#zombies tickle

[dj-banana-love-2]

Fandom list

Sonic

The cuphead show

Transformers

Hazbin hotel

Helluva bøss

Just about all things Disney

Z-o-m-b-i-e-s all movies

Descendants all movies

Smb

Atsv

Fnaf ( the movies too )

TMNT 2012 (ONLY)

Tadc

Atla

Ramshackle

Twisted wonderland

Nickelodeon

[ladyeckland28]

Hannah Tingle In Pride, Prejudice And The Giggling Dead

A period piece with the Giggling Dead

By Lady Eckland

The year, shrouded in the damp, clinging fogs of an English autumn, was one whispered about in hushed, fearful tones – 1811, a time when Reason itself seemed poised upon the precipice of a chasm yawning wide with Unreason. It was into this unsettling miasma that I, Countess Hannah Tingle, found myself thrust by the cruel vicissitudes of fate. My title, a relic of a fortune long since dissolved like sugar in the rain-soaked mire of poor investments and my late husband’s penchant for catastrophic wagers on badger-baiting, was now but a gilded husk, offering little succour against the chill winds of penury. Thus, necessity, that grim and unyielding taskmaster, dictated my acceptance of a position most unbecoming of my station: Governess to the progeny of a certain Mr. Silas Blackwood and his wife, the Lady Beatrice.

Blackwood Manor, their sprawling estate nestled deep within the melancholic embrace of the Hampshire countryside, rose from the mist-laden landscape like a brooding titan of grey stone and shadowed eaves. Its aspect, upon my arrival in a rented carriage whose wheels groaned a symphony of decay, was one of imposing grandeur, yet permeated by an indefinable stillness, a sepulchral quiet that clung heavier than the ivy strangling its ancient walls. The very air seemed thick, stagnant, imbued with a preternatural weight, as if the silence itself held its breath, anticipating some dreadful culmination.

Mr. Blackwood, a man whose wealth, derived from mercantile ventures of dubious origins, sat upon him like an ill-fitting shroud, greeted me with a brusque cordiality that failed to conceal the avaricious gleam in his eyes. He was stout, florid-faced, his presence redolent of ledgers and profit margins rather than ancestral dignity. His wife, Lady Beatrice, hailed from a lineage ancient but impoverished – a circumstance that lent her countenance a perpetual air of strained nobility and thinly veiled disdain for her husband’s more… commercial sensibilities. She surveyed me through narrowed eyes, her posture rigid, a sentinel guarding the crumbling battlements of her perceived social superiority.

“Countess Tingle,” she began, her voice crisp as autumn leaves underfoot, yet carrying an undertone as cold as the grave. “We trust your journey was… tolerable. The roads, one hears, are quite dreadful. Indeed, reports from the outlying villages speak of… disturbances.” A flicker, brief as a bat’s wing, crossed her features. Dismissed. “Idle gossip, no doubt. The peasantry are prone to hysterics.”

“Indeed, Lady Beatrice,” I murmured, curtsying with a grace that felt mocking in its context. My own lineage, though tarnished by lack of coin, was arguably superior to hers, a fact that hung unspoken between us like a spectral tapestry. “The journey was uneventful, though the mists do lend the land a… gothic quality.”

My charges were two in number: young Master Alaric, a boy of ten with unnervingly pale eyes and a penchant for morbid pronouncements, and little Miss Elara, aged seven, whose delicate features seemed perpetually poised on the verge of tears or terror. They were presented to me in the grand, echoing drawing-room, a cavern of polished wood and looming portraits whose eyes seemed to follow my every move.

“Master Alaric, Miss Elara,” Lady Beatrice intoned, “This is Countess Tingle. She will be overseeing your education. You shall afford her the respect due her… former station.” The qualification hung there, sharp as a shard of obsidian.

Alaric offered a solemn, unchildlike bow. “Good morrow, Countess. Papa says the flux is spreading from Lower Crumpling. Old Man Hemlock died laughing, they say. Laughed until his heart gave out, right after Molly the milkmaid tickled his bunions.”

A strangled sound escaped Lady Beatrice. “Alaric! Such talk is unseemly! Governess, you will ensure he applies himself to Latin, not local tittle-tattle.”

Little Elara merely whimpered, burying her face in her mother’s skirts. A tremor ran through the child, a vibration of pure, unadulterated fear that resonated oddly within the oppressive stillness of the room.

My duties commenced amidst the oppressive luxury of Blackwood Manor. Days bled into weeks, each marked by the monotonous rhythm of lessons – Virgil and watercolors, pianoforte and deportment. Yet, beneath the veneer of aristocratic routine, an insidious disquietude festered. It began subtly, like the first faint scent of decay upon the air. Servants, previously ubiquitous, became scarce. Their hushed conversations ceased abruptly when I approached. A footman, young Thomas, known for his booming laugh, was dismissed, ostensibly for insolence, though I had heard, through a partially open door, sounds emanating from his quarters late one night – not of insolence, but of a high-pitched, uncontrollable giggling, punctuated by desperate pleas of “No, stop! Please, the toes!”

Then came the disappearances. Cook’s scullery maid vanished without a trace. The under-gardener, tasked with tending the funereal yews, was found near the crumbling mausoleum at the edge of the grounds, his face frozen in a rictus of horrific mirth, his boots inexplicably removed and placed neatly beside his head. The local physician, summoned with reluctance by Mr. Blackwood (who bemoaned the expense), diagnosed apoplexy brought on by… excessive joviality. A diagnosis I found utterly, chillingly ludicrous.

An aura of dread, palpable as the damp that stained the library’s velvet curtains, began to permeate my waking hours and intrude upon my tormented slumbers. I found myself listening, straining to catch sounds beyond the mournful sighing of the wind through the chimneys. And sometimes, carried on the night air, faint and distant, I thought I heard it – a sound that chilled the very marrow in my bones: a soft, tittering giggle, multiplying, echoing from the woods that pressed close against the Manor’s boundaries.

Lady Beatrice remained resolutely oblivious, or perhaps willfully ignorant, attributing the growing unease to rustic superstition. “The lower orders,” she sniffed during one strained tea service, “are susceptible to flights of fancy. A touch of autumn melancholy, nothing more. More Madeira, Countess?”

Mr. Blackwood, concerned only with the disruption to his household’s efficiency, grumbled about hiring replacements. “Damned inconvenience,” he muttered into his teacup. “Good help is so hard to find. And this… giggling sickness old Hemlock supposedly had? Bad for morale. Bad for productivity.”

Only young Alaric seemed attuned to the encroaching horror, his pale eyes wide with morbid fascination. “They’re coming, Governess,” he whispered to me one afternoon, interrupting his translation of Ovid. “The Giggling Dead. They say they rise from their graves, but they don’t want your brains.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. “They want your feet.”

I shivered, dismissing his words as childish fantasy, yet the seed of unease he planted took root in the fertile soil of my own mounting dread. The Giggling Dead. A preposterous notion, yet… the laughter, the tickling, the mirthful corpses… a pattern, grotesque and terrifying, began to emerge from the fog of denial.

