#monkey got the typewriter again…

[red-might-be-dead]

hnuyuygfcvbhjuiy7t6r5edsxcv bnmkjiu8y7t6rdfcv bn mju876trfdc vnmjyfp i3ht8q3ioqiu h9r8g78r q878uweushtiyha8 ACT I SCENE I. A desert place. Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches FIRST WITCH When shall we three meet again In thunder, lightning, or in rain? SECOND WITCH When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost and won. THIRD WITCH That will be ere the set of sun. FIRST WITCH Where the place? Second Witch Upon the heath. THIRD WITCH There to meet with Macbeth. FIRST WITCH I come, Graymalkin! SECOND WITCH Paddock calls. THIRD WITCH Anon. ALL Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air. Exeunt SCENE II. A camp near Forres. Alarum within. Enter DUNCAN, MALCOLM, DONALBAIN, LENNOX, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Sergeant DUNCAN What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state. MALCOLM This is the sergeant Who like a good and hardy soldier fought 'Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend! Say to the king the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it. Sergeant Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers, that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald-- Worthy to be a rebel, for to that The multiplying villanies of nature Do swarm upoUHF(wh9ug qv9u2t 94yt917583th81 hg jeiewusoegnvfiuwhdbfg uou2gj irreg skibiti tiolet

[trainingdummyrabbit]

i just think its Really Fucking Funny making little guys bc by all means you can look at them and look at my prior fixations and go "You Aint Fucking Slick" but it is entirely genuinely Completely By Accident but my dumb ass still saw patterns and went '^_^ hehe oh thatd be a fun nod even if it doesnt make much sense probably!' and then committed to the bit anyway, thus completing the circle of stupidity

[bulkyphrase]

Post-CACW Stony: a fic rec list

I've been on a Captain America: Civil War kick lately, and since I know that Steve-friendly CW Stony fic can be hard to find, I've put together a rec list!

I am thoroughly team cap, but these range from being anti-accords to just not getting into the issue, and all are Steve-friendly as long as you can accept a lot little loving Steve-whump.

Atlas by nanasekei (@elcorhamletlive) (Not Rated, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, 11,505 words)

Summary: They don't hear each other.

Eigengrau by vorkosigan (@the-vorkosigan) (Teen And Up Audiences, 16,811 words)

Summary: Tony is captured; he doesn't know by whom, or why. He doesn't know how much time has passed since. What he knows is, he can now hear something in the adjacent cell, and that 'something' sounds a lot like Steve Rogers.

Nights When the Wolves Are Silent, and Only the Moon Howls by Cluegirl, Defiler_Wyrm (@cluegrrl) (Mature, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, 77,612 words)

Note: has a Stucky element too, but the relationship between Steve and Tony is the main focus.

Summary: “Could you drop all that stoic shit and be my freaking-the-hell-out wingman for just like, five seconds here?” Steve wasn’t sure he could think of anything he wanted less to do than to freak out about his wounds just then though, so he reached across his chest and gingerly patted Sam’s clenched knuckles. “It’ll be fine,” he promised, believing it. “Serum’s handled worse.” “You know, I actually believe you,” Sam allowed after a long second of glaring. “Which is deeply alarming, considering how much of your connective tissue I’ve touched in the last 4 hours. Now you wanna tell me what Russoff’s men did to you that made it look like you got mauled by a bear?” Steve flinched, then breathed the memory down to size. “Not a bear,” he murmured. “Wolves.”

More below the cut!

(trust me when i say) i'll get back to you by machi_kun (@machi-kun) (General Audiences, 1,549 words)

Summary: “Me and Rogers are not on speaking terms anymore.”

An Infinite Number Of Monkeys At Typewriters (Or, Steve and Tony Finally Get It Right) by JenTheSweetie (@jenthesweetie) (Mature, 18,864 words)

Summary: Tony blinked up at the face staring down at him. This was impossible. This was definitely 100% not possible, he had not just started giving a good morning handy to - “Steve?” After the events of Civil War, Tony and Steve wake up in bed next to each other in an alternate universe. It goes about as well as you'd expect it to.

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep by Cluegirl (@cluegrrl) (Mature, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, 152,765 words)

Summary: They all made mistakes. They all have regrets. They all have nightmares, suspicions, and questions they'd like to ask. And they all left business behind them that was never quite finished. This is the story of how the Avengers ask those questions, get their answers, and come together like fucking adults to make things right again.

Bring Him Home by seventymilestobabylon (@seventymilestobabylon) (Explicit, 13,769 words)

Summary: Tony misses Steve very badly after the Accords. Some days he deals with it better than other days. (a fic featuring the booty call flip phone, minor kidnappings, and time jumps between chapters because the election has been happening and my brain has been too mush to make a proper plot)

Conjugal Visits by xtricks (Explicit, 4,252 words)

Summary: AU: Steve Rogers gets captured fairly soon after Civil War and sent to the Raft. Tony discovers that trying to appease your enemies doesn’t work and ends up a prisoner too.

Down Came the Rain by captainoutoftime (@captain-outoftime) (Explicit, 75,274 words)

Summary: A mission goes badly for Natasha, who is discovered de-aged to three years old. She recognizes no one, but every kid knows Captain America. When Tony grudgingly makes a call, Steve makes good on his promise to answer. Steve has to work together with Tony to take care of a traumatized child and figure out how to turn their itsy bitsy spider back into a Black Widow. Neither of them really want to talk about what happened in Siberia, but living in close quarters, they have to come to some sort of peace - even if it means addressing some feelings they'd rather not admit to having. As they work together to solve the problem of a re-emerging Red Room, Steve uncovers something he never expected to find again: family.

Hating Steve Rogers by nanasekei (@elcorhamletlive) (Not Rated, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, 16,243 words)

Summary: The thing about hating Steve Rogers is that it shouldn’t be easy - but it really, really is.

I Have Questions by YourFadedGlory (HisNameWasAce) (@yourfadedglory) (Not Rated, 2,808 words)

Summary: There is only so much that Steve can carry. His legs quiver and his heart aches, he looks skyward, and in a startling moment of clarity he lets the shield go. Gouged and battered, it rings like a bell when it hits the stone floor. He wonders for a split moment if it will weigh on Tony the way it has weighed on him.

The Crying Game by fohatic (@fohatic) (Explicit, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, 36,403 words)

Summary: Steve Rogers stared at the dimly glowing digital screen of the little burner phone, rereading the text message as if it might somehow give away something he missed the first dozen times he scrutinized it. His frown only deepened, though, brows drawing together with consternation as the 88 characters only left him with an even more ponderous sense of uncertainty. If you meant what you wrote, I'll be at the Swissotel Sarajevo, 4/18. Presidential Suite. 9pm. Come alone. ...Nearly a year after Steve and Tony's fallout—and only weeks after press rumors that Tony and Pepper's engagement was inexplicably called off—Steve gets a message on the dedicated burner phone. Despite his instinctive reservations, he's compelled to answer the mysterious call. An approximately canon-compliant story.

the hope that kills you by meidui (@meidui) (Mature, 1,227 words)

Summary: Steve used to go on so much about freedom and choice. If we sign this, we surrender our right to choose. Some of the freedom he loved was big, big enough for him to lay his life down for over and over, and some of the freedom he loved was small, like the wind in his hair when he took his motorcycle out, but now he has to sob and take it when Tony sucks a deep flowering bruise where his prison uniform couldn’t possibly cover and whispers in his ear, “Who’s gonna help you now? Where are you gonna run?”

live for the hope of it all by meidui (@meidui) (Mature, No Archive Warnings Apply, 1,880 words)

Note: This is a sequel to the hope that kills you

Summary: “You can keep me here, can’t you?” Steve asks a little desperately as Tony kneels over him, spreading himself out all the better for Tony to take. He must have really hated his cell on the Raft, Tony thinks before he loses himself in Steve’s body, and for a little while, everything is the same as it has been for the past six months. It’s only after, in the dark and quiet of his own bedroom with Steve sprawled sleepy and heavy across his chest that Tony realises— This is their cell now.

The Phone by AvengersNewB (@avengersnewb) (Mature, 9,039 words)

Summary: Tony hates the flip phone Steve sends him, but he keeps it close at all times, and it never rings until it finally does and the news might help put things into perspective - Captain America : Civil War fix-it. or The phone can't take the place of your smile. [podfic added as chapter 2]

the things we invent when we are scared by nanasekei (@elcorhamletlive) (Not Rated, 18,305 words)

Summary: Steve is trapped in a dream machine, programmed to make him believe he's living his happiest fantasy. Tony goes inside to wake him up, but what he finds is a lot more complicated than he expected.

there's nothing but blue skies by Meatball42 (Mature, Major Character Death, 647 words)

Summary: “This isn’t good,” Steve said grimly.

[wizisbored]

wip wednesday sentences for 19/3/25

this is the week i started doing my fills in a notebook or on my typewriter, and i was going to post scans or photos, but i do not have the time right now. maybe sometime when ive got the time i will do it for another set of prompts.

The Book in the Birdbath @zyrafowe-sny @tamsinswriting @combeferres-mothematics @planeoftheeclectic @kalira @thefandomlesbian @nonbinary-octopus

“Okay, but what do you actually think? Like, honestly.”

“Sounds dumb,” Beetlejuice says. “You should do it.”

“Wasn’t asking you,” Lydia snaps. Skye cocks her head, swinging her legs off the side of the monkey bars. “I think you’re cool enough to pull it off.”

Lydia considers that thought as she presses her eye to the viewfinder of her camera. It had started as just a passing thought, something that popped into her head last night as she and Skye were sitting awake again, leafing through the handbook together. And too tired to have much of a filter, she’d looked at Skye with her fingers still tracing the buzzed patch in her hair and asked if she should just shave the entire left side of her head. She doesn’t doubt her ability to pull off the hairstyle; for all her issues, confidence in her appearance was never one of them. It’s less the hair, more what’s under it.

“Maybe you could ask your dad about it?”

Beetlejuice laughs loudly. Lydia doesn’t blame him.

“Skye, you’ve seen my dad. Does that look like the type of man that anyone should be going to for style advice?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I said that because he’s coming over now.”Lydia twists to look over her shoulder at where she’s pointing. One of the benefits of having permission to be outside, she’s found, is that her dad knows where to find her. She raises a hand to wave.

Heritance of an Occultist @dreamed-for-not @twyrewolf @tamsinswriting @atomsforthewin

“Clothes cupboard?”

