to be rubbed raw, just another clear mark of possessive dominance Scaramouche loved to mark your skin with.

He squeezed your thigh to make you spread your legs. His eyes flashed with angry pleasure when you suddenly turned your head, your tongue flicking to curl warmly around his cock.

"You fucking obedient whore," He groaned, lifting your head so he could thrust into your mouth. "I would've preferred to order you to suck me off, but this works for me to," He moaned as you flattened your tongue to lick his cock before you started wetly sucking.

"Archons, here I was laying into you for sounding so shameless," He groaned, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he sighed in pure pleasure. Your throat convulsed and relaxed, coughing and spasming as he rutted deep into your throat, giving you a rare amount of control. "Fucking hell, I have to stop you or I am gonna cum down your throat before I even fuck you."

Scaramouche's thumb jammed into your jaw, forcing your mouth to open so he could pull his cock from your mouth. Thunder rumbled loudly outside. "Perfect timing!" He sounded somehow smug with delight.

He leaned down to kiss you, biting your lips harshly. He could feel he had stolen the very breath from your lungs as you gasped into his lips, giving him the opportunity to lick and prod his tongue in your mouth.

"I hope you are ready to beg for me to fuck you raw while take my time working your cunt over with my mouth," He bit, licked, kissed and sucked his way down your body before sinking his teeth into your inner thigh.

You yelped, more so in pain that melted into pleasure as he pressed this thumb to rub slow circles on your clit. His teeth left a deep imprint on your thigh, enjoying the way drool of beginning to pool at the corners of your mouth.

Your senses were starting to feel hazy from overstimulation. You suddenly had an idea. A dangerous one. Panting softly, you gulped, looking down at him before snapping, "Scaramouche, either fuck me or don't do it at all."

His hand shot out to wrap around your throat. "Fucking excuse me?!" He growled, using your neck as leverage as he crawled up your body. You coughed, smirking as he glared down at you. "Try and order me around again, slut. Go ahead do it."

Scaramouche laughed darkly, his fingers squeezing harder as he roughly thrust himself all at once inside of you. "What was I thinking, giving a shameless whore like you some kind of control. Just as well though.." He was babbling as he mindlessly thrust into you.

His fingers relaxed and brushed lovingly against your throat, letting go just in time for your orgasm to wash over you, making your scream and writhe underneath him.

"That just means I can remind you of your rightful place beneath me. Now start begging for me like the good little slut you are. I'm close," Scaramouche moaned, his cock twitching as he fucked you through your orgasm. "I'd better be able to hear you over the thunder."

His breath was warm against your ear, his teeth nipping at your ear lobe. Tears of pleasure fell from your eyes. "Please cum inside of me, please. I'll be a good girl and..and.."

Scaramouche came undone as you trailed off, your body completely submitting to him as his cum spilled inside of you. "That's my good girl. I'll bet you can't even hear yourself anymore. That's good, yes, that's good. You submit so well for me."

You moaned when you felt his teeth gnawing next to your throat. You let a few gasps of pleasure. Scaramouche nuzzled your neck, the pace of his thrusts picking up again. "I'm not done yet. I know you are to enjoy just laying here until I am spent."

Scaramouche flicked your forehead. "I'll make sure you are nice and aware when I make you cum again. Careful not to pass out on me now."

#genshin impact #genshin smut #fem!reader #scaramouche #scaramouche smut #scaramouche x you #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #suzu after dark

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choerypetal · 1 year ago

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Here me out.. shower sex with Mike Schmidt-

Shower with Mike Schmidt

Summary : Request : In which Mike might have been a little more aware that you had feelings for him all along. While the shower being the only possible room to express those feelings. Warning : SMUT SMUT SMUT

Mike's unfortunate situation required you to patiently wait for him to return from work. Adding to the difficulty, the young man was already quite stressed, and his primary desire upon arriving home was to immediately seek his bed and rest until the following day. However, today held an exception in your plans, as Mike had briefly requested your assistance in picking up Abby from school and getting her ready for bedtime. This meant that dinner was prepared, and you had a few hours of solitude in the room before his return from work.

While Mike reveled in solitude, the newfound position bestowed upon him by Mr. Raglan proved to be profoundly challenging, especially considering the disarray he was already in. What astounded you most was not his ability to engage in coherent conversations with you, which seemed increasingly improbable, but rather his tenacity in preserving his mental equilibrium. On that particular evening, when Mike returned, his countenance bore an intricate amalgamation of emotions, instigating heightened concern within you. As he settled upon the living room's couch, he emitted a sigh of such depth and shame that it resonated as one of the most profound exhalations he had ever allowed himself.

As you observed his weary demeanor, you cautiously broached the subject, inquiring. "Long day?" Your initial reluctance to speak dissipated as you extended to him a welcoming cup of coffee, a beverage his physician had explicitly discouraged but one that he had, in a rare instance, advised you to offer if he sought to enhance his concentration. In response, he replied with a simple, affirmative hum and expressed his gratitude through a soft, murmured "Thank you." His hands cradled the cup, the liquid within steaming and exuding a comforting heat, precisely to his liking. As he took a sip, a subtle and almost imperceptible smile appeared to grace his features. "Thank you once more." He acknowledged, appreciative of your thoughtful gesture.

Seated alongside him, you graciously relayed the information that Abby had already completed her evening rituals, having taken her shower and donned her pajamas before partaking in her dinner. In your considerate manner, you suggested that, Mike was more than welcome to do so as well. A habitual inclination to depart from the couch and withdraw from the room began to stir within you, only to be arrested by the unexpected touch of his hand upon your arm. Startled, you turned your gaze towards him, an inquisitive arch gracing your brow. With his eyes half-lidded, Mike implored, his voice carrying a hint of drowsiness but a plea that resonated all too familiarly. "Please stay." He murmured, his pout lending an extra layer of persuasion to his request, beseeching you with a sentiment he was known to employ.

Initially, an instinctive impulse welled up within you, compelling you to dissent in response to this unusual demand. Your responsibility had been solely to ensure Abby's safety during Mike's shift, and no more. Yet, as you contemplated Mike's peculiar request, you couldn't help but entertain the possibility that fatigue had clouded his judgment, rendering him unusually talkative and perhaps even in need of nourishment. The inclination to suggest a small meal tugged at you, but he swiftly interposed, contending that dinner could be postponed. Upon further reflection, his argument held merit. With Abby securely ensconced in her room, serenely slumbering, Mike could, for once, contemplate relaxation. And if relaxation was indeed his aim, what better company than yours to accompany him in this moment of respite?

Though you uneasily acquiesced to his offer, an act that, upon reflection, appeared ethically questionable, the realization of Mike's superior role in your professional hierarchy weighed on your mind. The potential for his occasional idiosyncratic comments, particularly in the presence of your mother, if that were ever the case, gave you pause. However, as you drew nearer, observing the profound exhaustion etched across his countenance, an overwhelming sense of compassion enveloped you. An innate curiosity regarding his profession stirred within, yet you found yourself suppressing the urge to inquire. As Mike nonchalantly set down his now empty coffee cup and extended an arm behind your back, drawing you closer, you assured him that you were quite comfortable where you sat. However, his expression shifted, and a hoarse chuckle emanated from him, remnants of the previous night still evident in his voice. "I noticed you watching me yesterday." He revealed, a twinkle of playful mischief in his eyes.

An expletive of astonishment nearly escaped your lips, and your eyes flitted nervously from side to side, attempting to process Mike's revelation. The gravity of the situation struck you when it became apparent that he remained unwavering, his unwavering gaze locked onto yours. Your thoughts danced between a presumption that he shared a similar sentiment and a nagging self-questioning, wondering if he had somehow overheard your brief conversation with Abby regarding Mike.

However, a different intuition emerged, contradicting your initial doubts, as you noticed the subtle curvature of his lips forming a wicked smirk. "You truly believed I was oblivious?" He inquired, and a wave of relief washed over you, dispelling the notion that your initial impression had been nothing more than a self-concocted illusion. This encounter served as a stark reminder that, in the future, you should exercise greater discretion, ensuring that your gaze did not inadvertently linger on Mike, especially in his presence.

Your words faltered, leaving your speech marked by a pronounced stutter that only intensified the flush of warmth spreading across your cheeks, a futile attempt to conceal your burgeoning feelings. With a tender chuckle, Mike gently encouraged you to reveal your hands, appreciating the affirmation of your growing connection with him. It was not that he needed to be vindicated, but he knew that, come tomorrow at work, Vanessa would owe him ten dollars, and you would be unequivocally his.

"Shh..." He leaned in, soothing your nervousness with a hushed reassurance, his thumb tracing a delicate path across your skin, from your thighs to your plump lips. It was a sensation he had yearned for since the moment he first laid eyes on you. In the softest and most polite of tones, he inquired. "May I?" The question rendered you momentarily motionless, your entire being seemingly frozen by his request. Yet, after a fleeting internal struggle, you accepted, a shared chuckle escaping both of you in harmonious union. "You may." Your voice trembled, granting permission with a mixture of anticipation and desire.

His lips, as you had imagined, were remarkably tender, and his prowess as a kisser left no room for doubt. The intricate dance of his tongue intertwining with yours spoke volumes about his skill. Delicately, his teeth occasionally grazed the pliant flesh of your lower lip, a subtle but potent assertion of his claim over you. In response, a soft whimper escaped your lips, conveying the surrender to his captivating ways.

His hands, imbued with an electrifying touch, traversed the sinuous contours of your back before finding their way to your arse. There, his fingers deftly sought purchase, securing a subtle yet undeniable grip on you. With a swift, practiced motion, he hoisted you into his arms, a single arm encircling your petite waist while your legs entwined themselves around his, ensuring that you remained secure in his embrace. Your laughter, a melodious counterpoint to the unfolding drama, rang out softly. You playfully protested being set down, but he obstinately defied your request, his determination unwavering. In his firm yet gentle embrace, he steered you toward the bathroom, both of you destined to embark on the shared experience of a shower.

