#electric buggy

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

What a difference 58 years makes juxtaposition of Meyers Manx Series I, 1964 & Meyers Manx 2.0, 2022. The Volkswagen Beetle-based beach buggy from the 1960s is to be reborn as an electric buggy for the 2020s. The prototype will be presented at at Monterey Car Week with first customer evaluation vehicles delivered in 2023 and full series production beginning in 2024, 60 years after the first Meyers Manx. The new generation is styled Meyers Manx CEO Freeman Thomas, better known as designer of vehicles like the original Audi TT and VW’s New Beetle. The new buggy has two rear mounted electric motors that send up to 202hp to the rear wheels. Two lithium-ion battery packs with a capacity of either 20 kWh for a 150-mile (241 km) range, or 40 kWh for a 300-mile (483 km) range will be offered. 

[dgmema]

Roots NAVEO

The NAVEO Cargo is a new concept in cargo transportation; it offers the best in class build, efficiency, and economics. This vehicle is highly customizable with a dent-proof front and rear body made of reliable polypropylene, zero emissions, lower operating costs, and the availability of many additional options.

[agir1ukn0w]

I wouldn’t say that opla Buggy is “yassified Buggy” since, from what I’ve seen/heard about Buggy in the manga/anime he’s already pretty much Yassification personified, so instead I’ll say he’s “re-yassified Buggy”

[transingthoseformers]

I absolutely love the double reverse au as there isin't enough of it! Although I've been wondering mostly of the Wasp and Bee's swap and like how did Bee get tricked to get turned to goldbug? Does Bee have a vocal problem after the stockades like wasp? And if Optrinox was the one who turned Bee into goldbug why would he do that and I don't know if he hates being techno-organic or dosn't?

I assume Bumblebee does indeed develop a unique vocal pattern like Wasp did in canon, but all I've got is him sounding more like a damn gremlin or static but I see the opportunity for warbles like tfp Bumblebee on occasion (it'd be an interesting touch considering some of the sounds the tfa mecha make), but I don't think he totally loses his voice like in bayverse or tfp (or how he was supposed to in s4)

I'm thinking that since he seems to have became Goldbug a lot earlier and pre-series unlike how in canon Wasp only became Waspinator later on, and that either he met Optronix first and became a decepticon second or shortly after Optronix joined the cons.

I'm thinking they offered a frame upgrade, especially playing off of the fact that he'll be bigger and more powerful, and Bee took it.

I don't think he'd be quite pissed at becoming technoorganic like BA was in canon, I feel like he'd preen at the chance to be unique and the attention.

[cannedbluesblog]

The Orange Beach Buggy (Feat: Peter Green, Danny Kirwan & Screaming Lord Sutch)

[mrsmyths-automobilia-1984]

Meyers Manx 2.0 EV

[undeadvinyls]

Game Bug is living in my head rent free so take two doodles. Him without his curled hair (it's 100% natural but dense AF) and trying to dance with boogaloo. they're bros!!

[iwanttogointospace]

The original off, off-road vehicle the “moon buggy” from the Apollo 17 mission.

[assiraphales]

absolutely fascinated by the aesthetics (especially fashion) of the one piece world. the mix of modern and historic. the use of swords and guns and horse/buggies with the snail phones and the neon bar signs. the Hawaiian shirts and jeans and polos with 17th century military uniforms and overcoats. electricity but no power tools. the one giant strip of land and islands. the vibrant hair colors and accessories. the metal jaws and axe hands and clown noses and One Outfit To Rule Them All for each character

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

DeLorean Omega, 2040. Along with the Plasmatail, DeLorean have also revealed a 1:1 model for a Baja buggy from the future. The design has been inspired by off-road racing and features gullwing doors, massive integrated tyre/rim units and protruding LED lights

[constantmourning]

Run Away

[Buggy x AFAB!Reader]

Summary: You and Buggy get close while he's on the Going Merry.

Word count: 0.9k

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Buggy is just a head whilst giving head. Oral (f! receiving), Insecure!Reader, inappropriate use of devil fruit abilities, very too much self indulgent, not beta read.

A/N: im posting this while not sober and it's very self indulgent. Me and Buggy if I was on the going merry fr fr!! This was just something I wrote real quick while I tried to work on requests... I hope you enjoy it sdfbsdf (ALSO!! Reader may be written as AFAB, but as a trans, plus size person I wrote them with that in mind :) but like feel free to imagine whatever you want!)

For some reason, you were left to watch Buggy. Why they trusted you to watch him was honestly beyond you. Unfortunately for Luffy, you had made a new ally. Fortunately for you, your new ally was very generous. Even if you were sure it was only because he wanted off the ship.

“Buggy,” Your voice was low as you lied on your bed. Buggy’s head was in your hands, resting on your stomach. “I’ve never…” You trailed off. “Um, I don’t have much experience with this.”

“Holding a head? Most people don’t.”

“No,” Your brows furrowed, “I mean, I haven’t ever done that either. But, the people I’ve been with before… I don’t have good experiences with them and-”

“Them going down on you?” He asked. You nodded at his question. “I can change that.”

Your hands were at Buggy’s neck. Your fingers began to absentmindedly play with the hair coming out from under his bandana. Buggy’s eyes met yours and his brows furrowed. You stopped playing with his hair and apologized.

