#and they are mostly all straight edged so grinding should be not too bad

[floweringglass]

Ok- today's goal is to finish cutting the pieces for the terrarium and (maybe) get them ground, then solder/patina/polish the chicken orb!

[sukirichi]

sweet lies (m.)

His lies were way too sweet – and you were too addicted to make him stop.

cw. oral (f receiving), fingering, slight body worship, public sex, multiple orgasm, orgasm denial, dirty talk, praising, titty sucking, nsfw, toxic megumi, fwb, slight angst, the traditional unedited fic

note. choose your fighter, megumi or sukuna 😈 and thank you to besties nie and ellie for editing this STOP SHOWING YOUR ANKLES CHIRREN

series masterlist | 01 | 02 | 03

Megumi slides your shirt down your shoulder to press kisses on the bare skin. Your head tilted to the side to give him easier access. You hate that you feel so weak around him, your hands gripping his thigh you’re currently straddling, already so breathless from his teasing ministrations. 

“You should move back closer to campus,” he mutters at the juncture of your neck, pulling another soft gasp from you the moment his fingers dip inside your damp underwear. You feel him smile at your skin, using his deft fingers to push two of them inside your sopping hole. He pumps them in slowly, teasingly slow, coaxing your arousal to coat his fingers while you grind against his palm, eyes shut tight from the pulling knot in your stomach.

“It’s hard to fuck you when you’re a half-hour drive away.”

You scoff against him and roll your eyes. “I wonder why I got kicked out from the dorms in the first place.” Exactly two weeks ago, Megumi snuck in drunk and horny into your dorms, shaking you awake to get rid of his boner. 

It was a sloppy quickie, mostly because he’s eaten brownies and got fuck drunk before stumbling beside your bed. The insensitive idiot left his rum bottle under your bed just as he wobbles back to his frat house, and as if things couldn’t get worse, there was a surprise dorm inspection the next day. Not only did they find cum stains all over your sheets, but your bed also reeked of weed and alcohol, resulting in a quick expulsion from the dorms.

If it weren’t for the help of one of your professors, Gojo-sensei, you wouldn’t have been able to find a decent, cheap apartment. It came with the price of rooming with one of his old acquaintances, a muscular, heavily tattooed guy who seemed to be a few years older than you.

He really wasn’t a bad roommate. Other than the fact he seemed really intimidating, the dude mostly kept to himself, either locked in his room or away for work that you don’t really get to see him that much. His place was decent too, your room bigger than the last, so it was a good deal, but as Megumi said, it’s really hard to fuck around when you’re so far away.

“Not my fault, you’re so weak for me, baby,” he taunts as you tighten around him, his pace increasing with his lips sucking love marks on your skin. You can’t help but snicker at his actions; if you didn’t know better, you’d say he was jealous. 

But this was Megumi you were talking about – everyone knew he never got jealous. 

“I don’t like you here.”

“Aw, sucks for you.”

“I’m serious,” he grips your waist tighter, drawing a drawled-out moan from you. Megumi rubs your clit with his thumb and swallows your moans through open-mouthed kisses, your fists balled into his hoodie. Fuck this, you’re completely aware he’ll never like you the way you like him, but it’s so hard to feel sad about that when he’s knuckle deep inside you and playing you like a violin. As much as you hated him and his pretty face, you have to admit his fingers were fucking magical.  

Megumi nips at your lower lip before thrusting his fingers in and out of you at a numbing pace, not taking long until you’re creaming all over his hands. You pant at the orgasm, head falling back into his shoulder. 

He brushes your hair away from your eyes and kisses the side of your head, the gesture way too sweet for someone who insisted on a ‘no-strings attached’ sexual relationship. But you don’t complain – this is like a dream come true for you – allowing him to leave a trail of kisses down your jaw instead, his wet hands squeezing your thighs in a possessive grip.

“You should just live with me. I’m not comfortable with the fact you live with a man.”

There’s a trace of jealousy behind his voice that you’d normally swoon at, but he’s pushing you to the edge and fucking around with your feelings so much that you can’t even enjoy the rare moment. You push yourself off him and reach for your discarded shorts on the floor, sliding the material over your legs while Megumi shamelessly stares at your ass behind you, his head resting on his hands.

“Megs, I barely even talk to the guy; he’s always away at work. You’ve really got nothing to worry about,” you tell him, making quick work of tidying your school packets just to ignore his heated gaze. “Besides, you and I aren’t even dating. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“You never hold back with your words, huh?”

You shot him a look, an angry glare that should be threatening, but the glint in his eyes just tells you he’s enjoying every second of it. “You like it.”

“Hmm, maybe I do,” Megumi tugs you back to the bed, effortlessly, as he flips you under him. In this position, he’s situated right between your bodies, hands clasped against one another. He’s absolutely stunning, bathed in the sliver of the moonlight, in your bed, no less. You’re a flurry of emotions – stuck between wanting to fuck him and kissing him, and then scream at him to let him know he should stop playing with your heart. 

Megumi’s eyes darken as he traces over your silhouette, watching the way your chest falls heavily at his touches. He uses one hand to trace the tip of his finger from your breast down to your clothed core, a smirk painting his lips when you buck your hips up at the contact. 

Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. 

“Just promise me you’re not letting others see your pretty pussy okay?” he tugs your shorts to the side, tongue darting out to lick at his lips at the sight of your glistening folds. You’ve lost count of the times he’s made you cum tonight with just his fingers; the raging hard-on hidden behind his sweatpants is proof that he’s quite different today by letting you get fuck-drunk on him first. Perhaps it’s his way of keeping you so helplessly wrapped around his finger, fucking you good enough that no one else comes second to him, and he knows this. He sees this from the desire pooled in your eyes. 

Megumi scoots down lower to stare at your pussy, which is already embarrassing since you’re so wet down there. He simply sighs at your bare cunt before him, using two fingers to pull the lips apart, followed by a groan at the apparent slick. “This is all mine.”

In your lust-filled haze, you scrunch your eyebrows and sneer, “How about you mind your own business?”

“The fuck did you just say?” he chuckled, his warm breath tickling your inner thighs. “You’re mine, babe. Haven’t I fucked you enough to drill in that in your pretty little head?” Megumi doesn’t waste his time diving straight to your eager, awaiting core. Your hands fly down to tug at his hair as you grind your hips to his face, legs weak from his lips wrapped tightly around your clit. “You know I’ll get mad if you touch anyone else.”

“Fuck off, Megumi,” you spat out, “We’ve been fooling around for a year, and you still refuse to date me every time I ask you out officially. Listen, I understand you’re not ready for that kind of relationship, so you could at least respect that you don’t get the exclusivity of keeping me all to yourself.” Truly, this rebellion is so uncalled for and unexpected. The moment you had your eyes on him and made it your life’s mission to win him over, not once had you complained that he never wanted to take things a step further. But it’s been too long, too fucking long, and too many no baby’s already – your pride was beyond crushed. It was about time you set the boundaries this time, and you quiver around his skillful tongue, strong and firm as you rasp, “I’ll fuck whoever I want.”

“You’re lying.”

“What?”

“You love me,” Megumi pulls away from your clit with an audible pop, his face glistening from the smeared juices all over his cheeks. However, his eyes are narrowed, almost as if he’s scrutinizing you. You can’t focus on the fact he denied you of your orgasm because he’s looking at you so seriously, only to tilt his head to the side, a smirk playing on his lips. “It’s written all over your face.”

“Maybe I do, but are you deserving of it?” you push his head away and ignore the aching in your chest. Megumi shuffles close to you, pulling you in for another cuddling session before you hide under the sheets, making it clear you were not to be touched anymore. “Go home, Megs. I’m tired.”

In all honesty, you want him to stay. You want him to fight harder to win your approval back. He’s not a big cuddler, more of the type to pass out beside you after he’s gotten his own orgasm, but you’ve been so sure that maybe he might be different today. Under the sheets, your lip trembles in anticipation, eyes blinking wide at the dark silhouette outside your metaphorical shield. But as Megumi playfully slaps your ass, his warmth leaving the bed, you’re not really surprised. 

He never stayed the night before – why would he do that now? 

Silly girl, you chastised yourself. 

“Fine. But I’ll be back tomorrow,” you hear him scuffle for his shoes outside, a smile evident in his voice as his words float around the silence of your apartment. “Wear my favourite set like a good girl for me?”

“Go away!”

Megumi’s laughter echoes all the way to where you curl yourself into a ball. You hate that his laughter alone makes your heart skip a beat, even if it doesn’t carry any affection behind then. “See you then, baby,” is all he says before the door slams shut, leaving you alone to your thoughts and insecurities all over again.

His lies were way too sweet – and you were too addicted to make him stop.

You’ve really hit rock bottom; that’s the only explanation for your actions. Megumi was coming over in a few hours, unsurprising that he chooses 3 AM of all times. Not only did it mean his frat brothers would be asleep, but it also meant that his other side bitches would assume he’s doing the same. You know, of course, you fucking know you’re not the only one, but it didn’t hurt any less.

The pain just keeps getting worse every time you think of him, said thoughts always comprised with your shirt trapped between your teeth and your hands down your pants. There’s no denying you’re addicted to him, though being addicted to a never-ending heartbreak was a different story. 

A story which you’re not ready to find out yet, so you dress up in your sexiest dress and take the nearest cab, heading to a place where you definitely shouldn’t be.

Two more hours before Megumi arrives. Two more hours before you fall into that endless cycle of fucking and him leaving you alone, promising he’ll be back tomorrow, before it all repeats and traces back to square one. He’s not going to stop, and neither are you, so where was any of this supposed to go now? He doesn’t want you, not in that way, that very much is clear – so why was it so hard to let go of him?

Deep down at the back of your mind, you know your answer. It’s because, like the lovesick fool you are, you’re still hoping that maybe someday he’ll look at you the way you look at him.

Fuck it, is all you think of as you flash the bouncer your ID, not missing the way his eyes fall down your tits that are so close to popping out of your dress a minute longer than welcomed. Snatching your card away from him, you push against the crowd, immediately regretting coming here as the loud thumping of music and stench of sex and alcohol washes over your senses. 

You make a beeline for the empty bar, save for the bartender who had his back turned to you as he wipes the glasses over.

You clear your throat to make your presence known. The first thing you see is a broad back, thick lines of dark tattoos outlined even in his white button-up shirt. He places the glasses down and moves expertly before you, sliding shot glasses next to others before procuring a drink out of nowhere, a greeting about to leave his lips when you both make eye contact.

The drink stays still on his hands, blinking for a moment at your equally stupefied face before he says, “It’s you.”

“S-Sukuna,” you greet back, smiling at your roommate. You’ve barely seen the guy the past few weeks other than sleepy good morning’s, and I’ll take the trash out tonight before both of you disappeared into your own worlds. 

Sukuna is...well, you don’t know, exactly. It’s not like he’s around much for you to make a proper judgment of, but he’s a pretty nice roommate, filling up the fridge whenever you guys run out of beer. There were times he nods at you as a greeting before leaving for work, too, leaving you alone at the house from midnight all the way to the morning. Other than thinking your roommate is pretty unique from his face tattoos and roguish handsomeness that contrasts his rather frequent sleepy mumbles, you’ve failed to realize he could actually be like a normal human. Seeing him stand before you, his forearms lined with veins and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, taut waist emphasized by a black vest, you swallow audibly.

He’s entirely different from the guy you often see passed out on the couch, but it’s a welcomed sight, nonetheless.

Sukuna’s actually...pretty hot.

Hiding the thumping of your heart – whether out of nervousness or it’s just trying to match the beat of the music – you beam up at him,  eyes glossed over with curiosity as he reciprocates with a more mischievous grin. 

If he’s easily read your mind that you are indeed attracted to him, he makes no comment about it, focusing on hearing your voice over the music instead. 

He leans over to you, not pulling away even as your lips faintly graze his ear. Fuck, he’s got piercings too. You greedily drink in his masculine scent, thankful that the music thumping is so loud he won’t hear the frenzy mess inside your ribcage. 

“I didn’t know you worked here. Heck, I didn’t know you were a bartender, but I guess the irregular sleep patterns make sense somehow.”

“What did you think I was, sweetheart?”

His deep voice reverberates all the way down to your toes, his throaty chuckle hoarse. “I-I don’t know,” you pull away nervously, blinking up at him way too innocently. “A gangster, to be honest,” you blurted out. Sukuna tilts his head to the side, and you immediately raise your hands beside your head as you mull over how offensive your words might’ve been. “I don’t mean anything offensive by it, I swear! It was just my first impression!”

“First impressions are usually false. Anyway. It’s fine,” he shrugs, resuming his task of wiping over the glasses. 

His hands were so big, his fingers long and slender...your attention is drawn to the adept manner of how he wipes the cloth using the tip of his finger, reaching behind him to get another glass, all without keeping his eyes off of yours. It leaves much room to muse about what else he could do with those hands, and you squirm at your seat, opting to look at his face instead since that would be more polite than eye-fucking his hands.

Sukuna smirks, that cunning twinkle in his eyes matching the dim lights of the bar. Somehow, you suddenly feel so lightheaded. 

“If it makes you feel better, I thought you were a shy girl at first, but your boy toy brings a different side of you every time he comes around.”

You squeak in embarrassment, “You’re home by then?!”

“Only sometimes,” he reassures with a laugh. “But I’ve heard enough,” Right. He’s older and definitely more experienced than your sexual escapades with Megumi – this must be nothing new to him by now, and yet, your skin flushes heated. “Don’t look too flustered, sweetheart. It’s not the first time I’ve heard of that,” he nods at you, “You don’t look very happy with him, though.”

“Tch, now you’re assessing my relationship status?”

“I don’t have to,” he shrugs, the gesture so damn reassured. Chuckling at your apparent frown, Sukuna shakes his head to himself. “It’s written all over your face you’re not satisfied with something. You wouldn’t be here if you were feeling good in the first place.”

“How much have you heard?”

“Oh, I don’t care about how you scream his name. That’s none of my business,” he grumbles under his breath rather bitterly – but that could just be the music messing with you. Sukuna holds your gaze as he sets the final glass down before you, his elbows languidly resting on the counter that separates you both. You’re left staring at him in wonder, watching the way he pours the drink right in front of you, the movement of his lips so intoxicating and even erotic you nearly didn’t hear him say, “But as your roommate, I wish you’d stop inviting him around and just kick him out already. He doesn’t like you, you know.”

He doesn’t like you. Megumi doesn’t like you – you know that already.

Glare deepening at your surprisingly nosy roommate, you take the glass from him and down it in one go. Sukuna’s brows shot up in awe, arms crossed against his puffed-out chest as you slam the glass down. 

You were fuming. 

“You don’t know a single fucking thing about me.”

“That’s right, I don’t,” he answers without skipping a beat, “But we men, we understand each other,” You open your mouth to retort, silenced by Sukuna’s finger pressing against your lips. You freeze at the contact, and Sukuna makes use of your state, continuing right where he left from. 

“Listen, take it from me as free advice. I’ll even put your drink on the house.”

Really, nothing is stopping you from biting off this guy’s finger, but he looks like he knows something you don’t that you just choose to keep your mouth shut.

Satisfied at your decision, Sukuna smiles sweetly, reaching over to tuck your hair behind your ear. The gesture puts you under his spell, and he lingers there a little longer, massaging the lobes of your ears before he pulls back just as fast, almost as if he never touched you in the first place.

You fight back the urge to huff. 

Why were men so complicated? One moment, they were hot, then cold the next. You would just never get it.

“That guy you’ve been mooning over for who knows how long? He doesn’t give a fuck about you. You’re just someone who warms his cock every now and then, but I guarantee he’s thinking about someone else in his head when he’s with you,” he announces straightforwardly, not giving you the time to recover before he shrugs like his words didn’t just slap you in the face. “Just call quits on him, sweetheart. There’s really no need to waste such a pretty face. Ever heard of the saying – there’s plenty of fish in the sea?” he pushes another drink to you, “Drink up and loosen a little. With a face and body like that, you’ll find someone better soon.”

“I highly doubt I can find someone better when all everyone sees is my appearance.”

“I don’t,” he hinted with dark eyes, “But I assure you it might be what people see first. You do have a face of an angel; men are into that shit.”

Taking the drink from him with a loud sigh, you feel yourself weaken. You bury your head in your hands, replaying all the memories you’ve had with Megumi. It’s foreseeable that almost all of them consisted of you two fucking, nothing but a faint memory of two where Megumi actually cared enough to perform aftercare. The thought makes you wince; he really is an ass, but you’re also so hopelessly infatuated with him that you refuse to acknowledge the truth.

“Megs and I...we’re just complicated, okay?”

“Sure.”

“I swear!” your defenses are hopelessSukuna’s knowing smirk, the man holding back a snigger from your silent rage. “Besides, maybe his disinterested nature is what made me attracted to him in the first place. I like the mystery. It’s not bad for a girl to enjoy searching for answers every now and then.”

“Except he’s already given you a concrete no, and you’re the only one still hanging onto him,” he reminds you. At your dropped jaw, Sukuna has the audacity to wink. That motherfucker –“Pressed a button, kitten?” he pats your head, leaving you to be even more riled up. “Don’t be sad. It’s not like he’s the only guy who can make you feel good.” As if a light bulb went up in his head, Sukuna hid his smile by turning his back to you, pretending to be engrossed in the drinks all laid out in front of him. But even with his face obscured from your view, his words rang thick and clear: “In fact, I bet you your cute ass someone else can change your former perspective on what pleasure really is.”

“Yeah, like who?” you snorted sarcastically, “You?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” he faces you, absolutely shameless as he eyes your cleavage. Sukuna clenches his jaw at the tempting view before him, sliding his gaze back to yours to look for the answers in your face. “If you want a demonstration, that is.”

Sukuna hasn’t really touched you or even spoke explicitly, but you’re breathing hard anyways, subconsciously clawing the countertop. 

You don’t know if it’s your voice or his that’s ringing your ears, the words what’s holding you back? the last thing you hear before grabbing him by the collar, leaning over the counter to taste his lips. Sukuna smiles at the kiss, his large hands cupping your face in them. His thumb traces circles over your jaw as you greedily suck on his lip, uncaring that you’re making out with your roommate in a public place.

As if remembering that he’s still at work, Sukuna pulls away for a moment, diving in for one last peck that has you giggling adorably. Sukuna’s grin grows wider at your flushed cheeks, snapping his fingers at someone from a distance. “Geto, break!” 

The guy who must be Geto popped his head out of the backroom, frowning at Sukuna’s words when his gaze lands on you and the not-so-subtle needy grip you have on Sukuna’s collar. His mouth forms into an ‘o’ shape before he gives a thumb up, disappearing afterward. 

That’s all Sukuna needs before he’s leaving the counter, breathing in your panicked squeals as he picks you up, your legs flailing to wrap around his.

You’re giggling and laughing all the way to the back of the club, your hands tugging at his undercut and his own squeezing at your ass. Sukuna kicks the door of the restroom open, which is thankfully clean (you made the right choice choosing a luxurious club), settles you down before him, and locking the stall.

His lips are on yours in an instant, his hands tugging off your dress and scowling at it as if it’s offensive. “Calm down,” you tease him, “They didn’t do anything wrong.”

“They were a fucking tease the whole night,” he glares at the lacy cups of your bra, his breathing laboured as he cups them. You throw your head back until it thumps at the door, teeth muffling the moans that threaten to erupt. Sukuna unclasps the material in one swift movement, surprising with just how many times he’s done this before. “Fucking gorgeous tits – why the fuck does your boy toy not want to keep you to himself?”

“He’s – oh fuck,” you scrape Sukuna’s scalp, his tongue wrapping around the swollen bud. He caresses the other one not to leave it unattended, and he’s grinding you against the door so hard, his dick poking at your dress leaving very little to the imagination. 

Sukuna chuckles at your broken response, rutting his hips in such a sensual manner you didn’t think he was capable of. “You were saying?”

You glare at him from under your chin, but he can’t take you seriously while he’s sucking at your tit like a child. This man is brave enough to nip it with his teeth, the sting making you hiss and buck against him. “He’s possessive,” you breathe through your mouth, a little in disbelief you’re casually thinking about him while Sukuna gets down on his knees. “He wants me to be exclusive with him, but he’s free to fuck who he pleases.”

Sukuna rubs both palms in front of his face as if preparing to devour a meal, which he’ll do so soon enough. He pushes your dress and bunches it at your waist, tugging your underwear to the side before he groans. The sound is so deep and masculine, so utterly frustrated for some reason you can’t understand.

“Now that’s unfair,” he mumbles absentmindedly, peppering your pelvis with kisses. The feverish touch of his warm lips on your already burning skin has you clutching at the door, feeling your legs weaken.

His eagerness and distrait acts of body worship drive you crazy. Megumi is good at making you feel desired and fuckable – that much you know from his habits of pushing his pants down at pretty much anywhere as long as you were around, claiming you’re a walking ‘boner trigger.’ Sukuna, on the other hand, was a lot more patient and attentive to his movements, taking the time to make you feel you were more than just a body and a hole. It’s odd, hella fucking odd, because this man is older than you and a friend of your professors, but did you care? No. Did you want him to fuck your brains out in a public restroom? Fuck yes.

A wanton moan paints the wall as Sukuna slides your thong off just above your knee, his eyes closed as he buries his cheek in it. You look down with wide eyes, hands grabbing at nothing and everything at the same time. From the looks of it, he’s sniffing your sex, the sight so outright erotic that you only moan louder.

How was it possible to be this much turned on?

By the time he’s opened his eyes, his entire demeanour’s shifted. Gone was the enthusiastic and sly bartender, now replaced with a much more animalistic entity residing beside it. 

Before you could make yourself comfortable, Sukuna hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, the tip of your heel grazed against the tight walls of the stall. He licks a flat stripe from your hole that clenches around nothing, moving upwards in such a passionate, languid manner he’s making you forget you’re literally in a fucking restroom. Your breasts heave up and down from how you’re struggling to breathe, his tongue pushing past through the tight ring of resistance until he’s plunged through your core. You wobble above him, remaining upright only by his arm pushing your back flat on your under boob.

Sukuna slurps at your cunt yearningly, the hums he gives every now and then, making your core vibrate. You grind your pussy on his face, the black marks lined on his face glistening.

He moves to suck at your clit, transitioning after each beat to slurping the swollen bud and kissing your lips as if he was making out with it. You’re sure you’re making a mess on his face, but he doesn’t give you time to feel embarrassed about it. He spreads your legs further until your muscles ache from the stretch, the pain accompanied by your stomach tightening.

“S-Sukuna, oh, oh yeah,” you bang your fist on the door, his smug chuckles sending you over the edge. Your pupils blow wide as you feel the impending orgasm weigh down on you heavily, about to send you into overdrive by his tongue swiping at your lips, teasing you to give it to him more, give it to him harder. Turning your head down to warn him you’re coming, the words die on your throat because he’s already looking at you, his cheeks and nose smothered with your shining slick, and the brat is smirking. “Shit, you’re a little—” Sukuna cuts you off by generously sucking your clit one more time, pulling the muscle taut just to show you that it’s rolling between his lips. It looks fucking insane and filthy that you come right there and then. 

Your orgasm is so strong that you actually slip from your heels. A scream from you is knocked back into you just as fast, Sukuna moving quick and graceful in one fluid movement. He catches your leg and shoves you against the door, gripping at your hips until you’re bending forward, ass perked, and wiggling just for him.

For a split second, you’re sure you hear the unbuckling of a belt, but it all fades in your clouded mind.

Sukuna enters you in one thrust, the sensation of being filled up so soon rendering you speechless. Literally absolutely silent, palms flat on the door and tongue lolled out, all the burning in your body focused on your centre.

He releases a grunt at finally being inside your plush, warm walls. Sukuna allows you to get used to his length for a solid minute, both of you catching your breath in the meantime. Your tits are sprawled out, and you’re a shaky mess, feeling nothing less of dirty yet so aroused that you can’t do anything about it. Sukuna thrusts in slowly at first, and that’s when you feel the size difference between him and Megumi. Megs was definitely blessed in the dick department, and he’s always been so cocky about it, but goddamn, Sukuna was beyond huge.

You think you could cum again just from him filling you up. He was stretching you out so well that he leaves behind a faint burn, making you feel as if it’s your first time all over again – all for the good reasons.

He soon begins to set his pace, one of his hands tugging at your ponytail so he could see your glossy eyes and mouth hanging open. Sukuna scoffs at your fucked out state, too cock-hungry even to form coherent sentences. His length is slipping past your folds in such a tantalizing, delicious state, the prominent veins of his cock kissing the bumpy ridges of your walls. He was right – you’re definitely changing your perspective on pleasure because you don’t think you’ve felt this good in your life. 

With Megumi, it was mostly always about his own release. With Sukuna, he’s making sure you get to feel inch by luscious inch slipping out of you before he slides them back in, his deep moans the dirtiest thing you’ve ever heard.

“Aw, look at you,” he coos, kissing you sideways sloppily. Sukuna reaches the edges of your lips but licks at your skin anyway. His canines revealed to graze at your skin. It’s so animalistic, so carnal, and he’s fucking you with such primal need that you forget everything you once knew about sex. “Your pretty pussy is drooling for cock, sweetheart. Such a dirty little thing, taking me like this.”

Now, this was lust as its purest form, the rhythm of his hips so sinful you’ve lost faith in everything but how he’s making you feel. 

The walls are pounding with the bass boosting outside, but soon even the loud volume of the synthesized music is drowned by your whimpers. Sukuna lets go of your hair to place his hands on your hips. If he was dominant before, he only encourages you to scream his name louder, realizing that he was still being nice seconds ago, but now he’s the one controlling you. 

He pounds roughly into you until you’re crying, your drool dribbling from your lips and small patches dropping to the floor. It’s the same with your cunt. You’re so wet that you can feel squirts of cum staining his pants and your legs. Sukuna doesn’t stop praising you on how you’re so perfect, how your cunt is the tightest he’s ever fucked, and now he gets why your boy toy could never really let you go. In the middle of it all, he manages to slip in a comment that maybe Megumi’s dick isn’t big enough to stretch you out because you’re wrapped around him like a vice, to which you respond that he’s just massive.

“Fuck yeah, I am,” he agrees cockily, eyes narrowed at where his length kept being swallowed by your pussy. “I’m fucking destroying you, sweetheart. You’ll be broken by the end of this, fuck.”

His words are like ambrosia you’re getting drunk on, the filthiness of his mouth fuelling your desire. Your body heats up at the same time that familiar tingling tightens in your stomach, and you blindly stretch your arm out behind him. Sukuna easily reads your mind and takes your hand, looping his fingers with yours. His palm is right above your knuckle, and the angle hurts your arm so bad you cry harder.

“Please, please, please,” you beg him and snap your hips back to meet his dick thrust by thrust, “I’m so fucking close, please—”

“I got you, sweetheart,” he leans down for a quick peck at your hand, increasing his pace as he twitches inside you. Sukuna is thrown off rhythm by the way you grip down on his dick harder, his breath stuttering as a result. You wrap your fingers around him as your second orgasm that night crashes down onto you in waves, his cock on the brink of being spent from how you’re milking him. 

He pounds deep and slow into you, relishing in the warmth of your cunt that he’s losing his mind, basically in the same state as you are now. You’re panting and sweating, cursing at each thrust, and he stills for a moment, pulling out so fast that you wince at the emptiness. Sukuna pumps his dick with his free hand and shoots his load onto your back, his moans guttural and hoarse. You grimace at the warm cum now coating your back because there’s no way you’re using your dress to wipe that away. 

Sukuna chuckles at your silence, probably noting in the way you frown at him. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he runs a hand through his hair, his cock growing hard despite releasing a huge load. “Next time, I’ll cum in your mouth. I want to see you swallow me like a good girl.”

“Next time?” 

You think you’re so sly by scoffing at him, but Sukuna isn’t stupid. He sees the way you light up at his implications, and he walks closer to you, a hand wrapped around your throat before you pull you flush against his chest. You gasp at the lack of air, blindly patting behind you, but your hand only grazes at his cock, which twitches excitedly at the contact.

“Yeah, next time,” he affirms with a low growl, licking from your jaw down to your neck. It’s so hot, he’s so hot, and you’ve never felt this sexy in your life that you soon become on par with him, pussy clenching around nothing. “I’m not done with you yet. You’re not leaving unless I’ve changed your mind,” he teases the base of your throat to squeeze it tighter, the swift movement of him filling you once more escalating to a tenfold. Your struggle to breathe causes you to clamp down on him hard and Sukuna’s chuckles falter into a quick inhale that’s so satisfying to witness. “What do you think? Still need more demonstrations?”

“Yes,” you choke out. Sukuna’s victorious and award-winning smile is hidden at the sweaty column of your neck where he leaves little kisses in its wake, ones that soon turn into something of a harsh bite. “Yes, please, show me more. Need you, need you so bad, you fuck me better than he does.”

Sukuna does more than show you that night. He makes you feel a thousand more nerves set on fire until you’re nothing but a moaning mess. After all, what better way to change someone’s mind than to mess with it on the inside?

In the end, when it comes down to it, your lies were way too sweet – and he was too addicted to make you stop.

[onmykneesforhotdilfs]

Oooh i'm gonna with #3 please! And Valtor as a bartender.

He truly loathed his job.

The disgusting smell of cheap drinks spilled on the bar mixed with the stench of sweat and cheap perfume, from grinding bodies on the dancefloor and humping barely-legals in the corner, made him nauseous. The music was loud to the point his heartbeat developed arrhythmia whenever a bass boosted song played through the obnoxious sound system. To make matters worse, one of the speakers was set directly above the bar and Valtor was sick of buying earplugs every week, because if he didn’t use any protection, he’s pretty sure he would go deaf before he hit 40 and he once again cursed himself for forgetting them at home.

A particularly high note came on, and the crowd cheered while Valtor cringed as he felt the microscopic hairs in his ears, sensitive to high notes, shrivel up and die. He rolled his eyes as he spotted a tall blonde dragging taller brunette towards the restroom. Apparently, couples basically dry humping each other on the dancefloor and sucking their faces off in the corners wasn’t enough, so universe also decided to throw in a couple about to commit an indecent act in a public bathroom?

He was just about to call one of the bouncers when it hit him – he doesn’t care. Oh well. What can you do?

A woman, wearing something Valtor could only describe as lingerie, came to the bar and ordered a fruity cocktail and for the umpteenth time, he wondered how his life turned into this? How did he go from graduating on a prestigious college, having a stable job and a fiancée, to wiping down spit from the counter top on a Saturday night.

He used to be a successful attorney, his yearly salary reaching up to five-zero figure, a stable relationships, loving girlfriend and more, and yet, all of that collapsed under the enormous weight couple of words held.

His hands worked on autopilot, mixing the necessary drinks while his thoughts were miles away.

Now, whatever’s left of his past life lives in a small condo across the town and Valtor chuckled at the irony of life giving him lemons while he chopped one to mix it into the cocktail. He squeezed the juice out of the poor fruit, with probably more force than was necessary, getting some of it on his shirt in the process.

“What are you chuckling about?” The woman was leaning over the counter, her chest basically spilling out of her dress as she played with the ends of her dark hair.

Valtor raised an eyebrow as he bent down to retrieve one of the decorative umbrellas. “Nothing that would be of interest to you.” He saw her flinch in surprise at the rather sharp tone he unintentionally used. “Miss.” He added as an afterthought, hoping it would make him look less abrasive. Unhappy customers don’t tip well after all.

“Oh. Well maybe it does interest me. You’ll never know unless you try.” The woman smiled flirtatiously while her fingers continued twirling the strands of her hair. “I’m Mitzi, by the way.” She offered her hand to him.

Valtor only quirked an unamused eyebrow. “I don’t remember asking for your name.” The smile was quick to disappear from her face and she snatched her hand back like it’s been burned.

He closed his eyes as his tongue, once again, proved to be faster than his brain. It’s what got him into trouble a lot of times and this one might’ve just taken a cake because if the girl went to complain to his boss, he’d be in a world of shit. “I was trying to be nice, but it seems to me you’re too much of an asshole to appreciate it.” Mitzi gritted out with obvious false confidence because a fierce blush was very much present on her face. This obviously didn’t happen to her a lot.

First time for everything, Valtor thought.

“What I would really appreciate, Mitzi,” Don’t do it, “is if you could stop your 36C's, that you stuffed into a 34B bra, from spilling all over my counter.” You absolute moron! “I have to wipe it.”

Now you’ve done it.