Though the prospect of sharing a shower with Mike wasn't initially a scenario that had featured in your mental repertoire, you found yourself neither voicing dissent nor wholeheartedly objecting to the idea. With a practiced gentleness, Mike settled you onto the toilet seat, his own readiness for the shower apparent. As he prepared to disrobe, you reflexively covered your eyes, fumbling for any plausible excuse to evade the situation. In response, a light, affectionate chuckle escaped Mike's lips, his shirt already having been discarded. In a swift, surreptitious glance, he stood before you, unabashedly nude. Suggestion that you were welcome to join him if you felt comfortable hung in the air, a tempting proposition.

As the steamy allure of the imminent shower beckoned, you hesitated for a fleeting moment. A silent conversation with yourself ensued, contemplating the decision. "Should I?" You whispered, a trace of uncertainty lingering. Recognizing your own need for a rejuvenating shower, you ultimately made the choice to embrace the moment, shedding any remaining hesitation.

Without a moment's hesitation, you undressed, considering that perhaps the prospect of sharing a shower with Mike was not only a means to spend more time together but also an unconventional yet alluring way to unwind. These musings, however, passed through your mind without further significance. As you calmly entered the shower room, your presence initially went unnoticed by Mike, his back turned to you. But when he eventually turned to face you, a smile graced his countenance, lending an air of relaxation to his features.

His gaze, tender and radiant, seemed to soften as it locked onto your own. "You know," He began, his voice a hushed confession that left no room for delay. "It might not be the ideal way to profess one's love for someone. But, Y/N, I do truly love you." Mike's declaration hung in the steamy air, and without a moment's pause, he leaned in, capturing your lips with a passionate, fervent kiss. This time, the embrace bore a greater intensity, laden with temptation, and his hand embarked on a sensual journey down your body, his fingers delicately caressing your breast areas. Your response was a symphony of soft whimpers escaping from your parted lips, igniting a mutual excitement that engulfed both of you in the fiery throes of the moment.

"I yearn to hear your voice, calling out my name." Mike's voice, now husky and filled with desire, resonated in the steam-filled shower chamber. His eyes, ignited by a fervent lust and passion, darkened as he reveled in the sensation of your soft whimpers, his own desire manifesting physically. His skilled hands continued to caress your breasts with a tantalizing gentleness, evoking a sensation that left you yearning for more, your head tilting back as his lips embarked on an erotic descent along your neck, branding you with conspicuous marks.

In the midst of these intoxicating moments, Mike's voice grew heavier with each pause as he spoke, laying bare his affection for you. "And..." His breath, laden with a heady mix of passion and yearning, created an almost hypnotic rhythm as he confessed, "I wish to ensure that everyone bears witness to whom you truly belong."

In a state of submission, as deeply as he desired, your fingers eagerly sought out his touch. With each caress, Mike's arousal surged, a testament to his yearning for more than just your physical presence, desiring to claim you entirely as his own. He climaxed within you, savoring the sweet sound of your angelic voice, a melodious whimper that begged for further indulgence, all while his hand firmly grasped your hair from behind. Your body leaned back, yearning to face him, its malleable form a testament to its fervent desire, eagerly seeking more and more, as your mouth reached out for his in a passionate exchange of kisses.

"Is this what you desire, my dear?" He inquired, his tone infused with a seductive allure that sent shivers of arousal down your spine, momentarily distracting you from the sensations he had in store. In that moment, all he craved was to witness your vulnerability, and Mike proved exceptionally skilled in achieving just that.

With each rhythmic thrust, you were drawn into a whirlwind of sensation, your eyes rolling upwards as a euphoric wave overtook you. Your moans, once gentle, grew in volume, filling the space with the symphony of your passion. Mike's hand, initially a guiding presence, moved over yours in an objective manner. It was as if this were merely a test, a challenge to see how long you could hold back the flood of your desires.

When his hand finally withdrew, it was as though a dam had been breached, and you surrendered to the torrents of your pleasure. The anticipation built with each powerful thrust, and in a vulnerable admission, you confessed, "I'm about to climax..."

Even though Mike had initially wanted to witness you release your desires, he withdrew, relinquishing his claim to let it all be yours. Instead, he chose to be a teasing tormentor, skillfully pleasuring you with his mouth, his face nestled between your legs, your voice calling out his name again and again as you fervently clutched his curls with your fingers.

With graceful elegance, you descended to your knees, a pout adorning your features, a silent supplication to Mike's desires. He, in response, expressed his wish to witness your climax in a more exquisite manner, his hand enveloping his arousal and guiding it with a gentle precision. As you bestowed a tender peck upon the tip of his throbbing desire, you observed his release gushing forth, an artful display that bedecked your visage.

Amidst the sensual spectacle, his moans filled the air, your name escaping his lips like a sacred mantra, entwined with a fervent curse. A solitary finger traced a casual caress along your cheek, lightly adorned with remnants of his release. Leaning closer, he entreated you to taste the evidence of your shared ecstasy, and without hesitation, you complied.

Just before you realized it, a mischievous smile graced his countenance. "You shall be mine, my dear, and mine alone." He murmured, his tone resonating with the weight of an irrevocable commitment.

"Yes, sir," you responded, your eyes sparkling with anticipation and an exhilaration that danced like firelight. He proceeded to cleanse and pamper both of your bodies, all the while lavishing you with an unceasing cascade of tender kisses. Each kiss served as a wordless proclamation of his boundless affection, a testament to the depths of his love for you.

As the warm water enveloped you both, you couldn't help but contemplate the prospect of spending more time in the showers in the days to come. After all, it seemed like a place where love, passion, and intimacy could be shared in a most exquisite and unending manner.

#mike schmidt #imagines #micheal afton x reader #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt x you #steve raglan x reader #josh hutcherson #josh hutcherson x reader #imagines request #x reader #fnaf movie #five nights at freddys #william afton #fnaf security breach #william afton x yn #william afton x reader #william afton x you

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uzumaki-rebellion · 16 days ago

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youtube

"Paranoid, paranoid, paranoid

Things feel out of order

Look and look around, I'm not sure of

Pair of paranoia, no

I can feel it in my aura…"

Tyler the Creator—"Noid"

Life in New Orleans dragged to a crawl for Celeste. Pure drudgery.

With Terry gone, colors didn't look as bright in the world. Food lacked taste and texture. Getting out of bed in the morning took prayers and innate willpower. Her mother sent over aromatic herbal bath salts to soak her body in. Grand-mère left Tupperware sealed containers of sausage gumbo, or fried chicken wings on her stoop that Celeste found after work at night. She acted like an addict suffering from withdrawals. Micah said she might be anemic. She thought about making a doctor's appointment.

Lighting candles and praying didn't make her feel better. Bargaining with lower-tiered saints didn't either. She spent her lonely nights sitting on her stoop chain smoking and drinking more rum punches than usual. The trilling of insects and the calls of nightbirds kept her company until she became numb and crawled into a cold bed.

Dark dreams rattled the peace of her sleep and Celeste often woke up in a sweat, paranoid that she was being watched by some unknown entity in her bedroom or outside her French doors. Her dreams were of a macabre nature with visions of walking in the French Quarter at night, or traipsing along the riverfront at sunset hearing the flapping of large wings behind her back. Terry never appeared in those nightscapes, although she caught glimpses of a shadow slithering across the ground, trying to catch up with her running footsteps. His voice called out to her, and she'd wake up hoping for daylight so she wouldn't have to lie awake for hours waiting for the sun to burn away the eerie webbing of terror that entrapped her every evening.

The worst night happened when sleep paralysis took over her body, and she swore evil shape-shifting shadows crept along the ceiling trying to steal her breath. Eventually, she could wiggle her toes and fingers and slowly regain control of her limbs. On those nights, she missed Terry's enormous body spooned around her, protecting her from the bogeyman.

To his credit, Terry called and left her messages, not completely dumping their connection cold turkey. However, he always chose times when he knew she'd be at work and unable to speak. He still professed his love for her, but he wasn't coming back soon. She left him a voicemail asking for his address, willing to make the drive up to see him, even if it had to be a quick turnaround trip. He never gave it to her.

Long summer days took over. The southern heat rolled in, and so did the start of hurricane season.

An oppressive heatwave layered itself all over Louisiana, and no matter how many cool showers she took, her body sweated buckets in the sauna-like atmosphere. The weather didn't stop her from walking or riding her bike around her neighborhood. She forced herself to stay active, visiting her grandparents more often, and attending random brunches Joyce pulled together.

Nothing filled the void of Terry, though. Eventually, his calls and text messages thinned down to an occasional heart emoji.

On a rare two days off, back-to-back, Celeste slept in and ate leftover pizza. She pulled her locs back into a high pigtail and prepared for a long meditative walk to the French Market to meet up with Joyce and some new people she didn't know. No more moping about Terry. Life had to go on and there were other fish in the Mississippi River. Blah, blah, blah.

Wiping her face with a cool washcloth, she painted on shimmery orange lipstick and added a few gold hair decorations to her locs. She broke out the lime-green summer dress and clear jelly sandals that always made her feel pretty and summery.

Locking her cottage door and the iron security door, she waved to a neighbor across the street and headed north, her feet automatically walking her toward the B&B Terry stayed at. Walking past the property, she looked at the playful statues on the roofs and stopped.

The gargoyle statue was no longer curled behind the big dragon figure. Celeste paced back and forth, craning her neck to see if the glare of sunlight prevented her from seeing it. No, it was definitely gone. She pulled out her smartphone and swiped the screen until she came to her photo gallery. When she looked at the image on her phone, it reminded her of how unsightly the statue had been compared to all the other goofy figures displayed on the roof. Maybe the owners came to their senses and realized the thing didn't match the whimsical vibe they tried to cultivate.

