☥ Leviathan⛧

Levi 24 (They/Them) • 18+ or block • Masterlist • AO3 • art •Shop • Taglist

[levi-llama]

⛧ Levi's Masterlist ⛧

Crossposted to:

〘 AO3 〙

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Requests are open!

Ask me anything!

〘 Taglist! 〙

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Ratings Key

Teen 13+: Mild Language, Mild Violence

Mature 18+: Strong Language, Violence, Implied Sexual Themes

Explicit 18+: Strong language, Graphic Violence, Death, Graphic Sexual Themes, Possibly Triggering Subjects

Minors or people without their age in their bio WILL BE BLOCKED on mature/explicit rated materials!!!

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〘 Star Wars 〙

Series:

Fatal Instructions (Kylo Ren x F!OC) - 5.3k words - Explicit

Part One , Part Two , Part Three , Part Four , Part Five , Part Six , Part Seven

Oneshots & Drabbles:

Depression Drabble (Wrecker TBB x GN!Reader) - 600 Words - Explicit

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〘 Doctor Who 〙

Series:

Space, Time, and the Psyche (Tenth Doctor x Fem!OC) - 15k Words - Explicit

Part One , Part Two , Part Three , Part Four , Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve

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〘 Twilight 〙

Series:

Questions and Desires (Jasper x Fem!OC x Alice) - 2.2k words - Mature

Part One , Part Two (Editing!)

*** This is my first fanfic so the writing is bAd! You have been warned!

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〘 Hazbin Hotel 〙

Series:

Sinful History (Alastor x Fem!OC) - 1k words - Explicit

Part One (on Hiatus)

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〘 Narcos 〙

Series:

Death to Gringos (Javier Pena x Fem!OC) - 1k word - Explicit Part One (on Hiatus)

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〘 Criminal Minds 〙

Series:

An Ultimatum (David Rossi x Fem!Reader) - 4.5k Words - Explicit

Part One , Part Two , Part Three (Finished)

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〘 Pedro Pascal Characters〙

Oneshots & Drabbles:

A Krampus Christmas (Holiday Special!) (Krampus!Pero Tovar x Fem!Reader) - 1.9k words - Explicit

Since the Beginning (Pero Tovar x Fem!Reader) - 1.25k words - Explicit

Period Comes Early Thot (Max Phillips x Fem!Reader) - 200 words - Explicit

Whiskey w/ Autistic S/O (Agent Whiskey x G/N!Reader) - 300 words - Teen

Ezra Endometriosis Drabble (Ezra x G/N!Reader w/uterus) - 270 word - Teen

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Fin.

[twentytomidnight]

on to the next one (2/2)

Lobo/Reader, 5.1K

a/n: SMUT/18+ ONLY! First time writing it in a LONG time so please be kind, I hope you enjoy ;-;

cw: cursing, revealing clothing, mild dubcon, mild manipulation, reader is very very into everything happening, no mention of genitalia, public sex, ass eating, anal fingering, anal sex, gn!reader

part one masterlist ao3 rules for requests

PREVIEW:

“Fuck are you wearin’?” Guy asks, and you look up from your last-minute adjustments to see him with a tallboy in one hand for the night, a dirty magazine tucked into the other, and a wide-eyed look as he stares you up and down. Appraising just exactly what you’re wearing—or rather, what you’re not wearing, to be precise.  “Lobo said the less the better on Warworld.” You inform Guy as you descend the staircase. He silently ogles everything that bounces and jiggles with the lack of clothes to restrain them, looking like he’s watching a bomb detonate in his face.  “You know he was bullshittin’ you, right?” Guy asks as he takes a long swallow of his beer, watching your face carefully for any hesitancy. “He’s gonna eat you alive if he sees you in all that.”  You smile. “Maybe that’s what I want.”  tl;dr: famous last words. Lobo/Reader

You’re making the finishing touches to your outfit when you hear Guy’s voice sailing up the stairs to you, calling your name.

“—Lobo said he’s pullin’ up right now. Better get down here if you know what’s good for you.” He warns, and that’s all you need to hear as you snag your duffel bag for the night and make a quick exit to the door. You have to take a second to adjust the hem of your shorts at the top of the stairs, barely cognizant of the fact that you have an audience until they verbalize their thoughts aloud. 

“Fuck are you wearin’?” Guy asks, and you look up from your last-minute adjustments to see him with a tallboy in one hand for the night, a dirty magazine tucked into the other, and a wide-eyed look as he stares you up and down. Appraising just exactly what you’re wearing—or rather, what you’re not wearing, to be precise. 

“Lobo said the less the better on Warworld.” You inform Guy as you descend the staircase. He silently ogles everything that bounces and jiggles with the lack of clothes to restrain them, looking like he’s watching a bomb detonate in his face. 

“You know he was bullshittin’ you, right?” Guy asks as he takes a long swallow of his beer, watching your face carefully for any hesitancy. “He’s gonna eat you alive if he sees you in all that.” 

You smile. “Maybe that’s what I want.” 

Guy laughs aloud. 

“Yeah—”—knowing his warnings have all fallen by the wayside, he opts for something useful to do with his time instead, heading for the door. He can’t help but hesitate as he passes through the frame, taking one last glimpse at your near-nudity as if to commit it to memory.

“Hey.” He says, and you look up at him from the compact you’ve unfolded for a last-minute check. 

“Yeah?” You ask, smiling broadly. 

“When he brings you back on a stretcher—lemme know if it was worth it.” Guy gives you a lascivious grin before he retreats to greener pastures. In response, there’s a rev of a motorcycle engine outside that makes your heart skip a beat and start a journey to the door that has never felt so slow or laden with importance before. 

The cool New York air passes over you as you step outside, summoning familiar pinpricks of goosebumps up and down your body. But this time, it feels as if there’s a new layer that washes over you as your date reclines on his bike, a cigar smoldering between his teeth, his eyes slowly raking over you. 

“Lookin’ good, sweetheart,” he drawls as he watches you approach. “Glad you dressed up for the occasion.” 

“You know me,” you grin, hitching your bag’s strap a little higher over your bare shoulder, “I like to make a good first impression.” 

Warworld, it turns out, is pretty fucking nuts. The streets of this metallic pseudo-planet are clotted with aliens eager for the next match, stopping by vendors hocking hot, greasy food that you can’t help but ogle and try to make sense of. Some are buying the chopped-up remains of the last piece of meat to eat it in the ring, while others argue with the tellers over the last ruined wager they made. Even still there are some stumbling drunkenly through the loud, bustling throng, all in the purpose of having a good time. 

It’s deafening, overwhelming, pulsating—and the two of you haven’t even made it to the colosseum yet, a black monolith that towers over all. It seems to possess its own sense of gravity, drawing all minor planets such as yourself and your chaperone further in. 

Ever since you arrived, you could hear the roar of the crowd within that ebbs and rises, pitching higher and higher with the resolution of each match. Some of them, based on the announcements, conclude with stunning alacrity. Others, it appears, drag on and on—not that the crowd, from how it screams, their demanding shouts for blood singing through you, seem to care. 

All the while, your escort has been keeping a possessive hand on your back, the wide span of his hand a brand as he keeps you flush to the front of him. You worried as the two of you touched down planetside that it would be a treacherous struggle upstream to make it to the fights—but people know Lobo. Or, rather, some know him affectionately. And the rest, based on how the crowd parts as he approaches, fear him. 

“You popular around here?” You ask, as what you can only describe as a three-headed purple people eater evaluates you, sees Lobo, and then pointedly retreats in the opposite direction. 

“Yeah, you could say that,” you can hear the grin in his voice even though you can’t turn to look up at him, “I’m the big man on campus around these parts. Go this way—”

His thumb finds a spot behind your shoulder blade, thick fingers curling around the flesh of your shoulder—you have to suck in a sharp breath at the shock that careens up your back. He guides you down a path between a vendor selling something deep fried and vaguely chicken-shaped and another pawning one-way trips to Rann. 

“How much longer ‘til we get there?” You ask him as the noise of the outside crowd begins to fade, having passed this gauntlet. In the distance, you can hear the rumble of the arena approaching rapidly.

“Little longer,” he informs you; in this pocket of privacy as you both continue down the alleyway, his hand begins to slide from your shoulder down your back again, lower than it had settled before. “We’ll be there in no time.” 

“Sounds good,” you say, casting a glance to the dismal, smoggy sky that warriors fight and die under, “I didn’t know how much walking it was going to be.” 

“I could carry you over my shoulder if your feet’re tired,” Lobo offers; this time, you can glance over your shoulder to see the rather unprincipled grin on his face. “Gives me a chance to check out that cute little number you got on.” 

You have to take a longer second than you thought to consider this proposition, looking at the great swathe of that shoulder that you would be thrown over, thinking of his hand resting securely over your ass as he carries you to your seats—

“I think I’m good for now,” you smile back at him. You have to dig your fingers into the soft flesh of your palm, using the strap of your bag that is bumping into your hip with every step, to really keep your eyes on the prize. 

“Let me know if you change your mind, honey.” he replies, unruffled by your momentary rejection. “I’m always happy to do community service.” 

Surprisingly, Lobo wasn’t lying, which makes you grateful that you turned down his offer of easier transportation—the two of you walk up a flight of stairs that he insists that you walk in front of him (“Just so I can keep an eye on you, babe”) and then the hiss of an automated door permits you into the actual building. 

If you thought that the cheers of the crowd were loud before, they practically reverberate through you as the door slides shut behind you both. You look out to the open-air, tiered seats no more than a few yards away, and start to walk in the direction. But his hand on your shoulder halts you in your tracks. 

You look up to him, a touch of confusion passing over your face. “What’s wrong?” 

“We got a private room, sweetheart.” He says, already lighting up another cigar. “Wouldn’t want yer first taste’a Warworld to be with the other grunts.” 

All you can think is to reply with a quiet, “oh, okay,” before he stalks off in the direction that you are made to follow, taking in the sights within as quickly as you can while keeping pace with him. All the while, the phrase private room keeps tumbling over in your head, with all the other implications that come with it. 

A short elevator trip later, the two of you exit out into a hushed hallway with nary a face alien nor robotic to be seen, with polished, clean doors and placards beside each one. The thundering of the mob is still present, but more muted than you’ve ever heard before. You follow Lobo silently to a room with a foreign number beyond your comprehension as he produces a slick, metallic card that he places against the door. 

“Didn’t think you’d roll out the red carpet for me,” you opine honestly as you drink in the view of this new floor. He makes a low, amused noise in his throat as the door hisses open and with it the noise of the arena returns again. 

“That’s ‘cause I’m the real gentlemanly type, babe,” He grins, the embers from his cigar casting his face into menacing scarlet relief. “Now come on and check out the pad.” 

There are a few items that you don’t recognize, given the varied clientele that you’re certain Warworld must host, but you recognize on the far-side of the room the unobstructed sightline of the wall-to-wall view. 

Already out this window—at least, you assume that that’s what it is, with a faint shimmering sheen that you assume is a translucent forcefield—you can see distant figures already engaged in gladiatorial combat. Besides this window are two large, cushy chairs placed for guests to recline in and watch the bloodbath in comfort; further inspection displays tasteful art on the wall, alien flora housed in vases in random intervals throughout the room. 

And you don’t have to be an alien to know a giant bed when you see one, pushed up against the wall. Lobo makes little note of it, save to toss his own bag on the mattress, before sauntering over to the seats. You place your own bag next to his, staring at the wide landscape of the bed, mesmerized by the thread count of the fabric as your mind seems to go blank. 

“Ya want the sound on or off?” you hear him ask roughly, and you turn over your shoulder. 

“What?” You ask, furrowing your brow—you look to see a small, orb-shaped remote in his hand. 

“Of the games,” He gruffly explains. “It’s muted now—we can turn it on so you can get the real experience.” 

Sufficiently distracted, you begin to cross the distance over to him. “It’s my first time here—who knows when I’ll be back again. Turn it up.” 

There’s a cruel grin that crosses his face at this—this is the answer that he wanted to hear—there’s the click of a button and you can’t help but jump as the resounding cheers of the crowd awash over you both. A voice that you haven’t heard before cuts through the maddening clamor. 

“Welcome to Warworld, maggots—”—You frown in confusion, looking up to Lobo, who is watching as one of the four-armed combatants lops off the head of their opponent. 

“That’s Mongul,” Lobo explains, "Guy who set us up with the room. Likes to announce the top-ticket matches.” 

He points in a direction where you can see a balcony, where a domineering, brutal-looking figure stands before a microphone with an ever-present sneer. His voice is sleek and monotone as he continues to welcome all the other low-bellied creatures to another wonderful night at Warworld. 

“Good friend of yours?” you ask, pressing your fingers up to the forcefield that buzzes under your touch, trying to get a better look. 

“Somethin’ like that,” Lobo returns with no small degree of humor to his voice. There’s a soft crackle as he takes a deep drag from his cigar, the click of a tab being pulled open as he cracks open a beer, the creak of the chair as he settles his great frame into it. 

“—You’ve come for blood, brethren, and blood you’ll be served. Tonight we bring you two reigning champions—”

From the marked distance, you can see two doors down in the epicenter of the arena below rise open—a gray-skinned behemoth lumbers out of one end, and a red, rockily-textured figure slinks out of the other. 

“—But we know the rules here at Warworld. No holds barred—and only one champion receives the thrill of victory. Are you ready to be entertained?” 

As an answer, it feels as though you’re nearly rocked side-to-side with how the crowd all around you explodes with raucous approval. You can’t help but feel an infectious smile spread over your face as you feel yourself already getting swept up into the action—and then you remember your company. 

“Have you ever fought down here? In the ring?” You ask Lobo, and have to fight the heat of self-consciousness as you realize that his eyes have been focused in the direction of your ass. He’s slow to tear his gaze away from it, removing the cigar from his mouth to answer you, languidly tapping out some stray embers onto an ashtray he’s propped up on the other chair. 

“Been banned for a while now, sweetheart.” He boasts. “They don’t like repeat winners down here at Warworld.” 

“But you fought here?” You ask, turning back quickly as there’s a collective gasp, just in time to see the gray titan lose a hand to the slice of a wicked blade. “And won?” 

“Looks like an even match so far, folks—but who will come out on top?” 

“You expect the main man to lose?” He asks, and there’s almost a degree of mock-offense as he leans back in his seat, opening his legs wider. 

“No, of course not.” You grin, feeling an odd heat settling under your skin as you find yourself more and more distracted from the action below, those red eyes taking you in. “I just think it would’ve been awesome to see you fight.” 

“So you could heal me up afterwards with those bandages of yours?” He asks, and there’s a roguish smile on his face. “Just can’t keep your mind off feelin’ me up, huh?” 

“It’s part of my job,” you reply back with a calm smile that belies the tempest raging within you. “Can’t help it if I end up grabbing something I’m not supposed to.” 

“Our champion’s lost a hand, but he hasn’t lost his edge—how will he respond?” 

That predatory smile grows as he realizes you’re playing along. “You do that often, doc?” 

“Only to the patients I like,” you retort, feeling yourself turning away from the bloodbath below and more to other pressing concerns. He takes another drag, the end of his cigar blazing bright with the gesture. “And I only like a few.” 

“Am I on that list, sweetheart?” He asks, his voice a coarse note cutting through the din. The walls could be collapsing around you both but all you can feel is the sharp, almost painful tension that feels like it’s choking the words from you, making your mouth dry. 

“Oh, and there’s a game-changer right there—look at that defense coming out to play!” 

“Maybe you are,” you reply calmly. “Why else would I come with you to Warworld?” 

“Most babes just like the free tickets,” he returns back, challenging you, waiting to see how you’ll respond to this open provocation. He puts the cigar down on the edge of the ashtray, smoke issuing from the end, into the air.  

“I get the feeling you don’t bring other babes to the private room, do you?” you ask, casting an eye over his shoulder back to the open bed that seems to be awaiting you, a silent elephant in the room waiting to be acknowledged. 

“Maybe not,” He provides as a non-answer—it’s clear he’s enjoying the back and forth. “Maybe you’re just a favorite of mine.” 

“And what do you do to favorites, Lobo?” you ask, feeling like if you don’t now, then you’ll never have the nerve to offer it up again. Behind you, the screams of the crowd seem to amplify with the swell of the fight beyond you both. 

“Why don’t you come an’ take a seat on the main man and find out?” He asks—at this, his legs spread wider, offering free real estate for you to take advantage of. 

“An opening in his offense—but will they be able to navigate it?” 

The boldness that carries you over to him seems to dissipate the second that you’re in between his legs again. Something reminds you of when you stood in this same spot a few days ago, but the dynamic has shifted—you’re not in control anymore, in the safety of your office. 

It’s his turf now, his call—something in you is excited for this. 

“Thought I said I wanted ya sittin’ on me,” he grunts, and before you can react, you’re turned around, seated on his lap—and on something firm that seems to be awakening as you unconsciously rub your ass against it. 

You can’t help but gasp in surprise; a chuckle thrums through you as he clearly enjoys making you unmoored. 

“Sure you’ll be able to enjoy the fight from here?” You ask, trying to find something to regain some semblance of balance—the only thing are the sides of his thighs that you palm, making him laugh. It’s not a kind noise, but it makes your heart beat faster all the same.

You feel a nosing, wide finger curl through the one of the loops on the back of your shorts, and easily pull you back—you can’t help but make a strangled noise of surprise as you feel yourself pulled up against the broad plane of his chest. 

His prickly, corrugated voice speaks into the shell of your ear. “Who said I gave a shit about the fight, honey?” 

His hand slides out from behind you, snaking around your short. The frayed hem is already canting higher up your thighs due to the awkward angle your legs are pitched back at. 

“Think there’s somethin’,” he growls as his hand finds purchase on the button of your shorts, “I’m a lot more interested in right now.” 

“How will your reigning champion respond? See that look in his eye—pure bloodlust!” 

“Lobo—”—you begin, but your voice is already so layered with need, your hands holding onto him for dear life, something taut throbbing within you. “Hurry up already—please.” 

He chuckles at your last-minute recall to be polite, and obliges. There’s a crude rip of fabric, a minute clatter as the metal button of your shorts goes tumbling somewhere distant to the floor, and then you feel his other hand wrap around your chest, pulling you back against him. In one swift motion and a flex of muscle, he’s freed you from your shorts, which are tossed to the ground in a limp heap. 

You’re half-naked now, both the cool air and the fact that if anyone were to turn away from the fighting, they might see you on display—it summons goosebumps up your body. The idea excites and arouses you, making that throbbing need between your legs near-painful, your heart in your throat as you remind yourself to keep breathing. 

“Sit up fer me,” he instructs you, the coiled arm that has slid around your midriff loosening fractionally so you can follow his instructions. Momentarily bewildered, punch-drunk with the way things have so quickly escalated, you begin to move, but it isn’t quick enough for his liking. 

You make a breathy gasp as he fixes you, so that you find yourself on all fours on his wide lap, your knees and the heels of your hands touching, balancing precariously upon his muscular thighs. And you are the most exposed, spread open that you have ever been. 

He chuckles, low and throaty. “Yeah, think I like this view.” 

“Y-yeah?” You ask, trying to keep yourself from toppling over; he makes a crass laugh at your valiant attempt to appear braver than you actually feel. As if to give some accommodation, one of those great hands, hot and grasping around you, finds the crook of your hip and waist, and squeezes. 

“Wouldn’t want you to fall,” that grin is all but evident in his voice, and you barely have time to register it before you feel the crack of his hand on your ass. Stars of pain wink in your vision as you cry out, and something wrenches in you needfully. 

“A direct hit! How will he respond, folks?” 

“Fuck, Lobo—”—you whimper, but you find this choked off as that same hand drapes down the curve of your cheek, and further into the cleft. Instinctively, you stiffen, a quaver in your arms as you feel his thumb graze over your hole. 

“Tell me ya want this, sweetheart,” his voice is dark, wanting, waiting for your abject approval even as the digit lazily circles over it, driving you up the wall as your thighs twitch around nothing. 

“Do it,” you practically whisper, unable to verbalize anything at a louder volume than that. You’ve barely uttered the words before you’re wrenched up, pulled back by his grasp that has wrapped around the joint of your thighs. Surprised by this unexpected unmooring, your fingers scrabble across the scratchy fabric of his pants, as you are lifted up to him.

“Oh my god—”—is all you’re able to articulate before you feel the wet, rough rasp of a tongue on your hole and your words are swallowed by a satisfied, wanting moan. You barely realize it’s you until it’s escaped you.

“Oh my god—”—there’s a rumble of laughter that shocks through you as he continues to lick greedily, noisily. Your fingers curl into tight fists as you grab what you can, trying not to collapse in a heap of limbs when he inevitably settles you down. You’ve never felt so vulnerable, so totally subservient to someone else’s whims, as he holds you to his mouth and continues to take his fill, the lewd noises filling the room even over the endured screams of the throng. 

He sets you down too quickly, leaving you to regain the footing that you had before. Your hands are canting with an odd numbness against his legs, your knees quavering. 

“Jesus—”—is all that you’re able to get out before one of those hands that held your thighs finds the crook of your waist, squeezing painfully. 

“Had to get you ready, babe,” he says, clearly unrepentant for your state of disarray. “Wouldn’t wantcha unprepared, would ya?” 

“No—”—is the ragged, needy reply that you’re able to articulate, but you find your words interrupted yet again by the presence of his forefinger that taunts around your hole. Before you can even say anything else, it starts to work its way in—the only thing that you can do is hold on for dear life and make a high-pitched moan that you don’t think you’ve ever made before. 

“Oh, you like that, huh?” He gloats as you lurch your hands forward for better purchase, but push your ass into that digit that’s slotting itself into you. You find yourself clenching around nothing again as something rises behind your skin, sweat beading on your temple as the feeling slowly, torturously crescendoes in your abdomen. 

That finger continues to work in and out of you, but he doesn’t move faster even as it’s clear you’re becoming undone—he keeps that damning steady pace as you writhe under his domineering grip. 

“Think you’re gonna come, cutie?” He asks, and he’s taunting you now, sinking that finger even deeper in and out, past the knuckle. You can’t help but keen with the stretch and pull, your back arching as he does so. You’re full-body trembling now, as you feel that sensation growing and growing still. And still he continues.

“Think yer gonna—”—he pushes his finger in even further, and it’s terrible and wonderful at once, making the edges of your vision edge with hazy spots—“—Come ‘cause of the main man’s finger?” 

The only thing you respond with is a wailing sob as you do, stiffening tightly, your muscles seizing—you’re grateful for his arm that slides around you again to carry you through it, that finger still working through you. All the while, you can hear his smug encouragement, “Yeah, that’s what I thought—look fuckin’ hot like that, sweetheart—”

“Oh, what a finish, folks! Looks like we may have a new reigning victor—”

You’re barely cognizant of the fact that he’s moving, unbuckling his belt with a metallic click as you tremble through the come-down, shoulders heaving. You don’t realize what’s happening until you hear the pull of the zipper and feel something spring free against your inner thigh, impossibly large and girthy against you. 

“Thought you’d like a warm-up before we got to the main show, honey,” he says, and it’s all you can do to keep up, leaning your elbows back against the dense muscles of his chest, his stomach, a practical furnace burning into you. Those hands have slid up your waist, those fingers wrapping around your stomach, holding you securely as you feel the graze of his cock under you. 

You can’t help but turn your head back at him, swallowing thickly as you find the willpower to finally speak aloud, breathlessly. “Do you—is it gonna fit?” 

“Only one way to find out,” you can see the ravenous grin on his face, and then you feel yourself being spread, sinking down on his cock. Your mouth opens to moan, to wail—nothing comes out, as you endure the painful stretch, impossibly large, impossibly thick—

“Doin’ good, honey,” he praises you, groaning lustfully as you dig your nails into him—but he continues to lower you down, settling you onto him. Your mind is totally empty, your thighs working overtime as you seat yourself, tilting your head back as if this will help you get more air into your system. 

“Oh, but what’s this? Do we see a comeback—”

His hips roll into you experimentally and you shudder in agonized pleasure, fingers digging into him—he laughs, satisfied at the reaction he’s coaxed out of you. 

“M-more,” you stutter out, and he bucks his hips into you again, making you cry out and lie back against him. You feel the scrape of teeth against your shoulder as he takes a taste—you hiss in pain but you want more. 

“What was that, honey? Didn’t hear you the first time,” his teeth are against your ear. You screw your face up in concentration as you try to summon up the strength again. 

“More, Lobo—please.” You beg as your body arches against him. “I can—take it.” 

“Since ya asked so nicely,” He returns, and his hands grip around you tightly before he begins to set the pace. 

It’s like all thoughts are banished from your head, the only thing that you can think of the slide of his cock as it sails in and out of you, the demanding pull as he digs his fingers into you, slamming you down. The only noises that you can make are sloppy, pleading moans, sharp exhales of air as you’re practically used like a fuck-doll, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. 

It’s so hot, so intoxicating, so much—you feel like you’re going to pass out, skewered on his cock. But you can’t get enough of it, you want more, need more, you’ve never wanted anything more in your life—

“Harder, harder, harder,” you find yourself babbling, begging him as your legs jerk and quiver from the position you’ve been made to hold on him—but you’re willing to endure it. You don’t want to be anywhere else.

“Sure thing, honey,” He’s clearly relishing this, and drags you down so that you’re fully taking it, fully taking his length—you bite back a moan and find your arms losing feeling, your fingertips going numb. 

“Holy shit,” you utter, but he doesn’t slow down—you asked, so he provides—and you find yourself being fucked into again, the pace unrelenting as you clench around him. Your brain feels like it’s going to short-circuit as you feel something approaching again. 

“You’re going to—I’m going to—”—you can’t even get out the words, your thighs shaking violently as he continues to bury his length in you, the smack of his skin against yours getting louder, less controlled. “Lobo—”

“Heard you the first time,” He says, unaffected by this as he tilts you back, “Go ahead and come.” 

When he sinks into you at this new angle that seems to hit the very back of you, you howl—and let your second orgasm overtake you, this one more brutal, overwhelming as it rockets through you, going totally motionless. He slows down enough for you to get your bearings as you collapse against him, a sweaty, trembling mess. But he doesn’t pull out, leaving you filled up— the idea of him still inside you still so fucking hot even as you’re still processing the last orgasm. 

“Fuck—fuck—”—you say, feeling overused, every nerve raw as his thumbs work into your back. “I can’t believe it.” 

Your chest heaves as you gulp down air, looking back at him—he seems supremely satisfied. “I can—I can do more. I promise.”

“Good,” he huffs as he begins to start up again, making you groan needfully, “I’m just gettin’ started.” 

“Looks like it’s going to be a long night, folks—better settle in for the long haul!” 

“So, how was Warworld?” Guy asks you sing-song from the bed that you’ve been relegated to for the past few days, bearing a shit-eating grin as he looks down at your prone form. The IV that’s plugged into your arm beeps in regulated intervals as you turn your head to look up at him with a sheepish smile. 

“It was…very educational.” You respond, your voice hoarse with disuse—he tilts his head back and cackles. 

“Oh, yeah? Have a good time?” He asks, peering down at you with a mocking lilt to his voice. You pointedly turn away from him, to the door he walked in through, wishing he would disappear in a puff of smoke. 

“…I might be going back again next week.” You mumble to the wall rather than him—this prompts another echoing guffaw, making him bend over to slap his knee. He actually laughs so hard he needs to find the bedside chair to sit on it. 

“Oh, man—”—He wheezes, wiping a tear from his eye. “Bring me back something next time, will ya?” 

He pauses, giving you a sly, sidelong glance. “Maybe you oughta wash it first before you give it to me, though.” 

“Please leave, Guy.” You say—this prompts a final loud laugh from him. 

Dividers provided by @cafekitsune

[gallifreyanhotfive]

No comment

[why-and-or-bother]

Doctor Who says fuck ai art

[haventacluewhatimdoing]

Love that this alien arm is clearly just green bubblewrap. 70s prosthetics I love you

[badgirlsvevo]

A Perfect View [18+]

A/N: first time writing for Clark, kinda nervous……. won’t be the last though 😛 this was really fun and made me want to write him getting rage baited lol (while in heat maybe……… (WHO SAID THAT….)) 

let me know what you think!! 

tags: clark kent x afab reader (no y/n), p w mild plot, clark luvs boobies propaganda, p in v, use of x-ray vision, PINCERS…….. (iykyk), finish inside, praise, talks you through it, overstimulation, clark being a cutie patootie

wc: 2.2k

[MASTERLIST]

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He’d been out all night. Evacuating an apartment building from a fire, preventing a gas leak, helping an old lady cross the road, saving a cat from a tree. And now he had to write an article. About himself. 

No matter how hard he tried to pretend he was focused on the task at hand, his eyes kept drifting up to the woman in the kitchen. The scent of brownies wafting through their entire apartment as she pulled them out of the oven. 

“Are you done, Clark?” She peers over her shoulder when she catches him looking for the fifth time. 

“No.” He grumbles, running a hand over his face. 

