#don’t trust these aliens at all

[senselessconjuration]

If Keiko O’Brien invited me to join her “welcome alien overlords!” cult I would simply say yes

[babycupart]

to write out or not write an in depth analysis on earthborn shepard being touch starved and having a praise kink

[magnus-and-the-dragon]

one time the silt verses said “you can never really overreact to a parent; you’re just yelling back through the decades making up for lost time”

and i literally had to pull my ass over while driving to jot that shit down

and i’ve been thinking A Lot about my dad lately and i put on my next episode in my silt verses relisten today and, coincidentally, encountered that quote Again

and i’m just. over here Dwelling. pls don’t contact.

[ja3yun]

Push My Buttons | L.HS

bodyguard!heeseung x rich girl!reader warnings: enemies to ???, angst, smut (mdni), car sex, unprotected sex, cream pie, choking, mentions of spit, possessive!hee, some violence, not proofread, anything else lmk! wc: 7.5k synopsis: lee heeseung has been hired as your personal security by your father. you and him don't see eye to eye, so when tensions rise at your best friends party, you both know how to push each others buttons. a/n: hi! this is a thank you for 1k! i still don't believe it if i'm honest because i don't think i deserve it but regardless, thank you all so much if you follow me! this is a little idea i had sitting on my laptop that i've decided to complete for this occasion so enjoy!

_____

Browsing through the racks of the Prada store, you can't help but feel acutely aware of the imposing presence of your hired security, stationed just two feet away.

"Do you have to stick to me like glue all the time?" you mutter, not bothering to meet his gaze.

“It’s my job, Y/N. You’d know what that was if you weren’t such a spoiled brat,” he spits back, his eyes rolling in exasperation.

Lee Heeseung was appointed by your father to ensure your safety during his frequent business trips. Unfortunately, your father's demanding role as CFO of a tech company keeps him away for extended periods. He doesn't trust you to fend for yourself, fearing that others might exploit you to reach him. Given your father's controversial reputation stemming from questionable business dealings, Heeseung's imposing presence is a constant fixture in your life.

Your bodyguard would be more tolerable if he weren't so insistent on being by your side every second. It's tiresome, really, how he clings to you like a shadow, never granting you a moment of solitude. If you go to the bathroom, he is right outside the door and if you dare try and sneak out the window - which you have tried numerous times - he is chasing you down the street, sweeping you off your feet and taking you home.

You had hoped that being only a couple of years older, he might adopt a more relaxed approach, letting you live your life a little, but you were wrong. Since the first day he turned up, he’s been nothing but a hoover, sucking the fun and freedom from your life all to keep you safe.

Sure, he probably knows deep down that he's a tad overbearing, but hey, he's clinging to this gig like a lifeline. Compared to his last job of being a bouncer at some dingy club, knocking back people with fake IDs and kicking out drunk people, your dad's cushy paycheck is like hitting the jackpot.

To Heeseung, you’re just some rich kid who has more money than sense, squandering it on everything and anything you deem a necessity at the time, only to then throw them away or forget about them. Considering he struggled to pay his rent before this job, he hates your whimsy ways with money. 

It's like you live in your own little bubble, completely disconnected from the real world. There are people out there starving and you’re buying thousands of pounds worth of clothes that you could easily get from a bargain bin for a fiver. 

Finally, you spare him a glance, “Just stand over there, okay? You really don’t have to be here and mess up my whole vibe,” you flail your arms around hoping the gestures will add some exclamation to your statement.

With a resigned sigh, he acquiesces, nodding, "In my line of sight at all times, got it?" He scans the area once more, on high alert for anything out of place, before reluctantly giving you some breathing room.

Heeseung blends in, looking through the obscenely expensive trousers which he is convinced he has seen the exact same jeans in thrift stores, just without the brand label. It’s a reminder of the contrast between you both; your lavish ways are still an alien concept to him.

He’s been in this role for 3 months and he won’t get over it, how different you both are. Your beliefs and traits are so starkly dissimilar that not once have you ever seen eye to eye. He doesn’t hate you, but he’s close to it. You always treat him with little to no respect and considering he’s only looking out for you per your daddy’s request, he would like to think you would be a little more grateful. 

Suddenly, his thoughts are interrupted by a lone figure approaching you, a slick smile playing on his lips. Heeseung’s jaw tightens as he analyses the scene in front of him, trying to speculate what the guy wanted, although Heeseung already knows his intentions.

You’re too busy trying to decide whether beige or cream looks better on you as you hold out two vest tops to notice the incoming man.

“I think you should go with that one,” the sudden boom of a voice beside you makes you jump and turn to him, clutching the clothes to your chest as you try to still your thumping heart, “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you, beautiful.”

Normally, you pay no mind to greasy men like him, but his cinched suit which was clearly tailor-made to fit and his sleek dyed brown hair was enough for you to give him a second glance. You can always spare some time for people who look good.

“Which one?” you ask, holding them back up at arm's length.

“The left one, I think you would look sexy in any of them, to be honest,” he smirks, thinking he’s being so smooth but you’re not really impressed by flattery. You know you look good, you see yourself in the mirror every day. Plus, he’s only trying to oil you up so he can either as you out or try and fuck you. The only one who genuinely gives you truthful advice or says you look good and mean it with no intention is Heeseung.

Your bodyguard is watching like a hawk, face steaming with anger as the guy puts his hand on your waist, holding one of the vest tops to your chest area. He’s already given the guy enough leeway by even letting him speak to you, but now he’s touching you, and Heeseung will be damned if he lets him get away with that.

With measured steps, Heeseung comes up behind you, licking his lips as hugs you from behind, “Baby girl, are you almost done?” he whispers loudly enough that the unwanted man in front of you can hear, “Who is this?” he asks, eyes now pointed forward.

The stranger's confidence falters under Heeseung's intense scrutiny, his eyes widening slightly as he realises the gravity of the situation. Heeseung's demeanour is unmistakably protective, his stance leaving no room for doubt about his intentions. His eyes are so dark that the boy knows that one wrong move will have Heeseung pouncing on him.

“I’m Woobin,” he says almost inaudibly. It’s amazing how quickly he resigned from his cocky attitude as soon as Heeseung made his presence known.

"Do you work here, Woobin?" Heeseung's voice is a low rumble against your ear, his lips trailing a path of kisses down your neck to your shoulder. His touch is electrifying, sending shivers down your spine as his hands caress your stomach, his thumbs tracing delicate patterns against the skin beneath your shirt

The butterflies in your tummy are fluttering around as if they’ve been disrupted from their nest by his touch. This is new, he hasn’t done this before, usually opting to just stand between you and potential danger. It's exhilarating and maddening all at once, the line between protection and possessiveness blurring in the heat of the moment.

Heeseung knows that if he simply said he was your security, it wouldn’t deter the man, he had to think on his feet. That and the way he touched you evoked something inside him, protectiveness laced with something else. 

“I don’t work here, I-”

“Then get your hands the fuck off my girl,” Heeseung interrupts Woobin, maintaining eye contact with him as he bites down a little on the nape of your neck, almost like he’s physically marking you as his own in front of a potential suitor.

Your head is in a frenzy, knowing that Heeseung is stepping far beyond his role of protection, yet, you don’t stop him. It would be lying to say that his lips didn’t feel good on your skin, the way his fingers lightly gripped the softness of your stomach gave you fanny flutters like nothing else; as he boldly stakes his claim, you can't help but feel a surge of desire mingling with frustration

But this is also the man that is currently cockblocking you right now, stopping you from getting Woobin’s number and potentially a good fuck that you’re clearly in desperate need of; why else would you be getting turned on by Heeseung right now? This is the man you cannot stand, he is the last person on earth you want to be with. 

Woobin awkwardly laughs and backs away, giving a slight wave to you as he walks out of the store, leaving you both in the thick silence.

As his form disappears into the distance, Heeseung stands by your side, his stare unflinching as he watches the threat go by, proud of himself for handling the situation quickly. Heeseung hasn’t let you go, his hands moving from your tummy to your waist, gripping it softly.

You don’t know what to do, still standing in a haze of shock and confusion, your eyes watching the back of Woobin with intensity. The man behind you didn’t even have to say much before Woobin was running with his tail between his legs.

Honestly, you know Heeseung can be intimidating, but this must have been a new level, even for him. You couldn’t see his eyes, yet, you know they held only room for intimidation.

Heeseung's attitude relaxes somewhat, but his protective stance remains firm. He slowly releases you from his grip, placing one last kiss on your neck for what reason he doesn’t know. 

You take a moment to compose yourself, internally dealing with the mixed feelings of the encounter before pure rage flushes over you, “What the fuck was that?” you seeth, twisting your body to face him.

“What was what?” he asks, unfazed by your angry demeanour. 

Slamming the vests back on the rack, you face him, your shorter stature suddenly being a hindrance as you try to act tough, “You know what! You just cockblocked me for no reason,” you ball your fists to the side of your hips, trying not to cause too much of a scene in the store. 

“Good. God knows what he had, he was a creep,” Heeseung’s face is stoic, not giving much of his emotions away which only serves to piss you off more. 

You wanted him to look a little bit sorry for overstepping, to say he was at least sympathetic towards your frustration. Instead, he just stands there, insulting the boy he didn’t even know.

Letting out a groan, you shut your eyes and unclench your hands, “I can’t ever have any fun with you around,” you try to calmly explain but as the words leave your lips, you begin to question why you’re trying to be civil in the first place. 

This man is the bain of your existence, the reason you haven’t had sex in months, he is utterly infuriating and here he stands in front of you with no remorse for ruining your life.

Heeseung nods, feigning understanding as he leans down to make eye contact with you, his nose almost touching yours, “I don’t know, baby girl, it seems like you were having a blast a second ago,” he says smugly, a half smirk creeping onto his face.

You beam red, embarrassment and anger mixing to create a shade of crimson you didn’t know you could make. He was frustrating, arrogant, irrational, rude, cocky, and overall just irritating. You hate Lee Heeseung.

Winking at you, he nudges his nose with yours before standing back up, his figure back to towering over you, “Pick the one on the right and let’s get a move on,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets and taking one giant step back. 

It was like he was mocking you, giving you your space after infiltrating it as if he wasn’t leaving wet kisses on your neck five minutes ago. 

With a huff, you face the two vests once again, looking between both options, each one having its own backer. You bite your lip and contemplate over them, choosing the one on the right.

_____

As you apply your final coat of mascara, you take one long look in the mirror. You look great, everything about you falls into place perfectly, your hair and makeup only adding to your beauty while the dress you’re wearing hugs you nicely.

Obviously, you don’t tell Heeseung that you had a party tonight, knowing that he would lock you up like some Disney princess in your castle. If there was one thing Heeseung hated more than men coming into your zone, it was parties where tons of men could. 

The last party you went to was just before Heeseung arrived on the scene, the bodyguard now never letting you experience any joy or social gatherings that weren’t accompanied by him or a simple meet-up with friends. ‘There’s too much risk at a party’ he will always tell you.

A knock on your bedroom door almost makes you drop the mascara wand but you catch it before it causes disaster. 

“I’m coming in,” Heeseung’s voice travels through the door before he swings it open. His eyes trail over your body as he assesses the outfit, “A bit dressed up for a night in with me, no?” he tries to pass it off as a lighthearted joke but he knows he’s about to argue with you about your plans.

“Oh, y’know, just thought I would try and make an effort to sit in and watch Louder Milk for the nth time,” you roll your eyes, twisting the mascara shut and turning to face him.

Heeseung grumbles, “Let’s cut to the chase where you tell me where you plan on going and I obviously stop you,” he crosses his arms and tilts his head expectantly.

But you can’t let him win, not this time around. It’s your best friend’s birthday night out and if you miss it, you’ll never be invited to anything again; you can’t miss a 21st birthday party and expect there not to be consequences, especially not in your circle of friends.

You finish getting ready with a sense of purpose, carefully placing your lip oil and hairbrush into your YSL bag. "I've got plans," you announce, nonchalantly shrugging your shoulders.

His brows furrow slightly. "You never mentioned we had plans tonight," he remarks, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"We don't have plans, Heeseung. I do. And you weren’t invited," you retort, your tone tinged with sarcasm as you shoot him a playful smirk.

He raises an eyebrow, trying to decipher your intentions. "A party? A date?" he ventures, scanning your attire and deducing that this isn't just a casual outing.

As you attempt to breeze past him, he swiftly moves to block the doorway with his arm, his muscles tensing as he grips the doorframe. You lock eyes with him, noticing the frustration brewing beneath the surface.

His jaw tightens as you stand your ground, a silent challenge passing between you, "Tell me where you're off to," he demands, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone.

You really need to get fucked because he’s suddenly turning you on, and his body starting to look like a jungle gym. Regardless of the fury and hatred for the boy in front of you, when he got angry, he was a new level of hot; it’s probably the reason you subconsciously push his buttons.

“I am going to Ryujin’s birthday party,” you confess, taking hold of his arm and trying to pry it from the wall, but he’s too strong and it doesn’t work. Even with all your efforts, it doesn’t budge.

Smiling at your feeble attempts to move him, Heeseung cockily leans on one foot, the other tucking behind his leg as he watches you struggle.

Undeterred, you try to slip under his arm, but he effortlessly scoops you up and returns you to your room, closing the door behind you with a practised ease. His years dealing with drunks at his previous job have endowed him with certain skills in handling runaways..

"Don't make this difficult, Y/N," he warns.

"You're the one being difficult! It's my best friend's birthday. Are you seriously telling me I can't go? I'm not in danger, you know," you retort angrily, frustration evident in your voice.

Heeseung understands that you're completely oblivious to the dangers lurking around your family, shielded by your innocent perspective. No one has bothered to inform you about your father's involvement in money laundering and his dealings with shady men. In your eyes, having a bodyguard feels like an unnecessary intrusion into your life rather than a protective measure.

"Listen, let's just imagine I let you go. Where is it?" he asks, a tinge of apprehension in his voice.

"Serenity," you reply, already sensing the tension building.

Heeseung's eyes widen in disbelief, "Serenity? The bar down by the loch? Are you serious?" he exclaims, his concern evident.

It was a losing battle the moment you opened your mouth. The bar isn’t known for its good reputation, it’s sleazy and grim, and despite its calm name, no one who occupies the bar could be considered peaceful.

Ryujin picked it simply because she likes to cosplay as a poor person sometimes, wondering what it would be like to live on the other side of wealth while obnoxiously spending a shit ton of money, completely rendering her ideas pointless.

You don’t agree with it but she is your best friend, the only person that gave you the time of day when you didn’t have a penny to your name all those years ago.

"I am not letting you step foot in that place," Heeseung asserts firmly, drawing a line in the sand.

“She hired out the whole bar, it’s not like anyone can just walk in,” you try to reason back but it doesn’t work as Heeseung’s resolve remains the same.

“You aren’t going, end of discussion. The whole neighbourhood is trouble and your friend is fucking stupid for this,” he scratches his jaw as the worst-case scenarios pop into his head. He might not like you but he really can’t stand some of the thoughts popping into his head, the urge to protect you growing stronger by the second.

The loch is a small part of town, mostly made up of deadbeats and criminals. Word spreads fast around there and there is a high chance the scums of the area know a bunch of snooty rich kids are going to be there for the picking.

You need to go, you can’t cancel any more plans so you need to think of something quick, “You can come with me,” you suggest, stepping closer to him. Would it be overbearing and annoying to have him there? Yes but at least you would be there. And it might actually be good if he was, after all, he is good at his job; you feel safe around him and the more he’s warning you away from Serenity and the loch, the more you’re starting to want his protection.

“I thought I wasn’t invited?” He raises his eyebrows sceptically.

Placing your hands on his chest, you trail them up to his shoulders, a pout forming on your lips. "Well, I'm inviting you now. Please, Heeseungie?" you implore, employing your best puppy-dog eyes and fluttering lashes in an attempt to sway him.

Typically, your pleading face doesn't work on him, but the combination of your hands massaging his tense shoulders and the endearing nickname starts to chip away at him.

"Fine. We can go for an hour or so, and then I'm taking you straight back home, understand?" he relents, already second-guessing his decision.

You squeal with joy, wrapping your arms around his neck and jumping up and down. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Finally, you've managed to reason with him.

Pushing you away gently, he clears his throat. "Be at the car in 10 minutes before I change my mind."

This is going to end disastrously.

_____

"Remember—"

"In your line of sight at all times," you finish, a hint of exasperation in your voice as you recite Heeseung's usual mantra.

Heeseung unbuckles his seatbelt with a grunt, his irritation clear as he mutters curses under his breath. He can't believe he's ended up in this mess, much less mocked by you. He is well aware that this is a recipe for disaster especially as he examines the area and notices gritty individuals prowling around the loch's borders, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Heeseung is confident in his ability to handle himself; it's your safety that concerns him the most as he observes a suspicious figure crossing in front of your car.

You waste no time darting out of the car and hurrying to the club's entrance, leaving Heeseung trailing behind, a gust of wind in your wake.

"This fucking girl," he grumbles to himself as he parks the car and follows after you. He sees through your tactic—trying to get inside before him so he'll be left waiting outside while you venture off on your own. But he's not falling for it today.

He catches up to you just as you're about to give your name to the bouncer, his arm instinctively settling around your waist. The bouncer eyes Heeseung with a sceptical gaze, taking note of his attire and demeanour, which hardly scream 'rich kid bellend.'

As Heeseung squeezes your side, you shoot him a playful smirk over your shoulder. "Oh, this is my boyfriend. He's just trying to get into character for the place—dirty-chic and all that," you quip sarcastically, gesturing between him and the bouncer.

The bouncer chuckles at your comment, nodding in amusement. "You've done a good job. I almost mistook you for one of those creeps by the water," he jests, stepping aside to let you both in.

Heeseung doesn't react to your teasing or the bouncer's remarks. He's grown accustomed to such comments after spending the past few months with you and your friends. From being called shabby to poor, to filthy to crude, he's heard it all. Sometimes you apologise for your friend's words, but he knows the damage is already done.

It’s times like that that he has some faith in you, that you aren’t all diamonds and gold, that you do have a heart underneath it all.

Sticking close to you, you both end up at the bar ordering a gin and tonic for you and a water for himself. He knows everything about you by now, the constant watchful eye on you has got him to learn your favourite everything, so he finds himself ordering for you more times than not. That is, when you let him be actively seen with you.

"Can you vanish over there while I find Ryujin?" you ask, already scanning the room for the birthday girl.

Nodding, Heeseung points towards a nearby wall. "I'll be over there. If anything happens, remember to stay where I can see you. Don't run off; I will find you. And if you're going to the bathroom, come and get me," he advises, his tone firm as he leans down to emphasize the importance of his instructions.

"Yeah, sure," you reply casually, already making your way over to your friends at the other end of the bar, their excited screams and squeals guiding your path.

True to his word, Heeseung gives you space but remains vigilant, never taking his eyes off you. He's pleasantly surprised when three hours pass, and you're only on your second drink. Normally, he's had to carry you out of brunch with your university friends, and that's not even bottomless. Part of him thinks you’re remaining sober for your own vigilance, which makes him happy that you aren’t so reckless to get drunk in an unfamiliar setting around a lot of people you don’t know.

As the night progresses, Heeseung's gaze remains fixed on you from his position against the wall. He observes the way you interact with your friends, the genuine joy evident in your laughter and the twinkle in your eyes. Seeing you light up like this is a rarity, but it warms something inside him to witness you truly enjoying yourself.

Despite his reservations and occasional frustrations, Heeseung takes his role of keeping you safe very seriously. The thought of anything happening to you weighs heavily on his mind, not just because of the potential consequences from your father, but because he has come to genuinely care about your well-being. It's a realisation that surprises even him, how much he's come to feel responsible for you beyond just fulfilling his duties as a bodyguard.

Day by day, Heeseung finds himself spending more time in your presence. Even when he should be stationed at the front door, he often finds himself drawn to your side, whether it's watching TV shows together or cooking dinner. Sure, these moments are often punctuated by arguments over his choice of shows or the random spices he adds to your meals, but they keep things interesting, injecting a sense of spontaneity into his otherwise regimented routine.

And truth be told, he finds a strange satisfaction in winding you up, relishing the sight of the vein in your forehead protruding whenever you're exasperated with him. Despite the occasional clashes, there's an undeniable chemistry between the two of you, a dynamic that keeps him on his toes and reminds him that guarding you isn't just a job - it's become a massive part of his life.

Recently, he has become extra protective over you, the incident at the Prada store being a prime example. Men like Woobin are not the ones he should be protecting you from, but he can’t help it, you’re too precious to be led off by the likes of him.

Shaking his head, he disregards his last thought. You’re not precious, you’re a princess, a snooty diva with an attitude problem.

This is what he has to tell himself every day.

He watches you go up to the bar and sit on the stool as you order another drink, but his attention shifts to a familiar face in the crowd. Woobin - and he is walking straight for you. Like he hasn’t dealt with him enough today, it was almost as if thinking about him that manifested him straight into your lap.

As Woobin twists the stool you're sitting on to face him, Heeseung's grip on the empty cup tightens, his knuckles turning white with the effort to maintain his composure. He knows he can't just stride over there like he did at the store; he crossed a line then, kissing your neck was too far, and biting down on you to mark you was too far. But the possessive feeling that had simmered earlier resurfaces as he watches Woobin casually tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear.

His mind races with a mantra, a desperate attempt to keep his emotions in check. The real threat to you is outside, not in here. The real threat to you is outside, not in here. The real threat to you is outside, not in here.

But as he watches Woobin's hand graze your leg, Heeseung's resolve crumbles.

"Fuck this," he mutters under his breath, his anger boiling over as he pushes himself off the wall and throws his cup away. Without a second thought, he makes a beeline for you, determined to put an end to this unwanted intrusion.

You suddenly feel Heeseung's chest press against your back, his presence feels overpowering, his aura dark and intense. You glance at Woobin and notice the fear flicker back into his eyes, just like before, as Heeseung speaks with a menacing tone, "Have you got a death wish or something, mate?" His question hangs in the air, a clear warning.

Woobin takes a step back, but despite the quiver in his pupils, he refuses to back down. "She obviously isn't satisfied with you," he retorts, attempting to sound tough. "She hasn't even tried to bat me off."

You scrunch your face in disbelief at Woobin's audacity. His attempt to turn the situation on you is off-putting, and any attraction you may have felt towards him suddenly dissipates.

Heeseung's gaze shifts down to you, his eyes hooded as he leans in close. "Is that true, baby girl? Do I not satisfy you?" His words send a shiver down your spine, leaving you momentarily speechless. Before you can form a response, he leans even closer, his breath hot against your cheek as he whispers in your ear, "You better agree with me, or else I'll punch his lights out, right here, right now."

His threat hangs in the air, leaving you feeling torn between conflicting emotions. As you struggle to find the right words, Heeseung's lips graze the skin of your earlobe, sending a jolt of sensation through you. You're unsure whether he's doing this to turn your mind to mush so you can do nothing but agree with him or assert his dominance over Woobin, who watches with a flushed neck, clearly intimidated by Heeseung's display of possessiveness.

Nodding slowly, you side-eye Heeseung, “Y-you do,” you say quietly but as he bites down on your ear and you yelp, you speak up a bit more confidently, “You do satisfy me.”

“Good girl,” he whispers, placing one final kiss on your ear, “You heard her, so get the fuck away from her, or I will throw your body in the loch and no one will even care to look for you,” he challenges Woobin, threatening him like some gangster.

