#mothballs lore | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rigginsstreet · 7 months ago

Text

@runraerun made some wheels for @harringrovekinktober prompts (here in case anyone wants to play around and write something even after october) and my 3 prompts were rimming, ghost hunting, and bennys burgers which made me laugh so i decided to write something aaand here it is happy halloween 🖤

"this is such a bad idea."

"quit your bitching."

billy's hunched over the padlock blocking entry into the now desolate diner, trying to pick his way in with a bobby pin he stole from max's side of the bathroom.

"it's weird, billy!" harrington's whining behind him. "a guy died here, have some fucking respect."

"aha!" billy shouts as he gets the lock open, pulls out the chains holding the door closed and kicks it open before turning around to face steve. "and that's why we're going to see if all the rumors are true. so stop being a pansy ass and come in. wanna see if there's still any brains left over."

the rumors, of course, are that the place has been haunted for the past 40 years ever since the Benny of Benny's Burgers was found by the counter with his head blown off. and billy, being billy, has been itching to get out here ever since steve made the mistake of mentioning this to him as part of the town lore when he was trying to impress the hot new guy a few weeks ago... (it worked, of course, because steve got himself a new semi-boyfriend out of it, it's just that said boyfriend is kind of a psycho maniac, turns out.)

"you're a sick weirdo freak," steve deadpans, slightly disgusted.

billy just grins at him, tongue between his teeth. "that's what makes the sex so good."

billy steps in without further notice, and there's a split second where steve thinks about ditching his ass and just going to tina's party or something. find himself a nice normal somebody to hook up with instead.

he follows billy inside.

the place smells like old grease and mothballs. can't see shit inside until billy clicks on a flashlight and they're treated to a view of fallen bits of ceiling, cobwebs, and old graffiti.

"cute," billy says as he walks up to a wall with a satanic goat head painted on.

"okay! we came, we saw, no ghosts, let's go." steve is not freaked out, he just doesn't want to stay in this place any longer than he has to. he also doesn't want to risk tetanus.

the front door slams shut then, and billy starts cackling like some evil witch when steve jumps from the noise, because it's loud, not because he's scared.

"god, you really are a pussy," billy's still laughing, and steve wants to deck him in the nose.

"ok, you know what? fuck you. i'm leaving."

steve's had enough. he's not putting up with this the rest of the night. he's got better places to be, better company to keep. except.

billy's grabbing him by the waist as he tries to make his exit. pulls him til his back is flush against billy's chest, and billy's got his arms wrapped around him tight, faces pressed cheek to cheek in an oddly intimate pose for someone like billy hargrove who, in steve's short time of knowing him, hasn't really done much of intimate at all.

"hey, hey, i'm sorry, alright? i'll protect you from the big bad monsters..."

steve rolls his eyes because of course billy can't help himself from being a prick about it, but like.

the embrace does feel nice. maybe steve's a sucker. but he's fine with that fact as billy's turning him in his arms and suddenly they're face to face.

"only monster i need protection from is you."

"aw, baby, now how can you say i'm the bad guy when i treat you so good..."

billy takes steve's chin between his thumb and forefinger, guiding their mouths together at a tortuously slow pace that leaves steve's knees feeling like jello when their lips finally touch.

steve kind of forgets where they are after that. for as annoying as billy is, he's frustratingly a really fucking good kisser.

so steve lets himself get lost in it. has his hands fisted in the denim of billy's jacket and walks them back until billy hits the old diner counter with a grunt. makes billy kiss back harder, biting at steve's lips like he's some rabid animal. it's how it always goes with them.

"thought we were s'pposed to be ghost hunting?" steve asks between kisses. not that he really gives a shit. this is much better than disturbing restless spirits.

"got something else for you to hunt."

steve groans at the horrible joke, but then billy's whispering all husky against his mouth "want you to fuck me," and then steve's groaning for a whole different reason.

steve kind of wants to object, because this is not the place he wants to be doing this. but the thing is... billy hasn't actually let steve fuck him yet. all their hook ups have been the other way around and like, that's been all fine and great, but steve's kind of been itching to have his go at billy. and if this is his opportunity being handed to him on a silver platter, then, well...