Mitzi turned even reader, and Valtor wondered if he should start dialing an ambulance just in case, but she only snatched the drink he placed in front of her and threw a 5$ bill in his face. “Jerk!” And just like that, she was gone.

“Have a nice evening!” Drop dead.

He rolled his eyes and took a glass that needed wiping just to occupy his hands for a minute because he felt like a coiled string, just about to snap and burn everything in its path.

“I have to say,” girl’s voice reached him, “you just fixed my evening.” Valtor lowered the glass to the solid surface and turned to face the owner.

His brain short circuited.

Though her body was mostly obstructed by the counter, he could see that the navy blue slip dress she wore draped beautifully across her slender figure. She was also incredibly short that even standing up straight, in what Valtor assumed were ridiculously high heels, she was at least head and a half shorten than him. But the most obvious, and striking thing about her, was her red hair. Valtor never even thought that hair could be as vibrant as hers.

In his almost 35 years of life, Valtor has never seen someone as interesting as the girl standing in front of him.

When he finally shook himself out of his stupor, and when it became painfully obvious he was making her uncomfortable with his gawking (really, there was no other word for it), he smiled and spoke. “Well, I’m pleased to hear that because it will undoubtedly ruin my life.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about her reporting you.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Her ego is too big for her to accept she just got rejected.”

“You know her?”

There was something nostalgic in her smile. “I used to know her… or maybe I just thought I know her.”

Valtor observed the unusual girl in front of him. In his several years as a bartender and even before, he developed quite a knack for reading people. She seemed, to him at least, like one of those lost souls that recently had their world turned upside down but tried despite to appear normal. You and me both. “Would you like something to drink?”

Her head snapped up and her electric blue eyes met his. “Oh! Yes, um,” she fidgeted slightly, her hands wringing together and picking at her nails, “anything with vodka.”

He nodded and turned his back on her to find a bottle of the best vodka the club had to offer. He didn’t know why he suddenly paid so much attention to what he’s mixing into drinks but something pulled him towards this girl like gravity and he was too weak to resist it. “Straight?” He asked without turning around.

“Ummm, that’s a bit personal don’t you think? I mean, I just met you.” Valtor stopped what he was doing and turned his head so she could see the confused frown on his face. “I don’t even know your name. As far as I know you could be a serial killer.”

It downed on Valtor what she was talking about and he chuckled at her adorable rant. “I meant the Vodka.”

Her lips shaped into a silent “O" and he saw how her neck and face turned red from embarrassed. She moaned and buried her face into her hands. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He picked the bottle and turned back around so he was facing her. He extended his unoccupied hand across the counter top. “I’m Valtor.”

She shook his hand, her hand incredibly small in his huge one, blush still present on her cheeks. “Bloom. And yes, straight vodka is fine.”

“I’ve only seen Russians drink vodka by itself.”

“I’m quarter Russian. My mom’s dad is from Russia.” Valtor nodded along as he fixed her a drink.

“Impressive.”

“it’s really not. It only made me the laughing stock of the entire class.” She took the glass filled with clear liquid, their fingers brushing together on accident, and Valtor felt a spark rushing up his nerve endings. “But, I can drink most people under the table so I guess I should be grateful.”

Humor was obviously one of the things she used to deflect the pain and trauma bullying inevitably caused. “Your hair is very… unusual. Natural?”

She nodded. “Yup. This is one of the things I inherited from grandpa.”

“Sorry if that made you uncomfortable, it wasn’t my intention.”

“No no, don’t worry.” Her lips wrapped around the edge of the glass as she took a sip and closed her eyes to savor the feeling of burning liquid sliding down her throat. “It’s actually one of the nicest things someone has said to me about my hair.”

Valtor looked at her with a small smirk on his face. “That bad, huh?”

“You don’t want to know.” Bloom tilted the glass and took a large swing of the drink, only a small amount remaining at the bottom. “What about you?”

Valtor shrugged. “What about me?”

“You have an unusual hair too.”

Indeed. His long strawberry blond hair was tied in a ponytail, but unlike herself, he loved his hair and didn’t particularly give a damn what anybody else thought about it. “I don’t really care about somebody else’s opinion and neither should you.”

“I’ve stopped that long time ago.” Valtor nodded towards her almost empty glass and she slid it towards him for a refill. “But you know, scars remain.”

He nodded. “That I do know.” Valtor saw another guy coming up to the bar so he excused himself. As soon as he moved away from her, the unpleasant sensations that accompany prolonged presence in a loud room came rushing back like a rogue train and Valtor felt the onsets of a headache forming. He served the guy and returned to Bloom who was now nursing her drink instead of knocking it back like the first time.

“So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

She quirked one eyebrow. “A girl like me?”

“Not to be rude, but this doesn’t seem like your cup of tea.”

She laughed. “It’s my friend’s birthday. She dragged me here against my will while promising she’ll stay with me the entire time. It took me turning around for her to vanish without a trace with her boyfriend.”

“That friend of yours,” he started, “wouldn’t happen to be a tall blonde dragging a brunette with her?”

“That’s her.”

Valtor made a face. “I don’t think you’ll be seeing a lot of her tonight.” His eyes slid to the direction of the restroom.

Bloom followed his gaze and she groaned when she saw where her friend went to. “Not this again.”

“Again? This happens a lot?”

“Unfortunately, it happens more than I would like to.” She rubbed her forehead.

“Right,” he drawled, “because who doesn’t like seeing their friends going at it.” Sarcasm was dripping from his words.

“How long have they been in there?” She asked while looking at her wrist watch.

“Fifteen minutes or so.”

“Damn animals. I’m never coming to the club with her again.”

An amused chuckle escaped him. “That’s not the first time you’ve said that, am I right?”

She smiled and took a sip of vodka. “Nope.”

Just as he opened his mouth to ask her another question, her blonde friend wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Valtor’s eyebrow did a backflip. How she managed to avoid detection while leaving the bathroom was beyond him.

“Damn Bloom, I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re already seducing hot bartenders!”

“Stella! First of all, I am not seducing anybody,” Maybe not intentionally, “secondly, it’s been almost twenty minutes and thirdly, what happened to your promise of not ditching me? And the moment I turn around, you’re already gone?”

Stella, if Valtor heeard correctly, giggled. “Oh live a little Bloom. Besides, it’s not like you were in a bad company.” Her eyes ran over Valtor’s form. “In fact, I wouldn’t mind taking a bite out of that.” She ogled Valtor like a piece of chocolate cake.

“I’m standing right here.”

“Okay, that’s enough for today! We’re going home.” Bloom grabbed her purse and was about to pull out her wallet when Valtor raised his arm to stop her.

“It’s on the house.”

“But Blooooom,” There was really no words to describe the sound that exited blonde’s mouth, “we just got here.”

“The fact that you're talking about having a threesome with a stranger says enough about your state.”

“I’m pretty sure Brandon wouldn’t mind.”

“Okay, time out. Let’s go.” She turned towards Valtor, a small card between her fingers. She leaned over the counter while one of her arms stayed behind, supporting her friend. “Thank you.” She slipped the card into his hand. “Call me if you wanna talk sometimes.” And with that, she spun on her heel and dragged Stella towards the exit.

Valtor stood in shock, not knowing how to react for a few minutes, staring at the business card in his hands.

Bloom Peters MD.

He shook his head, hand safely pocketing the precious cargo before he picked up the glass she’s been drinking from and turning around to wash it. The sound of retching caused him to turn around in time to see some wasted man empty the content of his stomach on an obnoxious red carpet. The stench of vomit mixed with other delightful aromas and Valtor was once again reminded how much he hated his job.

[zevlors-tail]

Jfc i am nervou s

Thirsty thursday?? Im in

Ok but imagine izuku being HELLA pent up for months and female!reader knows this but want to see him at his breakpoint and end up in like

A m e s s

God i can only imAGINE how riled up he'll get ,_,

Oooohhhh man. Don’t push the green bean, anon. He’s already so frustrated...

I wrote this while listening to “Edge of Heaven” by Breathe Carolina if you want to experience what I did lol. I’ve fucking ascended after writing this. Only Dom!Deku exists in my brain right now. That’s it. Head empty, one thought: Dom!Deku.

If there was one thing Izuku Midoriya hated more than spending time away from you, it was spending time away from you because of stupid fucking steak outs that got him nowhere in the end. A month. A whole month he spent away from you; a month away from your love, a month away from your care, a month away from your touch. The two of you hadn’t done much in terms of intimacy in the weeks leading up to his time away either...mostly because neither of you had the time. You worked a small 9-5 job on the side, and with his hero work being so prominent in his life, the two of you sometimes found it hard to get any alone time.

So maybe that’s why, when he came back from work that night in a terrible mood, you felt the need to push his buttons. Maybe you knew he was pent up. Maybe you knew he was frustrated. Maybe you just wanted to get a rise out of him, or maybe you found it fun. Whatever the reason, you’d went and done it alright. You acted like an outright brat, teased him, picked a trivial argument with him, and then left him high and dry- or, at least you tried to. Deku was having none of that.

“You know what? I’m tired, I’m going to fucking bed. So much for the new lingerie I bought...” You pushed yourself up and off the couch and sauntered towards the bedroom, swaying your hips a little on purpose just to prove a point. Izuku stared at you the whole time, eyes narrowing and following your form to the entryway of the bedroom. While you did feel bad for your pent up boyfriend, you’d missed him a lot over the last month, and he’d only called a handful of times while he was away. You understood steak outs were tricky, sure, but you felt neglected and pent up too.

“New linger- what!? Y/N, that’s not fair!” He threw his arms up in the air before pulling at his hair in frustration, a dangerous glint shining in his eyes.

“Not fair? You left me alone for a month and barely called, how is that fair, huh!?”

There was a short lived moment of silence before he closed the small distance between the two of you within a couple strides, and the next thing you knew your legs were hitting the back of the bed as he hungrily kissed down your neck, hands wandering to the hem of your shirt and slipping underneath. You moaned as he pushed you down onto the bed and toppled on to you, his hands cupping your breasts and giving a harsh squeeze.

“You know, if you wanted me to rail you to the high heavens, Y/N, all you had to do was fucking ask.”

The smoldering look he gives you sends a shiver down your spine. It only takes him a matter of seconds to strip both of you of your clothes, and then he’s going straight for what he wants without any shame. Both of you are pent up, both frustrated, both aching just to touch each other and consume each other. He finds his place atop you, straddles your waist with his legs as he gathers both of your smaller wrists in his one giant hand and pins them above your head. His other hand kneads and massages at one of your breasts as he watches you squirm underneath him, and all he does is smirk down at you when you beg him for more. Sure, he’ll give it to you, but not until you’ve suffered a little like he has. Sadist? No. A tease? Absolutely.

“Izuku, stop teasing!” you whine out.

“Oh? I thought you wanted to be teased. You were acting like such a brat earlier,” he taunts. He pinches a nipple between his fingers and rolls it softly earning a pretty sound from you. He’d do anything just to hear it again.

“Because I missed you!” You can’t help but cry out in desperation, the truth finally bubbling to the surface under his rough treatment. 

Your words pull on his heartstrings and light a fire in him all the same. He feels some of the stress of his month long mission start to melt away, and in it’s place is burning desire. He needs you. Now.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his hand squeezing tighter against your wrists. The hand groping your chest drifts down to your heat, fingers ghosting over your stomach lightly before gliding over your folds to feel how wet you are. A single digit presses against your entrance, and you buck your hips up to get friction as he dips a finger in and starts to slowly pump. “You missed me, huh? Did you miss my fingers too?”

“A-All of you, Izu! Mmn!”

His finger disappears almost as quick as it came, but he doesn’t give you the opportunity to complain about it before he’s lining his hips with yours and sinking his cock into you. His movements are needy, impatient as he circles his hips against you, but you’re already sopping wet and squeezing against him, the feel of him inside you almost a deliriously good feeling after going without for so long. You move against him and let out a low whine, and that’s all it takes for him to start pounding into you with no remorse.

“So tight, ngh!”

“Ahha!”

He growls, his huge shoulders looming over you as you bounce against every thrust. He feels so good, too good, and yet it’s still not enough- you still need more.

“Fuck, ‘Zuku...harder, damn it! Hah-! W-Want...!”

“You want it? Oh, I’ll fucking give it to you, I’ll give it to you so goddamn good-” Utter filth starts to leave his mouth as he pushes you farther down against the bed with his free hand and drills into you. His pace quickens, thrusts becoming more erratic as you try to push back against him. But he holds you still, and you can’t do anything but twist under him and wish you could move. You supposed this might be punishment for acting bratty earlier. If that was the case, then you might have to act like a brat more often.

The familiar sensation of a coil tightening in your stomach had you whining and writhing under your partner, blood boiling under your skin and thrumming in your ears as he pounded into you relentlessly. Behind the both of you, the headboard banged against the wall over and over again, small dents forming from the impact. Not that either of you noticed.

“Touch me, please!” you cried suddenly, both your hands struggling against his one. All you needed was a little push, something to get you over the edge. You were well on your way there already, but you wanted it now, needed the blinding white hot sensation of pleasure you knew he could give you. Izuku refused to let your hands go, however.

“No,” he growled, and you sobbed in frustration as you felt your walls start to clench around him. “Wanna make you cum with my cock...”

“Please!” you begged.

“I. Said. No!” He punctuated each of his words with an exceptionally rough thrust of his cock, each time brushing closer against your g-spot.

Moans and sobs left your lips as you felt yourself grow closer to release every time Izuku pulled out, only to plunge right back in with fervor. Finally, as you felt yourself start to shake underneath him, he let his grip on your wrists go, his hands moving to grasp your hips instead and lift them up off the bed. 

“Izu, what-” You were confused for a moment before he resumed pounding into you, each time pulling you flush against his thrusts by the hips to drive his cock deep into you and hit your g-spot repeatedly. “HAAH!”

“Fuck! So good...Y/N! Gonna give it to you, gonna give it to you so- hn! Hard!”

The coil inside you snapped suddenly, and you lost your breath as Izuku fucked you senseless, cock pummeling your insides while you breathlessly convulsed under him and came. You tried to say something, tried to sing him praises, but the words died on your lips, and the only thing that left your mouth was a small string of drool as your head lolled back onto the pillow. Finally you found purchase in the syllables of his name.

“I...Izuku...”

“Hngh, need to cum! Gonna...! Y/N!” His thrusts turned sloppy as you clamped down on him harder, fluids streaming down your legs and onto the sheets below. You felt a warm sensation wash over you as he came, and the both of you lost your senses for a moment as he slowed to a stop, his hips grinding gently against yours to ride out the aftershock.

You couldn’t help but think that if this was how he was going to react when you riled him up...maybe you should act like a brat more often.

[spaceorphan18]

The Smut Challenge (33)

A/N: In celebration of my birthday, I’m giving you guys a longer smut piece today! Not sure if y’all will like it or not (and my apologies for it being unbeta’d) but I figure if you guys like it, I’ll slip one of these longer ones in every once in a while, and if not, I’ll keep to my 500 words or less.  Either way, happy reading <3 

***

July 18th (Day 33) 

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” 

“Yes, Blaine.” 

“Okay, I just want to make sure.” 

“We have a plan, and a safe word, so I’m really, really okay.”  

Blaine takes a second to suppress his eagerness.  Rarely have they roleplayed, so this is a bit of a new thing for them.  But this whole scenario is just as much Kurt’s idea as his own, and after having a lengthy conversation as to how to proceed, they picked a day where they had all the time in the world to act it out.  

Blaine takes a moment to look himself over in the bathroom mirror.  His hair is mostly ungelled, the loose curls doing as they wish.  He’s wearing Kurt’s old football jersey, while over a decade old, is a bit big on him.  And he’s got on a pair of spandex shorts that hide nothing to the imagination.  He thinks he looks a little bit laughable like this, but it’s what Kurt wants, and it’s not like Kurt isn’t giving him what he wants.  With a deep breath he leaves the bathroom.  

Kurt comes out of the bedroom at the same time, and Blaine can barely keep it together.  Kurt’s dressed in his old cheerleading costume that does not fit in all the best ways.  His chest is broader, arms more defined than when he had been in high school.  His ass fills out the pants nicely.  His hair is without product, and softly down, making him look much younger than he really is.  It’s a bit surreal, but Blaine holds back his instincts.  

He remembers his role and the game, and spouts a churlish attitude when he sees Kurt.  “Dude, why are you always lingering around here after the games?” Blaine flops himself down on the couch.  It doesn’t quite double for a locker room bench, but felt much safer trying to do this in their own home as opposed to a more public area.  He lets his legs flop open, and relaxes his posture, doing his best to resemble some straight jock of his imagination.  

Kurt’s lips slide into a wiley grin as turns into a character Blaine’s never quite seen before.  “I just thought I’d come congratulate you,” Kurt’s voice is higher than Blaine expects it to be.  He comes behind the couch, and begins to massage Blaine’s shoulders.  “You did win the game after all.”  

Blaine relaxes into Kurt’s touch, it feels so good, but Blaine down plays it, trying to act as if he’s bored and unaffected by the massage.  Kurt’s warm hands slip under the jersey, rubbing his shoulders hard before they travel lower, pinching his nipples. 

“Jesus fucking christ, what are you doing?” Blaine lets a little anger slip into his words.  He worries it might be too much, but Kurt’s doesn’t seem off put one bit.  

“Just giving you something I think you need,” Kurt says.  “The game’s over and you’re still so tense.”  Kurt goes back to rubbing his shoulders.  

“Well, how am I supposed to relax when a dude’s hands are all over me?” 

“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve never had this fantasy?” Kurt’s grin is wicked now as he backs away to come around the couch.  Kurt goes to his knees, settling in between Blaine’s legs, running his hands up Blaine’s thighs. “I’ve seen you, you know.  The way you try not to look at my ass during a game.  The way you touch yourself after you’ve seen me come out of the shower after practice.  I think you want this more than you know.”  

Blaine gives an unimpressed hand wave.  “Whatever, dude.  You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Do I?” Kurt’s eyebrow is arched high as he leans in towards Blaine’s crotch.  He doesn’t hesitate to suck a kiss to Blaine’s spandex covered cock.  He lets out an erotic moan as he does it again, and again; and Blaine doesn’t think he’s ever gotten so hard so quickly as he watches Kurt to continue to suck at his cock through the fabric.  He takes a second to run his fingers through Kurt’s hair, encouraging him to do more, even if he’s supposed to be pretending not to be into it.  “Are you sure you don’t want to know what it’s like to be sucked by someone who knows what they’re doing?  Are you sure you don’t want to fuck my mouth even a little?” Kurt looks up at him, his eyes dark and wide, daring him to suggest otherwise.  

His body is already betraying him, but Blaine keeps on character.  “Man, if you wanna - I’m not going to turn down a free blowjob.”  

Kurt licks his lips as he pulls down the spandex shorts, freeing Blaine’s cock.  “I always knew you’d be thick,” Kurt says, dragging his tongue up his shaft.  

Blaine shudders, Kurt always has known how to work his mouth.  Kurt sucks on the tip a little before sinking all the way down, his head beginning to bob up and down as he sucks Blaine off.  Blaine sits back and enjoys the pleasure of it, closing his eyes as he let’s Kurt work him.  God, he’s so good at this.  

Kurt then pulls off with a wet pop, replacing his mouth with his hand as brings the fabric lower to get at Blaine’s balls.  He sucks one in and then the other, making sure to give them proper attention as he continues to stroke Blaine’s cock.  

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Blaine utters, not being able to help himself.  

“Fuck?” Kurt says, his voice a husky whisper.  “I said you could fuck my mouth if you wanted to.”  

“C’mere,” Blaine says.  He grabs onto Kurt’s hair, a little rougher than he would normally, and guides his cock back to Kurt’s mouth.  Kurt grabs onto it, running the tip over his lips before allowing Blaine in again.  Then Kurt lets him take over, lets him fuck his mouth, lets him enjoy the warm, velvety heat.  It’s almost too much.  And just as Blaine gets close, Kurt pulls off.  

“Wha-the fuck you doing?” 

“Hold on, I’d like to readjust.”  Kurt leans back a little, pulling his own pants down, and setting them snug under his balls.  Kurt’s cock is long and hard and already leaking pre-come at the tip.  

Blaine wants to touch - wants to make him come in an instant, but refrains.  “Oh, you want to be a little tease now?  Well maybe you should play with yourself a bit.  I wanna see a show.”  

Kurt smirks, spitting on his hand before he brings it to his cock.  He begins to work his cock, pulling at it as he closes his eyes.  “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting you to see me like this,” he says as he fucks into his own fist.  His free hand begins to roam, hiking up his shirt to tweak at his nipple.  “How after seeing you during practice… a game, I’d get so turned on.  And then I’d touch myself afterwards.  I always hoped you’d see and just kiss me.  You’d kiss me hard and unafraid.  And after we’d make out, you’d just spin me around and fuck me against the lockers because you wanted me so bad.  Anyone could come in, but you just wouldn’t care because you wanted me so badly.” 

Kurt is the utter picture of sex as he arches into his hand.  It’s erotic and beautiful, and Blaine slowly pulls at his own cock because he can’t help himself.  “If you want to be fucked so badly, come and sit on my cock.  Use it to get yourself off.” 

It’s a bit of a demand, but Kurt complies willingly, getting himself quickly out of his pants and climbing onto Blaine’s lap.  Blaine pulls Kurt’s arms around his neck as they come together for a searing kiss.  It’s hot and messy and too dizzyingly amazing for Blaine to quite keep up the scenario, but all he wants to do is taste Kurt, feel him everywhere.  

“Jesus, fuck, Kurt,” Blaine says as Kurt begins to grind their hips together as they kiss, their cocks brushing up against one another.  “Are you gonna ride me or what.”  

Blaine slides his hands down to Kurt’s ass, squeezing Kurt’s asscheeks as he pulls them apart.  Kurt uses a little of his saliva on Blaine’s cock before slowly coming down on it.  It’s torturously slow as Kurt works his way to bottoming out. 

“Like this?” Kurt says, a bit cheekily as he begins to rise and fall.  Blaine steadies Kurt, holding him gently before Kurt begins to pick up speed.  It’s not long before Kurt’s bouncing on Blaine’s cock, letting out little obscenities as he loses himself in the pleasure of it all.  “Fuck you feel so good.  So deep inside me, Blaine, fuck, fuuuck, so good.”  

Blaine can only hold on as Kurt fucks himself on Blaine’s cock.  He can’t even concentrate on the scene anymore.  There’s nothing, just Kurt, and the cresting edge of his orgasm.  And it’s not long before he’s arching his own hips, pushing himself deep into Kurt as he comes.  Kurt’s close as well, and he uses his own hand to finish himself off, letting out an ecstatic cry as he comes over the both of them.  

“Was that okay?” Kurt asks, breathing heavily as they both come down.  He brings their foreheads together.  Gone is the teasing, young cheerleader, and present is his wonderful husband.  

“That was amazing,” Blaine says, drawing Kurt in for a kiss.  “I wasn’t too much was I? I know I got a little rough.” 

“No, not at all,” Kurt reassures him.  “You were perfect.”  

“I love you so much, Kurt.”  

“I love you, too.”

[emm-jayy]

unexpected (i)- spencer reid

Summary: Your whole family is killed, and the BAU is on the case

warnings: smut, and mention of throwing up

word count: 4k

series masterlist

gif not mine

Spencer walks into the 6th floor of the FBI building, sporting a cup of coffee he’d gotten by a local shop.

“Hey Reid, what did you do this weekend?” Emily asks, looking up from her desk.

“I went down to the library to read, and then some kids asked me how I finished all the hooks so fast. They wanted me to compete with them on speed reading.” Spencer says, nodding.

“Did any of them beat you?” Emily ask, raising an eyebrow.

“No, of course not.” Spencer replies.

Emily laughs, “Well, we’ve got a case, let’s go.” She says, picking up a file, and walking to the briefing room.

Spencer follows, walking into the briefing room. Most everyone is already there, and Spencer sits down at the round table.

Garcia begins, putting pictures on the screen. “This is the Y/L/N family from Washington . They were killed in their homes last night, via gunshots to the parents, and suffocation with a plastic bag to the son.” Garcia says, “The daughter, Y/n, was living at college not too far away, so she was spared from the crime.” Garcia says.

“That family is low-risk. If the unsub isn’t attached to the family, he could easily pick a new family quickly. Wheels up in 30.” Hotch says, closing the file.

On the jet, the team speculates about the unsub. “Our unsub probably suffocated the boy with little to no noise, and then shot the parents in their bed. Quickly in succession.” Morgan says, looking at the photos.

“That means our unsub probably has some common sense, I say this was premeditated to an extent.” Emily comments.

“Reid and Morgan, I want you at the crime scene. Emily and JJ, work victimology at the precinct. Rossi and I will talk to the daughter.” Hotch says, knowing that the team is landing soon.

Everyone nods, and begins to pack up.

Spencer and Morgan pull on their gloves as they enter the crime scene. They walk into the room where the mother and father were shot.

“The blood splatter is almost exactly the same on both sides. That means that the unsub had no hesitation about killing them both.” Morgan says.

“No remorse either.” Spencer says, “What was the gun the unsub used?” Spencer asks an officer next to him.

“9 millimeter.” The officer replies, “The guy took the gun with him though.”

Spencer nods, and then hears yelling from downstairs, and commotion. He looks toward Morgan, and they rush downstairs.

“You need to let me see them!” You scream, trying to get past the officers near the door.

Morgan puts his hands up, “Wow, wow ma’am. What’s going on?” He asks you.

“You guys have to let me see my family!” You exclaim, wiping tears from your eyes.

“Okay. I’m Agent Morgan, and this is Doctor Reid from the FBI. You’re Y/n right?”

You nod, looking at him hesitantly.

“Now, aren’t you supposed to be down at the station.” Morgan asks.

“FBI? What? Yes, I'm supposed to be down at the station but I needed to see them.” You say, breathless.

“They’re not here. They’ve been moved to the morgue for further analysis.” Morgan says.

“Oh.” You say quietly. “Well he’s a doctor, can’t he take me to them?” You ask, looking at Spencer.

“I’m not that type of Doctor actually. I hold three PhD’s in-” Spencer begins, but Morgan interrupts him. “Not now kid. Can I talk to you for a minute?” Morgan asks Spencer, pulling him aside.

“We don’t have anyone at the morgue right now, do you want to take her?” Morgan asks.

“What?” Spencer asks in a hushed voice. “Why me?”

“You’re closer to her in age, she might give more information then she thinks if you just talk to her.” Morgan says.

Spencer thinks about it, then looks back up, “Okay.” and then walks back up to you.

“I’ll take you to the morgue.” Spencer says. You nod, and follow him out the door.

You sit in the passenger seat, and you look over at Spencer. “Do you have any idea who did this?” You ask.

“We just got on the scene. I have 6 other people on my team, and they are working other parts of the case currently.” Spencer says, looking at the road.

“Well, what do you think?” You ask, crossing your arms.

“It really is too early to tell. But from what i’ve seen I can tell it was premeditated, and that there was no hesitation in killing your parents.” Spencer says, almost regretting the words that were coming out of his mouth. They were almost facts,sure, but he still felt bad.

“Oh. You can tell all of that by just looking at pictures?” You ask.

“Yeah, we’ve studied extensive behaviors. A lot of them are similar. Also, a lot of what i just told you could be figured out by a lot of people, it’s kind of just common sense.” Spencer says, and you nod.

When Spencer pulls into the parking lot, your breaths seem to get heavier.

“Hey.” Spencer says. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“No.” You shake your head, “I need to.” You say, taking a breath.

“Alright.” Spencer says, pushing the door open for you.

The M.E pulls the bodies out of the cold chamber, and pulls back the sheets.

You gasp, putting a hand over your mouth. Spencer attempts to be sympathetic, and puts a hand on your shoulder.

“Maybe I should drive you back to the station.” Spencer says quietly. You nod, tears slowly falling down your face.

“Come on.” He says, leading you out the door.

The car ride back is mostly filled with silence, until Spencer breaks it.

“Is there anyone you can think of who would do this to your family?” He asks.

“No. Everyone adored them. If anything I was the problem child.” You mutter.

“Hey, don’t say that.” Spencer says, furrowing his eyebrows.

You laugh at the pity he’s giving you, “It’s true.”

Spencer doesn’t answer, and eventually, he pulls into the station.

“Some other people on my team have to question you.” Spencer says, putting the car into park.

“Okay.” You say, unbuckling your seatbelt.

You and Spencer walk into the station, and head to the bullpen.

“Reid! Where the hell have you been with her?” Rossi asks whenever you two walk into the bullpen.

“She showed up at the crime scene, demanding to see her family. I took her to the morgue so she would maybe answer some questions. Nothing too helpful.” Spencer says, quietly so only Rossi can hear.

He nods, and then takes you aside for some light questioning.

He walks over to where the rest of the team is, around a bulletin board.

“Do you guys have any leads?” Spencer asks, standing near the board.

“We think the unsub is a psychopath. I’ve never seen anyone kill with less hesitation or remorse.” Emily says, and Spencer nods.

“I forgot to ask. Were there signs of forced entry?” Spencer asks, and the team shakes their heads.

Spencer walks over to the room they had you in, and walks to Hotch, who’s observing.

“Have you asked her if the family would lock their doors at night?” Spencer asks Hotch.

“Yes. She said they usually didn’t since they lived in a good neighborhood.” Hotch replies.

Spencer shakes his head, sighing, and then walks back over to the board.

Around 30 minutes pass, and then you’re let out of the room.

It was a little past nine at this point, and everyone had been working tirelessly.

“Doctor Reid?” Spencer heard a voice call, and he turned around.

“Yeah?” He said, facing you.

“Do you think you could drive me back to my hotel room. I don’t have a car.” You say, innocent eyes boring into his own.

Spencer turns toward the team, and Morgan speaks up, “Go ahead kid. We need to sleep on this anyway.”

Spencer nods, grabbing his bag and coat, following you out the door.

“Why not have an officer take you to your room?” He asks, after driving for a bit, genuinely curious.

Your answer was hesitant, “I don’t know, I think I feel more comfortable with you.”

“Hm.” Spencer answers, a small smile forming on his face.

Spencer pulls into the parking lot of the pretty nice hotel. He unbuckled his seatbelt, and was going to open the door.

“What are you doing?” You ask, looking at him.

“I’m making sure you get up to your room safe. What type of FBI agent would I be if i didn’t do that?” He asks, a smile on his face. You laugh lightly.

Spencer follows you from the lobby, in the elevator, and to the door of your room.

You unlock it, and he steps inside.

Spencer takes in your bag, thrown on the bed. It was obvious you went straight from here to your home.

“Okay well it seems like you got here safe. I should be go-” Spencer is interrupted by your lips on his.

The kiss was over as soon as it began, giving Spencer almost no time to process what just happened.

“How old are you again?” is all Spencer had to say. He knew how old you are, he had an eidetic memory. He just wanted you to hear it.

“22.” You said, looking at your feet.

Spencer knew it was wrong, your family had just died. It would get him in so much trouble. But the adrenaline rush of the trouble he might get in, and the fact that your tits looked so good in that low cut shirt you were wearing. Fuck.

“I’m sorry Doctor Reid.” You say quietly.

He pushes your chin up with his finger, and leans towards your ear. “It’s Spencer.” He says, and then crashes his lips to yours.

Spencer walks forward, moving you towards the bed. He pushes your bag off, and lays you down on the edge of the bed.

Spencer shoves your shirt up, marveling at your perfect breasts. He licks one over the material, and a low moan comes from you.

“Is this okay princess?” Spencer asks you, and you nod very urgently.

Spencer takes your shirt all the way off, his following. He unclips your bra, taking one of your nipples in his mouth.

You moan, pulling on his hair. Spencer trails back up, kissing from the swell of your breast to your earlobe.

You try to unbutton your jeans, but Spencer’s hand stops you, “Patience, darling.” He says, and finishes unbuttoning them for you.

Spencer feels the wet spot in your underwear. “Are you this wet for me?” He asks, whispering in your ear.

You moan out a yes, and then he unbuckles his pants, sliding them off.

He climbs on top of you, and grinds against your clothed pussy. You both groan at the friction.

“No foreplay.” You say, “I can’t wait.”

Spencer nods, and then groans, “Fuck, I don’t have a condom.”

“I’m on the pill, and I'm clean.” You reply.

“Thank god, I’m clean too.” Spencer sighs in relief, “Now. Turn over sweetness.” He says to you, and you comply.

Spencer slides off your underwear, and takes off his boxers. He slides his cock up and down your slit, until you arch your back, whining for him to slide it in.

Finally, Spencer does. Eliciting a high moan from you, and a low groan from him.

