Work Text:
Godolkin University's Rec Room
The Godolkin University rec room smelled like stale popcorn, cheap body spray, and the ozone tang of high-end gaming hardware. The air was thick with the hum of a dozen conversations, but the loudest thing in the room was the digital clash of pixelated steel piercing pixelated skin. On the center flat-screen, a frenetic match of Vought 2027 combat played out. Two freshmen were hunched over controllers, thumbs blurring as they triggered a combo-chain for Black Noir and Queen Maeve.
Sam Riordan stood near the periphery, his back against the cool, brushed-metal pillar. He wasn't watching the screen; he was watching the room with eyes that felt like they were perpetually adjusting to a light that wasn't there. He looked like an athlete who had forgotten how to play the game—broad shoulders, a chiseled jawline that usually masked a roiling storm of instability, and pale skin that seemed almost translucent under the flickering LEDs.
A few feet away, a girl with bright pink highlights leaned toward her companion, gesturing with a half-eaten protein bar toward a slumped figure in a nearby armchair. "Is Pillpopping Pete dead? He's been in that chair since three in the morning," she asked, her voice cutting through the ambient drone.
The boy next to her didn't look away from the TV. "Nah, he just gets faded so he can, like, become your mom or whatever. It's part of the powers."
"Was that the worst 'yo mama' joke I've ever heard?" the girl countered, rolling her eyes.
"It's not a joke, it's a lifestyle," the boy laughed. Sam's ears perked up. "He shifts into someone you trust. No idea why he's here. Even if he could be a good spy, you can't really pull off a mission if you've gotta get blasted as fuck just to use your powers. He's basically a walking, talking hallucination."
Sam didn't wait for them to finish. He pushed off the pillar, his movements heavy and deliberate. He crossed the room, the crowd parting almost instinctively; they knew better than to be in Sam's orbit when his focus narrowed like this.
He reached the armchair. The boy slumped inside was Pete, his head lolling at an unnatural angle against the leather, his dark hair matted with sweat. His face was handsome, but the heavy, bruised-looking bags under his eyes and his clammy, greyish skin made him look like a ghost caught between lives. Sam didn't bother with pleasantries. He reached out and delivered a sharp, stinging slap across Pete's face. The force was enough to rock Pete's head back against the cushion.
Pete jolted, his eyes snapping open. They were bloodshot and glazed, searching wildly before settling on Sam. It took him a long, drug-addled second to process the intrusion. He squinted, his lip curling into a slow, jagged sneer. "You Pillpopping Pete?" Sam asked, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with a dangerous edge.
Pete blinked, his brain clearly struggling to catch up to his tongue. "You…" He began, his voice a faint drawl, "an asshole?"
Sam snapped. Perhaps it was the smell of the room, or the flickering image of superheroes on the screen, or the crushing, hollow ache in his chest that never went away. "Answer the goddamn question," Sam barked, his voice rising into a shout that silenced the music and the chatter in the room. The rec room went dead quiet. Heads turned, eyes widening. Sam spun around, his light blue eyes ignited with a sudden, violent intensity. "Get out! Everybody! Out!"
The campus rumor mill had done its work; everyone knew Sam was a powder keg. Without a beat of hesitation, the students scrambled for the exits, clearing the room in seconds. When Pete tried to slide out past him, Sam's hand shot out, clamping onto Pete's shoulder like a steel trap. He pulled him back, shoving him back into the chair.
"Are you him?" Sam demanded.
Pete shrugged, his equilibrium shattered. "I guess. Depends on what I took."
"Do it," Sam commanded.
Pete leaned back, rubbing his face with shaking hands. He looked confused, his mind drifting through a fog of synthetics. "What? Do I owe you money, cause I swear on my mother's life I'll pay it back tomorrow. I just need a minute to get the cash, man, and—"
"I don't want money," Sam hissed, stepping into Pete's space until he was looming over him. "I want you to use your powers. Now."
Pete let out a long, drawn-out, "Ooooooooohhhhhhhhh." His eyes drifted up to Sam's, eyes unseeing. "So you wanna fuck, right? That's the gig?"
Sam didn't blink, replying flatly, "yeah."
"I'll do it for a bottle of Oxy," Pete mumbled.
Sam's grip shifted from Pete's shoulder to his throat. He squeezed, his fingers digging into the soft tissue. Pete choked, his hands flying up to claw ineffectively at Sam's wrist. Sam's strength was astronomical—an accident of his biology—and the bruising began to bloom purple against Pete's pale skin almost instantly. "Just. Do. It," Sam rasped. Sam released him, and Pete collapsed forward, gasping for air, his throat raw and wheezing. He looked up, terror and apathy warring in his gaze.