"god, yes."

he's maybe a little more enthusiastic than necessary when he goes to undo billy's jeans. would be embarrassed about it under other circumstances, but he's a man possessed. maybe it's all the jitters from earlier. fuck if he knows.

but before he can pull billy's jeans down billy's stopping him with a hand to his chest, all calm and slow like the biggest cocktease in the world. for a second steve thinks he's been played, that billy's gonna start laughing in his face and tell him as if. but he doesn't.

"first thing's first, cowboy."

he tugs on steve's shirt, forcing him down to his knees as billy turns around, back to him. ass to him, really, once steve's in the desired position. and it takes steve a second to process it, what billy's wanting. but then billy's bending forward and planting his forearms onto an old vinyl cushion of the counter stools, and he's giving his ass a little wiggle right in steve's face and... yeah, okay. he gets the message. fuck.

he's done this before, just not with billy.

well, not to billy. billy's usually the one doing it to him, and he's fucking good at that, too. so. no pressure or anything.

"c'mon, harrington, i wanna wake the dead."

"ew, don't talk about that right now."

billy laughs while steve shakes off his disgust. refocuses on billy's ass in front of him and how he needs to remove the current barriers between them.

billy's ass is kind of glorious up close. not that steve would tell billy that, like the guy needs an ego boost. but seeing it stripped bare right in front of him he can better admire how taut it is, how golden it is, somehow, just like the rest of billy (an imagine springs to mind of billy sunbathing naked and it's got steve all kinds of things.)

there's a light dusting of hair that steve can see and feel as his hands make slow, methodical work of massaging him, getting him nice and relaxed before steve spreads him open and goes to work.

the tiny gasp billy let's out does wonders for steve's own ego. spurred on by all of billy's pleased noises he really sinks his teeth in - so to speak.

"fuck, harrington," billy breathes. "and everyone says i've got the wicked tongue..." he's cut off by a moan, and steve can't help but smirk to himself.

"they don't call me king for nothing," steve quips before going back in and fucking his tongue into billy's hole, relishing in the whimpers billy's letting out.

if only everyone at school could see big bad billy hargrove now, reduced to a whimpering mess all because of steve harrington. it sends a little jolt straight to his dick, he can't lie.

"wanna fuck you so bad..." steve breathes, brain going foggy as he bites into the meat of billy's ass.

"no one's stopping you." billy's trying to sound like his usually cocksure self, but the effect is hindered somewhat by the desperate rasp of his voice.

steve's all set to get on with it, getting ready to pull himself up to his feet when there's a loud crash coming from the kitchen.

"the hell was that?" he asks.

billy looks up, almost like he, too, was spooked, but of course he won't just say that.

"probably just an animal or something. get back to fucking me."

"i haven't started," steve mutters, back on his feet.

he's halfway to zipping down his fly when there's another crash, except this time it's from a rock, he assumes, hurling right past them til is cracks on the wall behind them.

"that's not a fucking animal, billy!" and, okay, maybe steve's kind of losing himself a little here, but, like, can he be blamed?

even billy's shot up, staring into the kitchen with wide eyes. "it's gotta be the wind or something... it's fine."

billy tries to tug steve closer to him to get on with the show, but it's in that moment a piece of the ceiling comes hailing down next to them, and steve's had enough.

"nope! no way! im out of here!"

even billy seems to have finally gotten his sense and is pulling his pants up, running out of the place right behind steve.

"homophobic ass ghost," he's mumbling to himself as they reach the door, and another rock flies by and cracks the glass.

