#and a damn good batch of it too

[beth-reads-fics]

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Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he still hasn’t taken off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

Oh, you feel it.

The wet, sticky sound of your cunt swallowing him with every thrust. The soaked spot you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking of hitting you over and over again while you’re naked.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[vodhalla]

Echo has been gradually surpassing Tech as my fave after rewatching TCW + TBB S3 and it's got me lowkey feeling guilty like a widower remarrying after The War or something. Like I'm sorry my beloved I will always love you but your loss changed me fundamentally and he was THERE when I needed someone. I needed to HEAL!!

[fellthemarvelous]

Okay, people freaking out that CX-2 hasn't been revealed yet because the finale is going to be too late for anything to happen if it's Tech, but like, have y'all seen The Winter Soldier? Like yeah WS was revealed to be Bucky but he didn't just get over 60+ years of torture and brainwashing and immediately jump back into the fray of the good guys. He saved Steve at the very end of the movie and then made himself disappear. We never saw him join the heroes until the third Cap movie came out.

The way I see it, the CX-2 reveal happening at the very end indicates another story yet to come. We don't know how many clones have been subjected to Hemlock's torture and experimentation or for how long. Their identities are erased and the very first CX clone Captain Rex caught referred to himself as a Believer before chomping down on his electric suicide pill implant. And for some reason, that clone was immediately able to recognize him as Captain Rex.

If there's one thing that would cause an uprising, it's the clones finding out that their brothers have been sent to Hemlock for reprogramming since the Clone Wars and that's a really horrific revelation they'll have to contend with on top of the fact that all of it is already horrific to begin with. I'm pretty sure that's where they would have sent Fives if Azi hadn't told him that he heard Fives was going to be reprogrammed and his memory erased.

How many clones believed to be dead were actually being experimented on by Hemlock? There's a lot to explore there, but this is a series about the Bad Batch. We were introduced to our first CX assassin in season 2, and then we met two more this season. One who is probably Tech.

And a reveal in the series finale probably means the story is going to continue elsewhere with Captain Rex and the other clones fighting for their rights as autonomous beings in a galaxy where they have zero clone representation in the Galactic Senate. They're still property of the Empire at this point.

Maybe it's the optimist in me, but I'm not going to throw my hands up in the air and assume that the team just tricked us into thinking it was Tech so they could retain viewers. He "died" at the end of the second season in a three act series about Clone Force 99.

[nightskyfoxyy]

"How are you with hugs?"

Quick little fanart of a scene in @niobiumao3 s latest fic "Man in the Middle" which was just way too good to not doodle a little something. Highly recommend giving it a read! Along with all their other fics, they're all *chefs kiss*

[jedi-lothwolf]

Whump: The Musical master list! Firstly I had a great time coming up with ideas for these prompts! This is truly a very unique challenge! I look forward to next year's! Hopefully I'll post everything in time and finish it!

To make finding stories you may like easier, I have color coronated everything. Summaries and notes/warnings are with the stories! I hope you enjoy them!!

Fandoms: The Bad Batch, Star Wars, The Owl House,

Day 1: Cats (Second Chance)

Day 2: Wicked ("No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.")

Day 3: Jesus Christ Superstar (betrayed)

Day 4: Les Misérables (Survivors Guilt)

Day 5: Heathers (Reluctant Whumper)

Day 6: Newsies (Chronic Pain)

Day 7: The Last Five Years (I will not lose because you can not win.")

Day 8: Day 8: Hades Town (Deals)

Day 9: Sweeney Todd (Razers)

Day 10: Rent ("Feels Too Damn Much Like Home.")

Day 11: Bare: A Pop Opera (Outing/Religious Trauma)

[tbb-appreciation-week]

When I realized that I'm willing to commit fraud in my own event's voting because I got an amazing idea for a fic with the right combination of prompts that I just put together.

Joking, joking!! You'll choose the final prompts.

[undefeatablesin]

Pls enjoy a wip from the mega sketch batch for now because I am not normal about Good Hunter Ruza ever ✨️

[crescentfool]

doing things outside of your usual is such a humbling experience...

[honeyvenommusic]

.

[melodyofmbaku]

Pour Me Another Lie (Smoke Moore x Annie x Stack Moore)

Preview: “You’re doing good baby. Keep that up, Smoke’s gonna be nice to you. Gonna be real nice and give you what you want.” Stack encouraged with a kiss to her tear stained cheek.

Word Count: 2.25k

Warning ⚠️: They're a Trio. Smut (18+ Material) + Angst

A/N Ya'll loved the boys and Annie together as a trio in Her House, Her Rules. So heres more!🤠💁🏾‍♀️

Part 2 ____

“I ain’t know Annie’s working Hank’s bar now.” 

Cornbread was in the barn unloading the last batch of beers the boys had ordered and trying to make conversation while Filly stacked bottles behind him.

Smoke sat at the bar, flipping through a ledger. Stack leaned over the back of the couch, scribbling on a clipboard, mid-count.

Upon Cornbread's comment, there was a shift.

Smoke’s back straightened. His hand froze mid-air, glass halfway to his lips. Stack’s head turned slow like he hadn’t heard right, then let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“What you mean?” Stack asked.

Cornbread scratched his head. “I saw her. Earlier today. When I was dropping off at Hank’s. She was behind the bar. Serving.” He said it plain, like it wasn’t a live grenade.

The boys shared a look before Stack started. 

“That wasn’t Annie. Because Annie dont work, do she Smoke?” Stack shot at his brother over his shoulder. 

“Annie don’t work.” The older responded flatly.

“That’s right. Cuz Annie ain't got no bills. Annie got any bills Smoke?” He asked his brother. 

“Annie ain’t got no damn bills.” The older confirmed. 

A picture was forming now. Smoke didn’t like it. Hadn’t thought much of how she’d been slipping out in the afternoons lately—just as they were settling into sleep. Kissing them both goodbye like it was nothing.

Back by eleven. Smelling like sweat and sugar. He’d chalked it up to her wandering ways. She got restless. But she didn’t work.

Smoke stood from his stool, slow and measured. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But Cornbread wasn’t the lying type. The man was many things, but not a liar. 

He stalked closer as Stack kept going.

“Annie don’t pay bills. So she don’t need to be working for no money. Definitely not for no damn Hank, and especially not serving no drinks.” Stack concluded. 

Cornbread rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t trying to stir anything up. He just figured they knew. He let out a breath and tried to explain.

He’d been hauling crates with Filly—usual route. Made the stop at Hank’s around 5. Sun had teeth that day, hot on the back of his neck. 

Inside, the bar was its usual dark, sticky self. And there she was. 

Annie, behind the bar like she’d always been there. Dress stuck to her back, brow damp. Laughing at something Hank said.

She didn’t see him.

He wanted to wave. Say something. But Filly was already honking the horn, yelling about the next stop.

So he let her be.

“I ain’t lyin’. You can ask Filly too,” Cornbread said, nodding toward the young man hauling in the last crate.

“Yeah, that was Miss Annie at Hanks, can’t miss that laugh of hers.” The boy shared a smile, not knowing what he was walking into.

Silence fell thick as a quilt.

Smoke’s jaw flexed. Stack clapped a hand on Cornbread’s shoulder.

“Preciate you for stopping by.” Smoke said, a tight smile on his lips and a prompt for the man to hit the road. 

“You’re a good man, Cornbread.” Stack said as he started him towards the exit.

Cornbread hesitated at the barn door. “She ain’t in trouble is she?”

“Trouble? Nah, she not in no trouble.” Stack replied, smiling with his golds peaking out. 

But for some reason, Cornbread had a feeling she had walked straight into it. 

___

Earlier that day…

The house was still, heavy with the kind of silence that only came when the boys were down for the count.

Smoke and Stack had come home just before dawn—fed and full, stretched out like kings in the wide bed they shared with her. By the time the sun crept through the curtains, they were out cold, deep in the kind of slumber that wouldn’t break for hours.

Annie sat on the edge of the bathtub, taking her twists down and fluffing through her curls with slow, idle movements. The house was too quiet. She looked at the clock—just after noon. She’d already done her chores. Her hands itched for something else.

The days were long now. And with the boys sleeping till sundown and business slow this week, Annie had too much time to think. She’d stopped by Hank’s the day before to drop off a tonic for his gout, and he’d looked at her with those tired eyes and said, “Wish I had someone with hands like yours behind the bar. Just till Margie gets back.”

She hadn’t answered then. But now, hours into silence, she found herself slipping on a cotton dress and pinning her hair back. Nothing fancy—just a shift dress and low heels. Something easy to move in.

“I’ll be back before they even wake up,” she murmured to herself, grabbing her purse. “Just a couple hours. Help Hank out. Stretch my legs.”

She left a note on the kitchen counter, though she doubted they’d see it. They never looked for notes—they looked for her. The words she wrote weren’t a lie, not exactly. But she left out the part about where she was going—and why she wouldn’t be back before sundown.

__

Annie was in trouble.

Stack’s eyes bugged out. “You seeing this?”