The true horror manifested itself on a night choked with fog so thick it seemed to swallow sound and sight. A storm raged without, rattling the windowpanes like skeletal fingers drumming an impatient rhythm. Within the Manor, an uneasy quiet reigned, punctuated by the distant, rhythmic creak of a loose shutter and the frantic pounding of my own heart. I was in my chambers, attempting to find solace in a volume of morbid poetry – a poor choice, in retrospect – when the first scream tore through the heavy silence.

It was not a scream of pain, but of helpless, panicked laughter, intermingled with desperate gasps for breath. It emanated from the servants’ wing below. Another joined it, then another – a chorus of hysterical mirth that curdled the blood.

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced my composure. I snatched up the heavy brass candlestick from my bedside table – a meager weapon against an unknown terror – and crept towards my door. Peering into the dimly lit corridor, I saw figures stumbling from the stairwell leading down to the lower levels.

They were… changed. The parlour maid, Mary, her face usually rosy and cheerful, was now a pallid mask of decay, her jaw slack, yet stretched into a horrifyingly wide grin. Her eyes, milky and vacant, held a terrifying spark of manic glee. Her movements were jerky, unnatural, shambling forward with outstretched hands, fingers twitching eagerly. And from her throat, and the throats of the other servants stumbling behind her – the butler, Jepson, his usually immaculate uniform torn and stained; a scullery boy whose name I never knew – came that sound: the giggle. Not human laughter, but a dry, rattling, incessant tittering that echoed unnervingly in the vaulted hallway. The Giggling Dead.

Panic seized me. I slammed my door shut, fumbling with the lock, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The giggling grew louder, closer, accompanied by a soft, shuffling sound and a peculiar thump-scrape against the floorboards.

“Oh, Countess!” a voice cooed from the other side of the door, Jepson’s voice, yet distorted, gleeful. “Such lovely, vulnerable little piggies hiding in there! Won’t you let us give them a wiggle?”

A frantic scrabbling began at the bottom of the door, near the floor. Fingers, pale and bony, wormed their way underneath, twitching, seeking.

“Just a tickle, Countess! Just a tiny tiddly-winkle on the toesies!” Mary’s voice, now high-pitched and wheezing, joined the chorus.

The sheer, terrifying absurdity of it threatened to shatter my sanity. Zombies. Giggling zombies. Zombies obsessed with feet. It was a horror conceived in the deepest, most whimsical pits of nightmare.

Suddenly, a tremendous crash echoed from downstairs, followed by Mr. Blackwood’s bellow of rage and terror, quickly dissolving into helpless, agonised laughter. Then, Lady Beatrice’s shriek, sharp and imperious, cut short by a similar descent into manic giggling. The masters of the house had fallen.

My thoughts flew to the children. Alaric and Elara! Their rooms were further down the corridor. With a surge of adrenaline born of desperation, I flung open my door. Jepson lunged, not for my throat, but inexplicably, for my ankles, his decayed face split in that awful grin, fingers wriggling like avaricious worms.

“Feetums! Pretty feetums!” he giggled, the sound like dry leaves skittering over gravestones.

Recoiling in revulsion and terror, I brought the heavy candlestick down upon his lolling head with a sickening crunch. He collapsed, momentarily silenced, but his fingers continued their phantom twitching. Mary shrieked with laughter and lunged, her own hands aimed low. I sidestepped, heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird, and fled down the corridor towards the children's wing.

The hallway was a scene from a madman’s dream. More servants, transformed into these giggling monstrosities, shambled from rooms, their eyes fixed not on faces, but on feet. One tripped over its own decaying legs, collapsing in a heap, yet continued to giggle and grasp at the empty air where ankles might have been. The air was thick with the sound – a cacophony of mirthless chuckling that grated on the nerves like grinding bone.

I reached the nursery door and threw it open. Alaric stood upon his bed, brandishing a toy soldier’s miniature sabre, his face pale but resolute. Elara cowered behind him, sobbing hysterically.

“They’re here, Governess!” Alaric cried, his voice trembling but defiant. “The Foot-Fondlers! The Toe-Ticklers!”

“Quickly!” I urged, my voice hoarse. “We must barricade the door!”

Together, we shoved a heavy oak toy chest against the door just as frantic, giggling scratches began on the other side. Fingers probed beneath the gap.

“Little toes! Sweet little toes! Let us make them squeal!” a voice chortled from the hallway.

“Governess,” Alaric said, his eyes wide with a strange mixture of fear and intellectual curiosity, “Old Man Hemlock… they say Molly tickled him with a pigeon feather. Perhaps… perhaps they have a weakness?”

A weakness? Against these gibbering horrors? What could possibly deter creatures whose sole ambition was podiatric persecution? My mind raced, grasping at straws in the swirling vortex of terror. What did Poe write of? Obscure knowledge? Psychological vulnerabilities? What repels the unnatural?

And then, an image surfaced from the depths of my frantic thoughts – Lady Beatrice, earlier that day, complaining vehemently about a gift Mr. Blackwood had procured: a large, ornate bottle of highly concentrated lavender water from France. “Ghastly, overpowering stuff,” she had declared, wrinkling her nose. “Positively offensive to the senses. Banish it to the pantry, Silas!”

Lavender. A scent often associated with calmness, with repelling moths… could it repel the Giggling Dead? It was a notion born of desperation, ludicrous yet… no more ludicrous than the threat itself.

“Alaric,” I whispered, hope flickering like a guttering candle flame. “Lady Beatrice’s lavender water. Where is the pantry?”

His eyes lit up. “Down the back stairs! Near the kitchens!”

“Stay here. Keep that door secure. Do not let them touch your feet!” I commanded, grabbing the poker from the nursery fireplace – a slightly more formidable weapon.

The journey to the pantry was a descent into a hell populated by grinning, grasping fiends. I dodged shambling figures in the corridors, the incessant giggling echoing in the cavernous spaces of the Manor. Twice, I had to use the poker, aiming not for the head, but for the grasping hands, the questing fingers. The creatures recoiled slightly, distracted, but always returned to their ghastly, single-minded pursuit.

Reaching the pantry, I found the ornate bottle amidst jars of preserves and sacks of flour. It was heavy, the glass cold against my trembling hands. The scent, when I cautiously uncorked it, was indeed potent, almost suffocatingly floral. Praying this desperate gambit wasn’t folly, I hurried back towards the nursery, the giggling seeming to pursue me, nipping at my heels like phantom hounds.

The scratching at the nursery door was more frantic now. The wood splintered near the bottom.

“Alaric! Elara! Stand back!” I yelled, bracing myself.

With a surge of strength, I yanked the toy chest aside and flung the door open. Two Giggling Dead – a former cook’s assistant and a stable boy – tumbled in, their faces alight with manic anticipation, hands reaching, fingers wriggling.

“Feet! Feet! Giggle-giggle-squeak!” they chortled.

Without hesitation, I splashed the lavender water directly at them.