“You know you don’t have to finish the whole thing tonight, right?” She walks up to where he’s sitting on the couch, hand resting on her hip, “You’ve been up for two days, it’ll probably help your writing too if you give your brain a rest.” 

“You know I don’t need to slee–”

He stops abruptly when she raises her brows at him, reminders of his last run of all-nighters flooding back. He’d developed a strange flu that took months to leave his body entirely, which was terrifying for both of them given that his DNA could fight off most everything. 

“Let me give it a go for ten more minutes, then I’ll put it away.” 

“Fine.” She shrugs, checking the time before settling down next to him with a book. 

The ten minutes go by with him huffing and puffing. Typing a sentence before deleting the whole thing in frustration. Pulling up the pictures Jimmy had taken for inspiration before quitting those tabs in abashment. Opening and closing Dictionary.com in hopes for a sudden revelation. 

Eventually, he feels her move next to him, shuffling to close the gap between them. She waits a minute before yawning and casually resting her head on his shoulder. His fingers briefly pause over the keyboard before he continues writing another redundant sentence. 

He groans pinching the bridge of his nose, unaware of the way her hand moves to rest on his knee. She squeezes it gently in an act of support, but her intentions aren’t as pure. Turning her head slightly to place soft kisses along the curve of his neck, her hand drifts to his thigh. 

“It’s hard, huh?” She mumbles innocently, the insinuation sending heat straight to his core.

“Sweetheart…” he starts warily, voice shaky, “What are you doing?” 

“Hm?” She smiles against his skin, hand continuing to trail up his leg, “Nothing.”

“Well,” His breath hitches as her fingers near his groin, “This is clearly not ‘nothing’.” 

“It’s been ten minutes.”

“Yes, I know, but–”

“Have you made any progress?” 

His lips seal shut. 

“You can keep working if you really want to,” she murmurs into the crook of his neck, “But if you want me to stop, I need you to tell me.” 

A beat passes. His hands are on her in a flurry of motion. Grip firm on her hips as he picks her up, legs wrapping around his waist.

His lips immediately attach to hers, one hand moving to tangle in her hair as he tries to pull her impossibly closer. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he pants, “The darn article can wait.” 

Blindly walking them to the bedroom, he lays her down carefully, never losing contact. His arms settle on either side of her head, sighing contentedly when her lips part to allow him entrance. 

Her hands move to his t-shirt, tugging at the fabric to pull him closer. She whimpers as he drops the slightest amount of body weight on her, hips rolling up to meet his. He groans at the contact, his forehead falling to hers. 

The heated look in her eyes calms him somehow. Even after his late nights, other-worldly quirks, and the list of baggage he finds to be at fault within himself – she still wants him. 

He closes the gap to kiss her again. This time with more leisure, trying to memorise every crease of her lips. 

“Missed you,” he murmurs into the kiss, “So much.” 

They’ve seen each other every day, but she doesn’t question or call him out on it. She knows what he means. 

Her fingers carefully card through his hair, entangling in the curls. The article, the brownies, any responsibilities long forgotten. 

Hands slipping under her dress, he carefully brings it over her head, not wanting to add to the list of clothing she’s lost due to his eagerness. Relief floods his body once she’s bare under him, like it always does. 

He immediately leans down to place soft kisses all over her hips and stomach. Looking up at her when his fingers tentatively approach her bra, “May I?”

Before he can process any response, she’s reaching back herself, unclipping it and tossing it haphazardly. He laughs lightly, immediately leaning down to pepper soft kisses all over her chest. “Missed these too,” his voice muffled against her skin. 

She gasps when his lips wrap around her nipple, soothing it over with his tongue. He takes his time, his hand gently massaging her other breast before swapping over. 

“Clark,” she whines. 

“Mm?” He hums passively, entirely enamoured with his current duty. 

“Need you.” 

He chuckles, switching sides again, “I’m right here.” 

“All of you.” 

“Oh,” he stills, “Right. Yes.” 

Scrambling to his knees, his thumbs hook into her panties to pull them down. He settles between her legs, but before he can level his mouth to her core she gently tugs at his hair. 

His brows furrow in confusion as he pulls back, “I thought you–”

She shakes her head, fingers slipping under the waistband of his plaid pyjama pants, “Not necessary.”

He sits back on his calves, the lines deepening on his forehead, “Sweetheart, we can’t just jump right into it.” 

They’d finally figured out an ideal routine to get her ready for him, after she realised he’d been holding back in fear of hurting her. And this spontaneity was definitely not a part of that routine. 

“We can,” she waves him off, “It’s fine.” 

“Uh, no, I don’t think so–”

“I already handled it,” she blurts out.

“Pardon?” His voice hitches up in shock, “What do you mean you ‘already handled it’?” 

Her cheeks flare up at having to spell it out for him, muttering out as quickly as possible, “I mean, I took care of myself before you got home so we could… jump right into it.” 

His lips part and close as he takes in the new information, the heat in his groin spreading throughout his body. Eyes softening when he studies her face, he leans down to kiss her forehead, “I’m sorry. Needed me and I made you wait so long. Let’s take care of that.” 

Within seconds his clothes are off. Throbbing length in his hand as he hovers over her, eyes flicking up to hers.

He’s too shy to ask usually, but after the week he’s had, he needs to see it. Needs to see how well she takes him despite all their inherent differences.

It’s as if she can read his mind as soon as his lips part, speaking up before he can start.

“Whatever you need,” she smiles softly, kissing his arm beside her head. 

An exasperated groan leaves his lips at her understanding, at how unafraid she is of his anatomy. Leaning down to catch her lips in a bruising kiss, his fingers carefully brush the nape of her neck as he directs his cock to her entrance. 

He pulls back slightly, hesitating briefly before his eyes flash. The unobstructed view of his tip nudging through her tight walls sends him whimpering, head dropping at the intimate sight. 

Going entirely still when he hears her heartbeat pick up, he lifts his head to study her face. The discomfort isn’t obvious, but he can read her well enough from the furrow of her brows and the way her grip on his arms tightens. 

“Doesn’t feel good?” He murmurs, voice strained as he holds back. 

“Oh, no!” She adds quickly when he moves to pull out, “No, it does, I just don’t think I did a very good job of…” 

“Couldn’t take care of yourself as well as I do, hm?” He smiles cheekily when she narrows her eyes at him. “That’s okay. We learn from our mistakes,” he nuzzles into the crook of her neck, trailing soft kisses up to her jaw, “And next time you’ll be more patient and wait until I’m home. Yes?” 

She nods. 

“Words, sweetheart.” He murmurs as he kisses her. 

“Yes.” 

He smiles against her lips, starting to move again at an agonising pace. She laughs as he peppers kisses all over her face to distract her, not stopping until he feels her core draw him in ever so slightly. 

Eyes flashing when he looks down again, his hips stutter when he sees through her – sees how her walls flutter around him every time he pushes deeper. His eyes are locked onto how she coaxes him in languidly, committing the vision to his memory. Her soft sounds of pleasure loosen his control as he inches further into her, pupils blazing when he watches his thick head finally graze her cervix. 

“Gosh,” he whispers breathlessly, “Look at us.” 

His fingers trace the length of him as it breaches through her, eyes lighting up as he angles himself perfectly to press against her G-spot. She cries out a moan, back arching as she tries to take him impossibly deeper. 

“Wish you could see this too,” voice trembling in awe, regardless of how many times she’s let him use his powers during sex. “Taking me so beautifully,” he struggles to tear his eyes away, but he’s rewarded by the look on her face. Lips bitten raw, cheeks flushed, eyes full of adoration. 

His fingers gently push down on the bulge of his tip in her belly, “Feel that?”

She nods, clenching around him with a whimper, making him hiss at the pressure. 

“Like you were made just for me,” he smiles softly as he leans down to kiss her.

Humming passively in agreement, her nails imprint crescent moons into his biceps as she tries to pace herself with deep breaths. “Just for you, Clark,” she babbles against his lips, mind in a daze, “All of you. Feels so good, so full every time.”  

And though he prides himself on his humility, her words rush straight to his ego – and his cock. Length pulsing inside of her, his eyes frantically search hers for consent before it’s too late. She nods eagerly, fingers twisting into his shirt in hopes that it’ll keep him close, “Please. Don’t even think about depriving me of that.” 

He lets out a breathless laugh, hands moving to her waist to ground himself, thumbs gently brushing over her skin to mollify the eventual sting inside her. Grunting as the pincers protract, his eyes flash at her wince, catching how they latch onto her walls. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whines, losing any semblance of control as he watches his cock pump ropes of his release deep inside her. 

Lips parting in a weak wail, her legs wrap around him to keep him in place. Feeling him at such a depth sends her tumbling through her own orgasm, eyes squeezing shut as she convulses around him. 

“Thank you, love you so much,” he groans breathlessly. Kissing away the tears rolling down her cheeks from the overwhelming pleasure, he whispers against the wet skin, “That’s it, doing so good for me. So, so perfect.” 

The pressure doesn’t let up, and neither does he. Grinding deeper and further every time he pumps into her, his hand moves to her chest. His touch is worshipful, fingers carefully plying at the tissue before tracing her nipples. She struggles to formulate any thoughts, his name leaving her lips in desperate pleas for more. 

Intent to show her how grateful he is for her generosity, he works her towards another orgasm. He moves slower, harder, his pubic bone abrading her clit at his every maneuver.

“Just a little more,” he pants, his actions relentless, “I know my pretty girl can take it.” 

The continuous spurts of his cum and the overstimulation break her in no time, falling back a limp and whimpering mess. His head drops to her chest, entirely spent as she spasms around him. 

“Geez,” he murmurs, head spinning from the overwhelming pleasure. “Need to stay like this for a bit, sweetheart. Can I?” He kisses along the curve of her breast as she nods, easing her down from her high. The pincers start to retract once his body recognises his seed has been thoroughly drained into its new home.

As her breathing levels out, he rests his chin on her sternum to look up at her, “‘m sorry. Should’ve given you more time.” 

She huffs, fingers carding through his hair, “Quit apologising. I’m exactly where I want to be.” 

He hums contentedly, absentmindedly tracing patterns on her flushed skin, “Well, then, thank you for putting up with… all of me.”

Lifting her head to look down at him, she raises her brows, “If this is what ‘putting up’ with you entails, I’m signing on for the rest of my life.” 

He grins, his length twitching inside her at the promise.

“If that’s what my girl wants, that’s what she gets.” 

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[doqt33th]

ANGUINE

DR. VICTOR GIDEON/READER

SUMMARY: You are a broke college student living in the shoddier part of Wrenwood. One night, clocking off work, you witness something you shouldn't have at the old Wrenwood Hotel. Intent on ensuring your silence, Dr. Gideon pursues you, only to find out you have a much different reaction to the t-Virus than expected.

WORD COUNT: ~11k

WARNINGS: 18+, explicit PWP, heavy on the dubcon. Oral sex (fem receiving), vaginal fingering + penetrative sex. Aphrodisiacs + mind break. Size kink/size difference. Reader is fem & referred to as a girl one time, otherwise written mostly GN. No descriptors beyond the basics & no Y/N.

READ ON AO3 HERE

It was a dark and stormy night. No, seriously. Settled deep in the Midwest as it was, Wrenwood was prone to regular lashings from storms so bad that they made you reconsider your choice of university with frequent and fervent sincerity. There were a plethora of reasons you’d ended up attending — price, location, job opportunities, price, price, price — but all of them seemed to pale in the face of every oncoming downpour. And even though you were frugal, everything about living there was just so damn expensive. Groceries in your fridge whittled, your electricity bill seemed to climb and climb and climb, and the hefty tuition bills charged to your account didn’t help either. Naturally, you sought out a part-time job. Such was the way of the student.

Of course, your schedule was restricted by your classes, which knocked out most of the well-paying options immediately. Pared down to part-time jobs with night shifts, you suffered through the hiring process for a half a dozen different positions and got rejected from all but one — a convenience store attendant, located a reasonable walking distance from your apartment. Not ideal, but beggars really could not be choosers. The guy who owned it seemed nice enough, if a bit harried, and you had shown up for your “interview” far overdressed and out of your element. Regardless, you got the job.

At first it had been an irritating intrusion on your schedule — another block stacked atop the perpetually teetering tower of responsibilities that you barely managed to keep balanced — but, like all things, you grew used to it. Nights previously spent studying, going out with friends, or even just sleeplessly scrolling your phone were now sacrificed to the upkeep of the store. Long stretches both flew and crawled in the liminal space of the linoleum aisles and half-stocked shelves. You never could quite dispel the hum of the fluorescents, no matter how loud the music in your earbuds was.

There were definitely worse jobs. Even though you were in a shadier part of Wrenwood, nobody seemed to bother you. Some regulars you grew to recognize. The rest were transient faces, stopping in for cigarettes or candy or some other frivolous vice paired with brief cash register conversation and a well wish. Most of your shifts were spent perched on a wobbly stool with your laptop balanced on the counter and some assignment or another open on the screen. Sure, day shift always left you a list of tasks — clean the bathroom, restock the shelves, prep the hot food bar — but nothing was ever that hard. Nor particularly time-consuming. In fact, without your studies dogging your every step and filling the hours of your shift, your job probably would have been way more boring. And, to top it off, the paychecks were sorely needed; you nearly felt your wallet weep in gratitude every time the direct deposit landed in your account.

Not so bad overall. Sure, you had occasional odd customers, but they didn’t bother you too much. Skeevy old men, persistent frat-esque guys your age, a few women who eyed the cigarettes behind the counter too hard for you to not squint at them. Standard fare. Not nearly enough to make you consider quitting. Not even the crop-up of murders around the city made you reconsider your schedule. Someone would have to pry the job from your cold dead hands before you ever put in a two-week notice. The thought made you huff with barely-there amusement, even as your face twisted into a resigned frown at the sight of the weather outside.

Hubris really would be your downfall one of these days. Even on your way to work, when you had watched the bronze dregs of the sunset succumb to the inexorable march of gathering thunderclouds, you hadn’t expected the rain to be that bad. Not enough to warrant an umbrella. You’d lived in Wrenwood for a few years now. To say you could handle rain was an understatement. Hell, you were even wearing a sweatshirt with a hood on it.

…Right. Watching sheaves of water spill down the windows past pasted-up advertisements just made your mood sink more and more. Neon signs across the street warped through the deluge; wobbly lines of blazing red and blue fought the diffuse glow spilling from your storefront through streaks of harsh rain. It drummed hard enough on the roof to be audible. Pelted the pavement with enough strength to bounce off already-gathered puddles. Every few minutes, thunder snarled outside, followed in short order by bone-white flashes that lit the damp street in stark detail for half-second increments.

In short, getting home was going to be miserable. Morning shift came to relieve you at just past four; you lingered by the counter for several minutes, making idle chatter in a hopeless attempt to prolong being dry. It didn’t make much difference. More time spent past your shift’s end just meant less time to sleep, and you had a class with mandatory attendance tomorrow (today?) that you did not plan on missing. If you were quick, you could make it home and get a reasonable night’s sleep in. Weighing your options between encroaching on much-needed rest and soaking yourself down to the bone for fifteen-ish minutes, you eventually (and begrudgingly) settled on the latter.

With a final goodbye to your coworker, you tugged your bag as close to your body as possible, then stepped into the back office to clock out. Another hundred-ish dollars to your next paycheck. It would be eaten sooner or later by some irritating extraneous expense, but having your hard-earned wages confirmed was some small comfort.

…Comfort that was, predictably, instantly eclipsed by the wash of icy water that hit your face on your first step outside the door. Flinching away from the downpour, you yanked your hood up and tightened the drawstrings, zipping the jacket all the way up to your chin. Your bag would just have to deal with the water stain; if your earbuds got fried, you were so fucked. Eyes squinted tight against the offensive rain, you pushed forward, leaving the warm, safe haven of the corner store with measurable regret leadening your footsteps.

Wrenwood in the day was only sort of dismal; the industrial core of the city (where you lived, of course) had long since been left behind for shinier, newer real-estate investments. Gutted for all its profitable assets and left to die, what had once been a bustling packing and shipping hub of the Midwest was now a rotting corpse of brick buildings and dingy alleyways. Water, incessant and intrusive, seeped into your shoes as you walked, chin tucked tight. Soon. You’d be home soon, and you could shower and collapse into bed, as was par for the course these days.

Every few seconds, you glanced up into the sheets of rain to make sure you weren’t on a collision course with anything. Or anyone. The latter didn’t really apply at this hour; for a city of its size, the streets were unnervingly empty late at night like this. One hand snaked under your hood to tug an earbud free, testing some unformed hypothesis. Nothing. Just rain, that sound of wet static crackling against pavement and puddles and brick siding. Visual and audial noise washed away anything further than five feet from you. A single car rolled by and you jumped despite yourself.

Whatever. Despite the lingering feeling of unease — only natural to feel disquieted in a normally-busy street now totally deserted, you assured yourself — you pushed onward. You’d made this walk a hundred times now, half of them at this hour. Nothing had ever bothered you. It was fine. You were fine.

Regardless, you tucked a hand behind your back and brushed over it in an attempt to dispel the crawling sensation running over your spine. Maybe it was just because of where you were. An actor on cue, the carcass of the Wrenwood Hotel loomed suddenly out of the dark, and you almost flinched.

It used to be nice. It used to be beautiful. Stately and grand, a leftover of when the city was younger and wealthier and roomier. At least, that was what your regulars told you. The hotel burned down years before you moved to Wrenwood, following the murder of its owner and an FBI agent. Huge thing. National news. You remembered hearing about it in high school, though it was never more than a blip on your feed. It was different, though, to read about it as a news excerpt on your phone and to walk past the place in real life. The smoked-out husk of the first floor sat, squalid and eye-level, as you walked by. Exposed support beams were still hung with scraps of peeled wallpaper — jagged teeth still decorated with flayed meat — and you averted your eyes from the darker remains of the lobby.

The place had always given you the creeps, to say the least. Some city official had promised to finally have it bulldozed this year — that you highly doubted — but it had been condemned since it had burned. Squatters didn’t even linger; it was strange to even get close to it, so seemingly devoid of life and yet so heavy you almost struggled to breathe in its presence. Jesus. Your own dramatics shocked you; it was, after all, just a rundown building, and one you walked by every day no less. For all intents and purposes, it should have been no different than every other shoddy health code violation you passed on your commute, and yet…

You shook it off. You were psyching yourself out for no reason. The late hour and your long shifts and generally exhausting life must have all been getting to you at once, and you felt it like a dead weight on your back. Soon. You’d be home soon. Blinking bleary eyes, you swung your head from its gravitational pull towards the derelict remains of the hotel and pushed onward. As you went to resettle yourself back into your hunched, generally-miserable posture, you caught sight of something in the crammed alleyway running down the side of your field of vision.

A person. No, two people. One was weird enough for the late hour. Two in an alleyway set all kinds of alarms off in your head. Tugging both earbuds loose, you, despite yourself, stopped in your tracks. You rescinded your earlier thought. Hubris wasn’t going to kill you. Nosiness was.

One of them laid flat on the ground, face-up to the rain that leaked past debris overhang and crossing telephone wires. The other was crouched down, leaning over the supine form with what looked like concern. You weren’t dumb. Maybe someone sprawled in an alley at four-whatever in the morning wasn’t there because of the most ideal circumstances… but you weren’t an asshole either. You were supposed to help, right? Or call someone, maybe?

Or maybe just ask… but something stayed your tongue. Maybe it was the same thing that stayed your feet. The distinction didn’t really matter. All you did was stand in the rain, water soaked deep into your shoes and jacket, peering through falling sheets as best you could. A long shaft of light fell from a separate streetlight, its glow just barely enough to highlight the people in the alley. Your knuckles tightened hard around the strap of your bag; the tip of your shoe dragged through a puddle as you leaned forward an inch. Some twenty feet away, mostly obscured by rain, all you could make out was their blurry forms. Some pale skin. The bleached-looking wet sheen of the mobile stranger’s coat… and the strangely limp way the other one moved. And then, in a rush of horrifying, immediate realization, it dawned on you why, exactly, that the other one was not moving at all. And sure, maybe “drunk” or “unconscious” could have explained away the lack of response, but the laxness of the motions, the strange weight, the unnervingly delicate way the other one handled it — they picked an arm up gently, then let it drop to the ground. Like poking roadkill to see if it was dead.

Because they were dead.

Because you were looking at a dead body.

Lead solidified in the pit of your stomach and dropped, and you stood there, stupid as a deer in headlights, staring at what was presumably a fresh crime scene. There was no rulebook for this. Nothing stated what you were supposed to do after Occam’s razoring yourself into witnessing a murder. Should you have expected this? You kept up with the news. There was a rash of dead bodies being discovered around the city, all with the same odd bruising covering their corpses. But nobody ever thinks it’s going to happen to them. You never think you’re going to come across a serial killer until the body’s staring you in the face. Some sense of virtue kicked in, suggesting meekly that you call the cops, and self-preservation stomped it out immediately. Like hell you were going to do that. A much better idea — keep walking — presented itself, and you took that one instead.

One step back. Water splashed up around your shoe. And then the kneeling person stood. Air whooshed out of your lungs in one harsh exhale; the chill you’d picked up was no longer just from the rain. Big. Bigger than any person you’d ever seen, even from a distance. They just kept standing, the motion continuing forever, legs too long to be human. When they turned around, motion slow and deliberate, every hair on your body snapped to attention.

You pivoted sharply on your heel and started to walk, pace just shy of running, hoping that if you pretended like you saw nothing — like you had just been passing by originally — then you’d be left alone. Something tightened in your chest, sharp and hard and paranoid, and you made the horrible mistake of looking behind you.

Holy hell. The stranger had cleared twenty feet of distance in seconds and was now standing where you had been moments prior. Standing. Looming. Enormous. Taller than you had even previously thought, so tall that it-they-he firmly straddled the line of inhuman. Long pale snakeskin billowed around thick legs, and half of a sallow face — barely visible through the rain — peeked from beneath a drawn hood. Panic shot down all your limbs at once, a violent full-body electric shock that spasmed your lungs in a hard gasp.

One arm raised. Something whizzed past your ear. The projectile disappeared into the downpour, too fast for your eyes to track, and holy Christ, you were running. Shot at? Had you just been shot at?

There was a certain exhilarated delirium that came with being pursued. Sprays of rainwater accompanied each strike of your feet against the pavement. Your heart had climbed straight into your throat and begun a violent, rabbit-quick slam in your ears; the hole left behind in your chest had tightened inexplicably. The taut ball behind your sternum fought to escape, threatening to rip free via your mouth in the form of uncontrollable laughter, or screaming, or something. The last time you’d been seriously chased was on the playground in elementary school. This was something else entirely. This, in fact, was running for your life from a monster that looked as though it had crawled straight from the recess of a childhood nightmare. You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. Your lungs burned with exertion, though, and you couldn’t afford to divert oxygen toward making noise. It was there, it was still chasing you, and it had to have been gaining.

The rain, relentless as it was, blinded you and tripped you up in your already terrified state. Helpless to your hostile environment, you slipped on errant soaked detritus and nearly fell. For a brief, horrifying moment you pitched forward, legs barely wheeling under your weight fast enough to keep you upright. As you righted from your stumble, something pierced your back, right above your shoulder blade; at the sharp pinch of pain, you let out a yelp, eyes bugging out of your skull.

Blindly, dumbly, you slapped a hand against your back until rain-wet fingers slid over a smooth object. You grasped at it, skidding to a graceless halt and gasping for air in order to study the thing. The weight of it was unfamiliar in your palm. Light. Unobtrusive.

Smooth glass rolled against your damp skin for a moment, following the cup of your hand. In your panic-dumb state, you didn’t realize what it was for a moment. The long needle on the end, tipped in ruby from your blood, and the milliliter markings on the side clued you in.

A dart. He’d shot you with a dart gun. And judging from the droplets of leftover liquid left inside the tube, it had immediately emptied into you upon contact.

“Oh, God, no,” you stammered out loud, voice weak and lost to the endless wash of the rain. The empty dart slipped from your palm in your mounting horror, and you stared at your twitching fingers for a second before whipping around on your heel. Your pursuer had halted some ways away — farther than you thought — with their arm outstretched in a familiar pose. Holding the gun, you extrapolated.

A thousand nightmarish possibilities washed over you, each worse than the last. Maybe it was some neurotoxin and you’d be dead in under a minute. Or maybe it was a paralytic designed to immobilize you — or an anesthetic — in order to haul you away into the darkness of Wrenwood’s back alleys, never to be seen again. This had to be some nightmare that you’d wake up from — but the rain was too cold, too wet, too real, and the monster standing down the sidewalk, just outside the glow of the nearest streetlight, did not vanish even when you blinked.

For what it was worth, you didn’t collapse. Nor did you pass out. But you definitely felt something. As foreign as it was, it took a moment to recognize the feeling. Warmth. Liquid heat surged through your veins, centered at the pinpoint on your shoulder. It fought the chill of the rain with such sudden intensity that you were sent reeling while standing, twitching from sensation. From your back all the way down to the tips of your fingers, and even further down to your pelvis, to your legs, so far down in your feet that it felt like you were leaching heat into the pavement.

What was happening to you? What did you get injected with? It wasn’t a high — or if it was, it was like none you’d ever experienced before. You were just so hot. Every vein and capillary felt dilated, blood all warm and loose and pressed right up against your skin from the inside. Errant raindrops on your cheek felt as though they were going to sizzle straight off you like a hot pan.

The stranger’s arm lowered. Panting through your mouth in an attempt to calm your heart rate, you stared at the monstrous form and it stared right back at you. Distinctly Nietzschean. From here, you could see more detail. Did you want to see more detail? Fat droplets slid heavy down the long, long, long snakeskin coat. Shiny black boots stood, unmarred and unbothered by the weather like the wearer, in a puddle that would have been ankle-deep for you. And that face. Still half-obscured by the hood, you could see now that it was not just pale but gray, completely devoid of color or life, marred by whorls and lines all the way down. A dark scar jutted down the center of the chin, trailed all the way down the throat and disappeared beneath the clasps of the shirt. So human and so not.

A slow tilt of the head inspired a fresh wave of terror. Even though you were superheated, your mind was clear enough to still feel fear, and it mounted at the flagrant act of being studied. Considered. Every motion of yours was tracked by a predator you knew you had no chance against. You stumbled back a few steps, cold and hot sweat both racing down the back of your already-soaked shirt, and threw yourself down the nearest alley. Movements sloppy with panic, you banged your hip painfully off a trash can and swore loudly. Tearfully. The harsh exclamation echoed off the wet brick siding that boxed you in on all sides.

Alleyway odor rose to meet you, untouched even by the downpour, and you felt nauseous on top of too hot and too cold and soaking wet. Sharp clicks — the report of boot heels against damp pavement — dogged your own rapid footsteps. Were you crying? You couldn’t tell. That tight ball in your chest had returned. You struggled to breathe around it as you were pursued down alley after alley, organs feeling as though they were slowly liquefying from molten heat.

A turn, a turn, another turn, and you—

Choked. Fingers snared in the hood of your jacket and yanked you backwards. Finally, the scream trapped behind your sternum broke loose — the sound was raw and hurt your throat as it ripped free. Soaked shoes sliding haplessly over the ground, you cried out as you were physically pulled back several feet; within seconds, hands like lead weights settled on your shoulders and physically spun you to really come face to face with your pursuer.

Or, rather, face to chest.

Violent, uncontrollable shivers kicked up over the entirety of your body as you craned your neck back, back, back to make real, true eye contact for the first time. And even that you weren’t afforded. The hood had shucked back a few inches at some point during the chase, revealing an intricate headpiece settled squarely over the eyes. Impassive lenses — one on the left, a triangle of three on the right — stared down at you; one of them glowed a menacing red, a scarlet pinpoint that burned to look at for too long.

Glowing red. Hot. Free word association surfaced in the panic-fear-exhaustion soup of your mind. You felt much like the end of a cigarette, what with all of the previous adjectives applying to you, and for all intents and purposes you were damn near close to burning out.

A smile split the sallow, cracked lips, and your eyes widened even against the rain. Teeth, crowded and crooked and golden, grinned down at you, wet with spit. Dim light reflected off them with flair. Not human. So not human. As if the stature and skin color hadn’t clued you in already.

Your mouth fell open to scream.

“Shh.” The stranger’s voice was remarkably measured, considering the circumstances. He (it?) didn’t even seem winded. “There’s no need for that.”

His hands were so large and so heavy that they effectively pinned your arms to your sides, despite resting on your shoulders. Although they were big enough that his thumbs brushed your collarbones, they remained still, letting the implication of strength do the work. Rings glinted along the edge of your vision, large and gaudy.

Living in a low-rent place as you did, rats were not an uncommon sight. A few times, you’d even had the unfortunate luck of stumbling across them stuck in a trap, metal bar snapped shut across the crushed neck and the small body limp in its unforgiving hold. Unpleasant, sure, but never anything memorable. Sympathizing, though, was a far cry from empathizing. Standing there in that alley, pinned down by something you had no understanding of, you knew suddenly exactly how those rats felt. So small, so alone, and so very subject to forces far beyond your resistance or control. “You gave quite the chase,” he continued. “But all things meet their end.” There was some unplaceable lilt in his words, a self-assuredness that crawled into your ears and curled against your tympanic membrane.

