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For all your queer fantasy needs and more! I write fanfic for various fandoms, but my true passion is original, queer stories with a fantasy, scifi, or supernatural twist.
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Public post
Title: Settling In
Universe: TF, The Prime’s Consorts, Consortium AU
Characters: Sideswipe, Sunstreaker
Rated: K+
Description: Sideswipe gets his first look at the room suite he and Sunstreaker now share.

Sideswipe isn’t sure what has him more excited.

The recent merge with his twin, the way Sunstreaker had escorted him here with their hands intertwined, or the massive manor that his brother now calls home. They’re warm and comfortable here, safe behind the walls of the Prime residence, with guaranteed meals, guaranteed medical care, and a roof over their heads.

“This place is ridiculous,” Sideswipe says. He’s lost track of the many hallways, the priceless works of art, the servants going about their business with nary a whiff of stress. “How the frag do you find your way around here?”

Sunstreaker chuckles -- chuckles! -- and says, “You get used to it.” He pauses in front of a door and puts pulls Sideswipe’s hand to the scanner. “This is our room.”

“Our?” Sideswipe echoes, mouth agape.

Sunstreaker winks at him – winks – and presses Sideswipe’s hand against the scanning plate. It beeps cheerily and the door slides open.

“Yep. Ours,” Sunstreaker says and tugs him inside.

Sideswipe stumbles along, shocked and amazed. The first thing he sees is the massive window on the opposite side, letting in streams of external light. They all filter through a dozen hanging strands of reflective material. Little rainbows spin and dance in the air.

Sideswipe counts four doors from where he’s standing, and the main room itself is larger than the entire apartment he and Sunstreaker shared in Tarn.

“Optimus made sure my quarters were big enough for you to join me,” Sunstreaker says, squeezing Sideswipe’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “Not that I knew about it. He can be sneaky sometimes.”

“Sneaky,” Sideswipe repeats.

“In a good way,” Sunstreaker reassures him. He gestures to each door in turn. “That’s our washrack, that’s my studio, that’s my room, and that’s your room.”

Sideswipe works his jaw a few times. “We don’t share?”

“I mean, we can. The berths are big enough.” Sunstreaker’s field nudges up against his, warm and affectionate. “But you know we fight a lot less when we have some space for ourselves, too.”

Sideswipe chuckles. “How would I know that? It’s not like we’ve ever had personal space.” His head spins. It’s more than a little unbelievable.

Sunstreaker squeezes his hand. “Go take a look around. I’m going to get some supplies.” He looks Sideswipe up and down, wrinkling his nose. “No offense, but you look terrible.”

“Gee thanks.”

Sunstreaker steals a kiss, and leaves Sideswipe to poke around their quarters. It’s tastefully furnished, a bit impersonal in some places, but Sideswipe can see where Sunstreaker has put his own touches.

Sideswipe has no idea what to do with so much space. He doesn’t go near the window. His armor twitches just thinking about it. Any one with a sniper rifle could see right into the apartment. It’s open and bright and clean and--

Sideswipe peeks into the washrack, and it’s more than big enough to accommodate him and Sunstreaker at the same time, with room to spare. Special washes and scrubbing brushes line one wall, and Sideswipe would bet all the creds in his pocket the tank never runs out of cleanser.

Sunstreaker’s studio -- which used to be a corner of their shared apartment cluttered with paints and plates of transteel -- is now a space even brighter than the main room. There’s a skylight with a retractable shade, massive shelving with labeled rows of paints and variously sized transteel plating. He can’t see anything Sunstreaker has finished, but Sideswipe knows his brother.

He won’t share his projects until he’s absolutely sure they’re perfect.

Sunstreaker’s room is warm and inviting, and it smells like his brother’s fancy wax, with shelves packed to the brim with novelpads and decorative figurines. A small spray of crystals takes point of pride on the berthside table.

“Those are from Prowl,” Sunstreaker says from the doorway. “He spends a lot of time in the garden.”

“Prowl, huh?” Sideswipe says with a grin.

Sunstreaker shakes his head. “It’s not like that.” He’s got a tray, loaded down with energon and treats and coolant and other things Sideswipe can’t identify. He sets it down on the desk, nudging the console into onlining from its active state. “What do you think?”

Sideswipe sits on the berth, at once grateful that the shades in this room are drawn over the window. “It’s a lot.” He smiles at his twin and pats the berth. “I’ll get used to it.”

“Better than Tarn?” Sunstreaker asks as he perches next to him, their frames aligning at hip, thigh and shoulder.

Sideswipe tilts over, resting his head on Sunstreaker’s shoulder, and threading their hands together. “Anywhere with you is better.”

Sunstreaker snorts. “Sap.”

“Yeah, but you love me anyway.” Sideswipe manages a smile.

This place is huge and unsettling and unreal, but he’s got Sunstreaker and well, he supposes he can get used to the rest.

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Public post

Despicable Me
Chapter Three

"There's a lot of good you can do."

Megatron onlines slowly, carefully, like coming awake in a lover's arms, with all the warmth of two frames in a berth, and the lazy satisfaction of having spent the recharge with company. It's a fleeting sensation, because his berth is empty and cold, and the closest thing he has to a lover, is the ghostly image of Optimus looking at him.

"Leave me in peace," Megatron groans as he slings an arm over his optics.

"If you truly wanted me gone, I wouldn't be here," Optimus murmurs with lips that don't move, but his expression shifts, changes, into that patient understanding Megatron had always loathed.

Get angry, he'd wanted to scream at Orion. Patience is killing us!

Megatron sits up, and his room is different. Gone is the energon transfuser. Gone is the medical berth and equipment. The room is smaller, more like living quarters, though one bereft of decoration or personality. They've moved him while he was recharging.

As he thought. A sedative. Pathetic Autobots.

Megatron swings his legs over the side of the berth and stands, expecting a wave of fatigue, of dizziness, for his knees to wobble.

He's surprisingly steady on his feet. His chronometer tells him he's only been out for a standard recharge cycle, but he feels better. Rested. Healthier than he has in a long time. Certainly stable enough to cross the floor to the window, pressing the button to lift the blinds.

Pale light spills into the room.

He's a few floors higher than he was before, and he looks out on a city in the middle of reconstruction, cranes filling the skyline and piles of gathered rubble forming mountains of detritus. There aren't any Autobot flags or symbols in immediate sight, but there are mechs roaming the streets below, too far for Megatron to make out brands or markings. Flitting shapes in the sky seem to be Eradicons or perhaps some of Starscream's kin returned home.

It's been a long time since Unicron was sealed away. Much has changed.

"It's peaceful. I don't think Cybertron has seen peace in a long, long time," Optimus says, and Megatron's armor tingles as his ghost, his apparition, his hallucination, stands alongside Megatron without tangible form, but present nonetheless.

Megatron cuts him a glance. "Why aren't you resting? You got what you wanted. The war is over. I'm defeated. You don't have any unfinished business."

"Don't I?" Optimus' gaze is searing.

"Even in death, you taunt me with riddles," Megatron growls. He turns away from the window, and a view of freedom which will probably be his last.

This isn't a prison cell, but he's certain if he tries the door, it will be locked.

There's a datapad on the desk. Open access. A waiting light blinks at him. Megatron picks it up, swipes through the table of contents.