“No, you can do that again.” Buggy demanded. You felt yourself relax as you began to play with his hair again, twirling it between your fingers. “If you don’t wanna do that, we can kiss again. But the earlier offer still stands.”

You nodded, “Okay… okay.” You placed Buggy beside you and stood up. You grabbed the waistband of your shorts and quickly pulled them down. Buggy watched wide eyed as you pulled your panties and kicked them across the room. “What?” You almost covered yourself.

“I didn’t think I’d get this far…” Buggy admitted. “Did you want to leave your shirt on?”

“Yes.” You nodded, pulling at the hem of it. “I’m not too comfortable taking it off.” Buggy’s head bobbed, somewhat, and you lied back on the bed. You looked over at him and he waited for you to pick him up. “Are you sure this is okay?” You whispered, grabbing him and holding him up towards you.

Buggy hummed in response, letting you know it was okay. You placed him between your legs and pulled up your shirt slightly, giving him full access to you. You looked up at the ceiling and waited for something to happen. When Buggy did not do as he said he would, you looked down at him.

“Play with my hair again.”

You groaned. You placed your hands around him, your finger tangling with his hair once more. You gently played with it and pulled Buggy closer to you. Your legs opened a little wider and you felt Buggy begin to lap at you. Your eyes widened immediately. Your hips rolled forward and Buggy smiled against you. He was smug.

You let out a soft moan as he licked a stripe up your pussy. His tongue hit your clit and circled it. Electricity jolted through you. You gently pulled at his hair and your back arched, before pressing back into the bed. You were unsure what to do.

“What if-” You groaned, trying to keep quiet, “What if you need air?”

You pulled Buggy away from you, ever so slightly, “I’ll be fine, put me back.”

You did not argue. You pressed Buggy back between your thighs and tensed as his nose pressed to your clit. Your eyes screwed shut and your heaved. Trying to be quiet was about to get hard. And Buggy had no remorse.

You moaned out for him, your voice cracking as you tried to keep it down. “Fuck!” You shook as Buggy continued. “Just like that, please-” You were so close. You were begging for him to let you cum. “Never felt so good…” You mumbled, words barely coherent.

Buggy smiled and groaned into you as you pulled his hair. Your hips rolled into his mouth and his nose hit your clit again, your jaw went slack. Buggy’s eyes watched as you began to unravel just from his tongue. He watched as you begged and pleaded, saying you needed him. Needed him to let you cum. He wasn’t going to deny you of that, you were being too good.

One of your hands left Buggy’s neck and slapped hard against your mouth. A muffled scream bounced off the thin walls and your hips jerked up into Buggy’s face. You tensed, everything was so tense. Your eyes were shut tight and suddenly you couldn’t hold onto Buggy anymore. You were reeling and Buggy watched you struggle to regain self control.

“Fuck-” You finally formed a word. “Fuck!” You hissed out, “I don’t- Holy shit.”

“It’s okay,” Buggy was smug, still between your legs. “Take your time.”

“Buggy…” You shook your head and picked him up, placing him on your stomach again. “I think I may just have to run away with you.”

“What?”

Your eyes widened and blinked at him, “Oh… I mean… I totally enjoyed that a normal amount.”

Buggy’s eyes were wide too, “No, no, say that again. You may have to do what? I need to hear that again.”

You let out a soft laugh, "Buggy, that was so great I'm prepared to run away with you!"

You sat there for a moment. You were thankful to have been left alone with Buggy, but you were filled with an unknown emotion when you thought about leaving the straw hats for Buggy. A feeling you did not want to think too hard on.

"Remind me," you finally spoke, "I owe you once you have your body back."

[buggimama]

Mine

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 1: Welcome To A New Kind Of Tension]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What do you think, should we kill ourselves now or later?” Rio is spinning his Beretta M9 around on his index finger. This is not advisable. He doesn’t care.

Your hands are gripping the skeletal latticework of the transmission tower, steel hot enough to burn you; no electricity hums in the power lines suspended above your heads. Your eyes are on the horizon, golden June sunlight over fields no one has planted. Weeds are growing up through the earth, feral and defiantly useless, reclaiming their land just like the deer are, and the rabbits and the opossums and the turtles and the squirrels and the doves. The reign of humanity is over. Now you’re prey animals too. “Let’s wait.”

“For what?”

“Maybe someone will save us.”

“Ain’t nobody coming, Chips!” Rio says. “We’re a hundred feet off the ground in the middle of nowhere, motherfucking Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and we haven’t run into anyone since that Amish family back in Lightstreet, and I wouldn’t count on them driving by in their horse and buggy to pick us up.”

“We’re about sixty feet off the ground.”

“Okay, Bob the Builder, why don’t you whip up a helicopter or something to get us out of here?” Rio’s M9 has one bullet left in it, yours has three, nowhere near enough. At the bottom of the tower is a swarm of fifty-four zombies; you’ve counted them twice. There are no cute euphemisms: walkers, biters, the infected. They were once people and now they’re not. They wear the vestiges of their former lives, like how those who believe in reincarnation see meaning in birthmarks: here you were stabbed, there you were kissed by your true love. They lurch and snarl and hiss in their professional attire, college t-shirts, Vans and Jordans, septum piercings, wedding rings. They decompose in a miasma of metallic blood and spoiled meat. Parker had been the last one to the transmission tower, and they grabbed him by the legs. Now they’re chewing the gristle off his bones: disconnected ligaments that swing like strands of cobwebs, scarlet threads of muscle. “Oh shit,” Rio says, looking down. “We’ve got a smart one.”

