#southern terminology

[internetgiraffekid1673]

I love southern culture.

So for those of you who don't know, Miss [First Name] is generally considered a polite way to address adult women who you know in a mostly informal capacity if you are a child. This includes the mothers of your friends, daycare people, babysitters, your teacher's teenage to adult daughters, the old unmarried lady in the apartment three doors down, etc.

I love this address and it has now been extended to me at church. I have been a girls camp adult leader (working with 11 to 16 year old kids) and am now the primary pianist (5-10 year old kids). I am also only 18, which means there is less of an age gap between me and the kids than between me and the other leaders. This means it feels very weird and overly formal to me to be called Sister [Last Name], which is the standard way to address adults at church. Especially because, like, that's my mom, not me.

So after introducing myself to the kids by just my first name out of habit, the very polite kids have all collectively decided to call me Sister [First Name], and it makes me so happy. Like, it's literally the perfect in between level of formality I need as an emerging adult. Thank you, Southern terminology.

[plaguedocboi]

Since you grew up in PA: creek or crick? Or both? (I'm a sucker for crick, haha.)

Creek but most of my native PA friends say crick

[cipher-the-sidhe]

Curious!

[ssmoki]

‘toboggan hat’

uhh whoever . idk enough people

last google search, go

um. Tag four people.

what do they make sewer tunnels out of

@ncc1701ohno @affixjoy @the-magpieprince @twinkboimler

[sleepymccoy]

Someone I follow is posting about Spock and McCoy after the Katra sharing, but they're posting canon thoughts and I'm all fanon so I'm making my own post lol

Post Katra headcanons!

Spock swears in Southern when he's tired. He really doesnt like this

McCoy understands a bit of Vulcan, but only when he doesn't know the person isn't speaking English. Like, if they randomly switch to Vulcan he can keep up until it's pointed out

They can feel when the other is experiencing strong emotions. They don't know what emotion, but it's like an itch or a tickle in their throat to say the other is feeling something

They know a bit of each other's specialised knowledge. McCoy is passable at astrophysics now, and Spock is an even more annoying patient since he understands the terminology

They also remember a few private moments of eachother's that they weren't present for. Both politely don't mention this, but do find confusing ways to allude to it

McCoy can cook some Vulcan dishes now. Spock developed a taste for bourbon in the evening that takes everyone by surprise

With great effort Spock can project messages to McCoy. With greater effort McCoy can give Spock a feeling that translates to fuck off

On Vulcan they're legally super duper married and Spock just doesn't mention this. McCoy notices next tax return when he's taxed like a married man, not a single man. Takes him months of asking around to figure out who the government thinks he's married to. He files for divorce without talking to Spock

Spock won't divorce him cos he did carry his Katra, but he'll agree to an annulment. McCoy about pops off with anger

Kirk buys them a wedding gift when he finds out

They don't get the annulment and neither can really put their finger on why. Something about respecting Vulcan culture, cos they'll still be married on Vulcan no matter what

McCoy gets a headache whenever Spock mind melds with someone else

McCoy can initiate a mind meld with Spock, which they both get kinda very into cos their brains feel so good paired back up again. McCoy drunkenly described it as being better than sex to Kirk and the idea of that sticks around something terrible

Their telepathic connection is stronger after a meld, so they start doing it in advance of missions so they can be in touch immediately if things go sideways

If they're apart for a long time the connection will tell them when each other is close by. They've run into each other at conferences or in hotels or once on a transport ship they didn't know the other was booking too. They find each other quickly and easily when they're nearby

This becomes an uncanny capacity to always vaguely know where the other is. McCoy is bad at remembering that he shouldn't know and will volunteer Spock's whereabouts sometimes without thinking

They get good at learning what the various nudges and hints from their connection mean. They can tell different moods apart and send messages that the other can open at their leisure, rather than breaking through and being front of mind

If one of them is injured or captive or just bored as shit they'll sometimes pop into the other's head and basically turn into the back seat driver from hell

With everything they know and learn, they're very fond of each other

[starwolfie]

Accents hc for the LU Links 

Legend: generic British accent (“BBC accent”) because he was raised near castle town and nobility. He can do different accents to confuse people.

Wars: hylian is (kind of) not his native language. Had a Gaelic native language. ( either Irish or Scottish, can’t decide) and had a heavy accent that’s frowned on in nobility. Got trained out of it because “that’s not how the hero speaks “Really self conscious about people finding out.

Slips only when really tired or injured

Time: Scottish highland accent. ( REALLY heavy accent) If he gets annoyed with you enough, he switches to Gaelic (“faerie language “)and you think he’s growling at you. Is stunned when Wars and Rulie still understand him

Isn’t ashamed of his accent but tunes it down normally to be understood better.

Wild: weird mix between all the different accents from his Hyrule, switching from word to word ( depending on who he learned it from ) uses archaic terminology when talking about fighting. Gets annoyed when people point it out because he’s unaware that he’s doing this.

Twi: southern US accent, but more Texas than Virginia

Can tune it down to be understood better, but it gets heavier when he’s tired or wants to annoy Legend

Rulie: indistinct Gaelic accent. He speaks very softly, but it’s not on purpose.Was selectively mute until early teens and only started to speak hylian with his Zeldas. Native language is Gaelic (“faerie language”) and fairy sign, but he also learned hylian sign.

Prefers not to speak if he can avoid it.

If he’s getting sassy with you, you know that he likes you a lot 😉

Wind: speaks like a pirate. Switches to Pidgin when annoyed.

Four: has an accent, but nobody can pin it down ( it’s Minish, guys. That and being ancient hylian)

I don’t really have any for Sky. 😩

[pumpking64]

Oh so it hasn’t really changed since the first definition? There aren’t species which are categorised as dinosaurs today yet are more distantly related to Megalosaurus or Iguanodon than those are to each other?

And also, do you know of a scientific distinction between dinosaurs and sauria? This has always confused me from a German standpoint, where the terms “Dinosaurier“ and “Saurier“ don’t include the same taxons (as far as I’m aware). Are dinosaurs then a scientific taxon within the non-scientific group of sauria?

I have a question - and I completely understand if you don't want to answer - but if birds are "full dinosaurs" then what the heck even is a dinosaur? (I would appreciate if you could explain like I'm a particularly stupid 5 year old)

You're good! I don't mind answering!

Organism = Living Thing

Prehistoric Life = life that existed before agriculture; a good summary term for "life of the past"

Evolutionary Relationships = what things are related to what other things

We define groups of organisms based on their evolutionary relationships. In school you probably learned that we define different groups of organisms based on their traits, but that was the old way of doing things. That was a system that we made before we really knew about prehistoric life, and it doesn't describe extinct organisms particularly well.

So, scientists have switched to just using relationships, which are determined based on what the most likely evolutionary pathways are (usually by putting everything we know about the organisms in question into a computer and having it generate the most likely family tree).

The first two dinosaurs (in the traditional sense) that were discovered were Megalosaurus and Iguanodon. So, we defined the group, Dinosaur, based on those first two animals.

How do we do that? Well, we say that those two animals form the two branches of the Dinosaur family tree. Which means the first dinosaur is the last ancestor those two animals had in common - ie, the point at which they were still in the same evolutionary line. After that point they diverged into two different lines, but they shared that common ancestor.

So, dinosaurs are defined as:

The Most Recent Common Ancestor of Megalosaurus and Iguanodon, and all of that ancestor's descendants.

Phrased differently: the first dinosaur was the last ancestor Megalosaurus and Iguanodon shared, and everything that can trace their lineage back to that ancestor is a dinosaur.

So, Dinosaurs are a particular family group. That group includes lots of things, all of which descended from that last ancestor. And among those descendants? Birds!

Hope that helps

[xoxomilesteller]

you can be the boss

younger girl next door!reader x beau arlen | MDNI

cw: daddy kink, slight ooc beau (he’s still our gentleman dw), dry humping, oral ( f receiving), unprotected p in v (no balloon no goon), pet names (darlin’), nipple piercings, big age gap (20s & 40s), cursing, reader is literally throwing herself at beau, cheating.., drinking and smoking. also there are descriptions of a car so dont come at me if i don’t use the right terminology for under the hood pls and ty!

also by gnd i mean she’s just his neighbor, she resembles no like actually personality traits of the typical gnd persona!

title and fic are both inspired by “you can be the boss” by lana

def has grammar mistakes!

wc: 4k

since your hot new neighbor moved in, you’ve been coming up with ideas on how to get his attention. you’ve baked cookies for him, left your window open purposely when you were changing, sunbathed outside in your tiniest bikinis while he washed his truck.

it did work, but not in the way that you wanted.

beau came over every now and then when a fuse “went out” in your house. and he would knock on your door so you can try something he grilled up.

and the one time he knocked on your door shirtless, your roommate answered because you were at the gym.

it was the fourth of july and you and your friends made plans to go out by the lake. your roommate was visiting family so you were left alone. you put on your american flag triangle bikini with low rise shorts and a white tank top.

you head on outside to your car, giving beau a small wave, tilting your head and giving an innocent smile.

he looks so hot. backwards hat, aviators, white t shirt, jeans, tan. he looks like he just walked off the set of top gun maverick

he’s washing his truck, again, to see you. he knows it’s wrong. he just got back together with carla, got his family back together. and if it weren’t for that, you’re drastically younger than him. he’s creeping around to see you. he’s fallen for all of your traps.

he watches you hop into your car, it’s a ‘73 bronco, so it’s bound to give you some issues. you put the key in the ignition, turning it.

it won’t start.

so you try again.

you turn the key again, and still, nothing. you pop the hood of your car and walk over to see if there’s anything wrong.

beau, without hesitation, jogs over to you, “somethin’ wrong darlin’?”

God bless that southern drawl.

you didn’t plan your car to not turn on, but you sure as hell were going to milk this.

”yeah,” you shift your weight back onto your left leg, “betty won’t turn on”

beau chuckles, “betty?”

you nod, “grandpa named her that”

he whistles, “thought you bought this, sweet ride you got ‘ere”

”he passed it down to my dad but my dad gave it to me since i liked it so much,” you place your forearms on the edge of betty, bending over, “i revamped her though, figured it’d be best”

”got new parts for her?” he asks, checking the oil by wiping the dipstick on the hem of his white t shirt, “oil’s good,” he mumbles

”only some, new battery and starter since they started giving me issues”

he clicks his tongue, “ford’ll do that to ya darlin’,” he takes a step back, admiring the view of you bent over and your car through his sunglasses

you laugh and look at him over your shoulder, “more of a chevy guy aren’t you?”

he smiles, “you got that right darlin’, but i can appreciate a nice car. gimme the keys, will ya?”

he gets into your drivers seat, repeating your actions of turning the key. whenever he does turn it over, you notice some sparks coming out from one of the terminal of the battery.

beau walks back over to you, removing his glasses and hooking them on the collar of his shirt, “see somethin’?”

you lean back up, bracing yourself on your palms, “yeah, sparks came out here,” you point at the black terminal

he licks his lips, admiring how the white straps of your bikini sit at your hips, uncovered by the small article of denim on your lower half.

he leans in closer, furrowing his brows as he scans over your car battery, “how long ago d’you get this battery?”

”literally a week ago”

”get in the car and i’ll tell you when to start her”

you sit in your drivers seat, removing your tank top because it might ruin your tan and to get beau’s attention. after one attempt of betty not turning on, she does. your jaw drops and you slide out of your car, “what’d you do?”

his gaze falters down to your revealed skin but returns back to your eyes, “c’mere,” he nudges his head

you stand right in front of the battery, leaning over to watch his big and veiny hand twist the terminal to the right.

”might give you some problems again, but it’s all you gotta do,” you both lean back and he removes the stand holding up the hood, “after all, ford does stand for found on road dead”

you roll your eyes, ”haven’t heard that one before,” you cross your arms over your tits to push them up

beau lets the hood slam shut and he places a hand in his back pocket, taking out a box of marlboro cigarettes.

you raise your brows, “you’re a smoker?”

he shrugs, “sometimes.”

before he can search for a lighter, you hand him one that you had in your pocket, “least i can do for fixing my car”

he cups the cigarette and lights it, taking the time to stare at the perkiness of your tits while he can, “was hardly an issue,” he hands you back your lighter, “you a smoker too?”

“sometimes,” you smile

he nods and hands you the box, “only one left in there, but..,” he leans in closer, “your car givin’ you an issue again, call me”

you were a bit confused since you don’t have his number, but you decided not to question him and take the box of cigarettes.

when you’re about to leave from the lake, you pull out the box of cigarettes Beau gave you earlier, only to see the one singular cigarette with his number on it.

you bite your lip, smiling, and save his number in your phone.

you know its wrong. you’ve seen his wedding band. you’ve seen his instagram posts.

but he gave you his number.

you waited for about two minutes, staring at the contact.

you called it.

”hello?”

”hey beau”

you can hear the instant smile on his face, “hey,” there’s rustling on his end and then you faintly hear him say “work call,” before closing a door, “car troubles?”

”mmm,” you turn on your car, the engine turning over is loud enough that he can hear through the phone, “yeah. do you have any plans for today?”

his brows furrow and smile widens when he hears the engine followed by your question, ”still not dark yet. this year we just decided to do fireworks ‘n that’s it”

”well i think my car may be having a slight issue”

”like what?”

you giggle, “I’ll let you be the boss of that”

“i’ll tell you when i can swing by later today, ‘kay?”

”alright, bye”

beau hangs up and walks back out to the living room, where carla and emily are. emily wanted to go out on the dirt bikes today, but carla said no that it’d be too dangerous and beau knows better than to do something behind carla’s back.

which is ironic since he gave you his number. ironic because every night when carla takes a shower, he’s staring at your window, unable to rip his eyes away when you change right in front of it. ironic because when he takes a shower, he’s fisting his cock, thinking about you.

his heart drops when he sees the boredom written all over his daughter’s face.