She carried on her merry little way and entered the Quarter, wishing she'd thought to bring an umbrella for the direct sunlight burning her skin. Passing by one of the many historic hotels, she glanced up to see a sight on a wall that knocked her breath short.

A stone-gray gargoyle fixture clung to the side of a sweltering red brick wall holding out the head of a gorgon…Medusa. The face of the creature looked exactly like the one on the B&B . Celeste walked past that part of the Quarter too many times and knew for a fact no gargoyle statue had ever been there before. She snapped a picture of it and hurried along to her brunch meet up.

She forgot about the gargoyle until two hours later when her entourage of seven window-shopped, and she glimpsed a different, more ferocious-looking gargoyle statue peering down from the roof of a boutique shoe store. Its six-foot wide flint-gray wings cast a shadow across the sidewalk. The outstretched clawed hand looked ready to snatch pedestrians off the street. Celeste shivered and nausea overtook her stomach. Acid churned in the back of her throat and she almost vomited her lunch special onto her sandals.

"Duchess, what's wrong?" Joyce asked.

She pointed at the statue.

"That was never there before."

Joyce stared at it. Celeste pulled out her phone and showed her the other gargoyle.

"This one I found on the side of a hotel. Another just like it was a few blocks from my house. It seems weird to me. I feel like I've been seeing a lot of weird shit lately."

Celeste rubbed her stomach and burped. A sour taste coated her tongue.

"I don't feel so good."

"Do you need to sit down?"

"Yeah."

The group pitched themselves up at a dueling pianos bar to get Celeste off her feet. Everyone ordered frozen mango margarita drinks except for her. She went to the public restroom and hung her head over the toilet. The sickness passed, and she used the sink to rinse away the sweat on her face.

Feeling better, she returned to her group and settled in for chit-chat and getting to know a man that Joyce brought for her to meet. The sun went down and the heat dropped by two measly degrees. She snacked on creamy artichoke dip and pita chips, listening to all the lively conversations around her until she noticed a man staring at her from the main bar. His dark skin gleamed with good genetics, and his dashing eyes zoned in on her quickly. She thought he was flirting, but his direct gaze came off predatory.

Glancing around, she pretended to take an interest in the active street life as the Quarter came alive for another night of debauchery. On the corner, a striking Black woman with a bald head and gothic make-up watched her. Her black painted lips peeled back into a slick smile and Celeste's intuition kicked in, warning her that something wasn't right about the woman. Her entire focus was on Celeste, just like the man at the…

Shit!

Celeste blinked, and the man at the bar moved toward her with a disjointed stroll. His movement reminded her of glitches in video games she played as a teen, when the operating system hadn't quite worked out the kinks. Unnatural. From the corner of her eye, she caught the slow track of a dark-brown beauty who smiled in a way that chilled Celeste in her gut. It was the smile of something trying its best to look…human. The parts of Celeste's skin that Terry once bit flared with a sharp stabbing of pain, the bruised nerve-endings waking up all the way. Her body wasn't right all over.

"I have to go, it's late," Celeste yelped.

She leapt to her feet and hugged Joyce.

"Wait, we can give you a ride to your place after we finish the rest of these appetizers," Joyce said.

"No…it's okay. I have to go to work in the morning."

"I thought you had the day off from both jobs."

Celeste shook her head and threw a ten-dollar bill on the table to help with tips. She brushed past the disappointed blind date and tried to hide herself within the crush of bodies milling around the party atmosphere. Her heart almost stopped when the strange man and woman from the bar followed her.

She ran like she was doing the fifty-yard dash in tenth grade, her legs stretching out to move her ass far.

Home.

She needed to get home, lock her doors, and hide.

Her emotions caught in her throat. Something was wrong with the world she lived in. Ever since Terry came into her life, she'd overlooked strange occurrences because she was caught up in the exhilaration of new romance and new dick. She'd ignored all the weirdness, because she didn't want to connect it to Terry. Now she even wondered about the missing white guys, Carl and Jacob. Terry did physically assault them and afterward, they went missing. The coincidence of them all interacting together nagged at her subconscious.

"What the fuck is going on?" she screeched when two twin gargoyle statues overlooked the roof of a picturesque townhouse filled with three-stories of revelers drinking and shouting down at passersby. Gargoyles were not a thing in New Orleans. It wasn't even Halloween season yet.

Celeste glanced over her shoulder to track any other weirdos following her. It looked like she lost them in the packed narrow streets. She double-backed and headed up to Rampart to bypass the Quarter completely. Flagging a taxi, she jumped in and gave directions to her house. She ducked down in the backseat and pretended to check her phone.

"Night, Miss," the older Haitian driver said.

"Mèsi," she said.

"Ou ayisyen?"

"Non, Black Creole from here," she said.

"Mwen wè…but we are kouzen, oui?"

"Oui," Celeste said.

"Are you okay?"

He looked at her closely from the rearview mirror.

"Um…I'm fine. Goodnight."

She paid in cash from some money Terry left behind and darted to her front door. Jamming the key in both door locks, she twisted them open and ran inside. She turned off the living room track lights that were on a timer and fled to her bedroom.

Sweating and panting from the exertion, Celeste sat on her bed in the dark and waited for her heart to stop pounding. After an hour of sitting, she went to the restroom, and showered for bed. Her smartphone lit up with a text from Allen, the guy Joyce fixed her up with. He left his number and told her to call him whenever she wanted to hang out.

She checked the inside lock and security bolt on her front door and back. The sour taste of liquid rose in her throat and she rushed to the sink in the kitchen and vomited up pita chips and the artichoke dip that looked like beige slurry. She rinsed her mouth and wiped her lips just as a loud pounding on the front door started.

The hell?

She peeked around the corner of her kitchen. Dark figures moved outside the colored, frosted glass panels of the top half of the front door, even though her porch light was off. The corner streetlight flickered on.

Her stomach tightened, and she held her breath, afraid that whoever was outside could hear her breathing. She stood completely still and waited. The pounding started again.

"Hello?" a female voice said. "I'm a cousin of Terry's. He wanted me to bring you something."

The lie rang hollow, but Celeste's heart softened at the sound of her lover's name. She pushed her back against a living room wall hidden by a bookcase, determined to ignore the person until they went away.

"Celeste? My name is Dominique. I'm here on vacation and Terry asked me to drop off a gift. I'm saving him thirty dollars by bringing it myself instead of him mailing it."

Dominique's voice sounded sweet and very country.

"He's coming down to see you in a few days and he wanted to give you this. I think it's a fancy dress. He said you looked real pretty at Durand's the last time you were in a dress."

Celeste lingered near the bookcase, but she stepped further into the living room. Only Terry and her friends knew about Durand's.

"You know what? I'll just leave it on the porch. Sorry I came here so late. I dropped by earlier, but you weren't home, and I didn't want anyone to steal it if I left it behind."

Celeste crept another few inches toward the front door. She lifted her cell phone out of her purse and kept the police number on her screen. The cell phone still listed it under Freddie's name as "Freddie/Work". Dominique banged on the security door again.

"Just leave it on the porch, please," Celeste called out, annoyed by the intrusion, her finger hovering above the police contact.

"No problem," Dominique said.

She heard movement and footsteps walking away. Waiting for an hour quietly, she finally cracked open the front door and kept the security door locked.

No package.

She looked down at the bottom step and still didn't see any box or bundle. Glancing at Freddie's police number, she debated about calling him.

"Hello, Celeste."

She dropped her phone on the floor, cracking the screen. The strange man from the piano bar stood at the top of her stoop, his dark, foreboding eyes mesmerizing her to the point of her falling into a dazed stupor. Behind him, one step down, was the Black goth and the dark brown beauty with the uncanny valley smile. Two other Black women in dark clothing waited on the sidewalk, watching her with sinister eyes.

The man smiled, revealing platinum grills. The dark brown of his eyes faded into silver orbs that enchanted her with their strange ethereal glow.

"We don't mean to frighten you," he hissed, his nostrils flaring and sniffing at her from behind the iron security door.

The women also inhaled deeply and licked their lips, staring at her throat.

"What the fuck do you want?" she said.

"This bitch talkin' spicy, Deacon," the Goth said.

The man tutted at Celeste, shaking his head.

"No, no, no…that's not how you speak to The Deacon, my sweet sustenance. We're here to ask you about Terry."

"What about him?"

"Where is he?"

"I don't know."

The man pounded the frame of the iron door. Celeste jumped and stepped back.

"Don't fucking lie to me, Duchess!" he shouted.

He turned his head away as if to gain control of his emotions. His lips curled into a deceptive smile.

"How do you know me? Who sent you here?" she asked.

"Let us in, Celeste," the Goth said.

"Yesss…invite us inside and we can…talk. Open the door," The Deacon said.

His silver, unblinking eyes held her in place, and the colors around his towering frame drained away. When he spoke again, his voice echoed inside her head, reminding her of the way Terry invaded her thoughts…read her mind. The canine teeth of the platinum grills elongated, becoming wolfish and frightening. Fangs.

"Let us come inside…"

The four menacing women dropped the façade of humanness, their fangs exposed and dripping with saliva. Celeste's security door had wide enough gaps to reach an arm inside, but The Deacon didn't grab her through the openings.

It occurred to her that the door was a barrier they couldn't cross without her permission. As long as she didn't verbally consent to letting them in, she was safe on the inside. But if she stepped out...they would feast.

"I smell him all over you…inside of you…open this door so we can speak of my brother without eyes upon us."

Celeste raised her left hand and flicked on her porch light. The bulb didn't emit UV rays, but it improved her visibility and momentarily distracted them... long enough for a shadow to stretch across her doorway.

Celeste gasped and touched her cheek. It felt like Terry's hand had stroked her skin with the warmth from his palm.

"Fucking bastard!" The Deacon shrieked.

He glanced back at the others.

"His sentinel is here...watching over her," The Deacon said.

He slammed both of his palms on the two middle bars of the security door.

"He will come back here for you, and when he does, we'll be waiting. Tell him he can't hide from us forever."

