#whassat

[lamboficarus]

The inner child is an analytical psychology term 😭😭😭 the inner critic is one you may have heard too? Some of the way people talk about healing inner child specifically is pop psyche from a guys self help book but the effectiveness of internal family systems therapy is imperially researched 😫 just like the Feeling Good book is self-applied CBT you can do for yourself at home that helps a lot of people not everyone needs to or can go see a therapist but that doesn’t mean you should just have a wounded self image for the rest of your life 😩😩😩😩

You just threw like 12 terms i dont understand at me

What in the world is the imperial research of an internal family system

[scottstiles]

rememeber when sam is in a coma and bobby appears as the part of him that wants to move on and basically makes dean (sam’s will to live) disappear so he can walk through the forest with sam and convince him its time to die....

AND NOW THIS

SUSPICIOUS DIALOGUE!!!!!!

I JUST THINK THAT!!!! SOMETHING!!!

[heartburstings]

this is the first recipe of the sonic cookbook btw. like every other recipe in this is fine and looks normal but they really wanted to hit you with blue oats first

[the-chickenshit-oddity]

i really like american football, but there's always something deeply uncomfortable about watching men collide with each other like massive fucking trucks. also i will never understand the logic of just throwing yourself right into a massive huddle of defence dudes and hoping you'll get through anyway.

[simcardiac-arrested]

Let's buzz up a name for em maybeeeee: Hyacinths Intersecting Vaulted Eryngos; HIVE. Hyacinths and Eryngos are both liked by bees, acronym is a nice pun AND it allows for there to be a stored iterator for two iterator consciousnesses in the same can, the old one not in use for whatever lore reason you wish to choose, how's that sound?

ohh that’s actually really clever!!! i like

[retro-system]

FOR REAAAL

You know Mario would Rock a hot pink outfit with frills

[inconveniently-discorporated]

Hozier, sitting in a bar with Crowley: Oh no, really? Yes, yes, go on...

Crowley, five bottles in: And then he said, I -- I forgi -- hey-- hey, whassat you've got there?

Hozier, hiding his pen and notebook: noooothing, you were saying?

Crowley: I was saying, I need another whiskey. Neat.

[pygmi-cygni]

a spoonful of sugar

summary: marc's not very good at taking his medicine.

(I was the worst at drinking this stuff as a kid so I need validation)

cw: fluff, sickfic, marc is a little baby

You knew it was coming. Even as he flapped his hand and rolled his eyes and laughed allergies, baby, you knew. When it was eight in the morning and your early bird boyfriend hadn't even stirred, you knew. That rumbling cough wasn't an annual pollen allergy.

There was a pot of tea on the stove before he woke. You'd prepped the supplies - tissues, a damp towel, some anti-inflammatory, and were in the middle of making food when his croaky voice broke the silence. You knelt by his bed and pulled the blankets away from his sweaty face.

"Help," he rasped, "I'm -cough- dying..."

The desperate display of obvious dramatics made you grin. He was always such a tough guy; scoffing at band-aids and ice packs. It was tempting to tease but his puppy eyes were too much.

"Come on, big guy, let's get some food in you." You gently pulled the covers down to help him up, but he harrumphed and yanked them right back.

"Sod off," came Steven's weary voice from under the comforter. "Marc's being a toff and making me deal with the sore throat." A pitiful sniffle and a hacking cough erupted from his broad shoulders. The blankets shuddered as Steven raked in a breath.

"Marc, come on," you cooed, rubbing his back. "Leave poor Steven alone. I've got some stuff for you, you'll feel better."

A pause, then some grumbling as he sat up. "Poor Steven? Wha' bou' me?"

His whining was choked up by the pressure in his throat. You could see the blockage in his sinuses as he struggled to keep his eyes open. A whistling sigh left his lips. He was definitely sick. Deliriously, Marc dragged a hand through his wild, sweaty hair. He reminded you of a scruffy ragdoll cat dragged in from the rain.

With a fussy Marc in tow, you fixed a cup of herbal tea and some food. So far he just seemed congested but he needed some food to handle the medicine. He miserably blew at the steaming mug, swaying on his feet. You held him against you sympathetically. He greedily drank in the attention, sniffing louder to earn a few forehead kisses.

