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jackactuallywrites · 9 months ago

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Hidden Paradise

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit (detailed shagging)

Warnings: Unprotected sex and also shower sex which we all know is unsafe

Summary: You walk in on a man in the shower, it takes you seeing him in the skull mask a week later to realise it was Ghost, and he is very intrigued by your reaction

Notes: This absolutely wouldn’t be possible without @xxven my muse and pookie and beta reader who gave me the plot 🤍❤️ (also raven on TikTok for making a hot thirst trap that inspired a whole scene)

Word Count: 4,195 (I am very horny for ghost)

ao3 link

There was very little luxury to be found on a military base; your military fatigues were never soft, your boots were the cheapest given by the contractors, your bed squeaked every time you so much as moved an inch, and there wasn’t so much as a tealight allowed in the barracks.

However, you’d found a quiet sanctuary. Far from the rest of the buildings on the base, there was a small shower block, disused and forgotten about in favour of the newer, more convenient showers. The water pressure wasn’t all that great, and the tiles would probably never return to whatever shade of white they’d started out as, but all that mattered was that it was so wonderfully, blissfully quiet.

Silence was one of the hardest commodities to come across on a military base; there was always something going on, whether it be a training exercise with a hard-edged sergeant screaming at recruits or the grunts trying out whatever shiny new piece of equipment the government had seen fit to waste money on, but out there in the shower block, muffled by a copse of trees, there was nothing. Beautiful, precious, nothing.

Today had been yet another long lesson in tedium, worsened by the fact that your most beloved friends were out in the field, busy repairing the vehicles with whatever they could scavenge from the base. You already felt exhausted at the idea of how much paperwork you’d have to do after they’d torn through the place, and the day proved you right, with you having to go to every single place in the garages to check what stock had been taken as mechanics had an annoying habit of forgetting to write down what they’d used. It was long into the evening by the time you’d finally finished putting in the orders to replace every strange bit of junk the mechanics had used, and all you could think about was the long shower you were going to take.

The route through the forest was one of the only places you could get away with wearing your headphones and listening to music without getting scolded by the sergeant on patrol, and you took advantage of this privilege every time, blasting some classic disco music in your ears as you approached the shower block, blissfully unaware of the world outside. If not, you might have noticed the sound of the shower running.

As such, you walked into the block thinking of nothing but how your new eucalyptus shower steamer would smell, having got fairly good reviews online. You already had a favourite shower at this point, the one on the very end, with the best water pressure that the rusted old pipes could provide, though it had no door to speak of. You walked along the yellowed tile floor, passing by the empty showers until you finally reached your favourite one, only to find that it was very much not empty.

Standing under the sputtering stream of water was a tall, well-built man, his tan back glistening under the hundreds of droplets of water, highlighting the various white scars on his back, some of them small, some of them intimidatingly large. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander down, admiring the muscles in his back and perfectly toned legs, as well as a surprisingly sculpted ass. Whoever he was, he was statuesque in his beauty, as though he had been carved out of marble, and as he turned around to face you, showcasing the golden hair that trailed down from his abs, you caught a glimpse of his shaft, thick and long, yet quickly covered by a large hand.

It was that movement that broke the lustful spell you were under, and your eyes finally stopped ogling his body and flicked up to his face. You didn’t recognise him, not his pale green eyes or his crooked nose, but you could absolutely recognise the outrage on his face, and you yanked down your headphones, keeping your eyes firmly above his waist, “I- I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was in here.” His voice was little more than a snarl, “Get out.” You had absolutely no desire to argue with a man built like that, so you gave a quick nod and hurried back out of the shower block, not willing to spend a single second more in his presence.

Since your encounter in the showers, not a single night had gone past where you hadn’t dreamed about the man, his body, his hands, the dark blond hair that led down his navel, and the thick veins on his forearms. It lurked in the back of your mind, eternally present as a lustful little memory to entertain you during the more boring moments of your day.

Yet again, you were in another meeting writing down what items had been used over the week and what needed to be ordered for the next month's exercise. It was made slightly more interesting by the fact that this time, you were working with the SAS, and not just that, but with some of the most feared soldiers there were, including the worst of the worst, Ghost .

You swore you could almost feel the insidious aura coming from the man in the skull mask, as though it was radiating off him in dark waves. When he spoke, his words were sharp and to the point, never expending more energy than was strictly necessary, and rarely directing his attention to you, sitting in silence and taking notes, not that you were complaining. Every time the man spoke, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickle as though your body was trying to warn you that he was dangerous. It was only toward the end of the meeting that you finally spoke up, standing and reciting everything that you’d written down in your notebook.

It was times like that where you’d have to put on a brave face as if you feared the room of men no more than a pack of kittens, making sure your voice was loud and firm, forcing them to listen to you. None of them seemed particularly interested; after all, you were a perfect, albeit boring professional, yet you remained undeterred, making eye contact with each of them. Even Ghost was looking at you; you could see those pale green eyes watching you from underneath his skull mask with a strange intensity. You remained undeterred, staring back at the man as you read out the various things that were in stock and what would have to be ordered, yet there was something niggling at the back of your head. Those eyes were strangely familiar.

It took you a second to remember, and then the barely buried memory came back: the beautiful man in the shower, his body glistening, his toned muscles, and the dark blond hair that covered his navel. The words in your mouth died on your tongue, and you saw Ghost’s eyebrow raise underneath his mask as if he was intrigued by your reaction to him. You cleared your throat, hoping that the heat you felt in your cheeks wouldn’t show up on your skin as you dropped your eyes back down to your notebook, pointedly ignoring him as you focused back on your task, ensuring that you hadn’t missed anything.

Inexplicably, Ghost spoke up, interrupting your admittedly dull recital of your list, “How soon can we get a restock of the M16 mags?” His question forced you to look over at him, and his pale green eyes seemed as though they were trying to drill right through your head. You refused to back down this time, meeting his gaze no matter how prevalent the image of his naked body was in your mind, even if you did stumble over your words as you flipped through the pages, “Those mags, uh, the ammo for the M16 that is, we ordered those last Tues-Wednesday , so they’ll be in by the end of this week.”

You couldn’t see his expression under his mask, but you could have sworn that it tugged in a way that suggested he was smirking underneath the black fabric, a touch of smugness in his eyes. Was he flirting with you? There was no possible way for you to find out in the middle of a full room, so you decided to put that tantalising idea to the side, wrapping up the last few items on your list and then glancing around the room, “If there’s anything else, please send me an itemised list by the end of the day.”

With that, the meeting was over, every soldier packing up their files, undoubtedly each one as bored as you, and you had little desire to spend any more time with them, especially with the suspiciously intense look Ghost was giving you, so you gave your farewells and left the room as quickly as you could, doing your best to rid your mind of the confusing thoughts whirling around in your mind. Ghost, the supposed ‘psycho’ killer, was flirting with you. Or perhaps threatening you. You weren’t entirely sure which. And yet, you had a strange desire to find out, that small part of you that longed to step into dangerous territory. But how could you? That meeting had been the only time you’d ever interacted with the man; other than your brief encounter in the shower, it didn’t seem like there would ever be another opportunity to be alone with him.

Unless.

Regardless of how outraged he’d been previously, he’d seemed entirely intrigued by you in the meeting, almost amused. You’d seen the direction he was headed; if your mind wasn’t already overtaken with delusional optimism, you could have sworn that he was striding in the direction of the old shower block with what seemed like great determination.

This was one of those deciding moments, a fork in the path where you got to choose what the outcome would be: adherence to your usual routine or something far more thrilling. You could almost feel the clock ticking in your head, your time running short, and for once, you decided to be brave and at least a little bit stupid, heading to your barracks to pick up your things before heading out toward the shower block, adrenaline pounding in your veins as you made your way through the small woods to the brick building.

Even from the outside, you could hear the shuddering of the pipes as they desperately pumped water, your heart beginning to pick up the pace as you pushed open the heavy wooden door, closing it softly behind you, now able to hear the pattering of water on the tile floor and see the black clothing draped over the bench that ran the length of the wall. You walked down the centre of the block, approaching the last stall on the end, and yet, you couldn’t take that final step. Everything below the waist was screaming at you to leap into the shower with the man, yet your brain conjured images of the humiliating HR meeting you’d be in if you had, in fact, entirely misinterpreted what were admittedly very subtle hints. You didn’t dare push over that line with a man so far above you in rank, but you weren’t prepared to entirely give up, so you merely slunk into the stall next to his, stripping off your uniform and hanging it on the backside of the door, pulling it to and surrendering yourself to an unsatisfying shower.

The shower head shuddered as you twisted the knob for water, a few spats of water dripping out, yet nothing more. There was a good reason you stuck to that end stall; almost every other shower there had been neglected to the point of failure. You took this as a sign to give up, turning around to get your things, only to find Ghost standing in the now open doorway.

There was nothing but a towel lazily wrapped around his hips to cover him up, his blond hair already soaked, water leaving little trails down his body, pulling your eyes down. You quickly snapped your attention back to his face, your hands already going to cover your chest and between your legs instinctually. Ghost’s eyes lingered on your body before finally flicking to the broken shower head, then back to your face. You could see that intrigued twinkle in his eyes as he gave you a slightly smug smirk, gesturing toward the other shower stall with his head, “Mine works. We should share.”

You almost couldn’t believe what he was suggesting. The exact situation had been playing out in your mind ever since you’d seen him naked, yet never once had you made the connection between your shower Adonis and Lieutenant Ghost. The two couldn’t be reconciled in your head, but you quickly decided that this was a problem to be solved later, if at all. You turned your non-functioning shower off, though slightly reluctant to use the hand covering your chest to do so, and then walked out of the stall, ducking under Ghost’s arm holding the door open for you, and rounding the corner into the warm stream of the only functional shower, allowing the water to wash away all the important questions that should have been asked, only focusing on the present moment.

Though you’d chosen to face away from him, you could still hear the noise of his towel hitting the wall as he tossed it aside, your entire body tensing up as you felt his presence behind you, the nerves nipping at the back of your mind. You didn’t dare turn to look at him, trying to find something else to focus on to quiet your frenzied brain, your eyes flicking to the one bottle of his on the floor in the shower, trying to figure out what scent ‘original’ was supposed to be, and whether one liquid really could be shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.

