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anony-man · 1 month ago

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Surprise surprise… I bring another collaboration!

I got to work with my good friend Siberat again on another piece together—this time as a small sequel to her story. It was a lot of fun to do, and I’m hoping you guys like it as much as I liked writing it!

If you haven’t yet, go give that fic a read! Links to the original story and to Siberat’s page below. Enjoy!

Autobot Version by Siberat | Siberat’s page

(Credits for the cover art and original fic idea all go to @siberat. Thank you for letting me join you in playing with this piece!)

It wasn’t Optimus’ fault, and Ratchet reminded himself of that repeatedly as he sped across the empty desert.

Spending his downtime in the comfort of their quarters was just as nice as the one-on-one bonding he’d gotten in with the Prime, but at the end of the day, it just wasn’t enough. Restrictions were in place for a reason, and Ratchet knew that. Sometimes, like today, he found it hard to justify. He’d still gotten his fill physically, but mentally, he was still hungry. Optimus had made great company between the tender feeding and the belly rub that followed, but like always, the poor medic was left feeling hot and bothered and forced to turn to himself for a solution.

Communication was key, but he had done his part before—many times, in fact. There was just an impenetrable distance between them, a limitation that came from the Prime’s responsibilities just as much as it came from his own lower rank. Optimus couldn’t in good conscience give in like that. Not yet. After the war perhaps, or maybe after things had finally settled down between their separate factions… assuming they ever did, but not now, not yet.

The answer was simple, and the boundary was strictly put in place. Optimus cared for him, and Ratchet for Optimus. The Prime wanted this just as badly as he did, but the timing… the restrictions, the guilt, and the risks it brought…

Optimus couldn’t give it to him just yet, and Ratchet knew that. He had been reminded of the uncomfortable truth once more after their risqué feeding session had ended on such a painfully proper and socially professional note. Thus, in order to combat the feelings that brewed under the surface, he was going for a drive.

He needed to clear his helm. He also needed to stave off the bellyache that lingered after peeling out of the Autobot’s base. Optimus would be waiting for him when he returned, he knew, as would the rest of their team. Stoic, worried Optimus and the rest of his teammates, each of them growing more and more aware of the strange turn their beloved medic was taking and the attractive amount of weight his frame was packing on.

Weight gain wasn’t a bad thing, per se. It wasn’t exactly a blessing, but it wasn’t a bad thing. The attention was nice, dare he say, and Optimus’ infatuation with the naturally plump and curvy look he bore in his prime felt good. All was as it should have been, war or no, and for once, Ratchet was finally starting to feel like himself. It was a shame, then, that something so good could bring him such mixed emotions.

Primus help him, why couldn’t things be simpler? He was a medic, not a psychiatrist, and this was far out of his comfort zone.

Ratchet’s engines revved as he pushed the limits of his systems and strained against his dashboard’s speedometer. Clouds of dust billowed behind him, leaving an untraceable trail of dirt and debris that covered up his tire tracks nicely. He wasn’t headed in any particular direction other than far, far away from both the nearest cities and from the Autobot base itself.

He knew what he wanted, and he knew what he needed, but neither what he wanted nor what he needed were things he could have in that moment nor in the near future. So, he drove… and he drove, and drove, and drove. The further he drove, the less prominent the pain of his stuffed and tight tanks became, and the less daunting his troubles seemed.. It made it easier not to think about things, too, though that wasn’t as easily accomplished as outrunning the discomfort of overeating with no pair of gentle servos left to soothe him.

For a while, Ratchet drove, and in the meantime, he tried to remind himself that none of this was Optimus’ fault. Not really, anyway. Still, his processor stubbornly reminded him, it wasn’t his own fault, either—not in a way that mattered.

It had been ages since Ratchet last left the base for something other than a simple rescue mission, and despite his poor mood, it felt good to get out again. His sluggishness wore off the longer he drove, and as he moved farther and farther away from the rest of the living world, his tension dissipated, too. At least… it did at first. Now, as the winds picked up and his GPS picked up on terrain neither he nor the rest of his team had ever covered before, his good mood was starting to sour.

Ratchet came to a rolling stop before transforming and staggering to his pedes. The strange stone pillars arching high above his stature all around him were disorienting, and the dust clouds that hung around him made it hard to see, let alone track his path.