The effect was instantaneous and utterly bizarre. The moment the pungent liquid hit them, the giggling ceased, replaced by sputtering coughs and expressions of profound, almost comical disgust. Their rictus grins vanished, replaced by grimaces of olfactory offense. They staggered back, clawing at their own faces, emitting strange, choked groans.

“Ugh! Flowery!” gagged the stable boy, recoiling as if struck.

“Abominable perfume!” choked the cook’s assistant, stumbling backwards out of the room, tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape the scent.

It worked. By heavens, it worked. The absurdity was staggering, yet undeniable.

“The lavender!” I cried, splashing more towards the hallway, where other Giggling Dead hesitated, sniffing the air with expressions of deep revulsion before turning and shambling away, their giggles momentarily silenced by olfactory indignation.

“It repels them!” Alaric breathed, his eyes wide with awe.

Armed with our peculiar weapon, we made our way through the ghastly tableau of the Manor. We found Mr. Blackwood and Lady Beatrice in the drawing-room, tied to chairs with velvet ropes (presumably by the now-repulsed Jepson), their shoes and stockings removed, tears streaming down their faces as phantom ticklish sensations apparently continued to torment them, punctuated by involuntary giggles. We doused the air liberally with lavender, providing them temporary, bewildered respite.

Escape was our only recourse. The Manor was compromised, the grounds likely teeming with these lavender-averse, foot-fetishizing fiends. Gathering the weeping Elara, the grimly determined Alaric, the traumatised but functional Blackwoods, and armed with the remainder of the lavender water and several purloined fireplace pokers, we ventured out into the pre-dawn gloom.

The fog was beginning to lift, revealing a landscape subtly altered. Figures shambled amongst the ancient trees, their faint, distant giggling carried on the damp air – a sound that would forever haunt the shadowed corridors of my memory. We gave them a wide berth, the pungent cloud of lavender surrounding our small party like a protective, albeit fragrant, shield.

Our flight from Blackwood Manor was not an escape into sunlight and safety, but merely a transition from one circle of the bizarre hell into another. The village beyond was similarly afflicted, the Giggling Dead lurching through its lanes, their path marked by discarded footwear and the faint, lingering scent of decay mingled with phantom mirth. We fled onwards, refugees from a plague of podiatric persecution, forever glancing over our shoulders, forever listening for the faintest titter, forever carrying the grim knowledge that the ultimate horror was not the bite of the zombie, but the relentless, maddening tickle of the Giggling Dead. My name is Countess Hannah Tingle, and I survived the Pedicure of Perdition, though my sanity, I fear, remains forever… ticklish. The world had tilted on its axis, revealing a foundation not of logic, but of grotesque, giggling absurdity, forever perfumed with the cloying scent of lavender.

[sparkleetwordz]

OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH

I mean like of course there's a someday reprise but I was concerned that there wouldn't be since they seem to be going the 'unnecessary fourqual' route (if u know what I mean)

BUT AINT NO DOUBT ABOUT IT???

DARE I SAY MY FAVOURITE SONG IN THE FRANCHISE THUS FAR??

I'm tweaking out bro

[mythica0]

Okay, as someone in the tkl community who’s also just obsessed with laughter in general, I have an idea I just cannot get out of my head.

So, you know how laughter is contagious right? And you know how people can get the giggles? Well, this idea is basically a pandemic/zombie apocalypse type situation but with the giggles as the ‘virus.’

So like, there’s an origin point, and then it starts to spread, and people notice, and it gets on the news. And now there’s like, people trying not to get infected but the numbers are going up every day, and you never know if someone has it or not, and there are symptoms that people know of but sometimes someone might kiss the symptoms. And basically how it spreads is if you hear someone who has the giggles laughing, you have a chance to catch it. So you come home from work one day and all of a sudden you can’t stop laughing and you’re like ‘dammit, Dave you got me infected!’

And there are some people who are overly obsessed with staying uninfected so they lock themselves up in their homes as a quarantine type thing and act as a sort of zombie apocalypse survival group but for the giggles. And there could be a situation where someone is pretending not to be infected, because as we all know in every piece of zombie media there’s at least one person who’s part of a survivor group who got bit and hides it and then ends up infecting someone else- well, this person heard someone they know was infected giggle but they pretend they didn’t and then it’s too late and they just burst out laughing in the whole survivor group and now at least one other survivor is infected but probably more.

Anyways I’ve thought about this a lot and I wanted to get it out of my head and into words, and hopefully some people will see and like this.

[dorkicon]

Did you see they finally announced Xaaron toy

yes <3 i lost my shit over it. plus i think its really sweet that they let sixo announce it. that guys the worlds most premiere xaaron fan, bar none.

one of my friends was kind enough to preorder it for me actually... i need to find a way to repay him :,^)

i could take or leave the cell shading deco but i do like the attention to detail with them including his... boob...scar. i figured that if we ever got a xaaron toy itd be a remold of, like, core class megatron instead of refractor. not really complaining though, its just funny considering xaaron was a total rip off of g1 megatrons toy anyway

(im a weaponformer xaaron truther btw but thats neither here nor there)

now i just need to track down the marvel colors impactor... 🔎 um. and springer. and sandstorm i guess. and maybe a roadbuster. and uh

[kanene-yaaay]

Here's the of in case u wanna do it

!!! Let's go! :D I did it, thanks a lot!

Anyone who wants to do as well please feel free ^.^

[heroicintention]

𝑲𝑵𝑶𝑾𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝑾𝑬𝑳𝑳 𝑪𝑨𝑵 𝑷𝑶𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑨𝑳𝑳𝒀 𝑴𝑨𝑲𝑬 𝑾𝑹𝑰𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑻𝑶𝑮𝑬𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑨 𝑳𝑶𝑻 𝑬𝑨𝑺𝑰𝑬𝑹 . . .

NAME : Puff. also known as Puff Almight && Princess Pygmy Puffskein the Third. (don’t ask about the first and second)

PRONOUNS : she/her

NAME OF MUSE(S) : there’s… there’s so many but some of my mains rn are Carl Grimes, Beth Greene, Rick Grimes, Lizzie Samuels, Gabby Kinney, and Jason Todd 💕

PREFERENCE OF COMMUNICATION : i am far more available on discord as i am on it… a lot. it is my preferred, my absolute darling of a social. however finding new writing partners on discord can be hella taxing so i’ve made my great return! however if you want my discord and we’re mutuals, feel free to ask!

EXPERIENCE / HOW LONG ( MONTHS / YEARS? ) : i started at 11 and i’m 25+ now so that should tell you it’s been a while. i started my first tumblr rp blog the day i turned 18, and this one is… a good few years old now 😅 (like I had mutuals that had been inactive for six years ffs)

BEST EXPERIENCE : i’ve had so many amazing experiances tbh and some of my best friends are online— but crossing my fingers i can meet a good few of them at a con this year (woo woo!!) my best experience tho has to be the server i run though. i’ve been able to see so many people work together, create bonds, and become genuine friends through love of fandom and genuine kind natures and i’m so happy i’ve had the ability to already meet some of them in person, exchange gifts, and have almost year long snapchat streaks.

