#you're probably at work already but have fun ^.^

[snail-day]

Tummy Ache Survivor

Based in the same AU as this drabble Anesthesia Doctor! Gojo x Reader x Nurse! Geto Tw: Fluffy domestic bliss, tummy aches, established relationship. A/n: I'd imagine reader has a super weak immune system where they have to change their scrubs at work now otherwise you will catch whatever bug they bring home. I think Geto doesn't mind that...because he lowkey enjoys fussing over you.

Tummy aches are the absolute worst. Mostly because you can’t quite place where they come from. Was it that leftover takeout? Something one of your boyfriends dragged home from the hospital? Are you pregnant? WebMD says you’re both pregnant and dying, so that’s fun.

Sure, you could just ask one of them for medical advice. It’s literally their job. They’d probably take one look at you and tell you to take some pepto and chill. But the thought of bringing it up is… humiliating, somehow. Like, yes, hello, my big sexy boyfriend who's seen every internal organ imaginable, please help me with my fragile little tummy ache. No thanks.

So instead, you burrow deeper into the warm sheets of your massive bed. Satoru’s still in the shower, humming off-key. Probably wondering why you haven’t come to join him yet. You just know he’s going to come into the bedroom, dripping wet and pouty, whining about how lonely he was without you in there. Probably tickle you until you're shrieking.

The thought alone makes your stomach churn.

And then there's the smell of Suguru’s cooking. Normally, that scent would have you halfway down the stairs with stars in your eyes. But today? All it does is make the bile climb up your throat.

Must be pregnancy. Or cancer. Or both. Maybe it’s something worse. The internet is not helping.

You close your eyes and prepare to meet your fate.

“Baby?” Satoru calls, water shutting off with a metallic clink. You hear the glass door slide open, followed by the plap plap plap of wet feet on tile, the steam trickling from the bathroom into the bedroom. He’s chuckling now. “Come on, you have to get up.”

Your heart thuds.

Why is being sick so weirdly vulnerable?

“Hellooooo,” he drawls, voice already playful. “You were supposed to join me. I was in there suffering. Naked. Alone. Practically crying.”

You barely stir, tucked so deep in the comforter cocoon that only the bridge of your nose peeks out.

He doesn’t let that stop him. He drops the towel somewhere behind him, no shame in being bare, and climbs onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, knees sinking into the sheets as he looms over your lump of a body.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks sweetly, already halfway through his routine - nose brushing your cheek, lips pressing light kisses to your forehead, wet hair flicking against your skin. “You never miss post-shower snuggles. It’s practically a routine now.”

You groan softly. Not the annoyed kind that he's used to either.

Satoru stills.

He pulls back, not all the way, but just enough to look at you. There’s a subtle shift, barely perceptible to anyone else, but you know him. His playful grin fades into something more focused, less boyfriend and more clinical and doctor like.

“Wait. Baby,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “Are you okay?”

You shake your head weakly.

“Tummy hurts,” you whisper.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“Where?”

You whimper and gesture vaguely to your lower abdomen.

Immediately, he’s brushing the covers back, not harsh or dramatic, just careful, gentle fingers pushing your shirt up as he scoots closer, settling on his knees beside you. You can feel the warmth of his palm hover just above your skin, his expression focused now, all that boyish teasing gone.

“Is it sharp? Crampy? Nauseating?”

You squint at him.

“Don’t use your doctor voice on me.”

“It’s not a voice, it’s a diagnostic tone,” he says with a straight face, though his lips twitch like he’s holding back a grin. “I’m trying to help, baby.”

His palm presses lightly against your belly. His hands are big, always have been, but now they seem extra warm, fingers splayed wide as he palpates carefully, feeling for any tenderness. He’s quiet while he works, eyes carefully scanning your face as if waiting for you to flinch.

His hair is still dripping, one strand sliding down his cheekbone before he absently flicks it away. His lashes are thick and clumped from the shower, and his cerulean eyes - always so stupidly pretty - are narrowed with gentle concern.

“You feel a little warm,” he mutters, leaning down to kiss your forehead. Then again, to check. Then again, just because he wants to.

“You have a thermometer in the bathroom,” you mumble.

He hums. “Yeah, but my lips are more sensitive. Doctor’s secret.”

You don’t have the energy to fight him on that one.

His hand rubs slow, soothing circles into your belly now, just above your navel.

“You been stressed?” he asks softly, like he already knows the answer. “Suguru said you didn’t eat much dinner last night. And you’ve been chewing your lip again.”

“I have not,” you lie, your lip instantly throbbing in betrayal.

He raises an eyebrow. “You want me to call him in?”

“Noooo.”

“Okay, okay. Just me then,” he says gently, leaning over to nuzzle into your hair. “Just me and my genius medical brain.”

You curl into him as he settles beside you, his arm wrapping around your waist, his skin still warm and faintly damp against your back.

“I’ll keep an eye on you for now,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But if it gets worse, I am calling Suguru. And he’s better at the whole bedside stuff, y'know, bullying you into drinking water.”

You groan. “So scary.”

“I know,” he coos, mock-sympathetic as you bury your face into his chest and he exhales, relief softening his posture.

You must’ve drifted off at some point. Somewhere between the soothing rub of Satoru’s hand on your belly and his murmured reassurances into your hair, sleep swept over you with ease. Your tummy still aches a little, but your body finally gives in, tucked safely in Satoru’s arms.

He stays there for a while.

Longer than he probably should, considering Suguru’s downstairs in the kitchen preparing breakfast for three. But he can’t bring himself to move, not when your breathing’s finally evened out, not when your lashes are fanned soft against your cheeks and your fingers are curled loosely in the fabric of bedsheets.

Eventually, though, duty (and the smell of food) calls.

Satoru slips out from under the blanket like a pro, moving slow and careful, even as your hand twitches in protest. He presses a kiss to your forehead and pulls the covers back over your shoulders.

“Doctor’s orders,” he whispers, brushing a stray hair from your face. “Rest. I’ll bring you some toast.”

Downstairs, the clatter of cookware and the faint scent of fried garlic and something sweet fill the kitchen. Suguru’s at the stove, hair tied up in a loose bun, wearing pajamas and an apron. There’s a crease of concentration between his brows as he stirs something in a pan, back turned when Satoru walks in.

“You took your sweet time,” Suguru mutters without looking up. “I was afraid you both got lost." Glancing over his broad shoulder, his voice grows more quiet, "where’s my baby?”

Satoru drops himself onto a bar stool, half naked now thanks to the sweatpants he put on. “Sleeping. Tummy ache.”

Suguru turns, brows immediately furrowing. “What kind of tummy ache?”

“Just a little queasy. Said everything smelled weird, didn’t wanna eat. Was too embarrassed to tell either of us because God forbid she use the fact that she’s dating two medical professionals for her own benefit.”

Suguru sighs through his nose, annoyance already melting into quiet concern. “You check for fever? Tenderness?”

“Yeah. Little warm. No acute pain though. Probably just stress. Or something she ate.”

He nods, turning back to the stove, but you can see it in the set of his shoulders - he’s chewing on it.

“I could’ve made her ginger tea,” he murmurs.

“You still can,” Satoru says, voice gentler now. “I just didn’t wanna wake her. She looked so tired, Suguru.”

There’s a quiet moment. The eggs hiss in the pan. The scent of miso and jasmine rice hangs in the air like a comfort blanket.

“…She didn’t want me?” Suguru asks softly, almost to himself. Violet eyes narrowing down at the eggs. Jealousy hidden in his tone.

Satoru watches him for a second. Then stands.

He walks up behind Suguru and presses his chest to his back, arms wrapping around his waist as he leans down to rest his chin on his shoulder.

“She wanted both of us,” Satoru murmurs into his ear. “But sometimes people don’t know how to ask for help when they feel small.”

Suguru’s hands slow on the spatula.

“…I’ll bring her tea,” he says, voice low. “And the toast you promised.”

“And a kiss,” Satoru adds with a grin.

Suguru climbs the stairs with a tray balanced in one hand - tea steeping, toast buttered lightly, a few cut-up slices of pear arranged on the side like he’s hoping something will tempt your stomach back to life.

He pushes the bedroom door open slowly with his hip.

You’re still curled in the sheets, hair mussed and lashes fluttering as you start to stir. The soft clink of ceramic must’ve pulled you from the edges of sleep, because you shift with a tiny groan, blinking blearily up at the silhouette in the doorway.

“…Toru?” you mumble, voice rough and sweet with sleep.

Suguru almost halts, a bit more frusterated, because why didn't you call him? Why didn't you need him? He’s better at this kind of thing, don't you know?

“…No, angel. Just me,” he says quietly, stepping in. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Your eyes widen a bit when you realize who it is, and you look momentarily sheepish. Guilty, even.