As Woobin backs up and mutters ‘This is not fucking worth it’, Heeseung smiles triumphantly, knowing he’s scared him off for good. Heeseung fixes your hair, gathering it all to sit nicely at the back, running his fingers through it as he silently warns any other men in the club that you’re no one but his.

You hate to admit it, but it turns you on a little.

But your responsible head twists back on and you understand what Heeseung has done again, “Heeseung,” you slap his chest and push him away, “Stop fucking babying me!” Standing up from the stool, you weave through the people at the club in search of the exit, Heeseung’s antics finally pushing you too far. 

"I am doing my job, Y/N," he shouts over the chatter and music, his voice barely audible amidst the din of the club.

"No, you aren't. That is not your job," you retort, your voice rising above the noise. "Pretending to be my boyfriend and scaring away potential fucks is not part of the remit!"

Your words hang in the air, heavy with frustration and disappointment. You push him away one more time, creating some distance between you before storming out of the club.

Fuming with anger and adrenaline, you make your way through the car park, your mind racing with conflicting emotions. Part of you resents Heeseung for his overbearing behaviour, but another part can't deny the thrill you felt with his protective display. It's infuriating to admit, but the feeling of his possessiveness is sending shivers straight down south, You hate that you're even thinking like this.

His touch on your ear and neck lingers in your mind, igniting a whirlwind of desire and confusion. You're not thinking straight anymore, and if Heeseung catches up to you, you're not sure how you'll react - whether it'll be pure anger or pure lust.

Either way, you need to get this steam out. 

“Y/N! Get back here right now!” he shouts, pushing past the men who are ogling your figure. 

As you hear his voice, something takes over you. You pull the first guy you see into a kiss, holding onto this jacket as your mouth moves against his.

Heeseung sees red, blood red as he watches you kiss the stranger. It’s reckless behaviour, your lips moving roughly against a guy probably twice your age but, of course, the guy doesn’t mind. He wraps his arms around you to bring you in closer. That gesture shakes Heeseung from his shock coma, his emotions fueling him.

But Heeseung can't stand idly by any longer. With a guttural growl, he yanks the man away from you, his anger propelling him into action. He delivers a punishing punch to the man's face, the force of it sending him crashing to the ground, sprawled across the gravel of the car park.

Heeseung doesn't stop there. He delivers a few more swift kicks to the man's prone form before turning his attention to you. Grabbing your arm with bruised hands, he hauls you towards the car, his grip tight and unforgiving.

"You're so fucking irresponsible," he seethes, his voice dripping with venom as he struggles to contain the storm of emotions raging inside him. The veins in his neck bulge with the intensity of his anger, his eyes flashing with a dangerous fire.

“Sorry if I want to have some fun,” you argue back, trying your hardest to release yourself from his firm hold.

As you both approach your car, he opens the door and shoves you in, “And kissing and fucking random guys is fun?” he slams the door behind you once he knows all your limbs are inside the vehicle.

Striding over to the driver's seat, he gets in quickly, locking the doors so you can’t make a quick escape. You don’t even attempt to try and flee, already knowing you’re only going to end up in a game of cat and mouse all night, and in this weather with your dress isn’t fun. 

“I’m 20 years old, nearly 21, I can fuck if I want to,” you shout back, slamming your hand on the backrest to hammer home your point. You are old enough and wise enough to make your own decisions, Heeseung is only there to make sure you don’t end up getting kidnapped or whatever it is your dad thinks will happen to you.

"It's not wanting to fuck that is my problem, it's who you want to fuck," he growls, his voice tinged with bitterness.

You want to slap him, angry that he doesn’t seem to get it, “I don’t get to fuck anyone thanks to you,” you retort back with venom laced in your voice.

His entire body turns to face you, his gaze piercing through you as he asks, "You want to get fucked?"

“Yes! Obviously!”

Heeseung lunges towards you, pressing his lips to yours in a matter of seconds to your answer. At first, you’re confused at what is happening, the unfamiliar feeling of his mouth melting into yours causes your head to thump.

But as he moves you to lay back, flicking the seat to recline all the way back, you find yourself chasing his body with yours, your lips like magnets as they draw themselves back to his. He tastes sweet, not like how you expected, you were presuming it’s the flavour of his vape he swears he doesn’t use.

Shuffling your way up the seat, you spread your legs so he can situate himself neatly in between you, knees resting against the edge of the seat for support, his hands roaming all over your body and his kisses never faltering. 

He was hungry for you, those tiny tastes of your neck served as appetisers before the main meal which was your mouth and tongue. Roughly, he brings one of his palms to cover your throat as squeezes, the consequential parting of your lips as you gasp gives him access to lick into your mouth. The grip on your throat is heavenly, just tight enough to make your brain go fuzzy but not to the point you think you’re in danger.

With a quick roll of his hips, you feel the outline of his cock being pushed onto your core, even through jeans he’s prominent, only building up your anticipation more. He does this a few times, each time the rough edges of his zipper rub your barely covered clit, eliciting a moan from you.

Heeseung's smirk widens at your response, his gaze flickering with desire as he watches the desperation in your eyes. Without hesitation, he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he repeats his question, this time with less anger and more longing. "You want to get fucked?"

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, your desire for him burning hotter than ever before. "Yes, please, Heeseung," you whimper, using your hands to hold his hips against yours as you rut yourself desperately against him, humping his length through his jeans. 

Heeseung almost feels bad for you, clearly, he underestimated how much you needed to seek release. No wonder you were willing to entertain someone like Woobin. He had to make this worth the frustration he has been causing you.

The pressure of Heeseung's hand around your throat tightens, eliciting a gasp from your lips as you struggle to catch your breath, "You sure you want to fuck a guy like me?" he hisses, his voice tinged with both agitation and desire, the intensity of his gaze burning into yours.

Despite the lack of air, you manage to choke out your response, your voice laced with desperation, "Yes, Heeseung, I need you."

A smug smirk plays across Heeseung's lips at your admission, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly. "Oh, I know you need me, Sweetheart," he replies, his tone dripping with confidence. "You're staining my jeans as we speak." His words send a shiver down your spine, a potent mixture of arousal and frustration coursing through you.

But then his question cuts through the haze of desire, forcing you to confront the reality of the situation, "I'm asking if you want to go back to little Woobin now?" he taunts, knowing full well the answer already. He just wants to hear you say it.

With a shake of your head, you release your hold on his hips and begin to unbutton his jeans, determination blazing in your eyes. "No," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. "No, I only want you."

“Thought so,” he kisses you again before releasing your throat, focusing his hand's attention on ridding you of your pants while you work to get his trousers out of the way. He tugs your underwear down, tossing them to his side of the car before lining himself up at your hole.

Wrapping your legs around his hips, you try to push him to slip into you, but he keeps his hips rigid, only making you look more desperate for him. He taps your clit with the head of his cock, each time it slaps down, he echoes it with a tut.

“You don’t even know if I’ll fit,” his voice whispering in your ear as he licks the shell of it, “All those preppy rich boy cocks aren’t anything like mine,” he takes your wrist in his hand and guides you to feel his length as it sits neatly in your folds, “See?”

Whining, you pout, knowing he’s just teasing you for badness, “I promise I can handle it,” you say lowly, pumping his cock between your cunt and hand. The motion makes Heeseung hiss in pleasure, the feeling of his cock trapped only adding to his anticipation of being inside you.

He moves in for a chaste kiss on your lips, his touch soft despite the intense need between you, "I'll go slow," he tells you, his words a balm in the midst of the intense moment. Even in the heat of passion, Heeseung is driven by his instinct to protect you.

With one swift movement, he slides into your heat slowly, letting you stretch around him. Surprisingly to both of you, your pussy is accommodating him perfectly, the stretch a little painful but not unbearable. He shallowly moves his hips back and forth, watching his cock disappear into you further and further each time until he’s bottoming out and tapping your cervix lightly.

Heeseung isn't wrong when he tells you that no other cock you've had can compare to his. Every curve and ridge of his dick seems perfectly designed to hit every sweet spot inside you, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. It's an otherworldly sensation, the way he gains traction with each movement, his confidence growing as he senses your comfort and willingness to take more.

"You're so tight, baby girl," he murmurs between kisses.

Lost in the throes of passion, you cling to Heeseung, your bodies moving in perfect synchronisation as you lose yourself in the sensation of him filling you completely. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you, igniting a fire that burns hotter with each passing moment.

Heeseung's hands roam over your body, exploring every curve and contour with a hunger that matches your own. His touch is both gentle and possessive, his fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake as they trace the contours of your skin. The pads of his fingers roughly grab your tit that’s managed to escape your dress, twisting your nipple between his finger and thumb.

Your hands are in a similar position, running along his toned stomach under his shirt, trying to commit it to memory, just in case you never get to do this again. You wish this was happening with zero clothes in the way but the desperation between you both got in the way. 

As the intensity of your desire builds, Heeseung's movements become more urgent, his thrusts growing deeper and more powerful with each passing moment. You can feel the tension coiling within you, the promise of release looming on the horizon like a distant storm.

“You’re squeezing me so tight, Y/N. I won’t last much longer,” he admits, knowing that he’s close to the edge himself.

“Need it, I need you to cum,” you moan loudly, your hand leaving his skin to find your clit, rubbing it vigorously as you try and speed along your orgasm.

Your words drive Heeseung to pound into you faster, willing both of you to come undone together. The car shakes as you both speed up your movements, your hips trying to match his rhythm to create a deeper impact with each buck of his hips.

With a final, desperate thrust, Heeseung drives you both over the edge, sending you spiralling into ecstasy. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, leaving you breathless and trembling under him, the ropes of his cum coating your heat. 

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he feels his cock swell and throb inside of you, “Cum with me, Y/N. Please.”

Circling your arms around his shoulders, you hug him close to you as his body shivers, still reeling from the aftermath of his climax. You lay like that for a few minutes, processing everything that just transpired between you both.

“Are you okay?” he asks, holding himself up to face you, one hand wiping your sweaty bangs from your forehead.

Nodding, you shut your eyes, massaging his shoulders lightly as you let bliss take over you, “I feel great,” you smile.

Heeseung grabs your pants from the driver seat and bundles them up, using them as a makeshift cloth to clean you up, spitting on them before running them along your swollen cunt, “We can’t do this ever again,” he says quietly, his breathing starting to regulate again.

“What do you mean?” you lean on your elbows, looking up at him with confusion, “Was it not okay?”

Of course, it was okay, Heeseung thinks your pussy might be the best he’s ever had, but it’s not logical to try and keep this fantasy alive. You were too different, this encounter was fueled by anger and rage between you both, hardly the start of a picture-perfect relationship.

He discards your underwear and pulls his own bottoms up, tucking his softening cock into his boxers and jeans, “It was great, but I’m supposed to protect you, not fuck you,” he says, shuffling back into his seat, starting the car.

“We’ll use protection next time,” you shrug, fixing your seat to sit upright, “It’s no big deal.”

Heeseung sighs, his frustration evident as he starts the car and pulls out onto the road. "You know that's not what I mean, Y/N," he replies, his voice tinged with resignation.

The rest of the drive home is filled with silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. Heeseung's thoughts swirl with the fear of losing his job, the guilt of failing to protect you, and the sudden need to be inside you all the time.

“We forget about this, okay?” he asks, eyes flickering to you.

You nod in agreement, but a smirk tugs at the corners of your lips, betraying your true thoughts. Deep down, you know that you won’t forget about it, and this will certainly not be the last time you find yourself fucking Lee Heeseung - You'll make sure of it.

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ the "dying" wolverine ]❜

ft. logan howlett x gn! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ taking care of logan when he’s sick┊0.8k words

setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: fluff, established relationship

➤ author's note: i’m feeling like shit so i’m making him suffer with me

what part of regenerative healing don’t you understand? it’s impossible for him to get sick in any capacity as his immune system is stronger than the adamantium in his body, so feel free to read any of the other logan fics written by all the amazing writers on this platform!!

but let’s say that he somehow contracted a special bug that managed to get past all that and managed to make him fall ill, requiring you to take care of him while wade goes on a mission to figure out what’s wrong with him…

this headstrong two-hundred-year mutant who can take stab wounds without flinching and is an invincible tank in battles will be the whinest son of the bitch. he always lets his guard down around you, but he’s the most vulnerable and immature that he’ll ever allow himself to be around anyone since he can’t remember the last time (or if he has ever in his life) felt so shitty. shivering despite being feverish and covered up in blankets which just made him sweaty and uncomfortable, an itchy nose that wouldn’t sneeze when he needed it to, coughing his lungs out every two minutes— it’s so alien to him.

when you finally show up to look after him, he’ll have uncharacteristically big puppy eyes as you gently place your hand on his forehead to gauge how bad it is. “how are you feeling, lo?”

“i feel like i’m going to fucking die.” there are several discarded tissues and water bottles overfilling the nearby trashcan, but it was clear that he had no idea how he was supposed to make himself feel better and suffering.

“i can tell,” you chuckle at how dramatic he sounds and it makes him frown, but he’s just so thankful that you’re here to take care of him (he doesn’t exactly trust al to do it, that woman is a bit too mysterious and cryptic for him, and the medicine she offered smelled funny even to his dulled senses). “let me go make you some soup.”

he doesn’t want you to leave at first because your cold skin feels so good against him, but he’ll lightly doze off for a bit now that he’s more comfortable and feels safer. don’t expect him to stay asleep for long though, he’ll get up from his little while you’re in the middle of cooking chicken vegetable soup to wrap his arms around you and rest his head on top of yours until you finish.

“why are there barely any vegetables in the fridge? i could only find half a carrot and wilted celery.”

“i don’t think anyone here eats that stuff.”

“logan, you need to eat your greens— all you guys do, how are all three of you in such good shape then?!”

“eh.”

he can’t make anything more complicated than butter noodles, wade sets nearly everything on fire, he feels slightly guilty eating the food made by an elderly blind lady when he’s already freeloading at the moment, and constantly ordering take-out becomes expensive. you’ve given some food in tupperware for him to eat up, but it isn’t quite the same. as if being sick didn’t make him miserable enough, he’s so fucking pissed that he couldn’t properly taste your freshly-cooked food and will make it known.

you scoff that it’s just soup and pour it out in a bowl for him to eat, but you’ll quickly find yourself spoon-feeding him. yes, his hands still work with perfectly fine motor functions. no, you’re not passing up the opportunity to baby him while he rolls his eyes (he’ll grunt at most and doesn’t say a word of protest, claiming that he’s merely allowing it since he’s too tired to fight with you over it and very glad no one could see it happening).

“here comes the airplane~”

“i’m a grown-ass man, don’t be ridiculous.”

“a grown-ass man without an ounce of whimsy in his life, open your fucking mouth and eat.”

this is one of the lower points in his life where he doesn’t quite understand why this is happening to him yet, so you obviously have give him as much affection as possible! keeping a cold glass of water nearby and a wet rag to dab on his face, he rests his head upon your thighs and you swear that you can hear him purring like a kitten. there’s not better pillow than his lover, soft, warm, and full of love as you hum a song to lull him to sleep.

“let’s get married one day…” he not sure how that slipped past his lips, it might be the fever talking for him, or the fact that he’s completely relaxed without any tension in his muscles and feeling himself falling in love all over again when you smile so sweetly at him

“okay, but you need to sleep and get better first.” you place a gentle kiss on his forehead until his eyes slowly drift shut, “i love you, logan.”

[still-searching-for-something]

It’s so funny seeing the gentiles gradually distance themselves from the pro-Palestine movement and acting like they’ve been fighting antisemitism all this time. Because, like—

Where did the people who attended “long live the intifada!” rallies go? By any metric, pro Palestinian protests have been becoming less and less attended (see the DNC) and less well received. But the people who used to attend them haven’t vanished. They’re still out there, living their lives. Do you think they’re embarrassed? Ashamed? I doubt it.

The pro Palestine movement has, as it was always going to, alienated potential allies and out purity-politicked their members into radicalism and terrorism. And while I am glad the world seems to be leaning away from them now, I will never trust the goyim again. Their first instinct upon seeing the deadliest pogrom of Jews since the Holocaust was to cheer and celebrate it.

The news uniformly decided the word of a genocidal terrorist organization was more credible than the official press releases of the rules of engagement abiding armed forces of a liberal democracy. Why? Because said liberal democracy was Jewish. The academics decided human rights, feminism, antiracism, and historiographic honesty were useful, until it would have applied to the Jews.

And the world swallowed it up. Eagerly. Like it was cathartic to return to the status quo of the Jews being responsible for the ills of humanity.

And now, the news cycle has moved on to other topics (Biden steps down! Deadpool and Wolverine! Trump Trading Cards!). The pro Palestine movement has attacked everyone who doesn’t traumatize themselves with gore or set themselves ablaze to protest a nonexistent genocide. And shockingly, that doesn’t make people particularly sympathetic to your movement. So, the world’s decided yeah, okay, maybe there was some antisemitism in that pro Palestine movement.

No fucking shit.

We’ve been telling gentiles for the last 10 goddamn months that! I don’t know about you, but I saw that antisemitism on October 8th! And for pointing it out, we were accused of “playing the antisemitism card!” and “defending genocide!” and called “Zionazi scum!” But now, it’s so loud it cant be ignored and they’re deciding to disavow it.

Well, thanks. Thanks for stating the obvious after spending a year attacking Jews in every quarter. Thanks for making us fear for our lives and livelihoods. Thanks for reminding us why we need a Jewish state. And thanks for correcting those of us who were naive enough to think maybe the world wasn’t so antisemitic anymore, that maybe we were accepted and valued members of our countries, universities, companies, and communities.

We won’t forget this. Even when you do, when you deny your role in this, when you delete the celebrations you posted on October 7th, we will remember. Always.

[venting-town]

It’s literally fucking killing me even more because so many damned adults in my life/I’ve met are so fucked up/stupid/immature/etc

Yeah, I love a some of them ( the overwhelming majority has only used me for sex and/or other issues ), but my fucking God dude! Get help! From a trained/good therapist! NOT ME!!!!

I am so sick of all these fucking beings and having to bend backwards for them for them not to hurt me/for them to be happy! That includes humans, spirits, aliens, etc!

But no. They’re too fucked to give a damn than to fix themselves/get help from somebody that’s actually QUALIFIED to deal with their mental/emotionally/spiritual/sexual issues! Of course they are.

Because they’re THEM. I hate them all so fucking much. I love some of them, and they ALL should get help and be better, and I still hate them/am so fucking exhausted of them

[deadsetobsessions]

Some night, he flew above the twinkling lights of Blüdhaven’s buildings, wind rushing through his hair and the feeling of weightlessness pushing at the curve of his back.

There were a multitude of things that Dick Grayson appreciated, loved, Bruce for. One of those things would always be that his adopted dad allowed him to fly once more, even after his parents’ wings were cut.

In the air, he was home.

In the air, Dick Grayson felt like he was living up to, flying alongside, the Flying Graysons. Every flip, every trick he used to go faster, to fight better, felt like his parents were there guiding his every move.

Time healed his hurt, but still, the hole in his heart remained.

So when one of his best friends, a ghost vigilante by the name Phantom, asked him if he wanted to see his parents, he froze like a deer in bright white headlights.

“What…?”

Phantom did a flip in midair. “Wanna see your parents? They’ve been asking if they could talk to you.”

“My parents… are ghosts?” That was the least pressing question he had right now, but it was all his mouth could speak.

“Kind of. It’s complicated,” Phantom side-eyed him. “It would require going into the zone.”

And just like that, Dick understood. After the Amity Park came onto the map and the Justice League fixed the human and alien and meta rights violations that were happening right under their nose, Phantom had permanently closed all access to the Zone. Save, of course, for himself and a few magic users, who all refused to anger the King of the Dead.

“The only way you’re getting to my people now, is through me. Should anyone try to get into the zone, without my permission… I will make sure that you and your family’s afterlives will pay the appropriate price.”

No-one wanted to test his threat. The afterlife is something few fucked with and came back whole.

The Phantom they’d seen on the news then was incredibly different than the one in front of him now. Dick knows, understands now, that it was because Phantom trusted him. After years of being denied help, years of struggling all by himself to keep reality from collapsing while avoiding getting experimented on by humans understandably closed his heart.

“You’d take me into the Zone?” Dick didn’t know what he was feeling. Hope, fear, trust, touched, happiness, something.

A lot of things.

Danny shrugged. “Yeah. I trust you,” he said as he glanced back at Dick-at Nightwing. “Only you, though. No one else.”

The question that remained was whether Dick trusted Phantom too. And considering the fact that the ghost king ironically saved his ass from being killed a couple of times meant, “Yeah. I- I’d love to.”

Danny smiled, all pointed teeth and solemn trust. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Now?!” Dick stood up anyways, his heart in his throat. Danny held out a gloved hand.

“Yeah, now. Haven’t you heard that death waits for no one?” At Dick’s concerned look, Danny added, “Don’t worry. You won’t actually die. You’ll come back whole and alive, I promise.”

“Oh, okay. Let’s go, then!”

——

Clark Kent threw himself out of the window, Superman suit already on.

Seonds later, he was hovering in front of Bruce’s shadowy form on top of a gargoyle.

“Clark,” Batman greeted in his gravelly voice, irritated. “What.”

“Batman, Nightwing’s heartbeat- it disappeared!”

Bruce’s heartbeat stuttered.

[doqt33th]

SINGULARITY

MIRAGE/READER

SUMMARY: You and Mirage have been pining for each other for a while now. A nasty summer storm drives you straight into his arms. Shenanigans ensue.

WORD COUNT: 18k. Sorry I’m insane

WARNINGS: 18+ and I CANNOT STRESS THAT ENOUGH!! Explicit PWP, fingering + oral (fem receiving), penetrative sex, mild spit kink. Reader is fem and uses she/her pronouns but is written fairly androgynous. No descriptors of appearance beyond the basics and no (y/n) used.

Familiar streets flashed by at increasing speeds, traffic and pedestrians flickering by and blurring together into a smorgasbord of color, all gilded by the setting sun. Unconsciously, you dug your fingers into the seams of the leather seat beneath you, worrying the stitches. Out of the corner of your eye, the radio blazed to life with color and that oh-so-familiar symbol.

“Hey, hey, easy on the merchandise, hot stuff,” Mirage crackled out of the speakers lightheartedly, and you immediately yanked your hands into yourself like they’d been burned. In your worrying, you’d seemingly forgotten about what — or rather, who — exactly was your ride.

“Oh— my bad, I wasn’t thinking,” you said, sinking your weight back and down, instead picking at your nails to give your hands something to do. God, you were so nervous, and for what? Mirage knew all these people— these bots, and knew them well. They were all friends! Or amiable towards each other, at the very least. And they were the good guys. Saved the world and all that.

So why were you so anxious?

“You’re good, don’t worry ‘bout it.” He slowed to a stop at a red light. Your leg started to bounce. “Sooo… you wanna tell me what’s on your mind? Save me a trip to Noah’s repair shop? I’d hate for you to start taking your emotions out on me, y’know.”

You scoffed, eyes sliding to the radio. The grin that pulled at the corners of your mouth was one you were helpless to stop. He just had that effect on you, where around him you became a slave to your laughter and, additionally, also became one half of a terrible joke machine that Mirage happily completed.

Leather creaked as you nudged the inside of the door with your boot to chastise him. “You love when I take my emotions out on you, dick. Don’t lie.”