His alt-mode’s range of vision was limited, but in his root form, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t see. It only took a few seconds and a couple of looks around the empty canyon before Ratchet was looking up to the skies, and by then, it was already too late.

The unsettling ache in his tanks wasn’t just from overeating, apparently, as the Nemesis hung high in the air like a dark cloud looming overhead. Signal was poor out in the middle of nowhere, and thanks to his up and coming interest in all things sweet treats and baked goods, Ratchet was far too out of practice to stand any chance in any hand-to-hand combat.

He was alone, too. That in of itself meant nothing good.

Fleeing wasn’t an option, and neither was calling for backup. Ratchet had already considered both options when the fizzle of his comm link proudly announced to him that he was far enough out of range for everyone back home to miss out on his requests for help. By the time he was cursing his luck under his breath, a ground bridge was opening up, and the Decepticon warlord himself was walking out.

“Scrap,” the old doctor whispered as he braced himself for a fight.

Megatron seemed more than a little amused by his fear, if the sinister smile and the fusion cannon charging up were anything to go by. They stood at a silent standstill for some time, the only sounds to accompany the tension in the air being the whir of the Con’s weapon and Ratchet’s pedes in the dirt as he shifted in his stance.

“It’s been far too long, Ratchet,” Megatron called out, his voice carried by the wind. As he drew closer, Ratchet took a step back. “Forgive the interruption, but when Soundwave informed me that you had finally come out of hiding—“

“I have no time for your petty words, Megatron,” Ratchet spat. “Please, spare us both the trouble and get to the point.”

He needed Optimus here. He needed Arcee, Bulkhead… frag, even Wheeljack would have sufficed for backup. Ratchet was a sitting duck, as the children would say, and the intimidation factor of blades for servos as his weapon of choice was greatly downplayed by his softened frame and hanging gut. It was an embarrassment to be seen like this from the enemy’s perspective, and Megatron’s sick taste for entertaining himself by moving forward until they were mere inches apart didn’t help.

It was uncharacteristic of a monster like Megatron not to have called him out for his obvious disadvantages by now. Hell, the Con had yet to even take up the rare opportunity of overpowering his opponent so easily. The heat of his fusion cannon burned Ratchet’s plating as he stood there, silent and looming, his cruel optics and even crueler smile the only indication of his intentions.

“You’re quite eager to be taken in as my hostage this time around,” Megatron mused, his voice a deep rumble that sent a shiver down Ratchet’s back struts. “Had it been anyone else, I would have been more concerned. You, however…”

The end of the cannon’s barrel was pressed flush against Ratchet’s frame, and it took every last bit of his resolve to meet Megatron’s gaze.

“You have evaded me for far too long,” Megatron said, “and I’ve grown tired of waiting. Come now, Ratchet. We have a lot to catch up on.”

— — — — —

As a captive, Ratchet expected cold chains and an even colder cell. He expected dark rooms, sinister glares and isolated corridors that muffled his cries and kept him out of sight. Breaching the Nemesis from the inside out was impossible at best and a death wish at worst, so the chance of rescue was slim. His ability to escape on his own? Even slimmer.

Specially enforced radio waves or whatever the slag it was Soundwave had done to alter the Nemesis’ forcefield left his comm links useless, and even if Ratchet had been in an area with strong enough signal to reach out, the risk hardly outweighed the rewards. He knew better than to lure his team into a minefield as dangerous as the Cons’ own ship, and no matter how desperate he became, he knew things would just have to wait.

He could be patient… he could plan. Patience was a virtue, after all, and with hundreds of hours practicing just that at the side of an operating table or in the aftermath of a battle, Ratchet considered himself something of an expert.

He was tense as Megatron guided him down the halls and through the doorways, but so far, the Decepticon leader had posed little threat. He was never going to be someone the doctor could trust, but his docile approach to housing an enemy in his own terrain was uncharacteristic of him. Megatron was as violent as he was brutal, but the gentle—yet massive—servo holding Ratchet’s frame painted him in a deceptively gentler light as they headed further and further into the ship’s interior.

It felt wrong. It felt dangerous, and Ratchet wasn’t sure whether he should be more scared or relieved that nothing had happened to him yet.

Several disorienting turns later he was pushed through the doors of what he could only assumed to be Megatron’s private quarters and shoved across the room. The cushion of plush pillows and silky blankets broke his fall after Megatron forced him onto the berth, but the Decepticon himself still remained impassive and unreadable.