RP PET PEEVES / DEALBREAKERS : when someone wants to write just for smut. vaguing. using interest in fictional topics to badmouth people. i don’t care what you write as long as you tag your shit i’m negl. i’m too old for this, and i’ve probably already read it in a published book anyhow splatterpunk fans put your hands up

MUSE PREFERENCES FLUFF, ANGST OR SMUT : i enjoy all of it tho i am pretty picky in writing smut given a lot of bad experiences with partners that ended up… only wanting to write smut. angst is PROBABLY my fav, i love making my muse a problem.

PLOTS OR MEMES : i honestly have a hard time plotting because i question how interesting my plots are… so i do prefer memes.

LONG OR SHORT REPLIES : anything but a one liner. on discord i’m super fond of text chat && short form but that’s usually in tandem with multi para. on here, i would prefer at least a paragraph tbh.

BEST TIME TO WRITE : whenever i have access to my phone, laptop, or a pen and paper honestly.

ARE YOU LIKE YOUR MUSE(S) : some of them i definitely have similarities to (Beth, Gwen, and— i would like to think— Snorkmaiden). but i also write a lot of very masculine men, violent as shit screwballs, and some plain problem children. while i do put some of myself into all my babies… i can’t claim to be like them.

Tagged by: @vulpineobedience

Tagging: anyone who wants to introduce themselves 👉🏻👈🏻

[slimeylee]

hey man ! yall should send me some of these questions ... and a hazbin / helluva character to answer tehse about ! ( or ask them to me idm . )

Tickle Questions? Cause Why Not?

1. What’s your favorite tickle tool? 2. Favorite Ler? (Tag them if you dare~) 3. Favorite Lee? (Tag them to call them out~) 4. Opinion on blindfolds/restraints? Why or why not? 5. A spot that gets you squealing? 6. How long do you estimate you could last before calling mercy? 7. Ever have tickle fantasies? 8. Why did you make your tickle blog? 9. Does anyone irl know of your interests? 10. Can you say the t-word? 11. Verbal teases, yes or no and why? 12. Upper body tickles or lower body tickles? 13. Neck or ear tickles? 14. Pinned on your back, or your stomach? 15. What do you love about the lees you know? 16. What do you love about the lers you know? 17. Feathers or Paint Brushes? 18. How long have you known about your interests in the community? 19. What’s your favorite way to be tickled? (As in provoked, teased into asking, etc.) 20. Are you/Do you like Polite Lees or Bratty Lees? (Asking for tickles vs Pissing someone off for tickles) Feel free to add questions/truth or dares to these if you wish!

[holeforzenin]

YUJI LETTING HIS GF USE HIM

Tw- Both are twenty, degradation n praise, overstimulation. reader is cockdrunk n has a high sex drive :3 Not proofread!!!.

“S’good Yujiii Soo good, Mmm! Can feel your cock throbbing inside of me, ohh fuckkk!” you moaned out through gritted teeth, too caught up enjoying how deliciously his achy, abused cock was repeatedly curving into your sensitive g-spot over and over just the exact way you intended it to. You can’t even remember how long it’s been and well frankly you don’t really care. Too distracted by the overwhelming pleasure you're receiving by frantically bouncing your ass on his swollen cock.

“F-fuckkk, you’re so greedy baby Goddd, you look so sexy like this!” he huffed, letting out breathless curse—his fingernails digging into the plushy sides of your bouncing ass as goosebumps and adrenaline coursed through his bulging veins. He’s trying his very fucking best to keep up with you but God you were killing him. It got so bad that you’re more of a filthy sex fiend than he was in the past few overestimating days. Not that he was complaining but the way you’d randomly grab him by the shirt—fucking wrinkling it and pulling him into the clustered janitor closet just to feel his hard dick in your slobbering cunt at school with him pushed up against the cool wall and you manically throwing your bouncing ass back at him eagerly like little cock-hungry slut—forcing every last drop of cum from his thick balls to drain out into your horny pussy then pouncing on him four more times throughout the day at home has become a bit overwhelming…he’s trying his best to keep up with your crazy ass sex drive but fuck he was shooting blanks at this point.

His sweat-covered pinky bangs tickled his forehead as the moonlight from the illumining window glistened onto his milky abs. He bit his lips so many times that he probably ruined his gums by now, in a futile attempt to restrain his perverted urges at the way your tits were bouncing in fast circles. He’s sooo tempted to grab and fondle them but it’s like he can’t even control his own fucking body.

“Ohooo fuck! You’re stretching me so good around you Yuji, fuck I love you—Looove your cock so muchhh baby!” You cried out, tears welling up in your eyes as his pink tuffs of slick covered pubic hair grazes against your sticky clit—making the pleasure even more intense as more and more creamy rings formed at the base of his pretty cock.

They were hearts in Yuji’s eyes seeing just how much his little horny slut of a girlfriend was creaming on him, seeing you so desperate and addicted to his cock like a brainless zombie whore unlocked something primal inside of him that he never thought existed. He fucking loved being your human dildo to fuck yourself on, the thought of it made his cock throb feverishly right against your gushing, gummy walls.

“Jesus–mmmph! You’re such a nasty slut. Ohh shit-, is my cock all you ever fucking think about baby? bet you couldn't even last a day without my cock being up this needy, little pussy yeah?” His groans along with his filthy mouth filled the air as he gropes both of your fleshy ass cheeks—his fingers purposely kneading into it pervertedly as he feels you up like a creep.

You felt the mushroom tip of his length brushing against the depths of your cervix as you clamped around him harder, you playfully smirked down at him as you bent down slightly towards him to grab his biceps—moaning sweetly as you felt them flexing against your touch. “Y-yess! Need your cock inside of me at all times Yuji, gonna make me lose my mind, hnngh!”

“Yeahhh? My cock making you that dumb baby??” His sultry voice is weighed with exhaustion as he grants you a fucked-out smile. “Yuji, Yuji m’gonna cum again, fuckfuckfuck yessss!”

You continued bouncing faster and faster—grinding your hips against him fervently in the process to make it even more intense causing you to spasm around his girth, you can’t see it, but you are 100% sure his entire cock is covered in your cream. You can feel it.

Your head falls back, the strands of your hair cascading down like a waterfall. your lips parting to release loud, needy moans that mingled in the air as Yuji gazed up at you in awe, seeing you like this was one of his favorite things. You were such a mindless slut for his dick and he enjoyed it.

“I- m’cummming!” You cried out in a certain tone that was like filthy music to his ears, your cunt pulsated around his jumpy cock as streams of liquid gushed out of you, spurting every fucking where, on the bed sheets, spattering on Yuji’s abs, his thighs everywhere. Your body trembles as you try to process everything. You fucking came and squirted at the same time.

“Did you just-“

“I-“ was all you could let out before you felt the wind getting knocked out of you as Yuji suddenly gripped your branded ass that’s filled with his handprints and lifted his legs up a bit, thrusting with constrained force and fucking his throbbing, soaked cock into you with vigor. The lewd, nasty sound of “plah plah plah!” reverberated throughout the room your hands clutching the pillows tightly beside him, overwhelmed by the intense sensations.