"don't antagonize it, billy!" steve grabs billys arm and hauls him outside. "sorry mr. benny, sir! won't happen again!"

billy flips the diner the bird as they're running away, and steve will swear on his life he actually heard the bellowing sound of a man's voice yelling at them. nothing distinct, just... unsettling howling of sorts.

steve doesn't want to think about it.

only when the diner is out of view do they finally stop running.

steve's heart feels like it's about to leap out of his chest as he glares at billy. his lungs are gonna explode. "next time you want someone to fuck you, try taking them somewhere normal like a motel 6. asshole."

billy, despite his own look of fear, starts laughing. "you gotta admit this makes for a better story, though."

steve just shakes his head, still trying to catch his breath. "asshole."

#harringrove #my writing #this was thrown together very fast so any mistakes... embrace them ok #harringrovekinktober

70 notes · View notes

lilacsandstone · 4 months ago

Text

making this its own post bc it ended up longer than i expected lol

a few months ago i made a post theorizing abt mumbo's lore for s10 and in retrospect the conclusion even based on ep 39 was pretty obvious However i still predicted it so yay

now onto some smaller theories ive been thinking abt since the lore drop:

i am a grumbot s10 truther. esp after all the lore in s9 with the empires crossover!! it might be a reach but i think ultimately the huge computer mumbo's building is going to be s10's version of grumbot

he hasn't kept his database updated but i'm wondering if when he built it he meant for it to connect to the computer? as like part of his memory

the main thing i'm getting tripped up on is why is there a chicken involved??? there's no way it's going to go fully according to plan, and iirc in the video he a few times describes the computer as housing his consciousness instead of a way to transfer it to something else. my gut feeling is he's going to upload his brain to the computer for the transfer, only to get stuck inside the computer. that or grian's going to get involved and complicate things lol

on the topic of grian. yes i think he's going to be part of this lore somehow. and totally not because i miss s7 and i'm delusional. the missing waffle from the start of the season just feels like a chekov's gun situation to me. like if he isn't involved in the lore AT ALL then why bother removing the waffle from the mc skin? he started aging as soon as it was gone. he had gotten it originally to replace his own soul. something happened that took grian's soul out of him, making him age rapidly/making him mortal. something is here and theres still pieces missing and its driving me crazy hgjfdg

im thinking about his starter base now too. incredibly convoluted, a home that is unreachable from the outside--you need to be (re)born into it. surrender your mortal possessions so they can be stored separately, giving yourself access to a previously locked door. meticulously end your own life to recreate a message that only you can understand. your consciousness is transferred to an enclosed, suspended space (a sort of cloud?). you can access your belongings for as long as you stay inside. mumbo's starter base wasn't separate from magic mountain row. it was the prototype.

and if you don't believe me about the bases being connected. while writing this i have picked up another piece of the puzzle. back in episode 3 of mumbo's s10, he mentions the comments were calling the mothball an impossible build structurally. do you remember what he did to make it "structurally sound?" CHICKENS. he put leads on chickens and tied the leads around fences on the support beam to look like tension cables.

so why did he abandon the mothball for this new computer? iirc, he started getting annoyed about having to remove his items each time, and not being able to access his stuff without dying each time first. there wasn't enough space in the mothball, and his items were getting stored outside instead. very inefficient. but most importantly: the structural chickens died. after that point, the mothball "fell".

so knowing that now, how is he planning on keeping this chicken alive once he puts his consciousness into it?

well! since grian is apparently the key to immortality, mumbo is putting his consciousness into poultry man.

(lmao jk for that last one could you imagine)

if you guys have any of ur own ideas/theories feel free to add onto this!! im so excited for him to reveal more of the story he's going for :D

#hermitcraft #mumbo jumbo #hermitcraft 10 #hermitcraft mumbo #hermitblr #hc mumbo #IM COOKINGGGGG I SWEAR #insert pepe silvia meme with minecraft chicken badly photoshopped into the center