”em why don’t you go to a friend’s house?” he suggests

”you out of all people should know how dangerous it is to drive on the fourth, beau,” carla says

”then i’ll take her,” he sighs, “she’s bored carla, let her have some fun,” he stands up, “send me the address and i’ll take you, you can sleepover if it’s that one girls house, ava is it? i like her dad, deputy cortez”

”amber, dad, her name is amber,” emily laughs

”same thing,” he rolls his eyes playfully, “pack and let’s go”

he knows he and carla are going to get into a huge fight over this. he usually tries to avoid the fights, do whatever she wants because of emily, but there are certain things he just cannot get by.

but, he doesn’t know if he’s letting emily sleepover at a friends house to purposely start a fight with carla so he can feel less bad about the urge in him to kiss you, fuck you.

beau waits in his car for emily, wanting to steer clear of carla for now, which is when he gets a text from you. an image actually.

his eyes widen.

your hair is wet, there’s water droplets on your skin, specifically on your breasts, and you have your shorts on but unbuttoned and folded over, giving a sneak peek at the star design on the fabric.

you’re holding up the peace sign with kissy lips, looking innocent, but the way you angled your phone says otherwise.

”for my contact photo if you do that nonsense,” is what you sent under that picture

”I don’t, but thanks. 👍🏼” is what he sends, which makes you laugh

around 4pm, you hear a knock on your door.

you know exactly who it is.

you apply some lip gloss and check yourself in the mirror, you haven’t changed out of your bikini and shorts, because you’ve been waiting for him, as pathetic as it sounds.

you open the door to see beau holding a bottle of beer he’s been nursing, “hey darlin’, what seems to be the problem?”

”nothing,” you shrug and smile, “come in”

he sits down on your couch, where you notice his left hand.

his band is gone.

”no plans for the fourth is a bit strange,” you mutter, “you being the sheriff and all I figured you’d be on a boat with american flags all over it”

he chuckles, running a hand over his beard, “carla didn’t wanna do anythin’”

your eyes widen ”not even a lake day?”

“nope,” he takes a sip of his beer

”that’s no fun,” you reach your hands out behind your neck, toying with your straps, acting like they’re loosening up, “sorry my straps are like falling, do you-” you scoot closer to him, “could you tie them for me, please?”

beau nods, moving his fingers in a come hither motion. you turn around, so your back is facing him. he moves your hair over to your shoulder and replaces your hands with his.

he keeps his eyes on the back of your neck, suddenly feeling jealous that the flimsy piece of fabric is closer to your skin than he is. he ties the knot intricately, so that your top won’t fall out of no where, but with the right tug, it’s gone. then he lets go of the straps when he’s done.

you lean forward, grabbing the glass bottle of beer he brought in, making the back of your shorts dip lower and he stares, wanting to pull them down and taste you.

you lean back, wrapping your lips around the rim, keeping eye contact with him. you hate the taste of beer, but you have a feeling with enough provoking he’ll give you just the thing you need to wash it down with.

his eyes stay on your lips, watching how they stay around the rim, now feeling jealous of a damn beer bottle.

so he takes it out of your hands, takes a sip, sets it down on your coffee table, “why’d you call me over darlin’?”

”i told you,” you feign innocence, “car troubles”

he scoots in closer to you, thinking with the bulge growing in his jeans, “so if i do this you wouldn’t have a problem with it?”

he places his lips on your neck, sucking and swirling his tongue to leave a mark.

you tilt your head back, “no,” you answer his question

”and if i do this,” he slides a calloused hand down your stomach, fingers tangling in the straps if your bikini bottoms to untie them, but they’re still being held up by your shorts, “still no problem darlin’?”

“none,” you sigh

he leans over you, laying you flat on your couch and sliding his hand up and down your stomach while his mouth attacks your neck.

you remove his baseball hat so your fingers tangle up in his silky hair, pushing his head closer and moving your hips helplessly against nothing, searching for friction.

you were surprised it was that easy to get him to fold.

he wasn’t surprised that he didn’t even try harder to resist you.

carla is such a control freak. beau completely forgot about that when he decided to get back together with her. and to be fair, she showed signs of improvement.

but he was quickly proven wrong when she demanded so many things out of him. beau is not only a caretaker, but a people pleaser, a gentleman. so of course whatever she wants, she gets, he loved her.

so he missed the way women reacted to him. he missed having control, he missed having sex. he can tell carla just got bored of him, because the first time they had sex right as they got back together, she fucking enjoyed it.

now?

she just shows no reaction, no desire. nothing.

so the way you’re moving your hips, the soft breathless sounds leaving your plump lips, your blown pupils, it all gives him the desire he’s been craving.

you wrap your legs around his hips, the rough fabric of the denim shielding you two from each other providing enough satisfaction for now.

”you wanna stop? jus’ tell me,” he looks up at you from the valley of your breasts, teeth playing with the small string there. his eyes are hungry, but sincere. his beard scratches your soft skin, definitely causing irritation for later.

”don’t stop,” is all you say.

and it’s all it takes.

beau tugs on your bikini so it comes undone with the simple movement. his eyes light up at the metal bars piercing through your nipples.

”darlin’,” he licks his lips, “now, these,” he lifts his head up to get a better view, “are just what i’ve been needin’,” he dips head back down and wraps his lips around the sensitive bud.

the piercings give you extra sensitivity, so you arch your back into his mouth, nails digging into his scalp, earning a groan from him. he rolls your other nipple with his thumb and index finger, occasionally running his thumb over it. he’s gentle enough to not tug on the piercings, but rough enough to make more sweet sounds come out of you.

he gives your nipple one final nibble and a flick of his tongue to soothe it before hovering over you, “tell me what you want darlin’.”

his voice is deep and laced with desire, there’s a fire in his eyes that you do not want to put out.

”whatever you want, you’re the boss”

you unintentionally told him exactly what he wanted to hear.

he catches your lower lip in between his teeth, tugging on it and watching it bounce back into place, “you’re perfect” he mutters

beau gives you a teasing kiss, not letting his lips linger for no longer than a second. it makes you pout and he it awakes something in him.

it’s been way too long since he felt desired and wanted. too long since he felt that he was in control. he’d be like carla if he denied you any longer.

so when he kisses you, it’s all teeth and tongue. his hands squeeze your breasts, his hips rut into yours, making you moan into the kiss with each thrust.

his lips and tongue taste like malt liquor, a bit sweeter than usual beer. you start moving your hips to meet his thrusts. he puts his forehead on yours, his mouth no longer being rough to look at your body moving.

he fucking loved it.

he moves his way down your body, nibbling, sucking, kissing as he takes one hand to the back of his shirt to pull it off, revealing his tanned back.

he moves his way down to where your shorts are folded over, sliding his left arm up your body, splaying it over your chest.

and it is impossible for you to rip your eyes away from him. the way his back muscles move with every movement he does, his messy hair from the hat and your hands, the way he’s looking at you like you solved every problem for him.

his right hand pulls down your shorts and bottoms and he wastes no time on throwing one of your legs to the side to open you up to him to lap you up.

you moan and grip the arm that is holding you down as he laps at you like a man starved. he groans and rolls his hips into your sofa at the sounds you make.

his eyes are on your face, watching it scrunch up in pleasure, watching every small detail. your lips fall into a small pout and your brows are slightly raised and creased. he can tell you’re holding back, trying to not mark him up so he doesn’t get caught cheating.

so beau lifts up his head, hiking your leg up higher, “scratch me all you want darlin’,”

then he spits onto your pussy and dives in harder this time. he sucks and flicks his warm and experienced tongue over your clit repeatedly. if it weren’t for the hold he has on you, you’d be fucking yourself on his face.

you dig your nails into his forearm, leaving red marks in their wake. you throw your head back on the soft cushion of the couch and just let him devour you.

his tongue laps around your entrance, nose bumping your clit, shaking his head to delve in deeper.

”beau i’m-“ you moan, “close”

he moans when he feels your walls tighten up around his tongue, which was all it took to get you writhing under him.

he laps up all of your juices, finishing by placing a soft kiss on your hip. he sits up against the couch, picking your sensitive body and placing it on his lap.

you whimper at the denim scratching at the raw marks between your thighs from his beard.

”you taste incredible darlin’,” he murmurs against you lips, allowing you to run your tongue over the lingering taste of you and liquor.

he lifts his hips up and you throw your head onto his shoulder. he grabs a condom he had in his back pocket

”you planned this,” you pant

”shut up and put this condom on me darlin’,” his voice is soft, moving the condom wrapper in your mouth.

you close your teeth on a corner and he tugs on it, then he places it in your palm.

you lean back to unbutton and unzip his jeans, pulling them slightly down as his girthy and veiny cock springs out.

his hands are gripping onto your thighs, waiting in anticipation, “don’t tease me darlin’, if you can’t take jus’ tell me”

you’re zoned out on his cock, looking at how it’s twitching and the redness at the tip. there’s precum beading all over the red tip, so you run your thumb over it, making it twitch again.

”darlin’,” he exhales, “put it on and start bouncin’ on my cock”

you ignore him, bringing your thumb into your mouth, swirling your tongue over the saltiness of your thumb and him, which in response, he throws his head back.

you remove your thumb and you spit in the palm of your left hand, to slowly jerk him, and he sighs, “you’re big” you whisper

he lifts his head back up, looking at you through hooded eyes, ”you gonna take it?”

you roll the condom gently on his length ”can i call you daddy when i do?”

he chuckles, “abso-fuckin’-lutely”

you line him up to your entrance, teasing you guys both, then he grabs his base and slips his tip in, making you gasp and hold onto his shoulders, “told you to stop teasin’ me”

he lets you sink down on him, stretching you out to the brim, “daddy” you whine

he places his hand on the back of your head, “i know darlin’, i know, take your time,” he says through gritted teeth

your walls flutter around his warm and hard cock, adjusting to him while you both pant at the relief.

as bad as it is to think, it’s been a long time since beau has been inside someone as tight as you, as perky breasts as you, as energetic as you, as young as you.

and he knew what trouble he was going to get himself into later, so might as well top it off by lifting you up.

”wha- wait,” you say panicked

he removes his condom and throws it off to the side, “need to feel all of you darlin’,” is all he says when he slides back in

he pulls your hips back down on him, moaning at the tight and wet sensation of you

”whenever you’re ready darlin’,” he mumbles

you nod, bracing yourself on his shoulders and you move up and down on him, digging crescent moons on his freckled skin. he grips your waist, guiding you up and down him, watching your face and flicking his eyes down at your tits.

you start moving quicker, which is when he leans forward to catch a nipple in his mouth, kneading the other breast in his big palm as he looks up at you. he flicks his tongue over the bud and plays with the metal bar, moving it side to side as much as he can.

”you’re doin’ s’good f’daddy darlin’,” he speaks around your nipple, the vibration sending electricity down your core

your living room his filled with the sounds coming out of your mouth and his moans and praises, pornographic sounds of your pussy taking his thick cock. the trimmed hair at the base of his length ignites fire on your throbbing and swollen lips.

beau throws his head back, jaw going slack but keeping his hands on your breasts massaging them with every bounce. he starts thrusting his hips up into yours, hitting that gummy spot with his fat tip

”don’t stop daddy” you whine out

”i won’t darlin’,” he watches your body bounce on him, eyeing at where you both are connected. the irritation from his facial and body hair evident on your pussy, how you stretch out to take him, your nails digging into his skin, the fact that you’re calling him daddy, you look so lost in him.

it’s what he’s been searching for. someone that makes him not just feel wanted, but needed.

and you do need him, you just don’t know why. can’t bother to figure it out either when he’s splitting you in half.

you like him so much that you do not want this to stop.

the knot in your stomach keeps getting tighter and tighter when you feel his hands all up on you, massaging and rubbing circles on your sensitive clit.

your walls start clenching around him and you press your forehead onto his shoulder, “i’m close”

”daddy’s gotchu darlin’, go ‘head, take what you need,” he places a kiss on the side of your face, still driving his hips up into yours and rubbing small tight circles on your clit, “you feel s’good darlin’”

your mouth hangs open on his skin, teeth grazing him with every rough thrust of his hips.

without warning, you cum around him, body falling limp onto his. he keeps rubbing your clit and he places his other hand on your back, while he leans forward to go deeper, which makes you mewl.

”few more seconds darlin’,” he grunts out

he supports your neck so your head doesn’t dangle fully back and with one, deep thrust, he cums inside of you, moaning your name.

your chests fall up and down rapidly, trying to catch your breaths and he leans back on your couch, panting.

he doesn’t let go of you, not yet, he doesn’t want the feeling of being desired to leave just yet.

”carla’s gonna be mad at you,” you mumble

he chuckles, “didn’t care few minutes ago,” he kisses your shoulder, “why would i care now?”

AN: hi hope you enjoy i just had a strong urge to call him daddy idk why

lace divider by: @toastray

orange line divider by @elleisdesigning

[eveninggstar]

First Tattoo

Summary: Jake, your boyfriend, surprises you in a video to get your first ever tattoo.

Warnings: y/n used twice (sorry), horrible tattoo terminology, needles(?), fluff, no kissing(sorry ;( ), reader intended to be female

A/N l: Why is there barely any jake ff anywhere, like i even looked on wattpad. So enjoy, this could also be seen as a platonic thing ig between reader and jake except the end enjoy :)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“Please excuse my appearance,” Jake gestured to himself as he looked at the dashboard with the camera on top, with his arm draped over the wheel. “i didn’t have long, but that fine.” his voice went up as he put his hands out in an act of faux desperation.

The camera cut to him shaking a hand through his hair, attempting to style it. He paused and went to kiss the camera, then snapped out of it. “Sorry, sorry.” He put his hands up in surrender.

“Anyways,” he clapped his hands together. “Today, i’m getting a new tattoo and my girlfriend is getting one too. And y/n.” he giggled with his lips shut as he put a hand in front. “They’re actually taking forever, what the hell.” he leant forwards to look out the window for you and Johnnie. With the lack of the two of you, he sighed into the camera and lifted it and quickly left his car.

“Honestlay, mama bear ain’t happay with theyse two rascals.” He spoke in a southern accent and he walked back into the house. He walked into the house, hearing heavy footsteps and yelling. He made a scared confused face that slowly moulded into a smile.

