#not all of the goretober fics will be dark and heavy

[limited-practice]

1. Pins and Needles

Happy October! Here's the first of what will eventually be 31 Goretober fics that will get written throughout the rest of the year, because I’m can’t write 31 fics in 31 consecutive days. If you can do that, you’re amazing!

1920 words of Swerve, Overlord, a massacre aboard the Lost Light and a love of fingers are below the cut. The prompt is Pins and Needles, and is taken from Drawkill’s excellent prompt list.

Warnings for gore, robo gore, amputation, suicidal thoughts, implied cannibalism and torture.

Ao3 link here

Swerve sits on his favourite barstool with a drink in one hand and a congealing mass of energon at his feet and wishes he was dead. 

But he’s learnt the hard way to stop begging Overlord to kill him. 

The first dozen times he’d whimpered and screamed and pleaded with the Lost Light’s new Captain to please just kill him had been met with amusement. Which had inevitably morphed into weariness. Swerve’s mouth had once again taken on a life of its own and he wouldn’t stop talking he couldn’t stop talking, because something might get through to this insane monster if he could only string the right combination of words together and there was still a chance he could live when so many had been butchered and he’d babbled and joked and pleaded and bargained and finally Overlord had lost patience and kissed him.

Swerve had gagged and kicked out sharply, but Overlord had held him effortlessly in place on his favourite barstool. The one that still spins smoothly; the one whose colour hasn’t yet faded despite constant use. It’s a good little stool, and he wishes he’d paid it more attention. He wishes he’d thanked it out loud. He wishes he’d done so many things differently. Overlord had kissed him for longer than he thought he could possibly bear and then slowly, with a long, long, squelching sound, had pulled away. 

Swerve had vomited immediately.

Swerve looks down at the wobbling mess he’s made on his ruined bar’s floor. He starts to cry. 

Overlord chuckles. Unlike Swerve’s voice, he doesn’t find Swerve’s tears annoying. Overlord pries the glass away from Swerve's hand and goes behind the bar to top the drink up.

Tears leak out of Swerve’s visor. “I’ll clean that up later,” he whispers.

“Here you go.” Overlord says gently, as he places a glass full of warm liquid back into Swerve’s hand. He curls Swerve’s trembling fingers around it. “Drink up. It will do you the world of good.” 

Swerve wipes his face with his free hand. He looks down into the glass and the thick dark liquid it contains. His damaged optical and olfactory sensors still have enough function to warn him that there are substances in the glass that he should on no account consume. They activate their branches of his alarm network as best they can. The warnings they send out are weak and muffled and dim, but they're trying so very hard to warn him despite being damaged by Overlord’s backhanded blow earlier. 

The cocktail looks like an overlaid grid of sharp lines and even sharper ends through his broken visor. It looks like it’s made from poisoned energon that would kill him after one sip. Maybe it will do him the world of good to gulp it down in one go after all. 

Swerve lifts the glass to his lips. And pauses. A niggling thread of his old life vibrates and plucks at him. Swerve tilts his head, and watches light from the shattered overhead lights illuminate the drink. He rotates the glass slowly. The liquid inside changes colour. But not permanently - it’s moving in and out of a different molecular state depending on how much direct light touches it. That must mean there’s optical contraction liquid in there. There’s part of someone’s eye in there.

Swerve shudders but doesn’t look away. And he certainly doesn’t throw the drink and smash it against the wall and scream and scream and scream. 

“Not your cup of tea?” Overlord asks him softly, his lips brushing Swerve’s ear.

Swerve startles violently, and spills the drink over himself.

“Oh dear,” Overlord says. “I spent a lot of time making that for you.”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I'm sorry.”

Swerve paws at himself with one hand in a pathetic attempt to clean himself and return the drink to its glass. Liquid crawls down his plating and seeps into his transformation seams and sticks to him and it won’t come off, he knows it’s not ever going to come off of him. His fingers are covered in it. 