“Only the good ones,” he shot back, and you could hear the grin in his voice. “You nervous about meeting the others?”

His probe was successful; you fought the urge to shrink at your feelings being read so accurately and so immediately. “I— yeah. I am, and I don’t even know why. I’m sure they’re all great, I’m just working myself up over nothing.”

Red faded to green. Carried on the tide of forward-moving traffic, Mirage rolled ahead, eventually slipping over to make a turn. You watched him twist his mirrors to check his blind spot.

“Ah, c’mon. Nobody could blame you, you’re meeting a bunch of aliens for the first time. Pretty trippy for anyone. ‘specially if those aliens are, like, double your size. And robots.” A short chuckle topped off his words.

“Right. I just don’t wanna fuck it up or embarrass myself, you know how it is. I don’t wanna embarrass you, either.”

“Oh, Primus, trust me. You’re not gonna embarrass me. I don’t even think that’s possible. Prime’s seen me in a lot worse shape than bringing you in to meet him.” The world continued to roll by. Brick buildings blotted out the sunshine in intermittent flashes. “You got good marks from your favorite bot, you’ll be fine.” The dismissive tone of his voice was working, in a weird way, to assuage your fears.

“Excuse me,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest pointedly. “My favorite bot?”

“What, am I not?” A downright theatrical gasp hissed out of the speaker. “Have you been cheating on me?”

Cheeks hot with a flush at even the joking insinuation of being together, you glanced away from the impassive Autobot symbol on the radio and out the window. Still, the laugh barked out of you was sudden and sharp, and quickly dissolved into giggles. “Yes. Mirage. I’m sorry. There’s another ten foot tall alien robot in Brooklyn that’s been vying for my attention. We’re done.”

“I should throw you out on the street right now,” Mirage fussed playfully, his evident pout tinging his voice. “For breakin’ my spark. Also I’m taller than that.”

“You wouldn’t dare. I’m fragile.”

“I dunno. Noah gets his ass kicked around pretty good and he’s still kickin’ it.”

“I am not Noah,” came your tongue-in-cheek rebuttal. “And Noah just refuses to give up even when it’s good for him.”

“Thought qualities like determination were supposed to be big things with you guys.”

“In moderation.”

Mirage barked a laugh. “Ha! Should tell that to Prime. He’ll blow a gasket.” You opened your mouth to reply, only to be cut off. “No, seriously, tell it to Prime, we’re here.”

The easy confidence that your playful back-and-forth had teased out instantly chilled into a dense mass in your stomach; Mirage was rolling slowly up to a nondescript warehouse buried deep within the old industrial part of Brooklyn, and the way the worn brick loomed over you even in the car made your heart rate pick up.

Now or never.

Familiar alien whirs and clicks of shifting and setting metal filled your ears as Mirage rose into his bipedal mode, the driver’s seat gently ejecting you onto your own two legs on the pavement. Following the motion, you took a few steps forward, but still balked a little at the half open door. Inside, you heard voices of varying timbre, and you fought the urge to turn tail.

Now. Or. Never. Gritted teeth accompanied the repetition of your thought.

The displacement of air behind you — and the soft, constant mechanical noises emanating from his body — signaled Mirage’s presence before his voice.

He said your name with surprising care, using a tone that only came out when he was really being sincere. You couldn’t help the way your face warmed at it as you turned, craning your neck up to meet his gaze. “Hey, you, uh, you want me to go in ahead of ya? Normally I’d be like ‘ladies first’ and all that, but you said you weren’t feeling too jazzed about going in—“

“Yeah, actually, if you could, that would be… great. That would be great.”

“Gotcha. Let you psych yourself up a little more before you go in, I see how it is. Let me do the talking,” he affirmed with an easy grin and a nod, bouncing on the balls of his pedes a few times before striding forward. His long legs folded easily under him as he ducked under the lowered garage door, and you traipsed after, smoothing your thumb over your knuckles repeatedly.

The warehouse yawned beyond you, orange shafts of light cutting gashes into otherwise brownish darkness. Old graffiti sprayed across the walls told you that Ramona had been there once, then Nick, then Darnell, and a million others. And you were there now, feeling impossibly small, yes, but a little more resilient with the fading sunlight at your back and Mirage, like always, at your side.

He’d become a permanent fixture in your life from the day you’d met him — when you’d strong-armed Noah into giving up his secret about his Porsche, and the mysterious car had ended up being a twelve-foot-tall robot with a literal motormouth that made a playful pass at you within the first hour of your first conversation. You’d been flustered out of your mind, but had just kept coming back out of unfettered curiosity and outright fascination. Aliens were real, and Noah was friends with one, and it— he could turn into a Porsche.

Mind-shattering observations on the surface, yes. Mirage tended to deflate the grandeur, though, because he never acted like aliens did in the movies or in books. There was no ‘We come in peace!’ bullshit. He was so easy. Everything with him was so easy. He was loudmouthed and extroverted and genuinely hilarious; you spent hours in Noah’s garage trading terrible jokes — mostly bad sexual innuendos — or buckled to Mirage’s driver’s seat as he flew down Central Avenue on the wrong side of the limit and blasted Haddaway so loud it nearly busted your eardrums.

Weird to say an alien robot was your friend, but he was. He gave you rides to work, to your lectures, to your labs, wherever; in fact, he got petulant when you dared to take the bus one day to give him a break, and made it a point to pry your routine out of you so that he could take you wherever you wanted, no fares needed. 

So infuriating. You loved it.

You loved… maybe more than just the back-and-forth. Maybe more than the bad jokes. Maybe more than the late-night drives. You were starting to think— starting to realize you loved big blue optics, and the rumble of a 260 horsepower engine when you made just the right innuendo, and broad, incredibly intricate servos that dwarfed yours in size but were so, so careful…

Man. You tried not to think about it too much. It as a concept made you laugh with its own absurdity. Poor human chick fell in love with the giant alien robot that made her laugh. It wasn’t… debilitating. You still functioned like a normal adult. Mostly. Except for that one night like two weeks ago where you’d been arguing with him about some stupid shit and he’d scooped you up, right off the ground, in both servos and held you there, digits interlaced against your back and thumbs on your front.

It wasn’t the first time he’d ever held you like that — he’d done it a few times — but something was different that night… even if he’d only done it to gain an upper hand in your bickering. The air crackled with latent electricity, made your skin buzz in all the right places, especially when Mirage had gone quiet for once in his life as he stared at you in his grasp. When you’d prompted him with his name, he’d only responded by gently stroking a thumb over the swell of your chest, which had made you gasp air in so sharply that it burned in your throat. The metal left a tingling path on your skin under your shirt in its wake and immediately sent your heart rate skyrocketing past whatever the fuck was a normal BPM.

He’d snapped back to reality at the sudden expansion of your lungs and had attempted to play it all off as a joke. You remembered how you’d still stumbled when your shoes touched the ground, an absolutely insane feeling of genuine heat rocking you as your brain seized the feeling of his touch while it still sparked against your nerve endings and helpfully replayed it over and over and over again. Sure, the rhythm of banter came back after a stuttering beat, but you never really cooled the warmth on your face for the rest of that night — and when Mirage had dropped you off at your apartment, your door was shut and locked for about five minutes before your shaking hand was frantically worked beneath the waistband of your pants.

…Whew. Definitely something a little more than friendly there. Maybe even more than pure love, something a little slicker and deeper that buzzed against your bones and coiled low in your stomach. It made you feel a little weird — just objectively, because of what Mirage was — but damn if it didn’t feel good to indulge.

God, fuck, why were you thinking about that now, of all times? Escapist fantasies be damned, you were going to meet Mirage’s comrades-friends-coworkers and leave a good impression. Not drool over the worn-out memory replaying in your head for the thousandth time this week.

Out of the darkness and around corners, they emerged. The stealth wasn’t on purpose; you didn’t even think they could be stealthy. Oh, one was coming right for you now — tall was the only word your brain could muster. Tall and red and square were added to the list of adjectives as the stately bot approached, servos collected into fists at his sides and shoulders thrown back.

“Priiiime,” Mirage greeted warmly, throwing his arms out at his sides in his favorite pose. “Look, hey, I know what you said about bringing more people around, but I swear— Hey!”

Completely ignoring your friend’s (status pending) greeting, the bot— Prime, holy shit, this is THE Prime, was kneeling down, leaning forward, and he was right in your face. You fought the very biological urge to flinch. Blue optics considered you for a moment before narrowing and flicking to your right from his lowered position.

“Mirage,” Optimus started with a gravelly tone  from behind his faceguard that communicated exasperation above all else. “I explicitly stated that for our safety — and yours — that we were to come in contact with no more humans.”

“Sir, I gotta be honest with you. Kinda hard on a planet that’s got, what, five billion of ‘em? Six?” Mirage glanced at you for backup. You stared back flatly, refusing to say anything that might put you on the business end of a laser cannon.

“You were told to remain incognito so you could recover.” Optimus continued, his gaze returning to you. With a shunk of shifting metal, his faceplate slid away. His faceplates were weathered; the chipped metal around his optics gave the illusion of wrinkles and eyebags. Tired. He seemed tired. “This is not incognito. What is your name?”

You gave it after taking a beat to steady yourself. He repeated it back to you. “How did you come in contact with Mirage?”

“I, uh— Noah, Noah Diaz, he’s my friend. I basically pried it out of him,” you said with a nervous laugh. “So it’s not Mirage’s fault. I’m just nosy.”

At the mention of Noah, Optimus seemed to visibly relax; he moved back slightly, though he remained kneeling, and the narrowed, suspicious squint of his optics rounded out into something much softer.

“…I see. Then I assume you understand the… precarious nature of our existence on your planet.” he said, his tone grave and his optics searching your face.

You nodded, pressing the flesh of the inside of your cheek between your teeth for a moment as you came up with a suitably diplomatic response that still conveyed your friendliness. “I do, yeah. Noah told me most of it. What he could, anyway. I just wanted to make it clear that I’m not— I’m not a threat here. Like I don’t work with the, uh, the government or anything. Whatever you guys need help with, I’m available, even if that just means keeping my mouth shut.”

Christ, you were glad this wasn’t your day job. You’d be such a shit ambassador. I’m available. What the hell did that even mean? Fuck yes, you were available, your brain guffawed, thinking of broad metal thumbs brushing over your chest.

You blinked hard, squeezing your eyelids together until the world came back in a photo negative, to scold yourself.

Although you’d stumbled through your reply, Optimus seemed to approve. He rose with a great creak of metal off of his knee and backed up to give you space, though he still regarded you with those sharp blue optics that felt as though they pinned you to the concrete below. “I see Noah chooses his company well. I should have assumed his sentiments would extend to his companions.” He shut his optics for a moment and dipped his head, as if considering deeply what to say next. “I am not sure how much Mirage — or Noah — divulged to you.”

“A fair amount— well. Any amount that won’t get them in trouble,” you called up, taking in deeper breaths to project your voice up the two stories of height to his head. To your side, Mirage snorted. “I know your name— Optimus, I know that, and I know about the Autobots. A little bit about the— fuck, what were they called—“

“Terrorcons?” Mirage supplied, and you were impressed at how quiet he’d been otherwise.

“Terrorcons, thank you. Other than that, not much. How much should I know?”

“Your knowledge is sufficient. All we fear — and all we risk—“ Optimus added with a pointed look at Mirage, who looked incredibly sheepish. “—at the moment is discovery. So long as you maintain secrecy, no harm shall come to us… or you, for that matter.”

It almost sounded like a threat, but Prime worded it very much like a warning. You decided it was best to heed his word — not that you really had another option.

“Right. Okay. Well— I mean, it was nice to meet you. People — humanity, I guess — aren’t bad. Most of us aren’t, anyway. Just, uh, let me know if there’s something Noah and I can get or do for you.”

Prime’s gaze shifted away from you. In fact, it seemed to shift away from the warehouse in general, looking somewhere far beyond the now-shut garage door. “Your generosity is admirable, but it is not humans primarily that we are concerned with.”

Brows furrowed at his vague answer, you thought it over for a second — and then decided not to push it. He probably knew best when it came to whatever foreboding nebulous space threat loomed over your collective heads; you would leave it up to the experts.

“Oh, well, golden rule and all that,” you still offered in terms of a response. That got his attention. His massive head tilted downwards to look at you once more with curiosity. “If I crash landed on someone else’s planet, I’d want them to be hospitable, y’know? Just trying to make the best of a shitty situation.”

Like he couldn’t handle the terrible punishment of silence anymore, Mirage butted in. “See, Prime? I told you she was cool.”

A short jolt shook the broad, boxy line of his shoulders, and at first you had thought he’d coughed, and then you realized he laughed. It was barely anything, a huff of a chuckle, but you glowed with the indirect affirmation. Just made Optimus Prime laugh. Maybe you weren’t such a terrible diplomat.

He wasn’t looking at you, though, rather at Mirage, and you swore from your low vantage point you could see a barely-there smile on Prime’s faceplates communicating…was that smug amusement? As the tall bot carefully made his way past you, he stopped in front of your companion, and let a heavy servo land on the headlight adorning his shoulder.

“No matter what you may feel, you chose well, Mirage.” Optimus rumbled out, before removing his servo and traipsing off into a darker section of the sprawling warehouse, ducking through a much-too-small cutout and speaking to Arcee about something indistinguishable. However, you couldn’t care less about whatever her and Prime were discussing — what the hell did he mean by Mirage choosing well?

You turned your head towards said bot, mouth open for inquiry and one brow raised. Mirage looked mortified, in every sense of the word; he stood shell-shocked, lips slightly parted and servos up and open as if to defend himself. His head was whipped around to follow Prime’s departure from the room. A whir started, bouncing off the walls — Mirage’s fans came on and off intermittently to keep his ambient internal temperature at safe levels, but the steady hum of this fan let you infer that he was flushing something fierce.

“Mirage? What—“

Interrupting you by breaking, nearly jumping, out of his trance, he clapped his servos together and started talking at a million miles a minute. “Well, damn, look at that, haha, it’s late, ain’t it? You got work in the morning, right? C’mon, hop in, I’ll drive you home—“

“No, Mirage, hold on, what was he talking about—“

“Seriously, c’mon, he was just messing around—“

“You’re telling me Optimus Prime was joking? Is he even capable of that?”

He said your name with a finality that nearly made you flinch. “Look, I can’t really— Just drop it, please?” It wasn’t angry, nor was it even commanding; in fact, his eyes were wide and pleading with you out of embarrassment. You knew the feeling all too well, and in the interest of sparing his feelings, decided to let it go, despite your intense curiosity.

You put your hands up in surrender. “Okay. Dropped.” A few beats of silence passed while Mirage was still tamping down his fluster. “You wanna take me home now or are we waiting for Prime to come embarrass you more?”

“Please, let’s get outta here,” he affirmed, dropping into his alt-mode and popping the driver door for you. As you slid in, you couldn’t help the little mischievous smile that grew on your face as your brain cooked up some other joke to take the edge off.

The garage door opened on its own. Mirage rolled into the noticeably darker alleyway. The burnt umber glow of the sunset-stained sky was only visible overhead; otherwise you were boxed in on the sides by blacked-out buildings.

Stifling silence was broken by a joke. Your joke, actually. “…Can’t believe your dad made fun of you in front of me.”

The noise Mirage made was only comparable to a squawk. But obviously much more masculine, clearly. Still, his tires jerked on the road, betraying his surprise. “Hey— Prime is not my sire— or dad, or whatever you wanna call ‘em. He wishes.”

“I dunno,” you mused, arms crossed over your chest and back sunk deep into the seat. Brooklyn in transition blurred by in messy constellations of lit windows. “He got you pretty good there. Pretty standard dad behavior.”

“Hey, I don’t know what suddenly inspired him to go for comedy, but I do not appreciate it. That’s my thing. He’s stealin’ my thunder!”

“Maybe you’re just rubbing off on him.”

Silence.

The radio crackled. “Ew.”

Accompanied by the loudest eyeroll you could muster, you whacked the dashboard with an open palm, though you couldn’t stop your bubbling laughter. “Oh my god, you are so gross, Mirage! I hate you!”

“Ahh, don’t say that, c’mon! You love it here!”

“You wish.”

The rest of the ride home was spent that way, bickering like normal, and although you couldn’t let go of what Prime had said, nor his knowing look while he said it, you appreciated the return to baseline. When you got home, Mirage parked directly in front of your apartment building, and you lingered on the sidewalk for several minutes after you got out of the car. With the passenger door opened so it looked like you were talking to the ‘driver’ and not completely insane, you leaned on the doorframe and traded jabs with your ride until the humidity of the night air got a little too persistent to ignore. Damn you, Brooklyn. 

“See you tomorrow?” Mirage never said goodnight. He only ever asked when he could see you again, corny bastard.

“Tomorrow. My roommate’ll take me to work, don’t worry about it. I’ll just stick my head in the garage when I get home.”

“I thought we had a thing goin’, man!” His faux petulance returned. “You movin’ on already? You just met my folks!”

Your jaw dropped for a second at the fact he’d turned the damn bit around on you. “I met one folk, and you literally said he wasn’t your dad.”

“Maybe I was warmin’ up to the idea!”

Another lethal eyeroll. Your smile still remained locked on your face. “Whatever. Get the hell out of here, asshole,” you said, playfully shutting the door just a little harder than you needed to and slapping the roof like a horse you were trying to send off into the desert.

Even as you turned to walk into your building, you could hear the way his window shot down, far faster than a normal roll. “Ay! Merchandise!”

You stuck a middle finger over your shoulder, thumb out and all, to give him an idea of what he could do with his merchandise. Tires peeled against pavement as he screeched out of his spot and down the otherwise quiet street, letting you know in return how he felt about that.

Smiling like an idiot as you climbed the stairs to your apartment, you felt… airy. You were always smiling after hanging around Mirage, you couldn’t help it — especially as of late. But still, you were dying to know what Prime was talking about when he was messing with Mirage earlier. You chose well. Chose what? Your brain briefly entertained the thought of Mirage returning what you felt, and it made blood rush to your face.

It couldn’t really… work. You had made peace with your physical differences weeks ago. The both of you got along just fine despite the size difference, and it never impeded your normal interactions. But you doubted Mirage felt the same; no matter how familiar, how friendly you were with him, you could never shake the feeling of being just a little too alien. Your greatest similarities were in personality. The closest resemblance you held physically was the fact you were both humanoid in shape.

That didn’t stop you. No, not at all. It didn’t stop you from dropping into bed after a quick shower with a heavy sigh, your hand inevitably sinking beneath the covers as you thought of digits — Mirage’s digits, so well articulated for their size and so careful — playing with the hem of your underwear instead of your own fingers, pushing the fabric aside just a little roughly to explore your alien anatomy. It took very little time for you to grind yourself to climax; in fact, it was embarrassingly quick, and it left your face hot with some special kind of shame as you slunk out of bed to wash your hands. The entire time, you avoided your reflection in the mirror.

Even with the ancient AC cranked on and chugging away, it took you a long while to fall asleep.

Off in the industrial district of Brooklyn, meanwhile, Mirage was burning rubber as he took ninety-degree turns at sixty miles per hour. His processor was thrumming at max capacity, and his engine felt like it was about to either stall or explode.

Primus, it was all too much. Your teasing always got him some kind of hot and bothered, tight under his interface paneling, but the acidic rush of embarrassment still prickled at his cabling. Prime, come on, man. Mirage was still floored at the fact that Prime of all bots had embarrassed him like that, in front of you, no less!

He had it bad for you, and he knew it, but apparently every other bot in that warehouse knew it too. Ever since he’d met you, you’d stuck in his processor, the way the light glinted off your eyes and your all-teeth smile and the way he could get you to laugh. Sure, his flirts were only playful at first — and he only did them to mess with Noah, who’d harbored an on-and-off crush on you for a while — but the more he did them and the more you returned them, the more he started really… considering it.

It was so shameful. Primus, it was shameful. He’d barely ever interfaced in his life — there was just no time, especially not on Cybertron — and never with organics. After that one night where he’d hefted you up with ease in both servos and completely blanked when confronted with your soft, warm weight in his hold, he’d been on a spiral. It wasn’t just enough to be friendly with you; he was plenty friendly with Noah (though with the amount of stupid passes Mirage made at him, Noah would probably say too friendly) and he wanted something more with you.

He’d lost count of how many times he’d rolled into some long-abandoned warehouse or pitch-black deserted alley and scrabbled at his interface panel to pressurize his spike before he feverishly, frantically humped his fisted servo for relief, mental processors supplying increasingly filthy fantasies of your soft skin against his chassis and your mouth, Primus, your mouth on his own, on his spike, wherever, he didn’t care. Every single time, though, after coming down from his high with steam pouring off his lax frame, he felt just a little more discouraged than the last — because he knew that his fantasies would have to stay that way. Fantasies. Your friendship was enough, had to be, no matter how bad he wanted you, because he’d be damned to the Pit before he scared you off by being stupid and admitting his feelings.

Ugh. Ugh. He took another corner too hard and felt his tires shriek, let the burn travel upward and reverberate in his frame. The chaos in his mental processors quieted as he neared HQ. All he knew was that it was late, and he couldn’t be too loud or Prime would get on his ass for interrupting his stasis.

Can’t believe your dad made fun of you in front of me. Your voice played, unbidden, from some file that popped open in his memory bank. He willed it away with a vengeance as he rolled into the warehouse-turned-headquarters as quietly as he could, transforming as soon as the door was shut and stretching out his back. Clicking echoed off the walls as his spinal struts reset, and the residual burn in his scraped tires tingled.

Mirage turned, and—

Yelped. Bumblebee was standing right there, shoulder against the wall and fiddling with some holographic projection from his forearm. Mirage coughed into his clenched servo to preserve what was left of his dignity.

“‘Sup,” he greeted through gritted denta. “I, uh, didn’t see you there, man. How’s it hangin’?”

Bee gave him a flatly unamused look that communicated ‘No shit, you didn’t see me.’ very well. The projection phased out of existence and left the two of them in the dimmed space in some kind of standoff.

“Well, y’know, beauty stasis and everything, I’m just gonna—“

“I wanna know, what you’re feeling! Tell me what’s your mind!” burbled Bee’s radio in place of his voice. Mirage jerked back for a second, not expecting Information Society at whatever unholy hour of the morning it was.

“Look, man, I don’t really wanna talk about—“

“There are some things you can’t hide!” insisted the same song. Bee gestured for Mirage to talk. Clearly he wanted to know.

This was as good a time as ever to spill, he guessed.

Mirage groaned and clasped both of his servos over his face after explaining the bones of it, his head tilted upwards, optics fruitlessly searching the water-stained warehouse ceiling for a solution to his problem. His… very human, very embarrassing problem.

Not that he thought you were embarrassing— not at all, never. But Prime would have his head over falling for a human. Okay, well, maybe not his head; it was more like Mirage would be in for a lengthy disapproving speech about responsibilities and goals and distractions, and Primus, just thinking about it made the former option of decapitation the preferable one. Even though he seemed to approve of his choice, considering what he’d said earlier, the ‘Bots were still at war, and there wasn’t time for human distractions. Literal human distractions.

It wasn’t like he could help it. You were funny, okay? And smart. And you teased him in just the right way that made his cooling fans sputter, and you were so curious about… everything about him, he thought, remembering your impromptu Cybertronian anatomy lesson with a hot flash in his processor. He couldn’t help but be flattered by your attention.