Most zombies don’t have the fine motor skills to climb, swim, or open doors, but every once in a while—just like out of every 5,000 or 10,000 or however many ordinary humans you’ll pull the lever on the genetic slot machine and get a Picasso or a kid who can score a 1600 on the SATs—you run into an overachiever. This zombie, a teenage boy with red hair and a blue plaid shirt, is slowly scaling the tower. He’s already ten feet off the ground.

Rio aims his M9, semiautomatic, packs a punch but won’t break your arm with the recoil. “Fuck off, Ed Sheeran!” He fires and misses; the bullet grazes the boy’s shoulder. He groans dramatically and asks you in defeat: “Will you take care of that, please?”

You pull your pistol out of your holster and lean away from the tower to get a better angle, holding onto the scaffolding with one hand. You feel Rio’s large fingers close around your wrist, ready to yank you back if you slip. You click off the safety with your thumb, peer through the front sight, aim and wait until you’re sure. It’s a headshot: shards of skull ricochet off steel beams, half-rotten brains spray out in a mist. The carcass plummets to the earth.

“All this horror, all this catastrophe.” Rio’s eyes, dark like a mineshaft, drift mischievously back to you. “We could…distract each other.”

He’s not serious; this is a game you play. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to die a virgin.”

“I do if you’re the only other person up here.”

“You deny a condemned man his final wish?”

“We’re not dying,” you insist. “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie would understand given the circumstances. She would want me to be happy.”

“What if we have sex and then immediately thereafter get rescued? You’d be a cheater. You’d be consumed by guilt. You’d never be able to take me back to your parents’ doomsday prepper cult commune in bumblefuck Oregon to wait out the apocalypse in peace.”

“You’re going to appreciate those doomsday preppers when you’re eating Chef Boyardee out of a can instead of shuffling around as a reanimated corpse.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” you muse. “So you agree we’re going to get off this tower somehow.”

Rio sighs and whistles a morose tune: what a shame. “You should have gone out with that Marine at Corpus Christi.”

You frown, repentant, wistful. There’s nothing on the horizon except fields and trees and black storm clouds of crows taking flight. “I was afraid of making a mistake.”

“And now look at you. About to die as pure as Pope Francis.”

“How did this happen?! We’re not idiots, we’re goddamn professionals!” You re-holster your M9. You’re still wearing your uniforms from when you went AWOL, stealing away from Saratoga Springs like rats from a sinking ship.

“I’ll tell you exactly how this happened. You let that loser Parker come with us even though I knew it was a bad idea—”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! He started crying!”

“And he had one job, which was to check the oil in the Humvee, and clearly he failed because…” Rio glances at his watch. “Approximately four hours ago, the engine started smoking and the whole thing died on us, so we had to get out and walk, like we’re pioneers or some shit, and then that hoard down there came out of nowhere, and the only place left to go was up. Freaking Parker. I could murder that guy.” An awkward pause. “I mean, the zombies beat me to it. But still.”

“He had two jobs. He was also carrying the extra ammo.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rio isn’t messing around with his M9 anymore. He’s contemplating it as the sun hovers just past noon, hot and shadowless. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Two.”

“Good. Don’t use them.”

You look at him, this man you’ve known for over four years, this man you’ve traveled the world with. You’ve already gone so much farther than Oregon together. How is it possible that what was once a six hour flight is now a month-long journey that might kill you? “It’s not over yet, Rio.”

“Remember what you promised me.”

His hushed voice in the moonlit indigo of the Humvee the night you left Saratoga Springs: Don’t let me die alone. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it to Oregon.” Then you grin, sweltering summer air breathing over you, humid, heavy, the screeching of insects in the trees. “But if it comes to that, I’d be happy to shoot you first.”

Rio smiles as the zombies below growl and claw at the steel framework of the transmission tower. Flesh peels off their fingers until you can see the gore-stained white of their bones. “Don’t miss.”

“I rarely do.”

“Do you have any more packs of Cheddar Whales in your pockets or—?” He cuts off as he spots something in the distance. His eyes go wide, his jaw drops open. “What…what is that?!”

It’s an SUV, massive, dark blue, rumbling across the field in a dust storm of displaced earth. It’s headed straight towards you. There is someone standing up through the sunroof, short dark hair that whips wildly in the wind, binoculars. You can hear the engine revving and, faintly, Kanye West’s Gold Digger. As the SUV nears the tower, Sunroof Kid ducks inside and closes the hatch.

Rio explodes into hysterical, rapturous laughter. “Oh my God, we’re saved! We’re not going to die up here! Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you. I’m never going to jack off on Sundays again.”

The SUV, still accelerating, plows through the mob of zombies. Severed limbs go flying; bones crunch and snap. There’s a woman driving, you can see now through the slightly tinted windows. She puts the monstrous vehicle and reverse and does another pass. Zombies paw futilely at the sides of the SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, as it turns out. They smack their open, soggy palms on the windows; they gnaw and lick at the bumpers and the wheel wells. The Tahoe circles to regain speed, the engine growling, a bear, a dragon, and barrels into the remaining ambulatory zombies. The hoard is now largely incapacitated. Rio is cheering and clapping his hands.