Marc didn't get sick very often. He was pretty good at eating well, getting sleep when he could, and exercising regularly. Usually he could sleep it off and be totally fine. Every once in a while though, he'd get kicked on his ass for a while.

The kitchen island had every box of decongestant and cough syrup you could find splayed out in a heap. You weren't sure which one he preferred, so you'd let him pick. Not one of them seemed to be opened.

He had finished half of the tea, grimacing after every sip. Marc much preferred coffee, said his beseeching glance at the coffeemaker.

"Caffeine won't help," you chided gently, standing in front of the alluring machine. He sent you a sour look and folded his arms, shivering at another wracking cough. You reminded yourself to be gentle - Marc didn't like feeling weak.

Letting him go about grabbing water and wolfing down more toast, you examined the available medicines.

He'd need some ibuprofen, and probably a decongestant. You'd give it to him now so he could take a hot shower while you changed the sheets. Airing out the flat would clear the germy air well enough.

Marc approached you warily, eyeing the pharmaceutical stash you had amassed.

"Whassat?" he asked hoarsely, ducking his chin against your neck. Petting his cheek absently, you continued your perusing.

"We need to get you some meds, honey. Do want the grape stuff or no flavor? Haven't got anything better, looks like."

You felt his lips frown against your skin. "I'll just take a shower, don't neeb all tha' stuff." he coughed again, wincing at the blockage in his nose. His breath was hot. You frowned, pressing your palm against his head.

"You're feverish, Marc, you need something more than a shower. You can take one after." Filling a glass with water, you handed him a tablet and nodded. "Take that."

Muttering, he knocked it back and slugged down the water. Sliding behind you, he made his way towards the bathroom but you tugged his sleeve back.

"Hang on, one more." You slowly measured out a dose of decongestant. The garish red syrup glug-glugged quietly, an acrid smell of medicinal berry coating your nose. Blegh, you winced. It was baffling how nobody had thought to make it a tasteless pill. Drinking ounces of disgusting syrup was your least favorite way to knock out a cold.

Turning, you carefully handed Marc the little cup. "Drink that and another glass of water, then you can shower. I'll address the sheets."

You made sure to adjust the thermostat on your way to the bedroom. Once his fever dropped he'd want some warmth to sleep in. The window let in a cooling breeze, washing away the stuffy scent of sick. London's quiet din rumbled outside, providing a soundtrack for your relaxed cleaning.

Bundling the sheets and towels into your arms, you made your way to the washroom. You paused.

Marc was hunched over the counter, glaring at something.

"Marc?"

A flicker of embarrassment, then he curled his body away and grumbled a response. Frowning, you tossed the sheets in the hamper and crossed to him.

"What've you been doing? I gave that to you a while ago."

He nodded, still scowling at the viscous berry medicine. A pause. you tilted your head.

"...You okay?"

Marc didn't respond. That little serving of medicine continued to endure his baleful wrath, practically trembling on the countertop. The spell was broken by an enormous sneeze. Marc reeled from the sound, shaking the fuzz from his head.

"I think you've intimidated it enough," you joked softly, rubbing his shoulder. "But really, honey, you need to drink that."

A familiar pair of wide brown eyes blinked sorrowfully at you. "But...it tastes foul," Steven whined, sticking his lip out for emphasis. You raised your eyebrow and poked his side.

"Spector, stop shoving off to Steven. You're the one who wanted to sleep with a window open in November, you gotta suffer the consequences."

A moment of twitching and he was back, bleary and disgruntled. Ears pink with Steven's admission, Marc hedged away from you again and tried to escape to the bathroom. His clumsy feet shuffled along the creaky baseboards. You let him have his way for a moment, but soon enough was enough.

"Marc, you've literally drunk the most disgusting alcohol ever without a second thought."

He looked at you reproachfully, trying to work Steven's angle of adorable petulance. His grumpy frown did make your heart fawn, but the wracking cough and guttural sneeze overran the knee-jerk reaction.

Irritated that his tactics weren't working, Marc slumped onto your shoulder. Chuckling, you rubbed his back, rocking him side to side. His hands were insistent, tugging you backwards. You realized, almost too late, that he was trying to angle himself closer to an escape path.

"Spector-"

Before you could grab him, he had disappeared into the bathroom and turned on the tap.

You sighed. At least he was showering.