37 notes · View notes

mothballphunk · 21 days ago

Text

Hi! Mothball here :*P I'm an OC artist here now, I reckon! I'm not accustomed to posting art online, but I figured Tumblr would be a good place to start. I'm not a frequent user of Tumblr yet, so do forgive me if I fudge up the Tumblr etiquette system </3. I mean no ill will; Only gafs (rambles) and trinkets (art). I often get cold feet and delete social media accounts, so I'm really hoping that doesn't happen this time. I do attend university and work a part time job (full-time sometimes in the summer :*|), so my activity may vary. I apologize for that! Anyways, my tags are #mothballsart -> For any art I make #mothballsdialtone -> For any art I make specific to my main OC lore #mothballyapsanddies -> For any text posts I make I'm not entirely sure what *I'll* all post, so half of that might just be included for no reason :*(, but that's okay! But yes! Thanks for checking out my Meet the Artist. Hopefully I'll see you again soon! :*)

#original characters #oc artist #meet the artist #art #digital art #my sona #mothballsart

4 notes · View notes

chameleonspell · 10 months ago

Text

HTDC commentary - 2: labels

[Looking back at HTDC after nearly ten years: comments on lore, character notes, influences, art, whatever. May contain spoilers for later chapters.]

chapter text: 2: labels

Another chapter where I made no concessions to anyone who hadn't played Morrowind! It's just an extended riff on the character generation questionnaire. I think I simultaneously felt like I had to include it, but also thought it was boring and obvious to narrate gameplay mechanics everyone knew about, so I just... made Ire say a lot of silly things about licking sugar off boys, rather than have him answer any of the questions properly. Oh well, at least it's established that Ire hates his ma. Also that Iriel likes sugar, but that fact will soon become apparent.

Really, though, while this scene is played for laughs, it's true that this is the first conversation Iriel has had in more than a year where what he says actually matters, and he is expected to act like a normal person, exercising concepts like social propriety. He is pulling his entire personality out of mothballs, having not used it for a very long time. This was how he survived jail - depersonalisation, entering a state where he could say or do anything he liked, because it wasn't real, he wasn't real. He calls it madness, here, and later says of it:

"It’s a funny old place, jail. In odd ways, it frees you. From shame, for example. Shame is for people with something left to lose, somewhere further to fall."

Freedom means personhood. Freedom means that Iriel has to deal with shame again, and now he's gonna get hit full force.

This is purely a psychometric test, designed to illuminate character.” Iriel immediately looked five times as terrified as before.

Personhood... feels bad. Feels dangerous and embarrassing, like he's trying to smuggle a ferret made of Semtex and razor blades through customs, inside his vest.

Iriel is frantically scrabbling to regain control of what information he is revealing about himself to others, failing utterly, and convinced that everything about him is awful. The fact Socucius is being nice to him only makes it worse, because that means the point where he turns angrily on Ire is still to come! Guilt as inherent personality trait, because your entire personality is something to feel guilty about.

Speaking of Personality, as an illusion mage, Iriel technically had a very high Personality stat, in-game. In this scene, we establish that this is not because of any great beauty or charismatic facility with speech on his part. No, Iriel gets people to help him through the sheer, pleading, pathetic power of his big, wet, puppydog eyes. Clearly, this is why he has to sit under tables - because he's too tall to look up at people, now, so he needs to crawl down low, and blink owlishly up at them.

Ire was wrinkling his nose. “No, no, I heard you. I just can’t picture myself choosing any of those options. If you’d ever met my mother, you’d understand.”

For the non-Morrowinders present, there is a chargen question about what action you would take to save your mother from being hit by a burning pipe. There is no option to answer "I would cheerfully let my mother get hit by a burning pipe, because we have the sort of relationship where that is my idea of a good time."

I still don’t understand why you reject the label of “mage” or “sorcerer”, when you were a student of magic both at the Crystal Tower in the Summerset Isles and the Arcane University in Cyrodiil."

Absolutely intentional choice on my part to choose to write a scholar, because it gives me free rein to make them say silly academic vocabulary, and generally indulge my love of that sort of character voice. Not yet, as Ire's still regaining his mind, but definitely later on.