“Ugh, Bee, I don’t know what to do, man,” he said despairingly after a moment, pacing in circles in front of said squat yellow bot leaned against the nearby concrete wall. “I mean, look at this, she’d be missin’ out if she said no,” he added, arrogance staining his words in an attempt to console himself. It didn’t work; insecurity eviscerated his bravado moments after he said it. “Or… I guess we’d both be, huh.” A short, self-deprecating laugh left him.

Mirage wasn’t entirely sure why he’d come to Bee of all bots for advice, but he was sure as shit not going to Optimus after today, and Arcee would have just told him anyway. Plus, considering that Wheeljack wasn’t even in the country at the moment, his options were slim. Besides, Bee had… experience with this sort of thing. Dealing with humans and all. Just… not in this way. But it was close enough, and Mirage was totally lost; if he thought about it by himself for any longer, his processors were going to fry.

Speaking of, Bee tittered through his gutted voice synthesizer to get Mirage’s attention. Expression drawn into a very human grimace, Mirage turned to face his friend, servos planted firmly on his hips.

“Well, you gotta tell her— wanna know what love is— want you to show me,” Bee’s radio clipped, first from a talk show, then from a nearby station, and Mirage felt energon surge to his face in a hot rush at a very personal song being blared back at him.

He had the words memorized at this point. The shape of them was practically burned into his memory files, considering how much he played it for you. It was reserved for days on both ends of the spectrum, bad and good; Mirage would pick you up in his alt-mode and take you for joyrides across the city, flying over the Brooklyn Bridge at daredevil speeds, all the while blaring music loud enough to make your head pound.

The two of you had discovered a few favorites, but the Foreigner song was at the top of the list, right next to Careless Whisper, of course. The sound of your voice belting at the top of your lungs, softened with that specific human accent, thrumming and reverberating through your chest— you sounded so alive, but so different from what he was accustomed to.

“Dude—” Mirage nearly barked, voice up a full octave before clearing his synthesizer into his fist and repeating himself. “Dude. I can’t just do that. Aliens— we’re aliens. Well. She’s an alien, too, I guess, but we,” he paused to gesture frantically between himself and Bee, “are the aliens here. I don’t really think humans are into the whole giant robot thing.”

“Noah?” Bee played a clip of Mirage’s own voice back at him questioningly.

“Yeah, well, Noah’s a different story.”

With a whir of his actuators, Bee shook his head and looked away for a moment, big blue optics considering the floor. With a soft clunk, he crossed his arms over his chassis.

“Come on, man, you gotta give me something,” Mirage urged, tilting his head to follow the other bot’s motions. “Should I just leave it? I mean, I don’t want it to be weird, I just—“

Bee straightened up off the wall, clearly done thinking. His arms opened out in a shrug and his optics squinted, communicating I don’t know what you want me to say, dude, far better than his vocal synthesizer ever could have.

His radio clipped again, this time a few seconds of a Beatles song and then Noah’s voice. “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah— right?”

“I don’t know, that’s the problem,” Mirage groaned, rolling his head back with a pained expression and letting his body follow the motion as he paced another tight circle. His faceplates felt hot at the insinuation. “And if I ask, it’s gonna be weird. And if I make it weird, I’m never gonna—“

He stopped rambling when a four-digit servo thumped on the headlight atop his shoulder, rooting him to the spot. Bee’s optics stared him down, wide and bright blue, and it made Mirage press his lips together firmly as he awaited whatever sage advice he was about to impart.

ABBA filtered through the radio first. “Should walk right up to her and say—“ What came next made Mirage’s brow ridges shoot up so high he thought they were going to fly off his helmet. “—when I get that feeling, I want sexual healin’!”

Mirage’s jaw dropped. Immensely flustered and ten times more frustrated at his friend’s useless advice, he shoved the other bot off. “Are you serious, dude? Primus, I never shoulda asked you. Thanks, I’ll go walk right up to her and ask to interface on the warehouse floor, that’ll go super well.”

Bee nodded quickly and gave him a double thumbs up with a series of approving beeps and chirps, the bottoms of his optics flattening into an amused look. Mirage dragged his servo down his faceplates in mortification, although his cooling fans kicked on a click higher than normal.

Sometimes he wished he’d been left on Cybertron with Soundwave and all his other goons. This was one of those times. As he dropped back into his alt-mode with an embarrassed mumble about ‘going on patrol,’ Bee whooped behind him, and the last thing Mirage heard before peeling out of the warehouse was “There’s nothin’ wrong with me lovin’ you, baby, no, no!”

Whoever gave Bee access to Marvin Gaye needed to be whacked upside the helm.

Knowing Mirage’s luck, it was probably you.

He stayed out for the rest of the night in his alt-mode, wandering the streets and staying away from your apartment, no matter how bad he wanted to go. The pool of people with any useful advice to offer for his predicament was steadily shrinking; after the disaster with Bee, Mirage just needed to stay away from that warehouse and let his processors cool.

Sometime in the morning he returned, though not to the warehouse. He almost immediately crashed into stasis as soon as he rolled into Noah’s garage, his simultaneously pent-up and exhausted processors eager for a chance to refresh themselves and defrag.

Ha, he thought blearily as he sank into stasis. Defrag.

You were waking as he was crashing, though you weren’t happy about it. The eight hour shift that loomed ahead of you on top of the bullshit from last night was a pretty potent combination for a headache of a day, especially when you couldn’t have your morning jam sesh with Mirage on your way to work. Thankfully, though, your roommate was a kind soul, and there was an extra cup of coffee waiting for you on the counter when you stumbled out of your bedroom.

As you sipped it, you wondered just how long you could keep the front up. By some small grace of God, your roommate’s schedule didn’t align very well with yours; you barely saw them in your daily life even before you met Mirage. It wasn’t on purpose, of course. It just happened that way. But on a few occasions, they’d been home when Mirage had dropped you off, and you’d been just calling him a ‘friend with places to be’ to excuse the fact that he never walked you to your door. Being somewhat prescient, they’d nudged you a couple times about this ‘friend’ turning into a boyfriend, but had never pushed it.

You just hoped it stayed that way.

Breakfast was a quick and quiet affair, though you traded a few jokes back and forth that had the both of you giggling into your food. The ride to your job was similar, and your roommate wished you a good shift before driving off leisurely — such a stark difference compared to Mirage’s affinity for peeling off into the street at Mach-fucking-10. Thinking of him made your face burn and your mind race. You tried not to.

Time was an especially cruel mistress today, though. You swore that people were actively winding the clocks back every time you looked up at them, and your shift felt like a thick slog, knee-deep, that you had no choice but to wade through. The worst part about slow shifts was that your mind wandered with nothing else to do, and like a moth to a flame— or rather, like metal to a magnet, your brain circled around to Mirage again and again and again.

Damn that bot. Damn it all. Every time you thought of him, it was some stupid joke he’d cracked or silly offhand comment he’d made or ridiculous flirt he’d lobbed your way — always accompanied by memories of his body, surprisingly lithe considering what he was made of, all legs and a dramatic waist topped with wide shoulders that made your own engine purr.

“Mirage, did you go upstate or something? You’re disgusting,” you’d laughed as you raked your gaze over his pecs, pretending to eye the dirt smeared there and not something else.

“Disgusting?! You gotta be kidding me, I’m not half as bad as the rest of ‘em. You should see Bee, dude!” He’d gestured out the door of the warehouse, where you assumed the other bot was lurking in dirt-covered shame.

“What the hell were you two even doing?”

“Pfft. Practicin’.”

“Practicing body-slamming each other?”

“Yeah, want me to show you?”

“Mirage,” you’d groaned, laughing despite yourself.

“C’mon, I know a few good ways to pin a bot down,” he grinned, winking at you. You fixed him with the most dead stare you could muster before breaking into a half-smile of your own.

“I’ll pass on the whole getting crushed thing, but I could be persuaded to spray you down by hand,” you flirted back, just for fun. 

No, not for fun. Real flirt. It was real, all of it was, and you couldn’t shake the memory of his optics widening, brightening, with eagerness and the way he’d pleaded. Playfully. Playfully?

“Please,” he begged dramatically, clasping his servos together, optics enormous. “I’ll be good! Maybe even stay still!”

You pinched your nose bridge between your fingers and tried to think about something else, because you were starting to press your thighs together a little and you were still at work, damn it. Professionalism was something you were aiming to maintain.

Hot. It was hot. That’s what you were thinking about. You’d glanced at the weather report earlier in the morning, and seeing a row of little sun icons clued you in on an insufferable heatwave that didn’t have any intention of breaking any time soon. Even now you felt sweat collect under your shirt and dot your hairline; all you could do was wipe your face with the back of your hand and keep working.

And working.

And working.

And. Working.

And then, eventually, you watched the clock tick over the last minute of your shift, and you heard angels sing a holy choir as you all but slammed your things down and sprinted to clock out. Well. You didn’t sprint, but you did speed walk, which counted for something.

Such was your haste to leave your workplace and talk to Mirage that you speed-walked headfirst into the lashing rain outside without a second thought. Genuinely caught by surprise, you stumbled back into the safety of the entryway, eyes wide as you watched the storm front swallow the last dregs of the golden evening sky and pour rain on the streets outside. Ink blots bleeding across paper. Rorschach tests. Some other poetic fluff came to mind over the supremely annoying realization that you were going to have to walk to the garage in wet clothes.

At least it was a quick walk.

Patience waning, you nearly considered calling Mirage — or even Noah — to come get you, but at the last second your roommate swooped in, pulling up outside and honking the horn a few times to let you know your knight in shining Prius was here to rescue you.

They cracked a few jokes at your expense when they saw your wet clothes, but it was nothing you couldn’t handle. Not after the trials and tribulations of Mirage. With a few clicks, the rest of your ride home was filled with Boyz II Men and intermittent conversation as you watched raindrops race each other down the window and considered what the hell you were going to say to Mirage tonight. 

Mostly, you were dying of curiosity to know what Prime had meant to get him so flustered. Thinking about that, though, just made you go down a spiral of what-ifs… especially considering that one of them was ‘What if he feels the same way?’

You could handle rejection. You were an adult who paid taxes. But just this one time, you weren’t sure if you could handle reciprocation. Especially full reciprocation.

Mirage’s friendship was something you felt privileged to have. You were just quite scared to fuck it all up and lose out on all the things that made being his friend worth it — including him. Jaw tightening, you blinked and looked away from the window. No use stewing in it.

At home, your dinner was quick and light — something in a Tupperware that you didn’t look at too hard after microwaving. When your roommate asked about your rush, you came up with some lame excuse about hanging out with Noah, waving your hand dismissively.

Don’t worry about me. I’m going to go break Hynek’s scale of close encounters. Don’t worry about it though.

“In this weather? You’ll be soaked thirty seconds out the door. You were soaked thirty seconds out the door.”

“I’ll bring an umbrella,” you said, barely listening to them over the cacophony of your own thoughts. Mirage. Mirage. Mirage. I’m seeing him tonight. I’m talking to him tonight. I’m not going to pussy out of anything tonight. Now or never. “The place is like two blocks up the street, I’ll live.”

“If you’re so inclined to catch a cold, I’m not gonna stop you. Not making you chicken soup, though.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you snarked affectionately, and the last thing you heard before exiting your apartment was their familiar laughter. That bolstered you somewhat.

Even if the rain whipping at your face made you reconsider your stupid horny stubbornness.

Only two blocks felt more like two dozen as you tucked your chin to your chest and gripped your hood to keep the wind from snatching it off your head; in your other hand you white-knuckled your umbrella to keep it from tilting the wrong angle and washing water down your back. Thunder rattled your bones more than once and made you think offhandedly of Kris, the poor kid. He hated storms but refused to admit it out of pride; he was probably curled up in a ball under his covers right now trying to block out the worst of the noise. And you thought of Noah alongside him just out of pure association, and you weren’t sure what made your stomach turn, but it did.

God, you hoped Noah wasn’t with Mirage right now. You didn’t want to slam the door open to the garage soaking wet and wrestle Mirage’s true feelings out of him while Noah spectated. Wrestle. Soaking wet.

Fuck my life.

The side door to the garage was jammed like it always was, even after you unlocked it, and you huddled against it to stay under the mediocre cover of the awning as you shoved your shoulder into it to force it open. Old metal hinges wailed as you ground them open, and the blessed dry warmth of the garage — the temperature always heightened with Mirage’s presence — sighed against your freezing skin as you wormed your way inside. 

“Mirage?” you called tentatively as you leaned back against the door to get it to shut and latch. A beat passed before your senses came to you and your hand fumbled behind you to lock it. Not for sordid reasons, honestly. You just didn’t want anyone to even have the chance of walking in on Mirage when he wasn’t folded into a Porsche.

Speaking of, you saw him then, pacing around the garage and seemingly very involved in a conversation with himself. Although the rain outside provided a dull roar of background noise, the whirs and clicks of his actuators and soft whooms of his pedes against the concrete filled your ears with their familiarity. It was Mirage, and you knew Mirage, and it helped dull the edge of abject nervousness in your gut.

He cut a sharp figure under the hanging ceiling lights, making sure to duck and avoid smacking his helm on them. When those bright blue optics registered your existence, you swore they flared with delight; he said your name with such enthusiasm it almost made you excited. For what, exactly, you didn’t know. “Hey, sugar, what’s k— Primus, you, uh, swim on your way here? Or do I just make you that wet? Cuz I appreciate the compliment.” He grinned wolfishly at you. Sparks flew off your rubbed-raw nerves.

The unimpressed stare you gave him was lethal. “That is not how that works,” you said, shaking your umbrella off on the floor and setting it against the wall to drip dry. “All the wetness is— would be in one place, dumbass.”

“Sorry. Wasn’t paying attention during my anatomy lessons. Wanna reteach ‘em to me? I’ll behave, swear on my spark.”

A scoff. “When have you ever behaved in your life?”

“When it counts! C’mon, you know you like it,” he said, gesturing down the length of his body with a flourish of his servo. “I mean, what isn’t there to like?”

“If I answer that question, I’ll hurt your feelings.” Excess rainwater dripped off your jacket as you peeled it off. Mirage’s optics followed the motion intently.

Amber lighting nearly glowed against the sleek metal of his torso. So what if your own eyes had wandered down it at his emphasis? He’d invited it. Expressly. He loved your attention, loved flaunting everything about himself just for a glance his way from you, for anything you’d give him.

It took him a second to register your words. He gasped and clasped a servo over his chassis— his spark, you remembered that from your own anatomy lesson a few weeks ago. “Gonna break my spark talkin’ like that. I hurt your feelings or something, sugar? What’s got you so bent?” With his question, he sank into a deep squat, draping his forearm over his thigh and leaning close to you.

A deep exhale left you. Your shoulders deflated. “It’s not you. Just the weather.” A short huff of a laugh, barely humorous, left you. “I mean, look at me.” You held your arms out and spun in a slow circle, errant droplets flying in every direction. “I look like a drowned rat.”

The lightbulb over his head was nearly visible. “You, uh, want a hand drying off?”

You stopped dead in your tracks. Your hands fell to your sides. Something akin to lightning danced up your spine.

“What?”

“Hold on, hold on, I got an idea,” he said,  holding his hand out at you to tell you to wait, excitement ramping up in his voice. What the hell was he planning? Nothing good, you figured. Or hoped.

Otherwise harsh sounds of metal against metal were softened by the alien chirrs and trills of the mechanical viscera working in his chassis as he settled on the ground in a sitting position. His back was leaned against the wall, carefully adjusted so his darling paint job was away from the rough concrete. To keep his balance, he rested against his tires and scooched his hips away from the wall, kicking his long legs out with a flourish and gesturing at his lap.

Although he was shorter this way, it was still a climb you didn't want to make while you were damp and the general slip hazard was high. “Can you give me a lift so I can see whatever shit you’re planning?”

“I got you, sugar, don’t even worry about it. Just hang on,” came the reply, and your brain blanked just a little at the feeling of his servos on you again, picking you up just like they had done on that night two weeks ago. With zero effort — seriously, you didn’t even hear any mechanical creaking — you were scooped upwards.

Your damp clothes clung to your body, a fact both you and Mirage were painfully aware of; the chill of the soaked fabric contrasted against that fascinating living heat of your skin nearly made the sensors in his servos short-circuit. He’d thought about this, exactly this, so much that it had probably worn a path into his neural processors. So soft. You were so soft.

A shudder ran up his spinal strut and he prayed you didn’t notice.

You were set down with your feet firmly on the flat tops of his thighs, ignoring the slight wobble in your knees. Arms raised a bit for balance, you looked down at the living machinery beneath you. The flight paths of the butterflies in your stomach grew more frantic. Broad servos released you from their hold, but they didn’t leave; no, they skated down, down, down until they settled on the flare of your hips and stayed. They were so heavy.

A breath caught in your throat like a wild animal in a trap. “If I fall, I’m gonna be so pissed off. You know that, right?” Anything to make this more normal. You had no idea how you kept the shake out of your voice.

“Relaaax, hot stuff, I’m on it. I got it, I got it,” he replied, his voice a full octave lower than what you were used to. “‘sides, I’m Mirage, remember? Protecting humans is kinda my thing.”

You scoffed. “Not with the way you drive.”

“Hey, I drive perfectly fine! You’re the one who’s scared of fun.” His servos left your hips to brace themselves on the floor. “Mirage, don’t drive so fast! Mirage, that’s a red light! Mirage, there are cops behind us!” His voice pitched up into something high and nasally to poorly, poorly mimic yours.

It was your turn to be affronted, though your mouth was open in a disbelieving sort of smile. “I don’t even sound like that, you fucker! And sorry for trying to keep us from getting arrested!”

“I dunno, you all sorta sound the same to our audio processors.” He was lying, and blatantly so. He had the distinct tone and pitch of your voice memorized down to the wavelength. “And besides, we wouldn’t get arrested.” His own voice took on a smug, self-satisfied edge, accompanied by the raise of his brow ridges.

“Oh, really? Why’s that? Please, enlighten me,” you snarked, crossing your arms over your chest and staring him down. In response, he leaned his head in, closer to you, closer than you expected, and an insufferable smirk crawled across his faceplates.

“Cuz cop cars can’t drive that fast,” he whispered conspiratorially, like it was a clever response.

What should have been a minute movement — just a shift of the head — actually became very noticeable on a twelve-foot-frame; his hips repositioned of their own accord to account for the redistribution of weight, and the change was enough to trip you up. Especially when you had been leaning in already to match his movement.

The world tilted as you started to fall forward; fearing injury or worse by tumbling off your semi-precarious perch, you jammed your hands out in front of you—

And slammed your palms directly on his chassis. It was all very fast after that. Mortified, you stared down at the planes of metal beneath you, feeling heat creep up, up, up your neck and seep into your face. Mirage had cursed above you out of surprise, and you felt the displacement of air as his servo shot up behind your back and hovered. Right there. He was right there, and he always would be.

You raised your head and made eye contact, and you knew it was over. His optics were wide with surprise, and they searched your face for any expression of pain or discontent. They cycled once, seeing none, and then flickered down to your lips.

He was so done for. Something in his expression sagged at your proximity; in his field of view, he saw an alert stating that his internal temperature was rising beyond ideal levels, and he would have laughed if not for you. Finally. Finally. Finally. He was half-expecting this to be a dream, something cooked up by his fried processors that he would wake up from any minute now. 

His servo was still hovering over your back.

“Can I—“

“Yes,” you said immediately in a sharp exhale — before he could even get the question out — and there it all went.

He surged forward like a flood from a dam, closing the distance between the both of you with a hungry rev of his engine. Explaining the logistics of it would sound silly; all you could do was go with the flow, just like every other time you’d ever kissed someone. All you knew was that it was satisfying, supremely so, and completely encompassing. Every sense was filled by him, and you realized with a kick of your heart that you never wanted it any other way.

Though your hand shook, you shoved past the fear and indulged in everything you had wanted for weeks, let yourself sink deep into that pit of want and refused to come up for air. Your fingers skated his curves and edges; you brought your palm up to the sharp angles of his jaw and smoothed it upward until it ran over the curve of his cheek.

He reacted to your touch like it was a live wire. Minute jerks of excitement ran through his frame, and when your hand rested on the side of his face, he tilted his helm into the kiss with barely restrained excitement. He was so careful, it made something inside you purr. That kind of caution was only reserved for something precious. You were precious. He couldn’t ever risk hurting you. Especially not by his own hand.

First impression was that his lips were far softer than you’d ever assumed. Pliable, hot metal pressed greedily against your mouth — more, more, more was a mantra echoed wordlessly between the both of you. The hovering servo came to rest on your back, pushing your front against his chassis as you shifted up on your toes to keep the angle of the kiss correct. Digits splayed against the planes of skin they found there, pressing down to feel your warmth — your heart slammed against your ribs so hard that Mirage could probably feel it against his palm.

With a hot flash, you wondered if the metal of his lips would bear the dent of your teeth from a bite. So you bit. It was more of a playful nip than anything, but the reaction you got was so instantaneous it was like Mirage had been waiting for it. Again, his engine throttled, the powerful rumble surging through you as his servo pinned you to his chassis. Against your mouth, his lips ticked up into a smile.

Air. You needed air. He let you pull away with no resistance, though his head did trail after your mouth for a moment.

You let your forehead sink down and rest against the top of his chassis for a moment; the condensation from your breath fogged the metal. Out of nowhere, manic giggles erupted from you. They shook your body incessantly as you rose and fell in time with Mirage’s heavy vents, your knees feeling weak and mind frazzled. From one kiss. One.

Laughter rocked his frame too, short chuckles of disbelief as his thumb rubbed circles into your back.

“Oh my god,” you murmured into the warm metal beneath you through shocks of giggles.

“Not exactly, but, eh, I’ll take it,” Mirage replied above you, and while he laughed at his own joke, you groaned and whacked him lightly with a palm. It wasn’t like he was unaffected though — far from it, in fact, judging from the steadily heating chassis beneath you and the tinge of static fringing his words.

“Bring me up,” you said hoarsely, twisting an arm behind you to paw at the servo on your back.

Without question, his other servo came up and curled under your thighs, hoisting you up so that his face was easier to reach. With most of your body now resting on his chassis and very much secured in his grip, you grasped his face in both your palms; he leaned so far into your touch with a shaky ex-vent that your noses almost brushed.

“Again?”

“Yeah, again,” he agreed, and this time you pulled him in, fingers hooking in some unseen seam behind his jaw as you crushed your mouth against his. Hunger, latent and now finally triggered, drove you closer, as close as you physically could, until your skin was starting to hurt from the random edges being pressed into it.

Curious above all else, you licked your tongue into the front of his mouth. The searing heat inside surprised you; it teetered on the edge of uncomfortable and reminded you very much of your computer at home when it ran for too long, with that special kind of mechanical stress and burning warmth that only came with overworked processors.

“‘S like that, is it?” he murmured into your mouth with a grin, his engine kicking up a notch and the vibration of his chassis hitting you very nicely right where you needed it most. You made some soft noise, half-gasp, half-groan, and hiked one of your legs up so it was bent at the knee, flattening your hips against his chest and fuck, there it was. The consistent rumble of his motor pressed a steady vibration right into your cunt over the seam of your jeans; a particular grind made you gasp and falter as you rolled your clit against the line of denim and held it there.