“Johnnie! What do i wear?” You were yelling at the door of Johnnie’s room jumping up and down.

“I don’t know! Pink? You like pink!” Johnnie yelled back and joined you in jumping up and down. You two were smiling as you just continued to jump, you still in pyjamas and Johnnie with only one eye with his makeup finished.

“Guys!” Jake pointed a camera at you and Johnnie, both of you stop bouncing as slowly turned towards the camera.

“Ew! No, i’m not wearing makeup!” You ran off into your room with your hand covering your face and the other holding onto your messy bun.

Jake tilted the camera away from you as you ran into your room and focussed it on Johnnie. Johnnie just had a thousand mile stare as he slowly shut his bedroom door. Jake put himself back into frame and started singing, “Alone again~,”

The video cut to the three of you, ready, in Jake’s car. You had ultimately decided to wear a pink love heart halter neck top, clashing with both Jake and Johnnie’s outfits’ but in a cute way.

“What are we even doing?” You asked as you leant forwards through the front seats.

“Yeah, you kinda just woke me up this morning and started vigorously shaking me.” Johnnie looked at Jake then looked back to the camera.

“We’re getting tattoos!” Jake exclaimed into the camera accompanied with a wide, open mouthed smile and ‘happy hands’ in front of him. Johnnie reciprocated Jake’s ecstatic energy and you just looked scared at the camera.

“Wait, are you serious?” you looked pleadingly at Jake, terrified of the fact if you were actually getting a tattoo. He turned to look at you in the back seat, smiling and nodding.

The video cut to the three of you outside the tattoo parlour that Jake and Johnnie frequented a lot. Jake had sweet talked his way into you getting a tattoo, as usual. He had said it didn’t need to be big, a singular dot if you really wanted. You said to him that you would only get one if he got a matching one, wanting it to have a form of sentimental value.

“So, who’s going first?” Jake asked, both him and Johnnie turned to look at you. “The votes are in, y/n will go first.”

“Hold my hand during it?” you gave up on protesting, knowing Jake will just talk you out of it.

“Of course!” he smiled and pulled an arm around your shoulders as you walked into the parlour.

(i have no idea how tattoos work so just bare with please :) )

Sitting on the tattoo bench(?) you explained what you had wanted to the tattoo artist, just a simple red outline of a small heart on your hip. The camera was positioned over your head to see the expressions you were about to express. Jake was at your side with both hands wrapped tightly against one of yours, whilst Johnnie was looking at what to get for himself.

“Okay, i’m going to do a quick zap just so you can feel what it will feel like.” The woman explained sweetly to you, obviously seeing your frightened expression. “If you want a break at any point, just say and i’ll pull the gun off,” she looked into your eyes as you nodded, “Would you like me to count down?”

“Yes please,” you smiled at her consideration. You closed your eyes and waited for the fateful number one and the inevitable pain that would accompany it. Your face was scrunched up and you had a tight hold on Jake’s hands’.

When she said one, all you felt were a couple of deep scratches. The pain was there, but it was bearable. You face loosened up, still accompanied by the occasional hiss, as she did your simple tattoo. Then, she was done.

You had reciprocated the kindness and warmth that he had given you, when he was getting the actual tattoo he came in for that was by far more detailed than the small heart the both of you got. By the end, you were feeling good about the tattoo and that Jake had the idea of getting one.

The video cut for the final time, showing the three of you again in the same seating arrangement a couple hours prior. “So,” Jake said whilst clapping his hands once, “How do we like the tattoos?”

“Omg, i love mine! Im definitely getting more.” You smiled into the camera, having a definite change in your attitude towards getting a tattoo. As Jake looked back at you practically buzzing out of your seat as you explained more that you wanted to get, he had a fond smile on his face.

997 words

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her. Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) y/n gets switched to a real name but it has a purpose., blood, injury. More warnings to be updated.

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‼️if you have read chapter 7 already please go back and make sure you have read the reunion part with Ella/Yeosang! It’s after the flash back scene! Something happened with posting and it got removed‼️

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Masterlist

Chapter 9

Breaking Walls

The first cannon shot shattered the morning stillness. Seconds later came the distinctive crack of a ball striking water near the ATEEZ's port side. A warning shot rather than a direct assault, meant to force compliance instead of inflicting damage—yet unmistakably hostile.

Ella stood frozen by her cabin's small porthole, knuckles white against the wooden frame as she strained to glimpse the approaching vessel. Through the limited opening, she could see little more than water and occasional flashes of movement as crew members raced across the deck above. The sounds told a clearer story—Seonghwa's precise commands carrying easily through the wooden bulkheads, followed by the coordinated responses of crew implementing well-rehearsed protocols.

Most unsettling was the transformation in tone that swept through the ship—the comfortable camaraderie of breakfast giving way to professional precision that forcefully reminded her of the ATEEZ's true nature. These men who had shown her consistent kindness were simultaneously the feared Compass Crew, whose efficiency against slave traders had become maritime legend.

A second boom echoed across the water, closer this time though still clearly a warning. The distinctive creak of gun ports opening followed immediately—Mingi's clever mechanisms deploying the concealed weaponry she had examined days earlier. The transition from merchant appearance to combat-ready vessel happened with a speed that spoke of countless previous engagements.

"Southern Trade Company vessel Meridian requests immediate compliance with inspection protocols," a voice bellowed across the water, amplified by speaking trumpet yet barely audible through Ella's closed door. "Heave to and prepare for boarding by authorized personnel."

The Meridian—Blackwell's personal flagship. Not merely a patrol vessel or standard escort, but his primary command ship typically reserved for high-value operations or personal travel. Its presence here, intercepting the ATEEZ in open water rather than protected harbor, suggested deliberate hunting rather than coincidental encounter.

"Curious timing," came Hongjoong's voice from above, pitched to carry across water. "Southern Trade Company suddenly developing interest in merchant vessels beyond established patrol routes."

His tone carried a carefully calibrated blend of casual observation and subtle warning—neither immediate aggression nor submissive compliance. Through years of navigating dangerous social contexts, Ella recognized the tactical approach: creating space for negotiation while simultaneously preparing for combat, revealing nothing of true intention while assessing the opponent's commitment.

"Your vessel matches description of pirate ship responsible for recent attacks against Southern Trade Company property," the Meridian's officer responded, formal terminology barely disguising accusatory intent. "Inspection required under maritime security protocols established by Regional Naval Authority."

The pretense of legitimate authority—using official terminology to disguise private vengeance—revealed Blackwell's typical methodology. Like his approach to slave trading, which disguised human trafficking beneath bureaucratic language of "labor acquisition" and "personnel management," this naval interception employed official-sounding justification for what amounted to personal vendetta.

"Our manifest and flag indicate legitimate commercial operation," Hongjoong countered, maintaining the performance despite obvious preparation for combat. "We carry no contraband requiring inspection. Your authority extends only to vessels demonstrably engaged in illicit activities."

The exchange continued in this manner—formal language disguising hostile intent, each side maintaining pretense of legitimate interaction while preparing for imminent violence. Through her limited vantage point, Ella could see only a fragment of the approaching vessel—naval design modified for commercial operation, its weathered hull suggesting extensive service despite relatively recent commissioning.

Most concerning was the visible naval cannon positioned on its foredeck—official armament that private vessels couldn't legally carry without special dispensation. The Southern Trade Company's influence with corrupt officials had clearly secured military-grade weaponry that exceeded standard merchant protection, creating combat advantage beyond typical pirate engagement.

The muffled sounds of preparation continued throughout the ATEEZ—feet moving with practiced efficiency, weapons being distributed according to established protocol, defensive positions being secured against potential boarding attempt. Unlike chaotic activity that might characterize less disciplined vessels, these movements flowed with coordinated purpose that reflected years of increasingly dangerous operations.

A sharp knock at her cabin door startled Ella from her observations. Before she could respond, the door opened to reveal a crew member she recognized from the galley—one of Wooyoung's assistants, now armed with short sword and grim expression that transformed his usually cheerful demeanor.

"Captain's orders," he stated without preamble. "All non-combat personnel to secure below central hold. Please come immediately."

His tone left no room for argument despite being phrased as a request. The ATEEZ's transition to combat operations had clearly shifted protocols—civilian guests no longer granted the autonomy that peaceful sailing permitted.

"What's happening?" she asked as she followed him into the corridor, where other non-combat crew members moved with purpose toward designated shelter.

"Southern Trade Company vessel initiating hostile engagement," he replied, his usual casual conversation replaced by professional brevity. "Standard protection protocols being implemented while officers assess specific threat level."

The explanation, delivered in language that mimicked official naval communication, revealed how thoroughly combat readiness had transformed the ATEEZ's internal culture. Even the cook's assistant now operated with military precision, personal characteristics temporarily subsumed beneath tactical necessity.

As they reached the central hold—a heavily reinforced compartment located deep within the ship's structure—Ella noted the methodical organization already in progress. Medical supplies had been strategically positioned near the entrance, while defensive armaments were distributed to personnel with secondary combat training. Unlike the chaos she had witnessed during previous naval encounters while in captivity, the ATEEZ operated with precision that suggested extensive preparation for exactly this scenario.

"Please remain here until all-clear signal," the crew member instructed, already turning toward his assigned position. "Doctor Yeosang will coordinate medical response if necessary."

Yeosang's presence registered immediately—her childhood friend positioned near the medical supplies, directing assistants with quiet efficiency while simultaneously preparing emergency treatment area. Their eyes met briefly across the crowded space, his expression revealing nothing to casual observers while communicating volumes to her alone: concern without panic, preparation without fatalism, confidence tempered by realistic assessment.

"Water secure?" he asked a passing crew member, his focus professional despite the chaos surrounding them.

"Six barrels," came the prompt response. "Plus emergency rations per protocol."

The exchange—brief yet revealing—demonstrated the ATEEZ's careful preparation for worst-case scenarios. Unlike vessels that prepared only for victory, Hongjoong's command had clearly established protocols for all potential outcomes, including situations where the secured hold might need to sustain crew for extended period.

Above them, cannon fire erupted with sudden violence—not warning shots but genuine engagement, multiple batteries discharged in coordinated sequence. The distinctive sound of the ATEEZ's guns answered immediately, Mingi's modified weapons systems delivering precise response that shook the entire vessel with their concussive force.

The battle had begun in earnest, pretense of inspection abandoned for naked hostility. Whatever diplomatic exchange Hongjoong had attempted had clearly failed—or perhaps had merely been tactical delay while combat preparations were completed. Either way, the feared Black Ship now engaged in the type of confrontation that had built its fearsome reputation throughout the maritime world.

"Damage assessment teams ready," Yeosang called, his voice carrying authority that transcended his usual reserved demeanor. "Protocols in effect if casualties reported."

Despite never having witnessed him in this context, Ella recognized Yeosang's natural transition to emergency authority—his medical expertise creating leadership role typically absent during normal ship operations. The crew responded to his directives with immediate compliance, revealing established trust that transcended traditional hierarchy.

"First wave, port side midship," someone called from near the communication tube that connected to upper decks. "Minimal structural damage. No casualties reported."

Yeosang nodded acknowledgment, continuing his preparations without visible relief or heightened concern. His clinical focus—assessing information without emotional response—reminded Ella of their shared childhood experience treating injuries within Blackwell's household, where maintaining calm often meant difference between successful intervention and dangerous exposure.

Another series of explosions rocked the ship, closer and more violent than the previous exchange. The distinctive cracking of wooden hull plates followed immediately, suggesting direct hit rather than near miss. Voices called through the communication tubes, reporting damage locations and severity with practiced efficiency that nonetheless carried underlying urgency.

"Starboard gun deck, positions three and four," came the report. "Hull breach contained but mounting platform compromised. Two wounded, non-critical."

Within moments, injured crew members were delivered to the hold, Yeosang directing their treatment with calm precision despite the chaos surrounding them. His movements were economical yet thorough, assessing damage while simultaneously instructing assistants regarding treatment protocol. Once again, Ella found herself struck by the transformation fifteen years had created—the frightened medical apprentice from Blackwell's household now commanding emergency response with absolute authority.

The battle continued above, cannon fire punctuated by smaller weapons discharge suggesting closer engagement. Through the communication tubes came fragmentary reports—boarding attempt repelled, rigging damaged but functional, gun crews maintaining coordinated response despite increasing pressure. Throughout, Yeosang continued directing medical operations while other shelter occupants prepared for potential escalation.

Then came the report that changed everything:

"Explosive round, forward gun deck. Primary mechanism compromised. Master Gunner down, condition unknown."

Mingi.

The simple designation—"Master Gunner"—created immediate shift in the hold's atmosphere. Even those unfamiliar with officer designations recognized the significance, the quiet gunner's critical role in the ATEEZ's defensive capability. Anxious murmurs spread through the compartment, concern evident despite continued professional response.

Yeosang's reaction proved most revealing—momentary stillness that broke his fluid efficiency, expression shifting briefly before professional mask reasserted control. Though he had never indicated particular connection to the taciturn officer during their private conversation, his response suggested deeper relationship than mere crew assignment.

"Prepare primary treatment station," he instructed, voice betraying no emotion despite the obvious significance. "Full trauma protocol, category unknown pending assessment."

The matter-of-fact response, delivered without panic despite the potential severity, demonstrated Yeosang's professional commitment transcending personal concern. Yet Ella, who knew him better than anyone aboard the ATEEZ, recognized the subtle tells that indicated deeper worry—slight tension around his eyes, fractionally altered breathing pattern, minimally increased movement efficiency.

Above them, the battle's intensity appeared to diminish—cannon fire becoming sporadic rather than continuous, orders shifting from defense to damage assessment. Whether the Meridian had been repelled or simply withdrawn to safer distance remained unclear, though the gradual reduction in violent motion suggested immediate threat had passed.

"Secure from general quarters," came the announcement through communication tubes. "Damage control teams to assigned stations. Medical personnel prepare for casualties."

The directive, delivered in Seonghwa's precise tone despite obvious strain, indicated transition from active combat to recovery operations. Throughout the hold, personnel shifted accordingly—some moving toward assigned damage control positions, others preparing to receive potential wounded, the remainder securing equipment that had been displaced during violent engagement.