“You— what— who are you?” you choked, struggling to process his enormity through the heat cooking your brain.

He tilted his head a few degrees, as if considering the question for a moment. “Forgive me. I have been quite rude, haven’t I? Dr. Victor Gideon. And you are?”

“What did you do to me?” Panic sharpened your tone into an accusatory knife as you bulldozed right through the thin, ridiculous veneer of courtesy. “You— you killed someone, I saw it, I saw in the alley, I—”

He tutted gently, lips pursing. “So much for formalities,” he mused to himself. The fingers on your arms tightened just barely, and a fresh surge of heat crashed over you from your biceps downward. “Yes, what did I do to you?”

The contemplating question brought itself to the forefront of your mind. Heart rate still jacked up from warmth and terror, you couldn’t quite bring yourself down into lucidity, no matter how hard you tried. All the damp rainy air you sucked in through your open mouth seemingly did nothing against the waves of heat that washed over you every few seconds. How ironic — the worst fever you’d ever felt, and you were soaked to the bone in icy water.

Even worse, you started to itch. It was easy enough to ignore at first, especially when you had been sprinting away, but now… everywhere felt constricted. Like you were too big for your own skin, like something was pressing along all your seams from the inside. And it seemed especially bothersome on your upper half, radiating outward from where the weight of his hands pinned down your arms. Were you dying?

“I feel sick,” you started tremulously, unable to stop the outpour of words. “I’m so hot, I can’t even… What— what was in there? What did you put in me?” Rawness shredded the edge of your words, shaky with tears. Fear had rendered you to something simpler, so embarrassingly stupid and hysteric compared to the stranger’s— Dr. Gideon’s calm collectedness.

He gave you a long up and down look. Not lecherous. Scanning. Gentle whirring started up from somewhere far above your head — the small red lens of his goggles flared in activation.

“I have to admit, I simply intended to dispose of you. But this reaction… Unbelievable. A miracle.” It wasn’t really an answer to your question. His thumbs stroked over your collarbones through your shirt, and your entire body shuddered in response. Sodden fabric rubbed against your feverish skin, and a jolt of warmth shot all the way down to your pelvis.

Your pelvis? Your knees buckled, body buoyed by his gentle, solid grip, and your jaw hung slack in shock. Some of the initial warmth still lingered, a pervasive buzz nestled right beneath your epidermis. Otherwise, it had consolidated itself into a sluggish drip of molten honey, saccharine and searing, that trickled down your spine and settled itself right in between your thighs.

You were aroused. Horrifically, unbelievably so. Fresh dread washed over the still-lucid parts of your struggling brain. Whatever was inside of you was changing you, and it was making you helpless to every touch of his ridiculously gentle, ridiculously large hands. 

A dark tongue flickered out into the rain for a moment. You barely caught it before you were being effortlessly lifted; a shaky yelp fell free of your mouth as your shoes were pulled off the pavement. His grip tightened some, hands shifting downwards to pin your elbows to your sides so he didn’t drop you. No visible or audible effort. Like you weighed nothing. The obvious strength displayed so casually elicited a shameless, weak groan from your chest.

Now eye-level, you stared into Dr. Gideon’s goggles from beneath heavy lids, feeling every square inch of contact on your skin and breathing through an open mouth.

His tongue flicked out again (forked, you noticed), head leaning forward to get within the general vicinity of your neck. Sweet rot filled your nose — he smelled like something long dead, misted with strong antiseptic — but you didn’t even flinch, too focused on his proximity. He must have heard your pulse stagger, because a light chuckle huffed out of him. With a dizzying wave of engineered want, you realized he was smelling you, tasting the air radiating off your superheated skin.

“Unbelievable indeed.” His mouth remained open for a moment, cracked lips parted, and you caught a brief glimpse of slits flexing along his hard palate as he registered the scent of commingling fear and arousal. The unpleasant cocktail had mostly manifested itself through sweat, and a fucking lot of it.

“Please let me go,” you panted, although your conviction was vanishing by the second. Every beat of your overworked heart sent more of whatever he’d injected you with pulsing through your veins; all it did was worsen everything you felt.

He pulled his head back an inch, clicking his tongue, a note of amused pity in the soft murmur of his voice. “No, no. Not now. You’re much more… special than you realize, you know.” Obscured by his goggles, his eyes flicked over your burning face, dedicating your tortured expression to memory. “Besides… you don’t truly want that. You feel it. My master’s work.”

Every soft ‘S’ hissed on its way out of his mouth, so irresistibly persuasive that you found it difficult to disagree. Truth be told, you really didn’t, even if what he was saying made no sense. The longer he held you up there, broad palms affixing your arms to your sides, the more that pervading heat throbbed beneath the fly of your jeans. Humiliating. In the back of your mind — lucidity felt like a distant dream — you still felt scared. It was hard not to, considering what (who?) was cooing over you at the current moment. But if he had wanted to harm you, really harm you, wouldn’t he have done so already?

And he was so big, handling you so gently…

Your head lolled forward, vision swimming from both the rain and… whatever he had injected you with. Eyes sliding downward, you tracked the dark, ugly wound that slashed down his chin and trailed all the way down his chest. An autopsy scar for a sort-of corpse. Very fitting. The longer you stared at the bulk of his body, the more your delirious mind wandered; how would that tissue feel under your fingertips? Was he hot to the touch? Cool, as his pallor suggested? Smooth? Or was there hair dusting the barrel of his chest, and did it go further down, and Jesus, you’d like to see further down, wouldn’t you?

Something in you was disgusted, that reasonable part of your brain that had long since been shoved to the back by panic and whatever else was coursing through your veins at the moment. He smelled like death, and his skin was cracked and veined along the edges like peeling makeup, and Christ, you had witnessed him toying with a corpse (of his own making, no doubt), and yet… every second he held you aloft, every word that slipped free of his lips — so deliberate, so methodical — it all seemed to compound into a single shiv of desperation currently digging into your lower abdomen.

He must have taken pity on the way you were slowly melting through his fingers, because his elbows bent and he pulled you close enough that your heaving chest brushed his. Tucking his mouth near your ear, you shuddered when he spoke; that calm drawl sent arousal lancing down your spine like heat lightning.

“Let me alleviate your… symptoms,” he offered. “And then we will see what a miracle you really are.” Something wove into his voice at the end, an exhalation that softened the word, all breathy and shaky.

Whatever the hell he was talking about, you didn’t care. You were running a fever that should have killed a normal person. Rain competed with sweat, droplets racing each other down the curve of your face. Your cunt was aching for something, anything, in it at this point, and here was the good doctor offering treatment. Who were you to refuse?

“Please,” you breathed into negative space, and he huffed against your ear, pleased. As if he didn’t already know your answer.

“Wonderful.” That massive head tilted, and a damp, featherlight touch against your searing hot neck drew a true moan from you. It flickered a few times more, and you realized that it was his tongue, escalating from smelling to tasting.

Even his restraint struggled. Mere seconds passed before he abandoned the delicacy and really slid his tongue over the side of your neck, drawing up the sweat and rainwater and dregs of perfume with greed. A groan rolled from his own chest, vibrating against your skin, and you clenched your hands into fists so tightly, you damn near punctured your palms with your nails. Forked. Right. The twin tips of his tongue were foreign sensations, but God, not at all unwelcome.

His mouth paused, open, wet muscle held frozen against your skin, and you almost cried from lack of stimulation. Long inhalations pulled over your skin; the feeling of him sucking in your scent, feeding those flaring slits, made you slump in his grip. You wanted to reciprocate. Or escalate. One of the two. Either way, it required not being several feet off the ground with your arms locked to your sides, and you were so febrile with want that you were ready to start squirming in his hands.

A soft, wet noise signaled him pulling his tongue back into his mouth; sharp teeth brushed against your slick throat as he retracted in full.

“Perfect,” he hissed, gilded teeth glinting in a jagged grin as he gave your flushed face a once-over. “All of my research, and I had never once considered this. We have so much to do.”

The world spun around you for a moment, wet pavement and chipped brick smearing across your vision as you were physically shifted from upright to decidedly not. He deposited your warm, twitchy body over his shoulder with no effort; the action drew a groan from you. With the repositioning jostling your shoulders, your bag slipped down your arm, taking your earbuds and phone with it. Gravity snatched up your possessions with a vengeance; you watched through bleary eyes as everything fell to the ground with a wet thump.

You couldn’t find it in you to care. Your bag being tossed to the pavement seemed a distant concern compared to the way the bulk of his shoulder felt pressing into your stomach. Thick fingers curled around the back of your thigh, just above your knee, and pressed inward to secure you, maddeningly close to your cunt. God, please, yes, your brain whined. With nowhere else to express your frustrations, you clawed and pulled at the back of his coat in random intervals, kneading the rain-slick snakeskin like a cat.

The trip took several years and no time at all. In the course of your panic, you hadn’t realized where exactly you’d been chased to. A turn, a turn, another turn. And then he’d caught you. You’d gone in a circle, all the way back around to an alley adjacent to the ruins of the hotel.

Everything went mute. Rain no longer soaked your back. Old char and decaying wood filled your sinuses, accompanied by the flowery scent of rot. In the hotel. You were in the hotel. He was carrying you in there. Something in the back of your head shrieked in alarm — if you go in, you’re never going out — and you ignored it immediately when his fingers lightly squeezed your thigh to ensure your stability. He stepped through a few doorways — you heard him musing to himself intermittently, mentioning names you didn’t recognize or even care to parse — and moved through the smoked-out husk of the once-grand lobby with practiced ease.

Stairs. You were going up. You went up. He hooked a sharp turn. Opened a door. Ancient hinges squealed, metal fighting metal as he entered.

“Ah. This should do nicely.”

You didn’t care. He could have fucked you in that alley and you wouldn’t have minded.

“Allow me to apologize for the choice of venue,” he said, strange methodical lilt still hanging in his words. “I would have much preferred to do this at my center, but… well. I doubt you would have lasted the trip.”

As he spoke, he pulled your pliant body off its perch and settled you onto the remains of what used to be a bed. Dust wheezed up around you, disturbed by the motion, and some of the box springs creaked ominously under your weight, but nothing snapped or poked you. Good enough. It didn’t really matter, because as soon as your arms were free, you were clawing for the zipper of your coat.

Your surroundings were dismal. Faint light glowed through the half-blown-out window from the street below; errant raindrops streaked into the room, wetting nearby floorboards. Wallpaper peeled down in long curls, exposing timeworn wood carved up by visiting squatters or nosy explorers. Furniture dotted the room. All of it was a blur. The man (still questioning that label) looming over you sucked in your attention like a black hole.

If Dr. Gideon had been tall while standing, he seemed doubly so from your vantage point lying down. Your eyes flicked wide, some kind of sense finally pushing through the heady delirium that was strangling your normally sound reasoning. The thing standing over you was not a person, and if he ever had been, those days were long since gone. You were trapped in a barely-standing building with something more than capable of killing you, and some mystery substance still pumping through your veins, threatening cardiac arrest. Something turned violently in your stomach at the realization that you no longer had a choice in whether or not you were leaving this hotel. Somewhere along the line, you had relinquished that responsibility to him.

Golden teeth glinted down at you. That smile had returned, stretching around off-color gums and cutting harsh lines into weathered cheeks. His head tilted, goggles catching the faint light; he scanned your body again with piqued interest, lingering on your torso as if peering right through your ribcage. Your fingers stuttered on your zipper.

“Come now,” he chided, leaning over you and sending his long shadow creeping up your sprawled body. A hole sawed itself through the bottom of your stomach and dropped. One massive hand, rings shining, came down. Fingers crooked, he brushed the backs of his knuckles delicately over the curve of your cheek. 

The skin-on-skin contact felt so ridiculously good that all sense of reasonable fear shattered immediately. He was overwhelmingly cool to the touch, a blessing against your searing-hot flesh. Pallid skin ghosted over your hairline, then down the side of your jaw; your teeth clenched in response.

Your reaction did not go unnoticed. It was less like you were a lover and more a particularly attractive experiment. He studied you with immense interest as he tried different stimuli out on you, pleased for some secret reason with all of your feedback. A few times, you caught his tongue darting out, forked flesh catching the air as it humidified from your damp skin. Smelling you, no doubt. He seemed particularly enthused by that.

“Sweet girl.” Fingers trailed down to your throat, nudging your jaw upward in order to press down on your jagged pulse. “So willing. Such a perfect vessel.”

You could be. You were. If he said so, you were. Desperation renewed, you tightened your hold on your zipper and ripped it downwards, shucking off the soaked fabric of your jacket and shoving it away from you on the bed. A short gasp fell from your mouth — the cool air was a phenomenal relief, but even that wasn’t enough.

“Yes,” he hissed, voice low and airy, surveying the way the damp fabric of your shirt clung to you like a second skin. Soft whirring filled the air above your head as his lenses refocused. His fingers dragged lower, touch incredibly gentle for a man of his size, and hooked carefully in the neckline of your top. “Such immediacy. We… may not even need Miss Ashcroft for our endeavors.”

His musings flew over your head. Redundant, unnecessary, inapplicable. Whoever Miss Ashcroft was didn’t matter; if you weren’t touched in the next ten seconds, you felt liable to explode. Broad fingertips pressed into the blood-hot skin of your exposed sternum, and you moaned at the light prodding.

“Please— lower, God, lower,” you gritted out, a fresh wave of embarrassment crashing over your already-hot face from how easily the pleading fell from your lips.

Soft shifting — the material of his jacket, his swept-back hair rustling over the collar — as he tipped his head to the side, pursing his lips while he considered you. “Can you feel it? Taking hold of you?” His fingers abandoned your neckline and trailed lower at your request, smoothing over your stomach. “I can see it. It’s in your blood, you know.”

The bottom hem of your shirt was pushed up. Every muscle in your abdomen twitched at the feeling of fingertips ghosting over the overlying fat. Your hips twitched upwards, inching off the tattered bed to chase more of the touch. Yes, you could feel it, couldn’t you? A molten fist had locked around your guts, its white-hot knuckles splayed around your intestines from the inside. Like a newly-generated hindbrain, it nudged your thoughts to places they never should’ve gone and kickstarted biological processes that should have stayed safely dormant.

Not the only hand I want buried in me, you thought deliriously, peeling your arms off the bed to fumble with the button of your jeans. With a frustrated grunt, you pried it open and all but tore the denim down over your hips. Dr. Gideon— Victor tutted gently and pushed your hands aside; you were more than willing to let him do the work, although you still writhed and huffed with manufactured impatience. More and more of him eclipsed your field of view, shrouded in his snake leather jacket and still grinning down at you with row upon row of crooked, wet gold.

He was horrifying to look at, really, but your desire-addled brain smoothed it over some. Maybe it was just the fact of how deep in the uncanny valley he was buried. He talked like a human. Walked like one, too, if you disregarded how long his strides were. But his corpse-gray skin — riddled with veins and peeling like paint and scaly, even, in some places — and his forked tongue locked behind gilded teeth, and the dark scar slashing down his chin and chest — all of it threw you off badly, raised warning flag after warning flag in your mind. Really, it triggered something deeply primitive; staring a predator in the face like this, in such a vulnerable state, was not something to aspire to.

And yet, there you were. There you were with thighs kicked open and face burning hotter than the surface of the Sun, desperate in your invitations for him to touch you.

Huge knuckles brushed the skin of your thighs as he tugged your jeans downward and collected your underwear along the way; you helped by toeing off your boots, which landed with obtrusive thumps somewhere on the battered wooden flooring. All of the fabric soon followed. Threadbare sheets, years-old and long since moth-eaten, rasped against the flushed skin of your ass.

Your thighs didn’t even attempt to close when the cool, stagnant air of the derelict room rushed to meet your damp cunt. You just wanted relief. 

His tongue darted out again, head jerking slightly at the obvious scent of your arousal. Jaw hanging slightly slack, he pulled in a long breath, staring down at your neglected sex for a long moment of consideration.

“Perfect,” he repeated, but you had a distant sense that it wasn’t exactly praise for your appearance. Or even you. “The culmination of progress, yes…” Words rasped out of him gently as that brick of a hand trailed downward, pallid touch grazing over the nest of coarse curls between your thighs. You keened helplessly. “...and the key to liberation. Though,” he slid a fingertip down the length of your soaked cunt, “there are many forms of… release.”

At the gentle push downward, a strangled noise tore itself free of your throat. His preoccupation with next and after and the future should have been worrying, but all your feverish brain could focus on was now, now, now. And even his clinical detachment was a veneer; his breathing had picked up into something shakier, words slurring into hisses more frequently and more bass creeping into the pitch of his voice. You had just as much of an effect on him as he was having on you.

“Victor,” you groaned, his name appearing at the forefront of your mind as a more effective means to beg. The reaction was immediate; a sharp hiss of a breath sucked in over his teeth, and his knuckles twitched against your swollen folds. “Please, it hurts, I need it—”

“Shh,” he soothed, though a curious quality had seeped into his vocal timbre. Strangled, somewhat. One broad fingertip pressed itself against your twitching entrance, and your hips immediately bucked to work it in. As big as two of your fingers combined (and maybe bigger), hot tears pricked at your eyes to accompany the wave of immeasurable relief that crashed over you at having something pushed inside. “Relax. Treatment is only as effective as you allow it to be.”

Cold. Uncomfortably so. And even despite the arousal drooling from your cunt, he was still so big. Chilled metal — his rings — pushed awkwardly against your hot flesh. Your walls spasmed around him, adjusting as best they could. Without warning, another digit joined the first, and the first spark of discomfort flared between your legs.

“Ah—!”

“Incredible,” he mused distantly, delighting in the wet sounds he drew from your cunt on each inward push. Your thighs twitched, entrance stretched around the width of his fingers. His rings butted up against the slick hole, threatening intrusion but never following through. “You’ve already prepared for me. For what’s to come.” A disbelieving chuckle wheezed out of him. “My master’s genius never ceases to amaze.”

Your fingers clawed fresh tears into the sheets, though you couldn’t care less. Lips parted to gasp and wheeze your way through the pleasure, your lids flickered shut; hot stabs of sensation shot up your spine with every methodical thrust of his hand. His ramblings — presented so calmly that they almost seemed sane — were just white noise, threads of bass buoyed on shaking, elated breaths that faded into the background beneath the sounds of your verbal and physical need.

Resistant metal shoved against your cunt again, then pressed. Your eyes flicked open in surprise, a shocked exclamation attempting to jut out of your mouth — and then the ring popped in, muscles flexing to allow the extra stretch. Knuckles curled against your walls, fingertips dragging against the roof of your cunt and hitting something delicious there, and you groaned, dumb with need. The pain, the insistence, something should have tipped you off or frightened you into sobriety — but you laid there, back arching and hips writhing, letting Dr. Gideon feed his fingers into you up to the knuckle.

Rivulets of your own arousal dripped down his hand, seeping out around the plug of his digits. He held his hand flush to you for several moments, no longer pumping but curling, massaging the twitching muscle with methodical intent. The rings pushed and shoved inside of you, their texture and temperature both odd and the stretch sending twinges of pain flaring down your thighs.

“Such wonderful acquiescence,” he purred, speech as soft as it was sibilant. “A perfect host. All you need is your command.” He flattened the meat of his palm against your swollen clit and you sobbed, back arching in your delirium. It was too much and not enough all at once — too full and too empty, too sensitive and too numb. Your thought from earlier aligned with his present words. Whatever was inside of you was changing you.

Sudden emptiness wracked you. With an obscene noise, he withdrew from your cunt, knuckles and rings and every other ridge on his fingers popping free. Your thighs jolted on reflex.

“No, no, no, please,” you started, spit-wet lips struggling to form the words. That maelstrom of vicious, aching need in your gut had been only temporarily quelled by the stretch of his fingers. Without them, it returned tenfold, angry and desperate like a tantrum buried among your own offal. Brain dissolving from internal heat, you lifted weak arms off the bed and reached out for him.

He had withdrawn, and you felt his absence massively. With gargantuan effort, you rolled your head off the bed to stare up at him properly, aching cunt still drooling and feeling as though it was puppeteering you. He had straightened up, and was studying where your arousal had trickled down his hand. Even through bleary eyes, you saw the way the glossy liquid caught the light; it had seeped into the valleys of the scaly plating running down the back of his hand, filling the cracks of his leathery skin.

Curiosity got the better of him, evidently. He brought his hand to his mouth, and that bastard tongue flicked out to drag twin tips down the rifts of his skin, collecting how you tasted. A hiss of interest left him, and even though his eyes were obscured by his headpiece, you felt them dart to your face with instant intrigue. Or maybe something hungrier.

Wading knee-deep through syrupy hysteria, you wanted to say something. Wanted to tell him to just make you finish, wanted to tell him to fix you, because your body was toeing the line of how much stimulus it could take, and you wanted, more than anything, to not be there. The realization should have been an icy deluge of shock — that you didn’t want this, you just wanted to be home — but it seemed a distant, unrelated train of thought compared to how badly the mess between your legs throbbed. Even if he let you go now (and that was a big if, considering the sizable print below his belt buckle), what would you do? Limp home and use your vibrator until its battery died? There was no telling when this feeling would go away. Or if it would go away.

He was the doctor, wasn’t he? He would make you feel better.

Enormous hands settled on your hips and squeezed the flesh there before lifting you up from that new anchor point. The bedsprings creaked as your weight was pulled off them, and you wheeled your arms back to clutch at the sheets again for support. Gravity bowed your spine, left the crown of your head brushing the mattress. Your legs hung limp in his grip, splayed open like a sprawled doll, and he pulled them apart in order to inspect your cunt from this new vantage point.

Breath — colder than it should have been — huffed over your folds; the featherlight brush of his tongue accompanied a brief suck of air as he took in your scent all over again. You groaned dizzily, fighting the blood trickling to your head.

“You’ll have to forgive me for the rush,” Victor murmured, voice constricted. “My work keeps me quite busy. So little time for, ah, pleasures of the flesh…”

With that, he lifted your hips to his mouth, and your jaw fell slack. Those cracked lips parted, and you caught a brief glimpse of his tongue slithering out in full before your head rolled back. His mouth was no warmer than the rest of him, but Christ, if it didn’t do the job. In a single wet slide, he dragged his tongue from your drooling hole to your clit and sent fireworks exploding behind your screwed-shut eyelids. The expanse of muscle was so big that it covered your cunt in its entirety when he held it flat, and when your swollen clit twitched against his tastebuds, he moaned against you.

Combined spit and arousal slid down your ass and hit the bed far beneath you; your thighs twitched helplessly in the surety of his grip and you threatened to tear more holes in the frayed sheets with how hard you white-knuckled them. With the blood fighting between rushing to your head and feeding your swollen cunt, you felt decidedly dazed, and every slide of his tongue through your folds was absolutely not helping. Did it really matter now whether the arousal you felt was manufactured or not? Pleasure was wringing you out for all you were worth, and your frayed nerves didn’t seem to care about whether or not you had actually wanted all of this pleasant touch to begin with. Warring with the tug of gravity, you pushed your hips against his mouth in weak rolls, greedy for more.

And more he gave. Aided by his size, he closed his lips around the entirety of your cunt (you wondered vaguely if this was what being on the receiving end of a blowjob felt like) in the messiest approximation of a kiss you’d ever experience; his tongue rolled along your folds as he sucked you into his mouth in totality. You wailed, the sounds of a dying animal tearing from your chest as you writhed in your uncomfortable arch. Unable to get away from the stimulation, you sieved through his fingers like sand, feverish mind struggling to keep up.

Seething gasps of barely distinguishable praise were pressed into your cunt, more vibrations than audible sound. Seeking a better hold on you, his hands pulled your thighs apart fractionally and he pushed his mouth against you; as he spoke, you felt the pricks of his uneven teeth against your most sensitive parts, as though he were preparing to tear a chunk out of you. Gilded fangs jabbed at you firmly enough to leave dental impressions — you were certain there would be bruised divots surrounding your cunt when he pulled away. If he pulled away. He certainly seemed happy enough buried between your legs.

The seal of his lips around you broke with a damp pop, but he remained where he was. Slick, ridged muscle ran up your cunt again, swallowing down your arousal before pushing upward; the swollen flesh of your clit rested heavily in the chevron-tip of his tongue, throbbing in that little valley in time with your heartbeat. The good doctor’s anguine qualities had not gone unnoticed, but you were quickly coming around to appreciate them rather than be put off — a learning curve that reached its peak when he inclined his head, goggles brushing your lower stomach, and pushed the twin tips of his tongue into you, keeping the heel of the muscle pressed against your clit.

Too much. Too much. The simmering fist of arousal that had been clenched in your gut since he’d caught you in the alleyway finally released its grip. Gasping and writhing, you shuddered through your orgasm — everything sounded so far away compared to the rushing of blood in your ears. Tightness abounded in your skull from your upside-down positioning, and there were dots dancing along the edge of your vision that surely didn’t mean anything good. All of it paled in comparison, though, to the hot fan of pleasure that emanated outwards from your cunt, and you rocked your hips in agonal motions against his tongue.

Victor remained still, letting you ride it out for what felt like years before lowering your hips to a much more agreeable position. Thick strings of spit connected your cunt to his mouth for several seconds, only giving way to eclipsing tension when he brought your body far enough down. Some of the blood pooling in your head finally evened back out, and you gasped as awareness came back to you.

“Magnificent.” The word was a single rapturous hiss. Wetness was smeared across the entirety of the lower half of his face. No embarrassment coursed through you. No shame warmed your cheeks. Just exhaustion.

Just exhaustion, and…

Your stomach sank.

Neediness throbbed in the pit of your stomach again. Again. Like an incoming tsunami, it had only receded temporarily before returning with force. Frustration welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill over your lash line in a humiliating display of defeat. You were so spent. All of the running, the touching, the stretching, all of his mouth — your body couldn’t handle much past it, and yet there it was, clamoring for more in its stupid animal desperation.

“Oh,” Victor hummed, false pity in his tone and something darker and much more excited thrumming beneath it. “It’s still within you. You can sense it, can’t you?”

Dread settled low in your stomach, curling its dead weight around your incessant arousal. His hands tightened on your hips and moved them again — your back slid over torn-up sheets, and you marveled distantly at his seemingly limitless strength — but not up. Towards. Your knees bumped the solid bulwark of his stomach before falling apart again, and he pushed his massive body between your legs with only a little repositioning. The feeling of being stretched flared along your inner thighs.

“What are you— gh, fuck!” Your question was cut off by the manual press of your sticky cunt against the intricate welding of his belt buckle. Body betraying you, your clit throbbed at the insistent pressure, wetness smearing flagrantly over the Ouroboros. Minute motions of his hips rocked the metal against your swollen sex with slick little sounds, and your breaths frayed into wheezes. It felt good. You didn’t want it to feel good. You wanted to be done.

“Yes,” he groaned, holding your body in contact with his. The ridged buckle dragged and slid over your clit and you spasmed at the touch, especially so soon after an orgasm. Oversensitivity spiked along your frame and you gasped, trying to keep your head above water. “You will— ah, you will be so much more. You are so much more. If I had only known sooner, yes...”

The sentence fragments made no sense, and sounded even worse forced through the wall of jagged wet gold that comprised his teeth. You crushed your cheek into the sheet — a bedspring poked obtrusively at you through the mattress — and sucked in air to keep from crying out. At this point your clit burned from the direct contact, but the differentiation between it being pleasurable and it being painful was falling away swiftly.

Your view tilted. He offloaded your body easily to one hand, palm splaying across your lower back to keep your hips lifted, and used the other to pry open his belt, fingers sliding over the slick metal. The jingling made you blink swiftly, moisture wicking from your mouth. You forced yourself up on shaking elbows just as he worked his fly down, and you kind of wished you hadn’t.

Proportionate everywhere, you realized immediately, staring down the length of his cock with rapidly mounting trepidation that almost instantly subsequently sharpened into honest terror. Close to the length of your forearm and just as thick, the jut of his cock didn’t look like a sexual organ as much as it did a weapon, and reality closed around your throat like a clamp vice. No, not reality. His hand. One broad palm wrapped gently around your neck and brought you up off your position on the bed; the other shifted to grip your hip tightly enough to support your weight without bearing it on your throat. Fully aloft, you twitched in his grip, unable to look away from his cock.

Not going to fit, you thought, the first clear sentence to cut through your fevered haze in what felt like hours. So not going to fit.

He didn’t even grab the base of it, just moved your body to line up your cunt with the head. Your hands grasped at anything in reach and came up with fistfuls of damp snakeskin.

“Wait, wait, I— I can’t,” you started, panic threading its way through your choppy words.

“You will.” Not a reassurance as much as it was a statement of fact. “Just another facet of treatment,” he hissed, shifting his hips slightly. “We won’t delay in administering it.”