“Oh…” you whisper. “He said he wouldn’t tell you.”

Suguru sets the tray on the nightstand and sits beside you, brows drawing in with something too tender to be disappointment, but too honest to be nothing.

“He didn’t tell me,” he says gently. “I asked.”

You fidget with the corner of the blanket. Not quite meeting his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I just… I didn’t want to worry you.”

His expression softens completely at that, pain and adoration warring in his chest. He cups your cheek with one hand, thumb brushing under your chin just to get you to look at him.

“Worrying about you is part of the job, baby,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to hide when you’re not feeling good. Not from me.”

You swallow, lips wobbling. Tears threatening. Why does he always make it so hard. “But you made breakfast, and you’re always taking care of everyone, and I know you'd ask those embarrassing questions, like if I - ”

Suguru cuts you off by leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“I want to take care of you,” he whispers, voice thick with feeling. “That’s not a burden, it’s a privilege.”

You sniffle, eyes glossy. “I feel gross. I was gonna throw up earlier.”

He brushes a hand down your side. “And I’d hold your hair back if you did.”

You crumple.

“Don’t make that your romantic line,” you mumble into his chest, and he chuckles softly.

He coaxes you up just enough to sip some tea, holding the cup for you like you’re delicate and precious. Which, to him, you are. You settle into his side as you drink, and he rests his chin on top of your head.

“…Next time,” he says, after a quiet moment, “call for me first. Okay?”

You nod, a little guilty. “Okay.”

He presses another kiss to your crown, arms wrapping around you like he’s keeping all your little broken pieces from spilling out.

“Good girl.”

The next time you wake, the light filtering through the blinds is tinged warm and golden, the kind of hazy evening glow that makes everything feel soft around the edges. You blink slowly, body still heavy, and shift beneath the comforter with a groggy little sigh.

Something’s tucked into your arms.

Not the pillow you remember falling asleep. Your fingers curl instinctively around plush fur and a tiny satin ribbon.

It’s a stuffed animal. A fat, round calico cat with sparkly eyes and a ridiculously oversized head. It smells faintly of Satoru, his cologne and the faint clinical scent of the hospital.

Your heart squeezes a little in your chest.

There’s a folded note pinned between its tiny paws.

“Stopped by on my break. Pedialyte’s in the fridge. Sugu will be back soon. - Toru <3”

You read it twice. Smile once.

The ache in your belly is still there, but somehow… duller now. Softer around the edges. Easier to sit with when you’re wrapped up in blankets, a stuffed cat in your arms, and the quiet knowledge that your boys thought of you, even between patients, even while juggling god knows what in their day.

The apartment is still. Peaceful.

Somewhere in the fridge, there's a bottle of blue Pedialyte with your name on it. And in another hour or so, Suguru will be home too - probably with soup, and a forehead kiss, and a quiet grumble about how they both should’ve stayed home with you.

You pull the stuffed cat closer to your chest and close your eyes again.

Maybe it’s not so bad to admit you have a tummy ache. Not when it means being spoiled so much by them.

[charity-angel]

I currently live just outside that area (still on the screenshot, just... That big road at the far east, towards the top, that has an absolutely massive kink in it, just outside the red circle? That's pretty much where I live.

We've got some absolutely gorgeous countryside, pretty much all round. It rains a lot, so it's REALLY green.

Our fabulously rainy, and thus damp climate is really awesome for spinning cotton - keeps the dust down, and the fibres supple enough they won't snap. The industrial revolution was really A Thing round here. Mills everywhere.

They're mostly closed down now, converted into flats, or shops, offices. But we do enjoy some of the last bastions of the British fabric industry being around here. I highly recommend a trip to Immanuel's Fabric in Burnley, if you're a sewist. Never the same stuff twice, and they have a massive room that's £1/metre. (Cash or PayPal only, no card payments. And it's not particularly wheelchair friendly - there's steps in, and some very narrow bits in the £1 room. But the staff are always amazing - help me in, grab whatever I need, walk me and my haul back to the car...)

God, there has to be something more than fabric... And the chemical factories made to support the cotton factories...

That said, if the Industrial Revolution is your thing, there's still a working museum/mill south of Manchester. Quarry Bank Mill - I very much enjoyed it, both times I've been.

Pendle Witches? That's a particularly *fun* part of our history. Probably a lot less sci-fi than Doctor Who made it out to be.

Accrington bricks? Those bright red fuckers that are hard as iron and WILL wreck your drill bits if you're unlucky enough to find one in your wall? Well, that's because there is literally iron in them. And they're made within that red circle. (They're also called Nori bricks, because the whoever made the first stamp for them sort of forgot it has to be done in mirror, so it would be the right way round when the bricks are stamped. They were supposed to say "iron". Now they're stamped with Nori on purpose, because why mess with what works?

Totally doesn't make us look like illiterate idiots at all...

Ooh, speaking of ancient typos, there is a place south of Manchester called Altrincham. The engraver who made ye olde "welcome to" sign managed to put a C instead of a G. It's pronounced "alt-ring-um". The OG pronunciation stuck around, but the typo also stuck.

Wheeling back to Accrington and its bricks, one of Accy's other claims to fame is probably the best-known of the "pals" divisions from WWI - definitely the best reason it shouldn't have happened:

If you don't know, when the army was recruiting for the Great War, in a moment of genius they decreed that men from the same town would fight together. That way they already had the camaraderie to help them stick together and have each other's backs.

It worked. Right up until the entirety of Accrington's men were lost at the Somme.

Weirdly, they stopped doing Pals battalions after that.

(there's another example, but it's from way outside the circle, so... not covering it here)

Anyway, the reason I circled back to the bricks is that there is a specific memorial to the Accrington Pals in the Somme. You might have guessed by now, but it's made of Nori bricks.

I didn't manage to find it, despite having a decent map (pre sat nav), but I'm assured it does in fact exist.

Accy is also bloody ancient - it's listed in the Domesday Book. Not quite as big as it is now, but it's there.

Um... There must be more.

(but yeah, the football thing pretty much came about because of the mills - gave people something to do other than work and drink. That's why it's so prevalent up here.)

HEY

HEY YOU!

DO YOU LIVE IN THIS AREA???

Tell me about it! BRAG IT! DRAG IT! ANYTHING (that isnt football)! I'm begging ( T∀T)°°

[echodr3ad]

Need some more Noob x Reader for Forsaken, I love this shy non-binary baddie. (You will see me more)

-Milkdunked Anon

ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹ Noob General Dating Hcs

Pairings: Noob x GN Reader

Warnings: None

Authors Note: Man I love Noob SO much aswell, specially their party skin they look SOO CUTEEE!! Sorry for taking a bit Milkdunked Anon, I had exams... Scary, but i'm officially on vacations now! So I can now work on requests! (Yipee!!) Since you didn't specify anything, i'll just be doing general hcs, I hope that's okay with you.

✮ Noob is quite an affectionate partner, they love to cuddle you, hold your hand, kiss your cheek and the like.

✮ What they specially like to do is linking their arms with yours. To them, it feels more intimate and special.

✮ They are a bit shy though, so it may take them a little while before they start becoming affectionate.

✮ You two are the power couple, it's a rarity to see one of you without the other.

✮ If that's the case, it's either because one of you went down or wasn't sent to participate in the round.

✮ The other survivors always ask Noob about you when they don't seem you with them, it's the first thing they ask, like "Hey Noob, where's [Name]?"

✮ They also ask you about Noob if you're the one that's left alone.

✮ Noob will clumsily throw themselves into danger to protect you. Either trying to distract the killer or taking hits for you.

✮ They always blame themselves when you go down, even when it wasn't their fault at all (please comfort them, they need it).

✮ Whenever they find an item, such as another Bloxy Cola or a medkit, you're the first person to receive it, no matter what, even if they might need it more than you do.

✮ But they refuse to take them for themselves. The only way you can force them to take a medkit for themselves is if they're on low HP and Elliot has gone down already.

✮ Speaking of Bloxy Cola, they love sharing theirs with you. It brings them so much joy being able to share something they like so much with you.

✮ They will probably ramble to you about how much more bland it tastes here than in normal Robloxia.

✮ Noob also likes to share all of their snacks with you, usually they wouldn't really like sharing, but since it's you they don't mind. They always ask if you want something.

✮ Whenever you two have the time, they like to take you stargazing since it's always nighttime.

✮ They definitly don't know the names of any constelations, but they make new ones up.

✮ They named one after you, and one after them! They always try to look for those two stars every time they stargaze with you.

✮ Believe it or not, Noob is actually quite the chatterbox. They always have a conversation topic.