The laundry was done, and the apartment sufficiently sanitized by the time Marc reappeared, damp hair curling around his ears. He looked a little brighter. His eyes were clear and his cheeks a healthier ruddiness rather than feverish.

And, just like before, the little cup of syrup lay sitting on the counter for him. He was visibly bothered when you hadn't forgotten.

"Meds," you said firmly when he moved in for a kiss. The comment offended him, and he tried to peck you anyway. You put a hand over his mouth and pushed gently, handing him the cup.

"I don't wan' to," he rasped, lip curling. "It tastes like lighter fluid - cough - and I don't feel better anyway."

"How would you know, you haven't taken it?"

Marc huffed, dramatically folding his arms and turning his nose up.

"Marc."

Your tone made him duck his head. It was funny to watch him squirm; his reluctance almost reminded you of Steven. Usually he would bite the bullet and do anything that made him uncomfortable with nothing but a shrug. Hell, you'd seen him clean Steven's sick off the toilet after a night out with less of a reaction.

Sympathizing a little bit, you poured a glass of orange juice and slid it over.

"If you drink the medicine really fast, you can wash it down with juice."

Marc grumbled, still wrinkling his nose.

"Does that work?"

"Hmmm no," he huffed, folding his arms tighter. "I thin' you should gib me a kiss 'cause you're bein' meab," he garbled, voice strangled around the congestion. You bit down a laugh, trying to seem sincere.

"You can't even talk, Marc, I am not gonna kiss you."

The admission made his head snap up, eyes terrified. You worked this new angle, putting your hands up and backing away. "I don't want your germs."

He protested quietly, hands reaching out.

"Hug?"

"Meds."

"But-"

"No buts," you said, tone gentle again, "come on. Just a second. It'll take like two seconds and then you can drink some juice and go lay down. Yes, I'll lay with you," you acquiesced at his narrowed gaze.

He was stubbornly refused. "Marc," you sighed, dragging a hand over your face. "You'd be done with this by now if you just drank it."

"I don' like it," he bit out. Unbelievable. You stared at each other for a moment, disdainfully scowling at the situation.

"You know what, fine," you griped, taking the cup in your hand. "Pick a number between one and five."

He blinked, but relented. "F...four," he wheezed, wiping his nose with his sleeve. You held up four fingers.

"I will give you four kisses if you drink this."

He brightened. "snfff- wait, I meant fibe."

You leaned forward and nudged his nose. He tried to grab you for a kiss but you ducked back, taking the opportunity to grab his jaw gently. Eyes hazy and loving, he smiled at you.

"Open," you said softly, tapping his lips and winking.

Marc obeyed, clearly expecting a kiss. Instead, you gently tipped the medicine to his lips. Marc yelped at the sharp taste. He fussed and balked, struggling not to choke. You shushed him, tipping the cup until it had all dribbled past his lips.

"Drink it quick, honey, there you go, all done-" You shoved him the glass of juice, coaxing him to finish the dose. Marc spluttered and gagged, wincing at the taste. Eyes watering, he glared at you.

"Tha' was rude," he pouted. You cuddled him up and kissed his forehead.

"Yeah, but now you can go snuggle into bed." This outcome placated him greatly, nuzzling into your shoulder as you situated the bed. Marc jabbed your side insistently and you paused to give him a kiss.

Wrinkling your nose, you nodded. "Wow. Yeah, I can taste that. It's pretty shit."

He threw his hands up, rolling his eyes as you giggled. "Sorry for torturing you," you teased, peppering his cheek with light kisses.

"Fuggin' waterboarded me with that," he grouched, suppressing a grin at your doting affection.

The blankets, still warm from the dryer, were tucked high around his drowsy face. You lay as close as you could, draping your arm over his side. Marc snuffled and coughed for a few moments but was asleep soon, breath puffing hot against your neck. You monitored him for a while, hands gently stroking his hair before succumbing to your own nap.

@krakenkitty @ominoose @bulletgoth @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @justsomeonecalledemma

@iolaussharpe-24 @rosegnome @twwcs @heeheehoohoofictimr @steven-grants-world

@ael-xander @to-be-a-sunshine @weasleyswizarding-wheezes

comment to join tags!