There wasn’t much you could do. At the very least, your mystery condition combined with the previous orgasm had both slickened and loosened you up obscenely — even then, the press of his dripping head against your entrance made you blanch with apprehension. Too big. He was simply just too big. His fingers tightened around your throat just slightly, a reactionary flex to the feeling of your cunt sliding against his cock, and your pulse spiked. His self control had been nominal so far. And really, if he wanted to kill you, wouldn’t he have done it earlier? But despite your rationality, your slurried brain still felt that pulse of base terror at being in the grip of something so very capable of killing you. Should you writhe too hard or rebuke too harshly, he could very well just crush your neck and leave your half-naked body in the hotel for some poor soul to discover weeks later. A rat in a trap.

You swallowed hard enough that he felt you do it against his palm.

His thighs shifted apart an inch and he slid the head of his cock up and down your cunt a few times — pushing it over your clit in the process — before it eventually caught on your entrance. Bracing, you hooked an ankle loosely around his bulk and screwed your face up, unwilling to watch as you were split in two.

“Sweet thing.” Unimaginable pressure against your cunt and a hot flare of pain, and then— a slick pop as the head sank in. Your eyelids tightened shut so hard that you saw colors in all photonegatives for a brief moment. Sound fought to come out of your mouth and failed. A tremor ran through his massive frame at the feeling of your walls fluttering around his tip. “You were made for this. You were made for me.”

His voice balanced on cusp of harsh and soft, velvet gone throaty with want as he stretched you open. Conviction wove so well into his words that you wanted to believe them. Wouldn’t it be easier to believe them?

Fat veins throbbed against the rim of your entrance, constricting and twitching as he worked more of his cock into you. At some point, your breathing had hastened into shallow, quick gasps, your body lax in his grip to keep yourself from tearing open. So human and so not. The length of him was decorated liberally with strange ridges and scales like his hands, and the odd, leathery texture did not go unnoticed the more he fed into your struggling cunt.

Both hands tightened on your body, the one on your hip decidedly more so. With a short jerk, his hips jolted upward, shoving the last few inches in. At the same time, he pulled down, tugging your body down on his length like you were little more than a toy. The simultaneous motion bumped the broad head right into the obstinate block of your cervix, and you winced with an obvious grimace.

“So tight,” he marveled harshly. “The wonders truly never cease.”

He spoke through gritted teeth, gold flashing in your bleary vision for a moment before he tucked his chin to his chest and sucked in a supremely controlled breath. Even then, there was an audible tremor to it. You fought to breathe at all; his cock felt like it was nestled right in between your lungs, and you dared not move for fear of ripping yourself open.

And then his hips rocked, and you almost blacked out.

There had been some deep fear in you that Victor’s restraint would finally fail during this particular zenith — blurry half-formed images of him yanking you up and down his cock like a toy, uncaring of any blood or tears spurred by his actions — but it was far different. Like the rest of the encounter, he remained deliberate. Methodical. Steady pumps of his hips paired with careful up-and-downs of your body to match the movement. Your jaw hung slack with overstimulation and sheer exhaustion, unfocused eyes staring into the abyss of the room beyond his head.

“You’re, ah, doing so well,” he purred as he rocked up into you at a pace too fast and too slow for your muddled brain to handle. “So receptive, so willing…”

Maybe you should have been scared of the after. Warm pleasure unfurled in your stomach with each drag of his ridged cock against your overstimulated walls, culminating in a slow leak of wetness around the ridiculous stretch of your cunt. As much as it was fogging your mind, it felt good. But what about the after? When you were done? Was he just going to let you go? The way he spoke certainly implied not, and the insinuation that you weren’t going back to your apartment afterwards made something within you ice over with dread.

Another roll of his hips nudged against your cervix, and you found much purchase in the realization that, yes, laughter was the best medicine, but fear was proving to be one hell of an aphrodisiac. Your fingers twitched in their now-loose grasp of his coat. Every clench of your cunt around him felt unfinished with how stuffed he had you, like you couldn’t quite complete the motion around the intrusion.

Your world tilted again, only marginally. Shifted a few degrees back — now he pushed more forward rather than upward — your head lolled back, muscles lax with hazy euphoria and overexertion. The motion changed, though, and the feeling of him hooking his hips up on the in-thrust made stars explode across your vision. Stretched as much as you were, every part of your walls felt as though they were being stimulated by his cock, and the pressure on the ceiling of your cunt — dragging down that one delicious spot — was hauling you towards another orgasm shockingly fast.

Arm shaking, you forced yourself to release one fistful of snake-leather and instead dropped your hand to your cunt. The circles you drew over your clit were barely even shapes — mostly trembling back-and-forth lines — but they were good enough, and you cried out at the sorely-needed stimulation. He hissed at the feeling of your walls spasming around his length and responded in kind with a forward push.

The second orgasm felt like it was dragged out of you by force. A ragged whine tore from your throat and you twitched in his hands, mangled ecstasy flickering over your drained body. Your fingers slipped off your clit, hand draped limply between your thighs; your other hand tightened down hard in his coat, seeking any kind of anchor point as your climax rocked you.

His motions harshened some afterwards, hips graduating from rolling to really thrusting as he sought his own finish. Praises — slurred around the edges — fell from his sallow lips in between rough panting, and if you weren’t mistaken, a thin sheen of sweat had collected atop his pallid skin.

“Yes, yes, yes,” the words were choppy, slithering out one after the other in not-quite-separated succession, “wonderful, perfect.”

You barely hung onto consciousness when he pushed his hips flush to yours and came, cock kicking and pumping inside of you with jerks so violent they felt like they shook you from the inside out. It wasn’t warm — nothing about him was — but it was viscous and there was an egregious amount of it. A few more rolls of his pelvis pushed it as far it would go, the sticky head of his cock kissing your cervix painfully every time, before you felt him beginning to soften. No longer feeling fit to burst from every slight reposition, you figured it safe enough to roll your head up and twitch your hips in response.

His lips were parted, face downturned as he watched the way his cock slid out of you inch by inch. There was some resistance at the flare of the head, but a gentle tug pulled it free with a slick pop, and you flushed again at the noise. Thick cum immediately began a humiliating drip out of your cunt, the fluid sticky and catching on every dip and valley of your skin. Empty. You’d never felt so empty, despite the full load of cum fucked into you.

It remained heavily resting on your mound, ridiculous in size even when soft, and you stared at it with heavily-lidded eyes for a moment. Some of the ringing in your ears subsided. You remembered, slowly, where you were; that sweet scent of rot filled your nose all over again.

 Except that time it wasn’t from the dilapidated hotel room and its decaying furniture, it was from Victor’s mouth. He brought you up to face-level with him again, scanning your fucked-out expression from behind his lenses with a slowly growing smile on his face. His thumb stroked along your sweaty throat in what might have been fondness.

“You see it now.” His tone of restrained madness, absolute certainty in the insane, never left him. “How… special you are.”

You didn’t have words to voice agreement with. You just gaped at him like a dying fish, shallow breaths sucked over spit-wet lips. Maybe you did agree. Did it really matter if you didn’t?

A few beats passed. The only thing that signified the elapsing of any time at all was the steady, sluggish progression of cum down your inner thigh as he held you up and mused to himself.

…Something warm gathered between your legs, and dismay twisted in your chest. For a brief moment, you thought it was something else — prayed, actually it was something else, anything else, but you knew. After all, it was hard to mistake arousal for anything else, especially after this.

Either he felt your pulse spike or he just knew, because he smiled at you. The fingers around your throat tightened beyond a simple flex, and as fucked-out as you were, you didn’t even panic when you felt your consciousness fade.

The last thing you heard before slipping into blissful torpor was his voice.

“We have so much more to do.”

[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.

[twentytomidnight]

amazing fics written by amazing people [and why you should read them]

in lieu of another event to celebrate that I've hit 900 followers, I'd much rather celebrate the people whose work I enjoy from various fandoms: DC, Marvel, Resident Evil, Supernatural, The Pitt, Invincible, Outlast Trials, Transformers, Star Wars, Team Fortress 2, YKMET/BTD

All of these fics are written by talented people who deserve your time, your follow, and your kind words on these works they've shared to the world. Happy hunting friends!

dc heroes

First Dates to Forever by @lechelovestoyap featuring Clark Kent/Reader

This is a lovely commission that I asked Leche to write for me and she absolutely delivered; this fic has me smiling every time I go back to read it. I guess I’m just in love with Clark Kent again all over again :]

Starving by @kryptidfiles featuring Clark Kent/Reader (18+)

Jae has me out here folding for bro……..unbelievable……..this is an INCREDIBLE smut fic with apologetic, horny Clark and I’m on my way to re-read it right now lol

The Puddle Predicament by @iridescentlightshow featuring Jon Kent/Gn!Reader

I adored this dic with the touching affection that is captured in every line of this fic. Give it a read!

Class Is In Session by @bat1nsignia featuring Kara Zor-El/Reader

This one is so very heartfelt and loving and there’s such a darling, beautiful atmosphere to this fic—give Insignia’s fic a read!

Good Boy by @frostedpinkicing featuring Bruce Wayne/Reader (18+)

Absolutely delicious fic featuring Bruce with a mommy kink…….something I never realized how badly I needed…..WHEW

Conspiracies, Conspiracies by @batslvrr featuring Vampire!Bruce Wayne/F!Reader

This was so lovely and intricate to read, everyone please go give Nor’s turn a good look and give her all the flowers for this one!

He Swears His Life To You by @bloomcissa featuring Knight!Bruce Wayne/Reader

Now this is some real heat…….need me some him Cissa…….or at the very least a few thousand more blurbs of this………

Rooftop by @spectorgram featuring Dick Grayson/Villain!Reader

OOOOOOOO the dynamic and the detail in this one is top-tier……….I love the gradually building tension and banter……give Nove’s fic a read!

Dick Grayson Getting Cucked by Wally West by @nagumolvr featuring Dick Grayson/Reader/Wally West (18+)

Pretty much everything that it says in the title but oh my god…….sometimes seeing is believing my friend. 100/10

Risk by @lushberrys featuring Bodyguard!Jason Todd/Reader

This is an ongoing multi-chapter fic that Lizzy is cooking up that makes me want nothing more than to have that big beefy man protecting me with those strong arms of his…….is it getting hot in here? That just me???????

Color Me You by @luviery featuring Jason Todd/Reader

The way that I would best describe this delightful, wonderful story is a warm hug that envelops you with the growing radiance of the sun. You gotta read this multi-chapter fic by Luvie I beg of you.

Pawns by @skeeets featuring Jason Todd/Reader

Kim really wrote a masterpiece with this absolute banger of a fic that hews to the angsty side and is brought to life with the beauty of her words—go read it NOW!

Simple Things by @filmcamerasanddice featuring Jason Todd/Gn!Reader

There’s something really special about the way that Reg writes Jason and his protective nature, so you’re doing yourself a disservice if you don’t go and read this fic right now!

One Night Only by @infinictus featuring Jason Todd/Reader

You ever sit on the edge of your seat just absolutely immersed in tension? Well, I owe Anx money now because DAMN this one had wondering will they…..WILL THEY…………oh man I love me some Todd…….

Distraction by @kqinoraswrites featuring Jason Todd/Reader

There is something so genuine and touching about this fic and it really just invokes this warmth every time that I read it. :)

This Seal’s Got Attitude by @fanfictionwarrior-chills featuring Tim Drake/Selkie!Reader

This fic truly defies description—it is a masterclass in building emotions, romance, and it’s everything any Tim Drake fan could ask for; PLEASE go read it.

My “Husband" by @inkievoid featuring Tim Drake/Reader

Miscommunication leads to some goofy, endearing shenanigans between you and your man Tim Drake. This fic gave me a big ol’ smile on my face after I read it and it will for you too….PROMISE

Letting Her Cut Your Bangs by @kooriandr featuring Stephanie Brown/Reader

Len does some amazing fics and this fic recommendation is a plea on my hands and knees begging her for more Stephanie Brown fic because every time she does it you can feel the absolute love, the tenderness the EMOTION that is evoked………Len please one william dollar

Fade to Black by @pixelbfs featuring James Gordon/Gn!Reader

The way I’ve been looking high and low for a James Gordon and Neil scratched that particular itch so well……if you don’t give me that dilf……..WHEW

Gal Gardner Picks You Up At A Party by @kaydekarios featuring Gal Gardner/Reader

Ugh…….WOMEN……….GAL GARDNER……….I will be off in the corner rereading this fic an approximate 49734302143789021 times

Hiding Behind Your Hands by @luvmailing featuring Guy Gardner/Reader

Val captures Guy’s character so well and I’m always in love with him whenever I read one of their fics. Justice for Guy Nation is always served well here hehe

Weight Gain by @gothamcitypublicworks featuring Guy Gardner/F!Reader

Sheev holds up Guy Nation in a noble cause and this fic is such a delightful, sweet treat of a fic that I always grin at reading whenever I come back to it :)

500 Miles by @kitkatscabinet featuring Hal Jordan/Reader

You like pain? You like getting your heart ripped out? GO READ THIS, I’m busy lying on the ground staring at the ceiling for the next few hours……catch you later……

Construction Work by @weeniesausage featuring Hal Jordan/ConstructionWorker!FtM!Reader

This fic has such rich detail, such lingering emotion, such evocative emotions that it invokes of two people falling in love……oooh I love this one so much :)

Trial and Error by @froggibus featuring Wally West/Reader

I love me some delicious delicious angst mixed in with a heaping serving of yearning and love that makes you hurt so bad you’re in pain…..and boy does Froggi deliver with that one here. Two words: OOF OUGH. Three more: READ IT NOW

Secret Recipe by @gglouise23 featuring Wally West/Reader

You ever eat something that just floods you with that sweet rush of affection from head to toe? This is the visal, readable version of that. Please go check it out!!!!!!!

Bleached Beard by @gr0und-zer00 featuring Oliver Queen/Wife!Reader (18+)

ZERO BRINGS THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY NEED: MORE OLIVER QUEEN!!!!!!!! absolutely delicious smut that I have had the privilege of reading wih my own two eyes and I will read again and again :)

The Muse of Venus by @bonesofapoet featuring John Constantine/Artist!Reader (18+)

How do you condense poetry into prose in such few words, featuring our snarky resident magic user? You read this incredible fic by Kas and you come back and let me know how much you adored it just like I did. :)

Genie in a Bottle by @wonderrheartt featuring Roy Harper/Reader/Wally West (18+)

GODDAMN this was some absolutely delicious food. I love gingers I love men I love this incredible fic!!!!!!!

dc villains

Tear You Apart by @colonelfish featuring Eobard Thawne/Reader (18+)

Now this one is a special, wicked, nasty dirty fic featuring that rotten scoundrel Eobard Thawne…..and I LOVED every word of it HEHEHEHE

Manila Envelope by @batwngs featuring Talia Al Ghul/Reader

Z is a real wordsmith and every time you read her stories you just can’t help but be immersed in the absolute delight it is to watch her way with words; this fic is no exception!

marvel heroes

I Dare You To Try by @batsycline69 featuring Steve Rogers/Reader

Mags really knocks this fic out of the park; there’s something so inherently soft and lovely about this fic and I just adored reading it, give it a looksee!

Fell in Love With A Stripper by @c-nstantine featuring Steve Rogers/Black!Stripper!Reader

Athena is doing the lord’s work with this fic of having Steve Rogers fall deeply, insatiably in love and I cannot emphasize how much I adore this fic!!!!

Touch Starved by @biglychee featuring Bucky Barnes/F!Reader

The biggest Lychee always delivers when it comes to a Bucky fic and you are doing yourself a favor by reading this delicious fic about a subby Bucky and dom!reader…….DAMN

Triple Beds, Triple Disorders by @devisedplan featuring Bucky Barnes/Reader

The same bed trope never ever ever ever gets old and I can’t help but love Devised’s excellent take on this one with a certain surly soldier……..HMMMMMMMM :)))))

Nightcrawler Headcanons by @sagebrush-and-sadness featuring Kurt Wagner/Reader (18+)

I cannot emphasize how Veta has such illustrative way with words and undivided devotion to our fuzzy Blue Elf Kurt—this is a masterpiece of a headcanon fic.

The Very Injured Caterpillar by @vigilantekisser featuing Matt Murdock/Kindergarten Teacher!Reader

As a teacher this story hit very close to home and also felt very realistic and grounded while also maintaining a healthy amount of humor and romance; Joey does an excellent juggling job of putting them all together and having me walk away well satisfied from this excellent fic!

Matt Finds You All Tied Up by @cerenawoe featuring Matt Murdock/Reader (18+)

This is so deliciously dark I can’t help but come back and reread it for the same rush of endorphins I had the first time I read it. >:)

Carried Away by @lilacst4rs featuring Johnny Storm/Reader (18+)

This is such an excellent take on a softer side of Johnny that isn’t just for show, and I truly enjoyed reading about him in this exemplary fic. Give it a read!

Safe and Starry-Eyed by @wordbunch featuring Ben Grimm/F!Reader

Ben Grimm is a man who deserves a soft love, a happy ending—and Ana provides it all AND MORE!!!!!!

X-Men Headcanons by @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger featuring X-Men Angel, Rogue, Cyclops and Wolverine

This is so indulgent and lovely to hear Dreamer’s take on such beloved characters and did I have a big ol’ smile on my face reading this? YEP and you will too if you read it hehe :)

Sharing a Bed With Fem!X-Men Members by @stanbullseye featuring Rogue, Jean Grey, Emma Frost, Madely Pryor, Sue Storm

We don’t get enough for the gals and this one certainly filled the thirst I needed to slake for the wonderful Marvel women………give it a gander my friends

marvel villains

Shhh! by @halfofmysoulsblog featuring Venom/Black!Reader (18+)

Oh this fic is so fucking hot it steams; all I have to say is that were it me……welll………….I would be certainly blessed indeed…….

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Dex is a nasty, shameless man and this fic by Hypnos is just such a beautiful demonstration of the wicked man that I would let tear me apart. 100000/10

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Seeping with broody atmosphere, with delicious detail that makes you feel as though you’re actually walking down darkened city streets, with such poignant emotion, Courtney really kills it with this and I need her to write more PLEASEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

Worst Time To Start Your Period by @haljordansnumberonefan featuring Bullseye/Reader (18+)

Aehtlama is a pro at writing for this devious man and this fic certainly demonstrates her incredible writing skill………give it a look my friends…….

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Househusband by @slowerghost featuring Leon Kennedy/Reader

Now this fic is an absolute ray of sunshine that shows how wonderful it would be living with Mr. Kennedy. Big fan of this fic and you should be too!

Cracking An Egg With Chris by @starberrymatcha featuring Chris Redfield/Reader

This is a cute adorable warm blanket of a fic featuring some objectification of Chris Redfield…….not that I’m complaining……..SHEESH

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Val wrote a fic that I’ve been silently dreaming of for forever……please enjoy this while I go beg her for more……

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Goddamn BladeStar always cooks with whatever fic that they cook up and this smut is so fucking perfect.......need me some Ashley Graham bad..........

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Sam Winchester With The Tongue by @pittsick featuring Sam Winchester/Reader (18+)

I love me a flustered Sam Winchester and this fic delivered everything I could have wanted. Absolutely delicious serving of a fic and I humbly request more.

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It’s been a long, long time since I’ve looked at Dean Winchester like this but Cherry really has re-opened my eyes…….and brother they ain’t closing after I read this one……….MAN

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Amalia has me folding for another white man because this fic had every detail sizzling off the page. MAN

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Nova wrote such a lovely and heartfelt fic with just a vulnerable tenderness lingering in between the lines; I absolutely loved this. :)

I Can’t Believe You by @ficdelusioncore featuring Jack Abbot/Reader

There is something so healing, so romantic, so cathartic, and so beautiful about this fic about someone who refuses to see love right before their very eyes.

invincible

Like A P%rn Star by @sobbingscripter featuring Omni-Man/Reader (18+)

I come back to this fic every so often just to imagine……..just to indulge in this fantasty……….Nolan just one chance PLEASE

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Am I really going to watch this show in record time just for all of these attractive men? YES and now everyone can say thank you Gotham and go read this fic immediately!!!!!!!

Remnants of Privacy by @splodencible featuring Rex Splode/Stripper!Reader (18+)

Good lord……..good lord Maddie………….all the blood in my body………another nail straight into the coffin for me to devote a few days to watching this show……….MAN

outlast trials

Pusher by @doqt33th featuring Pusher/Reader (18+)

This is the very fic that made me fold for Pusher single-handedly and I need you all to join me in love forthis freak. good LORD

Operant Conditioning #2 by @acapelladitty featuring Dr. Easterman/Reader (18+)

Ditty had an integral hand in helping me fall head-over-heels for this manipulative bastard with a receding hairline……soooooo fucking good my friends…….SO GOOD

transformers

Singularity by @doqt33th featuring Mirage/Reader (18+)

Holllllly fuck this fic is an absolute banger. No words can possibly edscribe this you just gotta read it yourself my friend

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Now this one absolutely hangs heavy with angst and unrequited love……oh man is this one a masterpiece…..

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A very cute blurb of married life……or uh something humorously close to it. Love this one!!!!

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Lovesick by @petalonthepavement featuring Din Djarin/Reader

God this fic had me with my hand clapped over my mouth with a smile on my face, waiting to see what would happen next………..please please read it for some delightfully poignant fluff!!!!

When the Rain Falls by @starburstbarnes featuring Luke Skywalker/Gn!Reader

I think when you’re lucky enough to find excellent, detailed and such romantic fluff like this fic displays, you never let it go. Please check this out!!!!!

team fortress 2

7 Minutes In Heaven featuring the TF2 Squad by @finniestoncrane featuring the TF2!Squad/Reader (18+)

Finnie paints such a delicious steamy picture and man do I need me some THEM ALL AT ONCE DIABOLICALLY DELICIOUSLY AND DEDICATEDLY

Dating Headcanons with Engineer and Pyro by @eatfeet69 featuring Engineer/Reader, Pyro/Reader

Nate always serves some of the best TF2 content on this app and this lovely fic is no exception—especially when it features two of my favorite mercs HEHEHE :]

YKMET & the price of flesh

What a Ride by @rotrabbitrot featuring Strade/Reader

This fic Neo wrote had me on the edge of my seat in the best way possible and wanting more…….you gotta see this deliciously evil fic as soon as you possibly can I BEG of you!!!!

Step on Me by @danishpastri featuring Derek Goffard/Male!Reader (18+)

Holy……..words defy how delicious this multi-chapter fic is. You gotta read it and………let me know what y’all think because it’s a TREASURE hehehehehe

that's all from me folks.........my back hurts from writing this and i gotta go lie down now......adios.........

[familyvideostevie]

no matter how it ends

leon s kennedy x reader | 8.4k

a mission goes awry when you're infected with a fever virus...and there's only one way to cure you.

warnings: smut, fem!reader, sometime after re4!leon, sex pollen (kind of), possible dubious consent 'cause it's fuck or die but really everyone here wants to be there and consents heartily, feelings realization, confessions, desperate sex turned tender sex, dry humping, fingering, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), leon kennedy one liners, canon-typical violence, a few sneaky references to other re games/movies, fake science i made up

a/n: picture your favorite leon for this. it was just sex pollen but became lots of plot with sex pollen and mush in the second half. what can i say, i'm a lover at heart. just like leon!

read the prequel/epilogue fic "either way"

--

It starts with bad intel.

The facility is supposed to be abandoned. No bio signatures on the initial recon scan, no movement from hostiles after an extended stakeout, nothing. An abandoned underground lab for an experimental arm of Umbrella, potentially full of important documents on bioweapons research.

Your mission is to gather as much information as possible, should any of the viruses created there pop up on the black market or worse.

Easy, compared to the shit you're usually assigned.

Leon agrees.

Well, you think he agrees. He treats every mission as seriously as the last. You've grown to appreciate his consistency. It makes him easy to trust, which is essential in this line of work.

He's the best partner you've ever had. Thorough, direct, and smart. He never questions your abilities and relies on you just as much as you rely on him.

And, god. He's kind. Funny, too, when he wants to be. One time on a weeklong stakeout in the middle of nowhere, Argentina, he explained to you, in detail, the plot of The Count of Monte Cristo, all because you said you'd never read it. You hadn't even known he liked to read.

He's hard to crack, though. Professional to a fault, more dedicated to the cause than anyone you've ever met. And he's handsome.

How could you not fall in love with him?

You keep your ever-growing feelings to yourself. Asking him if he feels the same isn't worth ruining your partnership, isn't worth being someone else who wants something from him that he maybe can't give. Not when you can have him this way -- at your side with your life in his hands, his in yours.

In some ways, this is more intimate than any regular relationship you've ever had.

You'd spent the chopper ride here watching him as he looked out the window, even though you knew he felt your gaze. He's always doing that, always taking in everything around him with militant attention. You wonder what he sees that most people don't. Connections, patterns, maybe even beauty. You've never asked. Whatever it is has kept him alive this long. It's kept you alive, too.

And so, the mission.

You drop from a very long hatch into dark, stale air. The ladder leaves your hands aching and your shoulders tight, but there's no time for recovery.

Training takes over. Leon leads, with you at his right flank. Flashlights on, service weapon at the ready.

"Stay sharp," he says.

Sometimes you tease him about it, his constant readiness for a threat. But you feel it this time. Something's not right here, scans be damned.

Flecks of dust and grime float through your bright beams. The corridor ends maybe 15 meters in front of you in a set of metal doors, no windows. The security pad on the left side blinks a dull red.

"Emergency power," you say.

It was in the brief as a possibility but not a guarantee. Leon approaches, and you follow, digging into one of your belt pockets for the access card some other agent had to steal last week for this purpose.

"You want to do the honors?" you ask.

Leon shakes his head. "Be my guest."

The red light blinks green with a hover of your hand, and the unlocking mechanisms creak to life. The doors open slowly with a hiss. You're greeted with a dark lobby, dull yellowish lights lining the base of the walls.

"Must be on throughout," Leon says. Sometimes these places are zoned, or some other needlessly complicated system of power distribution. "Hopefully that means doors will keep opening."

He's still tense, arms outstretched to shine his light into the new space, shoulders taut. You feel it too, a prickle at the base of your neck.

"If not, I'm sure the power systems will be super easy to find with no issues," you say lightly.

He huffs, as close to a laugh as you can hope for at the start of a mission, but it's a win.

"Ready?" he asks.

You dip your chin. He glides into the room, clearing one side as you clear the other. There aren't any signs of disturbance, but that's how it goes with these places. The closer you get to the exit, the more normal it seems -- because all of the horrible things happen behind closed doors.

And no one makes it out.

"Clear," Leon calls. You echo it.

There are two single doors that reveal a bathroom hallway and the security office, as well as a set of double doors that resemble the locked entrance, another keypad glowing red at one side. Leon finds a map of the facility in the office and spreads it on the desk.

"That locked door will take us to an elevator that goes down to the labs," he says, tracing the path with a finger under the beam of his flashlight. "Three of them, all on different levels, connected by staircases instead of the elevator shaft, only accessible by keycard and on the other side of an anti-contamination corridor."

"Isolated," you observe. "In case of an outbreak?"

"It's bare bones compared to the other Umbrella stuff we've seen. This must be really out-there shit. Less resources, less of a footprint, less of an issue when it goes wrong."

You try to commit the map to memory. Leon will undoubtedly fold it into one of his pockets, but it's hard to consult a piece of paper when you're running from a B.O.W..

Level B1: MENIS, Level B2: KAMATOS, Level B3: PYRETOS

"Greek," Leon mutters. "More creative than T-virus, that's for sure."

This is just like him, surprising you after countless missions as your partner.

"Do you speak Greek, Leon?"

He shrugs.

"Not really." He tightens the strap on his glove, a cue that he's frustrated. You know most of his tells by now. "I don't know the last one. Fire, maybe?"

"Not really, he says," you tease. "What else are you hiding, Kennedy?"

He rolls his eyes at you, but if the lights were on, you're sure you'd see some pink in his cheeks. Battle-hardened agent he may be, Leon S. Kennedy still blushes for you.

If only...

No. You swallow the pang in your chest and roll your shoulders. "Start with B1 and go down, then loop back up?"

It wouldn't be out of the question to divide and conquer, but the slimy unease dripping down your spine prevents you from suggesting it.

He grunts his agreement, eyes still on the map, frowning.

As a pair, you work so well together because of your communication. It took practice, sure, but now you know each other across a crowded room, through the heat of a fight, in the dark. You don't let things go unsaid.

Well, most things, your traitorous heart says.

"Leon," you say. "It feels off, right? We're missing something."

Blue eyes meet yours. He sighs.

"Yeah," he says. "Guess we just have to find out what."

You can't help it -- you put your hand on his bicep and squeeze just a little, holding his gaze. His fringe hangs in his eyes. In another life, you'd push it back.

"Be careful, okay?" you ask him, faces so close you can feel his breath.