“Wardrobe,” Charles supplies as he leads her across the room.

“Wardrobe. Yeah. Whys in wardrobe?”

“We aren’t in a wardrobe, we’re in a shop. You remember us talking about shops?”

“Mm.”

“And you remember we’re going to talk to a seamstress?”

“I remember.”

“She’s not stupid, Chuck. We’re in a box with fabric and she called it a wardrobe, big whoop.”

“I wasn’t trying to imply-”

By this point, Lydia has gotten quite good at tuning out the bickering. Instead, she looks up at the woman behind the counter they’ve been walking towards. When she looks up and catches Lydia’s eye, her smile is warm.

Ten Paces @somefishycat @meggiejolly @aparticularbandit @eriquin

Lydia lifts a foreleg, shaking off water and making a point to stomp quite hard as she sets it back down. The demon doesn’t pay that much mind, focusing on getting the bucket refilled and bringing it back to her side. Lydia cringes, bracing herself for another soak, but this time is met instead with the feeling of a wet cloth against her side. He’s found a washrag, apparently. Lydia stomps again, because that’s the only way he’s going to understand when she says “this still isn’t okay.”

He gives her some sort of reply, which judging by the accompanying scratch of her back is probably reassurance. She flicks her roughly tied tail in annoyance.

“I don’t need you to help me. It’s your fault I’m alone, if you hadn’t taken me from my dad we could have just done this ourselves.”

She looks down at her feet, pawing absently at a pebble. How long has it been since her dad last tended to her coat? It was an aunt, mostly, after the death of her mother. She’s not sure who it was Charles was going to for grooming, but it wasn’t his daughter. He didn’t want that bonding time with his foal, apparently. The more she thinks about it, the more certain she is that the last time her father combed her coat was the day her mother died.

The Running Iron @auburnlaughter @oriharaizayadividesintoslytherin @stonemaskedtaliesin

There’s a jerk on Lydia’s harness as the metal bar between them is unbolted from the flatcar, and its full weight falls onto the two centaurs.

“To the left!” the man behind them calls, and Beetlejuice turns towards her and starts picking his way across the tracks. Lydia takes the hint and shuffles off to the left. The harness and the bar are still heavy, but walking without a weight on the traces is still an immense relief.

“Woah, now,” the man says once they’re both off to the side of the rails, and they stop. Lydia’s tail flicks irritably.

“I hate this,” she mutters. “We’re not horses.”

“That’s a real nice sentiment, kid.”

Netherborne ch17 on @phantom-z0ne

My mama protected me. I didn’t do anything brave, I just… got hurt.”

“You-”

“Barbara, I don’t want to be praised for it.”

[cheesey-rice]

I feel like in theory time has got to be a circle.

Like if you put aside relativity to us as humans the idea of before the big bang there was always nothing forever and after the heat death of the universe there will be always nothing forever kind of seems unlikely and is partially assumed based on our own need as humans to categorize distinct boundaries/intervals in order to easily process information. It would kind of make more sense if existence occurs in alternating waves with pre-bigbang/post-heatdeath nothingness. Theoretically if these waves of existence/nonexistence occur on an alternating schedule then the various existence points could cycle through a bunch of different variables of relationships between the various types of matter that compose existence.

With the assumption of infinite time, the alternating combinations of these existences mean that theoretically the pattern of exact existences could repeat in a manner copied such that essentially time is 'repeating' itself. Unless we have like a π situation actually? But then again π could like eventually repeat and we just don't know because it isn't really relevant to us to calculate out past the trillions. It might be a cool scifi premise to figure out how many permutations it takes for pi to repeat and then extrapolate that to this 'existence is a circle' mentality in the sense that how long does it take for something with 'infinite possibilities' to repeat an exact order and then that would be how far you would have to go to reach the existence generated to be exactly like your current one monkeys with a typewriter style, lol. But idk my point being that irl I think the default assumption that existence stops/starts at some point is a bit silly and it's more likely that existence past points of 'nothingness' loses meaning to us the same way calculating out all the digits of pi loses Relevancy to telling your math teacher what the area of a circle is. In that sense you can kinda just define existence by personal relevance the same way scientists do.

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

Hey just wanted to say I’m soo excited for the new Strawhat stowaway chapter like I be lowkey just waiting for you to post. If anyone else posts I’m kinda like ehh, but I lovvveee your work! I also hope your doing well, love your posts!!

Thank you so so much, I'm honored and humbled 🥹🥰

Actually got a couple pages done on chapter 3 tonight before I started falling asleep at my computer. Today has been horrifically exhausting. If I don't get to bed soon then anything I shovel out is going to read like a team of half-trained monkeys with typewriters wrote it. Probably going to draft bits of it on my phone until I fall asleep and type them up properly in the morning.

Again, thank you!! Your support means more to me than I can convey with words ❤️ ❤️

[rayclubs]

The OP is being a little rude but their points are correct. AI is theft. If you were to take another person's songs without permission, cut them up and algorithmically stitch them back together without purpose or intent, and produce an approximation of that person's music style, then yes, that would be theft. AI is not borrowing individual pixels to integrate them into its own creation, it's scraping whole works to replicate the appearance of what it copies. There is no clearer definition of theft.

The second point that you don't like arguing about is actually the first point all over again. Since everything AI "makes" has been stolen from other creators, its energy consumption is also theft. AI cannot produce anything of value in the same way a monkey with a typewriter cannot produce anything of value. You can put a thousand monkeys in the room and vastly increase the chances of one of them eventually writing Romeo and Juliet, but it's been written before already, and now you've got to feed all those monkeys.

AI energy consumption is actually measured in TWh because it's unforgivably huge. It's measured per hour because you can't meaningfully measure it per work produced, because you can't divide by zero. I can tell you how many rotations per second my washing machine makes per KWh. You can't measure anything AI does in this manner except the size of the database it's learning from. Its only valid measurement scale is works stolen per kW wasted.

Videogames are different because you can play them. You can measure their value by hours played, joy experienced, and other metrics by which a work of art is normally judged. The same metrics do not apply to AI. Where human creative work has intent and purpose, AI has a theft algorithm.

AI people: we're just as much artists as you are, you gotta be so observant and go through so many correcting phases for the picture to look good uwu also AI people:

[poemsforkitty]

Good they’re all gone

I can stand at this podium and say whatever I want out into the expressive darkness of the empty theatre it’s only empty until the fourth or fifth row after that it’s dark and maybe there’s some straggler someone sleeping or recently awakened who doesn’t know that this has been going on too long that it’s been silence for years that it’s time to wake up and say something again that it’s time to take the plug out and let it flow

“listen” i say “listen, if you say a lot some of it’s got to be good sometime that’s math. that’s monkeys at typewriters.” i say

the door opens somewhere in the back it’s impossible to know if someone is coming or going but it doesn’t matter it never did

[osakanone]

I don't even want to have the fetish. Its like a software bug in my brain where I latched onto something completely absurd and nonsensical and it just kept going.

At some point the need exceeded the capacity for reality to deliver it.

Its mundane, impossible, and strange. Its like the penrose stairs of fetishes because it literally cannot happen, even though it can be conceptualized.

And thus because of that gap, the fetish "died" because it became impossible to achieve gratification to.

It makes me wonder

Does a fetish have a life-cycle?

You just got so DANGEROUSLY close to making a description of it fall together by accident on the internet through casual banter.

I am completely baffled by this. It defies every law of everything I know. This is the monkeys with typewriters moment of my life.

I know this is a strange thing to talk about but I need to express, my mind has just been completely blown because again, I 100% did not expect anything REMOTELY like this to happen in a billion billion years.

I was even BANKING on that fact. I even named the phenomena of what it had done to me after a fucking celestial event in a desperate search for dignity and closure.

This is literally how I feel, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened:

I'm still not saying what it is. I practice self acceptance but I do not accept that about myself. It has nothing whatsoever to do with heat-death or celestial events and everything to do with the exchange the two of you just had.

I feel like such a total creep because you're not like, in on the joke and it won't make any sense to you, but I need to explain this is just incredibly funny to me.

Right now, I'm Frankenstein and its my Frankenstein's monster. And some how it just put itself back together and started walking spontaniously and then fell apart again.

I need to go find some sort of heavy bludgeoning weapon like alcohol to kill my braincells.

This is a lot to take in. I'm just so amused by this.

I can't stop laughing.

what if someone skyrim pickpocketed all the nut out your balls

[mihai-florescu]

sorry for all the asks i’m in full weirdo insane mode

just a couple days ago i thought abt ibayuzu banged out 2000+ words in one sitting like a monkey at a typewriter and got so burned out i couldn’t do anything else for days. finishing fist of idol + seeing the new shuffle has incurred this mode once again but it dont know if i have the strength to do it. god save my soul. i’m so normal about characters.

I enjoyed the elevator fic scene you sent me the other day sooo much but please dont burn out, the idols will still be here 4ever and ever, no need to rush it, i dont want your health to suffer bc of overwork

[riddlemethispoetry]

Chaos Theory

trigger warning: sexual assault, but honestly, if you’re having a bad day, then skip this one. I think it’s important for me as an artist to use the platforms and stages I have access to and talk about safes spaces, rape culture, and sexual assault; particularly in the context of grassroots arts scenes that lack checks and balances. I’ve talked before about being assaulted by someone I saw as a mentor a few years ago, and more than anything I guess what I want is to push the message that if something feels off, then it’s probably not, but there’s no harm in checking. It might save someone from the worst thing of their lives. This is a dark poem, about the worst thing in my life. It is also about healing. Technically it came from PromptPosting Day Four, but it’s more than that.   Sometimes the tea cup breaks back together. This is the fundamental assumption of chaos theory;

That at some indeterminate link in a chain, a change in the flow from first cause can create the impossible.

The morning after my rape, I went to some cafe in suburbia where life went on, and time didn't stop, and

I bought a cappuccino.

On a superficial level, the idea of chaos is not dissimilar to the foundation of infinite,

The idea that if I run the same scenario endless times then I will achieve every possible permutation

of the expression of possible results. That if an infinite number of monkeys on

an infinite number of typewriters recreating Shakespeare, or the Bible, or

If I gave an infinite number of monkeys typewriters then one should write my autobiography as

a series of short stories; less analysis than every date than made me smile, and every heartbeat I wept, and

The morning after I was raped, I didn't cry, or smile and I was numb.

