#my cables are an utter mess

[blackjackkent]

Reporting to you live from successfully reinstalled computer! \o/

[mackjlee9]

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Male!Reader [Smut]

What happens when Ghost hears (M/n) singing 'Simon Says'? Well, he's gonna play with him.

Warning; blowjob, cum eating, overstimulation, fwb au, sub!top!reader, dom!bottom!ghost.

Masterlist.

It was sort of a day off for the Task Force 141 team, they didn't have any missions or jobs they had to do, so they were just chillin' around the base, training or just relaxing and having fun, the new recruits playing outside and being normal kids instead of military cadets.

(M/n) had gotten up a little later than usual, and he was ready to start his day, unaware of what would happen hours later.

//////

It was kind of a boring day, too calm and quiet, nothing much occurred and by the end of the day, (M/n) walked into the kitchen after showering, his stomach growling for some food, making himself a sandwich, and drinking some water. His earphones playing music and he unconsciously started singing to himself the song that was currently playing.

Well, that's what he thought.

Outside the kitchen door, was a tall, masked man about to walk in when he heard a voice he knew very well.

"Let's play a game called Simon Says," he stopped and looked at the unaware male, noticing the cable around his neck and dangling in front of his chest, following it down to his phone in his pocket, "Simon Says, spread open your legs and put your hands behind your head~"

It was clear to Ghost now that (M/n) had no idea that he was standing behind, staring at him so intensely.

"Simon Says, take a deep breath 'cause tonight we're gonna make a mess~," he turned around with his sandwich in his hand, about to take a bite out of it when he saw Ghost standing by the kitchen door, "Oh, Lieutenant! Didn't see you there," internally, (M/n) was freaking out, almost praying his superior didn't hear him singing, but at that moment, embarrassment filled his body, realizing what song he was listening to and who the man in front of him was.

Simon Riley... Damn, (M/n) had never felt his face heating up so much.

Reaching his free hand, he pressed the button on the cable of his earphones, and the music came to a stop as he stared at his Lieutenant. His... fuck buddy as well.

"Do you need anything, sir?" He asked trying not to stutter, preventing his voice from trembling or cracking.

He watched as Ghost walked up to him and pinned him to the counter behind him, leaning dangerously close to his face, whispering over his lips, his warm breath getting through his balaclava.

"Let's go to my room, Sergeant."

//////

Pinned to the bed, (M/n) holds onto Ghost's hands holding his head in place, his bigger body on top of his, straddling his hips, grinding their erections on each other, causing (M/n) to whine and Ghost to groan.

Breaking their kiss, Ghost leaned back, his hand reaching his balaclava, (M/n) thought he was gonna take it off, but he only fixed it slightly higher up his nose before leaning down again, his lips gracing (M/n)'s.

"Spread open your legs, (M/n)," a shiver ran down his spine at Ghost's deep, rumbly voice, but as he watched him get off the bed, he did as told, albeit a little embarrassed to do so.

Without a word uttered, Ghost hooked his fingers on the waistband of (M/n)'s pants, pulling them down and letting them fall somewhere near their discarded boots, and slowly he knelt between his spread legs, pulling his underwear enough to free his cock.

He licked it slowly for a short while, focusing on his tip and the underside of it, making (M/n)'s hands pull on his own shirt, his hips squirming a bit in place, but soon, his lips were wrapped around the glistening head, hearing (M/n)'s whine and feeling him thrust his hips up into his mouth.

Ghost took that as a 'keep going', his hands sliding under (M/n)'s thighs to grip his hips, pulling him as close as he could to him, gagging around his cock as he took every inch in his mouth and down his throat.

(M/n)'s hands had gone up to press against his mouth to try and muffle his moans, but as he was about to reach his climax, his hands went down to hold onto Ghost's head, wanting to use his mouth like a toy, but he didn't let him.

Ghost pried (M/n)'s hands away from his head, releasing his cock from his mouth, "Hands behind your head."

Holding in a whine, (M/n) obeyed yet again, and soon Ghost resumed the stimulation on his cock, sucking on the dripping tip and dragging his tongue along the prominent veins on (M/n)'s cock. Occasionally, his eyes would avert upward, taking in (M/n)'s pleasured expression as he bit his lip and gripped the pillow under his head.

Ghost felt his cock twitch in the confinement of his clothes, and he couldn't stop himself from grinding on the bed as he hears (M/n) struggling to keep himself quiet, his hips lifting off the bed as Ghost lets him fuck his mouth, the feeling making (M/n) roll his eyes into be back of his head.

He can't take it, can't hold it anymore, Ghost's mouth feels so good~

He lets out a choked moan, cumming in Ghost's mouth. But that doesn't stop the Lieutenant, he keeps eagerly sucking and licking every inch of his twitching cock until he comes again, every drop of cum filling his mouth. Ghost himself whines as his hips stutter, his cum wetting his underwear like a horny teen, and he doesn't care about that, after all, he's not done with (M/n) yet.

Taking (M/n)'s cock out of his mouth, the (h/c) haired male watches with hazy eyes, observing how some of his cum dripped down the corners of his mouth, and damn, he has never seen something so hot and lewd in his life. He drags his fingers around his lips and picks up the warm cum back in his mouth.

Kneeling back on the bed he takes his shirt off and hurries to do the same with his pants, soon straddling (M/n)'s and slowly grinding back on his hardening cock.

He can't hold back the smirk on his face as he looked down at (M/n), feeling the Sergeant's hands on his hips to stop him from stimulating his sensitive cock. Ghost observes (M/n) disheveled form and releases a low, rumbly chuckle that resonates in his chest.

"Take a deep breath, 'cause..." He leaned down and kissed (M/n), the taste of his own cum making the (h/c) haired male whimper in Ghost's mouth, "Tonight we're gonna make a mess, I feel like playing..." His hand gripped (M/n)'s hair, making the male groan at his rough handling, "A game called, Simon Says."

(M/n) stares at him with wide eyes, his cock twitching as he realized Simon indeed heard him singing earlier, and he seemed to have liked the song.

Perhaps a little too much.

[dsireland86]

Hello ☺️ Hope your doing well.

Could I please request a Matt Dierkes one shot if possible him being a grumpy ass except to his wife?? Fluffy and cute 🙏

Oh you are my first Matt Dierkes one-shot! Yes! Thank you for the inspiration :)

Feeling on the Edge

TAGS: @philomenie @supersquirrel1996 @foliosgirl @angelmarie89 @fadingintothegrey @theanarchymuse95 @thisbicc @lma1986

Matt drummed his fingers on his lap anxiously. I could tell he was in a bad mood, dying to get out of the video call meeting with the management team. His face said he was irritated and completely over the whole record label bull crap. He just wanted to be done.

Seeing how fidgety he was, I nudged his leg beneath the table with my foot hoping the friction was enough to tame his temper. He looked over at me and his dark eyes, full aggression, immediately softening.

I grinned at him to let him know I was still in his corner. He grinned back, took a deep breath, and refocused his attention on the computer screen, but not before reaching over and placing his hand on the inside of my thigh.

The rest of the day was hell for everyone, because Matt insisted on setting the world around him on fire. Every little thing that someone did annoyed him. Every word that was said, Matt had some sarcastic, snippy remark to follow it.

In the process of just three hours, he managed to break a computer monitor because he was too impatient, cut the wrong wire while attempting to splice a cable that Noah said was dead, spill Nicholas's coffee all down the front of him because he turned around too fast out of anger, dropped a mix board, misplaced his phone not once, not twice, but three times, and to top it all off, he had run out of Dr. Pepper.

"Dude, you need to calm the hell down! You starting to stress me out," Folio criticized him.

"Yeah, no joke. And if Folio is stressed then the rest of us are at the point of giving you a beatdown."

Matt glared at Noah who crossed his arms while leaning against the table. Matt didn't speak, but the look he was giving Noah screamed a big "fuck you".

"Well, it's not my fault. Those stupid pieces of shit at the record label treat me like I'm and idiot sometimes. I'm not a fucking idiot! I know how to do my job!"

"Nobody is say you are, baby," I pointed out.

"Matt calm down, man. You know not to listen to those people."

Nicholas came walking into the conversation after switching to a pair of clean clothes.

"Oh my god! What the hell are you wearing?"

Matt's expression was of utter disgust, looking at Nick. All of us turned and stared, a few bursting into fits of laughter. Nick didn't match at all. Sporting a neon pink shit that was a little too snug and a pair of snake skin looking pants that were way too stretchy for him to be wearing, he looked ridiculous.

"What?" Nick shrugged with his hands up. "It's all I could find. If someone hadn't been so angry and turned around so fast," scowling over at Matt, "I wouldn't be in this mess."

"Oh so it's my fault you look like a clown?" Matt snapped.

"Yeah, I kinda is," Nick shot back. "And your piss poor attitude!"

"What! I don't have a piss poor attitude! I've just had a fucked up day and all of you have added to it!"

"What! I didn't do anything!" I exclaimed defensively.

Matt's eyes quickly shifted over to me. "No, no, not you baby. You're fine. You haven't done anything wrong," he reassured me, smiling.

"Oh for god's sake, come on man! Your wife isn't that perfect," Folio groaned.

"Hey!"

"Mmm, I don't know, Folio, she's pretty perfect. I mean, you've had her cooking, and we all know that's she's done your laundry a few times, even finding the matches to your lost socks."

Folio looked at me, smiling apologetically.

"Yeah I guess so. Sorry, Y/N," he said leaning over and laying a sweet soft kiss on my cheek.

"Okay, well if you all are done flirting with my wife, I'd like to have her back now, please. Go get your own women! She belongs to me."

"Matt! That was so mean!"

"What! It's true! They're always trying to steal you from me."

I laughed so hard.

"Holy shit, Matt, you can't be serious!"

"Especially you," he chided Noah. "You're always trying to get in her pants."

"Alright, Matthew. That's it! Come with me; now!"

"It's Matt," he corrected me as I pulled him away from the group.

"What is going on with you? Where did that come from? Noah? Really, Matt!"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Matt pinched the bridge of his nose, walking sluggishly over to me. I snaked my arms around his waist, shaking my head at the Lord of the Rings Shirt he was wearing.

"I just washed that shirt and hung it up last night," I scolded him.

Turning his hat backwards, he lowered his forehead to mine, taking a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. I'm snapping again, aren't I?"

I smiled, placing my hands on the sides of his face.

"Yes, baby, you are," slowly sliding my hands up under his shirt. I played with the front of the waistband of his joggers, feeling his tummy sink in from being so ticklish. He chuckled, jerking his body away from me, but I gathered his shirt in my hands and pulled him back into me. That's when his lips found mine, colliding ever so gently. They were wet and warm, and tasted like the recent Celsius he'd just had.

"I'm sorry," he breathed.

"For which part?"

He scowled at me, confused.

"For being grumpy or the shirt?"

Matt laughed, giving me a quick kiss.

"Both."

"You owe those guys over there more of an apology. You've been horrible to them today. Are you listening to me?"

"Yup, I am," he assured me. But the way he scooped me up into his arms, leaning over me and attaching his lips to my neck, I knew he wasn't.

"Matthew, stop!" I squealed, trying to get out of his clutches. "Let me go!"

"It's Matt, and no," he groaned, letting his head fall to my chest as I continued to wiggle out of his embrace. "I'm not letting you go. Ever."

The more I wiggled, the more he tightened his grip and my leg got caught up in his, tripping me, and causing me to fall. I squeezed my eyes shut, preparing for the hard impact, only to meet a soft body beneath me and a slight bump to the floor. I looked down and saw Matt beneath me.

"Shit, baby!"

"I'm fine. Don't worry. I'm good." He stared up at me, smiling.

"What? Are you sure?"

"Positive," he assures me, reaching up and pulling me into his lips. He kissed me slow, taking his time to let me feel every move he made.

"Mmm, that... I like that."

He grinned. "I like, you. A lot."

"Oh really? I hadn't noticed," I joked, leaning in and kissing him again, feeling him smile against my lips.

Matt sat up and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into his lap. I rested my arms on his shoulders, staring into his eyes.

"You're really pretty, you know that?"

"Oh, so you can give compliments. Shocking!"

"Shut-up! God," he shook his head laughing. "Your sarcasm's going to kill me one day. And what the hell, I'm trying to be nice here!"

Matt tickled my sides, making me laugh hysterically.

"I love you," he said, kissing my forehead.

Wrapping myself up in his arms, I snuggle into Matt, burying my face in his chest. His heart was beating fast, telling me he was happy; that I made him happy.

"I love you, too, Matthew," I replied, grinning.

"It's Matt."

[feraltuxedo]

A Tentative WIP Wednesday

I'm in the throes of a serious bout of writer's block at the moment, but very slowly a new fic is emerging. I'm only getting a few sentences written each day, but it's better than nothing, right?

With this one, I'm sticking very firmly to my comfort zone.

Since there's been so much love for Intermezzo in the past few weeks (thank you to all of you who have read and enjoyed it), and this new fic is very much Intermezzo 2.0 in terms of tropes, vibes.... everything really... what better time to share a bit of it?

Anyway, here's a snippet of said WIP. Ex rockstar Crowley meets classical musician Aziraphale. Rock music and bickerflirting aplenty:

Aziraphale was still digging through the mess of cables on the search for one that didn’t look like it might electrocute his bass guitar, when the door opened again.

This time it really was Anthony Crowley who strode through it. In the flesh. God, he was striking. Taller than Aziraphale had imagined, and skinnier. In his Hellspawn days, he’d been dressed in heavy leather jackets and those impossibly tight jeans everyone insisted on wearing a decade ago. His hair had trailed behind him like a cloud made of pure fire when he’d strutted across the stage in snake-skin boots. Statuesque, drawn in sharp lines like a Picasso masterpiece come to life.

Present-day Crowley looked a lot more casual in a black hoodie, short hair, and, surprisingly, no sunglasses. A guitar case was slung over one shoulder, a messenger bag across the other. Like any other mortal walking the streets of London. Still outrageously good-looking, mind, middle age be damned. Aziraphale barely had time to notice the deep brown colour of his eyes, before they glared right at him.

‘Can’t get an espresso anywhere in this place. Oi Blondie, be an angel and go fetch one, would you? Double shot, no sugar.’

Aziraphale jumped to his feet. He’d never before felt quite so threatened by the words be an angel. The pathetic part of his brain that was still stuck in 2015 didn’t fail to point out that Anthony Crowley snapping at him to get coffee was the hottest thing that had happened to him all year.

Anathema stopped him with an outstretched arm before he reached the door, eyebrow raised in disapproval.

‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

He flinched at the fire in her voice before he realised it was aimed squarely at Anthony Crowley.

‘You don’t have the name, money, or credibility to boss people around these days, so shut up, sit down, and listen.’

Crowley waved his arms about to demonstrate the rehearsal room's utter lack of seating options. Even the drum stool was cluttered with assorted cardboard boxes. Anathema ignored him.