He lets you adjust to his size for a moment, and then begins to thrust.

You grab onto the sheets, and Spencer’s hands are glued to your ass, pushing you back onto his cock.

One hand of Spencer’s drifts to your hair, pulling you up by it slightly. The slight pain causes your walls to clench, making Spencer groan.

“Fuck. Good girl” Spencer mutters between thrusts, “Gonna make me come.”

Spencer reaches a hand around your hips, and begins to rub your clit.

“Fuck. I’m close.” You say breathlessly.

“Me too pretty girl. Let go for me.” Spencer says, and you do exactly that. You yell Spencer’s name as you come

In the midst of your orgasm, you feel Spencer spill inside of you.

You feel Spencer fall beside you, mind still hazy from your orgasm.

You lay on his chest, just reveling in the experience for a few minutes.

After those few minutes of bliss though, Spencer knows what he has to do. He sighs.

“I hate to do this.” He says, truly meaning it, “But I have to leave. I could get in so much trouble for this.” He says.

Spencer expects a look of hurt on your face, and it shows up, “It was worth it sweetness,” He says, running his hand down your face, “I promise. Here, put your number in my phone. I’ll text you updates on the case.” He says, handing you his phone.

You do what he asks, bringing the sheet up to cover your body.

“As soon as the case is over, we can be together all we want. But right now it would be a conflict of interest, and I really want to bring your family’s killer to justice.” Spencer explains to you.

You nod, and Spencer kisses you once again, passionately.

Spencer slowly gets dressed, not really wanting to leave. When he’s ready, he gives you another kiss, smiling down at you.

“I’ll see you later Y/n.” Spencer says.

It’s close to 11 whenever Spencer gets to the hotel the team is staying at.

Morgan is still in the lobby, sitting with Emily. “What took you so long, man?” Morgan asks Spencer.

“Uh, Y/n was scared to stay in her room alone. I had to stay there for a bit to reassure her. I think that’s why she wanted me to take her, more safe than a beat cop I guess.” Spencer says, the lies coming out of his mouth so easily.

“Alright kid, go get some sleep. You look tired.” Morgan says, gesturing to his eye bags.

Spencer nods, heading up to his room. He was tired, but from something completely different than Morgan thought.

Spencer takes a quick shower, something he wished he could’ve done at your hotel.

He throws on a caltech shirt and shorts, and falls onto the hotel bed.

~

Spencer awakes to knocking on his door. He checks his phone, 5:34 AM. He groans, and stumbles towards the door.

He opens it, rubbing his eyes, and sees Morgan.

“There’s been another family murder, same M.O. The son was suffocated and the parents killed in their beds.” Morgan says quickly.

Spencer nods, “I’ll be down as soon as I can.” He says, becoming pretty awake almost instantly.

He closes the door, and turns on the lamp. Spencer grabs his phone, and texts you. He assumes you’re asleep, but you’ll see it when you wake up.

“There’s been another family murder.” Spencer types to you, and then begins to get dressed.

He rides in the SUV with Morgan, Rossi, and JJ. “This was the Miller family, right?” Spencer asks, looking on his tablet.

“Yeah, and they only had a son, no daughter off at college. I think we can assume the unsub hasn’t been watching these family’s all that long.” Morgan says, Spencer nods.

The team shows up at the crime scene, pulling on their gloves. Spencer heads up to the parent’s room with Emily.

“God. No hesitation again. Or struggle.” Emily says, shaking her head.

“Do we think the unsub has a socioeconomic motive?” Spencer asks, “Both the family’s have been pretty well off, maybe he resents that.”

Emily nods, taking in that information.

The team finishes getting information at the crime scene, and then they head back to the station to attempt to deliver the profile after discussion.

“My thing is, why does the unsub use such a quiet method with the first victim, and then shoots the others?” JJ asks.

“It’s possible the unsub knows he couldn’t fight off that many people at once.” Spencer says, “He takes out one victim rooms away, and then kills them in succession because he can’t fend any of them off if they were awake.”

“So do you think our unsub is a short skinny guy?” Emily asks, and Spencer nods.

As everyone else is discussing, Spencer pulls out his phone.

“We are going to deliver the profile soon if you want to come down here.” Spencer texted. It was around 9, surely you’d be awake.

A response from you follows quickly after, “On my way.”

Spencer puts his phone back in his bag, and listens to everyone else put in their ideas. About 20 minutes later, Hotch says, “I think we’re ready to give the profile.”

“Our unsub is a male in his late 20s to early 30s” Morgan starts.

“We believe him to be short and scrawny, someone you wouldn’t think to commit a crime.” JJ says.

“We have reason to believe that he either grew up poor, and that’s why he resents the well off. Or he grew up middle class, and he resents his own family.” Hotch explains.

“Either way. We are looking at someone very dangerous. The unsub hasn't shown any remorse or hesitation in these murders. We believe him to be a functioning psychopath.” Emily says.

“Functioning psychopaths are someone you’d never expect.” Spencer begins, “They seem genuine, but you might be able to pick up on slightly manipulative behaviors.”

“That’s all we have for right now. We will alert you if we have anything more.” Rossi says, and the officers and detectives around them disband.

Spencer is collecting his things, when he feels someone behind him. There you are, a look of anger on your face.

“What the hell was that? I know like a hundred guys with that description you just gave.” You say, crossing your arms.

“That’s just something we use to get started. We will work more to narrow it down.” Spencer explains.

“Reid.” Hotch says, “What is she doing here?” He asks.

“I just wanted to be here. It’s not like I have anything else to do.” You grumble.

Spencer gives Hotch a look, like he really feels bad for you. Hotch nods, and walks away.

“Hey. Let’s go talk in private.” Spencer says. He takes you into an abandoned office, and closes the door.

As soon as the door is closed, your lips are on his. When Spencer smiles against your lips, you pull away. Spencer laughs slightly, “Not here princess.” He says.

You pout, giving him puppy dog eyes. Spencer can’t resist, you just look so damn perfect. He once again smashes his lips against yours, his hands drifting to your breasts.

He squeezes them, and you let out a breathy moan, “Be quiet for me princess.” He says softly, unbuttoning your pants.

“This is okay right?” Spencer asks against your lips, and you breathe a yes.

Spencer’s hands drifts down to your clit, rubbing soft circles on it. He spins you around, to where your back is pressed against the door.

Spencer’s middle finger slides down to your entrance, and he eases his finger into you. You let out a moan when he curves his fingers, and Spencer’s hand is immediately on your mouth.

He slides another finger into your heat, and thrusts them as best as he could without your pants being off.

He moves his hand from your mouth, and replaces it with his lips. You kiss for a little bit, until the pleasure becomes too much for you. You move your head down, and bite Spencer’s shoulder to keep you from moaning.

“Fuck.” Spencer says, rubbing your clit with his thumb.

He feels you clench around him, and he knows you’re close. “Cmon baby, come on my fingers.” He says softly.

You do just that, and let out a soft moan, muffled by Spencer’s shirt.

After you come down from you high, Spencer pulls his hand out of your pants. You giggle, embarrassed at what you just did.

“Do I look like I just came?” You say, fixing your hair.

Spencer laughs, running a hand down your face. “No sweetness.” He says, “Whenever we walk out, I’m going to pretend like we are having a conversation.” He tells you, and you nod.

He opens the door, and begins to speak. “I’m sorry Y/n, but you can’t be around here anymore, I’ll call you an uber back to your hotel.” Spencer pulls out his phone.

He glances up at you, and he sees the fake annoyed face you put on. He smiles slightly, setting up the uber.

“It should be here soon, go wait outside.” Spencer tells you, and you comply.

“Damn Reid. What was she asking you for in there?” Morgan asks, and Spencer shrugs him off.

There was nothing more to do that day except wait. They were waiting for lab reports and things, so everyone was working on their own thing.

~

Two hours later, the captain gets a call in his office. Spencer sees the captains face change, and Spencer knows something is wrong.

The captain comes out of his office, luckily the whole team is there.

“We have another family murder, and witnesses say that there was someone in a dark blue hoodie getting away by foot.” He says.

“I need everyone in their gear in 2 minutes.” Hotch says, “I want Reid, Morgan, Prentiss and Rossi driving around the area of the crime. The unsub couldn’t have gotten far.”

Everyone nods, and gets ready as soon as possible.

3 minutes later, everyone is in the SUV with vests on.

Morgan is driving, and turns the sirens on. The area around the house of the crime is basically a circle, so they begin to drive around it.

“Since we know this unsub is intelligent, they would probably head towards the city, a more populated area means it's harder to get caught.” Spencer says from the backseat. Morgan nods, heading in that direction.

After driving in that general area for a bit, Morgan slams his hand on the wheel, turning off his lights.

“This is pointless.” He sighs.

And just then, Spencer sees a figure slips out from the bushes beside a house.They were wearing a blue hoodie and jeans.

They began to move down the sidewalk, at a slightly faster pace than a walk.

Spencer waves his hand, “Morgan!” He says, pointing at the house about 200 feet down.

The whole team automatically opens their doors, rushing over to the unsub.

They all draw their guns, and Morgan yells, “Put your hands up or I will shoot.”

The person slowly puts their hands up, shaking their head.

“Now put your hands on your head, and turn around.” Morgan yells, and the figure begins to turn around.

“Took you long enough.” The person says as they turn around. The voice. Spencer can almost match it. Then, the figure turns around completely.

You.

You have a smirk on your face, looking at Spencer. “What?” You ask, “You weren’t expecting me, Doctor Reid?”

It all made sense to him now. He had given you his number, and he was texting you updates. You had inserted yourself into the investigation to the extreme. A functioning psychopath, and Spencer didn’t notice.

Spencer’s mouth is open, and he can’t even reply to you.

“Yeah Hotch, we got her.” He hears Emily say into her comm.

Spencer has to walk over to the side of the pavement, and he retches. Rossi comes up behind him, “Kid? What’s the matter?” Spencer can’t even respond.

He stands back up, trying to look at you, but he can’t.

“Call me!” You say, to Spencer as you are forced into the car. “Oh wait. I’m the one who gets the one phone call.” You laugh.

~

@1800-fight-me @rachel-rebellio @itsarayofsunshine @cupcake525 @soupmakesmynoserun @elizabethkaylynn @drspencr @mattgraygubler @nanocoool @reid-187 @darling-doll9 @disney-dreams-world @myfavbau @softpeteparker @chaoticsteverogers @throughparisallthroughrome @whollytaciturn @imsuperawkward @pinkprincenamjoon @pprettyboyreid @reidswords

[forasecondtherewedwon]

With Zero Power

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E Word Count: 3382

For @spiderman-homecomeme, with the following prompts:

winter power outage

holiday smut

“I can think of one way to warm you up.”

Summary: Peter and MJ return from skating to find their apartment not quite how they left it. Between the warm fuzzies of the evening they've spent together and the holidays right around the corner, it isn't hard to find a little romance in the situation.

“I’m not saying it wasn’t beautiful,” MJ insists, “but think how much lighting a tree that size costs. With the number of homeless slowly starving in this city? With the number of children below the poverty line who are going to school in this weather—” The arm she waves is instantly layered in thick, wet snowflakes that glisten as they pass beneath a streetlight. “—without winter coats and boots?”

“With the number of college students trying to make rent with only their girlfriend to live with because their three previous roommates staged a mutiny and forced the couple out because the volume of their nighttime activities was, quote, ‘obnoxiously loud and unprecedentedly lengthy’?”

She sighs in exasperation.

“I’m making a point.”

“I agree with your point,” Peter says. “Completely. I already told May I’m volunteering with her all next weekend, and I’ll call Pepper tomorrow to see where she’s committed Stark Industries’ holiday donations.”

“And ask her to triple the amount.”

“I can suggest it,” he laughs, “but I’m not her financial advisor.”

“Mmm you should be though,” MJ says, shifting from holding his gloved hand to pulling his arm around her. “You’re so sexy when you’re redistributing the amassed wealth of a late billionaire.”

There are icy crystals glimmering in her eyelashes. She’s beautiful. He could walk the borough with her all night, live in a loop where they’ve always just disembarked from a late bus, disoriented to step from its stark light into the soft glow of the snow on sidewalks that aren’t cleared with the same diligence as they are in Manhattan, around Rockefeller Center, where they’ve spent the evening skating. That would be a nice life—tonight, with her, forever.

Peter halts them for a moment and wraps his other arm around her too, pulling his girlfriend in to kiss her. He sways them as he does it, smiling against her mouth, her cold nose pressed into his cheek.

“Did you have a good time though?” he asks. MJ nods and her face rubs against his.

“My rental skates were a little tight, but I did wear two pairs of socks, so it’s kinda my fault.”

He has a new pair of skates for her, exactly the right size, but they’re wrapped in red paper featuring dogs with candy cane antlers, waiting to be snuck beneath her tiny artificial tree on Christmas morning. A totally outrageous gift—figure skates in immaculate white leather, like she wears in the pictures he’s seen of her at childhood skating lessons—but he hates it when all his money goes to rent. This might finally be the gift to make her cry. He’s cracked the bottle that stores his girlfriend’s tenderest feelings before, making her eyes shine the winter he knit her a terrible, uneven scarf (she’s wearing it now), and he’s certain the skates will be the thing she really loves. She’ll cry with joy, she’ll say they’re too much, he’ll carry her from the little tree to bed and keep her there until she’s begging for more instead of less. The thought makes Peter grin now.

“Take a bath when we get home. Your feet will feel better.”

“They’d feel better if you carried me,” MJ suggests slyly.

But she screeches when he jerks her against him and, in the relative darkness of their street, looses a web, swinging them both into the air. They pretend it’s still a secret how much she’s grown to love the sensation of sailing through the night with him. What Peter is far from secretive about is how much he loves the way she clings to him, trying not to feel too guilty when he remembers he should attribute some portion of her grip to the time he dropped her. Ah well, it’s in the past. His girlfriend’s laughing shakily as he lands them on the roof of their building and crawls deftly down the wall to the fire escape.

“Cute,” she says, shivering with the aftereffects of cold winter air whipping around her face. The tone is both complimentary and accusatory. “But we have to climb down now, unless…”

MJ’s eyes narrow.

“I… might’ve left the window unlocked?” he asks, because asking implies someone else has the answer, that there is a buck to be passed, as much as he would simultaneously like to hang on to any spare bucks during this expensive season.

“Peter, you can’t do that. You know break-ins are more frequent during the holidays.”

“Yeah,” he allows, edging the window open, “but who’s gonna climb up to the twenty-second floor to try to get through our window?”

He dives inside, then helps her through. The proof that she had a good time tonight is that she lets the window thing drop. Peter shuts and locks the window as loudly as possible behind them.

“Didn’t we leave a light on?” she asks.

“I’m not—”

“When I say that,” MJ cuts him off, dropping her voice to a hiss, “I mean I know I left a light on.”

Instantly, he’s stepping around her, keeping his arm out to hold her behind him. She has a bad habit of going rogue in dangerous situations. More likely than not, she’d grab a kitchen knife and end up stabbing him by accident as they checked every room for intruders. Safer for him to lead.

But it’s not a break-in.

“It’s cold in here,” he realizes.

As they moved through the small number of rooms that make up their hideously overpriced apartment, they left the lights off. Now, MJ smacks at the closest wall switch. Nothing happens.

“Aw, come on,” Peter begs the overhead light. He tries a lamp. Click-click, click-click. Nothin’. “Man!”

“Fucking Rockefeller Christmas tree,” his girlfriend accuses, though it’s not possible that even an energy-suck of that size could drain their building, way out in Queens. “I’m not having a bath now. I’ll be freezing when I get out.”

“Ok. Let’s get some candles first.” Peter starts to walk away from her, down the hall. “MJ, where are the candles?”

With his enhanced vision, he can see her well enough to catch the eyeroll. Fair.

By the time they have a dozen candles lit, it smells like every holiday scent at once. Vanilla smudges cloyingly across the sharper sweetness of candied orange peel, the heaviness of pine battles the richness of milk chocolate, and the cinnamon that seems to have been included in every candle is giving Peter a headache until they agree to space their light sources out. The room is darker with the candles far apart, but the smell is bearable. He also doesn’t mind how the flames catch in MJ’s eyes when she blinks, how a streak of gold will dart across her throat when she turns her head to watch him watching her.

Peter’s mouth is dry when he stammers out, “Y-you look incredible,” like they’re sixteen again and he’s got his gaze fixed on her legs because it’s 90° and she very reasonably wore shorts to school.

“How I feel is cold,” she admits with a small smile. She stirs under the blanket that’s draped across both of them. He strokes her shoulder over her wool cardigan. “I really was looking forward to that bath.”

And because the way she says it sounds nothing like how a person might casually look forward to anything, Peter swells a little in his jeans and shifts his legs closer to hers.

“Were you?” he asks.

MJ’s gaze goes from his mouth to his eyes as she smirks subtly. She knows she’s got him. When does she not have him? The complaints of their former roommates were undeniably valid. It’s a miracle he and MJ accomplished enough in undergrad to even get accepted into grad school. If she hadn’t been the responsible one, he would’ve been pretty damn content to spend those four years in bed with her.

Innocently, she rests her head on his shoulder. He swallows thickly.

“Mhmm. I was looking forward to getting out of my cold clothes. I was looking forward to grabbing a big, thick—” She grips his thigh suddenly. “—towel from the closet to wrap myself in when I was done. I was looking forward to using my cranberry bodywash in the tub. That one smells really good, right?”

Peter nods because forming a sentence in this moment is beyond him.

“And it foams up really well,” MJ continues, tilting her face, passing her lips lightly across his earlobe. He’s hard. He’s so fucking hard so quickly. “So, I was looking forward to popping those bubbles when I ran my hands all over my body to work it in.”

“Fuck,” Peter groans. He digs his fingers into her waist, through the sweater, blood pulsing in his groin.

She shrugs, abruptly nonchalant.

“Mostly, I was just looking forward to being warm.”

“I can think of one way to warm you up,” he pledges.

Trust me, he mentally urges. Right now. Trust me like you trusted me to keep you on your feet on the rink when your legs wouldn’t remember how to skate right away.

“Good, because I need you.”

“Say it again?” Peter requests, hand on the back of her head as she raises it from his shoulder.

“I need you, Peter.”

MJ’s hand jumps from his thigh straight into his lap and squeezes him through his jeans. He crushes their mouths together, the two of them breathing in hot pants like they can warm each other that way. Making to move over her, he’s pushed back instead, winded from more than the shove as his girlfriend straddles him with the practiced efficiency of a quickie before Spidey patrol or as an incentive between study breaks. When she rolls her hips against his… shit, she might observe Christmas on the 25th, but the friction of her grinding on his dick is the only Christmas he’ll ever need to celebrate. He plunges both hands deep into her hair to seal their mouths together and slumps into the couch, offering maximum opportunity for her to rock that beloved place between her legs along his erection. He’s already feeling warmer.

“No,” she yelps when he tries to push her sweater off. She snatches it back on and pulls the blanket up over her shoulders. “I’m still cold.”

“Ok. Let’s work on that.”

Peter tilts his chin up in invitation and repositions his hands on MJ’s ass. When she kisses him in a slow brush, he begins forcing her back and forth over his lap. He groans into her mouth to feel her angle her hips just right and shiver. Not letting her back down, he grips her and drags her across his erection repeatedly, until she can’t kiss him anymore, until her forehead’s pressed hard to his and she’s hissing his name. The oscillation of her hips in his hands is hypnotic, even with his eyes closed. He’s groaning and trying to hold back, having a hard time concentrating on an idea of what to do next to get his girlfriend off before he reaches that point himself. He wants her warm skin against his when he sinks inside her, not a sudden gush in his jeans.

Still grinding, MJ sits up straighter. She doesn’t take her sweater off, but she pulls down the front of the camisole she wears under it and tucks the material below her bared breasts. Peter’s happy to enjoy the visual while he rubs her over his dick, but she grips the back of his neck and compels his head forward.

“What do you want exactly?” he teases. “I’m a little confused.”

Eye narrowed down at him as she pants, MJ plucks one of his hands from her ass and guides it up to her face. It fucks him up pretty good when she folds down all but two of his fingers, sliding those into her mouth; she sucks with that almost-angry gaze locked on him before bringing his wet fingers down to circle her nipple.

“Ok, ok,” Peter says desperately.

“Just helping.”

A laugh pops out of his mouth, but then he touches his lips to her breast, kissing lightly as she sways. Her hand twitches on the back of his neck. Ok, he thinks again, pulling her nipple between his teeth. MJ moans blissfully and heat floods both Peter’s face and his groin. He jerks roughly against her and clutches her body close when she comes, cradling his face to her chest. There’s still something of the briskness of their walk home to her smell as he inhales against her skin, but also wool and the smoke that’s clung to her after lighting the candles. Her scent is rich. He feels rich, with his arms wrapped around her.

She shimmies her shoulders and the blanket drops. When she slips out of her sweater, Peter rushes to tear his hoodie (and the t-shirt caught up with it) off. MJ halts him in the act of flinging them away; right, candles. Gotta aim for a spot where he won’t start a fire. He unbuttons and unzips his jeans as quickly as he can, gasping in relief at the sudden extra room for the erection bulging beneath his boxers. His plan, as he hooks his thumbs into his waistband, is to yank his clothes down only as far as necessary, then guide MJ back on top of him as soon as she’s out of her sweatpants and pick up where they left off with her first orgasm. But, bottomless, his girlfriend settles on his lap before he’s ready. She shuffles forward, rubbing herself against him, making his boxers damp. Peter closes his eyes as they roll back. His hands skim blindly up her arms to fiddle with the slipping straps of the camisole she still wears—if the way it’s clinging to her from only below her breasts to her navel can be called ‘wearing’.

She kisses his cheek.

“Peter.”

He opens his eyes and watches her tilt her head to speak quietly near his ear. Candlelight seeps over and through her hair. He kisses where it pools on her naked shoulder and her soft breaths form words.

“I want you to bend me over.”

Peter turns his head and groans into MJ’s neck.

Running her fingers through his hair, she asks, “Is that a yes?”

“’Chelle, you say, ‘jump,’ I ask, ‘how high?’” he promises.

He whips a condom out of his pocket. She draws back and smirks at him, eyebrows raised.

“And how did that get in there?”

“I might’ve grabbed it while I was looking for the matches.” When his girlfriend continues to stare at him, he adds, “It’s dark! You were lighting candles! I dunno, MJ, it seemed kinda romantic. Why are you still looking at me like that?”

“You’re cute when you babble.”

“Stop talking,” Peter interprets with a sheepish smile. “Got it.”

She climbs off of him and stuffs the blanket into the corner of the couch while he stands and whisks his jeans and boxers down his legs. He almost trips peeling his socks off because MJ waggles her bare ass at him very unfairly.

“Come on, I’m getting cold.”

“I’m—” he starts, struggling with the condom. “I am… I’m going as fast as… there!”

Peter bounds onto the couch and catches MJ’s face in his hand, kissing her lovingly. Then desperately. Then sloppily pulling away to sneak a hand under the back of her top and press her down until her elbows rest on the arm of the couch. Taking a deep breath, he strokes his other hand from the back of her neck all the way to her ass. This is kinda hot with her shirt still on. He’s glad that, for as much as they discuss and debate things like the misuse of municipal funds on holiday decorations, they’re still in their hasty days. Still young, still eager. He grips himself and flexes his fingers as he traces the head of his dick through MJ’s arousal.

“Getting cold,” she repeats.

“Spider-Man is here to help, ma’am,” he jokes, pushing inside her.

Fuck. Peter works his hips gently forward and back, building up to plunging deeper the same way he tiptoes out into the water when they visit the beach too early in the year. But this isn’t like the chilly springtime ocean because she’s warm as she takes him—so, so warm.

“Uh, MJ? Baby? Sweetheart? I thought you said you were cold,” he grits out.

She presses back against him as he finally thrusts all the way in.

“I always keep the home fires burning for you.”

“Well, that was raunchy. You’ve been living with me too long.”

“How could I ever move out with perks like a December power outage?”

Grinning, Peter begins a loose swing of his hips, gazing down MJ’s back at the shadows and light sliding over the rounded edges of her neck, her shoulder blade, her ear as she tips her head to let her hair hang to the side. When her low moans start, he repositions his knees on the couch cushions and digs in with his toes. The wet smack of driving into her is loud in their little sanctuary. He takes her by the hips as she bows her head to her crossed forearms, moving faster, gliding in and out with more grace than he has when navigating an ice rink with skate blades on his feet. MJ spreads her legs wider and drops her head even lower. She is graceful, with the steep slope of her back that Peter can’t resist pressing a hand to. At his touch, she bends even further and he chokes on an already raspy inhalation.

“Faster, Peter,” she requests.

Not loud, not demanding. She knows he can hear her because he’s always listening for her voice. It coaxes him onward from beneath the urgent slap of his thrusts.

He hunches over her, wrapping one arm around her waist as they buck together, his other hand diving between her legs. She’s soaked and her hips are jumping in time with his, so it’s hard to keep his fingers on her swollen clit. Suddenly, MJ has her hand over his, directing his fingers. Reality grows hazy as pleasure creeps into his thighs and trickles invisibly down his stomach, like the phantom touch of his girlfriend beneath him. Peter squints against the light of their candles and so much feeling, flicking his fingers over the sensitive nub that has MJ’s legs quivering. He kisses her spine and scrapes the edge of her camisole with his teeth. She’s shaking too hard to thrust back. Groaning, Peter bucks in a quick burst, holding her body up as she threatens to slump flat.

“You warm yet?” he huffs. “Show me you’re warm.”

“Peter… almost.”

Abruptly, he sits back on his heels, hauling MJ with him. Sweating now, Peter bounces her on his lap. His hands squeeze the smooth skin of her hips. She gasps before moaning deeply and reaching up to wrap an arm behind his neck, arching against him.

“God,” he mutters, looking down over her shoulder to watch the jiggle of her breasts and the tension of her stomach, “I already want you again.”

Because of his words, or his hands, or his cock slamming up into her, she climaxes, clenching around him and stuttering over his name. Peter buries his nose in her hair to avoid the overpowering scent of the candles as his senses sharpen to the finest point; he’s learned this only happens when he’s lost in either the pain of a grave injury or the satisfaction of releasing into MJ. He pulses, hips snapping, hugging her against his chest, flushed with warmth from the top of his ears to where his toes grip the couch.

“Bath?” Peter pants in her ear, dick still twitching inside her. “I swear I won’t let you get cold.”

Just like that, the overhead light and the lamp on the end table blink on. Huh. Power’s back.

“Or maybe you don’t need me to,” he says.

MJ turns her head and kisses the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t be stupid. I’ll grab the candles. You hit the lights.”

[the-odd-job]

Harem AU Chapter 17 - Fated to Suffer

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Category: Other Fandom: Transformers Relationships: Megatron/Sideswipe, Megatron/Sunstreaker, Soundwave/Sunstreaker Characters: Megatron, Soundwave, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Starscream, Motormaster, Onslaught, Vortex, Knock Out, Undisclosed Characters Additional Tags: Rape, Dubcon, Sticky, Oral, Injury Through Sex, Coercion Words: 11177

( Previous )

For all there had only been one dinner during their time here that they ever became aware of, it wasn’t long after their first one that another one was announced.

The twins were, again, chosen for it, except this time Starscream informed them they’d function as servers. And… That was not a welcome thought. They’d seen what had happened to the servers at the last dinner. Their assignment as entertainers had protected them that time.

This time?

Sunstreaker was grinding his denta when Starscream marched off after letting them know of the whole thing. Sideswipe… Had dropped his helm into his servos and was rather resolutely staring at the floor. They sat side by side in the entertainment room, once again, Sunstreaker with his art pad in his hold. Sideswipe had been watching some action movie, but that sort of lost its appeal when gnawing anxiety started to devour their spark. Sunstreaker tried to soothe it away, but that wasn’t… Working very well.

How was it going to work when they were both dreading the whole thing, already? A week away, Starscream had said. 

Get ready, he’d said. 

Did he mean just for holding trays with steady servos, or… More than that?

They were never going to forget their arrival here, and… Pits, they were Megatron’s, weren’t they? So chances were no one else would touch them, right? Did Megatron share beyond Soundwave? They hadn’t seen him do so before, but it was evident there were still things to this life that they hadn’t experienced and weren’t in the know of.

But even if Megatron wouldn’t let anyone else ‘face them, there was a decent chance Megatron himself would. While his court would be present, if the last dinner was how it usually went attendance wise.

And that had happened before. That had happened before and fragging pits but it still remained one of the worst experiences of their life, no matter how Megatron had piled many other extremely bad experiences right on top of that. But there was… Something, to the presence of so many others that shamelessly enjoyed the show and egged each other on. The harem’s orgies were one thing. Those were mostly composed of the mates, and for everything Megatron’s other mates were, they weren’t… Malicious.

Megatron’s court, though? Definitely was. They’d experienced that well enough, and slaggit, they weren’t such newcomers anymore. They more or less did as Megatron wanted them to, but when dumped in the middle of so many mecha that had apparently never heard of morals… Would that matter, or would the others drive Megatron right back into the kind of senseless cruelty where how well they obeyed him would make no difference? 

Was that according to Megatron’s character, though? Their first time… The circumstances were a bit special that time, weren’t they? They’d been brought in as playthings, that someone likely would have claimed if Megatron hadn’t.

It was probably for the best that they hadn’t gotten disregarded as potential mates by everyone—if they had, would they have gotten disposed of right there? Or turned into public servants, the very fate even the other mates feared?

...That was besides the point. Point was they weren’t playthings anymore, they were mates. Megatron’s mates, and the tyrant had gone to lengths to… What? Teach them their new role, while claiming all the while that it would get better and be easier if they only did as they were told and submitted? 

He would contradict himself if he would only go back to hurting them for no reason other than he could—and somehow they’d gotten the impression Megatron wasn’t a liar, as much as they couldn’t confirm that.

Except… Had that ever been his only reason? Was it rather, from the very beginning, to show them their place? Show they were helpless, powerless, that resistance was futile, that it all was inevitable and there was nothing they could do to fight it? That was the lesson Megatron had gone on to hammer into their heads and spark, but wasn’t their first meeting with him where it all had started? Oh, no doubt Megatron just liked hurting others, too, but… Would he be giving the mech too much credit if he thought the tyrant always had a motivation beyond just sheer sadism?

If that was true, if Megatron always required a reason, would they escape the dinner without anything too outlandish if they just behaved themselves? It would be bad enough if they were ‘faced then and there, in front of all the rest of the court that had done the very same thing to them and would no doubt enjoy what they saw, but… It would be so much worse if Megatron added his special brand of torture to it all. 

They didn’t need to show the others how they were disciplined. Would the court hoot and holler, encourage Megatron to remind them of their place?

Would Megatron listen?

Sideswipe turned his helm just enough to look at him and Sunstreaker reached to pull him against his side entirely. He didn’t give a damn the other mates saw. Let the fraggers see they needed the comfort from each other, that they thought there was a reason to be a bit upset and concerned over this. 

Let them see, even if they’d only react with confusion. Why were the twins upset? What was so bad about it?

What was so bad about any of what they went through here? Wasn’t that how the sentiment always went?

Sideswipe leaned against him and Sunstreaker wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and… Then they sat. The entertainment room remained lively around them, the others paying absolutely no mind to the change in them. Did they even notice, or did they simply choose to ignore it? He didn’t know.

A week. That was how much time they’d have with their trepidation before they would ever get to the actual cause of it. A week of growing anxiety, if Sunstreaker could predict anything. 

He would’ve rather had it over and done with right away.

“How should we even get ready for it?” Sideswipe grumbled. Sunstreaker couldn’t see his expression, but knew it to be a disgruntled pout—there to hide the fact Sideswipe rather wanted to cry over the possibilities of what they’d face. It would’ve been better if they’d been able to just not worry about it beforehand, but that so wasn’t happening.

“Probably ask Skywarp for tips,” Sunstreaker muttered back. Skywarp, and any other mates that might be willing to share… Whatever would be useful. Not so much regarding the interfacing, but again, if things went at all like they had during the last dinner, they would need to actually function as servers before things potentially went to shit.

And, frankly, they had no idea what that entailed.

“...Do that now?” Sideswipe asked. He didn’t really feel like going back to his movie, and the sooner they got themselves informed of their exact task, the less time they’d need to spend being anxious over that aspect of the whole thing.

And the more processing power they could devote to being anxious over all the rest.

Sunstreaker nodded, but after a glance around the entertainment room he frowned. “Where is he, anyway?” As often as Skywarp was found in the particular room, he… No, even on a second pass, the flier’s recognizable wings weren’t around.