✮ Your conversation could start off talking about what happened last round and end up being about something entirely different.

✮ They like to make you matching bracelets for the both of you to wear. The goofy smile they have whenever they see you wearing it is quite adorable.

✮ They don't get really mad or if they see you broke it, specially if they see that you're upset over breaking it. They know it probably wasn't your fault.

✮ They'll gladly make you another bracelet that's even better than the other one!

✮ Noob likes to try and slow dance with you, they aren't exactly good at it, but they like doing so anyway because they think it's really romantic.

✮ They also like cooking with you! They think it's super fun, specially if you're baking together.

✮ They also aren't very good with cooking, but if you are, they'll gladly pass you the ingredients you need and give you moral support with their presence.

✮ If you aren't, the both of you do your best not to screw up, even if it usually happens anyway.

✮ You end up needing to call Elliot for help, and he flawlessly fixes the issue in under a second. He truly is in a different league.

✮ Noob is definitly the type to eat the batter when you're baking, so watch over them.

[wingfleur]

omgg your desperate ex!dick fic got me thinking if you're interested in writing angst?? something abt his behavior is so.. devastatingly toxic lol. the push and pull would kill me. like what would he do if instead of getting a reaction, y/n started sobbing

# — dick grayson as a desperate ex (2).

soooo, i got carried away... i don't typically write part twos unless the fic was written with one in mind (this isn't really a part two, to be honest, more of an alternate ending), but, regardless, this turned into something i did not mean for it to turn into. here's the link to the fic in question. thank u for picking my brain, lovely! enjoy! | wc: 1.0k words.

cw: implied sexual content mdni (18+), gn!reader, angst, leaning into fuckboy!dick grayson again, and the implied childhood-friends-to-lovers-to-exes-to-fwb(?) energy, the toxicity is very much turned up this time too, like he is manipulative afffff

nonnie, you do not understand how glad i am that you asked me this. this scenario has never crossed my mind! fun fact: i love writing reader to be strong and stubborn because that’s how i am, but i don’t typically write pieces intending for them to just be plain angst. honestly, all of my work on here that is inherently angsty (i.e. helping mark lose his v-card, desperate ex dick, etc.) is a byproduct of the topic i’m writing about— it’s never on purpose 😭. but the idea of reader breaking down and crying instead of giving in to dick’s teasing made me so giddy because i came to realize that, no matter how you reacted in that moment— ignored him, lashed out, dropped to the floor in tears— he still would’ve managed to get into them drawls, and i think that’s absolutely terrible, LMFAOAOOAOAO.

like, walk with me: the end goal will always be the same, but the method? the approach? that’s what differs. dick can and will adapt; it’s up to you what show he puts on tonight.

so yeah, let’s say that you cry instead. that, when you get to your place with dick hot on your heels, you’re struck with a nauseating sense of clarity that reminds you that this man has done nothing but make your life miserable. that, by falling into bed with him, you’re degrading yourself and proving that nothing’s changed— even after you’ve spent so much time trying to convince him that you’re over it.

over him.

“i can’t,” you say suddenly, feet coming to an abrupt stop in front of your door. you can hear dick’s shoes scuff against the pavement as he stops just in time to not run into you, and the look of confusion that’s probably on his face has got to be worth its weight in gold. you’re not gonna look, though. you can’t. the tears in your eyes would make it hard to see, but the last thing you need is for dick grayson to see you crying.

too bad for you, dick’s already seen you cry. more often than not, he’s been the reason for your crying, so you don’t get to hide for long before he’s putting a gentle hand on your shoulder. with light pressure, he coaxes you into spinning around and ducks down a bit to be in your line of sight.

“can’t what, birdie? talk to me.”

that stupid fucking nickname.

“god, don’t fucking— call me that!”

it goes on like that for a while. you sob, scream, and kick at his expense, but it’s hardly satisfying because dick just stands there and takes it. then, once you’ve worn yourself out, he wraps you in his arms and pulls you firmly to his chest. you feel helpless as you sink into his arms; everything in you is screaming to pull away, but you’re too exhausted to listen.

“it doesn’t have to be like this, you know.” dick’s voice vibrates against your crown from where his chin rests atop your head. his tone is soft, melodic, and sincere. you don’t know how he does it, but he manages to be calming and repulsive all at once. it’s impressive.

“i fucked up last time, and i know that. i’m owning it, birdie, trust me. but before all of this started, we were friends. i’d be lying if i said it hasn’t been hell not speaking to you these last couple of weeks. i can’t fucking stand it.”

you don’t respond, but the beauty of it is that he doesn’t expect you to. all dick does is hold you tight and sway from side to side, just the way you do—well, did, you guess— when you hug him.

“i’ve been working so hard to become a fraction of the man you deserve,” he starts, “and tonight showed me that i’m not even close. it actually taught me that you’re incredible and i’m disgustingly selfish because, despite all the work i need to do, i still wanna be with you. now, as i am.”

you move to lean back. “dick—”

“i’m serious. don't be dismissive.”

dick meets you halfway and pulls back enough to see your face. your cheeks are puffy and your eyes are red, but dick thinks you’re adorable— a descriptor that has felt nothing but condescending and patronizing coming from him these last few months. but right now? as you feel a sense of dread and longing swirling up to create a toxic combination in your stomach?

you’re pathetically eating it up.

“i miss you”, he says. “and i’m sorry. so sorry. let me make it up to you by letting me inside.”

you stare up at him for a few, long moments, your eyes glassy, wide, and emotionless. dick hadn’t expected you to become such a tough cookie since the last time he saw you, but he can tell you’re close to cracking. all he needs is to give you the final push.

dick slowly unravels one of his arms from around your waist and brings it up to cradle your face. you stare at him for a few moments, his thumb running soothingly along your jaw, but then something gives, and your eyes flutter shut, head relaxing into the curve of his palm.

“there you go,” he coos. “there’s my baby.”

and when dick leans down to kiss you, his hands slipping effortlessly into your pockets to retrieve your key, he doesn’t bother to hide his grin. he knows you feel it— wants you to— but you’re not gonna push him away. not even if your subconscious is screaming at you to deck him in the face.

what you’re gonna do is let dick seamlessly open your door and guide you inside, a gentle foot kicking it shut as you two stumble down the hallway. what you’re gonna do is let him undress you on the way to your bedroom, then let him lay you down and work until you’re shattering with a cry of his name. then, he’s gonna leave you— alone in the morning with an empty bed and a pit of despair settling deep in your stomach. and, finally, he’ll quell your deepest, darkest worries by leaving a dorky note on the fridge about how “duty calls, but there’s breakfast in the fridge!” to make sure that no matter how much you convince yourself to hate him right then and there, there will always be enough of a gap in your armor for him to wriggle right back on inside.

# — navigation

[creator4favestuff]

Sorry if there are any grammar errors!

Following my previous post-

The first person to “test it out”?

Bumblebee.

He's so curious about it!

Since in canon they don't know what such things are- (i.e Sari explaining human biology to Optimus in the park)

Plus, you're his friend, and he wants to help you out. He's seen how stressed everything's been making you, so as the declared "best friend", Bee offers his help!

One day, he heads to your room, immediately bringing up your new appendage. However you choose to answer, whether shyly or boldly, he'll ask to look at it.

And maybe a mass displacement machine was built from a random idea the Professor had. So a ray blast here, him on his knees, just...looking at it.

It's...thick. And long. He wants to laugh it off, but a part of him is nervous.

So the questions come out to hide it.

Are they all this size? Do they all look so weird? Some of it has a bit of a glow- It probably shouldn't, right? It kinda reminds him of Cybertronian anatomy, but given the AllSpark did this, it shouldn't be a surprise.

He takes your spike in his servos, and hears you breath harshly and apologizes, but you explain in detail the…delicate nature of it all. His servos fiddle with it, more gently, before his dermas suddenly take the tip.

It startles you, but his upward gaze garners his helmet a gentle pat and a “good mech”. It excites him, and half your spike is already in his intake.

Bee takes it as a challenge to fit it all in and works the best he can, impressively so. By the time his dermas reach your pelvis, you're so close to reaching that high-

And he stops, letting his vents and intake adjust for a moment, feeling victorious for fitting it all in. It gives you enough time to push release back just a bit, questioning if he's okay and that he doesn't have to do so much.

His spark swells at the concern. Though you've always been so caring to everyone, it feels so much more...personal in this moment.

His processor feels fuzzy, and all it seems to want to focus on is you. Making you feel good.

So, with a slow pace, Bee begins giving you your first and best blowjob, one that he tries to prolong so he can get the hang of it.

Until release finally hits, and he feels something warm go down his intake, and for a moment, panics-

But his optics see the dazed yet happy expression on your face, the gentle pats on his helm, and boom.