‘Aziraphale isn’t your personal coffee boy. He’s in the band, so you better treat him right or you’ll be playing without a bass, which is literally impossible.’

Crowley crossed his arms.

‘Jim Morrison managed.’

‘You’re not Jim Morrison.’

‘And the White Str—’

Anathema cut him off with a sound that could only be described as a hiss.

Anthony Crowley turned to face him again, and god-in-heaven, Aziraphale was not prepared for the effect of the man he’d spent many a lonely night fantasising about actually acknowledging his existence.

Admittedly, he didn’t look all that pleased about it.

‘So you’re actually a bass player? Like a proper one?’

Alright, that wasn’t the tone he’d hoped to hear out of Anthony Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale picked up his bass guitar and clutched it tight, with the sinking feeling that perhaps there was truth to that saying about never meeting one’s heroes.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You look like you’ve just passed your grade four exam, paid for by mummy.’

‘Actually, I have an MMus in Performance.’

‘A what?’

‘A Master’s degree.’

Which is more than Anthony Crowley had managed. 3 GCSEs, and none of them in music, if Wikipedia was to be believed. Aziraphale held onto just enough tact not to point that out. He raised his chin a fraction and noticed a shift in Anthony Crowley’s gaze, perhaps a smidgen of respect creeping into those deep brown eyes.

‘You can get a degree in bass guitar?’

‘You can, though mine’s in cello.’

Crowley’s eyes narrowed and the trace of respect vanished, as if he had a personal vendetta against the cello. That certainly didn’t bode well for Aziraphale’s prospects in his band.

‘Yeah, well, I don’t think faffing about with an overpriced bit of wood between your legs qualifies you to play in my band. Not that I wouldn’t pay good money to see that, mind…’

The mix of embarrassment, indignation, and the hot flush of feeling star struck did strange things to Aziraphale. It made him drop his bass, which landed on his foot. This was great news for the bass, since Aziraphale’s foot was a good deal softer than the thin carpet.

Not such great news, however, for his toes.

‘Botheration,’ he yelped, grabbing the bass to lean it against one of the many amps that surrounded him.

‘Botheration?’ Crowley repeated. ‘Fucking hell, Anathema, where d’you find these people?’

Anathema’s disapproving eyebrow rose a little higher.

‘I found him at a strip club, actually.’

‘I was playing the cello!’ Aziraphale corrected hastily, as he wiggled his toes, just to make sure they were all still attached.

The G String was London’s only classical-music themed strip club. Or at least that was what the manager claimed, and Aziraphale had never bothered googling the matter. The music was easy, the audience distracted enough not to notice when he hadn’t practiced that week.

Crowley’s gaze shot back to Aziraphale, raking over him from head to throbbing toe and back. The irritation from just a moment ago made way to… admiration? Sweet Jesus, he was looking at him, and he clearly liked what he saw, judging by the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

‘With your clothes on?’

‘Of course with my clothes on,’ Aziraphale huffed, trying his hardest not to look too pleased with the once-over he was receiving.

[ten-cent-sleuth]

A Galling Yoke, Part 12

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for the “Where did this come from?” square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 4.1k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen

Baker Street, despite the sun lowering towards the horizon, was awake and moving when you stepped foot on it. A chill breeze blew through you, pricking at your already numbed face. Almost there, you tried to reassure yourself, with as much success as you tried warming up by chafing your frozen hands against your frozen shoulders.

Even when you got to Sherlock’s building, however, reassurance was not at hand. You knocked, and his landlady graciously let you enter and stay by his door—apparently, he had given her a note weeks ago that anyone bearing your name was to be let into the building—but he was not at home. Still. Sitting on the landing outside his flat and folding into yourself was the most rest and comfort you’d experienced in… Well, you didn’t know how long. And it was warm. So very warm…

You were aware of how rudely you’d been awoken before you were aware that you’d dozed off.

“Your ladyship!” shouted a voice as the attached hand jostled you. “You must wake, now!”

You glared up at the blurry face before you. “Must I, ma’am?” You blinked a few times. “That is—sir… Sherlock?”

The crease in his brow collapsed, like dead weight plunging to the floor. “My lady,” he breathed. “You terrorised me. You were shivering, and your skin was ice cold—do you not know that you cannot sleep when you are too cold, lest you never—?” He broke off, but you nodded in understanding.

“I have been walking outside for hours.”

You had meant to comfort him by offering up an explanation for why you were so cold, but he only looked more alarmed. “Hours?” he said. “It has been snowing all—how—why—?”

Your eyes widened as you remembered exactly why. “Oh, Sherlock,” you exclaimed, lurching to your feet. “I have uncovered— That is, I have— Oh dear, I feel rather strange of a sudden…”

Blood rushing to your head, you stumbled a little and would have fallen down the staircase if Sherlock did not catch you and heft you back up.

“Forgive me,” you mumbled. Held close to his body heat, you felt drowsier than ever. “For this, and for the thing…the thing a few days ago…the things I said. Forgive me, Sherlock—Mr Holmes.”

“My lady…”

With a hum, you nuzzled into his chest. This already felt like forgiveness.

But then the soft support you were leaning against stiffened. “Your ladyship. Where did this come from?”

“Hmm? Ow!”

However gently, he had touched your scalp, and you realised suddenly that the area was stinging. Your hands flew up to prod at the tender skin as your memory rewound a bit and recalled your abductor striking you in the head hard enough to knock you out cold.

“Well, sir—”

“And these?” interrupted Sherlock, grabbing your wrists with one hand and turning them over to his sight. “Where did these burns come from? What has happened to you?”

Begrudgingly, you leaned away from him to get a better look at what had him so vexed. “Oh,” you mumbled: your palms were bright red and blistering. When had that happened? “Oh, right.”

“Who did this to you?” he growled.

“Ah, you see, the burns I actually gave myself—”

“What?”

“—but they were necessary! In all likelihood, I turned out much better than he.” You paused as your own words sunk in. You had left that man to die. What if he actually had?

But Sherlock interrupted such thoughts with a waspish, “He?” Shrewd eyes scanned you up and down, darkening with every statement that followed. “Your hair is an utter mess. Your dress is askew—your skirt is torn— Who is ‘he’?”

“I… I know not,” you admitted. “But I believe he is the hitman who was hired by—that is, who killed my husband. He was at Cable Street, summoned, I believe, by Mrs Kinley. And I was at Cable Street because…” Wait, should you explain the familial connection between the nurse and the hitman first? You pressed the back of your hand to your brow; your temples were starting to throb. “Forgive me, Mr Holmes. I am finding it rather difficult to think.”

Sherlock scowled at that but did not hesitate to move both of you to his door and to unlock it. “I shall get a fire going.” His fingers tightened around your arm where they had been heretofore guiding you gently forward, and you understood with a regretful cringe that he was thinking of—as you were—the last time you had been around the hearth in his flat. Still, a fire sounded divine.

He carefully lowered you into the seat nearest to the iron panel, and as you watched him start the fire, you felt your heart melt first. You had missed him. You had missed him terribly, and you couldn’t believe he would still speak to you—welcome you into his home, even. Unfortunately, little beyond your heart did much melting.

The cold had seeped through your clothes, leaving them damp and rigid, and into your skin, sinking down every layer to the bone marrow. You shivered as you watched the flames begin their dance.

And then a fluffy weight fell around your shoulders. You looked up and met Sherlock’s stormy gaze.

“I suspect you have caught a chill, my lady,” he said. “If the fire warms you not within the next few minutes, you shall require a hot bath.”

Your cheeks alone warmed a little at that.

“In any case,” he continued, “you ought to change out of those wet clothes, though it should not hurt to give you those few minutes to regain some strength.” He looked away, ostensibly to grab another blanket for your lap. “You may use that time to tell me what has occurred.”

Eyes lowered, you recounted your sudden realisation about Mrs Kinley, your visit to Miss Algar’s flat, your abduction, and your escape. You skipped over the details of your ordeal, partly because you were depleted of any energy to explain, partly because you didn’t want to voice them at all. Your audience seemed to know much was missing from your narration, but after a long look, he only gave you a nod instead of a barrage of questions.

“It was good of you to check in on them,” he murmured, brushing aside some hair stuck to your clammy forehead—absentmindedly, his gaze far away. “Even if Mrs Kinley is indeed family to the hitman, she may still be exploited—and endangered, along with Miss Algar—should she have been unaware all this time of his intentions. He may have merely told her to keep him apprised, without explaining his involvement, which would explain her chariness.”

You were halfway through a nod when a sneeze ripped through you.

Sherlock frowned. “We best get you out of those wet clothes and into bed. I ought to have some old articles of clothing somewhere for you to use.”

“Oh, that is not necessary, sir,” you stammered. “Simply hail a cab for me—I can pay, of course—and I shall return to Voss House—”

“No.”

“Mr Holmes, I cannot impose—”

“It shall not happen!”

You straightened in your seat, shoulders tensing. Sherlock groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

“I meant not to be…domineering,” he said. “But I would not want you in a hackney right now: it is dark and cold, you are ill and injured. Besides, am I not to assume that you came here…for a reason?”

He and you looked at each other for a long, open moment.

You let your shoulders drop. “You are correct, of course,” you said. “Only, I want not to be a burden while you visit with Mrs Kinley and…”

The shake of his head was so unyielding that you immediately fell silent.

“I shall not see her until Monday—or whenever you are well again.”

Your eyes widened. “But— But the case—”

“I care not for the case,” he said, quietly, intensely. “I have not worked on it for days, my lady, not since—” He pursed his lips for a beat. “Not exactly, at any rate. After my last few deductions, I made up my mind. I think there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it’s no use arguing. My sympathies are with he who was moved to kill rather than with he who was killed, and I would not handle this case. I shall return to Cable Street to see to Miss Algar’s security, and that is all.”

You stared up at him, caught completely off guard.

He looked down to consider the floorboards. “Of course, we shall have to deal with the hitman somehow. I have very limited sympathy for him.” He looked up, regarding your burns for a second before meeting your eyes. “However, we may worry about that on the morrow. Are you able to stand, my lady?”

“I believe so.”

He helped you to his bedroom, which made your head numb and your extremities cold all over again—you had never been in a gentleman’s chambers before, not even Edmund’s—and as he turned to exit and search for dry clothing to lend, you grabbed his wrist.

He stopped in his tracks.

“I… I apologise.” You let go of him, and while his muscles relaxed, his eyes crinkled in reaction. Not knowing what that meant, you brushed it aside. “Would you please send Voss House a note? My staff should not be made to worry about me.”

“Of course.” He paused. “Of course, that would be necessary. I ought to have thought of that.”

You blinked, and he was gone before you could ask him about his abnormal behaviour.

He came back with the clothes and, permitting you to change in privacy, left to send off the note. Alone, you allowed yourself to bask in the feeling of wearing Sherlock’s sleepwear old, worn, and warm. Long after you had returned these to him, you would carry that feeling, you knew.

After blowing out the candle, you got into bed and pulled the covers close, but when Sherlock came in, he did not hesitate to tuck you in even more snugly.

“I…thank you,” you whispered into the dark. “You do much, sir, and I really do regret the burden I…”

“Shh,” he replied, and you wished you could see where he was. He sounded close, but the dark could distort perception into either nightmare or fantasy.

As he bustled about the room, ensuring the windows were shut firmly and starting another fire in this fireplace, you started to drift off. The last thing you were aware enough to be sure of was his whispering, “You are never a burden, little petal.”

Your slumber was deep and restorative for the first few hours but soon transitioned into fitfulness. Chills wracked your physical frame while fever dreams wreaked havoc on your mental one, and your only relief was the caring touch of Sherlock’s apt fingers. Whether it was wiping your sweat and hair out of uncomfortable nooks or coaxing you to sip some water with prods to your chin, his touch was your anchor. Sometimes, the back of his hand on your forehead was the only snatch of the tangible world that you could get past the blurred outlines of your ailing state.

At a certain point, the mental fog thickened: during the night—at least, you assumed, though that assumption was merely based on the fact you had been sleeping—you had jerked awake with a whimper, grasping at your leg. You had heard Sherlock’s voice, but your brain tuned it out in favour of blaring at you make it stop make it stop make it stop.

“Hurts,” you’d gasped between jabs of pain around, under, and out of your right knee. You were speaking to yourself, and to anyone who’d listen, and to anyone who wouldn’t. “Hurts s’much. Please, please…”

He had said something. You couldn’t make out the words, but the soothing undertones had lulled you into trusting silence long enough for him to creak across the floorboards and vanish out the door. You’d stumbled, dizzy, into half-consciousness by the time he returned.

“Petal. My dear, open those darling eyes for me, I know you can.”

Though you’d swatted at his prodding hands with irked mutters, you’d opened your eyes.

He had tipped his head at you, grinning. “Very good. I thank you, my lady. Now, I have retrieved something for your pain. Open up.”

“What is it? I do not like laudanum—it is vile,” you had tried to say, but your tongue had felt too heavy, your throat too sticky. Instead, you had shaken your head as vehemently as your vertigo would allow.

He had sat on the bed and rubbed your arm up and down. “Please, do not distress yourself, petal. You are in pain, and it may get worse.”

Shuddering, you had recalled the last time you’d had a bad flare-up. It had left you bedridden for over a day, and it hadn’t been as provoked as this one surely had.

“Do you trust me?” he had whispered.

You had trembled with fatigue, depleted by the simple tasks of keeping your eyelids up and keeping your head above the waves of agony crashing over you. You hadn’t had energy to spare for talking, but you had wanted the words out. “Unreservedly,” you’d croaked. “No matter what.”

His smile had been tender then, and you had opened your mouth to accept whatever medicine he had procured, pungently bitter laudanum or not. Arm around your shoulders, he had helped you sit up and swallow it down. But he hadn’t let go even after that. Usually, when your knee acted up and started affecting your whole body, anybody else’s touch—even presence in the room—felt too much, but right then, with the illness and anguish caused by your recent ordeal, you had felt entirely cosy and right curled up against Sherlock’s chest. Just this once.

“It shall take a few minutes to take effect,” he’d said softly, his warm breath skimming over your skin.

“Mhmm.”

“Until it does, I wished to… I needed to…to clarify a fact…”

You’d hummed, prompting.

“Your leg. This injury, this pain of yours… It is Sulyard’s doing? If not for him, you would not be suffering right now?”

You’d hesitated, then opted to at least give him, if not an expounding answer, a small nod. Surely Sherlock could piece—had pieced—together the details: an argument, a raging husband, a smack, a stumble, a trip, a fall down the stairs.

The full force of those details had resounded in Sherlock’s timbre as he’d growled, “It is almost a shame that he is already dead, for I would gladly skin him now—but only almost, as I cannot repine the betterment of the world in his absence.”

You had buried your smile in his chest. As the medicine—or whatever it was—had started to take effect, you had found the strength to tell him, “’M so glad you’ve returned t’me, Sherlock…” You didn’t catch his reply.