“Thank you for making it for me and I’m sorry I spilt it but I appreciate it I do I really really do,” Swerve babbles, as he glances down at himself and tries and fails to ignore the horrible tingling in his fingers. The sensors in his hands have erupted at the onslaught of chemicals sticking to them and they’re screaming at him, they’re screaming so loudly at him that it hurts.

“You clearly worked hard on this drink because I’m detecting things in it,” Swerve continues, because he’s never known when to stop talking. “There must be three, no four, no five, no...six? Six? There are different parts of six different people in here? Six. Six people. Six people liquified and mixed up to make this drink.”

Swerve looks at what remains of the drink. He swallows back another glob of vomit fighting to escape.

Overlord crouches down in front of him. There’s an expression in his eyes that Swerve doesn’t care for one single bit. He doesn’t care for any of Overlord’s expressions, but this one is unsettling because he hasn’t seen it before.

Overlord looks impressed.

“How did you know that?”

As always when he receives genuine praise, Swerve chuckles self-consciously and pretends not to fully understand. “Oh it’s nothing special, it’s just something I can do. It’s nothing. I’m nothing.”

Overlord’s expression then melts into one that Swerve is already achingly familiar with - impatience.

“You are refusing to answer my question.”

“No I’m not I swear I’m not.”

“How did you know that drink is made out of six people?”

Swerve unconsciously waggles the fingers of his hand that’s not holding the glass. 

“I, uh, just can,” Swerve says. “And I know I just said that but it’s the truth I’m not lying or refusing to answer you I swear it! I just...can. I was forged with these fingers.” 

He flexes his fingers as if playing an invisible instrument with them. 

“You are a chemist?” Overlord asks. 

“Metallurgist. A good one. Kind of. Sort of. Maybe. Ha. These, uh, my fingers, they- they’re tools of the trade. Essential actually.”

Overlord gently rests Swerve’s hand onto his palm. “Tell me about them.”

Swerve fights down another ball of vomit. “Uh...when we’re out in the field. Or in the lab. Or anywhere. And by we I mean metallurgists as a whole, not bartenders, not me, not-”

“Swerve.”

“Right. Yes. Fingers. Hands. I was forged with them and they’re brilliant. I mean I’m not brilliant, but my hands are. All metallurgists’ hands are. They’re essentially one big databank studded with sensors and coated in scanners that can identify every substance and chemical composition ever discovered. So long as it’s been recorded. Each finger has a neural link communications wire that goes up to my brain after it’s passed through my spark and t-cog, and it can download the latest materials update from the Academy when the Chief's second assistant remembers to send out the update after spending their day on more important things like sleeping at their desk, which means that if a new element or compound is discovered and recorded I’ll know about it.”

Swerve swallows dryly.

Overlord doesn’t say anything. Swerve chooses to see this as an encouraging sign.

“Some people say that my hands are better than medics’ hands. I don’t of course. And neither do the medics. They think theirs are way better. Well some of the forged ones do, even if they don’t say it out loud. You can always tell that’s what they’re secretly thinking though. And, uh, theirs are good of course - they’re better than mine in lots of ways. They’re faster and lighter and more dexterous. But mine are just as sensitive. And mine are studier and stronger. They’re more durable. They have to be, because if you’re out working in the field and a boulder lands on your hand you don’t want your fingers to be crushed because then what would be the point of keeping you around? They’re designed to survive rough treatment.”

Overlord holds Swerve’s hand up in front of his face. “Are they now,” he says softly. 

Swerve’s weak sparks dims further.

“They sound magnificent,” Overlord says.

“Uh, yeah, thank you. Thanks. Um. They’re pretty good. I kinda like them. In fact I like them a lot.”

“So do I.”

Overlord runs a huge fingertip up and down Swerve’s smallest stubby finger.

“So tell me,” Overlord asks pleasantly, “Who is in your drink?”

“...excuse me?”

“By using the power of your fantastic fingers, tell me who is in your drink. Let’s play a little game together.”

Swerve’s visor dims in tandem with his spark. “...I…I don’t...”

“I am not going to ask you again.”