Smoke didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Smoke was seeing it. He saw Annie—there, behind a bar, pouring a drink for a patron. Wearing that soft cotton dress she liked, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned. She looked pretty. Capable. Like she belonged.

And that made it worse. Smoke made it clear early on that he never wanted her to have to answer to another man for money. He would make sure that she would never have to. He had a big thing about taking care of his family. Taking care of his woman.

He loved that Annie made her own money and pursued he own passions. Smoke nurtured that entrepreneurial spirit in her, helped her with her business. And she made a fair amount from it. He’d pay for whatever herb she needed that grew across the country to be delivered. Just so that Annie could hone in on her craft and work on new treatments for her customers.

But where she stood right now? This wasn’t her business. This wasn’t her passion. It was the antithesis of everything Stack wanted for his woman. A threat to what he believed made him a man.

She spotted them just a second too late—two shadows seated at the back of the room, dark and still. Her heart sank the moment she met Smoke’s eyes. Stack’s face was easier to read—surprised, maybe even a little amused—but Smoke? He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared.

The boys had picked a table in the back of the venue, tucked away from view but still with enough of a vantage to see the action.

She dropped the towel and ditched the apron with haste and headed over the the boys table.

“I’ll meet y’all at the house,” Smoke said, voice flat.

“Smoke, I can explain,” Annie called out, taking a hesitant step toward him—but he was already turning away, flagging down the stock boy.

“Where’s your boss at?” Smoke asked. “I got somethin’ for him.”

Stack shook his head as he looked at Annie with a little pity. He personally wasn’t too fussed with Annie working. As long as the patrons kept their hands to themselves and Annie stayed strapped he thought she’d be fine.

But Smoke? That was a different story. Stack knew how his brother felt about their woman being in someone else’s domain.

The way Smoke acted, you’d think she was on the damn pole. 

Stack stood and stretched like he’d just finished a meal. “Let’s go, sweet bits,” he said, gently placing a hand on the small of her back to steer her toward the exit.

She resisted for a second, glancing back—hoping, maybe, that Smoke would stop her. Say something. But he was already disappearing behind the swinging doors.

Stack almost felt bad for Annie. Almost.

He wasn’t really mad—not the way Smoke was. He didn’t mind her working, not in theory. But working for another man in a place like this? And doing it behind their backs? That was where things got sticky.

She might’ve been able to get away with it if she opted for being a seamstress. But a damn barmaid? Stack wouldn’t be able to save her from her brother's wrath even if he wanted to.  The duo left the bar as instructed and headed home.

They were in the bed awaiting her fate as Stack pulled Annie back against his chest, his arms snaking around her to cup her breasts with slow, greedy hands. 

First he just held them, they were heavy and he loved that. 

“I could play with these — with you — all day.” He felt her relax into him. This would take her mind off of things until Smoke got back. Quell any anxiety.

Slowly he began to rub her nipples between his fingers expertly.  He was in his element and she was in heaven. He paid attention to her breasts and all she did was lean back and whine. Like a princess. At times her hands overlapped his as she joined him in teasing her tits. 

“You like that mama?" A kiss to her cheek "I know you like it when we give these girls attention. You're greedy for it.” 

She could feel his dick pressing against her back and her mouth watered. She slid her hands behind her back to grasp at the man’s covered cock. She listened as Stacks voice hitched. 

“Oh baby you’re so sweet, tryna take care of me.” Stack looked at his watch, did they have time? Could they have a little fun before his brother came back? 

“We gotta be fast.” he said but before they could get into it they heard the front door slam.

They paused their play for a moment when they saw Smoke walk into their bedroom and shut the door. 

He didn’t regard them. He slowly began to remove his cuff links and roll up his sleeves. 

As he was undoing his belt he looked up and locked eyes with Annie. Perhaps the only time he’d done so that night. 

 “You wanted to be seen, didn’t you?” Smoke asked. His voice was quiet, not cruel. That made it worse.

Smoke walked straight toward her — slow, deliberate, without saying a word. He knelt between her legs, ignoring Stack's hold on her, and slid his hands up her thighs to pull her hips forward, closer to the edge of the bed. His grip was firm. Possessive. It was a silent claim, and it told her everything words hadn’t yet said.

He shoved her dress up to her hips. She knew this was her moment. To plead her case — to appease Smokes anger. 

“Smoke — I can explain —“

“Shhhh”. Stack whispered in his wife’s ear. 

In response she struggled in his arms. Stack held her close to his body with a smile. 

“How about you show Smoke your pussy baby? I think he wants to see how greedy she is.”

She shook her head and tried to close her knees and avoid Smoke's hot gaze. 

Stacks hands were fast. Dropping from her tits down to her thick thighs quickly. 

“No, no. Keep em open.” His hands forced her knees back apart, for her sex to be exposed to his brother's view. 

“Be good.” Stack murmured —

“She hasn’t been,” Smoke said coldly, without looking up. “That’s the problem.”

When Smoke placed his mouth on her sex she threw her head back, eyes raised to the sky. She could feel him in every part of her body. His tongue expertly licked her from her clit to her opening snaking through her folds to sip every drop of her essence.

She didn’t know if she wanted to cry or thank him.

“Look at Smoke Annie. He tryna teach you something. He’s showing you what happens when you don’t listen.”

Smoke worked with experience and precision. He knew his woman and all her parts. Knew how she liked to be touched. It wasn’t long before she was on the brink of an orgasm, and then he just… stopped.

She gasped, and there he was, on his knees looking her straight in her face. Her lip trembled.

A tear slipped of her eye and began a trail down her face. Stack licked it.

Annie began sobbing. She could tell what kind of night it was gonna be. 

“Smoke only tryna help you baby. He’s doing it cuz he loves you.” he crooned into her ear before kissing her cheek. 

Almost satisfied with her ruin Smoke went right back to work licking into her sensually. 

Stack matched that and began to play with her nipples once more. He pulled them, obsessed with how she responded when he did.  The pain bit and then subsided and her shallow breaths encouraged him to keep going. 

She gasped. “Please.” 

“Smoke’s still mad about that bar,” Stack whispered. “But he’ll forgive you. He always does.”

Throughout this entire ordeal. Stack was his brother's mouthpiece. The older hadn’t said many words. Annie didn’t know where his head was at. 

“He’s quiet, huh?” Stack whispered, grinning. 

And it continued like that. Smoke sipping from her pussy and bringing her to the brink of her pleasure before stopping and starting back up again. He made sure to look her in the eyes when he stopped right before she orgasmed. 

He wanted to see her disappointment. Her frustration. For her to feel like how he was feeling right now. 

He kept her desperate and wanton with his ministrations on purpose. It was pleasure and punishment all at once.  

“Stack please. Please —“ She begged with little reservation. “I need it.” “Please let me cum.” She wailed as he her brought her right to the edge before pulling away and sitting back. Watching the confusion ripple across her face once more.

“You begged them like that too?” Smoke asked, still between her thighs, voice low. “You make those sounds for them?” His grip on her thighs tightened. 

It dawned on her once again that he’d left her hanging. He turned his attention right back in to suck on her clit. He rubbed his tongue against it, lapping at it, savoring the noises that came from her lips as a result of his wicked actions. 

But then she moaned his name. Not Stack’s. His.

It broke something in him.

Smoke growled low in his throat, and for a second the precision was gone — replaced by hunger, raw and unchecked. His fingers sank deeper, rougher. His mouth moved like he needed her to cry out again, louder this time, for him.

“Say it again,” he rasped against her sex. “Say my name like you mean it.”

And she did. Over and over again. 

Still he persisted. At a certain point in the evening Annie stopped begging and started repenting. 

“I’m sorry daddy. I’m so sorry.”  Now they were getting somewhere. 

Smoke paused. He didn’t look at her. But she felt the way his hands softened, just slightly, against her skin.

“Good,” he finally said before diving back into her sex, fingers curling inside her. 

“Smoke I — I’m sorry.” She let out desperately. Her head flung back. She wanted him to hear her. She meant it. 

“You’re doing good baby. Keep that up, Smoke’s gonna be nice to you. Gonna be real nice and give you what you want.” Stack encouraged with a kiss to her tear stained cheek.

Hearing her apologies and desperate breathless whines worked to subdue Smoke’s anger. He could feel the anger subsiding — sliding back into himself. The teasing wasn’t in vain. She was seeing the error of her ways. 

When he had had his fill of her moans and apologies, he decided to give in. 

“Annie.” The first word he’d said in a while. Her eyes were unfocused. 

“Look at me.” And she did. He held her gaze as he stroked her insides with his two fingers and thumbed at her clit. 

She could feel it coming, coupled with the way Stack tweaked her tits and the way pleasure was building in her chest. She was almost scared of how her orgasm would take her. Scared of the feeling that was to come. Still she held his gaze.

She mouthed the words ”Please” but no sound came out. The one final suck of her clit into his mouth did it and sent her over tumbling over the edge. 

She bucked and Stack was startled for a moment before he held her body to himself as her orgasm crashed over her. She was a fucking wonder. 