The worry vanishes and he’s officially hooked.

Sure, it's a bit messy, and he'll "complain" about it at first, but every day without fail, he drives over to Sumdac Tower and gets on his knees, saying and doing whatever you want.

One day, however, he returns to your room with a cheeky grin, and it makes you…nervous. Until he moves to the bed, helm resting on your legs before asking a question.

Could you, with the power of the AllSpark, give him a similar appendage? Or the opposite?

Your confused gaze pushes him to explain that he did some research during a stay at base while the others were on a mission.

It IS a...valid question.

"Heh. Maybe I could even take mine away?"

A joke Bee does NOT like. But you're unsure, unconvinced.

Why give him such a thing? There IS a war with the Decepticons and your missing father. Not to mention, who knows how his body will handle it? Why risk that?

"So we can mix it up. Think of how fun it'll be!"

...

You really shouldn't be surprised.

Bee sees the unamused expression and BEGS for one time. You can take it back afterward, promise! The pleading continues until you finally agree.

Your eyes close, building the image in your mind with quiet concentration, hand on his panel. Nothing happens at first, but a glow emanates from your chest, flowing throughout your body towards the panel.

Bee feels something shift, like his body was physically altering itself to your command, and his optics can only watch in excitement.

For a moment, silence washes over the room, glow gone, with only the moonlight washing over the room. He's quiet at first, as if unsure of WHAT to say.

But you hear a shifting sound, seeing the panel open and showing the valve that…definitely wasn't there before, and it's already clenching around nothing.

His servo holds your hand, and you return the grip. No regret lies in his optics, frame shaking gently with excitement along that silly grin of his, albeit a bit wobbly.

“Aren't you proud of me for doing such good research?"

You nod, pressing a kiss against his helm before brushing your fingers against the outer lips of the valve. He jolts, unfamiliar with the feeling, but keeps still the best he can.

The way your fingers continue their gentle caress, as if exploring it like he did your spike, and the gaze that lingers, locked onto every squeeze and jolt.

Though a startled gasp slips past his dermas when a finger presses itself inside, another unknown touch that makes him heat up. It feels like you're trying to map it out, and he's unsure of why until he feels a spike of pleasure at a specific spot. One your finger continues to press on, that makes him grab onto the sheet beneath him, optics rolled back.

And when that first overload hits?

A loud moan leaves him, body tensing before relaxing, vents trying to stabilize. The forehead kiss certainly helps ground him, but he wants more.

Though it seems you read his mind, moving down to suck his node, while another finger enters his valve, working him to another overload that makes him see stars.

The fact that humans had such a form of pleasure is-

"Huh? What're you doing?"

You're cleaning your fingers off, as if calling it a night, and you say as much-

"But we haven't gotten to the best part! The...what's it called? The-"

"Bee. I don't know if it's gonna fit-"

He frowns at that.

"Hah! Do you know who I am? Of course it'll fit-Try it right now, and you'll see I'm right!"

You raise an eyebrow, sighing before pining him down, "The moment you're in pain, we stop. Understand?"

He nods his head, smiling and aroused at your commanding voice.

With one last sigh, you line your spike to his valve, giving it a bit more prep, before pushing in.

It's slow and indeed a painful stretch. Even the soft encouragement from you can't fully distract him, but Bee won't say anything.

He CAN'T.

Otherwise, it'll all be over!

So he pushes through the pain, digits holding onto the back of your top, optics closed as he focuses on your voice.

Soft, gentle, caring.

But even the wait for his body to adjust causes his patience to wear thin, so he tries to move. It's still painful, but the small movements offer some pleasure.

And you let him do things at his own pace, knowing he wouldn't stop anyways, yet at the same time not really wanting him to.

Bee wants you to move though, tugging at your top while giving you a desperate look that eventually has you moving your hips against him.

Slow at first, still wanting to be cautious, before turning into a fast pace. One that has whimpers and gasps leaving him, legs around your waist now.

He thought those blowjobs were something, but this! This was too much-

His processor couldn't think straight!

“Yes! Please, please- Right there! Right there! Ahh! Too much, too much-Ugh! I-I feel something! Don't stop!”

You can try and keep him quiet, put a hand over his dermas, or stuff his intake with something, but he'll still moan just as loud. Especially when he feels your overload fill him. It’s so warm, valve clenching down on your spike, and his body is pulsing with pleasure.

His servos reach out to keep your hands in place, “Just one more…One more round-I promise that'll be it…”

But it isn't.

It's round after round of pounding his valve, Bee begging for mercy, yet whining profusely the moment you try to pull out. “Stop! Don't pull out! J-Just one more round-Noooo! Please?”

It'll be a long night and a rather awkward talk with the team when you tell them that Bee's “too sick” to work the next day.

But once again, no regret lies in his optics, and he seems pretty content cuddling beside you in bed.

....Maybe letting him keep it for one more day wouldn't be so bad...

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @i-doutt-it @beth-isnt-home @darylandbethfanforever9 @brianna-merlim @pumpkinkpieandtomato @smashleywow @imadisneyprincessiswear @clementineslawyer @pandaofsilentdeath @dixonsbridexx @imadisneyprincessiswear @staley83

-------------------------------------------

TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, angst, walkers (Zombies), lecherous behavior, discussions of sexual history, homphobia, weed, depictions of being stoned and Marijuana use.

Part 4

Between Brothers - Part 5

The abandoned house sat like a forgotten memory among the overgrown Georgia pines, its weathered siding barely holding back the wilderness that threatened to reclaim it. You'd been walking for what felt like forever, your feet aching in boots that had cost more than most people's monthly rent back home, when Merle spotted it through the trees.

"Well, well," he drawled, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. "Looks like Christmas came early, sugar."

You watched nervously as he kicked in the front door, the wood splintering easily under his boot. A week of traveling with Merle had taught you that subtlety wasn't in his vocabulary. The house groaned around you both as you followed him inside, dust motes dancing in the afternoon light filtering through broken windows.

"Merle, we shouldn't be—"

"Relax, darlin'. Ain't nobody been here in years." He was already rifling through cabinets with his good hand, overturning cushions with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this before. The stump where his hand used to be didn't seem to slow him down much. "Besides, finders keepers in this world."

It was when he started checking the bedroom that you heard his low whistle of appreciation.

"Well, I'll be goddamned." Merle emerged holding a small wooden box awkwardly against his chest, grinning like he'd struck oil. "Looks like the previous tenant had some real interesting hobbies."

The sweet, earthy smell hit you before you even saw what was inside. Your nose wrinkled slightly at the unfamiliar scent.

"What is that?"

Merle's grin widened as he held up a small baggie with his left hand. "This here's what we call God's gift to mankind, sweetheart. Premium Georgia green."

You took a step back, shaking your head. "Oh no. No, absolutely not."

"Aw, come on, lil doe." The nickname rolled off his tongue like honey, though you still weren't sure why he'd started calling you that. "Live a little. World's gone to shit anyway."

"I don't... I've never..." You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling very out of place in this crumbling house with this dangerous man.

"'Course you ain't." He was already gathering kindling for a fire in the stone fireplace, struggling slightly with the one-handed task but too proud to ask for help. "Bet you never done a lot of things, sugar. That fancy upbringing of yours probably didn't include much fun."

"It's not about that," you protested, but your voice lacked conviction.

"No? Then what's it about, darlin'? You scared you might actually enjoy yourself?"

You bit your lip, watching him work. The past week had been a constant battle between your better judgment and the strange pull you felt toward him. Everything about Merle should have sent you running, but something kept you there, following him through the Georgia wilderness.

"I just... what if something happens? What if we need to run?"

Merle paused in his kindling gathering to look at you, and for a moment his expression was almost gentle. "Sweetheart, we been walkin' for a week straight. You look like you're about to drop dead on your feet. Little bit of this might actually do you some good."

He had a point. You were exhausted, emotionally and physically drained from everything that had happened, especially after the van had died on you. Maybe...

"I don't know how," you admitted quietly.

His grin returned, softer this time. "That's what I'm here for, lil doe."

An hour later, you found yourself sitting cross-legged by the crackling fire, watching Merle awkwardly attempt to roll a joint with one hand. Papers kept tearing, weed kept spilling, and his cursing was getting increasingly creative.

"Goddamn piece of shit..." he muttered, trying to hold the paper steady with his stump while sprinkling the green herb with his left hand.

"Do you need help?" you offered tentatively.

"I got it," he snapped, then immediately softened his tone. "Just takes a little longer is all."

You watched him struggle for another few minutes before finally scooting closer. "Here, let me..."

"You don't know how to roll, sugar."