Your thoughts on his toiletries were brought to an instant halt at the first touch of his hand on your hip, a questioning touch as though he was gauging your interest before moving any further. He might have been feared special forces, yet here, you retained a level of control, of security. You relaxed into his touch, leaning back until you bumped up against his chest, and his arm snaked around your stomach, wrapping tightly around your waist as he stepped forward into the stream from the shower, his head dipping down to rest in the crook of your neck. You could feel his other hand trail a path up your thigh before it, too, wrapped around you, pulling you snug against him in a tight embrace, like a man starved for any sort of touch.

For a moment, the two of you remained in that simple intimacy, your arms resting on top of his, enjoying the sheer pleasure of his embrace. Your hands were the first to move, your fingertips gently trailing over the muscles in his forearms, admiring the strength in them, unable to hold back a smile as you saw the not-so-subtle way he flexed them for you. His hand moved then, and you followed them with your own, one trailing down over your hipbone to the top of your thigh, gently stroking the skin there, the other one shifting up until it was just underneath your breast, pausing right before he touched anywhere interesting.

Clearly, he wasn’t about to touch anywhere without your explicit permission, and you decided to test him, pulling his left hand up until it was settled over your breast. His fingers paused, and you felt the tenseness in his arms, yet after a beat, he stretched out his fingers, tracing a little pattern over the swell of your breast, circling your nipple before his hand covered your boob entirely, gently squeezing it in his hand. You could feel his breathing growing heavier, every exhale blowing air over the skin of your neck, but you had no intention of stopping, relaxing into his touch, letting your head fall back against his shoulder, your eyes closed. The hand on your thigh had grown tight, fingers digging into your flesh, and you began to move his hand further in to where you could feel a growing need for his touch.

The further you moved his hand, the tighter his grip on your chest got, pulling you closer against him until you could finally feel his hardness pressed against the small of your back. His clear excitement emboldened you further, and you pushed his hand firmly between your legs, letting his fingers slightly part your labia to rest on your clit. That action earned you a low growl from him, and he buried his face into your shoulder as he pushed his fingers further down, touching the slick wetness beginning to leak out of your needy pussy. The second he felt your wetness, he drew his fingers back from you, digging them into your hip and pulling you firmly against him, rubbing the bridge of his nose against your neck as though he was trying to ground himself in the moment.

You had no problem allowing him to take his time, focusing on the simple pleasure of the warm water on your skin and the heat emanating from his chest to your back. His hand moved back to your pussy, more determined than before, as he slid his fingers down your slit, gently probing your slick hole with his fingers. As he slowly slid one in, he let out a strangled groan, shifting his face so he could bite down on the flesh of your neck, his other hand massaging your breast as his finger began to easily slip inside you. He stretched his thumb up to rest on your clit as he gently began to pump his finger in and out of you, rubbing in little circles, and you couldn’t help but let out a little moan.

The slightest of noises from you seemed to spur him on, and he pushed another finger inside you, beginning to kiss and suck at your neck as he did so, your body easily accepting his two fingers, and so he followed it with a third, his dick twitching with excitement against your back as all three of his fingers sank inside you without resistance.

Whatever good sense you had left was beginning to dissipate in the haze of your lust, and you reached your hand behind you to wrap around his cock, slowly beginning to stroke him as he gently fucked you with his fingers. He rewarded you with a soft groan in your ear, and so you quickened your pace, beginning to pump his dick in earnest, wanting him to receive the same pleasure as you. Your body was eagerly opening up around him, and the last bit of your intelligence vanished as your desperation for him overpowered you, and you begged for stupidity in two words.

“Fuck me.”

There was no hesitance in Ghost’s touch now as he pulled his fingers out of you, turning you to face him and then bending down to grab your thighs and lift you up, pinning you to the cool, damp wall of the shower stall. You could see the lust in his eyes as he shifted to hold you with only one hand, the other quickly moving to his dick, positioning it at your slick entrance and then slowly beginning to lower you down onto him. There was no comparison to the pleasure you felt, not only from feeling him slide into you, but to watch his face as he did so, his open lips, the desperate look in his eyes, his gaze entirely focused on you as though you were Aphrodite herself. You sunk your teeth into your lip to stop yourself from moaning out loud as you felt him stretch out your insides, yet you let your hands dig into his shoulders, your nails raking his skin as you felt every inch of him.

When you finally sunk down to the base of his cock, he leant forwards to rest his head on the wall beside you, clearly struggling to contain his composure, his hand digging into the flesh of your thigh, the other splayed out on the cool tile wall. He took a second to breathe before he began to slowly thrust up into you, his hand shifting from your thigh to your hip to pin you in place. Even in your wetness, you could feel how big he was, filling you up so perfectly, and you arched your back against him, desperate to feel every inch of him inside you. His eyes were on you now, and he moved his hands from the wall to your lips, tugging your bottom lip out from between your teeth and issuing you a singular command, his gaze intense.

“I want to hear you.”

Even in your pleasure, you couldn’t stop yourself from obeying a command from your superior officer, and you let out the moans you’d been holding back, tightening your legs around his waist to pull him into you as much as possible, your fingers raking against his back as he fucked you, his hips beginning to move more forcefully against you. His fingers now moved to your hair, brushing the errant strands out of your face and then shifting down to cup your cheek, lifting your face, his voice soft, “Look at me.”

There was no mistaking the utter lust in his gaze when you looked up at him, yet you could also see quite a great deal of tenderness, of genuine care, which only served to heighten your pleasure, your hands moving from his shoulders to the back of his neck as you clung to him, desperately grinding your hips against him. He picked up his pace further yet still restrained himself from fully slamming into you, his grip like a vice on your thigh. His voice grew hoarser as he caressed your cheek with his thumb, clearly strained, “Touch yourself.”

In another situation, you might have felt insecure, yet you were entirely awash in lustful pleasure, and so you obeyed, reaching down with one hand to begin rubbing circles around your increasingly sensitive clit, feeling that same build of pleasure in your core as Ghost fucked you faster still, his expression growing more desperate by the second. He leant forward to whisper his final command against your lips.

“Come for me.”

Your body seemed honour-bound to obey him as your pussy clenched around his dick, your pleasure building until it finally crescendoed, with Ghost’s lips crashing onto yours as you finished, his hips moving frantically as he desperately fucked you, his thrusts stuttering as he finally shot his load deep inside you, his body crushing yours into the wall in a tight embrace. Your kisses became softer as the both of you came down from your frenzied high, his grip on your body loosening slightly, your death grip around his neck becoming less deadly.

With a satisfied groan, Ghost let himself sink to the floor, pulling you down along with him into his lap, letting his dick remain inside you as you settled more comfortably on top of him, resting against his chest as he lazily wrapped his arms around your lower back, cradling you against him. After such bodily heat, the comparatively cool water of the shower felt heavenly on your skin, washing away your intermingled sweat.

You probably could have slept there, with Ghost still buried inside you, yet he was not so spellbound. With a gentle movement, he pulled his softening length out of you, reaching over to grab the bottle of soapy liquid he’d left on the floor. Then, he repositioned you so you were now sitting in between his legs, his thick thighs boxing you in as he opened the bottle behind you. You weren’t entirely sure what he was doing, nor did you care, still awash in a pleasant afterglow. The touch of his fingers gently massaging the liquid into your hair was a heavenly surprise, and you practically melted into his hands, a human-sized pile of putty perfectly manipulated by him. He ran his fingers through the length of your hair, thoroughly soaping up every strand before he let the cool water wash away the suds.

Then, he got to work on your body. Never had you been so grateful for three-in-one soap as it meant you didn’t have to miss a second of his warm chest against your back as he began to soap up your body, his fingers incredibly gentle against your skin, paying attention to every single part of you, and then letting you lean back against his chest as the water washed everything away, his arms coming to rest around your waist. Every single care of yours seemed to follow the soap down the train as you relaxed into him, enjoying the way he rested his chin on your head as you closed your eyes, finally entirely at ease.

#jack writes #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #cod #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #ghost mw2 #cod fic #cod ghost #ghost smut #cod smut #simon riley x you #simon riley smut #simon riley fic #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost x female reader

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dailyadventureprompts · 11 months ago

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Homebrew Mechanic: Fixing D&D’s Gameplay Loop with Item Degradation

Normally I have snappy titles for these, but in this case I wanted to be super upfront with what I was getting you all into.

Some people are not going to like the idea of introducing item degradation into the game, and they’re ABSOLUTELY right to be hesitant. Just about every attempt I’ve seen (includig both RAW versions from previous editions, examples from videogames, and those I’ve put together myself in the past) have been horribly clunky exercises in beancounting that only ever existed to needlessly slow down gameplay for the sake of joyless realism.

I’ve come at it from another angle however, but to explain we’re going to need to get into some game design talk.

The basic gameplay loop of D&D is supposed to be:

Seeking adventure leads you to face challenges

Overcoming challenges leads you to rewards

Rewards Help you get stronger

Getting stronger allows you to seek tougher adventures

After a while this system starts to break down specifically with regards to gold as a method of reward. Even if you’re the smart sort of DM who flouts the rules and gives their party access to a magic item shop, there’s an increasingly limited number of things to spend gold on, leading to parties acquiring sizable hordes of riches early on in their adventuring career, completely eliminating the desire to accept quests that pay out in gold in one form or another. This is a pretty significant flaw because adventures that centre around acquisition of riches ( treasure hunts, bounty missions, busywork for rich patrons that will inevitably betray you) are foundational to storytelling within the game, especially early on in a campaign before the party has gotten emotionally invested. Most advice you can find online attempting to solve this problem tends to dissolve down to “let them pour money into a home base”, but that can only really happen once per campaign as a party is unlikely to want more than one secret clubhouse.

TLDR: What I propose is the implantation of a lightweight system that forces the party to periodically drop small amounts of wealth into maintaining their weapons/armour/foci. The players will be motivated to seek out gold in order to keep using their best stuff, giving value to treasure drops that previously lacked it. Not only does this system act as an insulation against powercreep at higher levels, it also encourages a party to engage with the world as they seek out workshops and crafters capable of repairing their gear.