Swerve looks down at his short feet dangling off the barstool and wishes he was dead.

“Uh…” he forces himself to concentrate. He forces himself to stick two fingers into the liquid in the glass. He forces himself not to yank them back out and immerse them in a vat of paint stripper. He pushes them down further until the fingertips touch the bottom of the glass. His exquisite sensors fire up and explode with data. He pushes that data up the wires that run through his fingers to his body’s connection points: spark, t-cog, brain module. He pushes past the roadblocks all three of them have desperately thrown up to try and prevent him from knowing. He collects. He investigates. He analyses. He identifies all six of his former crew members and wishes he was dead.

“Rodimus,” Swerve answers in a small soft whisper that makes him feel like he’s nothing. “I can feel remnants of his spark casing. It was touched by the Matrix and I can feel it. It’s still there. It’s still pulsing. Oh, god, it’s still pulsing.”

“Good!” Overlord beams. “Very good! Our former Captain made the mistake to keep talking to me when I’d asked him to be quiet, so he was the last to undergo this treatment. He got to watch the others go first.”

There are pins and needles in Swerve’s fingers. They crawl up into his spark and scratch at it with poisoned tips and he knows that they’ll never stop.

“Who are the others?”

Swerve recites their names quickly and doesn’t embellish. 

“Excellent,” Overlord purrs. He examines Swerve’s fingers. “I like these Swerve. In fact I think I like them a lot.”

“...thank you?”

“They could be very useful to my endeavour.”

“Yes I can be useful to you,” Swerve bursts out, as his self-preservation kicks itself into high gear and steamrolls his earlier thoughts of self-destruction. If he’s useful then he might be kept around. He might be allowed to live.

“I am going to have your excellent fingers for myself.”

Swerve’s too wide smile freezes. He feels his plating stretch and warp and start to buckle as he realises what Overlord is planning to do.

Overlord holds Swerve’s hand tightly and fans all of his fingers out. 

“No!” Swerve screams. “Don’t cut them off! They won’t work as well if you cut them off! Please don’t cut them off I’ll be good, I’ll be good.”

Overlord blinks. And then smiles slowly, like a smouldering black sun rising over a toxic yellow wasteland. “I don’t remember saying anything about cutting them off.”

Overlord jams two of Swerve’s fingers deep into his mouth and bites down hard.

[whatamessz]

Fic “Take my Head”

Welllllll back in october @dreaming-powder and I talked about kink- and goretober and I…erm… wasted an opportunity started this thing which was sitting in my drafts since then, mocking me. Lately I’m extremely frustrated with my writing and it totally shows, but I had to finally get this out or it would haunt me. Sorry I kinda trashed your prompt ;_;

Summary: 10 Million years late to the Garage Palace Party, PWP loosely based on the visualizer.

Cleaned up and edited version on AO3.

3563 words | rating: explicit | 2Doc | 2D’s POV | TW: mentions  of   contagious disease, graphic content, injuries, blood, zombies | beware extremely flat critisism of governmental power structures and oral sex

2D sat on the mattress, perched up against the wall, his head put back against his neck. The blood from his nose finally must have stopped flowing, but the vague luminescence of the glow-in-the-dark-stars they had adhered to the ceiling in an attempt to make the storage unit more cozy was mesmerizing enough to keep staring.

The garage – located somewhere in the suburbs in a former small town in Essex, of all places – was their current hide out. It had been scarcely furnished already, but almost everything they’d brought in was tossed over or broken now. 2D couldn’t care in this moment. His head and his ribs hurt and he could taste his own blood in the back of his throat. His shirt and hands were stained red too. No handkerchiefs in the post apocalypse.

He mulled over his momentary situation. They lived in a storage unit because these days, safe living space was a resource everyone craved. That’s why the improvised military government had confiscated every inhabitable home with the ultimate plan to clear and declare the houses as secure for redistribution to the surviving population of the country. Up until now, this didn’t really happen. However, this and several other measures taken were ultimately just a leverage on the people to consolidate their position and suppress rioting. At least, that was how Russel had explained it to them. 2D had found that fairly persuasive since, if you wanted a home or just shelter, food rations, medical care, clean water and relative safety, you were told to go to The Refuges first.