Well. Isn't this handy? The Autobots have left him a datapad with the rules and regulations of their new Cybertron. It's an idiot's guide to all the things he can and cannot do, not to mention a visitor's pamphlet of all the businesses, places of residence, and is that a job listing? Surely they aren't serious.

"What's the meaning of this?" Megatron wonders as he pages through a few of the sections, skimming them as best he can. "What use does a prisoner have for this nonsense? Is it meant to be torture?"

Optimus chuckles, and he's there, peering over Megatron's shoulder. "It's meant to inform, Megatronus. You're not going to prison."

Megatron ignores him. He sets the datapad aside and slides into the seat, powering on the console. He doesn't have to break through security this time. It logs on for him, and he maneuvers back to the citizen database he'd found before.

He types in his name, ready to be outraged.

Megatron: Status Pending.

Still pending. Not awaiting imprisonment. Not awaiting judgment. Not defected. Status pending. What kind of frag game are these Autobots playing?

"It's not a game, Megatronus. It's an opportunity," Optimus murmurs.

"Don't call me that," Megatron hisses, cutting his optics at Optimus, who doesn't flinch at the anger or the ruffle of Megatron's armor.

He's not to be imprisoned. Well, that changes things. It changes a lot.

What's he supposed to do now? What is his purpose? To apply for one of these open positions? Is he to work in construction? Is he to be one of these artifact seekers? Is he supposed to bow his head and play the obedient defectee? Or is he supposed to be grateful for their help and return to the wilds, if he has any hope at freedom?

"You are a leader. Your mechs need you, even in a post-war world. Why not consider that?"

Megatron frowns. He raps his fingers on the desk, talons making noise that carries little further than his own audials.

His mechs? They are missing or defected. He has no Decepticons. He has no one to lead. He's lost the war, he's lost his army. He has nothing.

"A true leader sees his subordinates as partners, not pawns. Your first loyalty is to them," Optimus says.

Megatron slants him a glare, his lip curling with derision. "Speak plainly for once. Tell me what to do."

"When have you ever wanted that?"

"I'm asking for it now, aren't I?" Megatron demands, but when he looks again, Optimus is gone. If he was ever there at all.


Megatron rubs at his forehead and glares at the computer monitor. The cursor blinks at him. There are a number of names of missing mechs. Loyal mechs. Mechs, for certain, who do not deserve their fate.

He types again.

Soundwave: Unable to confirm.

He clicks on Soundwave's designation, hoping for more information. There's a brief report, taken by Private Smokescreen and assisted by Ratchet, explaining that they used the space bridge to dispose of Soundwave. They don't know where he went, or whether he's alive or dead. No attempt has been made to retrieve him.

And what of Shockwave?

Megatron navigates to his science officer's report page. Missing, Presumed Dead. What does that even mean?

He was last seen by Predaking and his predacons, but has since disappeared. It's largely assumed he's still on the planet somewhere, likely in one of his many hidden laboratories. Or perhaps they have been lying and they know precisely where Shockwave is.

There's too little information here.

And what of his regiments out in the larger universe? Have the Autobots made any attempt to call them home or have they ignored the outer Decepticons in hopes they'll never try and return to Cybertron? Have they written the other Decepticon forces out of the planet's history?

No. Megatron cannot stand for this.

Someone has to fight for his mechs. It's quite clear Starscream isn't bothering to do it, with his defection so plainly listed in the database.

They may have lost the war, but the Autobots have no right to erase what the Decepticons were trying to accomplish or bar the Decepticons from the home they fought to keep. And while Megatron still lives, he refuses to let the planet return to the ways of the Senate.

There are still battles to fight. And Megatron has failed at a lot, but he’s always been good with his back to the wall, and the ring of the arena closing in around him.

He won’t fail his Decepticons in this.


Starscream doesn’t know how long he stands outside the small room where Ratchet has stowed Megatron, but he knows it’s much longer than seems appropriate. Whoever’s on monitor duty right now must be laughing their aft off, or marking it down on some report that Starscream is acting weird again.

He’s not afraid of Megatron.

He still hesitates to go into the room. It’s Ratchet’s fault, putting that idea into his head. Who knows what Megatron is in there, after all. Or what insanity lurks in Megatron’s spark. He’s died, and been revived, he’s had dark energon shoved into his spark, and slowly, laboriously filtered out again. He’s had Optimus, and Orion, and now neither.

Frankly, if he’s at all sane, Starscream feels he ought to be impressed.

Starscream cycles a ventilation, squares his shoulder, and pings the door. He waits for the count of three before he lets himself in. Megatron probably thinks of himself as in some kind of prison cell after all. The ping had been politeness.

“I don’t want visitors,” Megatron says as Starscream steps inside, but he’s not on the berth so he can’t know who’s come to call.

“I didn’t ask,” Starscream retorts. The door closes behind him, and a quick glance at the interior puts Megatron hunched at the desk, looking absurdly large by the small console.

He’s unarmed and still scarred from the last battle against Unicron. His armor looks healthier since they brought him here, and the taint of dark energon no longer clings to his field. There’s a brightness to his optics Starscream hasn’t seen in a long time.

“Aren’t you at all interested in what they decided?”

Megatron’s engine growls, but it’s a quiet sound of irritation, rather than one of immediate threat. “A decision they made without me, I noticed.”

“Yes. Autobots are cowardly that way.” Starscream folds his arms, keeping up a post near the doorway. He’s not afraid, he’s not, but he’s known Megatron for far too long. He’ll keep his distance until he’s sure of Megatron’s mental state. “But they also foolishly cling to their principles in a way that can be predictable.”

Megatron makes a noncommittal noise. His fingers go tap-tap-tap over the keyboard, the shifting of the screen reflected against his face.

“You’re not going to be executed or imprisoned,” Starscream continues, and locks his joints, lest he shift and show how much this quiet and contained Megatron unnerves him. “Congratulations. You’re free to go. Back to your hovel even.”

“I’m not leaving,” Megatron says. He’s yet to look up to acknowledge Starscream’s presence. He frowns at something on the screen.

Starscream narrows his optics. “Don’t tell me you intend to stay here? Defect? Become an Autobot?” He sneers. “Bow to Ultra Magnus and the rest?”

“I bow to no one.” Megatron’s optics slant toward him finally, and the anger flashes for a second before it’s gone again, buried behind a control Megatron hasn’t had in centuries. “Though you seem comfortable here. It must be all that practice in subservience.”

Anger ripples up and down Starscream’s backstrut. “You must be feeling better,” he grits out. “Right back into the insults I see.”

Megatron’s attention cuts back to the screen. “I’m not leaving,” he repeats, a single finger tapping an arrow key as he cycles through something. “Cybertron is not for the Autobots alone. There are things I need to do.”

Starscream’s tank churns. “I guess they’re right about you then. The only thing you can think of is to go back to war.” He feels disappointed. Betrayed. And he’s not sure why. It’s not like he expected better of Megatron.

“Idiot. I said nothing of war.” Megatron’s engine growls, his field cutting agitation through the room.

Starscream goes rigid. He straightens. “You owe me your spark,” he snaps. “I know better than to ask for an apology from you. But I’m not going to stand here and let you insult me because you need a punching bag and I’m nearby. Never again, Megatron.”