The System:

Weapons, armour, shields, and caster foci (staves, holy symbols etc) can accumulate “ticks” of damage, represented by a dot or X drawn next to their item entry on the character sheet. Because you get better at handling your gear as you level up, an item that exceeds a total number of ticks equal to its bearer’s proficiency bonus breaks, and is considered unusable until it is repaired.

Weapons and Foci gain a tick of damage when you roll a natural 1 on an attack made with them, or if they are specifically targeted by an enemy’s attack.

Armour and shields gain a tick of damage when you roll a nat 1 on a saving throw or when an enemy beats your ac by 5 or more. A character equipped with both can decide which of the two items receives the tick

Creatures with the “siege” (or any “does double damage to objects” ability) deal an extra tick when attacking gear.

A character with a crafting proficiency and access to tools can repair a number of ticks of damage equal to their proficiency on a four hour work period. This rate is doubled if they have access to a properly equipped workshop. A character with access to the mending cantrip can repair ticks on any kind of item, but is limited to their proficiency bonus per work period.

Having an item repaired by an NPC crafter removes all ticks, but costs vary depending on the rarity of the item: 5g for a mundane item, 10g for a common item, 50g for uncommon, 250 for a rare, 1250 for a very rare, 6250 for a legendary. The DM decides the limit on what each crafter can repair, as it’s likely small towns have access to artisans of only common or uncommon skill, requiring the party to venture to new lands or even across planes if they wish to repair end game gear.

As you can see, degradation in this system is easy to keep track of and quite gradual, leading players into a position where they can ignore obvious damage to their kit for the sake of saving their now precious gold. It likewise encourages them to seek out NPC crafters (and potential questhooks) for skills they do not possess, and encourages the use of secondary weapons either as backups or to save the more potent items in the arsenal for a real challenge.

Consumables

Everyone knows the old joke about players hoarding consumables from the first adventure past the final bossfight, it transcends genre and platform, and speaks to a nature of loss aversion within our shared humanity. However, giving players items they’re never going to use amounts to wasted time, resources, and potential when looking at things from a game design perspective, so lets work on fixing that.

My inspiration came from witcher 3, which encourages players to make frequent use of consumables by refreshing them whenever the character had downtime. The darksouls series has a similar feature with the signature estus flask, which provides a limited number of heals before it must be refreshed at one of the game’s checkpoints. When the designers removed the risk of permanent loss and the anxiety it creatures, players were able to think tactically about the use of their consumables confident in the knowledge that any mistakes were just a resupply away from being fixed.

My proposal is that while the party is in town they can refill the majority of their consumable items for a small per item fee. Just like with gear degradation, this encourages them to seek out crafters and do quests for the hope of discounts, while at the same time encouraging them to explore new realms in the hope of discovering higher level artisans.

The price for refills is set at: 5g for common, 25g for an uncommon, 125g for a rare, 625g for a very rare, 3125g for legendary. I encourage my own players to keep a “shopping list” in their inventory with prices tabulated so they can hand out a lump sum of gold and have their kit entirely refreshed.

Characters with a relevant skill and access to their tools can refill a number of items equal to their proficiency bonus during a four hour work period. With access to a proper workshop, this rate doubles. ( At last, proficiency with brewers supplies, carpenters tools etc become useful)

I encourage you as a DM to check out this potion flasks system, which I’ve found adds a delicious factor of uncertainty back into the mix. Attached is also my super lightweight rules for tracking gear and supplies, which I absolutely refuse to shut up about.

Artist

#5e homebrew #dnd mechanics #crafting #item degradation #mechanics #homebrew

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toptierteaser · 10 months ago

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Fatboy Sorting

There are many challenges that the Administration at Fatty Camp must address over the course of time, not least among them repairing all the busted bunkbeds and broken exercise equipment, sewing patches into the uniforms their fatboys bust out of...and of course, keeping up with the rampant, ravenous appetites of their Campers as they binge and gorge and stuff themselves endlessly out of house and home...

But among the most pressing challenges--as well as the most popular amongst the Coaches at Fatty Camp--is the Sorting. You see, with all the various types and sizes and flavors of fatboy at Fatty Camp, it is imperative that the Administration does a fine job of sorting its piggies into subcamps, assigning each to a Bunk specific to their blubbery and chub, to their gluttony and girth...and to ensure each of them is put on a diet and workout regimen and under the guidance of a couple Coaches which can "best fit their ample needs."

It starts with size, of course. With the measuring, the prodding of embarrassed fatty after embarrassed fatty onto the scales, a taunting jock wrapping his measuring tape around each quivering pork chop as he shouts out the numbers, as they are flashed on the screen before every fitty and fatty alike! And then, with a firm pat on the ample tukis, a prod of the juicy love handle, and a good shake of the protruding gut, each fatty is sent waddling to their freshly-assigned line, where a sticker in the shape of a bear or a pig or a turkey or a hippo...or even a whale...is stamped onto their fat, widened ass and on the front of their rising, riding shirt.

It's embarrassing, of course, but what better way to put each fatty into his place?

Of course, it doesn't begin and end with the sorting based on size, on weight, on the circumference of each Camper's chest and stomach and ass...no. The REAL sorting begins when each panting, juicy camper is run through a series of tests. An obstacle course through which the Coaches poke and tease and prod each Camper to watch his struggling, ballooning body jiggle as he pathetically attempts to complete it. Of course, each fatboy thinks they’re being tested based on physical aptitude alone. And they are. But on top of the observations by their Coaches and the Directors to see who can do the monkey bars or the wall climb, they are also being watched. Who among them will beg for release? Who will struggle through the line of tires, only to get his fat hips stuck on the second-to-last, to squeal and call out for help? Who will run out of breath on the treadmill? Who will become distracted by the lone cupcake placed on the trap door and yelp as his fat ass falls through? Who will be embarrassed as he swings down the line of monkey bars, aware that his obese ass is jiggling like crazy? Who will be totally oblivious that his shirt has completely ridden up? Which porker will be delusional enough to try the tube slide only to get stuck, wriggling, begging, and pleading, halfway through?

For the Coaches, it’s one of their favorite parts of the Sorting. For the Campers, it’s one of the most embarrassing.

When the Campers have been duly sorted again…the whiners from the oblivious-porker from the determined fatboys who aren’t SO chubby just yet, but who will be well on their ways to obesity within a few months of bingeing…each is sent to the Fitting Room. There, another test awaits. The routine outfitting of the porky, chubby campers. They find themselves on benches, ordered to strip to their briefs and forced to waddle over to the clothing that awaits them. without sizes, the fatties do their best, racing and wrestling each other for the roomiest clothes that can fit their obese bodies. and the Coaches have themselves a fine time watching their piggies struggle, huffing and puffing, cheeks reddening as they force themselves into the bright pink booty-shorts, the humiliating striped shirts that chafe between their rubbing thunder thighs or wedge up their enormous butts or don’t even come close—no matter how hard they tug—to covering their ballooning bellies and exposed bellybuttons! Each, looking like a packed sausage, the Campers grunt as they struggle to lean down, yank socks over their chubby toes and wrestle with their bellies to tie their shoes. Huffing and sweating by the end of their ordeal as they look around at one another’s bodies, puffing out like pastry from the too-tight clothes…

And then the eating bell rings.

Here comes a reward. Or so each fatty thinks, as his ass bumps into his neighbors, fighting each other to claw the way through the doors to the cafeteria. They race, pushing and shoving each other’s overfed bodies to get to the buffet first. nearly bending over, ass up in the air as they race to fill their plates, knowing how quickly food could be taken away from them. Knowing how hungry they are, having exerted themselves during the ten-minute obstacle course and clothing try on; An unusually-EXHAUSTING day for Fatty Camp. They pack themselves in, love-handle-to-love-handle, asscheek-to-asscheek, overblown-belly-to-overblown-belly, on the benches at the tables, which groan in pain beneath the collective girth. Stuffing themselves to the brim on all their favorite foods, unaware that the Coaches and Admin are watching. Unaware that they’re being documented like pigs. Which one likes which foods? Which will eat himself until the button on his camp shorts pops? Which will feed himself until he can hardly move?

It's an easy way to do the final sorting. As, from behind the one-way-glass teams of doctors and Coaches and Counselors take notes, laughing as they sort each of you fatasses into your group.

Oh, the PLANS they have in store for you!

How they go about their sorting. Placing the exjocks—the former football players turned butterball, the swimmers and runners who let themselves go, the wrestlers who never cut again after high school or college. Even their own, the Coaches who couldn’t keep up with their diets and exercise requirements. How much fun they will have, taunting you, reminding you of your skinnier, fitter days when you were hot stuff and an athlete. When you were one of them…

The ‘helpless fatties,’ they’ll categorize differently. Penning you in the bunks where they know you desperately want to lose the weight, though they’ll do everything in their power to sabotage your diets, to fill your overeating urges. Treating you like the adorable piglets you are…

And the gainers. Oh, what they’ll do with you! Knowing how easy you are to control. How you would od anything to be fed, to grow, to avoid exercise. How they will hold that—literally, holding cupcakes and donuts—over your heads, just to watch you beg and whimper and plead.

How much fun they’ll have, when the sorting has been finished and you accept the kind of fatboy you are!

#gaining weight #teaser #bhm weight gain #chubby #fatass #fatty #fat belly #fat bhm #fatboy #feedee encouragement #wg story #wg fiction #bhm wg #male wg #wg text #feeding kink #fat #wg

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noodleblade · 2 months ago

Text

All those years of expertise made piecing together a new Breakdown almost a game. There was a terrible, exhilarating pleasure in the exercise. A guilt and desperate want coiled in his tanks as his processor wove together all its knowledge of anatomy, surgery and medicine.

Or, a post-canon Knock Out attempts to bring his partner back from the dead. [Frankenstein kobd au]

fic below the cut

Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.

“So, uh, I know it’s bare bones but it’s the best we have for now.”

Knock Out, without looking, could feel the uncomfortable wince Bumblebee gave at the arrival of their “new medbay.” Even he could see it was not quite up to the standard that had initially been promised.

‘Empty storeroom’ would be a better descriptor.