That was the only moment you could recall with any clarity. Though there were more instances of almost-consciousness—you might have even heard the murmur of conversation at some point—the next time you were lucid, you could tell from the stiffness in your back and the grime caked on your skin that at least a couple of days had passed. With a groan, you shifted around on the bed to take stock of your poor vessel for this mortal coil.

Craning your neck this way and that on your pillow, you noted your head was still stuffed heavy and throbbing dully, though no longer fuzzy. Tensing and testing the muscles in your feet, your calves, and your thighs, you could tell your legs were sore and likely would be for some time, but they weren’t so irate with you anymore. Lifting your arms to stretch them, you found them unwieldy but that was no surprise—

What was, however, were the cloths wrapped securely around your hands. You held one close to your face, wheezing, “What on Earth…?”

Your mouth snapped shut as a groan—this one not yours—and the creaking of wood sounded throughout the room. Achingly sitting up, you spotted Sherlock sleeping—and fast awakening—in a chair too small for his wide frame.

Gracious. Has he been here the whole time?

He blinked his eyes open, and you blurted out, “Forgive me, sir; I did not mean to disturb you.”

“I do wish you would stop the constant apologies.”

“Forgi—” You bit your lip. “Ah, that is… Good morning?”

Disgruntlement cleared the lingering sleepiness on his face. “I would argue that it is more of a miraculous one.”

It was your turn to blink slowly. You opened your mouth to apologise for whatever you had apparently done to cause his poor mood, but remembered his rebuke in time. He did not wait for you to come up with something else to say.

“Your condition deteriorated abruptly yesterday,” he informed you grimly. “Your fever broke just as abruptly in the night, so I suppose it was a simple matter of getting worse before getting better, but I cannot… I could not…” Heaving a deep exhale, he veered to his feet. “I demand to know, your ladyship, why you went to Cable Street without me.”

Again, you blinked. That’s what his heartfelt speech led to? “I… I had been caught up in the urgency, I suppose, but I also… At the time, that is, I also thought of it as my burden to bear.”

Your voice had shrunk as you went on, and Sherlock’s next words were just as quiet.

“This could have all been avoided if I had been with you.”

You swallowed. “Yes. It had been reckless to go alone. And you, specifically, I should not have kept out of the investigation, even if it would have been difficult to approach you about it after, well…after. It is no excuse.”

He neither agreed nor countered, stalking over to the fire to stoke it halfheartedly.

“Indeed, sir…,” you ventured, fiddling with the blanket, “I am surprised by the lengths to which you would go to care for me after all I have put you through, emotionally and professionally.”

“I am not,” he said, though he spoke more to the fireplace than to you. “I ought to be, surely. Surprise or confusion or censure—any of those would be natural in response to such illogical choices on my part. But no, what is natural to me in this instant—as natural as breathing, as blinking—is to want you to be safe and healthy, and more than that, to ensure that I see to it that you are safe and healthy.”

He still didn’t face you, but you couldn’t begrudge him his having his back to you, as that was the only way you could muster the courage to say—

“You are not angry, then, sir?”

His shoulders went rigid, then dropped. “After we last…parted ways, I realised you had known all along a potential motive for Sulyard’s death and never shared it. Of course, I was angry—furious, really.”

Your bottom lip wobbled. “Oh.”

“But then—” Slowly, he turned around and walked towards the bed. “Then, I realised you had not been actively undermining the case, not until that day. Which meant you had not known all along a potential motive, which meant it had not even occurred to you that the victim’s abusiveness would be a motive, which meant…”

Close enough to touch, now, Sherlock’s clouded gaze was as clear to you as his deductions were to him.

He sat down gingerly beside you. Which meant you hadn’t even thought your pain was that important.

You let out a shaky breath. Which meant you hadn’t even thought anyone would’ve cared enough to do something about it.

He cupped your cheek and caressed it with the pad of his thumb. Which meant you hadn’t even thought—

“I am sorry,” you choked out.

“My lady…”

“I am sorry I did not tell you about Edmund. Even if it were not the motive, it was pertinent to the case and I— I—”

“Do not be,” he said, his voice firm and grave even as he brushed aside your tears with utmost tenderness. “Do not be. You were right, darling. This is your life. Nobody—not even the closest companion, or the cleverest—is entitled to that.”

You leaned forward, dipping your head down. “You were right, too. Behind society’s and others’ expectations, I have hidden what is difficult to show—to share.” Mrs Rogers’s face flashed in your mind, and then Eudoria’s. “But I…I know not how to stop. I know not how to be the girl you knew, who could be free with her heart and let you in. Not anymore, I fear.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You need not. Indeed, in the past few days, I have realised that despite how I have changed and how you have changed—or due to it—you have not shut me out. I may have been wrong for forcing my way into your private information, but I stand by my belief that I know you. I do know things about you that matter; I was only mistaken in what, precisely, that means.”

Your own voice echoed in your head: You know naught what matters! Shame suffused your cheeks to recall the impetuous harshness with which you’d treated your oldest friend, but still… You could no longer blame him for not knowing you beyond his deductions—it was you who struggled with pushing him away, after all—but the fact remained that he didn’t know you beyond his deductions…right?

Using his thumb now to trace your jaw, he said, “To know you completely does not mean seeing what no one else can see. What you have endured is not who you are. To know you completely means seeing what no one else cares to see.

“I see your sweeping compassion in how you care for Pashbroke, Mrs Rogers, Enola, even Miss Algar. I see your quiet intelligence in how you manipulated your kidnapper so that you could escape, just as you controlled the conversation with Lady Brindon and Dr Crawford.

“I know your character, your values, your scent.”

You stopped breathing, his other hand clasping over yours as they trembled in your lap.

“I can envision how your hips and arms move when you walk, as clearly as I can envision how you would react in any given situation, as clearly as—”

“Sherlock.”

“As clearly as I can envision how at home the taste of you makes me feel.” His lips brushed against yours, tantalising your every sense, your very blood.

The contact was feather-light, a whisper of a kiss, yet it knocked your world completely off its axis. You were left spinning, dizzy, as he eased away.

“You are still the girl I knew,” he breathed into your space. “To know you completely is not a matter of deduction, but of devotion.”

Both of his hands moved to frame your face, leaving yours to tremble all the more freely now. As he drew you closer, your thoughts scrambled for justification. Surely now, surely if, surely with—?

But no. Now that you had gotten the hitman involved, there was only one way to end this without any more bloodshed: to close the case.

Clenching one hand into a fist in your lap, you lifted the other to hold Sherlock back. “We should not… I cannot…”

The hurt in his eyes nearly did you in.

“There are aspects of this case that you do not—cannot—understand,” you whispered. “Sherlock…I still plan to turn myself in.”

For some reason, that seemed to assuage some of his pain. “I see.” He paused before clapping his hands together. “Well then, I am in the mood for a walk.”

You gaped. “A w— What?”

“A walk,” he said, rather cheerily for a gentleman whose advances had just been rebuffed yet again, as he climbed to his feet. “Not far, of course, but you mentioned some weeks ago that light exercise is better for your knee than sedentariness.”

He held out his arm, and through your bemusement, you managed to grab onto it and be pulled up. “I did mention that,” you said, dazed. What was going on?

Slowly but steadily, Sherlock led you to the armoire for a robe, out of the bedroom, across the hallway, into the living room—

You froze. “Is that…?” You strained your ears to confirm that the banging and puttering-about noises were coming from this flat’s kitchen. “Is somebody else here, Sherlock?”

Before the detective could answer, an exclamation came from whoever had evidently heard you speak. Then, there were rushing footsteps, and in ran Viscount of Pashbroke, The Right Honourable William Voss.

Sorry for the extended wait with this one, but hey, it’s the longest part so far! Which I did not expect at all from my outline lol. THIS chapter beat the tearoom and the art gallery and the kidnapping scenes? Okay. xD Thank you for reading. Sickfic stuff is not my forté, so feedback is always welcome!

Taglist [comment below if you’d like to be added!]: @theyaremorethanjustfictional @wonderlandfandomkingdom

[qu1etwolf]

Hi :) xx For the hugging prompts #16

Safe and Sound

Pairing- Steve Rogers x fem!reader

Warnings - Canon typical injury, squishy squishy fluff (it's a warning okay?? 😅)

AN - Thank you! I rarely ever get prompts! From your screen name and your page I figured this might make you happy! Written on my phone, not beta'd so all mistakes are mine!

It had been weeks.

Weeks of you sitting in the compound pacing by the giant windows waiting for a glimpse of that sleek quinjet coming back from their mission. Weeks of you on edge, your entire existence being boiled down to pins and needles and worry.

The few members of the team that stayed behind, the staff, and even FRIDAY had tried to ease your fears to no avail.

You knew, going in, that this relationship wouldn't be easy. That, even as sturdy as your man is, he could come home injured or even not at all. This particular mission had them out three days longer than they should have been. There had been no communication from the jet or their person com links from the start. They were deep in Hydra territory.

Sitting by the window with an expertly brewed mug of tea handed to you earlier by Dr. Banner, as he ruffled your hair and assured you they were okay before rushing back off to his lab, you were a mess. Your hair needs a good bit of combing. You are still in the pajamas you had slept in the night before, and your eyeliner is faintly smudged around your eyes.

Suddenly, you hear the telltale noise of the quinjet's engines and the quiet grinding of the hangar bay doors opening. You leave your tea on the window sill and dart down the maze of hallways, hoping they will allow you into the hangar.

Maria smiles fondly at you as you reach the giant metal double doors between you and the jet. You give her a hopeful smile, and she nods her head toward the door. "Go on, I don't like letting you all back there so don't expect it all the time, got it?"

"Yes ma'am," you grinned.

You open the door and jog towards the jet as close as they will allow you to get.

The door opens and Tony walks out, the titanium boots of his armor clanking on the ramp. His helmet is off and he's running his fingers through his hair. "FRIDAY?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Have the technicians meet me in the lab, some of these panels are too dented for me to remove. I want out of this thing stat."

"Yes, sir."

Behind him is Natasha, not a hair out of place as per usual. She smiles at you and gives you a quick wave.

Following Natasha is a very exhausted — and beat to hell — Steve Rogers, still clad in his suit, shield strapped to his back. He's leaning on Sam, who seems to be struggling to keep him upright.

Your eyes widen as you take in the bruise forming down the side of his face and the distressingly large cut next to it. Part of his sandy hair is matted with red. He smiles at you anyway.

"Hey, Y/N? Get your ass over here and help me hold this idiot up, would you?" Sam grumbles as his eyes pan across the hangar and he finds yours.

You rush over to the men as quickly as you can manage without tripping over cables and hoses and equipment. You wrap your arm gently around his waist and let him drape his arm across your shoulders. The smell of sweat, blood, and gunpowder assaults your nose.

"Sam...? What happened out there?"

"They knew we were coming. It was a hell of a fight. Steve took the brunt of it. We need to get him down to medical."

Steve grunted from above you. "No. Shower. Need a shower. I can handle it. Been worse."

Sam sighs. "Whatever you say, man. Get your butt to medical as soon as you get out of the shower. Maybe if Y/N asks you nicely, you'll go. You got it from here?"

You nod and help him hobble his way across the hangar.

Back in the safety of your apartment on the other side of the compound, the sounds of the shower and repeated utterance of the word "ow" have finally stopped. The steam billows out into the room as the bathroom door opens and Steve steps out with a towel tucked around his waist. Normally than would cause your stomach to do flips for other reasons, but you could finally see the bruises scattered across his abdomen in addition to the one on his face, the cut on his face was the only one thanks to how effective the suit is.

Your face must have given your worry away. He walks across the kitchen and lifts you out of the chair you had taken up residence in. His arms slide around you, lifting your shirt so he can place wide calloused hands against the soft skin of your lower back.

"I know I worried you, I'm sorry, sweetheart." He breathed the words into your hair as if he was never going to leave again. He let of a soft sigh. "Everything is better now. I'm okay, I promise."

The speaker chirps on and the both you jump slightly. "Captian Rogers, Mr. Stark requests that you meet him and the rest of the team in medical."

"FRIDAY?" Steve's arms snake further around you, tightening his grip. His lips brush your temple with feather-light kisses.

"Yes, Captian?"

"If you don't leave me and my girl alone for the rest of the evening I will shove a computer virus so far up your ass..."

"STEVIE!" you shout, shocked. You smack him across the chest. "Language!"

His blue eyes glitter as he grins down at you before nipping your nose.

"And FRIDAY? Please tell Stark he can handle the team without me for a few hours. I will check in tomorrow." He peppers small kisses across your forehead as he speaks, his hands masagging what he can reach. You have a feeling you aren't going to be moving for a good bit.

"Uh...yes, sir...I will relay the message."

Fic Masterlist

[dannystheone]

Hope it's okay to send this when your requests are closed, I just read your tickling isn't goth fic and my God that was so cute 🥺 is there any chance we could get a fic of Michael messing around with Pete only for Pete to remember Michael admitted he's ticklish so he retaliates?

Yes absolutely! So um I know what I said but

lol I had an idea I'M THE WORST

I've actually had this idea before but I wanted to wait until I could articulate it properly if that makes sense

I hope you enjoy :0

WARNINGS: cursing! mentions of satan and other imagery. also a lot of band references so if it's confusing I'm sorry lol

I'm More Goth Than YOU! (Lee Micheal/ Ler Pete)

This takes place during the 'Basic Cable' episode (Season 23 Episode 9). After finding out that Micheal has already talked to the new girl Sophie, Pete finds himself wanting to discuss a few things with his friend...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"-So we just sat around and listened to Bauhaus when System of a Down came on after that. I was like, what the fuck am I listening to, you know. And they skipped the song like when it came on and it switched to another goth band but that's when I knew they were just another poser." Micheal rambled Pete's ear off while they were watching a scary movie together.

Pete was at Micheal's house as it was the start of the weekend and October, so naturally they had to kick it off right. However, watching scary movies was a year-round activity, so tonight was a bit basic by their standards. The movie of choice was Hereditary, but they've seen it so many times that they could talk and watch at the same time and not miss any beats.

Pete was zoning out if he were being honest. He had his mind set on a girl he had talked to earlier that day. Sophie Gray. She was really pretty and she seemed really cool, not unlike anyone else that went to their school. Even though she was new and Pete didn't really know her yet, he could tell that she was different. Pete laid his cheek on his fist while he thoughtlessly said the first thing that came to mind.

"I don't mind System of a Down if I'm in the right mood," Pete said honestly. Micheal turned to Pete with a look of disgust. Pete was laying on his side on the couch with his left leg bent at the knee and his right leg laid over Micheal's thigh. Micheal pushed Pete's leg off of him and crossed his arms with a sneer on his face.

"God, that's how I know you're a fucking poser," Micheal growled. That got Pete's attention. Pete looked up from the television and set his jaw in anger.

