#under 1k

Sleeping in, your body sore from the intensity of the work you put yourself through the day before. All you want to do is lay in bed. You don’t want to wake up. You don’t want to move. You don’t want to think.

The boys know how hard you’ve been pushing yourself, they know how sore your limbs are. They lie on either side of you, admiring your sleeping form and using their hands to knead softly at your sides and gently soothe those aches into a dull memory.

Eddie begins going lower and lower until his calloused palms are pushing into your thighs, pulling a soft and subtle moan from your dreams.

Volt goes higher, feathering his touch around your chest and making you gasp. He rests his head on your shoulder and kisses up into your neck, your breath losing stability with every brush of his lips against your skin.

Eddie kisses your opposite shoulder and then starts to pull apart your thighs, readying himself to maneuver closer to the growing heat between your legs. A glistening sight already lying there waiting for him, pulsing for him, begging for him.

He’s slow about what he does next, much slower than he would be had you been awake. Sliding his arms around your thighs and pressing his fingers into your soft, pliant skin. Kissing your inner thigh, closer and closer to where his tongue wants most to taste. 

Not yet. 

He diverts and curves around, just barely skimming the surrounding skin, to the sides and up above, landing a kiss on your hip and traveling across your stomach to meet the other side before giving your other thigh the same treatment as the first.

He glances up at you, to see your eyes still shut and your breathing evening out. Volt still plastered to your neck, whispering in your ear between each kiss the sweetest sentiments of how he and Eddie will take care of you.

Volt looks up for scarcely a moment, catching Eddie’s eyes and giving him a short nod before diving back into your neck. That’s all Eddie needs before his lips catch your skin once more, and his tongue glides home to spark the flame in  your core.

It’s slow, it’s languid, it’s bordering torturous… It’s exactly what you need. Every stroke and twirl of his tongue in all the right places. Your dreams fill with them, with Eddie, with Volt, their lips on yours, their tongues twisting with yours. You dream of being the cherry Volt rolls on his tongue, of being the stem that Eddie ties with his teeth, the red juice that trickles from their lips and down their necks to be lapped up by the other.

Your back arches off the bed, your hips bucking against the stubble of Eddie’s needy jaw. Your every whine is caught by Volt’s lips before they have a chance to escape your throat, leaving you gasping and breathless. 

You won’t last long, and they don’t expect you to. The only anticipation that holds them in yearning, is the arrival of your satisfaction. You feel the heat rising, the knot in your core binding so tight it might-

You gasp sharply, moaning their names in tandem like a melody. You writhe and ride the waves of euphoria that wrack your entire frame, leaving you a shuddering mess laid bare between your lovers. They admire every shiver, every gasp, every whimper that leaves your body.

Eddie’s head rests on your thigh as he catches his own breath, his arm crooked around you and holding you steady. Volt’s head lies on your shoulder, his hand just brushing the underside of your chest, now settling against your ribcage. He can feel your heart beating, the spike of your pulse slowly resolving down to a steady rhythm. From the corner of his eye he sees Eddie staring up at you, eyes half lidded and full of love. Eddie’s free arm snakes up around your hip and settles on your side, his thumb rubbing back and forth. Volt slides his hand down to meet Eddie’s, and that’s when Eddie looks at Volt to see his own expression of love and adoration mirrored back at him.

I feel like Shoto would be so into domestic harmony but like, completely on your terms at first. He's the first one to tell you to quit your job if you don't like it–in fact his first response each time you complain about it is to say “Then quit” completely straight-faced–but he doesn't want to just provide for you in that case. If you still want to work he'd be fine with you working less hours, maybe only a day or two a week, and spending the rest of your time doing whatever you want. If you get married and decide you do want to stay home, kids or no, he'd be happy with it and would stress that his money is your money. He'd put away a chunk of his paycheque each month into a sort of trust fund for you so you can have savings, but that's on top of giving you money that you're free to do absolutely whatever you want with. Spend it all or squirrel it away, it's completely yours, but if you're a saver Shoto actually ends up encouraging you to buy something you like or get a massage or something so he knows you're comfortable enough to use it. He doesn't want you thinking you owe a debt to him or anything.