“Yujiii, stop fuck! Too much—tooo muchh” you screamed in a frenzy. your thighs shivering as he relentlessly thrust deeper, splitting open your cunt even more with his animalistic pace. His pistoning cock brushes further against your sweet spots as it twitches inside of you. His poor, fucked out cock sooo desperate to cum.

“Such a lil fucking slut for squirting on me like that baby—God I’m gonna stuff you sooo full after this, it’ll be entwined into your slutty fucking brains”

You were so fucked out you couldn’t even fucking register what the hell he was babbling about.

It was so fucking nasty and hot, the scent of raw sex filled the air as both of your moans echoed throughout the room, at this point your eyes were rolling to the back of your skull in ecstasy as you were being overstimulated, your pussy pouring more juices onto his cock as beads of sweat glistened on his entire body.

“M’cumming m’cumming m’cumming Godddd love this fucking pussy!!” His hoarse voice exclaimed as he bit his lips, thick gooey ropes of warm cum filling up your womb as the two of you cried out in unison. You were so full, every inch of your pussy was stuffed so full of just Yuji, Yuji, Yuji. You’d be surprised if you weren’t actually braindead from his cock by now.

Your body collapsed on his sticky skin and you landed on his toned chest. both of you attempt to regulate your breaths as you cockwarmed his soft cock. Unfortunately Succumbing to exhaustion, you both drifted off to sleep in that position but within the next three hours, you were fucking him again.

[sistersorrow]

One trope that always tickles my brain in just the right places is a setting where the Horrors have been around for so long that society has shifted to account for them, and not in a bloodborne "we shaped our entire society around the worship of the blood of a dead god" way, I mean society goes on as usual and has so thoroughly planned around these things that the average person has passing knowledge of how to deal with them and they're treated more like bears: dangerous but ultimately mundane

You open a children's French textbook and see a chapter on how to speak basic French wards against francophone spectres

The local worker owned coffee coop made a land dedication to the ancient sleepers whose strontium bones were buried under the space they rent before the sky had a name

Checking for slumbering Old Ones is standard procedure when doing land and ocean surveys

Australia is exactly the same

There are archeologists who specialise in handling cursed artifacts and neutralising corpses that aren't as dead as they should be

There's an XKCD comic mapping shipping lanes over maps of known Deep One colonies which then concludes that boats, not the people manning them, the actual boats themselves, are naturally scared of sunken cities

The Vatican has the largest known population of bound demons on earth, which are mainly used in the training of exorcists

Scientific American is publishing papers on the buildup of plastic waste in the Backrooms

The price of selling your soul is considered taxable income, has a sales tax, and is subject to inflation

Overly Sarcastic Productions has a Classics Summarised video on the Hanged King's Tragedy

The city council mapped out the exact dimensions of a local ghost's haunting ground and that space is now the unused sub-basement of a shiny new Walmart

Zombie outbreaks are treated as a rare and usually seasonal occurance that is quickly dealt with by the WHO

[sparkleetwordz]

I have an announcement to make

ler zed necrodopolis. ler. zed. necrodopolis.

ler zed.

so like basically ler zed.

also did I mention ler zed?

[kxsagi]

can you write something with the blue lock boys where the reader just tackles them in a hug, giving them a quick big squeeze before running away giggling to themselves

“𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 (𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐬)”

a/n: THE FLUFF I NEEDED

ft. itoshi rin, isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, bachira meguru, kaiser michael, ness alexis, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu

itoshi rin

you tackle-hug him from the side and he just freezes like a cat that got surprised. 

“... what was that?” 

he watches you run away and roll around giggling like a gremlin and just blinks. 

pretends it didn’t affect him. but he’s dead silent for the next ten minutes with ears red and a hand over the place you hugged. 

texts you later like: don’t do that in public again. but you can do it again later. privately. maybe. 

(he secretly loved it.) 

isagi yoichi

bro malfunctions. 

like you tackle-hug him and he just short circuits, arms frozen mid-air, eyes wide. 

“huh? wait, hey! where are you going?!” 

he starts laughing halfway through the sentence because your giggles are contagious. 

ends up chasing you around like it’s tag. the moment he catches you, he returns the hug, but longer, tighter. 

“you think you can just do that and run off?” 

yes. yes you do. and you’ll do it again. 

itoshi sae

he’s scrolling on his phone, completely unsuspecting. you hug-slam him and bolt. 

he almost drops his phone. 

“... you’re so weird.” 

but he’s smiling. real soft. real fond. 

instead of chasing you, he just walks over, catches you effortlessly mid-giggle, and holds you hostage in a calm, smug hug. 

“you thought you were fast, huh?” 

you are. just not faster than sae “calm menace” itoshi. 

nagi seishiro

you run at him and squish him in a big hug and then disappear in a blur of laughter. 

he stands there with his hair flopped over his face like ??? 

“huh… was that a dream?” 

slowly turns his head and watches you wheeze in the corner. 

doesn’t say anything, just shuffles over like a lazy zombie and collapses on you with his version of a tackle-hug. 

“my turn. you woke me up for this, might as well finish it.” 

mikage reo

squealed. actually squealed. 

“babe!! what?!” 

you zoom off before he can recover, and he’s left giggling with his whole face lit up. 

immediately starts planning revenge (but like, romantic revenge. think rose petals and counter-hugs.) 

posts a blurry selfie of you running away with the caption: my heart can’t take this kind of sneak attack 😭💜 

you’re now banned from hugging him without a warning. he says this while opening his arms anyway. 

chigiri hyoma

you charge and hug-tackle him and he stumbles a bit, but catches you halfway. 

“what the hell?” 

you sprint off laughing and he just stands there… stunned. 

and then he SMIRKS. 

“alright. you wanna play?” 

you’ve accidentally started a high-speed game of “hug and run” where he catches you every time. 

it ends with both of you rolling around on the floor, laughing and out of breath. 

bachira meguru

he loved it. 

you tackle-hug him and he giggles even louder than you do. 

“wha?! hey! that was so cute, come back!!” 

immediately chases you. you’ve started something you can’t finish. 

when he catches you, it turns into a tickle war or a wrestling match. 

“let’s make it a game. whoever gives the best hug wins.” 

you’ve created a monster. a very affectionate one. 

kaiser michael

you hit him with a surprise hug and he almost trips, dramatic gasp included. 

“gott, schatz, are you trying to kill me with cuteness?” 

he watches you run away laughing and just smirks. 

“fine. you wanna play this game?” 

proceeds to stalk you through the penthouse like a hunter, waiting for his moment. 

when he does catch you, expect a long smug cuddle where you’re not allowed to escape. ever. 

ness alexis

you come flying in like a giggling rocket and tackle-hug him mid-sentence. 

“wah!! wh-what was that for?!” 

arms flail. voice cracks. man is shaken. 

watches you scamper off while wheezing, and just stands there pink in the face, clutching his chest like you stole his soul. 