"What did you say?" Pete asked, testing Micheal. There was no way his friend would utter something like that again to his face.

"I'm just saying that no real child of darkness would be listening to something so mainstream. I've heard cheerleaders listen to Chop Suey before." Micheal said with venom in his tone.

"Oh yeah? Then how do you know a single song from the band anyway? You're a hypocrite, Micheal. Op- foreshadowing." Pete pointed to the TV where a hidden Easter egg was shown in the movie.

"Nice catch." Micheal relaxed after that. Micheal allowed Pete to put his leg back up to rest on his thigh so it wasn't hanging off the couch. It seemed like Micheal didn't want to be caught being a poser or a conformist in any way, shape, or form. Pete wondered why that was.

"So uh... that new girl at school. Sophie Gray? Talk to her yet?" Pete tested the waters with Micheal. Sophie had revealed that Micheal had already spoken to her before Pete had, and Gods knows what Micheal was saying about the people at the school. To save his own skin, Pete threw Micheal under the bus and called him a total poser. Because let's face it, no one was more goth than Pete was.

Micheal perked up at her name. "Yeah, she's pretty cool. I offered to show her around campus sometime and she started talking about Skinny Puppy. Can you believe it? She's not a conformist dickhole like every other new kid in South Park." Micheal carded his fingers through his curly hair while Pete stared back at the TV.

"Well, too bad she already accepted my invitation to show her around the school. She even said she wanted to talk later. Guess she's only into real goths." Pete was poking the bear on that one. Micheal turned to Pete with a look of thinly veiled shock.

"What? You talked to her? No way." He asked. Pete shrugged nonchalantly with a small smirk on his face.

"Yeah. She said she's not into posers. Her words." Micheal furrowed his brows at Pete's words.

"Well, I'm not a poser!" Micheal said defensively. Pete's smile only grew as he looked over his shoulder to meet Micheal's eyes.

"Then why would she say something like that? She said she doesn't like guys who try too hard." Pete's smile could be heard in his voice. Michael gave Pete an incredulous look and grabbed onto Pete's calve resting on his thigh.

"Did she actually say that Pete?" Micheal asked. Pete threw up his shoulders and turned his attention back to the TV.

"Are... Are you lying? Pete. Answer me." Pete kept a smug little grin on his face when he felt a hand squeezing the in-between spot of his knee and his thigh. Pete let out a shocked cry as he shook off the hand.

"Ah-hah! What are you doing creeper?!" Pete yelled, fighting to take his leg back. Micheal held onto his leg in a tight grip as he defended himself.

"I want you to answer me about Sophie Gray, dork! I'm not doing this 'cause I like it! Are you lying about what you said?" Micheal pressed.

Now one thing about Pete: He was a TERRIBLE liar. He could make stuff up on the spot about a story that was already established, but coming up with stuff out of thin air under pressure? He began to stutter and jerk his leg in Micheal's grip.

"I- I don't know! It's just what she said! Why do you-" Pete and Micheal both looked at the TV at the same time. The main character had passed by another Easter egg.

"Foreshadowing." They said at the same time.

They turned back to look at each other one more time before Micheal squished the inner part of Pete's knee, creeping into his inner thigh. Pete gave an inward squeak as he began giggling and kicking his leg.

"M-Mihihicheal! Stohohop! You're a weheheirdo!" Pete struggled and snickered while squirming all over Micheal's couch. Micheal hadn't heard Pete's ticklish laugh, or any laugh for that matter, since the tickling ritual at Henrietta's place a few months back. They don't really talk about that day, and for good reason.

"What, are you gonna call me a creep next? You're so mainstream it hurts, Pete. I don't know why Sophie would choose you to hang out with. If she should be hanging out with any goth at the school it should definitely be me." Micheal admitted. Pete managed an eye-roll in the midst of his tickle attack which Micheal definitely caught.

"Sounds like you're je-hehealous! Get off mehehe!" Pete snickered with Micheal grabbing both his lower thighs and squishing into the muscle. Through sheer luck (and some determination) Pete managed to sit up in a different position on the couch and grabbed Micheal by his jacket. Their small tussle took them to the floor of the living room in a bundle of pillows and blankets.

Pete thrust a hand out while blind in the flurry of objects surrounding them and just started to squish his hand over and over. Pete didn't really know why he shot his arm out to retaliate, but something in the back of his mind told him it would work.

His intuition seemed to be right as he felt the random body part he had grabbed start to shake with laughter. Pete forced himself out of the small blanket fort that had fallen on top of them and kept squeezing the body part he had in his hand.

He had Micheal's ribs in his grip, which he held onto for dear life. Satan, Micheal was a squirmer. It was like he was being electrocuted.

"Call me mainstream again, Micheal. Do it. I dare y-" Pete egged on Micheal, but he had never seen this expression on his face before. Micheal's eyes were screwed shut as he laughed out from the small amount of squeezes Pete was administering. Had Pete landed on his death spot by accident?

"Pehehete! Gehehe- *hick!* Gehehehet ohohoff- *hick!* ahahasshole! *hick!*" The sound of Micheal's hiccupy laughter filled the living room. Pete was dumbfounded. He had no idea how to react rather than to keep squeezing. Pete shoved both his hands on either side of Micheal's ribcage and scribbled his fingers into Micheal's bony frame. Micheal burst out into a fresh peal of laughter as he tried tucking his knees into his chest for protection.

"I'm gonna put you in your grave for calling me a poser, Micheal. I should record this and show it to Sophie to prove to her that you're just a ticklish conformist. I bet she'd get a real laugh out of that one. What do you think?" Pete was sure talking big words for someone who was ticklish himself. Micheal could do nothing as his head lay on the carpeted floor and laughed out.

Micheal tried fighting Pete's hands back, but that just raised his arm up and out of the way. Pete took the opportunity and shoved his hand into Micheal's armpit and simply moved his fingers in the space before Micheal snorted and squirmed underneath his friend.

"Gohohohod! Yohohohou- *hick!* yohohohou suhuhuhuhuck! *hick!* Screhehehew ohohohohoff! *hick!*" Despite his words, Pete had it hard taking Micheal seriously, seeing as he had a huge grin on his face and giggled out all of his threatening words. It didn't deter Pete of course, he's heard this all before.

"What did you say? You said I suck? You calling me a vamp kid now, Micheal?" Pete tossed his hair out of his eyes just as Micheal had managed to flip himself onto his belly and started clawing himself away from the situation. Pete launched into action as he grabbed his friend's right arm and barred it into his back.

"L-Let go of me! Sophie Gray knows I'm more goth than you, conformist! This is pointless!" Micheal shouted. Pete let out a disgusted groan as he jammed his fingers into Micheal's side, just underneath his lowest rib. If Pete thought he found Micheal's death spot before, he was dead wrong. Micheal immediately started fighting him and trying to hold back his immense giggles.

"Stahahahap! *hick!* Yohohou're fuhuhucking lahahame- *hick!* Pehehehete!" Micheal's face buried into the carpet of the living room while his shoulders jumped with laughter. Pete was a little shocked for words at how well he was taking control of the situation.

"Oh yeah, I'm lame, Micheal? I'm not the one laughing like a preppy straight-A cheerleader right now. If only Sophie were here, she could see how much of a princess you actually are." Pete had no idea where these fighting words were coming from, especially directed at someone who's always been more commonly revered among the goths AND older than him. Micheal struggled at that last remark but crumbled when he felt Pete finding the divet in his side. That was the spot right there.

"Fuhuhuhuck ohohohohoff! Yohohou- *hick!* Yohohohou're thehehe wohohohohorst! *hick!* Micheal tried lying on the side that was being tickled and swung with his free arm, but Pete was quick to grab the arm and stuff it by the other one and kept both his wrists behind his back in a vice grip. Now Pete alternated between tickling one side and switching to the other randomly.

That was cause for disaster. The randomness of the tickles in Micheal's worst spot kept him laughing as his brain was surprised at every turn where Pete would strike next. Not to mention with his increased laughter, his hiccups increased as well.

Pete could feel Micheal's legs bending at the knee and shooting out behind him over and over again as he sat on his hips. He felt all of his struggling underneath him, but his laugh was what intrigued him most. It was hiccupy yes but it was deeper than his speaking voice, and it had the same rasp to it. It would be more of a romantic laugh if it wasn't infested by those goofy hiccups.

"How much more of this do you wanna take, Micheal? You know what you have to say to get out of this. You have to say you're sorry for calling me a poser, you have to say I'm more goth than you, and you have to say Sophie Gray would prefer me over you showing her around the school cause you're a goddamn dorky ticklish conformist." Pete laid all this out while Micheal immediately started shaking his head.

"Nohohoho wahahahay!! I cahahahan't! *hick!* Ihihihihit's- *hick!* Ihihihihit's toohohohoo muhuhuhuch! *hick!*" Micheal's voice was getting weaker, maybe since he'd gotten tickled a lot longer than Pete was tickled just a moment ago. Pete decided to give Micheal a little boost. Pete let go of Micheal's hands behind his back just for Pete to grab both of his sides and scratch his blunt nails through the thin material of his blouse. Micheal let out a surprised noise as he fell back onto the carpet with his eyes screwed shut in laughter.

"Then I guess we'll stay here a while, Micheal. Say hi to Cthulu for me when you cross into the Ether." Pete flipped his hair out of his eyes while he watched Micheal manage a quick bird-flipping motion with his right hand. Pete groaned audibly as he shoved his fingers into Micheal's armpit, which made Micheal laugh hard.

"Just say you like it-" Pete was about to say before his phone chirped a notification sound. Pete looked back at his phone and decided to give Michael a break. Pete unlatched himself from Micheal's hips as he walked on his knees to read the notification. With Micheal's freedom, Micheal rolled onto his back and gulped in greedy amounts of air with a hand over his beating heart.

"You're a fucking dickhole, Pete... I swear to-" Micheal started, but Pete interrupted him.

"Oh shit. Sophie just invited me to her house. She said she wants to watch something." Pete looked over to Micheal, who was sitting up with a pained expression on his face. It was then that Micheal's phone chirped as well. Micheal pulled his phone out of his pocket and read out the message he received.

"I got an invitation too," Micheal said simply.

"What should we do?" Pete asked. Micheal started typing and sent back a message.

"I asked her what we'll watch," Micheal replied. Pete nodded and flipped his hair out of his eyes before sending the same question to Sophie.

A moment passed before both of their phones chirped at the same time.

"Mandalorian?" They both said out loud in an equally disgusted tone.

"She has a Disney Plus account?" Pete asked.

"Fucking conformist," Micheal said, displeased.

"Nope." Pete and Micheal said in unison before shutting down her invitation.

"Welp, so much for that. What should we do now?" It was then that the main character screamed from the television, grabbing both Micheal and Pete's attention.

Pete and Micheal decided to make up and spend the rest of the night watching cheesy horror movies. None of what they said they actually meant, and they really felt that way. Besides, no way a conformist could actually change the way two REAL goths thought about each other.

Pete did have some interesting stories to tell the rest of the group while Micheal wasn't around, however...

[ms-scarletwings]

Media Musin’ Monday, #7:

Screw You, Nickalodeon: Making Fiends Deserved Better

I have no idea how anyone could seriously believe that the entertainment industrial complex™ even tries anymore to hold the illusion of a just or meritocratic realm. No holds barred, I have my issues with about every company still clinging like barnacles to the tragic, sinking ship that cable TV has become, but if you want me to point to a network that’s given me an entire skeleton of bones to pick by this point, and I’m underlining Nickelodeon in red at the top of my list.

It’s not because they host some bad shows, no. It’s not a sour grapes reaction to the untimely end of some of my favorite shows either, and though the entire rotten apple situation with creators like Dan Schneider and Butch Hartman certainly added to barrel’s spoilage, I would still feel every bit of my disdain for Nick’s tv group for the one cardinal sin they have committed again and again and again to ad nauseum- their ongoing phase of running a talent slaughterhouse.

It sounds hyperbolic, but I’d call it a fair observation: Spongebob is widely aknowledged as legitimately both the best and the worst thing to happen to this corner of kid’s media, hands down, but I don’t blame the little yellow guy one bit. He’s only another victim to the mess, and as much as I would love to go on a whole dossier spiel of the history of Nickalodeon from the 90s “golden age” to a full list of the dozens of shows and creators their execs have royally fucked over in the name of chasing the ratings dragon… for one, that’s been done a hundred times by other people at this point, and much better than I could. For two, that would take all freaking day. Just off the top of any cartoon savvy person’s head you’d vaguely recall the assassination of Legend of Korra, El Tigre, or Invader Zim, but that can is filled with so many “blink and you’ll miss it” smaller shows that were barely given two steps out of the starting gate, it pads down an entire TVTropes article on the subject. Dozens of them, shows that Nick all but basically set up for failure before quietly shipping them to the peaceful farm upstate- by which I mean shuffled off to inconsistent time blocks and lower priority channels so they could burn out their final approved episodes in hospice. Nicktoons alone garnered a hell of a reputation for exactly what I’m talking about, but that’s show biz, or… something.

Their worst and probably most audacious offense of all? Let me tell you about the fate of the charming world of a little girl who made fiends.

There’s no better place to talk about the end than the beginning.

Making Fiends, I mean, the original Making Fiends was a series of flash-animated shorts among a handful of other early 2000s web cartoons made by Amy Winfrey.

✨ Just, in case you didn’t recognize or feel something for that name, Amy Winfrey is one of the utter beasts of cartoons in general, not purely kids’ media. Songwriter, directing, animation, screenwriting, voice acting… you name a part of the process, and she’s probably dipped her toe in there at some point. Professionally, she broke into the industry contributing work to earliest season of South Park, and while she personally is most known for and associated with Making Fiends, the likely most prominent body of work she’s been a part of would be Bojack Horseman, wherein she’s credited as a director for many of its strongest episodes, including (but not limited to):

- “Free Churro”

- “The Telescope”

- "Sunk Cost and All That"

- “The View from Halfway Down”

- Amy Winfrey and her spouse (Peter Merryman) making a cameo appearance in the BJH episode “sunk cost and all that”

And even before all of that, she’s been at this animation stuff since the 90s and it shows in a loaded up portfolio of accolades and projects, both professional and personal.

The relevance of this information is to help put in some perspective to just how rotten of a deal she comparatively got with Nickelodeon, when one of those passion creations got a chance to join the network’s airing list.

But to sum up the idea of the web series proper, it independently released 24 short episodes in total, each centered around the antics of two girls engaged in both a completely one sided friendship and nemesis-ship. The show’s namesake refers to the single action the evil little Vendetta is most known for- creating a variety of servant monsters, many of which she uses to secure her rule over the port town of Clamburg, and all its inhabitants. Charlotte, on the other hand, is the quintessential “children’s show” character: near inhumanly kind, cheerful, and naive. So much so that she’s oblivious to her “best friend’s” near daily attempts to murder her, or the fact that she, you know, despises her.