I don't know how you are meant to feel once you leave the room you are raped in,

I had thrown up afterwards like my body rejected the circumstance, or a poison;

like I had ingested everything sick in my arts scene and my body rejected it, threw it up again and again until

I thought I would die of dehydration. Poetry will always be the thing that got me raped.

It will always be something a mentor who pulled my hair back poured down my throat when I didn't want any more;

It will also be what saved my life. The difference between the idea of infinity and chaos is

the realm of possibility. The infinite encompasses all that is, and could be.

I imagine this is what God sees, or while he sat at his infinite typewriters, maybe that was all the stories he wrote, but

chaos theory implies the existence of miracles. It implies that a butterfly staying a heartbeat longer saves

the life of Archduke Ferdinand, or that a different recipe for Pepsi means the Russians are first to the moon,

and the morning afterward there were no miracles. I sat alone; tried to sip at some coffee. I remember the waitress as kind.

I remember staring at a pay phone after what had happened, and knowing no number I felt I could call.

I did not know how to explain what had happened without an autopsy, without being cut open,

having someone lift a scalpel past my lips to ask why I did not say no louder, to pull every word

I begged with out of my guts where the guilt for something I did not do wrong stays;

I did not know how to say how much I hurt without opening my ribs, lifting up my heart and saying look,

look what is left. Weigh it. I do not know if it will be heavier because of what it carries,

or lighter because of how much was taken. The existence of infinity implies that every possibility is a certainty, somewhere.

It suggests that somewhere, I never met the person who assaulted me. Elsewhere, I did not believe them

when they said if you come with me, then you will be safe. It is easy to torture yourself

with possibilities. As I sat in this little cafe, I remember my hand shaking.

It is strange the details you hold on to. After, I would go to a pay phone, to not know who to call.

My hands would shake, and I would drop it. Like I dropped a cup of coffee in a cafe,

like God had dropped my porcelain outline against the ground, let it shatter. I wonder if angels drew

in chalk where the stains of me used to be; if my shattered parts looked like ink splodges, or

if the fragments were a constellation. I wondered if they stared into the shattered glass like it was a night sky with dead stars they were seeking answers in because that’s how the pay phone looked to me, As I stared at a pay phone not knowing if I had anyone to call, or anything to say, or I don’t know if I wanted to talk to god, or if I spat every prayer into a pillow while I begged him to save me. Chaos theory is the applied theory of miracles. This time, somewhere else, the pay phone rings. Quietly, at the other end of the line, poetry or God says hey, I see you. There is enough heart left. You do not have to apologise for what you did not do, In this, you did nothing wrong. Somewhere, poetry takes my heart, and weighs it against a feather that looks like a quill. Somewhere, a tea cup comes back together. 

[fuckspn]

you know what actually i don’t blame teenage me for thinking season 8 was building to canon destiel, because even rewatching it now 8 years later, season 8 still absolutely seems like it’s building to canon destiel. every time the two of them appear together or are even mentioned together everything else in the narrative grinds to a halt in favor of expounding upon the depth of their feelings for each other, and it builds in intensity over the course of the season. i mean, the first half of the season has purgatory and the second half has thee crypt scene, naomi’s speech to dean about how she wishes cas felt the same way as him, the two of them fighting because, essentially, dean is hurt that cas left him again, and the season finale which drags dean away from sam and the main plot so he and cas can kiss and make up in a bar while 5 feet away a cupid causes a masculine guy who had previously been assumed to be straight to fall in love with another man. and not only that, but it’s such a contrast to the relatively light and jokey homoerotic undertones of their relationship in previous seasons that it comes across even more like the writers were actually telling a love story that they planned to bring to fruition in season 9. i didn’t fucking get queerbaited, i didn’t fall for some clever prank, i read the writing on the wall and just didn’t realize it was placed there by monkeys on infinite typewriters rather than deliberate storytelling choices.

like, it’s hard to remember here in this post-s15 world, but season 8 destiel was new. as much as i enjoy their relationship in seasons 4-7, i’ll freely admit a lot of the subtext is garden variety unintended homoeroticism produced when a show full of men with good cheekbones goes too hard with the misogyny and fails to come up with any female characters compelling enough to ship the male leads with. season 8 was the first time we really got a taste of the “we are actively and deliberately going to write dean and cas like a couple but fuck you if you notice it” flavor of destiel—of course we didn’t know yet that the fuck-you was coming! we didn’t have the context of seasons 9-15 to warn us that the ramping up of the romantic subtext didn’t mean anything! the first time lucy held the football for charlie brown he had no way of knowing that she was going to yank it away!

[brimbrimbrimbrim]

My mania is now used for good, NOT EVIL! <3

Summary: You’re just a goth girl with a fat Benjamin and a busted JCM900 begging to come home. It sounds fucked—in the best way. Even better? There’s a punk rock god inside, and he’s thrilled to have a dick again.

Tags: rough sex, multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, soundplay, hair pulling, spit as lube, size kink, voice kink, dubious consent, cumming in the 90s, summoning the good shit

The Fuzzbox—your local pawn shop for denizens of all flavors—is always closed. It’s a goddamn landmark in your neighborhood, maybe it’s more of a punchline than an actual storefront, but the building’s filled with small town lore. The neon signs are always dark, the windows always papered with dusty fliers from bands passing through, and rumor has it that the guy who owns it actually died in the late '80s and never realized it, being spotted on stormy nights still chain-smoking behind the counter. Some say cursed shit fills the shelves—like monkey paw-level cursed shit—and if you bought something here, you could expect a stalker ghost, an IRS audit, or a blown-out knee in your future. Still, you pass by the fucker every night and tonight is the same as any other. 

You’re tired, greasy from a six-hour shift behind a bar that stinks like warm well tequila and piss, and your boots are sticky with spilled soda and peanuts. However, unlike usual, you’re carrying a fat hundred bucks inside your pocket, just begging to be spent.

Also, however—tonight, The Fuzzbox’s OPEN sign hisses neon blue and pink before you can walk past the front door; its welcoming glow flickers like a bug zapper. Your brows arch. Oh? Then—like a cherry on top—you hear Black Flag howling from behind the warped glass door. Old shit. Good shit. ‘Jealous Again’ era Black Flag. Your fingers twitch towards the door handle.

Inside, the air’s a cocktail of grease-dust, mothballs, and something worse—unwashed balls and vintage band t-shirts soaked in ancient Axe body spray. The lighting’s the kind of sickly yellow that makes even your black lipstick look green, and the floor tiles probably haven’t been mopped since the Reagan era. You step inside anyway, and the door slams shut behind you.

A guy with a platinum blonde mullet and skin wrinkled like the underside of a mushroom peeks up from behind the counter, a nudie mag flopped open in front of him like it’s still a Tuesday in 1994. Does he look like he doesn’t belong in this timeline? Sure, but the guy definitely looks alive. He rolls oily eyes toward you, gives you a slow appreciation from combat boots to raccoon eyeliner, but he says nothing—just hocks a thick cough into the crook of his elbow and warns, “Don’t steal shit. I got them cameras.”

You flip him a middle finger to say “fuck you” without saying it, but he’s got his nose back in his skin mag too fast to see it. Whatever. 

You turn your attention to the shop’s innards. It’s the best kind of hoarder’s hellhole. An old mannequin wearing a Rocky Horror corset and an executioner’s hood looms by an aisle of VHS tapes, all fluff-worn on the edges. There’s a rusted birdcage further in, housing a melted Teddy Ruxpin with burnt-out eyes and a boxed Ouija board with a note on it letting any would-be buyer know the planchette is missing. 

You turn on your heel, checking the back wall where a cracked glass case shows off a pickled punk replica with an “authentic claw wound” sticker across the front. You spot a Super 8 camera signed by someone who might’ve been John Waters or Charles Manson. Definitely fake…

You reach for a flask with inverted crosses etched into the metal, and the guy coughs again—like a warning shot. There’s no ‘do not touch’ sign anywhere, but whatever. You roll your eyes and drop it back on the shelf.

You think about leaving before you buy something you don’t need with the cash burning a hole in your pocket. But then… 

… you see it.

Down a narrow aisle, wedged between a typewriter missing half its keys and a sex doll painted like Betty Boop, is a busted Marshall JCM900. Your breath catches, hard and high in your chest. That’s your amp. Not literally, but spiritually. It’s the kind of beat-up beast you’ve read about in old zines, the kind your idols blew out in dim basement shows back when feedback was a love language. 

Its casing is scratched to hell, the faceplate smeared with sharpie doodles and flaking stickers. One says “DESTROY GOD,” another “FUCK YOUR STEREO.” There’s a crude cartoon skull vomiting cassette tape ribbons, and another sticker you squint at—some weird band logo that vaguely looks like a Z but if a Z was also a penis. Beneath that is some chicken scratch that you think says Zed’s Not Dead but it could just as easily say Zebra’s Neutered.

It’s motherfucking perfect…

You don’t squeal, even though you wanna. You’re cooler than that. Instead, you bite your tongue, breathe through your nose, and kneel on your fishnets like you’re having a religious experience. The price tag dangles from the side like a lure. Forty bucks.

“Forty fucking bucks?” you whisper to yourself, heart pounding. This thing should cost triple that even if it’s junk—even if it farts smoke instead of sound.

The pawn guy coughs again, this time with phlegm, but you ignore it.

“Hey! Hog Wilder!” 

“What’chu want, honey...”

You carry it up front like it's a newborn baby. 

“I want this,” you sing-song, gripping the amp’s frayed handle. “This baby’s coming with me.”

Mullet Head eyes it, eyes you, then mutters something low under his breath—something that makes your neck hair stand on end. But you’re too busy imagining how your Fender’s gonna sound plugged into this brick of punk history to care. Besides, this guy’s got nothing but titty mags and this pawn shop to his name, and you—you’ve got a mother fucking Marshall JCM900! 

You slap down your hundred and tell him to keep the change.

Outside, the air smells like cardamom and clove from the Indian place across the street. Your stomach growls, but you’ve got dinner at home, and more importantly, you’ve got a new amp!

So psyched are you that you don’t notice how the amp seems warmer than it should be—you don’t clock the faint red shimmer pulsing in the corner of its busted grill cloth like a heartbeat in the preamp tubes. You don’t hear the buzz growing just beneath the hum of traffic and sirens. Not yet, anyway…

But it’s there, waiting, like something tuning itself to the rhythm of your boots on the pavement—like something remembering.