The Goth woman sniffed the air and bared her fangs at The Deacon.

"The Old Ones are near. We have to go!" the Goth yelled.

The Deacon glared at Celeste and her eyes watered. She blinked once and the strangers at her door vanished like they were never there. Her body swayed and the sound of loud flapping wings above her cottage rang in her ears. Something landed with a thud on top of her roof and walked across it with heavy footsteps. She slammed the front door shut and locked it again, cocking her ear toward the ceiling, listening for whatever new monstrosity awaited her.

Luckily, it didn't stay long. She stood staring at her ceiling with bated breath and a thundering heart rate. The hairs on the back of her neck tingled with familiar urgency. She turned around and looked at her French doors.

Terry's shadow darkened the curtains.

She walked with slow, trance-like steps toward the French doors and stared at the outline of his body behind the thin drapes.

"Are you there?" she asked.

Her voice sounded so weak and helpless.

The shadow didn't answer, and Terry's voice didn't go into her mind. That shit had been real. The first time it happened at the dive bar, she thought she had been drunk, horny, and imagining him talking inside her head. The dawning realization of what he truly was terrified her. Behind those drapes was proof of an abomination to humankind.

And she let it into her home.

Slept with it.

Let it feed from her, thinking it was some fetish kink. Just some deep hickeys and love bites that got his rocks off.

Fucking hell.

She whimpered and held her hands in a prayer position against her lips.

"Are you here with me… Terry?"

She reached for the doorknobs and unlocked them, flinging both doors wide open.

A sleek black cat sprinted across her small courtyard and leapt onto the neighbor's fence, blending into the darkness and out of sight.

Chapter 10 HERE.

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#terry richmond #rebel ridge #terry richmond fanfiction #rebel ridge fanfiction #Vampire!Terry Richmond #Terry Richmond AU fanfiction #Halloween 2024 #Black Vampires #Black Supernatural #Uzumaki Rebellion #aaron pierre

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shiyorin · 6 months ago

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Omake 1

Just some ideas me and @roroco316 have. And please look at this art, so beautiful, so horny, so Aiwbfskakwoodjdd.

Read full on poipiku

#Malewife Kharn

#Kharn x F!Reader. Modern au

#Aftercare

By the time your senses fully rebooted, the first sensation to filter through your consciousness was the blissful heat of steaming bathwater enveloping your limp form.

Cracking one eye open revealed the hazy, moisture-beaded walls of washroom enclosure surrounding them, along with the solidifying recollection that you and him both staggered in here in an unceremonious heap immediately following the feverish.

Sluggishly reassessing your positioning, you next became aware of the muscular contours of Kharn's torso pressed snugly against the back of your head and shoulders. His thickly-corded arms encircled your midsection from behind in a secure brace as the rest of his hulking physique provided a sturdy backrest from below the bathwater's surface.

To further accentuate intimate entanglement, Kharn's knees were splayed wide in an open on either side of your slender hips, allowing you to slump fully into the protective cradle of his lap. You luxuriated there for an indeterminate spell, simply basking shared warmth and skin-on-skin contact while the residual tingles of euphoria ebbed from your battered form.

At some point though, one of his calloused palms sluiced up from where it had been idly stroking the sumptuous swell of your breast. Those broad fingertips trailed down your waist, dipping below the muddied waters to insistently probe and spread the swollen petals of your womanhood.

You inhaled sharply at the uninvited stimulation, cheek instinctually tipping back to rest against Kharn's collarbone as his fingers plumbed the saturated depths of your pussy. You could already sense the bloated reservoir of their recently spent seed slowly draining out and dissipating in tendrilled streams amid the bathwater churned by your wiggling hips.

But rather than politely withdrawing once his intended cleaning objective was complete, those invading digits only seemed further emboldened in your sluicing tunnel. Kharn's forefinger effortlessly hooked inside your sensitive channel to continue probing and scouring, his palm grinding purposefully against the swollen nub of your clit.

"Nnhh...K-Kharn..." Your low moan quickly blossomed into a tremulous whine as your hips unconsciously squirmed against his insistent touch, legs splaying wide to better accommodate the intrusion.

Between the hot caress of the bathwater and Kharn's massage of your over-sensitized nethers, it didn't take much more exertion before another molten coil of tension began winding in the pit of your stomach.

You bit down on your lower lip in an ineffectual bid to muffle the wanton sounds now spilling past, body jerking and writhing against the rigid bulwark of Kharn's torso. The obscenely lewd squelches and sluices of their coupling added an even more lascivious percussion to the steamy bathroom enclosure as his calloused digits pummeled relentlessly at your puffy lower lips.

When your thunderous orgasm finally crested that evening, you were essentially delirious with overstimulation, back arched in a punishing bow away from Kharn's chiseled abdomen as your internal walls fluttered and convulsed. A strained mewl escaped your parted lips as the white-hot rapture detonated through every nerve ending, scattering any coherent thoughts like sparks on an open wind.

At some point during your insensate delirium, you became vaguely aware of something warm and unyielding catching between your teeth. Glancing down confirmed you'd unconsciously sunk your teeth into the dense, scarred musculature of Kharn's impressive arm, but the man himself didn't seem bothered at all by the involuntary gnawing.

Those eyes simply bored into you with obvious relish as you slowly regained lucidity, lips quirking in that familiar cocksure smirk.

"Someone sure has one hell of an appetite this evening..." He rumbled in obvious amusement once their gazes locked again. "Even after all that, you still seem to be panting for more like a starving pup, dear."

You managed to summon just enough energy to rasp out a few breathless words.

"You... mmmnh... idiot. Neither of us have even had dinner yet..."

There was a momentary pause before Kharn's gravelly chuckle reverberated through his entire frame, jostling you loose against those cabled sinews.

"Hmph. True enough..." One of his hands scooped up to palm the underside of your jaw, tilting your face towards his with blatant possession. "So... does that mean you're still hungry for a little late-night snack, dear?"

You could only manage the faintest roll of your eyes before Kharn's mouth descended over your again in ravenous fervor, swallowing any further cheeky retorts you might have marshaled...

#shiyorin's writer #reader insert #warhammer 40k x reader #nsfw.#modern au

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brotherblaze · 2 years ago

Text

double black —wednesday addams

▹ wednesday addams/gn!gorgon!reader

▹ synopsis: Wednesday’s hands are cold. They’re a pleasant balm for aching wounds and sore limbs when she follows you to the back of a grocery store to dab the blood from your nose.

▹ content warnings: mentions of violence

▹ word count: ~1,5k

▹ part 2

“Do you think your habit of flirting with girls who have partners could be because you’re afraid of rejection from the person you have feelings for? So you supplement the pain you think you’re going to feel from Wednesday’s rejection with guaranteed rejection by targeting people you know are in a relationship.”

“Isn’t that a legitimate thing called ‘rejection therapy’?” You lean back in the beige armchair. It’s comfortable. You make a note to ask where she bought it from—once you graduate from therapy. Dr. Kinbott frowns at the question you shoot back at her. She laces her hands together in her lap.

“How are things with Wednesday?”

“Oh boy.” You stand from the beige armchair, smoothing out the wrinkles in your jeans. “We’re so not doing this.”

You grab the jacket from its place draped over the back of the beige armchair and shrug it on. The collar of your hoodie strains from the new weight of the jacket and you attempt to adjust it to give yourself some room to breathe. The leather strains and whines.

Dr. Kinbott calls out your name when you turn to leave. When you turn around, fingers curled around the dark sunglasses resting on the bridge of your nose, Dr. Kinbott’s eyes are already closed. She’s standing now, her body turned towards you. You let your sunglasses slide down the bridge of your nose slightly.

The horned snakes in your hair hiss, their forked tongues flicking out of their mouths. You slowly close the space between yourself and Dr. Kinbott, placing one foot in front of the other, like a predator circling its prey. A snake extends, its tongue flicking against her cheekbone. She only steels her resolve.

“How about we continue this next Monday? After Parents’ Weekend?”

You narrow your eyes at her, a displeased hum escaping your throat. The snakes withdraw to their braided position on top of your head. One pushes your sunglasses back up the brudge if your nose with the top of its head. Its tongue flicks at your cheek.

“Yeah, whatever.”

The door slams shut behind you and for a moment you consider going back to apologize. Instead, you rush down the stairs, hands frantically rummaging through your jacket pockets. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter, the sweet taste of mint-scented herbal cigarette between your lips, gray smoke curling into the air.

You step onto the chilly street.

Wednesday is standing at the cash register in the small grocery store. She stares at the baby in the stroller in front of her, her lips turned into a frown. It’s giving her a toothless smile.

The bell above the front door jingles and draws her attention just in time. You rush into the store, leaping over the low magazine rack. The thud your heavy boots make reverberates through the store and the weight tips your balance. Your shoulder collides with the wall and a broken wail escapes your throat before you take off towards the back of the store.

The bell jingles again and a small group of boys flood in. Immediately the woman at the cash register hisses at them to leave. The security guard Wednesday had spotted upon entry emerges from the bread aisle. Suddenly, there’s an edge in the room. She doesn’t hear what is said but the gaggle of teenagers leave with loud swearing.

The cashier shakes her head, adding a few choice words of her own under her breath. When she reaches for the marshmallows on the counter, Wednesday snatches the pack.

“I forgot something.”

Wednesday makes her way down the long aisles of the store. She spots a shelf of wet wipes and grabs it.

You’re hidden at the very back of the store, sitting on an unopened crate of Coca-Cola. There’s an ache in your ribs as you attempt to level your breathing and a burn in your throat from the cold spring wind. You remove your sunglasses, staring at the cracked lens with a frown. Shit. These things are expensive. The world is bathed in a dim green glow and you swear under your breath.