In 2006, Nickelodeon took an interest in Winfrey’s toon and the prospect of adapting it into a TV series, reportedly because a daughter of a studio employee was a huge fan.

And fun fact btw, this was actually the first time that Nick did this approach of turning an indie web animation into one of their shows, but it certainly wasn’t the last if you remember this was also the origin of Breadwinners.

And as far as the audience was concerned, it was quite the successful transition! The TV version pretty much kept all of the major beats and vibes of the original, with polished animation, the same voice actors, and some stylistic upgrades to the art/environmental designs. For a brief time, it was the highest rated thing on its release channel too. Someone I don’t quite recall the name of once endearingly referred to the show as “baby’s first grimdark” and I adore how fitting of a summary that is. It sports a charmingly unique art style, memorable soundtrack, and I can swear to y’all, the humor aged like a fine wine.

“Why don’t you pretend to be dead?”

“:) ok!”

*slam*

(Also, sidenote, the entire series is still up on your tube, in HD, completely free to watch!)

So, if it’s such a neat little show, then why on earth does barely a soul seem to remember it existing? And even fewer scare who recall knowing about the show during its 2008 release?

Because Nickelodeon Studios, without hyperbole, set this show up for failure at every single turn before it even got a fighting chance.

People know of some shows that Nick treated like garbage, but this one they treated like absolute shit for reasons I can’t fathom.

Making Fiends, for one, never actually saw the light of day on the main network channel, as per the original plans. It was actually instead delegated over to Nick’s sister channel, Nicktoons, by a last minute decision.

Nicktoons, fyi, was not carried by most cable packages. I obviously lived on it as a kid, and it was functionally to Nick what I remember Boomerang being to Carton Network- the cable block where reruns of much older but loved shows were shoveled off to once they finished their days on the main channel.

Second, it was quietly premiered with barely a couple farts of advertising, too. I remember maybe seeing one preview as a kid, on Nicktoons.

And I guess, not keeping either of these in mind, Nick then abruptly pulled the plug on the whole thing, citing the tried and true “low ratings” explanation and leaving it at that.

Not counting years of post-cancelation reruns, the show actively ran from October 4, 2008, to November 1, 2008.

That is roughly a month between premiere and the end production date.

One season. Six entire episodes.

Seven whole additional completed scripts abandoned on the table.

Yeah.

I’m a touch salty about it still.

And with the shutting down of the Nicktoons network social media in 2018, any additional acknowledgment of the show from Nickelodoen themselves has kind of vanished to my knowledge. Like, it’s almost no wonder you already had to be part of the cult following to know about it, when Nick has been quiet about the calf they sent to auction since. Worst part is, they still hogged the rights to the show instead of idk, wild idea, giving it back over to Winfrey. I can only imagine people get away with entire reuploads of the series under the otherwise very IP protective Nick’s nose as another display of how low and bastardly those execs really view Making Fiends.

And that sucks! Wow! But I guess in a “be happy it happened, not sad it ended” way, I’m kind of glad for the fact that we can still enjoy and pass around the show that we did get to experience at all, rather than see it fade into true lost media territory.

Even today, about 16 whole years later, I know for a fact there are still plenty of other fans that remember and cherish the splash this tiny show made in that big, brutal pond. So, in that manner, you can’t truly call Making Fiends dead and gone.

A bittersweet story to think about, and only one of many down a long list, but ultimately one I’m happy to be able to tell at all.

Even if all the while still raising a giant middle finger to the network for the ending.

[synthy-sizer]

You rush outside to see Violence has barely stopped himself from smashing into the ground with an unseen wall. He propels himself with the same force, throwing the drone back and sending it careening into a barn. He turns toward Lust, panting from his exertion. “Lust, gun!” She throws the heavy rifle over and he grabs it. The drone steps out of the rubble and stares down Violence, aiming its gun at him, which immediately explodes in an eruption of shrapnel and gore. The boom of the gun echoes through the farmland.

The drone barely even flinches. It walks forward, brandishing a mess of chainsaws, jagged blades and plasma cutters. He barely blocks it with an invisible barrier. The blades screech against it, and you can faintly see the iridescent glint of it as the metal scrapes along its surface. He once again fires the cannon, this time into its torso. The drone stumbles back. You can see the gaping wound in its chest. There's a hole punched straight through it. But despite that, it doesn't fall. It marches towards Violence. You can see the way the massive wound is already healing, meaty and mentally tendrils spiraling together to fill the gap. Violence grabs the drone and slams it into the ground. He throws a punch at it, projecting a barrier through his fist and pummeling the metal armor plating. More keeps growing, but he keeps throwing punches, smashing the metal bit by bit. Finally, he grabs hold of the visor and yanks with all his might.

The face plate rips off, but what happens next is nauseating. As he pulls with all his strength, wires extend from the soldier's face, dragging out like distended organs. They just keep coming. With the sheer force of the violent yank, Violence's arm is over his head now, and yet cables are pulled and stretched away the entire time, still connected to the face and dragging out of it like a clump of unspooling hoses. There's far more than could ever fit into its skull. You suddenly feel like you're going to puke, and Violence doesn't seem much better. "What the fuck…?" He almost seems to laugh a little in utter disbelief and inability to process what he's seeing. Lust whispers next to you in disbelief. “I knew Apollo did abominable things with drones, but….” Jordan finally steps in. “We need to move. Now that it knows where we are, we’ll have a whole swarm hunting us down.” You turn towards the jeep. It feels as though all you've been doing is running. Are you actually going to be able to find answers, or fix the problems you've unwittingly created? Violence slams his fist into the drone a few more times before rushing over to the jeep. “Don't worry Sofia, we can't kill drones. I'm just buying us time.” Everyone files in. Lust once again takes the driver's seat and revs the engine.

“Sofia?” You recognize the voice. You turn around and see two people you honestly thought you would never see again; your mom and dad. “Lust, wait!” You dash out of the jeep. “Sofia?!” Jordan jumps out to follow you despite her protests. “Sofia, we need to leave, the drone is going to attack us!” You dash across the grass and practically tackle your parents in a hug. “Sofia, I can't believe you're ok,” your dad says as he hugs you back. “Uh, who exactly are these people you're with,” your mom asks? “Hi, my name is Jordan Bernett. Nice to meet you,” Jordan says politely, perhaps a bit too much so given the circumstances. “Sofia! We need to go!” “Just get out of here, get to the broadcasting station! I'll stay with her,” Jordan yells! Reluctantly, Lust and Violence speed off. You and Jordan both turn back to your long-lost family. “Uh, it's sort of hard to explain….” “Harder than that?” Your mom points at the fallen drone, still recovering. “Believe it or not, a bit, yeah.” Jordan shakes her head. “Unfortunately, I'm still a target for drones. We need to get out of sight.” Your dad gestures for you to follow. “Don't worry, we know just the place.”

NEXT

PREVIOUS

[demon-blood-youths]

Also, what about Davion! Do you have more intense wet dreams about him?

Jeez. These anons are freaking noisy. Rust sets his drink down on the table before groaning, "Listen man...are you really here to know about my love life or something? Like what the hell?" Rust doesn't want to say it. There were intense wet dreams that the knight had of Davion. The ones that keep occurring a few times were.

----

"Ha..ha...how does this help?"

"It helps with your muscle and increase your stamina, little knight."

"Nugh....yeah right." Rust doubts it.

The knight and the dragon were in the gym. They were exercising and training as usual. It starts off as tame at first. Like it's the usual workout but then it turns into teasing and then this.

It started out with Davion massaging his joints and his back to ease the nicks of his mucles. Then he went to his chest, and he felt him ghosting over his pecs before rubbing his pecs. Whenever he does this, he flushes his cheeks pink. Davion notices this and starts to tease his pecs further. Of course, Rust tells him to knock off and it leads to where the knight tells Davion that he can build up resistance to his touches.

To prove his point, Davion presents a challenge for the little knight that he can't say no to. A small bet. It starts off with using toys. A vibrator inside as he is using the exercise machines. Crazy bastard. He is sweating and heated, trying to focus on his sets. But he had to mess with him by adjusting the settings on this damn thing.

He is doing sets by lifting dumbbells in each arm. He focus on his sets but the toy is vibrating his spots, making his legs tremble a bit. He tries to steel his nerves as he continues his sets. "Seriously...how does this help?" "What's wrong, little knight? Are you tired already?" Davion teases as he is holding the remote in his hand. Rust huffs, "Faaar from it...hnng. I can still keep going." He said while his cheeks were flushed pink. He won't let Davion win. No way. However..things are getting harder from there.

He is doing sets on the leg press machine. He rests his back against the padded seat and presses his legs upwards against the pad that is attached to the weights. Davion said it helps with his legs. But he wants to see if he can handle the sensation in his ass while doing sets. He pushes his legs against the pad, doing his set. Every time he pushes, the vibrator touches his sensitive spots making him grit his teeth. After finishing his sets, he pants.

"Ha..ha...ha...."

"Was that hard for you?" Then Davion blinked, seeing the sweating Rust whose face heated and with his eyes half-lidded. Seeing him like this makes him tempting. He wants to take him right now.

"Fuck..." Rust uttered. And soon, they move away from the toys and go for the real thing. By the real thing, it means Davion is buried inside Rust while he is standing up, pulling the handles.

"Haaaa....haaa..."

Rust is using the cable crossover machine by pulling the handles while Davion is holding him steady. The blond gasped before growling a little. The dragon's hard girth is rubbing at the right spots making him gasp and drool a little.

"What's wrong? Are you doing alright?" Said the dragon, nibbling the lobe of his ear making the blond pant. "Mhmmm...I'm fine...you crazy dragon." He said with his cheeks heated. "A-almost done..." He pulls his head away from him.

"Good. Then can you help me with some sets. I need a spotter." Davion chuckled.

-----

The dream is visual and....damn....what would he call it? Kinky? What the fuck? What the hell is wrong with him?

----

He was helping Davion with the weights. He got on his lap while holding onto him. His bottom half is bare while straddling his lap. He panted. "How..how would this help?" Rust asked, wincing a bit.

"This is training for my cock and for your hips." Davion said at his ear while the blond is holding onto him. Davion is using the overhead press machine with Rust on his lap or rather on his hard girth, bouncing on it. While he is doing sets, Rust makes sure to hold on while counting. Seeing the look on the blond's face made the dragon hungrier and hungrier. He wants to eat him up.

"Ha...ha...damn." Rust said. "17....18...ah.....19....hrk...20." He said, uttering the counting wile closing his eyes. He keeps moving his hips down when Davion thrusts up when doing his sets.

After doing that...

----

Rust's cheeks flushed even redder, he hid his face in his hands before pulling his hoodie down. Darn it. Why does he keep remembering that dream?! He is getting aroused by this.

----

"Haahhh...fuck...hahhhahh...how much...longer?...oohhhhh" Rust whined as he is on his back with his hips lifted and being held by the dragon as the blond's legs were hooked under his arms. His lower back is off the mat and only his upper back is on the mat. Davion grunts as he keeps thrusting his hips forward making the knight moan and mewl.

"Ah...fuck....hnnng..." Rust panted as there is drool from the corner of his mouth.

The duo are on a gym mat that is being used for sit-ups, push-ups, and other exercise positions. And what they're doing is an exercise position. Or rather....Davion calls it that despite Rust knowing this is a sex position they're in.

The blond had his wrists tied up by jump rope, making this more hotter and dominant. He never thought that they would do this here in the gym!

The knight gasps and moans as the dragon keeps thrusting into him deeply. He also snaps his thrusts making him cry out loud. "Ah..AH! FUCK!"

"Hahaha...I won't be able to keep up this. How many sets are we in, little knight?"

"Is this for me or for you?" He complained but his rear got spanked making him yelp. "For both of us, my treasure." Davion chided him with a smirk making Rust flush redder. "now where were we?" Davion corrects him before giving another powerful thrust. The blond screams before he tries to remember where they are at.

"Um....um...20...20 more." The knight answers under him. "20 more sets to go." He said with his tongue out with half-lidded eyes. The blond isn't sure if he can withstand anymore of this. But he doesn't want this to stop. Damnit. It feels too good.

"Good boy." Daivon said, continue to thrust into him. Rust tightens up hearing that and looks up towards the ceiling. He can't even buck his hips since Davion has them in a tight grip. "Fuck...Davion...don't stop..."

"Don't worry...like you said...we got 20 sets to go!" Davion proceeds to increase the pace, hitting his prostrate dead-on making his knight moan loudly. "N-NOT THERE! DON'T HIT THERE!"

"You mean here???" Daivion delivers a precise pounding at the right spots, making the blond leak out as he throws his head back with a pleasurable scream. "Now keep track...little treasure."

"I-I will! I WILL!" Rust obeyed as he counted once more. The dragon chuckles and says, "I guess I win this bet, don't I?" He keeps on pounding.

"Y-yeah...you did!" Rust moaned. Davion keeps on going and it's hard to keep track. Rust cries and tightens up, he's getting close. Really close. Davion growls as he is getting close, not letting up as he keeps plowing and claiming his knight once more.

"Ah...I'm getting close. Are you close?" Davion asked, not stopping until his treasure cums.

"Y-yeah...I am. Need your heat! PLEASE! I want it!" Rust cried.

"Then let's come together!" Davion exclaimed before letting out a roar as both came.

------

In reality, Rust had to sit down and put his head in his hands. He tries to close his legs together. "Go away...anon. Not telling ya"

For @the-silver-peahen-residence

[qqueenofhades]

If it makes your journo anons feel any better, i absolutely stopped paying attn to any election analysis coming from people who live outside my district LOL esp after the election. I LOVE YOU GUYS its necessary incredible work etc. But uhhh idk after 2016 i stopped watching cable news and after 2020 i stopped reading anything under 10 pages by topic. I hoped that american journalism would continue its long tradition of committment to truth &independence but esp seeing some ppl i admire on twitter its like. Oh. I see. The professional standards have dropped and i saw journos i really liked get obsessed with "takes" and "i told you so" moments. Disheartening inshallah national pundits are dumped after being dead wrong 4 elections in a row now lol

Being a political talking-head pundit is apparently the only job where you can get it absolutely, incredibly, ludicrously dead wrong, get to spread your wrong ideas to other people, and then just... forget all about it, pretend it never happened, never talk about your wrong predictions and the impact they might have had, and move right on to being wrong about something else. As long as you're still getting paid, who cares?

Anyway, maybe this is once more my Oldness talking, but especially in the world we live in now, I don't think Being Neutral is the right standard to strive for. I wish the news cared more about being factual and critical, rather than Being Neutral or providing a narrative that everyone can use to support whatever they believe, because Every Opinion Is Valid! But because it is not profitable to do this, and we live in a capitalist hellscape that functions to preserve the interests and wealth of the profit-makers, we instead get the Facebookification of news, where what is objectively correct is conflated, dangerously so, with whatever makes you feel good and confirms your pre-existing biases. So because that also makes money, there's no incentive to stop it.