[mstopportunity]

@strange-aeons​ for your consideration

'whats your hogborts house?' is played the heck out. what is your TINGLE TYPE? there are four kinds of tinglers and all of them welcome trans, gay, lesbian, asexual, non-binary, bisexual, gender fluid and every other bud because your love is real and valid

TAKE THE QUIZ HERE

[dajo42]

uncle who had a drinking problem but hes been sober for six months now and he spends most of his days running his own business painting peoples fences: heh... what are you kids doing now? whassat? magic the what now? gathering? magic the gathering huh... yeah well... i dont know about any of that. all i know is tragic the slathering... as in it was tragic... how little sauce... was slathered on the ribs at big joes rib shack last week. heh heh heh hoorhf [noise that sounds like a beer can opening but dont worry its a sparkling water and we are all so proud of him]

[jolieblack]

May Prompts 2024 by @calaisreno

May 29th: Hero

Hungerford Bridge

"John? Are you awake?"

"Nnnnnghhh?"

"Are you awake?"

"Ugh. Nah."

"I need you to be awake, John."

"Wassup?"

"I need you to – no, don't move your head like that. It's going to hurt."

"Ow!"

"See? Now, listen. I need you to sit up as soon as you can. But you have to move slowly."

"Wha'?"

"No sudden movement, and especially no uncontrolled flailing of your left arm or – Yeah, exactly! Christ. Settle down. That's it. Lean against the thwart."

"The wha'?"

"The thwart. The bench. The thing people sit on in a small boat."

"Wha' boat?"

"It would help if you opened your eyes, John."

"Wha's happened? Still dark…"

"Two forty-four a. m., approximately."

"Whassat noise?"

"Do you mean the waves lapping gently against the hull, or the ringing in your head from being knocked unconscious by a brute wielding a cricket bat?"

"Ah… don't remember that."

"I'd be surprised if you did. He caught you in the head on the backswing when you popped up behind him to take him down before he could hit me. I really appreciated the gesture, though. Not your fault you failed to grasp my clever – "

"Chris' sake, Sherlock, shut up and get outta my face, or I'll - "

"Warn me if you're going to be seasick, please. I'm sure we can coordinate a bout of emesis over the side, should the need arise."

"I said get outta – Argh!"

"No flailing, remember?"

"I'm not flailing, I'm – what the fuck is – "

"That would be your right wrist handcuffed to my left wrist. I was just going to explain that there's a perfectly valid reason for our close physical proximity, or me being in your face, as you please to call it."

"That's not your – "

"No, that's the rowlock."

"The what?"

“The rowlock. A metal contraption attached to the washstrake above the gunwale for the purpose of holding the oars in place. This one is unfortunately designed in a peculiar fashion that allows one half of a pair of handcuffs to be threaded through the opening in the middle, so as to – Don't pull, John. It's solid stainless steel and fibreglass. I tried, it's no use."

"We're chained to a boat?"

"We're chained to a boat that's afloat on the River Thames on the ebb tide, with neither oar nor engine to control or direct our progress downriver, on a cold night at a quarter to three in the morning. I might also mention the absence of any life jackets or radio equipment, but I suppose that goes without saying."

"Fuck."

“Accurate. Are you awake enough now so we can start doing something about the situation?"

(This got way too long for Tumblr. Please read the rest of the story here on AO3!)

[instarsandcrime]

Ambrosia to Go

@here-for-the-sick-fics Hi hello! I broke rather early, so thanks for the request! I'm not sure if it's what you had in mind, but I liked the challenge and I like Huskerdust! So! Here! You go! Enjoy!

Part 1

--

As the local bartender, Husk was very aware of what made the Hazbin Hotel tick. And unfortunately, that did not stop with how they handled illness.

Charlie was not one to hide it, but she would play it down and throw endless hours into her work until she collapsed. A rumor had started around the hotel that their bartender had thrown a blanket around her shoulders when she passed out at the counter. And he'll keep saying 'no, that didn't happen' until he's blue in the face because well, no one was there to prove it, were they?

As far as he can tell, he knows Alastor can get sick. Sort of. Kind of. A sniff here, a cough there. Even if, by rare chance that an overlord gets sick, he can hide those little details-- and hide them well. It would take only God themself to even catch him sneezing more than once.

When Lucifer gets hit, he gets hit hard. Denying it is somehow his go-to strategy even when the slightest cold knocks him down. Last time he'd seen the king sick he'd been working on some pretty important documents and, by the end of one of his many fits, he'd sneezed so hard that he breathed fire through the entire stack.