The tapping stops. Megatron rises from his chair, half-turning toward Starscream, still large and intimidating, even though his paint is blotchy, he’s unarmed, and the bits of Unicron’s possession stubbornly cling to his frame. There’s still danger in the dark red of his optics.

Starscream refuses to flinch. His wings cant upward. His defensive protocols lurch into awareness, rattling to life too slowly for his liking.

“I owe you nothing,” Megatron says in a slow, careful tone. He cocks his head. “I didn’t ask to be rescued.”

“Then how like me to do it anyway,” Starscream bites out.

“Indeed.” Megatron stares at him for a moment more before he reaches for the monitor and makes it swivel toward Starscream. “Get me a meeting with whatever foolish venture the Autobots have decided rules them.”

Starscream folds his arms over his cockpit, over his spark. “There are politer ways to ask for a favor.” He glances at the screen, curiosity stronger than all else. He recognizes it for what it is: the current database of all known Cybertronians. “Why?”

Megatron leans down just enough to tap the keyboard, scrolling down and highlighting a single name. “He’s not dead.”

Starscream dares take a step closer. He glances at the screen. Soundwave. Of course.

“How do you know?” Starscream asks, ignoring the other names in Megatron’s search. Though if Megatron has any better understanding of Shockwave’s location, Starscream might be willing to ask. “And why do you care?”

Megatron taps a nearby datapad, and it takes Starscream a moment to recognize which one it is. “I want to find him. I suspect I’ll need the permission of whoever is in charge around here. And I’ll need some technical expertise.”

“Shockwave’s not around,” Starscream says. He backsteps from Megatron, feeling hurt for reasons he can’t explain. “I doubt you’ll see any help from the Autobots.”

“Are you volunteering?”

Starscream sneers. “Perish the thought.” He can’t stop his wings from twitching, betraying his agitation. “I’ll tell them you want a meeting, but don’t count on them agreeing. If it were up to the council, you’d be in prison or dead. You should thank the universe Orion Pax’s affection for you extends beyond the grave.”

A shiver visibly ruffles Megatron’s armor. His optics narrow. “Do not speak that designation to me.”

“Why? Does it hurt?”

Another growl rises in Megatron’s engine, and Starscream knows he’s treading a line, but he doesn’t care. He’s done being cowed by Megatron.

“If you want my help, you’re going to have to ask for it,” Starscream hisses. “And you’re going to be nice about it.”

“You’ll do it because I told you. Why else are you still wearing my brand?” Megatron stares at him, orbital ridge arched, like he has the moral highground, and he’s always right, and Starscream can’t take it anymore.

“This badge doesn’t belong to you!” Starscream shrieks, anger flashing out of him in a hot broil. “The Decepticons aren’t yours! We aren’t yours!” His field snaps out, and his vents heave, but he can’t stop shouting.

“You’re the one who ruined us. You led us to defeat. We sought to be free and you bound us in chains because you couldn’t have what you wanted.” His hands curl into fists at his sides, talontips cutting into his palms. “You’re nothing to us now. Nothing! We don’t need you, and if your defeat hasn’t taught you a single thing, then you don’t deserve this chance either!”

He gasps for a cool breath, can’t seem to find it. His spark throbs, vents roaring, his words echoing around his audials. He feels like he’s flown a marathon, and he’s stalling mid-air, the ground rushing close, so close.

Megatron stares at him. His lips press together into a single firm line.

Starscream’s knees tremble, and he knows he has to leave. “You never deserved any of us,” he finishes, his voice slipping into the rasp he loathes so much.

He spins around, fingers trembling on the keypad. He slips out the door before it finishes opening, nearly clipping his wingtip. Even when it closes behind him, the emotions clog up his intake, and he can’t see straight. The world is a blur of color, of sound, and his knees give out on him when he rounds the corner.

Starscream gasps for a vent, his back hitting the wall. He doubles over, hands on his knees, squeezing his optics shut.

“Why do you insist on being stubborn?”

The familiar voice pours into his audials like relief. Starscream shakes his head, keeps his optics squeezed shut. “It’s in my nature,” he replies with a laugh that holds no humor.

A frame leans against the wall next to him, field reaching out with comfort. “I should have gone in with you.”

“I don’t need your protection.” Starscream’s optics slit open. He straightens, but only so he can tilt over against Ratchet’s shoulder. “But I will accept your comfort.”

“Nice to know I’m good for something,” Ratchet grunts. But he slides an arm around Starscream’s waist, his hand curving chastely over Starscream’s opposite hip. “So. It went that well.”

Starscream scrapes a hand down his face. “It would be easier if I could hate him.”

“He’s not leaving?”

“No.” Starscream scowls. “The fool thinks he’s important still. He wants to bargain with the council.”


“To find Soundwave. Or so he claims.”

“Again. Why?”

Starscream huffs an exasperated vent. “How should I know?” He turns his face, burying it in the jut of Ratchet’s shoulder, speaking against the dust-soaked white armor. “I’d call him mad, but he’s beyond that. Without Optimus to drive him, who knows what’s going through that twisted processor of his.”

Lips brush the top of his head. “You think he’s trying to rebuild an army? Soundwave was always the loyal one.”

“Wasn’t he.” It’s a statement, not a question. Starscream sneers. “I remember that all too well. And there are plenty of Decepticons who would flock to Megatron. A flock of fools who lust only for destruction because they know Megatron will give it to them.”

Ratchet squeezes his hip. “Well, aren’t you optimistic,” he drawls, and gives Starscream’s hip a pat. “Come on. Let’s get out of the hallway.”

“Good idea. You need a wash.” Starscream wrinkles his nose, wiping the road grit from his face. “Honestly, did no one ever teach you the importance of personal hygiene?”

Ratchet rolls his optics and snags Starscream’s hand, tugging him along. “Great. I hear it from the shiny race car in my medbay, and now I hear it from my partner. No wonder you and Knock Out get along so well.”

Starscream sniffs. “That’s because we have taste.”

“Knock Out would probably argue otherwise, since you picked me.”

Starscream barks a laugh and gives Ratchet a sly grin. “Knock Out doesn’t have any room to talk if the Autobot rumor mill is anything to believe.”

“Oh? Do share.”

They round a corner to the back entrance of Ratchet’s personal quarters, the ones he shares with Starscream, just a hop, skip, and jump from the medical bay.

“He and Bumblebee have been spending a lot of time together,” Starscream says as he flexes his fingers against Ratchet’s, savoring the warm push of Ratchet’s field against his.

Ratchet makes a thoughtful noise. “Is that so? Well, good for him. Bumblebee could do better, of course.”

“Better than a doctor?” Starscream huffs and gives Ratchet a pointed look. “Also, you’re dating a Decepticon, so I don’t want to hear it.”

“Fair enough. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to give Knock Out a talk.”

“Then I’m going to have a talk with Bumblebee.”

Ratchet tips his head, a curve of his lips suggesting amusement, and the banal conversation is enough to calm Starscream’s jangling nerves. “I’m perfectly okay with that.”

“Good. Because I wasn’t asking.”