“Look at you. Look at you.” Smoke praised softly as she wailed — the sound came from deep within her. It was primal. Through it all, Smoke stayed on his knees, between her legs to lap at the essence that freely flowed from her. 

In a way, at that moment all of them could sit back a little easier. The tension in the room melted alongside her orgasm. As if they experienced the same oxytocin she did. They waited for her to catch her breath.

Slowly — Smoke stood up. 

He gripped her chin softly and looked down at her. She was wrecked. Her lips were parted and her chest moved up and down. His thumb skimmed her kiss swollen bottom lip. 

“Open your mouth.” He spoke softly. 

Annie opened her mouth almost immediately. Like she was craving what would come next. Like she was hungry for it — for him.

Her eyes locked with his as he spat into her mouth. 

“Keep it open.” He spoke once more.  

And she did. 

Smoke wanted to see. Wanted a visual on how they — how he — owned her. And how she wanted to be owned too. It was reciprocal. The two held each others gaze, almost communicating to one another through micro expressions. 

You hurt me. You’re mine and nobody else’s. 

I love you. I’m yours. I'm sorry. 

“Swallow.” She closed her mouth and her eyes and swallowed what he’d given her. 

Stack scrunched his nose up.  “Ya’ll nasty as hell.”

“Smoke?”  She breathed. He crouched down and pushed the tendrils of curls out of her face.  Her hand reached out to him seeking connection and he was quick to hold it. To rub his thumb over her knuckles and comfort her. To place a chaste kiss on her hand. 

He looked up at her frame. She wasn’t in no state to have any kind of conversation right now. 

“Yes baby?” he loved her so fucking much it was scary. His Annie. 

“ I never —“ she started before her cut her off. 

“Tomorrow mama. You're okay. You rest. We’ll talk all about it tomorrow.”

He reached up and placed a kiss on her head. It was shiny with perspiration but Smoke didn’t care. She was his. 

She sat back into Stacks chest getting comfortable as Smoke went in and wiped her down with a rag. 

They settled into a soft and comfortable silence. There was a reverence in the air. 

Stack stroked her hair and placed light kisses behind her ear. 

Smoke began whispering sweet proclamations of love into her skin. Almost in worship.

“You did so well.”

A kiss on her ankle. 

“You’re perfect.”

A kiss on her knee. 

“We love you so much.”

A kiss on the inside of her thigh. 

Annie basked in their love, letting the feeling wash over her — filling her heart with warm affection. 

Smoke’s position at her feet pouring praise into her skin felt symbolic. Despite what transpired that night, it was her who owned them.

He rose to see her face.

“You’re ours, Annie,” Smoke said softly, brushing her curls back. “Don’t make us doubt that again.”

Whatever happened today? It was water under the bridge. They’d talk about it tomorrow. She’d worked hard tonight — paid her penance. 

She was loved, safe, and protected under the watchful and attentive eyes of her partners.

The hurt had been seen. The apology had been heard. The slate, quietly, was clean.

And with that knowing, she let slumber take her over. ____ Interested in my future works? Let me know if you'd like me to add you to my tag list. My other works can be found in My Masterlist. Thanks for reading!

PART 2 ___ Taglist @chaneajoyyy @pyraomen @browngirldominion @sarcastic-sunshines

[myfictionaldreams]

Hiiiiii

Hope you are doing well🥺 ✨🦎

Sooo I thought about this one:

Natasha and Sam are helping the reader to defend herself with some weapons like a gun and a knife…

But Steve and Bucky don’t know this until she has to use those new skills…

Probably the hottest thing they have seen?

Their girl manhandling someone who hurts HER boys? Hell yeah

~ 🦎

⁀➷ Sweet & Armed // Mafia!Stucky x F!Reader

Summary: In a world of danger and dominance, she’s the soft center — until the day she proves she can bite just as hard as they bark.

Requested by: 🦎 -- Thank you for your request! I've also mixed this with your first request for the reader to do something nice for the boys. I hope you like it!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, threesome, attempted kidnapping, violence, mild injury (bruised hand), protective stucky, domestic fluff, poly, dom/sub, double penetration, anal, praise kink, sir kink

Words: 4.5k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The morning was peacefully quiet in the Rogers-Barnes estate—calm in the way only highly protected, 24-hour security could buy. Somewhere out of sight, a small army of guards monitored every inch of the surroundings.

But inside the homely kitchen, nothing stirred except for the soft hum of an old Sinatra vinyl playing low in the background, and the occasional bark from Dodger as he chased shadows across the polished floors.

You were barefoot, wearing only one of Steve’s soft white Henleys that dragged below your thighs, and a smile that only deepened each time the smell of cinnamon and warm sugar drifted from the oven. A few days ago, the recipe book you found had been shoved behind a row of aged Scotch bottles. The corners of the pages curving with age, handwritten notes smothering the recipes, add to the original recipes.

You’d found the jackpot with these books—the margins were filled with directions from Sarah Rogers and Winifred Barnes.

A surprise you were jumping on the spot to tell.

The dough under your fingers was sticky as you prepared another batch of treats. One tray was baking, and the other was already cooling. The boys would be up soon from the creaking of slow steps on the floor above your head.

As you were licking cinnamon sugar off your fingers, you turned, only to jump slightly as a low voice drawled from the doorway.

“Well, ain’t this a damn sight, Sweet Mama.”

Bucky Barnes stood shirtless in grey joggers, his hair a smidge longer than his usual buzz cut, facial hair freshly trimmed. He leaned against the doorframe, blinking sleepily, and still somehow looked like a sin.

You gave him a sheepish smile, hand on your chest, “You scared me.”

His blue eyes dragged down your legs, over the flour dusting your thighs. “My bad, doll. Didn’t realise angels made breakfast too.”

Before you could roll your eyes, he was behind you, wrapping both arms securely around your waist, his flesh hand warm and his vibranium one cool against your stomach. He nuzzled into your neck with a pleased groan.

“You cooking rugelach? My mom used to make this exact recipe. Damn near forot the smell.”

“I found an old book, I think it was hers.”

Bucky went still.

“You did?”

You nodded, wiping your hands on a towel and pulling it from the counter to show him. He stared down at the page and fading writing, then looked back at you with an emotion that didn’t often cross his handsome face.

“This…” he cleared his throat. “This means a lot, sweetheart. More than you know.”

Before you could reply, Dodger trotted into the kitchen, his wet nose nudging against Bucky’s leg, begging for scratches. “Good morning to you, too, Dodge. Have you been helping Mama bake?”

Just then, Steve’s heavy footsteps echoed from the stairs. Moments later, he was filling the doorway. “Something smells good.”

Bucky steps aside as Steve enters, tall, golden, and freshly showered. He pauses mid-stride, eyes landing on you standing barefoot surrounded by pastries, and his entire expression softens.

“Jesus, are you trying to kill us?”

You blinked. “What?”

He crossed the room, cupping your face in his warm palms, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You. Looking like this. Making my ma’s cookies.” Steve turned briefly to Bucky. “You see this? This is wife behaviour.”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” Bucky smirks, stepping closer until you’re sandwiched between their bodies. Sighing into their hold, you spend a moment just breathing them in, thankful for moments like this where even simple actions could have so much appreciation from your boyfriends.

“Are we still on for that picnic later? I thought I could bring some of these treats along.”

Bucky’s the first to move away from the hug, moving over to the sink to fill a glass with water. “Yeah, Sam and Nat will be here around noon to load the car.”

“Dibs, I’m taking the bike”, Steve adds.

“Like hell, I own the bike, Steve,” Bucky snaps back, nearly choking on his water.

“Yeah? I ride it better.”

Dodger barked once, as if to cast his vote.

The argument might’ve gone on forever, if not for the moment you walked past them hours later, your sundress fluttering just enough to reveal the curve of your thighs as you bent to pick up your bag. You didn’t mean to do it. But you felt their eyes snap to you like magnets.

Steve’s voice dropped. “Forget the bike.”

“Yep, forget the bike, I’m riding with her.”

Bucky practically tackled Steve out of the way to the car to hold the door open for you, a move that had the blonde rolling his eyes and swearing under his breath for not thinking of it first. This was all after 10 minutes of arguing who would sit next to you, just to decide that there was plenty of room in the back seats for them to be on either side of you.

So there you were, with warm sunlight beaming through the tinted windows, the hum of the radio lowly playing in the background, and the subtle crackle of a secured radio line in the front seat where Natasha and Sam kept one ear tuned into security updates.

Steve and Bucky’s shoulders and thighs pressed firmly against yours, each had a hand resting possessively on your bare thigh, having pushed the flimsy material up slightly to be skin to skin.

“You smell like cinnamon. Are you sure you want to go outside today? I kind of want you all to myself. I don’t know how Buck’s feeling.”

Bucky's hand gently squeezes your thigh, smirking, “I’m trying to be a team player, Wilson’s been begging like a little princess for this for months.”

Sam, who was driving you all, calmly lifted his little finger towards his boss and best friend, causing a laugh from all three of you.

“You’re all ridiculous,” you say softly, leaning your head against Steve’s shoulder.