Your apartment smells like palo santo and stale voodoo lily perfume, but there’s a faint ozone crackle of… burnt wiring? That last one's new, and you frown at it, but you chalk it up to the busted microwave in which you burnt your popcorn the previous night. 

Misfits howl from your stereo speakers where you left them on before your bar shift—Static Age, a little played out but still sacred. Your little corner of the city’s dead quiet except for Glenn Danzig screaming about killing babies and raping mothers. Business as usual for angsty young men in the late '80s. 

Half an hour later, you’re squat, cross-legged on the floor, fishnets laddering up your thighs like cracked black ice. Your tight black dress with the flirty swinging hem is hiked up your hips. Half a cup of lukewarm ramen sits beside you, forgotten next to an empty bag of steamed broccoli. You keep telling yourself that you are balancing out all the sodium and starch with the mini-trees. To top off dinner, a sweating beer can rest between the heel of your foot and the opposite calf. Indian food would have been better, but what's done is done.

The Marshall sits before you like a busted holy grail—beat to fuck, older than you maybe, but mighty in that way only the road-worn are. You’ve already wiped it down with one of your band’s old tees, an XL you’ve sweated through on stage more times than you can count. The stickers stand out more now, shiny in your moody apartment lighting. The “DESTROY GOD” one is starting to peel, so you dab some gorilla glue under an edge and pat it back into place with reverence.

Your Telecaster replaced the beer in your lap, black gloss finish dulled by age and fingerprints, pickguard held in place with duct tape and spite. She's not factory clean anymore—hell, she barely tunes right some nights—but you love her like a pet you can plug in. The neck’s worn smooth where your fingers always land, and the volume knob’s been replaced with more trusty gorilla glue under a rusted bottle cap from some craft IPA. Her name—handwritten on the back of the headstock in a paint smear—is Lilith.

You click the cable into place. Amp to guitar. Guitar to amp. That delicious click-snap of everything locking in sends a shiver down your spine. A tinny electric hum greets you—weak, but present. You twist a dial. Then another. Treble. Gain. You sip your beer and bite your lip as you wait for the feedback to rise, that satisfying squeal of defiance… any moment now…

Nothing.

You’re given silence. 

You frown, click your tongue—bite it—and start poking around with the wires, pulling the plug, plugging it back in. Like that’ll solve anything. You tried your backup cable, and it had the same result: just a static hum, but no voice—no sound. You sigh, wipe your hands on your thighs, and lean forward. The knobs are all twisted to hell, so you start fiddling, starting with gentle adjustments, like you’re teasing the machine to life. As if this is the foreplay it’s asking for.

You turn something without thinking, and something crackles.

A low whine pulses through the speaker, laced with something more than white noise—red and hot, like feedback bleeding into a scream. You pause, beer half-tipped to your lips. The sound’s faint, like it’s pissing behind a locked hallway door.

“Fucking finally,” you mutter, grabbing your pick and flicking a few lazy chords. It sounds distant, maybe a half-beat behind your fingers, but it’s there. You smirk and start channeling the stress of the night into something raw and heavy. A riff from your band’s first set. One that always got the pit moving, even when you only had five people and a drunk ex in the audience.

You’re thrashing now, rocking with the beat, and the amp starts putting out more—richer tone, warmer feedback… almost like it’s responding to you directly. Hot and heavy.

You don't notice the smoke at first, just jam out, soaking in the music like it’s running a tongue from your navel to your panty line.

It all starts as a little wisp curling up from the bottom grill like cigarette smoke—red-laced, syrup-thick, almost sweet-smelling. When you finally notice it, you think maybe you fried a tube. You curse under your breath, slap your strings quietly, and lean forward to check the heat from the front panel. But the surface is cold. 

With a static blast, you jerk back, your black-painted nails throbbing. 

The smoke spills out further, thickens into floating strawberry jam, coiling outward, licking up the neck of your guitar like it’s curious. That’s not… normal. 

You pause, eyes narrowing, squinting at the amp, unsure if this is just one of those acid flashbacks people talk about or something actually fucked.

Something hisses beneath the feedback. You flick the strings again—this time a soft, warbling note—and the amp growls. Not distortion. Not feedback. Not something mechanical.

Something else.

You laugh nervously and shake your head. “The fuck kind of Scooby-Doo bullshit…”

Then a shadow twitches behind the grill, a movement that doesn’t match the sound or your strumming. A shape like fingers, like joints snapping, yanking itself through the smoke. You blink, lean in again, heart jumping a little as you swear—swear—you see something flex inside, bulging like a big beating heart.

Then it happens. Fast. Suddenly, the amp kicks back a pulse of feedback that rattles your teeth, and a skeletal hand forms from the smoke. Not just smoke anymore—not ethereal—no, this shit has mass. It’s jellyfish guts, slime, and cotton candy wisps colored in blood. A jelly-wrapped arm, tattooed and strung with studded bracelets, reaches for the ceiling, all of it crawling up like it’s forcing itself into existence.

You freeze, hand still on the fretboard. Your mouth is dry, making your tongue feel fat and fuzzy.

The red smoke-shit curls around your knees like hurricane foam from a bloody beach, and the arm reaches higher, dragging a shoulder behind it—like something's being rebuilt one muscle at a time. 

Time to run, or kick the Marshall over, or scream. Remember screaming?! Should call your exorcist—not that you’ve got one, but you figure everyone should have that number saved, just in case amps start birthing men out of smoke and hellfire in the middle of their living room.

All you do is drop your pick and whisper, stunned: “…What the fuck is happening?”

You sit there—leaning back with Lilith clutched like a maiden shield, eyes wide, fingers slack on the strings—as the red mist further thickens into shape. It’s all bone at first, a ribcage coalescing out of the ether, strings of goopy muscle all wet and stretching over it like a spider's web. A spinal cord slinks down the center, each vertebra locking into place with a sick pop-pop-pop, and you choke on your breath as a skull bleeds out of the smoke above it, hovering crooked in the air with too many teeth.

A raw, oozing orb that snaps forward like it’s locking onto you. The pupil, tiny and furious, dials in. The other socket? Remains empty, black as a void.

Your spine stiffens. Your mouth is full of sawdust, making swallowing impossible... breathing breath becomes a major bitch. And yet… you’re still…

... playing? 

Something in your body—muscle memory or demonic hypnosis—has your hand twitching a slow, lazy strum. Chords fumble out of you, nothing structured, just instinctual noise. Notes with no named song or real rhythm. It’s just… sound...

Your sound.

And whatever this satanic, music-thumping thing is, it fucking loves it.

The amp whistles another sonic pulse, and the eye narrows, watching you through the smoke like a starving animal seeing raw meat waving it over. 

You shred all soft with your fingernails as you watch his tendons string across collar bones, flesh knitting over translucent cartilage. There’s more sound accompanying your guitar solo—wet, sludgy, bass-deep vibrations that roll up your knees and buzz between your thighs—and you don’t believe in much, but you believe in music, and this is swiftly becoming a spiritual experience. 

Embellishments pop into existence: more spiked steel on leather, half-link chain necklaces, and a battle vest button with the name 'ZED' in handwritten block letters.

‘Zed’s Not Dead,’ you think, remembering the chicken scratch on the amp; the dick Z and...

“Zed,” you say, like invoking a demon's name. 

He doesn’t speak. He hasn’t yet. But that presence of pure sound made of distortion, blood, and old punk rage? You know it. You’ve felt it in the way some old songs feel personal. It’s as if someone is screaming for you through a busted car stereo at 2 AM. That sound/voice is building now, note by note, finger by finger.

You fuck up the strings eventually, panic finally cracking the edge of your composure. The Marshall JCM900 screams with rage.

A final blast of red erupts out of the speaker like a fireball, surging across the floor and knocking your beer onto its side. Foam leaks into your rug, but you don’t notice. Your eyes are locked on the thing crawling off the amp's roof—because now it’s crawling. No longer smoke and muscle and suggestion, but a man. Sort of.

You gape as flesh finishes sealing itself around him in one last skin-slick rush—veins bulging, tattoos re-inking themselves in real time. His mohawk finishes spiking up like a shark fin. Leather suspenders snap into place over an otherwise naked torso—all pale muscle, sharp angles, and the kind of bulk you associate with someone who spends more time throwing punches than lifting weights.

He’s taller than anyone has any right to be, already hunched to fit under your ceiling fan, and that slack, cartoonish grin on his face? Pure, unfiltered mania. It’s only now you start realizing how royally screwed you are.

Zed throws his head back with a gurgled laugh, mouth stretched too wide, tongue rolling against sharp teeth as his boot digs itself into the top of your/his amp.

Then, he says the words that break the final thread of your reality.

“FuucCK YEAAHHH! I’M BACK, BABY!”

His voice hits you like a speaker blown out at full volume—crackling, rough, distorted in a way that shouldn’t be possible from an actual throat. It rattles your synapses. The string lights over your sofa blink out like they’re fucking flinching.

Then his head snaps toward you like a predator catching motion. His grin widens. “Holy shit—Swan brought goth titties, too?!”

Did he just—your goth titties?! Swan?! 

You stare, half-frozen, hands gripping your Telecaster like a weapon, except your arms are pudding and your thoughts are scrambled between ‘shit—fuck, he’s hot’ and ‘what the actual fuck?!’ 

He’s not a hallucination, okay. Not with that smell: mosh pit sweat. Not with that voice: very alive, if not more Marshall than man. Not with that bootprint smoldering on the surface of your amp like it’s been marked by a demonic plague. 

Zed stands tall, his torso gleaming with sweat and crackles of static and something textured—something necrotic, not dead but sure as fuck not fully alive. His piercings glint. His belt jingles, hips grinding the air. His laugh is low and obscene and if he were some punk fucker at a show you’d be on your knees sucking his dick already.

Instead, you fold your legs beneath you, lift a knee, and plant your heel, standing small compared to his unreal stature. You raise the guitar like a bat and thin your lips. Ready for war. 

He doesn’t flinch. In fact, Zed smirks, and your knees wobble.

You don’t know what the fuck you’ve summoned. But you sure as shit won’t be rolling out the welcome mat tonight. You've got some dignity afterall.

“You tryna swing that at me, spooky girl?” Zed barks a laugh, gravel-throated and janky as a bootleg tape. His boot lifts off the amp with a sticky-stick that makes you wince, like peeling duct tape from damp skin. Then he does something annoying—he rolls his shoulders back in a way that makes every tattoo ripple and flex, sinewy muscles straining against suspenders.