Leon got shot on your second ever mission together. It was a clean wound, through and through, except for the fact that he'd already been shot in that shoulder back in Raccoon City. The bullet fucked up the already fragile joint, so he needed surgery and was benched for six weeks (he was back at your side in four).

There was nothing you could have done. It was nobody's fault. But you felt responsible for waylaying your new partner, who was one of the most well-known agents in the whole damn place, so you went to see him in the hospital to alleviate your guilt.

"They have you with anyone while I'm out?" he asked you.

They did, actually, but hadn't told you who. Leon was troubled by it.

"Well, be careful," he said, as if he didn't trust anyone else to watch your back, even then.

"Only as careful as you," you replied, pointing at his shoulder.

That was the first time you made Leon Kennedy laugh.

Now, it's something you say to each other in the field. A mantra, a reminder, a promise.

Leon gives you a small smile.

"Only as careful as you," he replies, like he always does. We keep each other safe.

You release him and busy your hand at your belt immediately, god forbid you touch him more.

He rolls his shoulders back and checks the chamber of his sidearm.

"Into the depths, huh?"

"Into the depths."

--

Level B1: MENIS

The elevator opens to a dead contamination chamber. Nothing happens as you walk through the three zones where you'd expect to be scanned, doused, and dried. Another set of metal doors opens with a hiss when you tap the keycard. The smell of death hits your nose and makes your eyes water.

There are at least 10 bodies piled on the other side, most of them in pieces.

"Fuck," you curse, sidestepping a caved-in head.

"Looks like the party started without us," Leon says quietly.

"Great," you mutter. "God, that's nasty."

There aren't any claw marks or avid stains or other tell-tale signs of B.O.W.'s you see with this caliber of violence. One look at Leon and you know he's realized the same thing. You tilt your head down the hall. He nods, following your lead deeper into the floor.

Red emergency lights pulse along the base of the walls, illuminating the blood splattered pretty much everywhere. You pass the occasional corpse, most of them so horribly disfigured it's hard to tell if they were staff or test subjects or something else.

There are so many things you want to say, but you keep them to yourself until Leon leads you to the floor's main office. You slide in but don't relax.

"They look like they were torn apart," you say as soon as the door is closed. Leon frowns at you, since you didn't clear the room first, but it's a square office. You can see all the corners from where you're standing.

"I know," he replies. "But no sign of what did it."

You sigh. "So, are you going to tell Hunnigan the location survey was wrong, or should I?"

"I think I've run out of my 'bad news' calls for the year," he says. "That one's all yours once we get topside."

"How generous of you."

Leon smirks. "I'm a giver."

The office is small and the computers are dead. There are papers scattered around, so you divide and conquer.

You find an official logbook. Mostly in-the-weeds science stuff, but you skim until you find a change in handwriting.

LOG #57:

Development continues under new staff. Blood transmission remains the only method that carries enough sample to infect a host; airborne tests were unsuccessful. Vaccine/suppressant formulas abandoned for the time being after we were told that our subject supply would be steady. B2 wants to set one of theirs against one of ours, which seems pointless because any B1 subject will win that fight. B3 is a joke, but they're insistent that it'll work.

No vaccine...that's not good news. But what were they actually testing here? Infecting people with what?

You flip more pages until you find something that makes your blood run cold.

LOG #63:

We've finally gotten a host to survive. B2 and B3 are nowhere near this. We won't be sharing. Their subjects die within hours. B3 is practically useless, anyway. What use is controlling people if they die on you in an hour? But here, we've cracked it. I managed to figure out how to get the virus to work with the host's adrenaline production, stabilizing it into a constant state of fight or flight without short-circuiting the nervous system. If this batch survives the week, we'll ask permission to start on the suppressant. Once we have that, we'll be able to control the whole herd. The future of hostile takeover is here! Now, if only they'd let us out of this fucking dungeon more often…

Holy shit. They were making viruses to infect large populations, to control them. But using what? Changing their brain chemicals, making them reliant on suppressants? Leon told you about this kind of manipulation, how it infiltrated a military unit and even made its way to the White House a few years ago. Who knows how far they got this time?

"Leon," you call, turning with the folder in your hands. "You should look at this --"

You make eye contact and fall silent. He's got his finger over his lips and his gun at the ready. 

You toss the papers aside and take your place on the other side of the door.

That's when you hear it.

Groans, grunts, screams. Footsteps -- a lot of them.

He holds your gaze.

Clear the chokepoint, get into the lab rooms down the hall around the corner, make for the stairwell on the other side of the floor.

That's what you'd do, so you know it's what he's thinking, too. No confirmation needed.

The door bursts open. You duck, missing the arms reaching for your neck. It's dark in here, but you rely on muscle memory and gravity to sweep the zombie's legs out from under it and stomp on its head while you fire at the next one.

The attackers are -- well, they look mostly human. But their eyes are wild, blood running down their faces like tears, pink foam and spit dripping from their mouths.

Leon's movements are sharp and decisive. Headshot, parry, twist. Uppercut, knee sweep, headshot. He occupies the air around you like he's magnetized to your movements, always filling the space where you aren't, ceding room when you need it. After hours upon hours of mat practice between the two of you and hundreds of field opportunities to master it, you work together like a well-oiled machine.

It's exhilarating.

You're forced back from the door, but you keep firing, slicing, covering each other. It's essential that you get into the hall sooner rather than later to avoid being trapped in this room.

A zombie rips the arm off another in its attempt to get to you. That's new.

"What the fuck were they doing with this shit?" Leon grunts. He's splattered with blood now. No doubt you are too.

"That's what I was going to tell you before our party of two got crashed," you say between shots. 

"They wanted to control people."

"Yeah, this sure looks like control to me!"

"We have to clear it or we'll have to fight through on our way back up."

Leon grunts his agreement. "They're not biting." His aim is true, as always. He downs two, three, four infected. "They just want to rip us apart!"

"We need to go into the hall. Cover me," you say, dodging bloody fingers and sliding through the door. "Switching weapons!"

Your assault rifle is strapped to your back. You holster your pistol and reach around for it, but something catches your jacket and pulls.

The fabric tears. For a split second, you worry your flesh will be next, but then the tug disappears. Leon grunts and he breaks the neck of whatever had you.

You keep your gaze on the approaching pack, maybe 10 or 15 strong. Leon keeps taking them down while you holster your pistol and check the new cartridge.

"Gonna need to reload in a second here," he calls. "Six left. Five. Four --"

"Ready," you shout. Leon stabs a zombie in the neck and walks behind it, using it as a wall against reaching fingers until he's at your side again. He tears his knife free and slides beside you, solid, ready.

You open fire.

That's all it takes. The hallway is soon empty and bloodier than before. All you can hear is your combined panting.

Leon lowers his gun. "Nice job," he says.

You drop yours, too. "What was this floor called again? Menace?"

"Basically," he says, slamming in a new clip. "Divine wrath or anger."

"No shit." You look down at the tear in your jacket. "God damnit, this is my favorite."

Leon checks his chamber. "I'll get you a new one," he says.

You laugh. He almost smiles, like that was his goal all along.

The rest of the floor is mostly clear. A few stragglers here and there, but they're no match for the two of you. The containment chambers seem to be where the infected gathered in the months since this facility went dark -- the walls are covered in scratch marks.

"I can't believe they didn't kill each other," Leon says with mild disgust. "Not having control of yourself like that...I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

You've read the report from Spain. He knows how it feels.

"Do you think they're aware?" you wonder aloud.

He looks so sad for a moment that you almost reach for him. "I hope not."

--

Level B2: KAMATOS

The stairwell is a mess. The door to B2 is barricaded, but you manage to get through after slamming your shoulders against it over and over.

This floor is quiet, but in a different way than upstairs. Years of field-trained instincts tell you there's nothing left alive on this floor. That, and it made a hell of a lot of noise getting the door open, and nothing popped out.

It's dustier down here, like things have been still for longer.

"What's this one mean?" you ask. "This virus."

"Extreme fatigue," Leon tells you.

"So if they controlled adrenaline levels on the first floor to make them angry, they're depriving people of sleep on this floor?"

He shrugs. "Maybe they found a way to keep the brain awake without killing it."

They did not.

The documents you find suggest the virus was a failure. The bodies you find confirm it. Hosts died from heart failure, self-inflicted wounds, a number of things, no matter what the scientists did to keep the mind from giving up. All by depriving them of sleep.

Being so tired that you see no other way out…

The horror of it all rises in your throat. You leave Leon with the corpses so you can press your forehead to the cool hallway wall.

This job asks a lot of you. Your time, your well-being. Your security, your personal relationships, your hobbies. It's overwhelming and can bury a person. The things you see, the things you do -- it gets to you. It’s easy to shove it down, to pretend like you're untouchable, but that's no way to live, either.

Sometimes you just have to feel it.

These poor people.

Leon's hand is light on your shoulder. Not patronizing, not rushing, just there. Warm, solid.

You take a deep breath, then stand up straight.

"Let's take a quick break before the last floor," Leon says.

"I'm fine."

You turn to face him, but he's already crouching, back against the wall.

He grins, a real smile this time. It makes him look younger. "Who said it was for you?"

It's like he's giving you permission to put it all down for a second. To forget where you are, why you're there, what you're doing. Leon's guard is rarely fully down, and right now he's telling you that he's got you. Rest for a second, I'll take care of us.

He's proven to you over and over that he will.

So you smile back, shaky but genuine. "Getting old, Kennedy?"

"Something like that." He looks up at you, grin softening into something fond. "Do you remember Greece?"

You slide down the wall to his level. "Do I remember Greece? Be serious. How could I forget --"

"All those stairs," Leon finishes. "Exactly."

It was last year in the height of summer. A small, sleepy cliffside town, except for the fact that a scummy billionaire moved into the monastery and started developing B.O.W.'s in the catacombs.

The town was evacuated. You were sent in to apprehend the guy and secure whatever virus he was using. It turned into three days of running up and down stone staircases away from bats with tentacles and lizards with thousands of teeth where you wouldn't expect teeth to be.

Over the course of your partnership, you've seen each other in all states, but you've never seen Leon as exhausted as he was after that mission.

"I thought I was going to have to carry you to the rendezvous point," you remind him. "You fell down so many stairs."

Leon rubs his knees as if remembering the way they smacked stone over and over.

"And you would have," he says.

He catches your gaze and holds it. He's reminding you that you're in this together. That he trusts you, something you do not take lightly. It's hard to know who you can trust in this job, even your very own employer, but he never doubts you. You never doubt him.

The familiar ache of everything you feel for him sits warm and heavy on your chest. He's the best man you've ever known.

"I would have," you say.

Leon dips his chin, his mouth curling into a smaller smile than before, but this one is just as fond.

"We should go back," you say without meaning to.

It surprises him, but he hides it well.

"That would be nice," he muses. "I don't know the last time I took a vacation."

"We could go to the beach," you continue. It's scarily easy to imagine -- Leon in swim trunks, cheeks pink from the sun. "Stay at the bottom of the stairs and not walk up a single one."

"But you liked the monastery," he reminds you. "We'd have to go back up to see the windows."

Of course he remembers how you'd looked up in awe at the stained glass, gun in your hand and blood on your face.

"I'll climb up by myself. You can relax."

Leon sighs. "Relax," he says. "I don't even know if I know how to do that."

"You're good at everything," you say. "You'll pick it up in no time."

Whatever game this is, you're having too much fun playing it. Leon doesn't lie to you, so while he might be indulging you, there's a part of him that means all of this. He has to know that you mean it, too.

He stands and offers you his hand.

"One more floor," he says. "Then we can go to Greece."

--

Level B3: PYRETOS

The hit comes out of nowhere.

Maybe you're distracted by talk of vacation, or your guard is down after the silence of B2, but you don't see it coming. One second you're rounding the corner, the next you're flying backwards through glass, back slamming against a cabinet. You land heavily on the ground, more glass and something wet raining down on you.

Leon yells your name.

You try to catch your breath, but it's stuck in your chest. He's still calling for you in between gunshots.

"Fuck," you croak, finally finding air. You roll onto your side. Glass crunches under your weight as you try to figure out what the hell just happened.

Everything hurts, but you try to shake it off and push up to standing. Leon hauls himself through the broken window. He begins to clear the room after he sees you on your feet.

"Clear. That was one ugly son of a bitch," he says. "Must have gotten down here from upstairs."

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but the words catch in your throat.

Something isn't right.

Your skin feels tight, like you already went on vacation and got burned to a crisp. Your pulse won't slow. Deep breaths feel impossible. Strangest of all, it's almost like –

Well, your core is buzzing. You press your legs together and try not to panic.

In the early days, after Leon got shot but well before Greece, you hid an injury from him.

You took a knife to the ribs during a fight. It wasn't too deep, but it was wide and bleeding steadily. Adrenaline allowed you to get through it. You figured you could patch yourself up the next time you slowed. But Leon pushed on ahead, and you followed without saying anything.

That is, until you left a bloody handprint on a door. He stopped immediately.

"Is that yours?" he said. "Where are you hurt?"

"It's nothing," you protested. But Leon S. Kennedy does not give up easily.

"Show me," he said, pulling out bandages from his hip pouch. "When did this happen?"

"I'm not compromised," you said, even as you lifted your jacket to show him.

"I know you aren't," he said. "I want to know when you're hurt so I can make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine," you said weakly. He patched you up quickly and thoroughly.

"We're partners," he told you. "We have to help each other."

Here, now, you don’t hide from him.

"Leon," you croak. "Something's wrong. I think I --"

He's at your side in an instant, so close your breath hitches. Why are you so affected by him? Why are you so warm?

"The rip in your jacket," Leon says. "Your arm is bleeding."

"Liquid," you gasp. "It felt wet when I hit the cabinet."

The pieces come together. Shattered vials at your feet, an empty cabinet behind you. The dull red emergency lights make it hard to tell what color the puddle is, but you know it can't be good.

"They wouldn't keep a virus out in the open, would they?" you ask weakly. You're shaking now, shivering even though you don't feel cold.

"Fever," he breathes. "Pyretos. It means fever."

You've rarely seen Leon afraid. He's human, so it happens, but normally he faces things head-on without complaint.

Right now, he looks terrified. That scares you more than anything.

"Leon," you whisper. "What do we do?"

He snaps into action. He hands you a roll of bandages.

"Wrap it," he says. He presses a few buttons on his watch until it beeps. Setting a timer, no doubt. Just in case. "How do you feel? Describe it to me."

"Feverish," you say. "But not dizzy. I can think clearly."

Leon starts to dig around the lab, tearing open drawers and rifling through what he finds. The office on this floor wasn't in the same place as the other two, so any information must be in here, right?

"What else?"

You follow his lead, desperately searching for anything helpful. How do you explain the fact that your entire body is pulsing with a very specific kind of need? It scares you, feeling this out of control physically while also being in your right mind.

You land on achey. The buzzing under your skin gets worse every minute you spend looking and finding fuck all.

"There's nothing here," he says, frustrated. "Shit."

You're thinking the same thing: no vaccines. Any hope for you is in this lab.

But then -- your eye catches on a cabinet sitting on deep grooves in the floor.

"There's a door," you tell him, already heading for it. A wave of need hits you so suddenly that you have to brace yourself on the wall to catch your breath. Leon brushes by you. The slight contact has you swallowing a moan.

Jesus Christ.

He shoves the cabinet aside. Behind it is a door that opens into the lab office, as dark as the others.

You follow him in and start searching the shelves. Leon drags a table into the perfect place to effectively barricade you in.

"We don't have time to be interrupted right now," he says. He starts searching the desk.

You're sweating now. If this thing is going to turn you, Leon can't be here for it. You don't want him to see it. "Maybe you should go back to the surface --"

"I'm not leaving you," he interrupts. It's sharp, final.

"But if I turn--"

Leon whirls around. "I'm not leaving you," he says again.

Your nose stings. It's not the rational choice, but it's the Leon Kennedy choice. You can't help but be grateful for it.

He returns to the papers. Everywhere your clothing touches your skin feels heavy, almost painful. Your skin is sensitive, your throat dry, breath still fast.

You're so turned on, you think you might explode. It's all you can do to just stand there and try to keep it together.

"I found something," Leon says. He says nothing else. It's hard to see his expression in the dark without being close to him. You don't know if you can handle that right now.

"Bad news, doc?"

He swallows and begins to read.

"In an effort to bend the subject to commands, a fever is introduced via the bloodstream that increases testosterone and dopamine to near-unbearable levels of arousal. We have successfully altered the balance to allow the mind to be unaffected, making the reaction purely physical. The fever, if detected and combated within 1 hour, can be reduced by repeated bursts of oxytocin until the subject's internal temperature returns to normal. Required oxytocin levels seem to vary by subject; no pattern discernible at this time."

"What the fuck does that mean?" you pant. Your skin feels too tight. You still can't take a full breath. Control is becoming a missed opportunity. "Do I have a sex fever?"

No answer.

"Leon."

He exhales sharply.

"I think you need to be touched," he says. "To release the chemical that will help you fight this on your own."

Your responding laugh edges on hysterical.

"I do have a sex fever. So, what, you're going to hug me and hope I don't die?"

"I could," he says. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "I just don't think it'll be enough. This says bursts, and a lot of them. The best way to trigger that kind of response is --"

It clicks in your mind.

"Orgasm," you whisper. "Oh, god."

Leon closes his eyes for a second too long.

"I don't know what to do," he admits. He looks at his watch. "It's been 10 minutes. I don't know what--"

"I'm so sorry," you breathe. The gravity of your situation is like a bucket of cold water. If only it actually made you feel cold. You have to fuck your partner or die. What kind of sick joke is this? "Leon, I'm so sorry. You don't have to do anything, this is my fault --"

He tosses the file onto the table.

"I'm not going to let you die," he says with all his usual conviction. He really believes it, and it makes it easier for you to believe it, too. "Not when there's something I can do about it."

"But not like this," you croak. "This is --"

"I know."

God, you wish the lights were on. You want to see every detail of his face to discern what he's feeling. Can you ask him to do this? Will it ruin everything forever?

A tremor wracks through you. You have to brace yourself on the desk.

He yanks open drawers until he finds a thermometer. It beeps alive, somehow, and he holds it up to your forehead.

"Shit," he mutters.

"What?"

Leon flips the device to show you the screen. 103.2.

"Shit," you echo.

Your brain is going to cook in your skull sooner rather than later. You swallow frustrated tears along with your pride.

"I'm so wet," you whisper. It's the lewdest thing you've ever said to him. "I can feel it."

Leon inhales sharply, standing ever-so-still just next to you, just out of reach.

The pain radiates through you, molten lava in your veins. It's strange to be able to think so clearly. You want Leon as badly as you always do. That's bearable. But the pain. The heat. It's something else, something all-consuming.

You need him to touch you.

"Please don't make me beg," you whimper, turning towards him.

"Jesus," he mutters, filling the space you make for him. His hands find your face. You groan. The contact is like a balm, even through his gloves.

"Oh god."

You nuzzle into his palms. It's like you can feel the battle in your blood, the virus doing its best to cook you from the inside out, but Leon's touch is giving you a foothold, a reprieve.

If it wasn't so awful, you'd laugh at the idea that you're so horny you might die.

"Whatever you need, I'll do," he says. His voice is already hoarse. "But just -- you have to tell me if it's not okay. And I'll stop. We'll figure something else out."

You lean back on the desk and grab his elbows. You've touched plenty, but never like this. Never loaded with all of the unspoken things between you, never with such desperation.

"It's okay," you tell him. "Whatever it takes, it's okay. I trust you."

His thigh slides between your legs.

"Can you forgive me? If I do this?" he whispers, lips so close to yours. You lean forward on instinct, pulled to him by more than just the fire in your core.

"There's nothing to forgive," you say, and then you're kissing.

What you need is an orgasm, but this is something you've wondered about for a long time. Something you've wanted. It almost feels selfish to take it now.

But, fuck, it's good.

He's not shy. You trace the seam of his lips with your tongue. He opens for you immediately, licking into your mouth as he pulls you forward and onto his thigh.

His kisses are desperate, exposing his worry, but also tender, exposing his care. You're in good hands, hands you love.

Even through your pants, the pressure of your cunt on his thigh is enough to steal your breath.

"God," you gasp.

"Not quite," Leon says, kissing a path from your mouth down your neck. "Does that help?"

You grind down on him in reply. His palms have made their way to your hips, aiding you in your quest for pressure on your core.

It's too much. It's not enough. But still, the coil tightens. "Sorry, I just need --"

You chase it, grinding down on his thigh even harder, panting into his neck. You're close, you can feel it. You're chasing it, that snap, that reward. Leon just lets you take and take and take.

You thread your fingers through his hair, panting into his neck. When you tug just a little, he bounces his leg and you keen.

"More, please."

It only takes three more bounces before you're coming, shudders ripping through you, his name on your lips.

When you return to your body, Leon is dragging his palm up and down your back.

"Did you just--"

You're becoming very familiar with the fabric of his shoulder, his leather harness pressing into your cheek.

"Mhm," you manage.

There's a world where you're embarrassed. In that world, you asked Leon out for dinner and then up to your place after. In that world, you made out on the couch and ground down on his thigh until you came. In that world, he laughed with you, utterly charmed, and it was the beginning of something wonderful.

In this one, he gently tilts you back so he can check your temperature with the thermometer.

"Holy shit," he breathes. "102.1. It worked."

You don't feel that different, but the number doesn't lie.

Leon is panting, too. "More?"

You nod. Your cunt aches like you didn't have an orgasm at all.

He tugs off a glove with his teeth, dropping it god knows where.

"Don't know how clean my hands are," he says.

A laugh bursts out of you, but it sounds close to a sob.

Two fingers go in his mouth faster than you can open yours. He doesn't waste too much time wetting them, given how turned on you already are, but he gives them a good suck. A trail of spit hangs from his lip when he finishes.

You work at the buttons of your pants, unbuckling your tactical belt. It clangs onto the desk behind you. Leon slides his hand down under the waistband of your panties. You collapse into him with a guttural moan.

"Leon," you gasp. He holds you up, no problem, even as you go utterly boneless at just his fingers in your folds.

"You weren't kidding," he says, breathy. "You are wet."

"I'm sorry," you pant into his shoulder.

"Please don't say sorry again," he groans. "I can't take it."

"Can I say thank you?"

"That's worse," he says, sliding two fingers into you at the same time. "I just wish it wasn't like this, is all."

The absurdity of the whole thing makes it hard to keep your emotional walls high. What's the point? You're having sex with your partner to save your life in an underground Umbrella laboratory. You're way past keeping your emotions from him.

So you hear his words for what they are. For what he's not saying.

"Oh, yeah?" He curls his fingers and you groan, arching into him. "You have something you want to tell me, Kennedy?"

"Little late for that."

He presses his lips to your jaw, but you pull back so you can see his eyes. He's flushed, his pupils taking over almost all of the blue you love so dearly.

"I always want to know how you feel," you tell him. It's honest, raw, perhaps out of place when he's knuckle deep in your cunt.

"Fuck," he breathes, like eye contact is enough to undo him.

"I just want to help you," he says. "I always want to help you when you need it." He picks up the pace with his fingers. "I like being the guy who has your back."

His thumb circles your clit. It’s all you can do to hang onto his shoulders and ride it out as he keeps talking.

"I want to give you everything you've ever wanted," he says. "I miss you when you leave the room. I trust you more than anyone I've ever met."

"Oh, Leon," you gasp, grinding down onto his hand. "Me too. Me too."

He scrapes his teeth along your neck. "Yeah?"

"Yes, yes, yes --"

The orgasm washes over you. You clench around him over and over. He carefully pulls his hand from your panties and licks his fingers. Good god.

Something has shifted between you. It's still about the mission, about breaking your fever, but now it's more. It's more, because you both want it.

Leon leans in for a kiss. You meet him halfway, tasting yourself on his lips.

Beep.

"101.3," he says.

You push his hair back from his forehead. "Is that low enough?"

This time, you do feel a bit different. Maybe it's the confirmation that Leon has feelings for you, but your muscles feel more relaxed, your skin less taut. The need still burns, though.

"There's no way to say this without sounding like a creep," he says wryly. "But I think you should have a few more."

You drag your hands up and down his torso, but your gaze lands on his makeshift barricade.

"Do we think we have time?"

Even as you ask, you're toeing off your boots and shoving your pants down. Leon is quick to help you.

"If anything comes through that door," he says, fingers hooked in your underwear, "I can kill it with my eyes closed."

He hooks his hand under your thighs and helps you up onto the desk fully, sweeping everything onto the ground.

"So could you," he adds. You hum in agreement. Your hand returns to his torso, trailing it down to the front of his pants.

He's hard.

It's not entirely a surprise, but you're pleased.

"I know, I'm sorry, it's kind of fucked up --" he tries. You don't let it get very far.

"Don't you apologize," you say. "You're allowed to want, Leon. I promise you, whatever you want, you can have. You already do."

His answer to that is a kiss, not searing and heated like before, but soft and slow. Like he's memorizing you, learning every inch of your mouth just because he can.

A wave of heat rolls through you, so intense and unexpected that you have to close your eyes and grit your teeth against the pain.

Leon rubs your back and tells you to breathe, it's okay, you're going to be okay.

The heat dulls. "How long has it been?" you ask through gritted teeth, eyes still shut.

"26 minutes."

His thumbs stroke your cheeks, helping you come back to yourself.

"Are you okay to keep going?" he asks. "I'll do whatever you want."

You reach for his belt with shaking hands. Not because you don't want him, or because you're scared, but because you need him. You need him to survive. This was just as true before you got infected as it is now. And you have him.

He has you.

Leon lets you unbuckle his pants as he undoes his harness and his tactical pouches. They both fall to the ground.

You take him in hand and he hisses. His cock is warm, another layer of heat against your already burning skin. His hips jerk when you stroke him root to tip.

His fingers circle your wrist to stop you.

"Another time," he says. He kisses your chin. "Okay?"

There will be another time. Leon doesn't say things he doesn't mean, so you take it to heart. This will happen again.

It's not exactly romantic, the way you lean back on some long-dead bioterrorist's desk naked from the waist down, Leon's pants shoved down his thighs and his cock in his hand. But it's what you've got, and it's what you'll take.

You spread your legs for him. He sucks in air like a man just saved from drowning.

"Ready?" he asks. You feel his tip at your entrance and can't swallow the moan that rips from your throat in the shape of his name. He wastes no more time sinking into you in one stroke.

You come immediately, legs wrapped around his hips. You might scream, it's hard to tell. But you're so full and it finally feels right. Like you've been missing something all along and finally found it.

Leon says your name over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer.

"I wish I could see you properly," he says, voice breaking. "I wish –

His hips jerk forward even though he's bottomed out. He leans forward until he's bracing his forearms on either side of your head, brushing your nose with his. He's right. It's hard to see him fully in the red-washed office.

"You know what I look like," you tell him.

"Not like this," he shakes his head. "Not like this."

"You're doing so good," you say, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Leon, it feels so good --"

It's a strange sensation to feel your blood cooling while he's inside you, to regain control of your body just as you surrender your heart.

Leon starts to move his hips, a slow drag at first, but it quickly becomes a snap. You dig your fingers into his biceps and hold on. You can hear how wet you are as he fucks you.

The coil in your core tightens again. "Leon," you moan. "I'm gonna--"

He kisses you, hips slowing to a grind. He reaches between you with one hand to find your clit and give it some messy circles.

"Go ahead," he says against your mouth. "I can take it."

Your cunt clenches around him. Tears prick in your eyes not from overstimulation but from everything else -- the heat in your veins, the tenderness of his hold, the way he's kissing you as you fall apart, swallowing your gasps.

"So beautiful," he says. And god, it sounds like he means it. Half-dressed, sweaty and bandaged, he means it.

Leon goes back to shallow thrusts, but they're becoming more erratic.

"How many is that?"

"Four," Leon says.

"Are you..."

He nods. "I'm close."

His forehead is damp from the effort. You wipe it with the heel of your hand.

"It's okay," you tell him. "It's okay, Leon. You can --"

You tighten your legs around him to hold him inside.

His breath hitches, but he picks up the pace without argument.

The smack of your flesh fills the room. The only thing on your mind is Leon Leon Leon.

The noise he makes just before he comes inside you is a punched-out whine of your name. He stills above you entirely, eyes screwed shut in pleasure.

"So beautiful," you echo. "So beautiful, Leon."

He keeps his weight off you but presses his face into your neck as he catches his breath.

"Fuck," he says. "How do you feel?"

You need to check your temperature, but remarkably better. The heat in your veins is an expected one. You can feel sweat cooling on your skin. The incessant need in your cunt has dulled to a satiated ache.

"Still alive." You kiss him chastely, considering he's still inside you.

"Let me check -- where the hell did that thing go?"

He pulls out. You both hiss just a bit, but he finds the thermometer on the ground.

Beep.

"98.3," Leon says. "That's normal."

You feel boneless and make no move to get up from the desk. If you did, you'd surely make a mess.

"Finally, something normal about today."

Leon tucks his cock back into his briefs, buttons his pants. He drags his hands up and down your thighs.

"Can I clean you up?" he asks.