“Insanely in love with you. Not the same thing,” Steve corrects, kissing your temple for a couple of long seconds.

The car bumped gently as they pulled off the main road into a hidden field surrounded by tall forest and protected by surveillance drones overhead. You knew the place well. It was one of the few safe zones that hadn’t been compromised, a place where they could let their guards down just enough to breathe.

Blankets were spread across the trimmed grass, and the warm scent of late spring was in the air. Sam unpacked the drinks while Natasha laid out sandwiches and extra ammo clips with equal ease.

“Sometimes I forget how equipped you are. Where do you even hide these things?” you ask, nodding to the assortment of weapons.

Natasha smirks, flipping her red hair over one shoulder, “You say that like I didn’t grow up doing tactical training in sunflower fields.

Sam hands you a bottle of lemonade. “Enjoy the moment, boss lady. Days like this don’t come often.”

You nod thoughtfully.

For a while, everything is right. Bucy sat behind you with his arms loosely wrapped around your shoulders, tracing slow circles on your stomach as Steve fed Dodger bits of jerky and talked shit to Sam about his choice in baseball teams. Natasha laughed in a way you rarely heard, leaning in occasionally to give teasing digs to all the boys, but never you, she was always a girl's girl.

You were about to reach for another cookie when a football thudded into the blanket near your hand. Steve grins, “C’mon, baby. You ever tossed one of these?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’ve seen you throw people.”

“Sam motion,” Steve shrugs, stretching. “Less screaming.”

You stand, wiping crumbs off your dress. “Okay. But if you make me run, you can walk home.”

That earned a while from Sam. “Boss lady’s got jokes now, huh?”

You return Sam’s earlier gesture with a middle finger, laughing whilst walking across the field. Each person had an exaggerated stance. Bucky was cocky, steve overly technical, and sam too smooth for his good. Natasha opted to watch from the blanket with her shades on, though you knew she wasn’t really relaxing; her eyes never stopped scanning the treeline.

Everything was perfect, until Bucky started with a ridiculous overhead throw, the ball whizzing past your head and landing a significant distance away in the field.

“Sorry, Doll!” but from his shit eating grin you knew he wasn’t that sorry.

With a deep sigh, you walked to the ball and, with more energy than necessary, threw the ball to Sam, which only landed halfway because everyone was so far away now.

Eventually, it was back to Bucky, who grinned and threw the ball past where you were standing, past even the field and into the edge of the forest.

Turning with a huff at your boyfriend's antics of showing off his physical skills, you disappear between the trees. Sunlight breaks into thin beams as the sounds of laughter fade behind you. The ball wasn’t too far away, easily spotted, and tangled in a bed of wildflowers and fallen branches.

You reached for it. And froze. The hairs on your neck lifted a second before instinct kicked in.

A presence behind you- too close, too quiet. Your fingers curled around the ball, but you didn’t turn just yet. Instead, you took a steadying breath, tucking it to your chest and walking quickly back toward the clearing.

And that’s when the air changed. Just as your foot broke the tree line, the sun's heat smoothing your face, you just knew.

There was someone behind you. Before you could fully react, an arm hooked toward your waist. You dropped the football and twisted hard, driven more by instinct than thought.

From the field, everything happened at once.

Steve;s gun was drawn, cock. “Drop her-NOW!”

Bucky was already moving, low and fast across the field, but you’d somehow managed to be so far away from the others with the little ball throwing that it would still take him more time than necessary to get to your side.

And what’s worse is that you were directly in front of the attacker, and there was no clean shot.

“Don’t move!” Natasha barked, her voice sharp, her gun drawn and pointed. “Sugar, pivot! Use your elbow! Disarm!”

The man’s grip tightened, but your training kicked in, Natasha’s orders reminding your shocked body to move. You ducked low, slamming your heel into his shin, and drove your elbow back into his ribs. As he flinched, you spun, knocking the gun from his hand, and delivered a clean, closed-fist punch to his jaw, just like Sam and Nat had drilled into you.

Pain burst through your knuckles, but you followed through. The man dropped, stunned, his nose gushing with blood, eyes dazed.

Your chest heaved as you staggered back, knuckles throbbing.

The unknown man groaned on the ground at your feet.

Natasha let out a low whistle from across the field. “Hell of a takedown!”

Bucky is suddenly there, hands cradling your injured hand whilst easily able to kick out his leg, booting the man straight in the head, knocking him unconscious. “You okay? Talk to me, Doll.”

You nodded, heart still racing.” I’m fine. I-he grabbed me, but I just moved, I don’t know what just happened.” You say a little out of it, the adrenaline thumping through your veins.

“You moved like someone trained by a fucking assassin.” Steve’s now at your side, checking the rest of your body, sounding both impressed and furious as he makes sure also to kick the man in the ribs, earning a wheeze. “You tell us everything, right fucking now.”

Sam and Nat appear on either side of you. “She’s been training with Nat and me for six months.”

Steve’s head whips around. “What?!”

“She asked. We said yes. Don’t act shocked, it’s saved her life, hasn’t it?”

“Holy shit,” bucky said, breathing hard as he stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time. “You- goddamn, hot mama.”

Steve lifts your hand, inspecting the angry swelling along your knuckle, checking each finger for movement. “You’re still hurt.”

“It’s just a bruise,” you try to justify, a little nervous that they’d found out about your training. It wasn’t like you were doing it for any specific reason other than safety. I hoped it wouldn’t get to a point where you’d have to use it, but with the type of jobs your boyfriends had, it was better to be safe than sorry.

“You punched someone, I mean, actually punched someone with those soft little hands-”, Bucky murmurs affectionately.

“And she won,” Natasha added, amused. “Flawless technique. You should see her with a blade.”

Steve looked like he needed to sit down. Or bend you over a table.

Instead, he kissed your throbbing palm reverently. “We’re gonna fix this. And then we’re gonna talk. And then…”

The blueness of his eyes darkened with the lowering of his eyelids, but it was Bucky who finished his sentence for him: “...we’re going to show you exactly how proud we are.”

The ride back was quiet. It was not cold but heavy, like the air was thick with unsaid things. You remained sitting between Steve and Bucky, your bruised hand resting on your lap, bandaged lightly from the first aid kit.

The clean-up team arrived just before you’d all left. The man was presumably taken back to the office and held there until Steve and Bucky began questioning him until they were satisfied with his answers.

Bucky hadn’t let go of your other hand. Steve’s fist was so tightly holding onto the door handle that you’re actually worried about it snapping off.

You’d been the one attacked, the one who fought back, but they were the ones unravelling.

No radio was playing, just the road humming beneath the tires, and the sound of Steve exhaling too often through his nose.

Glancing at Bucky, staring contemplatively out of the window, you nudge your shoulder against his to get his attention. “I’m really okay. It’s just a bruise.”

He didn’t answer at first, then quietly, “You shouldn’t have to be.”

Something low in your stomach tugs.

“I should have seen him,” Steve demands. I shouldn’t—Jesus, I'm trained to notice shadows moving wrong, and I let you walk into the woods alone.”

“Steve-”

He shook his head, jaw flexing, the door handle groaning as his grip tightened. “I swore to protect you, that's all I ever wanted. I dont give a damn about the name, or the territory, or the money. Just you and Bucky.”

“You do protect me. Both of you do, all the time,” you say softly, trying to sound reassuring.

His eyes darted to your injury, “You had to protect yourself.”

“I'm glad I could.”

Bucky interrupts as his fingers graze your chin, turning your face towards his, “That's not the point, Doll.”

You reach out, cupping Bucky’s jaw with your uninjured hand. “I love that you want to keep me safe. I love it so much, but it scares me sometimes. But I can't sit in a tower and wait to be reduced every time.”

The car rolls to a stop directly outside your home. Bucky opens your door, helping you out, his hand gentle on the small of your back. Inside, it is quiet. Even Dodger is tamer than usual, seemingly sensing the tension. Natasha and Sam have stayed behind to brief the others, leaving just the three of you—well, four, including Dodger.

Steve had his hands on his hips, staring down at the kitchen table where you’d once baked. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed.

Bucky moved towards the kitchen cupboard, returning with another first aid kit.

“Sit, baby. Let us clean you up properly.”

You perched on the edge of the counter as Bucky gently unwrapped the makeshift bandage, revealing the swollen skin of your knuckles. Steve hovered beside him, unable to stop touching you from your shoulder, your thigh, and the back of your neck. He needed to reassure himself that you were here, breathing and warm.

Bucky applied a cold compress, so delicately you barely felt it, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Was it Sam who taught you that follow-through technique?”

You nod, “Nat taught me how to use a knife, but I just didn’t have one today.”

It was meant to be a joke, but Steve’s hand curled tighter on your waist. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“But you didn’t freeze. You didn’t falter. You fought.” Bucky meets your eyes, his voice low and full of emotion.

You nod slowly, staring down at your hands. “I just knew what to do.”

Bucky kisses the inside of your wrist. That part of you? That fire? It's ours too. Don’t ever be ashamed of it.”