The Refuges, where it could be made sure you wouldn’t carry or infect yourself with the O-virus and cause a new outbreak again. The Refuges where you could be surveilled and where the disease, whatever that meant, was annihilated and were you could wait for the promised piece of safety and normality you so hoped for.

The Refuges were a lie. The Refuges were horrible. The Refuges were a place where you got your most basic needs fulfilled, as long as you played along the rules the government set and accepted everything they provided to you in their grace. The Refuges were a place, where people in need, in fear and in pain lived together on smallest spaces, perishing on the wait for things to come. The Refuges were a pool to recruit workers to rebuild this glorious nation on nothing but promises of a shining future. The Refuges were a tool and a field of experimentation to see in what infinitesimal bits you could split a society and still rule them in an economic effective way. The Refuges were a place where, once you’d arrived out of free will or pure desperation, you were meant to stay and wait for your assigned purpose.

That was why they’d left. Secretly and in hurry from the great Royal Refuge of South London. In 2D’s opinion it was ridiculous to even call a camp like that. Nobody had heard from a queen or a king in years.

He didn’t like to think back on their time there or the night they had fled. It usually brought back vivid nightmares and he curled in a little just from the thought. However, they weren’t the only people who had managed to leave. There were also still many who never went to a Refuge in the first place.

They all more or less tried flying under the radar through wildly dispersing over the country side where people tried their luck in the less crowded areas. From time to time, there were raids rumored to be initiated from the government, but it was impossible to keep all of the scattered population in check, so they had decided the unruly-people-problem would likely regulate itself if they didn’t guarantee protection from remaining zombies, mobs and catastrophes like the “accidental” wild fires in summer. The government had made it clear, that everything outside the camps and greater cities was lawless land.

Partially, they had been right. The waves of roaming zombies admittedly had declined in the last two years, but with hierarchy temporarily so disassembled, people started testing.

So far, two main forms of social coexistence had become especially apparent: community building and gang building. The communities were extremely guarded and with the increasing pressure from the government, their biggest problem was their relative inflexibility. The bad thing with the gangs was, they weren’t usually friendly. Like everyone, they fought for survival and they took what they could find to ensure that. Sometimes – often – that meant stealing from other people. Like them.

Against all odds, Noodle, Russel, Murdoc and 2D had somehow managed to survive the zombie outbreak together, but they weren’t part of a community, nor of a gang. Or maybe they were their own gang minus the robbing people part. Mostly he was fine with this, but in moments like this the flaws of this state of being became apparent to 2D.

He flinched when he heard steps approaching outside that interrupted his train of thoughts. For a moment, he was afraid the group of rowdies would return, but it was only one pair of feet this time. He could see the familiar boots emerge under the half open roller blind before it was pulled up a bit more and Murdoc strode in. His left side was widely covered in blood, the scythe casually draped over his shoulder and he was smiling widely like a manic death god.

“Daddy’s home, children,” he announced himself enthusiastically and with the greyish light that came in from behind he looked like the legend he was known as in these suburbs and 2D briefly wondered if the blokes would have attacked Gorillaz makeshift headquarters if they would have known it was Murdoc’s too.

Well… who was he trying to convince? They probably would have anyway.

“Hey,” 2D greeted him and his voice sounded thick and nasal.

Murdoc’s atomic smile faltered visibly when he took in the state of the garage unit and finally the state of 2D. He growled exasperated.

“Bunch’a gangsters stopped by to check if we got anything interesting to loot.”

“Those fucking thugs that recently roam around in our territory?”

Their territory? Ok, maybe they really were a gang now and he didn’t notice.