The room was spacious, the berth comfortable, but Ratchet didn’t dare let his guard down. He hadn’t done so yet, and he didn’t dare to ever, no matter how long he was forced to remain stowed away like quality cargo preserved in the privacy of the captain’s quarters.

Megatron had been silent as he brought him inside, and he had remained silent after leaving Ratchet alone in his chambers. There was nothing left to do but wait, wonder, and worry, and Ratchet did all three as he paced the floors for hours, nothing to keep him company besides the sound of his spark thrumming in his chest and his heavy pedesteps.

That and the hunger. It had only been hours, of course, but oh, it had been hours. He wasn’t used to so much excitement anymore, having slowly adapted to a calm and casual life lived in the base with his baked goods and his fattening frame. Ratchet was just beginning to search the room in hopes of finding something to appease his appetite and frown over the short-lived satisfaction from being stuffed by Optimus when the sound of the door caught his attention, revealing to him in a rush of great disappointment that his captor had, in fact, returned.

Megatron made no move to stop him, let alone hurt him, but his presence remained a foreboding reminder of Ratchet’s current predicament. The twisted smile he wore as he propped a servo on his hip and stared the medic down like a carrier catching their offspring in the act of something devious certainly didn’t help with putting him at ease, either.

Such an insufferable expression to wear… and he simply stood there wearing it, making no move to stop Ratchet whatsoever.

“Comfortable?” Megatron purred, his optics drifting up and down Ratchet’s frame as he sized up his prize. “You seem to have no qualms about making yourself at home.”

“As if I had a choice,” Ratchet huffed through his embarrassment. His voice wavered as he spoke, but he stood strong. “You’ve been away for so long, I was starting to fear you’d have forgotten I was here… and you haven’t yet told me why you’ve taken it upon yourself to bring me aboard, either. Your touch is getting old, Megatron.”

“Oh, haven’t I?” Megatron said with a tilt of his helm. “Forgive me, doctor. I hadn’t realized my intentions weren’t clear enough for your understanding.”

Ratchet hardly had time to respond, let alone reaction. The Decepticon leader surged forward, and in turn, Ratchet stumbled back. His tension and fear returned in a rush of panic as he was guided under Megatron’s servo to backpedal in his steps, back up across the room, and move towards the berth.

“Up on the berth,” Megatron snarled, a singular digit jabbing into Ratchet’s chest as he cornered the mech, “now.”

Left without a choice, Ratchet obeyed. He struggled to haul himself up over the ledge of the berth and fell into the pile of cushioning beneath him, his false sense of security melting away as Megatron stood at his side and impatiently waited for him to get comfortable. The Con was looking him over and staring him down, and if that hadn’t been clear from the start, it was clear as day now.

A few indulgent pinches at the fat mesh spilling around his thighs was all it took for Ratchet to yelp and squirm, but Megatron was insistent. It was a stark contrast in comparison Optimus’ affections, and slag, it made the modest gushing from the Prime seem much, much more appealing. Ratchet had always wanted more, but when he was thinking more, he certainly wasn’t imagining this… and he certainly wasn’t wanting Megatron to be the one looming over him and tearing him apart with his optics alone.

“You’re drawing this out far too much for my liking,” Ratchet gasped out, having scooted to the far end of the berth where he remained just out of Megatron’s reach. “If fantasies are what we’re here for, then please, spare me the trouble.”

“You’re catching on quicker now,” Megatron said. “And here I feared Prime’s old lapdog had grown dim in his time away. Out of sight, out of mind… right, Ratchet?”

“My expertise aren’t always needed in the field,” Ratchet spat. “Talking in metaphors will get you nowhere with me, Megatron.”

Megatron hummed in return, a servo stroking at his chin as he smiled down at the poor, fearful mech. “Ahh… yet you seem to be understanding me just fine.”

How could he not? Megatron’s audacity was great, and for a fleeting moment, so was Ratchet’s anger. The fury of being taken in as a captive for something as ridiculous as mind games and petty remarks overshadowed his fear, and he lashed out with scathing words and crawling back across the berth to stare Megatron right back down.