"No, but I have two hands." You reached for the supplies. "You can talk me through it."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe even gratitude—before the familiar smirk returned. "Well now, look at you being all helpful. Careful, darlin', or I might start thinking you actually want to try this."

"Maybe I do... A little."

"Atta girl." His voice dropped to that low rumble that did strange things to your stomach. "Now, take a paper..."

It took three attempts and a lot of guidance from Merle's rough voice over your shoulder before you managed something that vaguely resembled a joint. It was lumpy and crooked, but Merle pronounced it "perfect" with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for masterpieces.

"Now comes the fun part," he said, lighting it with a match from the fireplace.

The first hit made you cough so hard you thought you might die. Your eyes streamed, your throat burned, and Merle's rough laughter didn't help your embarrassment.

"Fuck, Merle!" you gasped between coughs.

"Easy there, honey. Ain't supposed to inhale it like you're drowning. Here, watch me."

He demonstrated with practiced ease, holding the smoke in his lungs before exhaling slowly. "Your turn. Smaller this time."

The second attempt was better, though you still coughed. The third made your head feel light and strange.

"There we go," he said, studying your face with those pale blue eyes. "How you feeling, darlin'?"

"Weird," you admitted, surprised by how the word seemed to float out of your mouth. "Kind of... floaty?"

"That's the idea." He passed it back to you. "Take another."

By the time you'd shared half the joint, the world had taken on a softer quality. The edges of everything seemed less sharp, including Merle's usual abrasiveness. You found yourself actually relaxing for the first time since you'd found him on that rooftop, giggling at nothing in particular.

"There we go," he said, leaning back against the wall. "Now you look less like you're about to jump out of your own skin."

"Is this how you always felt before... everything?" you asked, waving vaguely at the world outside.

"Nah, this is better. Used to need a whole lot more than this to feel good." His expression darkened for a moment before the lazy grin returned. "But enough about me, lil doe. I got questions."

Something in his tone made you wary, but the warm buzz in your head made it hard to care. "What kind of questions?"

"Oh, just curious about you, sugar. Week of traveling together and you're still a mystery to me." He took another hit, eyes never leaving your face. "Like, you ever let a boy get to second base?"

Despite his constant Innuendos the question still caught you off guard, and you felt heat creep up your neck. "Merle..."

"What? Just wonderin' if those pretty tits of yours have ever seen any action."

"God, you're so crude," you muttered.

"That ain't an answer, darlin'." His grin turned predatory. "Come on, we're just talking here. You ever let a boy touch you?"

Maybe it was the weed, or maybe it was the way the firelight made everything feel dreamlike, but you found yourself answering. "Some."

"Some?" He leaned forward, interested. "What's 'some' mean, sweetheart?"

"I mean... yes, okay? I've been touched before." Your cheeks were burning now.

"Where?"

"Merle!"

"Come on, lil doe. We're sharing here. Where'd he touch you?"

You rolled your eyes, the gesture more dramatic than usual thanks to the weed. "Jeez, Merle, your acting like I'm a nun or something."

His eyebrows shot up, and you immediately realized your mistake. That grin of his turned absolutely wicked.

"Well now, that's real interesting. So you ain't completely innocent, are you, darlin'?"

The way he was looking at you made your stomach flutter nervously. "I didn't say that."

"Goddamn." Merle's voice was rougher now. "You ever suck a dick, sweetheart?"

You nearly choked on the smoke. "Give me strength"

"That a yes or a no?"

"I'm not answering that."

"That's a yes." His grin was absolutely filthy now. "Bet you were real good at it too, weren't you, sugar? Bet you got that sweet little mouth wrapped around—"

"How many have you sucked, Merle?" you shot back, your cheeks burning but determined to flip this back on him.

The words hit him like a slap. His cocky grin vanished instantly, replaced by pure horror. "What the hell—no! Jesus Christ, what kinda question is that?"

He actually recoiled, nearly dropping the joint. "I ain't no goddamn fairy! That's disgusting!"

His reaction was so over-the-top that you couldn't help but smirk a little, even through your embarrassment. "Just asking. You seem awfully interested in the mechanics."

"That's different! I'm a man, and you're a—" He gestured wildly at you, his face flushed red now too, but for entirely different reasons. "Hell no, I don't do that sick shit!"

"Hey man, Love is Love." You held up your hands in mock surrender. "Seemed fair to ask."

Merle took a long, aggressive drag from the joint when you passed it back, like he was trying to burn the very suggestion out of his brain. But after a moment, that familiar gleam crept back into his eyes.

"Nice try, sugar, but you ain't gonna distract me that easy." His voice was still a little strained, but the predatory edge was returning.

"We were talkin' about you and that pretty little mouth of yours. What about the main event, darlin'? You ever go all the way?"

You took another hit, buying yourself time. "Maybe."

"Maybe ain't an answer."

"A few times," you said finally. "But it wasn't... it didn't mean ... what I thought."

"How many times is a few?"

"Merle..."

"Come on, lil doe. We're being honest here."

"Three," you whispered. "Three times... same person."

"Three times." He seemed to be turning this over in his mind. "That it? Just three times in your whole life?"

You nodded, feeling suddenly exposed and vulnerable.

"Damn, sugar. For someone who ain't a nun, you sure are selective." His tone wasn't mocking, though. If anything, he sounded almost... impressed? "See, I'm just trying to figure out how innocent you really are, lil doe. What kind of experience you got—"

"What, you planning on getting me a hooker now that the world's gone to shit?" The words came out sharper than you intended, fueled by the weed and the memory of what he'd told you about his brother.

Merle's grin faltered slightly. "Now that ain't fair—"

"Isn't it?" You sat up straighter, suddenly feeling more clearheaded despite the buzz. "Because that's your solution to everything, isn't it? Just throw money or liquor at it and make it go away?"

"That ain't what that was about."

"No? Then what was it about, Merle? Taking away your baby brother's choice? Getting him so messed up he couldn't think straight and then shoving him into bed with some girl he'd never met?"

Merle's jaw tightened. "You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly. You thought you were doing him some kind of favor, but really you were just being a selfish asshole who couldn't stand the thought of his little brother being different from you."

The silence stretched between you, heavy and charged. Merle's eyes had gone cold, that familiar wall slamming back into place.

"You done?" he asked quietly.

"Are you? Done trying to figure out my sexual history so you can what—corrupt me? Add another notch to your belt?" You laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not some innocent little flower you can manipulate."

"That what you think I'm doing?"

"I don't know what you're doing." You took another hit, using it to buy yourself time to think. "But I know what you did to him was wrong."

Merle was quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher than usual. "This boy from back home?"

"We dated for a while, but..." you state looking away, some of the fight going out of you.

"But what?"

"It wasn't right. I don't know... I figured I'd wait for feelings, you know? Real feelings. Not just... physical stuff." You looked at him pointedly. "Not just scratching an itch."

Something flickered across Merle's expression, too quick to catch. "Feelings, huh? That's real sweet, darlin'. Real sweet and naive."

"There's that word again." You shook your head. "Just because I don't screw around doesn't make me naive, Merle. It makes me selective."

"Same thing, ain't it?"

"No, it's not." You turned to face him fully. "Naive would be thinking everyone's good deep down. Naive would be trusting people just because they're nice to me. I'm not naive—I'm careful. There's a difference."

"If you say so, sugar."

"I do say so." You studied his face in the firelight. "So what about you? How many women have you been with?"

Merle's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. If we're sharing, let's really share. How many?"

"That's different—"

"How is it different? Because you're a big tough man?" You laughed, but it wasn't entirely pleasant. "Come on, Merle. You've been prying into my sex life for the past hour. Turn about's fair play."

He was quiet for a moment, clearly not used to being on the receiving end of such questions. "I don't know. Didn't exactly keep count."

"Ballpark."

"More than three," he said dryly.

"More than thirty?"

Another pause. "Yeah."

"More than fifty? A hundred ?"

"Jesus, what are you, taking inventory?"

"Just trying to understand the man I'm traveling with." You took another hit, feeling bolder. "Were any of them... special? Or were they all just—"

"Just what?"

"Just transactions." You met his eyes.

Merle's face went hard. "You got something you want to say, lil doe?"

"I already said it." You shrugged. "I just think it's sad, that's all."

"What's sad?"

"That you think sex is just something you do to someone instead of something you share with someone." You pulled your knees up to your chest.

"You think you're better than me?" His voice was dangerous now, low and rough.

"I think we're different," you said carefully. "I think we were raised different, taught different things about what intimacy means."

"Intimacy." He said the word like it tasted bad. "That some fancy word they taught you at your fancy school?"

"It's just a word, Merle. It means closeness. Connection. Something real."

"Real." He laughed, but it was bitter. "Nothing real about it, sweetheart. It's just biology. Scratching an itch, like you said."