Ratchet laughs and keys them into their shared quarters, leaving dusty prints in his wake. Where had he been? Out scavenging in the ruins again? It’s hard to believe sometimes that this mech who used to be wealthy without difficulty, who used to serve nobility and politicians and the Prime before Optimus, now understands the lengths poverty drives one to.

“Optimus would have approved,” Ratchet says, and his tone goes solemn, his face rippling with a grief time has yet to soothe.

He and Optimus had been so close. Starscream tries not to let jealousy seep into those memories, but it’s hard, when a single thought of Optimus can make Ratchet soft where nothing else can. Starscream knows he can’t match centuries of fighting side by side and supporting one another.

He’s damn sure going to try.

“I wish he could see this,” Ratchet adds.

“There are a lot of mechs who should be here and aren’t anymore,” Starscream says, struggling to keep his voice light and the jealousy out of it. He doesn’t quite succeed, judging by the look Ratchet gives him.

He changes the subject. “How long do you think before the Well sends out another wave of newsparks?”

“Too soon and not soon enough,” Ratchet says with a soft sigh. “We’re underpopulated, but we’re also short on resources, even with the mining we’re being allowed at Earth.”

And hadn’t that been an interesting negotiation? No progress had been made until Starscream left the room, on account of Agent Fowler refusing to acknowledge him. There is some bitter blood there.

What’s a little torture between enemies? Honestly.

Still. An agreement was had. In exchange for Cybertronian assistance on some technology and heavy-lifting, they’d be allowed to secretly mine without the government surrounding them with weaponry.

In the coming decades, it will be an agreement that benefits all. Provided their population continues to grow. And if more Decepticons come home, it’s inevitable.

“One step at a time,” Starscream says with a sigh. He pushes Ratchet toward their shared washracks, leaving streaks in the dust. “Like a shower. That’s the first step.”

“Fine, fine.”


“He is right, Megatronus.”

“Do not call me that,” Megatron hisses to the corner of his room. Brightly lit as it is, gleaming across polished red, blue, and silver armor.

Polished, as Optimus had so rarely been during the war. The Autobots had always struggled. Optimus had never been the gleaming triumph of a Prime like the history books. More polished than the last time he’d shown himself to Megatron, as though every time he vanishes, he reappears a little healthier, a little more radiant.

“Would you prefer Miner D-12?”

Megatron snarls. He hunches over the desk, hands forming fists, ignoring the ghost who won’t leave him be. “I would prefer if you’d leave me alone.”

“And yet, I’m still there. That suggests I’m exactly where you want me to be.”

Megatron presses his forehead to the desktop. He shutters his optics. His spark aches. “What do you want?”

“That is a question you should be asking yourself.” Orion – because this time he’s clearly Orion, smaller and kinder, open and comforting – hums gently, his voice warming. “You are conflicted, beloved. But then, you always were.”

“I don’t want to hear such things from a traitor,” Megatron snaps, glaring at the corner of the room.

He knows Orion isn’t really there. He knows his friend is a hallucination. He knows all of these things logically, because Optimus Prime is dead, and with him, Orion Pax. But logic doesn’t persist over the pang of longing in his spark. Or how much he longs for the ghost to be real.

“We both know I never asked for what was done to me,” Orion murmurs, his expression downcast, his optics dimming. “We could have worked together, Megatronus. It could have been you and I, leading the charge against oppression. But you were never very good about sharing the spotlight.”

Megatron growls. He grinds his denta, tastes spark on his glossa. He shoves away from the desk and his obsessive search of the Autobot database. He turns his back on the figment.

“Leave me be.”

“You never were good at hearing the truth either.” Orion sighs, and there is sadness in the sound. Megatron would have felt it, too, if Orion were real and not a hallucination.

Megatron blames the dark energon and Unicron’s possession. It’s infected him somehow. It’s altered his psyche. Or maybe he’s cursed and this is his punishment.

“What do you want, Megatronus?” Orion persists. “Why are you here? You can leave, Starscream has said as much. Why do you linger?”

Megatron shutters his optics and cycles a ventilation. His hands form fists at his side.

“There’s no war to fight. I’m already dead. You lost, Megatronus. What do you want?”

“Shut up!” Megatron snarls. He clutches at his head, his processor throbbing, his spark spinning faster and faster. He can’t seem to ventilate fast enough for the heat filling his lines. “Shut up!!”


It lingers. The room, at once, feels emptier.

Megatron sucks in a shuddery ventilation. He dares a glance over his shoulder. The corner is empty.

He should not feel so relieved.

He moves to the dispenser in his room and draws a serving of energon, washing a bitter taste out of his mouth. His fingers tremble, and Megatron glares at the visible sign of weakness. The echoes of Unicron’s taunts linger at the back of his processor. He runs through the list again.

Deactivated. Deceased. Offline. How many more ways can he define his Decepticons by what they are? Gone.

He can still save Soundwave, if his communications officer is even still sane. And then what? Build an army? Storm into the center of what the Autobots have managed to rebuild and raze it to the ground? Destroy Cybertron all over again? To what end? What would he rule but a land of ash and death? Hardly a worthy legacy. Who would even follow him into this madness?

Megatron drains the cube without tasting it. He slumps down into the thin berth they gave him. He looks at the emptiness of the room, his temporary quarters. Or so they intended. But Megatron won’t let them dictate his future. He will decide for himself. If they hadn’t wanted him here, they shouldn’t have saved his spark.

He crunches the empty cube in his fist. He watches the remains sparkle as they drop to the floor.

“What do you want?” Orion whispers. “What have you always wanted?”

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Despicable Me - Chapter Two

Posted for $3 tier
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Public post
Title: Torturer Wanted
Universe: IDW 2005, Pre-Canon
Characters: Tarn, Original Character
Rated: K+
Description: There’s an opening in the DJD, and Tarn reluctantly interviews a mech to take the spot.

Tarn eyes the mech sitting across from him, slouched in the chair as if to prove he is not intimidated, and glances over the dossier he’s compiled on this mech, this Pillager.

He is grateful for the mask which hides his sneer.

Pillager is clearly a newly assumed designation, a pathetic attempt to strike fear into the sparks of the Autobot enemy alone, for no Decepticon would be alarmed by a mere designation.


Unless said designation is on the roster of the Decepticon Justice Division.

Once more, Tarn angrily thinks of Tesarus, who had the audacity to blow himself up in a laboratory accident and create an opening on Tarn’s team. If there is anything that brings out the false followers, the stupidly hopeful, the mechs who think they are dangerous, it is an opening in the Decepticon Justice Division.

“So is this interview gonna get started anytime soon or…” Pillager rolls his neck and gives Tarn a grin, his sharpened denta polished to gleaming in the overhead lights.

Sharpened. Denta.

Those paltry modifications might make a low-ranked Autobot soldier quiver in the trenches, but they wouldn’t startle even the weakest Decepticon.

Tarn puts the datapad down and folds his fingers atop it. There is nothing the dossier can tell him about Pillager’s qualifications that he cannot divine on his own with this parody of an interview.

Next time, Tarn is going to recruit instead of opening up for applications no matter what that idiot Starscream screeches.

“What makes you believe you are qualified for a position on this team?”

Pillager kicks out a foot and grins -- arrogant, unafraid, foolish. “I mean, I got a good track record when it comes to tearing apart mechs. Got no problems with it either. Like to hear ‘em scream, you know.”