“Let’s go look,” Sideswipe said, extracting himself from Sunstreaker’s partial embrace and getting on his pedes. Sunstreaker took hold of the servo that was offered to him and Sideswipe pulled him upright as well.

Berthroom, first. Sunstreaker wanted to deposit his art tablet to the safety of his trunk anyway, and that was as good a place as any to start their search. Not that there were that many places to hide in the harem wing. As spacious as it was, at the end of the day it was composed of only a handful of rooms. Unless Skywarp wasn’t in the harem wing at all, their search would be quickly over no matter what.

They crossed the hallway into the berthroom, but Skywarp wasn’t there. Sideswipe hung in the doorway while Sunstreaker swiftly walked over to their cots, ignored the couple of pairs in the midst of some rather heated interfacing, stored his tablet, and returned to his brother. They set down the hallway, peeking into the entertainment room as they passed it to make sure Skywarp hadn’t moved there, continuing on to do the same to the washracks when the Seeker wasn’t present—he also wasn’t in the washracks.

They didn’t need to look any further than the dining hall, though. A glance into the room revealed Skywarp in the middle of a small group of mates, laughing along to whatever joke or fun story was being told. He glanced up when the twins entered the room, waving a cheery greeting when he noticed them. 

Always so cheerful. 

The others took notice of them at that too, and they got more greetings as they took chairs and sat down on the edge of the group. “Wazzup?” Skywarp asked from them with a grin.

Sideswipe sort of smiled back. “We’re not interrupting, are we?”

“Nothing so important it couldn’t be interrupted,” Hot Shot assured them with a wave of his servo. Sideswipe nodded at that and pushed on.

“So… Starscream just got from letting us know we’re gonna be servers on the next dinner,” he started, then went straight to the point, “but we have like, no idea what that involves exactly.”

“Oooooh you’re getting to do that this time?” one of the mates piped up, as if something about being a server was a good thing.  

Sunstreaker couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised by the mates’ reactions, anymore. They seemed to think Megatron’s attention was always a good thing; didn’t it follow that the chance they’d get ‘faced at the dinner was something they’d consider a positive?

“Yeah, we are,” Sideswipe confirmed with none of the enthusiasm. No one reacted to his lack of excitement, though.

Skywarp twittered for their attention. “It’s not that hard, honestly! The basic gist is to remember what you have on your tray, and when anyone calls for that stuff, to go up to them and offer some to them. And make sure your tray stays stocked, which is a bit tricky sometimes, if you’ve got something popular on it. Oh, and you’ll handle one side of the room so you don’t need to circle all the way around the tables. Someone else will handle the other side.”

“And don’t drop the tray!” someone else laughed. “I did that my first time and holy pits it was embarrassing.”  

“Uh…” Right. The others laughed along too, some commenting on remembering the incident. So… “What happens if you… Drop it?” Punishment? Was that punishment worthy?

Not according to others, no. “You get to clean it up and start over,” they were told with a shrug. “And hopefully do better on the second try.”

“It was mostly nerves for me. Just keep a cool head and don’t rush and you’ll do fine.”

“Yeah, be chill. It’s better to be a little late to fill someone’s request than to trip over your own pedes.”

“You’ll get faster with practice.”

“There’s trays in the kitchen; I can help you get the hang of it,” Skywarp said, ever helpful. “You know, how to best hold and balance it.”

“Balance!” Hot Shot snapped his digits. “Remember that! When you pick things off your tray, make sure to do so evenly so it doesn’t tip over.”

Alright, so. Handle one side of the room, go where you were requested on that side of the room, don’t rush, remember to keep your tray balanced.

The brothers nodded after a small delay. That… Seemed surprisingly forgiving. Of course, it wouldn’t necessarily be that in practice because the other mates’ perspectives had a habit of being mighty skewed, but if even half of what they said was true, then… The whole thing might be pretty doable.

You know, up until the interfacing would start. They didn't want to ask about that though, not really. What was there to ask anyway? Megatron would probably be very clear when he wanted them to stop serving the others and serve him instead.

“Who else is coming?” Sideswipe asked, looking between the others. There were a few glances and some shrugs.

“Not sure, really. Starscream’d have let them know, though.”

“Starscream is probs gonna go though, too.”

“Yeah, Megatron likes to bring someone who’s focused on just him, and Starscream’s obviously the favorite for that.”

“And for everything else.”

Again there was a round of laughter. Sideswipe tried to crack a smile too, even if they didn’t really find that particularly funny.

“You’ll do fine,” they were further assured. “It’s your first time. No one’s expecting it to go perfectly.”

Why weren’t they so sure about that?

-----------------------------------

The week passed in a crawl and too fast at once. They hated the waiting, but when that came to an end, they suddenly wished they could’ve waited a bit longer. Forever, maybe. That would’ve been lovely. 

It turned out only them and Starscream were going from Megatron’s harem, no others had gotten the invitation. A bit of a repeat from the last time, there, and Starscream seemed just as annoyed over their presence as he had then. Excuse them for getting no choice in this whole thing. If refusing was an option, it was what they’d have done. 

But it wasn’t. Instead all there was for them to do was follow their escort guards on Starscream’s heels, once again trying to build any sort of a mental map of the palace using the many corridors they walked—to minimal success. No doubt there was a rhyme and reason to the palace’s layout, but they weren’t privy to it. They didn’t give up on it either, but they’d need so many trips to different parts of the place to actually create something useful, and with how rarely these treks happened… That wasn’t happening.

And if the last dinner had taken place at a great hall of whatever sort… Pits, they wished this one had too.

They wished so dearly, because instead of a hall like that, they came to a room.

The room.

It hadn’t changed much. There were still the tables surrounding the empty center of the room, but no seats around them. The only difference was that now there was fuel in various forms stocked all over them. There were still the pillows and mattresses—and the thin pillars they’d never understood the purpose of.

Well, they did now, and in that moment Sunstreaker regretted that particular curiosity had ever gotten sated.

He could only assume these were the… Public servants. They were polished, their plating shone, they looked utterly luxurious—even without Knock Out’s signature touch on them.

But they were each, all four of them, facing a pillar, their arms tied around it, shackled at the wrists with cuffs that looked far too strong for anyone of their size. Indeed, even the largest of them wasn’t more than a helm taller than the brothers by their estimate, one was their size, the other two smaller than them. 

Their exact height was hard to tell though, because every last one was more or less bent over.

Oh, how could he forget the other occupants of the room. The dinner looked to be in full swing already, and if they couldn’t recognize all of the court from their first day here, they could from the previous dinner. The public servants were all… In use by a court member or two. 

Unlike the previous dinner, the symbiotes were present too. The bipedal twins were sitting on one of the tables, chatting, and Sunstreaker could spy the felinoid slinking around the edges of the room. There were three aerial symbiotes present too, one perched on Soundwave’s shoulder, one on Megatron’s shoulder, and a third on the table the blue host was standing next to.

And among them all, those standing or those lounging on the mattresses, wove the other mates with their trays, filling glasses and cubes or letting the court members pick things off their trays.

The room was loud. There was no music, only conversation, but there was so much of it. And as they’d expected… Hollers aimed at those ‘facing the four mecha right then. Suggestions. Incitement. Praise.

That was bad enough. All of that was so bad enough, but Sunstreaker could hardly tear his gaze away from the… Expressions of the four “servants”. There was a faraway look in their optics, like they weren’t completely present even as they moaned or groaned over whatever was done to their frames—from pain, pleasure, or both, Sunstreaker wasn’t certain. They… Pits. If he’d ever seen a mech broken beyond salvaging, this would be it. Their frames were flawlessly healthy on the outside, but how much was left on the inside?

How much had they been through?

And they had thought they had it bad… 

Sideswipe was shaking and Sunsteaker automatically reached over to entwine their digits even as Starscream walked off, completely ignoring what was happening elsewhere in the room. Sideswipe watched him go speak with one of the mates from whoever’s harem before he picked a tray, loaded it with various things, and made his way over to Megatron.

Sunstreaker’s attention was instead stolen by a blue, lightly built frame that beelined for them with a tray held in each servo. “Welcome,” he smiled at them and Sideswipe’s optics snapped to him at the greeting.

The trays were offered to them. When they didn’t immediately reach to actually take them, the mech they could only assume to be one of the mates raised his optical ridges at them. Even so, his, “Well?” wasn’t impatient.

Still hesitating, Sunstreaker carefully accepted the other tray, and after a moment’s delay Sideswipe followed his lead. They didn’t say a peep, but the mech gave another smile paired with a, “Thank you,” followed by a quick description of what the fuel on each of their trays was—in solid form on Sideswipe’s, liquid on Sunstreaker’s.

They were made to repeat what they were told, to prove they’d heard and understood, most likely. Sunstreaker couldn’t blame the other for the precaution because he did feel a bit… Light-headed, and Sideswipe was even worse off. 

“Don’t forget, please. You’ll handle this side of the room, about to the halfway point lengthwise.” He waved in the general direction of the center of the room and they nodded mutely. “Walk around and go to whoever waves you over or otherwise calls for what you have on your tray. Stay alert of your surroundings, and don’t bump into anyone. There are several servings on the tables as well, so if you run low, go stock back up.

“Any questions?”

They really were really given some fast crash courses to their dinner duties each time, weren’t they? “Nothing we can think of right now,” Sunstreaker nevertheless responded, eyeing the contents of his tray distrustfully. It really wasn’t a complex task in theory.

In practice?

Oh boy.

“Very well. If you think of anything, come ask me or someone else, alright?” Another smile. The pit was there to smile about here?

They only nodded again, earning themselves a nod in return. “Good. Now go get ‘em.”

And with that the mech turned to leave, revealing a brand on the side of their shoulder while at it. Definitely a mate, then.

They shared a glance before Sunstreaker inclined his helm, pulsing reassurance into their spark. They could do this. 

Sideswipe bit his lower lip but offered his acceptance anyway, and with that they parted ways to mingle or whatever the pit you wanted to call it. 

It was hard. Impossibly hard. Not because they would have had that many difficulties making sure they stayed out of everyone’s way and didn’t drop their offerings, nor was it too much to ask that they stayed aware enough of their surroundings to notice when someone wanted what they had.

But that was the problem: staying aware, because it included staying aware of… Everything.

Including everything that was done to the public servants. They couldn’t tune it out or ignore it the way most of the other mates seemed to do. The others went about their business as if nothing was happening, but they… They found their attention oft stolen by the…

It was horrifying. Straight up horrifying, what they did to the four mechs. They didn’t even treat them like living beings, just as objects that were only there for them to take their pleasure out of in whatever way they pleased—and more often than not it was brutally. It was as if they made a competition over who could make them scream the hardest, and oh, they screamed. Not as often as Sunstreaker would have expected, though that could probably be attributed to how out of it they looked every step of the way.

But they screamed. 

And the court laughed and continued abusing them in whatever damn way they felt like. The four had started off looking well maintained, but that was changing rapidly. Scuffs, dents, all manner of fluids—interfacing related as well as straight up energon. Some of the court poured their drinks directly on them, only to lick it off their plating to the tune of more rambunctious laughter.

Sideswipe could barely keep himself from crying, and Sunstreaker had to fight the shake in his frame or he would have disturbed or dropped what he was carrying. They tried not to look, they tried not to hear, but it was impossible. They couldn’t do it.

It almost distracted them from the anxiety that fluttered past them every now and then—naturally coming from none of the court, but from some of the other mates instead. Most of them, really. There was disquiet, though nowhere near to the levels of disturbance the twins felt. Only Starscream stood out as a beacon of poise and genuine pleasure even before anyone was ‘facing him, as well as exactly two other mates they sometimes passed. They didn’t know whose harems they belonged to, but they were… Focused. Incredibly focused—apparently entirely unperturbed by what was going on around them, and concentrating only on the task at hand. One was the very mech that had first instructed them, the other they felt as if they’d seen in the last dinner as well, although they couldn’t be certain. 

And the twins, in the middle of it all, were doing a hell of a bad job at containing or hiding any of their many negative emotions. They got looks for it, every now and then. Grins from members of the court, sometimes a pointed comment, maybe a laugh.

But no one said anything about it beyond that. No one tried to do anything about it. They only seemed to find it amusing. What would Megatron have thought? They weren’t sure. The tyrant stayed on the other side of the room, the side that they weren’t supposed to serve.

Notably, Megatron also didn’t partake of the public servants, the interfacing toys they were. Oh, he watched the proceedings with an expression that was sometimes neutral, sometimes entertained, but he didn’t go over to enjoy any of the four mechs himself. 

Soundwave did, though. As did his symbiotes every now and then, every last one of them. The rest of the court mostly melded together into a mass of unspeakable barbarism.

Mostly.

“Come here,” someone called, and Sunstreaker automatically turned to look if it was aimed at him.

It was. The mech was looking directly at him, lounging against the wall with a rotorflier next to him.

Sunstreaker could recognize them. Both of them. Vortex he knew by name, and the other… Was the tank that had the very first go at him.

His spark flared with a mix of apprehension and hate, but Sunstreaker steeled his expression and did his best to smooth his field.

Then he walked over.

Their amusement was clear as day, but they both picked a cube each off his tray. He would have left right then and there if the tank hadn’t spoken up. “I remember you. I don’t think we ever did our proper introductions. I’m Onslaught, and you,” Onslaught uncurled just one of his digits from around the cube he was holding, pointing at him, “are Sunstreaker.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Sunstreaker’s optics narrowed and the hate was quickly beginning to win over his nerves, letting anger take root. His field flared with it before he could bring it back under control. 

Vortex laughed. “I don’t think he’s impressed, boss.”

The amusement on Onslaught’s field only deepened. “Thinking back to our first meeting, are you? The circumstances really were more than a little unideal, weren’t they?” The tank inclined his helm, then had the fucking nerve to say, “My apologies. I was rather rude that time.”

There was nothing sincere about it, anyone could’ve seen and heard that much. They were just messing with him, in this way now, when they apparently couldn’t touch him physically anymore. No doubt they would’ve loved to do that too, though. 

Sunstreaker growled, but held his vocalizer from spitting vitriol. His armor was trembling, but for entirely different reasons than before.

“Aw, so quiet. Where’s your lovely voice? Your screams were just beautiful,” Vortex sighed dreamily. “Has Lord Megatron gotten many more of them out of you? I bet he has, he just has a way around mecha.”

Shut. Up.

“My, our Lord Megatron has certainly improved your manners, hasn’t he?” Onslaught took his turn to speak. Sunstreaker’s optics snapped back to him and his frame growled just that bit louder. “I do remember how churlish you were.”

What? Had he learned a bit of courteousness over his time here, to not talk back, to show deference to mecha that didn’t deserve it? 

Why? How? Because Megatron had shown him he needed to do so? What couldn’t you get a mech to do and say if you taught them violently enough? 

And still he silenced his vocalizer. What could he possibly say that they wouldn’t just laugh at? They knew as well as he did that he was in no position to do anything about them.

Oh, how he hated feeling as powerless as he did at every turn here. 

“No comment?” Onslaught asked. “Truly Lord Megatron’s skill at teaching some much needed respect has no peer.”

Vortex giggled and before Sunstreaker could think better of it, thought that maybe this was one of the worst ideas he’d had in his life–

He had grabbed one of the cubes from his tray and thrown its contents straight in Onslaught’s face—face he could only imagine to be smug behind the mask and visor.

There was a moment of stillness from everyone involved before Vortex burst into laughter, his vents beginning to wheeze in no time. “Wow, Ons, I think he has some fight left in him still.”

Onslaught recovered from his palpable surprise too, but where Sunstreaker had half expected immediate reprisal… None came. Instead the tank merely rumbled in plain amusement, as if he hadn’t displayed that emotion enough already. “That he does.”

It wasn’t Onslaught that reacted to his little stunt, but an impossibly firm voice rose from the other side of the room. “Sunstreaker.”

Megatron.

When Sunstreaker’s helm dropped and his free servo balled into a fist good and proper, Vortex laughed some more and Onslaught joined in with a chuckle. “I think you’ve displeased someone, Sunstreaker.”

Didn’t he know.

He didn’t need to look to know Megatron was circling the tables, coming for him. The weight of the tyrant’s pedesteps was unmistakable, but Sunstreaker stayed rooted in place until Megatron’s voice growled, “Here.”

This… Was probably going to be bad. Sideswipe shared his concern and mountainous trepidation, but Sunstreaker turned away from Onslaught and Vortex and their increasing amusement, and made his step as steady as he could as he walked over to Megatron where he was standing next to one of the tables.

Sunstreaker didn’t quite manage to lift his optics to look the tyrant in the face—and that was probably for the best—but Sideswipe reported the grey mech’s expression was like a thundercloud.

Good to know.

“Set that down,” was the order he was given, and Sunstreaker did as told, softly setting the tray down onto the table. He ground his denta the whole way, tense, expecting the worst the moment his servos would be free.

He wasn’t wrong. It was mere seconds after he’d released his hold of the tray that Megatron caught him by the back of his neck and slammed him against a spot on the table where there wasn’t anything in the way. His chest collided with the unyielding surface hard enough that he could feel his chestplates dent despite their supposed thickness and strength. Sunstreaker grunted.

He didn’t have the time to spare more than one thought to that before a servo shoved between his legs. Claws hooked and his valve cover was torn clean off without ever giving him the option of retracting it. He didn’t really have the time to think about that either before Megatron had already shoved into his entirely unprepared valve, bottoming out on that one inward thrust.

It hurt. He wasn’t wet. They hadn’t had the heart to prepare themselves for this, even though that would have likely been in their best interest. Megatron’s spike tore across dry sensors, but… That was nothing new.

Oh no, Megatron had something else in store for him, of that Sunstreaker had no doubt. The tyrant proceeded to prove as much by setting one pede against the table’s edge and angling Sunstreaker’s hips up, giving him some serious flashbacks to the previous times Megatron had broken his frame with his spike alone. Dread seized his vents even as he did nothing about any of it. What could he have done that wouldn’t have only made it worse?

Shut up and take it. He’d asked for it.

Sideswipe couldn’t allow himself to get distracted. Not by the… Public servants, and not even by Sunstreaker. If he lost sight of what he was doing… Pits, he wouldn’t have kept it together, and breaking down in front of the whole court was the absolute last thing he wanted. 

But it was hard. Damn it all but it was so fucking hard. It was hard to begin with when it was only the four luckless mechs getting treated the way they were, when he already had to witness that.

He could see why Skywarp and the rest didn’t want to end up in their places. Primus, now he could see.

That was bad enough, but then Sunstreaker had a momentary lapse in good judgment and Megatron saw fit to discipline him. And… That was even worse. He didn’t want to think that what they went through in Megatron’s hands was worse than being these public servants, because at the end of the day it really wasn’t, was it?

But that was his damned twin, and these were just strangers he’d never seen before and knew nothing about. He felt sorry for them, he really did, and what they were being subjected to was absolutely reprehensible–

Yet he threatened to be more distracted by Sunstreaker’s predicament. Megatron had one of his arms bent behind his back and used considerable force to pin him to the table, all the while driving into his frame with injurious intent. Sunstreaker had displeased him.

Sunstreaker would pay for it.

That would’ve been bad enough in private, or in front of the harem. Now… The whole court was watching, pointing and talking amongst themselves about Megatron’s performance. Many had released their own spikes and were stroking themselves, but surprisingly there… Wasn’t the kind of encouragement there was when it was the public servants in the receiving end of very similar treatment. It was almost like they didn’t want to intervene, or respected Megatron’s choices in how he was going to punish his own mates, or… Something. Sideswipe didn’t know.

How was he supposed to not let all of that affect him? To feel and see his brother go through that, and on top of that, seeing others get off on it, enjoying what he was put through—laughing about it and circulating the story of what Sunstreaker had done to deserve that. 

Sideswipe flinched when Sunstreaker’s silence broke for the first time when Megatron struck deep while twisting his arm further. His cry wasn’t loud, but it could still be heard, and a cheer rose in the room—but someone waved him over and Sideswipe had to go to let them take their pick off his tray.

Don’t get distracted.

He wanted to cry so bad. 

And he would if he kept paying attention to what was done to his other half. He couldn’t afford it even as Megatron went further than he had any time before. He wasn’t satisfied with just a bit of damage, one or two systems partially broken by his spike and nothing else. No, he seemed set on obliterating Sunstreaker’s entire midsection.

It hurt. Fuck it hurt, and the hurt kept growing with each and every inward thrust, and Sunstreaker never cried but he was crying now–

Don’t focus on it.

Don’t focus on the fact it wasn’t just about the physical pain, but that still, still they had enough of their stupid pride left that it hurt for everyone to see it, to see Sunstreaker slowly break down under the force Megatron applied on him.

And they laughed and pointed and had a good time. At Sunstreaker’s expense.

He was thinking about it too much. What good would he be if he earned the same treatment? He needed to be there for Sunstreaker on the other side. He needed to perform acceptably in this, just well enough that Megatron would stay satisfied–

Megatron overloaded once. Sunstreaker sobbed.

Megatron didn’t stop.

Sideswipe stumbled, but stayed upright and didn’t drop any of what he was carrying.

One glance around the room proved well enough that almost everyone had their attention on Megatron. Starscream was on the other side of the room, looking right along with the rest of them, but he wasn’t amused. No, Starscream was frowning, his arms crossed across his chassis. Displeased.

With what? Pit if Sideswipe knew. Could’ve been anything. 

And the… The four mechs. Others were taking their cues from Megatron, their attention rapt on him even as they fucked the public playthings—as if they were imagining themselves in Megatron’s place.

Fraggers. They had no rights to even think they could do something to Sunstreaker. 

It wasn’t right.

He put one pede in front of the other and walked from mech to mech that called for his attention, doing just what the other mates were doing… Well, most of them, anyway. A few had gotten grabbed and were getting ‘faced, and this was probably about the point where the dinner was going to devolve, and badly.

But none of them were getting treated as badly as Sunstreaker, or the four tied to the pillars. The only difference between the public toys and Sunstreaker was that the others hadn’t earned what was done to them, as far as Sideswipe knew. Sunstreaker, though, had brought this on himself. He was too quick to anger and gave in to that emotion too easily. It wasn’t a quality that was appreciated here—at least not by Megatron.

Sunstreaker tried so hard to stay quiet despite everything, but he wasn’t having a hell of a lot of success. And they didn’t know, weren’t sure what Megatron wanted. Just to hurt until he decided he’d hurt enough? Or was he expecting something? 

But Sunstreaker would never beg or plead, and didn't do so now either, and Megatron didn’t prompt him with anything. The tyrant stayed silent aside from his growling as he pressed Sunstreaker to the table and fucked to harm.

“You. Over here,” someone called to him, and Sideswipe could’ve sworn the voice was familiar. He didn’t have the wherewithal to think much on it before he turned to make sure it was aimed at him.

It was, but that wasn’t what made his spark shrink.

He would never forget that particular mech. 

Motormaster.

Despite the way his spark wanted to collapse in on itself from the dual sensations from him and Sunstreaker, Sideswipe forced himself to move over to the dark clad mech that rivaled Megatron in size. All he had to calm himself with was the thought he could only hope was true, that they belonged to Megatron and that protected them from the rest of his court. It had on that first day, the moment Megatron had laid his claim, and neither Onslaught nor Vortex had done anything to Sunstreaker…

Motormaster glanced in the direction of his brother when Sunstreaker screamed, again, but didn’t otherwise react to it. His attention turned to Sideswipe, instead.

“Sideswipe, isn’t it?” he drawled, looking him up and down. Judging him.

And liking what he saw if the way his expression brightened was any indication. “I don’t know what Lord Megatron does with you, but his mates really do stand out.” That was said in a near purr and Sideswipe didn’t like it one bit. And what did he even mean? Their behavior, or their looks?

Their looks were thanks to Knock Out. Their behavior? That could be attributed to Megatron himself, probably.

But Sunstreaker had also gone to show that even Megatron’s teachings weren’t infallible.

What were everyone else’s mates like, though, if not like Megatron’s? Were they those with the anxious fields that did their duties but seemed to dread what could come?

Did Motormaster have mates? A harem? He had no idea.

“Was there something you wanted?” Sideswipe asked and hated the way his voice trembled, but he offered his tray with its goodies. Just take what you want and leave me be.

“Mmm.” Motormaster did indeed pick something off his tray, but when Sideswipe tried to turn to leave as soon as he’d done that, the next words out of the mech’s mouth rooted him in place. “You know, I would have loved to claim you myself, if Lord Megatron hadn’t beat everyone to it.” This time he purred, straight up. Sideswipe swallowed, hard, but glanced back at Motormaster despite himself. His face was absolutely lecherous.

Was that even appropriate? 

“I’m sure you would have been an absolute pleasure to break. Alas, rank comes first and our Lord gets the first pickings,” Motormaster sighed, popping the treat he’d taken off Sideswipe’s tray into his mouth—never once removing his optics from him, and Sideswipe didn’t like that look. 

Break. Wasn’t that what Megatron was doing, too?

Why did he feel like Motormaster would’ve been that much worse?

And what was he supposed to say to that? Was Motormaster just baiting him? Was he meant to say anything at all? 

Sideswipe didn’t say anything.

He wasn’t sure if Motormaster took that as further prompting or what did it, but he continued, “I remember how you screamed, you know.” He said it so casually, as if they were discussing nothing of importance and not what had been the most horrendous experience of his life up until that point.

Or maybe the court just did something like that so often it was casual to them.

But it wasn’t that to Sideswipe. 

“Would you have continued to scream like that if you’d belonged to me?” Motormaster asked, and then–

He reached over and grabbed his aft.

Sideswipe jerked with a gasp, and when Motormaster laughed lowly and squeezed again, he couldn’t hold the tears back anymore. Was Megatron’s claim protection, or would the likes of Motormaster still have permission to have a go at him?

Please, not again.

He would’ve rather taken Megatron.

He would’ve wanted to ask Motormaster to let him go, but his fear strangled his vocalizer. Every molecule of his being dreaded the possibility that he would be grabbed good and proper and thrown across one of the tables to get ‘faced just like Motormaster had done that first time.

And there would be nothing he’d be able to do about it.

Motormaster’s servo traveled up his back and Sideswipe was shaking, shaking so hard. His optics squeezed shut tight, and Primus he was so afraid that something was going to happen–

Why did he even think Megatron would’ve been better? Hadn’t Megatron done to them on that first day just what his court had done before them, and then continued with it ever since? Where he hadn’t even seen Motormaster outside of the last dinner and this? 

But Megatron was… Reasonable. Do as he told and he kept things mostly bearable.

Something gave him the feeling Motormaster didn’t have that kind of reason about him, that he just raped raped and raped without sense, no matter what you did.

Tears ran down his face past his optical shutters, no matter how tightly he’d closed them. So focused he was on Motormaster’s touch and his own fear that he missed it when Megatron left Sunstreaker, leaving his twin bleeding and trembling on the table–

Until the tyrant’s growl sounded only a few steps away from him. Sideswipe would’ve recognized that anywhere by now. His optics flew back open, wondering what he’d done to earn that–

But Megatron wasn’t even looking at him. All of his focus was on Motormaster, and Primus but he looked angry, angrier than Sideswipe had ever seen him. Motormaster’s touch abandoned him at once and the mech took two steps back, away from him, but that wasn’t enough to save him from Megatron’s wrath.

Megatron moved right past Sideswipe. “Do not touch,” he snarled, and in one sudden motion backhanded Motormaster with such a force that even a mech of his size simply collapsed from the impact, “what is mine.”

Sideswipe blinked, confused, twice so when Megatron crouched, grabbed Motormaster by his neck, and hauled him back up.

And then dragged him to the nearest doors and threw him out. Megatron and Motormaster were about the same size, and still Megatron handled his subordinate as if he was nothing more than a flimsy rag doll.

If Sideswipe had ever doubted Megatron’s raw strength, he couldn’t do so anymore. 

The doors slammed shut, and just like that, Motormaster was out of the room. Relief flushed Sideswipe’s lines until he was swaying on his pedes, and even the fact Megatron returned to him wasn’t enough for trepidation to win back the ground it had lost. Sideswipe looked up at the dictator when he came next to him.

He didn’t have many thoughts left in his helm anyway, but they only lessened in numbers when Megatron plucked the tray from his numb digits and handed it over to a mate that hurried over to take it before backing away with a bow. Megatron barely looked at them, his focus on Sideswipe. There was still anger in his optics, but Sideswipe didn’t think it was aimed at him, for once. “Come now,” the tyrant murmured at him, his servo landing on his back and gently pushing him to the tables, at another spot that was clear or had been cleared of the drinks and food on offer. “On your front. Helm to me,” he was ordered, and Sideswipe started shaking a bit harder at his very good guess of where this was going.

But hadn’t he just been thinking he would rather have Megatron than Motormaster? Here he was, now, getting just that. “Yes, master.”

Sideswipe lifted himself onto the table and scooted around until he could lay on his front without disturbing anything, gnawing on his lower lip. He couldn’t even make sense of his spark anymore. Sunstreaker wasn’t… Quite to himself anymore. Megatron had done beyond a number on him and he couldn’t fully overcome the physical pain alone, nevermind the knowledge of everyone else seeing him like that. It burned, but he could do nothing about it—too overwhelmed to even try.

And Sideswipe? There was still so much relief, even though some part of him knew he should stop feeling it right about now, when it was so obvious what Megatron was going to do to him. 

But Megatron was familiar. Motormaster would’ve been something else entirely.

This was preferable. If something needed to happen, he’d rather it be this than… Frag, anyone else of Megatron’s court, barring Soundwave, maybe. He didn’t know the others, didn’t know how they would’ve treated him beyond badly.  

Megatron was…

He wasn’t sure what he was. It was irrelevant anyway. It wouldn’t change things.

The dictator’s servo came under his helm and he tapped the underside of his chin with a digit in time with his spike reemerging from its housing. Sideswipe opened his mouth for it to push in. His optics closed again at the sting, and then the outright pain when it slipped into his intake. Megatron wasn’t… Rough about it, though. Firm and leaving no room to question that he wasn’t going to take refusal, yes, but not rough.

But if Sideswipe had expected his mouth to just be used, he was mistaken. “Move,” Megatron told him, and Sideswipe stilled for a few precious seconds—but then Megatron’s servo landed on the back of his helm. It didn’t press, it didn’t move him, but it squeezed just so. A warning.

Do as he was told and it didn’t need to get worse. Megatron had already shown what he was willing to do by practically mauling Sunstreaker.

Sideswipe didn’t want the same. What had defiance ever gotten him anyway? What would it get him now? A correction, in front of everyone? 

Did they really need to see both Sunstreaker and him like that?

Sideswipe cycled a ventilation despite the dull ache in his filled throat, and carefully brought one of his servos to Megatron’s hips for balance. Megatron didn’t react negatively to that, luckily. Sideswipe’s other servo gripped the edge of the table, and once he felt as grounded as he was going to… He pulled back. It felt so good to free his throat, if not his entire mouth—he didn’t dare pull away completely—but it didn’t last. He couldn’t let it last before he’d already pushed himself onto the spike again, sheathing it into his intake. Then back. And again.

Megatron didn’t take control of him at any point, only rumbled his approval. Sideswipe could still hear the conversation in the room, and some were talking about him, but there was no hooting aimed at him. Just… Comments about his good behavior, as far as he could tell. A bit of laughter. Comparisons made between him and Sunstreaker.

There was hooting elsewhere in the room though, and screams, and… He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to look, so he didn’t. He could guess what it would’ve been anyway. The public playthings going through even more of the awful slag they were already enduring, some of the other mates getting fragged too.

And Sunstreaker who still hadn’t gotten up, although his senses were slowly returning to him past his pain. He went mostly ignored now, though, and pits, no one dared approach him.

Megatron had proven, quickly and without a doubt, that he was possessive and that he didn’t share—not with anyone other than Soundwave, anyway. Sideswipe was… Relieved. Sunstreaker was relieved.

Megatron was bad enough, Soundwave was bad enough, but at least there wouldn’t be anyone else.

This was bad enough. What Sunstreaker had gone through was worse, but Sideswipe… Would have preferred to not pleasure the tyrant under his own power in front of everyone.

Here he was anyway, though.

But he tried to ignore the room at large, and rather… Focus on the act itself—the pain in his frame and how he acted in spite of, and the familiarity of it all. Not like he hadn’t had Megatron’s spike down his throat plenty of times before.

He could do this. Even if he had to taste… Things. He couldn’t even recognize most of it. There was transfluid and a hint of lubricant, but Megatron had damaged Sunstreaker so bad. There might’ve been coolant, maybe oil, and who knew what else.