“You may see it as hiding, but I see it as fulfilling my duties,” the old doctor said with his servos balled into fists at his side. “I hardly ever leave the base… but for good reason! And by now, Optimus is sure to have—“

“Don’t sound so certain,” Megatron scowled, “this is not the first time I’ve seen you run away from the Prime like the pitiful little house-pet you’ve become, and it surely won’t be the last. You left for a reason, did you not?”

Well… he did. Of course he did. Ratchet tried to speak, but the words never came.

Megatron’s ugly face twisted back into a cruel, indulgent smile. “Of course you did. Now why go back now, when you’ve come to me instead? Why not wait to go back… why not get your fill first?”

Ratchet slowly grew more and more self-conscious of the folds of fat on his belly and the soft curves of added weight across his frame as Megatron stood there, staring him down. It was bad enough to be forced to huddle up as far back against the wall as he could go to escape the Con’s touch, but it was even worse to know that he was slowly cracking under the pressure. Megatron’s intentions were growing clearer and clearer by the second, and it was obvious by then that the Decepticon leader wasn’t necessarily going to harm him. Still, the sinister smile and hungry stare didn’t leave him feeling any more reassured.

Megatron really had him cornered now, and for some Primus-forsaken reason, Ratchet was almost desperate to give in.

He tried to hold out. He tried to stay strong. What other reason was there for Megatron scooping him up and parading him back to his quarters? What else had changed besides the weight on his aft and the gut on his frame? Optimus liked the new look, as did Bulkhead. Wheeljack, too, as did team Prime in its entirety, really… plus Ratchet himself.

He didn’t need the satisfaction of the enemy falling for his looks. His fearful eagerness was because of his mixed emotions and his currently sticky dynamic with Optimus, nothing more. It was the high of a good thing wearing off, and it was the desperation of getting so, so close to ultimate satisfaction… only to be left hanging at the climax.

He liked the weight gain, but he wanted more. He liked the attention, but he needed more. He wanted Optimus’ gaze raking over him, Optimus’ servos pulling him close and squeezing him tightly, Optimus’ frame pressed against his own and Optimus’ engines rumbling to life with energy, power, and a similar, familiar need.

Ratchet tried not to let his desperation show, but he was an open book on the worst of days. It didn’t help that Megatron was leaning in close, drawing him in and tilting his helm up with a sharp claw that dug into his chin. Ratchet gasped at the sting and did as he was guided, his optics lifting to meet Megatron’s own as he shivered against the berthsheets.

Megatron blinked. Ratchet froze.

“Eager already,” the Con said, his voice rumbling in his throat like the purr of an engine as he grabbed Ratchet by the cheeks and twisted his helm around. “Just like the old days.”

There was no room for protests, no room for fighting back. Megatron had played him well.

It happened fast, and in a moment Ratchet was pushed forward and kneeling on his knees, his helm bent low and his arms held behind him. The restraints that kept him in place were cold and tight, and not even the comfort of the berth’s thick layers of pillows and blankets was enough to alleviate his discomfort. He struggled against his bonds and cried out in surprise, but there was no helping him. Megatron was going to get what he wanted one way or another, and Ratchet knew he would soon be giving in and enjoying it just as much.

“I may not have the Prime to toy with anymore,” Megatron hissed, his claws digging deep into the soft mesh of Ratchet’s frame, “but I can have you instead… and who can blame me for wanting to take my fill when you’ve come to me to do the same?”

The painful grip was released, but only for a moment. Ratchet watched as Megatron moved to the door and stepped outside, only to wheel in his version of a cart filled with fuels and foods into the room behind him. It was more energon than anything, and the assortment of sweets and treats looked thick, heavy, and indulgent. The sight was nothing like that he had offered up to Optimus in an attempt at gaining a mere hour’s worth of bonding and feeding, yet it resembled it almost identically.

The intentions were different, and so were the foods. Ratchet didn’t feel the nervous excitement he had felt on his way to Optimus’ quarters, but he did feel the dreadful anticipation of being stuffed to his limits and then pushed even further. Unlike Optimus, he knew Megatron wouldn’t stop at no, and Primus forgive him (Optimus too), that was exactly what Ratchet had wanted all along.

“I’ve seen the change in you, Ratchet,” Megatron said as he traced his digits over the edge of the cart, his servos coming to rest atop a stack of cubes, “and I know what you’re hiding. My experience in fighting to the top and overcoming deceit isn’t in vain any longer, and your own little secrets are as clear as the weight that hangs from your frame. They have been from the start.”