Niffty doesn't get sick. She's never gotten sick once since they started working together. He knows this. She knows this. It's incredibly unsettling and he'd rather not talk about it.

And today, he’s unfortunately left with...

"Angel Dust." Husk raised a bushy brow, "I'm cuttin' you off. You look like you're gonna pass out any second now."

And there sat the demon of the hour, famous porn star beloved by millions, plastered out of his mind and clutching a glass of what he calls his 'medical ambrosia'.

"Lissen! Lissen. Iii..." Angel's nose scrunched, and quickly covered it with a tissue-- which Husk nudged slightly to the left for accuracy's sake. "Hep'shhh! HET'shhhiieww. Ugh, gross."

The owlcat winced, fighting back the guilt he'd stuffed down for hours now. "Ange, I--"

"Shaddup!" Four accusatory fingers pointed, "If I had a cold I'd have it! And if I had your previous cold I'd say shhhhhaddup! Because you're-- snffff! you're a real nice guy, y'know that?"

"But--"

"Shhhhhhh!" Angel squinted, "All...all four of ya shut yer traps. You were worth it and don't you forget it. 'Kay?"

That speech was way too sincere. Oh God above he has to care again, doesn't he? Rolling his eyes with a groan, Husk swept the half empty shooter from the swaying patron’s grip.

"Hey! What gives?!"

Wordlessly he tossed Angel’s ambrosia down the drain, jumpstarting the closing time routine.

"Don't be like that Whiskers! We were just...g-gettin'...g-gettin' intehh...hih!" Angel hitched, fanning himself desperately before--

"HEP'shhhh!" He pitched forward, caught by a tissue in helping paws. The bartender sighed– then repressed a shiver when the sickly spider blew messily into cheap paper.

"Yer lucky you're cute." Husk grumbled.

"Whassat?"

"Nothin'." Tossing the soaked through tissue in the wastebasket, he snaked an arm around Angel Dust's waist. "C'mon sickie, let's get you to bed."

As he pulled Angel off the stool, it took a few seconds for his mind to buffer before sobering up a little and– here we go. Right on cue.

"Y'know this’s just allergies, right?"

"Mmmhm." Husk nodded mechanically, inching up one velvet step at a time.

"An' really, when ya think about it-- snff! Niffty's been slackin', y'know?"

"Sure." Second floor.

"I mean, missin' an hour of cleanin' today and for whuhh- what? Fightin' more roaches?"

"A shame, really." Third floor, second door on the right.

"And I...I-I..." Angel wobbled, breath hitching. Without even glancing Husk held a claw up to the spider’s nose. "Snff! Ugh. Thags."

"Shut up." Husk swore as they stumbled into the room. Purple fluorescent lights rained down on a plush bed, vanity close by. Thankfully with tissues, because he knew what was coming next. 

"Id's cold id here, isn't it?"

"Yup." Husk grunted, leaning to grab a piece while balancing Angel with the other arm. "Pretty-- ugh-- chilly."

"I mbean geez! Sub-- snff! someone should really turn up the thermos-staahhh-hheh-hihhHIHH'ATSHHHHH!" Angel pitched forward again, and Husk spread his wings to keep balance, pressing a cloth to his face before he could get sprayed. "Guh..."

"Gesundheit." Husk deadpanned. The finger under the nose trick can only work so well when it literally and figuratively backfires a few seconds later. "Alright, let's lay you down before--..." 

He tugged, but his patient wasn't moving. He was busy staring into the mirror. 

"Angel?" A paw squeezed his bicep.

"...I can't wear the robe."

"What?"

"I can’t wear the robe. He's gonna kill me." Angel Dust repeated, turning pale. "I-I…we have this scene tomorrow with this sexy lingerie bathrobe lookin' thing and-- and I look like a wreck. I sound like a wreck. When I get sick I get messy and I'm gonna sneeze all over the stubid thi’g--"

"Angel--"

"And thed Val's gudda see how gross I mbade it--"

"Hey, hey, easy." Gently guiding Angel to the bed, he mourned at the way his fluffy frame shook. “Let’s sit you down before you fall down, okay? We'll take this one step at a time. And I won’t drop you, promise."