“Whoa-ho-ho! Heyyy, hot stuff, something feel good down there?” His voice was bursting at the seams with some rich kind of excitement; you breathed into his neck cabling as your hips jerked a little against his chassis. One servo pawed at your ass, clumsy with its eagerness, gripping and massaging the soft flesh it found there with intent.

Experimentally, his servo pressed down, pushing your pelvis down with it, and the pressure on your clit pulled a groan of satisfaction out of you that had his cooling fans sputter.

“Fuck,” you hissed through gritted teeth, and before he could say something stupid, you leaned your head down and pressed kisses to the delicate cabling of his neck.

A delighted noise rattled out of him, and his helm rolled back against the wall to allow you more access. Impatient, your kisses soon turned to bites, playful nips that tugged at the sensitive wiring and made his body jolt beneath yours like he’d been shocked. To your utter delight, you found that Mirage’s proclivity for talking extended to situations like these, too — noises streamed from his mouth as your curious teeth and hands worked over such a fragile part of his anatomy in ways that only a human could.

“Oh, Primus, babe, babe—“ he stammered out, and you lifted your head for just long enough of a window to allow him to swoop down and kiss you again, feverishly now.

Something thick and wet prodded past your teeth experimentally. For just a second you balked— and then remembered it was his glossa. His tongue. Yeah, you remembered that from your anatomy lesson; he’d stuck it out and pointed at it in a dumb way then, but fuck if it didn’t have your thighs tightening now. The hot biomesh probed your mouth, and it was so big you inadvertently drooled around it — but Mirage didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, you were pretty sure the spit dripping from your mouth around him was getting him even more worked up, judged by the way his digits tightened their grip on your ass.

You had been cold when you’d walked in that garage. Keyword there was had. Now your skin seared with a deep flush and steadily increasing heat; mindlessly, your hips started a slow, staccato rhythm that kept your breathing heavy. The servo on your back slid upwards to the point where it encompassed the back of both your neck and head. He could not get enough of your taste. He wanted it burned into the sensors on his glossa, for all he cared. Spit and lubricant swapped between the both of your mouths — you found that the metallic taste that seeped into your tongue did nothing but turn you on further.

Pulling away again for a deep inhale of air, you propped yourself semi-awkwardly on an elbow to look at him. Open adoration was written across his faceplates, along with blatant want that made his optics cycle frantically.

“I thought you were— fuck, I thought you were supposed to be drying me off,” you said, breaking in the middle of your sentence as his servo carefully started to move you. Just barely — just enough pressure to keep your hips working against him and chasing your pleasure.

“You really wanna?” He grinned at you, spit shiny on his chin. “I dunno about you, but I think I’m likin’ you being wet more.”

“You’re awful. That was terrible,” you laughed, brain foggy with arousal and general swelling affection for the bot underneath you.

“How many more of those you got left in you before you start admitting the truth that I’m the funniest bot you’ll ever meet?”

“I mean, you don’t exactly have stiff competition.”

“Aaand the best-looking.”

“I dunno… Optimus is kind of—“

“Hey!” he interrupted, bringing you up for another kiss to silence your thought before you could finish it. You happily complied, laughing into the heat of his mouth and then moaning in the same breath as his servo ground you down against his rumbling chassis again.

Hot. You were getting really hot. The damp clothes sticking to your skin were not helping; in fact, they felt as though they were going to start steaming being pressed against your skin like this. Against your wishes, you pulled backwards again, bracing yourself against the warm vents that substituted for his collarbones. They cycled hot, dry air against your fingertips, though it didn’t burn. Not yet, at least.

“Mirage,” you breathed, and that got his attention immediately. “…Are we fucking?”

“Please,” he instantly replied, so eager that it made your cunt throb. His enormous blue optics watched you with such intent that it almost made you want to shrink away from the scrutiny — but you steeled your resolve. You had him, and you had him right where you wanted. Opportunity of a fucking lifetime. You were not about to waste it.

You glanced down for a reprieve from the eye contact. “Fuck,” you swore softly, staring at the metalwork beneath you for a few heartbeats before shaking your head and glancing back upwards at him. “Okay, well— I— Okay. Let me just— do this—“

Hands shaking slightly, you balled your fists in the hem of your work shirt and wrestled it up and off you; the damp fabric lingered and peeled off of you, which made Mirage’s motor throttle powerfully underneath you. Other than that, though, you got no reaction, which made all that heat in your abdomen cool rapidly into a dense ball of abject horror.

Oh, you made a mistake. This was too much, you were too alien, too different—

The servo not supporting you against his chassis slid around from the planes of your back to your front, and you gasped sharply as he did the same fucking thing that drove you insane the first time, however many days ago. His thumb, warm on the palm-side, gently passed over the peak of your chest. His optics narrowed in on the indent in your soft flesh his digit created. Nerve endings in the trail it left behind sparked.

“Oh, you don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do that,” he said reverently, voice steeped in a combination of awe and victory.

Oh-kay! You sucked a deep breath in, a litany of responses running through your head. The boost to your ego was very much appreciated, and it helped lighten the sinking mass of worry that had formed in the pit of your stomach.

Mirage nearly groaned when you placed your soft palm atop the junction of his digit and the heel of his servo. “Do it again,” you decided on, and that worked damn well.

As his servo groped at your chest, he leaned in, tucking his face under your jaw. To accommodate, you tilted your head up and away—

Only to swear into negative space as he very much returned the favor from earlier and began carefully sucking the world’s biggest hickeys into the skin of your neck. Breaths came harsh and choppy as the expanse of his glossa, hot and spit-slick, laved over the gentle bites he worried into your skin with his denta. 

“Ah, Mirage, Mirage,” you breathed; every mention of his name spilling from your bruised lips made his circuitry heat just a little more. It was so much all at once — his servos were so broad that their expanse covered huge swaths of skin at once, and his mouth on such a sensitive part of your anatomy wasn’t helping either. Your hands clawed for purchase against his helm and the back of his neck. One palm flattened as much as it could on the back of his head, trying with all of your laughable human strength to bring him as close as possible. The other ended up cradling the side of his head, your thumb brushing over the audial disk there. With no small amount of wonder, you watched the plates of his back ruffle at your touch.

Mirage wasn’t trying to be weird, but he could die happy so long as he had the taste of your skin still registering on his glossa. It was more addictive than any high-grade he’d had back home by leagues. That human flavor of salt and skin and some kind of sweetness had his processors thrumming at maximum capacity; you made his mouth flood with lubricant, a fact you could corroborate by the amount that spilled over your bare sternum. The feeling of his own spit sliding down your front between your bruised breasts made the muscles of your abdomen twitch. Fingers shaped like claws now, you pressed weak kisses against the smooth curves of his helm wherever you could reach.

Your jeans were just getting in the way at this point. The minute shocks of pleasure you derived from grinding your clit against the inseam were just that — minute. You needed something more now or you were going to get frustrated, and you’d dealt with enough sexual frustration over the past weeks to be very sick of that feeling.

“Oh, fuck, okay— Mirage,” you said breathlessly, giving him a light tap on the side of his helm to get his attention. Reluctantly, he pulled away from your chest, optics dimmed with pleasure. They cycled once and returned to their full brightness as he cleared the fog of arousal — barely — away from his processors.

“All systems go, sugar?” Static hissed underneath his words.

You tried and failed to stifle a snort of a laugh. “Corny ass,” you mumbled, although you were absolutely close enough for his audial sensors to pick up on it. He made a sound of indignation, but you pushed forward regardless. “I, um, I need to get these off.” Hooking your thumbs in the waistband of your jeans to emphasize your point, you glanced up at his optics again.

Blankness for a second. Then it registered. “Oh, right, right, of course, haha! You, uh, want help? Or you got it?”

“I think I can manage taking my pants off,” you laughed. “Just— let me sit on like— the top of your chest, there we go,” you instructed, and the hand under your ass pushed you up until you were turned around and seated on the lip of the top of his chassis. For a second, you wrestled with the denim — still not fully dried — but you managed to kick both your jeans and your shoes off. They were thrown somewhere in the direction of the door. God, you were so glad you locked it.

Underwear went next. There was a beat of hesitation — for what, you weren’t sure — but like you’d done so often as of late, you just ignored your trepidation and worked the elastic down your legs. A laugh barked out of you when you lifted the fabric up and saw the downright ridiculous wet spot that stained the gusset.

“Jesus Christ, look what you did to me,” you said with a faux accusatory tone, holding your panties out for Mirage to inspect. Two digits delicately took them from you; he held them up to his face, so close that it made you blush from sheer embarrassment.

“Wow. You weren’t kiddin’ ‘bout all the wet being in one spot, huh?” He examined them with no small amount of fascination, much to your mortification.

“Mirage! Put those down, oh my god,” you said, covering your mouth with a choked noise.

“What, I can’t admire my work?”

“No you can not.”

Mirage pouted at your denial, and mumbled something about you being no fun, but he still lifted you off his chassis regardless. Like he was helpless to your draw, he pulled you in for another kiss, though he couldn’t stop his mouth from wandering. Down, down, down, until his nose was nestled in your chest and he spoke into the soft flesh of your stomach. Shaky ex-vents tickled the damp skin there.

“Shit, baby, tastes so good,” he mumbled, and you were impressed by his ability to sound completely sex-drunk without even having done anything yet.

Your hips rolled against nothing; they bumped into his neck cabling and the top of his chassis fruitlessly, and a noise of frustration eked out of you. Mirage seemed to get the memo and pulled you away. Your body was brought down until your ass was sat firmly on his hips — his interface panel nestled right in front of your dripping cunt — and your back was leaned up against the flat support of his thighs; his knees were tucked up and his pedes placed firm and flat on the floor to give you the most stability. Fumbling for a second before you found somewhere to place your own feet, the enormity and absurdity of the situation brought more of those breathless giggles to your mouth that seized your chest and shook your shoulders.

Toootally breaking Hynek’s scale here. So beyond abduction. Way beyond abduction.

A few careful digits slipped around your knee, wormed their way between your legs. “Can I—“ 

Your thighs fell open without a word.

What had made you fall for Mirage the hardest was his motormouth. He never stopped talking; he always had something stupid to add, something to pitch in with, some silly joke to crack. There was a lightness he teased out of you that even you didn’t expect. But now? Now, for once, he was speechless. It made uncharacteristic shyness flare in your gut and heat your face as he studied your very bare, very human form with slightly parted lips and enormous optics.

His body caught up before his mouth did. The servo on your knee slid over it until it gripped your bare thigh; he watched the flesh shift back and forth under his touch with no small amount of fascination.

“Is it— it’s okay?” Your voice sounded very small. It was a special kind of insecurity to be faced with.

“Oh, yeah, it’s okay. It’s cool, you’re just— just different. A lot different.” He jiggled your thigh again playfully.

“Good kind of different though, right?”

“Very good.” To punctuate it, his engine snarled again, seemingly in response to the drool of your cunt on the hot metal of his interface panel. “Primus, you look good, babe. Shit.”

Ego boost! You smiled. Any other partner — any person — and this would be too much, this position too unflattering, your everything too open… With Mirage, though, it just felt like it always did. Easy.

One of your hands rested atop the servo still holding onto the meat of your thigh. The other slid down over your shining chest, passed over your stomach and pubic mound, and brushed past wiry hair, shiny with slick, in order to slide a finger up your folds. A whine ripped its way out of you at direct contact with your clit after mere heavy petting, and you couldn’t stop yourself from drawing tight circles with your fingers and twitching your hips forward to eke out more of that delicious pressure.

The servo on your thigh dug into your skin. Mirage’s vents became far heavier at the open display of your arousal; it has always been him vying for your attention. Now that it was the other way around, he wasn’t sure if he could handle it. Transfluid was seeping between the seams of his interface panel, joining your own fluids in a shiny pool that sent sparks up his struts. He made you like this, made you so wet you dripped, made your clit swollen enough to be visible, made your cunt tight with heat and Primus, he needed you on his spike so bad, he thought he might die without it.

He verbalized these thoughts with an unintelligible noise of adoration.

It was enough encouragement for you to slide down from your clit and venture two fingers into yourself. Zero friction. They glided. Christ, when was the last time you were this wet? You’d slept with a handful of people, especially in your first couple years of college, but you’d never been soaked like this. Mirage’s cooling fans choked at the sight of your fingers vanishing into you. His thumb dug into the crease of your thigh and hip as he leaned just a little closer to watch.

Very little time passed before it devolved into your fingers working inside your walls, crooking against that one spot that made your breath hitch and hips jump. Mindlessly, you ground against your palm, catching your clit on the heel of your hand with a sweet moan that nearly shorted out his processors. He had to hear that again. Without thinking, he moved his servo over, resting the digits on your lower stomach and gently, gently nudging the heel of your hand out of the way to replace it with his thumb.

“Ah!” spilled from your lips at the insistent, broad pressure of his thumb, and your hips jerked against it, working your fingers that much deeper. Tears pricked at your eyes from pure sensation. “Mirage, mmm, just— just rub, up and down— or circles, just move, I don’t ca—are,” you floundered, the last word breaking as he did as he was told, carefully sliding his thumb up and down on the bead of your clit and sending twinges of searing pleasure up your spine.

You found quickly that just your fingers weren’t enough. Not when the reminder of his servo lay heavily on your lower stomach, tips of his digits digging into the soft fat there insistently. Although you were loath to part with your hand, you pulled your fingers out with a sigh. Mirage froze, optics flicking to your shiny hand as you spread your fingers, examining the strings of fluid that connected them with a far-off feeling of pride.

“Sugar, you’re killin’ me here,” he groaned, and you saw, for one endearing second, a puff of actual steam rise from the vents near his shoulders as he ex-vented harshly.

“Okay, well, here,” you said, unable to come up with anything clever with the purr of arousal in your cunt fanned by the heat of his interface plate and consistent, maddening rumble of his engine. Your hand, still shiny and wet with your fluids, grasped the top of his servo and gently pushed it downwards, until the tips of his digits rested against your drooling entrance. To fight the whimper that threatened to claw its way out of your throat, you nearly chewed a gash into the inside of your cheek. A gasp of an in-vent jolted his frame in awe.

“You sure? I mean— it’s cool?” His flustered stammering was so damn endearing; supreme affection for him swelled in your chest. 

“I’m sure. Just— just go slow.” His adoration was fueling your bravery. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you; if he did, it would never be intentional, and it would never be something he couldn’t fix.

He paused for a second before remembering the position of your own hand and flipping his servo so it was palm side up; you dragged a large enough breath in to balloon your lungs fully at the sight. Anticipation danced in the burn of your spread thighs. For a few seconds, it was just exploration; his digits slid over your silky folds, collecting the gathered slick with minute trembles. One delicious slide all the way up from entrance to clit had you gasping. Mirage silently thanked Primus above that your whole set-up was similar enough to his valve to know at least some of his way around it. It was just hotter. Wetter. Softer. So much softer.

“‘Raj, just— fuuuck,” you groaned out, your head rolling back as the tip of one digit sank into you, soon followed by the rest as it slid all the way to the base. Stars flickered behind your eyelids. The width matched the two fingers put together you’d just pulled out of yourself, though the texture was so wildly different to anything you’d ever put up there that it made your brain stutter for several moments as your nerve endings processed the feeling. The individual ridges and articulations of his knuckles dragged against the silk of your walls in a way that pulled the breath right out of you; your chest rose and fell rapidly with shallow breaths as your thighs twitched.

You were a mess. Mirage was in love. “Holy shit, baby, I get you this bad?” It was only partly teasing. “l— fuck, a second one good?”

“Good, yes, please.”

All thoughts were wiped clean from the forefront of your brain with the addition of a second digit. Slick noises and the sound of dripping fluids landing on metal and concrete filled your ears over the steadily climbing racket that Mirage’s entire body was making — his cooling fans competed with his engine to make the most noise, over top of the typical whirs and clicks that came with his motion. You couldn’t look, could only feel with your eyes squeezed shut as Mirage pumped both digits in and out, in and out, in and out. One arm was thrown up behind you, hooking loosely around his knee to ground you somewhere. The other was occupied: your hand clutched his wrist like a lifeline, white-knuckling it even as your sweaty palm slipped over the metal cuff. When his thumb returned to your clit, swirling clumsy but eager circles on top of it, that only contributed to the tight, hot coil building in your gut.

Mirage had half a mind to pop his interface panel right then and service himself, because the sight of you, shining with sweat and slick with his spit as you rode his digits, was almost too much to bear. The plush folds of your cunt, tight with arousal, were so soft against the hard planes of metal that comprised his servos; the contrast was short-circuiting him. Under his paneling, his spike was already pressurized. Had been for what felt like hours. Your ass was beginning to slide back and forth just a little due to the transfluid collecting underneath you; the rippling motion of your flesh was driving him insane. As were your walls, Primus, your walls that sucked greedily around his digits as they glided in and out of the tight ring of muscle that made up your entrance.

Your name left his lips in a groan that was an octave too high to be suave. The thought of your cunt clamping down on his spike — so soft, so hot, so wet — like it was doing on his digit had his hips rolling against nothing, working fruitlessly for friction they weren’t getting.

Sweat collected wherever skin touched skin. Condensation fogged wherever skin touched metal. The combination of his digits stretching you, curling in you when he realized what a dramatic reaction it incurred, and his thumb working your clit was getting to be too much. Heartbeat roaring in your ears like the rain outside, you clawed a grip into a seam in his leg and jerked your hips against his servo with breathy noises and gasps that you certainly wouldn’t be proud of later. For now, though, all it did was fuel Mirage’s ego and go straight to his spike.

Almost there. You were almost there, grinding your way towards it, sweat beading on your hot skin—

He pulled out. He pulled his digits out. A keen tore out of you at the loss of feeling, tears springing to your eyes as the hot edge you were so fucking close to fell away, your hips working unconsciously against a servo no longer there. With a gasp of a breath, you wrenched your eyes open, blinking away the collected tears and nearly baring your teeth at the bot beneath you — until you saw what he was doing.

In utter astonishment, you watched as the digits that were just inside you slid into his mouth, peeks of his glossa flashing as it worked them clean.

“Oh fuck,” you said before you could stop yourself. One of your hands slapped over your mouth; you tasted sweat and metal. His optics slid to you, lidded and cycling frantically as he processed your taste. A harsh ex-vent slumped his shoulders — the servo not preoccupied with his mouth clutched your hip like you were something precious.

“Sugar,” he breathed, static grating on the word. “Fuck, c’mere.”

Servos hefted you up, and you clutched onto them out of instinct as he helped you up to his face. Without thinking, you lunged forward to kiss, your tongue seeking out his glossa and tasting yourself with a resurging thrum of arousal. He cut it short, though, ignoring your protests as he cupped your ass in one servo and held you aloft. 

For a second, you stared at him in confusion. “What are you—“ Then it hit you. “Oh.” Your heart rate skyrocketed.

The grin stretching his faceplates was downright devious. “Hang onto something, wouldja? Not that you’re gonna fall. Just want you to enjoy the ride.” A short, heady chuckle rounded out his words.

“You’re insane— oh!” Your lighthearted scold was immediately interrupted by the press of your hips against his face and the slide of his slick glossa over the entirety of your sex. “Oh my fuck!” sobbed out of you as your upper body jackknifed over his helm. One arm curled around it with clawing fingers; the other slammed, palm flat, against the concrete wall.

A groan of satisfaction rumbled into your cunt as the taste of salt and sweat and girl bloomed on his glossa — just like earlier but so much stronger now. The proud line of his nose bumped your clit for a second before his glossa followed, narrowing so he could flick at it experimentally. Lubricant spilling from his mouth mixed with your own slick and ran down his chin; his cooling fans sputtered and spun weakly for a second as he pushed up further against your hips, malleable mesh drawing shapes between your clit and your hole.

Your fingernails scraped against the wall as your hips jerked of their own accord; the edge stolen from you earlier had very much returned, and the feeling of his faceplates sliding over the plush, soft skin of your inner thighs was doing something terrible to you.

“Mirage, ah, ah— I’m— fuck, fuck!” Broken syllables and curses streamed from your lips as a substitute for real words. When he closed his lips around your clit and sucked, it was over. It was so quick, embarrassingly quick. The orgasm that had been building suddenly snapped free and tore through you like a fucking hurricane, leaving spasming muscles and a wonderful endorphin afterglow in its wake. As you sobbed out his name, he slid two digits of his free servo back into you just to give you something to clamp down on, and it made tears spill down your burning cheeks from pure stimulus. Mirage drank you; he wanted nothing more than this, to swallow you down and leave your taste buzzing on his glossa like high-grade. Several thundering heartbeats later found you hunched over his helm as his glossa continued to work lazily against you, forcing twitches out of your thighs from pure overstimulation.

“Okay, okay,” you managed to croak, voice hoarse from weeping moans and boneless from what was probably one of the most insane finishes of your life. You tapped out weakly on the side of his helmet. Reluctantly, he pulled your pussy away from his face and cradled you in both servos, one noticeably damper than the other, in front of him.

His chin was shiny with you, his grin wide and completely self satisfied, and his optics dimmed with pleasure. If you were being honest, he’d never looked better, but in your frazzled state you weren’t sure if you had the capacity to string together enough words to form a compliment.

“I gotta say, compliments to the chef,” he hummed, and you stared at him, words not processing.

“Did you seriously— you just gave me head and that’s what you’re gonna say?”

“Uhh, yeah, babe. And I meant it.”

A genuine laugh shook you. “Oh my god. Ohhh my god. Okay. Well, put me back down there, you corny fuck,” you said with a gesture back at his hips.

“Oooh, keep sayin’ that. I’ll start thinkin’ you mean it.” Your body, errant trembles still running through it, was set carefully down back near its original position. This time, you sat in something closer to a straddle, back straight instead of leaning.

The garage air had gone from temperate and warm to fucking scorching. Outside, the rain droned on, occasional rumbles of thunder sounding so far away that they may as well have not been real. Your entire world had been compressed down to one point — a gravitational singularity in this garage, crushing space and time down until only bricks and concrete stood between you and the oblivion outside. All you knew was living metal and Mirage’s voice, trembling with excitement and fuzzy with static, and that was all you wanted to know. His chassis was making so much noise that you probably, under any other circumstance, would have been concerned; if he blew a gasket fucking you, though, you would wear that with pride.

Pure adoration reflected right back at you from his optics as his servos settled on your hips, his thumbs stroking your slick skin. Any concerns he had about Prime’s reaction to you, or to this — well, maybe not to this specifically, but to the both of you being together — were completely null and void in your presence; the reality of your soft weight in his lap was enough to short out his circuits.

Your hands slid down from the cooling fan in his abdomen spinning at maximum speed towards his soaked interface panel; glancing up at him demurely through your lashes, you spoke.

“You gonna let me return the favor?”

“Huh?” He broke out of his reverie. “Oh, right, um— yeah. Yeah, please.”

A smile crawled over your face at the reminder that despite all the poetic words you could come up with in your head, Mirage was still, and always would be, Mirage. Dazed already, he ran the subroutines to open his interface panel. Machinery shifted with a few clicks, and there was a hiss and an outpour of steam as his spike swung up before you, clearly aching for some kind of touch.

You heard more plates shifting lower, too, and out of curiosity peeked downward; something slick glowed lower down, but the nervous shifting of Mirage’s hips and his closed thighs obscured it from view.

Probably better to just focus on what’s in front of you. Your eyes roamed the length of his array first, your mouth going dry just at the size of it. It was bigger than any toy you owned, anyone you’d slept with, and bigger than his digits, too. Still, though… what were humans if not persevering?