Even though you now know how he feels, know that he wants you just as much as you want him, he's done so much for you today. Your temperature is back to normal. You still need to make it back to the surface.

"You don't need to," you say. "Just...give me a clean bandage, or something --"

"Let me do this for you," he interrupts. Begs, really, already getting on his knees between your legs. "One more. Just to be safe."

The heat that builds is nothing like the wild, uncontrollable fire of before. This is all you, all Leon. 

The fact that he wants his mouth on you, wants to lick his own come from your cunt.

"Okay," you breathe. You thread your fingers through his hair. He preens.

He kisses the inside of your thigh and pushes your legs wider.

Maybe you should feel exposed, but you don't. You feel wanted. You feel safe.

Leon pulls your folds open with his thumbs. He starts with long licks with the flat of his tongue along your seam, flicking your clit when he reaches the top. But your entrance quickly becomes his focus, and suddenly he's a man possessed.

He laps up his own release as it drips from you, humming when you tug on his hair. He hardly comes up for air, but you know he's paying attention to your reactions based on the way he moves his mouth. He sucks on your clit. Your hips buck, so he does it again.

"Leon," you gasp. How is it possible that you're going to come again? But you feel it, the rising tide in your core. All it takes is a glance down to find him watching you, soaking in whatever he can see in the dim light.

He keeps his mouth on you through your final orgasm. This time, a few tears leak from your eyes. Your breath evens out and your heartbeat actually slows the way you expect it to. The fever is broken, you're certain of it.

"Just to be safe," you say to the ceiling. "You just wanted to show me how good you were at that."

Leon wipes his face with the back of his hand.

"I like to be thorough," he replies. He stands, drags your underwear and pants up with him. 

"Are you okay? How are the symptoms?"

"I think so." You scoot forward on the table so he can pull your clothes over your hips. "It doesn't feel like a fever anymore."

"What does it feel like?"

Your legs are a little shaky, but you stand and wrap your arms around him. You've just had sex to save your life, but you don't know if you've ever hugged Leon before.

"It feels like you," you tell him, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

Leon stills, but you can hear his heartbeat pick up. He envelops you in his embrace, lips pressed against your temple, his inhale shaky.

"I'm glad," he whispers. "I'm so fucking glad."

He's hidden his fear from you so well this whole time, but you saw the look on his face when he realized you were infected. You hug him tighter, willing the fear to leave him. You're okay. You're here, in his arms. He saved you.

"What now?" you ask. You turn in his arms. He releases you so you can reach for your tactical belt.

"We get out of here in one piece," he says. "We get you to medical."

"Fucking medical," you mutter. You shove your foot back in your discarded boot.

"I won't leave you there," Leon says. They could keep you for days, but you know he means it. "Then I'll take you home. And we'll sleep for days."

You almost forget that you don't have to keep your feelings from him. You let the joy take over your face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says, a little sheepish. "If you want to."

"I want to," you assure him. "I want to."

You'll have to talk about this, surely. The way it changes your partnership, how to navigate field work. There is so much to learn about him. What he's like on a quiet morning at home instead of a stakeout. The noises you can pull from him in a real bedroom. His face when you tell him you love him.

The future is bright.

Leon buckles his harness. He laughs to himself, tearing you from your thoughts.

"What?"

He straightens your belt and grins crookedly, boyish and lovely.

"Are you writing this into the mission report, or am I?"

[searchingsomewhere]

🐍Victor Gideon Masterlist🐍

Snake and Mouse-- (Birthday Special request!) Gideon's Jacobson's organ kicks in when he catches your scent-- and you tempting him is only making him harder. NSFW, MDNI

Bedside Manner-- (Anon Request) Gideon takes care of you while you're sick. SFW

Research-- Victor Gideon has been so wrapped up in his work that he's barely paid you any mind lately. You decide to do your own 'experiment'. NSFW, MDNI

Surveillance-- You're trying to monitor the movements of Grace and that strange DSO agent, Leon Kennedy. Gideon is making it rather hard for you. NSFW, MDNI

Darling-- (Special Request Fic) Gideon, your soulmate, has missed your private elopement, and you find him injured in his lab. NSFW, MDNI

Darling, pt. 2-- (Special Request Fic) Gideon, your husband and soulmate, is right in the middle of his mutant mating season. Luckily for him, you're into that. NSFW, MDNI

[earthsparked]

Mech 1: What the frag is that

Human: waves while standing in front of a fridge, eating olives out of the jar

Mech 2: Oh that? One of the ship’s humans.

Mech 1: Why is there a little guy here. What are they doing.

Mech 2: I dunno, they wander the ship and get into stuff. They’re nice to have around, though. One of them bit Whirl once, it was funny.

Mech 1: There’s more than one?

Mech 2: Yeah, couple of ‘em. They move in packs sometimes. It’s cute to watch.

Mech 1: What’s it doing now

Human: is struggling to open the pickles

Mech 2: I think Brainstorm might’ve glued that shut. Said it would be good enrichment.

Mech 1: Why am I still standing here watching the weird little alien fail at opening a jar

Mech 2: I know, right? I could watch this for hours.

[aceofheartsssss]

I fucking hate the feeling of WANTING to write/read fanfiction but not being able to cuz literally EVERYTHING is stopping you from it, and when you finally get the time, you’re too tired to stay awake. >:(

We’re all gonna die one day, at least let me fucking have this. >:(

[f41ryb0nes]

Dirty Angels - Leon Kennedy/Reader/Ada Wong

ao3 ⟡ wc: 2.2k ⟡ part _ of three's company

tags: smut, cisfem!reader, wlw, p in v, simultaneous orgasms, fingering, face sitting, oral, uhh lots of fluids comingling, reader gets to be their pillow princess, fluffy pillow talk

a/n: you & leon are friends with benefits but I didn’t feel like writing a whole setup for it. but keep that in mind so the intro dialogue is less cringe haha. you could infer the beginnings of a throuple at the end (or not, up to you) but he’s down bad for you both

You never came out to Leon, per se. He put the pieces together after a comment you made in a casual conversation.

“Wait, you like women too?” 

You shrugged like it was common knowledge. “Yeah, I do.” 

“Huh…” 

You watched him through narrowed eyes as he pondered it, nodding his head and looking up at nothing like he’d found the last piece of a puzzle and could now see the full picture of you clearly.

You scoffed light-heartedly. “What?” 

“Nothing, just uh… if you don’t mind me asking, um…”

You and Leon were well past anything being TMI between you, and knowing him, whatever he said next was sure to be so dumb it’d be entertaining. Your voice was coated in amusement as you urged him on. 

“Go ahead.”

He cleared his throat before continuing.

“Have you ever been with a guy and girl like… at the same time?”

You rolled your eyes to the back of your head. “Oh my god, you are such a guy.” 

“No, no, I mean— well yeah, but just— I might know someone, if you wanted to.”

You paused and looked at him for a beat. He scratched the back of his neck nervously. Something in you sparked like flint catching against steel.

“Is she hot?”

That was the conversation that signed your death warrant, in retrospect. Because right now, you were sure you were in heaven.

“That’s it, baby, suck my cock.”

“She’s so sensitive, look at how she twitches.” 

“Told you.”

“She’s taking us like such a good girl.”

Your sweat clung to the bedsheets below you from the sheer effort it took not to cum as they talked as if you weren’t there. But between Leon’s cock stuffing your mouth full and Ada’s lips fixed to your clit, you’d been reduced to muffled moans.

And Leon, ever the selfless lover, knew he wasn’t the star of the show here. He certainly didn’t mind watching you and her make out naked, wetting your fingers between the other’s legs while he sat back all but forgotten. And every position he suggested kept you and her in mind. 

“Let her sit on your face while I fuck you, yeah? I know you’re dying to taste her.” 

You gripped the soft flesh of Ada’s thighs to hold on as Leon rearranged your guts into the shape of him, pulling her further and firmly down to delve your tongue as deep as it’d go. She tasted like paradise found, the whole room was heady with pheromones, your senses tingled from the inside out as they each toyed with one of your breasts. Your face was covered in a coat of her sweet gloss as you lapped and needily suckled every square inch of the prettiest pussy you’d ever seen, your legs quivering around Leon’s waist as he held them open by the backs of your knees. 

You thought you heard them kiss, but when Ada raised herself off of you momentarily, you could see her fingers in his wanton mouth. You whined as you sucked in a lungful of air, and then she sat back down again. 

“Good boy, get them nice and wet. Does she feel good?” 

“Mmhmm,” Leon moaned around her digits. You heard a wet pop and he shuddered before slurring. “God, s’alway so damn tight.” 

Ada leaned forward and fixed her spit-slick fingers to your clit. You seized and cried helplessly into her cunt, pulling her hips to encourage her to grind on the flat of your tongue as Leon picked up speed. 

Every moan you earned from Ada felt like you’d grabbed ahold of starlight itself, and every groan from Leon felt like being bathed in the warmth of the sun. Your pleasure was as constant as the plap plap of skin on skin, as continuous as Ada’s fingertips circling your wet clit dexterously. 

And fuck, the way they kept talking, how Ada’s voice dripped like honey and Leon’s rumbled like broken thunder—

“That’s it, sweetheart, suck my clit— ahh— there, right there.”

“Come on, make her cum all over your pretty face. Then we’ll make you next, yeah?”

“Mm, keep— keep going, baby, earn it.”

“Shit, fuck— she must be close, gripping me like a goddamn vice.”

“Oh, oh, yes—!”

Her fingers faltered against your clit and her thighs clamped down against your face as she tumbled off the ledge, cumming with a string of breathless moans of your name. You lapped it up desperately as her slippery, sweet juices gushed into your thirsty mouth, the taste alone making your eyes roll back and your toes curl. 

She hissed and hovered over you as your needy tongue became too much, and you lifted your head to follow her with a pointed lick, not wanting to leave behind a single drop that could be taken by you instead. She laughed drunkenly at you as she teased herself up and down, allowing you just one more lap up her center each time, just enough to make you dizzy. 

Her fingers left your clit, but you didn’t have time to protest before more calloused ones replaced them. A shattered moan escaped you and Ada dismounted while you were preoccupied with the feeling to lay next to you on her side. You wrapped an arm around her to thread your fingers in her hair, careful not to pull as your pleasure began to mount. 

She ran her fingers soothingly up and down your stomach, humming as she watched you get fucked: the way your brows curled up acutely, your jaw dropping in a silent scream, the rise and fall of your chest as you fought for heavy breaths. She couldn’t help but to take your ebbing breast by a squeeze of your hardened nipple.

It felt like you’d been launched from the bed and into heaven faster than light speed. 

You cried out as you came undone with brutal force, clenching around Leon’s cock with every wave of tremors that rushed through you, his fingers on your clit becoming sharp and blindingly bright. They let out oh’s and expletives in revelrous awe, like they were mere witnesses to something holy and not the direct cause. 

And just as they’d talked you up to it, they talked you back down too—

“There you are, give it to him.”

“Atta girl, cum on my cock.”

“So pretty when you let go for us.” 

You floated back down to earth like a feather with each syllable, and Leon decelerated to a slow grind to let you get a grip. Then to each of your surprises, he shuddered and pulled out. 

Ada cocked an eyebrow at him. "You could’ve cum.”

“I know,” he panted, “but I’m not done. C’mon, get on her.”

Ada swung a leg over and she was suddenly straddled above you, settling down until her breasts were flush with yours, biting her smiling lips as she nestled your pelvic bones flush together. 

“We’ve had our fun, let’s let him have some now, yeah?” 

She hooked her feet under your thighs to keep them parted, and you felt the bed dip as Leon knelt between them. You gasped as his fingers slowly dragged up and down both of your slits, commingling your silky fluids. 

“Fuck, you two are so hot.”

And the way Ada’s face contorted as he pushed himself inside her? That was the most heavenly sight by far. You even refrained from kissing her so you wouldn’t interrupt it.

As Leon settled into her, you rested one hand on the dip of her lower back and the other on her ass. Once he started thrusting, she kissed you herself. 

Leon covered your hand on her ass with his to spread her open, grunting in marvel at the sigh. Behind your eyelids, you imagined the image of what was happening and that alone was enough to make you moan into her kiss. It deepened as you did, your soft tongues melting together in a sultry sort of dance as you rocked together with the smooth force of Leon’s thrusts. 

You’d be more than happy if that’s all that continued to happen, but Leon had other plans in mind. Your eyes parted open as the bed went still and you felt his tip notch into your opening. 

Ada cooed praises into your ear as your mind became blown with how dirty it was. He slipped inside so easily, his cock undoubtedly dripping with her cum, sinking his full length into your own sopping center with ease. 

He rocked in and out of you slowly, deliberately, letting you feel each thrust and the friction of your own velvet walls as they sucked him in. With Ada flush on top of you, you were sure she must feel him bulging against your stomach each time he bottomed out. 

He pulled out again. You wondered where he went. A melodic moan from Ada’s throat was all you needed to know he’d entered her again. 

You gasped as he pushed back into you.

Then her. 

Then you. 

Then her.

Then you again. 

It was downright pornographic, the way he alternated between you, his voice going up in pitch each time. He too was in heaven. 

It felt like such a perfect tease each time you were filled only to be left empty, then stuffed full all over again, over and over and over. Ada clung to you like a dirty angel, her skin dampening with sweat as she nestled her face into your neck, panting against your pulse point. You trembled more and more each time Leon entered, and you bit your lip as a white hot coil twisted in your stomach. 

You could hardly articulate the feeling:

“Leon, Leon, please, oh fuck—“

He knew the answer anyways:

“I know, I know, I’m close too, just—“

The next time he plunged into your pulsing walls, he hammered in with a lot more purpose. 

Ada reached back, fanning her hand at him mindlessly. She couldn’t put a sentence together either, but Leon knew what she meant. 

He fixed two fingers inside of her and curled them up and down. He braced his other hand on your upper thigh and strummed his thumb against your clit. 

You all devolved into strings of words with no discernible meaning.

“Oh, there, ahh—ahh—“ 

“Fuck, I’m—oh my god—“

“Jesus fucking— oh, please—“

Then you all shattered as one being. 

Leon pulled out with a sharp withdrawal, hands unwilling to leave you and Ada as he kept coaxing you both through it. 

Leon kept his hands fixed to you and Ada both, continuing to coax you through it as he pulled out with urgency. He groaned with each convulsion, his cock jumping with each rope of cum; and whether he intended it or not, with the angle of his hips—

You felt the warmth of each rope as it landed on you and as it dripped from Ada’s cunt to yours. 

You all came down the earth with lightheaded heaves. Leon urged his vision to stop swimming as he burned the sight into memory with each heavy blink: the two loves of his life tangled up in each other, each one’s pussy painted with his cum. 

He stared at it every second until Ada eventually rolled off of you, and he stared a little longer at you lying together. Two angels blessing his bedsheets and glowing with sweat and sex, your mussed-up hair falling like halos against his pillows. Dirty in a way that made him aware of the beats his heart skipped, beautiful in a way that made it impossible to stare longer instead of joining. 

He crawled up right beside you and splayed an arm over your torso, his fingers idly rubbing Ada’s side where they met. You curled an arm under him to weave your hand into the soft hair on the nape of his neck.

“We need a towel,” Ada cooed.

Leon chuckled once. “Guess you don’t know where they are, huh?” 

He flicked her side playfully, and she giggled and batted it away before letting him go back to the mindless circles he drew on her ribcage. You gave them each a curious look at whatever hid in the subtext. You knew it’d been a long while since they slept together, but it sounded like they missed it. 

Fuck, you hope they did. Then maybe this could happen again.

“I’ll just change the sheets,” Leon thought out loud, and then he asked her, “are you staying?”

She hummed as she pretended to think. You felt her turn to look at you, and you met her gaze with hopeful eyes. 

“Sure...” 

You smiled. She kissed your cheek.

“...If you make us breakfast in the morning.”

Both of you looked at Leon expectantly. His eyes flicked between you and her before he nuzzled back into you, resigned. 

“Alright, fine.”

You and Ada giggled and made his grocery list for him. 

“Are you a savory or sweet breakfast person?”   “Depends on the day.”    “Why not get stuff for both?”    “Okay, like toast? That’s versatile."    “Ooh what about french toast?”     “Leon, do you know how to make french toast?”

He nuzzled further into you to hide the smile on his face as he grumbled into your skin.

“Women…”

a/n: I simply couldn’t resist the last line I’m not sorry

[opalita333]

god i hate capitalism so much i wish my job was getting railed by doctor gideon 24/7

[mmmrcrd]

was it reality or a dream?

[gojo-mochi]

A Bird Trapped In A Snake's Trap

CW: Recording sex, light spanking, soft Gideons, sort of story-heavy panic attack for reader, size difference Cock Warming Nipple Play Oral Sex: Female Readers' Light Backstory for readerJournalist Reader drugging at end, slight noncon if you blinks, Shy!Reader. Workplace harassment Office sex PinV Fingering bouncing on thighThigh Riding little dove as pet name

Pairing: Female!Reader X Gideon

A/N HIIII FIRST TIME WRITING GIDEONNN IM SO SORRY IF IT NOT GOOD PLS BE NICE... ahem hiiii i wanna thank you to gideontwt and all the gideon fanartist over on instagram and tumblr for inspiring me to write about this lovely snake man. I hope you all like it and please please! Feel free to tag me in your post about this fic or follow me! I would love to hear your thoughts <3

pss.. i tried my best with editing and grammer but english is not my first langauge.. sorry in advance

Summary:

Your first big break as a new journalist! And it's a interview with a top director of the legendary Rhode Hill Care Center! Surely nothing ever goes wrong in that sort of place! Right....?

You were in the middle of editing an article when, out of nowhere, a folder lands on your keyboard.

"What the—" You were about to open the folder when your boss kicked your cubicle wall, scaring you in the process.

"Alright, newbie, listen up, here's your next mission. Make sure to read everything in that file before you leave, and check your email too; I left the questions in there." Your boss gave you a thumbs up and started walking away, without the chance for you to reply. You look between him and the file, stunned for a moment.

“Wa-wait? What mission?” You grab the file and begin to follow after your boss.

“Your next report, and it's a big one, so don’t fuck it up, ok?”

"It's about that director at the Rhodes Hill Care Center; other news outlets all have brown noses from how much they've been praising it, so we—" He gestures to the big gaudy sign on his door.

“The Crane Press”

“We will be the one that finally exposes this hospital and reaps all the rewards for it.” Your boss smiles wide. "And listen to this, I got the director of the facility to agree to an exclusive interview as well, so really, don't fuck this up, newbie." Your boss giggled at the end, seemingly really excited about this interview.

'Rhodes Hill Care Center.' You vaguely heard the name before, it was a bit far away from the main hub of the city, but you think you remember seeing some debate online about it a while ago.

“Um, what kinds of things am I looking for exactly?” You questioned nervously, clutching the file in your hands.

Your boss waves a hand at you. “Anything that even seems remotely shady. Just get some pictures of a dirty room or record a conversation with a disgruntled employee, and we’ll have our story.”

You pause, “…Isn’t that kind of illegal though, sir?”

Your boss slumps his shoulders and sighs dramatically, turning to look at you with a disappointed look. You tense up, immediately feeling shame and embarrassment for speaking up against his idea.

“We-well, I just mean, wh-what if the readers find out? Or if the—they sue us, I mean, that it could be—" You stammered quickly, hoping to explain yourself.

“Shut up.” Your boss holds up a finger, reprimanding you like a child.

“All you need to do is go there, interview the director and some employees, take some pictures, record some conversations, and come back here, and the big boys will take care of the rest. Ok? Ok.”

You didn’t get the chance to reply as your boss turned back around and slammed the door on your face

Ok… then, asshole.

You stuck up a middle finger to the closed door and then took it back as quickly as you did, too afraid of cameras around. Your boss might fire you for doing that if he catches it on the cameras. You remembered a couple of months ago he fired an intern for doing the same thing.

This was a harsh job, and the pay is even worse than you imagined, but you stuck around because you love journalism. You didn't want to be stuck in a dead-end job just to make money if it was just going to burn you out in the end. Sure, a lot of the things published here are clickbait garbage or something made up to incite the masses into riots. But there are moments where it all comes together, the times where you get to shine light on a project that deserves it. To meet with people who have so many stories that the world needs to hear but no one will because they just seem like ordinary folks.

You remember back to what made you so passionate about journalism. It was back in college, you took a journalism class on a whim to fill out some credits. The project was to find someone local in town to interview and get their life story. Everyone was interviewing their families or firemen and the like, but you wanted to do something different. In your heart you felt like you should interview someone unknown to you and the city to get the best answers.

You ended up getting the chance to interview an older lady who frequented the same coffee shop as you. She was happy to do the interview and happier to have someone to talk to at the time. She always seemed lonely, sitting in the same spot in the corner. Maybe that’s what drew you to ask her. You introduced yourself to her and asked if you could interview her for your school project, she instantly agreed, happily shaking her hand with yours.

You found out her name was Ms. Fields, and you started the interview right there at the coffee shop. Getting out your journal and flipping it open to your list of questions, you didn't think much would come of this. You just wanted to do something different from your classmates.

“Ok, Ms. Fields, thank you for agreeing to do this interview. Now, for the first question: Where were you born?" The first question you asked, a question that should have been the most simple one, got a most unexpected answer.

“I was born in Raccoon City, dear.” Ms. Fields answered flatly, folding her hands up on the table nicely, fingers intertwined with one another. If you looked closer, you would see her fingernails were actually digging into her skin a bit.

Your brain screeched to a halt. Raccoon city. The city that got nuked all those years ago, the city with so many mysteries and conspiracy theories behind it. Yet, no real answers were ever given about it. So many questions and none answered, only buried under the government's lies. You did some research on it before, as much research as you could do reading threads online from other random users online. You used to like to go down those kinds of rabbit holes, just to see if you were the "special" one that could break the code.

A laugh broke you out of your thoughts, Ms. Fields was laughing, quite loudly in fact. It brought the attention of some of the other cafe's patrons to turn their heads towards your table. You duck your head in embarrassment, looking back at Ms. Fields to find her catching her breath. With cheeks red, hand over her chest, and a big smile on her face, she looked like she was having the time of her life.

"Sorry, oh my goodness. I am so sorry, dear." Ms. Fields spoke in between breaths, a smile still on her face, though it subsided a bit. "It's just the look on your face was priceless. It looked like I just made a miracle happen in front of you."

Now your own cheeks were heating up. You bring up your journal to your face to hide behind it. After laughing for a couple more minutes, Ms. Fields finally calmed down enough to talk normally again. "Ah, I've done that a couple of times now and everyone had different reactions, I think yours is gonna be my favorite though."

You let your head fall on the table with a soft thud, journal still up like a wall to hide your shame. You feel Ms. Fields reach over to gently rub your arm. "Aw, sweetheart. Don't be embarrassed. It was cute! And I'm sure that none of your classmates are going to interview someone from Raccoon City, so you're sure to get an A." You lift up the journal just a bit to catch her smiling at you softly, you put the journal down and lift your head back up.

Looking around to find that everyone else went back to minding their own business again. She was right. It wasn't like you got the chance to interview someone from Raccoon City often. Most of the survivors of that incident preferred not to talk about it, and some believed that they were threatened to keep their mouths shut about it.

This was a huge opportunity for you to find out more about Raccoon City, not just for the class and the grade but for your own self-desires as well. You look back at Ms. Fields, finding her with the same smile as before, she gave your journal a tap and asked, "So, on to the next question then?"

Thwack!

Something hits you smack on the side of your head, bringing you out of your reminiscing. You look down to find the offending object and find a crumpled-up paper ball. Before you could even bend down to pick it up, another one hit your arm this time.

You look to your side and find your coworker with another wound-up paper ball in his hand.

"You awake now? Thought you'd gone crazy on me there. Did the boss finally break you or something?" He goes to throw the wadded-up paper again, but this time he aims for the trash can instead of you. You ignored his question and started walking back to your desk, preparing to grab your things for the long trip. The care facility was a bit of a drive up north. If you remember correctly, it should give you enough time to read the file during the drive at least.

You just sat back down at your desk when you heard the rolling of a chair coming right up next to you. The same coworker rolled over to you to bother you some more, you guess.

"So, hey, I heard you're going to that creepy old hospital. The one with all the murder and kidnapping rumors," he said nonchalantly, but looking at you for a reaction.

"Are you scared of going?" He asked with an impish grin on his face.

"Not a hospital, a care facility, but yes, I am." You sigh, clicking around on your computer, making sure that everything is saved before you shut it down. You tried to play it off cool, but a part of you was dreading going. This was a big interview, and you were still technically new to the office. You can't afford to fuck this up.

"Crazy that the boss got an exclusive interview, though, isn't it? Wonder if he got an inside man or something, or how much he paid for it." Your coworker rambles on, poking around your desk, side-eyeing the file your boss gave you. You bring the file closer to you. You weren't sure if the stuff inside was confidential or not.

"Who knows, I'm just glad to be out of the office for once." You mumbled, turning off your computer and packing up your things. Including stuffing the file deep in your bag, away from prying eyes. Your coworker finally backed off, wheeling back to his own desk.

"Don't get yourself killed, newbie." He waves you off.

"If I do, you can write about it in the paper. I give you full rights to make up any stories about me." You call back, waving back at him, looking at your phone to order a taxi.

You waited for a couple of minutes before the taxi pulled up next to you.

"Where to?" The taxi driver grunted, turning on his meter as soon as you stepped inside the back.

"The Rhodes Hill Care Center, please, sir." You settled down in the backseat, your bag safely held in your lap.

He takes a while to punch in the name on the GPS. "Mm, long drive, going to be a hefty fee. You can pay that, missy?"

You nod before answering out loud, "Yes! I have my work card to pay for it."

He snorts and starts the car, "Alright then..."

The ride to the care facility was long and bumpy. The taxi driver wasn't much of a talker, so you took this time to get yourself situated with the file and its contents. The first few pages were on the facility and the area surrounding it, just to get you up to speed on what you already need to know for the interview. Your eyes skim over most of the boring details until you come across a picture of the director.

Doctor Victor Gideon

You grabbed the photo and held it closer to you, trying to angle it to catch the passing streetlights so you could get a better view. Something… about the man in the picture was itching a part in your brain. He didn't seem familiar at all. You're sure you would remember seeing someone as distinct as him before. But something was calling out to you about this man, something you couldn't place a finger on.

The car screeched to a sudden halt, knocking you forward along with the picture and files in your hand. Scattering on the car floor.

"Alright, we're here, Missy," the taxi driver spat out, meter still running.

"O-oh! Thank you, sorry—I dropped some stuff back here. Just let me get it and I'll be out of your hair."

"Mmhm." The taxi driver didn't seem to care that much, eyes turning back to the front as you scramble to get everything back in order.

You push open the car door and begin walking quickly to the center. When your arm suddenly gets pulled back harshly, you almost drop everything again.

"Hey! You forgot to pay!" The taxi driver snarled, grasp on you strong enough to bruise.

You yanked your arm away from him and stepped back, rubbing the sore spot on your arm. "Ok, ok, I'm sorry. Just gi-give me a minute." Your voice shakes as you rummage through your bag, your whole body shaking from that ordeal while the driver taps his foot impatiently. You couldn't find the company card with how anxious this whole thing was making you, so you fished out your own cash and showed it to him. He snatched it right away and eyed it, like he was assessing whether or not it was real.

He must have thought it looked real enough as he stomped back to the cab and floored it, almost hitting you in the process. Well… that was a great way to start this evening. Your body was shaking from that encounter, palms pressed against your eyes to try to ward off any oncoming tears.

'Shit, shit, shit. It's ok, it is ok… you're doing good.'

You repeated that mantra over and over again until you felt like you could go on acting like a normal person. Alright, things can't go worst from here, right?

You silently laugh at yourself as you walk up the steps to the facility. The care facility was huge, much bigger than you imagined. It looked more like a fancy mansion than anything else. The ivory building gave off an eerie vibe. As you reach the doors, you steel yourself one last time and push on in. It was around late evening when you walked in, definitely over visiting hours, but your boss did say that he got this interview approved already and they should know that you'd be coming. You hope you won't get turned away for coming so late.

You walk your way up to the reception desk, where a nurse was tapping away on the computer. Everyone here seems busy in their own way, rushing around the place without even sparing a glance at your presence. You knock on the desk to get the attention of the nurse.

"Um, excuse me, ma'am?" You pitch your voice louder than normal.

No answer.

You take a glance down at her name tag: Nurse: Schapp.

"Excuse me? Miss—um—Nurse Schapp?"

"Hold on, give me a minute, hun." The nurse hummed, continuing to tap away at the keyboard, her eyes not even bothering to check who was calling for her.

There was nothing else you could do but wait and just take in the scenery. It was beautiful inside as it was on the outside, with marble statues and detailed architecture that you would usually only find in castles and the like. You wonder how much this place cost to build? to run even? Was this kind of luxury normal for a care facility?

"Alright, hun. Now, what can I do for you?" The nurse flatly calls out.