"...I-I kndow." The patient shot him a shaky smile. Shivering and unsteady, Husk tucked the tissue box beside him and draped the comforter over his shoulders.

"Okay." He took four gloved hands in one of his own, other reaching to help Angel Dust wipe his eyes. Then moved to his nose. "Blow."

"Wh-- I cad't let you do that! It's disgustig--!"

"Good to know, ‘cause we've done this all night."

"We have?! Oh, Husgk..."

"Trust me, I've cleaned up worse at the bar."

Pink cheeks glowing red, Angel rid himself of the muck as quickly as possible-- relieved sigh quickly replaced with panic.

"It's alright." Husk kneaded patterns on the other's thigh, glancing a knowing look. "Like I said, I'm not gonna drop ya."

Understanding, Angel scooped the tissue up and pressed it to his nose. "Et'SHHHH'iiew! ep'shhhh! Ghuhh..." With another honking blow he tossed the wadded ball on the desk, flopping face first into the pillowy mattress. Husk's eyes traveled everywhere but to his partner...in...crime? Ugh. Still not sure. Instead his attention lay on Fat Nuggets while he waited, little menace snoring softly in the corner.

"...I'm gross." Angel Dust rasped, muffled through satin and lace.

"I can see that." 

"Forget what just happened. I was actin’ stupid, freakin’ out over nothin’."

"Nah." Claws threaded through tangled hair, "Fuck your boss. You should sneeze in his face."

Angel Dust snorted. Husk smirked. "Yeah. Really make 'im squirm. He wants messy fluids right?"

Slowly moving to lean against the headboard, the spider brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as he stared. Pupils shrunk to pinpricks like he was at the climax of a horror movie.

"...What? I'm right." A pointed ear flicked irritably.

"Nope. Nuh-uh. Shut up. Did you just make a sex pun?"

Husk blinked in surprise, forgetting himself. And only smirked wider.

Alright, new plan.

"Me? Do somethin' like that? C'mon Legs, you're grasping. All I'm sayin' is ya gotta take a few tissues and get real passionate with 'em."

"Hhhhholy shhhhit."

"Then stuff 'em in his chest fluff or something. He can use 'em as padding."

"Are you real?" Angel gasped teasingly.

"What? You said you were gross. If he's not lettin' you call in, you might as well snee--"

"Hp'shhhh! HT'SHHHH'hhoo! Unh..."

"Yeah. Like that."

Pausing to let his patient give a gurgling blow, the tail end of a miserable groan broke into a soft giggle. Giggle breaking into another hitching mess until--

"Hih'TSCHHH! HTCH'shhhiew! H-hih-hhhHHITSCHHHH!"

"Alright, alright, that's enough excitement for one night." Husk quickly got to work, grabbing the required fluffy sweater and pajama pants. Ignoring the disappointed pout between pulling the top over Angel's stomach with a satisfied tug.

"Aw Husk–snfff! Really? Pants? I don't wannaaaa."

"Yes, pants. I thought you said you were cold."

"But they're such a paiiinnnn."

"Do you wanna get more sick?"

"...No."

"Then I'll go back to my room so you can slip those on."

A single step and--

"Wait!" Angel blurted.

A pause filled the room, save for a few coughs dragged out by the sudden burst.

"...Need something?"

"I, uh. I'm not ready."

"Christ Ange, are you still drunk? Jus’ put on your pants one leg at a time–"

"No! What?! No! I don’t want you to leave!" An aching voice broke. Tired eyes squeezed shut. Suddenly feeling rather small, he forced his gaze down to his gloves, peeling them off one by one as he spoke. "I…I-I know it's late, so you can always say no. I just…I don't wanna be alone right now."

Another pause. “...Please.”

A sharp sigh immediately cut any creeping tension, listening to a winged back thump against the wall. "I get it. Bein’ sick is…a lot. You don't need to write me an essay. And I don't pick favorite customers, but I gotta admit. I'll keep the bar open all night if it means I get to talk to Anthony again. Just once, that’s all I need."

[buggy-samaaa]

Caught, part 11

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

Word count: 339

Content: NSFW — mdni, gender neutral reader, no y/n, second person POV, voyeurism, anal, masturbation, misuse of devil’s fruit powers, man musk, pillow humping, auralism

Tag list: @hey-august, @bbnbhm, @genius---jester, @lostfirefly, @ane5e

——

Mohji, Cabaji, and Buggy shot the shit for a few hours longer, then headed back to the ship around noon. Buggy and Mohji were singing a drunken tune, holding each other up as the painfully sober Cabaji unicycled behind them. 