Iriel keeps it grounded and proves he's actually common as muck with the constant, reflexive swearing, which I just thought was funny. My previous TES writing project had been PG and in strict lore-compliant limits, so I wanted to let elves say "fuck", now. Saying "fuck" is cool, actually, and makes you sound really grown-up.

Anyway, what's Iriel got against labels? Well, a label's what you use to broadcast information about yourself, which is clearly a horrible idea.

Iriel twisted a strand of his hair. It was a nervous habit, but one he was secretly happy to regain, since they had shaved his head - under screaming, sobbing protest - on admittance to the Imperial Prison, and on a monthly basis, thereafter.

This was not just Iriel being a dramatic baby. It was a massive and traumatic violation to him, and would have been for most Altmer. I think long hair is very important to Altmeri cultural ideals of beauty, regardless of gender, but most of all, it's hugely tied to social status. Having short hair is not merely common, it's gross. It's like having fleas, or a skin condition - you understand some people can't help it, but it's still awful to contemplate. Iriel explains this, much later:

Hair is a very serious business, where I’m from. It’s a sign of class, position, lifestyle. Nobody above merchant caste would ever cut their hair voluntarily, it implies you’re not in a position to take proper care of it. Or your occupation involves tasks so unbearably practical that even braiding isn’t enough. My pa cut his hair - too much wind and seawater not to. Ma wouldn’t let him cut mine. She wanted better for me.”

Hands you felt safe in. I don’t have hands like that.

Iriel's belief that there are two kinds of people, safe ones and unsafe ones, this is inherent and predetermined, and he is not one of them. Very Altmeri of him: goodness and badness is in the blood, there's nothing you can do to change it.

In more practical, narrative terms, healing magic is such a get out of jail free card, in a story. It was so much easier for me to bring the drama, if I made sure that Iriel was very bad at it, and couldn't be splashing it around all the time, to solve his problems.

There had been instructions about duties, but by that stage, Ire had regressed back into the disconnected state he privately called “the numb”, and it had all washed over him meaninglessly.

Established: reason we're gonna totally ignore the main quest for as long as possible.

He stared at the damp little village before him. Buildings. People walking about. Turning around. Looking at him. He clutched the bag to his chest and tried to concentrate.

All right, Ire. You need supplies and directions. Get yourself oriented. Talk to the locals, find a shop, get used to how things work here. You can do this.

More people began to notice him and send him curious glances. A Bosmer man smiled encouragingly, and seemed on the verge of coming over to initiate conversation.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do any of it.

Ire made a small, despairing noise, pointed himself in a random direction and walked straight out of the village into the swamp.

So, this is kind of where my original Morrowind playthrough stopped being me playing the game like a gamer, and became a character exploration, instead. When I started, I was just going to play Morrowind, do all the quests, go wherever seemed fun or useful, based on my extensive knowledge as an experienced player. I was in Seyda Neen, so I would go through the standard motions: sell the limeware platter, give Fargoth his ring, buy some spells and equipment, all the usual things you do in the starter town, to set yourself up for the game.

But when I stepped out of the Census Office, I was already far enough into Iriel's head that I could only feel his sense of being totally socially and sensorially overwhelmed, something that was very familiar to me, and I realised this was going to be a very different kind of playthrough.

This was my reply to a question asked of me by pigeonfancier on tumblr:

What inspired you to write the fic this way?

It started out because I needed to. I was suffering from intermittent bouts of mental horrible, my social anxiety was getting unmanageable and I kept fantasising about invisibility. Worse, I kept losing words. It felt like my brain was disintegrating.