Steve took your face in both hands, brushing his thumbs under your eyes. “We were wrong. You’re not fragile, you’re so fucking strong, baby girl. But you shouldn’t have to be.”

Your voice cracked, and your eyes tingled with fresh tears. " I don't want to be strong all the time. I just don't want to be helpless either.”

“You’re not. You never were,” Bucky reassures, his hands now resting against the outside of your thighs.

Steve’s forehead carefully rests against yours. “Let us take care of you now. Let us make it right.”

Your lips parted. You could feel the tension changing, twisting into something deeper, darker. Something ravenous and entirely earned.

You swallowed, breath shallow. “Please.”

They didn’t need another word.

Steve kissed you first. Right there in the kitchen, with your bruised hand still bandaged and Bucky pressing cold packs against the bruising. Steve dipped his head and took your mouth like it belonged to him, which, truthfully, it always had.

It was tender at first, filled with warmth and able to speak every emotion running through the man's head. But his control snapped when your other hand curled into his shirt, and a whine slipped from your lips.

“You just have no idea what you do to us,” he muttered, sliding his mouth down your neck, tasting your skin. “Seeing you like that, owning that bastard. God, baby. You don't even know.”

Bucky's fingers brushed your sensitive inner thigh as he stepped between your legs. His voiceis  more guttural. “You don’t get it, do you? You flipped that switch, sweetheart. We’re fucking gone for you now.”

You were dizzy with the way they looked at you, as if you were something they worshipped.

“Bedroom. Now,” Steve demands with a gruffness to his voice, eyes stormy with hunger.

Bucky effortlessly swings your body into his arms without hesitation, and you squeak in surprise, gripping his broad shoulders. Your response has Dodger barking in the background. “I can walk, you know!”

“Too slow,” Bucky grins, kissing your cheek. “You took down a grown man with a gun, but this is our domain, doll.”

They laid you on the bed like something sacred. The curtains were drawn, and the dim evening light cast golden halos around them both. Steve stripped first, pulling his shirt off over his head, then Bucky followed. Their muscles flexed under old scars, symbols of the life they’d led, the war they'd found and the kingdom they ruled.

“Allow me”, Bucky smirked, reaching for your dress and ripping it down the middle, leaving you in just your bra and panties. “Been wanting to do that all day.”

“Hey, I liked that dress!”

“Yeah? I’ll buy you 20 more. Now, I want to make you feel so good that you forget you ever had to use that hand for anything other than holding on to us.”

You shiver, nipples hardening beneath the material of your bra.

“Colour?” Steve asks softly, removing the last item of clothing on his body—his boxers.

Whilst staring at his hard, throbbing cock that pointed in your direction you responded, “green. So fucking green.”

Steve grins, kneeling on the edge of the bed. “Good girl.”

That praise shot straight through you, warmth flooding between your thighs. Bucky joined him, his metal hand cool against your stomach as he slid it lower, spreading your legs apart.

“So wet for us already, doll. I can see that wet patch through your panties. Just from hearing we’re proud of you?” he questions, gently teasing your inner thighs as your hips move towards him.

You whimper, “always wanna be good for you.”

“You are,” Steve breathed, kissing down your chest, his facial hair rough against your sternum as he squeezes your breast through your bra. “You’re our good girl. Always. “

With a simplicity that was to show off his strength, Steve tore through the centre of your bra, your breasts slipping free, your underwear following the same response until you’re naked beneath them.

Steve covers your chest, his thumb and finger rolling one nipple whilst his tongue flattens against the other. With his big, bulky body covering your torso, you’re unable to keep an eye on Bucky, but you can feel him, especially the way his body now squeezes down between your thighs, legs resting over his shoulders.

You felt buckys tongue first, slow, flat licks up your slit, savouring you like a reward. His fingers held your hips down as you squirmed, moaning softly as your fingers grip Steve’s biceps, just for something to hold onto.

Bucky’s moan is your underdoing, just the raw, grunt of the tone, and the vibrations adding just enough pressure against your clit as his mouth circled it. He was moaning like you were the weetest thing he’d ever tasted. “She’s dripping, Steve. Every moan and word, she's squeezing around nothing. Our girl here tastes so fucking good.”

“Hmm, how about we wreck her, Bucky?” Steve's voice is ragged as he watches your body tremble and react to the man between your legs. “I want to see her fall apart, just for us.”

Hearing them talk about you like this, whilst you’re pressed down into the mattress, taking the pleasure is enough to have your eyes rolling back, your pussy tightening before wave after wave of your orgasm pulses deep in your core.

“That’s it, baby girl, you’re doing so well for Bucky, coming all over his face like that. You look so beautiful letting go,” Steve encouraged, his fingers continuing to tweak your nipple, only adding to the heightened stimulation of Bucky’s tongue.

“Sir-oh my god, sir!” you cry out, body trying to arch into the touches but unable to with their hulking forms holding you down.

“Say it again,” Steve’s eyes flare, widening as he licks his lips.

“Sir!”

“Fuck, Doll,” Bucky chants, groaning as he sucks on your clit hard, coaxing another whimper from you.

“Come here.”

You’re not even in control of your body anymore with the after orgasm glow, but thankfully, Steve is moving you for you. With ease, he’s turning you over as he slips underneath your body, so you’re now straddling his waist. Your thighs are shaking, trying to hold up your weight, so you slump chest to chest against Steve, leaning into his warmth as his hands soothingly stroke up your spine.

“Colour?”

“Green”, you say without hesitation.

“What do you say now, baby? You want both of us? Want to be filled front and back?”

Your whimper is pathetic as you nod repeatedly, shifting your hips back until the tip of his cock is captured between your bodies as you grind down against it.

Cool metallic fingers press into your arse cheeks, massaging the muscles as you continue to rub yourself against Steve. “Gotta go slow, yeah?” Bucky’s voice drifts from behind you as he kneels further down the bed between Steve’s legs. “Gotta stretch you open first, make sure you are nice and ready for us, Doll.”

You hear Bucky reaching into the bedside drawer, followed quickly by cold lube squirted onto your tight hole. Slicking up his fingers, he starts with one, working it up to the knuckle before pulling out. Each time he slowly enters, you can feel your arse trying to relax before tightening as another wave of arousal bursts through you.

“Please, sir, I can take it! I need you inside me,” you beg, kissing over Steve’s pecs.

“Just wait, baby. I don’t want to hurt you,” Bucky encouraged you, adding another finger as you’re grinding down onto him.

A third finger is inside you, and you’re reaching back to Bucky, trying to pull him closer.

Thankfully, he does as he eases his fingers out of you. “Shh, you’ve got to take Steve first, okay?”

“Yes, sir”.

Bucky reaches between your bodies, gripping Steve’s cock and manouvers hislength until you’re able to slide back onto it. Your cries of pleasure are nearly drowned out by Steve’s as his hands hold onto your hips, controlling your movements, keeping you still as his dick throbs inside your cunt.

Then Bucky is there, laterhing his cock in more lube and pressing his hips against yours. Slowly and deeply, he inches himself in. The stretch is perfect; you can feel it everywhere. So much, but never too much.

“Doing so good, baby girl. So perfect taking both of us. Breathe. You can take it. You were meant to take us,” Steve’s voice is gentle but authoritative, keeping you calm as you didn’t realise you’d been holding your breath.

Their movements were so fucking slow, perfectly slow to begin with, letting your body adjust to being full. Then you’re taking over, rolling your hips, their cocks inching in and out.

“Fuck, this tight little hole feels so good, always so good for us. You’re milking us both,” Bucky gasps, his fingers flexing on your hips where his fingers are linked with Steve’s.

Your mouth is hanging open, a constant string of explicits and cries as all you can do and want to do is lie there and take their cocks, being as close to them as you can get.

“That’s it, I can feel you squeezing us, Doll. Come for us,” Steve encouraged, rocking his hips into you with firmer strokes.

The orgasm hit like lightning, a burning tingle starting between your legs and spreading through your limbs. It doesn’t slow down either. The pulsing of your cunt goes on and on as Steve and Bucky just keep on fucking you.

“Please-” you whisper into Steve’s chest, body limp and beautifully sated.

“You want our come, baby?” Steve asks, already knowing the answer as he grunts with another thrust of his hips up into you.

“Yes, sir. Please!”

“Good girl, take it all,” Bucky shouts, his hips speeding up until he’s as deep as he can go, pausing and trembling, heat seeping into your insides as he cums. Steve, holding tightly to your waist, thrusts and thrusts until he, too, holds still.

They held you there, bodies pressed tight to yours, still buried deep but with their come mixing with your juices.

And then they were gentle again. Bucky cleaned between your thighs with a warm towel, drying the area afterwards to ensure you weren’t too sore.

Kissing your bruised knuckles, Steve makes sure you’re mentally well, that you aren’t feeling too spaced out, but you’re perfectly present and happy.

“We’ve got you now.”

“You’re ours, baby.”