Fuck...

“Cute.” His voice crackles—lousy wiring. “Real cute. Got that hot topic thot vibe, but you’re shaking like a fake-tit bitch on stage.”

You blink once, twice—backpedal a step as he moves forward, not walking so much as surging inward. His boots slap down like gravity is working against them, each motion sending thudding echoes through your floorboards. The space between you is about five feet, but it feels like five inches now.

“I’ll scream,” you say. It comes out hoarse and raw. Not a threat—not a plan—just the only word your lizard brain can stitch together in this fucked-up situation.

Zed cackles, head rolling on a pale, bony neck decorated in leather, spikes, and chain links. It all rings off your walls like feedback—twisting the lightbulb overhead into a sputter. “Scream for me, baby. I like my bitches loud.”

He’s closer now. Way too close. You swing again—pure reflex—and it’s a good swing. All controlled, purposeful, your grip low on the neck for balance, but the bastard’s gone before Lilith connects. Zed’s just... gone—evaporated into a blur of smoke—and noise, and when you spin around, he’s leaning against the wall directly behind you, like he’s been there the whole damn time.

“Fast,” you think aloud, panting. You didn’t even realize you were breathing this hard until now.

“You’re slow,” he replies, “But that’s okay. Chicks are better when a little behind the beat. Give me something to sync with, ya know.”

Your eyes are darting now—door, guitar, amp, Zed, the kitchen, the drawer with the steak knife, back to Zed leaning there with his body in a long line of shredded muscle under mapped ink and decay-blotches. The spot between his cum gutters directing your eye like a flat arrow pointing to his cock, hidden behind tight plaid pants and studded belts. He clocks your thoughts when he catches your gaze on his crotch (unavoidable, really).

“Ohhh, yeaaaah. I get it now,” he drawls, voice dipping low, intimate, way too filthy. He licks his teeth, pushes off the wall, and starts pacing in a slow circle around you. “Hottie goth chick summons me with her slutty stockings and dumb-bitch eyeliner for some FUN. Dressed up like you really want it, huh?!”

You’re raising Lilith again, ready to defend yourself, when Zed steps in close like a whiplash, red mohawk folding against the ceiling.

“You into this, spooky girl?” He licks his bottom lip, long and deliberate. “Yeah—YEAH! You tryna get fucked by a dead guy, that it?!”

The question hits you square in the gut. You're not sure if you flinch from shock or something else. His eye—that single glowing fuck-you of an eyeball, bright red around the iris—squints gleefully as he watches your expression shift.

With as much stage-bitch vitriol as you can muster, you hiss out a “Go fuck yourself, shithead.”

For a second, Zed looks surprised. You force a mean smirk, step back, and stumble over cables. Heart in your stomach, your guitar clatters to the rug with a heavy clunk of reverb. Before you can scramble for it, Zed’s on you in a heartbeat.

You expect him to be cold—something morgue-cold or grave-cold, which is stupid since he embodies heat. But his hand on your throat is even hotter—buzzing with it, like the core of some machine left on too long. His fingers squeeze, holding you still, broad palm wrapped over your pulse point, calloused thumb along the edge of your jaw.

He leans in, pierced nose brushing yours, lips pulled into a grin so wide it nearly splits the skin around his lip ring. Up close, he smells less like a mosh and more like brick weed, Curve for Men cologne, and something like distilled jizz. His breath is a hot river of burnt vocal cords… and you like it…  damnit...

The mohawk, all his ink from clavicles to knuckles, those low-slung plaids like some B-horror movie slut... his sharp incisors and tongue stud tapping against the enamel... Yeah, okay. Fuck. He’s not just sort of hot but perfectly hot—like, stupid hot in a way that makes you angry at yourself.

“You summoned a god of punk chaos, and this is how you greet him? Where's my welcome-home-blowjob?!” he taunts, voice dropping an octave lower. “You think you can play my music and tell me to go fuck myself? I felt your solo, spooky girl. You didn’t just turn the dial—you cranked that bitch.”

His thumb scratches against your throat, not hard, but enough to put your heart in your ears.

You stammer something, maybe a prayer, curse, or a plea, but it comes out useless. His grin stretches wider. 

“You wanna know what happens when you crank the dial past resurrect?” he growls, static catching in his throat. “You get pounded into the goddamn floorboards, slut.”

Your eyes go wide. Oh, fuck—Oh, shit-fuck. Your legs tense as your pussy legit clenches with goals of its own. Your fingers reach for his wrist...

And then he lifts you by your neck like you weigh less than nothing. Your fingernails clutch in his hot, undead skin as thick as leather, choking on an amalgamation of warring emotions, namely fear and the depths of depravity barely known to mankind.

One moment, you're kicking air, and the next, you're slammed over something hard, boxy—the Marshall. Air rips out of you as Zed pins you there, one palm flat between your tits. You blink away tears long enough to see teeth, spit, and one eye spinning gleefully before you're spun. A palm-heel digs into the small of your back, another hand sliding up to the base of your neck, pushing you down, hard. Bent like gumbi, your body folds over the speaker, ass jutted up and spine arched sharp.

“Jesus fucking—w-wait—” you start, but Zed snorts.

“Nah.” The voice is a rip. “You called me, spooky girl. You played the goddamn riff. You made me. Now you're gonna TAKE ME!”

His knee kicks your legs apart without gentleness. You gasp, palms bracing the rug rucked up at the back of the amp, wrists burning from how hard you're supporting yourself. You don’t get time to think about how fucked this is—how hot it is—because his palm cracks down against your black-cotton, covered ass with a slap that echoes like a cymbal crash.

You shriek. Not high-pitched, not delicate because Zed—the fucker—just smacked your fucking ass! What comes out of your mouth is a gutter wail, born from disbelief as heat erupts across your cheek in an immediate welt. You've been spanked before, but no one's had hands as enormous, mean, and cadaverous as Zed's. 

“Fuuuuck. That sound...” he growls, like you’re a machine being tuned perfectly. 

“Do THAT again!” Another slap. Your chest aches. A third, harder now, and the tears sting your lashes before you even feel the painful heat scratch into your skin. You jerk forward on instinct before the next slap, trying to crawl out from under him, but his fingers wrap like a crane claw around the back of your neck, locking you in place.

The next slap doesn't pop back and jiggle like the last baker's dozen. No, Zed lingers—fists a handful of your ass, squeezing bruises into the soft fat before he twists black fabric and rips.

Your panties don’t stand a chance. The cotton tears against the gusset like it refuses to fight, yanks off your sticky lower lips, and throws them down on the floor ahead of you. Your cheeks burn with humiliation as Zed hikes your dress up to your ribs. The fishnets shred, black strings ghosting around your knees—the thick black band pinching your waist, more black tangles tickling your sides.

"OH, BABY! You smell that—that's some good pussy stank!"

You sob—half vitriolic rage, half wrecked arousal. You'd probably have time to say something about how rank his dick must smell, but his hand smacks your ass again, this time without any barrier. So, you scream into the floor instead. You can’t help it. It tears up your throat and buzzes in your gut, half pleasure, half overload. Your bare ass must be flushed and welted by now, cunt glistening, pulsing with every beat of the fucked-up rhythm Zed’s hand keeps smacking into your cheeks.

“Cry some more, SLUT. Making me JIZZ a little,” he snarls, voice so loud it explodes the bulb in the hallway. Glass tinkles onto the linoleum in the kitchen like glitter, one window blown. “I’m gonna break you—call it the backstage bitch bash. Hands on my amp. Pussy gaping."

You try to say something back, something scathing and self-righteous as hell, but he’s already spitting into his palm with a loud, sloppy hack, and the wet sound that follows is—without a doubt—Zed stroking bare cock... shit... when did the fuckface get it out?!

"Scream into the floor like it’s the mic, spooky girl,” Zed snarls in atmospheric discharge.

Then you feel it.

The head of his cock—blistering, massive, and saliva-soaked—pressing against your slick entrance. There’s no teasing—zero ceremony or fanfare. Just spit, force and a groan loud enough to rewrite the laws of physics, cause there's no way something that fucking big should be able to fit without shredding you wide open. Instead of dying on Zed's dick, you hold your breath, fingers clawing the rug like a life raft.

He gets the fat tip lodge up halfway, then he thrusts. Hard.

You don’t scream. Not yet anyway, because your breath is punched out of you the second he bottoms out—plastered to your taut walls, dick too fat, no rhythm, no slow stretch, just a brutal shove that feels like getting impaled on a live wire. Your mouth drops open, a strangled sound finally spilling out, not a word, not a moan—just the fractured garble of someone getting thoroughly dicked down.

Your nails dig through the rug grip to the bare threads beneath, and your spine tries to arch to accommodate the sheer mass inside you, but Zed’s hand is still on your back, keeping you bent over the amp like a fuck toy. His cock—so hot it feels like it shouldn’t belong to something dead—grinds deeper, like he’s trying to bury himself in your guts.

“Fucking tight,” he hisses, voice stuttering like a ratty tape, "I'm gonna rip you open and jizz in your ribcage." His pinched hips finally slam into your ass, the sound a wet, brutal smack that sends a fresh ripple through your plump ass. Your eyes swell with pressure, tears spill down your rashy cheeks, and you whimper... but not with pain... and that whimper turns into a sing-along as Zed squeezes your nape, leans into the palm above your tailbone and just starts raw-dog fucking your squelching pussy like it's hot meat made to be fucked and not you; a living breathing being.

“FUCK YEAH,” Zed roars, slamming deeper, harder, his voice vibrating in the walls.

The amp vibrates too, under your hips—whether from the force of him pounding into you or something deeper, something supernatural, you don’t know. You only know it buzzes straight through your pelvic bone and into your clit, each bounce back into Zed’s cock syncing with the womp womp pulse of bass-tinged distortion still leaking from the cabinet like it’s feeding off the sex. Feeding off you.

 “COME ON! Scream in tritone, spooky girl. Sing for Dead Zed!”

You try. You do. But your voice breaks on the way out—just garbled vowels, sobs, and a string of high, humiliating cries that sound nothing like the snarl you’ve spent years perfecting behind a mic. You can barely think, barely breathe, but you still manage to rasp: “F-fuck you…”

Zed barks a laugh, nasty and triumphant. “Oh, you are, slut. You FUCKIN' are.”