Hell, if you ever got divorced, Shoto would probably be so hung up on you he STILL sends you money every week. With kids it's obvious, he wants them to continue their extracurriculars and live the lifestyle they're used to without having to struggle (because he's also so busy as a pro hero it makes more sense for you to have them for more time than he does) but there's a cheque that comes in the mail four times a month with your name on it and Shoto's bank stamp. If it's a more amicable divorce he might convince you to just let him open a joint account so he can deposit the funds instantly. But he pays for your rent, groceries, utilities, your cable and internet and just about everything down to the shoes on your feet and the coffee in your hand. Shoto barely spends anything on himself and lives such a modest life despite his success, that the money is practically burning a hole in his pocket as it piles up in his bank. The only person he can imagine spending it on is you and his kids.

It doesn't even bother him if you treat him like an ATM. Post-divorce and you ask for money to get your hair done? He puts his card on file at the salon so you can charge whatever you want to it. On the opposite side, if you try to get him to stop out of guilt or wanting to distance yourself, Shoto insists or straight up ignores you and gives it to you anyways. If you so much as hold out your hand Shoto is probably putting money into it.

Plus, on the darker end of the spectrum, maybe Shoto will start to feel like you DO owe him something for him providing a life for you. Maybe he starts getting an itch after you've been gone long enough that he can't take you not coming back. He thought you'd realize how lonely it would be and would come crawling back to his doorstep in a month. Not so. And if you get a new boyfriend or even a fling? Shoto will totally lose his composure. As far as he's concerned you're still his partner, even if you're taking a bit of a break from each other.

Roy regretted many things in his life. Too many to count, really. Some were massive mistakes he’d never atone for. Others were small little inconveniences – such as the time he’d thought drinking two cups of coffee before work had been a good idea, and then had been dragged into three back to back meetings: until he’d had to make a very undignified sprint for the bathrooms the moment he’d been released. One thing he had vowed he would never regret, however, was the day he’d said ‘I do’ to his husband.

Even if sometimes Ed really challenged that vow.

It had been over seven years since he’d made Fuhrer, and the man previously known as the Fullmetal Alchemist had stormed into his new office and convinced him to go on what had been a stupidly awkward first date. Thankfully, the second and third had been better, and it had been five years since he’d promised, in front of delegates from all the around the world, that he would spend the rest of his life in wedded bliss with the younger man. Yet, Ed challenged his convictions to remain unrepentant of their togetherness almost daily. Not, of course, for any lack of love. He loved Ed more than he’d ever have believed possible when the boy was a brat under his command. But because Edward was, first and foremost, an absolute chaos gremlin.

Which is never more obvious than during the Czar’s Winter Solstice banquet of 1927. Edward was nearing thirty, and if you were asking Roy, should have been getting too old for childish antics. But it seemed he was making up for the childhood he lost in being a child soldier, because Ed took a perverse delight in upending any event meant to encourage inter-country relations that he, as the Fuhrer’s spouse, was required to attend.

“It’s so freaking cold out there I can’t feel my fingers,” he complained, coming in from the balcony. As with all events like this, there was a lot of hanging around waiting for things to start, and Ed had never done well with waiting.

“I did say to stay inside. You’re built for warmer climates,” Roy admonished him gently.

Ed rolled his eyes, rubbing his hands together. His fingers were bright red. He never wore his gloves, citing that he’d felt pressured to wear gloves when one of his hands had been automail, and he didn’t want to cover up the flesh hand he’d worked so hard to get back. Roy didn’t truly mind – after all, thick woollen gloves wouldn’t really go with his distractingly good-looking tuxedo. Roy would be lying if he said Ed didn’t scrub up exceedingly well.

“That’s right, I am. You should take me to Creta and let your unemployed trophy husband get nice and tanned.”

“You’re going to have to let that go eventually,” Roy sighed.

Ed had been in a bit of a sour mood all evening, thanks to a dignitary from Donbachii making ill-advised comments on Ed’s lack of an actual job. Roy had no qualms with Edward being a freelance consultant for the countries various alchemy related problems post the Promised Day. He was the best in the world at what he did, and didn’t need nine to five work. But people always had opinions about that kind of thing. Still, Edward grumbled like he was a teenager, and not twenty-eight, and then got that smirking look he got when he was thinking of Roy in ways that weren’t appropriate for in the halls of a foreign leader’s house.