2D just shrugged, taking in Murdoc’s appearance. His jeans and dirty white shirt were lavishly adorned with reddish brown splashes, so the evidence he had just offed a few flesh eaters was right there, but the scythe’s blade had already been polished back to its shiny menace. 2D knew, theoretically, Murdoc had just been checking and clearing on their supplies stash, but when the man came back looking every inch the anti-hero of one of those zombie films 2D had so loved before all this, he couldn’t help but feel a little warm and excited tuck deep in his belly. Murdoc had never looked healthier or more alive since most people around him were (un)dead. The scythe was a statement too, of course. When the outbreak came, it was just a quick defense tool he had grabbed from their requisites, but over time Murdoc had proven to be surprisingly skilled with it and because it fitted his shitty goth aesthetic like nothing else, he ultimately chose the scythe as his signature weapon.

2D could honestly understand how it made an impression on people when Murdoc came out of nowhere, slicing his way through rotting bodies like a hot wire through cheese, scattering organs everywhere, laughing like a lunatic and disappearing after his “work” was done. It sure made an impression on 2D.

“Took our torchlights. And the pillow,” 2D reported contritely. “But they left the sleeping bags at least.”

Murdoc send a string of curses while he was walking through the mess. He kicked aside broken glass on his way over and sat back up a shelf they had made from old apple crates.

“I knew it was a good idea to keep our important supplies hidden elsewhere,” he mumbled.

He leaned the scythe to the wall and took off the bag he had carried. He shad his heavy leather jacket too before he plopped down on the mattress next to 2D with a sigh.

Curious, 2D examined Murdoc from the closer range. He could see now how Murdoc got spatters of dried blood on his face and in his hair as well.

“You’ve got blood everywhere,” 2D stated his observation, the mild concern obvious in his voice.

“Could say the same about you. ’S not mine though,” Murdoc answered with a lopsided grin on his withering face. His tongue darted out of his mouth to lick some of it from his upper lip cockily. 2D shivered. The only good thing they had brought back from the Refuges were the vaccinations against the O-Virus.

“Good,” 2D just offered exhaling, gaze drifting back up to the glowing plastic stars. Murdoc then gently grabbed his chin to indulge in his own studies on 2D’s injuries.

“Too bad we lost the torches. The light’s crap in here. No deeper cuts? Nothing’s broken? Just a busted nose and a split lip?”

2D watched him intently. He liked it when Murdoc cared for him. A little too much maybe.

“Fuck, you look so hot like this, you know that,” he muttered out. In the same breath of air, he silently cursed his dumb brain.

Murdoc watched him apprehensively for just a heartbeat longer.  Then he smirked.

“Yes,” he said. “Plus, slashing zombies makes me incredible horny.”

2D only had time to blink before he felt Murdoc’s lips on his own, noses crushing together and it hurt, but all of a sudden everything he wanted was more of this to take him out of his miserable boredom. The cut on his lip burned with sensation that made his heart pick up its pace. He could taste the coppery savor again, but this time so intensely it made his stomach churn.  The imagination of the blood on their lips mixing buzzed through his head and he sighed softly into the kiss. The knowledge that this was zombie blood made him feel ill as much as it turned him on in a weird way. One should think that the actual outbreak of the apocalypse would have cured him of his weird kinks, but after they had settled in what could be considered a relatively quiet life under these circumstances and the zombies and their spreading disease weren’t the biggest thread anymore, he had learned that this wasn’t the case. Quite the opposite.

Murdoc chuckled lowly in response to his sigh and retreated for a second to check on him.

“We need to clean you up later” he suggested. 2D put a hand up Murdoc’s neck, gently brushing the thumb over the bassist’s face and leaving a bloody smear on his hollow, stubbly cheek in the process. They would have to beg Noodle for her gas cooker to heat some water when she was back.  

Murdoc put his hands around 2D’s waist and pulled him closer, 2D straddling his legs, before he dove in again and licked teasingly slow over the cut on his lip. That elicited a sharp hiss from the former singer and Murdoc used the opportunity to pry his mouth open with his tongue a little further.

2D felt dull pain pulsating through his nose when he needed to take deeper breaths now, but he managed to work around this issue and let Murdoc explore his mouth. He could feel his tongue rub and suck along the tender gum where his front teeth used to be a lifetime ago. His eyes fell shut and he let out an appreciative moan now.