The Tahoe’s doors open, and your rescuers appear. There are two men wielding baseball bats: one with long dark curly hair, the other tall and blonde, and there’s something wrong with his face, the left side, though you are too far away to see clearly. They move rapidly through the battlefield of felled, moaning bodies, swinging their bats and crushing skulls. There’s another blonde guy, shorter, softer, pink with sunburn, wearing plastic sunglasses and a teal polo with a popped collar. He’s spinning a golf club in his right hand. He is followed out of the Tahoe by one last blonde, spindly and swift, stalking the perimeter with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows secured to his belt. Rio is singing along to Gold Digger, drumming his fists on the steel beams.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs

You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed

You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave

There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves…”

The driver wriggles out of the Tahoe with some difficulty; she is seven or eight months pregnant. “Stay in the car,” Madame Driver tells someone inside as she slams the door shut. She’s holding a hammer and sets about euthanizing the zombies still squirming on the ground and gnashing their cracked teeth at her.

Golf Club says: “Jace, bro, that’s so embarrassing. You’re gonna let her do that?”

Curly—or, rather, Jace—shrugs. “Exercise is good for the baby.”

All three blondes respond at once in a chorus of appalled disapproval. Interestingly, your rescuers have British accents. From within the Tahoe, someone turns off the CD player. This is wise; noise tends to attract more zombies. Madame Driver, unaffected, puts her hammer through the eye socket of a former Arby’s employee.

Jace flings back: “She likes helping! It would be sexist to tell her she’s not allowed to!”

The Scarred Man looks up at you and Rio and salutes, two fingers glanced off his forehead. You begin climbing down the scalding rungs of the transmission tower to meet them.

“Oh fuck, Aemond, you gotta deal with this,” Golf Club says. He is holding a yowling zombie at arm’s length by the straps of its overalls. It’s tiny, maybe a kindergartener. “You know I can’t kill the little kid ones.”

The Scarred Man, Aemond, turns to him. He’s wearing a maroon Harvard University t-shirt. “You have to learn how to do things yourself. I might not always be around.”

Golf Club scoffs. “As if I’d outlive you.”

“Go on. You can do it,” Aemond says. Behind him, more people are emerging from the Chevy Tahoe: Binoculars Buddy, a slight girl with shifting, watchful eyes, a blonde woman in a billowing sundress and with a burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Golf Club is still struggling. “Aw, Aemond, man, he’s got light-up sneakers!”

Jace strides over irritably. “Aegon, you’re so fucking useless…” He kicks the miniature zombie to the dirt, raises his bloodied baseball bat, and brings it down on a skull that disintegrates like an overripe Halloween pumpkin. “You’re welcome.”

“Get bit, you poodle.”

Rio hits the ground first, his boots thumping against untamed earth. Aemond sets his baseball bat aside and reaches out to offer assistance as you dangle from a white-hot steel beam. “No,” Rio tells him roughly. “Back up.”

Aemond shows his palms and complies, retreating several paces. Rio helps you down. Now you can see Aemond’s face perfectly. There’s a relatively fresh wound running down the left half of his face, the violent red of burgeoning scar tissue, clear stitches; his eye has been sutured shut. But that’s not why you’re staring at him. His other eye is a focused, hypnotic blue, his short blonde hair disheveled. He keeps touching his chin, a nervous tick. Immediately, there’s something you like about him. He gives you the impression of someone who has gotten very good at hiding how afraid he is. Aemond looks away from your gaze, thinking you’re horrified by his injury. Then, reluctantly, he comes back. There’s forbidden temptation the lines of his ravaged face, a curiosity, a hesitation.

“Thank you for saving us,” you say to your rescuers, tearing your attention from Aemond. It’s not easy. “That was really, really cool of you, and we know you didn’t have to do it. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Rio adds. “Sorry your Tahoe is covered in guts now.”

Aemond turns to confer silently with his companions, then asks you: “Where are you headed?”

“Odessa, Oregon.”

He nods. “We’re going to California.”

“NorCal,” Jace says, holding his baseball bat across his shoulders. “Bay Area.”

“Are you two together?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” Rio says, misunderstanding the question.

“Not like that,” you clarify. “He has a wife and baby, that’s what’s in Oregon.”

“So you’re single,” Aegon says, grinning toothily. His fellow travelers—family? friends? classmates? a combination thereof?—grumble and roll their eyes.

“Um, I mean, yeah, technically…?”

“Aemond’s also single,” Madame Driver informs you, relishing the chaos.

“He’s single but deformed and traumatized,” Aegon says. “I am mentally uninjured.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Your eyes, by their own volition, flick back to Aemond. He peers down at the ground then up at you again, smiling, a little sheepish, a little wicked.

Aegon groans, swinging his golf club around. ��Man, come on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aemond replies.

“No, it’s just right there, all over your fucked up face.”

Madame Driver feigns a sympathetic frown at Aegon. “How sad. Guess you won’t have anyone to give your syphilis to.”

“I don’t have syphilis,” Aegon tells you. Then, to the others: “I can’t be the only single guy! It’s pathetic!”

“I’m single,” Archery Team says brightly.

“You’re like twelve. You don’t count.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Are you Army?” Aemond asks you and Rio.

“Navy,” Rio replies. “We were stationed at Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Aemond is fascinated. “You’re deserters?”

“What are you gonna do about it, Brit Boy?” Rio says. Aemond blinks at him. Aegon cackles, drawing huge circles in the air with his golf club.

“Everyone’s deserting,” you explain diplomatically.