“I know what would cheer me up,” he cajoled, voice turning sultry, sidling up to Roy with a sly grin and putting his hands on his husband’s sides. Roy felt himself grimace. He could feel the shocking coolness of them through the many layers of his dress uniform. He wrapped his hands around the younger man’s wrists and pulled them away from him.

“Just try and get through this evening, and then I am sure I’ll think of some way to warm you up.”

Ed’s answering grin was enough to convince Roy that his message had been received loud and clear, and Ed dutifully took his hands away, holding them out palms up in front of him as if in surrender. Roy wasn’t stupid; Ed had never backed down from something like this in his life, and Roy highly doubted that he was going to start then and there. But then the dinner gong sounded throughout the waiting hall, signalling for them to start making their way into the grand hall for the banquet, and Roy got caught up in the proceedings of the evening.

He fell into step beside another foreign dignitary, and began to make his way into the banquet hall. He was just passing the threshold when he felt it. The pull of his cavalry skirt being tucked out of the way, and icy fingers tugging at the waist band of his trousers. He tried to turn, but Ed was too quick for him.

“Edward, don’t –” he managed to implore, before his husband’s hand was entirely down the back of his dress uniform. His icy cold, red-raw hand. Now firmly seated on his ass. With only his thin underwear as protection.

What could he do but what any self-respecting man in his forties who happened to also be the leader of his country would do? He screamed like he was being murdered. Right there in the Czar’s banquet hall, as Edward Mustang-Elric descended into childlike giggles and retracted the block of ice that had replaced his hand.

Megatron wakes with a quick sharp restart of his systems. The bootup mkes him dizzy, but he's already laying down. There's a body ontop of him, warm and sleek and metal—he knows who it is but for an instant the dream stays with him and his arms tighten. Not enough to crush, no, never, not anymore, but enough that the body stirs.

Rodimus doesn't wake, though. He shifts, and settles, and presses his face into Megatron's neck cables as Megatron remembers how to vent air through his systems. He's still blinking away the image of a long assembly line of half built frames, all with his shape, his build, his face—that same curved cut nose, the strong set of his jaw and the dip of his helm.

They don't exist anymore, of course. Either buried under rock and rubble or melted down for slag. Megatron is the last of his construction line, but they still haunt him.

He is not unique. He knows he is not, and he has never been, and that is what drove him to such great lengths to prove he was more than what he was made to be.

He was a miner, a gladiator, a poet, a writer, a gun, a tank, and—

And a flier, at one point.

And oh how free that had been. Nothing has felt more right than the flight frame, nothing has felt more him. He was a mech built to live and die under the earth of their planet, and yet the skies called to him, even now, even with treads and thick plating.

He misses it. Perhaps that's all he's ever been—a collection of wants that went against what he was told. He is revolution at it's finest, but to what end?

He misses flying. That is the simpliest he can make it.

Rodimus stirs again, waking up this time with a hum and a pur of his engines kicking up out of idling. Blue optics blink open and cycle until Rodimus is awake fully.

He's warm. He's always warm, and Megatron loves it, needs it, craves it. It's impossible not to touch Rodimus, not to let his eyes linger on the sharp edges and bright colours. He calls attention to himself, but he doesn't need to. He's beautiful from the start, but even more so like this, soft and sleepy in Megatron's arms.

"You're awake," Rodimus asks in surprise, his voice fuzzed over with residual sleep-static.

Megatron hums a response, bringing a servo up to pet Rodimus' spoiler. It quivers, pressing up into the touch as the mech himself sighs and sinks back against Megatron's chassis.

"Cheating," Rodimus grumbles, but he makes no move to get up. "You've got your thinking face on. What are you thinking about so early?"

"Flying," he answers honestly.

It's perhaps a bit unfair to say to Rodimus. He had been the stealth bomber the day he had killed Hot Rod and felt no remorse.

He does now. He feels more regret than what he can handle most days.

They haven't talked about it. They should, they need to, but Rodimus only comes in here when he needs another body and isn't as scared to kiss him.

Things are new. Things are strange, but Megatron already knows his spark belongs to this mech. He can be patient through whatever Rodimus is picking apart in his own brain.

How funny it is. Megatron has killed two mechs only to see them become Prime. And each time, he has loved that mech. What pathetic irony. The Slag maker, the death bringer, the Prime killer—fallen for two Primes, only one of which he gets to have.