Your head whips back to the nurse. "Oh, right! Sorry, hold on, I have my work badge somewhere…" You dig around in your pockets to find your press badge. It wasn't an official one, just something that your boss gave to everyone to wave around if they needed to.

You pull it out, handing it over to the nurse, it shows your name along with the company you work for.

"Ah, yes. Doctor Gideon did tell me that someone was coming. Nice to meet ya, you can call me Peggy, hun." Her voice had a bit of a twinge to it. It was quite pleasing to hear. You felt your shoulder fall in relief seeing how nicely she was acting. She got up and walked around to where you were, placing a hand on your shoulder as she started guiding you around.

"I'll be the one to show you around after you finish interviewing the director. This place can be quite the maze if you don't know your way around."

"You know, you're a lucky one, our director barely does any interviews. I think there maybe are two he did a couple years before."

"He's a good man, though, keeps to himself most of the time, but he treats his employees right. We even got a bar and lounge set up in this place, can you believe it? Bet you've never heard of that in a hospital before." Peggy laughs heartily, "Ah, yes, he's one of the better bosses around here..." Her voice trails off. Your ears perk up at that. Maybe you could interview her too and get some 'dirt' like your own boss wanted.

You were mostly just making small talk with Peggy as you got a lay of the land. Walking past staff members doing their usual routines, there are no signs of any patients roaming around, but it is in the evening, so they might just be in their rooms or something. After another flight of stairs and more corner turns, you finally ended up at your destination.

"Here it is, Doctor Gideon's office." Peggy stops in front of a set of double wooden doors. "Just go on and step in. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you."

"Wa-wait! You're not going in with me?" You turn to her, frantic at the thought of going in alone and having to meet the director alone.

"Sorry, hun. But I have a lot of things to get done if I want to go home on time. You'll be fine! He already knows that you're coming." She waves off your worry, walking away and patting your arm as a show of support. "Oh! I still have to give you a tour after your interview is done, so just make sure to come find me after, kay?" And with that, Peggy saunters off, leaving you to your lonesome.

You turn towards the double-set doors and feel your anxiety creeping on you, thoughts of failure and unease whispering in your head. Should you knock? Call out? Or just walk in like you own the place.

You silently hype yourself up in your head, grabbing the door handle and pushing on in. But instead of walking into an office, you walk into what seems like a lounge area. It was a huge area. With no one there. You walk in a bit further, scanning the area to see if you were somehow missing a presence, but all you saw were empty couches.

"Hello...?" you tentatively called out, a small part of you hoping that no one would answer. There wasn't a direct answer back, but you did hear some shuffling from your left. You turn your head that way and find a door labeled 'Director's Office.' Your head tilts in an attempt to hear better. You wait for a couple more moments, but nothing more happens.

"He-hello? I'm here for the interview." You call out, your voice barely above speaking levels. More shuffling is heard before a deep voice replies back to you, "Ah, yes. Come in, Miss Interviewer."

You take a few steps towards the door, trying to first see if you could peer in to see who was inside, but the blinds were closed tight. You do one last hype-up in your mind and go to open the door. Stepping into the office, you see a tall, imposing figure across the room standing in front of a desk. His back was turned to you, and he was in the middle of reading a file. You pause at the entrance, the door softly closing behind you with a click.

You take a longer look at the director, dark hair with a lot of silver coming out, a long white lab coat, a dress shirt and tie underneath, and… jewelry? Your eyes fall to the hands holding on to the file. One of them was the kind of chain jewelry that extended from the fingers to the wrist, and the other was a big green snake eye and a snake wrapped around his thumb. It was oddly clashing with his doctor's attire. You would expect someone working in this field not to be allowed to have rings like that when working.

"Um...hello? I'm here from Crane's Press. For your interview. " You softly speak up, and the man quietly puts down the file on the desk and turns to you. A gentle smile on his face as he walks up to your personal space.

Woah, looking at him this close now… He wasn't just tall; he was absolutely massive. What did they feed people here? You had to crane your neck up to just meet his eyes. 

"Doctor Gideon…?"

“Present, heh.” The doctor does a little bow with a flourish of his hand. “And you are the little birdie from the news agency." His smooth voice tickled your ears a bit.

'Little birdie?'

“Yes, I’m from the Crane Press agency, sir. Um—sorry. Doctor. Sir. Sir Doctor.” You jumbled over your words like a fool, something about this man just made your whole body cower and your brain short circuit.

Gideon laughed at your cute little stumble of words, “Just 'doctor' is fine or 'Doctor Gideon.'" Or maybe even Victor if you preferred." He purred the last part, your face flushing even more from hearing that. You weren't expecting the doctor to be such a flirt.

"I'll just stick with Doctor Gideon for now, i-if that's alright." You step back a bit, being this close to this man was not good for your brain right now.

"If you like, we could do the interview now...?" Your eyes were trying to look everywhere but at his eyes. But something about this doctor had a strange way of making you look at him even when your senses were fighting against it. It was the way he looked at you with those green eyes...? Yellow... eyes? The more you looked, the more confused you were about the colors. It almost seemed like they were changing ever so slightly every time you blinked.

"I would like that very much, my dear." Doctor Gideon responded, placing a hand on your back as he stepped forward, very much encroaching into your personal space once more. "I'm sure that you have lots of questions for me. That's why I blocked off the rest of the day, just for you.

"So don't be afraid to take all the time you need here, little dove." His lips quirk up when saying your new nickname.

While odd, you decide to ignore his use of pet names, his touching…, and everything else he was doing, to be honest. It was strange. If it were anyone else doing the same thing, you think you would have walked off by now. All his actions were definitely creepy, but your body was almost relaxing in his touch, like this was where you belonged all along.

His hand slid up to your shoulder as he softly pushed you to the middle area of the office. A small table surrounded by a couch on one side and two armchairs on the other side. You set your bag down on the table, sliding around the table and opting to sit on the couch. The smooth leather cushion dips as you sit down. You let out a breath, not noticing how much you needed this rest until now.

You take a glance up at the doctor, who is still standing tall, looking down at you with an odd glint in his eyes. He tilts his head back at you when you keep on staring nervously, waiting for him to say or do something. The silence was deafening. Was he just going to stand there while you interviewed him? Your neck was starting to hurt from how much you had to lean back to see his face.

“Just how tall are you?” The question left your mouth before you could stop it.

A wry smirk came across his face, along with a soft laugh.

“Was that a question for your work or a personal question just for you...?"

You feel your face flush hot, quickly breaking the staring contest you were holding with Doctor Gideon.

“So-sorry! That was extremely inappropriate of me to ask. Please forgive me for that.” You squeak out, hands balled on your lap from the embarrassment of your own actions.

Dr. Gideon lets out a deep chuckle, seemingly amused at your antics.

“No worries, little dove. Just teasing you. We can still continue on the interview, and I'm more than happy to answer any more personal questions you may have about me." He pats your head, his hand lingering there for an uncomfortably long time, fingers brushing your hair back and traveling down the nape of your neck, just long enough for you to realize how massive his hand was to your whole body.

You fought back a shiver, trying not to think about where else his hands could be or the fact that he just called you 'little dove.' You just needed to get this interview over with, and you could go home and hopefully forget all about this. Though there was still that strange feeling in your gut stirring ever since you walked into this place.

“O-ok, I just wanted you to know that I will be recording this conversation with you and that—oh!" 

You practically jumped out of your skin when you felt the couch sink beside you, finding that Doctor Gideon chose to sit right next to you instead of sitting in the chairs across.

“Something the matter?” He questioned, feigning innocence in his tone. His thigh was touching yours, almost doubling you in size. You shift closer to the edge of the couch, but Doctor Gideon's form was just massive enough to take enough space for you to still feel claustrophobic.

"Ah, it's just that you—I just thought that you would be sitting on the other side, heh…" You try to make your tone sound light and not bothered, not wanting to upset the man before you could get an interview. "I-I can go sit on the other side if you prefer the couch. "You made a move to get up, but a hand on your shoulder stops you from moving even an inch.

"Ah, that's alright. I just like to be close to people. It gives me a better idea of who they really are, you know?” His explanation didn't make this situation any better; you feel his thumb rub circles on your shoulder, bunching up the thin fabric of your work shirt. You just nod in return, mustering up a strained smile at him.

“You’re not uncomfortable, are you?” There was that tone again, so soft and gentle it almost makes you want to believe that everything he was doing was normal. Almost.

“N-no! Not at all, just surprised, that is all. Um, well, if you’re ready, then I can get started.” You lean forward, away from his touch, and start rifling through your bag. Pulling out your laptop and a voice recorder. You set down the laptop on your lap, opening it up to the list of questions your boss sent you to ask. Pressing the record button on the recorder, you set it down on the coffee table, making sure that the red light was still on when you started the interview.

You take in a deep breath and begin. “Hello, this is a reporter from the Crane's Press, and I am currently speaking to the director of the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. "You ignore the chills slowly grasping at your body as you turn your body towards the doctor, knees bumping into each other.

“Would you please introduce yourself, Doctor?” You look up at him, cueing him to speak. His eyes lock on yours instantly. You could feel the bass coming off his voice from being this close. “I would be happy to, little dove. Greetings, I am Doctor Victor Gideon, the director for this fine care center. I am here today with a cute little reporter who has my undivided attention right now." He ends his introduction with a wink at you. Something curls in your stomach at the sight. Whether it was a good or bad sign, you couldn't decide currently.

“Thank you for having me, Doctor. Let's get this started then—" You turn away from him, focusing on your laptop instead. You ignore the trembling in your hands as you scroll down the questions list.

"Alright, easy questions to start off with. What made you want to run a care facility? Was there a significant event in your life that made you tread down this path?"

The doctor hums in thought as he mulled over your question, "That is a very good question that has a very long answer." His tongue pokes out to wet his lips as he continues on. Your eyes linger on it for longer than you liked.

"I don't think we have enough time in the day for me to fully answer that, but I will give you this. I run this care center because I believe in the strength of humankind. The world doesn't know it yet, but we humans have so much more inside of us that is just waiting to be found." He leans in closer to you, a hand placing itself on your knee.

“Humans are so much more resilient and remarkable than they know. Sometimes we just need a little push… to end up in the right direction.” He was looking directly at you when he said this. Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, like a warning alarm.

"O-Oh, I see. That's a very… noble reason."

He smiles at this, his hand not leaving your knee. It almost felt comforting at this point. You blamed these confusing feelings on your anxiety and pushed them aside.

"On to the next question then, can't be taking up all of your time, haha!" You fake enthusiasm, turning your gaze back to the laptop to find the next question.

"You've been in this field for a long time now. Was there a mentor or someone you looked up to that helped you come along so far"

Doctor Gideon's whole demeanor changed from this question. His shoulders stiffen, and he shifts away from you, his eyes closing slowly. He takes a deep breath like he was reminiscing about something important.

“There is… someone I really look up to. He was in the same field as me, and he was a visionary, a revolutionary, someone akin to a god. His ideas could change the world, and some say they did.” A low chuckle slips past his tongue. "He is gone… now. But his work continues to grow and evolve even as we speak. I made sure of that." Doctor Gideon's face contorts into a blissful smile as he continues speaking of this 'man.'

"I made sure that his work is never forgotten. Every word he said is etched in my brain. I still don't understand all of his notes." A weighty sigh is brought from his lungs. "His genius outmatches us all. I knew it would not be easy for me to fully see his vision, but that's the fun in trying. Trying again and again until you finally find the right... match." His gaze dips down back to you. His eyes looked like they were glowing. Something heavy was lurking in his gaze. Something predatory, something dangerous… You swallow down dry spit, feeling your body tighten up like something was coiling around you. Squeezing you tight.

“Oh wow… he sounds like someone very special to you… " You feel goosebumps run across your arms as you forced yourself to keep on speaking to this man.

"Could I, um...please get his name for the interview? I-I'm sure that the people would love to know who could inspire that much in a person such as yourself."

Doctor Gideon leans forward, encroaching even more into your personal bubble. His hand found itself back up on your knee, while the other one was creeping up your back, his fingers tracing the outline of your spine.

“Ah, sorry. I still like to keep some secrets close to the heart. Maybe you’ll get that answer another day, little dove." He smiles wide, and just now you noticed that his teeth were gold-plated.

"If you're good, that is." He chuckles to himself like it was an inside joke between the two of you.

You needed to get this interview over with and get the fuck out of here. Just one or two more questions, and then you can fake a stomach ache or something. Wait, actually he might know that you're faking since he's a doctor, shit…

"Are you alright, dear?"

His genuineness in that question startles you. "Ye-yes! It was just such an inspiring story that I was lost in thought for a moment, that's all."

"Let's get on with the next questions then?" You don't wait for his reply to pull up the next question.

"Let's see here... oh, any mistakes you had while working here or any regrets you want to share?"

A twitch in his posture gave away his annoyance, but he plays it off coolly.

"Ah, we all make mistakes, big and small. But I'd rather not talk about them. It's bad luck to bring those kinds of things up."

So now he's not talkative?

"Ah…? Ok then… um, then how about your plans for the future and the future of the care center?"

“I just want the best care for all my patients here.” He smiles widely again, and then there is the weird glint in his eyes as he continues on. "My big plans... well, let's say I hope I can live out my master's dream, is all."

You nod along, pretending to really care about this interview instead of getting the fuck out.

"That was really wonderful and-um… informative! Thank you again for agreeing to do this interview, Doctor Gideon. I think just one or two more questions and I'll be off."

You slouch over your laptop, rapidly scrolling down the list to find a good question to end off on. You still had a job to do here, and you know your boss is gonna be royally pissed at you if you don't finish it well.

You end up near the bottom of the list, where in bold lettering was the phrase—

"THE HARD-HITTING STUFF"

Your nose wrinkled at the sight. That was for sure your boss's writing. He always likes to sprinkle this kind of stuff in interviews. He thinks that these kinds of trashy tactics will bring in more readers. It's usually just stuff about secret relationships or rumors of an unclaimed child. Maybe Doctor Gideon will find it funny if you ask him about an affair child out of nowhere.

You scroll down more to find the absurd questions but find something else instead. Your heart drops to your ass. These were not the usual questions your boss gives you. You quickly went to close the whole laptop, but Doctor Gideon stopped you, grabbing both your wrists and leaning in close to look at what you were trying to hide. His face was next to yours now. His scent began to hit your nose as his shoulders bumped with yours. You take a deep breath in without really meaning to. It was a sharp and bitter scent, it burns your nose a bit.

Sterile, just like walking through the hallways of this place, though underneath the first wave there was something almost earthy about his scent. It was alluring as well, more grounded and complex, but also nostalgic-like. Like you smelled this before, somehow deep in the past you had smelled this scent before, and it was calling you home.

"Oh?"

Doctor Gideon speaking brought your mind back to the present. Right, the questions. Oh, fuck, you can't let him see anymore. You tried to pull your hand away from his grasp, but any attempt was useless against someone with his build. He could easily break your wrist if he wanted to right now, and you hoped that he didn't want to after reading the special questions your boss wrote.

"Many have said that your funding comes from shady corporations in the past, such as the Umbrella Corp. Do you have any comments on that?

Many families have spoken out about your facility's treatment of their loved ones. Why have you not given a public statement on this?

What do you have to say about the online rumors surrounding your care center? Are any of the rumors true? What about the missing person cases that were said to have been investigating you right before they disappeared?"

"Ah, now this is interesting… I see we're getting to the good stuff now." You see his eyes wander around the list, humming at some of the questions with curious amusement.

"Doc-Doctor Gideon, please! I-I am so, so sorry. These are not my questions, I-I didn't mean to offend you at all. I hope you kno-know that. "You stammer over your words even more now, as your wrists are still bound in his grasp. You squeeze your eyes shut, ready for whatever consequences come next. Everything was going wrong. Your body was on the verge of a panic attack.

"I-I would never, really never! Ask you these types of questions! I mean—I don't—I didn't even know—" Your breath was short and heavy, your brain shot out imagery of all the horrible things that were going to happen to you now, just because of your stupid boss. Your chest felt like it was being hit by a jackhammer. Your mind was failing. Something was wrong with everything.

"Is alright, little one. He cuts off your rambling pathetic pleas, pulling your wrists up above your head as he forces your chin up with his other hand. Thumb and forefinger pressing lightly on your cheeks as he makes you look up at him.

"There, there now. No need for tears, not at this moment at least." He cooes softly, releasing your wrists so his hand could come down and wipe away your falling tears. You didn't even know that you started crying. He cups your face in his hands, his voice lower to a soft tone that makes you feel all warm inside.

"Oh, my little dove, my sweet pet, you are just so delicate, aren't you? There's no need to be afraid of me." He leans down, resting his chin on top of your head, pulling you into his embrace. Your face buried in his chest as his hands roam around your back in a calming manner. A part of you, the rational part perhaps, was screaming at you to run, to leave, and not look back. But another part of you, a part that you didn't know you had, was finding this whole situation soothing and comforting, like you finally found the missing puzzle piece in your life.

And it was in the arms of Doctor Gideon for some reason. Everything just felt right in his arms, the way your bodies melded with each other. His body was colder than you expected, but it didn't give you any chills. It just made you want to huddle closer to him. Your own hands came up to bury themselves underneath his lab coat, clutching on to his shirt. Your breathing was starting to calm down as well.

"Good girl, just let yourself be free. You are here with me now, and no harm will come to you in my care. I can assure you of that." He dips his head down further, lips brushing against the shell of your ear, all the way down to the pulsing point of your neck. You feel his tongue flicker out to taste your skin. You shiver at the feeling, leaning your head back to look at the doctor. You find him staring right back at you, with that sharp look in his eyes.

His palm came up to rest itself against your cheek, thumb softly wiping away stray tears that lingered on your face. He lifts your chin up. "Close your eyes."

You swallowed away the hard lump in your throat and slowly closed your eyes, preparing for what would happen next. It felt like a lifetime before you felt the touch of his lips on yours. It was just for a brief moment, and it was gone. Your voice let out a whine almost automatically at the loss. Any shame you would feel is quickly beaten down by the desire for more. You kept your eyes closed, hoping that by showing him that you were still following his order, he would give you more.

"Ah, finally coming out of your shell now?" Doctor Gideon sighs sweetly, going back in for a second kiss. You push yourself up further in the kiss, wanting more than last time. You feel Doctor Gideon let out a small chuckle at this action, obliging your whims. Soft and sweet kissing, like between new shy lovers. When he let go, you were still disappointed but didn't voice it this time. He lowers his hand back to the pulse on your throat.

"That's it, I can feel your heartbeat matching mine, you're doing so well. I know you would adjust just fine." His voice lower to just above a whisper, it sounded so sweet, sickeningly sweet. You haven't felt like this in a long time, just being in the arms of someone, being comforted, feeling protected, and feeling loved. Your tears stopped falling, but you still wanted to stay here, maybe forever if you had the choice.

Unfortunately that wasn't in the cards for now as Doctor Gideon lifts his head back up. Leaning back as he softly grabs your shoulders, pushing you away from his cold warmth. A whimper escapes your lips as you leave his arms. He cooes at your cute reaction.

"There, there, little dove. There is plenty of time for those kinds of things later… For now, why don't you take a tour of the place and come back to me later, hmm? I'll send Nurse Schapps up again to come show you around the place. You quite like her, right?"

You were confused at his sudden change. Was this his way of politely telling you to get the fuck out? Did he get what he wanted from you already? A kiss and your sense of self being lost.

Doctor Gideon must have sensed your confusion as his hands come up to squeeze your cheeks. His rings cool against your heated cheeks. "Silly girl. I merely just suggest a walk because it would be good for you. As much as I absolutely adore having you in my arms. I want you to be of sound mind when we continue on later." He plants a chaste kiss on your forehead and leaves you on the couch. You watch as he stands back up to his full height, walking over to his desk and turning on the intercom.

"Nurse Schapps, please come up to the director's office. Thank you."

You fiddle with your hands as you calm down from everything that happened earlier; you were sure that wasn't good journalistic conduct. You still feel your heart beating loudly in your chest, beating against your ribcage like it is trying to rip itself out so it can be with Doctor Gideon again. You look back at your laptop, the questions still there on the screen in bold lettering.

A part of you wanted to know if Doctor Gideon had any answer to these questions, but you knew you had no strength right now to even bring up the notion of asking him about it. You shut the laptop down. You would just have to tell your boss that never came out of the interview. You weren't happy about most likely getting screamed at and insulted.

You start picking at your fingernails as your brain conjures up all the times your boss or someone he made you interview screamed at you, hurled items at you, or insulted you. There were too many times to count. All of that at the time seemed just like part of the job. But being here and seeing how the care center was running and how Doctor Gideon treated you. A stranger with such love and care.

Your life has been so lonely for a long time. You can't remember the last time you even spent a night or even an evening next to someone. It was just work and surviving. Was that any way for someone to live? Was it fate or something else that was pulling you towards Doctor Gideon? Your logical reasoning was trying hard to deduce whatever you were feeling in your chest, all the tangled knots of affection, anxiety, confusion, and anger, all balled inside of you. You were not acting like yourself, crying in front of someone, straddling their lap, and being coddled all in the same 20 minutes.

"Little dove."

Doctor Gideon was back in front of you, already taking your hands in his. You feel warmth instantly flood your body just by being back in contact with him. Your shoulders stopped tensing, your face relaxed, and all the thoughts in your head calmed. If you had a tail or had the ability to purr, you would be going at max speed right now.

"Nurse Schapps is outside. Are you ready to go?" He pulls you up to your feet, a soft smile on his face as he pulls you into a hug. You hug back right away, snuggling your face in his chest with a soft sigh.

"Cute… and here I thought I would needed to something more drastic…"

He whispers something that you couldn't quite make out. You lift your head up to look at him, making a questioning noise. "Hmm?"

Doctor Gideon merely pats your head in response, taking your hand in his as he leads you to the door. "Come now, we can't have the good nurse be waiting too long." Before he opens the door, you remember about your bag and the laptop left behind at the table. You take a look back. Was it a good idea to leave them here?

Doctor Gideon answered that for you, "Don't worry about your personal belongings. This is the safest room in all the care center, after all. I'll make sure to protect them as well."

His dulcet tone makes all your worries melt away. You chose to stomp out the annoying and still-nagging voice in your chest. He opens the door and leads you to the lounge area, opening the double doors to find Nurse Peggy waiting patiently outside.

"Greetings, Director Gideon." She takes a little bow as she greets the director flatly. She then turns to you and greets you in the same manner. Weird, she was so friendly the first time you met. Well, you would act the same if you were in front of the guy who signs your paycheck as well. You say goodbye to Doctor Gideon for the time and follow after Nurse Peggy, who was quiet until you descend the stairs. Only then did she finally speak.

"That interview went quicker than I thought, but I'm not complaining. After I finish with your tour, I can finally go home." Nurse Peggy loosens her shoulders and stretches out her arms with a big sigh, seemingly back to her normal self now that she's away from the director's office.

"I hope I'm not making you work overtime or something…" This tour would be a great time to snap some pictures so you don't go home completely empty-handed, at least. But you hate to be the reason someone would be going home late.

Nurse Peggy waves off your concerns. "Oh, nonsense, hun. I signed up for this, actually. I don't get to give tours often, and it's something that breaks the rut of the same old boring routine. Oh, and you might see some patients roaming around at this time, but I do ask that you not interview them or take any pictures. Privacy reasons, ya know?"

"Of course! I understand." You pick up the pace a bit as she rounds a corner. You were marveling at the interior design they had going on. Everything was so clean and well kept. Everyone was so focused on their work as well. Everyone you and Peggy passed by barely gave you a glance. This place runs like a well-oiled machine. You felt a little awkward trying to take any pictures when people seemed to be working so hard.

You wave to some of them to try to get their attention, just for a quick question or hello, but none of them even bothered to scoff your way. You instead tried to pick out things from the environment that might make for a good story, but nothing was standing out to you other than the fact that this place must be built on money.

You don't know how many corners, hallways, or stairs you have taken or seen at this point. Peggy was just gliding along the place. You thought this was supposed to be a tour, but she didn't really stop at any place. She just mentioned what the room or hall was used for and kept on moving. You needed something from her at least. Maybe you could poke her enough to get more dirt on the doctors here. Your journalist side was getting bored of the history lessons.

"So, Peggy? How long have you been working here for?" You made your tone come off light and curious, itching to get something out of this tour.

"Longer than I wanted to if I'm honest with you, hun." Peggy sighs, slowing down her speed as she begins talking again.

"This place is fancy and all that, but the area is terrible. The commute here takes me an hour on a good day." She huffs out, annoyance creeping up in her tone. "And don't get me started on the staff here. Every day it's something new that needs fixing. I mean, my gods, I swear it's like they are always looking for something to yell at us about."

Wow, that did not take long for her to start spilling stuff. Maybe you should have asked her a lot earlier.

"What kind of problems do you mean? It seems very clean and quiet around here." Which wasn't a lie. Everything you've seen so far was in tip-top shape.

"That's the problem! Oh my days, he's not even the janitor, but there's this guy always nagging at everyone! To! Keep! The! Halls! Cleans!" She emphasizes each word with a swing of her arm going up. You almost laughed at how serious she was performing the action.

"It's not like we're dragging in mud or crap from the outside, but oh, God forbid something spill a little bit of coffee or they misplace their pen. It was like the whole world was ending." Peggy shakes her fist in anger at an invisible image. "It's always a coworker who likes to brown-nose too much that gets you in trouble. Oh, how I hate those types the most." She kept going on and on about coworker drama and how that coffee stains aren't that bad. It was like you uncork something in her that started this floor of complaints.

Peggy stops in the middle hall to turn to you. "Listen to me hun, this is a disgusting and shitty world. Sure, some days you get to meet people who are nice and polite, but everyone, and I mean everyone, has a hidden motive somewhere." She looks off in the distance, her voice suddenly turning serious. "You've got to either shove your head up someone's ass or grow hard enough skin to not be bothered by—"

"You!" A screeching voice cuts off Peggy, following it was the sound of heavy footsteps stomping down on the marble flooring.

You and Peggy both turn your heads toward the sound. An older man clad in a doctor's coat was barreling down the hall, shoulders hunched and fists by his side. He was clearly angry at someone. You hoped it wasn't you somehow. Your body was already shrinking in on itself as he came closer, your mind coming up with all things to say to placate him if need be.

You weren't his target, though. It was Peggy. "Doctor Higgins, what's wrong?" Peggy stepped back as the Doctor marched up to her, nostrils flaring and fist raised against her.

"What's wrong? What's wrong?!" He repeats back to her in a mocking voice. Anger flares in his vision as veins in his forehead throb disgustedly with each word that comes flying out of his mouth.

"Doc-doctor, please calm yourself, we have a guest here and—" Peggy held her hands up to try to calm down the doctor, but he was too far gone to listen to reason.

"I don't give a shit if the damn director was here." Doctor Higgins snarled, spit flying out of his wrinkled lips. "What I care about is that I happened to miss a very important meeting because of someone's mistake."

You stood behind Peggy unsure of what to do or if you should do anything. You looked between her and Doctor Higgins as he kept on berating her, not giving her an inch to speak back or defend herself.

Aren't you the one that writes down my schedule? So, tell me, why didn't you write down the meeting for tonight? Are you trying to make a fool out of me? Get me kicked out of here so you and all your prissy bitchy nurse friends can laugh behind my back?"

He got closer and closer to Peggy with each question, his shrill voice getting louder with each question as well. Peggy tries desperately to cut in, but her voice is quickly drowned out every time she tries. You can't sit by and let this happen anymore, you steel yourself and push yourself in front of Peggy, facing the doctor with the meanest glare you could manage.

"Hey! You're do-doing too much! You're not even letting her speak." Your stutter was back again, but you couldn't care at this moment, you needed to do this. You knew that you didn't pose much of a threat, with your body trembling and the stutter in your voice, but seeing Peggy like this reminded you and your boss. And how you wished that someone, anyone, would intervene just once.

"And who are you supposed to be?" Doctor Higgins looks at you up and down with an irritated scowl.

"I-I'm a reporter from the—"

"Ah, you're her." He spits out the last word like it was venom. Your eyebrows rose at that, but you put it in the back of your mind for now.

"Whoever I-I am doesn't matter. What matters is that you're harassing Miss Peggy, and I won't stand by anymore." You feel Peggy nervously shake behind you. You know the feeling quite well. You push on forward. "You need to apologize to her right now!"

He snorts at that. "Oh yeah? And what exactly are you going to do about it, hmm?" He pokes you hard on the shoulder, sending you stumbling backward into Peggy.

"A shitty little reporter from a shitty little agency. Are you going to write a hit piece on me? Dig up some dirt? Hah!" He threw his head back in laughter. "Do you know who I am or what this place is? Do you really think that someone like you could do any kind of damage to me?"

He grabs you by the collar, pulling you up by his bony fingers. For such a feeble-looking old man, he had quite the strength in him to be grabbing you like this.

"Stop! "Peggy runs over to grab at his arms. "Please! Just leave her alone. She has nothing to do with this."