[puddinrin]

LADY BOSS! > Team Thanos x F!Reader

summary: being thanos and nam gyu's bestie since high school

pairings: abit of semi x f!reader (wlw because we all semi dick riders in the club + will write more about her in the next posts), platonic! thanos, nam gyu, min su & gyeong su x f!reader

warnings: talks of drugs, rehab, yk how it goes

a/n: semi semi semi semi semi semi semi i need to make out with her so bad. (name) is a fashion designer (i'm projecting hehehaha)

yk how even the most notorious gangster has a person they respect the most - yea that's what you are to thanos and nam gyu.

people wonder what did you do to get them to respect you like that

easy that's because you knew them ever since high school

it all started with a group project where your teacher purposely paired you up with both of them, in hopes you'll guide them since they were quote a "lost cause"

you wanted to pull your hair out.

but since you were a cool, demure and nonchalant like that, you decided to do what you could to get them to cooperate for the project.

"tsk, this is a waste of time." nam gyu sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. you three were sat around your table when it was time to break into the groups you were paired into. thanos, who was still just choi su bong back then, leaned back against his chair staring into space.

you pursed your lips, before speaking. "well, let's get it done as soon as possible then. any ideas on what to do for this assignment?" the task of this assignment was to create some sort of advertisement for a product of your choice.

"no" "nope." they both replied in sync, uninterested to commit to this project at all.

"i'm a woman of patience. i'm a woman of patience" you said in your head like a mantra, trying hard not to leap across the desk and jump both of them and your teacher for pairing you up with them.

an idea then came up on your head. as cringy as it might sound but it might get thanos and nam gyu to participate in working with you to complete this project. "what about we create a rap music video for this?"

thanos and nam gyu sat up straight at the sound of that. "what do you have in mind, girl."

you got their attention now.

surprise or not. you three got full scores for this assignment

thanos came up with the lyrics, nam gyu produced the music beat while you directed the music video

"congrats, you two. how does it feel to get full scores for the first time in your life? i knew putting (name) in your group was a good idea." your teacher grinned rather smugly.

"no, sir. su bong and nam gyu were amazing themselves. they came up and produced the entire music video themselves. i just supervised from the sidelines." you said with a proud smile, patting their arm as you stood in the middle of them.

both of them looked at you, mouth slightly agape. for the first time in forever, they didn't need anything in their system to feel warmth in their heart.

you wouldn't have ever thought you would have fun spending time with the two troublemakers of your batch but you did

they did too.

when almost the entire school and everyone in their lives made them feel like a failure, you brought them a chance to shine.

"it doesn't matter if others look down on you. as long as you don't look down on yourself, you always have a chance to prove them wrong and slap them in the face." you told them, rather casually as you slurped on the bowl of udon.

you were treating them dinner that you promised if you guys got a good score for the assignment. damn, were you trying to make them all soft for you because it's working.

they're now part of the (name) protection squad.

thanos jokingly once called you their lady boss and they've been calling you that ever since

they would walk you back home after school, making sure you were safe especially when school ended late

would carry your bag for you too because their lady boss shouldn't have to do that!!

guys confessing to you? they have to go through them first

#brother you are scaring the hoes away

to more serious stuff such as them being addicts, they tried to hide the fact that they were until you found out after seeing the bruise on nam gyu's arm.

you tried your hardest, helping them to overcome their addiction

yes it wasn't easy, but they were trying too

overtime, they managed to stop after you convinced them to go for rehabilitation

after that their respect and love for you sky rocketed.

time skip to where you guys are in your twenties

they hate all your situationships/exes

they don't have to know what they did

#their lady boss can never do wrong

but if they have wronged you in any way they're on thanos' and nam gyu's hit list.

they've formed a band called 'black stones' (hehe) with their new friends they met in uni: semi, gyeong su and min su.

you unlocked the door to your two idiots' apartment, a plastic of take out food you bought for them and their bandmates you were going to meet for the first time.

"who are you?! don't just come in without knocking" the man who you later learned was gyeong su, pointed a finger at you.

while you just stood there like🧍🏻‍♀️holding the key in one hand and the bag of food in the other. like hello? i kinda live here in my free time too?

nam gyu knocked his head with his knuckle, scowling "don't disrespect our lady boss like that, you fuck!"

thanos skipped towards you, like a kid running towards his mom after spending his day at daycare. "aigoo, my highness, you should've gave me a call that you're here. i would've personally brought you up."

"i did. you didn't pick up."

he froze, before smiling sheepishly, taking the bag from your hand, settling it down on the counter. "well, now that you are here. we can introduce you to the others."

he then swung his arm across your shoulders, leading you to stand in front of the tv where the others were sitting around the coffee table.

your eyes drifted to the lady with short hair and piercings. the way she carried herself and that charming smile on her lips. damn, she's so your type.

"gyeong su, my boy. you gotta apologise to our lady boss, (last name) (name). no her, no me, no nam gyu. no me, no nam gyu, no black stones." thanos said, wriggling his finger at the said man who nodded before giving you a full 90 degree bow.

"i apologise for the disrespect, lady boss (name)!" gyeong su yelled, showing he was sincerely sorry. you couldn't help but cackle at that, waving your hands at him for him to get up. "you don't have to call me that just because those two stupid idiots does and please get up!"

semi was intrigued with you after that.

you must be one hell of a woman if you managed to get thanos and nam gyu to respect you like that.

and you were just her type too.

you and her are dubbed mama e papa of the team

they don't know you both made it official after a few months of getting to know each other though

you and semi found it fun to see how long will it take till they find out.

min su found out first but didn't say anything to the others because you roped him in into betting how long till the others realises.

when they found out

they acted as if you punched their grandmother in the throat and cooked their pet fish jeffrey for dinner.

"semi how dare you seduce our princess?!"

"(name), how could you?! i thought we were 4lifers we locked in. we're suppose to tell each other everything!"

"you guys can only hold hands when we're here! no lovey dovey stuff!"

semi proceeded to give you a big smooch on the lips in front of them, her hand then never leaving your hips.

you try to attend all of their performances but if you can't due to some plans you have to attend to, they always give you a shoutout at the end of them.

you're like their second manager. it's like your side hustle aside from being fashion designer.

they will wear your brand with pride and joy

it also makes your business boom 2x max

Posts that they will post:

> thanostone4u

liked by namgyu124 and 19k others

thanostone4u best gal 💪🏻

> namgyu124

liked by gyeongsuuue, semilw and 20k others

namgyu124 sister from another pussy

> blackstonesofficial

liked by thanostone4u, minsublackstone and 45k others

blackstoneofficial happy birthday to our precious lady boss! 😘🎉💕

[anythingneverythingnstuffs]

neighbor!reader x simon 'ghost' riley pt 10

masterlist

The summer solstice. The longest day of the year, the day with the most light. That particular day in June never really meant that much to you- until now. It was officially five months since Simon had left.

Not that you were keeping track.

Simon had never given you an address or anything to send letters or packages to while he was gone. To be fair, you never asked him about such things. Maybe you should have. It was a little late for that now, though. You had to just trust that he was okay.

You tried not to be disheartened from the lack of contact with your strange neighbor while he was off saving the world. Well, that’s what you told yourself in your head that he was doing. You knew he was military of sorts, really good at what he does, but he kept things like that private, even from you.

You were just his neighbor, after all. Right?

The day began like any other. You went about your usual morning routine, feeding your cat, then yourself, getting ready for work, etcetera.

Work went as well as it did any other day. Customers weren’t too awful, thank goodness. You were feeling particularly down on that day, even though it was the day with the most sunlight out of the year.

You decided on your way home from work that you’d spend the night baking cookies, maybe even in Simon’s apartment. That might lift your spirits. Maybe you’d even pretend that Simon was there with you to keep you company, like you wished he could.

God. You missed him. Five months was too damn long. And not even a single text message or phone call. You tried not to let that get to you. He was probably super busy with whatever military stuff he was doing.

You just hoped that he was okay.

-

Simon’s apartment still smelled like him, even after all those months of him being gone. Part of it was due to you spraying little spritzes of his cologne that you found on the top shelf of his closet every few days, especially in the spots where he typically spent time in his own apartment.

Not that you’d ever admit to snooping for such a thing. No, you definitely didn’t also have to bring your step ladder from your apartment to reach it. Why didn’t he have his own stepladder-?

Oh, yeah. Tall man. Whatever.

“Izzy, I hope you know that these aren’t for you,” you mumbled teasingly to your cat, who had followed you from your apartment to Simon’s, like she often did. You were sure Simon wouldn’t mind the feline in his apartment. He had a soft spot for Isabella, whether he’d admit it to you or not.

How silly that you could see the soft spot he had for your cat, and not the one he had for you, but anyway.

You had just put in the first batch of cookies, like always you decided to start with sugar, then go to chocolate chip, then peanut butter. Small batches this time, since most of them were going straight to your own cookie jar, some were going to be put in the freezer to keep fresh for Simon’s return, and you had promised a few neighbors a box of cookies that week.

It was a small batch for you. Not a small batch for regular people baking.

In Simon’s absence in the last five months, you found yourself more and more making yourself at home in his flat. He had given you that key to use at your leisure, after all, so you wanted to put it to good use. You did just that.

No, you never found his security cameras in all that time. To be fair, you never looked for them. That sort of thing didn’t even cross your mind.