...in short, yes, I am absolutely the embodiment of Old Man Yells At Cloud right now, but still. Considering the utter and relentless devaluation of empirical information, anything that you don't like and therefore isn't true, and the privilege of information that supports You over the privilege of information that supports others and/or the entire real world, it's no wonder at all that we are in this mess.

[demo-bats]

Yay I'm so happy you like my drawing! I do have a request if you don't mind writing it. I'd like a cute story about Eddie and a shy girl who works at an electronic shop. I imagine Eddie has to go to the shop sometime when he needs something for his electric guitar.

a/n: thanks for the request! i really enjoyed writing this. i tweaked it a little, hope you don’t mind! looking forward to any more art/requests :D

& ,, STALKER IN AISLE FIVE

eddie munson x gn!reader

warnings: mentions of sexual themes, eds calling himself a pervert lol, lots of awkward convo and fluff.

you notice a certain curly-haired nerd frequently visiting your workplace. finally, you decide to acknowledge his stalking. 1.9k

WORKING at Hawkins’ electronic store was not on your bucket list. Sure, you were fascinated by the up-and-coming technology that was slowly progressing as the years went on. But that didn’t stop your distaste for having to actually go in for your shifts.

Although the summer job had slowly spread into the rest of the year and your mind was ready to explode, you’d be lying if you said working there was all bad.

There was at least one thing you enjoyed. A certain curly-haired ‘freak’ who had a habit of stopping by multiple times a week.

You’d noticed him around three months ago. He had pranced in, mop of curls bouncing with every step he took. He was pretty to look at, although extremely eccentric, and you gathered that’s most likely the reason why your eyes had drifted to him in the first place.

But what held your gaze was how it was extremely obvious that he was coming there to see you.

You had only joined Hawkins High for your senior year, trying your best to avoid as many people as possible. You weren’t exactly the most friendly — Curse your awkwardness in social situations — But despite your quiet demeanour and sarcastic humour as a defence mechanism for your nerves, you had caught his eye years ago.

He’d thought he’d lost his chance to speak to you when you had graduated, but seeing you working here had felt like some sort of sign. He didn’t believe in God, but somebody had taken pity on him, and he would forever be doing penance for that.

The small, rusted bell above the door chimes as the hinges squeak, announcing a customer has arrived. You don’t bother looking up from your magazine, knowing already who’d be stupid enough to come in at 8:02am. 

You can feel a set of eyes on you as he wanders across the various aisles of cables and antennas, watching your chest press against the wooden counter. The only sound that fills the store is his heavy footsteps and the occasional turn of your page.

He feels like a pervert. The shame creeps up on him continuously when he finds himself staring, observing every small move you make. It’s the only thing that gratifies him, even though it’s just a reminder that he can’t find the courage to actually have a conversation longer than three sentences.

You sigh upon hearing him halt, never tearing your eyes away from the bold images in front of you. If he isn’t going to make a move, then maybe you can find some confidence from somewhere. “Can I help you, Eddie?”

Crash.

“Uh…” he lets out slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He takes a quick peek at the mess of display tapes he’s knocked over, cursing internally at his body’s reaction to hearing you speak his name. “Clean up on aisle five?”

You try not to smile, tilting your head down further to hide your amusement. “Better put those hands to good use then.”

Eddie tries to ignore the sexual meaning he takes away from your words, burning red as he drops to his knees dramatically to quickly to stack the shelf again. He tries to organise them, but the current state of his bedroom proves that he’s already no good at that. You can hear him curse from your position behind the desk, despite him uttering it under his breath.

“Just leave it,” you announce quickly, worried you’d put far too much pressure on him. You’d only meant it as a joke, not expecting the boy to actually fold in half and bend to your commands. It’s a little too much power to hold, something you’d never experienced before. “I get paid to do that, so…”

“Right,” he lets out, trying to smoothly saunter up to the counter. He ends up whacking his knee into another cabinet on the way there, earning an actual physical laugh from you this time. He feels proud, despite knowing deep down that you’re really just laughing at his pain. If a fool is his part to play, then he’ll play it with an award-winning performance. “Anyways, uh, I’m here to…” He scans the shop, desperately looking for an excuse. “Guitar strings. Want ‘em. Need ‘em, actually. Pesky thing...”

He trails off with an awkward laugh, watching your eyebrows raise in amusement. You let him ramble on about the importance of his music and how sacred it is, unable to find your voice after initially greeting him. It’s something you’ve always struggled with. The sole reason you had graduated with decent grades but not a single person to celebrate that achievement with. You wanted interaction, but with the students of Hawkins High already making assumptions about your quietness, it was hard to do so.

Eddie notices your silence after a minute or two, cheeks reddening from his mouth’s persistence. He tilts his head, a grin widening on his face when you match his smile. “Yeah… and you definitely don’t get paid enough to deal with idiots like me.”

“You’re not an idiot,” you state almost immediately, words coming out a little raspy. You weren’t even sure what you wanted to say in response to so much attention from one person, but luckily your brain makes that decision for you for once. “Kind of chatty, but that's okay.”

“Usually my voice can lull a thousand people. I’m like a siren, truly.” He gets another laugh from you, one that’s snorted and entirely unattractive. To him? It’s the most beautifully raw sound he’s ever heard. He decides then and there that he’s already in love with it. “Guitar strings? Yes?”

You falter, suddenly coming back down to reality from the cloud he’d ascended you to. Of course, the essential thing he’d ‘come in’ for. Even though you know it’s just a rouse, you can’t help but feel bad when you break the news to him.

“You… know this is an electronics store, right? We don’t sell anything, like, remotely close to guitars.” You watch his smile evidently drop, although he manages to somehow keep the corners of his lips upturned. There’s a flash of rejection that passes over his eyes, a look that has your heart squeezed impossibly tight. Eddie is the only person who’s remotely considered approaching you, other than the band of jocks that occasionally took a dig at your shy nature. In light, he was the only person who’d been kind. You didn’t want to let that go. 

You can see the tops of his thighs twitch, the only part of his legs visible from where you’re standing. It’s enough to alert you that he’s going to leave, and although this is your first time conversing something other than ‘Enjoy your purchase’ or ‘Have a nice day’, you found yourself oddly connected to him.

So much so, that you offer the only thing that comes to your mind.

“W-We do sell amps though!”

Eddie Munson finds himself the new owner of a glossed amplifier a few moments later, covering the empty hole in his wallet where his cash should be with a forced smile. He’ll have to explain the lack of groceries to his uncle later. Something a lot better than wanting to impress a person he finds attractive.

“Aaaand here’s your receipt. You can return it within ten days if there’s any issues. Company policy, and all that fine print stuff…” You don’t finish the rest of your trained response, deciding he’s probably bought enough things in here over the last few months to know what you’re going to say. He simply nods, patting the large speaker awkwardly on the desk.

“Forgot how big these things are,” he begins, smoothing his palm over the dials and buttons as you draw your bottom lip between your teeth to suppress another laugh. He lets out a low whistle, and you ignore how your neck begins to flush with heat at the sound. “Like, wayyyy too big. Huge. Enormous, even-”

“You already have an amp, don’t you?” You finally put him out of his misery, watching his nose scrunch in embarrassment before he pats the speaker again, this time a little more forcefully.

“...Yeah.”

You open the till. “Okay, give it back. I’ll refund you-”

“W-What? No- No no no, I can take it. I don’t wanna get you in trouble, or anything- I’m a bad influence but not this bad.” He rushes out, hands waving in front of his face in frantic motions. You reach forward bravely, taking a hold of them to still his movements.

His breath hitches.

You strain your neck to look behind him, gazing over the empty parking spots out front on the street. They’ve been barren since last night. “I don’t see your van outside. There’s no way I’m going to actually let you carry that.” You chuckle along with your words, watching Eddie blink rapidly at you.

“You know my van?” He asks out of disbelief, but there’s a hint of a teasing tone to his words. He doesn’t mean to. However, there’s a natural charm and cockiness to him that never seems to cease. You kind of like it.

The sound of the register opening distracts him from his shocked stare, coins jingling within the metal. You count out the bills he’d handed over, sliding them across the counter with another timid grin.

“Being off the radar means I do a lot of observing,” Eddie gingerly reaches up to swipe the money, short-circuiting when his fingers envelop yours, unmoved from where you had originally laid them down. “Like what car you drive, and the new patch on your jacket, and the fact that you’ve been in here five times this week already.”

This time, Eddie blushes. A full-on rosy tint that spreads across his cheeks like the first brush stroke to an empty canvas. It paints him beautifully, mentally applauding yourself for finding comfortability in talking to him. It’s a personal success you can celebrate later.

“I… didn’t realise you could see me.” He admits honestly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he takes a quick glance around the store. His body physically turns to spy his multitude of hiding spaces, ones that he’s thought were somewhat decent. He hides his dismay well.

“You’re kind of hard not to look at,” Eddie nearly contracts whiplash at your response, eyes wide and mouth agape at your somewhat confession. Him? Lanky, scrawny, non-showered, freaky nerd Eddie Munson? You giggle at his obvious starstruck expression, deciding to take another leap of faith. You lean forward over the counter with the cash in hand, fingertips tracing the waist of his jeans as you stuff the bills into his front pocket. “See you same time tomorrow for those guitar strings?”

Eddie nods, body numb and on auto-pilot as he backs out of the store. His parted lips soon pull together to produce a grin when he reaches the door, green notes protruding from his pocket like some sort of ‘mark’ you’d left on him. He tries not to let his mind wander too far at that idea, for his own sanity.

“It’s a date.” He mutters eagerly, despite knowing that a ten minute conversation at your workplace is the worst romantic idea he’s ever come up with.

Still, you eat up every ounce of his dorky charm with a wide grin and a flutter in your stomach. “Yeah... It's a date, stalker in aisle five.”

[littlefreya]

Bark at the Moon

Summary: Walter always comes to you when he needs a hard release. Tonight he seems to need it more than ever.

Pairing: Werewolf!Walter Marshall x Female Reader 

Word count: 2K (WTF it was supposed to be a drabble)

Warnings: 18+, sex, lycanthropy, supernatural themes, no strings attached, vaginal fingering, oral performed on female, primal play (slight biting and scratching), cockwarming, slight denial, angst, fluff and romance.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

A/N: Not me naming my AUs after Ozzy Osbourne songs/albums. Following my post from October I am trying to follow up. This one-shot is also inspired by A Company of Wolves and @fishcustardandclintbarton​ moodboard. Many thanks to my beta and muse and dear friend @agniavateira​ for all the help. 

Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed 🖤

Title: Bark at the Moon

Muddy Timberlands dragged across the worn doormat as the large detective sought to rid himself of the dirt caking his soles. Black and soft, the dark mane of curls hung loosely above his forehead, a pale blue sheen cascading over each ringlet that concealed his face while he kicked his feet like an unruly child.

An instinct within pressed you to reach a wandering hand and entwine your fingers between those healthy locks. But ironically, touching Walter screamed ‘taboo,’ as if he wasn't going to finish wet and messy inside you anyway. 

Otherwise, he wouldn't have been here. 

"Rough evening?" you murmured, taking a long whiff of air. Traces of coffee drifted from his breath, mingling with the brisk November chill that wafted over your face.  

It's not that you didn't enjoy his company; it's just that Walter left you with nothing but bitemarks, bruises, and dirty sheets. A foreigner to this country even after all these years, Walter was much like the salty rocks from the islands that bred him: hardened and crude, yet smooth at the edge where the water licked the stone. Some evenings he wouldn't even speak; the moment his boots made it past the doorway, all civilised manners flew out the window, luring the beast to wander. Shredding your outfit, he’d fuck you to tears, shaking you the way a canine carnivore stuns its prey and then unload himself into you until you ached and begged him to stop.

Once stripped off his uniform, the sullen cop was no different than the deviants he shoved behind iron bars. Little did it matter, you loved him enough for the two of you, and though you knew you were a toy to pass the time, he always crawled back to you with that deprived agonised sparkle staining his gaze. 

After what seemed like an endless battle between his shoes and the bristly rug, he finally paused and slowly lifted his chin. Marine-blue irises peered below thick brows, and a red rim of weariness perfected his customary scowl. 

"Yeah," he drawled with indifference, "got any beer?"  

Observing him for a moment, you studied the sharp ridges of his furrowed brow and nodded, turning to let him in. Despite his heavy frame, he followed with lithe stillness, stepping into your house without making a sound while you advanced to the kitchen. 

Whatever happened tonight must have left another dent in the coarse material that made this man. You often mused on the things he must have seen and found out it’s better not to ask. 

You reached for the fridge when his arm wrapped around your waist by surprise and snatched you back, hauling you flushed against his broad chest. Briefly, he nuzzled your nape, his parted lips huffing hot against your skin. His breath carried the pained melody of a sad longing animal, an ache so great it seeped through the pores of your skin and infected you with his grief. 

You weren’t afraid of the beast but felt sorry for it.

“I need to feel you,” Walter rasped, a timbre of plea in his baritone. Palm swiping greedily at your breast and his cock hard and hungry, he ground his hips at the cleft of your ass. Like the black, shaggy dog that he was, he sniffed the air and then rubbed himself further against your jeans, seducing the wanton animal within you to come out of its hiding. 

“You want me too, I can smell it, I can smell your cunt.” 

Where was the lie?

With a guttural growl, he turned you to face him, skilful hands already making tatters of your clothes and his fangs nipping your throat. Caged in his grasp, you hissed and shuddered out of fear and lust. A part of you was always frightened that one night Walter will pierce an artery by mistake at the heat of the moment whilst another, more archaic urge, called for the sweet passion that was your Thanatos.

Succumbing to both urges, you forced his cable-knit sweater off, exposing his muscular, beefy torso and splaying your hands down his flexing pecs to feel the soft, dark fur that covered his chest and belly. Everything about Walter was large and charged with virility, twisting your moral compass and making any argument weak in his presence. Staring at the bulge in his trousers, you gnawed your bottom lip, giving to the pang of hunger that shot through your clenching core while your wicked fingers began to fumble with the clasp of his belt. 

With a low roar rumbling in his chest, he scrutinised you as if this was a trial, his eyes flashing, anticipating you to reach and grab his large cock. 

“Fuck…” his sonorous voice caressed your ears. He quickly slid his hand down your trousers, grabbing a handful of your ass before gliding his fingers to feel between your engorged petals. 

A tempest of moans unfurled from your clenching throats once you squeezed his shaft in your palm, choking around the veins adorning the meaty girth.

“You are always so wet for me, always so ready,” he uttered and licked your cheek. 

“Walter, please!” 

At your plea, his fingers slipped deep inside your burning cavern. Back and forth, he probed your little slit, spreading thick wetness across your mound and further up your virginal ass to taunt you. 

Before you met Walter you vowed that you’ll never be into that kind of debauchery. But whenever the bulbous crown of his cock accidentally teased your puckered hole, the only thing you could muster to think of was how much you wanted him to fill every empty inch within you.  