Megatron pried the lid from the cube atop the pile and stalked across the room, stopping just shy of the berth’s edge. He held it out in jest, the glowing energon a twisted teaser for what was yet to come, and watched as Ratchet panted and stared at the fuel with desperation even he couldn’t mask.

“Indulge me,” he said, lifting the cube to the medic’s lips, his optics meeting Ratchet’s own as he stared up at his captor, his feeder. “And I’ll be sure to return the favor.”

Ratchet knew what the answer should have been. He wasn’t bound or gagged save for the shackles on his wrists, but he still didn’t respond. He could speak just as well as he should speak. Megatron hadn’t forced him yet, and he likely wasn’t going to.

The option was there; he had a way out. He was Megatron’s prisoner, but he wasn’t imprisoned. He could leave, and Megatron would likely let him. He should, and he would… but Primus, he was just so eager, so excited, and so desperate.

He had already tested Megatron’s patience for long enough. When he didn’t respond, the Con moved in. The cube was held up to his lips and tilted far, far back, leaving Ratchet to choke, sputter, and swallow until every last drop had been drained. It happened again, and again, and again, and without fail, Megatron was there to hold his helm in place and keep him from turning away.

He didn’t want to be fed by Megatron of all mechs. He didn’t want those massive servos and sharp claws poking at his frame and pinching the swell of his belly as his tanks filled with every bite. He wanted Optimus more than anything, but Optimus didn’t want him—more specifically, Optimus didn’t want what they could have. A compromise was to be made, and a compromise was what he agreed to indulging.

The tilted power-shares and supposed compromise wasn’t the only thing he indulged in, as witnessed by the rapid pace and feverish energy of his forward and ferocious approach. Megatron spared no energy on kindness, and with every cube of liquid Ratchet was forced to swallow down, his captor and feeder was there to observe and weigh in on the progress.

“Don’t stop,” Megatron growled somewhere between finishing his seventh cube and starting on his eighth, “I haven’t brought you here to watch you stroke that fattened frame and moan your way out of being fed. Eat, Ratchet, or I will be forced to tie you down to the berth and stuff you my way.”

Ratchet could only groan in response as the corner of a cube was pressed against his lips once more. He was panting for breath already, his engines faltering and his vents burning with pent-up tension and a desperate need for air, space, and breathing room. The mesh of his belly was swollen and tight, and with every attempt he made at looking down to assess the damage, Megatron was there with a claw under his chin to tip his helm up and back for the next mouthful of fuel—or food, as he had finally begun digging into the sweet, solid treats that Ratchet knew would sit heavy in his packed tanks.

This was nothing like the mild and tender sessions with Optimus behind closed doors, but Ratchet loved it all the same. He couldn’t convince himself that the fistfuls of food being shoveled into his face and the servo holding his helm tight belonged to the Prime, even with his optics closed, and it made the guilt of squirming against the sheets and moaning for more all the more despicable.

His tanks were tight, and the bits of plating that clung by felt seconds away from splitting apart from him, but Ratchet ate, and ate, and ate… he ate until Megatron’s servos let go of his helm, and he ate until the sharp claws that had hurt him at the start were tenderly groping the rolls that spilled from his belly into his lap. He ate until the space between the bites became longer, and he ate until the tension and pain of being so full grew into a satisfying lull of pressure building from the inside out.

Megatron kept feeding him, and Ratchet kept eating. Snacking had built up his tolerance for hearty meals, and frequent trips into the makeshift kitchen setup within their base helped grow his appetite. Still, all of the pounds he’d packed on before under Optimus’ rare yet loving affections and his own self-indulgence were nothing compared to this. It was the kind of thing he had wanted without knowing it, and it brought the satisfaction of pushing his limits that he would have never received from within his own faction.

Optimus was a good companion, but Megatron was a great feeder. That much was obvious as the Con leader prodded at his gut and hummed his satisfaction over the fact that it had doubled in size already. Slag, they weren’t even halfway through with the array of things he had for Ratchet to eat… yet here they were. They had made it so far already, and that was an impressive feat. He was still recovering from the earlier stuffing, after all.

Megatron was relentless, and that was what felt so good. At the same time, that feel-good pleasure was what made him feel so guilty.