“They were going to evacuate the base and send everyone left into New York City,” Rio says. “Fuck that, we’d heard things, we weren’t about to go on some suicide mission. We weren’t even in a combat unit for Christ’s sake, we’re Seabees.”

“You’re what?” Aemond asks, puzzled.

“We do construction. That’s why we were still at the base. If they’re putting us on the front lines, the situation is truly desperate. I’m not going in the meatgrinder. I’m not gonna be like those Hitler Youth kids sent to Russia.”

Aegon is squinting behind his sunglasses, truly lost. “Huh?”

“We should go west together,” Aemond suggests. He’s attempting to sound casual.

“I thought we didn’t want to travel with strangers, Aemond,” Jace says pointedly, mocking him. “I thought they couldn’t be trusted, Aemond. I thought they might slit our throats and steal our Tahoe in the dead of night, Aemond.”

“We’re useful!” Rio bargains. “We can shoot things!”

Aegon is very confused. “I thought you did construction.”

“Everyone has to go through basic training,” Aemond tells him impatiently, watching you.

“She got the Marksmanship Medal,” Rio says, grinning, proud.

“A lot of people get that,” you demur immediately.

“We can give you guys weapons training,” Rio continues. “You seem…like you probably don’t know about guns. Like you read a lot of books.” He gestures to Aegon. “Except that one.”

Aegon snickers, unoffended, still swinging his golf club around. “I don’t read books. I read maps.”

“Okay, lets do it,” Aemond says. “We’ll stick together across the Midwest and split up before we get to the Pacific. That puts us at ten people, and there’s safety in numbers.”

“Why do you get to make all the decisions?!” Jace demands. “Who signed that fucking contract? I didn’t consent to those terms.”

“Because that’s what Criston told us the last time the phones worked,” Aegon replies smugly. “He said Aemond’s in charge. So he is. If you want to find your way to California on your own, you’re welcome to try.”

“Who’s Criston?” you ask.

“Our fake dad,” Aegon says.

“Oh, your stepdad?”

“No, our mom is still married to our dad, he just sucks.”

“He does suck,” Archery Team confirms.

Rio tells you: “Hey, Chips, you’re standing in a torso.”

“Am I?” You look down. Your boots are buried to the ankles in the rotting gore of a bare midsection with only one limp arm still attached. You step out of it and shake off the bits of decomposing organs. “Gnarly. Thanks.” You spot Parker’s backpack containing the extra ammunition, pick it up out of the dirt, and throw it over your shoulders.

“Chips?” Aemond says. “Like…chocolate chips?”

“No, like woodchips. I’m a carpenter. I mean, I was a carpenter, I guess. That’s what I did in the Navy. Some people call the carpenters Chips.”

“I was an electrician,” Rio says. “So clearly, now that all the power is down, that turned out to be a fantastic career path.” Then he formally introduces himself. “Hi everyone, I’m Rio.”

Aegon perks up. “Oh, like the Rio Grande.”

Rio pretends to be scandalized. “Wow, racist.”

“So racist,” you agree.

Aegon’s chubby pink face fills with horror. “No, wait, I didn’t…um…”

Rio laughs and taps the nametag on his chest, black letters stitched over green camouflage: Osorio.

“His first name’s Bryan,” you say. “But no one calls him that.”

“My mom calls me Bryan. Sophie calls me Bryan.”

Aemond points at his companions, one after the other. “That’s my brother Aegon and my sister Helaena. Jace and Luke are our cousins. Then Baela and Rhaena are their girlfriends. Well, Baela…she’s kind of a fiancée. But there’s no official ring yet.”

Jace says: “Unfortunately, all the jewelry stores were looted on account of the apocalypse.”

“And I’m Daeron,” Archery Team says buoyantly, waving. Then he shields his eyes as he notices something at the edge of the field. “Oh, guys…?”

There are zombies approaching with clumsy, staggering strides, only a few now, but more will follow. That’s the thing; they are in seemingly endless supply. It’s easy to get too comfortable with them, to think of them as slow and mindless, even comical, even pitiful. But they can surprise you. And it only takes one bite to become just like them.

“Time to return to the Tahoe,” Baela announces, waddling towards the driver’s seat. Rhaena climbs in the passenger’s side. The rest of you pile into the back. The SUV has nine seats; Aegon crouches on the floor without being asked to. He’s unfolding a map he pulled from the pocket of his salmon-colored shorts and laying it flat across Rio’s knees so everyone can see. Baela turns the key in the ignition and the Tahoe rumbles to life. You spot a few red gas cans under the seats. If you can’t find more when that runs out—siphoning it out of other vehicles, stumbling across a gas station that is miraculously not drained dry—you’ll be walking, biking, or skateboarding to the West Coast. Or embracing the Amish lifestyle with a horse and buggy.

“We were planning to swing by Fort Indiantown Gap,” you tell Aemond. He twists around in his seat to look at you, that absorbed crystalline blue gaze. “That’s where we were headed before our Humvee broke down. It’s a National Guard Training Center. It’s probably cleaned out like everywhere else, but if it’s not…we might be able to find some guns and ammo there.”

“Where is it?”

“An hour south of here, just outside of Harrisburg.”

Baela is watching Aemond in the rearview mirror. He gives her a nod. “How do I get there?” Baela asks you.

“South on Route 42. Did you see the signs on your way in…?”