Long, nimble fingers dug deep, parting your sealed walls asunder in an endeavour to find the small heap of pleasure that regressed you to savagery. You were nothing but an instrument of pleasure, gyrating to the melody he composed by the rhythm of his thrusts, following every note. He made you shudder, made the earth below split in half and all the while, he held back and watched. A sick mist of curiosity hovered over the frigid ocean that was his glance, mindful of how logic and reason drained from your face, leaving you utterly incoherent and primal. 

Just as he was.

He crooned at your whimpers and nodded at the desperation dripping from your gaze. Hips swaying, you wriggled against his hand in a frustrated attempt to reach for the tendrils of ecstasy that loomed inches from your grasp.

“You want to come, love?” he asked, almost patronising. His brow lifted, and his eyes flared with what you could only describe as pity.

“Yes! Please! Please make me come!” 

His fingers tore from your sleek with a sudden haul, leaving you a trembling, outraged mess. Yet you had no time to curse him for denying your pleasure. Moving faster than your thoughts, Walter stripped your trousers and slammed you rear onto the counter. Kneeling between your spread legs, his strong hands gripped your thighs and dragged your cunt into his bearded jaw.

“Fuck!” 

His mouth wrapped around you in a lover’s embrace, his silky tongue plunging between your lips to savour the honeyed nectar that dripped from your tightening core. Thoroughly devouring your cunt, Walter hummed. Raw, unfiltered, and unbound, he laved every inch within as if he was dining at Olympus and feasting on ambrosia for the first time. Arching back, you dared to entangle your fingers in his curls and ride his bristly face until you succumbed to the furious, quaking bliss that spasmed within your womb and consumed you into rapturous euphoria. 

Engulfed in a veil of blissful darkness, you continued wailing, heaving, and slumping on the counter. Puny jitters of aftershock trod upon your throbbing flesh while Walter finished his feast with languid laps of his tongue.

Once you blinked your eyes open, Walter stood straight between your legs, now fully naked, peering at you quietly. His eyes were aglow with all the conundrums he could never speak. Still hazy from your ecstasy, you stared back with awe, drinking each taut bulging muscle and worshipping the feral, beastlike entity that he was. Not even the scars on his body could steal away his unspoken pride. 

Reaching a hand for his imposing cock, he crept closer and glared straight into your soul as he pressed himself into your tight little entrance. A loud groan thundered through your kitchen as he pushed in, erupting into the most melodic war cry which never failed to astound you once he penetrated you. Still clenched from your orgasm, you gritted your teeth and whimpered in pain, not quite ready to have all of him at once. Yet Walter wasn’t keen on stopping and continued delving deeper and deeper, despite your nails tearing fresh new trails of blood down his shoulders.

“Wait!” you pleaded, yelping when he suddenly bottomed out inside you.

An arduous gasp tore from his lips, and his forehead dropped on your shoulder. Stilling inside you, he breathed in the mien of a wild creature, trying to regain his composure for a brief moment as he timed his assault. Fingers etched below your thighs, he pulled you up with ease and carried you through the apartment whilst still buried inside you.

Confused by his actions, you hung your arms around his thick neck and clung to his body, welcoming the soft brush of his hide against your naked breasts. 

Soon, you found yourself on your bed with him seated beneath you while your legs enveloped his wide waist. Nestled between your cinching walls, his cock throbbed full of rage, desperate for the unbridled friction that Walter forbade as he refused to move. Milking every drop of his self-control, he vigorously fought to dominate his desire. 

With his shaft pulsating hot and buried completely within your womb, your previous orgasm felt like a distant dream and a fresh new need soon awoke, begging your body to writhe on top of him and take what you were promised by force. But Walter was in no rush to unmake any part of you just yet. Securing one arm around the small of your back while the other held your jaw, he made you stare directly into his eyes. 

Bare more than ever, he allowed you to glimpse through the cracks that creased his beautiful blue eyes, showing you the pure terror harbouring the heart of darkness that lived within him. 

Perhaps, a part of him desired you to break and cast him away from you, to say ‘nevermore.’

Mercy softened your face instead. 

Enamoured and embroiled with curiosity, you allowed yourself to roam freely, gliding both your eyes and fingertips to descend the delectable plains of his body. Tender and careful, you stroked a soothing touch over the elevated scar tissue the way one pets a wounded creature, your gentle caress painting over the large claw mark that marked him years ago and left him cursed.

Walter followed the movement of your hand. His chest sinking with a low roar, his cock twitched and swelled inside your protesting canal while he remained immobilised and kept himself sheltered in the warmth of your sanctuary.

“Last night,” he finally spoke, his voice soft yet drenched with hesitation while his eyes dropped to stare into nothing for a shy moment. “Last night, when I turned... I… killed someone…” 

Your heart clenched in anguish along with the seams of your cunt. All the hurt that flowed in Walter’s blood now mingled into yours, ascending your body from the spot where you were coupled. 

What you wanted most of all was not to run. No. You desired to suck the poison tainting his veins and swallow it instead, unable to bring yourself to do anything but love him more than you did earlier. 

Spreading your legs further to each side of his hips, you moved closer and wrapped your arms around him. Nails biting into his muscular back you clutched him tightly, making a firm statement of your unwillingness to spite him for his actions. 

Because, even a beast needs to be protected and cared for. 

* Disclaimer: I don’t own Night Hunter/Nomis or Walter Marshall * Dividers by @firefly-graphics​​

[thefanficmonster]

The Five Scares (and one revenge)

Corpse Husband x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Swearing 

Genre: FLUFF, Humor, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: Having a tendency to scare people, Corpse has gotten used to his friends being jumpy whenever he appears from the void into a Discord call with them. However, the one who has it the roughest with the spooks has to be his partner Y/N. Basically: The five times Corpse scared Y/N and the one time they scared him

Requested by Anon. Hi darling! Thank you so much for your lovely request it was a real joy to write and I had a ton of fun doing so! Hope you have equally as wonderful of a time if you happen to come across it and give it a read despite the long wait you’ve had to endure which I apologize for. Love, Vy ❤

I

Having had to go home for the night to keep an eye on their roommate’s dog, Y/N and Corpse agreed to have a video call before they fell asleep. They didn’t want to appear like that typical clingy and cheesy couple but after spending almost a whole week curled up in Corpse’s apartment, the two would feel each other’s absence to a very saddening degree to the point where they’d even forget the other isn’t around and would call out to them. 

Letting the call ring, Y/N’s hand comes up to smooth out their hair. However, the touch reveals to them that their hair needs a bit more than a simple tap or a pat to be tamed so while they wait for Corpse to answer the call, they quickly head to their bathroom. Flicking the light on, their reflection greets them with the underwhelming news of the actual state of their hair at the moment: an absolute mess. They proceed to do their best with the single hair-tie they have handy. A bobby pin or two would be neat but they have no time to go and grab one right now, seeing as how they can’t recall if they even brought them back from Corpse’s apartment. If they didn’t, they would have to search their roommate’s room for some which would take an even longer amount of time.

Eventually, they manage to tame it in something closely resembling a presentable ponytail and exit the bathroom feeling more exhausted than before. With a loud sigh, they crash onto their bed, face-first into the sea of pillows, groaning at the slight sting of their muscles relaxing at last.

“Y/N?“ The decently loud mention of their name by a deep, familiar yet sudden and unexpected voice startles them to the point of squealing and jumping an entire inch away from where they were positioned.

They look around their room in a frenzy, wondering where on Earth that voice came from and how it could be here with them right now.

“Y/N, you there?”, before they could locate it, it emerges once again, helping Y/N get an ide of where it’s coming from - somewhere in the messed up bed sheets.

“Corpse?“ They finally find their voice, “Y-yeah I’m here. Question is: how are you...“ and then it all clicks, causing them to twist their face in an expression of utter disappointment and bury it in the palms of their hands, groaning.

“You forgot about the video chat, didn’t you?“ Corpse asks, amusement not even attempted to be hidden in his voice.

“Yup.“

II

It’s been one hell of a day. Y/N’s college lectures exhausted them to a max and their six hour job following their classes did nothing to help them AT ALL. Quite the opposite actually. Makes sense why they look, move and talk the way they’re doing right now: like a ghost, zombie and an elder combined in one. To add to their misfortunes for the day, they were met with the mocking ‘OUT OF ORDER’ sign taped to the doors of the elevator, laughing in their face with the information that their hellish experience for the day is far from over.

Just the thought of having to climb to the fifth floor made their stomach turn in the most unpleasant way possible, but the though of how long that would take made matters even worse. Arriving at their designated apartment, they have every right to be pissed, cussing their heart out. 

However, then comes a new problem: the inability to pinpoint the correct key. They proceed to curse themselves, the keys, the door handle and the door itself before punching the poor wood that did no wrong and just stands here, serving its purpose of keeping unwanted people out of the apartment it’s guarding.

Following their anger outburst and front-door-abuse, they proceed to try finding the correct key once again, this time slightly more calmly as to not accidentally miss it in their frantic rifling.

Right as they’re about to try the third key, however, the door opens. Well, it’s opened by someone on the other side, that someone being none other than their boyfriend Corpse who’s currently staring at them wide-eyed, one eyebrow raised, the word ‘confused’ basically written across his face.

While he’s processing the sight in front of him, Y/N lets out a little scream, jumping back and away from the door, a hand placed over their chest as their wide eyes scan their boyfriend who now seems equally terrified as a result of their reaction.

“Corpse?!“ They manage to gasp, barely hearing their own voice over the loud thumping of their heart and the rush of blood in their ears, “What the hell are you doing here?!“

The confusion on Corpse’s face deepens, reaching whole new levels as his eyes gaze deeper into theirs, searching for the meaning behind their bizarre question. “You mean...at my own apartment? What am I doing, at home?“

For a few seconds, the two just stare blankly at one another, processing everything that’s just happened. Suddenly, it all just kinda caves for Y/N and they burst out laughing, doubling over, their arms clutching at their stomach as they do so. Their laughter is contagious, so Corpse can’t help but let out a few chuckles himself.

“Alright, you’ve been driven to insanity, I can tell.“ He mumbles at his reckless partner, coming up behind them and wraps his arms around them, lifting them up and carrying their laughing ass inside.

III

Finally deciding to sit down and get this damn project started, Y/N already feels like they’ve had enough of it, burnout already creeping in and threatening to ruin their work and trip them up every step of the way. It wouldn’t have been so bad had the subject not been one they absolutely despise and wish they could get out of studying but alas they’re stuck with it.

They equip their headphones as soon as they plant their butt on the desk chair in their tiny room in their tiny roommate-shared apartment, putting their Spotify playlist on shuffle as they open a blank Power Point document. They work better with music blasting in their ears since the silence tends to be too loud and distracting when they’re trying to focus. So, that way they can also sing their heart out in peace and not get disturbed by the sound of their own off-key singing. Win-win, basically.

Singing ‘Never Forget You’ by Zara Larsson and MNEK, they get a little carried away, ditching the project to enter a full-blown music video they can imagine down to the detail in their mind.

However, there’s a surprise awaiting them.

As soon as MNEK’s part of the song begins, another voice apart from his echoes through their headphones, singing along to the song. Freaking the fuck out, they let out a loud scream, smacking the headset off them, sending the object falling and landing on their laptop keyboard with a crash that only serves to further startle their roommate’s dog which comes to check if they are being attacked or something only to be disappointed by the lack of action.

When pushing the headphones off, they did so with a force strong enough to snap the cable out of the laptop entirely so now the room is filled with the sound of that same foreign voice laughing his ass off.

A voice that belongs to no other than Corpse Husband himself.

“You gotta learn to disconnect from Discord calls, Y/N.“ The fucker says, still cackling wholeheartedly at his partner’s misery.

Pissed off or not, Y/N would have to admit he’s got a point. But they’d also rather never speak again than admit it so...

“Fuck you!“ is what they say instead, seconds before disconnecting.

IV

Making breakfast is not something either Corpse or Y/N are used to, mostly cause they both either wake up late or skip the meal entirely. Regardless, having been given a day off from work and having no classes since it’s Saturday, Y/N saw no better way to start their day off than to prepare a nice breakfast for them and their boyfriend to enjoy. Problem is: they aren’t the most skilled in the kitchen. Sure they can scramble an egg or make mac and cheese, but in order to do it correctly they are not allowed to have distractions of any kind. Not even music, that’s how you know it’s serious.

Seeing as how Corpse has never seen them cook, he’s obviously unaware of theirs. The dummy straight up waltzes into the kitchen, unintentionally remaining unspotted and unheard by Y/N because he’s barefoot and because they have their back turned to him.

“Whatya cooking over there babe?“

Y/N’s focus bubble, being as thin as it is and considering they initially thought Corpse was still asleep, they have every right to let out the yelp they just did, dropping the egg they were gonna crack over the pan in said pan in its entirety - yes, shell and all.

A moment of silence commences: regretful on Corpse’s end and frustrated on theirs. Neither of them dares to say anything to avoid triggering the other. Well, that’s the case until Y/N decides enough’s enough and they turn to look at him, a wide, obviously fake smile plastered onto their face.

“Scrambled eggs, following a secret recipe, property of the L/N family.“

Seems like your pre-breakfast snack is an extra large dose of sarcasm, huh?

V

“So, how was your day? You sound pretty chipper so I take it wasn’t a nightmare like a few days ago.“ Corpse comments over the phone, listening to shuffling and shifting as Y/N moves around the apartment, getting ready to head out.

“It was great actually. Got some important results back and, not to brag or anything, but they were higher than I expected.“ They reply, a genuine wide grin refusing to leave their face as they silently count the amount of money they’ve got in their wallet. “I’m gonna go buy a cake so we can celebrate it. It’s no small deal, trust me, especially not when I initially thought I’d fail both these exams to the point of being pitied.“

“Wait...-“ Corpse attempts, his voice suddenly sounding strained and urgent but that’s the very reason he cannot seem to find or get the right words out of his system. Not that Y/N gives him any time to figure it out.

“No Corpse, you cannot change my mind. Cake and beers, we’re celebrating toni- SHIT!“ They scream as they throw open the front door, bumping square into someone standing on the other side, almost dropping their phone.

Taken aback by embarrassment and fear, they leap back, their eyes searching for the ones of the person whose personal space they just invaded. Well, to be fair, he was the one invading their personal space by standing right outside the door to their - well, to Corpse’s apartment.

The fear and irritation die down almost instantly when Y/N recognizes the person standing opposite them.

“Mind telling me why we’re talking on the phone when you could’ve come in and we could’ve had a normal person conversation?!“ They snap, ironically enough - they’re still holding the phone to their ear.

So is Corpse whos is smiling guiltily, “That’s why I called, I forgot my keys, but I got...carried...sorry.”

Well, at least this serves as proof Y/N’s not the only forgetful one.