And flexible?

You wrapped a hand around it right below the tip, and a full shudder lanced up Mirage’s frame; it was so thick that there was still space between your fingers and thumb left over. Transfluid, milky in consistency but pearlescent pink in color, spilled from the flared head. Curiosity overtook you, and you swiped a thumb up to catch an errant bead of it as it trailed down the side. The fluid was semi-oily, and smelled… fairly innocuous. Metallic, sure, but that came with the territory.

The array itself was as impressive as it was pretty. Like everything else about Mirage, it was fancy, mostly chrome with blue striping up the sides that led to a fully blue head. The biomesh it was made of — similar to his glossa — gently throbbed with alien pulses as you stared at it. Oh, that was hot. Why was that so hot?

Exploration in full was rewarded with soft noises spilling unbidden from Mirage’s lips, his hips twitching uncontrollably as you carefully slid your hand down from the tip to the base in one fluid motion, feeling the transfluid slick under your fingers. “Mmph, I— ah,” he choked out through gritted denta as you observed him.

Oh. Oh. The realization of the power you held over the big mech made a special kind of arousal thrum through you. Another slow pump had his hips jerk up once and a servo clamp over his mouth.

“This was not included in your anatomy lesson,” you said pointedly, a cheshire grin on your face as you hovered dangerously close to his spike. It throbbed in your grip, working another bead of transfluid out of the tip.

“Oh shit, babe,” he groaned, rolling his helm back against the wall. “Uh— hands— hands-on learning?” he offered weakly, unable to focus on anything other than the soft, damp skin of your palm around his spike.

He made the mistake of looking down as you let spit drool out of your bruised lips and spill over his spike for additional lube, and he snapped his optics shut to avoid from a spontaneous overload right there. The noises he made as you slid your tongue over the head were pitiful.

“Fuck, baby, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hissed, spinal struts clicking as they arched. Primus, was he seriously about to overload in your mouth? Your lips closed around the head and sucked lightly, and he yelped. A servo shot out and carefully grabbed your shoulder, though the tremors running through his digits told you of the restraint he was barely employing. A string of spit and transfluid connected your mouth to his spike as you lifted your head, and he had to force himself to look away for a second with that same servo clutched over his mouth to keep steady. “‘m not gonna last like that, you— can we just—“

“Fuck?”

“Primus, yes.”

“Yeah, we can. I guess.” Despite the leap of excitement in your stomach, you rolled your eyes.

“Don’t even start with that, c’mon,” he said fondly, one servo supporting you as you lifted yourself above his spike and stared down at it with no small amount of trepidation.

It looked a little more manageable from above, but working with something the size of your forearm would cool anyone’s heels, even if there was slick drooling down your inner thighs. Mirage’s servos settled heavy on your hips and you braced yourself on first his knees behind you, then his wrists as you tilted your pelvis to align your entrance as best you could. You sank. The head pressed insistently against your hole. Relax. Relax. Relax.

A deep breath filled your lungs, then whooshed out, deflating your shoulders. Unable to help himself, Mirage inched one of his servos over and ran his thumb through your folds, rolling over your clit and jolting your hips enough to slip the head inside. A long sigh of  “Fuuuuck.” was all that managed to come out of your mouth, your toes curling at the stretch and then the pop of the flared head sliding past your entrance.

Mirage’s entire frame trembled. His vents became shallow and sharp, and the tips of his digits clamped onto the soft meat of your hips desperately as the sensors on his spike reckoned with the realization of just how wet and warm humans really were. “Babe, babe, babe, shit,” he stammered out. “That’s— um, fuck, that’s good!” A weak laugh escaped him as his chin sank down to his chassis, cooling fans hiccuping from stress.

“Hold on, just hold on, I can… shit.” Sweat-dampened palms slid off his wrists for a second before you resituated yourself and leaned back a little, letting your upper back rest against his tucked up thighs. Whatever you were doing worked, because you sank further, and you thanked whatever god was listening that you’d already finished once, making your body quite boneless and that much easier to maneuver.

Mirage, on the other hand, was as taut as a fucking bowstring, made helpless to his own pleasure and completely powerless to you. His optics first scrunched shut, unable to look at you for fear of overloading at the sight of you finally on his spike; then they flew open at the realization that he wanted this burned into his visual processors forever.

Your skin shone with sweat and lubricant; rivulets trailed down your body like a visual pointer to your slick sex, nestled within wiry hair and stretching so beautifully around his spike that it tore an honest-to-Primus whimper out of his vocal synthesizer.

“Mirage, I need you to— mmnh, fuck, I need you to just touch— please,” you gasped, his spike punching the air right out of your lungs. Although your words were broken, he seemed to get the memo, and despite his minute tremors, brought his thumb back to your clit and pressed down. Just the surface area alone made you sigh and roll your head back in pleasure, and it loosened you enough to take him right up until the head nestled against your cervix and your ass brushed his hip plating. There was maybe an inch or two left, but you felt immense pride at managing to work most of his spike in — and immense pleasure, too. If he moved his thumb at all, you were done; you were so fucking full you could barely breathe, and you felt the slow, rhythmic pulses of his biomesh throb through you.

Mirage had never been one for restraint. He did things all-in, one-hundred-and-ten percent, all with a flourish to top it off; the feeling of the hot silk of your walls flexing around his spike just sitting there was enough to quite literally kill his cooling fans via a micro-short in an attempt to divert more power towards keeping his hips still. Senseless praises streamed from his lips, voice whining and roughened by static fuzz. “Yes, yes, yes, sugar, Primus, that’s good— feels so good, please, can I move, please,” he fumbled, jaw slack and optics flickering with the power surges cascading throughout his frame.

“Just— let me start,” was your response, tears pricking at your eyes, and although Mirage groaned pitifully underneath you, he listened.

You had a fair amount of experience with riding toys, and you knew what felt good; the lightbulb above your head became apparent. A shift in your position pushed further weight to the back so that the ridges and nodes of his spike pressed insistently toward the front — though, to be fair, it pressed everywhere — and oh, fuck, right there. Now shoved against that sweet spot inside you, the pleasure teetered on the edge of pain, and you dragged yourself up with a vicious grip on the seams of his thighs behind you. Mirage whined and shifted his hips just slightly; it was enough to pull a moan from your lips as you slid upward. Thick, sluggish droplets of slick swirled with transfluid oozed down his spike. He watched — it was all he could do — with an open mouth and rapidly cycling optics.

The flared head caught against your entrance; a spike (ha!) of pleasure lanced through you. “Okay, now, you can— help me, please,” you stammered out, dizzy with pleasure already and feeling a loopy kind of open-mouthed grin situate itself on your face. 

Your words were all he needed. Although he desperately, desperately wanted to snap his hips up and chase the vice-grip of your slick walls, he’d rather take on Megatron alone with his servos tied behind his back than risk hurting you. Especially while interfacing. He did not want to have to explain that to anyone.

Thumb slowly working your clit, his servos gripped your hips just a little too tight and assisted; you could feel the tremors lancing up and down his arms as he helped you establish a rhythm. At a word, the dam would break, but for now, you maintained tenuous control over the mech and over yourself as you rode him with his help.

Well. Rode was a strong word for it; he all but dragged you up and down the length of his spike, earning each of you luxurious groans from the other, but your quivering thigh muscles assisted as best they could. Heat surged through your body at the drag of his nodes against your walls, and you realized with a hot flash that Mirage was going to fucking ruin you for anybody else, and you liked that. Which was good, because he could have stayed buried in your cunt for the rest of his life and offlined happily just like that.

It was good. It was really good. But even the overwhelming stretch wasn’t enough. Just like earlier — it seemed like light years away now — when you’d still had pants on and hadn’t been completely lost to metal-on-skin debauchery, the grind of your clit on the seam of your jeans had been good, but not enough. Your fingers clawed at his wrists. The burn of your thighs from exertion seared through you, mixing with the jolts of pleasure from your clit to create some new, terrible monster that had you twitching with shameless ecstasy.

“Mirage, Mirage,” you croaked, as he slid you down his spike again and pushed it into your lungs, “I’m— fuck, please, faster, please, please.” In any other scenario, your begging would have immensely embarrassed you; now, though, it seemed like the only viable option to get him to fuck you like you needed him to.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed, and you gasped as he kept moving you, legs jerking uselessly. “You— fuck, you sure?”

“Yes, please, just— oh, fuck!” The cry — and the air in your lungs — was knocked right out of you by a single desperate snap of his hips upward, his spike driven straight home. Your entire upper body crumpled forward, kept upright only by a tenuous grip on his wrists, and then he really started fucking you, and you were gone.

His cooling fans surged back to life as he slammed into you, power no longer diverted towards holding the actuators of his hips back. No, now he was fucking jackhammering into you, and you were barely moving as his spike pistoned in and out of you, slick drooling from your cunt. Like he remembered himself, his thumb began to work furiously against your clit, and you rewarded him with a gasp and more than a few uncontrollable moans of his name, which only served to fuel him more.

Not like he was being quiet, either. You were glad that the building was solid brick and the rain continued to pour outside, because the amount of noise coming from his chassis and spilling from his lips was worrying. Praises and broken mentions of your name streamed from him; he tossed his helm back against the wall with his optics squeezed shut to keep from overloading prematurely. It was too much— it was way too fucking much. Your poor overworked cunt was nearly bruised with sensitivity, barely able to keep up with the stretch of his spike as the nodes pulsing along it raked that sweet spot inside of you mercilessly. Neither of you were going to last long; not your fragile human body nor his torqued-up frame could handle much more of this.

Every sharp thrust paired with the frantic, messy circles he pressed into your clit brought you viciously closer and spilled tears from your eyes. All you could really do was hold on as Mirage wrung pleasure from both your body and his. Impossibly, his thumb worked faster, his pace got even more brutal, and you were almost seizing from pleasure as your nerve endings were frayed raw. That peak was building in your gut, that familiar tight coil of heat, for the second time that night, and you knew it was going to completely destroy you, and you wanted it to.

Without warning, Mirage spread his knees apart, slammed his pedes flat on the floor, and thrusted up. His spinal struts arched again to get his spike that much further inside of your yielding body, his overload imminent and warning signs flashing in his optics’ periphery. “Fuck, yes— yes, baby, yes, yes, ah, shit!” His frenzied whine rang in your ears as steam from his vents heated the air around you; the only thing that rang in your ears besides your thunderous heartbeat was the heady slap of skin against metal, everything slick with your combined fluids.

You responded in kind at the new angle with a cry of his name and some noises that resembled words, but the way he sheathed his spike inside you — fuck, was it all the way in? — and ground his thumb against your clit was too much— too much— you couldn’t—

You shattered. Doubling over from pleasure, you sobbed incoherently as your climax slammed into you. Pleasure crackled through your veins like lightning; a fog of pleasure dulled your senses until the only thing you could focus on was his spike pulsing in your cunt and his thumb still grinding against your clit. Tears pricked at your eyes, joining the ones already wetting your cheeks, as jolts of pleasure lanced up your spine. Maybe you moaned his name, maybe you didn’t. You couldn’t tell.

Mirage went soon after you, because the feeling of your walls clamping around his spike as if trying to suck him in impossibly further did him in instantly. His optics snapped open wide before slamming shut and he cried your name as the best overload of his life wracked his frame; the actuators of his hips trembled violently, along with his servos, as transfluid gushed into you and was immediately forced out by the pure lack of room inside your cunt. Engine snarling, cooling fans nearly spinning off their axles, he held your hips as flush to his as possible while the both of you rode out your respective climaxes, twitching around each other violently. Minute jerks of his hips attempted to work more transfluid inside of you. Brain still wiped blank with pleasure, all you could do was make soft noises and let the aftershocks spasm through you.

Consciousness eventually came back to you in gritty waves. Mirage had set your body down, leaned back against his thighs, his spike still seated within you but depressurizing slowly. Transfluid seeped out of your puffy folds, and you lifted a shaking hand to collect some of it and taste it. Metallic. Like you’d expected.

Enormous vents whooshed through his frame as he attempted to cool his chassis; coolant dripped from him, some of it turned to steam by the pure heat of his internal mechanisms. Body shaking and feeling very small and human, you stroked a thumb over his wrist where you held it, feeling both its ambient warmth and a surge of affection. And satisfaction.

You were absolutely going to feel this in the morning, holy shit. Thank God you didn’t have work tomorrow.

Mirage eventually came back down to earth, his optics cracking open and cycling a few times before they flared to their usual brightness. Lids heavy and a dopey grin on his face, he carefully lifted you off his spike — it slid out of you with a slick noise that made you flush — and brought you up to face-level. With one servo, he held you tight against his torso; he planted the other flat on the floor and resituated his hips so he could slump down further against the wall, his entire frame lax.

Self-satisfaction beamed at you from his faceplates. “Oh, that was good, huh?”

You scoffed, too tired to get riled up at his teasing; you knew he was feeling the same as you. “Yeah, pretty good. I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk tomorrow, to be totally honest.” An exhausted laugh left you.

“Gonna count that as a win.”

“You… do whatever you want.” You waved a limp hand at him dismissively, letting the rise and fall of his chassis with his vents rock you.

“Well, then, I wanna do this,” he purred, and brought you in for a kiss that communicated all his smug affection without any of his stupid jokes. You returned it gratefully, a smile on each of your mouths as you basked in that pleasant post-sex glow.

The rain still droned outside. A boom of thunder rolled through the building; the lights flickered. Both you and Mirage glanced upward. His optics slid back down to you first.

“You thinkin’ about going anywhere in this weather?” he asked, raising a brow ridge.

“I dunno, do I have a ride?”

“Nah,” he replied playfully, kissing you again, and you found that it could storm for the rest of your life, and you wouldn’t really care. So long as you had your favorite — yes, your favorite, not that you could ever admit around him — to keep you company.

[artykyn]

Megamind was 9 days old when his parents shipped him off the planet. His species is full of super geniuses, Megamind canonically remembers what was happening on that day.

We don’t know how old Minion is but regardless of that, what we do know is that Megamind’s parents trusted him to be a fully capable and responsible caretaker. So whatever he is and however old he is, we can assume he also has a good memory of their home planet and what happened.

Metroman, on the other hand... he has incredible physical powers, but definitely no impressive mind powers. Or else Hal would have become smart. There’s no reason to believe that Metroman’s intelligence or childhood mental development was any more impressive than the average human.

...what I’m saying is that there’s a nonzero chance that Metroman has absolutely NO idea where he is from. Parents probably didn’t have time to leave a note in his capsule. Dude probably thinks he’s just a super special human or some kind of lab experiment and that Megamind and Minion are the only two aliens in this situation. Doesn’t realize he was their galactic neighbor.

Just. Imagine them all hanging out as friends sometime after the events of the movie, and Metroman asks Megamind and Minion how they met each other. A totally innocent and normal question to ask.

But it snowballs into a much different conversation

[logicallyblind]

Okay okay but consider possible batfam fic idea:  

so Bruce is in an emergency justice league meeting that got called but because its taking place at night he has a comm on in his ear playing at a low volume because all of the batfam are out on patrol around gotham covering his patrol route for him and because you know B is a paranoid, overprotective fucker he just to make sure everything is going smoothly for his kids but he doesn’t plan on actually letting them know he’s tapped into their network because he can already hear the lecture from Dick about trusting them to take care of the city.  

So he’s listening to them quietly while also paying attention to Clark talking about some alien diplomacy issue and his kids are YAPPING away about the stupidest shit to one another cause they don’t have B telling them off for ‘unprofessional unnecessary chatter while on patrol’ and  you’re getting a mix of all the dynamics between them all and the longer the meeting is going on the more B’s eye is just TWITCHING because his Dad senses are just going hay wire and he is just here like ‘I cannot say anything in front of the league because they cannot know I have children cause I'm Batman and I work alone blah blah blah’, usual brooding, but Damian and Tim are squabbling with one another about a rescue that took place an hour ago and Dick is challenging Jason to a parkour contest and Steph is challenging the Riddler to a riddle off with riddles she made up and have no answer just to piss him off and his dad sense is just like an alarm going off and then he just cant take it anymore cause Duke (pretend he’s on nightshift to make up for the man down or smth idk shh) says something like ‘I'm going to do my book report in the morning Richard leave me be’ even though Bruce KNOWS he isn't going to do it in the morning, this has happened before they have an AGREEMENT, a CONTRACT god damn it but they don't know Bruce is listening to the comms Duke just goes something like “its fine B won't even find out!” and Bruce just LOSES it there and then and just presses his comm and goes “NO. No, stfu all of you I am taking charge here” and he just starts going off on them all for the different things they were whining about like

“No Signal, go and do your damn book report right now you are not going to be doing it in the morning you always say you will and you never wake up early enough to get it done so then you end up speed doing it in the car while nearly stress crying and I am cannot deal with that while running on 49 hours of no sleep so go and do it right this damn minute. I am TIRED, I am tired boy go. GO. I love you, goodnight.” 

“N go and unload the damn dishwasher. I asked you four. FOUR days ago to do it and A is not coming home until next week please I am begging you I have been drinking my coffee out of bowls and a straw for days now. Thank you, I love you goodnight.”  

“Red Robin. Put the coffee down. No- I know its in your hand I can feel it. I can feel it in my BONES child you cannot hide from me, down. Now. Good. Get a piece of fruit and go to bed. No I don't give a fuck if- no. I don't care if the pentagon has laughably easy security to bypass right now it has been over 72 hours since you closed your eyes I WILL call A I will, I’ll do it right now. I’m calling him right now- good okay goodnight. I’m sending Dick to check on you to make sure you’re actually sleep. I love you too goodnight”  

“Robin I know you're there. Damn right go to bed, Titus can go with you yes you don't have to ask every night baby its going to be the same answer, I love you goodnight.” 

“Hood and Spoiler stop trying to goad rogues into fighting each other and go home. Hood will you- thank you. Goodnight I love you both....no S I will not ask Ivy if she’ll make you real life lil shop of horrors plant to leave at your ex’s house please stop asking. Goodnight.”   

"C are you- I love you too."

And he just lets out this enormous, patented Dad sigh and looks up after a few moments and realizes the entire justice league is just watching him absolutely GOBSMACKED because oh my god how long has this been going on for?? because like what the fuck this was cold, calculated, ‘they think he's actually a robot’ Batman, who just all of a sudden just went BOOM father mode is activated, this is a patriARCH, you know? Daddy bats alright. And he's just like, his facial expression doesn't so much as twitch but a light blush just appears on his entire face and then Clark is just like HEART EYES and Hal is just like HEARTEYES (??!!) and Barry is suddenly having a sexuality crisis because what the fuck is this, and Diana is just like, speechless but in love and he just mumbles after a few moments “...you can continue your speech Clark I apologize for my lapse in professionalism” and Hal is just like “NAH MOTHERFUCKER YOU ARE NOT BREEZING PAST THAT WHAT THE FUCK SPOOKY??” and then the entire situation just devolves in chaos.  

[natalievoncatte]

Lena didn’t have time for traffic. She looked up from her phone and glared at the back of her driver’s head.

“Frank, why is it taking so long?”

“I’m not Frank, Ma’am. He called out this morning.”

Lena sighed. “And your name?”

“Vincent, ma’am.”

“Vincent, why is this taking so long?”

He signed. “Traffic, ma’am. Sounds like there’s a few blocks downtown closed. Supergirl is fighting some monster or alien or something.”

Lena stopped herself from smiling softly. “Ah, well then. Anyway, might as well see if you can find us a way around. I just don’t like to stand still.”

The driver nodded.

“What do you think about Supergirl, ma’am?”

Lena sighed. “Forgive me, Vincent, but I do have some work to concentrate on, here. I’m not usually one for chitchat. I hope you don’t mind.”

She sank back into her seat and flicked to the next email. There were a lot of fires to put out. Upcoming product launches, grant applications, university partnerships, charity events, plus her own work. She was becoming so strained lately that she was seriously considering stepping down from the direct CEO role so she could spend more time in the lab, where her real passion was.

Sometimes she almost sympathized with Lex; the life of a CEO could easily drive someone insane. Lena would rather spend her days in a labcoat or doing charity work than listening to another entitled silver spoon-

“You’re going the wrong way,” Lena said, sharply.

“I’m finding a way around,” said the driver. “You know, you never answered my question, before. What do you think of Supergirl?”

Lena stuffed her phone in her pocket and thrust her hand in her jacket, freeing the concealed revolver she carried in a shoulder holster under her left arm. The partition was already going up, sealing her in.

“What are you doing?”

“Answer my question,” the driver said, through a speaker.

Lena swallowed hard. “I think she’s a hero but I don’t fully trust her. I work with her when I feel it will help people. That’s all.”

“That’s not what your mother thinks.”

“Isn’t it?” said Lena. “What does she think?”

“Are you fucking her?”

Lena barked out a laugh. “Are you serious? That’s her question?”

“Are you fucking her like you debased yourself with that little tart in boarding school?”

There was silent beat.

“She told me to say that. She made me practice saying ‘tart’.”

He sounded almost bored.

“Fuck you,” Lena snapped. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it.”

“Nothing personal,” said the driver.

Lena sighed, almost annoyed at the hiss as a thin, chemical smelling gas hissed into the car, rising around her. She forced herself to stay calm, stoic, even her pulse raced.

“I’m not afraid of you, or her,” said Lena.

She coughed twice as the world irises shut around her, dragging her down into a cold, dreamless sleep.

When she snapped awake, she was alone. The partition was open, but the gun was gone from her holster. She felt around for it, then decided to clamber into the front seat, rolling over the seats facing her. The driver was gone, of course. Heavy chains were padlocked around the car, pinning the front doors shut.

There was a tape recorder sitting on the front seat. Lena ignored it as she looked around. The car was surrounded by metal walls, and a creep sense of dread rose up Lena’s spine. She fought the panic down, dropping into the driver’s seat.

Placing the tape deck on the dash, she pushed the okay button.

“Hello, Lena,” Lilian said, in her smooth, posh tones. Lena could hear that smarmy smirk forming around her words.

“You’re probably expecting an ultimatum or an offer. There will be none. I’m through trying to bring my husband’s wayward bastard back into the fold. When you betrayed Lex again, you burned your last chance. It’s time to take out the trash, Lena. I wish I could have throttled you in the cradle, but I didn’t know about you and your mother until it was too late. It’s time to correct that. It’s too bad we won’t be there to watch.”

Watch what?

Lena sat and waited. Whoever was sent to murder her had no sense of dramatic timing. She began rifling through the car, trying to take stock of what she had, what she could use to effect an escape. Breaking the-

A sharp shriek of metal cut through her thoughts. The side walls inched forward with a screech of metal, and Lena froze, terror piercing through her like an icy spike.

Oh.

Oh God.

The walls moved slightly more, and the rear view mirrors on both sides of the car exploded. The mechanism pushing the walls strained and groaned, and that was the only mercy she had.

She was in a car crusher. In the car.

The armored structure of her town car was too heavy for the machine to simply crush, but she had minutes at most. Metal groaned in protest, shrieking around her, and the glass quivered in the doors.

Oh God. Oh God.

She wasn’t going to panic. She wasn’t going to panic. She ripped open every single compartment and cubby she could find, but found only monogrammed glassware and a bottle of champagne. There was nothing.

A random, forgotten Lexosuit would be really useful right about now.