“Yup. Got it.” Baela steers the Tahoe across the field, kicking up a vortex of parched soil. She intentionally runs down four zombies before swerving left onto a two-lane road. Then she turns up the volume on the CD player: War Pigs by Black Sabbath. “It’s a mixtape,” she informs you.

Aegon points to southcentral Pennsylvania on a map of the United States of America, highway arteries and local route veins. “We’re here,” he says, sliding around on the floor of the Tahoe as Baela drives. His index finger traces the path; it’s a precarious balance between avoiding the most heavily populated areas and still having access to the necessary trappings of civilization: supplies to scavenge, roads to follow, buildings to take shelter in. “We’ll stop by Fort Indiantown Gap and then head northwest, thread the needle between Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stay south of Detroit and Chicago, cut across Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, that top part of Utah, then go our separate ways in Nevada. Oh my God, it’s just like the Oregon Trail! Do you guys remember that game?! Fording rivers, getting dysentery, hunting bison to extinction?” He starts humming the theme song.

Jace smirks, chomping on a Twizzler. “Hope you don’t die of a snakebite or something. That’d be awful.”

Aegon ignores him and refolds the map. “Rio! Fuck, marry, kill. The last three first ladies before Biden.”

Rhaena says, exasperated: “Aegon, you have to stop asking people that. It’s inappropriate.”

“Oh, easy,” Rio replies. “I’m fucking Laura Bush.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aegon gives him a high five.

“And then I have to marry Michelle.”

“You gotta.”

“Which means Melania gets the grape Flavor Aid.”

“It’s the only logical answer.”

“I’d fuck Melania,” Jace says.

“Of course you would, you sick, sick man,” Aegon mutters, rolling down a window and sticking his head out like a golden retriever, his sunglasses still on, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. There’s a tattoo in black ink on his forearm, you notice for the first time: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Indiantown Gap is a ghost town like a gold seam emptied, an oil well run dry, a collapsed coal mine. There’s no central armory but instead a series of arms rooms, one for each unit. Every single scrap of lethal metal is gone: no pistols, no rifles, no grenade launchers or machine guns, no ammo, not even pocketknives, although you do find clean PT uniforms for you and Rio to change into, t-shirts and running shorts and sneakers. Clothes are surprisingly difficult to acquire now. Most stores have either been looted or overrun by zombies, and Amazon is tragically no longer delivering. You can break into houses that seem abandoned, but then you have to hope the people who lived there just so happened to be your size and also aren’t waiting inside to eat you. It’s not usually a wise gamble.

You study Aemond and his companions as you move through the base clearing buildings, you and Rio with loaded M9s in your holsters and clutching borrowed baseball bats; gunshots are best avoided if possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. Aemond and Jace take point, almost always; Aegon hovers on Aemond’s blind left side, wagging his golf club around, occasionally slapping Aemond’s shoulder to remind him he’s there. Daeron prowls at the back and on the periphery. Baela pretends she isn’t struggling to keep up. Luke and Rhaena are the lookouts. Helaena fills her burlap messenger bag with small treasures you don’t even notice her accumulating: bottles of Advil, batteries, lighters, pens, tweezers, Band-Aids, Uno cards. You encounter only three zombies, easily decommissioned. Fort Indiantown Gap must have been evacuated weeks ago. You wonder what pointless battles her soldiers died in. Everyone knows the dead have won.

What the abandoned base lacks in weaponry it makes up for in food. You find a chow hall with an untouched kitchen, a wealth of shelf-stable delicacies: chili, saltine crackers, applesauce, fruit cocktail with bright red gems of cherries, peanut butter, strawberry jelly, green beans, carrots, peas, beets, tuna fish, chicken noodle soup. You feast—a Thanksgiving, a Last Supper—then settle into the barracks next door as the sun begins to set. There are plenty of bunkbeds and a closet full of pillows and sheets. Someone always has to be up to keep watch; Daeron and Jace immediately go to sleep so they can get some rest before they are shaken awake sometime around 2 or 3 a.m. Baela says she’s going to lie down for a minute and almost immediately begins snoring. Helaena makes silent amendments in her notebook; she keeps an inventory of everything the group has, needs, or wants.

Outside, Rio and Aegon are engaged in a spirited game of Uno. Luke is sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Tahoe with his binoculars. Rhaena is beside him softly reading a book out loud: The Hunger Games. Aemond is on a wooden bench on the front porch of the barracks, watching the sun sink into the west. When he notices you, he seems pleased. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we wasted your gas to come here.”

“No, it was a good idea. It was worth a shot. And now we have a safe place to sleep tonight.” His eye drops lower, his scarred brow crinkles in concern. “What happened to your hands?”

“My hands?” In the haze of the adrenaline, you didn’t even notice. Your palms are blistered, swollen and stinging. “Oh. It was the transmission tower. The steel beams got really hot while we were up there. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me bandage them. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Really, I’m fine, I shouldn’t inconvenience—”

“Sit down,” Aemond insists. You take a seat on the bench while he goes to the Tahoe to fetch a black nylon bag about the size of a briefcase. Rio casts you a furtive, crafty grin. It’s nothing, you mouth back, more to convince yourself than him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears; your cheeks are warm. You haven’t felt like this since you almost agreed to go on a date with that Marine you met at Corpus Christi, where your battalion had been dispatched to build a series of new airplane hangars. Aemond returns to the bench and begins wiping down your palms with antiseptic. “Sorry if this stings.”