Doctor Higgins shoved her out of the way, one hand still holding on to your collar. "Fuck off, this is the problem with you women, always thinking you can get away with whatever you want if you just bat your eyelashes or put on a sweet voice." He snarls, cruelty evident in his whole being, and a sick, twisted smile worms its way to his face.

"I think a lesson is in order. Make sure that you both know your place. Show you how things work around here."

His arm rises up, and you brace yourself for the oncoming pain.

"And what do you think you're doing?" A new voice enters the fray. The entire hallway went silent. Doctor Higgins's arm was still up in the air, and his fist was still holding up the collar of your shirt. Peggy was frozen beside him, hands clutching his coat. No one spoke up to answer the question.

A large shadow cast over the petrified face of Doctor Higgins; you lean your head back to look behind you. Finding yourself looking up at a stone-faced Doctor Gideon. He gives you a passing look-over before setting his gaze back on Doctor Higgins.

"Are you going to explain what is happening here, Doctor Higgins?" Doctor Gideon asked like he was asking about what the weather was like. Calm, cool, and collected, not a hint of anger in his voice. His body language, on the other hand, told an entirely different tale. Hands flexing in fists and out again at his sides, jaw locked and set on his face, and eyes piercing through the good Doctor Higgins.

You feel Doctor Higgins's hand trembling that was still holding you hostage, sweat beading down his gnarled face. You take this opportunity to shove him away from you. He lets go of you easily enough, tumbling backward, almost tripping on himself. You dust off your shirt, a bit annoyed that he wrinkled your work shirt so much.

You hear a pleased grunt behind you as Doctor Gideon places his hands on your shoulders. Rubbing them up and down your arms in a soothing manner, though you were unsure of who he was trying to soothe here. You or himself.

You settle in closer to Doctor Gideon, enjoying the feeling of his presence and touch. You were so needy after only being away for a short bit. While you were busy cozying up to Doctor Gideon, Doctor Higgins finally was able to find his voice again.

"Director... please let me explain this unsightly incident you stumble across." Doctor Higgins straightens out his coat as he points to Peggy. "You see, this… nurse over here completely messed up my schedule. Forgetting to jot down an important meeting with one of our shareholders."

Doctor Higgins's voice gradually gets back to his previous loud and angry tone as he continues to place the blame on Peggy. Peggy just stood there shaking, her body hunched in cowering in fear, too afraid to speak back.

"You must understand right, Director. It was one missed meeting, but you know how haughty our shareholders can be. She might have just cost us millions from her mistake!" Doctor Higgins steps closer to Doctor Gideon (and to you). Hands clasped in front of him as he pleaded his case. "I will apologize to the reporter here for letting my emotions get the best of me when she unjustifiably intervened earlier."

You were about to curse him out, but a large hand covered your mouth before you could. Doctor Gideon pulled you back closer to him, your back to his waist mostly now. You settle in a bit begrudgingly, eyes narrowing back on the confused face of Doctor Higgins.

"Is that so?” Doctor Gideon hums, fingers rhythmically tapping on your shoulder. You feel him take in a deep breath. It takes a while before he speaks again, letting the silence linger for an uncomfortable amount of time.

“You know what's funny?" Doctor Gideon laughed softly. You felt the vibration from his laughter through the hand on your face. "This...this is really funny, because I distinctly remember that Nurse Peggy over here was out for the last week. So, by that logic it couldn’t have been her who did your scheduling, now could it?”

 His tone was light and playful but by the reaction on Doctor Higgins's face… The slow realization of his major fuck-up, the smiling turning into a frown and the light in his eyes fading away…

"O-Oh? Ah! I…think I remember now, too." Doctor Higgins coughed out a fake laugh, nervously wringing his greasy hands together. "Well, I guess it must have been another nurse or someone else who messed up my schedule then."

Bastard was still trying the pin on someone else.

"Thank you for reminding me of that... fact, Director! That is why you're the director around here, always knowing... about everything, ahaha..." Doctor Higgins began slowly backing up. "Ah, would you look at the time too. It is rather late, so why don't I just send the good nurse here off, and I'll be going home too. Can't have people working overtime when they're not supposed to!"

Doctor Gideon waves him off with a grin. "Of course, of course. Just make sure to apologize to Nurse Peggy here before you leave and the reporter, if you would kindly. And expect to be added to a meeting later this week. So, make sure that you check your own schedule this time, ok?"

Doctor Higgins's face immediately soured at the idea of apologizing to Peggy. He begrudgingly looked over to you and Peggy, a grimace on his face as he quietly murmured the apologies.

"I am sooooo sorry for….” It takes a bit for him to figure out what he’s sorry for.

“Forgetting that you were out last week and for scaring your delicate little self, Miss Reporter. And that was it. What a shit apology.

Peggy and you gave each other a look before Peggy gave him a quiet "Thanks."

Doctor Higgins thought that was enough, gave one last nod to Doctor Gideon, and skedaddled out of the hallway like his ass was on fire.

Peggy was the next one to speak. "Thank you for helping me there, Director. Would it be alright if I leave now too?" Peggy bowed to the man deeply, hands clasped in front of her tightly.

Doctor Gideon waves her off next. “Not a problem for me at all, dear, and of course you’re excused.”

Peggy quickly leaves the hallway, only sparing you one last look before disappearing around the corner. Leaving you alone with the good Doctor Gideon once more, whose hand was still on your mouth.

You could have just told him to let go, but a side of you wanted to do something more devious. Without a second thought, you let your tongue slide out and lick the palm that was holding you captive. Doctor Gideon's body gave a jolt, surprised at the sudden attack, but he didn't let you go, only holding on to you tighter in fact.

Your eyes narrowed down at the offending hand, finally noticing how pale the doctor was. 'Does he have eczema or something?' You pondered quietly, observing the cracks and unnatural texture on his hand.

"Are you going to behave now?" Doctor Gideon taps your cheek with his free hand, amusement evident in his voice.

You respond in kind with another long lick to his palm. He snorted at that, pinching your cheek with his fingers and then letting you go. Only to turn you right back around to face him.

"You've gotten quite bold since we last saw each other, hmm? Did the good nurse rub off on you?"

You blink up at him in a fake-innocent way. "I haven't the slightest idea of what you could mean."

Doctor Gideon tilts his head at you, quietly studying you for a reaction or something… His hand snakes its way around your waist as he smiles softly. Seemingly finding what he was looking for.

"Well, I think you had enough fun on this tour. Why don't we go back to my office and finish our interview?"

Butterflies suddenly swarmed your stomach. You knew what he actually meant by that. Was it against ethical codes to be fucking around with the person you're interviewing? Probably, but who's going to know anywhere? This day started out crazy. It should end the same way.

You cling on to his side, letting him guide you back to the director's office, because God knows you still can't navigate this maze of a place without a map or directions. With Doctor Gideon as your tour guide this time, everyone made way for him rather quickly, doctors and nurses bowing their heads in respect as he walked by. Then picking their heads back up as he walked past to stare holes into the back of your head.

You would be the fuel of the office's gossip for weeks now.

You two made it back to the office, Doctor Gideon letting go of your side as he opens the door for you to step in first. It was the same as you left it, your laptop and belongings still on the couch. You hear the soft click of the door locking behind you. Your heart was hammering in your chest, beating louder with each step the doctor took inside the room.

You turn around to face him. He was standing a couple of feet away from you. A soft smile on his face as he spoke, "Come here, little dove." His arms stretch out wide, like he was asking for a hug, but with this stance it just made him seem all the bigger. Like a predator waiting to entrap its prey in its grasp.

You swallow dryly, stepping close, slowly closing the gap bit by bit, carefully eyeing him the whole way, palms sweating at your side as you try your best not to seem too nervous. Doctor Gideon keeps still as a statue, though, staying in the same pose, only his eyes moving to follow your movements, like watching a frightened doe come crawling closer and closer. Until finally, you were standing just inches away from him, his arms came down to your shoulders first.

"There now, you take instructions very well, don't you?" He chuckles. You feel his hands move down your body, squeezing at every bit until they reach at your hips. "What a delightful body you have." He purrs, fingers finding their way under your shirt, and you squirm at the feeling. "Very wonderful indeed, perfect in all the right ways…" Doctor Gideon continues on with his praise and touching. The praises made you squirm more than the touching did.

"I'm not that... I do-don't... mm!"

Suddenly Doctor Gideon's lips were upon you, deep and overwhelming. His hands paw at your body as his mouth peppers your lips and face with kisses, not giving you an inch to fight back with.

"M-mm!"

Any protest you may have was quickly stolen from you as soon as they left your lips. A wetness was then felt as Doctor Gideon ran his tongue on your bottom lips, relishing the way you trembled but still obeyed by opening your mouth up. His tongue was as thick and huge as the rest of him, completely dominating as soon as it entered. Any further attempt to stop him was futile, not that your body wanted to stop him anymore.

You did your best to try to follow along with his tongue, weakly fighting back with your own but mostly just letting your mouth go slack so he could explore your mouth all he wanted. When he let you free, your lips and chin were wet with saliva, your breath heavy in your chest, and somehow you were pushed against the back of the couch during that whole ordeal.

"Now, I don't want to hear any kind of self-deprecating remarks from you at all." Doctor Gideon squishes your face in one hand, making you look up at him.

"When I praise you, you need to just nod and smile, alright?" He answers his own question for you by shaking your head up and down.

"Good girl."

He leans back down to give your forehead a chaste kiss before letting you go. "Since we understand each other now, let's get back to the interview." He walks around the couch and sits down, taking your recorder and turning it on. He looks at you expectantly. "Come sit."

He really couldn't mean that he really wants to do the interview again, right? Doctor Gideon was a strange man who did strange things, but you obliged anyway, sitting down next to him like last time.

"No, no. I want you to sit here." He pats his thigh. You made a mumbling complaint but got up again, standing in front of him as he spread his thighs apart. Making a whole show out of it, pushing his lab coat out of the way, hands on his extravagant belt buckle, giving you a full view of his huge bulge.

"Come here, little dove." He grabs your hand and leads you over his left thigh, having you throw one leg over it, making you straddle the thigh. It was big enough for you to sit comfortably. You shift and turn until you find a spot you like best, which is halfway up his thigh, just close enough for your hands to rest on his upper thigh and for you two to face each other.

"Perfect, a perfect view for me." He muses quietly, eyes roaming around your form. You cross your arms across your chest, feeling a little bit embarrassed about the obvious ogling.

"So, what now...?" You asked, turning your gaze towards the active recorder and laptop still sitting on the table behind you.

Doctor Gideon answers your question by bouncing the leg you were sitting on, catching you by surprise. You jolt forward, placing your hands on his stomach as he continues on, trying out different pacing and power in the bounces.

"Lean back now. I want you to enjoy this." He gently pushes you back upright. You place your palms against the meat of his thighs as you find your balance against the bouncing, wiggling around until you find the spot. The spot where your jeans ride deliciously against your clothed core, your hips automatically start grinding, trying to find more friction. This reaction caused Doctor Gideon to let out a hearty laugh.

"Ah, there it is. I knew you would find it. Such a smart girl you are."

He slows down the bouncing to a more rhythmic pattern, watching your reactions closely to figure out what you respond to best.

“Now, for the interview part. I want you to answer my questions as best as you can, alright, dear?”

Wait, he was going to interview you like this? This was getting into territory you weren't that familiar with, but you still wanted to move on. If it for Doctor Gideon, you feel like you would do anything for him…

You nod, eyes closed, as you are still more focused on riding the pleasure his thigh was giving you.

"Hmm, first question: What is your name and where were you born?"

You take a few seconds to compose yourself to answer. Doctor Gideon just hums quietly, moving on to the next question. "When did you start working at Crane's Press?"

"Mm…I-I think a year ago now." Your voice was growing unsteadier with just each bounce. Your hands claw at his leather pants, trying to find a place to ground yourself on.

"And your boss's name?"

The pleasure kind of died down as your boss's face popped up in your mind. "It's Mr. Stork..."

You hear Doctor Gideon snort quietly at the annoyance in your answer. "Alright, alright. Hmm, what else should I ask?" His hands placed themselves on your thighs, fingertips dancing on your jeans as he thinks about his next question. You went back to focusing on finding the right angle again, wishing more than anything that you wore a skirt today or something other than jeans.

Doctor Gideon's hands start groping at your thighs, wrapping around the biggest part first and then slowly dragging them down and then back up again. With each path back up, growing closer and closer to your core. You look down at them anxiously, hips stuttering each time his hands squeeze your flesh.

"Are you enjoying this, being touched by a strange older man you just met today?" His voice grew low and gravelly.

"Hu-huh?" That question caught you off guard.

"I asked if you are enjoying grinding on the lap of someone you were supposed to interview, my little dove." His voice lowers more to a rumble, his fingers dancing along your waist. Slyly slipping underneath your shirt as you tremble from the contact.

"I-I um... o-oh!" You made an embarrassing noise as Doctor Gideon's hands traveled further up under your shirt. Cupping your breasts in both hands, massaging them gently. His hands move around covering every single inch, like he's measuring them or just like touching you that much.

"Keep moving."

You slowed down your grinding a bit ago, and Doctor Gideon wasn't happy about that. But it was hard to focus on grinding on the right spot while his hands were teasing your body. Just dancing around the area where you wanted him to touch the most.

You willed your body to move faster, not wanting to disappoint the doctor.

"Good girl, such a pretty face you're making right now, little dove."

His hands move up, pulling up your shirt along as well. You move your arms up to help with getting rid of the offending cloth as Doctor Gideon undoes the clasps on your bra, grabbing the fabric and pocketing it for later use. His hands were back on your chest, fingers twisting and pinching at your perky nubs. You arch your back at the sudden sensation. Your hips stutter in their movement, but you keep going, knowing that Doctor Gideon might stop if you stop.

Seeing you work so hard pleases Doctor Gideon, his finger flicking at your cute little nub, watching you whine and mew at the action. He leans down, practically hunching over to latch his mouth on your nipple. Tongue expertly flicking at your abused nipple while groping and rubbing at the other one with his hand.

Doctor Gideon worked his tongue in ways you didn't even know a tongue could move. You could feel a wet spot forming on your panties. You desperately wished that you could rip off your jeans at this point. Doctor Gideon pops off the nipple he was sucking with a soft groan, placing a series of kisses on your skin as he moves on to the next one over. Grazing his teeth over this one, just adding the lightest amount of pressure.

It was enough for your breath to hitch, though, electricity coursing through your body at the action. He held you by the back as your body started to move too much for his liking. Sucking harshly on your nipple and then soothing it with his tongue before using his teeth again. All in order again and again, until you were clawing at his shoulders to stop. Your hips stopped moving a while ago, and he didn't notice you needed more from him.

Your poor pussy was throbbing in your jeans, your panties soaked to the core. "Doctor..." you whine pathetically. "Can we please just move on now?" You grab on to his wrists, looking at him with your best pleading face. You pull his sleeves, and he lets go easily. Giving both your nipples just one last kiss before backing off. You grab his hand, and he quietly lets you handle him as you lead his hand down to the button of your pants. "Please take these off of me...?"

"Oh? Getting impatient now, aren't we?" He chuckles softly, stopping the bouncing of his knee. "Well, I don't mind. In fact I quite like it. Alright, stand up and turn around. I'll give you what you desire."

You quickly got off with eagerness in your step. Doctor Gideon leans back against the couch, spreading his thighs out and beckoning you to come in between them. You step in the space and turn your back towards him as commanded. Timidness was creeping back into your stomach as you felt his eyes rake over your body.

"Lift your leg back."

You did as told. Lifting your left leg back first, you feel him grab a hold of your ankle, his other hand sliding off your shoe and then your sock. Sliding them with ease, one after the other. You give your ankle a small squeeze before setting it back and doing the same with your other leg. It was oddly intimate, this action, weird… and intimate. He throws items off to the side, shoes landing with a soft 'thunk.'

"Spin back around for me, pretty dove."

You felt like a doll or toy with how he was moving and ordering you around. It wasn't a bad feeling, though. Maybe you're learning something new about yourself today. You turn to face him, meeting with his eyes as he praises you for being so obedient. He reaches his hands out, placing them on your hips, making a pleased noise as he unbuttons your jeans. Revealing the cute pair of panties you were wearing underneath.

He lowers the jeans down lower and lower, softly scraping his fingers against the skin of your thighs as he descends. You lift your legs out of the annoying fabric and kick them away from you. Glad to be rid of them. Now you were left only wearing your soaked panties. Doctor Gideon's hands place themselves back on your thighs, caressing the softness there. His eyes roam up and down your body.

"Perfect, absolutely perfect…" He murmurs to himself. You could still hear it, though. You try not to make a comment on it. His hands travel up to the band of your panties, then to the part you wanted him to touch the most. Dragging his fingers down over your clothed core, sliding them back and forth on the wet fabric. He uses his other hand to pull over the panties to the side, revealing your wetness out in the open to him.

You shiver as the cold air of the office hits you. You shiver even more when Doctor Gideon leans in closer, touching his knuckles now to your core. Bumping it against your slightly swollen clit gently, teasing it. Then using his fingers to slide in between your folds, coating them in your slick, as his thumb presses down on your clit.

A moan quickly came from your lips. You were already wet from the grinding from before. Now with his hands directly on you, it felt like fire on your skin. He was so gentle with his touch too, too gentle. You needed him to be rougher.

"Doc-doctor, please..." You whimper softly as his thumbs swipe up and down on your clit at an agonizingly slow pace. His index and middle finger are still just stroking in between your folds, not even trying to go in. You wanted more but you felt like if you tried to move your body or did anything, that would be a wrong move. You needed his command.

"What is it, dear? Use your words now." You could hear the smirk in his voice as he spoke.

"Want more…please." You begged, shifting your legs apart more, to show him that you really needed it. Doctor Gideon tilts his head, looking at your dripping cunt first, then up at you. Studying your flushed face and heavy breathing. While still looking at you, his thumbs picked up the pace, now rubbing little circles on your clit, as his index finger slowly start teasing it way in.

More loud moans come out of you. Your hands fly to cover the obscene noises out of embarrassment. You hear a grumble before Doctor Gideon pulls you forward, making you fall into his lap. You yelp in surprise, opening your mouth to voice your shock only to let out another yelp as you feel a smack on your ass.

"Don't hide yourself from me again, little dove." He scolded, rubbing the sore spot on your ass with the palm of his hand. "If you do that again, I have enough tools at my disposal to force you to stop." He ends his threat with a sweet kiss to your forehead. His hand lowering back down to your cunt, resuming his earlier ministrations without a care.

You quietly nod, not trusting your own voice to speak coherently right now. You shift your position on his lap to a more comfortable place, resting your head on the Doctor's shoulder, gripping on to his lab coat for stability. His index finger starts teasing the outside of your hole slowly, just barely dipping in and out. But even with this teasing, your body could feel just how thick his digit was.

Doctor Gideon places another soft kiss on your hairline, his soft voice reaching your ears. "Don't be so scared, little dove. I'll take care of you." His finger goes deeper in, and your body jolts from the stretch. You take a couple of breaths in and will your body to relax, earning you praise from the good doctor. With you just basically straddling him, your hips start to move in tandem with his finger once you get more comfortable.

Doctor Gideon kept on with the sweet talk and praises, his other hand petting your hair in a soothing motion. Adding in a second finger in quick succession, your hands grip on tighter on the lab coat as two of his thick digits almost felt like they were already filling you up to the brim. Doctor Gideon then began to curl up his fingers, trying to find that sweet spot, listening to how your voice changes in pitch and in breathing.

"A-Ah! Doc-Doctor!"

There it was. Doctor Gideon found the spot, and he wasn't going to let you off easy. His fingers thrust in and out of your wet cunt with easy precision, always hitting that one spot that makes your eyes see stars. Your whole body was trembling. The pleasure was amounting to a breaking point. Warbled moans and broken whimpers filled the office's air.

"That's it, little dove. Let everything go, just follow your instinct and let your body become undone." Doctor Gideon cooes, enjoying the sight of drool pooling out of the corner of your mouth. You let go as he commanded, your body shaking in pleasure as your orgasm reached its peak. Your eyes squeezing shut as you scream out his name. His fingers never stopped their work, though, to let you fully enjoy everything you were experiencing.

Only when your body slumped forward and tears began falling from your eyes did his fingers stop, pulling themselves out of your cunt. All drenched in your slick, Doctor Gideon holds them up to the light, watching the slick slowly dribble down on to his chest. After getting a good look, he pops his fingers in his mouth, noisily slurping them clean right next to your ear.

Instead of being embarrassed by such a scene and noise, it was turning you on. You push your hands on the doctor's chest, pushing yourself back upright. Your hands slowly drag down to his belt. Everything still felt too fuzzy for you to work properly. So you just resorted to tugging at his belt, hoping that he would do the rest.

"Eager now, aren't we?" He lets out a soft sigh, chuckling at your whining.

"I didn't think you'd be ready for this so soon, my dove. But a good doctor won't leave his patient unsatisfied." He scoots back further against the couch, parting his thighs away, and gets to work on his belt. In smooth and effortless motions, he quickly gets the belt off with no issues, pushing his leather trousers down just enough for you to see the dark gray hairs right below his navel.

"Would you like to do the rest?" He grabs your wrists and places your hands on his clothed bulge, a wry smile on his lips as you finally start to realize what you were getting yourself into. Or what was going to get into you. Your hands clumsily tugged down the boxers, pulling them down and down until your prize was set free.

It was big, bigger than you thought, and bigger than anything you had ever seen. You needed both hands to curl around it. Even then it was still heavy in both hands. Thick and heavy, pulsing in your hands, the head dripping precum, you felt a mixture of fear and arousal as you played with it. Letting the precum drip into your palms as you stroke the member up and down, feeling all the ridges and odd smoothness of the skin.

A low, pleased moan coming from the doctor spurs you on ever more to go further. Feeling bold, you shimmer yourself down off the couch onto your knees. Doctor Gideon's cock was now directly in front of you. It looked even more massive at this angle. You look up at the doctor to find him giving you a wolfish grin. He spreads out his legs, grabbing his cock and angling it towards you.

"Getting on your knees without me even telling you to? Such a smart girl you are. Now come and show me what you're capable of…" Doctor Gideon purrs, poking the head of his cock against your cheek. You feel the warm precum smearing against your cheek and the side of your lips. Your tongue swiped out to collect a sample. The taste was oddly metallic in a way, salty and metallic. You place one hand near the head and one underneath to hold it up as you lean down, placing your lips on the tip.

You started off slow by flattening your tongue against the tip, collecting all the leaking fluid there first. Softly stroking with your hands to wind yourself up to take the tip in. You weren't an expert in this field, but you tried your best to do what you thought Doctor Gideon would like. There was no way you could deep throat a monster like this, so you settled for taking as much as you could in, shoving it in your cheek to not choke.

"Use your tongue too, darling." Doctor Gideon groans, his palm coming down to push your hair out of your eyes. You hum, acknowledging his order. You bob your head up and down on his cock, trying to work your tongue at the same time. It was harder than you thought with his cock stretching your mouth out so much. Drool was already spilling on your chin. Doctor Gideon seems to not mind your inexperience so much, though, with his groaning and the way his thighs were tensing around you.

You could tell he was getting close so you picked up the pace, forcing as much as you could down your throat. You barely got about halfway before your body was giving up. You used your hands to cover what you couldn't with your mouth.

"Hah… look at me, please, darling." Doctor Gideon's nails were digging into the couch. It was taking every ounce of his self-control not to just force your head fully down on his cock right now. But watching you struggle so cutely with your own will to take as much of him as you can was starting to get to him. As you lift your head up to look at him with teary eyes, face flushed, and mouth full of his cock, Doctor Gideon was sent over the edge.

Spilling it all into your mouth, or as much as you could handle before you start choking on the load. You pulled back to stop yourself from actually choking, his cum now staining most of your face and dripping down on your body. You tried to wipe it away with your arms but just ended up getting your body even stickier.

As you were looking for something to wipe yourself clean with, you were suddenly pulled up and back onto Doctor Gideon's lap. His cock was already back to full mast, slipping in between your folds. The tip just begging to be let in. Your body shivers in anticipation at the thought of taking in all of him. You brace yourself, gripping on to his lab coat and taking in a deep breath.

"Forgive me for the sudden action, little dove. I wasn't planning on taking things so far on the first day. If I can be honest with you, you are more enticing and divine than I was expecting. It's… I'm not as composed as I would like to be. I do hope you can forgive me for all this."

He was saying all that like this was a normal situation and not you being halfway naked and hovering over his cock right now. You weren't sure what to say back. You weren't expecting this outcome to happen either. You never thought you, of all people would ever find yourself in something like this… But it was too late to turn back. You wanted this. You needed this.

You lower yourself down on his cock, the bulbous head starting to stretch you out. You hiss at the pain, digging your nails in his coat. You only got pass the tip before giving up. Your thighs were shaking, and your hips wanted to jerk away from the object of pain. Doctor Gideon shushes your cries with soft praises.

"It's alright... it's alright, you did so well. I'll help you finish."

He pushes your head down on his chest, letting you get comfortable. One hand rubbing up and down on your back soothingly as his other hand goes down to rub circles on your clit as he lowers you down onto his cock. You whimper as you are slowly being filled by his cock, your walls already clenching down instinctively around him.

"That's it, little dove. You're taking me so, so well." Doctor Gideon rasps, his thumb on your clit moving faster as he pushes you down faster. You hiss out in a mixture of pain and pleasure as you finally bottom out.

"Breathe for me, dove." Doctor Gideon commanded, but also sounding out of breath himself. You tried to breathe as deeply as you could, feeling his cock so deep inside you with every breath you took. You close your eyes and focus on your breathing, trying to get used to the feeling of having a thick cock inside.

Your breathing soon turns into moans and pants as Doctor Gideon starts moving, slow and even thrusts. It was almost like he was bouncing you on his lap again, but this time on his cock. Every bounce felt new to you with the way his cock was stretching you out and filling you to the brim. You couldn't move away even if you wanted to now, as both his arms were now hugging and holding you tight.

You were practically just a doll or a piece of meat in his grasp. You could feel all the veins and ridges with every thrust. You could only hear your voice mixed in with his grunting and own moans of pleasure. There was nothing else to do but just be fucked and revel in the pleasure Doctor Gideon was giving you.

"Doc—Doctor! Doctor, doctor, doctor!" You wanted to say his name, but only the doctor came out. Your voice going higher and higher in pitch with time passing, you needed to ground yourself, but your hands were stuck at your side with him pinning you against him like this. The only option was to bite down on something, and the closest thing to you was Doctor Gideon.

You bit down hard on the crook of his neck, earning yourself a delicious snarl from the doctor.

"Yes, bite down, dear. Mark me, I belong to you!" Doctor Gideon groans, tilting his head backward to give you more room to bite in.

The erotic sound of skin against skin, the leather couch squeaking beneath you two, and the air being filled with moans—each thrust was leading you closer and closer to ruin. You bit down harder as the pleasure was building up more and more. Words failed you now. Only pathetic mewls and drool came out of your mouth. Doctor Gideon thrusts harder as you bite down, drawing out a long groan from his throat.

He holds you down on his cock as one arm slips away from the hold on you as Doctor Gideon leans back, grabbing your fucked-out face in his hand. Replacing his neck with his fingers to bite on as he shoves them into your awaiting mouth. You bite down eagerly, tongue running over the rings, tasting the metallic tang on your tongue.

He looks down to the place where you two are connected, placing his palm on your navel. "You feel this? Feel how we connect so well? You were made for me, and I was made for you." He rolls his hips forward, stirring your insides in the best way. His thumb dips down to swipe at your already oversensitive clit. His fingers curling in your mouth as he picked up the pace and power.

"Finish with me, dear. Please-o-oh-please my dove." His voice was getting strained, muttering your name over and over again as he was getting closer. You weren't that far off either, feeling the tightness in your stomach and your vision going white. Your back arched as best as it could in this position as garbled moans came around his fingers and you came around his cock.

Feeling your pussy clenched around him was the last thing that pushed Doctor Gideon over the edge, spilling himself all inside you. Huffing and growling as he came, his chest heaving up and down from all the energy spent. You held on tight as your body took on as much as it could, body still spasming from the orgasm. Doctor Gideon takes his fingers out of your mouth, gently pushing your head to rest against his shoulder as he rubs your back.

You expected him to also help you off his cock and clean up, but nothing. You were just cock-warming him now, and it was getting a bit uncomfortable as the adrenaline was wearing off. You made a move to get off yourself but were quickly shushed by the Doctor. You let out a whine, complaining that it was getting uncomfortable, but Doctor Gideon was having none of it.

"There, there, little dove. I don't want this moment to end just yet, but I'll take care of you. Don't worry your pretty head about it."

He rustles around in his coat pocket and pulls something out. You hear the cap of something being popped off, but as soon as you see what it is, Doctor Gideon already plunges the needle into your neck. Your eyelids instantly become heavy, and your mind drifts off into peaceful slumber.

"Rest now… we have much to discuss when you're awake…"