Yeosang moved immediately toward the hold's exit, medical bag already in hand as he prepared to assess injuries above. As he passed Ella's position, his eyes met hers briefly—silent communication flowing between them without need for words. Unlike others aboard the ATEEZ, he understood exactly what this moment represented for her: first direct exposure to the violence that had defined these men's existence for fifteen years, practical demonstration of the fearsome reputation their childhood protectors had earned.

"Stay here," he directed, the simple instruction carrying multiple meanings beyond immediate safety concern. "Until we've assessed full situation."

Before she could respond, he was gone—professional responsibility carrying him toward whatever injuries the battle had created, personal connection temporarily subordinated to medical necessity. The hold began emptying as crew members returned to regular duties, combat threat apparently neutralized despite ongoing damage control operations.

For several long minutes, Ella remained in the designated shelter, processing the implications of what had just occurred. The ATEEZ—vessel that had seemed increasingly homelike during her days aboard—had transformed within moments from peaceful sailing ship to combat vessel of legendary efficiency. The men who had shown her consistent kindness had simultaneously demonstrated tactical brilliance that had earned their fearsome reputation throughout maritime waters.

Most significantly, somewhere above her position, Mingi had been injured defending the ship from Southern Trade Company attackers—the quiet boy who had once carved tiny wooden animals for comfort now wounded while operating weapons systems he had designed to protect his found family.

The truth hit her like a wave - something deeper than calculation or strategy. For fifteen years, she'd buried the emotional reality beneath layers of survival instinct, but she couldn't deny it anymore: these weren't just potential allies or tactical advantages. They were those five boys from The Crimson Serpent - the same ones who'd tried to protect her, whose failed rescue attempt had shaped all their lives for fifteen years.

Before she even realized what she was doing, Ella was moving toward the hold's exit, pulled by something stronger than caution. The careful composure she'd maintained through fifteen years of captivity, the calculated observation she'd practiced since coming aboard the ATEEZ - all of it cracked under the weight of something more powerful than strategic thinking.

The corridor outside looked surprisingly orderly considering they'd just been in combat. Damage control teams worked efficiently, fixing what they could, while the regular crew got back to their duties wherever possible. Despite damaged woodwork and equipment knocked out of place, the ship felt like it had weathered the fight well rather than taking a beating.

She headed for the medical bay, pulled by worry for Mingi and knowing Yeosang would be there treating the wounded. As she made her way through the passageways, she heard the growing noise before she saw anything - urgent voices and hurried footsteps that told her this wasn't routine medical work but an emergency.

Turning the final corner, she encountered scene that shattered her remaining composure.

Yunho and another crew member struggled to support Mingi's unconscious form, the gunner's powerful body limp between them as they navigated toward the medical bay. Blood soaked his right side, darkening his clothing and dripping onto the corridor's wooden planking despite pressure bandage hastily applied. His face appeared alarmingly pale beneath smudges of gunpowder, eyes closed and features slack in way that suggested severe injury rather than minor wound.

Behind them followed Hongjoong, his captain's coat torn and face streaked with smoke residue, his demeanor controlled despite evident concern.

"How's he holding up?" Hongjoong called forward, his voice tight with worry.

Yunho glanced back, still supporting Mingi's weight. "Bleeding's slowed, but he hasn't stirred. Yeosang needs to see him now."

"Faster," Hongjoong ordered, though they were already moving as quickly as Mingi's condition allowed.

Seonghwa moved alongside, supporting Wooyoung whose expression revealed uncharacteristic gravity—the usual theatrical animation replaced by focused determination.

"This isn't happening," Wooyoung muttered, his voice barely audible. "Not to him. Not to Mingi."

"Save your strength," Seonghwa replied quietly. "Focus on the task at hand."

"I'll focus on whatever I damn well please," Wooyoung snapped, though he kept moving in perfect sync with the others. "He took that blast protecting my station."

Hongjoong's hand landed on Wooyoung's shoulder. "And he'll hear you blame yourself when he wakes up. For now, get him to Yeosang."

The officers' presence spoke volumes - they'd abandoned ship management during critical recovery to accompany their wounded friend. These men weren't just a crew following military hierarchy; they were family. Their concern went far beyond professional duty, revealing the deep bonds between them.

As they approached the medical bay, Yeosang appeared in the doorway. His face, prepared for clinical work, momentarily dropped its mask when he saw Mingi's condition. Only someone who knew him as well as Ella did would catch that split-second of shock before he recovered - but she saw it clearly, and it told her this was worse than he'd expected.

"Get him on the table," Yeosang ordered, his voice steady despite the momentary lapse. "Now."

"How bad?" Hongjoong asked as they maneuvered Mingi through the doorway.

Yeosang's hands were already moving, cutting away blood-soaked fabric. "Bad enough. The shrapnel tore through muscle, possibly nicked an artery." His eyes flicked up to meet Hongjoong's. "I need room to work."

"We'll stay," Wooyoung insisted, his voice breaking slightly.

"You'll get out," Yeosang countered, not unkindly but with unmistakable authority. "All of you except whoever's strongest to help hold him if he wakes. I need space."

Hongjoong nodded. "Yunho stays. The rest of us wait outside." When Wooyoung opened his mouth to protest, Hongjoong cut him off. "That's an order, Wooyoung. Let Yeosang work."

"The main table," Yeosang directed, already moving to clear necessary space. "Keep firm pressure on the wound. Prepare the laudanum and clean cloths for when I examine him."

The measured instructions—delivered with detached efficiency despite obvious personal concern—demonstrated Yeosang's professional focus overriding emotional response. As Yunho and his assistant maneuvered Mingi's unconscious form into the medical bay, the doctor's hands moved with practiced precision, cutting away blood-soaked clothing with shears to expose the wound beneath.

Ella stood frozen in the corridor, watching the five men she'd known as children rally around their wounded friend. Calculation and self-preservation warred within her as they maneuvered Mingi's unconscious form through the medical bay doorway.

Then his head rolled to the side, and she saw his face clearly for the first time since the explosion. Despite the blood and soot, there was no mistaking those features—older now, but still unmistakably the quiet boy who had protected her aboard The Crimson Serpent.

Seonghwa glanced up and spotted her, concern immediately crossing his face. "You shouldn't be here," he said, stepping between her and the treatment area. "Doctor Yeosang needs room to work without distractions."

His words barely registered as she pushed forward, drawn by something stronger than caution or reason. As they placed Mingi on the table, his arm fell limply to the side, his sleeve riding up to reveal his wrist. There, barely visible beneath the blood and grime, was the faded scar of their childhood blood oath—the five-pointed star they'd all cut into their skin the night she was taken.

Something in her face must have alarmed Seonghwa - his normally composed expression gave way to genuine concern.

"Ella," he said more firmly, placing himself in her path, "this isn't the appropriate time for—"

Suddenly Mingi's body jerked on the table, a pain-filled sound escaping his lips though his eyes remained closed. Blood began flowing more freely from his wound, dark red against the pale fabric beneath him.

"He’s dropping," Yeosang called sharply. "I need someone to hold this compress while I prepare—"

The words faded into background noise as Ella watched Mingi's face contort in pain. The quiet boy who never cried out, even when injured aboard The Crimson Serpent. The one who communicated more with gentle touches than words. The one who'd taught her to be strong in silence.

Now in pain. Possibly dying.

"PUPPY!"

The name - that childhood nickname - burst from her throat with fifteen years of bottled emotion behind it. In that single word, y/n broke through Ella's careful disguise. The frightened five-year-old and the calculating twenty-year-old survivor merged into one authentic person.

Complete silence fell over the medical bay, despite the crisis of just moments before. Seonghwa stood motionless, his usually composed face transformed by shock. Behind him, Hongjoong turned slowly from Mingi's bedside, disbelief and dawning hope battling across his features.

Wooyoung gasped audibly, his hands flying to cover his mouth as tears immediately sprang to his eyes. Yunho straightened from his position helping Yeosang, his tall frame seeming to expand with sudden emotion.

Only Yeosang continued working without visible reaction, though his movements carried a new tension. His hands never paused in treating Mingi's wound, prioritizing immediate survival above the emotional revelation happening around him.

"Y/n," Hongjoong whispered, her name carrying fifteen years of searching in its sound. Not a question but a recognition, certainty rather than doubt, completion rather than inquiry.

The acknowledgment—simple name spoken with absolute conviction—broke the momentary paralysis that had gripped the medical bay. Seonghwa moved aside without conscious decision, his quartermaster's authority temporarily forgotten as emotional reality overwhelmed tactical consideration.

Ella—now fully y/n without qualification or disguise—moved directly to Mingi's bedside, ignoring protocol or propriety in wake of emotional imperative too powerful to suppress. She reached for his limp hand, covering it with both of hers as tears flowed freely down her face.

"Don't you dare leave," she whispered fiercely, words directed toward unconscious gunner rather than stunned observers. "Not when I've finally found you again. Not when we've all found each other."

Yeosang continued working with professional focus, though his eyes briefly met hers across Mingi's prone form—acknowledgment flowing between them without need for explanation. He had known her identity since their reunion in this same medical bay, had maintained her secret until she chose to reveal it herself. Now, as that revelation transformed the atmosphere around them, he simply nodded once—approval and support compressed into minimal gesture—before returning to critical treatment.

"Puppy," she repeated softly, using the childhood nickname that had emerged instinctively in moment of crisis. "Stay with us. Please."

Behind her, she heard Wooyoung's quiet sobbing, the theatrical cook's natural emotional expression flowing without restraint. Yunho's breathing had become audibly uneven, the gentle giant's composure fracturing beneath weight of confirmation. Seonghwa remained silent, though his typical precise control had given way to visible emotion despite habitual reserve.

Hongjoong approached slowly, his movements careful yet uncertain—the captain's authority temporarily set aside for simple human vulnerability. When he reached her, his hand hovered briefly above her shoulder before settling with a gentle touch that asked permission rather than demanded it.

"We thought..." his voice roughened with emotion. "We suspected, hoped, but to know for certain..." He shook his head slightly, as if still unable to believe the reality before him. "After fifteen years of searching..."

"Treasure," he whispered finally, the private nickname slipping out after fifteen years of careful silence.

The simple word—confirmation rather than question, recognition rather than inquiry—completed circuit of acknowledgment flowing through the medical bay. Five boys who had protected a little girl aboard The Crimson Serpent had been reunited with her at last, their fifteen-year search fulfilled in moment of crisis rather than calculated revelation.

"I knew it," Wooyoung managed through tears, his voice wavering yet carrying absolute certainty. "I knew! The way you broke the honey cakes, the way you watched everything, the way you moved. I knew it was you."

"We've been searching for so long," Yunho added softly, his gentle voice thick with emotion. "Every port, every auction house, every slave market."

"Fifteen years," Seonghwa confirmed, his typical precision giving way to uncharacteristic emotional openness. "Every decision, every voyage, every mission—all directed toward finding you."

Their collective recognition—five separate confirmations flowing from individual perspective rather than group assumption—created emotional resonance beyond simple identification. This wasn't merely correct person acknowledged, but specific individual recognized by five separate observers who had known her as child and now confirmed her as adult.

"I know," y/n whispered, tears flowing freely down her face as fifteen years of necessary caution gave way to authentic expression. "I've known since Wooyoung and told me about the lost girl. I just needed...time. Certainty."

Her free hand moved unconsciously to touch her collarbone, where the wooden wolf remained secured beneath her clothing—Mingi's tiny carving preserved through fifteen years of captivity, hidden companion during darkest moments. "I needed to be sure it was truly you, not coincidence or manipulation. That Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, and Puppy had actually found me after all this time."

The childhood nicknames—spoken openly rather than whispered in private ritual—created visible impact throughout the room. Wooyoung's tears flowed faster, his typical animation transformed into profound stillness. Yunho's breathing caught audibly, the simple sound revealing deeper emotion than dramatic gesture could convey. Seonghwa's perfect posture faltered momentarily, shoulders dropping from their habitual precision as fifteen years of methodical searching reached unexpected fulfillment.

Most revealing was Hongjoong's reaction—the captain's hand moving unconsciously to the place where Mr. Hugs had traveled for fifteen years, the hidden pocket that had carried her teddy bear through countless dangers and disappointments. In that simple gesture, the feared pirate captain revealed the boy who had promised to find her again, who had carried physical reminder of that promise through fifteen increasingly dangerous years.

Beneath their collective focus, Mingi remained unconscious, though Yeosang's methodical treatment had begun showing results—bleeding controlled, wound cleaned and dressed with professional efficiency despite the emotionally charged atmosphere surrounding him. The doctor moved with careful precision, prioritizing medical necessity above the profound revelation transforming the space around him.

"Fragments from the explosion," he reported, breaking the emotional silence with practical assessment. "The flesh is badly torn, but thank goodness the larger blood vessels weren't severed. If we can keep infection away and prevent fever, he should recover in time."

The straightforward evaluation—delivered without emotional qualification despite the moment's significance—provided necessary grounding amid overwhelming recognition. Yeosang's focus remained on immediate survival rather than profound reunion, his practical priorities transcending even this long-awaited revelation.

"He needs rest and watchful care," he continued, medical authority evident despite his youth compared to other officers. "The immediate danger has passed, but recovery requires quiet surroundings and freedom from disturbance."

The instruction, while necessary, carried unfortunate timing given the emotional significance surrounding them. Yet before disappointment could register, Yeosang added unexpected modification to his directive:

"Familiar voices may help call his spirit back to strength. A few visitors can remain, so long as they don't interfere with the treatment."

The careful wording disguised compassionate exception—medical necessity balanced with human consideration, practical requirement tempered by emotional awareness. In this subtle compromise, Yeosang revealed understanding beyond mere treatment, acknowledging significance that transcended ordinary healing practices.

"He'll hear you," Yeosang added, his tone softening slightly as he addressed y/n directly. "Even in deepest sleep, the soul recognizes those it holds dear."