“you can’t just–! you can’t do that and then RUN!!” 

stumbles after you, muttering about how “his heart can’t handle these kinds of jump scares.” 

once he catches you, he hugs you back ten times tighter and refuses to let go. 

“next time you pull something like that, i’m gluing you to my side.” 

secretly loves it. replaying it in his head for the next 3-5 business days. 

shidou ryusei

you full-on launch yourself into him like a cannonball. 

“OH?!” he catches you with a wide grin, immediately intrigued. 

you giggle and sprint away and he’s instantly chasing after you like it’s a game of tag. 

“YOU WANNA PLAY, BABY? HELL YEAH.” 

accidentally turns it into a wrestling match halfway through. 

you: “it was just a hug!!” 

him: “you touched me first, now i’m feral.” 

ends with him piggybacking you through the house, refusing to let you touch the ground again. 

karasu tabito

you tackle-hug him from behind and he jumps in surprise. 

“yo?! what the hell?” 

turns around to see you giggling and skipping away like you didn’t just send him into cardiac arrest. 

smirks and calls after you: “you better run faster than that, sweetheart.” 

starts following you slowly like a villain in a horror movie. 

finally grabs your wrist with one hand, pulls you back for revenge with a lazy smile. 

“payback’s gonna be fun.” 

otoya eita

oh you hug-tackled the right man. 

he immediately spins around and flirts back like you just proposed. 

“if you wanted to be in my arms that bad, you could’ve just asked, baby.” 

watches you scamper off and laughs to himself, clutching his chest like he’s lovestruck. 

“adorable and bold? dangerous combo, angel.” 

finds you later and sneaks up behind you with a slow, smooth hug. 

“my turn. don’t run this time, yeah?”

yukimiya kenyu

you hug him out of nowhere, and he lets out a soft “ah!” before you disappear like a thief in the night. 

stands there dazed for a second, adjusting his glasses, cheeks flushed pink. 

“that was… very unexpected.” 

lowkey dying inside. you just made his entire week. 

when he sees you again, he gives you a small smile and softly says, “thank you for the hug. i’ll be stealing one back now, if that’s okay.” 

ends up giving you the gentlest yet most heartfelt squeeze ever. 

“next time, maybe stay a little longer.”

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[vitoriadior]

PRETTY IN PINK

Clark Kent x Bimbo!Reader

Where Clark doesn't know if all your clothes are actually pink and short. You just want to kiss him all the time (It's not like he's complaining)

Request <3. Masterlist— Bimbo!Reader Series. REQUESTS OPEN

Clark Kent has a favorite of every one of your clothes. Skirt? The black leather one. Blouse? The pink lace one with a sweetheart neckline that has a little black bow on it. Shoes? Your heels that show off your manicure with a butterfly on top. Everything is you, and he likes that. Everything is pink and short. Everything is silly and airy.

He's also aware that your hair is sacred—like, you consider it more sacred than your job or your mortgage. He once casually mentioned to you that he likes buying 4-in-1 soaps because from his point of view, it's very practical and literally the greatest invention of mankind. You were horrified.

He knows you also love to dress up—not in a zombie bride way, or anything really scary. No. You like to wear your little two-piece sailor suit that looks more like a bikini than a costume if it weren't for the hat. Put on your shortest shorts with your tightest top, grab two pom-poms, jump around a bit, and say you're a cheerleader.

On Halloween, you were the Tooth Fairy and he was a dentist. Di he enjoy it? Every. Damn. Second.

Although to him all shades of pink are the same and Juicy Couture clothes are a little more expensive than they should be— He doesn't complain. How could he complain when really, those are all the things that make you you. And he loves pink you. Glitter you. It doesn't matter if you don't even know how to cut a potato, and all you care about is making sure your nails are perfect— That's you.

So, if you go shopping with him and ask him which dress he likes the most— He'll tell you both (Not because both dresses look exactly the same) but also because he always likes seeing you in something new. You're a Malibu Barbie type. No, you actually already asked Clark that question. Which Barbie would you be? A fashionista Barbie. He once saw one in a commercial and immediately thought of you.

At the office, no one has any idea how Clark Kent, the Clark Kent, is dating the receptionist. Like, the receptionist the entire sports floor tried to ask out in her first week. It's hilarious how you always roll your eyes and sigh like you're tired of the universe being the universe "I have boyfriend," you always answer, almost as if it makes you proud— And it makes you proud. Your boyfriend makes you proud

"Sweetheart, I have to finish this by tomorrow." Your nose tickles Clark's neck while you're kissing him. He's trying to write the article on national economic anomalies Perry asked him to. But with you pressed up against him, it's getting a little difficult for him to concentrate. "Perry already put me on notice."

"I just want cuddles." Your lips move up his jaw, and Clark pinches your nose, smiling. Before he takes your waist and gives you one of those kisses that drives you crazy, one that only Superman could give you. Once he puts his hands under your nightgown, you know he definitely isn't going to finish that article.

Clark always ends up getting up much earlier than he should to finish the work that, in fact, was supposed to be finished the night before. He blames himself for being so easily manipulated, he blames you for always looking pretty in pink.

Taglist: @starincarnated @angelicp0etry @yeonalie @lator-gators @starssfall @moomumu @chamorunsmiles @urlittleangelbaby @americanboz0 @mysticdinosaurpirate @spiidergwenn @sugarbutterbailey @pestoluvr8 @ilovemangoes444 @kaiparkerwife @qardasngan @animegamerfox @helloimamistake @rinapomu @chaoticroaddreamerpasta @ryomku @dreamlesssleepsaga @yzuposts @mickey-mouse-crackhouse1902 @j07lvrg @khxna @1wannab3inaband

[steddieme]

eddie: would you rather be a ghost or a zombie?

steve: neither

eddie: that's not an option

steve: why not?

eddie: because i said so

steve: oh, so now you're suddenly on board with conformity?

eddie: what are you talking about

steve: you're trying to push me into these boxes, denying my freedom to be who i want to be

eddie: why are you like this

steve: this is literally what bi-erasure is like, eddie

eddie: how is it that everytime we talk about this shit with robin you're dead silent, but you're suddenly an activist when it's time to annoy me?

—

steve, at night, right as eddie is about to fall asleep: i'd choose ghost, by the way

eddie: *springs up and tickles him until he's literally in tears*

[philtstone]

actually it tickles me to think about how every member of the psych crew is perfectly designed to survive a zombie apocalypse regardless of its severity or flavor. even a the last of us style gritty end of the world would be no match for their belligerent plot armor and perfectly-designed basket of stupid eccentricities

[cherrychilli]

18+ Eddie Munson x f! reader, best friend! Eddie, friends to lovers, mentions of bodily injury, mentions of masturbation (m), oral sex(m)

Summary: Eddie hurts his dick and as his best friend, you decide to help him ease his pain.

WC: 3K

A/N: I am so tickled by the idea of Eddie wrecking his cock and balls on accident so I had to write about it and wedge in some spice as well. Enjoy!