“Hey, Cap’n, I gotta great idea,” Mohji slurred.

“Yeah? Whassat?”

“Ask out yer beau fer dinner t’night.” 

“Wha? Nooo,” Buggy said with a bashful smile. “‘M drunk.”

“Egg— egs— egz— egzactly. Get a no? It’s fine, yer just drunk, you didn’ mean it. Get a yes? Bam. Date.”

Buggy’s jaw dropped as though the idea was life-altering. “H’ohh my God, Mohji,” he said, shaking a finger at Mohji. “YES!”

Cabaji wheeled closer. “We’ll back you up,” he said, clapping a hand on Buggy’s shoulder. Buggy patted his hand gratefully and nodded with determination. They all got on deck.

As if on cue, you walked by, leafing through your sketchbook as you did so, trying to find a blank page. You glanced up to see the three gleeful men watching you.

“Uh. Hi,” you said awkwardly, closing your sketchbook. You were about to continue walking, but Cabaji wheeled in front of you.

“Captain Buggy has something to ask you,” he said, then he took Mohji by the upper arm and unicycled away, causing Mohji to jog along next to him. They both disappeared behind the mast, then Mohji peeked back around to see. You blinked at him, then glanced at Buggy, who was also staring at Mohji, looking helpless. Mohji gave a thumbs-up and then got pulled by the ear back behind the mast.

“Okay…” You decided to just. Ignore all that. “What’s up, Captain?”

Buggy was still staring at the mast, absolutely lost.

“…Captain?”

Buggy swayed in place a little bit as he turned his head to face you. This suddenly didn’t seem like the best idea in the world anymore. Buggy felt himself start to sweat out all the liquid courage he had consumed. He stared blankly at you, going pale.

“Shit, are— are you okay?”

Buggy vomited.

[perfinn]

my contribution to the "soap mactavish loves overstimulation" agenda

nsfw below the cut!

“Whassat bonnie?”

Soap can’t stop himself, can't slow his hips. He’s already spilled his release into you twice, he can't even count how many times he's brought you over the edge of blinding pleasure. It's to the point of stinging, every sloppy rock of his hips accompanied by a hiss of pain– it's a miracle his cock is even still hard.

“S’too much,” you whine, but make no move to stop him or pull away. “Too much, Johnny.”

“I know,” Soap murmurs, adjusting his hold on you, resting one of your legs over his broad shoulders, effectively spreading your legs wider for him. He presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing at the bud recklessly, so slick he can barely keep his finger from slipping right off. “One more for me, lass, c’mon.”

You gasp, back arching and hands white-knuckling the sheets as he forces you back to the edge.

“Johnny!” You cry, tears slipping from your eyes as you’re assaulted with pleasure so much it's painful. You don't know how he does it, how he keeps fucking into you when he’s milked himself dry– you went limp two orgasms ago.

“Just one more, pretty girl,” Soap encourages, and both of you know damn well that he’s lying. “Tha’s it, that's my girl."

[spider-lily929]

THUMP

Huh? Whassat?

[onceuponapuffin]

Fanatic Intervention Part 6!!

Not much to say here this time. I'm glad you all are enjoying this. I'm having a blast! :D

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*****************

After a while you speak.

“Well,” You say, “I can tell you what we’re not doing. We are not going to see Mr. Gaiman. Honestly, Crowley, the man is a genius, but he is also a troll. He doesn’t give away plot – if anything he gives the most chaotic response he can think of, and then tells you to wait and see. SO, that wouldn’t help us at all.”

Muriel is the next to speak.

“Um, also I don’t think those other angels are on earth?”

“Would we know if they were?” You say, looking to Aziraphale. The principality shrugs.

“To be honest, I really don’t know. It was such a long time ago.”

“Okay,” You say, “So we call up Anathema, and we go to America to look for Jesus. I mean...the things that Neil and Terry plotted out did happen, even if they weren’t all identical to the book. So it’s probably safe to assume that the pattern will continue.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says, reaching for his rotary phone, “I’ll call Miss Device.”