It does, but you’re grateful for the distraction. “It isn’t too bad.”

“You’re not from Oregon.” He’s noticed your accent.

“Kentucky,” you confess.

“You aren’t making a stop at home before traveling west?”

“Why would I want to go back there?”

Aemond looks at you uncertainly; he can’t tell if you’re joking. You like the way his voice goes quiet when it’s just the two of you. You like the way he barely shows his teeth when he talks, like he’s keeping secrets.

After a moment, as the sky begins to turn to orange and pink and lilac, you continue. “People join the Army for a paycheck and a place to sleep, free college, health insurance. People join the Marines to prove they’re the best. People join the Air Force because they want to be in the military but think they’re too smart for grunt work. And people join the Navy to get away from home. I wanted to get far, far, far away.”

Aemond smiles. “Are you far enough yet?” He doesn’t mean by miles. He means the fact that the world will never be the same. Now he’s coating your hands in a thick white ointment, cool and blissful.

“I was afraid of so many things, and now none of them matter.”

“We all have brand new things to be afraid of.” He gets a roll of gauze and begins to wrap your palms, careful to keep your fingers and thumbs unencumbered.

“Aemond?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?”

He shrugs. He’s trying not to be resentful about it; he can’t change it anyway. “We were scavenging supplies from a Home Depot. We had to board up the house and wait until things…got quieter and it was safe to travel out of Boston.” And by got quieter, he means that the initial wave passed, the zombies began to wander out of the cities and disperse, the survivors were hunkered down and not participating in gunfights or Vikings-style pillaging in the streets. “A piece of sheet metal fell on me from the top shelf. Aegon and Jace dragged me home, they thought I was dying.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. Who treated it?”

“I did.”

You can’t disguise your shock. “You…you stitched up your own face?”

He smirks, finishing the bandages on your hands. “I was in medical school before all this.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I was an intern. So definitely not a doctor, but the closest thing to one I had access to. And I had taken some things from the hospital when everything went to hell. So I got a little mirror, and I lidocained myself very generously, and I started suturing.”

You don’t know what to say. His eye?? He stitched his eye shut?? “I mean…you did a great job.”

“I’m aware I look like Frankenstein, but I guess it’s better than not being here at all.”

“No, seriously. You look amazing, Aemond.”

He stares at you, bewildered. You realize how bizarre it must sound. You both start laughing as Aemond packs his supplies back into his medical kit. He touches his fingertips to his chin a few times—restless, meditative—then stands to return inside the barracks. “I’m…going to go check on Helaena.”

“Yeah. Cool. See ya.” You don’t watch him leave. This takes intentional effort.

Seconds pass anonymously: no time you need to be anywhere, nothing late, nothing early, no television premiers, no football games, no State Of The Unions, no time zones to do mental math over. You aren’t even sure what day it is. The earth has erased your invisible prisons. Now all that remain are the real ones: weather, terrain, disease, predators.

There is the creaking of weight on the porch steps. You warn him: “I’m not interested in your commentary.”

Rio winks as he says: “Maybe you won’t die a virgin after all.”

[kanrix]

Clay is a changling pony. The buggy bug and Orel is the bug pony after they do the magical girl transformation. Zap him with the electric fly swatter.

Oh I forgot about those guys....

I did not put thought into orel's design

[zorosleftmantit101]

Bro wtf im alive!!

———————————————————

ONE PIECE MEN

As shit from the groupchat

———————————————————

C/W: swearing, NSFW, mentions of suicide, general shit post stuff.

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Nami, Robin, Franky, Brook, Chopper, Usopp, Ace, Sabo, buggy, Shanks, Crocodile, Doflomingo

NOTE: Schools back and its been super fucking busy + plus im hyperfixated on bulders gate and game of thrones rn

———————————————————

Luffy: My balls dropped insted

Zoro: Peburty

Zoro: How tf do u spell iy

Zoro: Pubesraty

Zoro: Pubes

———————————————————

Sanji: Valentines more like. Suicide

———————————————————

Buggy: Ur so wacky

Shanks: *wanking

Shanks: 109 mph dick slaming in and out of this dirty half full starbucks cup i stole from a homeless crack addict (im imagining its ur tight boy pussy asshole)

Buggy: Shanks.

Buggy: Stop.

Shanks: Erm no!

———————————————————

Franky: Teachers should NOT say nice things to me (i have a praise kink and daddy issues)

———————————————————

Nami: Bro i gotta shit so bad

Usopp: THEN SHIT BRO

Nami: Im in the car

Usopp: Oh

Usopp: THEN SHIT AT SCHOOL

Nami: I am NOT shitting at school

Usopp: PUSSY

Nami: this was all a trick girls dont shit

———————————————————

Brook: Im so excited to drink today im actually shaking #slotmachines

———————————————————

Luffy: Happy Monday!