Tarn cycles a ventilation and keeps his field in check. “There are thousands of soldiers who are capable of that very thing. What makes you more qualified than any one of them?”

“I got a strong spark, which means I can be modded any way you want me to be,” Pillager says, and the rush of hunger in his field points to the reason he’d applied in the first place.

Everyone knows that when it comes to powerful weaponry, the DJD get their pick of the best toys.

Pillager straightens then, looks Tarn up and down, and says, “I’m bigger than you. That ought to count for something. I don’t need a cheap party trick to scare mechs.”

Tarn cycles two ventilations before he makes the mistake of killing the mech here and now for the simple crime of being an irritating moron.

“Thank you, Pillager,” he says, lifting the mech’s dossier and adding it to his stack of rejections. “That will be all.”

“So I got the position, right?” Pillager asks.

“We’ll let you know once I’ve conducted the rest of my interviews.” Tarn gestures toward the door, internally commanding the ruffled edges of his armor to smooth.

Pillager grins and leaps to his feet -- yes, he’s a large mech, but size does not make up for the rest of his appalling personality. “Sounds like I got the job.”

“Sure,” Tarn says and points to the door again. “Speak with Vos on your way out.”

“Yes, sir!” Pillager’s salute is both sloppy and uncoordinated.

He leaves.

Tarn sighs.

He hits the intercom. “Send in the next candidate, Vos,” he says, and nearly ends the comm before a devious thought smooths over some of his irritation. “And tell Helex he’s welcome to play with Pillager for a while if he’s bored.”

Tarn releases the intercom without waiting for confirmation, and glances at the next dossier.

Scissorsaw. Hmm.

Well at least this one’s designation is more creative than the last.

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Public post

Title: Learning Experience
Universe: Tethers
Characters: Rathi of the Cinders/Celeste Stiel
Rated: M
Enticements: Sexual Content, Cunnilingus, Frottage, Fluff
Description: There’s only one bed, and Celeste is rather sure Rathi planned it that way. As it turns out, however, Celeste is rather keen on being seduced.

“Oh dear,” says Rathi as Celeste unlocks and pushes open the door to their shared room for the evening. “It looks like there’s only one bed.”

Celeste staggers under the weight of Rathi draped along her side. “It’s my turn to sleep on the floor,” she points out as the door hits the wall behind it with a dull clatter. A wash of musty air greets them, along with the underlying, familiar scent of their belongings crouched in the corner.

Celeste stumbles into the room, kicking the door shut behind her. Rathi is no help whatsoever because she’s had twice as many mugs of ale compared to Celeste, and she’s been a snuggly lump against Celeste’s side all night.

“Nonsense,” Rathi says, cheerful and devilish, her hair wafting heat across Celeste’s cheek. She pats Celeste’s shoulder playfully. “We should just share.”

Celeste dumps her on the bed. She’d intended for it to be gentle, but overestimated at the last second, and down Rathi goes like a sack of inebriated potatoes. Oops.

“It really only fits one,” Celeste points out. She should be used to Rathi’s flirting by now, but it always feels like something genuine she wants to acknowledge, and it’s starting to hurt.

Rathi rights herself with the kind of flexibility Celeste envies and squirms until she’s comfortable on the narrow bed, her eyes glittering as she looks up at Celeste. “We could snuggle,” she offers.

Celeste crouches to remove her own boots, avoiding Rathi’s gaze. “How many drinks did you have?” she asks as she sets them aside, the soles thick with muck from their wade through the marsh.

“Not as much as you seem to think. I have a strong constitution.” Rathi’s still watching her, the weight of her stare turning the air in the room hot and humid. Everything’s always hotter with Rathi around. She can’t help it.

Celeste snorts. “You drank more than anyone at the table, even Sinoun, and that’s impressive,” she points out, nudging her boots further away. The drying peat reeks, and she’s about to open the window and flick out the mud to save her nose.

“Do you think I’d have to be drunk to want to lie with you?”

Celeste’s ears burn at the frank question. She doesn’t answer, choosing instead to dig through their haphazard pile of belongings. Rathi had been in such a hurry to get downstairs for food and drink, she’d just shoved their bags into a corner. It’ll take a moment for Celeste to find her bedroll.

At least she won’t be sleeping outside. She swears she always manages to find the rockiest patch of their chosen campsites.

“Seriously, Cel. You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” Rathi says, the bed creaking as she shifts, her voice more alert than before. “I can keep my hand to myself.”

Celeste unbuckles her armor and peels it off her aching body, letting it clatter into the pile of their belongings. She rolls her shoulders to ease the bruising press of wearing it for so long. Three months on the road and she still isn’t used to it.

“Do you need help with your boots?” Celeste asks as she unstraps her reinforced gloves and adds them to the pile.

The worst part of adventuring is having to remove your armor and then put it all back on the next day. It’s so darn time-consuming.

The bed gives a groan of displeasure as Rathi sits up, her eyes suddenly clear, and all trace of alcohol-induced sprawl gone. “I told you I’m not drunk,” she insists. She pats the bed beside her. “Sit. Let’s talk serious for a minute.”

“Why?” Celeste’s heart pounds in her throat. The room’s so tiny there’s only a few paces of space between them, but it suddenly feels insurmountable.

“Because there’s no reason for you to sleep on the floor,” Rathi says plainly, carefully, watching Celeste like she’s searching her face for something. “Unless I make you uncomfortable, in which case I’ll drop it, and next time, the floor is mine.”

Her face is aflame, and Celeste is immediately grateful for her dark complexion. “You don’t,” she says, and folds her arm across her chest, half-wishing she still had her armor on. “It’s just…”

“You don’t believe I find you absolutely charming?” Rathi asks. “Or stunningly gorgeous? Or that I’d happily drown you in pleasure if you let me?”

Celeste’s mouth goes dry. She tries to swallow and can’t seem to work up the saliva. She’s so hot, it’s amazing Rathi’s the one who’s actually on fire.

“Are you trying to tell me you’re being genuine or that I’m convenient?” Celeste asks, because that’s always been one of her worries. Rathi’s a flirt, in the same way Tempest is a flirt, but somehow, it’s harder to tell with Rathi. Celeste can’t even put a finger on why.

Rathi snorts and raises one crimson eyebrow. “If I wanted convenience, I’d tumble Tempest. She’s offered more than enough times.”

“But you don’t. Want Tempest I mean,” Celeste says, her tongue turning into tangles in her mouth. She swears she’s better at conversation than this, but something about Rathi tosses all her intelligent words out the window.

Rathi gives her a serious look, all traces of inebriation gone from her, as if she’d burned the alcohol right out of her blood. “Tempest is adorable and fun, and I’m glad to call her a friend. But the one I’m hoping to coax into a snuggle is you.”

Celeste’s hope fizzles like a campfire in snow. “Oh. A snuggle.”

“Only because it doesn’t seem like you want more, and I’d never go where I wasn’t wanted,” Rathi says, rolling her shoulders. She drags her hand through her hair, the tips briefly flicking to flame.

Celeste nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “W-what if you were?” she asks, dredging up a shaky confidence.

“Were what?” Rathi lifts her chin. “I’m going to need you to be clear, sweetheart.”