"Fine, you fucking psycho." Pete took a deep, shaky breath, closing his eyes. A thick, greyish fog began to emanate from his skin, swirling around his limbs like vapor. Sam felt a migraine spike behind his eyes, a sharp, searing pressure as his own memories were picked apart by Pete's influence. Outside, the room dimmed; inside, the world rewrote itself. The vapor dissipated, and where the disheveled, clammy addict had been, Luke sat.
He looked exactly like him. The same blue eyes, the same subtle, healthy tan, and the same quiet, protective confidence in his posture. Even his clothes had shifted, the hoodie and jeans replaced by the clean-cut, practical attire Luke always wore.
Sam didn't think. He didn't weigh the morality or the reality of the situation. He simply acted. He surged forward, grabbing Luke's—Pete's—face and crashing his lips onto his. The response was instant. Luke's arms wound around Sam's neck, his fingers tangling in Sam's hair, pulling him closer into a desperate, sloppy kiss. "I missed you so much, bro," Sam whispered against his brother's lips, his voice cracking. The reality of the performance was absolute. Pete was tapping into the deep, aching archive of Sam's mind to craft the version of Luke that Sam loved most—the version that allowed for this.
"I miss you too," Luke said, his voice a perfect playback of the brother Sam had lost. Sam began to kiss down Luke's neck, his hands moving with a frantic urgency. He peeled away the fabric of Luke's shirt, discarding it onto the rec room floor. He reached for the button of Luke's jeans, the metal clicking loudly in the silent room. He pulled the denim down, his hands trembling as he encountered the boxer briefs. He kissed through the fabric, mouthing at the length underneath. "Luke's" breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound. His body stiffened, his toes curling against the floor, a genuine physical reaction triggered by Sam's touch. Pete's mind was being flooded with the sensation of being loved, of being held, and he couldn't help but respond.
Sam pulled the underwear down in one smooth, wet motion. The air in the room felt electric, heavy with the weight of the charade. Sam looked up, his mouth glistening with saliva, his eyes wide and hungry. He felt the overwhelming anticipation of a ghost coming back to life. Sam took the length into his mouth, deepthroating him with a practiced, desperate intensity. Luke let out a loud, raw moan, his hands tangling in Sam's hair, pulling his head down harder.
What is it about psychos that makes them give the best head on Earth? Pete wondered, his consciousness slowly receding. He was hovering somewhere between his own hollowed-out brain and the vivid, idealized memories of Sam's brother.
"Sammy," Luke moaned, his voice distorted by the pleasure. Sam's hands slid down to Luke's ass, digging his fingers in for leverage. He gagged, his throat forcing itself open, taking more of him than he thought possible. Tears spilled over his lashes, tracing down along his cheeks. "You like choking on big bro's dick, don't you?" Luke teased, his voice dropping into the protective register that used to keep Sam safe.
Sam groaned, a high, broken sound, and pushed himself down until his chin hit Luke's balls. The friction was intense, the heat of the body radiating into Sam's mouth. Pete's body, fueled by the rush of the performance, couldn't hold out. The pleasure—a mixture of physical stimulation and the psychic feedback loop—hit a critical mass.
"Sam, I'm—" Sam didn't stop. He choked on it once more, his throat spasming around the cock. That was the final trigger. Luke's body convulsed, a violent, full-body shudder that rattled Sam's teeth. The cum hit his throat like a tidal wave. It was thick, hot, and tasted intensely of iron and adrenaline. It flooded his mouth, coating his tongue and the back of his throat, pouring out in long, rhythmic spurts that didn't stop for a full two minutes. Sam swallowed, gulping it down, unable to stop himself, the texture coating his throat in a way that felt like he was consuming the very essence of the brother he'd lost. It was a relentless, flooding release. It pooled in his mouth, spilling over his lips and running down his chin, a thick, white viscous mess that dripped onto the floor of the rec room. Luke's body continued to pulse, twitching as the last of the force left him, leaving him limp, his heart thumping wildly against Sam's chest.
When the last of it died down, Sam pulled away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at the man in front of him. The image remained, but the light behind the eyes had shifted. The illusion held, but the exhaustion of it was starting to show. Pete was spent, his hands shaking, his chest heaving as he tried to reconcile the artificial pleasure with the cold, damp reality of the rec room floor.
Sam stared at him, his own chest rising and falling, a manic, satisfied calm settling over his features. The craving was temporarily sated, the hole in his chest filled with the chemical taste of a synthetic brother. "Luke," Sam whispered, his voice cracking as he looked up at the older boy.