With a sudden shriek, the car began to collapse. The bulletproof glass buckled and shattered, pelting the front seat as she rolled into the back, and the doors buckled in, tearing loose from their hinges as the floor and roof began to fold.

A sudden, ringing, frankly stupid thought came into her head, but it was her best play.

Lena Luthor filled her lungs. She took in the biggest, deepest breath of her life, a breath worthy of a championship deep diver, and screamed at the top of her lungs, until it hurt.

“SUPERGIRL!”

She had to scramble into the back seat as the engine began pushing through the dashboard, ripping apart plastic and leather, splintering buried wood. Lena ducked as the roof crumpled and dove in, like the roof of a dragon’s mouth crushing down to pulp her. She closed her eyes and curled in on herself, hoping it would at least be over fast.

A single ringing thought bit through the fear.

Oh God. Kara’s waiting for me at the restaurant.

Around her metal shrieked, and she heard the vast clang of rending machinery. The inexorable crushing stopped, the bucking limousine going still. Lena opened her eyes, peering through her fingers like a terrified child, and watched in awe as one of the crushed plates tore loose from its moorings and went flying off into the afternoon air.

Hands, strangely delicate, punched through armor plating as if it were cobwebs and ripped the broken shell of Lena’s limo apart, spreading it in every direction.

Lena had never seen Supergirl so panicked. Her eyes were too wide with abject terror, and she seized Lena in her arms, winding her cape around her, and rocketed loose from the car.

Lena’s words were lost to the wind. Supergirl was blasting into the air, flying incredibly fast- too fast. Helpless, she clung to the hero for dear life, feeling woozy as the blood drained from her skull.

She thought, oh, come on, as she passed out again.

When her eyes drifted open, Lena was lying on the ground. Groaning, she sat up slowly, feeling every movement, and realized she’d been lying on a spread red blanket with her suit jacket piled up under her head for a pillow, and she was in the woods. The sun had yielded to the sky, and someone had started a roaring fire a few feet away.

Grateful for the warmth, Lena edged closer. As she did, she realized that she was sitting not on a blanket but on Supergirl’s cape.

Blinking, she looked around.

Supergirl had her back to a tree, curled up on herself with her head hanging between her knees, arms wrapped around to cover her face, and she was sobbing quietly. Lena stared, open-mouthed.

“Supergirl?” she breathed.

Supergirl didn’t respond. Lena rose to her feet, wobbling, and discarded her heels before walking across a bed of soft leaves. She crouched in front of the weeping Kryptonian, stunned when the other woman flinched.

“Supergirl?”

“Lena?”

Her voice was small and soft, all the bravado and righteous authority gone. She sounded strangely human.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

“I think I am,” said Lena. “What about you? Are you hurt?”

“No,” she sniffed. “A Tauraxian hit me in the head with a greyhound bus. Tuesday afternoon at the office.”

Lena laughed softly, and sat down. “I’m sure. What just happened?”

Supergirl swallowed hard as she looked up. “I panicked. I saw what was happening and I lost control. I’m lucky I didn’t hurt you.”

Lena put a tentative hand in on her shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“More than you realize,” Supergirl sighed.

“I’m here,” said Lena.

She sat down. Supergirl looked away from her, staring I to the fire a few feet away. In starlight, with the firelight caressing her delicate features and sparkling in her blue eyes, it was impossible to miss how hauntingly beautiful she was… and how haunted herself. Supergirl looked older than her years, a deep sorrow in her eyes that Lena had never seen before.

“I’m claustrophobic,” Supergirl explained. “Not the kind of thing that you advertise.”

“We all have our fears. I have some of my own.”

Lena pushed down thoughts of a pale hand sliding beneath churning black water and shuddered.

With teary eyes, Supergirl looked at her.

“I can’t. I can’t have fears. I’m Supergirl. I have to be perfect, set an example, all that crap. I’m the perfect woman who came from the sky to do only good.”

The perfect woman, Lena thought, consuming the firelit beauty before her. No one would debate that.

Well, Lena would, maybe. There was someone more perfect, someone soft and kind with a devastating smile and laughing eyes tinged with strange sorrow. She hoped Kara wasn’t worrying about her.

It was funny how Lena always thought of Kara when Supergirl was around. Guilt, maybe. Foolish guilt; Kara was a far shore that Lena would never reach, even if she’d gladly sink in the attempt.

“Before I came to Earth, I drifted in the phantom zone in my pod. There were things outside. The pod was the size of a coffin, a tiny space to spend all that time. The phantoms would claw and slash at the canopy and the walls. I was awake for days hearing them trying to get in. Sometimes there were bigger things out there, wrapping arms around it and trying to crush their way in.”

Lena nodded. “That sounds beyond terrible. It’s okay for you to be scared after that.”

Supergirl nodded. “I can barely handle elevators sometimes.”

A jolt went through Lena, something familiar, like a word on the tip of her brain.

“I get scared when other people are enclosed, too,” said Supergirl. “When I saw something trying to crush you, I just lost it. It’s different when it’s you.”

Lena swallowed hard, trying to suppress the shiver that coursed through her body and made the small hairs on her arms stand on end.

“Back in high school, the other girls used to bully me,” said Supergirl. Once, they locked me in a closet in the locker room. I screamed and screamed until until someone let me out. Alex was furious, she…”

Supergirl went quiet, trailing off. Her eyes went wide and she jolted back.

Lena sat there for a second, unsure why…

Wait.

Alex?

High school? Supergirl went to high school?

With Alex? Alex Danvers?

Lena choked down a gasp, the wheels whirling in her head. She looked over and met Supergirl’s eyes, studying them. Her. The way the light played across her soft features, her honey hair, the little scar above her eye.

“Hi, Lena.”

“Hi, Kara,” Lena whispered.

Neither of them moved. Lena wondered briefly if Kara had ever planned to tell her, how she might have planned it. Probably not like this. Her throat bobbed.

Lena shifted closer, until they were hip to hip in a seated hug, Kara crying softly on Lena’s shoulder, powerful arms wrapped around her.

“I was scared,” said Lena. “I was afraid I was going to die and you’d be sitting at the table at the restaurant waiting for me.”

“Never,” said Kara. “I’ll always protect you.”

“And I’ll always protect you. Nobody is ever going to shove my Kara in a closet ever again.”

Kara let out a little gasp.

“Can we stay here for a while? Talk? Just you and me?”

Kara nodded. She stood and gathered up her cape as Lena moved close to the fire, and sat down, wrapping it around them both. Lena let her head fall on Kara’s shoulder.

“This makes a nice blanket.”

“It is a blanket. My cousin was swaddled in it when he came to Earth. Don’t worry, I washed it.”

Lena laughed softly, awkwardly trying to decide where to put her hands. She settled on being bold, and put her arm around Kara’s waist. Kara slipped her arms around her shoulder and pulled her in, and Lena hugged her back, tucking herself into Kara’s shoulder.

They sat for a while as the fire burned down low. It was full dark and the fire was nothing but coals.

“I was going to tell you. I wanted to.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Okay,” Kara sighed.

Lena swallowed hard, trying not to feel her blood rushing in her ears.

“You know,” she said. “You could kiss me right now, if you wanted. That seems like the kind of thing the hero does after saving the girl.”

“I could?” said Kara.

“You could.”

“Like this?”

Kara was trying to be smooth, and it made it hard for Lena not to giggle. She tipped Lena’s chin up with soft fingers and guided herself in, bringing their lips together. Kara kissed her softly, tentatively. Lena kissed her back just as softly, afraid this moment would shatter if she pressed too hard.

It was easy to shift herself into Kara’s lap, even before Kara lifted her there. Lena knew she was strong but not Kryptonian strong, and it it sent a thrill through her. She liked it.

She liked touching Kara, too. Liked feeling the bunching muscles flex under under hands, the softness of her hair, the way she gasped when she felt Lena’s lips on her throat.

“Never have I wished so badly for a tent and sleeping bags,” said Lena.

“And marshmallows to toast!” said Kara.

“Do you ever stop thinking about food?” Lena giggled.

Kara looked at her intently, and Lena shivered, not from the cold. She’d longed for Kara to see her like that, look at her like that.

“Sometimes,” Kara whispered. “Sometimes I think about other things.”

“We should probably go back,” said Lena. “We have people who are probably looking for us.”

Kara nodded.

“Do you want this to be… do you want us to be?”

“Kara,” said Lena, “I would have asked you out a year ago if I thought I had a chance. I thought you just wanted to be friends.”

Kara swallowed. “Are you saying you want to be my girlfriend?”

Lena smiled softly. “Yes.”

Kara rose and clasped her cape to her shoulders, then gently brought Lena to her feet and lifted her from the ground, holding her close.

“Not so fast this time, okay?”

“Okay,” said Kara, lifting them back into the sky.

[sytoran]

𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐒 | 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐧𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐭.𝟏

you, a regular law-abiding citizen, saved the gods by accident. now, the goddess of lust, natasha, is going to grant you a wish. you could've had just about anything, but looking at the ethereal being before you, there's only one thing on your mind.

pairing: goddess!natasha x dom!fem!reader (G!P)

note: hello, folks! this is the long-awaited goddess!nat fic for the milestone event! i am quite proud of this fic, ngl... got a bit too carried away with some parts ;)

word count: 2.5k

the milestone event | main m.list | join the taglist | AO3

When you jumped in front of a speeding car to save a cat on the road, you had absolutely no clue that the cat was not, in fact, a cat.

This not-cat was a species of flerken, and it’s name was Goose. Flerkens were extremely dangerous alien creatures. At least, that’s what the Goddess of Galaxies, Carol Danvers, told you.

Trust me, meeting an intergalactic space goddess with a pet killing-machine (that looked awfully like a cat) was about as chaotic and unbelievable as you would imagine it to be.

—

“H-holy fuck!” you yelled, jumping in your seat, as a glowing woman materialised before your very eyes, in your shithole of an office. 

“I do not believe I am holy, even though I am a Goddess.” The woman stated, watching with curious eyes as you tittered over your split coffee. Lifting your laptop and muttering curses, then sifting through the messed up paperwork.

“You’re a what?” You asked distractedly, still panicking over the mess that is your desk. “My boss is actually going to murder me. Or maybe I’ll murder myself first. I am literally- Yeah, okay, how the fuck did you appear like that? And aren’t gods supposed to be like, really huge? You look kinda…… human.”

“I am a goddess.” Carol reiterated with slight annoyance. A literal extraterrestrial being was in front of your eyes, and the only thing you cared about was your damn coffee? 

“We are beings you could only ever fathom from the depths of your imagination, powerful beyond measure. Which is also why we can shapeshift to look like regular human beings, so we won’t scare the shit outta you. Which seems to have still happened.”

You let out a dry bark of laughter. Carol wasn’t sure if you thought she was funny or you were about to burst into tears.

“So, why did you decide to visit me, ever-powerful, omnipresent, all-mighty being?” You asked, half-sarcastically, half simply given up on life itself. The report you had been working on for nearly an hour had been ruined by the fiasco earlier. 

You dropped into your chair, kicking your feet up onto your desk. Loosening your black tie with a weary sigh, you looked at the Goddess’ eyes and continued. “I’m a nobody. I’m an overworked and underpaid attorney. I run on caffeine. I don’t know why or how you’re here, but I really–”

“You saved us. The Gods and Goddesses.” Carol interrupts, firm and unyielding. “We owe you, alright? You get one wish.”

“One wish, to get whatever it is you desire. Anything. Anything at all.”

—

Your story was absolutely one of zero to hero. From an ‘underpaid and overworked attorney’, to having the fucking gods of the multiverse indebted to you, it seemed like a rather unorthodox situation.

“So… what do you want?” Carol had asked you. 

“Uhm, I don’t need anything,” you mumbled, fiddling with your loosened tie. “Like, it’s totally chill between us even if I saved your cat.”

Great. Real cool, Y/N. The middle school boys could never compare to your level of failed attempts at being cool.

“Goose is not a cat, alright?” Carol commented, offended. You mutter an apology. 

“So, what do you want?” she continued impatiently. “Humans thrive off greed. You mortals always want something. What is it, money? A fancy car? A boyfr– okay, not to be stereotypical, but you’re definitely not straight. So, women on your mind?”

You splutter at her outright but nevertheless true allegation. Carol gives you this blank stare that makes you feel stupid. 

“Well, I guess, as a woman, there’s something I do want,” you speak up after a while. Carol raises her eyebrows in interest. “Something I have wanted to try, you know.”

Leaning closer to whisper your deepest desire in the goddess’ ear, Carol’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline. Her impressed, intrigued, embarrassed, and taken aback emotions all morphed into one expression, almost steals a laugh from your lips.

—

“You want me to grant you a cock.”

The Goddess of Lust sits in her throne, a picturesque image of perfection, the statement falling from her lips with such ease. There’s a lilt to her voice you can’t decipher. You just nod, looking unfalteringly at the goddess, as if it was the most normal request in the world. 

The Goddess was slightly perturbed by your lack of, well, awe. There you were, standing in her grand palace, unfazed by the multi-million dollar chandeliers and gold-framed pictures, unfazed by her.

Natasha was just about the most exquisite sight people would kill to lay their eyes upon. Soft curls framed her delicately sculpted face like curtains to a stage, magnificent deep eyes and a more than well-endowed body to complement her pretty face. Her rose-gold dress of satins and sequins dripped with money. There was the thrall she exuded, of seduction so strong that had men and women falling to their knees.

Natasha was the Goddess of Lust for sakes, and the only thing you cared about was redeeming your wish?

She would’ve been annoyed, if not for how unfairly charming you were, standing with your hands in your pockets, a charming gentlemanly smile on your face.

“What kind of cock do you want?” Natasha resorts to ask, a playful smirk on her features. “I’ve seen some interesting ones over the years, intergalactic sex is far crazier than you would imagine. Ooh, do you want tentacles to-”

“Uh, no thanks.” You say hurriedly, a hand going out of your pocket to rub at your nose. It’s the first sign of discomfort or embarrassment Natasha’s seen from you. She grins. 

“Just a regular human one?” She clarifies, pouting at you slightly. 

“That’d be great, yeah.” You respond, back to smiling brightly. Natasha frowns. She knows that there’s something under that stupid gentlemanly facade you’re putting on. She’s craving to get a taste of it.

“What size?” The Goddess asks bluntly, like a Starbucks barista asking for your order on a Monday morning.

“A regular size would be fine, I suppose.” You respond in kind, nodding to yourself assuredly. Natasha winks at you. “Ah, a regular size, I see.”

Before you can decipher that cryptic response, the Goddess stands up, a pillar of superiority and authority. She snaps her fingers, and you’re being pushed back into a fancy chair. Where did the chair come from, anyway?

You forgo the answer to that question as the Goddess begins what you would assume to be the procedure. “Sit tight.”

A surge of pain presses against your crotch area, and you almost keel forward in shock, but the pain goes as quickly as it comes. 

“Wait….. that’s it?” You ask, almost disbelievingly. Natasha nods proudly.

You look down, hands resting on your belt buckle. 

You look up at the Goddess, and she only smirks. 

You pull down your pants in swift fashion, letting out a quiet ‘whoa’ at the bulge in your boxers. It definitely feels bigger than would be regular, but then again you don’t have much knowledge of a man’s cock per se.

“Thank you,” You say, pleased with the results. Trying something new in the bedroom would definitely bring more life to your desolate days.

All too quick for the Goddess’ liking, you’re putting your clothes back on and getting ready to leave. “Thanks for your help,” You say calmly, turning to walk down the long passageway.

God, you just wanted to watch her fall apart.

As you walk, you feel Natasha’ eyes burning holes through your back. Oh, the tension was palpable, building with each step you took. It was getting harder to walk, with Natasha’s thrall like a heavyweight on your shoulders, willing you not to leave.

As you stand before the tall doors, you come to a standstill. Natasha waits in her throne with bated breath, so many words fighting to fall from the tip of her stubborn lips.

Your hand pushes down on the door handle, and that’s the last thing you can do before Natasha snaps her fingers again, and the tension is broken like a snapped coil. Suddenly, you’re pressed against her, looking into her dilated pupils.

“You’re so annoying, you know? I’ve been so fucking horny, looking at you this whole time, and you were about to get up leave?” Natasha asks, her tongue coming out to dart at her pink lips. Her hands have grasped your forearms, but your hands are cinched around her waist, disabling movement.

“No,” you breathe, head moving down to trail open-mouthed kisses along the column of her poised neck. “I was waiting for you.” The Goddess throws her head back under your fleeting touch. 

“Fuckin’ tease,” she mumbles, and you smirk against her skin. You’re rough with her, too, knowing that she isn’t made of glass, sucking purple marks into the pale skin of her neck, shoving your knee between her legs to spread them wider.

“Too much clothes,” Natasha breathes, and then with a burst of magic you’re stripped bare of any article of clothing. Her hands fly to your cock instantaneously, wrapping her delicate fingers around your semi-hard member.

You grunt against her skin, struggling to find a better position to properly have her. Since she’s sitting in the throne and you’re bent over above her, you can barely have her the way you want. Due to your lack of magical power, you resort to doing things the hard way.

Your hands slide under Goddess’ dress, going under her thighs, and then manhandling her up. Natasha’s whines of disapproval turn on deaf ears as you sit yourself in the grand chair, plopping her onto your lap. You don’t miss the way her thighs are already slightly damp.

“Need you inside now, fuck,” Natasha growls into your skin, climbing onto your cock as your hands squeeze at her thighs. You proceed to rip the fabric off her skin, deciding that there’s too much clothing restricting you from getting your hands on her.

And boy, was that a sight you’d never forget. 

“Oh!” The Goddess cries, when you lean forward to wrap your lips around her hardened bud. Your hands don’t rest for a moment, squeezing everywhere – hips, thighs, breasts, ass — whatever you can get your hands on. She’s fucking exquisite.

The stimulation seems to work wonders for Natasha’s pleasure, as she engulfs your cock in her warmth with fervour.

You gasp lowly, a throaty sound escaping your lips. Her hips and ass go up and down, working her cunt around the girth of your cock, wet and warm and slick. You can barely keep up with how desperate she is, and the fact that you have this wonder of a woman falling apart at your hands makes your heart soar.

Matching the rhythm of short upward thrusts with Natasha’s riding makes her moan out loud, a pretty melodious sound that imprints itself into your brain all at once. You wanna hear it a hundreds of times more.

Natasha gets more messy with her riding, as you suck hickeys, light ones and fierce ones, into her collarbone and her neck and breasts. You can’t resist the urge to slap her on the ass as she rides you like it’s the last day she’d be on this universe.

“Ah!” The Goddess moans, and you grip her thighs and push her down hilt deep, and her eyes roll into the back of her head. You feel her cum around your cock, so needy and desperate and mindless, and that triggers your own climax. 

Natasha hadn’t even begun to open her eyes again before she ends up on the floor and you hovering above her, your hands fervently spreading her cunt open. You duck your head down, licking a long stripe up her puffy clit. 

The Goddess writhes, unintelligible moans falling from her lips as you proceed to give her the best fucking cunnilingus of her life.

You’re more than determined to make this an unforgettable experience for the Goddess who probably had sex every other day. 

Natasha doesn’t know what the fuck you’re doing with your tongue, but you’re ravenous and your carnal desire makes her even wetter than before.

She’s slept with plenty of people, human or not, but none of them had ever been this uncouth about her pussy. Oh, it nearly drove her mad, but she was already seeing stars.

Before the Goddess registers what’s happening, your hardened cock slides into her cunt with a flippant ease once again. Natasha lets out a filthy moan as she feels it throb inside her, clenching around you hard.

You slap her thigh in retaliation, but feeling the sudden strike of pain only turns her on further. “Gonna fill you up so good,” you pant. “You won’t be able to walk tomorrow.” 

Natasha takes it as a promise, when you spread her thighs and line your cock up with her pussy. The Goddess of Lust doesn’t think she’s ever wanted anyone this bad.

You enter her roughly, your previously calm exterior completely faded away. You fuck her deeper with each thrust, opening the Goddess up. Pounding into the woman’s cunt like a woman starved, you hear her beg and cry with each thrust.

“Oh, please! More! More!” The Goddes cries, nearly screaming your name every time your blunt head pushes against her cervix. You only get spurred on further, going at a pace so painfully fast you don’t know if you’ll be able to walk tomorrow.

You swallow at the sight of this Goddess, completely breathtaking in her state of unravelling. 

“My divine Goddess,” You say, leaning down to press a kiss against the bulge of your cock at her lower stomach. 

Those words in itself have Natasha uncoiling before you, your name falling from her lips like a sacred mantra. Her walls are wrapped around your cock so tight, her nails digging into your back so hard it nearly draws blood.

“My divine Goddess,” you repeat, eyes glazed over, reaching your own climax inside her. Natasha lets out a filthy moan, feeling each throb of your cock in her as walls of cum pulse inside her, again and again. 

God, it feels so good, everything everywhere all at once, your world becoming Natasha, Natasha, Natasha. 

You think you could stay like this forever.

—

A long bath and a trip to the Goddess’ bedroom later, you’re laying on her expensive silk sheets, hair smelling like rosemilk or whatever that shampoo had been called.

You honestly don’t know how this gorgeous woman’s been charmed by your awkward humour and the coffee stain on your work shirt, but you’re definitely not complaining as she nuzzles into your neck, humming in satisfaction.

“You sure that’s the first time you’ve ever had a cock?”

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NEXT PART | series m.list

the milestone event | main m.list | join the taglist | AO3

[darlingdaisyfarm]

Tourist trap (Stan Pines x fem!reader)

minors dni

Stan is very fond of tourists who believe his stories.

tags: nsfw, smut, p in v, fingering, riding, desk sex, semi-public, praise, sir kink, rough sex

You shifted nervously from one foot to the other, wide-eyed and excited, as you clutched your little Mystery Shack brochure in your hand. It was all crumpled from being folded and unfolded too many times, but you couldn’t stop reading all the incredible things advertised on it.

"See the world-famous Sasquatch Skull up close! Touch the Alien Artifacts nobody else believes in!" 

You believed it all. Every last word. After all, you’re such a lover of the unknown.

Your group of tourists shuffles around you, mostly adults who looks really unimpressed, grumbling about the entrance fee. You’re the only one whose eyes are wide with excitement and who literally trembles from excitement to see everything the Shack have to offer. And that’s exactly what catches his eye.

Stan Pines stands in the doorway, leaning on his cane, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. You don’t notice how his eyes scans over you, how he takes in every little detail: the innocent excitement, the way you’re practically throwing your money at the gift shop already and that naive, gullible glow about you. You practically skip forward, not noticing how Stan’s eyes linger on you. He can tell right away — you aren’t just any tourist. No, you’re special. Too trustful. Sweet. The kind that believe every ridiculous thing he’d ever put on display.

And isn’t that just. . . adorable?

The tour starts and you trail behind him eagerly, eyes wide and shining as he tells stories about the various "creatures" and "relics" in the Shack. Part of you is convinced that every word is true, that you’re standing in the presence of real magic, real mystery. 

Stan notices you hanging on his every word and it makes something stir in him. The way your lips parts just a little, these little “wow” and “ohh” you make, the way your eyes follow his every move. Meanwhile other tourists roll their eyes or sigh, bored out of their minds, but not you. You’re his favorite kind of visitor — the kind that made his job fun

"So," Stan starts, turning to you with a glint in his eye as the rest of the group wanders off, "what do you think of this, doll? Pretty impressive, huh?"