Morrowind is my favourite game, my comfort zone, my happy place. I started a new game, and put some of my stresses into the character. And when he refused point blank to talk to anyone in Seyda Neen, and just ran off into the swamp, I thought, maybe this is a story. And maybe if I write it, I can put lots of words into it, so that I don’t lose them. And maybe I can explore ways to survive in a world that often seems very frightening.

next: 3: breathe previous: 1: numb

#htdc-comment

10 notes · View notes

jaded-but-queer · 2 years ago

Text

Daughter of Discord but Queer is basically what I’m going for ✨ and also a lot of my changeling lore will be incorporated into it because I find them interesting

Some aspects that I will including into this

- fluttershy and discord will NOT be toxic like oh my god BOD did the both of them WRONG 😭

- Screwball will be openly pansexual and genderfluid, and Mothball will be bisexual and gender nonconforming

- Rarijack will be a ship instead of Applejack x Spike (EW) and Rarity x Fancy Pants

- I’ll probably be changing a few of the ships/context to match up more with the actual show instead of strictly following the BOD/DOD timeline since even I’m sure DF would’ve portrayed things differently had she started writing during the show’s later seasons

- I will try to have Twilight serve a more important role as Screwy’s mentor/unpaid babysitter

- The changelings will function as a tyrannical monarchy and Chrysalis’s Royal title will instead be Empress instead of Queen

- They will also be a conservative matriarchy, to help shoe in just how out of place mothy will feel once he enters Equestria with how everything feels backwards/frightening to him

- I’m replacing Dinky’s role with Flutterby Lily (who I have renamed and redesigned to be Lily Sterling) because Dinky felt really dull to me and Flutterby was meant to be a childhood friend of Screwy in the og fic

- that reminds me I also designed Apple Blossom into Bloomin’ Apples and she is now Big Mac and Sugar Belle’s daughter

#mlp #daughter of discord #screwball mlp #fluttercord #changeling #bride of discord

101 notes · View notes

untitled-writing-projects · 6 months ago

Text

Today's lore tidbit!

The Inexorable-Class Battleship was lucky enough to be built after the realization that missiles were just as useful on a ship as railguns. As such, it splits its armament between the two methods and arrives at a pleasant medium between.

It's a modern ship that takes few risks and is almost boringly effective at its job. It still requires protection by Shell craft but is designed to be able to hold its own against both cruisers and other battleships.

Its leading issue is the absolute resource drain it put on the navy. After staggering losses in the early years of the war against small and cheap fleets of missile-armed Gildenian craft, the political push was for new battleships, and the navy bent to the pressure. The entire fleet of Superheavy Core Craft was mothballed and replaced. This led to the brass-adopted nickname of the Inconsolable, seeing as how it drained many coffers. Few argue with the results, though.

#anarchism #anarchopunk #writers on tumblr #scifi #writing #space opera #artwork #crimson sun #today's lore tidbit #art

5 notes · View notes

deagh · 2 years ago

Text

Moar Fanfiction! (I can't seem to stop)

So, Sandrock went full release a week or so ago. I continue to churn out fanfic because the game lore has grabbed me hard.

Newest one, chapter 1 posted today.

And then there's this one which is a prequel to the above:

But I've also recently put up a one-shot (read the tags, y'all. I've got smut all through these.)

And one more.

So, like I said, I can't seem to stop. Now that I've just about completely finish the work I started posting today, I have gotten another WIP out of mothballs, which is the sequel to Take the Long Way Home. I hope that one ends up shorter than this ladt one did so I can actually get it finished and posted by the end of the year. Fingers Crossed!

#my time at sandrock #fanfic #shameless self promo

5 notes · View notes

mothba11s · 3 months ago

Text

— LET MY MIND GO QUIET.

＊ —— MOTHBA11S an independent, mutually exclusive, private blog for 𝐸𝑆𝑇𝐸𝐿𝐿𝐸 𝑆𝑇.𝐽𝑂𝐻𝑁 from cw's the vampire diaries universe. uses the beta editor paired with xkit rewritten's 'trim' feature. as written by chaos, he / they, 28, denmark. read rules . mainly based in augustine lore. est. 2014 Sideblog to unsnare.

＊ 03171 . ＊ ; extremely private blog for estelle st.john from CW's the vampire diaries . a study in : * The long betrayal, ruthless elegance, sapphire on your bruised knees, forgotten mothballs in an vacant space.