Things that should have stayed in Sunstreaker’s frame and that no amount of interfacing should have released, but that his brother was nevertheless bleeding onto the table, past his armor, from his valve. It pooled under him and dripped onto the floor.

And Sideswipe had to taste it. 

His tears were silent, but he still cried. He had escaped Motormaster by Megatron’s grace, but Sunstreaker had gotten beaten from the inside out by the grace of the very same mech.

It wasn’t fair.

“That’s it, Sideswipe,” Megatron rumbled at him and Sideswipe’s ventilations hitched. “Show who you belong to.”

Megatron. No one else. No one else could touch him, not without his master’s permission. Was that it?

Sunstreaker was angry, even past his pain. Angry at what Megatron was making him do, angry at Onslaught, at Vortex, at Motormaster… And Sideswipe couldn’t get him to calm down.

But Sunstreaker couldn’t really do anything about any of it either. Pain doused his midsection and lanced into every part of his frame, making any amount of movement a very unwelcome prospect. Instead he was forced to feel that, and the ache in Sideswipe’s throat, and the chill in their spark, and listen to the sounds of the room. Someone commented on how badly Motormaster was going to get punished, others agreed—shook their helms in disapproval over Motormaster’s actions. He should’ve known better.

Not that many of the mates got to serve anymore, or rather, not in the way they had earlier in the dinner. There was interfacing, moaning they didn’t want to hear, gasps that sometimes sounded pained, other times pleasured. 

The public servants still had it the worst. One of them had collapsed entirely, not that that stopped anyone from using him all the same. They were given no heed.

Were those in the harems the lucky ones, then? Except did the other mates look that happy about any of it, either? 

But at least they weren’t getting completely brutalized.

Megatron came, and now the servo on his helmet applied force, just enough to push Sideswipe down and keep him there through the tyrant’s release. Transfluid traveled down his intake, but it was a good thing. It held the hope that Megatron had had enough of his mouth, that at least this much would end.

He was held there for a moment longer, until Megatron’s overload tapered off entirely. Only then he was released and Megatron pulled away from his mouth. Sideswipe worked his jaw once the spike slipped free, trying to ease the steady ache and the feeling of keeping his damn mouth open too wide for too long. There was little he could do to help his throat, although the calipers constricted around nothing on their own, trying to adjust now that he didn’t have a spike shoved in there. 

His moment of peace didn’t last long. “Sit up. On the edge,” Megatron ordered him and Sideswipe glanced up, briefly, before letting his gaze drop again.

“Yes, my Lord,” he murmured, then pushed himself up, and still careful of everything else on the table, shifted until he was on his aft and could scoot back to the edge of the table. Megatron caught his thighs once he was in position, spread them and stepped between them, and Sideswipe retracted his valve cover before thought caught up.

Which was all the same, Megatron would’ve likely told him to do that anyway, because he wasted no time pushing into his valve. He hilted himself in one smooth stroke and Sideswipe bit his lip at the slight chafe. He wasn’t entirely dry, but it was a close thing, and Megatron’s spike wasn’t covered in enough oral lubricant to make up for it.

Megatron said nothing about it. Neither did Sideswipe, not that he ever would have. The tyrant set up an easy pace as if he was planning to take his time, and the unfortunate—was it unfortunate?—side effect was that it didn’t… Hurt. Much. A little bit with the lack of proper lubrication, but nowhere near as much as it would have if Megatron had started fast and hard—like he’d done with Sunstreaker.

Sideswipe’s vents caught at a particularly deep thrust and he couldn’t deny his frame was responding to the steady rub against his sensors and the lack of real pain coming from his own frame. He didn’t really manage to lift his helm, propped up on his arms and watching instead as Megatron’s spike disappeared into his frame at a steady rhythm.

It started to feel honestly good all too soon, his valve lubricating and easing the passage until there wasn’t discomfort left. His vents were stuttering, and unless Megatron got impatient and ended early, there was an overload in his future too. He might’ve preferred it that way, really, instead of getting abandoned with frustrating arousal he wasn’t willing to do anything about on his own. 

Comm. traffic and movement caught his attention and Sideswipe finally glanced up to see Megatron looking off to the side. Sideswipe followed his gaze to… Soundwave? And then looked back to Megatron when the tyrant nodded.

He didn’t need to wonder what that was about for long, because Soundwave climbed over the tables and into the empty center, and aimed directly for Sunstreaker. His brother noticed the approach and growled lowly, as fruitless of a warning and discouragement as that was. Soundwave paid it no heed and merely caught Sunstreaker and pulled him from one end of the table to the other despite his twin’s pained hiss.

Sunstreaker didn’t open his mouth. Soundwave opened it for him before he thrust home, no hesitation. Sunstreaker jerked at the intrusion and gagged at the speed of it, but when his arms came to automatically try to push the blue mech away, Soundwave merely caught his wrists and pinned them to his low back—close enough to some very painful and very damaged components that Sunstreaker’s fight left him at the threat of more pain. Soundwave set to fragging his mouth without encountering further resistance.

Sunstreaker closed his optics.

More tears stained Sideswipe’s cheeks, but he let his helm droop and focused on biting back his moans as his frame slowly shifted to very much enjoying Megatron’s administrations. It didn’t look like Megatron was planning to stop anytime soon either, so Sideswipe would… Probably get an overload out of this.

Whoo.

Slag this.

His first moan had just broken past his control when a mech approached them. Purple, when Sideswipe looked, and with only a single optic—no proper face. Sideswipe didn’t recognize him despite his somewhat unique appearance, which probably meant he hadn’t been present in the previous dinner at all.

He stopped at a perfectly respectful distance and entirely ignored the fact Megatron was in the middle of an interface. Megatron, for his part, didn’t look perturbed either. “He’s more obedient than his brother,” the faceless mech noted, his voice… Strange. Similar to Soundwave’s in how even it was.

His field, too, was just as empty as Soundwave’s usually was.

Kindred spirits much? Did Megatron collect mechs like these or something? Sideswipe had never run into the phenomenon before Kaon.

“They’re still learning,” Megatron rumbled back, and Sideswipe tried to ignore how the two were talking about him while he was right there. He wasn’t really important enough to necessarily get acknowledged anyway, was he? He was just a mate. 

“They’ll learn,” the other said, as if it was an inevitability of some sort. Then he continued, “I would be interested in running some experiments on them.”

“What?!” Sideswipe squeaked before he could stop himself, but dropped his gaze and silenced his vocalizer from saying anything further at the warning glare Megatron gave him. Right. Pretend he wasn’t even there and that they weren’t talking about him.

But experiments?

“What kind?” Megatron asked, as if he wasn’t turning that idea down then and there. As if he was actually considering it.

Fresh anxiety bloomed in their spark.

“Tests on their spark’s unique quality and traits. Nothing harmful, naturally.”

“Hmm. I suppose there would be much to learn about them,” Megatron said and Sideswipe could feel his gaze on him. He didn’t dare look up, though, going instead back to staring at the motion of Megatron’s spike—that never once stopped or faltered.

“Artificial spark splitting has never succeeded,” the nameless mech shared, and look at Sideswipe learning some new things on the side. “These twins could be the key to unlocking the practice’s secrets.”

“And there are many useful applications for an ability like that.” Megatron sounded almost… Excited? Definitely agreeable.

Sideswipe cringed.

“Indeed.”

Megatron only considered it for a moment longer. “Very well. The other one needs repairs, but you can have them tomorrow—I trust you know what will happen if harm comes to them, Shockwave.”

“I do,” Shockwave said, then Sideswipe could see him bow from the corner of his optic. “Thank you for your hospitality. I will have them fetched tomorrow. I shouldn’t need them for longer than an orn.”

An entire fragging orn of getting experimented on? Pits.

But Sideswipe didn’t beg the tyrant to reconsider. Megatron wouldn’t have listened to him anyway. 

Megatron nodded and Shockwave left. Sideswipe shuddered, both from his unease and dread, and from his quickly mounting physical pleasure as Megatron picked up his pace, clearly intent on an overload of his own.

------------------------------------------------

The dinner went on for too damn long. Sunstreaker was left alone in further practice, and once he’d had a frag with Sideswipe, Megatron had gone to Starscream instead—leaving Sideswipe to play server all over again, considering he wasn’t injured like his twin. Soundwave demanded his attention at one point and fragged both his mouth and his valve, but that was it.

No one else touched either of them, but that wasn’t too surprising after Megatron’s display with Motormaster.

The… Public servants, they weren’t doing as well. Each of them was in utter disrepair after what everyone had done to them, and Sideswipe understood a little too well why all of them had that faraway look about them. Was there any staying sane when getting treated like that? How often did it happen to them? Were they just fixed afterwards, only to go through the same thing over and over again, stuck in some hellish loop? 

He didn’t want to end up like them, in their role. So… He and Sunstreaker would need to succeed when they made a run for it. Otherwise? He could imagine Megatron might turn them into playthings like those four, both to punish them, and probably to make examples out of them.

He would rather die, but he doubted that was an out the public servants were given as an option.

And the other mates continued to not act exactly like everyone in Megatron’s harem. They were obedient, but it wasn’t that hard to see they didn’t really enjoy any of it. Starscream did, though. He drank up the attention Megatron gave him, and Megatron looked to have a pretty good time with him too. Sideswipe could imagine that mostly anyone from Megatron’s harem would’ve acted the same, if their behavior within the harem itself was anything to go by.

And like Starscream and all the other mates present, they would’ve probably just ignored the public servants and the horrors they were put through. Sideswipe did his best to do the same because it wasn’t like he could do anything about any of it, but he couldn’t fully pretend he didn’t hear them, and sometimes see them. 

He sure as pit couldn’t be unaffected by it. It was just… Sick. Just like everything else here, but it was that even more so than most other things. 

Megatron, still, at no point, partook of the four himself. Sideswipe wasn’t sure what to make of that.

But eventually it all came to an end. Megatron thanked everyone for participating, then left, and the activity quickly tapered off from there. Others began to leave too, some with mates, others without. The interfacing ended after everyone had had their last overload.

The public servants were holy messes. One of them was crying. Sideswipe badly wanted to do the same, like he hadn’t already.

“Let’s go,” Starscream came to him and waved him to set the tray down. Sideswipe did, then followed the Seeker over the Sunstreaker. He had sat up by now, although his ventilations were heavy, ragged, and Sideswipe was acutely aware of the amount of pain he was in.

Sitting probably wasn’t the best position for him right then, but Sunstreaker hadn’t wanted to just lay around like a dead thing.

At least no one had touched him after Soundwave had had a go at his mouth. Small mercies. Soundwave or Megatron himself could just as well have ignored how damaged Sunstreaker already was and used his valve anyway.

“Can you walk?” Starscream asked from his twin, standing in front of him with his hands on his hips. Sunstreaker glared, but stiffly scooted to the edge of the table and dropped down onto the floor.

And promptly fell on his knees when it turned out his legs wouldn’t agree to carry him. He gasped, and neither of them could tell if it was the damage or the pain that did it.

But it was clear Sunstreaker wasn’t going to walk out of here under his own power.

Starscream sighed in utter aggravation, then turned to Sideswipe. “You’re strong enough to carry him, are you not? Pick him up.”

Sideswipe glared too, but slaggit, they wanted to be away from here already despite what tomorrow was promising to bring, so he crouched next to Sunstreaker and tried to be as careful as he possibly could as he picked him up, arm at his back and under his knees. It still wasn’t carefully enough to keep Sunstreaker from hissing, and… This would probably be one mighty unpleasant walk back to the harem. 

But they needed to get to Knock Out.

Starscream nodded once he had Sunstreaker securely in his arms and led the way to a set of doors that apparently led to where they were supposed to be going. Were they the same ones they’d come through? He wasn’t sure. A guard left their posts to accompany them.

Sunstreaker kept quiet through their walk, although only barely. Sideswipe did his best not to jostle him any further than what was unavoidable, but it wasn’t enough to keep Sunstreaker’s pains from worsening and Sideswipe feared all the movement was adding to the damage in his frame. The damage reports on his HUD were so numerous that Sunstreaker didn’t even bother reading through most of them, but even the ones that weren’t so severe he couldn’t dismiss made an annoying habit of popping right back up when something registered as aggravating those injuries. He stopped trying to get rid of them, eventually. Let Knock Out do that for him.

They were both so impossibly relieved when the doors opened to the harem wing’s dusky hallway and they were assuredly away from Megatron’s court and everything the court did. They had had plenty enough of that shit for several lifetimes, as much as they weren’t sure they wouldn’t get to experience more of it before they had worked themselves into the position to make their escape. 

Starscream marched off, probably to the washracks, but Sideswipe took the first doors on the left side wall and entered the harem’s medbay.

The medic of this particular realm wasn’t present. “Knock Out?” Sideswipe called, walking over to the nearest medical berth and setting Sunstreaker down on it. Sunstreaker’s vents were alternating between panting and seizing as the pain throbbed in his frame, but luckily Sideswipe didn’t need to go hunting for their medic. Knock Out emerged from the back of the medbay, around the corner that Sideswipe always assumed led to his private quarters.

Knock Out sighed and shook his helm after having one look at Sunstreaker. “Now what did you do this time?” he asked, then immediately tacked on with, “Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Alright then, let’s get you fixed.”

“How long will this take?” Sideswipe took his turn to ask, and when Knock Out shot him a bit questioning look, he explained, “Megatron, uh… Said Shockwave can start running tests on us tomorrow. Will you get Sunny up and running before that?”

“Ah.” Knock Out… Didn’t look entirely surprised? But was there also some more disapproval in the way he shook his helm again? “Fear not, I’ll have him done by morning,” the medic promised, then scanned Sunstreaker and frowned. Rather deeply. “...Although it looks like I’ll get to work most of the night. Oh, joy.”

That bad? Sunstreaker set his jaw and Sideswipe grimaced, but Knock Out continued, “I’ll make sure to fuel and charge you while at it; you’ll be tip top tomorrow. Now, Sideswipe–” the medic’s attention turned to him, “I suggest you go do the same. This will take a while and you need the rest too. Doctor’s orders.”

He didn’t really want to go anywhere, but when he met Sunstreaker’s optics, his brother nodded at him. It wasn’t untrue, he’d need the fuel and the rest, and he would be no good here while Sunstreaker was in stasis for his repairs.

He didn’t really want to go anywhere despite that reasoning, but even through his reluctance, Sideswipe nodded. “See you in the morning,” he said quietly to Sunstreaker, gave a small wave of goodbye and… Left.

The doors closed behind him once he’d returned to the hallway and Sideswipe had to fight back tears all over again. He wanted Sunstreaker after this whole mess and he wanted to be there for Sunstreaker after what Megatron had done to him–

But that wasn’t happening. Sunstreaker wouldn’t even be aware of things anytime soon, and by the time he was, who knew how much time they’d have before Shockwave came for them—or sent someone for them. When would they get the time to process all of this? So much had happened and they’d seen so much. Too much. 

Well, he wasn’t going to be able to do anything about that now. Sideswipe shook himself off and started down the hallway. First washracks, then fueling, and then recharge. It was quiet hours already, but maybe he’d risk waking Skywarp and see if he wouldn’t agree to recharge with him tonight. He just… Didn’t want to be alone.

( Next )

[kyber-kisses]

Handle With Care

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: blood, canon gore, cursing, nudity, mentions of smut, it gets a little steamy (pun intended)

Summary: being a hunter it is a given that some hunts are gonna take a toll more than others, but Dean is there to help keep you upright .

A/n: for those who have read the Too Soon series, some of this might sound familiar but I couldn’t help but write something like it again. Hope everyone enjoys and feedback is greatly appreciated!

You couldn’t exactly remember the last time you felt so exhausted and drained. The past week had been more demanding than usual, especially due to the fact that you had been on a solo hunt, the weight of everything solely on your shoulders and nobody else. Not that you had a problem hunting alone, in fact it gave you some time to yourself, time to think and breath without having to worry about Dean and Sam and vice versa.

But this hunt proved to be more difficult that you had originally thought. One witch you had been hunting quickly became a whole coven and needless to say, it became a mess. (But you had handled it.) the bad guys were put down and lives were saved. That was all that mattered.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you shouldered your duffel and slid out of the drivers seat, pocketing your car keys and reaching for the other bag behind you. How were you going to explain this one? Or more accurately, how were you going to stop Dean and Sam from freaking out at your current state. . 

Taking a glance at your reflection in the side window of your car, you paused to take another breath. You looked eerily similar to Carrie White and it was not something you found to be pleasant at all. 

You just hoped you didn't scare them when you walked through the door.

Dean didn’t expect you to be back until tomorrow, so when he heard the familiar grind of the bunker door opening he pulled up the sleeve of his robe, glancing at the time.

11:30 PM.

Definitely not like you. Sending a quick glance to his brother seated across from him, he only received a shrug in response, the two of them swiveling in their seats to look at the stairs.

“Y/Ns home already?”

“Apparently.” Dean shrugged, pushing up from his seat to walk to the entrance of the library, Sam close behind. Your silhouette slowly coming into view as you trudged down the last steps and into the war room.

“Well look who finally came- holy shit.” The words suddenly dying on Deans lips as you stepped into better lighting, looking like anything except yourself. You were stripped down to your underwear and covered in blood, not a speck of flesh untouched by the crimson substance. And beyond that you looked very, very annoyed.

“What the hell happened?!” Sam voiced, allowing Dean to pass him as the older Winchester shed his robe quickly and moved across the room wrapping it gently around you before taking your bags and dropping them on the table.

“Why does it look like you stepped off the set of Carrie?”

Quietly thanking Dean for the robe, you slowly stepped up the library steps, making a bee line for the bar cart and pouring yourself a glass of whatever was nearest.

“Well-“ you paused, taking a swig and letting the liquor burn your throat. “I think it’s pretty obvious what happened. I decided it would be fun to just strip down to my underwear and chase a bunch of witches through the woods.” You joked, leaning back against the nearby table.

“Ha. Funny. Try again.” Dean breathed, trying to hide his underlying panic as he followed you. He knew you better than most and it was easy to tell that you were not okay. You usually used humor to try and hide that fact.

“Witches man. They’re fucking sceevy like you're always saying. I was hunting a witch and it turned out to be a whole coven-“

“I’m sorry, you were hunting an entire coven and you didn’t call for backup?!” Deans voice raising as he stepped across the room, eyes wide.

“I took care of it. I’m alive, aren't I?”

“Yeah, but have you seen yourself?”

“Right. . . The blood-“

Dean shrugged, nodding once again. “Yeah Y/N. The blood.”

“They were held up in a cabin deep in the woods, and as I was tracking them-“ you paused, taking another gulp from your glass. “It started to rain. . . At least I thought it was rain. Turned out to be blood. I was stumbling around in it blind for a good twenty minutes before I managed to find the place and bury some bullets between their eyes.”

You watched from over the rim of the glass as Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, sinking down back into his seat. “Jeez, Y/N. You should have called us.”

“Like I said Sam, I took care of it. I’m fine.”

Dean could tell that was lie right off the bat. . . Only because he had played that card so many times before. Even with your face caked in a layer of dried blood it was easy to see that you were drained.

“I was gonna come home tomorrow like I originally planned.” You continued. “But after all that all I wanted was to be home as soon as possible. And then there was the fact that I didn’t have any clean clothes and I didn't want to dirty up the interior of my car more so than it already was so I stripped down and bagged the blood clothes. . . Not that it did much difference though.” You gestured to your body.

“Are you okay though? You’re not hurt?” Dean questioned cautiously, almost afraid of the answer.

“No. No, I’m not hurt. At least not anymore so than usual.” You quickly answered, tugging the robe tighter around you. “I’m sorry about the robe by the way. I’ll wash it tomorrow.”

“It’s okay Y/N, really.”

Taking a deep breath you turned on your heel, suddenly wanting to leave the vicinity as quickly as possible. “I’m gonna go take a shower. I’ll see you guys in a little.” The words coming out quietly as you slipped off almost soundlessly down one of the bunkers many hallways.

Watching you go, Dean crossed his arms. “Something’s up with her.”

“Dean give her a break. She’s probably just tired.” Sam countered, closing his laptop and tucking it under his arm. “Maybe try talking to her tomorrow? I’m gonna go to bed.”

And just like that Dean was left in silence to piece together the underlying problem that you had not voiced.

It was one thing to talk about having a shower and another entirely to actually attempt to do it in your state. You had practically lied through your teeth to the brothers about not being hurt because in reality you were just a mass of bruises and small cuts. There was one plus side to being caked head to toe in blood: they didn’t notice that. And you definitely didn’t want to bring up the dislocated shoulder you were currently sporting.

But it was nothing you couldn’t handle. It wasn’t the first time you had this happen to you and probably wouldn’t be the last. All you had to do was pop it back into place. No big deal.

Sinking down onto the bench in the men of letters shower room, you gently shrugged off Deans robe, taking a deep breath to steady yourself for what was to come. Popping a limb back into its socket wasn’t exactly a fun task. But you didn’t want the brothers to fuss over you. You could take care of this yourself. Wrapping your hand around your wrist you pulled your arm forward and straight, waiting for the feeling of it settling back into its proper place . . .but a loud yell escaped your lips before you could stop it. Dropping your arm you moved your hand to cradle the shoulder. Still not in place. Dammit.

It was maybe twenty seconds later that the door flew open, a wide eyed and alert Dean Winchester skidding into the open room on socked feet.

“Dean!” You haphazardly tugged his robe back on. “Knock next time!”

“I heard you scream, forgive me if I panicked!” He fired back, attempting to avert his eyes from your mostly naked figure. “You alright?”

“Yeah. . . I’m fine.” Trying to hide the pained tone in your voice you brought you hand back to your shoulder, the pain now worse. Your small action unfortunately enough to catch the Winchesters attention.

“No you’re not.” And just like that he was quickly closing the space between the two of you. “You’re hurt.”

“Am not.”

“Quit it with the lying, let me see.” Sinking down, he squatted in front of you, patiently waiting for you to remove your hand. As you complied, you felt a shiver run through you as Deans fingers grazed the edge of the robe, pulling it down just enough to see your shoulder.

“It’s just a dislocation. I was handling it.” You mumbled, looking down at your bloodied hands balanced in your lap.

“Just a dislocation?! Why didn’t you say something earlier?!”

“Because I knew you would act this way.”

Dean punched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply. “You’re stubborn, you know that?” Popping back up on his heels, he rolled his shoulders. “I’m gonna pop it back into place, okay? On the count of three.” Bracing one arm against your shoulder blade, he waited for you to nod. “One, two-“ with one quick movement he pressed his other hand on your shoulder and popped it back into place, earning another yell from you.

“Dean!”

“Sorry! Sorry.”

Taking a deep breath you attempted to move your arm, the soreness of it all already settling in and making you groan. How were you supposed to wash all this blood off if you couldn’t raise one arm above your head? Fan-freaking- tastic. You eyed the running water from over your shoulder, jaw clenched. Couldn’t anything ever be easy?

“Let me help.”

You whipped around, eyes wide as you looked up at Dean Winchester. “What?”

“Y/N let me help get this filth off of you. You're still in pain. Please.” If it weren’t for the look of total concern and worry on his face you would have told him to leave. . . But he was right. There was no way you were getting this stuff out of your hair and off your back by yourself.

But then there was the whole issue of Dean himself. For awhile now there had been some unspoken thing between you and the older Winchester- neither of you brave enough to actually say something or to make a move. Maybe it was the fact that the two of you had been best friends for so long that it was making things difficult. . . Who knows. All you knew was that you harbored some very deep feelings for him and now he was just offering to help you with this. And that? Well that was just brand new territory. Sure, Dean had seen you in your underwear plenty of times- but this was different. This was more intimate.

“Okay-“ you slowly nodded, a wave of sudden shyness running over you. You trusted Dean. You trusted him more than anyone one. Bringing your eyes towards the tiled floor beneath your bare feet, you waited as Dean discarded his many layers. The only sign that you were given that he was done was when a calloused hand found your own, helping you up and guiding you into the shower stall. Your eyes found his bare chest first, before traveling up to his face.

“Y/N, I really hate to be the one to tell you this, but us usually when you take a shower you don’t do it in a bathrobe.” Dean joked,shooting you a small grin that made your stomach flip.

“Right.”

You felt the blush return to your cheeks as you slowly shed the robe, tossing it out of the stall.

You could hear Dean suck in a breath, no doubt taking in every inch of bare skin that had suddenly been revealed. Keeping your back facing him, as he acted as a somewhat shield from the harsh pressure of the water, a good portion still pouring down over you.

You slightly flinched when you felt his fingers comb through your hair, the scent of shampoo filling your nostrils. A shiver escaped your body as you looked down, training your eyes on your exposed body and the rivulets of copper colored water running down your legs. It felt like every nerve in your body was vibrating in this moment. This was new. This was uncharted territory with him.

“You doing okay?”

You hummed a response, busying yourself with scrubbing the blood from your arms and torso. It was coming off much easier than you expected, thank goodness. After a minute you slowly turned around, looking up through soaked eyelashes at the nude hunter in front of you, his fingers pausing on your scalp as he looked down at you.

“What?”

“Thank you for helping me.”

“Well-“ he continued his actions, washing the rust colored soap from your hair. “I couldn’t have you walking around the bunker looking like you stepped straight out of a horror movie.”

With the seconds ticking by you had grown more comfortable being in his presence like this. You let out a laugh, shoot him a glare before raising a soapy hand and blowing the extra bubbles into his face, stunning the Winchester momentarily before he moved to wipe the suds from his face.

“Did you just blow bubbles in my face?”

“Maybe. . .” You mused, suppressing your smile as you tried to wipe the water from your eyes.

“Oh well now you’re askin for it-“ he grinned, taking his own soap covered hand and smearing it across your face, grinning when you scrunched up your nose, eyes snapping shut.

“I hate you.”

“you don’t, and you know it.” He smiled, watching you pucker your lips to hide your own grin. “You’re so cute.”

It was like a switch was flipped with those words because you could feel the heat creeping up your face, undoubtedly turning into a raging blush. “No im not!” You interjected, bringing your hands to cover your face, casually opting to make it look like you were washing the blood off instead.

But unfortunately for you- between you stepping into the shower and your childish antics, most of the blood coating your body was now gone, and the second you dropped your hands from your face, you watched the playful smile on Deans face slowly fade into an expression of concern.

“Y/N-“

The bruises. Right. There was no doubt that he had seen them now, judging by his face. “It’s nothing. Just a little banged up from the hunt. You don’t need to worry.” Your shyness suddenly coming back full force as you turned your gaze towards your toes.

“This doesn’t look like a little banged up.” His tone soft as he tenderly grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet his worried gaze, his jade eyes scanning over the scattered bruises across your face. His free hand moving to delicately brush the backs of his fingers across your cheek.

“Like I said earlier, going up against a whole coven of witches is a lot harder than it sounds.”

Clenching his jaw, Dean scanned the rest of your body, only to find more bruises and cuts. Usually he would be furious at you for going out alone, but at this point he was too worried to care.

“I should have known. I could tell something was off from the moment you walked down those steps.” Running a hand through his soaked hair, he cursed himself for not being able to put the pieces together.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” You nodded, placing a hand over the anti possession tattoo on his chest.

Dean let out a sigh, concern only building in him with each passing second. Slowly, he reached out to grab your shoulder, turning you so he could inspect your back. Only to once again finding more bruises. A particularly nasty one took up almost the entirety of the back side of your thigh, the sight of it making the hunter wince. He subconsciously found himself tracing your own anti-possession tattoo that was nestled between your shoulder blades, deep in thought. He wished he could fix this, keep you tucked safely away from the dangers of the world. . . but life didn't work like that.

“Jeez, Y/N. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I hate seeing you worried.” You admitted, turning back around to face him, the two of you ignoring the water still pelting both of you. You hated seeing him like this. It was almost more painful than the purple bruises decorating your body.

“Tell me what I can do to make it better.” His eyes big and still full of concern as he looked intently at you, calloused fingers rubbing soothing circles on your hips. His question making you slightly tense up and freeze.

“Well. . .” You paused, looking up into his quiet eyes as you traces the curve of his familiar face, debating on whether or not to say what you were thinking. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to kiss you.”

The older Winchester raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your words. “Oh? Is that so?”

“Mmhmm. You’re probably good at it.”

“Well, lucky for you I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time too.” Dean leaned in closer, resting his forehead against your own. God, he couldn’t fight the thoughts that were going through him now. You were intoxicating.

His lips brushed against yours and suddenly you didn’t care about the dull throbbing in your arm anymore, your hands going up to clasp the sides of his face. It was slow and soft and comforting in a way you had never felt before. Dean rested his hands below your ears, his thumbs caressing your cheeks as your breaths mingled. You slowly ran your fingers down his spine,pulling him closer until there was no space between you, your bare skin flush against his own.

After a moment Dean pulled away- or at least you thought he did before you felt his lips against your cheek, the hunter tenderly peppering your bruised face with kisses.

“Y/N.” Your name leaving him almost breathlessly as his lips moved down and over your neck as his hands explored your body. But he stopped himself before venturing any further, pulling back to look at you.

“What?”

His hand went back to your cheek as the softest expression you had ever seen on the man lit up his features. “You’re so beautiful.” the words leaving him breathlessly.

“So are you, Cowboy.” You smiled, pecking the tip of his nose.

“And as much as I would love to take you right here and now, you look like you're running on two hours of sleep. . . Plus, I want you to get better first.” He smiled, reaching behind him to turn off the water.

“That’s fair.” You let out a light laugh as Dean reached for the nearest towel, and wrapping it around you. . . The man practically swaddling you with it.

“There you go.” He grinned, tilting his head as he admired his work. “Now you look like a burrito.”

“I’m gonna hit you.”

“I’d like to see you try.” He mused, reaching for his own towel. “Now go get dressed. I’ll change and go make you something to eat.” Pressing a quick kiss to your temple, Dean pulled away, heading for the door- but not before sending you a wink from over his shoulder.

So this night didn’t go exactly how you planned. . . But you weren’t complaining.

Much like before, talking about doing a task and actually doing it were two completely different things. You had managed to get your underwear and sweatpants on easily, along with the massive t-shirt you had stolen from Dean months ago. . . But the sweatshirt was a different task. With an arm still partially out of commission due to its earlier dislocation, struggling against the sleeves proved to be a pointless work out. Which had you walking into the dimly lit kitchen with the sweatshirt only pulled partially over your head.

“Dean.”

“What?” The hunter turned from the counter, face almost immediately turning up in amusement at the state of you.

“I can’t get it on.” Your voice muffled from the fabric as you stopped in the doorway.

“Alright, alright. wait one second.” He lightly laughed, setting down the knife he was holding and moving across the room towards you. His fingers moving to pull the bunched up fabric down your torso. “Hold our your arms.” He instructed. You did as you were told, watching as he pulled the sleeves over your arms. “There you go. Better?”

“Yep. Thank you.” You nodded, playing with the strings of the hoodie as you sat down at the kitchen table, Dean moving back to the kitchen counter and resuming his previous task.

Letting out a sigh, you folded your arms over the surface of the small table, resting your cheek against your elbow as if it were a pillow. You hadn’t really realized how tired you were up until this moment- but that didn’t stop you from letting out a soft and tired giggle.

“What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking about the fact that the first time we saw each other naked was because you were helping me scrub blood off my body.” You paused, eyelids getting heavy with sleep. “And people say romance is dead.” you slightly chuckled.

“I don’t know what your talking about, I think we just invented romance back there.” Dean mused, cutting the sandwich in front of him in half and piling it onto a plate. “Now here you go madame, one perfectly made peanut butter and jelly sandwich-“

The last of the words petering out on his lips as he brought his gaze towards you, finding you already fast asleep at the table, your head in your arms. Clearly your need for sleep had outweighing your hunger.

Setting down the plate as quietly as he could, Dean rounded the table and squatted down, “damn, you’re killin me Smalls.” he lightly chuckled, sliding his arms underneath you and effortlessly hoisting you into his arms. He expected you to protest or at least whine, but you were too far gone at this point to even notice. “Let’s get you to bed.”

The older Winchester navigated the otherwise dark hallways of the bunker with ease, making his way towards your bedroom.  Nudging the partially cracked door open with his heel, he moved across the room and settled you on the bed. Before departing he gently wiped the stray strands of hair away from your face, taking in in your relaxed features. It was a rarity to see you this peaceful. He wanted to take a mental snap shot of it, so he could remember.