The assurance, delivered with both medical authority and personal understanding, created unexpected connection between past and present—the boy who had treated her childhood injuries now tending wounded man who had once carved tiny animals for comfort. Three separate paths converging in single location against impossible odds, fifteen years of separate survival culminating in unexpected reunion.

"We should move this conversation elsewhere," Seonghwa suggested, quartermaster's practical consideration reasserting itself despite emotional context. "The ship remains in recovery operations, and Mingi requires appropriate medical environment."

The reminder—delivered with characteristic precision despite uncharacteristic emotion—brought necessary perspective to overwhelming moment. Despite profound significance of their reunion, practical responsibilities remained: a damaged ship requiring attention, a wounded officer needing treatment, a crew depending on leadership despite personal revelation.

"Seonghwa's right," Hongjoong acknowledged, captain's responsibility temporarily displacing personal emotion. "We have duties that cannot wait despite..." he paused, words momentarily failing before concluding simply, "despite everything."

The brief hesitation—unusual for man whose strategic brilliance had created maritime legend—revealed emotional impact beneath professional exterior. For fifteen years, finding y/n had represented defining mission, driving purpose beyond mere survival or profit. Now, with that mission unexpectedly fulfilled during moment of crisis, adjustment required more than simple acknowledgment.

"Go," y/n urged, surprising herself with immediate understanding of their conflicted responsibilities. "The ship needs you. The crew needs you. Mingi needs proper medical attention without audience impeding treatment."

Her quick assessment—prioritizing collective welfare above personal comfort—demonstrated maturity beyond the child they had known aboard The Crimson Serpent. This wasn't merely grown version of five-year-old they remembered, but woman whose fifteen years of captivity had created both strategic thinking and genuine compassion despite systematic attempts to eliminate both.

"We'll need to talk," Hongjoong said, the simple statement containing multitudes beneath its surface. "When ship management allows appropriate space."

"I know," she replied, matching his direct approach with equal honesty. "There's much to discuss. But practical matters come first—they always have."

The acknowledgment—recognizing priority beyond emotional significance—revealed understanding that transcended simple reunion. Unlike potential expectation that childhood connection would immediately supersede all other considerations, y/n demonstrated awareness of broader responsibilities that defined these men's existence beyond their search for her.

"I'll stay with Mingi," she continued, her hand still covering the unconscious gunner's larger one. "If Doctor Yeosang permits."

The formal designation—professional title rather than childhood nickname—acknowledged Yeosang's current role rather than merely their shared past. Unlike potential claim based solely on emotional connection, she recognized hierarchy and expertise that transcended personal history.

"You may stay," Yeosang confirmed, professional demeanor maintained despite momentary softening around his eyes. "So long as you don't hinder the healing work."

"We'll return when ship operations permit," Hongjoong assured her, reluctance evident despite his captain's responsibilities. "Seonghwa will establish security detail to ensure your safety during transition period."

As the officers prepared to leave - ship duties temporarily outweighing personal connections - Wooyoung stood rooted in place, clearly torn between duty and desire to stay. His face contorted in an almost comical struggle as he tried to compose himself, dabbing frantically at his eyes.

"I'm fine," he insisted to no one in particular, his voice cracking as he straightened his uniform with trembling hands. "Completely professional. Just got some... ship dust... in my eyes."

He took three deliberate steps toward the door before spinning back around. "But you'll be here when we get back? You won't disappear? Because I have fifteen years of stories to tell you and at least seven new spice combinations you need to taste and I've been planning a celebration feast in my head for years just in case we ever—"

"Wooyoung," Seonghwa interrupted gently, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Right. Yes. Ship duties. Professional pirating to do." He nodded vigorously, backing toward the door while keeping his eyes fixed on y/n. "But later - celebrations! Music! Fifteen years of missed birthday cakes all at once!"

"The ship is still recovering from battle damage," Seonghwa reminded him, though with more patience than usual.

"Minor details!" Wooyoung waved dismissively, even as he allowed himself to be guided toward the exit. "Nothing stops a reunion feast! I've had recipes set aside for this day since—"

"Wooyoung," Hongjoong's voice held both amusement and authority. "We'll have time for all of that."

"Promise?" The simple question directed at both the captain and y/n contained a vulnerability beneath his theatrical presentation.

Y/n felt unexpected warmth at his childlike eagerness. "I'll be here," she promised, the simple words containing commitment beyond immediate circumstance. "When you return."

The assurance created a momentary pause in their departure. For fifteen years, these men had pursued a phantom possibility without guarantee of success. Now, with confirmation beyond doubt, the transition required adjustment beyond simple recognition.

Hongjoong nodded acknowledgment, emotion visible beneath his captain's authority. Seonghwa's precise movements carried unusual softness despite his continued efficiency. Yunho's gentle features revealed both joy and lingering concern as he glanced toward Mingi's unconscious form. Wooyoung, finally allowing himself to be guided out, kept turning back to look at her, as if afraid she might vanish if he took his eyes off her completely.

As they departed to address ship responsibilities, y/n remained beside Mingi's treatment table, her hand still covering his as Yeosang continued his methodical care.

"Just us now," she whispered to Mingi's unconscious form, words meant for him alone despite Yeosang's nearby presence. "Your little shadow still following after all these years."

The childhood private name Mingi had given her aboard The Crimson Serpent, emerged naturally after fifteen years of whispered remembrance. Unlike calculated disclosure or strategic revelation, this quiet acknowledgment flowed from authentic connection that had survived despite systematic attempts to eliminate all such bonds.

As she maintained gentle contact with the wounded gunner, y/n found unexpected peace settling within her consciousness. After fifteen years of necessary vigilance, of calculated survival through strategic isolation, she had found not merely individual ally but complete connection—five separate threads rejoining single weave against impossible odds.

Beyond the medical bay, the ATEEZ continued repairs after the battle. The ship's fearsome reputation had been built on something few would have guessed - a promise made by five children fifteen years ago. The feared Black Ship and its Compass Crew hadn't started as pirates for profit, but as boys determined to find someone they'd lost.

In the medical bay, y/n sat beside Mingi, her hand still covering his as Yeosang worked. The connection between them had survived fifteen years of separation. Whatever challenges would come from this revelation, they'd face them together - the foundation had been set.

Five boys from The Crimson Serpent had finally found the girl they'd sworn to protect. Their search had ended during a crisis rather than the careful, planned moment any of them might have imagined. And y/n, after fifteen years of hiding and calculating every move, could finally be herself again instead of just surviving.

For fifteen years, they'd all been guided by the same purpose. Now they'd need to figure out what came next.

As Yeosang continued his methodical work, y/n watched Mingi's steady breathing and realized something had changed inside her. After fifteen years of constant watchfulness, she could finally let her guard down, even if just a little. She wasn't alone anymore.

Taglist: @hopeless-lovex0 @frankielou02 @jilxxasu @kur0kki @lezleeferguson-120 @uniquecloudbread @miniverse-zen @symmieangela @monstacheol @ateezswonderland @comicnerd557 @pixie0627 @fumaluvr @princesscallie @green-moon

[simbistardis]

Stem(me) Lesbian Theory Masterpost

A stemme or stem lesbian is short for stud-femme lesbian. This is a Black lesbian term to describe lesbians whose mannerisms and gender presentation fall between stud and femme. This is a post of the key sources I've found:

Articles and Studies

John Jay College of Criminal Justice LGBTQ+ Terminology, Eli R. Green, 2003-2004)

'Stem – A person whose gender expression falls somewhere between a stud and a femme. (See also ‘Femme’ and ‘Stud’.)'

Lipstick or Timberlands? Meanings of Gender Presentation in Black Lesbian Communities, Three physical presentations of gender: Femme, gender-blender, and transgressive, Moore, Mignon R. (2006)

'Rather than a de-emphasis on femininity or masculinity, genderblenders combine specific aspects of both to create a unique look.'

Selection from "Black lesbian gender and sexual culture: celebration and resistance," by Bianca D.M. Wilson, published in Culture, Health & Sexuality, Vol. 11, No 3, April 2009 - Taken from belowdesire reblogged by princessrococco on Pillowfort

'Despite a consistent description of femme and stud at the extremes of lesbian gender expression, participants also discussed several labels that fell between the ultra femme-hard stud ends of the continuum, such as ‘soft stud’ and ‘aggressive femme’. Labels like these represented lesbians that blended both masculine and feminine ways in their public expression and/or sexual behaviours, but with a purposeful leaning toward more masculine or feminine identity.'

Lesbian Identity: Stemme, Nell S., 6th Nov 2009

'A Stemme is the in-between identity of a Stud and Femme. She is apart of both groups and her identity is subject to change at anytime. A Stemme identity is often referred to as the transitional stage; however, some lesbian women remain a Stemme because they enjoy representing male and female dominance."'

STORY OF INTEREST: Lesbian Speaks Out, Dominica News Online, April 12th 2010

'"one who could switch up one day, she could be a femme and other occasions dress like she has a li’l hood, li’l ghetto inside her; a stemme – part femme part stud a tomboy"'

Good gay females and babies' daddies: Black lesbian community norms and the acceptability of pregnancy, Sarah J. Reed, Robin Lin Miller, Maria T. Valenti & Tina M. Timm, 21st April 2011

'Stemmes presented themselves one day as femme and another day as stud; as such, they were visibly unrecognisable unless they divulged their gender identity. Stemmes expose the amorphous nature of gender identity and are invisible – silenced, ostracised or prescribed a gender identity.'

“It Ain’t All as Bad as it May Seem”: Young Black Lesbians’ Responses to Sexual Prejudice, Sarah J. Reed and Maria T. Valenti (2012)

'Stemmes, often blatantly ignored, derogated, or even physically threatened because of their vacillating gender identities, often made use of this strategy: "…if they wanted to act like a femme that day, they could get pleasured. If they wanted to act like a stud that day, they can pleasure. They got the best of both worlds actually. To me, that’s how I see it." '

Labelling, Butch, Femme Dyke Or Lipstick, Aren't All Lesbians The Same?: An Exploration Of Labels And "Looks" Among Lesbians In The U.S. South, Danielle Kerr, (2013)

'Short Dawg said, "A stem, for me, is a little mixture of a lot of different things. One day you can be super feminine, and the next day you can be not so feminine."' 'Jessica states: They [stem] might…have hair. They might not go straight to cutting their hair, or they might have haircuts, and some stems have short little afros, natural things.'

Good and Messy: Lesbian and Transgender Identities by Matt Richardson, taken from forum: Lesbian generations, L.J. Rupp, Nan Alamilla Boyd, R. Vanita, M. Richardson, S. Stryker (2013)

'“Stem” (or the combination of “stud” and “femme”) is a Southern African American term for someone who identifies as masculine and feminine.'

'Cultural Factors in the Adherence to Traditional Gender Roles in the Same-Sex Relationships of Black Women, Bianca D. Christian (2019)

'Stem. Another important term to consider in this subgroup is “Stem,” which is a term that is also almost exclusively utilized in the Black lesbian community. This term is a conglomeration of the aesthetics of the “Stud” and “Femme.” Often these women can appear very feminine one day and then appear very masculine the next day. Some of these women can also style themselves with both aesthetics simultaneously. '

Videos

WTH is a Stem?? - Amberscloset (2013)

The Black Lesbian Handbook: The Stem (2015)

[bethanythebogwitch]

Wet Beast Wednesday: crayfish

It's week 3 of fresh-uary, the month where I only cover freshwater species for Wet Beast Wednesday. This week's topic is the crayfish, also known as the crawfish, crawdad, mudbug, lobster, yabby, kōura, and a lot of other names. The various names for crayfish are also applied to a variety of saltwater species that aren't the topic of today's post, so there's some confusion over terminology when discussing these creatures. Let me clear some of that up and explain why it's ok to be cray.

(Image: a red swamp crayfish (Procambarus clarkii), seen from the side. It is a long, lobster-like crustacean with a rigid front half and flexible tail ending in a wide fan. It walks on 8 legs and has a large pair of pincers held in front of the body. The head ends in a pointy snout with two eyes on short stalks and two pairs of antennae. This one is mostly red, with darker portions on the back. End ID)

The crayfish I'm covering today are freshwater members of the clade Astacidea. This clade also contains clawed lobsters, so there is a lot of similarity between the two groups. There are four families of crayfish, split between two superfamilies. These families are largely split up by region. The superfamily Astacoidea are known as northern hemisphere crayfish and contains the families Cambaroididae (found in eastern Asia), Astacidae (found in west Asia, Europe, and Western North America), and Cambaridae (found in eastern North America). The superfamily Parastacoidea, or southern hemisphere crayfish, contains the family Parastacidae, members of which live (or used to live) in South America, Madagascar, and Australia and New Zealand.

(Image: The Sydney spiny crayfish (Euastacus spinifer) seen from the side. It is a dark green in color, with orange outlines and orange and black spines around the body. End ID)

Crayfish are very similar to clawed lobsters in appearance and have a fairly typical decapod body plan. Their bodies consist of 20 segments grouped into two main body parts: the cephalothorax and abdomen. The cephalothorax is rigid, covered by the carapace, and contains the head and attachments for the legs. The head includes two stalked eyes, two sets of antennae, and a sideways opening mouth surrounded by leg-like maxillipeds that help manipulate food. As a decapod, crayfish have 10 legs. Like their clawed lobster cousins, crayfish use four pairs for walking while the front pair have been modified into a pair of large pincers used for defense and capturing food. Lost limbs can be regrown, though it takes a while. The abdomen forms the flexible "tail". Each segment of the abdomen contains a pair of appendages called pleopods or swimmeretes. These help circulate water and can be used to swim in juveniles. In males, the first pair of pleopods is modified into grasping structures used to hold onto the female during mating. The abdomen ends with a fan-like structure called the telson, that acts like a fin. By rapidly curling its abdomen beneath it, a crayfish can shoot backwards away from danger. The largest species of crayfish, and largest freshwater invertebrate, is Astacopsis gouldi, the giant Tasmanian freshwater crayfish. It can reach 80 cm (31 in) long and 6 kg (13 lbs), though such large individuals are rare. Most crayfish species are considerably smaller.