Chopper: It is NOT Monday my guy

Luffy: ... the shotgun is in my mouth

———————————————————

Franky: Bc l've got another day off

Franky: Should I come visit

Robin: YES

Franky: Hmmm

Franky: If I get bored I'll ride up

Robin: Then ill ride u up

Franky: What time u guys got recess and lunch

Robin: Get u preggo

Franky: SHIT

Franky: ILL BE THERE

———————————————————

Kid: just punch the customer

Law: nah I need that shit to traumatise them, I need the customer to be rude to me and I start levitating in the air while chanting and blood pouring out my eyes

———————————————————

Kid: When parents let their kids order and its like "what's that fetus, your learning to speak!! Yeah well spell trombone, didn't think so faggot"

———————————————————

Ace: U stick ur dick in ur bum and get urself pregnant

Ace: 2024 lets make it happen

———————————————————

Sabo: "Emo!" So close! I'm actually wearing the skin of your mother

———————————————————

Doflamingo: OK BUDDY DEGRADE ME MORE IM THIS CLOSE TO EXPLODING IN MY PANTS

Crocodile: MOTHERFUCKER WHAT

Crocodile: YOU DIRTY CUNT

Crocodile: WAIT

Crocodile: NO

Crocodile: YOU PERFECT HUMAN BEING

Doflamingo: NGHH (reverse psychologyed your ass)

———————————————————

Sanji: Ouchieeeeeeeeeeee my back hurtsss urghhhhh i wish their was a big sexy latina to sit on my face, only to make the pain go away of course

———————————————————

Nami: Guys i close the store in half an hour and im boooooredde i already finished cleaning wveryhringggg

Robin: Okok pro tip

Robin: Do u have pens?

Robin: Hand sanitizer

Robin: And paper towel

Nami: Im gonna just finger myself

———————————————————

Franky: That was my son 3 years ago before the incident...

Brook: Was the incident me whipping the nae nae! YOLO cash money dab on them fortniters

Franky: No

Franky: Big Foot stepped on my unborn baby

———————————————————

Law: If i die i wanna be reborn as an electric chair

———————————————————

Killer: Cheaters are dick beaters - Shakespeare probably

———————————————————

Sanji: You are quite literally the most cutest girl I've ever seen

Luffy: Bro my dick actully smells so fuckimg bad, it never smells bad do i have aids

———————————————————

[hey-august]

i was supposed to go to sleep, but here we are...

WC: ~700

Warnings: NSFW, mdni, buggy x f!reader, fingering, multiple orgasms, "good girl," bit of misuse of devil fruit powers bc it just makes things easier to imagine

"Shhh..." Buggy hushed you before flipping a page.

Your teeth clamped harder on your lip, biting back the sounds that he deemed "too distracting." When you offered to help the captain with his paperwork, this wasn't what you meant.

---

Buggy quickly lost steam when it came to bureaucratic drudgery. Anything he could delegate was passed off. Work that had to be done by him was also passed off. This worked until it didn't. Until the crew learned about his deadlines and his ploys.

Suddenly, everyone was busy. There were emergencies that needed immediate help. Excuses were said in between breaths.

"Excuse me, Captain, someone's stuck in the rigging." "Richie broke a claw and I need to check on him." "I broke my hand and have to go to the infirmary." "I have to get past you and do something else, sorry!"

Maybe no one said the last one, but that's what they all boiled down to.

And that's how Buggy ended up laying in bed, boots on, suffering through a packet that was actually important and couldn't get lost at sea.

You could nearly see the pirate's life fading away when you stepped into the room. His spirit was being replaced by unnecessary acronyms, legalese, and superfluous writing. With each word his eyes skimmed over, a sparkle died.

It was pitiful. And adorable, but you wouldn't tell him that.

You offered to help, figuring Buggy would be more than happy to hand you the papers, accidentally give you a paper cut, and wander off to get drunk.

Instead, he patted the spot next to him. You sat down, sinking into the divot he created, and leaned against his body. Buggy put an arm around your shoulder and pulled you closer.

You peered at the paper, ready to assist, when you realized Buggy had a different plan. A hand slithered it's way under your clothes and was finding a nesting place under your panties.

Buggy's fingers explored the area cautiously, chasing away the sensitivity and luring out arousal. He circled your bundle of nerves, avoiding contact and admiring from a distance. Buggy's warmth dipped lower, teasing you with how he almost touched the areas he usually attacks with passion and hunger.

"I thought you wanted h-help?"

"You are helping, now keep quiet so I can focus."

He kissed your forehead just as his fingertips collided with your clit. You gasped as the sweet electricity shot through your body and curled your toes.

Buggy stopped moving.

"I really do need to focus."

"I'll- I'll be quiet."

The movement started again and you sunk into your own body with a sigh.

Buggy knew how to play your body like an instrument. When to press harder and when to pull back. When you wanted small movements and when you needed something grander. When to keep tempo and follow the pattern, and when to create his own music.

The trembles in your body increased until the silent crescendos that left you twitching and panting. But with still more work to do, Buggy kept you underhand.

At first, you could pick out the shapes he traced. Numbers and figures to tally. Long digits that carried on longer than you did. Short numbers that brought about aftershocks of pleasure. Then the letters and words. At least, they were probably words. You couldn't hold onto them long enough to decipher the messages.

Buggy drew climax after climax from you body. You could feel how slick you were, a puddle collecting under your body. Every so often he'd pull out the hand and one of you would lick his wet fingers so he could turn a page.

"How much more?"

Buggy rifled through the packet.

"Three more, then it's done." He glanced at you. What a beautiful mess, covered in sweat and chest heaving. "You're doing such a good job for your captain. You deserve a reward for being such a good girl, huh?"

You nodded eagerly. A reward sounded nice.

"Keep being good for three more pages and I'll give you a nice big reward."

You nodded again and let your eyes close as Buggy picked up where he left off. A big, hard reward. That's what you wanted.