"I'm here, Sammy," the figure replied. The voice was perfect—the same low, gravelly timber that used to lull Sam to sleep in the days before The Woods. Sam lunged forward, his hands grasping at the fabric of the shirt Pete wore. He pulled Luke down to the hard, carpeted floor. Luke's arms folded around him instantly, a familiar weight. Sam didn't waste time. He moved with a frantic urgency, shoving his jeans down and hiking his shirt up. He pressed his lower back against Luke's crotch, feeling the unmistakable, rigid proof of his brother's hardness. Luke reached down, spitting into his palm. The motion was clinical, yet Sam could see a strange, flickering intensity in his brother's eyes. Luke rubbed the moisture against his cock, his strokes steady and focused. He lined himself up, his eyes locked on the back of Sam's head.
"You ready for it, little bro?" Luke asked. The voice vibrated through Sam's chest.
Sam gave a desperate, wordless nod. He whimpered, pressing his hips backward to meet the invasion. Luke teased the rim of Sam's hole with the head of his dick, a slow, torturous friction that made Sam's skin flush. When Luke finally pushed inward, he grunted—a deep, visceral sound. Sam reached back, his fingers digging into the flesh of Luke's hips. He didn't realize until it was too late that he'd used his superstrength; his nails left faint, white-turned-red marks on Luke's skin. He pulled Luke forward so hard that they collided, chest to spine, the impact rattling Sam's teeth. They groaned in unison, the sound muffled by the empty room. Sam began to rock his hips, taking more of Luke into him, controlling the rhythm. Luke caught on, his hands gripping Sam's waist as he began to increase the speed of his thrusts. Each motion was a blur of friction and heat.
"Does it hurt, Sammy?" Luke asked, his brow furrowing in a facsimile of genuine concern.
"Yes, thank god," Sam gasped, his breath hitching. "Thank you...big brother."
Pete—or whatever was left of him—felt his consciousness slipping further away. He felt like a spectator, a ghost haunting his own nerves while he wore another man's skin. A strange, violent urge sparked in the center of his chest. Luke's hands, which had been gentle moments ago, began to glow with a dull, amber heat.
Luke reached up, his fingers circling Sam's neck. The skin began to blister where they touched, the air smelling faintly of charred fabric and toasted ozone. Sam gasped, his eyes rolling back as the heat radiated against his throat.
"Harder," Sam wheezed, his own hand flying to his cock, jerking it with a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm. Luke complied, his hips pistoning into Sam with newfound aggression. His grip on Sam's throat tightened, the heat radiating off his skin turning the room's ambient temperature up by ten degrees. "Can I cum?" Sam begged, his voice high and thin. "Please, can I cum, big bro?"
"Do it. Now." Luke leaned down, his teeth snapping against Sam's shoulder and chest. When he bit into Sam's nipple, his teeth were glowing white-hot.
Sam let out a strangled cry, his hand flying to his own dick to stroke himself to completion. The orgasm hit Sam like a physical blow. He jacked himself off, his movements jerky and violent. The first, thick jet of his cum hit the floor, and as the droplets landed on the carpet, they sizzled, vanishing into thin, white plumes of steam. Every drop that hit Luke's skin evaporated instantly, leaving tiny, scorched patterns on his chest. It was a torrential release, an intensity Sam hadn't felt in months. The taste of his own salt was sharp and metallic in the air, mixed with the smell of scorched skin. He came in long, shuddering waves, his body arching off the floor as he drained himself completely.
Luke watched, his eyes burning with a cruel, detached curiosity. He reached down, swiping a finger through the slick, cooling fluid pooling between Sam's abs, bringing it to his lips to taste the essence of the younger brother. "You want my cum, Sammy?" Luke moaned, his hips never ceasing their rhythmic assault.
Sam nodded, his mouth slightly agape, eyes glassy. "Please. Give it to me."
"You ready for this load, little bro?"
"Please," Sam begged, his fingers clawing at the carpet. "In my mouth. I wanna taste you."
Luke pulled out, his body floating inches off the ground, a feat of power that left Sam gasping in the sudden absence. Luke hovered over him, his cock aimed directly at Sam's face. Sam didn't hesitate; he opened his mouth wide, his tongue darting out to meet the heat. When Luke finally came, it was an explosive, ragged event. It shot out in thick, heavy ropes that coated Sam's tongue and chin. The taste was overwhelming—a mix of copper, searing heat, and something vaguely floral, like burning pine. Each drop that landed in Sam's mouth felt like a drop of liquid electricity, coating his tongue and sliding down his throat.
Luke let out a series of short, gut-wrenching grunts, his body shaking as the orgasm tore through his stolen frame. Sam didn't just lie there; he reached up, wrapping his hand firmly around the base of Luke's cock. He milked him, his rhythm rough and demanding, refusing to let a single drop go to waste. His tongue danced around the crown and the slit, licking away the remnants as they oozed out. Sam felt the heat of the cum cooling against his skin, a lingering reminder of the ghost he was chasing. As the last of the force drained from Luke, the glowing heat began to dim, the room returning to the quiet, dark chill of the rec room, leaving Sam alone on the floor, breathing hard, tasted by his own delusion.