(Image: someone holding a giant Tasmanian crayfish up to the camera. It is extremely large for a crayfish, requiring two hands to hold and its pincers are roughly as long as the person's hands. It is a dark, swampy green to black in color, with many small lumps on the body. End ID)

Crayfish are benthic omnivores and detritovores found in both running and still water. Crayfish are opportunistic feeders with extremely varied diets that include plants, fungi, animals, microorganisms, and decaying organic matter. Mist species are considered primarily herbivorous and scavengers, though they will take live prey if the opportunity arises and have been known to be cannibalistic. Decomposing organic matter forms a large portion of the crayfish diet and they often eat it through the mud and slime found on the bottom of their habitats. A crayfish can quickly swallow mud, then internally sort it by the size of ingested particles. Coarser materials are processed and excreted faster. The digestive tract can process the dead plankton and decaying organic matter that makes up mud from the sediment. Feces are excreted wrapped in a peritrophic membrane. This membrane is rich in proteins and is usually eaten by the crayfish to regain them and get a second shot at digesting organic matter in the feces. Fresh vegetation is also a major food source and there are even reports of crayfish leaving the water to graze on land plants. Crayfish feed periodically, switching between periods of feeding and periods of hiding while they digest. As with all crustaceans, crayfish have to regularly molt their exoskeletons as they grow. They typically eat their old carapaces to regain the calcium carbonate and other molecules contained in the shell. After molting, it takes time for the new exoskeleton to harden, leaving the crayfish more vulnerable to injury or predation.

(Image: a small, orange crayfish in captivity inspecting a cucumber slice that is being offered as food. End ID)

Crayfish mate seasonally, usually in spring through late summer, triggered by changes in water temperature. The exact mating process depends on species, though females are likely to release pheromones to attract males. Males are initially aggressive, but often calm down sometime before mating. Males are known to fight over access to females. In some species, the male and female will touch claws and exchange chemical signatures prior to mating possibly as a courtship ritual. Males have also been seen attempting to mate with other males. Once a female accepts a mate, the male will flip her onto her back and align their abdomens, using his modified first pair of pleopods to grab on. Once their genitals are aligned, the male will pass a sac of sperm to the female using structures called gonopods. The male will leave after mating. The female lays clusters of eggs that are carefully attached to the pleopods. Until the eggs hatch, the mother will carry them with her, moving her pleopods to circulate water around them and using her legs to clean them. Egg development can takes days to weeks depending on species. The young are born well developed for crustaceans, looking like miniature adults. The female will shake her pleopods to help the hatchlings emerge. Juveniles are at a high risk of predation, including from other crayfish, so only a few of the possible hundreds of eggs will reach adulthood. It can take years for a crayfish to reach sexual maturity.

(Image: a series of 6 photos showing two blue crayfish mating. In the first three photos, the male turns the female on her back. In the 4th photo, the male starts to line up his abdomen with hers. In the 5th photo, the abdomens are aligned and mating is occurring. In the last photo, the male climbs off of the female. End ID. Source)

(Image: a female crayfish being held upside down to show her eggs, visible as small, black balls attached to the underside of the abdomen. End ID)

Crayfish are edible and eaten worldwide, with 95% of the world supply coming from China. Boiling is the most common form of cooking. Experiments have shown that crayfish take a while to die when boiled and show pain responses. They also release cortisol, a stress hormone, when boiled. There is, for some reason, a debate on whether or not crustaceans can feel pain. I think that it's obvious they have negative responses to negative stimuli and therefore it can be safely assumed that they can suffer. To more humanely cook a crayfish, freeze them for a few hours to render them unconscious, then cut down the body lengthwise to destroy the nervous system before boiling. Crayfish are also kept in aquariums as pets and can be fed shrimp pellets and plants, but they may also try to eat other organisms in the same tanks. In the wild, many species of crayfish are threatened by overfishing, habitat loss, climate change, and pollution. Most species need clean water and are highly vulnerable to pollutants. This allows crayfish to be used as an indicator species for the health of their environments. The pseudofungus Aphanomyces astaci causes a fatal disease called crayfish plague that has escaped from aquacultures to affect wild populations. Side note, I had no idea pseudofungi were a thing until right now. Multiple species of crayfish have become invasive species after accidental or intentional release of common food species. Other invasive species can outcompete or prey on native species.

(Image: the rusty crayfish (Faxonius rusticus), a common invasive species in North America, identifiable by the rust-red blotch located on the sides of the carapace near the rear of the cephalothorax. End ID)

[dallasgallant]

Writing help master post

All of the posts I’ve made that are specific to helping writing the Outsiders and some general 1960s that could be useful elsewhere. Please use this information, that’s what it’s for! I’d be glad to know if you do too.

Not tagging my metas even if there’s good character stuff, as I’d be here a million years.

*will be regularly updated*

Dictionaries and lists also regularly updated

Metas

Smaller metas, charecter studies and other details are #Outsiders meta , #Things I’ve noticed, #Details on my blog

Curtis home Floor plan

More house details

Slang dictionaries -

1960s slang

JD slang

Southern slang/vernacular

Troublemaking

*basically a bunch of trouble making and regular teen hang out stuff that’d be useful for fic writing

JD recommendations

*

Tips and sources for doing your own research

Time period posts-

Greaser clothes

Hangout spots

Technology and terminology

Mini-Soft drinks

Movies and tv

Teen culture

Greasy girls (1)

Carrying information

Flannel/plaid v. Madras

Food

Car culture

Schools

Greaser subtypes

Halloween

Mini- souvenirs

Thanksgiving

Socs

Buses and public transport

Restaurant and dining

Magazines and tv guide

Mini- crank window

Mini- toilet paper

Room types

Holiday shopping and decor

Christmas

Teen movies

Trust and faith

Music taste and radio

Appliances and thrift

Hanging out

Going steady v casual dating

Car culture 2 - Hot rods and racing

Childhood

Poverty

Childhood and babies 2

Valentine’s Day

Easter

Public services

Convenience stores

Radio

Maps and communication

Photography

[orion-nottson]

devil’s in the details | tfp!megatron x reader

A/N: i have tfp megatron brain rot. like i know he’s cray cray and deluded, but literally so am i we’re made for each other he’s mine

also this obvi deviates from canon, bc there is no way on god’s green earth that dreadwing and starscream could coexist semi-peacefully.

also, please be warned that i haven’t written transformers fanfic since i was like 14 💀💀 fought for my LIFE with the terminology (had to check my old WATTPAD stories to find some vocab 💀)

summary: lord megatron propositions you. it’s a rather bold request.

content: SMUT, 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, femme!cybertronian!reader, seeker!reader, sticky sexual interfacing, breeding kink, wee lil bit of choking, technically boss/employee relationship, power dynamic (it gets semi-resolved), implied past relationship/thought unrequited love, average decepticon emotional constipation, business arrangement procreation

word count: 6,367

~ * ~ * ~

The Decepticon warship lingers somewhere over the southern pole of Earth, resulting in a dramatic decrease in temperature, even with the efficiency of Cybertronian technology. You shift your wings for the umpteenth time, armor plates releasing air to alleviate the discomforting chill that’s started to bother you. Of course, it was far from being so cold that you needed to worry about your core temperature, but you are a Seeker from Vos, and Vos was always warm.

The thought makes your wings tremble again, so you hurry yourself to your quarters with a bit more haste.

It wouldn’t suddenly be warm and tropical, but at least you’d be able to curl up and shiver in privacy. Recharge sounds particularly nice too, considering you’ve been up for several cycles trying to appease Lord Megatron’s endless demands. Inwardly, you roll your optics— There seems to be nothing you can do that would satisfy him.

The corridor finally breaks into the wing that houses Decepticon high command, where yours and your fellow officers reside. Your room is down almost the entire expanse of the hall, the turn right before where Megatron’s personal habsuite lies. From where you’re walking, you can spot the sleek, black metal door. A chill runs up your back struts, and your processor convinces you it’s from the icy cold that’s overtaken the Nemesis.

“Curse this inhospitable, organic planet.” Muttering to yourself dissuades you from also blaming your Master, who was no help either, if you were to be honest. He could shove his “not wanting to expend precious Energon on unnecessary heating” decree up his tail pipe.

You resign yourself to some rather cold nights for the foreseeable future. Perhaps... If you played your cards right, as the humans say, you could convince Soundwave to pilot the ship north. Maybe somewhere near Hawaii...

A sharp, gravelly voice from behind you calls your name, and you spin around to see your Lord and Master a ways down the corridor from you. Immediately bringing yourself to attention, you straighten your back struts and bow politely.

“My liege.” You say, thanking Primus you’ve become so accustomed to Megatron’s thunderous shouts that you no longer jump, let alone flinch, when they occur. The silver mech strides up to you easily, displaying all the strength of a warrior in the confidence of his steps.

“Retiring to your quarters?” He asks austerely, as if he’s ever concerned himself with your whereabouts, let alone personal routine. Unease creeps up on you, so you shift on the thrusters of your peds and cross your servos over your chassis. Wings fluttering, you reply slowly, “Well, yes.”

“Allow me to accompany you there.” The silver mech says brightly, and it’s such an absurdly peculiar request for both the mech saying it and the situation at hand. You instinctively snort a laugh.

“I do believe I know the way to my own habsuite, my Lord.” You say before you can stop the words from coming out, and immediately regret them once they do. You meet Megatron’s hard stare sheepishly, wings dropping timorously. Forgetting your place in the grand scheme of things is not wise amongst the Decepticon ranks.

To your utter shock, you’re not met with a vicious reprimand and instead Megatron grins— this wickedly suave thing— and purrs, “Humor me.”

And all you can say is, “Of course.”

Megatron hums appreciatively, brushing past you as he takes the lead, like he always does. You step in time behind him, nearly colliding into his back struts when he suddenly halts, and you stumble backwards a few steps. The looming mech pivots, glancing down at you with a quizzical expression in his glowing optics.

“Seekers are a rare breed, yes?” Lord Megatron asks, and whatever game he’s begun to play with you genuinely stumps any reasoning you attempt. Opening your mouth, your optics dart over his face, trying to decode whatever message your Master is sending and coming up empty. 

“Er... Yes, my liege? Even before the war, Vos was not a populous city-state. There are probably... even less now.” You reply cautiously, becoming very put off as Megatron takes a step towards you. He looks as impassive as ever, though you’re beginning to see a very curious appraising expression overtaking his faceplates. It begins with the upcurve of his mouth, derma pulled into the most wolfish grin you’ve ever seen on the mech.

Utterly bizarre. Your processors want to reset because this Megatron is starting to look like the studly gladiator of Kaon you’d hear be lasciviously giggled about, not the ruthless, merciless tyrant he’s supposed to be.

“I have a rather... avant-garde proposition for you, my most loyal Seeker.” Megatron purrs, his servos clasped easily behind him as you’ve seen him too many times before, often when he schemes. He’s also talking to you as if this is casual, expected business of him; matter-of-fact and cordial, with his usual cool drawl.

Before you can reply, Megatron turns sharply once more and begins walking down the corridor, stopping after a few steps when he realizes you hadn’t started with him. He turns his helm to look back at you, this time there’s this strangely unreadable expression on his faceplates.

“Follow me.” He says simply, and without a second thought, you do.

Even though you’re a Seeker with naturally long legs, his pedsteps are even longer strides, so you have to exert some effort in keeping up with Megatron. It adds to the growing franticness that’s begun to bubble up inside your chassis. 

While not exactly fear, though that’s certainly part of it, you’ve been a Decepticon and aboard the Nemesis under Megatron’s direct command long enough to know that when he becomes cryptic, it means trouble. Or at least a command that you’d rather not be the one to deal with. Bluntly asking what the frag he’s on about wouldn’t be the best course of action, but you know that he likes you enough not to offline you immediately if you did.

So you do.

“My Lord, what exactly are you asking of me?” You inquire, noting with slight abject horror as Megatron approaches the door to your quarters and types in your lock code with ease. Of course, he is the leader after all. Instead of answering your question, he makes you feel even more uneasy by throwing you a mysteriously sultry look and quipping, “Let me have you if only for a breem. Or longer should I entertain you.”

You catch the flash of his ruby optics, their intentions indiscernible, and then he disappears into your habsuite like it’s his own.

There’s something to it, an itch of a thought that’s begun to decipher the puzzle and put together the pieces. Lately, Megatron has been far more... involved with you, more eager at your presence, and it was blatantly obvious that he grew quite miffed when others got too close. It was no secret to anyone— From Soundwave and Starscream to a lowly technician— that Megatron had an optic for you (many did, frankly) and thus he was quite possessive of your wiles and charms as well.

This line of thought leads you to step into your room, slowly and evenly as if it’s unmarked territory and not the quarters that were assigned to you millennia ago.

“Lord Megatron...” You trail off, catching his stare just as he sets your old null ray back on your weapons rack, where most of your old, dismantled, and prized tools are located. Your null ray had been a favorite, until some blasted Autobot blew out the important bits that kept it working. That had stung, and even eons later you still curse that specific Autobot to the Pits.

Megatron flexes his claws, and with a flourish he clasps his servos behind him once again. His red optics scan the entirety of your quarters, lingering on your berth until they come back to rest on you. His gaze is equal parts unnerving and fascinating, as if he’s deconstructing you armor by armor, stripping you down until he’s watched your spark pulse.

His optics, like twin red suns, center you at their universes, and you feel oddly... flattered at their amorous disposition.

“It is no secret that I have watched you for some time.” Megatron starts, tilting his helm as he becomes pensive. You nod dumbly, hardly processing a word he’s saying. Megatron takes a single step towards you, looming like a shadow. In the dim lighting of your room, his silver armor catches all the chiaroscuro, his violet accents hued to black. Only his glowing, fiery optics remain bright. He continues.

“I admit,—” Megatron drawls your name deliciously, “— That I have found myself... captivated by your beauty. Entranced by your prowess, both in battle and mind.”

“I...” Your vents hitch, wings shivering at the praise. Blinking rapidly to ensure this isn’t some monumentally vivid dream, you clear your intake and say, “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, my Lord.”