Crates and dust filled most of the space; three medslabs in various states of disrepair were being used as shelves for additional storage. Wires hung from the ceiling, sparking at the cuts as the auxiliary power attempted to light the secondary overhead lights. Rust had started to eat away at the enamel paint of the support beams. It was nothing a buff and repaint couldn’t fix but as of now, it only added to its dilapidated aesthetic.

Knock Out couldn’t say this was what he envisioned his life would be like when he joined the Autobots. Then again, with most of Cybertron looking even worse than this, the medbay and the conjoined rest of their new headquarters looked pristine in comparison. The Autobots were dead set on restoring Cybertron to its former glory and it meant reconstructed efforts and a proper headquarters.

Or really, reacquainting themselves with their old command headquarters back before they had fled Cybertron.

The old Autobot base in Iacon had been heavily damaged by time and war. Knock Out was surprised Megatron hadn’t flattened it to the ground before departing. As it was, he was thankful the structure remained.

While the entire building needed to be patched and repaired, and all of the equipment was probably defective and defunct, it was more secure than any other building currently on Cybertron. It still had all its walls, it had a functioning roof, and- most importantly -it had a nearly intact medbay. Not many other structures on Cybertron could claim the same. In the few short cycles since taking back possession of their old base, most of the refuse and grime had been cleared away, making it mostly livable - far more so than the fading light of the Nemesis as structural cracks made the ship a ticking time bomb to collapse.

It wasn’t perfect, but nothing really would be. Not for a while.

Maybe Ratchet had the right idea in staying on Earth.

“It’ll take some time to clean up,” Ultra Magnus added stiffly, as if it weren’t already apparent.

The words drifted in and out of Knock Out’s audials as he walked further into the cluttered medbay. He peeked between the crates to see some monitoring equipment shoved against the walls. They all looked outdated, probably wouldn’t even turn on. They were pre-war and seemed to have been forgotten to the past, much like most of Cybertron had once the planet died. It was amazing that they survived in any capacity; even if they were nonfunctional, they could at least be scrapped for parts.

Knock Out was not unfamiliar with the process. Before the Nemesis and its shiny, new tech, he and- they had scavenged for a lot of equipment. Being on their own had made them crafty and resourceful. It made them survivors.

Some survivors, Knock Out thought bitterly, desperately ignoring the cold, empty space next to him.

“Smokescreen can help you clear this out,” Ultra Magnus continued in his curt professional tone. There was a small beginnings of a protest from the young mech but a stern, quiet reprimand must have been issued because it was silenced before becoming anything more.

Knock Out could feel optics on him- waiting for him -so he gave a quick affirmative nod and a muted hum. It would take them ages to clear this out, not to mention most of it was probably scrap. He did not relish the task nor did he feel particularly motivated to do…anything. Joining the Autobots had been survival instinct kicking in but now that the adrenaline was gone and quiet had taken over, Knock Out wondered what there was to even survive for.

“We’ll leave you to it then,” Bumblebee quietly said and there was a shuffle of pedes as they left through the medbay doors.

The doors shut with a sound thud. Quiet echoed in the weight of their exit. Knowing a certain young speedster had been left in his care, the silence couldn’t last long-

“So, where do we begin, Doc?”

Knock Out turned his helm and for half a nano-klik, his spark stalled at the flash of blue, before his processor came back to him and he realized it was too warm a hue, too shiny a finish, and too alive a mech. Disappointment was quickly overcome by grief that was immediately squashed and quelled for apathy. There was no point getting misty-eyed in front of his little reluctant helper.

His optics raked over Smokescreen leaning against a not-so-modest stack of crates. Despite his relaxed, “cool-guy” pose, Knock Out watched how Smokescreen’s doorwings twitched in eager anticipation, his digits tapping idly as he waited for Knock Out’s response. He was not a mech known to sit still for very long or holding much patience.

“Don’t care,” Knock Out threw out flippantly, mildly amused how expressive the young mech was as his eager smirk shifted to disappointment.

“Right,” Smokescreen muttered with a small pout. His disappointment at Knock Out’s lack of enthusiasm only quieted him for half a klik. “So, are we just tossing it all out, or…?”

Knock Out let out a lengthy, dramatic sigh. In truth, it came out more tired than he cared to admit. He finally turned around, leaning his hip against the cluttered medslab. He looked at his clawed digits in a show of disinterest.

“We’ll start sorting it into stacks. Anything broken or rusted over, toss. Anything that looks marginally salvageable, I’ll look through. Once we clear off a corner, we can start organization-” Smokescreen let out a complaining groan but Knock Out continued, “-and sanitation unless you would enjoy a rust infection when you inevitably end up on my medslab.”

“Fine, fine,” Smokescreen huffed, shuffling his pedes in his reluctance to actually work. “Honestly, if it gets me off patrol duty with Sir Rules and Regulation, I’ll take whatever you got.”

Yes, Knock Out had heard Smokescreen’s numerous complaints about their newest Second in Command.

“Being a good little soldier means following your commander’s orders. That’s why I chose an occupation that allows me to be my own boss.”

“You suggesting I become a medic?” Smokescreen grinned. “Oh! I can be your assistant!”

As soon as the words were out of Smokescreen’s mouth, any remaining banter Knock Out held died in his intake. He turned, busying himself with a crate of welding patches, half of which were rotting away with rust decay.

“I’m not looking for an apprentice,” Knock Out muttered. “Better ask Ratchet.”

Smokescreen let out a soft grumble but didn’t press further. He may not know the source of Knock Out’s shift in tone, but the kid knew how to take the hint and- most of the time -knew when to keep his intake shut. That much Knock Out could appreciate out of the young, rash speedster. It's what made Smokescreen a marginal step above the rest of the Autobots, at least by Knock Out’s records.

It’s not that his time with the Autobots had been entirely bad. Despite his short stint in the brig, they had been painfully cordial with Knock Out since taking him in. With Ratchet deciding to stay on that horrible dust and rust planet, their need for a medic superseded any ill feelings towards him. They were still there; the distrustful looks from Arcee and the downright obstinance from Wheeljack. It still beat whatever awkward friendliness that Bumblebee attempted to broach with him or the downright militant authority Ultra Magnus made every interaction. None of these were as bad as Bulkhead, who opted for the worst option: sympathy.

It had taken the ex-wrecker less than one solar cycle to corner Knock Out in the halls of their new headquarters to…to… apologize? Sympathize?

“I’m sorry about Breakdown. ‘Know you guys were close and-”

Knock Out hadn’t let it go any further than that. He had cut Bulkhead down with a sharp smile and deadly thank you. Bulkhead didn’t have the mettle to bring it up again and quite frankly, Knock Out was fine with that. He was tired of the pitying glances and somber looks.

Smokescreen was the only one to act as if nothing had happened. Then again, Smokescreen was the only one that had never known Breakdown, only catching a few glimpses of the walking puppet he had become. It was perhaps the only reason Knock Out could tolerate the younger bot.

“So,” Smokescreen started again, “medical device or torture equipment?”

Knock Out turned to see the speedster holding up a rusted to scrap Energon Infusor. “Depends on whose servos it’s in.”

It was a rather basic device, used to give localized shots of med-grade energon to a damaged site in order to jumpstart self repair. It looked more dangerous than it was to the untrained optic, appearing not too dissimilar to a rudimentary blaster.

Smokescreen snorted a small laugh, gently setting the instrument back into the box. “Right, figure in yours it’d be both.”

Smokescreen also wasn’t afraid to be blunt with Knock Out and go tit for tat. Knock Out found he far preferred that over the wide optics and grim expressions every time Knock Out said anything. Smokescreen, as naive and innocent as he was, had a semblance of a sense of humor, even if it bordered on childish at times.

It took them nearly an entire solar cycle before they managed to clear off half the medbay and unearthed a set of doors on the other end.

“Doctor’s quarters,” Smokescreen whistled impressed as the doors opened to reveal a large habsuite. “Lucky. It’s twice as big as mine.”

“Interesting choice of words, kid.”

“Not like that!” Smokescreen yelped. “The room is just big. Scrap, even Bee’s isn’t that big.”

Knock Out was tempted to tease the speedster about how he knew the details of their new leader’s hab but decided Smokescreen could embarrass himself enough on his own. Knock Out didn’t need to tease him much further, lest he ruin the only somewhat amicable relationship he had.

“It’s for multiple berths. All of the medical staff are supposed to rotate here between their shifts.”

“Oh,” Smokescreen murmured. “That would explain the two berths. Oh! What if you pushed them together into a mega-berth? That’d be pretty sick.”

Knock Out genuinely couldn’t keep the laugh in on that one, chuckling as the younger bot’s door wings fluttered in excitement, pleased by the positive reaction.

“Yes, I suppose I could do that.”

Most likely, he’d just leave it as is. The medical officer berths were already large enough, fitted for larger frames than his own sleek style. On the Nemesis it had been more than enough to fit himself and-

“Let’s call it here for today,” Knock Out suggested, turning pede and walking out. He could hear Smokescreen shuffling to catch up. “I’m sure Ultra Magnus, if not our dear leader, expects a detailed report.”

“Of all the garbage we found?” Smokescreen groaned.

“Inventoried and categorized alphabetically too.”

Smokescreen just groaned louder as they headed towards the command center.

—

Nights were quaint. Homey. Every evening refueling was done communally; all the remaining Autobots gathered in the open mess hall and, despite its great size, all squeezed together at one long table. Knock Out had not been surprised to learn their sense of family extended to even refuel schedules, but was a little shocked he was expected to do the same. Like a good newly-instated Autobot, he ducked his helm and stuck as far to the edge of the table as he could.

This evening was no different. Knock Out watched with distaste as Wheeljack baited Smokescreen and Bumblebee with exaggerated tales of heroism. His booming voice reverberated in the otherwise empty hall, though no one seemed to mind. Bulkhead chimed in with equal bravado while Arcee rolled her optics with a small grin. Ultra Magnus hung close, scoffing at every inaccurate detail through sips of his energon but ultimately making no corrections. Knock Out kept himself as far away as he could, unfortunately still within audial range but distinctly alone. Aside from his brief report with Ultra Magnus on their less than ideal medicinal supply levels, the group had turned inward, leaving him alone. It suited Knock Out fine. It was just a simple reminder he would never really be one of them.

He sipped his energon in light, even intakes. The movement was more mechanical than for actual consumption. Knock Out had a distinct lack of hunger, despite his HUD showing him his fuel levels at all times. He maintained them as needed but the action always felt forced.