"Is it? Then why do you care so much about whether I've done it or not?"

That shut him up. He stared at you for a long moment, something working behind his eyes.

"I mean it," you pressed. "If it's just biology, just scratching an itch, why does it matter to you whether I'm experienced or not? Why do you care?"

"I don't—"

"You do. You've been asking me about it. You walked in on me in the shower and you've been thinking about it ever since." You saw him flinch slightly and knew you'd hit home. "So why? What's it to you?"

Merle was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer.

"'Could just be planning your corruption," he said, but his heart wasn't in it.

"Are you?"

"What?"

The admission hung between you like a fragile thing, and for a moment you saw past all his walls to something raw and wounded underneath.

"Planning my corruption?"

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you saw something in his eyes that you couldn't decipher. "Maybe I am, lil doe. Maybe I am."

"I'm not naive," you protested, but the moment had shifted something between you.

"'Course not." His tone was different now, less teasing and more thoughtful. "Bet you went to some fancy private school too, didn't you, sugar? All proper and shit?"

"Actually, no." You pulled your knees up to your chest, suddenly feeling the weight of the conversation. " But ... We had money ... lived pretty well."

"No shit?" He seemed genuinely surprised. "What kind of money we talking about here?"

"Enough." You shifted uncomfortably. "My father was in shipping. Import, export. We had a nice house, nice things..." You paused, looking at him. "What about your parents? What did they do?"

Merle's laugh was harsh. "They didn't do much of anything, sugar. Unless you count drinking and fighting as professions."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Made me who I am." He shrugged, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. "Your daddy probably had more money in his wallet than mine made in a year."

"Money isn't everything."

"Easy to say when you got it."

You studied his profile in the firelight. "Is that why you hate me sometimes? Because of where I come from?"

"I don't hate you."

"Sometimes you do. I can see it in your eyes. Like you want to punish me for something I didn't choose."

Merle was quiet for a long moment. "Maybe I do," he admitted finally. "Maybe it pisses me off that someone like you is slumming it with someone like me."

"Someone like me?"

"Clean. Good." He said the last word like it was foreign to him. "Everything I ain't."

"You think I'm good?"

"I think you're better than this. Better than following my sorry ass through the woods looking for a brother who might already be dead."

The honesty in his voice caught you off guard. "Then why do you let me?"

"Because I'm a selfish bastard who dont wanna be out hear with no one to talk too."

You reached out then, your fingers brushing against his hand. He didn't pull away.

"You're not as bad as you think you are," you said softly.

"Yeah? What makes you so sure?"

"Because someone who was truly bad wouldn't care about finding his brother. Wouldn't feel guilty about what he did to him."

Merle's jaw tightened. "I don't feel guilty."

"Don't you? Isn't that why we're really out here? Not just to find him, but to make it right somehow?"

He didn't answer, but he didn't deny it either.

"A nice house where, exactly?" he asked instead, clearly wanting to change the subject.

You hesitated, then figured what was the harm. "Island in the pacific."

Merle's eyebrows shot up. "An island? Like, surrounded by water and everything?"

"That's generally how islands work," you said dryly, and he barked out a laugh.

"Smart mouth on you when you're high, ain't there?" He shook his head. "So you're telling me you went from living on some fancy island to following my sorry ass through the Georgia backwoods?"

"When you put it like that, it sounds pretty stupid."

"Nah, not stupid. Just..." He studied you for a long moment. "Just makes me wonder what kind of life you're running from."

The observation was too perceptive, and you felt heat creep up your neck. "Wasn't running"

"Everyone's running from something, lil doe. Question is what."

"Who says I'm running?"

"What you decided to follow a one-handed redneck through walker-infested Georgia?"

"As opposed to leaving you on that roof ?"

Merle looked at you with something that might have been respect. "Yeah, Fair point."

"So what happens when we find him? Your little brother?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what happens to me? Do I just... disappear? Find somewhere else to go?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard. "You worried about that?"

"Maybe. I don't exactly have a lot of other options."

"You could go back. To your island."

"Could I? Airport schedules are a bit hard too pull up these days."

The fire crackled between you, and you found yourself studying his face in the dancing light. The harsh lines, the pale eyes, the way his mouth twisted when he was thinking.

"Can I ask you something?" you said finally.

"Shoot."

"Do you ever regret it? What you did to him?"

Merle was quiet for so long you thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

"Every damn day."

"Then why did you do it?"

"Because I was young and stupid and thought I was helping." He ran his hand through his hair. "Because I didn't want him to be... different. Didn't want him to get picked on more than he already was."

"Different how?"

"Shy. Sensitive. Too damn kind for his own good." Merle's voice was rough with something that might have been pain. "Kid never hurt a fly, never said a harsh word to nobody. In our neighborhood, that made him a target."

"So you thought... what? That sleeping with a prostitute would toughen him up?"

"I thought it would make him more like me." The admission seemed to cost him something. "Thought if he got some experience, he'd be able to handle himself better."

"But instead you just hurt him."

"Yeah. Yeah, I did."

You could see the guilt eating at him, could hear it in every word. "Is that why you're so determined to find him? To make up for it?"

"Maybe I just miss my baby brother." He looked up at you, and for a moment his mask slipped completely. "He's the only good thing I ever had in my life, and I'm thinking I fucked it up."

The raw honesty in his voice made your chest tight. Without thinking, you reached out and covered his hand with yours.

"You'll find him," you said softly. "And when you do, you'll make it right."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because despite everything you've done, everything you think you are, you love him. And love... love finds a way."

Merle stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. "You really believe that?"

"I have to. Otherwise, what's the point of any of this?"

He turned his hand palm up, his fingers curling around yours. "You're something else, you know that, lil doe?"

The nickname made your chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the weed. "Why do you call me that?"

"Call you what?"

"Lil doe. You call me that the most."

Merle was quiet for a moment, his fingers twitched once. "You remind me of one, I guess. All big eyes and skittish, but..." He trailed off.

"But what?"

"But stubborn as hell when you need to be." He looked up at you, and there was something in his expression you'd never seen before. Something almost tender. "Deer are tougher than people think. Survivors."

Outside, the Georgia night pressed against the windows, full of dangers both known and unknown. But inside, by the dying fire, the most dangerous thing might just be the way Merle kept looking at you now like he was afraid to break you.

"We should get some rest," he said finally. "Got a long way to go tomorrow if we're gonna find my baby brother."

You nodded, but made no move to get up. Neither did he. The fire crackled between you, and somewhere in the distance, a night bird called out into the darkness.

"Merle?" you said quietly.

"Yeah, darlin'?"

"Thanks. For... this. For making me try something new."

His smile was softer than you'd ever seen it. "Anytime, lil doe. Anytime."

[mytheoristavenue]

I think laios has a breeding kink but at the same time doesn’t want to be a father

if that makes sense

DM - Lios Touden Having a Breeding Kink

Summary: Headcanons of having a baby w/ Laios

Warnings: breeding, NSFW undercut, fluff, angst, accidental/unwanted pregnancy

With Liaos having so many 'dog-like' traits, I also highly agree that he probably has a pretty big breeding kink. I like to imagine him settling down after the canon events and possibly even finding a wife.

As a husband, he is always staunchly against having children, though the positions he puts you in, the things he says in the heat of the moment, prove he has a primal need to impregnate you.

I can see him liking it from the back, pushing your face against whatever surface, gripping your tummy, hips, thighs, anything he can really get his hands on. He really doesn't have a specific rhythm; he just moves according to what feels good and what makes you sound the prettiest.

"Sound so pretty, baby," He murmurs mindlessly, kissing and nipping at your back. "Like it? Like your big husband breeding your pretty cunt?" While biting down on your shoulder hard enough to leave an indentation.

When you whimper affirmatively, he loses what little control he had, the need to pull out slipping his mind entirely. Something about filling you up, keeping himself warm inside your creamy cunt rewires his way of thinking and we quickly discovers he needs it to be like that every time.

His careful lovemaking, always having enough control to finish on your back or tummy, turns into desperate, needy creampies as often as possible, though its never less loving.

It's no surprise to anyone but him when you wind up pregnant, already a bit awkward when you both find out. Due to your calculations, it's likely you conceived early on into this new ritual, if not the very first time.

At first, he distances himself from you drastically. It's not because he loves you any less. He just never wanted kids, and he's upset with himself for letting his primal desires dictate what the rest of your lives would be like.

After a long, difficult discussion, he eventually comes to terms with the fact that you are having his baby and that nothing will change that. He still doesn't share your enthusiasm, though, which puts strain on your relationship.