Oh, gods. The endearment shoots straight to Celeste’s belly, filling it with the warmth of soup on a winter’s day. Her palms are clammy, however, and her face is hot enough to glow.

“What if I do want you?” she asks.

Rathi grins and pats the bed next to her again. “Then we can always start with a kiss and see where that goes.” She says it so easily. Celeste envies her confidence.

Celeste, however, can’t bring herself to move. “I’m not… I haven’t…” She gnaws on her bottom lip. She’s twenty-seven. This is incredibly embarrassing to admit. “People don’t usually want me, Rathi.”

The bed creaks as Rathi stands, and Celeste startles because she’s suddenly close, all caramel skin and flickering hair and the scent of campfire that always clings to her. “That’s their loss then because I think you’re extraordinary.”

Rathi lifts her hand and reaches for Celeste, but she pauses as if she’s waiting for permission, before her warm hand cups Celeste’s cheek. Warmer, even, than the burn already in them. “May I kiss you?” she asks, barely louder than a murmur.

Celeste’s heart is pounding in her ears. “Please do,” she says, almost desperately. Rathi makes this so easy, by the gods. “I want you to.”

“Well then.” Rathi’s thumb is a gentle pressure on the rise of her cheekbone as she leans in. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

The anticipation takes away Celeste’s breath, and her eyes flutter closed mere seconds before Rathi’s mouth presses to hers in a gentle brush of her lips. Celeste’s knees wobble, and she blindly grabs at Rathi’s waist, keeping her close, hoping one kiss won’t be all she gets.

It’s not.

Rathi kisses her again and again, each press of her lips lasting longer than the kiss before it. Celeste parts her lips, waiting, but Rathi kisses her a third time and a fourth time, keeping it chaste for all that the pressure firms and firms.

Celeste’s patience shatters, and the next time Rathi kisses her, Celeste licks at the seam of Rathi’s lips, only for their tongues to immediately touch, hot and wet. Celeste makes an unintelligible noise, and Rathi purrs appreciatively, her fingers sliding into Celeste’s hair. She tilts Celeste’s head to deepen the kiss, and her tongue sweeps into Celeste’s mouth eagerly. She tastes like the ale they had for dinner, and something else, like burnt marshmallow.


Celeste makes another embarrassing noise and slides her other arm around Rathi, keeping her close, lining their bodies together. The heat of her is intoxicating, and Celeste could honestly do this for hours, just exploring Rathi’s mouth with her tongue, and measuring the shape of Rathi’s lips with her own.

She could have, if Rathi had not pulled back with a delighted hum, her thumb rubbing over Celeste’s bottom lip, plump and tingling from the multitude of kisses.

“That was divine,” Rathi says. “Thank you.”

Celeste has kissed someone before. Once or twice, brief kisses that did little for her as they always felt like something of an afterthought or the result of a dare or someone’s charity.

But this.

This had been a kiss. This is what it means to be kissed. And she wants so much more.

“Is that something people normally say after?” Celeste asks, her tongue sweeping over her lips which won’t stop buzzing. “Because I feel like I should be saying it to you.”

Rathi chuckles. “If they’re kissing you, they ought to be offering their thanks to the gods,” she says and brushes Celeste’s bottom lip again. “Will you share the bed with me?”

Celeste swallows an embarrassing sound. “Just to sleep?”

Rathi kisses her again, and Celeste melts into it, melts against Rathi, leaning into her warmth and softness. No, not softness. There’s not much about Rathi that’s soft. She’s all finely shaped muscle and strength, and even her breasts are high, firm handfuls, but she’s gorgeous and Celeste wants everything about her.

She leans forward, Rathi stumbles back, and Rathi chuckles against her mouth again. Her lips are curved with indulgent amusement.

“Maybe more than sleep then?” Rathi asks.

Celeste’s ears burn. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” Celeste admits. She’s hot and shaking, her lips tingling, and an all-too-familiar ache between her thighs. She’s spent too many nights stroking herself for a bit of comfort not to recognize the sensation.

She’s inexperienced, not an idiot.

“Few do, sweetheart,” Rathi says, and the endearment makes Celeste melt all over again.

She shakes her head to focus. “No, I mean.” She stops, draws in a heavy breath. “I’ve never done… this.”

Rathi’s hand cups the side of her neck, as she draws back to look into Celeste’s eyes. “Which part specifically?”

Oh, gods.

“S-sex,” Celeste stammers like an idiot even though she’s almost thirty, and she shouldn’t be embarrassed to say the word. She wants to think she’s as confident and clever and experienced as Rathi, but she’s just not.

Rathi’s eyes widen with surprise, and Celeste barrels on before she can say anything, “I mean, I don’t want you to feel obligated or anything. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. I just…”

Rathi’s finger covers her lips, quieting her. “If this is what you want, then I’m not going to question you. I’d be honored.” She gives Celeste a hint of a devilish grin. “And I have to admit, it’s quite the thrill to know I’ll be the first to touch you in such a way.”

The heat in Celeste’s face burns brighter. “It’s just that I like you, and I trust you, but that also means I don’t really know what I’m doing or what I want…” She trails off, gnawing on her bottom lip. “It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it? I’m almost thirty, and I haven’t…”

“It’s not pathetic at all, and I’ll punch the lights out of anyone who tells you otherwise,” Rathi says, cupping her face again. “So let’s see about finding what you do like and what you do want, hmm?”

Celeste swallows thickly. “Tonight?”

“If you like.”

Oh, gods. Heat pools so quickly in Celeste’s groin, she shivers. She clenches, her panties damp already, and she unconsciously shifts, rubbing her thighs together, the barest hint of pressure against the rise of her mons.

“What would we be doing?” Celeste asks.

Rathi grins, and there it is again, a devilish look that makes Celeste weak in the knees. Her hand drops to Celeste’s collarbone, finger toying with the fold of Celeste’s collar. “First, I’d like you naked. Then I plan on doing a lot of touching. Do you have any problems with that?”

Celeste’s hands go to the ties of her robe before she consciously makes the choice to do so. “Um. No. Not at all.”

“Good.” Rathi presses a quick kiss to her nose and steps back, sitting on the bed, her gaze focused on Celeste. “But feel free to tell me if there’s something you don’t like. I’m about fun and good times here.”

Celeste flushes and unknots her sash, letting it hang loose. Her over-robe sags, baring a few inches of skin, and Celeste can’t meet Rathi’s gaze. It’s not the first time Rathi’s seen her naked. They’ve bathed together plenty of times. Bathing privacy is a thing that doesn’t exist out on the open road, so Rathi knows all about Celeste’s stretch-marks and soft midsection and thick thighs and wide hips.

It feels different now, though, because Rathi is intending to look this time. She’s going to see all of Celeste’s imperfections up close. And Celeste hasn’t had a real bath in a couple days now. All this tiny village has are a few basins of water for her to wipe herself down with, that she’d only been willing to use after wasting a purification spell.


She stares at the floor. “Sorry. I’m--”

“Beautiful?” Rathi finishes before she can say something to the contrary. “Because I think you are, though I understand why you might have trouble believing me.” She pauses and says, “Would be more comfortable if I was naked, too?”