After a moment the hunter turned to leave, only to be stopped short when one of your hands lazily came up to grab his own. Your words barely audible as you spoke in a whisper.

“Stay. . . Please.”

And so he did. . . along with every night after.

The End.

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[lightbows]

scrap of somethiiiing i’m working on again finally

idk if anybody cares at this point buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut it’s post rise of skywalker bc every time i think about that movie (which i did like) i am more frustrated about how it isn’t even about rey

so our space gal is looking for meaning Out There Somewhere...

----------------------

“I sense you are trying to do the impossible.”

“How so?” She sat back, regarding the monk with enough suspicion that he’d need no Whills’ instinct to detect it.

“It’s a heavy burden, a legacy.”

Rey nodded, unsure which of the loads she was presently trying to shoulder would drag her down first. “But not an impossibility. Everyone does it, in some way.”

“Everyone carries their own.” Abban flopped back on the sandstone behind him. It couldn’t be comfortable but he reclined with a stretch as contently as if hitting a feather bed. “You attempt to drag around two or three and none of them reach their destination.”

A deep breath pressed out a quick white-hot flame of anger, and the smirk on the monk’s face made it threaten to rise again. “You presume quite a lot,” she said in a clipped tone. “My legacy and theirs are one.”

“You tell me I presume,” he chuckled, kicking one leg over the other. “And then tell me I’m entirely correct. Master Skywalker, even far, far out here, your name preceeds you. Your story crosses that one you’re tangled up in, make no mistake. But the roots are far away and they’re getting all--” He made a wiggly gesture with his fingers that made Rey rather want to lop them off. “All dried up. Lucky you’re a desert plant, from what I’ve heard.”

Another person might have been speechless, while Rey was, not exactly to her credit, merely thoughtless. Words came easily enough as she shot to her feet. “You knew who I was this whole time!” Noble the words were not, a cracking edge to her voice that more recalled a complaining youth than a Jedi master. “And you play these games!”

“I like games,” he said in lieu of a defense, pulling himself upright again and scratching at his bristly shaved head. “Besides, you came here for wisdom you should be looking for in yourself. I offered what I could, which isn’t much.”

“That is a massive understatement.”

“Again, you pick out the self-serving parts of--” He interrupted himself with a short laugh and a shake of his head. “Let me tell you a story, Master Skywalker.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Oh, because you’re already here, because your ship will take a day and a half to get its wings back, because I am just a little bit charming,” he spoke with his hands though the gestures did not seem connected to any words in particular. “Take your pick.”

Rey narrowed her eyes a moment, then sat. “It’s the second one,” she said firmly.

Abban carried on—showing some wisdom after all. “I had a teacher, who had a teacher, who had a teacher--”

“I’ve only a day and a half, please remember.”

“--who came from the old traditions. The really old ones, back from the days the Jedi all but erased from their history once politics got into it. So, this teacher’s-teacher’s-teacher—let’s call him Master Anyu. He was from the homeworld. He lived and worked and taught at the temples, just like generations before him as far back as anyone could remember. When he was a child, they always told him he didn’t have the gift.”

“The Force?”

“The Force, the Whills’ instincts, the ability to walk and talk at the same time. You name it. He was a clumsy kid who had a hard time learning, from a time and place that didn’t have either the means or the desire or either to give him a boost.”

“But he became a Master.”

“He became a Master.”

Rey rubbed her eyes, patience dwindling yet again. “Am I meant to be inspired?”

“Not really,” Abban said with a sigh. “He rose through the stages slowly and got there by sheer endurance, and was one of hundreds. Then he raised a generation that watched their home and spiritual centers stolen from beneath them and destroyed.” He smiled at Rey’s bewildered expression, which only made her more confused. “And I’m two generations removed from that.”

“But you know his name.”

“And now you do too.” He shrugged. “Is that a legacy? I don’t know. It’s a story. He wasn’t the first or the last or the greatest. He’s a man who lived a long time so his name was said a lot, and now I’m saying it again. Longevity isn’t worthiness though, you know? Not to speak ill of the man, but there’s next to nothing we know about the Guardians who came after him, who fought and died defending what he simply carried from one wing of the world to the other.”

“But his legacy is that those Guardians existed,” Rey murmured, eyes gazing past Abban down the long hallway of those who came before him. “They come from him, and your teachers come from them, and--”

“Master Skywalker, we respect our ancestors here, those in our blood and those in our memory. You do not need to preach to me about where I come from.” His tone was lighthearted, amused even, despite--or maybe because of--Rey’s immediate look of chagrin. “We remember where we came from but we do not try to use that path as a map. It only goes one way. You cannot finish someone else’s story. It is already finished, whether you liked the ending or not.”

The words struck her with a great force and she looked away, off to the horizon where a moon she hadn’t noticed before was beginning to poke its greenish-silver head over the hills. “What about our story?” She asked haltingly, at long last deferring to the wisdom she had, at least in name, come here to find. “The universal story—all of us creatures, together in the Force.”

“Asking the right questions is a good first step, Master Skywalker.” He drummed his fingers on his knee a moment, thinking. “So, what about it indeed? Surely you don’t think you have to write that story yourself.” Rey’s hesitation was heavy enough to compell the monk to simply step over it. “Or is it that you’re upset you can’t?”

The question itself wasn’t so bad, but Abban’s amused tone was enough to set Rey’s teeth on edge once more. “I am—I am simply looking for my place in all of this.”

“To give it to you straight,” he said, one eyebrow lifting. “It would be easier to believe that if you weren’t wearing two or three cloaks’ worth of borrowed identities...Master Skywalker.”

With that she was on her feet again, this time whirling around and storming towards her speeder without hesitation. The presumptuous fool, she fumed, thoughts loud enough that she wasn’t sure how much was internal and how much aloud. Luckily the rickety engine drowned out whatever uncharitable goodbye she may have had for Abban as she sped away once more, the grind of old gears and the miniature sandstorm in her wake a familiar lullaby for her anger.

The notion of circling back to the city, where Abban’s fellow monks would be waiting with further wisdom was unbearable, so she found herself reverting to certain old habits, turning the vehicle toward the emptiest expanse of sand imaginable and driving as far as she dared. It was the kind of thing that used to have the dual purpose of clearing her head and possibly leading to a profit, some abandoned craft deep in the wasteland of an entirely different desert that might have paid for a meal or two. Now it was to avoid the food and warmth and company that waited in the other direction—still a meditation of sorts.

Settling into a glide around a dune, with the knowledge she’d soon need to circle back, it would have been easy for another person to miss: the mostly constant, fuzzy sound of sand whipping beneath repulsorlifts gradually grew less steady, the sound of stone pinging off the lower hull breaking through Rey’s thoughts. No—not stone. Rey slowed, lowering one boot to the ground, and was immediately greeted with another crunch. Glass—real glass, not transparisteel. More and more of it, as if she’d suddenly driven over only the narrowest edge of an enormous shattered mirror, stretching to the horizon and beyond. And then, hitting even harder than the sound, the feeling up ahead, the sense of enormous tragedy sealed inside a horrible glittering cage.

[catharrington]

1. Cream in my coffee

2. Honey in my tea

3. Rum in my cola:

Steve’s not in the best of shape to hit a party the next night, less than 20 hours from his walk of shame and he’s sporting bruises on his wrists and a migraine— but he’s a high school senior. Even if fallen from grace, has to keep face. Even if the only thing he’s had over the entire day was a couple cups of tea with way too much sugar dissolved inside the mug.

Steve knew if he drank on an empty stomach it wouldn’t take long to get drunk, and a part of him is counting on it.

The stainless steel kettle is still out on his stove top. The lights leading to his kitchen are all still flipped on. He doesn’t want to touch anything. Doesn’t want to disturb the cloud of cigarette smoke and bad boy attitude Billy left lingering when he came and went. Steve doesn’t touch anything for those 20 hours because it will feel too much like he’s trying to hold Billy’s hand.

Instead, he stayed in his room, washing his skin until it rubbed red and then washing it again. Running his fingers through his hair to work his organic, name brand product in fresh. No more somber burnt coffee feelings of itchy bed sheets on his skin.

Steve comes out of his bathroom with a towel tied low on his hips. He traces his hands over the back of his desk chair where he laid out Billy’s jacket. He didn’t ask to keep it, also didn’t offer to give it back. Just kept it.

That night, when he decides he is going to keep face and show up at the graduating class’ senior year bash, he reaches for the jacket again to slip it on. It goes on much easier than in the Camaro where he gingerly grazed it over open wounds. Now the marks on his wrists are sore purple and black, and less burning red, but he’s happy to have the longer sleeves to pull down. To cover up.

He backs his expensive BMW out his driveway, he flipped all the lights off so his house looks decrepit, abandoned, as he pulls away.

Tina’s house is big, not as big as his, but big enough to come to a party and go unnoticed if you tried hard enough. Steve’s plan was to swim in, drink some beer and mix it with harder liquior to get him drunk faster, say a few short quips to make someone anyone laugh, then leave where he came. Maybe stumble home and find a sickly grey, dripping blood from the knife edges of teeth it calls a mouth, demogorgon he can sink his boiling anger into.

But now, he felt along the floral wallpaper as he made his way to Tina’s kitchen. He gets there and wraps his hands around the bottle of a chilled beer right from the fridge when the remote control hits pause.

“Thought I might find you here,” a voice dribbles down the back of his neck like burning alcohol. “I’m happy you got home safe, Steve.”

The long sleeve shirt Steve picked for the night feels too high up on the collar for him now. Feels choking and painful as he hears that voice again. The voice that was disappointed, not mad, even when Steve wanted to fight.

“You gonna look at me?” The man asks. An uppity tone to his voice. Makes Steve whip around his head to level him with a glare. The bruises on his wrists move with how hard he’s gripping the neck of his beer bottle. If it was any weaker, if he was any stronger, he could shatter it in his hands.

“What’s to look at?” Steve says quiet. They’re mostly alone in the kitchen. But the fluorescent lights are much brighter than any light that should shine down on their relationship. “I told you yesterday, I’m finished.”

The guy sighs out, stirs his mixed drink he’s nursing before he pushes it towards Steve down the counter. Steve doesn’t touch it, doesn’t even think of touching it. If the little gesture has done anything, it’s been to make his teeth grind down.

“You’re really gonna throw this away,” the man says smoothly, scooting close as his drink.

“Yeah,” Steve flicks dark brown eyes from the drink to the man’s face, “I guess I’m just not cut out for what you want.”

“You don’t know that until you try. Experiment-.”

“We tried plenty, decided I didn’t like most of it,” and Steve’s vision doesn’t waver even if his voice slightly does, “decided I didn’t like you.”

The guy swallows thickly. Takes his plastic cup and takes a swig long and loud. He’s obnoxious in the way he gulps it down, licks his lips to chase the dark liquid from the corners of his mouth, and leans in close enough so Steve can smell the mix on his lips. Rum and cola, the easiest fucking thing. The cheapest fucking thing. He’s had it at lots of parties, now he just feels sick about it.

“Back off me, man,” Steve whispers.

“Don’t be scared,” he slurs, reaching one hand that isn’t swirling his foul smelling drink and uses it to cup over Steve’s arm. Slides his big hand down around his wrist, squeezes denim into bruises, drawls out a hiss Steve doesn’t have time to muffle. Squeezed again when he figures it out.

Steve yanks out the hold quickly, pulling his arm back to his stomach to protect it, the other one pushing his beer bottle between them as if that’ll protect him. Maybe he will smash it over this guys head. Maybe he’ll smash it over the counter and use the sharped neck to carve away the mold growing over this guys skin.

That would take all night, so Steve only throws a glare before he’s moving off the counter and into the party.

He gets lost in the waves of people on people, grinding and pushing and laughing and drinking all together. Steve bumps against a guy, dark hair and freckles on his face, gets a plastic cup poured down his shirt for his troubles. But Steve isn’t listening to the empty threats. He scowls, shoots a “fuck off, Tommy,” before he keeps going.

Ends up on the back porch, the nighttime air trying to curl it’s fingers into the warm denim of Billy’s jacket. It doesn’t stand a chance. But there are real fingers chasing the air. They wrap around Steve’s wrist again and again dig into his tender skin. He’s got the beer bottle still in his hand and it swooshes around as he grips it like he’s ready for a fight.

But when he turns around: it’s Billy, Billy Hargrove, curly blond hair and dark eyelashes. Groomed brows drawn to a straight line of worry on his face. His hand drops from Steve’s wrist quicker than Steve can drop the beer bottle with a clatter to the ground.

The amber liquid pours out like honey between the wooden deck to the grass below.

“Gonna take a swing at me?” Billy asks. His voice humored, gentle, infuriatingly relaxing.

“Don’t touch me, Hargrove.” Steve warns.

Billy holds his hands up in the air. He’s wearing a new jacket, soft brown leather that’s worn almost down to the thread, thankfully, he’s not missing his denim jacket that got adopted out too much.

“You can take a swing, I won’t punch back. But you’ll be stuck on full nerd car ride duty if I die so good luck with that, Stevie,” he says with a wink.

Steve doesn’t reply. Just glances around the porch until he finds a rail to lean against.

“Hey,” Billy keeps his soft voice low.

He follows Steve with the moonlight midnight blue dancing on his dark tanned skin. He lays a hand over Steve’s shoulder. One hand goes to touch his jaw so lightly Steve’s thinking he’s imagining it. Until Billy’s thick fingers slide up the bone and curl behind his ear. Tangled with the longest parts of his hair. It’s too familiar, far too familiar, for what little they are. But Steve can’t help but lean into the touch.

Coming to the party was a bad idea. He’s got half a beer in his stomach and a drink spilt down his shirt, and Steve’s already feeling sick enough to purr under Billy’s touch.

“What happened?” Billy asks. Steve doesn’t reply, lets his eyes slide closed and his skin soak up the warm fingers.

“It’s not... God- it’s not some monster shit again?” Billy’s voice is hushed.

Steve doesn’t know how to reply. No, he wants to say, of course not, but with the clawing rage building inside him mixing stiffly like a cheap drink with the fear he felt as he ran out of the kitchen; maybe it was a monster.

He doesn’t get to reply though, before the screen door to the porch is creaking open behind them.

“Steve?” the man, monster, calls out for him.

Opening his eyes, Steve sees the wild back of Billy’s hair, curled tight and sticky with hairspray, and golden, so fucking golden, in the single naked bulb on the porch. Steve doesn’t have to see him to see him. He’s been on the receiving end of Billy’s glare enough, just last night before he got in the Camaro. It makes his toes curl in his socks.

“Glad I found you, babe,” the man leaves the door open, the pollution of light and noise spilling out over Billy’s gentle touch. Turns his shoulders rigged. Steve wants to cup them as comforting as Billy did to him last night, but he can’t. Only holds his own hands, his bruised wrists in his cold fingers, while he watches.

Billy doesn’t step aside, says, “what’s it ya lookin for, buddy?” while blocking Steve’s view like a wall.

The man catches himself for a second, he’s older but not by much, not by enough. And nothing the rum in his cola wouldn’t have equalized. “Steve,” he groans annoyed, “let’s go, we need to talk this out. Like two adults.”

And that gets Steve’s skin itching, scratchy, wants to rip a bat hammered through with nails into something soft. “There’s nothing more I have to say to you, oh- except maybe one thing: fuck off!”

“Don’t be immature about this-,”

“Didn’t you hear him?” Billy doesn’t let him finish. Cuts off that tone of disappointment like he was made to do it. Sends a shiver down Steve’s spine. He sits up on the railing just enough to see the man over Billy’s shoulder.

He notices the way the open door let a few curious eyes gather. One red flushed freckled face and curly red hair stand out. Steve looks between Tommy and Carol and Billy’s lip turned up into a snarl.

“Pretty boy here said fuck off, bitch,” he snarls, dog like, and each word is angrier than the next.

Tommy smiles wide, Steve recognizes that more than he should. And it’s familiar in a familiar painful sort of way. He wishes he was back in his kitchen away from all this. With the Billy who made him tea. Now he’s with Hawkins High tip of pyramid, wolves looking out for their pack with the same fervor they have to taste blood on their fangs.

Steve doesn’t know if this is about him anymore, a part of him knows it is, a part of him wants to think Billy is doing this singuarilly to defend him, but a shadow from his past is creeping in the open doorways yellow light smirking as if it knows better.

“Let’s go, Billy,” Steve says. He’s tired of thinking so much. Exhausted from it. Just wants to sink into leather Camaro seats and upturn the collar of Billy’s jacket and smell again. “Let’s get out of here,” he repeats, stepping forward to get a hand on Billy’s back.

“Oh! You’re not going anywhere!” The man slurs out as he zeros in on Steve’s hand, but those were the wrong words.

Quicker than Steve can think through his headache, quicker than the man can see through the haze of alcohol, but just as fast as a high school student’s hyena laughter; Billy’s hand balls into a fist and cracks against bone.

Snap, and the man is lurching backwards, his hands flying up to cup around his nose. Blood pours down his face and between his fingers red like the plastic cup he dropped on the ground. More dark brown liquid sloshes around his feet.

Billy moves without mercy. He scoops the man up by the collar of his shirt, yanking him to attention, getting real close.

“No one tells me what to do,” he hisses.

Steve can’t fucking take it. He reaches forward again, this time getting a fist in Billy’s jacket and pulling the fabric tight to get his attention. Feels like he’s pulling on a wild animals leash but he keeps pulling.

“Let him go, Hargrove, he’s not worth it,” he tells him what to do. Voice quiet under Tommy’s laughter and Carol’s cheers.

“Let’s go,” Steve presses the point of his sharp nose into the soft spot behind Billy’s ear, whispers right to him.

It’s easy as pressing a button on the other boy. Billy drops the man heavy on the ground. Listens to Steve above all the noise. He turns into the touch, allows it when Steve’s hand slides from where his jacket is bunched in the back and down to his wrist.

Steve wraps his hand around Billy’s wrist and pulls.

They stumble together down the steps of Tina’s back porch. They stumble together across the dark grass in the middle of the night and search blindly for a baby blue Camaro. Billy finds it first, pressing his overheated skin against the chilled metal. Steve walks around the front, leading with his hands over hands across the hood to keep his balance. They drop into the leather seats. Steve takes a gulp of air that’s just as satisfying as lighting up his own marlboro red.

The engine starts to life, vibrating under his ass and pushing the blood through his slug stiff veins. Billy growls along with it. Throws his head back. His curly hair flattened on the back by his headrest as he opens his pretty mouth wide to holler. One hand gripping the wheel is skinned on the knuckles, blood just starting to drip out.

Steve lets his head fall back same as Billy. His chest heaving as hard as it was in the boys locker room showers, when his vision was orange glow and California sun kissed skin. And all he could think about was how mustaches feel when you kiss them.

Billy turns to him. Smug smile on his face. Trying to get a rise out of him.

“How’s that for fighting monsters, pretty boy?” he shouts.

Steve takes a second to breath. Closes his eyes and opens them slow just to make sure he’s got his head on right. Then he replies, “I fucking love fighting monsters with you, Billy,” and he means it.

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

Right there

Summary: Love stories aren’t always grand, sweeping epics. Sometimes they come soft and slow, made up of a million different things, and you may not even recognize what you have until it’s right there in front of you. This is one of those stories.

Characters: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: Brief mission related trauma. Oreo thievery and dirty bubblegum. Mostly just buckets of fluff.

A/N: Hello Tumblr friends! I’ve been in a writing drought lately and it feels like forever since I posted anything, so here’s a short, fluffy fic while I try to Stella my groove back. My plan was to make this snappy and snarky, but it went full scale mush by the end. Guys, I just really love Bucky Barnes. ♥️

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

“Right there. Do you see?”

The murmur is low in your ear. Smoothing the folds of emerald green satin, you follow Bucky’s glance down and see the tips of your freshly painted toes, clad in sparkly sandals and peeping from beneath the evening gown. Nothing out of the ordinary, until you notice one thing.

“Gross. What the hell is that?” you whisper.

Stuck like glue to the front of your right shoe, curling over the edge and dangerously close to your bare skin, is a piece of neon blue bubblegum.

Keeping one eye trained on the crush of inebriated party goers, searching out the mission target for the evening, you try a few options.

Scrape the edge of the shoe on the marble floor. Pointless.

Give a couple stealthy stomps. Useless.

Try to wipe it on Bucky’s trouser leg. Bucky sighs heavily and sure, that’s entertaining.

But no matter what you try, this appears to be the superglue of all gum. Bucky stares straight ahead, eyes roaming the crowd, but you see him periodically glance over, gauging your progress.

There’s no real harm, you can fix it later, but every time you shift your weight, the tacky feel of it sticks to the floor and makes a small snick sound. Like a parasite, the dirty, chewed up wad creeps further up the shoe, so close to defiling your pristine toes, and the whole thing is driving you bananas.

“Pay attention to the mission,” Bucky whispers sternly, but as of immediately, there’s a new mission in town. So, when your revolutionary idea arrives in a wave of brilliance, you take immediate action.

Nestled snug against Bucky’s lower back, hidden beneath his tuxedo jacket, sits his favorite knife. Without a thought, you reach up and tug it from the sheath, turning to face the back wall, balancing on one leg and gripping his forearm for support.

And then, frozen in shock, Bucky proceeds to watch you use his favorite knife - the one he sleeps with under his pillow, the one he keeps beside his morning Cheerios, the one he painstakingly sharpens after each and every mission - to dig at the dirty blue bubblegum fused to the bottom of your shoe.

“Disgusting,” you mutter. With a twist and flourish, it pops free and you fling it away, sending it flying into one of those tacky potted ferns by the bathroom. Smothering a laugh, you shoot Bucky a challenging look - and then slide the sticky knife back in the sheath.

You slide it back in the sheath without cleaning it.

Bucky grinds his teeth so hard his jaw locks up.

There is no earthly reason you should still be alive after this sacrilegious approach to basic knife protocol, but when he subtly leans over to voice his intense displeasure, he has the sudden desire to laugh.

“Everything okay, Barnes?” you ask under your breath, resuming your scan of the crowd. An insanely devilish grin tugs at your lips, and he huffs at the playful nudge of your elbow.

“Just fuckin’ peachy,” he mumbles drily, and then he marvels at the thought that follows.

Because right there, Bucky Barnes decides that maybe that proper knife etiquette isn’t all that important.

As long as he can see you smile.

*****

“Right there. Do you see?”

Bucky stands stoic at the open kitchen cabinet, pointing at the top shelf, his furious glare driving daggers into Sam’s heart.

“Dude, I swear I didn’t touch them.”

“You’re a lying liar who lies, Wilson.”

“Dude, I fucking swear. Get over yourself, damn.”

Sam stands with his arms crossed, an equally exasperated sneer on his face. Sitting on the couch, buried under a mountain of blankets, you watch with interest. Back and forth they trade barbs, a verbal tennis match full of snarky comments, childish quips, and the occasional mention of each other’s mom. Finally, Sam throws his hands up and whirls away.

“You’re fucking impossible, asshole.”

Bucky bangs the cabinet door shut and stomps over to you, plopping into an armchair to sulk. Smiling in commiseration, you stay silent, furtively trying to swallow. You’re so close to success, but then it happens.

No matter how hard you try, the crinkle of an Oreo package is too obvious.

At the sound, Bucky’s head snaps up.

“What was that?” he asks, suspicious. Eyes wide, you shrug in silent innocence. Bucky scrutinizes your pile of blankets, realization dawning. “Was that - did you steal my Oreos?”

Another silent, vehement shake of the head. You’re close, so close, just one more swallow -

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Prove it. Whistle for me.”

Damn.

When you purse your lips and blow, nothing comes out. Well, nothing except flecks of black Oreo crumbs. Swallowing the rest of the cookie, you fish out the bottle of milk hiding under the blanket and wash it all down, smacking your lips.

“Oh, sorry. Were these your Oreos?” you ask sweetly.

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek and tries to be mad, he genuinely tries really hard, but it doesn’t work. Launching himself from the chair, he bounces onto the couch next to you, sending your milk sloshing and you squawking in faux anger.

“You dirty little thief,” he deadpans, snatching away the package. Shoving three cookies in his mouth, he steals your bottle of milk and chugs it down. When he finishes, a white milk mustache is painted above his lip. It turns this dark man, someone with decades of gunpowder on his fingers and bloodstains on his soul, back into a young boy. Carefree and innocent, brimming with happy laughter. Swallowing hard, you reach over and carefully wipe it away with a firm brush of your thumb.

And right there, Bucky Barnes discovers the simple beauty of cookies and milk and the feel of your cool fingers on his skin.

*****

“Right there. Do you see?”

No. You didn’t. And that’s the problem.

Every blow of your fists unleashes something inside.

Smack, smack, smack.

Harder and faster, the punching bag absorbs all the pent of anger and lingering fury of a failed mission.

Smack, smack, smack.

It was so close. It was right there. You should have seen it. Should have remembered the bad guys never play nice, and the price of hesitation is a life. Memories trigger memories, sparking through your brain like a circuit board of bad decisions, lighting up one after another. Bucky stands on the other side of the bag, silently watching you pummel those demons trying to burrow into your skin.

“Talk to me,” he says quietly, and you frantically shake your head.

Smack, smack, smack.

Tears spill over. They blur your vision, turning the punching bag and the tall soldier holding it, into shapeless blobs. Blinking them away, wiping your runny nose on tape covered hands, the salt of tears and sweat drips into the busted-up gashes across your knuckles. It stings, a vicious reminder of what was lost. The scent of blood fills your nostrils and there are those memories again, a tsunami of pain barreling through.

Smack, smack, smack.

“Go away, Bucky. Leave me alone,” you snarl, aching arms still swinging at the punching bag. He ignores the request, a stalwart statue. It infuriates you in an unexplainable way and you spit the words in his face. “God dammit, fuck you, I don’t want - I don’t need - I don’t - I mean it. I fucking mean it. Please, just” smack “fucking” smack “go.”

Smack.

Like a booming clap of thunder, your last punch is so hard, it explodes the fragile wall holding the tears at bay.

Knees buckle. Shoulders slump. Fists slam the floor. You go down hard, and the result is devastation.

Ugly, wrenching sobs claw up your throat, stuck behind your clenched teeth until you open your mouth and howl. It hurts to cry this way, to let everything loose and accept the consequences of your failure. You will never save them all, and that clarity is a special brand of destruction.

Bucky says nothing. No words can solve this pain. No one knows that better than him.

Instead, he lays down on the sweat drenched mats beside you. Without a word, he wraps you into a hug, tucking you against his chest. Even if you don’t deserve this comfort, you cling to it. Clutching his shirt, the only lifeline you have left, you cry until that bottomless well of pain and misery finally runs dry. It takes hours, but Bucky is patient, never ceasing the comforting strokes up and down your spine.

And when it’s done, when your exhaustion leaves you unable to open puffy eyes, he simply lifts you up and carries you to your room. Places you gently on your bed and pulls the blankets over you.

“Bucky. Don’t go. Please don’t leave,” you beg hoarsely, and the misery in your voice breaks him. The bed dips as he climbs in beside you, wrapping you in his arms once again and you feel his lips brush your forehead.

The night bleeds into a dreary grey dawn, and right there, Bucky Barnes sinks into the comfort of a dreamless sleep, with you cradled tight in the heat of his arms.

*****

“Right there. Do you see?”

Eyes closed against the shining sun, you offer a sleepy hum. There’s a rustle of movement, and something soft tickles your cheek. It runs across your nose, touches your eyelids, sweeps light as a feather over your lips.

Eyes struggle open, and there you find Bucky watching, a little purple flower held in his long fingers. The look on his face is unreadable. He does that sometimes, looks at you like he wants to say something more, but he always hesitates, the words stuck in confused silence.

The petals wave faintly in the breeze and you smile.

“Pretty,” you say.

“Just a weed,” he shrugs.

“Still pretty,” you say. “Hand it over.”

Bucky places it in your outstretched palm. Gives a wry shake of the head.

“You’re the only one I know, who thinks weeds are beautiful.”

The small blossom sits thoughtfully in your hand and you hold it up, squinting to the sun.

“Just because something has a bad name, doesn’t mean it isn’t beautiful.”

There’s a peculiar hope in Bucky’s face as he considers the statement. He likes those words. He likes them a lot. Wants to believe they might even include him too. But nervous silver fingers pick at the threadbare edge of the picnic blanket, and you see a shadow of self-doubt flit over his handsome face.

“Sometimes a weed is still a weed. Even pretty words can’t change that fact.”

The reference is clear. You know exactly what he means, because the list of negative metaphors Bucky uses to describe himself has grown extensive and colorful over the years. Rising to your knees, you shuffle closer until you’re facing him.

“Hey,” you say gently. Careful hands cup his face, the scratchy feel of his beard on your palms softer than you expected. “You better not be calling yourself a weed, Barnes. I’d hate to kick your ass out here in public.”

The shimmer of unshed tears in those blue eyes makes you ache for him. But when Bucky sees the determination in your face, he blinks them away. And like the little weed in your hand, a tiny smile begins to bloom.

He clears his throat.

“Kick my ass, huh? I’d really love to see how that goes.”

“It’ll go my way,” you say confidently. Picking up his heavy hand, you turn it palm up and peel his fingers back. Laying the purple flower in his hand, the vivid color glows against the bright silver. “See? Beautiful. Just like you.”

He stares at the flower. Looks up.

It happens right there, in the sun-soaked summer fields of Central Park; Bucky Barnes feels his heart stop at the taste of your kiss.

*****

“Right there. Do you see?”

Lost in thought, Bucky startles at the question.

Following the line of your arm, he sees you pointing into the infinite ocean of blue-black. Stars are speckled through the heavens, patterns of constellations and figures that you always manage see, but he can never seem to find.

Stuck in the middle of nowhere, the two of you walk along, miles from civilization. The first hint of winter settles all around, hard frost covering the tips of the grass, coating the pebbles edging the abandoned road, turning your breath to thick white clouds. It should make him anxious. Bucky hates the frost, despises the frozen blue that weaves maliciously through his worst nightmares.

But on this cold, moonlit night, with you warm by his side, he finds he doesn’t mind so much.

“What am I looking for?” he asks.

“Shooting star,” you say breathlessly. Tilting your head back, you go still, a beacon of patience awaiting a cosmic miracle. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

Bucky peers up at the sky, but as the minutes click by, he knows he’ll never find what he needs up there.

He turns to look at you instead. Watches you watch the sky, his chest burning with contentment at the sight of your profile in this moonlit night.

“Sure,” he says. “So beautiful.”

Gloved fingers find yours, and you turn your gaze from the infinity of space, to this man beside you, solid and real and here on Earth. There is nothing in the world but the two of you, nothing else matters as you move impossibly close.

“Such a sap,” you murmur, your mouth a mere breath from his. The tip of his nose is icy against your cheek, and you can feel him smiling as he returns the kiss with a shiver.

The world is funny. Because this - this is your love story.

Built on blue bubblegum and stolen Oreos, blood-stained bandages and purple flowers, shooting stars and an endless night sky, this love bursts with highs and lows and a million variations in-between. Wrapped up in the delicious comfort of your kiss, Bucky wonders what in the world he ever did to earn this.

This perfectly imperfect life. Here. With you.

There’s no real answer, of course. Love is like that sometimes.

So instead, he dusts off those three words from another life, ones he’s stored away for decades, and he hands them over, because they’re the one thing he can always see, no matter how dark his world becomes.

“I love you,” he whispers. “More than anything.”

The words are drenched in happiness, syllables shaped with a quiet joy that glows brighter and fiercer than every constellation hanging above. And in the space of a single second -

Your heart skips.

Your breath catches.

You swear you could fly.

Because this is it, this is the moment. This is the big one.

And that right there is when you return those three words, the ones Bucky Barnes has been missing his whole life and the ones you’ve held close, since the night you found that blue bubblegum tacked onto your shoe.

The words are perfect. You kiss him again.

“I love you too, Bucky.”

*****

[starkeristheendgame]

maybe unrequited!peter jerking off in tony's lab while he isn't there. esp knowing tony has cameras, security etc (ty if ur up for it!)

Okay, so I had to message you to figure out the unrequited bit, but: Here we go! I hope that you like it and that I did it justice! Thank you so much ❤️ This is literally shameless voyeurism and smut. I have literally no excuse except for the fact it was requested. 

TW/Tags: (Not) unrequited love | voyeurism | Under-negotiated sexual content

People liked to joke about Tony Stark’s lack of impulse control; about his knack for bad decisions or spur-of-the-moment acts. It was funny. It was a thing. Tony could show up one day with a gold-coated camel or something and people would just roll their eyes and go ‘there he goes again’. 