                                                            ~  ~  ~

Corpse has been stuck in his recording room for four hours now, never stopping his stream to take care of his basic human needs such as eating or going to the bathroom. This behavior of his has Y/N worried sick and unable to focus on the task at hand - an assignment they’ve been trying to finish for two hours now, sitting with their computer on their lap and looking hopelessly at the blank Word document waiting for them to fill it up while they are waiting for it to start writing itself.

Seeing as how neither are gonna happen, not until Y/N puts their mind at ease, they slowly put the laptop aside, standing up to carefully skip on over to Corpse’s recording room to check on him, stopping by the kitchen to grab him a snack and a bottle of water along the way.

The door to the darkened room is open a crack, as usual, suggesting they can enter without knocking - this also means he’ll probably not hear them even if they knock so the whole gesture would be pointless. Not that Y/N has a tendency to knock or anything... Waltzing in, they find that the only light in the room is the very faint and dark glow of the computer screen which is displaying a dark and dingy room from a first-person view of the protagonist of whatever game Corpse’s currently playing.

“Corpse?!“ They whisper-yell/hiss at him, trying their best to grasp his attention without startling him - they don’t need to be told that the game is of the horror genre and the last thing they need is for their boyfriend to flip backwards and fall out of his chair because they scared the shit out of him. “Hey?!“

Neither attempts prove futile so, despite their best instincts telling them differently, they walk over to him and tap him on the shoulder. The reaction, while within the realm of expectancy, is a lot more startled than they expected, accompanied by a scream on top of all. They’d never heard him scream in fear before, it’s quite amusing if they’re being honest.

They suppress a snicker as Corpse’s wide open eyes meet their squinting ones in the darkness, “Y/N...babe...what is it? Is everything ok?”

Y/N rolls their eyes, “No, everything isn’t ok. Your unhealthy habit of forgetting to take care of yourself, for example.” They put the snack and the bottle on the his desk, giving him their best disappointed-parent look before turning on their heel to strut their way out of the room. However, just as they are about to make their exit, they stop right at the doorframe, giving their stunned one final glance over their shoulder with a smug smirk playing across their face, “Oh and by the way, that’s what I like to call revenge.” Just like that, they leave, pushing the door back into its previous position.

And boy, is it some sweet, sweet revenge.

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[lord-overlips]

.

Overlord could have fought back but why would he? He adored being treated so roughly, squirming in Caedis' hold, valve still greedy for more. He grit his dentae at the jarring force of being slammed down on to the floor, demented giggle loosing itself from his lips as excitement bubbled over and he tried to anticipate what would come next. The pede grinding into his neck was welcomed, Overlord moaning aloud as he quite literally ground into the dirt, gasping at the glorious feel of that pointed heel digging in to his neck cables and eagerly agreeing with Caedis.

"Mhh... y-yes sir- my-my Sword." He'd stay down but he couldn't help himself from squirming, pressing in to whatever point of contact Caedis gave him, aft grinding up into CAedis' gentle touch before another servo slammed down againt his plating.

He keened in blissful pleasure, frame jolting from the shock. Overlord hadn't expected it to hurt quite so much, sensors dialled up in anticipation. Oh but it felt good... The sudden squeeze around his throat was startling and intense, Overlord squeezing and rubbing his thighs together, moaning wantonly the second he was released and able to vent. The next smack came before he could relax, pain-pleasure making his sensors sing in delight.

The rhythm was addictive and exhilerating, leaving him breathless and struggling to keep his panels closed. Heat grew like an inferno behind his valve panel and he rutted uselessly against the ground, hips squirming, thighs pressed together tighly and Overlord barely managing to keep from popping his panels.

Pain, deep and warm and blissful, spread through him. His sensors reeled from the constant feedback loop, heightened and eager for more. Even his sore and aching spike was starting to twitch again as he was pinned down and abused. Overlord felt like he was melting, turning to putty and useless to so much as think or string two words together. The collar was incredible, cutting off his vents and making him squirm, making the pain all the more intense. It started to feel like an embrace, Overlord wishing he could touch the collar, grateful beyond words for it.

He sobbed and bucked through the abuse, loving every second of it, valve scorching hot and suddenly twitching and rippling as he overloaded. Overlord let out a loud whine, frame shaking, thighs pressed together tightly as he desperately tried to keep his panel shut, lips parted and glossa lolling. The mech panted and stared vacantly back at Caedis as overload faded, optics glazed over and a little drool pooling at the corner of his intake. He stared back with utter adoration, Caedis' words distantly registering.

"Mhhh... sorry?" Why was he sorry? He could barely process, just wanting Caedis to touch his scorching plating, to please please touch him, choke him again, anything... he never wanted this to end.

"I'm sorry for-mhhh- being- a worthless, greedy slut." He wanted to kiss Ceadis, frame shifting as he tried to wriggle closer. Another treat? Pit, Caedis was too good to him, Overlord whimpering at the thought. There- there was more? How... how when he was so utterly fragged and reduced to a drooling, overheated mess already?

The triple changer eagerly grovelled nonetheless, licking his lips, wondering what more pleasure could come... what lovely, divine and perverse treat he would be offered for merely begging?

"Pleeease... I'm sorry- s-sorry for being greedy- I'm- mh- undeserving... nhh-- an- an ungrateul slut! Can't- control..." He muttered, offering a sincere apology "Control myself- ar-round you-" True to Overlord's words, Caedis' sinful whisper in his audial had the triple changer writhing, processor in a frantic mess of anticipation and arousal, frame scorching hot.

He'd promise to do better but... he didn't think it was possible. He'd be reduced to a staticcy greedy, dripping mess just as easily if he were to do it all again, whimpering now as he hoped his pleas were enough to satisfy Caedis.

A shiver ran through the triple changer's frame as he was scolded, tugged in close and forced to stare back into Caedis' optics. He squirmed under that calculated gaze, lips curling in a brief smile. "Can you blame me? It- it feels so slagging gooood..."

He could feel his valve clench and squeeze around those thick spikes filing him, Overlord made all the more determined to take his pleasure before it was snatched away. He'd forgotten about the collar however.

Overlord gasped and gripped at it, frantic for a moment as he remembered Redstrike's words, imagining the worst, cables snapping and plating crushed beyond repair. The fear, the thrill of it only made his valve twitch and clench harder, pressure building in the pit of his tank and need growing rampant.

He whined pitifully, howling in pleasure as his Sun and Stars started to move, to pound his greedily clenching valve. It felt so slagging good! The fear was intoxicating, starting to make his processor swim and everything feel all the more intense. He nearly caved in, nearly pleaded for relief, the collar loosening its hold just before true panic gripped him.

"Mhhh- s-slaaaaag.... oh fu-fuuuu-khhh-hnn!" Any further words were cut off, collar choking him as Caedis ground those twin spikes into the warm, eager heat of his eager slut's valve. Overlord would snatch a cooling invent, only to feel the collar clamp down again and his valve constrict and tighten in time with Caedis' thrusts. His cieling node was ground against, pressure drawing more and more lubricants from that sloppy valve as the blue mech was treated to further bliss, node tormented and abused.

He was so close, so painfully close to what Overlord was certain would be the best overload of his life, the mech shaking, forcing his frame down and staring back at Caedis with dazed, unfocused optics, intake open and gasping, glossa lolling, the mech dumbly muttering.

"Mhhh- frag... ff--fuuuck yes- y-yesss - mhh! Please!"

There was a broken sounding keen ripped from his intake as Caedis started to really move, fucking him roughly, ruthlessly. The threat of punishment alone was enough to push the triple changer over the edge but the combined feedback of claws gouing energon from his frame and the sudden thrust and swell of those twin spikes had Overlord howling in bliss, helm thrown back, optics shorting out.

He scrabbled for purchase, writhing, bucking, panting and singing Caedis' praise all the while.

"Mh! Fu-fuck! Fuuuck! Auuhnnn! Mhh- th-thank you! Thank you! G-goood! So- so good! SO GOOD!" That slick valve clenched down so hard and with such force that it ached, Overlord sobbing in gratitude and pleasure at the stretch of twin spikes spearing him, filling him up as his valve rippled and milked every last dribble of hot and sticky release from Caedis. The big mech clung to Caedis, whimpering softly as he rode out the spark breaking pleasure, feeling near delirious.

Time seemed to stall as all he could focus on was squeezing every ounce of pleasure from the moment, not expecting the world to spin all of a sudden. He let out a startled cry, everything in a whirl of confusing motion, valve slapped roughly the next moment and constricting on nothing as Overlord yelps in mingled pain pleasure. His valve felt spark breakingly empty and he tried very hard to focus on Caedis, sinful words making his charge skyrocket in an instant.

"Mhh- y-yes, Sword!" He eagerly obeyed, processor groggy and placid after the overload. His panel shifted, two attempts made before Overlord managed to get the plating closed over his swollen valve lips, whining at the loss of sensation but soon wriggling, gasping at the meagre feedback as plump and heated folds press against that firm panel. He peers up at Caedis in a haze of desperate need. The promise of pain made his spark roil and surge in a giddy thrill of arousal and his lips curl in a of kilter grin.

"Heh... you- you think you can make me regret a slagging thing...?" It was a pitiful attempt to goad Caedis, Overlord too thoroughly fragged to think striaght.

[marcusmettalus]

Ghosts in the Machine Spirit

(Tagging @rowscara because muahahaha)

A gripping numbness encased Ostia's body, soaked through her clothes and bodysuit beneath, like hoarfrost clinging to diaglass panes. Groggy unfocused eyes gazed somewhere and nowhere at once, as her mind was slowly coming back to the present.

Where was she? Her bloodshot weary eyes slowly moved, taking in the dreary grayscale place she found herself in. Nothing. Just an infinite emptiness that went into forever, save for the ankle deep icy water the reflected the inky blackness. So cold and tired was Ostia that she barely registered the water soaked into her hair and clothes, but stiffly did she sit up.

"This,,, is a dream? It is,, different." Ostia's throat felt like she swallowed coarse sand paper and cotton wads, clogged up and hoarse. Coughing to try and clear her throat, the Scion looks around once more to try and find something to help snap herself back to reality.

[Tia]

Ostia felt her heart skip a few beats, flailing as she tries to get up on her feet in a scrambling mess of soaked clothes and clawing hands. Whipping her head about, eyes wide as for the briefest moment could have heard her sister's voice. "Wait,, wha, how. No, its a dream, quiet yo-" but her voice catches in her mouth, as Ostia catches a terrifying vision only some meters away.

Lucelle. Her elder sister, who she has not seen in oh so long, clad in her favorite dress she had gotten at the fair. Though,, she appeared like a phantom of pale eerie lights, Ostia able to see through the woman at the darkness behind.

Either Ostia had been dosed with so much chems by some Imperial Medic, Warden truly playing a cruel trick on her sleeping mind, or a combination of the two.

[Oh sister, truly it is a dark day indeed,, if you are afraid of me, Little Tia.]

"Stop. Stop,, talking in her voice. G-Get out of my head Warden!" Ostia clutched at her head, fingers clawing through her matted hair, shaking her head about to try and clear out what she was hearing. Scrunching her eyes closed tight, having some false hope that she would soon wake up inside the cockpit of Warden, and able to yank out every damned cable from the accursed Knight.

[You wear the Haldus colors well,, even though you were never destined for them.]

Ostia can feel tears creeping down her cheeks, the voice and tone of this apparition oh so natural sounding, why does Warden torment her so?

"Stop, stop, stop, Stop!"

[Ostia. Pull yourself together, or I will tell Jorick that it was you who stole those Median Cookies on Honor's Eve!]

Ostia froze suddenly, her eyes snapping open when this ghost uttered that threat. Slowly the Scion looked up and into the Lucelle shaped figure, her teary eyes looking up into those glaring eyes. That memory is only she could ever recall, oh so many years ago, Warden could not be able to see any significance in such a moment in their childhood.

"Lu? It's,, but, you died." the younger sibling rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palms, while the ghost softens her gaze at her sister, hands delicately crossed over her waist.

[I did. What I am,, is what remains of me. That night where Mother took me to the Thrones,, I did not wake up, my body and soul separated for too long. It consumed my very being. But not gone, thanks to you Tia.]

Ostia blinks slowly, trying to process all of this as Lu spoke, some small voice in her mind urging her to hug her Ghost Sister, but her fears of all of this being a fake were still quite real. "Because of me? But,, why did it take so long till now? Its been,, years, almost decades now! If you were here all along ho-"

[Tia, you could not hear me. So much grief and pain you bore for all this time, trying to distance yourself from Haldia and our family. Your heart and soul were closed,, except that one night.]

Ostia's mind flew back, the inky blackness around the duo morphing to show a memory. Blood and iron, steel and shrill screams, her body wracked by such pain that even the loss of her legs could not compare.

"You,, you were alive then? Locked in the Throne all this time?" Ostia can feel her legs giving out, fresh tears welling up once more as she feels her hands reach out instinctively for Lucelle. "Its been so long Lu, if I had known,, but then you stuck here is my fault?"

[What there was, yes. And I felt your pain, your anger,, and your hope. You thought of me, finding some strength in it,, and that helped me remain. It,, how to say, I stopped feeling lost and wayward. And I have tried for so long, to try and help you as you roamed and fought so many years. But these past few months, it has been so much easier, I am not sure what happened on that world,, but I Feel again.]

Lucelle reaches out with a hand and lightly flicks a finger against Ostia's forehead, giving a sharp sting to the teary eyed younger sister. Ostia flinching with a little yelp, rubbing her head where the sudden pain erupted from.

[ And Lu dear,, you are not to blame. I am still here thanks to you, and I can keep looking out for my brash little sister. Well, you are not so little anymore, now are you?]

Lucelle pulls Ostia in, and by the Emperor she is tangible, a tender warmth finally creeping into Ostia's body as her older sister embraces her, melting away this dreadful numbness. Those threatening tears now spill with earnest now while Ostia hugs her sister for the first time in what felt like an eternity, crying into Lucelle's shoulder.

"I'm sorry Lu, I'm sorry,,"

[Shhh Tia, I do not blame you. I, I know about Mother. I cannot fault your fury and pain, and my heart too soft for such things as war and combat. But now,, I will help protect my little Sister. I am not leaving you ever again.]

Ostia nods quietly, having dreaded on many restless night what Lu would have thought or said to her if she were to find out about the death of their Mother and exile from Haldia. Yet Ostia now felt more determined than before, that Warden would not be the tomb of her sister or herself. It will be a beacon, to spite the pain and fury, to prosper.

(bloopers under cut)

[Also,, I see these memories of a tall, dark and handsome. I think he is kinda cute~]

Ostia sputters and flails like some poor Schola Program student. "Lucelle!"

[Well, someone is not complimenting him, so I might as well do it. Huh, seeing as I have more power over this Knight, I wonder if I can use its vox hailers.]

"I already have enough panic from one talking Knight with Noémie, I DO NOT NEED MORE!"