When Eddie had told you he wasn't feeling well enough to hangout tonight he should have realized that someone like you, caring and loyal almost to a fault, would take it upon themselves to help in any way they could, showing up at his trailer a few hours later with dinner and a zipper pouch full of medicine he might need.

"Ding dong, I'm here to take care of you, Munson", you'd gleamed at him playfully.

It was no secret that he didn't take the best care of himself whenever he was under the weather. Eddie was known for skipping his meds and spending most of the day swathed in a cocoon made of blankets, emerging hours later to pad into the kitchenette where he'd nibble at cold, leftover takeout before weakly traipsing back to bed.

So, when you showed up at his front door with your arms wound around a thermos full of homemade chicken soup and a Tupperware container warm with baked salmon, he should have felt happy. He should have felt grateful for the trouble you'd gone through just to make sure that he ate well and was looked after while he was on his own but instead, all he felt was the sharp, piercing sting of guilt.

The thing was, Eddie wasn't really sick.

He wasn't running a fever like he'd claimed over the phone. He'd purposely hidden the real reason why he couldn't come over to your place and watch a movie like the two of you had planned because well, he was embarrassed.

The truth was, Eddie couldn't come hangout because his dick and balls were killing him.

It had happened last night.

He'd been spread out on the couch while Wayne was away, dressed only in a pair of boxers snug around his hips with a movie playing on TV to keep him entertained throughout the night.

As usual, a blunt was held between his plush lips for most of the evening too, a bottle of jack by his feet which he'd pick up and gulp from time to time.

The combination of alcohol and the weed served a particular purpose that night – helping to make the tooth achingly bad acting in Zombie Lake more tolerable, a movie he'd picked solely for the gratuitous nudity.

Forty minutes of naked, unsuspecting women wading in zombie infested waters later and he was more than a little strung out at that point, rendered blissfully languid while he lay slumped against the couch.

Eddie had picked that moment to reach for the whiskey with his bloodshot, half lidded eyes still plastered on the TV screen, missing twice before he managed to pick it up with light fingers.

Bringing the three quarters full bottle up to his lips for another swig, that was when the booze slipped out of his loose grip, too high to react quickly enough and catch it before it was too late.

With his thighs spread far apart, the full weight of the bottle landed directly on his crotch, the pain shooting from between his legs like daggers, enough to make him feel like the air had been kicked right out of his lungs.

The carpet and couch soaked up most of the spilled whiskey, the nearly empty bottle lying on its side on the floor while Eddie couldn't do much but cup both hands over his junk and curl into himself, trying to grunt, groan and hiss through the pain as tears brewed in his eyes.

Now, it's almost been a full 24 hours since the incident happened but his dick's still super sore from the impact. And to make matters worse his balls are blue in more ways than one.

See, Eddie's got the kind of sex drive that had him jacking off at least twice a day to keep himself sane but now thanks to his injury, he's already feeling pent up, unable to tug his swollen cock and give himself that much needed release.

So, though your outfit isn't provocative, it's still you, his best friend whom he's harbored less than platonic feelings for so of course your denim shorts and your tank top are making him want to act up, the swirling desire at the base of his stomach burning even hotter with the way you're taking care of him, showing him a level of concern no one else has before.

It isn't fair, he thinks, having to sit across from you on the couch while he tries to fight off the growing ache in his cock, tries to will his sore member soft for the sake of your friendship as well as curbing his own pain.

You're yet to notice his dilemma though, rummaging through your bag while Eddie tries not to let the scent of your body wash trigger flashes of you sitting in your bath tub with your bare tits above water, all wet and soapy with your nipples all hard and the bubbles trailing between your cleavage and–

"Shit", he hisses when a twinge of pain flares as his dick starts to twitch in his sweats.

"Everything okay, Eds?", you look up from your bag when you hear it but he's quick to wipe the grimace from his face, faking his best smile at you.

"All good. So, what are we doing next?"

He's relieved when he watches your soft smile slowly return to your face, the kind that reaches your eyes and curves your lips in that way that makes him want to reach out and cup your cheek, running his thumb over your soft skin before he tells you how pretty he thinks you are.

"How about casual sex?", you ask, all chipper.

"…what?"

In an instant Eddie's whole body alternates between flashes of frigid cold and scorching hot. Had he heard you right? were you…offering? fuck, his dick is throbbing so bad in his sweats right now.

You dive your hand back into your bag, pulling out a VHS tape and holding it out for Eddie to see.

"Figured a comedy would be for the best", you waved the tape in his gawking face, his stomach somersaulting when he reads the title. Of all the movies you could have picked, you just had to go pick the one called Casual Sex? didn't you?

"Plus, I know how much you like Lea Thompson so I figured this would be a good pick", you smiled sweetly at him, tapping a finger over the actress pictured on the cover.

Another sharp prick of guilt and another dull ache radiates in Eddie's crotch because his mind's being especially cruel to him right now, dredging up unwanted memories of the time he wore out a copy of Howard the Duck by beating his meat to Lea Thompson's scenes all day and night.

"Uh, got anything else?", he croaks, clearing his throat when you narrow your eyes at him a little suspiciously.

After a little back and forth, the two of you end up watching The Thing to Eddie's relief. Nothing there that might trigger a boner except the couple of times you squealed adorably when Kurt Russell popped up on screen, kicking your feet and hugging your knees to your chest, inadvertently making your cleavage more noticeable over the neckline of your tank top.

Eddie's able to ignore it for the most part, that was until you offered to help clean up a little once the movie was over, bending over in your denim shorts to gather the empty soda cans sitting on the table in front of the couch.

Despite the alarm bells echoing in his head, he can't seem to help it, eyes trailing up the back of your smooth, bare thighs, settling on your ass and the way he can just about make out a peek of your cheeks now that your shorts have ridden up high.

Oh shit.

Up until now you'd been pretty pert all night but when you turn around, you're instantly startled by the look on Eddie's face, all twisted up and pinched as he presses a cushion into his lap and begins to wince.

"Eddie, what's wrong?", you set the cans aside, dropping back down on to the couch beside him.

Yet another flash of pain courses through him when he catches sight of the way your breasts bounce in your tank top when you take a seat. Jesus, this wasn't going to be easy, was it?

Eddie tries to mask it but you can read the pain there easily, especially when you're so close to him now, close enough that your shoulder brushes against his bicep.

"Eddie please, you can tell me. What's wrong?"

If there was a way out of this without having to admit the truth, without having to tell you how he'd given a whole new meaning to the term whiskey dick, he couldn't seem to find it, feeling helpless as he crumbles under the weight of your concerned, round-eyed stare.

"I lied, okay? I'm not sick, I just…"

Insides twisting, he has to squeeze his eyes shut the moment he sees the confusion register on your face, the way your eyebrows draw together and your eyes narrow. It's too much for him to handle and it all comes flooding out at once.

"I dropped a bottle of whiskey on my dick last night and now the damn thing's killing me because you look so– uh. Fuck. You look so…like, this and it's just– it's a lot"

Daring to open his eyes again, he finds that your own eyes have gone understandably wide, your lips slightly parted too and he hates himself for thinking how badly he'd like to slip his fingers between them and watch you suck.