Then again, everything felt forced. And it was exhausting to keep up appearances. Not that it mattered now, with all optics glued to Wheeljack.

“We had our backs against the rubble. It was do or die,” Wheeljack boasted. “Bulkhead and his rescue team were still on their way and it was just me and Seaspray fighting for our lives.”

Knock Out had heard about enough of this exaggerated, drawn out tale and stood from his seat. The medbay was calling, or more accurately the berth in the medic quarters. He passed the rest of the table; Acree looked up to watch him pass, the rest far too engrossed to pay him much notice... until Wheeljack caught sight of his glossy red finish.

“Leaving the party so soon?” Wheeljack interrupted his own story. “I was getting to the good part with ol’ Breakdown.”

Knock Out froze, optics darting over to meet the self-proclaimed Wrecker. He couldn’t tell by the mech’s cocky smile if the gesture was supposed to be genuine or a biting snipe but Knock Out took it like a stab to his spark.

No one, with the horrid exception of Bulkhead, had the gall to bring Breakdown’s name up to Knock Out. The entirety of the Autobots had been happy to forget he had ever existed. Knock Out had been fine with that and hadn't wanted the alternative. They didn’t know his partner and they never would. Knock Out didn’t want false sympathy and he didn’t want to share Breakdown’s memory with any of them. Breakdown…was his. No one else’s. They didn’t have the right to speak his name, the history to lay any claim to him, the years of pain and anguish and affection and companionship to ever speak of him.

And yet, Wheeljack did so with that smarmy smirk plastered across his faceplates, begging Knock Out to react.

Anger that had been coiling around his spark lashed out viciously, his denta bared in a vile snarl.

“Keep his name out of your mouth or I’ll be happy to remove that glossa of yours.”

Instantly, the room turned cold. In his periphery, Knock Out could see both Arcee and Ultra Magnus brace themselves for a fight. Bulkhead put a servo on Wheeljack’s shoulder to pull him back.

“Knock Out-“ Acree began but Wheeljack cut in.

“What, Sweetspark?” Wheeljack grinned, ready for a fight. Keep your cool. He’s trying to egg you on. “Thought you’d be happy to hear old war stories about your buddy before he lost his helm and turned rogue-”

Knock Out had not seen the work Airachnid had done to Breakdown, only the product pieced back together by the vile humans. They hadn’t even bothered to properly patch up their shoddy welding job, displaying the slash scars like a mockery of the body they had found. Wheeljack couldn’t possibly have known Airchanid had literally chopped off Breakdown’s helm, but it still hit too close, still hurt too deep.

“Don’t speak about things of which you do not know,” Knock Out threatened with a sharp hiss.

Arcee stood up at his words, blaster ready at the draw. Knock Out narrowed his optics. Of course, the Autobots would stand for their own before him. Disgust rolled down his frame as he relaxed his strut. He turned his helm from Wheeljack and the rest of the Autobots who all watched him with silent worry.

“Just make sure you tell it right,” Knock Out said, keeping his voice light and jovial, despite its cutting undertone. He needed to leave. Get out before he truly did something he’d regret. He was supposed to play the good Autobot. It was the only card left in his hand. “After all, I distinctly remember Breakdown knocking both your afts down.”

With that, Knock Out turned and walked out. As soon as the doors to the mess hall shut, he let the remaining composure drain from him. His servos curled into tight fists as rage burned through him.

He wanted to scream and yell and rip anything that laid in his path. This was not what he wanted from life, not how he pictured his happy ending. He wasn’t supposed to be here with the Autobots, subjected to their distrust and scrutiny. He was supposed to be with his partner. Breakdown was supposed to be here with him, by his side. They were supposed to survive together. Always together, never apart.

This wasn’t the future he had been promised, the life he had fought for.

Deep, aching loneliness ate away at his rage, leaving him hollow. Knock Out let his fists loosen as he scrubbed his faceplates tiredly. Quietly, he shuffled towards the medbay, through its clutter, to the rusted, dark sleep quarters. He fell into the nearest bed, trying not to think about how big and vast the berth felt, how it was never like that before, how it shouldn’t be like that, how it was never supposed to be like that.

He had lost his patience for their jokes, their jests, the false sympathy and condescension concealed as kindness. He was tired. So fragging tired.

But it didn’t matter. On the morrow, he would rise and continue forward. Grin and bear it.

There was no other choice.

—

Knock Out did not relish scouting duties any more than he did cleaning up the medbay. The only benefit was being able to spin his wheels and get out of the cramped confines of their newly re-established headquarters. It would have been even better if-

“How far out is this place, Mags?” Wheeljack’s obnoxious voice boomed over their shared comm link. Knock Out held back a sneer as the white and green vehicle sped up beside him. Behind, Bulkhead and Smokescreen followed close leaving Ultra Magnus in the front of their scouting convoy.

“A little further,” came a short, curt response. Ultra Magnus truly was not one to waste words.

“Where are we going?” Smokescreen chimed in, his tone doing little to hide his impatience.

Ultra Magnus took a moment to answer, clearly displeased to be debriefing while on the road but deeming it necessary.

“An old Decepticon stronghold. Long abandoned, probably right before the war took us off-world,” Ultra Magnus explained. “Arcee found it the other day and our mission is to sweep the building for information, supplies or anything else of importance.”

“Oh yippie,” Smokescreen grumbled. “Dumpster diving.”

Wheeljack and Bulkhead broke out into sniggering laughs while Ultra Magnus started a lengthy rant on the importance of maintaining proper stock of supplies. Knock Out blissfully tuned them out, lowering the channel until their voices were barely a whisper.

The empty wastes of Cybertron were anything but peaceful, but the quiet they offered was one that Knock Out found himself craving more with every cycle he spent with the Autobots. He didn’t want to be a part of their laughter, their banter, their happiness. Despite all they lost, they kept moving and Knock Out just couldn’t understand why. Or how.

He was only pulled back from his thoughts as Ultra Magnus’s rear lights blinded him in their deep red glow, the hauler coming to a stop. Smokescreen, who had probably not been paying attention, came to a screeching halt just before crashing into their mission leader. He flipped out of his alt form with a slightly embarrassed look which only deepened as Wheeljack joined him, slapping a servo on the kid’s back with a laugh. Bulkhead knocked them both on the helm as Ultra Magnus scoffed at the display. No one paid Knock Out much mind as he came out of his alt and surveyed the building before him.

“Quite the stronghold,” Bulkhead said, optics scanning the building with distaste. “‘Bet it's armed to the Pits.”

“We’re going to split into groups and take anything of value. Bulkhead and Wheeljack, I want you two combing through the armory and stockrooms. Take everything you can and we can sort through it later. Smokescreen, you are coming with me to the Command Center. I want to make sure any communication memos or intel haven’t been left behind. Knock Out, you’ll sweep the medbay. I’ll leave it to your expertise. Smokescreen will join you once we finish up in the Command Center. Everyone clear?”

Before anyone could speak up, Ultra Magnus’s comm went off. The old Leader of the Wreckers blinked as he checked his HUD. He held up a single digit as he began to walk away for a semblance of privacy. Knock Out heard him mutter a quiet, “Yes, Bumblebee?” before he went out of range.

“Guess we’re on hold,” Knock Out hummed, optics scanning the others. “Anyone know any waiting games?”

Immediately, an air of tension was cast over the group. As much as they may play as if Knock Out was not present, it was difficult to ignore him. Knock Out would give it to Smokescreen though, the kid tried his might as he set about whistling a poor rendition of an Earth pop song, optics surveying the stronghold to avoid acknowledging the rest of the group. A few cycles had passed since Knock Out’s confrontation with Wheeljack but evidently it had left its mark. Bulkhead only cast him one pitying glance before settling beside Smokescreen, armor clamped down tight.

Knock Out let out a quiet scoff and turned to walk off. A quiet cough had him stopping at once.

“Hey, Red.”

Knock Out didn’t even have a chance to pretend he hadn’t heard Wheeljack as a black servo clapped him on the shoulder. “A word?”

Knock Out narrowed his optics and gave a controlled nod of his helm, glossa pinched between his denta. Over Wheeljack’s shoulder, he could see Bulkhead pulling Smokescreen away, distracting the kid to give them a moment of privacy. Knock Out held back his sneer.

“Look, about the other night,” Wheeljack started, voice low and lacking its usual bravado. “I know he is a sensitive topic for you.” Wheeljack couldn’t meet his optics, focusing on Knock Out’s shoulder tire instead. “‘Shouldn’t have brought him up. ‘Shouldn’t have egged you on. I was being kind of a crankshaft about it and it wasn’t right.”

There was a pause for silence. Knock Out didn’t take the opportunity to speak, watching as Wheeljack’s faceplates twitched. Clearly the wrecker wanted to be absolved of his guilt but Knock Out couldn’t find it in him to be charitable.

“I didn’t know y’all were like that. You know, partners and all. Like me and Bulk, I guess. ‘Surprised you didn’t leap across the table and clock me.”

“Believe me, the temptation is still there,” Knock Out hissed.

Wheeljack let out a laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. He squeezed Knock Out's shoulder and Knock Out wanted nothing more than to slap it off, but he stayed his hand. “‘Wouldn’t blame you if you did.” Wheeljack let out a sigh, using his other hand to rub his optics. “Look, this is my fragged up way of sayin’ sorry, alright? I’ll keep his name out of my mouth. You’re one of us now and it ain’t right for me to treat you like you aren’t. I want us to be square. So…we good?”

No.

“Peachy.”

Wheeljack didn’t look surprised by Knock Out’s less than keen response. Thankfully, he didn’t press, releasing Knock Out’s shoulder and taking a step back.

“Alright. Good. If…slag, if you ever want to talk about it. Well, Bulkhead’s always free and… I guess I am too.”

Knock Out couldn’t think of a worse act of torture, including getting hit by a literal train again. This conversation was already painful enough, he didn’t really need a repeat event to talk about his feelings. With slagging Bulkhead. He didn’t want to reminisce about the past, he didn’t want to share his memories. He wanted to move on. But for all the steps it felt like he was taking forward, tethered hooks would pull him right back and remind him: Breakdown is gone and you are all alone.