𝐈. info * 𝐈𝐈. promo. * 𝐈𝐈𝐈. pinterest. * 𝐈𝐕. permanent sc. * 𝐕. memes.

0 notes

l-la · 9 months ago

Note

🐾 for faeriebell and 🍑 for pixie and 👑 for lore :3 please

:3 YAY yippee. Thank you, Eddie!!

I am going to focus on SWL AU in this post, because it is on my brain at the moment.

In most universes, Faeriebell has some form of a cat named Hijinks/Jinx (You Owe Me a Soda). This will likely be true in SWL as well; though, I have not gotten to that part of their lore where they have gotten her yet! In 2018 SWL Roleplays Rach and I did, Bootes/Kiddo got a chimera cat that was half-anima, half-filth named Mothball, and I am tempted for Hijinks to be maybe similar. Not sure yet, but I think it is a baller aesthetic.

(I also really think they need a domesticated, to them, swan in most AUs, don't think SWL works for that. But the idea of Faeriebell with a swan that is very loyal to them and hates others is just very amusing to me. That's their support territory creature, eff off.)

Flings and Pixie!

Pixie in SWL has technically only dated one person: Cyrine Kokinos.

Pixie grew up in Montreal, adopted by a woman who was rising within her corporate work. For the majority of their childhood, Pixie had no real paternal figures. This changed when they entered their teenage years and their mother became involved with a mechanic by the name of Jerome.

Where Pixie's mother was not meaningfully neglectful, she was distant in a way that Pixie had grown accustom to, to live their life. Jerome was more worrying, more concerned, and he was trying his best (even fumbling) to be a present (step, in their mind) father for Pixie.

This along with Cyrine's long line of boyfriends (and girlfriends) that treated her like shit--meant that Pixie as a teenager and early twenty-something was sort of romance adverse. Until Cyrine actually turned her eyes onto Pixie romantically.

And after that relationship fell apart, trust and comfort with the idea of sharing themself with random others sort of was just not on the table. Especially when you see yourself as owned by a Secret Society for their secret war, and you are merely a worker bee for their larger aspirations. Your body comes back again and again and again, but how do you feel some ownership of yourself? Can you? Pixie always falls towards control of themself/hyperawareness of things around them to feel safe. But they have had a fling on the side technically off and on for years, post-Cyrine, which is with Starling and Viviene. Starling is Pixie's other longterm friend (along with Cyrine), and Viv is their partner. It's that sort of blurring of romance and friendship that I really think works for certain queer relationships. Sex and sharing themself within that context is a safe space.

Eventually Magdalene comes along, and then they have to face a romance again but--long answer, sorry!! :'B -

Lore was raised by two older parents in Gore, Quebec! I think the idea of Lore with significantly older adoptive parents is just very amusing and explains so much about them. Their adoptive mother is the sister to Pixie's mother, which sets Lore and Pixie up in-universe as cousins (to Lore's chagrin, and Pixie's sort of nonchalance). Very dotting parents who would even support Lore's worst necromantic atrocities. Technically unaware of the Secret World, but honestly, they'd accept it super easy-peasy and be really excited for Lore's blood magic.

#faeriebell //#pixie //#lore //#swl //#thank u for letting me ramble eddie uwu

1 note · View note

brimbrimbrimbrim · 2 months ago

Note

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… you see it.

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

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

It’s motherfucking perfect…

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

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

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

“Hey! Hog Wilder!”

“What’chu want, honey...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

You’re given silence.

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

You turn something without thinking, and something crackles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

... playing?

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

Your sound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“FuucCK YEAAHHH! I’M BACK, BABY!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you feel it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zed doesn't slow down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Fuck. That's you...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not even close.

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

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

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

Then he slams back inside!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t answer—too busy cumming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zed grins against your neck. You can feel it.

Then—SMACK!

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

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

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

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

Check it out on AO3, too. :P

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

Working on it now. >_>

#fanfic #ask #anon #writing #<3 #zed lollipop chainsaw

20 notes · View notes