Then he pulls out—almost all the way—and slams back in so hard you lose your grip on the rug and collapse forward, Marshalls' plastic edges biting into your ribs. Your pussy clamps down in panic, in pleasure, in something, and Zed groans, filthy and low. The sound releases a gush from deep within that's quickly squirted out of you by another thrust, harkening a new, easy, in and out pounding. You feel your juices flow, running down your lips, past your tender clit and further over the fabric grill of the amp.

“Goddamn,” he growls, hips pistoning smooth in your home-made astroglide now. “You’re so wet, you’re gonna short this thing out.

Your pussy slurps merrily with every slot of cock. It happens, you remind yourself, mortified at the sounds that cup, bubble, and grease around his dick. When you've been going on a dildo too long, too horny to stop, it happens. You swear you hear it moaning louder than you—your pussy sobbing with each plunge of punk rocker cock. 

Your clit throbs with every jolt of the cabinet beneath you. Every thrust pushes you forward, your tits finally breaking free from your low-neckline, tight-nipples scratching against acrylic filaments, soaked wet with beer and your cold drool. Every surface is too abrasive, too alive—too electric.

Zed leans down, mouth at your ear, close enough to feel his lip ring on the shell of it. His breath is pure heat.

“You feel that, spooky girl?” he snarls. “That’s just the fucking half-verse.”

Then his fingers are in your hair, his hips slamming forward in a rhythm so brutal it starts to match the squealing feedback rumbling under your hips, syncing the obscene slap of skin-on-skin, gagged pussy, your rasping wails, all mixing with the tortured sound bursting from the Marshall. It's screaming louder than you now. All you can do is groan, gurgling on your own spit as your cunt starts to tighten, burn, clench—something building around that hot, huge cock...

And Zed knows it. You feel the grin in his voice, cracking with static: “C’mon, cooze. Fuckin’ cum. Show me how loud you get when you bust.”

When you cum, you hold your breath somewhere deep in your throat. Each thrust slams the air out like in squeaks warped by the stuttering rhythm of pleasure pumping through your body the same way blood is forced through every artery, vein and capillary. It's a syringe of rubbing alcohol—that's how you cum on Zed's dick... like an overdose with the wrong brown. 

The Marshall JCM900 beneath you howls, repeating stutter-clips of your own screams with distortion pedalled by his unrelenting pace. It groans when Zed snarls, grip on you tightening as he marinates in your orgasm—everything amplified and spat back at you like the room’s turned into a fucking echo chamber for filth. 

Zed doesn't slow down.

“Shit,” you gasp, voice incoherent. “Z-Zed—fuck—”

“You ain’t done,” he growls, sucking your earlobe, teeth crunching down hard enough to draw a breathless yelp out of you.

Your chin is wet, your cheeks flushed, your hair plastered to your forehead and lips in sweaty strands. There’s nothing left of the cool girl who walked in here tonight ready to jam out and get a little drunk. No more snark. No sassy middle fingers. Just a trembling wreck of overstimulated nerve endings and sloppy, soaked thighs raw from the scour of a loose studded belt...

“Don’t you dare fall quiet on me now! You wanted this.”

You shake your head. Or try to. But your cunt tells the truth, clinging and milking despite getting off once already. He chuckles darkly at its gluttony.

Zed leans forward, chest to your back, breath scorching your ear. “Thought so.”

“Fuckin’ tune to me, slut,” he hisses, each word punctuated with a rutting shove that rocks your body against the amp—your nipples aching with carpet-burns. “You got all that noise in you. Let me wring it out.”

You sob, nodding into the rug. It's not a lie. You've done shows hungover, puking between songs, screaming your lungs into sun-dried sponges. You've got noise, and you'll agree to anything as another snap of pleasure promises a second orgasm—this one, dare you believe, better than the last.

"Yeah... fuck, yeah—" you kiss into the soggy rug, grinning.

He laughs—low and triumphant—and yanks your head up by your hair so your eyes snap open, dazed and swimming. Vertigo is a bitch, but you hold fast, gasp and lock eyes with someone in a floor mirror that walls off your living room and dining room, fit with a judgmental, wilted peace lily. That mirror shows some goth slut getting bent over an amp by a massive punk god—her lips red and parted, black makeup smeared halfway down her cheeks, pupils blown wide and gleaming.

Oh. Fuck. That's you... 

You don’t even recognize yourself. And it's at that moment that Zed hits it. That angle—that perfect fucking angle.

His cock slams into the deepest part of you, smashing against your g-spot with pinpoint precision like he knows exactly where to strike. You scream—finally—louder than the amp mimicry. Pure sound ripped from your core like he’s playing you with a goddamn dick-pick.

“Yeah,” Zed goads, voice against your cheek, grinding into your hot spot. “That’s it. Fuckin’ hit the high note now.”

For the first time, you hear him losing it—grunting in your ear, base and hoarse, voice vibrating through your teeth. “You like gettin’ desecrated by Dead Zed, huh?! This what you summoned me for. Say it!”

You sob—loud and trembling, lips numb.. “I-I wanted this—fuck—I wanted you—”

It doesn’t matter that you didn’t. It doesn’t matter that, however long ago, you were ready to swing your guitar into his skull, no matter how hot he was. He's still right. You did summon him. You played the riff.

“That’s what I fuckin’ thought,” he snarls, licking a hot stripe up your face.

Your body jerks when he pulls out, finally—if only for a second. Your pussy flutters at the sudden emptiness, dripping like a leaky pipe, inner thighs coated in the hot slop of your own wreckage. You collapse forward, sobbing into the plastic of the amp, legs trembling so bad you’re sure you're gonna pass out any second now. But Zed’s not finished.

Not even close.

He grabs you by the hips, spins you like a ragdoll and throws you down—onto your back now, against the battered face of the amp cabinet, tits exposed, dress shoved up and bunched around your ribs. Your fishnets are clinging by threads, the waistband curled under your bruised belly. You don’t even register the weight shift until his massive hand shoves your thighs apart, spreading you wide.

“Slut’s got that backstage-pass pussy. All busted up and broken in,” Zed mutters, licking his lips, eyes locked between your legs like he’s watching the gates of hell open. 

You lift your head, neck shaking with the effort and spy that thing he's been fucking you with. The look on your face must be idiot incarnate because Zed just laughs, dropping to one knee between your spread legs. The bones in his body creak like the hinges of a coffin. His cock’s still human-looking, nothing monstrous except its size, fat and flushed dark red at the tip, dragging a filthy smear through your folds as he strokes himself once—twice.

Then he slams back inside!

You toss your head back, stare at a world thrown upside down, and scream your heart out.

This angle is worse. Better. Both at the same fucking time. He fills you deeper, bottoming out so hard your hips buck off the amp. Your cunt constricts snake-like around the intrusion, trying to keep him out or trap him in—you can’t tell anymore.

Zed groans. “Fuck, yeah—look at that shit bounce.”

You are—bouncing, that is, bucking, and undulating—ass slapping with every thrust, cheeks rippling from the sheer force. Your tits jostle with every pump, nipples sensitive and raw from rug-burn. Every smack punches you higher up the cabinet, your spine pinching and inner thighs rippling.

He grabs you by the back of the knees, wrenches your thighs up, wide, and leans in.

Now he’s in your fucking guts. More screaming—more uh-uh-uh-yeah's for the god of punk.

“That’s it, scream, spooky girl. Let the neighbors know you’re gettin’ fucking wrecked like a real cooze-bag.”

You sob, eyes rolling back, and scream louder. Rawer. Zed howls back, matching you like you’re on stage doing some super fucked duet.

“Feel that?” he grits, each pump of cock punctuate by a grunted word. “Feel—that—fuckin’... note—I’m... hittin’?” 

You can’t answer—too busy cumming. 

“There it is,” he growls, hunched over, his sweat dripping all over you. “That’s my fuckin’ spooky girl.”

Your tongue’s heavy—too fucked to suck it back into your mouth. Drool leaks from the tops of your teeth, up your nose, over your forehead into sweaty bangs, still getting reemed with the world wrong side up... or down, just convulsing again—legs trembling in his grip, cunt tightening into a vice as sensation skull fucks the sense out of you.

Zed’s breath stutters—his rhythm gets erratic. He folds you nearly in half, your knees to your chest, your cunt stretched obscene, his cock pounds, halts, thrusts, pauses, then slams into you one last time.

“BASS DROP, BITCH!” he howls—heat... wet heat...

You feel him flooding into you. A thick, heavy rush that fills your cunt and spills down your thighs like... well, like undead spunk. It’s obscene. So much. You swear the bastard cums to catch up on all those nuts he's missed out on—grunting against your neck as your body goes limp beneath him, cunt suffocating in his jizz.

The amp groans beneath you like it’s dying. Or maybe it's cumming a little too.

You don’t know—don’t care. Brain empty except for the white noise between your ears. Zed’s weight sinks down on top of you like a collapsing carcass—hot and heavy, hips still grinding you into the cabinet. His breath is warbled against your shoulder, every exhale jittering. He’s groaning too, low and satisfied, cock still inside you.

“God. DAMN,” he pants, voice broken glass and blown tweeters. “I missed having a dick.”

You’re wrecked. Fucked open—over played. You don’t even lift your head. You just blink, slow and blurry. What day is it? Did you even close the bar register before you left?

He shifts again, and you shiver, body jerking with overstimulation. You’re so sensitive it hurts, and that hurt folds in on itself, making your pussy flutter around him unwillingly.

Zed grins against your neck. You can feel it.

Then—SMACK!

He slaps your ass again, but there’s no force behind it this time. Just a lazy aftershock tap. Like muscle memory. A sound check.

“Hope you didn’t have plans tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with ragged joy, mouth brushing the shell of your ear, his body glued to yours with sweat. “Cuz I’m gonna be fuckin' you until my balls are dry.”

You groan, not a protest, more like a 'please,' but even you don’t know if it’s for him to stop or something else.

You think you might’ve agreed to a shift tomorrow... might’ve promised the band a rehearsal... might’ve had a life before this, but right now?Right now you’re just a fucked-out goth girl, drooling at a world spun 'round with Dead Zed spunk oozing out your wrecked cunt... and maybe—maybe—you don’t mind. Not one fucking bit.

Check it out on AO3, too. :P

i have fantasized forever about you writing a smut fic abt zed from lollipop chainsaw for years (pleading emoji)

Working on it now. >_>

[airlock]

it's inadvisably early in the morning and I just finished watching a video talking about the public perception of Twilight over the years, and it got me thinking about some things that I figured I might as well inelegantly ramble about in my limited platform that one or two people like to read my text posts on

but before I take this to the inside of the readmore, I have a small confession to make. you see, when I was a teenager...