Knock Out watched Wheeljack make his quiet retreat to Bulkhead and Smokescreen. Bulkhead raised both optic ridges which Wheeljack answered with a muted shrug. Knock Out had to avert his gaze as Bulkhead wound his arm around Wheeljack’s neck, bringing him in close.

The absence of Breakdown never felt more palpable than now. Knock Out swallowed the static build up in his intake and cast his eyes out to the waste and ruin of Cybertron, biding his time until Ultra Magnus returned.

–

Knock Out had never been in a base quite like this Decepticon bunker. Clearly, it had been built in the midst of war, the layout haphazard and prioritizing security over functionality. Even getting in had been a hassle with its giant iron doors blocking the entrance. Ultra Magnus and Bulkhead had worked on the doors for nearly two breems before their commander finally conceded to Wheeljack’s suggestion of explosives.

Thankfully, it had done the trick, as well as blowing up the remaining armaments that had somehow survived Cybertron’s death. Once the smoke cleared and Ultra Magnus deemed the facility safe for entry, their squad made their way through the rubble.

It was a dismal, grim sight. Knock Out had seen this scenario thousands of times before on both Cybertron and his home city on Velocitron. Offlined and rusted away mechs lined the walls, crumbling blasters still held in their hands. Impact blasts and bullets riddled their chassis, their spilled energon staining the ground they died protecting. Their efforts wasted and their memories long forgotten.

The youngest of their group winced and averted his gaze while the more seasoned veterans moved through without a second glance. Perhaps by habit or maybe ingrained programming, Knock Out scanned the deceased.

His background processes cataloged their injuries and ventured estimates to the cause and time of their deaths. Knock Out ignored these readouts, more interested in a secondary scan that pulled up their Decepticon identification badges. He had been downloaded with the latest roster when onboarding the Nemesis per protocol but now found a sickening fascination in watching their status change from MIA to DECEASED.

Knock Out felt the grim reminder of when he had watched Breakdown’s status change, though back then his scans had been confused by the parasite inhabiting his frame. Knock Out, in the privacy of his own hab and once Silas had stopped screaming, manually changed the status to DECEASED despite the program’s insistence his partner still lived.

He was the last of the group to reach the end of the hall, his squad waiting patiently.

“‘You know any of them?” Smokescreen asked in tactless curiosity.

Bulkhead and Wheeljack had both reached out to nudge him but Knock Out spoke first.

“No, I was stationed on Kalis before taking a position off-planet.”

In truth, he and Breakdown had fled Cybertron and the war entirely, stealing a small cruiser and going planet-hoping for a few thousand years before joining back up with the Decepticons once again. But no one in their group needed those additional details.

Ultra Magnus cleared his intake, drawing their attention. “We’ll split here. I’m sending you the building schematics from what the Iacon records held before the building was converted. Proceed with caution and alert our channel if you find anything.”

They all gave quiet nods and split. Wheeljack and Bulkhead took the diverting pathway to the right while Ultra Magnus pulled apart the doors to the command center for himself and Smokescreen to slip through. Left alone, Knock Out pulled up the blueprints.

The medbay was not centrally located. Knock Out was surprised when viewing the schematics that the medbay was in the lowest level, isolated to its own floor deep underground. It was atypical of what Knock Out had experienced throughout his tenure with the Decepticons. It wasn’t advisable, not when the medbay was one of the more crucial facilities in any base of operation. Knock Out skimmed through the rest of the floor plan, trying to find a reason for its isolation, but ultimately found none. The only silver lining was an elevator with the sole purpose of transport between the medbay and the main floor, bypassing the several floors between.

He took said lift down, marveling that it still worked. Then again, Bulkhead and Wheeljack had been working on reestablishing Iacon’s powergrid for a while now and it appears their hard work had paid off. Knock Out didn’t have the spark to thank them for their efforts, but he certainly didn’t mind the luxury of it all. He only questioned the structural integrity of the elevator halfway down but cast the thought away as quickly as it had come. Self-preservation held little important to him as of late and he didn’t want to think about the circumstances of that any further.

Knock Out expected a disaster upon entering the medbay. He expected it to be in a similar state as his own: filled to the brim with rust, dust and piles of scrap. He expected boxes of useless equipment and records of mechs no more. He even braced himself to find the entire level caved in and destroyed.

He was not expecting to find a graveyard.

Dead, lifeless shells of armored plating and wires greeted Knock Out as he stepped off the lift. Lifeless optics greeted him, unmoving and ever watching. His optics scanned the room, and once again, his medical protocols scanned for signs of life even though Knock Out knew there had not been a living spark in here for vorns.

Sure enough, his HUD flashed before him for visual feed findings. 21 mechs: all deceased, their status neatly updated as it identified over half of the mechs he had scanned. Before it could begin running through the initial visual diagnostic reports for each individual mech, Knock Out shut it down. There was no need for such extensive data. Not when it took only a mech with half a functioning processor to see these mechs had not fallen in battle or had come to their injuries; they had been sent here to be butchered.

Each of the five medberths were lined up with deceased mechs in various states of disrepair. Disrepair may have been a gross understatement. Limbs were missing- amputated, not removed at the joint socket but sawed off haphazardly and violently. Quite a few had their chests and stomachs cracked open with hydraulic spreaders. On Earth, Knock Out had heard of a similar tool dubbed The Jaws of Life. In this case, it looked as if the tool had been the deadly finishing blow for the mechs on the slab.

From their wounds, their internals spilled out in a sea of rotting energon and corrosive rust. In just a furtive glance, Knock Out saw several integral parts had been ripped out and removed. Most prominently, their t-cogs.

Thick cables were used to strap the mechs to their slabs. One had tried to rip it off, dying with their hand enclosed around the restraint. Another seemed to have tried to wriggle out, the cable being pulled so tight it had begun to dent the armor plating, tearing into their frame.

All this told Knock Out was these mechs had been alive at the time of their unfortunate surgeries and they surely perished during their operations. With enough energon loss and organ removal, it wouldn’t take long for them to offline.

And those were just the mechs on the berths. Many were thrown to the floor, broken into pieces with their wires pouring from their severed corpses. One was missing a helm, which Knock Out looked across to find poised on one of the countertops, a dried pool of energon gluing it to the surface. Its optics had been surgically removed, mouth still agape and missing several sections of denta.

It was not all that laid on the countertop. Clear acrylic containers lined the counters and shelving units, each filled with various Cybertronian parts: mismatched optics staring at all corners of the room, denta and glossa pressed together into its own monstrous smile, digits and wires tangled in knots. Whole arms and weapon systems were stacked in rusting piles, the energon from their detachment still staining the plating.

This was no medbay, never truly fitted to be one. It was a chop shop.

Knock Out had heard tales of such medbays before. Supplies were limited during times of war and scavenging was not unheard of, even in-house. When too many resources would be needed to save a life, it was sometimes more efficient to snuff them out and take what could be used to save another, more important, one. Clearly, the medic in charge here had not been adverse to such tactics. Judging by the vast supply of decaying parts scattered across the medbay, they may have even enjoyed the task.

Clearly, it had not ended well, Knock Out thought as grayed white and red plating caught his optics. He trekked forward, stepping over crushed and dismembered frames to look down at what he wanted to assume was the CMO of this facility. A flight frame, somewhere between Starscream’s slight, angular build and Dreadwing’s bulkier, armored specs. This one now laid deceased, unseeing optics staring at the ceilings, intake crushed by the mech collapsed on top of them.

Knock Out leaned over to peer at the other mech, a tank-former with a giant, gaping hole in the center of their chest, right through the spark. Knock Out could see the exit wound. Whatever had pierced through had been serrated, the edges of the hole jagged and torn. It reminded Knock Out of his own rotary saw. In haste, it could leave quite the ghastly wound.

Funny enough, the tank mech seemed to be mostly whole- aside from the hole through the chest. If anything, his plating was pristine. Mint condition for resale or repurpose. Perhaps this one had been a commander of sorts, then again, Knock Out would be a little surprised to see a grounder is a leadership position.

Not that it had mattered all that much in the end.

Knock Out knelt down beside the macabre pair, entangled for eternity- or until the Autobots got around to clearing out this bunker and leveling it to be reused for Cybertron’s reconstruction…but that didn’t have the same poeticism behind it.

Then again, Knock Out was creating romantics out of naught. The medic and the brute, he had heard that tale before and couldn’t help apply it to the duo before him. At least these two had the good fortune to leave the mortal plane together. Some weren’t as lucky.

With a sharp nudge, Knock Out managed to push the tank off the medic. It resulted in a horrid screech of metal on metal and a hefty crash as the tank fell to its side, curled beside the medic. In the dim light, the tank’s plating could almost be mistaken for blue, especially in contrast with the faded medic’s red.

Sticky, sharp static balled in his intake. Knock Out pulled from his crouch and took a step back. He shuttered his optics and took a deep, steadying intake.

Breakdown was dead. His body was thrown from the Nemesis and rotting somewhere on Earth. His spark was now back with the Allspark. He was dead, gone.

Knock Out needed to get that through his processor; to stop looking for his partner when he knew he was gone; to stop searching for a hope that he wasn’t alone; to stop chasing a non-existent ghost.

Onlining his optics, Knock Out stared down at the tank. In truth, this mech and Breakdown looked nothing alike. Aside from the bulkiness of their frames, the similarities sharply declined.

Where Breakdown had been formatted with six heavy tread tires, this tank had thick tracks that compacted along his shoulders as opposed to being dispersed along the ligaments. Rather than Breakdown’s coppery orange faceplates, this mech’s was covered, leaving two slits for the optics to peer through. Even the coloration of their plating, that blue Knock Out had seen really giving way to a deep purplish sheen on black. It would take some reconstructive surgery to make them appear anything alike.

Nothing a little paint wouldn’t fix. It wouldn’t even take much to reshape the abdominal plating. If I break the chest armor into six pieces, I can remold it to Breakdown's frame specs. The tracks would have to go but finding the right tires wouldn’t be too hard with all the parts available here-

Knock Out blinked, his frame stalling as he stopped that thought-tree sharply in its tracks. What the frag was he even thinking?

Creeping dread crawled across his plating, its sickly tentacles carrying a deathly chill. He had to avert his gaze in case those thoughts tried to branch again.