Spurred by this, Murdoc let a cool hand wander under 2D’s stripy shirt and up his sore ribcage, where a heavy boot had kicked him not quite one hour ago before the five gang members had buggered off again. 2D flinched slightly at the gentle contact and opened his eyes. Murdoc didn’t immediately stop kissing him, but his expression was knitted in disapproval when he glanced up questioningly.

2D shook his head slightly. “’S nothin’, just be careful,” he whispered, not wanting to stop this. He gave Murdoc’s thigh a reassuring squeeze. For a brief second, he thought about the fact that the roller blind still was half up, but their mattress was tucked away enough in a corner of the unit and hidden behind a now depleted shelf. He just had to remember to keep quiet. He also hoped that Noodle and Russel wouldn’t return from their tour or that other unannounced guests wouldn’t like to pay a visit again right now.

“Painkillers may be rare, but daddy’s got something else for your ouchies,” Murdoc purred into his ear, which caused 2D to back off a bit with a snicker.

“Woah don’t you think I didn’t notice how you tried to establish that daddy shit again in the first place,” he said defiantly. “Daddy kink is not going to happen in this garage, you old letch.”

Murdoc looked at him, eyes torn wide open in mock offence. “So I am the letch now, am I? Then remind me again who initiated this, huh? Besides, you still look like you ate out Bloody Mary, so don’t give me shit on my humble peculiarities.”

2D shot him a sour look. Of course, he couldn’t really see Murdoc’s eyebrows under the heavy fringe, but he still could guess the suggestive wiggle he offered in return.

“Didn’t you just confirm right in front of me that you get a hard-on from slaying zombies?”

Murdoc shrugged. “You get a hard-on from watching me slaying zombies, so I think that’s a tie. What brings me back to the point at which we just stopped,” Murdoc countered and let him slip from his thighs to lean back against the wall again.

Murdoc fixed him there with a cunning gaze, then kneeled in front of him and slowly slid the pair of braces down from his wife beater shirt. 2D felt himself swallow down a heavy lump in his throat. Murdoc pushed his thighs apart and leaned down into him again for a deep and longing kiss. The fuck he looked like he ate out Bloody Mary, he thought while his pounding nose reminded him that Murdoc was probably right, but he had an appetite for something entirely else now. He started fondling the front of Murdoc’s jeans, but his fingers were batted away gently. Instead, he felt how Murdoc pulled up his bloodstained shirt a bit and fiddled with his fly. Relatively clueless on what exactly he was trying to attempt, 2D still felt how he and his dick grew more and more impatient. A violent shiver ran through his body when Murdoc’s tongue and lips left his mouth and wandered down his jaw and neck to suck little bites here and there. His fingers were wandering up 2D’s good side now and starting to tease his nipple with soft brushes. When Murdoc finally managed to undo the zipper and lost no time shoving his hand down 2D’s underpants, he already whimpered soft little chirps into the twilight of their storage unit.

Murdoc finally stopped the work on his neck and looked up at him, wearing an expression that made 2D a little nervous. He slid his thumps under the waistband of 2D’s pants and wiggled them down with some effort. 2D’s erection sprung free and Murdoc watched it admiringly for a short moment before he lowered himself onto his belly and dug his nose into 2D’s blue trail to happiness, inhaling the scent that, given their current circumstances, was probably a bit stronger than he’d have liked. Murdoc didn’t seem to care one bit though. 2D put his head back against the wall and looked pleadingly up to the weak light of the plastic stars.

“Shit, I was thinking about you the whole way back. How you’d just wait for me, bored out of you mind curtesy to your sprained ankle. Nothing to do but just wait for me and my ready ass. Letting daddy bring home some nice presents,” Murdoc mused and adorned every few words with a kiss to his belly and hipbones.