Celeste gnaws on her lip so hard she tastes blood, and laughs a little self-deprecating. “Yes and no.” She tugs on the fold of her robe and tosses her hair out of her eyes. “I want to see you naked, gods, do I want to see you naked, but that’s because you’re gorgeous, and I’ve been dreaming about touching you.”

Rathi touches her own cheek, and now she’s flushing a bit. “Flattery will get you everywhere, sweetheart. But think about this… every naughty little thought you’ve had in your head about me, I guarantee I’ve had it about you.”

Celeste has indulged in many, many fantasies about Rathi already. Her heart pounds at the idea of fulfilling even one of them.

Rathi bounces to her feet and tugs at the click-belt at her waist. “Come on. Let’s strip together. How about that?”

Well, it’s easier if Rathi’s not just staring at her. So Celeste nods and examines the multitude of grooves in the wood floor, holding her breath as she unfolds the complicated wrap of her robe.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Let’s do that,” Celeste says, and shoves off her robe before she can tell herself not to, standing there in only her panties, her breastband, and her ratty knee-high knit socks.

She has no qualms about her socks, so they can go. Celeste awkwardly tugs those off, tossing them on top of her crumpled robe, and tells herself not to fold her arms or hide behind them.

“Do you need some help or…” Celeste’s question trails off as Rathi stands in front of her, fully nude, as if she’d used magic to wriggle out of her clothes in the fifteen seconds or so it had taken Celeste to convince herself to strip.

Rathi’s got her hand on her hip, her injured arm cocked proudly, her shoulders squared and the perky nipples on her perky breasts tightened into gorgeous cinnamon nubs. Celeste’s mouth goes dry, and her thoughts flatline.

“I’m good, but it looks like you could use some help,” Rathi says cheekily. She pats her hip. “It pays not to bother wearing smallclothes.”

Celeste’s breath falters. “You don’t wear…” She trails off, realizing that Rathi does not wear panties, that she’s bare assed under her clothes all the time. The idea makes her a bit faint.

“Nope. I’ve found out that they’re just a bother.” Rathi pops the word and steps closer, resting her hand on Celeste’s hip, at the band of her panties. “Can I take these off or would you rather keep them on?”


Celeste’s knees wobble again. “Don’t they need to come off?”

Rathi grins. “Not really. I can always shift them aside for the important bits, or slide my fingers beneath them if I need.” She slips a finger beneath the band, just to the second knuckle, and strokes the bare skin of Celeste’s hip to demonstrate. “Completely up to you.”

“Take them off,” Celeste says, and is embarrassed at her boldness, but then Rathi bobs in for a quick kiss.

“Gladly,” she murmurs and hooks her fingers in the band of Celeste’s panties, starting to pull them down slowly, aching slowly, gradually lowering herself to her knees as she does.

Celeste stares, anticipation hot and heavy in her belly, a deep throb at the apex of her thighs. She widens her stance to make it easier, and would have been embarrassed by the damp patch on her panties if Rathi hadn’t made such an appreciative noise.

“That’s a good sign,” she says, and looks up at Celeste as her fingers tickle around Celeste’s right knee and glide gently upward brushing over the finer hairs on her leg, just to mid-thigh, along an inner patch of skin. “Mind if I take a look while I’m down here?”

Celeste has no idea where to put her hands. She has to bend over a little to see Rathi over the rise of her own breasts, and in a fit of irritation, tears off her breastband to make it easier. Rathi makes another appreciative noise as Celeste’s breasts bounce free.

“Oh, I have to taste those later,” she says. “But first…” Her fingers lightly brush further up, along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, stopping shy of where Celeste aches the most. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Only if you’re going to be doing more than touching,” Celeste says, and she widens her stance a little further. It feels weird to be this bold, but judging by the way Rathi’s eyes light up, and her hair flickers a bit, it’s exactly the way she should be.

“Touching. Tasting, even, if you don’t mind,” Rathi says, and her fingers slide up a bit further as she leans in, pressing a kiss to Celeste’s other thigh. “I’ve been wondering how sweet you’ll be on my tongue.”

Celeste sways a little, her hands pulling in and out of fists, still not knowing what to do with them, so she clutches her breastband, twisting it into knots. “I haven’t really bathed lately.”

“Mmm. Just means this is all natural you,” Rathi murmurs, and the first tentative touch of fingers makes Celeste wobble. She holds her breath as fingers glide through her wetness, stroking her outer lips, and her feet inch further apart, hips canting, eager for more.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Rathi says, her breath coming in hot and damp exhales against Celeste’s thigh as she lays little kisses, her fingers stroking and stroking, briefly dipping against her wet center before re-emerging to stroke wetly over her outer lips. “Gods, you’re gorgeous.”

Celeste moans, and when Rathi’s fingers drag upward, barely grazing over her clit, she jerks a little in place, her eyes wide. She muffles a squeak in the fabric of her breastband, staring down at Rathi with wonder.

“There you are,” Rathi says, looking up at her with delight. She licks her lips, and circles Celeste’s clit again, making her hips jerk. “This good?”

Celeste nods vigorously.

“I won’t make you say it aloud this time,” Rathi says with a chuckle, and licks her lips pointedly. “Still okay with me tasting you?”

Celeste whimpers. She rocks forward.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Rathi murmurs, and strokes Celeste again, her gaze dropping back to the apex of Celeste’s thighs, focused and intent.

Then she leans forward, curls out her tongue, and Celeste sways dizzily at the first hot, wet lick. She’s throbbing and swollen already, her heart pounding in her ears, a flush of heat spreading over every inch of her skin.

Rathi licks her again, further this time, deeper, and makes a sound of enjoyment that vibrates through Celeste, all the way to her core. Celeste gnaws on her breastband, swaying in place, feeling like she’s forgotten how to do anything except concentrate on each long and savoring lap of Rathi’s tongue. On each sweep of her fingers. On the gentle kisses, the suckling one over her clit.

It’s not until Rathi looses a quiet, breathy laugh that Celeste realizes she’s gripped Rathi’s shoulders tight enough to bruise. “Shall we move to the bed?” she asks.

“I might fall on you if we don’t,” Celeste admits after spitting out her breastband. It drops to the floor in a well-gnawed crumple.

Rathi looks at it with raised eyebrows.

Celeste’s face burns, but Rathi just laughs, takes her hand and tows her to the bed. “I’ll consider it a compliment,” she says as she turns Celeste around and gives her a little nudge. “Lay back for me, sweetheart. I want to finish my dessert.”

“Oh, gods,” Celeste covers her face with her hands as she sinks onto the bed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Rathi hums. “Let’s see if you say that after I get my mouth on you again,” she teases as warm lips trace a path up Celeste’s inner thigh, her shoulders nudging Celeste’s legs wider and wider, until she’s splayed out, completely visible to Rathi’s appreciative gaze.

There’s a moment where Celeste almost covers herself out of embarrassment, but it passes as quickly as the light kiss to her clit, and Rathi’s audible inhale. “I love your curls,” Rathi murmurs as she cards her fingers through the wiry hair on Celeste’s mound. “They’re so cute.”

Celeste finds it’s much safer behind her hands. She twitches as Rathi exhales over her, and the anticipation is a hot coil in her belly. She makes an impatient noise, and Rathi breathes a laugh before she leans in, and the first lap of her tongue is long and deep.