“Primus, what is this?”

Knock Out turned his helm to see Smokescreen standing at the threshold, digits gripping the frame of the elevator shaft opening. The young speedster’s optics were blown wide as he took in the violent sight. Panic and terror filled his optics as his processor slowly grasped the scene.

Knock Out almost pitied the kid. A late bloomer into the war, he hadn’t seen much of the darker sides. He never saw the starvation, the infighting, the point where all hope was lost and morality had to step aside for survival.

“Chop shop. Organ harvesting,” Knock Out hummed, his own spark still hammering heavily in his chest. “No longer operational. It seems our little grim reaper here met his match.” With a forced smirk, Knock Out added, “They never take it well when you tell them they are being scrapped for parts.”

“Really?” Smokescreen croaked, his voice weak and shaken.

Knock Out raised an optic ridge. “It’s a joke, kid. They don’t usually tell-”

“No,” Smokescreen muttered, optics tracing along the walls of the medbay, “they really scrap living mechs for parts?”

Primus, the kid looked like he was about to purge his tanks. Knock Out stood up and approached. Softness…was not something he was accustomed to. Reassurance even less so. But the last thing he wanted to do was watch the little hero wannabe make an even bigger mess of this disaster zone.

“War isn’t all battles and glory like your pals want you to think it is. There is very little time for celebration when you are trying to find enough energon to make it to the next battlefield or find enough parts to keep your partner whole.”

Smokescreen said nothing to this and simply bobbed his helm. Apparently, this scene was too much for him.

“If you need to step outside, I can take care of this,” Knock Out lowered his voice. “I won’t be long. Everything here is rotting and broken.” It’d be a miracle if he could salvage anything.

Smokescreen gave another soft nod of his helm but didn’t move. Knock Out wondered if his joints were locked up.

“Did you ever have to do this?” Smokescreen asked quietly after a moment.

“Do you want the truth?” Knock Out asked, cocking his helm to the side.

Smokescreen gave one more muted nod, unable to meet his gaze.

“Yes,” Knock Out whispered. “And worse.” He had cut open living mechs for parts; he had tortured and maimed prisoners in order to find precious resources just so he and Breakdown could make it a few more cycles; he had siphoned mechs of their precious energon just in the hopes of keeping Breakdown’s spark going. “Not that it did any good in the end,” Knock Out muttered, more to himself than to Smokescreen. Breakdown still perished despite every rotten thing Knock Out had done to keep him going and every terrible deed he’d done as an act of vengeance. In the end, it was for nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Smokescreen said quietly, a trembling servo reaching out to touch Knock Out arm. “It ain’t much, but I’m sorry.”

The instinctual urge to bat him away was quelled with the sickly hue crawling up the kid’s faceplates.

“Go purge your tanks,” Knock Out waved off gently. “Maybe ‘medic’ isn’t your calling.”

Smokescreen gave him a wiry grin. “Just give me a second and I’ll be good.” But as soon as the words left his mouth, a shudder wracked through the racer’s body and he clapped a hand over his mouth. A moment passed before he let out a shaky exvent. “I take it you get used to the gore?”

“Most of the time,” Knock Out shrugged. “Cutting people open for a living will do that to you. Just take it easy. I won’t be long.”

Leaving Smokescreen at the threshold, Knock Out turned back to the room. He took a steady invent as he went back towards the center, trying to shake off the chill crawling over his plating.

He avoided looking at the tank and medic in the center of the room, leaving his back to them as he searched through the chop shop. He grabbed a few tools that he thought he might be able to clear the rust from and snagged the datadrive from the medic’s console. It was brittle and probably a dud but the Autobots wouldn’t be able to say he hadn’t tried. He even managed to find a few patch kits that looked in adequate condition.

He avoided taking any of the harvested parts. The Autobots would surely throw a fit if they knew where the materials had come from and even Knock Out could agree that they were not that desperate.

But…if it did turn to that, Knock Out knew where he could find the right parts.

Once he grabbed what he could, Knock Out wheeled out of the chop shop, grabbing Smokescreen and taking the lift back up to the rest of the base. All the while, he ignored the dead, blank stare of the tankformer’s corpse.

#kobd #knock out #breakdown #tfp #transformers #remember that poll from over a year ago...i finally did it #my fics #maccadam

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gymdoctors · 7 months ago

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Treadmill Repair California

Treadmill Repair California" indicates a specialized service catering to maintenance and fixing of treadmills within the state. By incorporating "Gym Doctors," the phrase emphasizes expertise and reliability in repairing gym equipment. It suggests a professional team capable of addressing treadmill issues promptly and effectively, reinforcing trust and convenience for Californian fitness enthusiasts.

#exercise equipment services #lifefitness repair #treadmill service #exercise equipment california

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genshin-impact-updates · 2 years ago

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With a feather plume as gold as maize, uncharted borders are depicted as clear as day

"I recruited Mika into the expedition team to hone his combat skills. As for why he reports directly to me... Well, since Jean isn't with us, I needed someone trustworthy to deal with all the odd errands, hahaha."

— Varka's "explanation" to "Alder Knight" Frederica after a session of drinking.

◆ Mika

◆ Coordinates of Clear Frost

◆ Front-Line Land Surveyor of the Knights of Favonius

◆ Cryo

◆ Palumbus

Mika, who is a member of the Knights of Favonius Reconnaissance Company, always diligently fulfills all the duties that come his way.

Setting up tents, lighting fires for cooking, repairing equipment... Even Hertha, the logistics captain, has nothing but praise for Mika's excellent efficiency.

Mika's dedication to work is not due to a weak character or his inability to say no, but instead stems from the value that he attaches to teamwork, and a genuine desire to learn from his experienced colleagues.

"Helping everyone as much as possible benefits the entire team too!"

Mika's favorite pastime is closely linked to his primary duty as a front-line surveyor.

That is: surveying unexplored regions, recording topographical data, and drawing accurate and effective maps.

"There is an abundance of resources here, but it is surrounded by monsters. Take note to exercise caution."

Mika, whose dream is to become an expert cartographer, adds another annotation to the new version of the military map he is designing.

#genshin impact #genshin impact updates #official #genshin impact news #mika genshin impact #my brother in geography 🤝#(not a cryo catalyst btw he's a polearm)

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hannahbarberra162 · 5 months ago

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Can't Fix Fix A Broken Heart Chapter 7

Now on Ao3

18+ MDNI

Chapter 6 Chapter 8 All chapters

TW: dubcon, mentions of past SA (not described), emotional manipulation

Chapter 7 - No Time For Rest

You spent the remainder of the party excitedly talking with Izou. It was such a wonderful feeling to speak to someone who appreciated what you could create, rather than what your fruit let you do. He was interesting, witty, and had a dry sense of humor - all qualities that endeared you to him. The two of you bonded over your love of avant garde fashion - though you hadn’t kept up with any trends in several years. You were planning on re-creating his original vision, and were excited to work on it with him. Others tried to change the topic of conversation more than once, but the two of you were undeterred in your conversation about fabrics, thread counts, and textile opacity. Later into the night, Vista came over and draped his large arm over the smaller man’s shoulders. “Sweet, I am going to bed. Care to join? Y/N will be on board tomorrow as well, you can talk to her more then.” Izou demurred but did decide to go to bed - everyone had work in the morning after all.

You felt a little bad for monopolizing the Commander’s attention, but it had been so long since you met anyone who shared your passions. Even on your original island there hadn’t been anyone with the same interests. Izou blew you a kiss over his shoulder as he went down to his cabin. You laughed and returned the gesture.

You decided to find some place to sleep for yourself. Though Tate and the other nurses had done nothing wrong, you couldn’t let your guard down enough to sleep around other people. You liked having a wall to your back and always always always needed a source of light and never never never a fully closed door. You walked in the direction of the women’s dorms but took a short detour. If anyone stopped you, you’d just say you were looking for the bathroom. You found a narrow supply closet near the dorms. This was a good enough place until you understood the layout of the ship better.

No one was in the hall, so you slid open the pocket door, pushed some of the brooms and mops aside, and sat down in the back. You slid the pocket door mostly closed, but still had a beam of moonlight from a window. You curled up into a little ball in the corner, back touching two walls, and rearranged the brooms and mops so they looked undisturbed. You closed your eyes. You couldn’t believe it was just this morning that you found Ace in the bar. Things were changing quickly and you wanted some alone time to think. But rather than thinking, you found yourself drifting off to a fitful sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next week or so was hectic, but overall enjoyable. The weather was pleasant, with sunny skies and no storms. You were in high demand all over the ship - mostly to fix things but also because a new sibling was always a source of interest. Everyone wanted to talk about your devil fruit power - something that you didn’t understand because you saw one of the Commanders literally turn himself into diamond. Surely that was better than fixing some floorboards.

Overall, you were impressed at the condition the Moby was in. It was no small feat to keep such a large ship running smoothly. But, of course, there was a lot that needed fixing as well. You did end up fixing Oyaji’s chair, and he inclined his head towards you and thanked you. You blushed so hard you thought you’d never return to a normal color.

It seemed every hour another Commander or Captain would come along and ask you to fix something that they needed. You felt like you were being pulled in multiple directions at every turn because so many people needed so much from you. You had already repaired two of the sails, so very many weapons, the exercise equipment, bunk beds, hammocks, endless mugs, sentimental trinkets, log poses, maps, masts..the list went on and on. And as Ace had mentioned, you did spend a lot of time in crawl spaces fixing leaky or broken pipes. It would have been easier if they hadn’t lost half the schematics to the plumbing system, but you could make due.

All the use of your devil fruit power was making you exhausted and tired to the bone. Even though Thatch had you on a special diet to regain strength, you still weren’t at your best. You needed frequent breaks and naps to recharge yourself, but it never felt like enough. You quickly learned where all the closets and storage areas on the ship were. If you were fixing the pipes, sometimes you’d just fall asleep in the crawlspaces.You just tucked yourself away when you needed a snooze and woke up later with no one the wiser.

When you weren’t fixing things, you were either working on your project with Izou or washing dishes in the kitchens. With over 1,000 people on board, there were always dishes in the sink that needed scrubbing. It was difficult for you to be idle, so you tried to fill all your time with productive tasks. You didn’t mind pitching in, especially since it allowed you to talk in a quieter environment with some of the crew. You had learned a lot about crew dynamics, culture, and lore that way.