As your tummy grows, he finds himself begrudgingly attracted to you, more than ever before. Those evolutionary hormones inside you both are working their charm, and he often finds himself in your lap, kissing on your belly.

I see him being really nervous to have penetrative sex your entire pregnancy, despite your reassurance. But he discovers how much he enjoys sinking into you slowly, rolling his gently, sometimes for hours. He's surprised to find he can still usually finish from this and it feels just as nice.

In spite of himself, he finds that helping you plan for the baby is a bit fun. Building a crib himself (Chilchuck def didn't help him at all, don't even ask), helping you decorate the nursery with stuffed animals. He's particularly fond of the collection of plush dogs he allgined on the shelf.

Speaking of Chilchuck, he finds himself going to him more often as your due date draws closer. The half foot is able to put to rest some of his fears. Through these conversations, Laios begins to wonder if he truly doesn't want kids, or if he is just afraid he'll be a poor father.

When you're reaching the end of your pregnancy, his protective instincts are in full swing. He won't even let you walk upstairs without him to guide you. You thought it was because he worried about your safety, but he mutters something one day that makes you pause.

"Darling, what are you doing?" He fusses, taking your hand, his other resting on the small of your back. "What if you fall?" Before you can put his worries to rest, he adds: "You've got to be more careful on these starves, love, think about the baby." You simply smile and agree to be more cautious.

When he discovers you're going into labor, he's bouncing between panic about your condition and about being a dad. Nothing anyone can say will soothe him now. Not until Marcille steps out of your room, blood smeared on her smock and a sheepish smile on her lips. "It's a girl,"

A girl? No, that can't be right. Laios had prepared himself to raise a boy, finally coming to terms with how he'd make an honest man out of his son. But now he had a daughter? He was out of his depth.

He steps inside and stops, stunned, seeing his exhausted wife with the kind smile he fell in love with so long ago. You're topless with a tiny blushed cheek pressed to your chest.

He hurries to your side, finally catching a good look at his daughter. "S-She looks just like..." He pauses, glancing up at his sister, who displays the warmest smile. Something in him changes in that moment. Whether is something altered reverting back to it's natural state, or something cold melted into something warm, he can't tell. All he knows is what he is. He's a husband and father, and no other title has felt more... right.

Chilchuck is secretly ecstatic to have a fellow girl dad he can rant and rave with, and Laios is relieved to have someone who understands his new reality.

Nowadays, his favorite pastime is sitting with his daughter, reading her folktales until she drifts off in his arms. That's his pal, his little princess, a tiny monster of his very own. Only there was no book he could find that would give him wisdom on how to handle her.

In short, girl dad!Laios supremacy.

[doingnotsogoodalso]

thunderbolts wing thoughts under tha cut because it's actually long.

Now you might be thinking (as in I am always thinking) there are so many guns all the time so much concrete and glass and dangerous materials for such delicate limbs to be out. Which is why I'm implementing the common sense rule of keep-it-in-your-fuck-ing-costume(and-stop-wearing-just-hoodies-yelena) or KIIYFIC. When applicable.

The bird of prey wings I give super soldiers (Bradley with epic hawk wings dot png he deserves them) and supers of that general type are often too large proportional to their lame human bodies to fit comfortably. Maybe an in world point for Why The Shield? Wing Shields!

It's fun to draw big wings shielding people you understand.

What does this mean for the taco shield literally do not even worry about it. Don't worry about it.

Ava keeps her hummingbird wings proportionally small and easily foldable in her suit, easy! Do they phase also and need to be covered with torches or material? Why does her suit material turn invisible? I do not know and I'm not willing to watch AMatW after being burned by Quantumania.

Bucky I've seen be given metal wings in times of old but I'm kind of unwilling to fuck with the extent and implications of his disability and limb differences for funny bird when it's already so mishandled, so sorry James. So we're keeping the bat hawk wins because they're Metal in Style. Sleek and swag. Congratulations James.

Yelena also has smaller wings, they're also black and white and I personally think they would look great with her outfits. Monotone as they are. Does she disguise her wings for operations don't know she doesn't change her hair. The red room isn't crazy about disguises. Maybe because they're so good you'd never get a profile on them ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

Alexei I don't like you but I think that your Black Widow Ohio Look is the funniest thing and I think this random Dahmer-looking suburban guy should have giant fuck off wings.

I'm attached to pigeon Bob now thank you commenter. I hope he leaves dust all over everything all the time. I hope someone startles him and it's the loudest thing in the world (pigeons have a 'noise feather'). Godspeed.

John I'm putting in a blender. I think he's just as awful with regulating with his wings as he is everything else like a giant emotional banner that's knocking over furniture and probably Bob. Ruffled feathers. Why are you posturing in the kitchen you're fine. You're hitting the ceiling.

Did super soldiers have different wings before if they're so personal in choice? Yeah Probably but I don't know how that'd work and I'm unwilling to figure it out right now. Steve Rogers grew new bones and muscles in like ten minutes they'll be fine.

[lovehazard]

On a scale of 1-10, how would you rank each member of Valentines (crew? organization?group?) on how dangerous it is to try to escape them?

Also, what would it be like to try to escape each one of them? I feel like the experience would vary from each one of them, due to their different resources/skills/strengths and such. It would probably be a little different too, depending on who it is that is escaping...(for example, like if it was just one of their victims, or their darling)

Hmm it’s hard to say on scale, they’re all pretty difficult to escape from, you have to be very lucky, or smart, to be able to escape from them.

Sylas

Escaping Sylas isn’t impossible, but that's because he lets it feel that way. Sylas gets a certain... pleasure from the chase. The moment someone tries to slip away, it flips a switch in him. He doesn’t panic. He smiles.

To Sylas, a darling on the run isn’t a threat, it’s an invitation.

He’s not the type to have tight security, not because he’s careless, but because he’s confident in what he does. You think you’ve outsmarted him. You think you’re safe. That’s when he reappears, calm as ever, amused that you thought it would be that easy. The more you run, the more his obsession grows. Not just with owning you, but with proving that you belong to him, no matter how far you try to flee.

“You really thought you could make it, how cute.”

His strength isn't just physical, though he is capable, it’s psychological. He doesn’t just want to drag you back. He wants to make you want to return. Or make sure you never dare to run again.

If you’re a victim: He doesn't feel much for you beyond fleeting curiosity. You're not precious to him, you’re just a toy, a job to get done. Unlike his darling, he doesn’t plan to keep you. He’s just dragging out the time until he gets bored, or until you break. When that moment comes, he doesn’t make a big show of it. He appears like a shadow at your back. Maybe with a soft chuckle. Maybe with nothing at all. And he’ll say: “That was fun, but time’s up.” Then it ends. Quickly. Quietly. Coldly.

Cannibal-chan

Trying to escape Cannibal-chan is like trying to sneak away from a wild animal that knows you’re in the room, even when you think you’re being quiet.

She’s similar to Sylas in that she enjoys the chase, but Cannibal-chan is even more impulsive and violent. She lives for the panic in your eyes, the terror in your voice, the way you trip over yourself trying to flee. The moment she senses fear, it turns into a game for her, one she doesn’t plan to end quickly.

She doesn’t care about letting you go to prove a point; she lets you run because she wants to have fun. The more you resist, the more inspired she becomes. You might get away from her physically for a short time, but mentally? She’ll have already gotten under your skin. You’ll start wondering if she's watching you. If she’s nearby. If she’s already behind you again.

And when she finally catches up? It won’t be clean. It won’t be quick. Cannibal-chan likes her messes. She likes watching you squirm.

If you’re a victim: If you're just a victim to Cannibal-chan, you’re basically a snack with legs. She might find you amusing for a bit, especially if you scream nice or run in interesting patterns, but once the fun runs out? You’re meat. She won’t mourn the loss. She won’t even remember your name. Her only interest in you lies in how entertaining your fear is, how creatively she can hunt you, tease you, and pull you apart once she’s done playing.

Dominik

Escaping from Dominik it’s more like a test than just escaping. A curated, calculated experience designed to dissect your mind like a frog under glass. Unlike the others, Dominik isn’t impulsive. He’s patient. Chillingly so.

He observes how you react to the obstacles. He’ll let you think you’ve found a weak spot in the security. A window left open. A moment when the cameras “weren’t working.” But all of it? Intentional. He wants to see how long you’ll last. How much you’ll hope. How far you’ll push yourself before it all crumbles.

Then, right at the peak of your adrenaline, your desperation, he appears. Calm. Immaculate. Unbothered.

And then come the questions:

“How did you feel when you thought you were going to escape?” “Did it make your heart race?” “Were you disappointed… or relieved to see me again?”

He’s not asking for answers, he’s watching how you answer. How your voice shakes. How you avoid his eyes. Dominik doesn’t just want your body under his control, he wants your mind. Your patterns. Your fears.