-

It was just after midnight. You had decided to stay a bit longer in Simon’s flat before heading to bed in your own. With a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of you and Izzy purring on your lap, you reached for the remote to click ‘next episode’ on the series you were watching absently.

As the opening credits on the show began to play, during a part you knew there was supposed to be silence, you heard something. As the opening continued, you couldn’t help but wonder what that sound was that you heard. You knew not to be worried about safety in Simon’s apartment- he was the safest guy you knew, and you had all three locks set on his front door.

His apartment was probably safer than your own, come to think of it. Since you sometimes forgot to lock your front door. You were getting better at it, though! Especially knowing that Simon wasn’t going to be able to just walk right in your unlocked door. Knowing it would be someone else coming through that door uninvited was a real deterrent.

Deciding to yourself that it was probably just your imagination from being up so late, you reached in front of you to grab for the bowl of popcorn.

It wasn’t until you put your hand in the buttery popcorn that Simon made his presence known.

“ ‘m back, love. Miss me?”

The popcorn was forgotten. You couldn’t see him at first, since you had been staring at the TV screen in his dark living room, but as soon as you did, you couldn’t help but freeze.

There he was. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, in the flesh, back after being away on a no-contact mission for five months. But he wasn’t-

He wasn’t wearing his mask.

You had never seen him without it before.

Your heart stopped as you looked at him. He looked both everything and nothing like you expected. In the end, it probably didn’t matter what he looked like.

But you were glad that he was pretty damn handsome underneath all that fabric anyway.

“Simon?” you breathed out. As you stood up from the couch, Izzy meowed in protest to being moved from your lap. “You’re… You’re here.”

It was the first time you ever saw Simon smile without the mask, and it was now forever burned in your mind. “Yeah, I’m back,” he told you softly.

Before you knew it, you were launching yourself into his arms. Your arms found their way around his neck, though you did have to lean up a bit to reach. Once Simon realized what you were doing, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you tightly to him. The stubble on his chin brushed against your scalp, making you shiver slightly at the foreign sensation.

“I missed you, love,” Simon told you softly.

“I missed you, too,” you mumbled against his chest.

“I told you not to miss me too much.”

“Well, you left for five months without contact, so…”

“Touché,” he hummed, closing his eyes as he hugged you closer. If that was even possible.

It honestly felt like you were dreaming. You had dreamt of this very moment for five months now, since the very moment that Simon told you he had to go just the night before he left.

After who knows how long, you finally pulled away just enough to look up at Simon more clearly. You could see exhaustion in and around his eyes, but you could also see relief. Relief to be back home, relief to be safe, relief to-

Relief to be back home with you.

“You look tired, Si,” you murmured, reaching up to cup his cheek. You gently traced over the shadow of a scar on his cheek with the pad of your thumb.

Surprisingly, Simon leaned into your gentle touch and closed his eyes. “You have no idea, love. Tired doesn’t even begin to cover it. Been travelling for over twenty-four hours now.”

“Why don’t you come sit down?” I offered, finally unwrapping my arms from him to tug on his arm, leading him to the couch. He didn’t resist.

Once he got seated, you sat down beside him, close enough that your thighs were touching. Now that he was back, you didn’t want to be apart from him.

“Do you need anything?” you asked him softly, looking up at him. “Something to eat, drink, maybe a shower…?”

“You sayin’ I stink?” Simon hummed before stretching his arm around your shoulders. He pulled you into his side gently, letting out a soft breath. “No, love, I don’t need anything. Just this.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, but you tried not to read too far into it. You rested your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes as you breathed in his scent. It was unlike anything, and even with over twenty-four hours of travel on him, you couldn’t get enough.

It was Simon that eventually broke the silence.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t contact you,” Simon said to you softly, his voice rough with emotion. “I wanted to. Every damn day. But it wouldn’t have been safe.”

He had wanted to contact you?

“Oh, Simon, you don’t have to apologize,” you assured him, turning your head to look into his eyes.

“I don’t, but I want you to know.”

Where was this coming from?

“I..” You cleared your throat, looking up at him still. “I’m just glad you’re home safe, Si.”

Simon nodded at your words, his eyes searching yours. “Me too, love. Me too.”

That was when his hand gently cupped your chin as he began to lean towards you. His touch was light, almost hesitant, a stark contrast to what you expected from the mighty soldier.

Frustrated with the slow pace of his lips’ descent to yours, you lurched forward and closed the gap, your arms returning to their earlier spot around his neck.

It was soft, tender. There was a bit of surprise at first from Simon’s end, he clearly hadn’t expected you to rush forward, but he had gladly accepted your advance and met it with equal vigor.

It was perfect. Simon’s lips were firm yet gentle, moving against yours in a dance that took your breath away. His hand on your chin came up to cup your cheek, tilting your head slightly as he deepened the kiss.

By the time you broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily. Simon rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

“I’ve… Wanted to do that for so long,” he admitted quietly, his warm breath mingling with yours.

A small smile tugged at your lips. So it had been mutual.

“Me too,” you said softly.

first

previous

[shinyskitty98]

what am I going to do when it's done? other than cry of course. what is going to consume my heart and soul after May first twenty twenty four?

I have genuinely been considering getting their skull emblem tattooed on me. like damn I've already got 2 Star Wars tats, what's a third? no idea if I'll be able to do it this summer, but maybe if I'm lucky it could be sooner rather than later

I'm not ready for the end of The Bad Batch.

[keferon]

Part 3! Ratchet and Deadlock time.

The ray of sunshine has left, leaving us in the cold dark of the angst.

Ratchet works through some stuff.

———————————————————————

Ratchet hadn’t actually meant for the conversation to start with Roddy.

The medic had wanted to fully explain why he’d left the Mecha Program for awhile. His outburst earlier cementing the fact he needed to get it off his chest, or he’d start lashing out at the wrong people.

Again.

The Kid deserved to know what staying with him could drag him into. Ratchet kept his hands busy cleaning his bowl in the shop sink.

Hot Rod, Ratchet realized, was a good enough bridge into the topic. Someone Deadlock could put a face to. Not just nameless pilots upon pilots.

“There’s a condition called Congenital Insensitivity to Pain. CIP for short. The abbreviated explanation is sometimes humans can be born without the ability to feel pain or that the sensation of pain doesn’t translate correctly to the brain. It’s a very dangerous condition to have since it means that the person doesn’t get the usual warning signs that’s something’s wrong.”

The bowl was completely clean but so long as Ratchet didn’t turn around, he could pretend he was just training a med student.

“So that question about “weird pressures”. You were checking for damage Hot Rod doesn’t know he’s sustained due this CIP condition?”

Kid was smarter than he gave himself credit for. Ratchet thought for not the first time. He almost got it right.

“Hot Rod doesn’t have CIP. Not actual CIP.”

Ratchet put the bowl down, his hand not moving from the faucet after turning it off.

“He wasn’t born with it. Because I caused it.”

—————————

“I was so damn proud.” Said Ratchet.

At the time, he was. The integration process for recruits to become pilots was horrific. Excruciatingly painful. And something out of a science fiction movie.

In order to condition the human nervous system to work with the mecha neural interface, it necessitated mapping out every nerve and neuron in the pilots body.

While conscious.

Orion came up with the best analogy for it once: You could create a perfect 3 dimensional map of an entire ant colony’s nest. Provided you poured enough molten lead down the hole.

Ratchet wasn’t one to standby watching friends or strangers suffer, so he rolled up his sleeves and set his mind to fixing the whole damn thing.

On the line between man and machine, Ratchets role in the mecha program was right on the fence.

Specifically, he’d started very close to the fence on the side of the machines, and during the course of the program, picked up enough extra PHD’s to hook a leg over said fence to reach across and start smacking the shit out of some particularly stupid doctors handling the men.

Ratchet worked for years along side Pharma and Shockwave to make the integration process less permanently damaging.

Common long term side effects were: Blurry Vision Jazz, Disassociation Swoop, Memory Loss Sludge, Paralysis Snarl, Nerve Damge Slag, Internal Hemorrhaging Grimlock, Altered Personality Shockwave, and Brain Death Orion.

There were dozens more faces Ratchet could pair with any given symptom.

Eventually, Ratchet got his lucky break. A fresh batch of recruits to try his tweaked integration process on. Hot Rod was one of them.

Ratchet had thought he’d hit a breakthrough. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t publish it yet. Not until he was sure.

Hot Rod aced the physical and mental exam. The rest of his test group did pretty well too. They weren’t cream of the crop. The higher ups didn’t want to risk loosing more valuable pilots to an experiment. When Pharma had already established an “acceptable level of care” that nicely suited them.

Ratchet personally watched the lot of them like a hawk. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It didn’t come. Hot Rod was fine. The whole group was fine.

He was so damn proud.

The pilots went straight into mecha training and then-

They dropped like flies.