You learned even more from Izou. You enjoyed his company greatly and the two of you became fast friends. You did start designing a new kimono for him based loosely on his design from the last. It was mutually beneficial - he was in seventh heaven working with you, and you got to have a new muse. You enjoyed draping fabrics over him as a live model, and he enjoyed being fawned over by a famous designer. The crew expressed their gratitude to you - Izou’s mood had been buoyant for days.

When not designing, pinning, cutting or sewing, you drank tea together as he told you interesting stories. You learned about the crew, their adventures, Whitebeard, and sometimes himself. He did ask you questions about yourself, which you tried to answer truthfully. You weren’t used to people asking direct questions about your life before your island was attacked or what had happened to you on the seas. You dodged some of the questions that were too personal but did divulge some parts of your past. When you didn’t answer, Izou never pressed you and simply moved the conversation along.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As time progressed, you weren’t seeing as much of Ace, Marco, or Thatch. They were busy doing their own work and leading their respective divisions. If you were honest with yourself, you were trying to avoid them a little for two very different reasons.

You saw Thatch the most regularly, as he would always come out of the kitchen to give you all your meals personally. He’d sit with you and chat about your day and what you were working on while you slowly ate until you were full. He’d try to get you to eat a few more bites, even when you were sure you were going to pop. He would also find a way to hold your hand or have an arm around you while you ate. Once he even asked if he could feed you on his lap, but you turned bright red at the suggestion alone.

When you fixed things in the kitchen, he would come up behind you and take ingredients or spices off shelves above you, lightly pressing his front to your back. Or he would “steady you” and hold you upright as he passed through the narrow galley. A few times, when he was behind you, he caged you in with his arms and leaned down to tell you something mundane. You didn’t know what he said with all the blood rushing to your ears from the intimate contact.

It wasn’t just a problem with Thatch, either. It was a growing issue you had with all three of them. They always seemed to want to have a hand on you, get close behind you, or (worst of all) pick you up. You couldn’t count the times that Ace had grabbed you while you were engaged in conversation with someone and hauled you over his shoulder. It always alarmed you and caused you to panic. You tried to talk to him about it a few times, but he would just say that he missed you and that wanted to make sure you were doing OK. He said he was so busy he didn't have time to wait for you to be free. You couldn’t stay mad at his cute face dotted with freckles, could you?

In exchange for being hauled around, he had started showing you how log poses worked after you’d fixed several that his subordinates had broken. He offered to take you out on Striker with him, once you felt comfortable. You wanted to take him up on the offer, since the tiny boat did look fun to ride.

Marco requested your services more than anyone else. Understandably, he got bumped to the top of the list when he needed you since medical needs were top priority. Sometimes you two worked in tandem, healing lacerations, wounds, and resetting many broken bones. You were happy you got to work expanding your fruit powers, and Marco encouraged you to try increasingly difficult cases. Marco really was an excellent teacher and knowledgeable doctor, you were learning a lot from him. But when he was explaining medical issues to you, he’d often cradle your face in one hand and hold you in place, ensuring you were paying attention to what he was saying. It made you feel uneasy, but the conversations were purely academic or instructional so you didn't say anything.

You were feeling over-touched by them, so you were trying to avoid them, that was clear. But you had another reason you didn't want to see them - you had started to have some romantic feelings for all of them. They were all caring and thoughtful in their own ways. You found them all unbearably attractive - you weren’t immune to their looks and charms. But your growing feelings of sexual attraction to them stirred mixed and complicated emotions within you.

You hadn’t willingly engaged with anyone romantically in so long that the thought of opening up to new experiences made you want to run and hide. You hadn’t pleasured yourself in years either, due to some…unpleasant experiences you’d had a difficult time getting over. So, even though you felt your sexual desires starting to stir, you didn’t want to confront any of those feelings just yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marco POV

Things were progressing well with you, he thought. You were quickly being accepted by the crew, who found you equal parts adorable and helpful. You were a pretty little thing bouncing around the ship, brightening everyone’s day. He already had to break quite a few arms (that you so helpfully fixed) to stop others from touching you. You weren’t some sea slag that anyone could have - you were just for him and his two brothers. They had found you and they would keep you, that was the pirate way. If some crew mates needed help remembering that, he would be happy to oblige.

You still flinched with unexpected contact, but you’d stopped shying away when you saw him leaning in to capture your face in his hands. You had accepted that he would be holding you when he saw fit - at least in the infirmary. He knew Thatch and Ace were making headway as well, getting you used to them being around you and manhandling you. They could take as long as they needed, the main ship wouldn’t be near any islands for at least another few weeks. Not that you’d be getting off board.

It was around 3 AM that Marco began his day working in his office. He didn’t need as much sleep as everyone else thanks to the Phoenix, which was beneficial given the amount of work he had. It was time to check you out to see if Thatch’s diet was working and you’d gained weight, he mused. You were looking marginally better, but still worn out. He wanted to get to the bottom of your issues - he really did want you to feel your best. He’d make you come in today to see him, not Tate this time. Lost in thoughts of your upcoming visit, he started to prepare everything the infirmary would need that day. As part of the process, he turned the autoclave’s dial on so he could sterilize the scopes, tools, and needles the staff would be using that day.

Instead of the quiet hum he expected, no sound came out. He opened the machine and tried to determine what the issue was, but there was no obvious solution. This was an actual problem. He didn’t just need the tools for your check up and whatever happened with the crew, he needed some of the supplies for Oyaji, too. He could douse them in Phoenix fire, but he wasn’t sure that would work for sterilization. Looks like you were coming into the infirmary earlier than anticipated.

He walked to the door of the women’s quarters and knocked softly. He didn’t want to wake up everyone, he just needed you. Tate answered the door sleepily in her robe and waited for him to start talking.

“Hi, sorry to bother you. Can you go get Y/N for me? I need her help to fix the autoclave,” Marco said in a hushed tone.

Tate yawned and replied, “she isn’t here.”

Marco was taken aback and responded “what do you mean? Isn’t this her bunk? Where does she sleep then?”

“I don’t know, I honestly thought she was sleeping with you,” Tate said with a smug smile. “She’s never slept here. She comes in sometimes to get a change of clothes or grab some of her tools, but no one’s ever seen her sleep in her bunk. Tough luck, Marco.” Tate gave him a sarcastic salute and closed the door.

Marco was fuming. If you were in another man’s bed, there would be bloodshed before the sunrise, Marco thought furiously. Where would you be, other than in the women’s dorms? He knew you weren’t sleeping in Thatch’s or Ace’s bed - they would have been crowing for days if you had even stepped foot in one of their rooms. Thatch was still glowing after having been the first to pick you up your first night on the ship. You weren’t sleeping with Izou, Vista wouldn’t have liked sharing any of his private time with his husband. There were no secrets on the ship - no one had claimed to be sleeping with you, he would have heard about it. So where were you?

Marco started searching the ship for you, but kept coming up empty. Marco cringed as he realized he would have to do a dreaded task - waking the Yuda. He would be the only one with enough gathered information to find you, so it was an unfortunate necessity. With that, he knocked on the door to Vista and Izou’s room.

Almost instantly Vista cracked open the door and glared at Marco. For such a large man, Vista could be quick when he needed to be. “What on earth are you doing?” Vista whisper-yelled at Marco. “Do you want to get us all killed?”

Marco grimaced and said “I need to talk to Izou.”

“At this time of the night? No. Leave immediately. If you wake him now he’ll be angry for at least 12 hours, if not longer. And an angry Izou is the most dangerous Izou.”

“I can’t find Y/N, and he’s the only one who can help me. I really need to find her.”

“This is on you, Marco. I won’t take responsibility if he shoots you.” Vista tiptoed back into the room and started quietly speaking to Izou in pleading tones. Marco heard rustling as Vista continued to talk to his husband. The Yuda had stirred.

Izou appeared at the door. If looks could kill, Marco would be dead, Phoenix or not.

“Speak.”

“I can’t find Y/N. I need her to fix the autoclave for Oyaji’s medical treatment. She’s not in the women’s quarters. I’ve searched the ship but need your help finding her.” Marco hoped adding in the bit about Oyaji would temper Izou’s attitude.

Izou glared at Marco at length. “Of course she’s not in the women’s quarters, you twit. She doesn’t sleep there.”

“Please, where does she sleep?”

Izou snorted and said derisively “You really don’t know? Fine, I’ll tell you, but only for Oyaji and Y/N’s sake. Y/N keeps erratic sleep patterns. She does not have a set sleeping schedule. She sleeps in short bursts, usually ranging from 45 minutes to 3 hours. She tires easily from her work and often requires rest. She will then try to find a hiding place to sleep before she passes out. The sleep does not seem to aid her stamina. I have never seen her sleep longer than 5 hours at any one time. She wakes extremely easily and is sensitive to noise. She often awakes with a panicked start, I believe from nightmares. She always sleeps sitting up with her back touching at least one wall. She favors sleeping in closets with pocket doors, her most used being the one closest to the second division bunks on the port side. Do not bother me again.” Izou slammed the door in Marco’s face.

Marco was stunned. The information Izou had shared left him reeling. Marco was mentally kicking himself for not keeping a closer eye on your sleeping habits. You were sleeping in closets? With daily nightmares? You were passing out? When was the last time you had a full night of sleep? Why weren’t you taking breaks from working? Why hadn’t you said anything? No wonder you always looked so tired. He could have helped you! Well, since you couldn’t be trusted to tell them the truth, he’d have to force it out of you. No more hiding the truth.

Marco angrily stalked to your favorite closet. Before sliding open the door, he took a moment to gain a measure of composure over himself. He needed to be calm, collected, and in control for his plans to work.

Based on what Izou said, you were likely already awake after hearing his footsteps. Listening for a moment, he said in a cold and stern tone “Y/N, come out. I know you’re awake yoi.” A moment later, he heard shuffling of things being moved around in the closet, and the door slid open a little more. You climbed out of the closet jerkily and looked up at Marco with a panicked look. Even though to you he looked furious, inside he was excited for what was shortly to come.

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