... I fucking hated Twilight actually. that's barely a confession, but hey, I told you it was going to be small

anyways, onto the disorganized reflections about the deceptively simple matter of disliking things in media and fandom, typed from my phone and likely riddled with tpyos

in this day and age, I think it's very unlikely you'll uncover a person, especially a mature one, who likes Twilight without at least harboring reservations over its more tres problematique aspects or the simple fact that they're not really the most fascinating thing that a monkey has ever committed to a typewriter. at the same time, though, the phenomenon of vociferously disliking twilight is long gone; for the most part, Twilight either your guilty pleasure, or something you don't think about very much at all anymore.

this has made it rather easy to construct the retrospective narrative that, even if being a twilight fan back in the day might have been a little bit cringey and embarassing, everyone who vocally disliked the books back then was someone pathetically hanging their entire identity onto bashing a thing just because teenage girls liked it.

now, I'm not here to stand in defense of the whole of the phenomenon that was Hating Twilight, because hoo boy, not all was right in that kingdom. it led to an immensurable quota of bullying and harassment, and much of it was rooted in sexism, queerphobia, machismo, the works. still, some part of me doesn't see how exactly it's fair to forgive Twilight for being imperfect while also casting that other coin of olden times only ever in the worst possible light. it's not an exact equivalence by any means, but I think it's something comparable.

it's also just kind of like... when I think about to what exactly I disliked so much about Twilight, when I try to get to the core of it in the most honest way I can... it comes down to the sparkly vampires. yeah. it's not that I hated it because it was effette (although I wholly admit that I was there on board with people taking the mockery in that direction), so much as that it seemed like this story was written about vampires that weren't vampires in any interesting way. not nocturnal bloodthirsty undead monsters, just attractive guys with a couple of superpowers. might as well have set it in smallville.

you might be thinking, that's such an unimportant thing. and it absolutely was! but nobody is any longer pretending like they had a deep and interesting reason for liking Twilight; why should it only be Valid (TM) to have disliked it all along if you were one of the people who actually had a good reason to feel that way?

there are certainly some things that the sentiment doesn't justify -- doesn't make it right to give the people who did like the books a hard time, and doesn't make it right to talk about these dislikes as if they are objective assessments of quality, to name a few things. again, it's not an exact equivalence. but I think this unwillingness to just let people have their petty, personal dislikes is one manifestation of a deeper and more insidious phenomenon in modern fandom culture.

one thing I also remember from those yonder days is that, from time to time, people would take me to task on why disliking Twilight seemed to matter so much to me. whether it be because of times when I was genuinely being uppity about it, or because of times when people simply projected this sense of caring very much at simple expressions of dislike and/or some rounds of having fun lambasting the disliked thing. at those times, I'd do the thing that many people did and fall back on concern trolling over the book's ostensible romanticization of abusive behavior. (which, to be clear, is not something I am now categorically saying Twilight doesn't do, I'm just now past the point of pretending like I know enough about the series to make such a serious accusation affirmatively. maybe I should have just stuck with calling out the part where a dude falls in love with a newborn. I know that that's a thing that happens, unfortunately)

thing is, that particular strain of behavior -- deflecting with social commentary as a response to being taken to task on your petty dislikes -- reminds me quite a bit of something else. like, say, the fact that most people in fandom these days are absolutely unwilling to ever admit they dislike something just because they do and instead always have to make it out to be a cause of social justice instead.

one of the bigger reasons why this happens is purity culture and the desirability of signaling wokeness to others even in situations where it does not fucken matter, but I think another of the biggest reasons is that, if someone simply does come out and say "yeah, I dislike the thing for reasons that aren't very deep", they tend to get responded to like they grew five heads. best case scenario, they get labeled a killjoy. worst case scenario, they get the woke-fu turned on them, because hmmmm, how suspicious that you dislike this character who is a minority of some sort. (if the character is not a minority of any sort, then naturally, people have written slash fic about him, therefore you are homophobic for disliking him. it always works!)

now, there is a certain amount of etiquette that is fundamental to not being a dick about disliking things -- the golden rule being that you don't ruin the fun for people who do like the thing -- but I think it's high time we recognized more broadly that pettiness creates as much community and life as love does. somewhere beneath all the chest-thumping and celebrity harassment, there were once people genuinely finding community in their shared distate for this tedious little book that it seemed like the world couldn't get over. I think that, whenever you give people that opportunity to bond over a shared dislike, they'll bite; it's better we just figure out how to wield this, with etiquette and honesty, and accept it. it's leaps and bounds better than making people feel like they have to destroy something before they're allowed not to like it.

hell, I'd say that the best thing out there is when fans and haters of a certain thing can still find common ground. can you imagine how thrilled I was when I heard about how the Twilight series apparently has a whole lot of more interesting-sounding side characters who were just unfortunately shunted to the background of The Love Triangle Of Mr. Obssessive, Ms. Everygirl, And Mr. Secretly Actually In Love With An Ovum?

[roseverdict]

More Than He Seems (Part 2)

snord help me i'm back on my

★·.·´~bullshit~`·.·★

i am but a monkey gifted with access to a typewriter and given no rules with which to constrain myself

this one's more a talky chapter, but we also get to see bill for the first time so there's that. stan is not a fan of the resident demon dorito.

warnings: not much. bodily possession of a nerd by everybody's least favorite piece of geometry. aforementioned geometry-in-a-nerd-suit proceeds to get tied up and he is Not Happy about it. more of stan's potty mouth.

part 1 here! ao3 version here!

〜〜〜〜〜〜

"His name is Bill Cipher. I first summoned him via reading an incantation recorded on a cave wall, deep within the cliffs surrounding this town." Ford began. "My original plan to take care of him was to make the trek up to the caves again and deface the summoning instructions. I had planned on waiting until you had the journal and were well away from the town, but since that's not happening any time soon-"

"You better believe it!"

"-I suppose I will have to account for your continued presence…I know I have enough supplies for a one-person trip there, but if both of us are to go and return, it will have to be postponed until there are enough supplies for the both of us."

"…okay, that'll keep the asshole out of other people's brains." Stan conceded, filing away the odd way Ford had phrased his plans for later. "That still doesn't answer my question, though. What about yours?"

"I'm…I'm not entirely sure it can be done." Ford's voice came out quiet and resigned. "When I trusted him, I trusted him so completely that I allowed him access until the end of time itself. Even though I have done my best to do damage control, I can't take that back."

Stan scowled at a particularly fresh stain on the far wall. "I call bullshit. There's gotta be something."

"If there is, I have yet to find it." Ford sighed, glancing away. "Aside from pie-in-the-sky 'plans' that aren't even feasible-!"

"And exactly how much sleep have you been getting?" Stan countered, turning his scowl on his brother. "You're not firing on all cylinders, Stanford. Get some rest if you can, and then give this mess another look. That's Problem-Solving 101!"

"But what about Cipher?" Ford protested, his face pale. "The moment I fall asleep, he'll swoop right in and, and-!"

"And, I'll deal with it." Stan cut him off. He shifted his shoulder slightly, the peas in the bag rustling. "I'm not gonna be getting any sleep for a while, anyway. If this 'Bill' guy starts causing trouble, I'll keep him in line and make sure he can't leave your body worse than how he got it. Once you wake back up, w-you'll be able to think more clearly."

When Ford next spoke, a long moment later, it was with a quiet, shaky, "You're sure?"

"Positive." Stan twisted his scowl into a self-assured smirk, forcing himself to not look as worried as he felt. "Now rest, Stanford! It's…wow, it's one in the morning!"

(Stan tried not to think about how easy it felt to slip back into the role of 'the one who told Ford to sleep like a sane person,' even after so many years.)

"Right. Right, I'll…I'll go rest." Ford stood up from the table and staggered to the doorway, his voice dropping to a cracking murmur. "I'll rest. I can rest now."

Stan swallowed, watching the shell of his brother stumble away. Hoboy.

There was still a part of him that wanted to keep yelling at Ford for what he'd let their pa do ten years ago, but it was quickly being overwhelmed by the growing need to get him back to full health.

Ford had only called him there because he needed something from him, the devil on Stan's shoulder insisted.

The angel on his other shoulder countered that Ford was in way over his head!

Ford had dug his own grave.

Ford didn't deserve to have an actual demon use him as a puppet for the rest of eternity!

Oh, curse his brotherly instincts!

Setting his bags of peas aside, he got up and trailed Ford to one of the open rooms, just in time to see him drop face-down onto an unmade bed in a dead faint, still dressed.

A blink later, Ford's body shot back up, and too-bright eyes and a too-wide grin twisted back to face Stan.

Hm. Yellow eyes and funky pupils. That'd be useful to remember.

"Well, well, well, hey there, little Fishy!" Ford's voice giggled, nasal and grating.

Stan crossed his arms and made himself a smidgen more imposing in the doorway. "I take it you're Bill, then?"

"Oh, you've heard of me!" Bill-Ford (Bord?) beamed, pressing Ford's fingers to his mouth in faux surprise. "My reputation precedes me!"

"Damn right it does." Stan snapped, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Let's get one thing straight. You don't get free reign of Ford's body anymore, got that?"

Bord raised an eyebrow at that, the malicious glee draining slightly from his stolen face. "Oh? And who are you to tell me what I can and can't do with this meatsack?"

"Simple."

Stan made himself tall enough that he could glare down his nose at Bord without it being too contrived.

"I'm his brother."

Bord smirked up at him, unfazed. "That didn't stop you from hurting him ten years ago!"

"You're supposed to be this all-seeing demon, aren'tcha?" Stan snarled. "You know as well as I do that that was an accident. Besides, Ford's letting me stay here, only God knows why, and I'm not about to let some asshole with an overinflated ego fuck him up if I have anything to say about it!"

"Oh, sure, we know that." Bord shrugged nonchalantly. "But Sixer doesn't! As far as he's aware, you saw him stretching his wings and decided you would cripple him so he could never leave y-!"

Stan's fist found itself buried in the doorway with a crunch of breaking wood, where Bord could see it plain as day.

"The moment I figure out a way to do that to you properly, that's you." Stan ground out, using his other hand to pull a cloth of some kind from his pocket. "Y'got that, you demented dorito?"