Celeste’s thighs tremble. She moans before she can stop herself, her face hot against her palms, her hips rolling up to follow the path of Rathi’s tongue. Even more when a light pressure on her clit goes in careful circles while Rathi continues to lap at her, slow and lazily, like she’s savoring a sweet.

Celeste’s nerve endings are on fire. It’s all so much. She gasps, and her hands fly to the blanket, twisting in the rough wool of it. She squishes her eyes shut, embarrassed by all the noise she’s making, by the way her body is moving independent of her, squirming on the bed and up toward Rathi’s mouth.

“That’s it,” Rathi murmurs, licking and licking and kissing Celeste’s clit before moving back down to lick some more, one of her fingers a constant, perfect pressure of circles on her most sensitive nub.

Celeste makes a noise, and not even she’s sure if she’s begging or if she’d gasped Rathi’s name, or if it is just unintelligible gibberish. Her whole body is on fire, and her skin seems absurdly sensitive, while the pressure within her grows and grows, and it’s all she can do not to squeeze Rathi’s face between her thighs.

“Rathi, please,” she manages to eke out, anxiety bedamned.

Rathi moans against her, mouth pressing hard, tongue pushing deep before she licks again and again, flicking Celeste’s clit, sucking on it, before returning back to her center.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she urges. “You can do it. Come for me, darling.”

The endearments are bolts to her heart and elsewhere. They shoot through her like lightning, and as a broad pressure lays over her clit, Celeste shatters, her toes curling, her back arching, her legs shaking. Everything seems to seize, breathing and all, as lights dance in her eyes, and then she’s crashing back to earth, trembling in the aftershocks of the best orgasm she’s had in her entire life.

And Rathi’s still licking her, still touching her gently, making the most pleased sounds. The kinds of sounds Celeste’s only heard her make after a really good thimble of whiskey or a particularly well-baked cinnamon roll.

Celeste gasps, sensitive and twitching, her thighs trying to close. Rathi chuckles quietly before she draws up, and climbs Celeste’s body, her face damp with Celeste’s own slick, her eyes dark and hungry.

“Gorgeous,” she’s panting, sounding desperate as she curls around Celeste’s body, her legs clamping on Celeste’s right thigh, the hot wet of her scrubbing along Celeste’s skin. “Beautiful. Delicious. Thank you, sweetheart,” she says, in a rush, before she’s kissing Celeste, and Celeste can taste herself on Rathi’s mouth, tangy and sour, but like a lime is sour. A sweet kind of sour.

Celeste moans and kisses her back, her arms wrapping around Rathi, crushing Rathi against her, the pebbled nubs of Rathi’s nipples poking against her own breasts. Her knees draw up, and now Rathi’s rocking against her right leg, grinding down on her, making these urgent, grunting noises. Her mouth is a sloppy press to Celeste’s, her elbow braced on the bed, her hand tangling in Celeste’s hair.

She’s hot and slick on Celeste’s thigh, the wet sounds of her movements making something twist and tangle inside of Celeste. Rathis’s hips work hard, rutting along Celeste, grinding down, and when Celeste grabs her hips, pulls her closer, more firmly, Rathi makes a sighing gasp that tightens Celeste’s own nipples into nubs.

It has to be instinct, Celeste thinks, because she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Her hands are roaming, squeezing and stroking Rathi’s skin as she moves up and against Rathi, their bodies tangled together on the rough wool of the blanket. The bed creaks and groans its complaints, the bedside table’s contents rattling, all distant noises to the beautiful sounds Rathi makes.

“Is this…?” Celeste asks, frustratingly unable to get out a question that makes any sense.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect. Just like that,” Rathi mumbles in a rush, and then her mouth is hot and wet on Celeste’s throat, teeth and tongue grazing over her skin.

She moves harder, jerkier, rutting on Celeste’s thigh like a man might push into a woman, and a low groan exhales damp against Celeste’s skin, Rathi’s grip pulling at her scalp in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant.

Rathi starts shaking in her arms, and Celeste realizes that she must have found her release, because she’s clutching at Celeste, and the damp on Celeste’s thigh is a dripping mess. Rathi’s hair flares, hot enough to singe, but a flash-fire, the scent of campfire thick in the room until it’s chased away by the sour-sweet tang of a woman’s slick.

Rathi’s mouth drags back to hers, languid and sweet, her movements slowing until she stills, humming in her throat, feathering kisses along the curve of Celeste’s jaw. Celeste strokes her back, heart pounding a mile a minute, a languor seeping into her body despite the rabbiting of her pulse and the low ache building between her thighs once more.

“Well,” Rathi says on a breathy exhale. “I hope that was not a disappointment, Cel.”

“Not at all,” Celeste says, her thoughts quivering and colliding in the mass of jelly that is her brain, unable to think coherently. “That was amazing. I… thank you, Rathi.”

Rathi chuckles and awkwardly shifts, rising back onto her elbow, her face flushed and eyes bright as she looks down at Celeste. “Thank you for that gift,” she says, licking her lips. “You’re a natural, sweetheart.”

The blush returns, and Celeste finds it too hard to hold Rathi’s gaze, her hands sweeping up and down Rathi’s sides instead. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, too.”

“Oh, my enjoyment was inevitable. I could barely keep myself together while I was savoring you.” Rathi nuzzles her cheek, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “And if you’ve got the energy to spare, I’d love to go for a second helping.”

Celeste looks at Rathi, startled. “Again?”

“Can you not?” Rathi asks, shifting once more, to take the weight off her arm, though she keeps their legs tangled, and now she can stroke over Celeste’s belly, down, down toward her thatch of curls, lazily swirling her fingers through them. “Most can go several times a night if their partner is determined enough.”

“S-several times?” Celeste’s eyes are wide even as her thighs start to part, as the hungry clench of her throbs invitingly.

Rathi hums in the affirmative, her fingers sliding down, gently stroking Celeste’s outer lips, playing in the slick still gathered there. “Plus, I really didn’t get to worship these beautiful breasts of yours. They deserve some attention, too.”

Celeste shivers, her fingers digging into Rathi’s skin as a single finger inches into her, only to the second knuckle, but she clenches down on it anyway. “I’ve got the stamina if you do,” she says, her voice canting toward hopeful.

“Oh, darling. I can go all night,” Rathi purrs and nibbles on her earlobe. “Does that sound like a plan to you?”

Celeste moans, her thighs squeezing against Rathi’s wrist as she rocks on the one finger, trying to urge it deeper, where there’s an ache needing to be sated. “Do I get to touch you this time?”

“You can touch me anywhere you want,” Rathi exhales into her ear, hot and wet. “In fact, I encourage it.”

They’re going to be exhausted come the morning, Celeste is sure of it. Just as sure as she doesn’t care, because Rathi is looking at her with nothing short of appreciation, and it blooms a warmth all throughout Celeste’s chest. It feels like being wanted, and it’s intoxicating.

Celeste rolls over and kisses Rathi with a confidence she didn’t have less than twenty minutes ago. Rathi laughs with delight and kisses back, her arm wrapping around Celeste, her body rising and rolling against Celeste’s.

It’s a wonderful night.


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