2D rolled his eyes and huffed. “Yeah I bet you wish, perv. You just make this shit up on the spot.” He had wanted his answer to sound keen, but it might have come out a little needier than he liked. He planned on further commenting Murdoc’s half-assed attempt of dirty talking him, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a clipped moan because the former bassist silenced him effectively by taking the tip of his cock into his mouth and giving it a hard lick. A second lick made 2D buck, so Murdoc dug his hands into his hips to press them down and take more of his dick into his mouth.

2D’s breath hitched and he put his hands on Murdoc’s shoulders, guiding him further down. Murdoc let out an appreciative grunt and looked up to him.

They knew each other long enough now that 2D could tell how Murdoc was suppressing the urge to stop and make a sassy comment, so he planted a hand into that thick hair and pressed him down a little further.

“Don’t you dare stopping now, Mister Niccals, better hurry up a little,” he commanded breathily and could see the conflict flaring up in Murdoc’s eyes for a brief moment.

Luckily, this time the urge for retaliation expressed itself in the form of deep swallowing, so he closed his eyes with a gasp and put his head back against the wall.

Murdoc’s head bopped back up again and 2D could feel his tongue licking the downside of his dick before it swirled around his head so slowly and with just the right amount of pressure to make him squirm so much Murdoc had to clutch his hips again.

2D tried to hold back his moans through clenched teeth as Murdoc continued to go up and down his length again.

Lust filled the crisp air of the garage and his breathing got more erratic with every minute this continued. He felt himself getting closer soon despite the relatively easygoing tempo his lover stroke.

When another moan slipped from his throat, he bit his lip in frustration, forgetting about the injury. He hissed sharply and could taste freshly dawn blood.

“I think I’m close,” 2D warned, voice gradually higher, but all Murdoc did was casting him an unimpressed look through his fringe and carrying on in his determined task. His toes curled in his sneakers and he lost Murdoc’s name and a few sighs along the process.

Suddenly, Murdoc hollowed his cheeks when he lifted his head up once again, put his tongue to the tip of his head and let it glide firmly over his leaking slit.

“Ah- Da-,” 2D could clutch the hand over his mouth just in time before the word slipped over his lips. Conveniently, it also swallowed the obscenely loud groan that wanted to escape his throat when he finally came and to his own shame, he couldn’t entirely exclude the possibility that his orgasm came so quickly because of how he surprised himself in this embarrassing way.

When Murdoc came back up at him, rubbing his mouth clean with the back of his hand, he positively beamed.

“Wipe that stupid grin right off your face, I was caught up in the moment,” 2D pouted, still audibly out of breath.

Naturally, Murdoc didn’t wipe his grin off, but started an obnoxious chuckle when he was done swallowing. “Oh no, ‘D, forget it. I heard that and it will be etched into my memory until the day you dig my grave.”

2D, to high on post-orgasmic dopamine to come up with a swift response, shoved his face away playfully.

“Still not establishing a Daddy kink,” he stated decidedly with a glare.

“You’ll get used to it.” Murdoc’s grin still seemed inextinguishable.

2D considered simply ignoring him while he was about to tuck himself back into his trousers, but then he turned his head around to face Murdoc again before he zipped up.

He crawled closer to Murdoc, preying grin suddenly plastered on his own face. “Or perhaps,” he started and came to a halt so close in front of Murdoc’s lips that he could feel their breaths mixing, foreheads almost pressed together. Murdoc’s face twisted up in expectation. That’s when 2D starts gradually pressing Murdoc down on the mattress with on hand to his chest, faces still close. “Or perhaps we switch up the expectation about who calls who a ‘daddy’,” 2D cooed and he could feel Murdoc swallow when he hit the mattress.

2D shifted to lick the zombie blood from his cheek and heard a low approving growl from beneath him. Murdoc’s ribcage touched his when he took a deep breath.

“Well, last time I counted we still had eight condoms left. So maybe make a use of them before we have to go on a new raid,” Murdoc suggested with a smirk.

“Yes. And maybe we should close the blind soon,” he said before he engaged him in a hungry kiss that made his battered lip and ribs hurt so sweetly.