Megatron laughs, that slight chuckle that sounds halfway between his engines roaring and something genuine that comes from the spark. The silver mech’s rolls his shoulders, armor hissing as it releases air. Wildly, he confesses something you never would have expected from him, “I believe myself bewitched.”

His servos have clasped themselves into fists at his sides, and briefly you wonder if he’s angry with you, then his entire frame relaxes like he’s decompressing after a long spar with Dreadwing.

“Tell me, my little Seeker, why have you denied yourself of me for so long?” Megatron asks it like a tease, like he’s some boon to be revered or a sacred sword to be wielded. Heat rises beneath your armor plating, and your processors race kilometers a nanosecond to find a suitable answer. Or at least one that doesn’t make you sound like some lovesick femmeling.

You couldn’t lie and say you had no... feelings for your Master, who was as handsome and dark as he was powerful and cunning. Megatron was once a gladiator of Kaon, and gladiators on Cybertron were what you had often admired, marveling at their strength, drive, and raw spark. Megatron had been no different, though you also found his commanding presence and impressive intellect to be even more attractive.

That was really why you’d joined the Decepticon cause all those millennia ago; Drawn to your Master’s fight to bring equality to the rigid castes and to seize control of the Energon supply to better disperse it by his charismatic allure.

And somehow, Megatron knew all of this.

“It would have been insubordination if I acted upon my... desires.” You reply, crossing your arms over your ample chassis with a shrug. Megatron matches your collected temperament with a hum, staring down at you with unreadable red optics.

“Indeed. Though I wish you’d had disobeyed, my little Seeker.” Megatron purrs, taking a step towards you that closes the space between your frames and boxes you in. His EM field magnifies the atmosphere around you, tingling at the periphery of yours.

“M-My liege?” You gape, faceplates feeling hot as metal left in direct sunlight. He chuckles, and sinfully the tip of his glossa runs over his pointed denta. Your spark skips a beat, owlishly watching 

“If I had known sooner that you wanted me as direly as I did you, then this song and dance would have concluded vorns ago.” Megatron growls, optics flashing with not anger, but lust. He takes another step, and you’re speechless.

“That being said, I am patient. I have no qualms with how long we have waited, nor will I if you choose to wait longer.” One of the tyrant’s long, clawed digits clicks at the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upwards. His touch is delicate, like you’d break if he pushed too hard. Honestly, you probably would if he did. Part of you wants to see him try.

“What did you want to ask of me?” You whisper, optics fluttering until they stay half-lidded and dewy under the carnal scrutiny of your Lord. Megatron grins, a sliver of sharp denta flashing in the lowlights of your habsuite. He takes a final step towards you, a half-shuffle that does well to close the gap between your frames, the air warming from the work of your combined engines. You hope he feels the way your spark races, hope he feels the heat emanating from your core.

“Give me an heir, carry a sparkling of my code and stand beside me as my queen.” With each word, laden with desire until it shows in his optics that drip with lust, Megatron has you against the wall of your habsuite, one servo tracing the sleek edge of your wing.

It’s entirely intoxicating, and against your better judgment and all remaining reason— and mostly because you haven’t had a good, hard frag in ages— you moan.

It’s a soft, angelic sound that barely catches on the audials, but it makes Megatron grin like a shark. You gasp, affronted, optics flickering, “My liege!”

“Have I offended you?” He breathes, and suddenly his mouth is against your neck cables, each word leaving the softest of kisses on your Energon lines. Your resolve nearly crumbles entirely, each brush of his dermas like a shot of high grade to the systems. You sigh, vents hissing, and place one servo on his chassis. Beneath the broad expanse of silver armor, his engines rumble like thunder on the horizon. It makes you pulse with need.

“No.” You whisper, wanting to sing as Megatron kisses the slope of your jaw, then pecks the side of your mouth, agape with shock. He pulls back, the heat of him evaporating as soon as he’s once again standing at his full height. You tremble, not from the cold, but from his absence. 

It’s not something you’d ever given much thought about, your feelings towards your Lord and Master, but it’s something that’s come rushing back. All the suppressed thoughts, the dashed dreams, the impossible futures... They come back to you and leave you weak in the knee joints, cooling fans whirring from the memories of the fantasies you’d entertained when you’d had long midnights alone.

“What say you then?” Megatron’s stare is hard, unshaking and fully serious. He wants to have a sparkling with you, wants you to bear him an heir— He wants you as his queen and equal, to stand beside him and lead the Decepticon cause. The expression on his face is a cross between a wild animal, wanting to ravage you the nanosecond you say Yes, and the warlord with enough resolve and self-restraint to accept if you say No.

It’s all so much at once. Eons of time made up in just a single question. Details and technicalities will have to be conferred over later, as for now you’re content with the conditions as-is.

“Well... You are a handsome mech, my liege.” You reply, teasing him by placing a chaste kiss directly on the Decepticon insignia on his chassis. He doesn’t say anything, only his engine rumbles more audibly. You look up at him and salaciously imply with a coy smirk, “I do believe we’d make a fine clutch of sparklings.”

And then you find yourself swept up into his arms, back struts and wings pressed against the wall, your Lord’s hips slotted perfectly against yours. The more base urges inside you squeal, your Seeker coding nearly overtaking you and having you present to him like a turbofox in heat.

Not one to be outdone, Megatron quips, “And you are quite the striking femme— Shall I ravage you against the wall or your berth?”

You laugh, cut off only when Megatron captures your dermas in his, drowning you in the roughness of a mech starved of Energon. He kisses like he owns the practice and has made it an artform; Dragging your dermas with his, glossa invading your mouth, denta nipping dangerously close to sensitive nodes and wiring. You moan and gasp, coming to the realization that one of your servos grips his wrist and the other is flat against his chassis.

You shutter your optics, reveling in Megatron’s power and dominance, wanting so desperately for him to devour you. The warmth blossoms, spreading throughout your core until you feel charges pulse at your interface panels that have you whimpering.

After what feels like vorns, Megatron parts and your dermas unlock with a metallic pop. Megatron’s mouth ghosts over yours, and he hums as he repeats himself, “Berth or wall, little Seeker?”

“The berth, my liege.” You urge breathlessly, a delighted sound escaping you as Megatron heaves you from the wall and carries you to your desired destination. He isn’t gentle when he deposits you on your berth, doesn’t mind the wings, so you hiss when your back struts connect with the metal beneath you. Megatron manages to keep himself between the smooth metal of your thighs as he hitches one knee up onto the berth.

“I wonder,” Megatron stops to kiss you deeply once more, making your processors spin, “If this is an auspicious position for conception.”

A bite to the dermas stifles your wanton moan. Your Lord may not be fully aware of it yet, but each mention of being sparked, of bearing his heirs, has your more base urges spiraling out of control. While Vos was not populated by many Seekers, the need to breed is more hardwired into the programming than most other frame types. His words act like fuel to the fire.

“O-Oh— I can only hope.” You gasp, your whimpering cries smothered by Megatron’s dermas in yet another bruising, brusque kiss. This time, he lingers, slows down as if he savors the taste of you on his glossa. Your servos grip his shoulders, smoothing along his breadth before your pointed digits grip at the armor panels high on his back. Megatron responds most enjoyably, using one servo to anchor himself above you and the other to caress down your body.

His servo travels from the curve of your waist, talons scratching at your paint, down to the slope of your hip where it rests heavy and warm on the junction of your thigh. He teases the sharp point of his thumb digit on the transformation seam nearest your interface panels, causing you to arch your back struts like a cat. Megatron uses this opportunity to settle a servo on the low of your back struts, where he pinches at the sensitive nodes at the bases of your wings. That makes you cry out, your cooling fans whirring loudly as a charge builds up deep inside you. 

You’ve never been this close to an overload so quickly before, though you’ve had many sleepless nights built up to bring you to this moment. And Megatron proves his expertise in the berth, past rumors and gossip proven to hold more truth than you once thought. 

Your entire frame feels electrified, your lower body feels like it’s on fire, the heat centered gloriously on your interfacing parts. Particularly your valve and anterior node, which feel wet and pulse beneath the panel with each of your sparkbeats.

“You react so gratifyingly.” Megatron purrs, his gravelly drawl like fine high grade on the audials, uncharacteristically sweet and sensual. He glances down at your interface panels, where your glowing transfluid is beginning to seep out along the seams. With a devious grin, Megatron meets your gaze just as he presses his thumb digit to your overheated panel.

“Megatron!” You cry his name, forsaking honorifics, and nearly overloading on the spot. Almost unconsciously, you send a command and your valve panel slides open, revealing your weeping slit and throbbing anterior node. You cry out again when Megatron wastes no time and starts tight, small circles on the sensitive bundle of mesh wire and circuitry.

“Beautiful.” He hums, quickening his pace on your anterior node as he notices sparks fly as your charge builds. You grip his back, claws digging at his silver armor and leaving scratches in his already worn paint. Megatron leans in, steals your dermas in a kiss, keeps circling your wet node, and just as you see warnings for an imminent overload— He stops.

The charge doesn’t die, but it decreases to a staticky tingle, and you part from the kiss, scandalized that he’s prevented your overload. You gape at Megatron, giving him a glare that could rival the World Destroyer’s himself. He only offers you a sly look.

“My liege.” This time you growl the title past grit denta, bucking your hips against your Master’s still servo. He hums, your anger meaning nothing to him, though indulging you by brushing two digits along the transfluid-soaked mesh of your valve. You gasp, optics blowing wide as he pushes them in, mindful of his sharp claws, stretching you wonderfully.

There’s a slight burn at first, pain sensors sending alerts, alleviated as your frame adjusts to accommodate his thick talons. Megatron eases his digits back until they are almost out completely, then sinks them back in. Your knees come up, peds shaking as you hook them behind his back struts.

“Patience, my dear,” Megatron kisses your neck cables, “Is a virtue.”

And like he had your anterior node, he works your valve slowly, steadily building the charge that buzzes all the pleasure centers in your frame. Warnings for an overload screen your vision again, this time your optics flicker as it grows closer. Staccato vents escape your intake, fans skipping cycles and hitching, encouraging Megatron to go faster, digits plunging in and out of your valve with sopping, moist noises. The room smells like interface; the tinny tang of transfluid, the almost-burnt smell of metal-on-metal friction.

You moan, this time a long keen that crackles in your audials, and Megatron responds with the first pleasured sound you’ve heard from him: A low, throaty groan that he practically strangles in his intake like he doesn’t want it to escape.

“M-My liege, plea-please.” You whine, writhing, bucking your hips even as Megatron’s servo relinquishes your wings in order to still them. You sob, systems on the fritz as the charge crackles, your overload closing in due to Megatron’s working servo and digits. He laughs again, the breathy one that you adore, and surprisingly heeds your plea.

“I want you like this when you take my spike.” Megatron hisses, doubling his pace and making you scream. The wet squelch of your mesh grows louder, and with each thrust of his servo, his knuckle joint brushes your throbbing anterior node, whiting out your optics.

“I want you disheveled.” The tyrant presses close to you, tightening the cyclic thrusts of his digits, biting at the base of your neck cables. Your helm lolls to the side, voice crackling in constant whines as you squeeze your optics shut. He growls, sharp denta piercing an Energon line close to your shoulder armor, the pain mixing with pleasure and having you singing.

“I want you desperate.” Megatron snarls like an Earthen beast, the gruffness of his voice matching the hot stretch of your valve. Transfluid soaks the inner seams and mechanisms of your thighs, spilling onto your berth below. Megatron drags his dermas to yours, his glossa hot and heady as he shoves it in your mouth and dominates the kiss. You moan against him, gripping him tight and hearing the sound of metal screech as its torn.

The silver mech groans, low and rough, breaking the kiss and allowing his helm to fall besides yours. To the cables and wires of your neck, he leaves open-mouth kisses, condensation hot from his vents, then pulls himself up to your audials and whispers harshly:

“I want you as mine.”

The last word is punctuated by a hard push of his digits and his thumb squashing your anterior node, and your overload hits you like a system crash. You wail, wings fluttering and hitting the berth with metallic clangs as your body seizes, the charge overtaking your processors. Pleasure like molten lava consumes your frame, transfluid squirting out onto Megatron’s forearm like paint.

The overload lasts eons, like some supernova of a dying star. Your legs lock, armor plating shivering, wings hitched high and scraping against your berth.  Maybe this is what death is, you think illogically, Maybe I’ve joined with the Allspark.

“Beautiful.” Megatron breathes again, his optics glowing in awe, “Positively beautiful.”

It takes a click for your processor to compute what he said, then another for your optics to blink back on. Coolant tears leak out the corners, blurring your vision. Your mouth gapes, dermas damp with condensation, your cooling fans whirring in loud in your audials. The grip you have on Megatron loosens, servos slipping until they fall upon his shoulders.

The charge in your valve mesh and anterior node quivers and bounces, and you realize with a pleasant tremble that Megatron’s digits are still firmly inside you.

“Megatron.” You coo his name, “Megatron.”

He says yours back, like all you’ve done and are doing is exchanging designations in a routine meeting and it reminds you of a time when things were simpler between the two of you. It’s been eons since Megatron’s seen you the way his ruby red optics gaze upon you now, eons more since you’ve felt seen.

War has made you both volatile, too tough and too angry to do anything else but fight, and fight some more. But here, in the privacy of your berth, blanketed by the secrecy of darkness: War can’t touch you. Nothing can.

“How I have yearned for you...” Megatron cups your faceplates, his servo cool against your overheated frame. You smile, still hazy from your overload and the lingering sensation of his other servo very much connected carnally to you, feeling like you’ve overdone yourself on too much high grade. 

A switch flips inside you, the one that reminds you’re no fainting femme, but one that asks and will take regardless. You are a Seeker, after all— It’s in your code to want offspring.

“Give me a sparkling, my Lord.” Even though your voice wavers, it still sounds like an immutable command. The contemplative look on Megatron’s face morphs into the devilish one, and he snarls, removing his digits from your core. A thin line of gooey transfluid stretches between you and his servo, until Megatron brings it to his mouth and his glossa licks along the length of his digits. His optics narrow in as he hums.