Peter? Peter was a kid. Easily excusable. He tried his best to think things through and to be the responsible adult he was trying to convince everyone else he was. And he felt he did a good job. Sure, here and there he might have fucked up a little or jumped into action when he ought to have stepped back and thought a little more. 

But if anything, people put those moments down to one of two things: ‘Oh, he’s just a kid. They do that.’‘Too much time around Tony, that’s what that is. Taking after his mentor.’

Tony could not, at all, be blamed for this. Nor, really, could the fact that he was younger. Not when ‘this’ was being splayed on Tony’s main workbench, head thrown back, legs apart like a whore, one hand shoved down into his boxers. Really, it couldn’t be blamed on anything except Peter and Peter’s desperate love and need for Tony. 

“F-Fuck. Bad idea. This is a bad idea,” he ground out, squeezing his eyes shut as he ran his thumb slowly over the slit of his cock, thighs trembling. The pleasure was a low, slow burn in his gut. He hadn’t been touching himself long. Hadn’t meant to be touching himself at all. 

It was the videos that had done it, and the suits. God, the suits. Tall and imposing, lending Tony bulk and strength enough to compete with Peter’s abilities. And that was not to disregard the formal Tom Ford’s and the Gucci two-pieces. The sharp lines and soft fabric that made Tony equally as imposing as the metal. 

“J-JARVIS. How long until Tony returns?” Peter whimpered, curling onto his side like he was wounded as his cock jerked in his grip, dribbling a glob of cum into the silk fabric of his boxers. Boxers that Tony had bought him not even a month ago, as part of a sleek suit for the 2019 World Trust Fund Gala. 

“Based upon my estimate, you have roughly two hours and thirteen minutes before Sir is likely to return.” JARVIS sounded prim, indifferent to the fact that Peter was touching himself. It made Peter glad for the fact that JARVIS was code, and not a real Butler. It would have been significantly more awkward to ask such a thing in his current state. 

He gave a jerky nod, rolling over onto his back and letting his hips rut up against his hand and forearm with a shaky groan. The scent of Tony’s aftershave was still lingering, mingled with oil and metal. The husk of his words as he told Peter he’d back soon, to stay as long as he liked. The squeeze of Tony’s hand on his hip. 

Peter knew it was just Tony. Knew that intimately taking a person apart and flirting and using body language was just coded into him at this point. That the brushed of his knuckles between Peter’s shoulders didn’t meant the same as when he did it to the attractive news caster at whatever world-saving event had happened then. 

“I should stop,” he mewled into his arm, slowing the rocky movements of his hips for all of four seconds. He should. He ought to. This was wrong. Jerking off over a man who saw him as a son. In his own workshop. 

“Fuck.”

It was a statement he repeated when he let his arm fall away, and found that he was staring straight up into one of the cameras that littered the space, designed to capture Tony’s movements and experiments and breakthroughs. The lens shifted minutely within the frame, focusing. Peter knew it was automated, but he still gasped, spine arching as pleasure stabbed between his thighs. 

He was being recorded. On camera, right now, was a digital copy of him, with his hand around his cock and his mentor’s name on his tongue. He lay trembling on the workbench, gaze fixed on the camera, hand still moving in tiny little twitches over his sensitive dick. 

Tony wouldn’t see it. Peter could scrub the footage the moment he was done. Tony wasn’t looking at the cameras, he was too busy schmoozing pretty ladies and promoting Stark Industries latest clean energy movement. 

But Peter could pretend. 

“S-So hard. Mr. Stark. Its so hard. I can’t help myself,” he murmured, feeling both aroused and stupid as he begun to fuck into his fist again, imagining that Tony was actually there. In the penthouse, perhaps. Cradling a neat whiskey, dark gaze on the camera screens. Watching him. 

“I - I want you to touch me, Mr. Stark. I need you to touch me. I’m not enough. Need your hands. Your mouth. Your c-cock,” Peter threw his head back on the last word, hips stuttering into his tight grip as his other reached down, shakily pulling part his belt and his jeans to squirm them down around his thighs, flushed skin lay bare for the camera. 

For the Tony in his mind. 

He lost the ability to speak for a short while, lost in the desperation of his fingers squeezing his pulsing cock, the dripping cum that soaked his hip and pooled on the bench below him. The clouded haze of pleasure. He was getting closer. He felt so dirty, so wrong, and yet…

“Feels so good. Thinking about you. You watching me. Not as good as you being here. But good. M’gonna - Fucking myself to the thought of you, Mr. Stark. Though you should be fucking me. Right now. B-Buried so deep,” he cried into his forearm, whole body ignited with desire, pleasure. 

He was so close. He could feel his cock getting even harder, could feel his thighs burning with the effort of not cumming, the hot slide of pleasure through his veins. “G-Gonna cum, Mr. Stark. All over myself. All over your workspace. That’d be naughty of me,” he muttered, gaze locked on the camera, thumb digging into the slit. 

He was about to cum. About to fall into the crescendo of pleasure, to submit to the vision of Tony’s hands all over him, his voice low in his ear, his cock balls-deep. He almost snapped himself in half when the Mark L powered up on the opposite wall, eyes igniting a glacial blue, head turning an inch to focus on him. 

He scrambled onto his elbows, knees drawing towards his stomach with a yell as the suit took a slow, calculated step off its podium, like it was testing the ability to walk. And then it begun to stride towards him with purpose, thunk-thunk-thunk on the workshop floor. Peter tried to scramble further across the space, but the suit was faster. 

It caught him by the ankle, indifferent and emotionless as it dragged him half-naked and still hard down the bench, other hand reaching to find his shoulder. He let out a terrified cry as it flipped him, careful and quick. 

On his stomach it dragged him closer, until he slid mostly off the bench, folded over the edge of it and cock trapped painfully between the edge and his hip. 

“JARVIS! What the- Help me!” he cried, but the room around him remained silent as the Mark L grasped his wrists tightly and stepped closer, until it pinned him there. In such a position he couldn’t gather himself enough to break free, writhing like an angry snake in its grasp, spitting a variety of terrified pleas and creative curses. 

He didn’t even hear the workshop door open. Had fallen limp and exhausted in the suits grip, still half-hard. Knew nothing of his companion until the suit’s fingers flexed, until warm, living ones slid around the space they had held as they withdrew. 

Peter jerked in surprise when the cold, hard body was replaced by a warm one, soft fabric against the bare swell of his ass. 

“Y’know. Its mighty rude to jerk off in another man’s workshop. Especially without inviting him.”

Tony. 

But of course, who else could it be? 

Mortified, Peter twisted in the space Tony allowed him, looking wildly up into dark, calculating eyes that softened at the sight of him, grip loosening. “Oh, Peter. I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have scared you. I just wanted to stop you from finishing before I could get here.”

Peter’s brain short-circuited, a definitive blank space as he blinked wet eyes at Tony, trembling in his hold, hips tilted away to hide his shame. “Y-You… What?” he rasped, fingers flexing against the edge of the workbench. 

What kinda sick punishment was that? Cockblocked as well as whatever horrific intentions Tony had for him? 

“All those things you were saying, Peter. Drove me insane. You’re right. Fuck, we shouldn’t. But you’re right,” Tony breathed against his jaw, thumb stroking the inside of his wrist as he ducked down, pressed gentle kisses along Peter’s cheek and jaw, soothing. 

“You should stop me. But I really hope that you don’t. I couldn’t - Seeing you like that. Calling out my name while you touch yourself. In my space.”

“You’re not mad?” Peter managed weakly, limp in Tony’s hold, unable to compute anything beyond what was immediately happening. Tony’s lips on his skin, stubble scraping, his voice a rough thrum in Peter’s ear. 

“Mad? Sweetheart. Only thing I’m mad about is how guilty I know I’ll feel after this. But… I can’t help myself. I’m a glutton. I’m shameless. At least in the moment. God, kid. I’ll hate myself for this. But I’ll hate myself more if I don’t,” Tony rasped into his ear, fingers stroking along his arms, body inching closer until Tony’s hard cock was insistent against his ass, the scrape of fabric and zipper biting into his cheek. 

“Don’t - Don’t hate yourself. Please. Mr. Stark just…Touch me? Please. I need you to touch me.”

Tony obliged with the scrape of teeth against his jugular, hips grinding forwards gently, coaxing Peter into peeling himself from the edge of the table, to allow his poor dick some room to breathe. It ached, both from its entrapment and how dizzyingly hard he was. 

“No idea what you looked like, kiddo. When JARVIS said you were calling for me… Thought you’d hurt yourself or something. Damn near activated the suit there and then, sweetheart. When I saw you… What you were doing…” 

Tony trailed off, hand making a slow and sure path down his body, fingertips digging into his hip before finally, finally wrapping long fingers around his cock. 

Peter jerked in his grip, head tossing back and almost taking Tony out as he shook, biting hard on his lip to stave off the need to cum as Tony squeezed him gently, exploring. The tip of his thumb pressed against the sensitive underside of his tip and he mewled, ground back against Tony’s arched body. 

“You were watching me.”

“JARVIS told me you were in a ‘predicament’ and calling out my name. God, Peter. Thought you were in pain. Not pleasure. Staring straight up at the camera. Fuck; did you know? Were you asking?” Tony ground out, rough and debauched against his shoulder. 

“N-No. Thought… Was fantasising. Pretending. I didn’t know,” Peter answered honestly, shaky and high. Tony stroked him harder, rougher, hips steady against the backs of Peter’s thighs as they ground together. Tony cooed softly at him, moved a hand to pet at his hair gently, to wipe under his eyes. 

“Oh, sweetheart. I’m going to show you the real thing. It’s so much better.”

[mysterious-prophetess]

Review- Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity

I’ll admit this here: I’ve never played a regular warriors game. 

I played the previous Hyrule Warriors, but I’ve yet to beat it. I’ll get around to it...eventually.

I also played the CRAP out of Breath of the Wild. It’s now my favorite Zelda game, knocking poor Ocarina of Time of its pedestal.

Ok, they share it, to be perfectly honest. 

Twilight Princess  has sentimental position up with the others because it was the first Zelda game I ever beat. 

The first one I played was A Link to the Past and I was far too little to understand it at the time. 

I digress, I’m here to talk about Age of Calamity. 

I’ll go through a non-spoilery section and then move on to the spoilers in the next bit.

The gameplay was actually pretty fun. Hyrule Warriors could get repetitive, something I’m given to understand is an issue of the main Warriors series. 

Age of Calamity is actually more fun. Yeah, it’s still a similar game style but they implemented enough of Breath of the Wild and Zelda into it that it doesn’t feel anywhere near as same-y to play as Hyrule Warriors could be. 

I’m not saying that Hyrule Warriors had too much in the way of same-y game play but it definitely felt way more repetitive to me. 

Each character has their own way they play and if you don’t click with them, you’re not going to enjoy playing them but those you do click with can then be a lot of fun in Age of Calamity.

The Divine Beast sections were not a highlight for me. I just am not a fan of them. Three out of four felt epic. The fourth was not.

Yeah, I’m talking trash about Vah Rudania. Would not recommend that Divine Beast. Which is a shame because of the Champions, he is easily the one I handle the best in combat. Or he was untilI figured out how to play Mipha. 

The story is much more a Zelda story this time. The other story just kinda felt....not. 

Hyrule Warriors’s story just sort felt like a massive crossover fanfiction. 

And, this won’t be the last time I reference fanfiction either but that’s for the spoiler section.

The game was pretty cohesive and the incentives for 100% the side quests (aside from leveling) are nice enough and easy enough to obtain that it’s not a total grind to do it.

Speaking of leveling, I did have a bit of an edge for that. You see, I got the demo and it transfers save data and I’d max-leveled Link for that demo (level 20 in case you were wondering) which meant if I found enough rupees, I could instantly get most of my crew up to that level. Zelda and Impa were mid to high teens whenever I was done with the demo btw. 

In Hyrule Warriors, it did feel a bit grindy at times but I didn’t have that nice 20 levels from my demo advantage. 

There are relatively few buggy moments in this game but once when I was playing as a character I can’t mention without spoilers, they got caught in a sort of loop where they’d do a move and I couldn’t get them to stop.

Sometimes the camera angles would fight me when I was up against bigger foes like the final boss or Hinoxes. 

Beyond that, the game runs fine. 

I enjoyed it but for those looking for a straight up prequel to Breath of the Wild, the only non-spoilery thing I can say is-it’s not this. It does touch on a few things and we do get to play the Champions but it’s not the game you think it is if you want to see what happened before Link ended up in the Shrine of Resurrection in the game this spun-off of.

Tl;Dr-I do recommend this game if you like Zelda and want a game where your weapons don’t break every five minutes and you like feeling like a BAMF as you mow down enemy after enemy. 

If you don’t like Warriors games or wanted that dark prequel-you might want to pass on this.

Now leave if you want to avoid spoilers.

Ok everyone who wants to avoid spoilers is gone?

Good. 

First, I’m just going to say it: This is a total Fix-It Fic of a game with its plot.

As Nine’s gif said, Everybody lives.

The Champions and the King and the soldiers (whose asses you’ve been saving this whole game so really no big deal), Hyrule in general. 

Everyone lives. 

This was already in AU territory with the little guardian-it’s name is Terrako- time traveling back to fulfill Zelda’s wish that she could have saved everyone. Parts of Calamity Ganon go with it and posses its past self. 

That means this isn’t just a Fix-it Fic, this is a Time Travel Fix-it Fic.

That’s one of my favorite kinds of Fix-it Fics, so naturally, I was biased to like this plot.

It is a bit schmaltzy that everyone gets to live? A little but a Fix-it Fic tends to be more on the sweet and fluffy side of things. 

I did not see the future champions coming. Yeah, I knew the little egg-guy was a time traveler but I thought Link and Zelda together were going to save each champion one by one. When out of left field, here comes the future Champions.

I was very happy to see Adult!Sidon appear. 

I was just expecting this

and got this too

It does, however, confirm this is a total Alternate timeline. 

Wouldn’t be the first time for the Zelda series.

The Four Future Champions were pulled from Canon Breath of the Wild, and likely Post-Canon or Near the End of Canon since they know Link. 

I knew it was an AU from the fact Link didn’t have the Master Sword when he should have. I own the book Creating a Champion and it mentions that Link of Breath of the Wild found the sword at some ridiculously young age. I’d look but that book is in a pile of stuff and I don’t feel like digging it out.

Best I can figure is Zelda’s wish also affected the whole timeline beyond when Terrako arrived allowing for her and Link to form a bond without resentment on her end. Which, we actually don’t know when Terrako and the Pieces of Calamity Ganon arrived in the past. They could have showed up five years prior with Terrako inactive and Harbinger Ganon using his crazy proxy.

Would explain why Astor was so bat-shit insane at that point.

Since I’ve mentioned him, this would be a good time to talk about Astor, or Not-Vaati as I called him before I learned his name. 

Astor is every evil cultist serving some destructive force that is shocked that betrayal comes. 

Especially, after he backstabbed the Yiga Clan causing even their leader to switch sides after the Yiga clan served Ganon for 10,000 years.

Astor is boring. He’s just another purple wearing evil dude who is serving a dark master who doesn’t actually need him after a point and gets a sort of comeuppance. 

In this case, it was possession/assimilation. 

I just beat Monster Boy and the cursed Kingdom and -spoilers-, in it there is a purple wearing evil guy who backstabbed others and was then backstabbed by the evil entity he served. He was just cursed into a ridiculous form instead of assimilation, though.

So, yeah. Astor was boring. The VA did what he could but Astor was just not compelling to me.

I did like the form that resulted of Harbinger Ganon absorbing him, though. 

It was a very nice change of pace from the Blight-like form Calamity Ganon had in Breath of the Wild. I actually almost wish this was his form instead-though with the stringy hair all the Blights and Calamity Ganon had. Maybe as a between form? Either way, I liked it. 

And that’s my opinion of the whole game; I liked it. 

There were times I’d get frustrated (mostly having to do with time limits and characters I don’t enjoy controlling). I may not have liked the Divine Beast Sections but they weren’t enough to ruin the game nor was their inclusion to the point that it could ruin it for me. 

The story, while a bit over-the-top with the wish fulfillment of everyone living, was still enjoyable for me and had its poignant moments. Especially with the Future Champions going back to their own(likely the canon) timeline where the Calamity wasn’t averted. Getting this glimpse of what could have been but isn’t for them.

All the younger Zelda flashbacks were bittersweet since we sort of saw how happy she was before her mother died and saw her father start his terrible parenting routine.

I don’t care that it was for her that he did it, it was still bad parenting. I sympathize with Rhoam, but that won’t excuse that he wasn’t a good father. 

He loved his daughter and was trying his best but he still did damage in his attempts to defy destiny.

I just have a lot of feelings about this game. 

I’ll just end this post here.

Age of Calamity was worth it, in my opinion.

[heli0s-writes]

VI. In for Life*

Summary: The final installment of his enormous dumpster fire :’) Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes A/N:  NSFW! It has arrived along with a short epilogue at the end. Thanks everyone for all your love for these three bastards (and Buckeye, too!) 

Foot in Mouth Syndrome Masterpost

It’s hot.

It’s so damn hot and your back is slick with sweat.

Your eyes fly open to the stifling humidity of the dark room. A heavy hand is on your hip, lazily draped over and brushing against the soft skin of your tummy. A back is pressed against your chest, heavy breaths drawing in and out, slightly wheezing. Even atop of your feet, there is a weight.

Jesus (Steve), Mary (Bucky), and Joseph (Buckeye).

You are completely smothered by all of them. When any of you fell asleep—and when Buckeye found it appropriate to flop himself on top of it all is bewildering.

There’s not even a sheet or comforter on top anymore, both things piled on the floor like a lumpy mountain. Buckeye stirs the same time you do, opening his mouth in a squelching yawn and tipping his head back. You glare at him in the dark and uselessly wiggle your toes. “Get off!”

“Buck!” You hiss. He lolls his head sideways and flops his tongue out at you before nuzzling back down onto your ankles, setting his chin on what is probably Bucky. His butt wiggles around, trying to find a new comfortable position, legs kicking yours.

“Your fucking goblin nails! Ouch, Buck!”

Steve stirs with a moan, turning over and throwing his heavy arm over your shoulder, pressing his face into your chest with a contented sigh. It could be sexy, you think, but you’re sure that your boob-sweat is being inhaled right now straight into his lungs.

Bucky grumbles into your back, shuffling until he’s squeezing you too tightly between him and Steve.

“Are you guys awake?” You whisper, “Are you doing this on purpose?”

You release a long-suffering groan when all that responds is another one of Buckeye’s squealing yawns. You slowly pick up Steve’s arm to move it back, but it’s heavy as hell and he keeps grunting into your chest. Somnambulist pervert.

Bucky’s arm moves down, fingers slowly coming to rest on your hip and then slowly—oh hell.

“Dude.” You mutter. His fingers dig into your ass as his shoulders begin to shake behind you. This motherfucker had been awake this whole time, just watching you suffer in-between two human and one canine heater. You swat him away, but he shoves his face deeper into your neck until his breath begins to tickle. Your hands slap harder and faster, “Fuck! Stop! I’m gonna scream!”

“What time is it?” Bucky asks, pulling away with a pant, blowing his hair from his face.

“Way past when we were supposed to wake up. Steve is out, Buck.”

“Yeah he doesn’t really have a middle ground. He’s either awake or he’s dead.”

A silence passes before Bucky’s hand finds the waistband of your romper again.

“You wanna fuck?”

You slap him away with what a shriek might be if someone could do it with their mouth closed. He’s awfully bold and unfiltered now that you’ve shown him your hand and you think he’s probably not bluffing. Bucky laughs again behind you, pulling on the back of your outfit, tugging it a few times and letting it flap. You realize, with a little bit of fondness, that he’s trying to cool you off.

“C’mon.” He slips his legs out from under Buckeye, who whines in betrayal, but watches him with interest anyway. Bucky tugs you out of bed, moving Steve’s arm and pushing his face away from your chest. “Kid’s always been a tits guy.”

“Yeah. Yours are like a B-cup, huh?”

Bucky ignores you, “I like ass. You’re a pain in my ass sometimes… but I bet one of these days, I’ll be a pain in yours. Literally.”

You turn red as a beet, sputter a few times, and then just shut up for your own damn good.

“Just kidding.” Bucky continues, leading you out of the room, “It’ll be mostly pleasure. We’ll find a good balance, sweetheart.”

He traipses into the kitchen, entirely content to strut around as you close your eyes and count to a million because Bucky Barnes has just one-upped your comment so hard you have absolutely nothing else to fire back at him. You think you might swoon; you’re both proud and devastated.

It’s the middle of the night and Bucky is preparing to brew a pot of coffee. You tap him on the shoulder to suggest that it would be a bad idea, but he bites your pointer and snarls like a wild dog.

“God. Once you crack the surface, there’s so much of…this…” You gesture vaguely up and down, “Wha—wait a minute.” Your eyes narrow, “Did you just snarl at me? You don’t snarl at me; I snarl at you!”

He spends another few minutes repeating the same noise, just to get on your nerves because he knows there’s not much you can do but give him lip. Frankly, the tables have turned, and Bucky is giving you quite a run for your money when it comes to sass.

It’s kind of hot.

You watch the way his arm flexes when he reaches forward to turn the knob on the stove top. The other one rests loosely on his hip where the band of his sweatpants hang, string untied. His shirt is crumpled unevenly, one hem lower than the other as his metal fingers play with the edge absentmindedly. It’s a bit of a shock for you to realize that Bucky Barnes putting the kettle on is what gets you going.

You’ll take it, though.

You grab a glass of water and down it in three seconds flat before you do anything stupid, but when you turn around you catch him staring at your ass. So, you stare blatantly back at his tush, eyes comically wide.

“Those your bedroom eyes?” He asks, grinding the coffee beans and dumping them into the press. When the kettle begins to screech, he takes it off and fills up the carafe, tapping out five minutes on the microwave timer.

“Buck,” you call seriously, hopping up to sit on the counter, “It’s almost three—neither of us should be drinking coffee.”

“No.” He corrects, “You shouldn’t be drinking coffee. It doesn’t affect me. I just like the taste.”

“I’m gonna drink some if you drink some.”

“What are you, a lemming?”

“Yes. If you jump, I jump. If you sip the chocolate bean juice, I sip the chocolate bean juice.”

He laughs, and you do too, finding the sound of it more charming each time you hear it. God, he’s so stupidly handsome. You kick your foot out, poking his side with your toe until he shifts and slyly nestles himself in between your legs. “Stevie’s gonna get jealous.”

You seriously doubt there is any merit to that statement. If anything, you think, Steve is probably creeping around in the shadows with your dog, cheering Bucky on silently. He’s a motherfucker like that, orchestrating all of this like a horny puppeteer.

But no, really, he’s very sweet. They both are.

Leaning in, you tug Bucky forward by the collar of his shirt, wrapping your legs around his torso and pulling him in for a kiss. He smiles against your lips, and you’re half tempted to pull away just to get another look at it on his face; it’s something you’ll never get enough of.

His cold hand runs up the length of your spine while the other slips beneath the opening of your romper, tugging playfully on the fabric of your underwear. “You---mmmf—pervy old fuck.” He keeps on, slipping his tongue into your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip when you try to pull away for air. He could smother you, and you’d let him. He’s acting like it’s his intention, anyway.

A part of you feels alleviated, as if the new intimacy has stripped everything else away. You move naturally with Bucky, running your hand through his hair, trailing your fingers over his shoulder and arm—something you were previously concerned about even bringing up. Another part of you is a bit more grounded, too.

The questions you have for them keep getting brushed off. Some things aren’t as easy as they make them seem. Certainly, this relationship won’t be?

“Don’t start this again.” Bucky murmurs, as if reading your thoughts.

“I can’t help it!” You whine. “I’ve never done this before! Nor will it ever happen again—the two of you aren’t exactly regular people, you know?”

“It better never happen again.” Bucky places both his hands on your waist, “Once you’re in, you’re in for life, kid.”

Your eyes widen when you look at him, jaw set firmly, eyes searing into yours. “We’re serious about you. So, what’s it gonna be?”

The timer beeps and he turns around to carefully push the plunger into the press, leaving you staring at the dark tresses of his head. Your heart beats in your chest like a collapsing drum, crashing down and falling apart at Bucky’s bare feet.

He pours two mugs and empties the rest into a thermos for later.

Behind the thin cover of the steam, you avert your eyes. “Y-yeah.” You mutter.

“Yeah?” Bucky takes a sip. You’re not made of super soldier, so you wait for the coffee to cool.

“Yeah. Yes.”

Bucky licks his lips and tilts his chin at you, smiling, “Drink your coffee, sweetheart. Let’s go fuck.”

--

It’s … you can’t even. That’s what being with Bucky is like.

In the cool chamber of the guest room you’ve been sleeping in, he lays you down on the mattress and taps his fingers up and down your arms until your skin crawls with goosebumps. His touches are feather-light, deliberately gentle, teasing and tugging on every last one of your stretched nerves.

No, you would have never guessed upon meeting him that he could be capable of this kind of tenderness. He was joking when he said fuck, because you are certain no part of what he will do to you is as indelicate as that word. Fuck can be reserved for another time— but this, this feels remarkably close to love.

He’s stripped down and sitting up, letting you see him as he is under the soft lamplight glow. Bucky tucks his hair behind his left ear and waits for you.

“Yeah?” He asks quietly, timid smile forming on his lips.

You sit up too, face him, and pull the straps of your outfit down until it pools around your waist. Then you lift yourself up out of it and crawl into his lap, pressing your body flush onto his.

“Yeah.” You sigh, “Yes, Bucky.” And then you can’t help but laugh just a little as you bury your face into his neck. It’s silly. “God—who would have thought?” You ask, “Us? Right now?”

He grins too, kissing your shoulder, “Thought I was going to murder you that night.”

“Yeah. I would have been fine with it as long as you took care of my dog.”

He bites the same place he just kissed. “Don’t ever. Again. Never.” The finality of his statement shuts you right up with a quick yelp with his teeth clamped down on you.

“Okay, sorry.”

“Shit sucks, but now you got us.”

“Okay.”

He nips at your neck, hand rearranging your legs until they lock in behind him. He is warm and hard, your own hands travel over the plane of his chest and around to trace the muscles of his back.

The door squeaks open slightly. Both of you turn to see Steve entering with a lazy smile, flushed pink and shirtless.

“You sleep good?” Bucky asks before he returns to your collarbone, making a trail down to your sternum.

“Mhm. See you got started without me.”

“Sorry.” Bucky responds, not sounding like it at all, “Couldn’t get ya to wake up.”

He rocks his hips up, pushing against your underwear, and you let out what sounds like a balloon on its last squeak of deflation. Steve chuckles and finds a seat behind you, flattening his palm on your lower back, urging you forward.

You should probably be nervous, but for some reason you aren’t. Steve’s hand anchors you, holds you against Bucky carefully. The three of you balance on this tightrope wire, looking over the edge down into shadows.

But there’s a net there. And when you all fall together the love will catch you.

It’s all love.

Steve kisses your back and scoots forward until his chest is pressing into your spine. His other hand pulls your panties to the side and Bucky takes the opportunity to slowly press in.

You arch forward into him, your breasts to his mouth. They’re one and the same, guiding each other, murmuring in low tones and whispers. Slowly, as they move and touch and consume you, you become the same, too, until all three of you melt into the darkness.

--

Morning arrives and pulls you awake in a jarring grip. Your back is sweaty again, completely drenched and slippery as you wiggle your way out from two naked bodies.

Steve stirs slightly, nuzzling his nose into your cheek. “Mm-uh. Stay.” He tries to convince you by pressing his torso to your side, rubbing himself against your thigh. “We can do it right here.”

Your face burns hot as Bucky groans on the other side.

“I gotta get up and do some work, Steve.” You run your hand through his hair, feeling the warmth of his scalp, “I’ll be back to wake you two. We gotta go to King’s Island today.”

He kisses the top of your head sweetly, but you have to get up or else the work will be so piled on you’ll never resurface from it.

You slip from them, leaving Steve’s grumbling behind.

 Furious clicking finds Bucky and Steve when they rise an hour later. You sit in the living room with your tablet balanced in your lap, the thermos from last night empty. They watch proudly as you flip through an enormous journal full of notes and then turn to another binder full of print-outs.

“Hey.” You say distractedly, “Pancakes and sausages’re in the oven keeping warm, I got three more exams and then we can get started.”

Buckeye is faithfully by your knee, tail tapping against the cushion at the two men in the hallway.

When they don’t move, you turn and look at them, “What’s up?”

Steve’s arms are crossed as he leans against Bucky. They share silly smiles because you’re crosslegged again and surrounded by paper and books and your fingers are moving even too fast for super soldiers to keep up with.

“Lookit her, Stevie.” Bucky grins, “Smart girl.”

You make another charming ppppffftptbbblblbppttt and roll your eyes. You know he means it but the compliment is so strange escaping his lips. It’s still new, his affection. Steve’s too, you suppose. Your cheeks flare anyway as they pad into the kitchen for breakfast.

You were sure to make precisely a bajillion blueberry pancakes this morning and a tray full of sausage links, saving just a few of each for yourself. Between reading a book and taking notes, cooking on a giant griddle and sticking sausages in an oven made the tasks relatively simple. You’ll also read and grade on the way to the park.

In the corner of your eye, Steve pokes at a fluffy stack with his fork. Bucky bites into a sausage and waggles his eyebrows. They both snort and start flicking each other off. You have to focus, but damn if they don’t make it hard to stay on track.

Spending the last two months in their presence has made little changes to your routine that you’re now thankful for. Before them, it was nothing but school and Buckeye. Hardly any time to cook or to enjoy yourself. There was nothing but monotony and the proclamation of your dog being the only tether to this world.

Your poor therapist, worrying her lip each time you came by in a rush between your classes, words tumbling so fast she had to make you stop and literally breathe each time.

 Now, there’s so much laughter. So much silliness.

Your cheeks continue to burn.

There is so much love.

 Steve plants a syrupy kiss to your lips. Bucky presses a berry onto your tongue soon afterwards.

The tablet is pulled away, books too. Even Buckeye is picked up and placed onto another chair. Your disagreeing voice is smothered by two mouths, taking turns overwhelming yours.

“I gotta--”

“Nope,” Bucky hushes.

“Not right now.” Steve confirms.  “Gonna do you on the couch.”

“It’s a nice couch,” Bucky states plainly, “Real nice. Soft leather.”

“Your parents’ couch.” Steve adds.

Bucky laughs in your ear, pressing your chest down until your back hits the soft cushion, “That’s direct action, baby.”

--

“Oh no. Oh no. Oh no oh no-ohnonononono…” And then finally, “FUCK NO!”

The shriek flings itself back behind your shoulder as the rollercoaster drops down and takes your stomach right out of your throat along with your words.

Bucky is cackling madly to your left, Steve on the other side of him whooping. He’s yelling something that is making Bucky laugh harder, but you can’t hear it for the whips of wind tearing through your ears.

“Technically!” You yell, “King’s Island is an expansion of Coney— but no one really remembers—- Ah FUCK!”

The loop slams your head into the cushioned rest, and you bite down on your cheek. You’re going to vomit. You scream again when the next drop throws your stomach up into your diaphragm.

As the ride slows, you blink the tears away and sniffle.

“Aw, baby. It wasn’t that bad.”

“It’s the wind you jerk! I’m not actually crying!”

“Are you gonna throw up?” Steve wonders, thinking on the memory of the Cyclone.

“No! Don’t get your hopes up, Rogers. You’re the only one here who’s a bitch.”

Bucky laughs and tugs you against his side. The three of you trek onward to the next destination, caps pulled low on your heads so that neither of them are recognized. Luckily, it’s overcast again so Bucky wearing a long sleeve isn’t so strange.

The only strange thing is that three of you are full grown adults at the park without any children. Either way, there are occasional stares.

A frozen banana is shared and devoured in three bites from three different mouths. Five more rides are taken and when you take them into the line for Flight of Fear, Steve peers around curiously at the very X-Files décor. Real Roswell, you share, pretending to be that guy from the History Channel, Aliens!

At the loading station, Steve bristles and you’re not sure why until you see the cryotube props. Bucky pats him on the shoulder, “Don’t get offended for my sake.” He climbs into the seat behind you and Steve and plays with your hair when the shuttle clatters forward into the dark.

“I didn’t realize.” You whisper in Steve’s ear.

“I can hear you.” Bucky replies.

 When the rain hits as you’re buying your second frozen banana, Steve is ready to go home. He’s not spending another day sopping wet on an outdoor excursion. The white of his shirt turns peach like his skin.