Wednesday stops just before she can turn the corner of a tall shelf to face you. She peers over the items stacked onto the shelf at eye-level: you’re sitting on the other side, dark sunglasses in hand, staring at the shelf like you know she’s there. She observes the faint green glow in your eyes, the tightness in your jaw, the blood dribbling from your nose. So, she leans forward enough to put the baby wipes into your line of sight. Your shoulders drop and you lean back to rest against the exposed brick wall, eyes sliding closed.

She’s clear to approach.

Wednesday places her bag on the floor and crouches in front of you. Her fingers brush the rich red blood from your lip and she takes a moment to examine it. Then, her gaze snaps to your face. A split lip, bloody nose, left cheek marred and caked with fresh blood.

“Which one of them did this?”

You sniff at the feeling of wetness on your upper lip and wince when you inhale. The scent of metal is almost nauseating and the taste is even worse, tangy and bitter on your tongue. It only spreads when you swallow.

“Some jackass thought I was flirting with his girlfriend ‘cause I asked to borrow her phone and she smiled at me. So, he grabbed all his sad little friends to gang up on me.” You shrug your shoulders. “And they call us the savage freaks—what a fucking joke.”

Wednesday stands, ripping open the wet wipes packet. She lets the opened pack drop onto your lap and leans down slightly to run the wipe over your split lip. It’s cool against your skin, or maybe it’s Wednesday’s cold hands. Either way, you breathe a sigh of relief.

Your ribs ache.

Wednesday is hovering over you, dabbing the drying blood from your nose and lips. You reach for the open packet on your lap and re-seal it. She pauses for a moment and you can clearly imagine her scowl. You grin widely, teeth stained with blood.

“It’ll dry out.”

You bet she’s rolling her eyes as she continues dabbing the blood away. Her touch is gentle, her cold fingers tipping your chin upwards slightly. A silence lingers, the only sound so far back being the shop’s radio blaring music over your heads.

“So can I open my eyes yet? ‘Cause staring at the darkness is boring.”

“I don’t know, will you turn me into stone?” You can feel her breath hitting your lips as she speaks.

“I think you’d make the most gorgeous decoration in a mausoleum. Or next to one, if you want to spend your eternity with rainwater corroding you.”

“Isn’t that the dream?”

Wednesday’s eyes rake your face again, finding a new wound on your hairline. She takes a fresh wipe from the packet, making sure to re-seal it loudly, and moves to the cut.

The snakes in your hair curl away from the injured spot and towards her, their tongues flicking out of their mouths as they sniff Wednesday’s hand. One bumps its forehead against the side of her knuckles and she pivots from cleaning to wound to scratch the snake under its chin.

She spots a snake just hanging there—right next to your ear. Another one bumps it when it approaches her for chin scratches and Wednesday realizes the body does not have a head. It only abruptly ends. It hangs next to your ear, limp and lifeless. Your hand rises to brush it behind your ear.

Wednesday tucks away the image of a limp snake to ask about later.

Rapid footsteps, the clicking of heels. You grunt, face scrunching up. More rich red blood from your nose. Wednesday presses the wet wipe in her hand under your nose just as headmistress Weems rounds the tall shelf. Her lips are pulled into a tight smile and she thanks the man in the store’s gaudy yellow shirt before her gaze settles on you.

“In my defense, all I did was ask to borrow a girl’s phone ‘cause mine died. Literally zero flirting this time.”

Larissa Weems takes a deep breath and exhales it after a few short moments. “Let’s go.”

You huff and stand, the crate of Coca-Cola groaning under your movements. The packet of wet wipes is clutched tightly to your chest, broken sunglasses hanging between your fingers. You linger until Wednesday has grabbed her bag, now slung over her shoulder, and she takes hold of your upper arm to help guide you to the car. Her hands are cold.

(You prefer them that way.)

“Hey, Larissa—“

“It’s headmistress Weems.”

“Can I go to the movies next weekend, since I don’t talk to my parents—ergo, I can’t go to Parents’ Weekend?” You lean your head back and open your eyes. The glare from the bright overhead lights hurts.

“No.”

“C’mon, it’s Morbius! It comes out on April 1st, the jokes write themselves!”

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams x you #wednesday x reader #wednesday x you #wednesday addams #wednesday netflix #wednesday #wednesday 2022 #fanfiction #fanfic

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somedaylazysomeday · 7 months ago

Text

Good Intentions Part Twenty

The Haven gets a new donor, Silco wants a side deal.

Rating: Explicit.

Word Count: 4,900

Warnings: Ongoing references to sex as a form of payment, veiled references to organized crime, arguments, oral sex (fem!receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, and blackmail

Previous | Next | Masterlist

---

You did your best not to squint at the men on the other side of the table. Doing so would only make it look like you were suspicious of them.

You were suspicious of them, of course, but there was no need to be obvious.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” you said slowly. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but with all of the opportunities available to you, I don’t understand why you are so interested in helping to fund the Haven.”

“It’s complicated.” Jayce Talis, the most famous Piltover inventor in recent history, rubbed at the space between his heavy brows.

“I do own and operate a relief organization and facilitate certain healthcare treatments, including minimizing the effects of Shimmer withdrawal,” you pointed out mildly. “Maybe, if you explain it slowly, I can follow along.”

One corner of his mouth curved upward, emphasizing the fullness of his lips. He was famously handsome and infamously unavailable, but that was fine. Your tastes ran in other directions.

His business partner - a man who was known around the Undercity only as Viktor - crossed his arms, slouching back in his seat. You tried not to judge it as a show of poor manners, especially when he straightened his leg with a wince. It was very likely Viktor just needed to adjust positions. Of course, it was equally likely that he didn’t find you very amusing.

“Make your point, Jayce,” Viktor muttered. “We have important business to take care of at the lab.”

“Yes, the lab,” Jayce said, adding a nod in your direction. “As you may already know, HexTech is doing well. We have made several important advancements and are set to debut more over the next few years. We own the patents to everything outright, so all profits come to us. Piltover has given us a few dozen grants and investments have flooded in. We have plenty of money to pursue the further development of HexTech.”

You nodded. It all seemed simple to understand so far.

“There is one particular area where HexTech does not excel: outreach.” Viktor interrupted with an impatient look at his now-pouting business partner. “That is why we reached out to you.”

“Yes, but is there a particular reason you want to support the Haven rather than any other Undercity outreach?” you pressed. Maybe you were a little paranoid, but your recent experiences with Silco had convinced you that being more discerning was probably a smart move.

Jayce sat forward slightly. “The Haven’s track record is impressive. Your expense justification reports have all shown remarkably low operating costs, your residents have started to find work with other Undercity businesses, and there’s plenty of buzz about the dent you’ve made in the Shimmer trade in your neighborhood.”

The blood roared in your ears at that. “That’s an overstatement, of course. Drug use waxes and wanes in neighborhoods over time. It’s just coincidence that Shimmer use decreased when the Haven opened.”

Jayce furrowed his brows, but Viktor looked like you had finally said something interesting. “I assume that is the line one must repeat vehemently if one wants to avoid the attention of the chem barons.”

“Chem barons?” Jayce repeated, now frowning harder. “They’re a local legend, a convenient shadow government that the people can blame their problems on.”

“Of course,” you agreed.

Viktor looked darkly amused. “Nothing more than a legend, certainly.”

“Yeah…” Jayce said slowly, glancing between you and Viktor. “Anyway, we’ve heard about the decreased drug use and we want to support that as much as possible. You and the Haven seem like the best choice to make that happen.”

“How is your security?” Viktor asked abruptly.

“We have a small team of guards for the exterior of the building,” you said honestly. It probably wouldn’t help anything if you told them exactly who was paying for that small team of guards. “There is almost no Enforcer presence in the Lanes, so we can’t count on a patrol happening at a crucial time.”

“I can pull a few strings,” Jayce assured you, totally confident. “I have some connections with the Enforcers. Piltover wants to support new development, especially when it isn’t tied to the drug trade. And they’re not going to find anything better than an anti-Shimmer organization with a proven track record.”

You nodded in acknowledgement of his point, but looked to Viktor. “And you? Do you also think the Haven is a good match for HexTech’s goals?”

Viktor lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “I fail to see what impact your outreach could possibly have on the Undercity. The politics are snarled, the people are desperate, and there is too much money to be made from exploitation.”

That was a harsh assessment, but it was true. Jayce cleared his throat uncomfortably, but Viktor spoke again before the better-mannered of the pair could offer any reassurances. “That being said, I am… reluctantly impressed by what I have heard of your meetings with Silco. There are few willing to argue with him.”

You stiffened slightly at Viktor’s mention of Silco. Up to that point, you had both pointedly avoided using his name, as evidenced by the way Jayce was glancing between the two of you.

“I don’t understand,” Jayce admitted. “Who is Silco?”

“You will find out,” Viktor said, the statement sounding both threatening and utterly inevitable as he stood. “I must return to the lab. Jayce, I agree with whatever choice you make.”

You watched as Viktor leaned heavily on the cane and left the building. It was situated at the edge of Piltover, just across the bridge from the Undercity. Jayce had assured you multiple times that, if they were not working on time-sensitive experiments at HexTech, they would have been more than willing to meet you in the Undercity. He may have even been telling the truth.

Jayce was still half-smiling when he looked back at you. “Who is Silco?”

You got the impression that he would keep pushing until he got an answer, so you chose your words carefully. “He is a… major player in the Undercity. He wants- well, he says he’s working for the good of the people. That’s up for debate.”

“But what does he do?” Jayce pressed.

“He’s an industrialist.” You sat very straight on the edge of your chair - not quite standing, but giving the impression that you were ready to leave. “Speaking of helping the Undercity, I need to get back to the Haven. When you’ve made a decision about your outreach, please let me know.”

“Easy enough,” Jayce said, standing to offer a hand over the table. “HexTech would like to provide funding for the Haven, to be used in whatever way you think is appropriate.”

You were giddy with excitement, and it rushed through your veins like adrenaline. Somehow, you managed to keep a straight face long enough to thank Jayce and accept the check he filled out for the Haven. It was generous, which made your heart soar. You would be able to help so many people!