I believe the worst part is that you’ll start to feel like he knows you better than you know yourself. And when he says “You were never going to make it.” you’ll believe him.

When he brings you back, he won’t raise his voice. But you’ll feel the walls close in subtly. Quietly. Until there’s nowhere left to go.

If you’re a victim: He won’t romanticize you. He won’t feel sorry for you. You’re an opportunity to observe, and maybe refine his methods. He’ll let you run. Not because he’s giving you a chance, but because he wants to see what you do when hope is dangled in front of your face. For him it’s not cruelty, it’s curiosity.

Almas

Almas isn’t the type to chain you to a bed or lock the door. No, he’s the type to wrap the chains around your heart, your mind. Giggling, teasing, and whispering sweet nothings until you don’t even realize you’re trapped. Escaping him isn’t about fleeing a physical space, it’s about disentangling yourself from a feeling that refuses to let go.

He's an incubus, after all. Seduction is second nature. He’ll make you feel seen, desired, adored, even when it’s all part of the game. You think you’re pulling away? He’ll pout, act hurt, maybe even cry. And then suddenly you're comforting him, even as you're trying to leave. His power isn’t brute force, it’s emotional disarmament.

He plays. He flirts. He pouts when you pull away, only to turn possessive the second you get too close to someone else. And if you do manage to run?

He won’t run after you. He’ll draw you back in. Maybe with a dream. Maybe with a voice in your head that sounds just like him. Or maybe with that lingering ache in your chest that whispers, “did he really love me?”

You’ll never truly escape. He’s already made a home inside your thoughts, and he’s very comfortable there. The most dangerous part isn’t the chase. It’s how much you don’t want to leave.

If you’re a victim: Almas is an incubus. He feeds on desire, attention, emotional charge, and if you’re just a victim, you’re mostly bait to pass the time. He might flirt with you, toy with you, confuse you with mixed signals, but he won’t grow attached. You’re fodder for his ego or appetite. He may seduce, manipulate, or even pretend to be kind, only to end you when he’s done feeding from you.

Viktor

If there's one thing he can’t stand, it’s when something doesn’t go according to plan.

Especially when they run away from him.

He doesn't lose his temper, he just gets sharper.There's this edge that starts showing in the way he moves, how short his sentences get. He won't yell or rage, but you can feel it. The irritation in his voice. The pressure in the room.

At first, he’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was fear. A mistake. A moment of panic. But once he realizes you're really trying to get away? That’s when the clock starts ticking.

He doesn’t play games. He doesn’t chase for fun. He hunts you down to end it quickly.

And he always, always finds you.

You’ll know he’s close when everything just… stops working. The car won’t start. Your phone dies. The safehouse feels too quiet. You catch your breath in the alleyway, and hear the familiar sound of boots behind you.

Then comes his voice, steady and tight with irritation:

“Was that really necessary?”

He doesn’t hurt you if you’re his darling. But you’ll feel it. The disappointment, the tension, the way his hand tightens a little too hard on your wrist as he brings you back. He hates wasting time, and running just made things messy.

If you’re a victim: You’re a mess that needs cleaning up. Viktor is fast, brutal, and completely impersonal. No speeches. No lingering looks. Just a clean job and a quiet disposal. You won’t see him coming. You won’t get a second chance.

Liam:

Trying to escape Liam isn't like running from a sadist or a stalker. He’s not the type to breathe down your neck, play psychological games, or leave cryptic messages in your locker. He doesn’t enjoy the hunt, he just sees it as part of the job. You're not special. You’re a task. A name on a list. Kill. Get the money. Move on.

He’s calm, collected, and efficient. He won’t get sloppy. If you run, he doesn’t panic. He just starts walking with a bat in his hand. And he won’t stop until he gets you.

There’s no thrill in the violence. No pleasure. It’s a chore, but one he does without hesitation. He’ll crack your skull open with a baseball bat just as easily as he’d take out the trash.

If you’re someone who tries to interfere with Ophelia, if you get too close, too friendly, too curious?

You’ll die differently. Slower. Not because Liam wants you to suffer, but because he wants you to understand. You don’t touch what’s his. You don’t look at what’s his. You don’t exist near what’s his.

Then he’ll check his phone, wipe his hands, and text Ophelia something sweet.

“Miss you already. Dinner tomorrow <3?” (Poor Ophelia)

[alexanderwales]

When you finish writing a big story and you became very close the characters, was there a time after where you were like "i kind of want to revisit these characters again, but i should probably just let the story be, they deserve to rest" Im not talking about wanting to write a sequel, is more about still coming up with fun ideas for them, maybe a little scene or something, but choosing not to do anything with it because it'd feel disrespectful to the ending you gave them?

Hrm. I think for me, characters exist as a vehicle to tell a story, and when that story is done, I'm off to the next character and the next story. It's vanishingly rare that I want to revisit anything that's been "completed".

There are a few exceptions. Worth the Candle had some conceits that worked well for specific jokes and gimmicks and discourse, and sometimes I'll have an idea and then think "ah, but that only really works in the context of Worth the Candle, not the other things I'm working on". I keep having an itch to get back to Shadows of the Limelight because there's always stuff that interests me about fame, fandoms, parasocial relationships, and the act of creating for an audience. But in both these cases, it's about what the framework allows for.

I think that characters get slowly pinned down over time as you add in backstory and traits, and eventually you've pinned everything down. Or to use another metaphor, you've mined them out. Ideally they've gone through some kind of narrative arc in the process of all this, or maybe they haven't, but there's nothing "new" left to them, nothing to discover or explore or say. They're less interesting to me.

And in the course of writing webfic this is especially the case, because by the end you've done like three to five books, and what more could there be that you didn't already get at? Unless you're doing the sort of book with no interest in diving into their personality and psychology, I guess, where there's nothing you actually had to say about this person and how they operate.

That said, I do think that I'm drawn to particular archetypes, and those I'm much more inclined to return to, but part of the reason I'd prefer that to an old character is that there's new stuff to discover, even if I'm working within familiar ground. There's backstory that will provide a particular texture, there are variations, places that I couldn't explore the first time around because it didn't work for that other character. I'm sure that someone who's read all my stuff could draw a bunch of parallels between characters, but hopefully they would see the ways in which they're all importantly different from each other, and how it was worth doing "the same" character a second time.

And to answer part of the ask: I have no regard for endings, except that the ending usually means that I've said all that I wanted to say. If I had some hot new idea, I would write a short story in a heartbeat using some old characters, if I needed to use them. (But also, I would still probably not want to do that because of all the old stuff that I would have to load back into RAM, and all the continuity checking, which takes some time.)

[samsheughan]

A lot of Outlander fandom gifmakers post their stuff on here and on Twitter and it's ALL watermarked because thieves suck actual ass so maybe anon needs to sit this one out.

Here's the thing people REALLY need to understand. If theives were capable of removing the watermark from our gifs (which can be a very involved process if you know what you're doing) they'd be making their own gifs already instead of stealing ours. It's not necessarily hard to make gifs, but it can be time consuming. "Why waste time learning a fun new skill when I can just take someone else's work and claim it as my own?" a content thief, probably.

While that's not entirely universal, (some people will steal wm gifs and don't care that it was stolen, and I've had some of my gifs stolen and they removed my watermark [shoutout to my friends who pointed it out for me]) it does greatly reduce the chance of gifs being stolen if they're marked. Most content thieves want to appear as if they put in the work to make the content they took and don't want any sign that that could not be the case. A watermark dissolves that illusion real fucking fast.

Also, I refuse to call them reposters. That implies they're doing something normal or socially acceptable. No. Nope. Absolutely not. They're THIEVES. Maybe if people could stop being thieves, we wouldn't have to watermark our content.

Do better.

watermarks on gifs are for attention seekers on twitter, not gif artists on Tumblr

......... we watermark our gifs...... so we know when they've been stolen.....

There's a lot of work that goes into gifs. As seen here. Sometimes they take hours to make. My Star Wars Day set took 4 days.

Just for good measure, this

[sysig]

Skelekinz (Patreon)

[moe-broey]

Fellas can you take this somewhere else. Maybe. Just not in the fucking halls. Thanks 🫡

I couldn't resist drawing out these tags I wrote on a dif post LMFAO

Moe just has...... SO many problems.......

Close-ups of my fave shots!

The elusive Líf...

[kurp-stuff]

.

[lieutenantselnia]

Actually I think it's a bit unfair that I can't be an astrophysicist and a historian and a game developer and a marine biologist and an archaeologist and an author and a seamstress at the same time

[leafy-m]

So I hit my 700th edit for the WHA wiki today, because I am a totally normal person