-

You take them to a bar, instead, even though you promised that you were just showing them the scenic route before heading home. In the car, Bucky grew suspicious when you began to drive in the opposite direction, but you distracted Steve with more threats of Skyline, and he was quick to reel Bucky to his side.

It’s still somewhat early, only around eight or so, and the bar is barely half-full, mostly couples who are at the end of their day-drinking and want to relax with video games.

“Knock yourself out. All arcade games are free.” You grin happily, “This place is awesome. And the drinks are--” You kiss your fingertips and blow it into the air, “Be back in a sec.”

They watch you prance over to the bar and wait in line, bouncing on your feet. Steve shrugs and begins to wander while Bucky lingers by the table, eyes fixed on you. When you arrive at the bar, you smile cheerily at the bartender and show him your ID.

You’re much nicer to strangers than you are to… Bucky scoffs inwardly, superheroes, apparently. The more Bucky watches, the bigger his smile grows. You’re leaned forward, listening intently as the guy points to each item on the menu. It’s cute how your nose scrunches up at something you don’t like, or the way you nod enthusiastically when something catches your fancy.

Then, suddenly, Bucky begins to grow apprehensive because why are you spending so long at the bar? And why are you leaning forward so far and smiling so much? You have never smiled for that prolonged of a time at anything other than your dog.

You catch his eye a few seconds later and wink at his scowl. Upon returning with three drinks in your hands and a wrapper of something in your mouth, he understands now.

“That dude gave me free drinks and a popsy.”

You slide one glass to him and keep the others. Then, you tear open the plain package and reveal a bomb pop—red white and blue. “Popsicle!” Then you stick it in your mouth and swirl the ice around until it turns a muted purple, staining your tongue.

Distractedly, you look around for Steve who is standing at a pinball machine, tapping furiously on the paddles.

Bucky sends you a withering look.

“Don’t be a wet blanket. I got the drink for you. It only cost me five minutes and a smile.” Then you dunk the popsicle in his cocktail and give him a cold kiss on the cheek. He shakes his head, glares back at the bar where the guy is looking over and stands up so that he’s blocking the view to your back.

 Next to Steve, Bucky tattles.

“Oh, be quiet!” You cry, hand coming up to cover his face, “Mom and Daaaaad!” You whine nasally, “Can I go out to plaaaaaay?”

“You were flirting for a free drink!” Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Excuse me, there are three?” You steal the popsicle back and crunch through it.

Steve huffs, crosses his arms, and lets his pinball fall straight in-between the immobile paddles. The machine warbles sadly before honking out game over sirens. Lights flash around the rectangle of its frame.

“Well—” Steve pauses, “Well, good for you, sweetheart.”

“Thank you.” You smile. Two girls to your side giggle at the conversation and you turn and curtsy to them. “Jonathan with the eyes is a sucker, ladies.”

Bucky grumbles and throws his drink down, snaps the wooden stick in half with his teeth. Everyone has fucking eyes, he thinks.

 An hour later and all arcade games exhausted, Bucky drives home in silence, fuming. He’s still not over the fact that you saddled up next to some guy, but he just has to get over it. It’s really not a big deal. Steve winks at you from the front seat, catching your eye in the mirror.

-

“Funny movie?” You ask, kicking your feet onto the top of the coffee table, remote in hand and clicking mindlessly.

“Rom-com.” Steve requests, pointing to a title above two generic white actors giving each other enamored glances. Lame.

“Zombies.” Bucky deadpans.

They both turn to look at each other, shaking their heads in disappointment at what’s been thrown out. You sigh, trying to find something that fits all three.

“Tucker and Dale, it is.”

-

When another college kid gets impaled, Steve pauses the movie.

He is not a fan. “I don’t get it!” He keeps saying, “Just call the cops!”

You throw your head back, “It’s bumfuck nowhere!”

He picks the next one.

-

“I hate this.” You stab the red button on the remote and shut off another mistletoe kiss. How does he even find Christmas Lifetime movies in the middle of the summer?

Bucky snatches it from the couch and clicks the screen back on.

“Zombies.” He proclaims again.

“It’s just not logical!” Steve cries, “They’re dead!” His voice rises until you think it could crack the chandelier in the living room, “What—why would they even be eating anything? They’re dead!”

“Zombies!” Bucky shouts.

“No!” You scream in reply, stomping your foot. In the background, Steve continues his rant—something about Banner finding a cure, something else about the sun, another thing about regardless of how the world is terribly messed up, God will not blight the Earth with zombies, of all creatures.

“Zom-bies.” Bucky hisses, glaring at you, as if you are the point of origin for his ire.

Buckeye hops off the couch and plods over under the coffee table. He snorts and shuffles around and scratches the rug before lying down and staring at the three of you like you all share one single braincell.

When Bucky hollers ZOMBIES for the final time, you lock eyes with your dog, who whines pathetically and turns away, as if he is embarrassed by the humans.

-

Cillian Murphy is twenty-something and gorgeous. You are obviously drooling over those enormous blue eyes and pouty, swollen lips, even if he is wind-chafed and underweight, running around in a flapping hospital gown.

Steve gets an idea when you lick your lips distractedly, reaching over the back of Bucky’s neck to twist a lock of your hair in his finger. Bucky shrugs him off, but he continues. 28 Days Later or not, Steve’s on a mission; fuck the zombies.

Obviously, you have a type.

But if he voices it, Bucky might go slash Jonathan’s tires and find Cillian Murphy somewhere in Ireland and do the same thing to him, too. New love, Steve muses, such a delicate thing.

He gets up and sits on your other side, pulling until you are resting on his chest. “Is it scary?” He asks.

“Ooooh, so scary,” you squeal, and then suddenly jump when one of the undead shrieks and tears down the road, “Fuck! These are runners!?”

“Eat him.” Bucky goads, “Eat him, goddamn it.”

Steve pulls your chin away from pointing at the screen and kisses you slowly, tugging you back each time you continue to turn, fixed on the scene. “Mmm, baby.” He sighs, “C’mere.”

“Dude, Steve, I— he’s mmmhm.. okay, wait…would you—- mm!” His tongue slides into your mouth as one hand grips your head. Okay, this fucker knows what he’s doing. “Buck,” you gasp, “fill me in on the deets because—”

“Because you have a crush on this guy, too?” Bucky glares, crossing his arms. You pull away from Steve and weave each attempt he makes at devouring your face.

“Are you serious?” You ask, “You are sipping hella dumbass juice right now.”

“Jealous juice.” Steve corrects, and you smirk at him because the two of you combined are a lethal dose of one-hundred-percent pure bastard straight into the bloodstream. Leaning over, still strapped in on Steve, you clasp your hand over Bucky’s jaw, pinching his cheeks together with a glare.

“You said in for life, you brat.” You mutter, “I’m in a relationship—not dead. Not ungrateful or unfaithful, either. Handle the fact that I’m a person, or get out.”

His eyes widen the same time Steve’s does because you’ve never been this serious with them before. Your tone is grave and your stare is fiery. In the middle of four-hundred solid pounds of serum-injected mass, you are a stark contrast, but somehow holding all the cards.

Something prods your inner thigh and you narrow your eyes, turning to Steve. “Really, Stevie? This is what does it for you?”

He only grins back, licking the corner of his mouth, “Can you blame me? Guess I’ve got a type too. Bossy. Mouthy.”

Bucky groans and smacks the back of his head into the cushion. “I guess I do too. Fuck.”

It’s as close to an apology as you’ll get, and you love that stupid, stubborn boy so you’ll take it. Steve smiles at him and then at you before pulling you closer by your hip bones, letting the heat of him burn past the layers of your clothes.

Bucky is content to watch, waiting for your permission.

Linking your fingers through his, you place both entwined hands on his thigh and kiss Steve, letting your tongue touch his in a slow, teasing lick. He chuckles into your mouth, grips the back of your head in a blistering passion and pushes his chest into yours until it feels like he’s crushing your rib cage. If this is how you die, flattened between two searing-hot (literally and otherwise) men who—Christ, love you for whatever reason—it’d be a death you look forward to.

Steve pulls away suddenly, eyes twinkling with some secret knowledge.

“What?”

“You called me Stevie.”

“Did I?”

Bucky grins, “Ooooh, Stevie…” he doesn’t know how to squeal so he says it in a low, husky tone instead and you swear Steve moans a little before he breaks out into a wide smile, so bright you have to squint. Jesus, Captain America should be on T.V.--- wait, he already is. You are so completely lost in that look he’s got on, like you’ve presented him with a puppy or something that you hardly notice Bucky to your side, humming a low throaty tune.

“So…” he sings, gesturing to the space where you have leaned away from Steve and then down to the tent in Steve’s jeans, “You guys fuckin’ or what?”

 ____________

The end of summer break nears and you’re ready for two years of writing your dissertation before you can fuck off out of the program with a diploma and a J-O-B. It’s both exciting and terrifying at the same time, but if you’re good at anything, it’s putting on a front. This semester you are working as a TA for one of your favorite professors and juggling an off-campus job at the local coffee shop.

Three more days left until the start of the semester and you’ve already met early with your professor and created your email list.

Buckeye is well, drooling all over the place, flopping down and staring out the window. Same as ever. Manhattan assholes still glare at him when you walk him down the street but it sure helps when Steve or Bucky are by your side and glare right back.

It’s cute.

Two boyfriends.

Who the heckin’ would have thought that the night your life flashed before your eyes twice (unnamed goon and Bucky Barnes’ fist nearly in your face) that you’d come out of it with two semi-retired Avengers attached to your hip?

Three days left and you’ve convinced them to jet off on a tiny mini-cation. You wrestled the wheel from Bucky and drove an hour east from the DFW airport with Steve singing along to Sad n’ Sexy Santa while Bucky kicks his seat repeatedly. It makes your heart swell because damn, how’d you get so lucky?

The interstate reaches cropped green plains as the metroplex skyscrapers sink further away into the horizon behind you. From the backseat, Bucky sits up, leaning on Steve’s chair as he stares out the front windshield at a cartoonish yellow sign.

“What… is… it?”

You smirk. “It’s why we’re here. That, and brisket.”

“It’s a gas station?” Steve is confused, too. You’ve been tight-lipped about the entire thing. But his eyes widen before fearfully glancing back and forth across the colossal parking lot and the stretch of what looks like fifty gas-pumps. “Or is it an airport…?”

You lead them in and it’s like their whole world has turned upside down. Steve and Bucky stare at the expanse of seemingly never-ending aisles. People rush about, enormous bags of popcorn under their arms. Chips, candy, kolaches, bear claws, stuffed animals, clothing, Texas-shaped cutting boards, and blinged out purses. There is even an aisle dedicated to pebbles. What does it mean?

“It’s a Buc-ees.” You state, waving your hand in a wide circle, palm flat. “Whatdya think, Bucky?”

The pun is not lost on him and he grumbles.

“You dragged me all the way out here for this?”

“And brisket.”

“There’s brisket in Manhattan, baby.” Steve suggests, but you whip around and hiss at him, “Don’t you dare. Heathen. Ain’t no beef like Texas beef. Grade A, one-hundred-percent beef.” Then you pause and with an exaggerated raise of your eyebrow, pinch his bottom. “And you too, I guess.”

Steve yelps with a slight jump, turning redder than Buc-ee Beaver’s cap as the eyes of strangers find him.

Your Bucky doesn’t notice, only staring on mesmerized by the bustle of foot traffic and the smells of jerky, candy, and the fresh, burning scent of Pine-Sol cleaner. Ahhhh… a perfect combination.

“What is this.” Bucky mutters, “It looks like hell.”

With a clap on his arm and a proud puffing of your chest, you pick up a nearby orange shirt with the slogan You can go to hell. I’m going to Texas.

“Welcome to Texas, baby. Everything’s bigger.” With a perverted leering at his groin, you wink. "You’ll fit right in.”

[sazorak]

Every Game I Played in 2020, Ranked

2020. Boy, what a garbo year huh? Didn't actually play that many games this year all-in-all. Happens! My backlog is getting pretty big, but I just find it hard to focus on games when I could be working on something. Or put off working on something, as it may happen to be at times.

My arbitrary decision from years ago to only attach a numbered ranking to same-year releases is getting increasingly silly, especially given my propensity to wait on playing games until I’m in the right mood, but whatever. That order matters than the dumb numerical numbering anyway.

2015 | 2016 | 2017 | 2018 | 2019

Later Alligator – 2019 – Steam – ★★

The style of this game is very cute, and the jokes are funny enough. But… ok, look, I’m not one to be precious about what is or isn’t a game. But this really isn’t a game. It’s a series of disconnected, unrelated challenges clipped from Atari Free Mini Game Collection 100, wrapped in a very non-interactive adventure-game. It’s cute, it’s kind of sweet, but it’s dull. Dull dull dull. There’s a pointless, mandatory sliding block puzzle early on that infuriated me by its mere existence. Them giving the ability to skip it because “wow you’re bad at this huh”, which, while accurate, also just sold the whole point meaningless of the “““interactive experience”””.

Also: when a huge part of your game is WOW WE ANIMATED EVERYONE REALLY GOOD, text boxes that reveal word-by-word, far away from the animations that occur when said characters talk? Kind of stinks!

8. Carrion – 2020 – Steam – ★★

What Carrion does well— the whole “You’re controlling The Thing and just rippin’ people apart!” shtick— is really neat. They made that bootleg The Thing animate real-ass good.

The actual game as a whole though? Kind of garbage. Imagine a Metroidvania with zero actual exploration, where every opportunity you have to venture off the path instead results in immediate railroading with constant, utterly inexplicable one-way pipes. It’s not that it’s linear, it’s that it actively slaps you when you attempt to explore. It’s very frustrating! Add the fact that the tentacle-monster-shtick makes challenging to actually, y’know, move around and control all your bits…  the only reason I finished the game was due to foreknowledge of its extreme brevity.

I think if the game were more open and less obsessed with constantly handing out upgrades, as well as having less of a focus on pure combat, I think I’d have enjoyed it more.

SD Gundam G Generation Cross Rays – 2019 – Steam – ★★

It is well documented at this point that I am both an active Gundam fan, and as well as an on-again-off-again tactical RPG aficionado. A SD Gundam game appearing on Steam with a good English translation and localization is… exciting, to say the least. That said, I have never had much context for this game series beyond the basic facts that the combat tended to be pretty well animated CG, and that it’s vaguely similar to Super Robot Wars. Turns out… it’s really different from SRW? I dunno how the rest of the series fairs, but Cross Rays is weird as hell.

For one, there’s zero tutorialization at all. None. Almost all of what I’m going to explain here is me figuring stuff out by trial and error, or by reading junk online. Gundam is insanely popular, you’d think they’d be interested in explaining how it all works, but… nope. Even Super Robot Wars has multi-level introductory bits for new folks to show them the rope these days.

So: Cross Rays is a tactical RPG where you can playthrough the storyline of various Gundam AUs. You can play through them in any order. These playthroughs are fairly literal translations of the stories. You take control of the lead mecha from those series, fight enemy mobile suits that show up in SRW-like tactical RPG combat, until all reinforcements cease. Pretty straight forward. There are occasionally mission variants like “prevent enemies from reaching X” or “prevent enemies from destroying Y”, but even those can be just reduced to “kill everything very quickly please.”

But here’s the thing: while there is a story progression, the characters in the story itself actually have no character progression. These characters and mecha are actually considered guests, despite it being ostensibly their story. Instead, you are able to field “permanent” mecha and pilots of your own choosing, which do have progressions. There is no plot justification for this or anything like it. The game does not recognize that it’s weird that during Iron-Blooded Orphans intro where nobody knows what a Gundam even is, you can have 25 Gundams show up at once and just fire lasers at everything. That’s because this game is actually about repeatedly grinding the same set of missions over and over.

Pilots are recruited by completing certain in-mission requirements. Mecha are acquired by either by getting enough kills with the progression-less “guest” mecha, combining mecha you already have gashopon-style, completing certain quests, or by leveling up mecha and then “evolving them”. This is the actual core of the game.

SD Gundam G Generation Cross Rays is basically Disgaea, it turns out? You’re grinding story missions at various difficulty levels in order to complete missions, try to recruit specific pilots, equip them with stats and levels to make them stronger, and then hitting mecha together in a sort of quasi-SMT fusion system until you get all the powerful mobile suits you desire.

The combat itself is kind of… bland? There’s a lot of systems, but they mostly seem in service of making an already easy game easier, or burning through tedium. There are four different difficulty modes, because there’s not actually that many different missions you can play through. The expectation is you’ll just work your way through every story beat while ramping the difficulty up over time to where the “guest” mecha would not be able to handle on their own. In fact, letting the story mecha act out the story beats is actually bad after a point, unless you’re still trying to get those lead mobile suits, or if you’re trying to complete some mission requirement in order to recruit Named Wing Grunt Pilot #246.

There is something to the notion of “I want to get N and N and N and N on a team, piloting weird but powerful mobile suits, and just solo every Gundam AU in a row,” but the whole premise seems kind of against purpose. Why bother recreating story beats at all, then? It’s not like the game even acknowledges any of that going on.

If the point is that I’m supposed to be, like in other grind-heavy tactical RPGs, breaking the systems to my own end in order to proceed… why not make the missions you play challenges focused towards that? The story progression literally only exists to facilitate the mission-based unlock conditions, which makes all the energy put into making them JUST LIKE THE ANIME really damn pointless.  

I like tactical RPGs, I like breaking RPG systems so as to beat hard challenges (I beat all the insanely hard extra bosses in FFXII for crying out loud), I looooove Gundam. I should like this. But I don’t really have the “god, I NEED TO FILL THIS LIST” gene that some folks have… except as an excuse to continue to engage in gameplay I enjoy. The gameplay here seems in service of the collection, rather than the way around.

7. Pokemon Sword: The Isle of Armor – 2020 – ★★★

Pokemon’s first foray into actually doing DLC is… a mixed bag. As a positive, they’ve improved the Wild Area concept I liked from the main game, and even brought back buddy Pokemon walking behind you. That’s neat. On the other hand: the actual progression in it is completable in like an hour, it doesn’t scale with you, so you’re bound to be over leveled for it, and all the raid stuff, while still conceptually neat, is just as flawed as in the base game. And so, you’re just left with even more new Pokemon to RNG grind on to continue to catch-them-all. Nah, I’m good.

Astral Chain – 2019 – Switch – ★★★

Platinum knows how to make good character action games. They’ve made a bunch of them. Bayonetta, Nier: Automata, Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance. They also know how to make some kind of mediocre character action games. Transformers: Devastation, Wonderful 101, their various shovelware character action games like Korra. Astral Chain falls somewhere in the middle, I guess?

Astral Chain has all the production of their good games. It has some stylish, cool action. It has a neat core mechanical idea, in that it’s essentially a two-character action game where you control both characters at once. It has a lot of the old mechanics from some of their best games brought in; witch-time last second dodging from Bayonetta, Nier’s shooting-and-slashing combination, the Zandatsu mechanic from Metal Gear Rising, even Wonderful 101’s multi-unit shenanigans. The setting is different, and there’s some neat world flavor all in all.

But, of all games I’ve played over the past few years, Astral Chain made me more vividly angry than any other. It’s not that it’s too hard— far from it, really, I found its combat incredibly mashy. No, the problem is that it has so many shitty mechanics slathered on that it become a chore to get to the “good bits”.

Why would you put forced stealth sequences in your character action game, especially when your movement controls are not suited for it?

Why the HELL would you put platforming sections in your character action game, constantly, especially when your stupid ghost buddy can accidentally yank you off the edge, your auto-combos can just throw you off the edge, or literally anything can knock you off the edge and make you lose life?

Why would you put so many constant excuses into the world to force me use the digital sensor in the game, that also makes it miserable to walk around while using it?

WHO THE LIVING FUCK THINKS THESE SHITTY BOX BALANCING MINI-GAMES ARE FUN???

These games are supposed to encourage me to perfect everything, right? Why keep putting fucking fights you need to complete in order to get an S rank behind backtracking, or Legions I don’t have yet? That isn’t adding replayability, that’s just wasting my time. There are even in-level missions that have fail conditions that you never even know about. Surprise!!! A lot of them involve chasing after guys and catching them with your chain, which is really obnoxious to do!!!! SURPRISE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The story is just Bad Evangelion, straight up. Every story beat from Evangelion is here, executed worse. They also make your character have a twin just so they can have a character who can talk and feel emotions, because your boring-ass protagonist is stuck being an emotionless audience cipher. Cool!!!

Tetris Effect – 2018 – Origin – ★★★

It’s drugs Tetris. I personally don’t use, or have synesthesia for that matter. I imagine this game is better if you do. It’s an enjoyable enough experience but it feels incredibly slight for what I was expecting from it, or even compared to something like Lumines, which has tons of replayability by way of its difficulty. Tetris just isn’t that hard, unless you’re forcing yourself to do weird shit to get points. I WILL NEVER LEARN HOW TO T-SPIN. Never.

Castlevania Anniversary Collection – 2019 – Steam – ★★★

Kind of an unremarkable Castlevania collection. Neat that it has an official translation of Kid Dracula in there, but also… look, I prefer Metroidvania Castlevanias, OK?

6. Spelunky 2 – 2020 – Steam – ★★★

I’m not entirely sure why this doesn’t click for me where Spelunky 1 did. More annoying intro levels? Too many fiddly requirements for different ending-progression? Gameplay additions that just make things more annoying? Spelunky 1 was hard, but there was a kind straight-forwardness to it, even with its weird secrets, that made it much easier to grok and continue banging your head against. I’m just not having as much fun with this. Difficulty should be challenging, not a hassle.

5. Stellaris: Federations – 2020 – Steam – ★★★

This is the year that Stellaris just broke for me.

Federations itself is a good DLC; it adds some really interesting mechanics tied to various types of multi-national unions (the titular federations, as well as the Space UN), as well as the addition of unique “origins” that allow you to further specialize your gameplay. The origins in particular are a great addition that allows more specialization and roleplay.

I’m just tired of the sheer amount of busywork Stellaris forces you to do. Every DLC adds more junk you need to keep an eye on, and the fact that the AI doesn’t even bother with it (compensating with copious economy boosts in order to keep up) makes the whole thing frustrating. It’s like playing fetch with yourself; you just get tired of chasing after your own ball after a point.

I have to wonder if they’re pivoting towards a notional Stellaris 2 at this point? Might not be a bad idea for them, though it is weird with all they talked up adding more origins when Federations came out.  

4. GranBlue Fantasy Versus – 2020 – Steam – ★★★★

This is probably the fighting game I got most into over the past few years. There’s just this nice, almost Street Fighter-esque ease of execution to the controls, and that Arc Systems Works 3D-as-2D style continues to just do work. I don’t give a single shit about GranBlue Fantasy (frankly, I think I’d enjoy this game more if it wasn’t attached to a property) but the characters are fun enough to play and look at.

The big problem here is two things: no crossplay, and no rollback netcode. In the span of a month, this game became a total ghost town on PC, and it doesn’t sound like PS4 faired that much better. 

Ring Fit Adventure – 2019 – Switch – ★★★★

I’ve fallen on-and-off this game all year. At its heart: it works, it’s a fun exercise game. I don’t think it really feels like a “game” (in the sense that I’m not really coming to it for riveting gameplay or anything) as much as just a guided exercise experience, but… that’s fine? The in-game story is kind of flat, but funny in the fact of it existing at all. Buff Nicol Bolas and all.

XCOM 2: War of the Chosen – 2017 – Steam – ★★★★

XCOM2: War of the Chosen is a great answer to what XCOM2 struggled with. As I discussed back in 2016 (Jesus Christ), XCOM2 tried to push against player’s worst instincts by incentivizing them to keep being aggressive through a whole bunch of timers— which, kind of just weren’t fun given how much accidentally walking into an ambush could “ruin” dozens of hours of play. War of the Chosen dials that back in some intelligent ways, by instead making the encounter designs themselves, as well as much more grab-and-bail mission types, encourage players to push ahead instead. Smart!

The addition of the Chosen makes the game feel more alive, and they really do make missions harder— particularly early on. But they’ve somehow accidentally fell into the hole, where XCOM just… isn’t that hard? Early on it’s challenging, particularly with the resource restrictions and all. But they keep giving you more and more options (that aren’t especially meaningful choices) that make your team more and more powerful, without increasing the strength of the enemy as time goes on. By the five-hour mark, you basically know if you’re going to steam roll the game or not.

The amount of additional character and variety in the gameplay is great, I just wish it had a more challenging difficulty curve. Maybe make the meta-layer of when enemies show up more targeted to where players are at. If a player is doing well, ramp up the difficulty, if they’re struggling, pull it back a bit. I should always feel like I’m just barely keeping ahead with XCOM, not like I’m bored. And by the end of War of the Chosen, I was kind of getting bored, really. Oh well.

3. Animal Crossing: New Horizons – 2020 – Switch – ★★★★

This is probably the video game that I spent the most time with hours-wise this year. I’m not entirely sure why? It’s a nice evolution of New Leaf, in that the crafting, environment shaping, and general quality-of-life improvements made are quite nice. There’s clearly been some thought on how people play these games, and ways to make the experience less frustrating.

… and yet, they kept so much tedium in the game. Like yes, the schedule stretching is the point, I get it. As someone who for some reason decided not to play with the clock, I only just recently finished the fish, fossils, and insects for the museum. But there’s just so many weird, little things that just make it hard to keep coming back to it. It’s like… to what end? When I’ve unlocked everything, and basically seen the entirety of the item list at this point, and the holiday events all being the game meaningless collectathons…. Why? I’m not going to try completing the collection; the museum stuff is about my limit, really (and even the paintings I can probably pass on).

I guess even an idealized, digital representation of a quasi-domestic life has the spiritual emptiness of consumerism-for-consumerism sake. Thanks???

Hypnospace Outlaw – 2019 – Steam – ★★★★

I grew up on the internet of the early 00s. I had an AngelFire website, mostly consisting of shitty sprite webcomics and hosted Gundam pics. I remember when Google wasn’t really a thing and you would heavily rely on website compilation sites like the Anime Web Turnpike in order to find anything of value online. It was weird, it was wild. It was exciting!

The internet seemed so different back then. There was a ton of garbage online, but also, like… there was a sense of optimism to it. Folks were shitty, there was plenty of bad stuff online, but it felt so disconnected from the fabric of the physicality of real-life that it was at the same time a perfect escape.

I was young when I first got “online”, something like 12. I remember having this notion that the internet was going to be this great equalizer, that it had infinite potential to change how people behave and interact. Boy, huh.

Hypnospace Outlaw is essentially a splendid alternate universe GeoCities recreation, where you’re a volunteer moderator of a grouping of websites on HypnOS, an internet-analog you access while you are sleep. At the surface level, it’s mostly about poking around the weird alternate-historical version of the internet they created, full of kids feuding, bizarre historical divergences, and plenty of amazing bespoke weirdness. All of this is great; there’s an incredible amount of content that’s just great to poke at, listen to, and explore.

Below the surface, there’s also a rolling plotline about the ethics of this industry-owned platform, those who run it, and the way corporations handle new technology, new platforms, and emerging digital societies. There’s a late game turn that’s pretty damn affecting. And as someone who has moderator his share of internet forums in his time, trying to balance ‘do it for the community’ and what your ostensible ‘bosses’ require of you, it was kind of a weird throwback in more ways than one.

Minecraft – 2011 – PC – ★★★★★

Turns out, Minecraft is really as good still who knew??? Started playing a bunch more of it this year due to Giant Bomb deciding to do so, and yeah: still good!

2. Hades – 2020 – Steam – ★★★★★

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again— Supergiant makes damn good games. I’d been holding off on checking out Hades until its full release due to my tendency to burn out on games easily, and I’m glad I waited. Hades is a fantastic rogue-lite experience. The way it makes narrative progression part of the reiterative, randomized rogue-lite structure is just perfect.

It’s got all the usual Supergiant bullet points. Great characters, voice acting, narration, and music. In terms of gameplay, it’s probably their least ambitious game— playing something like a cousin to their original game, Bastion— but it’s also been polished to a mirror sheen. It just feels really damn good to play, over and over and over.

That being said, the second (final?) ending feels kind of…. Tacked on? It’s fine as a goal to go for while continuing to do the game’s relationship mechanics for additional story bits, but it ends up feeling kind of unfulfilling compared to the payoff of the first one.

1. Crusader Kings III – 2020 – Steam – ★★★★★

I never could get into Crusader Kings II. Despite my interest, the sheer mechanical heft and unintuitive interface made the game a wall that I just couldn’t get over. I’m sure if I’d dedicated myself I probably could have learned it, but… ehhhhhh.

Crusader Kings III, on the other hand, has a good tutorial, a cleaned-up UI, and a very helpful highlight and tooltip system that make it much easier to understand how to actually play the game through resources inside the game itself. And, as it turns out: I rather love this game.

I mean, conceptually it’s an easy sell, isn’t it? Historical politics is something I enjoy broadly. I liked Stellaris but wish it had more narrative, roleplaying elements. They outright say that “winning” isn’t really the point of the game. Instead, it’s more about emergent storytelling and playing with the different systems and seeing what you can do with it.

My current game has had me taking the Haesteinn dynasty from its Viking origins into England, forming a London-seated Northern Sea Empire that encompasses all of Britannia, Iceland, Holland, Norway, and Denmark. I am currently working on hegemonizing Norse religious control over enough Asatru holy sites to finally reform the religion, such that more unified feudalization can occur. To that end, my current ruler’s predecessor invaded West Francia and conquered the whole of its territory, substantially reducing the foothold of Catholicism in mainland Europe… which seems to have kicked the hornet’s nest, given the Crusade I’m going to need to contend with next time I boot up the game.

Of course, a complicating matter is that my current ruler— the Emperor of the North Sea, King of Ireland and the Danelaw, liege of the King of Denmark, was elected from the extended Haesteinn family via Thing, the Scandinavian council of his erstwhile vassals. Where the previous emperor, the one who manufactured the invasion of Francia, was quite religious and beloved for his adherence to the old ways, I discovered as I took over as his successor that he really, really is into just boning down across Europe. We’re talking constantly attempting to seduce neighboring Queens and Princesses. His vassals are not thrilled with this. They also don’t care for his propensity for torturing people to death, constantly.

I had no real say in this; attempting to stay on top of a dynasty is kind of like riding a bucking-bronco, so many things are only tenuously under your control that some weird shit can happen. This is especially true when you use the systems that make it easier to maintain the coherency of your domain. The Norse religion encouraging concubinage results in you having a lot of kids, which means there’s a lot of domain partition going on (someday, primogeniture, someday). Naturally, using Thing election reduces that, but also makes you sometimes end up having to play Emperor Stabbo-Fucko because they thought he was the best candidate at the time. Hell, I thought he was the best candidate at the time until I discovered just how many people he’d be laying with on the low. But you just have to roll with it.

The way the game forces you to play ball with character traits is great. Doing things that match with the character’s traits makes them lose stress. Doing things against their character increases stress. Too much stress can force you to make the character take up vices (which can make them suffer health or opinion maluses, as well as altering their aptitudes), or even die outright. And sometimes those vices and attitudes can be boons, given they open up opportunities for different character interactions.

Emperor Stab-and-Fuck-Kingdom is perhaps the most relaxed person alive, it turns out, because his sadism makes him really enjoy sacrificing infidels, which makes the gods happy. It also freaks the fuck out of all of his vassals, so they’re a good supplicant mix of both appreciative of my religious sentiments and also utterly terrified of my skull piles. Some especially brave vassals occasionally try to assassinate me, but my lovers keep jumping in front of the knife and saving my life mid-coitus. Iiiiiit happens! :D  

The game can be incredibly fun to just watch, as it becomes emergently weird. Georgia right now is incredibly Jewish in game. I’m not sure how that happened; I guess someone made a random Jewish guy into a vassal, who somehow moved up enough in the world to make it a movement? The Byzantine princes elected a Coptic as Emperor, which over the course of the decade resulted in very accelerated balkanization as Byzantium just lost its shit. The Middle East and notional HRE haven’t really unified in a meaningful way, so I’m curious how things are going to go if/when the Mongols unify and roll-on in.

It’s one of those “Just one more thing” games that can completely devour time. I have more than a few times checked the clock mid-game to see that it’s 4AM and that I’ve totally ruined my sleep schedule in the process of play. Oooooops.

I highly recommend checking it out if you’re curious; the introductory, pre-release video series Paradox put out showing off the game does a pretty good job of showing the core gameplay loop and also how weird it can get.