The good news put a spring in your step and you were still bouncing as you climbed the stairs to Silco’s office. Thankfully, no one was around so early in the day - you had serious doubts about your ability to look cranky and irritated right then, but you would have been obliged to put on a performance if there were onlookers.

“You seem cheerful,” Silco noted as you closed the door behind yourself.

“So far, so good,” you told him, walking over to his desk. “What’s the plan for today?”

He ignored your question. “Productive morning, I take it?”

“Very.”

You peered out through the window. The Last Drop was just barely tall enough for you to catch glimpses of the building projects happening over near the Haven. The mechanic’s shop was well on its way to being completed, the construction crews had broken ground on the second apartment building, and the grocers were taking over an existing building, so they were already in the process of hiring staff.

As you leaned back, you caught sight of a familiar handprint on the glass and your lower belly tightened with the reminder of how it had gotten there.

“And how much will HexTech be allotting you?”

With the casually conversational way Silco asked his question, you didn’t immediately notice that anything was wrong. Your attention was split between the handprint on the window and the ever-increasing needs of your body. At last, awareness filtered through and you froze.

‘I-” You cleared your throat, giving your best innocent expression as you turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”

Silco gave an impatient gesture. “Come, pet, we have already discussed that I know all that happens in Zaun.”

“Nothing happened in Zaun,” you said blandly.

His answering look was dry. “But a potential alliance between the Haven and HexTech undeniably concerns Zaun and her future. Do me the courtesy of assuming I know of your meeting with the two inventors behind HexTech.”

“Fine,” you agreed, largely because he gave no indication of moving on. “I met with the owners of HexTech.”

“Thank you,” Silco said, gaze drifting to the window. “And how much has young Talis decided to give the Haven?”

You paused, uncomfortable with the idea that you needed to place a boundary. You and Silco shouldn’t be close enough to need things like boundaries - the clear divisions between you should have been so obvious as to be implied. “I’m not sharing that information with you.”

“Why not?” he asked. “If I know the size of their donation, I can exceed it.”

“I don’t need any more donations at the moment,” you told him.

Silco’s brows unfurrowed. “Ah, that much? Congratulations. You may rest secure in the knowledge that the sale of your morals has fetched so high a price.”

You recoiled at the slight before you could stop yourself. A drug lord was going to lecture you about morals? That bothered you. Surely that was the cause of your discomfort. Any other reason would imply that Silco was important enough to you that his opinion mattered.

“I didn’t have to sacrifice my morals to accept their donation, unlike others the Haven has received in the past,” you told him icily.

Silco stood abruptly, his chair lurching back with the movement. You held your ground, though it took more effort than you were comfortable with. “My donations served your residents just as well as the ones from HexTech will, and at far more dire a time. Do not act as though I were not there to support you every time you have needed me.”

You gaped at that. “Because we’re in a deal! Every donation served you just as well as it did me - it increased your leverage over me and the Haven. Convenient, since you need me around for an easy source of sex.”

He scoffed, looming over you. “Do you truly believe that there are not others who throw themselves at my feet? I receive more offers of easy sex than you would believe possible.”

“Then why keep me around?” you pressed.

“Because you are the only one who offers the slightest hint of a challenge!” he snapped, breathing heavily. You had stepped into him rather than away, and he was already so close that your chest and his were nearly touching. You glared at each other from inches away before one or both of you closed the gap separating you.

His mouth was hard and unyielding against yours, disinterested in any hint of refusal. Fortunately, refusing his kiss was the last thing on your mind. The energy of securing the HexTech donation was still crackling through you, and sex was a wonderful outlet. The slight tinge of irritation accompanying it only served to increase the appeal.

You met him with lips that were already slightly parted, and your tongues were dueling in a moment. Kissing Silco wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to you, but it was still rare enough that you considered it a novel experience.

Your toes were curling at the slow luxury of his mouth on yours. Silco was rarely in a hurry, even now, when you were apparently taking a break in the middle of a fight. Your interest was only piqued further when he started removing your clothing with rough movements. When he had finished, he pushed you backward as you gasped with shock.

Fortunately, Silco had thought far enough ahead to position you close to his desk. The sensation of your bare ass on the cold surface of the desk was jarring, but you watched Silco eagerly. You were more than willing to brave the temperature difference in order to watch him undress for you.

To your surprise, Silco lowered himself, fully-dressed, into his throne-like chair. You eyed him, frowning as he took your ankles in his hands. They were placed to either side of his chair, leaving them supported by the arm rests at his sides. It went without saying that your knees were forced open by the position, leaving your core exposed to the air… and to Silco’s gaze.

That mismatched stare was fixed between your legs, studying the most private parts of you as you tried not to squirm. When he reached out to touch your cunt, you felt his fingertips like electric shocks… but he only parted your folds and continued his silent observation.

Irritation, embarrassment, and need swirled together in you until the pressure pushed words from your mouth. “Silco. What are you doing?”

“Studying my favorite acquisition,” he replied distantly. Even lost in your own distraction, you could feel the echo of your first time together, in this very situation in this very office, when Silco had said something similar. “And wondering how my pet can be so very unyielding, yet yield so delightfully in other areas.”

You frowned at him - not that Silco was looking at your face. “Whatever answers you’re looking for, you aren’t going to find them down there.”

That made him glance upward, a small smile playing around the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps it would be best if you lay back.”

You complied, though not without rolling your eyes. “If we’re having a repeat of our first session, I hope the sex is more satisfactor- Oh!”

Without any sort of warning, Silco’s mouth had closed around your clit. You half-lifted back off the surface of his desk, staring down at his face between your legs. You could only hope that your expression was less desperate than you felt, but wicked pleasure filled Silco’s gray-green eye, so you didn’t think that was accurate.

And then he set about making you forget all about expressions and irritations. Silco buried himself between your thighs, teasing you with fingers and lips and tongue and teeth. He nibbled, he stroked, he thrust… He used every hint of weakness he had gathered from you over your time together, recalling every sensation that drove you wild and subjecting you to all of them at once.

You arched up off the desk so sharply that the muscles in your back and abdomen protested. Your knees tried to close around Silco - either to keep him close or to force him away from you, you weren’t sure which - but his shoulders kept you spread open and subjected to his torment.

By the time he had pressed three fingers deep inside of you, your body was glistening with sweat. You were panting, your hips trying to both ride him and grind closer to the lips that were wrapped around your clit.

Silco always ate you like he was trying to ruin you for anyone else, but this was more intense than anything you had experienced with him before. You didn’t remember when you had sank your hands into his hair, but it didn’t matter. You were using him only as an anchor; he never moved far enough away for you to need to pull him back.

At last, he removed himself from you, pulling away almost entirely. The only parts of his body that was touching you were his shoulders, still holding you spread open for him.

“Silco?” you asked, an edge of desperation clear in your voice.

“Shh, pet,” he soothed. “I am trying to decide whether you deserve the reward of coming on my tongue.”

You whined, lifting your hips as if you could convince him to come back.

“I am less than thrilled by your association with the Piltover business,” Silco admitted slowly. Torturously slowly. “Yet I suppose you may have earned a treat for coming to meet with me anyway. Is that correct?”

You nodded.

Silco leaned slightly closer. “You would not break our deal over a single donation from another business, would you?”

You shook your head.

Silco came even closer then - still not touching you, but near enough that you could feel every exhale on your damp folds. “Does our deal still stand, pet?”

You nodded, but Silco shook his head. “I need to hear it in that lovely voice. Tell me, darling: does our deal still stand?”

“Y-yes,” you stammered, the dryness in your throat making it difficult to speak. “Yes!”

“Ahh…” he mused. “How long will it stand?”

He watched you with a gaze so sharp you understood instinctively that he would only accept a spoken answer. This one was more challenging; he hadn’t told you what he wanted you to say and thinking was difficult when your brain was soaked in hormones and arousal.

“Until- ah!” Silco had darted a long lick up your folds - not touching anything firmly enough to throw you over the edge, but still startling. And distracting. “As long as I’m in the Undercity.”

“Our deal will stand as long as you are in the Undercity,” Silco repeated. You nodded and he looked thoughtful. “I suppose I must offer sufficient incentive for you to stay, then.”

As if the shock of it removed you from the situation, you noted it dispassionately as he parted you a little more, nestled his nose against your clit, and thrust his stiffened tongue up inside of your heat.

And then the moment of observation passed. You were thrown back into your body just in time for it to go through an earth-shattering orgasm. Your body arced up off the desk again, muscles spasming so hard that you had the vague sense of Silco holding your hips against the surface so you didn’t throw yourself onto the floor.

But that was a dim knowledge, far in the background of your thoughts - the vast majority of your brain was caught in a stranglehold of pleasure. How could you be expected to lay still when every bit of you was crackling with such intense energy? You had to move. It was not possible to do anything else.

At last, Silco removed the live current that was his mouth against your core. He had to struggle against the grip you had on his hair. You weren’t really trying to keep him in place, but your muscles had locked down in the aftermath of your orgasm.

“How do you feel?” he asked conversationally, when he had freed himself from your grip, losing a few strands of hair in the process.

“Nnn umm…” Nope, those weren’t words. You tried again. “Needum mint.”

“Take your time,” Silco invited, relaxing back into his chair. He licked his lips, cleaning the shine of you from them with his tongue. Watching the process made your uncomfortably sensitive body tighten, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away. When he had licked everything he could reach, Silco retrieved a handkerchief and wiped his mouth, chin, and cheeks.

If you were capable of higher thought at the moment, you might have been embarrassed by how much of a mess you had made on Silco’s face. Fortunately, the brain fog was still too dense, and you just watched him vacantly.

Rather than rush you into another round, Silco snagged a piece of paper from beside your hip. He lifted it and started to read. From the light that filtered through it from the window behind him, you could see that there were schematics of some kind drawn on the page. They were highly detailed, but something about the writing looked young, like it had been done by someone without fully developed fine motor function.