“You presume you can command me.” And yet he obeys again, his interface panel unlatching with a hiss. His spike emerges, a long, thick one that fills in sections, ribbed along its length. Glowing transfluid oozes in droplets from its tip, rolling down the underside of his spike. Your jaw drops, both in want and slight alarm— Megatron is a large mech, you should have better anticipated a large spike.

“Know this, dearest: I will take you, ruin you, fill you up until my code takes.” Megatron promises, lining his bobbing spike up with your throbbing valve. He then grabs your hips, propping them up for a better angle. You quiver, writhing on your berth and bracing your servos on his forearms. His armor is hot under your touch, and your claws dig into the smooth of his paint. Then you match his stare, licking your dermas.

“Frag me like you mean it.”

Megatron suddenly thrusts his spike into you and you wail, unforgiving of your smaller stature. The delicate mesh and sensitive wires give and mold around the hot rod of his pulsing length, forming a slick suction around your lover. He groans, easing back then thrusting in with earnest. Your thighs tremble as you take him, each rimmed circlet of his spike passing into you, dragging deliciously on your valve’s walls.

It’s a tight fight, even with being loosened by Megatron’s thick digits. The transformation seams on your hips and thighs stretch, soft whirs and clicks as your frame adjusts to take him. He’s the biggest you’ve ever had, and the strongest too. The power in his hips drives you up the berth, and he pulls you back down.

You can’t meet his thrusts, but you try and buck your hips in time with him, erratic at first. Megatron’s servos are locked on you, guiding you when your movements skip or miss. All the pleasure centers in your frame are alight, charges sparking and fritzing along your circuitry. Another overload builds, a hot, deep bubbling in your core.

With each thrust of his spike, your valve squelches, the mesh slick and hot with transfluid. More drips down your legs, your aft, onto the berth, leaving everything tacky. Megatron hits a particularly sensitive node deep inside you, one you didn’t even know was there, and you keen. Coolant tears prick at your vision again, escaping the corners and rolling off your faceplates. 

“How badly do you want it?” Megatron seethes, and you could mistake his lust for anger. He seizes your neck cables, dangerous talons threatening Energon lines, as he demands, “How badly do you want me?”

“Desperately.” You wheeze, optics whiting out as Megatron squeezes your neck cables just so as he gives you a series of particularly rough thrusts. Your peds tighten on his back, urging him deeper. Your Master vents, harsh and hot, his engine rumbling loud in his chassis.

“You will look...” Megatron chokes on a groan,”... Excellent with a trine at your hip.”

That makes you whine, Seeker coding squealing and preening at the thought. A trine. Three little sparklings just like their carrier. You’d delight in carrying them in your gestation chamber, wanting to see yourself change and swell to accommodate them.

“I want... I want,” Your voice cuts out, broken by a sob, and you can only manage a tight, “I want that!”

“Good.” Megatron pistons his hips like a jackhammer, his rhythm not breaking once. Powerful thrusts meet the wet heat of your core, the tops of his thigh armor clanking loudly against your legs. The overload warnings start appearing once again. Megatron hisses when your valve tightens around his length, and it prompts him to pick up the pace.

“You are so pretty.” He growls, leaning in to recapture your dermas with his. As he kisses, he doubles his speed and the strength behind it. You moan and sob into his mouth, servos gripping him by the back of the helm. His glossa battles with yours, his sharp denta nicking you more than once. Then he switches to kissing you deeply, soulfully, like he’s found salvation in your dermas.

It’s as you’re so viscerally connected to Megatron that the heat in your core reaches a boiling point, the slow-building electricity coming to its peak. Your valve walls spasm, the giving mesh convulsing in the telltale sign of your overload on the horizon.

Somehow accomplishing it, Megatron kisses you deeper, his faceplates flush and hot against yours. A particularly hard grind of his spike on the sensitive nodes of your valve has you gasping into the silver mech’s mouth. Your optics squeeze shut, you feel like your core is about to explode with heat—

Your second overload hits, just as spectacular and wonderful as the first. Electrified charges bounce between the mesh of your valve and Megatron’s throbbing spike, transfluid soaking him and yourself once again. It’s only after your audials tingle that you realize you’ve screamed loudly enough to reset them. Your systems crash, processors overheated and cooling fans hitching and trembling. With a hiss and a long grunt, Megatron follows you over the edge as well.

Warmth blooms in your core, pleasure nodes and receptors picking up the hot liquid feel of Megatron’s transfluid deep inside you. It comes out in spurts, and he rides his overload by continuing to push into you. As your optics come back online, you catch him hunching over you, ceasing his thrusts in favor of pressing as close as he can, spike still weeping transfluid and coating your inside walls.

Megatron hisses and groans, his frame shivering just once as he finishes, lazily bucking his hips thrice to empty himself completely. He doesn’t disengage his spike, leaving it to soften in your overworked valve. You can’t feel your peds, not after the overload you just experienced, and your entire frame shudders when he nips at your neck cables once again.

For a while, he hovers above you, his EM field embracing your frame. Softly, your servos caress his upper back struts, the tips of your digits dancing along his seams. His servos finally release your hips, revealing he’s left shallow dents in your armor. No matter, you’d wear them proudly. 

“Do you have fiber cloths in your refresher?” Megatron asks, breaking the comfortable silence, his vocal processor crackling only slightly. A twitch of the helm is the best “Yes” you can offer, and brutally Megatron parts from you, drawing a soft whimper as his spike and warmth leave you. The thought of sliding your interface panel back on crosses your mind, but your anterior node and valve are still throbbing so tenderly you can’t will yourself to do it.

You hadn’t realized you closed your optics until Megatron’s approaching pedsteps makes you open them again. He stands before your sprawled, ruined frame, a sheer fiber cloth in his servo, reaching to clean you. Silently, he wipes up the glowing transfluid that’s stained your berth, then moves to clean what’s left on your body.

For a long few moments, the sounds of your cooling fans cycling down, wings softly scraping on your berth, and Megatron’s movements fill your habsuite. At some point, you hear the distinct click of Megatron’s interface panel closing and you tilt your helm up to see him putting his spike away. Also distinctly, the slight burn of soreness as Megatron wipes your exposed valve of excess transfluid.

You’d need to wash regardless, but it’s the thought that counts.

“That was...” And you have no words. Your voice sounds distant and far away, like you’re listening to yourself whisper from miles away. Megatron hums to fill your silence, then you hear the muffled sound of the cloth being discarded somewhere in your room.

“May I join you for the night?” Your Lord’s question is far more polite than it needs to be, considering the circumstances, but it’s 

“Of course.” Your answer is quick and sure, marked by the tremendous effort you put in to roll onto your side, even though you still can’t quite feel your legs. You watch Megatron around your berth and sit at your side. He stretches, silver armor plates shifting and whirring back into place, the length of his back struts revealing his hidden Energon lines.

Then he swings his peds up and lays beside you like it’s the most normal action he’s ever done. Though you do have to scoot over until your wings stick out past the edge.

“I would like for this to be a repeated venture,” Megatron teases after he settles himself, “And if you will accept, for this to be continued past a successful newspark creation.”

He glances at you out the corner of his optic, its glow dimmed. You smile.

He’s never been one for grand romantic gestures, never one to speak about softer, kinder things like “love” or “sparkbonding”. It’s unbecoming of him, the Leader of the Decepticons, former gladiator of Kaon, dark Lord and powerful Master. You don’t know if he’d ever pose the actual question, or if it will remain as nebulous, vague riddles and coded phrases for you to decipher and analyze. It isn’t in Lord Megatron’s making to be tender— At least not in the explicit regards.

“I want nothing less for the sire of my offspring.” You reply, your frame curling around the curve of his chassis, servo finding the same spot it always had: Right above his insignia, above his spark. His engine rumbles evenly, the steady drumming could bring you to power down, though you’re kept awake by the pleasant ache between your legs, the chill of the Nemesis, and the pride in bearing your Lord an heir. 

~ * ~ * ~

epilogue

Your berth is too small, much too small, for two Cybertronians attempting to recharge upon it. Megatron keeps an arm wrapped under and around you to prevent you from falling off, your frame halfway atop his. One of your servos rests under your helm, the other lazily traces invisible shapes on his broad chassis. Both of your EM fields mingle, the waves pulsing to each other in rhythm.

Earthen hours have passed since your coupling, and though you’re tired, you find yourself unable to slip into recharge.

“My Lord?” You catch his attention, Megatron optics flickering back as he pulls himself from the onset of recharge. Part of you regrets keeping him awake— Primus only knows how many sleepless nights your leader subjects himself to— and the other part of you quietly marvels at how he was nearly dozing in your arms. What show of trust is as great as that?

“If I am to carry, this means the Decepticon cause loses one of its strongest warriors—” You sigh happily as the warlord shifts so that his servo rubs your wings, tenderly caressing sensitive transformation seams and Energon lines. What more you wanted to say dies on your glossa, too caught up in the tender display of affection your Lord gives you.

“A temporary hindrance.” Megatron rumbles, shuttering his optics once again and stating, “The Decepticons will prevail.”

It falls quiet, fully so for a handful of clicks until you pipe up again.

“... And, we will need protoforms. And transitionary metals and alloys. And start the process of distilling Energon into low-grade, sparkling-safe—”

Megatron silences you with a deep kiss, one that has you purring in delight and cupping his faceplates. He lingers on your dermas for a few beats, his EM field heavy and warm on yours, lulling you closer to recharge. Megatron parts, settling down on his back struts, his frame creaking and hissing air as he relaxes. Then he sighs:

“We will discuss technicalities in the morning.”

[fir-fireweed]

Oh hey, I guess I'm still sending back to back asks, but I have a question about the worldbuilding. An oddly specific one, again haha.

So, what are non-Iredicci people called? What I mean by that is that Iredicci are not a non-human species, right? The way I understand it, they are another "race" of humans. But that means I guess it's not like "humans and Iredicci" the way another fantasy setting could have "humans and elves/dwarves/orcs/whatever else", since we're not talking about entirely different species. So what's the official terminology for the non-Iredicci people?

Hello again! 👋 I confess, I’ve only got some vague thoughts on this right now. 🥴

You’re right, everyone is human so there’s no different species. At this time, everyone else is either Salestian (a citizen of Saleste) or Tinebaillese (citizen of Tinebaille). Saleste is an enormous empire, and that includes other conquered peoples and lands. The empire has a strict policy of assimilation, repressing and denying the cultures of conquered peoples. The Iredicci are unique due to their magic and their dominant genes; the empire can’t assimilate them as they have done other races. But that uniqueness is what made them a target.

There will be instances when other nationalities/races come up. There was a nation on the eastern plains, for instance, that will come up that I haven’t named yet. And Thaleia is descended from a southern (as yet unnamed) desert country.

I do plan to introduce these cultures eventually, as the resistance grows and the cracks in the empire begin to show. So stay tuned!

[acetypeface]

The New Mutants Play DnD

They're still in my brain soup.

DANI: Is the DM. A fantastic storyteller, although she can be a bit of a stickler for the rules. Loves to prep days in advance, and includes as many elaborate schemes and puzzles as she can. Prefers to run a game that's evenly 50% roleplay and 50% combat. Brings lots of drinks and snacks so people (Roberto) won't leave the table mid-session with the munchies.

SAM: Plays a Human Fighter (Champion). Played the most basic character because he didn't want to challenge himself too much at first; has become the party's most talented member. Wants to be the leader of the party (no one listens to him). Somehow got knighted in their first session. The best at accents when roleplaying, but gets increasingly more southern when he gets frustrated during a session. Accidentally married a dwarven princess and can't figure out how to divorce her.

XUAN: Plays a Half-Drow Warlock (Great Old One). Has no idea what a drow is, just thought they sounded cool. Came up with an elaborate and tragic backstory for her character, which has fucked her over multiple times. Prefers deception and trickery to direct combat; has soothed over multiple of Roberto's accidental fights that way. Is really good at remembering all of the tiny things about each player's character. Is the resident healer of the party (the only one who remembers to grab important items, like food and healing supplies).

ROBERTO: Plays a Fire Genasi Bard (College of Eloquence). LOVES the roleplay aspect. Wants to be the face of the party, but tends to start fights. Talks a little too much; Dani has to remind him to give others a turn. Has successfully seduced the dragon. In charge of the party's money. Tends to power up when he gets too excited. Has "accidentally" led Doug into a trap more than once.

ILLYANA: Plays a Tiefling Paladin (Oath of Vengeance). Doesn't like to roleplay, but drops absolute bangers when she deigns to join in. An absolute beast in battle; has killed the most enemies to date. Was banned from being the party's face after starting an interdimensional war. Isn't afraid to engage in a bit of friendly fire. Has almost broken her oath several times. Gets really worked up and competitive during the tiny side quests.

AMARA: Plays an Earth Genasi Monk (Way of the Sun Soul). Loves elaborate descriptions of her character. Has already commissioned drawings of her character several times. One of the more cautious players; has saved Roberto alone upward of five times. Loves to dress up for each session, artful body paint included. Has mastered the eloquent speech of the fantasy realm.

DOUG: Plays a Human Wizard/Artificer (Order of Scribes/Alchemist). Takes too long choosing his spells and has to be reminded he would not be allowed to pause and contemplate mid-battle. Gets really excited by the terminology and world-building. Tends to have a panic attack when his character is about to die. Is known to "accidentally" cast area spells around Roberto. Loves solving all of the puzzles and riddles. Takes notes during the session, to the bewilderment of all.

WARLOCK: Is Doug's construct. Gets confused when they can't solve battles by talking things out. Is prone to running off to save Doug if his character is in danger. Incredibly distractable mid-game, but will always have his friends' backs. Gear hoarder who picks up absolutely everything, in case the party needs it later.

RAHNE: Plays a Human Druid (Circle of the Moon). Spends most of her time in Wildshape. Refuses to kill any animalistic enemies. Gets squirrelly whenever clerics or gods are mentioned; has been known to pray for forgiveness after a session. Gets genuinely frightened by some of Dani's descriptions. Strangely enough, is one of the party's best faces. Usually has a wolf following her at all times, and she cries if it dies.