“Hold on,” Crowley says, “Who’s this we who’s going to America?”

“You, Aziraphale, Anathema, Me,” You say, “Muriel needs to stay here and look after the bookshop. Maybe Newt could --”

“And what makes you think you’re coming?” The demon presses.

“The fact that I dropped in from another reality, know everything that has happened so far, and is the only one with half an idea of what’s going to happen next. Also Anathema is going to need help wrangling the two of you.”

“Whassat supposed to mean?”

“You’re a pair of Disaster Puppies.”

Crowley opens his mouth again, offended.

“Trouble does seem to find us an awful lot,” Aziraphale says. Clearly he’s decided to give you the benefit of the doubt. You make a mental note that he is not upset with being called a Disaster Puppy for some reason. Priorities maybe?? You let it go.

“Great,” You say, “So it’s settled.”

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

All things considered, it doesn’t take very long for Anathema and Newt to arrive. Apparently they happened to be visiting London. What are the chances of that? It’s almost like this is a work of fiction that I am writing and so I can make things surprisingly convenient if I want to. Now, let’s continue.

It takes longer to answer Newt’s questions than it does to fill Anathema in on the situation. You’re grateful for her sharp mind and willingness to accept things that are...well...difficult to just accept. Probably comes with being a witch/occultist. Once they both know the full story, and Newt’s curiosities are satisfied, Anathema nods.

“Okay,” she says, “Right. So we need to save the world again, and we’re hinging all of our bets on finding Jesus and successfully convincing him to help us? Seems...like a long shot. Like, a really long shot.”

“These two have managed to succeed with implausible plans before,” You point out. Anathema hums. She doesn’t seem convinced.

“I mean, it’s not that I mind helping you. Jesus probably has the kind of aura that I could find and track without too much trouble. I would just...really have appreciated that if you were going to interrupt our getaway that you would at least have a backup plan. Or, maybe some intel that’s actually intelligence instead of guesses. Like if Aziraphale had actually been in Heaven as the Supreme Archangel, he could have been feeding us information and instructions. And then we would know for sure where to go and what to do.”

Oh. A rock sinks to your stomach. And you suppose that after making them ward the bookshop like that then...needing to leave it...you just might have accidentally put a target on your backs. Whoops. Turns out saving the world one step at a time is really, really hard.

“That would have been way too dangerous though!” You say, desperate for your own defense, “I’m not putting these two in anymore danger than absolutely necessary. I….” You look over at your beloved angel and demon, then turn back to Anathema. “I need them to be okay,” You admit quietly. That’s what it’s all about for us, isn’t it? All the theories, all of the South Down Cottage manifesting. The fanart, the fanfiction, the edits and animatics. We love them and while we understand that they need to go through angsty things to grow, in the end we need them to be okay.

Well, most of us anyway. I can’t speak for everyone.

You feel a hand on your shoulder. Aziraphale is there once again.

“And we will be,” he says softly. You hear Anathema sigh.

“Right,” she says, “okay, so we head to America. I need to go home first and get my supplies. Newt will stay here with Muriel and help them hold the fort.”

“Um...this is a bookshop?” Muriel adds uncertainly.

“I bet,” Newt says slowly, “That if I help a few people around here with their computers, I might make enough mischief to convince Heaven that there’s still a demon around here. Then that looks almost like you’re still here, right? Might buy you some time at least.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Anathema says. Muriel practically glows.

“Oh! I get to live with an actual human! You can teach me human things!”

“Oh, uh yeah,” Newt says, “I don’t see why not. It’ll be fun.”

Anathema agrees to return with Newt in two days. She expects you lot to sort out the plane tickets “Because,” she says, “I am not having you fly me over, or poof me over, or whatever it is that you do.”

“I am a demon! I do not poof!”

“I don’t care. I want plane tickets.”

“Ooh!” You say, raising your arm in the air with a jump. “Can they be first class? I’ve never flown first class before!”

Crowley groans. Aziraphale sighs.

“We are not genies,” Aziraphale says, “Or banking machines.”

“No, but you do have unlimited resources so in a way,” You say, pausing for dramatic effect, a mischievous smile spreading from ear to ear, “You are like Santa Claus!”

You make a fast exit from the room before Aziraphale can say anything. Crowley is laughing and you hear what you think is a chair falling over.

❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ 🖤

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