And then Silco’s fingers wrapped around your ankle and you stopped thinking about anything else. Especially when those fingers began to play idly against your skin, tapping an unfamiliar rhythm on your anklebone.

“How much more reading do you need to do?” you gritted out at last.

Silco glanced up at you instantly, eyebrows raised. “I can stop at any time, pet. I was under the impression that you needed a moment to recover.”

“I have recovered.”

“Why did you not tell me immediately?” Silco asked.

Despite the censurious words, he lazily tucked the schematics into a desk drawer before he stood. In a moment, he had opened the front of his trousers, pushed aside the layers of fabric, and lined himself up with you.

There was something almost sweet about the fact that Silco was so hard. He had brought you pleasure without being touched in return, and yet his erection hadn’t flagged while he sat quietly reading for minutes. For all that he was a selfish, manipulative bastard, Silco was surprisingly impacted by the way he affected you.

Any hints of altruism were shoved aside as Silco plunged inside of you. Rather than hesitating or asking if you were ready, he surged powerfully forward until he was seated as deep inside you as he could be. Your hips shifted to accommodate him and your legs trembled against the arms of his chair as you struggled to surface against the pressure of him stretching your walls.

Silco’s hands were tight on you. One was wrapped around your hips, providing an anchor point as he began to thrust in and out of you. His other hand was firmly on your ass, half-lifting and half-squeezing as he rolled his hips against you.

That rolling motion made your lips part for air as you stared up at the ceiling. Silco was big enough to fill you, but something about that motion put pressure against your walls in a way that felt almost cyclical. It was like he was fucking a little circle inside of you every time he pushed in, which meant that you got intermittent pressure against your g-spot. It was magical.

You tried to lift against him, to counter-thrust and speed things up, but Silco wasn’t having it. His grip was firm enough to hold you utterly still, making sure that all you could do was experience the way he was taking you apart for a second time.

“Silco, please,” you gasped out. “Faster. Harder. Please.”

“No,” he denied simply. Silco’s hand momentarily released your hip to grab your wrist instead. He tugged it downward until your fingers were brushing the throbbing place between your legs. “If you want your pleasure, you’ll have to take it.”

You were tempted to deny him and yourself, if only to prove that he wasn’t in charge of you, but the slight graze of your fingertip over your own clit made you squirm. But if you were going to be responsible for your own orgasm, you were damn well going to make sure that Silco helped.

With some effort, you lifted your legs from where they were still resting on the armrests of Silco’s chair. It took only a moment to wrap them around his waist, and when you tightened them, the pull was strong enough to force Silco forward against you.

When he had bottomed out inside of you, Silco’s grip shifted upward, pressing against the surface of the desk on either side of your hips to support the shift in his center of balance. His eyes widened, startled as you kept him close. You used your newfound freedom to thrust your hips, moving him and out of your core as you strummed at your clit.

The resulting sensations were enough to take you sailing over the edge again. This orgasm was less abrupt than the last one, but almost more satisfying because your inner muscles had something to lock down around.

Dimly, you registered that Silco was trying to withdraw from you, but couldn’t escape the grip of your leg muscles. You only understood his reasoning when his body stiffened, face tightening and growing slack as he reached his own peak.

Silco’s orgasms tended to be subtler than yours, but even his legendary poker face failed him. His expression tightened, then went slack as his body spasmed in a series of explosive surges. He hissed out a curse that sounded like half a prayer, his lips continuing to move long after he had stopped speaking loud enough for you to hear it.

Slowly, you let the tension seep from your leg muscles. When your feet were dangling toward the floor once more, Silco eased himself out of you. The first spill of your combined mess seeped directly onto the surface of Silco’s desk, but he cleaned it up and caught the next with the same cloth he had used to wipe his face earlier.

When Silco was seated in his chair once more, you took the cloth and held it in place as you slid down from the desk. Silco smiled wryly. “I never intend to make such a mess, but you are irresistible. Especially when you’ve wrapped me in those lovely legs. If I must be trapped, I will say that I prefer to be trapped in your embrace.”

“Flatterer,” you accused gently.

“It is a lovely benefit when the truth is flattering,” he replied, giving you a look you didn’t quite understand… until he added, “Now, pet, tell me how much I should write for the amount of my next donation check.”

You turned toward him with an irritated huff. “Are you still talking about this? I don’t need an extra donation from you, especially not when your motivation is simply to outdo someone you consider a threat.”

Silco’s lip curled. “I hardly consider those two boys to be a threat.”

“Then what is your problem with them supporting the Haven?”

“I dislike the idea of Piltover gaining a foothold here in Zaun,” Silco explained after a moment of thought. “Even if their influence is only over a small outreach. It could hinder the growth of Zaun’s independence.”

You bit back the irritation that rose at the Haven being referred to as a small outreach. It was a small outreach, of course, but it was so important in your life. It hurt to be reminded that your work was considered minor to other people.

“Fine,” you said instead of telling him any of that. “What are our options? I’m not telling you how much they donated.”

“Very well,” Silco said tightly. By all appearances, he was displeased with your insistence, but something about the look in his mismatched gaze gave you the distinct impression that he was getting something he had been angling for all day. “If you will not allow me to match HexTech’s donation amount, I would be willing to overlook their involvement in the Haven…”

“And what will it cost me?”

“I want to be part of the Undercity Innovation Committee.”

It took a beat for you to remember what that was. “Jazper’s group? No. Absolutely not.”

Silco watched you in silence. His brow creased and it was like watching a far-away storm building into something catastrophic.

“I have no control over that,” you expanded. “I can’t risk everything I’ve built - I can’t risk the Haven - to argue for you being part of the meetings.”

“And I would never ask you to,” Silco assured you smoothly. “I have other resources at play. All I need from you is not to argue against me being on the committee.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “So you don’t need me to fight for you? Just don’t tell them not to let you join?”

“Yes.”

It seemed simple. Almost too simple. And yet… it had been a long day. You could use some simplicity. “Fine, I agree to those terms. If someone else brings up the possibility of letting you join the committee, I won’t argue against it.”

“Perfect.” Silco took the end of your conversation as an opportunity to refasten his clothing, so you started to get dressed as well.

By the time you had finished, Silco was holding out a slip of paper toward you. You looked from it to his face, unwilling to accept an unknown item from him. He continued to offer it anyway.

“If I understand, your objections were not to me making a donation, but to me trying to make a larger donation than HexTech,” Silco explained. “I do not know how much they donated, but here is my offer.”

“Silco…” you lamented, arms still folded across your chest.

He lifted a brow. “If you prefer, I could resume trying to discover the HexTech donation amount…”

You sighed loudly so there could be no mistaking your irritation as you snatched the check from his hand. You didn’t look at the amount, but the way Silco grinned as you shoved it into your pocket didn’t seem promising.

---

Author's Note - Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed. I'll see you next month with another update!

Quick reminder: this story does take a lot of time and effort to write, edit, and format every month. At this point, we're up to roughly a 200-page book. I appreciate the likes that you guys give me, but reblogging my work is the only way new people can find it. I would really appreciate it if you would reblog not only my fics, but any fics you enjoy!

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thanksjro · 6 months ago

Text

More Than Meets the Eye #51 — Ten Has Done So Much for All of You, and for What? You Don't Deserve Him.

So, obviously, last issue ended rather poorly for Team Rodimus and Pals. It doesn’t look like the start of this one going much better, as a mass of baddies bombard the late Necrobot’s “Fortress”. Whirl, being Whirl, wants to go out and face his certain death head-on. Everyone else is more than fine to wait for death to come to them.

Rewind, showing off the skills he’s picked up as a videographer over the last several thousand years, gets the security cameras up. I’m assuming that Censere had these installed to keep an eye out for bored space teens who might have wanted to graffiti his millions of plinths. Too bad it didn’t save him, or his property, as outside, Tarn is shooting the ground with his twin fusion cannons. He’s having to hold his arm in place with his other hand, as I’m sure the kickback of firing two lasers at once must be something fierce. He finishes and commands his troops to cease firing, everyone withdrawing.

The Lost Lost Lighters are super jazzed about this, Brainstorm stating that they must have heard about Tailgate’s Power Punch, an attack with a name so banal, it surely must kill anyone who faces it, if only so they don’t talk shit about it after the fact.

Megatron, however, knows what Tarn’s pulling, as he’s a theatre kid, and everyone knows that the really intense theatre kids follow their scripts to a T, and will murder you for trying to ad lib like some filthy fucking improv performer.

By doing this, he’s honoring Shakespeare.

Swerve has begun to bawl like a baby over how bad the situation has gotten, likely recalling all the awful shit he witnessed the last time he crossed paths with the DJD. Magnus, who still has his arm off, because Velocity is all about uplifting her fellow women, demands that they try to call for assistance, then apologizes for swearing, even though he’s absolutely at the very least said “damn” in the past. Maybe he’s confusing the total inability to curse with the IDW publication law that you’re not allowed to say “bitch” until your series has been truncated by 50%. Or maybe he only allows himself to swear in the presence of poor snack management. Anyway, it’s not like it matters— Megatron’s just informed everyone that Tarn also likes to cut the phone lines in situations like this.

All of this, because you wanted middle management for your faction.

Because Megatron never baked any sort of loophole into the DJD’s way of handling shit, because how the fuck could he have possibly known he’d one day have to denounce his entire reason for existing to satisfy the commercial whims of Hasbro, the gang is going to have to figure out some way to defend themselves or escape in the next eight hours. Rodimus orders everyone to split up and look for clues, blowing off Ten in the process.

Velocity calls Swerve, the closest thing to a doctor besides her, to come look at the Necrobot’s corpse, which appears to have turned into a pile of ash. Swerve informs her that this is what happens when someone who’s old as balls kicks it. Now, it may concern you that Velocity, who was the only doctor for a ship of over 200 until this morning, doesn’t know what a dead old man looks like. However, we must recall that age-related spark burnout hasn’t been a thing until very recently for Cybertronians, and Caminus, the colony Velocity is from, is marginally younger as a society. It probably just hasn’t happened in her circles yet.