You nod enthusiastically, clutching your bag of over-priced trinkets and souvenirs. "It’s amazing, sir! i can’t believe im seeing all this in real life! i mean, is the Sasquatch skull really real? And the alien artifacts, are they, like, actually from space?!"

"Well, aren’t you just the cutest little tourist I’ve ever seen,” he smiles, leaning slightly towards you and letting out a chuckle “most people come in here and they laugh it off. Say it’s all fake, but not you. You really believe in this, don’t you?”

“Yeah! ive always dreamed of visiting such a cool place! thank you, sir, it’ll remain a good memory,” you giggle.

“Ohh, sweetheart, if you’re such a fan, maybe i can show you some of the mysteries we keep hidden from the average tourists.” he absolutely loves how wide-eyed and trusting you are. You really believe every word he tells you?

Your eyes light up, completely oblivious to the hungry look in his eyes. "Really? You’d do that?"

Stan rubs his chin, pretending to think it over, though the grin never left his face. “Hmm,” he looks at you for a couple more seconds before he tells you you. “for you, dear? Anything.”

He leads you away from the main part of the Shack, down a hallway lined with dusty old portraits and broken light fixtures. You don’t even notice how quiet it is now as the rest of the tour group far behind. All you can think about was the excitement bubbling inside you, the thrill of seeing something “exclusive.”

Stan opens a creaky door at the end of the hall and motions for you to step inside. You eagerly obey, stepping into a dimly lit room filled with more strange objects, things that weren’t part of the normal tour. At least, that’s what Stan told you.

He closes the door behind him with a soft click, the two of you now alone and you never really noticed how close he suddenly got, his hand resting on your lower back as he guides you further into the room, its cluttered with strange artifacts, most of which hadn’t made it to the main display.

You’re buzzing with excitement as you look around at the dusty shelves. "Wow!" you gasped, wide-eyed. “What’s that? and that?! oh my gosh, is that a real shrunken head?!”

Stan chuckles, settling himself down in an old chair near desk before patting his lap. “Why don’t you come here, doll? I’ll give you a closer look.” there was something in his voice. . . something that should alert you, but you’re too caught up in your excitement to notice it.

Without a second thought, you plop yourself down on his lap, leaning forward to inspect the nearest artifact, still firing off a barrage of questions. "What’s this one? and where did you get it? oh god, is it really cursed?!"

Stan grunts, adjusting you a bit closer as his hands settled on your hips. He leans forward slightly, his mouth near your ear as he begins to explain some ridiculous story about the origins of the objects. But you barely notice how his fingers start to slip lower, just lightly brushing along the hem of your skirt.

You keep talking, completely oblivious, your words spilling out in an excited rush. “This is so cool! i can’t believe no one else gets to see this! i-“ your voice hitches as Stan’s hand slides further up your thigh, his thick fingers grazing the edge of your panties.

He continues talking as if nothing happens. “This here is an ancient artifact from South America. Supposedly cursed, but, eh, I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” he pauses, his hand gently pressing against the softness of your thigh as he keeps you pinned on his lap.

Your breath caught in your throat, but you tried to focus on his words, nodding as you squirmed a little. “W-wow, that’s- that’s so cool!” your voice breathy as Stan’s fingers brushes lightly along the edge of your panties, teasing you.

“Yeah, real cool, huh?” he asks you, still as if nothing happened, his other hand sliding up your waist to grip your side, so you wouldn’t move that much. His fingers dip lower, grazing the fabric of your panties before slipping just beneath it. “aaand this one here,” he continues, “it’s said to have belonged to an ancient tribe. Powerful stuff.”

You can barely process what he’s saying, your mind blank as his fingers lightly tease along your slit, collecting the wetness that was beginning to pool there. You shift in his lap, trying to stifle the soft whimper that escape your lips, your legs pressing together.

“Something wrong, doll?” he asks in a playful, no, mocking tone, while his fingers now lightly caressing your clit. “You seem a little distracted. Thought you wanted to hear about all these mysteries*.”

“I- I do!” you stutter. “It’s just- s-sir!”

“Just what?” Stan interrupts, his fingers now slipping lower, pressing firmly against your entrance. His other hand grips your waist, holding you firmly in place as you instinctively try to buck your hips against his hand.

You whine softly, barely able to form a coherent sentence. "I-I just. . . oh god-“

Stan smirks. “You’re so cute, sweetheart,” he nuzzles your neck, his fingers now teasing your entrance, pushing just the tip of one finger inside your throbbing cunt. “asking all these questions while sitting in my lap like a good little girl.”

You sob, your hips rocking against his hand without even realizing it. You can feel his cock, hard and pulsing beneath you, pressing against your ass, but Stan keeps his focus on you, his fingers slowly pumping in and out of your wetness, never stopping his stories.

“This one is said to have special. . . powers. Like it can make someone go crazy with just one touch.” he chuckles, his finger curling inside you, hitting that spot that made you gasp and clench around him.

Your head spinning, your body aching with need, completely at his mercy as he tease and play with you, all while still pretending like it was just another tour.

Stan’s smirk widens as he feels you trembling in his lap, the way you quietly moan, your face and body both hot. He keeps his voice steady, still saying some ridiculous story about the artifacts, but his fingers never stops their teasing.

“So, this piece here was said to be used in rituals. Uhh, something about unlocking a person’s deepest desires, makin’ ’em lose all sense of control.” its not difficult for him to imagine these false stories, he is an experienced lier after all. You try to listen, try to understand what he’s saying, but that’s just impossible to do as he presses his thumb harder against your needy bud, his fingers sliding through your slick folds. You whimper, barely able to focus on his words. Your body burning, every nerve ending tingling as his rough fingers stroke and tease your throbbing pussy. Your hips rock against his hand, desperate for more, but you’re too shy, too embarrassed to ask for it.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? you were askin’ so many questions before, now you’re all quiet?” his thumb circles your clit a little bit faster and your body jolts from pleasure, a soft cry escaping your lips before you could stop it.

“I’m just-“ you stammer, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you squirm in his lap. “I c-can’t, sir, can’t think”

He chuckles, now pushing two thick fingers deep inside your tight, clenching cunt. You gasp and your back arch against him as he starts to pump them slowly, curling and scissoring his fingers just right, hitting that spot inside you that made your whole body tremble. What a lovely sounds you’re making.

“Aww you poor thing, so lost, huh? cant even think straight, can ya?”

You whimper, biting your lip as you try to stifle the noises that are spilling out of you, but it’s useless. Your hips are moving on their own, grinding against his hand as you clung to his shirt, “sir” and “please” leaving your mouth as his fingers stretch you so well.

“Just relax, doll, I’ll take care of you. Just listen to me.” his fingers pumped harder inside your pulsing pussy. “you wanted a tour, right?”

You nodded weakly, not even listening him, unable to focus on anything but the way his fingers were fucking into you, the wet sounds of your dripping pussy filling the small room. His thick digits stretch you open just good, making you lose your mind.

“So this here,” he continued, his voice still calm despite the way you were practically writhing in his lap, “was used by an ancient tribe. Supposedly, they thought it could help them communicate with the gods, but I think it’s more useful for somethin’ else. . . don’t you, sweetheart?”

You could only sob in response, your body trembling as his fingers drove deeper, stretching your tight walls, his thumb never leaving your poor sensitive clit, your muscles clenching around his fingers as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

“You’re such a good girl,” he praises as he watches you squirm in his lap, your wetness coating his fingers. “so cute, all worked up like this. You gonna cum for me, doll?” you nod , your hips bucking against his hand, his fingers thrusting deeper inside your aching cunt. Stan laughs at that pathetic sight, his fingers moving faster now, fucking you hard and deep, your pussy clenching around his digits. “Go on, princess, cum on my fingers.” you exhale when Stan finally let you finish. With a strangled cry, your body shakes, your cunt clenching around his fingers as your orgasm crashes over you. Your eyes rolled and brain fucking melted as you shudder in his lap.

Stan grinned, watching you with a satisfied smirk. “Good girl, such a good little doll for me.”

His hand rests on your breast, first slowly and gently caressing it. His fingers find your nipple and give it a light squeeze, drawing another sound from you. Stan smirks to himself as he feels you shaking in his lap, your body responding to every little touch he gave you. His fingers still buried deep inside you, moving at a slow, teasing pace that had you on edge, desperate for more. You can barely sit still, squirming against him, your breath coming out in soft, shallow gasps.

His fingers curling inside you again, and you whimper, your hips jerking in response. “You want somethin’, don’t you? you gotta tell me what you need, doll.”

Your mind foggy, every nerve in your body on fire as his fingers keep working you over, drawing soft, desperate noises from your parted lips. You could barely think straight, let alone put together a proper sentence. “pl-please, sir”

He chuckles, clearly enjoying your struggle. “Please what, sweetheart? you gotta use your words if you want somethin’ from me.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep yourself together, but it’s damn impossible with the way his big fingers thrusting inside you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. You can feel the heat building inside you again, that desperate, aching need, but of something bigger than just his fingers. You need to be filled, to have your brains fucked out. “I need more. . .”

“More, baby? you want my fingers to go faster? is that what you mean?”

You shake your head frantically, your whole body aching for something else. “No, I need- need your cock, sir-“

He raise his eyebrows in a fake surprise. “Oh, is that what you’ve been tryin’ to say this whole time? you’re beggin’ for it now, huh? pretty little thing, all desperate for me to fuck you?”

You whimper softly, your hips moving on their own, trying to push down on his hand for more friction, more pressure, but he holds you still, keeping you right where he wanted you. “Please, sir,” you whisper and nearly cry because of horrible emptiness you’re feeling. “please just fuck me, sir, i need you!”

“You’re lucky I’m feelin’ generous today, sweetheart,” he tells you, his hand finally pulling away from your dripping slit. “don’t say i never gave you nothin’.”

Before you can even process whats happening, Stan shifts you in his lap, his strong hands lifting your hips and positioning you right above his length. You can feel his cock, already hard and throbbing beneath you, pressing up against your soaked entrance, and your whole body tense, your breath catching in your throat.

Stan’s hands grip your hips tightly, holding you steady as he lines himself up with your glistening cunt, spreading your folds. “You ready for it, doll?” he asks. “this what you’ve been beggin’ for?”

You nod quickly, fuck enough of questions, you thought. “Yes,” you whisper. “yes yes yes, ple-“ but before you can even finish, he slowly pushes inside you, stretching you open inch by inch. You immediately gasp at the new sensation, your hands gripping onto his shoulders as your body adjusts to the sudden fullness. Oh god, it’s thick, so hard, filling you completely and you can feel every inch of him throbbing inside you, every vein, it feels so hot.

Stan huffs out, his grip on your hips tightening as he buries himself to the hilt. “Fuck, you’re tight. like you were made for this, doll.”

You whimper softly, holding on him, your body trembling as you try to adjust to the feeling of him inside you. It’s almost too much, the way he stretches you so perfectly, the way he fills you completely. You can barely breathe.

Stan gives you a moment to adjust. his cock pulsing inside you. “There we go,” he mutters watching your brows furrowing. “Just like that. . . you’re doin’ so good, babygirl.”

You moan again, your hips shifting slightly in his lap, and you feel him twitch inside you,. “I. . . nhhah, s-sir”

He leans towards you and kisses your forehead, his hands guiding your hips to start moving, slowly at first. “Go on, princess. Ride me, let me see how bad you want it.”

You bite your lip nervously as you’ve never been in this pose before, you slowly start to move, lifting yourself up and then sinking back down onto his cock. It feels incredible, the way his cock stretches you open, hitting all sweet spots inside you. You feel the tension building inside you again, that same desperate, aching need, and you whimper again and again, your hips moving faster as your cunt tightening around him.

Stan’s eyes locks with yours as he guides your movements, kissing your neck. “That’s it, sweetheart, you feel so fuckin’ good, yesss, such a good girl, ridin’ me like that.”

You cry out at his words, what a sweet praise, your body moving on its own now, your hips grinding down against him, taking him deeper with each thrust. You can barely think, barely breathe, the pleasure overwhelming your senses, your mind clouded, you can’t even maintain the eye contact.

Stan’s hands moves to your waist, holding you steady as he starts thrusting up into you, meeting your movements with deep, powerful thrusts. You whine, your hands gripping onto his shoulders for support as he fucks you, your mouth hangs open while he fucks you faster and harder with each thrust, he holds you so tightly, squeezing your body while you ride him.

You gasp. “I- I’m gonna-“

“Go ahead, doll, cum for me, let me feel it.”

Your body tensed, your walls clenching around his cock as your orgasm hits you hard. Your body shaking, trembling in his lap as you cumming, rambling pleas leave your mouth when you feel the tip of his cock rubbing sweetly against your cervix. Stan groans, his grip on your waist tightening as he thrusts up into you harder, deeper, drawing out your pleasure as long as he can. “That’s it, such a good girl, baby. . . so fuckin’ tight.”

You fall on his chest, still shaking, your mind still spinning from the intensity of it all. You can feel him still throbbing inside you, still hard, and you whimper softly, your hips shifting slightly in his lap, he’s clearly not planning on pulling out.

After you manage to get your breathing back to normal at least a little you feel his hands still all over you, roughly dragging you up and laying you out on the old wooden table. Your legs tremble, spread wide as he stares down at you, taking in the sight like you’re his prize, his fucking reward.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” grin crosses his lips as he grabs your thighs, pulling you right to the edge of the table before slamming his cock back inside your pussy, forcing a cry from your throat. Your body jolts at the sudden penetration, and you moan again, legs wrapping around his waist as he starts pounding into you again. Hard. Rough. Fast. There’s not a drop of mercy in his movements, he's not holding back, fucking you like you're just a thing for him to use. Your sweet moans and that pathetic "sl-slow down!" sound like music to his ears.

His hands all over you, squeezing, groping, touching. He grabs your breasts, kneading them, pinching your nipples through your shirt so hard you whimper, arching your back off the table. He groans at that, leaning in close, his breath hot against your neck as he whispers, “Fuck, you feel heavenly, baby, can’t get enough of this sweet little cunt.”

His fingers finds your clit, rubbing circles around it, teasing you until you can’t stop the pathetic whines spilling from your lips. He keeps fucking you harder, his hips slamming against yours, the table creaking under the weight of it all. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mixed with your gasps, your moans, your begs and his grunts as he’s pounding into you like he was starving for it.

“Look at you,” he looks down at your flushed, wrecked body, his hands gripping your waist tight enough to bruise. “Such a fucking good girl for me, huh? letting me use this pretty little pussy however I want.”

You can’t really form words, can’t do anything but take it. Your so brain fucked, body burning, you’re so close you can’t think straight. He’s rough, fast, his fingers rubbing your clit in time with his thrusts, pushing you higher, higher, until you can’t hold back anymore. You cum hard, again, your pussy squeezing his cock well.

But Stan doesn’t stop. He just keeps going, fucking you right through it, ruining your pussy, even harder now, his hips snaps into you, faster, rougher, and you can feel the slick mess between your thighs, the obscene sound of it only making it filthier. You're choking on your moans.

“Ugh, gonna cum inside you, doll,” he groans. “Gonna fill this sweet pussy up, you want that? you want me to fucking fill you up?”

You nod frantically, too far gone to care about anything else, and with one last, hard thrust, he buries himself so deep, his cock pulsing as he finishes inside you. You feel how warm it is, his cum filling you up, spilling out of you as he keeps thrusting, riding out his high.

Finally, he slows down, pulling out with a groan, and you collapse back on the table, spent, utterly wrecked. Youre literally shaking, panting, his cum dripping out of your used pussy onto the wood below. Stan stands there, catching his breath, looking down at you and all that dirty mess, what a beautiful sight: your legs trembling, your body marked with his touch and his cum leaking from between your thighs.

He leans over. “you know, guess I'll give you a discount for that pretty face of yours.”

[literaila]

i always think of this whenever i’m abt to sleep

imagine yuji and nobara going over to megumis house during summer break (it’s rlly gojos house cuz yk) and imagine reader sitting on the couch with baby gojo and theyre so shocked gojo has another child😭

“no, satoru, i already told you not to—“

“it doesn’t even make sense,” he’s saying, rolling his eyes like he’s the child here. “why am i supposed to drink water, but she can’t?”

“first of all, you don’t drink water even when i force it down your throat—“

“i am beyond biology—“

“and second of all, because she’s a baby.”

he pouts. “won’t she get thirsty?”

“you literally just gave her a bottle. you stole it from my hands.”

“because i’m bonding.”

even as you bicker, the two of you are staring down at the little baby, watching as her eyes flicker in sleep, her nose scrunching up like she wants you to squeeze her.

and even as you fight, the smile on your face matches satoru’s—adoring, mesmerized by this tiny little thing in his arms.

so mesmerized, in fact, that you don’t even notice when the front door opens. or when three teenagers—stomping, like teenagers do—trail into the house.

megumi walks into the kitchen to grab something, but both yuji and nobara stop when they notice you and satoru on the couch. neither of them says a thing as they listen to your hissing voices—quiet enough not to wake the baby.

megumi walks back into the room, sipping from a glass, and raises a brow at both of his “friends.” they’ve been here before, they know where his room is.

“uh, are we supposed to just ignore them?” nobara asks, giving megumi a weird look.

he looks over—obviously not having noticed this scene—and then rolls his eyes. “yes.”

he turns to walk to his room, mind on textbooks and avoiding his very annoying parents, when yuji grabs his arm.

“but, fushiguro,” the voice says, voice soft and somehow whining. “there’s a baby.”

“and?”

yuji is too busy staring at the bundle in satoru’s arms to answer, and he carefully tiptoes over to the couch, wide smile on his face.

already cooing, of course.

you look up, grinning. “oh, hi, yuji.”

yuji tilts his head, watching as satoru traces tiny circles on baby soft skin.

satoru looks up. “i’m not letting you hold her,” he tells the boy, “it’s still my turn.”

you sigh. “satoru—“

“oh, no, i don’t—i mean, i don’t even know how. i just wanted to…” yuji is staring at the child like she’s an alien, but it took all of three seconds for him to become just as mesmerized as the two of you. “is she… yours?”

yuji’s eyes widen, and he looks perturbed back at megumi. was he not even going to mention his baby sister—

“seriously, dude?” nobara says for the two of them, punching megumi’s arm. “what else are you keeping from us?”

yuji looks back to the two of you, satoru nodding vigorously.

you pull his hair. “no, she’s not ours. we’re just babysitting for a friend.”

satoru coughs and says something that sounds suspiciously like “for now,” under his breath.

you pull at his hair a little harder, grinning at him when he can’t push you away.

“she’s adorable.”

nobara nears the three—four?—of you as well, looking at the baby. “are you sure you can trust him with her?” she asks you, giving satoru a wary eye.

you laugh and satoru pouts.

“it’s just a baby,” megumi says, groaning from behind both of his friends. “what’s the big deal? we have to study.”

“she’s cute,” nobara tells him, “that’s the big deal.”

“don’t listen to him,” you whisper, “he was all over her before he left.”

yuji laughs back at him and nobara huffs.

megumi just rolls his eyes again. “are you two coming?”

you smile at the two of them, then back at megumi. really, he’s sweet. really. “if you’re still here when she wakes up again, you can feed her.”

yuji grins. “really?”

“sure.”

“um,” satoru cough, eyeing you, very disturbed. “that’s my job.”

“you need to share.”

“i’m not sharing my own child—“

“not ours,” you sing, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“but she could be. i recently learned how babies are made, and i think we could pull it off—“

you laugh and megumi groans again. “i’m leaving,” he says, turning and storming down the hall.

“i’ll come and tell you if she’s hungry,” you say to the other two, ruffing yuji’s hair.

“okay!”

nobara gives the baby one last look, and then she’s following megumi out of the room, yuji taking just a moment longer—frowning—but eventually following along.

“i’m serious, you know,” satoru whispers, resuming his circles on her unblemished face.

“yeah, i know.”

“why not?”

“because you’re still a child, and megumi’s just started school—“

“megumi wants a baby more than i do.”

you roll your eyes.

“we’d make a good baby,” satoru says to you, “even cuter than her.”

you sigh, moving even closer to him, your side pressed up against his. “yeah.”

“i’ll wait,” satoru says, “but i know you’re lying.”

“i’m not lying—“

“you almost started crying when she sneezed earlier—“

“no, i did not—“

[thagomizersshow]

Ranting about how JP is not a good critique of capitalism made me want to talk about a sci-fi monster movie that is an excellent AND highly relevant exploration of anticapitalistic themes: Alien (1979).

First I want to say that if you haven’t seen Alien, please do so before I spoil it for you. It’s not just one of my all time favourites, but also one of the greatest pieces of science fiction ever created. For real, please go watch it.

The biological aspects of Alien are often the most talked about themes in the movie, which is fair, because they’re simultaneously very interesting and in-your-face. Most viewers remember the movie for the gory sexual imagery, not for an authentic depiction of class struggle. I actually wrote a video essay a while back that I never made about how our innate disgust and resulting fear of parasites/parasitoids is the primary driver behind the xenomorph’s ongoing popularity. I’m not immune to this aspect of Alien’s eternal intrigue, that’s for sure.

However, there’s one narrative element that makes Alien ripe for class analysis, especially today, and that is the film’s portrayal of artificial intelligence.

AI in Alien is consistently shown to be hostile to the crew, but not because of a glitch, like HAL in 2001: Space Odyssey, or because they decide to rise up against their oppressors, like in Terminator. No, what makes Ash, the android, and MOTHER, the ship’s AI, so threatening is that they are doing exactly what they were programmed to do — whatever it takes to ensure corporate interests. In this case, they are programmed to ensure the survival of an extraterrestrial monster at the cost of the crew.

The audience isn’t privy to all the things that Ash does to meet this goal, but at the very least he breaks quarantine protocols, does a shitty job of watching the facehugger, lets Kane join the rest of the crew for a meal (when they still don’t know what it did to him!), plays dumb once the xenomorph is on the loose, and attempts to murder Ripley when she discovers his mandate. If it weren’t for Ripley being a determined badass, Ash might’ve gone unnoticed until the whole crew was dead and the Weyland-Yutani Corporation had their mitts on the alien so they can cause another catastrophe.

This horror, that you will encounter AI whose programming doesn’t care if you live or die, is what makes Alien’s take on the subject so relevant. Dipshits like Elon Musk or some shitty tech journalist might try and convince us that ChatGBT scary because it can fake being human, as if Skynet is right around the corner.

No, the real horror of AI is that the people in power (our bosses, our politicians, etc.) are going to use it to exploit us, just like how they use everything else.

In the end, it takes being skeptical of things that seem trustworthy for Ripley to defeat Ash. The audience finds out from the Nostromo’s captain, Dallas, that Ash was a last minute addition to the crew, as chief science officer. This is a role that inherently engenders trustworthiness in the face of the unknown, especially for a crew that is basically a bunch of working joes. It’s not unbelievable to conceive this was purposeful by Weyland-Yutani to make Ash above suspicion. That, combined with literally naming the ship’s AI MOTHER, of all things, shows that the company is deliberately weaponizing aesthetics to foster a positive relationship between the crew and their AI agents.

Alien serves as a reminder to be vigilant as we enter the AI boom, because these programs will be used to exploit us, and corporations WILL try to cloak this purpose behind relatability, convenience, and trust. The AI we encounter is more likely to be Ash or MOTHER than it is to be Data or Skynet.