It was on the bad end of the bell curve for pilot fatalities. Ratchet thought it had to be the new series of mecha that had been built at the same time. He’d switched into engineering mode to rectify that. They had glaring safety issues where the flamethrowers and thrusters intersected. Plus, it wasn’t unusual for the mecha program to just have particularly rough seasons. The tentacled fucks were out in swarms. And by god was that a bloody summer for everyone.

It happened three days after the last big fight. Pretty much everyone who came back alive came back with some sort of injury. Except for Hot Rod, who Pharma gave a clean bill of health.

Ratchet was in his corner of the medical wing, looking over his proposal for the new integration method when Jazz dragged Hot Rod into his office.

Red flag number one: Jazz was a nightmare patient who avoided the med wing like a bear trap.

He tried. Goddamn it if Jazz didn’t try, but he was physically incapable of getting through medical procedures without being heavily sedated. The last time Ratchet tried to do minor stitches with only a local anesthetic, Jazz panicked and damn near broke his arm.

Jazz and Hot Rod were both wearing shorts, t-shirts and sneakers. Judging from the smell, they had just gotten here from the rec room. Probably basketball or maybe dodgeball.

Ratchet had gone through a full medical checklist before they finished coming through the door. Neither looked sick or injured. Nothing was obviously wrong beyond the clear look on Jazz’s face that said “Something is actually very wrong.”

Jazz wheeled Hot Rod in front of Ratchet.

“Show him.”

Hot Rod looked more embarrassed than in desperate need of medical attention.

“I’m fine Jazz, I probably just need to stretch.”

Jazz waved his hand cutting him off. Ratchet would usually start telling them off by now but something stopped him.

“Hot Rod raise your arms above your head. Both of them.”

The red headed pilot reluctantly obeyed. His right arm lifted straight up above his body. His left. Hot Rod made a face of concentration, as his left arm refused to go any higher than his head.

Three days.

Hot Rods shoulder had been dislocated for three days and no one fucking noticed.

Ratchet chewed out Jazz at first thinking he’d caused it. Then he chewed out Hot Rod for not coming to medical as soon as he knew about the injury.

And then, something very cold settled into his stomach the more and more Hot Rod swore he didn’t notice. That it didn’t even hurt.

“Ratchet, I’m fine!”

He should have been in pain. In agony after three days.

Later, Ratchet would go through each medical file of every pilot he had been responsible for. They had all had ailments in their files. Minor visible injuries that were all taken care of. Major ones went surprisingly smoothly. Patient notes praising the med staff for keeping them so comfortable. Praising him. Not one pilot had made a single pain med request since going through the integration process. On his files, there was one surviving active duty pilot from the same integration process.

Ratchet’s integration process.

————————

“Hot Rod said he forgave me.” Ratchet laughed. A little too wet and little too rough.

“Just like that.”

When’d he start shaking?

Ratchet still didn’t, couldn’t look the Kid in the eyes. “I left, not long after. There’s so much fucking more that was happening. That was the last straw, because when I told Shockwave and Pharma, those heartless fucks wanted to make it standard across the board. Soldiers that can’t feel pain? Of fucking course they wanted that. Didn’t matter the fatality rate was nine times as high.”

Ratchets voice was getting worse. But he couldn’t stop. “I thought I could fix it all from the inside. I thought as long as I stayed I could be some, fucking moral compass to a bunch of greedy, prideful, fucking deranged people. I was an egotistical IDIOT that thought I could somehow save every doomed kid tricked into walking into that “necessary evil.” I actually believed I could-”

Ratchet was abruptly cut off from his ranting as two massive hands grabbed him around the waist and deposited him on a ledge, at eye level.

“Kid, what-“ Deadlocks eyes looked shiny.

“I-I can’t keep looking down at you.”

The two of them sat in silence.

Neither seemed to know or want to start talking again right away. Ratchet was used to stewing in regrets on occasion. That had felt more like putting those regrets into a blender and then forgetting the lid.

Deadlocks plating was pulled tight. Ratchet had almost forgotten what he looked like when he was stressed. He wanted immediately to take it all back. Make it better. See him laugh drunk and cozy again like yesterday.

“Kid, I’m sorry. That- that was too much to put on you.” Deadlocks hands weren’t gripping him anymore but resting on either side of the ledge. Ratchet pet small circles on a thumb that twitched slightly under his hand.

Deadlock straightened and looked at him with a steely expression, mouth tense, eyes determined.

“You are one of the most intelligent, stubborn, and caring people I’ve ever met. Nope.” Deadlock corrected himself, lifting a hand. “THE most intelligent, stubborn and caring person that exists.” He dragged out the syllables of that last word.

“You!” He poked Ratchet in the chest. “Saved me. And I’m fragging terrible.”

Ratchet took offense to that, “You’re not terrible and you’re worth saving!”

Deadlock grinned, “The worst thing you can possibly say about yourself is that you care too much to put up with some kind of slagged up torture facility. Which, by the way, I am still fully offering to blown up.”

“Still full of innocent people kid.”

“Okay kidnapping then. I say we nab Hot Rod first.”

Ratchet leaned back against the wall and made one of those desperate chuckles you only hear when someone has their face buried in their hands. “Kid. The quintessons.”

That took a little wind out of his sails.

“The system is fucking broken and trust me I want to see it all burn someday. But we’re in a goddamn war. And as much as I hate the mecha program, it’s the best shot at survival we have.” Ratchet watched Deadlocks finales pin back again.

He offered a palm to Ratchet, who after a moment’s consideration, not very gracefully scooted on. Instead of lowering him to the floor, Deadlock brought him to his face. His eyes closed and he gently bumped his medic with his forehelm.

“Whatever you need. Just ask. Please.”

Ratchet sighed and rested his own forehead against the cybertronian. “I want you take care of yourself. I told you all that stuff so you understand why I’m fighting giants here and you can decide to back out. They can hurt you kid. Kill you. I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if Shockwave found you instead of me.”

Deadlock snorted, “Please, do you think any of those suits could handle me?”

Ratchet tapped his hand to put him down, which Deadlock obliged. He hummed.

“Well I can think of three candidates off the top of my head, but one got lost in space and the other might technically be a zombie.”

“What’s the third?”

Ratchet started shrugging on a coat, “Hot Rod.”

He smirked a bit as Deadlocks finales snapped up in offense. “What? Absolutely not. No fragging way that little rust spot can beat me in a fight.”

Ratchet began packing a go bag of medical supplies, “Well I was going to keep it to myself, but part of the reason I brought him in was because I asked Hot Rod to look out for you where I can’t.”

He slung the heavy bag over one shoulder. “Plus, I knew Hot Rod was going to love you. He sees the best in people. And kid?” Ratchet paused at the door.

“You’re someone special.”

———————————————————————

It’s always darkest before the dawn. This…has become a four parter. Dang. Good news is the ray of sunshine will return in style next time.

Some extra tid-bits, I got a head canon that the main side effect Jazz got from the integration process (other than PTSD) is blurry vision. He can see fine while hooked into a mech but can’t get his eyes to focus properly as a human. So Ratchet whipped up a visor that tricks his eyes into thinking he’s still looking through a mecha so he can see normally.

Also, a lot of you guys guessed correctly what was going on with Roddy! Good job everyone!

Lastly I have nothing personal against the dinobots if you love them I’m very sorry.

The next (last?) part will be much brighter. Because the suns coming back.

- SSTP

Oh.....oh fuck....wait WAIT THIS HAS SO MUCH MORE LAYERS THAN I WAS EXPECTING OH MY GOD

I was like. Okay huh. So Roddy can't feel pain right? He must be having this rare condition and? I don't really see where this is going? Huh. Guess it's time to find ouUUUUUH FUCK.

Please. Oh my god. The fact that Ratchet was the one who made him to be like that??? This gives both of them and their dynamic more layers than in a freaking onion. And Roddy didn't just suffer from Ratchets actions. He forgave him. Because OF COURSE he did, he's always giving everyone a second chance I LOVE THIS CONCEPT SO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA

[careyakane]

What really do I want out of all this?

I know damn well I’ll die an angry old carcass of regret and mediocre creations if I look for my validation and taste in the clumsy hands of algorithms and apps—one day shining their warm and bright eyes upon my songs, lifting a curtain to a million onlookers that praise and praise until the next morning comes and the silence is complete, beyond a few snickers and jeers (be they imagined or not).

It’s troubling that I have found so many good people through sharing my work online, and it leads me to come back again and again like some hungry dog, both for the praise and for the company. I have always wanted to be seen, to stand in front of ten thousand people and mean something to them—a common quality in young people starved of some form of validation at the beginning. I don’t think this part of me will ever die, and yet the real kicker comes with my refusal to just play their game and add to the overflowing heaps of rubber, soulless excess that gets passed off as art.

Don’t get me wrong, there are a great number of wonderful and honest creations being distributed at the highest levels, but clawing at their boots is the sheetrock, department-store music and noise that fills far too many rooms and empty heads (adding to the emptiness, to make matters worse). And this lower batch of machines keeps a lot of lights on in the record companies, and for that reason, it has become a well-shined and walked path that is encouraged, if not forced, upon many doe-eyed kids such as myself.

Anyway, I was just upset for a moment. All is well. Carry on.