The pacing was steady, but the feeding was nonstop. Ratchet couldn’t move away when the fuel dribbled down his chin, and he couldn’t push back when the forkfuls of food became too big. He was chugging and chewing, swallowing and gasping, all while reveling in the pleasure and sensation of being stuffed out of his processor and forced to eat until the very last plate was left spotless and clean.

He tried hard to keep up, and he tried hard to avoid resistance—not for Megatron’s sake, but for his own. Alas, his appetite was limited, and the double stuffing in one day was growing to be too much. As Megatron held up the last of the cubes and the plates of sweets, Ratchet dared to turn his head away and groan in protest.

“No more,” he gasped, his faceplates flushed and his expression pained. “I… I can’t—“

“Why not?” Megatron said, pressing the cube closer. “You’re finally getting what you wanted, aren’t you?”

Ratchet didn’t respond with anything more than pained sounds and the gurgle of his tanks stuffed beyond their limits. Megatron was gentle this time in cupping his chin and turning his helm back to face him, at least, and the tenderness of holding up the cube for Ratchet to drink from wasn’t lost on the medic. Still… he was hurting. His belly was prime for bursting, and his fuel capacity had been passed tenfold.

“One more,” Megatron gently corrected as he tilted the cube up ever so slightly. “Drink up, doctor.”

Thick, sweet fuel trickled down his throat at a slow pace, which came as a relief for Ratchet. He lapped it up with all the care he could muster with his servos restrained and his helm held in Megatron’s grasp. The weight of his gut spilling out into his lap became more noticeable the longer he drank, and by halfway through, he was desperate to be finished.

The pressure of his restraints and the pain of Megatron’s claws digging into his face disappeared with the cube from his lips, and as Megatron tossed the empty container aside and unraveled Ratchet’s bonds, the poor medic fell forward. His swollen belly swung beneath him and squished between his thighs all the same, and as he wiped at the energon stains that ran down his chest with shaky servos and crumb-coated sheets, he became aware of yet another sticky mess soaking the berth beneath him—all from his own doing.

As Ratchet struggled to compose himself and hide the shame of his budding arousal from view, Megatron stood by and watched. At first the Con merely chuckled at every belch and eyed up each flash of the sloshing belly hidden from view, but after a while, the amusement wore off… only to be replaced with twisted callousness and false pity.

“Was that so hard?” he said, giving the bulge of Ratchet’s belly a poke as the medic untangled himself from the sheets with the care of a bot who looked several cycles past an appointed due date. “You did well. I’m very impressed.”

He turned to the cart and inspected the aftermath for a brief moment before heading for the door, his own sick hunger sated. Ratchet was left on the berth, panting and aching, to do what he presumed was the cleanup part of the process before being released back into the desert to find his way home.

As expected, he was right.

“Your pleasure is important, Ratchet,” Megatron said as he stabbed numbers on the room’s pin-pad and stepped through the door, “but I can’t be the one to force you every time. Whether you allow yourself to give in again in the future is up to you… but believe me, I’ll be around.”

Ratchet watched helplessly as Megatron disappeared, leaving him to deal with the aftermath of the stuffing. He could hardly move, let alone breathe, and though he tried hard to call out and demand the Decepticon leader return and deal with his share of the consequences, the words never came. The best he managed to do was slump back against the berth and curl into the sheets, his servos instinctively moving to rub his belly and his thighs clenched around the leaky mess dribbling from his array.

The door was shut, and the sound of thunderous pedesteps echoed against the walls until only silence lingered—silence and the sound of his tanks fighting to quell the pressure of food and fuel packed inside, that is. Only a moment later did Ratchet’s commlink fizzle to life, leaving him shuddering at the sound of Megatron’s voice rumbling in his audials.

“I won’t keep you trapped,” the mech said, his voice slow and staticky over the comms. “The door is unlocked, and the command room is to your right. Once you’ve managed to pull yourself together, you are free to leave. I have instructed Soundwave on calling up a groundbridge to your last location. Until then…”

Silence, save for the static of his comms and the gurgle of his tanks.

“…I wish you great luck in taming the beast. Until next time, Ratchet. Your company has been greatly appreciated.”

#chubformers #meals are best shared #tfp ratchet #tfp megatron #anon man writes #this is over 5k btw so if you wanna just enjoy the art that’s fine #art = story here really

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