"You do seem to like punching things." Bord nodded as if considering Stan's threat, then smiled too widely again. "I wonder how long it'll take for Fordsy to decide you haven't changed! Do you think you'll be banned from Oregon in a month? What about a week? Maybe even-mmph?!"

Stan tied the gag around Ford's head with a silent apology to his brother, but outwardly, he just huffed. "That's enough outta you, I think."

Bord gave him an affronted glare, muffled shouts making their way from Ford's mouth as he tried to go after Stan. Stan, however, being as strong as he needed to be at any given moment, easily wrenched Ford's shaky, weakened arms behind his back and hefted Bord into the air. Bord started wriggling around like a toddler on Smile Dip, but Stan dropped him on Ford's mattress and set about restraining him with a businesslike efficiency.

Arms tied behind his back with the pillowcase? Check.

Legs tied together with the sheets? Check.

Blanket wrapped over Ford's chest and legs and under the mattress like the world's most cozy seatbelt? Check.

"Sleep tight, Bill." Stan smirked, stepping back and sitting on the nearby couch, leaning his elbows on his knees. "You're not going anywhere on my watch."

Bord screamed under the gag, but all that came out was a venomous "MRGHMPH!!!"

Stan chuckled darkly, shifting back into his usual shape. "Yeah, you'd better just deal with it. I'm making sure Ford gets a fucking good night's sleep, and nobody can stop me."

Bord glared at him, but aside from pulling at his restraints and muffled screeches, could do nothing to express his displeasure.

Stan almost gave himself a pat on the back, but his shoulder twinged at the idea.

Ah well. It was the thought that counted.

〜〜〜〜〜〜

Stanford found himself floating adrift in his house.

This was something he recognized immediately, though he hadn't done it in quite a while.

Usually, this only happened when Bill was in his body while he was awake.

Stanford crossed his arms and floated around warily. If Bill wanted to keep Stanford's body, he would have to fight him for it.

Muffled shouts slipped out from under one of the doors, cutting off his train of thought. Figuring Stanley had merely stubbed a toe or something, Stanford poked his head inside to investigate.

An exhausted-looking Stanley gave Stanford's body a deadpan glare from where he sat. "Seriously, you can quit fighting this whenever. Ford's not alone anymore, and you just gotta deal."

Bill bit out something that didn't quite make it past the gag in his stolen mouth, but in the Mindscape, Stanford could hear him loud and clear. "ONCE I GET OUT OF THESE BINDINGS, I'LL TEAR YOUR STILL-BEATING HEART OUT OF YOUR CHEST WITH MY BARE HANDS AND FEED IT TO YOU!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Stanley rolled his eyes, only for his eyebrows to shoot up as he stared in Stanford's direction.

Stanford blinked and glanced behind him, but nothing there seemed to have caught Stanley's attention.

Stanley tilted his head. "That's new. Stanford, are you aware you're a ghost or something?"

Wait.

"You can see me?!" Stanford gasped.

"Okay, uh, those are definitely words you're trying to make with your mouth, but I can't hear a thing." Stanley stated. "I'm just gonna go out on a limb here and guess you weren't expecting me to see you?"

Stanford raised a finger to explain to him, but after his mind caught up with him, put it back down in favor of shrugging and nodding.

"Huh. Weird." Stanley frowned in thought before seemingly setting it aside. He gestured to where Stanford's body strained against his bedsheets in a vain attempt to get loose. "So, is Bill usually this scream-y?"

"I'LL SHOW YOU 'SCREAM-Y,' YOU OVERGROWN FISH STICK!"

Stanford swallowed and floated away from his body in the equivalent of a very large sidestep. He shrugged to Stanley again, wiggling his hand in a "so-so" motion.

Stanley nodded to himself. "Kinda. Got it. Are you as rested as you can be? This whole thing is an absolute clusterfuck, but I'm guessing since it's been a few hours and you're sorta conscious now, that's gonna be as much sleep as you'll be getting tonight."

Stanford rubbed the back of his neck, (a few hours? it wasn't a full night's sleep, but it was more than he'd been getting before!) but nodded again.

"Alright, then how do we get you back in there?" Stanley asked, pushing himself to his feet.

Stanford frowned, rubbing at his chin as he glanced at his body.

Bill grinned at him. "You don't honestly believe he's going to stay and help you, do you?"

Stanford levelled a glare at Bill, then turned to Stanley. He mimed throwing his fist into his palm, then pointed to Bill.

Stanley gaped. "You want me to knock him out? Stanford, I'm not exactly a lightweight! You'll be feeling it for days!"

Stanley did have a point. He always had been the champion boxer when they were children.

"Ooh, is Fishy gonna beat up his beloved brother?"

Then again, he'd really rather be in his body than let Bill run amok.

He nodded firmly, pointing harder at his body.

"…if you insist." Stanley finally conceded, his shoulders stiff as he stood and inched towards the mattress.

Bill just smirked beneath the gag. "Just you wait, Sixer! You'll be at each other's throats in no time! I WON'T EVEN HAVE TO DO ANYTH-!"

Stanley's fist met Stanford's chin, and Bill dropped to the mattress like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"Lights out, you nutty nacho." Stanley muttered, shaking his hand out. He glanced back at Stanford. "Once you're back in there and untied, I'll get you some ice. You'll want it, trust me."

Stanford nodded and dove into his body, filling out his limbs with sensation once more-

-and hissing in pain as his chin yelled at him.

Stanley's voice reached him as if from across an ocean. "You with me, Stanford?"

Stanford managed a small nod, cracking his eyes open and croaking an, "I'm up," past the gag.

He caught sight of a Stanley-shaped blob leaning in and inspecting his eyes, then Stanley nodded and ungagged him before moving on to the restraints. "So, uh, if worst comes to worst and we have to do all that again, is there any way we can give Bill the boot without busting you up?"

"As of now, I don't quite know." Stanford admitted, pushing himself upright once Stanley freed his chest and wrists. "Theoretically, it should be possible to avoid it in the first place, but without any leads to go off of, we would just be running in circles, dancing to Bill's tune."

"Circles…" Stanley murmured, untying Stanford's legs. "…hey, isn't it a whole 'thing' to use circles in magic and stuff? Maybe there's some kind of spell that you can use to make your head a Bill-free zone?"

Stanford frowned in thought. "I don't think it would work to cast it directly on myself…perhaps I can figure out a way to Bill-proof the house itself? Oh, but the only thing that might work would be…ughhhhh…"

Stanley lifted an eyebrow and plopped down on the other end of the mattress. "What's the hold-up, Stanford?"

"I've been working on this problem for weeks, and so far the only potential solution I could think up involves…" Stanford shuddered.

"…attempting to appease the unicorns for a lock of their hair."

Stanley's eyebrows shot up at that. "Unicorns? Real, honest-to-God unicorns?"

"Yes." Stanford groaned. "And they're incredibly insistent that only one who is pure of heart is worthy to take their hair. I haven't tried asking them yet, since when I first discovered them I had no need for their hair, but after my dealings with Bill, I doubt they'll see me as worthy."

Stanley frowned. "Well, you're trying to fix your mistakes, aren't you? That's already way better than some people I've known. A lot of guys just see something they did wrong, whether they meant to or not, and they just bolt."

(Stanford had a feeling Stanley was talking about more than just unicorn hair.)

He shoved the thought aside. "Even so, I once bore witness to one of their Weighings of Heart, and they are very…thorough in their judgement."

"It's worth a shot, ain't it?"

"…yes, I suppose it is."

Stanley managed a lopsided grin. "Then for what it's worth, I say give it a go!"

[kjack89]

Oh My God, They Were Quarantined (pt. 2 of ?)

Looks like I’m going to be writing this thing piecemeal because somehow, despite everything, my life hasn’t slowed down much yet.

Continuation of this COVID-19-related drabble. E/R, modern AU.

Enjolras peeked into his bedroom, watching the unmoving lump burrowed under the blankets. “Grantaire,” he said, at his usual volume, and when he got no response, he raised his voice. “Grantaire!”

The lump sat up aburptly, revealing Grantaire, crease-marks from the blankets visible on his stubbled face as he stared wildly around. “Whossere?” he said incoherently, and Enjolras rolled his eyes.

Mostly at himself, for feeling something like fondness at the sight.

“Over here,” he said, somewhat amused, and Grantaire turned to squint at him.

He brightened when he saw Enjolras leaning against the doorway, before unexpectedly raising his arm to block his eyes. “Oh!” he exclaimed, and Enjolras frowned.

“Are you ok?” he asked, concerned, taking a step into the room.

Grantaire dropped his arm just far enough to smirk at him. “Oh, my mistake, I thought it was the sun. Turns out it’s just you.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes again. “You know, Shakespeare did it better,” he said mildly, sitting on the edge of the bed, and Grantaire’s grin widened.

“Yeah, well, you know what they say about monkeys and typewriters – give me enough time and one day I will rival Shakespeare in my descriptions of you.”

Enjolras was tempted to roll his eyes again but just managed to refrain. Instead, he cleared his throat and seized on the segue. “Well, speaking of giving you time—”

Grantaire’s grin faded so suddenly that Enjolras felt like someone had turned the lights off. “Is this the part where you tell me that last night was fun, but can never happen again?” he asked dully.

“What?” Enjolras said blankly. “No, of course not.”

“Because I would understand if you did,” Grantaire said, tracing an idle finger along the pattern of Enjolras’s duvet. “I mean, we never really got a chance to talk last night, and—”

Enjolras reached out, resting his hand on top of Grantaire’s. “Grantaire,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

Grantaire hesitated for a moment before twisting his hand under Enjolras’s to lace their fingers together. “In that case,” he said, his previous smile twitching again at the corners of his mouth, “what were you going to say?”

Enjolras hesitated. “You’re going to be mad at me,” he said, and Grantaire arched an eyebrow.

“Oh, this ought to be fun.”

Enjolras took a deep breath. “So first and foremost, I may have exposed you to COVID-10, so we’re going to be quarantined together for a few days.”

“Ok,” Grantaire said, looking at him like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and Enjolras frowned.

“You’re not upset?”

Grantaire looked amused. “I get to spend more time with you,” he said. “That’s the opposite of a problem to me.” He tilted his head. “Which you know, meaning there’s some other reason why I’m going to be mad at you.”

Enjolras winced. “I, uh, I may have accidentally told Combeferre and Courfeyrac about us,” he mumbled

Grantaire blanched. “You what?!”