"Oh. So like, is it– are you hurt badly?", you break the silence after a few seconds of processing his word vomit, blinking up at Eddie like you're fascinated to learn more about his injured cock.

"I mean, I don't think it's anything I need to go to hospital over but yeah. Hurts a lot", he replies a little sheepishly, a side of Eddie you don't see very often because he's far and away from the shy type that's for sure.

"Like when you get hard?", you tilt your head to the side curiously.

Eddie blinks back at you when you say it, clearly taken aback by how casually you're treating this whole situation after how hard he'd tried to hide it but he manages to answer you with a slow nod.

He shivers next when suddenly you drop your gaze to the cushion he's got pressed over his aching boner. "Hm… it’s probably not going to go away anytime soon either, huh? we should do something about that", you suggest thoughtfully.

In that moment, all he can do is look at you in disbelief, sweat beading at his temple and his fingers trembling on top of the cushion. This couldn't really be happening, could it? His best friend since, forever, offering to get him off?

Eyes drifting up to his once more, you lean a little closer, voice dropping down to a whisper. "I could help you", you offer, tentatively placing your hand on Eddie's knee. "Only if you want me to."

Adams apple bobbing, it hurts Eddie when he swallows, finding his throat's turned dry and tight in the last few seconds.

"Seriously? you'd actually do that? um, are you sure?"

You bite back a laugh because the look on his face is nothing short of adorable, all wide eyed and eager like a puppy awaiting a treat.

"Well, you could sit here with your bruised dick and keep whimpering like a baby or you could let me make you feel better. What's it going to be, Eds?", you quirk up an eyebrow at him at the same time the corner of your mouth picks up into a playful smirk.

"The second one please", he answers quickly, his cheeks flooding with so much color you kind of want to pinch them and tease him about how cute he looks right now.

"Thought so."

Smiling, you pick yourself up off the couch, carefully lowering yourself to kneel between Eddie's legs when you place your hands on his knees and gently encourage him to spread them apart.

He's quick to help you when you reach for the waistband of his sweatpants next, carefully pulling both it and his boxers down to finally free his cock.

For both of you, it's surreal being in this position – Eddie with his cock out, all hard and throbbing for you and you wedged perfectly between his legs like a puzzle piece he'd been searching for all his life.

You have to take a few seconds to admire it; the way the length of him blushes red and curves up towards his belly, the way the many veins wrap around his thickness and the dark, wiry thatch of hair at his base, untrimmed and full. Just how you'd always imagined based on how wild Eddie kept the hair on his head.

Eyes trailing lower, you have to resist the urge to palm his balls to keep from possible hurting him. You want to feel the weight of them in your hand though because you can't help but think they look so full and that makes you feel sorry for Eddie and how he'd had to deal with that discomfort all day.

The thought has you pushing your lips out into a sympathetic little pout, hand reaching out to finally touch him. Gently, you use your fingers to pull back his soft foreskin, leaning forward and parting your lips to delicately kitten lick at his red, leaking tip, keeping your eyes fixed on his face for any signs of discomfort.

You're pleased to find none, chest blooming with pride as you watch complete bliss wash over Eddie's face, swirling your tongue gently and collecting beads of precum when you hear him sigh and moan with relief.

"Oh my god, that's – that's really fucking good. Please keep going", he whines unabashedly because that persistent ache that's been troubling him since last night is being soothed so fucking well by your eager tongue. At this point he doesn't even care what kind of sounds you might pull out of him, desperate to feel more of your touch.

"Don't think I'm gonna last long", he gulps when you blink up at him with your pretty lips wrapped around his tip. "Your mouth feels too good."

His words make your confidence rise like steadily billowing smoke. "You don't need to", you tell him truthfully. "I just want to make you feel better", pressing a sweet kiss to the top of his smooth head, loving the way his breath stutters when you do it and the feeling of his sticky precum coating your lips in a shiny film. Like he's marking you..

As you continue, you refrain from using your hands while you pleasure him, keeping them pressed flat against his inner thighs, using only your mouth to kiss and lick up and down his rigid shaft as your nose nudges against it softly, returning to suckle at his tip from time to time.

It's easy to tell how badly Eddie must have needed this because he's unravelling so quickly under your touch as he throws his head back against the couch, his hands balled into fists by his sides while he whimpers about how well you're doing.

He's so pretty like this with his neck bared to you but you miss his gaze, removing your swelling lips from his cock to coax him back. "Don't hold back with me, Teddie. Tell me what you need and I'll give it to you", you coo earnestly.

Lifting his cloudy head to look down at you, it's Eddie's turn to surprise you when he brings one hand up to brush back a few strands of hair that'd gotten stuck to your damp cheek, a brief moment of tenderness that makes the butterflies resting in the depths of your stomach wake and beat their wings.

"Could you go a little lower?", he asks you, chest heaving and lips slightly pink from biting.

"Want me to lick your balls?", you try to clarify.

That makes him chuckle, a sweet, airy sound that makes you feel like there's sunlight spilling through the spaces between your ribs, filling up your whole chest with pleasant warmth.

"When d'you start talking like this, huh? Y' got such a dirty mouth on you, sweetheart", he teases you lightly, pulling his hand back so you can get back to working him.

You simply smile against his shaft in reply, feigning coy and innocence while trailing kisses lower and lower until you reach the seam of his balls. Placing your warm tongue flat against it, you draw it up slowly, wetting his heated skin before pressing more kisses against his sack, giggling when the hair there starts to tickle your lips.

"Think you can handle it if I take you in my throat? I'll go slow, I promise", you speak up from between his legs.

Given how often he's pumped his cock to the very thought of you throating him, Eddie nearly trips over himself trying to find the words to answer.

"Holy shit, yes please", he manages to let out with a strained groan.

That's all you needed to hear before you're taking him into your mouth again, bobbing up and down a few times slowly, careful not to let your teeth scrape his sensitive skin before you bob deeper and let him reach the back of your throat, triggering your gag reflex and making your throat close around him nice and tight.

"Baby– baby, fuck I'm going to cum", he gasps, hips jerking, eyes squeezing shut.

And that's all the warning he can manage to give you before he's spilling down your throat, thick, creamy ropes of it which you swallow down eagerly and as best as you can.

Most of it slides down the warm, wet contracting walls of your throat but you realize just how pent-up Eddie must have been when your cheeks puff out a little with a generous amount of his cum that you couldn't manage to gulp down fast enough, pulling off of Eddie's softening cock with a mouthful of spend sitting warm on your tongue, coating the insides of your cheeks.

Sitting there on your knees while Eddie pants and recuperates, a deeply curious part of you has you swishing his cum in your mouth, savoring the distinct, tangy taste of him before you part your lips and let him look inside.

Exhausted but entirely amazed, he gawks at you and the viscous mess of spit and semen in your mouth, tempted to stick his own tongue in there and taste himself on you before you press your swollen lips back together and promptly swallow, a beaming smile breaking out on your face.

"See? told you I'd take care of you."