Velocity and Swerve play around in the pile of old man dust, until she pulls a key out, with “1/001” written on it. Her search party will be focusing on finding what this key goes to, as it was surely important, given that it was on Censere’s person at the time of his death.

Over on the DJD’s ship, The Peaceful Tyranny, Deathsaurus stares at the corpses Tarn’s nailed to the wall of his room. The nails have Decepticon insignias on the heads, because of course they do. These are the same corpses Tarn had on the wall of his office in Grindcore. Tarn asks if Deathsaurus is impressed with his first editions, and when Deathsaurus is understandably bewildered by this question, Tarn explains that these are corpses that were sent home after dying in the mines of Messatine, who had Megatron’s writing etched into their organs by Terminus, so that said writing would reach the outside world. Tarn thinks it’s pretty fucking cool, but Deathsaurus is, again, bewildered by this interior design choice. In general, Deathsaurus is bewildered by a vast majority of the ways Tarn chooses to live his life.

Tarn, opening the mouth section of his mask to drink a shot’s worth of energon, likely totally unable to see as he does so, since the eye holes don’t line up anymore, says that if Deathsaurus was a true intellectual like Tarn was, he’d understand that trying to chase down a ship with quantum jump capabilities is really difficult when you no longer have a sneaky little double agent to give you exact coordinates, so grounding their targets was the best option. No word on how Tarn feels about the ship he super-nightmare-death-murdered being perfectly fine now.

Deathsaurus really just wants to know why they backed off after having their targets cornered, because he hates Tarn and his stupid little games, having been working with him for at least a couple months by this point. Tarn, however, has the audacity to be smug about how all the Autobots are probably tearing each other apart out of fear, as the sun makes its way across the sky.

Back with Velocity’s search party, Nautica’s joined the one-and-a-half doctors in the Key Quest. Velocity asks Swerve about why Ten came down with the rest of the group, and in Swerve’s defense, it’s not like anyone knew this was a murder trip until after they’d arrived. When the brain attack happened last issue, Swerve hadn’t disclosed what exactly he’d heard— now, however, he admits that he’d gotten an earful from Ten about the Ambus Test, and how just because he’s made up of the corpses of multiple religious hermits doesn’t mean he isn’t a person too, and also once that union gets going, he’s gonna sic lawyer-mode Magnus on him.

Anyway, they found the door that key went to.

Back with Rodimus in the main room, he’s collecting the notes of all the other search teams. Rung’s face has been shaded to look like he got lip fillers. Rodimus isn’t pleased, but it isn’t because of Rung’s gotten work done.

Nightbeat, however, DOES have good news to pair off with the bad. News so good he starts using metaphors, which confuses and frightens Magnus. Nightbeat has found the quantum travel device the Necrobot used to travel to the deaths he recorded, and what do you know? It’s got just enough juice to get everyone out of dodge and into the loving embrace of safety. Hooray! Time to form an orderly queue, going from most to least obnoxious paint job.

Then Team Killjoy shows up, Velocity and Nautica letting everyone know what’s behind door #1: it’s a bunch of organics in stasis.

I will say, the inverse of Transformers fans collecting robot toys mint in package is decidedly more disturbing.

Whirl isn’t horribly keen to die over a bunch of squishy nobodies. Nautica states that the organics are vulnerable and need protection. Skids, really wanting to be in that straight-passing relationship, agrees that the DJD will totally kill these guys, because they learned their technoism from SOMEONE MEGATRON. Chromedome, who has had his husband back for maybe six months at this point, really doesn’t want to stick around for the sun to set. Cyclonus asks just why the fuck there’s a bunch of dudes in the basement. Tailgate wonders if it really matters, considering the situation at hand. Magnus, needing direction in his life, makes sure that Rodimus hasn’t decided to take a nap standing up like a horse. Brainstorm, who has been oh-so-subtly trying to edge the door to the quantum tube shut, makes the point that they could do a lot of good after the fact, if they left now and then vowed to protect a slew of organics afterwards, which would eventually even out their sins, probably.

Rodimus feels pretty good about this proposal, but he loves looking like the most appealing, middle-of-the-road choice, and says that they have some time to talk this out. However, we’ve forgotten that we’re riding with Mr. Ex-Peace Through Tyranny, who does nothing in half-measures and loves to be contrarian to Rodimus at every given opportunity.

This turn of events is such a shock to Rodimus, he shouts at Ten for trying to show him something. Poor Ten.

Rodimus reminds Megatron just what exactly they’re up against and what he’s signing himself up for and for what variety of living creature, but Megatron is aware of all of these things. Looks like the talking to Skids gave him on the duplicate Lost Light finally sank through his thick skull, and he’s ready to be a big boy about this whole Autobot thing. He then informs everyone that he’s not doing this to make a point, and that anyone who wants to dip is welcome to do so, as long as they’re doing it for themselves.

Of course, it’ll be a cold day in hell before any Autobot lets Megatron out-Autobot them, and it’ll be an even colder day before Cyclonus leaves his not-boyfriend alone on Murder Planet. Oh, and the fact that organic life is just as valuable as mechanical. Totally. Everyone defaults to stay, Rodimus closing the door to the quantum tube.

Swerve then offers a real heel-clicker of an alternate escape plan: what if… we just stole the DJD’s ship, stuffed it full of the organics, and flew away before anyone noticed? Now, this is, of course, an immaculate plan, which no man could ever find fault in, but Whirl is not a man, but rather a machine, and does question where exactly they’d be getting the keys to such a ship. Cyclonus is trying to be a bit more of a supportive friend to Swerve, since the last time the guy felt left out, they all had to project their consciousnesses 400 miles out and pay NYC rent, asks if there is more to this perfect, perfect plan, crafted in one of the finest minds of any generation.

There is not.

So, we’re gonna steal a ship.

Ravage offers to track the smell of unwashed bachelors and Megatron body pillows to see where the DJD parked. Rodimus gives him his blessing, marveling at the skillset at his disposal, as Magnus makes a fucking wild face of incredulousness and Ten sulks in the corner.

Before he runs off, Ravage brings Megatron a phone and asks that he talk to Tarn, because surely if anyone can get him off the warpath, it would be his old boss.

Back at the Peaceful Tyranny, Tarn, Deathsaurus, Nickel, Tesarus, and Vos are going over the plan for the day. Sure hope Deathsaurus can parse Primal Vernacular. Tesarus reminds Tarn of the time they went after Heretech and he turned a storm shield into a forcefield that held them off for days, but this band of Autobot nerds aren’t Heretech, now are they? Even if they do have an ex-Wrecker, a Skids, and the power of love on their side.

Then Tarn tells everyone to shut the fuck up, because he’s getting a call on his electric razor.

Back at the “Fortress”, Megatron stands astride the space scooter, looking horribly depressed, as he prepares to have a little chat with his most murderous fanboy. Rodimus questions this decision, having clocked that even on his best day, Megatron wouldn’t just whole-heartedly decide to effectively kill himself for the sake of 50-60 organics he doesn’t even know.

Of course, we’ve seen that at least one planet in the Magisterian system still has life, as the Scavengers had to use holomatter avatars at some point, as seen in issue #45. Perhaps if Megatron knew about this, he wouldn’t be so keen to go on a suicide mission.

Over with Ravage, he passes by Skids’s plinth, which I’m sure isn’t an omen of any kind, and discovers that the smell of B.O. and hot pockets he was following wasn’t attached to the Peaceful Tyranny, but rather a base the DJD and Deathsaurus’s boys threw together. Also, Ten’s been crawling after him in an attempt to keep hidden this whole time, over what was likely multiple miles. He didn’t do a good job in the slightest, but points for tenacity, buddy. Ravage understands that Ten’s just trying to help in some form or fashion, so Ravage gives him a special job: bullet sponge.

Deathsaurus’s men, Helex, Kaon, and the Pet all see Ten up on the hill. Kaon in particular looks very excited at the promise of a plaything, so much so that he lets his rabid little chihuahua off-leash.

Meanwhile, Megatron races across his personal field of spark flowers, on his way to rendezvous at his plinth with Tarn. I wonder who suggested this meeting spot? When Megatron arrives, he demands that Tarn at least face him with his, well, face, but Tarn says that his mask IS his face, even though we know it isn’t, because Tarn couldn’t commit to the bit hard enough on this particular front for some reason.

Megatron offers himself up for surrender. But enough about his crisis of morality, let’s get back to Ten.

Ten, former Legislator that he is, fights valiantly, throwing four guys in the air at once, even as the Pet scratches his collar bone and Helex punches him in the head, his face telling me that he’s gonna do horny mouth shit with Ten’s brain if he manages to get ahold of it. Kaon’s in the background, shooting electricity into the sky. I think he’s just happy to be here. This nonsense up on the hill allows Ravage to sneak over to the base to check for a ship that DOESN’T smell like wine, jockstraps, and viscera.

Back with the Autobots, someone finally remembers that Ten’s a person, and asks where the hell he’s gotten to. Magnus isn’t sure, though he knows where he HAD been. I expect better from you, Magnus. Ten is your little buddy! Your brother in artistic arms! He even left something for your enjoyment, while he went out to help Ravage!

After having solved the issue of their defense system, Ten went out and got his ass shredded for multiple pages, where he was repeatedly shot and set on fire and torn limb from limb and electrocuted (I guess someone finally pointed Kaon in the right direction). It seems like the end for Ten, but his assailants are suddenly shot and dealt with, blanketing the hill in silence.

Silent enough to hear the equivalent of twenty USD in Australian dollaridoos, having been converted into English pounds, rustling around in a British guy’s wallet.

#transformers #jro #mtmte #the dying of the light #issue 51 #maccadam #hannzreads #text post #long post #comic script writing

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