oh god technology

coz still fucking hates web 2.0

10 notes

peachskull asked: we're talking about ships on twitter and now im going to throw them in your askbox crowbar/snowman/quarters

"Hold still," Snowman tells him as she leans forward to extinguish her cigarette and Crowbar finds it nearly impossible not to make a sound, shoving his mouth against Quarters’ thigh.

Filed under ficlette snowman crowbar quarters nsfw peachskull

9 notes

luckyspike asked: Someone in game of thrones realizes that westeros is apparently populated by the same 50 horses

"Nan, why do all the horses look the same?" Bran asked one evening while he huddled by the fire, covered in furs and warming his hands.

"They do not look the same, that’s a stupid question." Sansa was not having a very good time, and hadn’t been since she realized that she wanted desperately to be the daughter of a Southern Lord instead of a Northern one. 

Arya opened her mouth and it was only Old Nan’s quick intervention that kept the three Starks from quarreling. “Some horses do look the same, don’t they Bran? They didn’t always. Once there were thousands and thousands of horses, all with different coats. Some were silver and gold, and some had spots and stripes, and some even were thick and wonderful to the touch, like the furs you wear. There were so many coats that not a man in a thousand had one the same shade or shape.” 

"What happened?" Bran thought of the silvers and the bays and the chestnuts, and how they all looked the same, the same colour and patterns and shapes. 

"Winter came and men grew hungry. First they ate what they had saved in the summer, but the winter was long and the food slipped away. Then they ate the pigs and the cows and the chickens, until there were none of those left. The horses had been watching though and they knew they would be next. There was nothing like warm flesh in winter." Old Nan moved her needles to the next row and Bran watched as the scarf in her hands grew longer still. "So while man slept, they held a council. Surely they would all be eaten before winter’s end unless they found a way to save themselves." 

"Did they trade coats?" Arya asks, though the gleam in her eye makes it clear she knows the answer. She’s heard this story before and Old Nan clucks her tongue at Arya for ruining the story. 

"Nobody likes a know-it-all," Sansa says to her sister, and yipes when Arya takes a swipe at her. 

"Yes, they traded coats. The golds swapped with the bays and the silvers with the greens, and the stripes with the spots until they were all traded and none could tell which the other had been, and they felt clever that they wouldn’t be caught. But one little Bay spoke up and said ‘ho, what’s to stop man from trading us to those who think we belong to them and eating us all the same?’ and his words sent a sigh through them for there was still a gold and silver and a stripe and a speckle and they had not changed who would die, only who would kill them." 

" ‘I have a better idea’ said the bay, and when he took his coat off, he showed the gold beside him how to make his coat the same shade, until they were identical and could not be told apart. ‘Now our masters will not know us and they will fight over who we belong to, and while some may die, some of us may slip away and wait for summer’. And all thought it was so clever that they traded their coats as well until there were only a few skins for each horse."

"What did the men do when they found what the horses did?" Bran tried to imagine his father and Robb finding their horses in the same colours. They would grumble and argue and not decide whose it was or what to do. 

"The men were puzzled and they fought among themselves over the horses, each insisting a horse was theirs. Others bickered that their horses had been stolen and replaced with poor ones. Some were slaughtered, but most survived and waited for spring, planning on switching their coats back. But by the time the summer came, they had forgotten how to." Nan’s needles finish clacking as she finishes the yarn. "And that is why all horses look the same." 

"That was a stupid story. Tell the one about Brandon the Builder’s daughter!" Sansa says, just as Arya shouts out, "The Night King! Tell the Night King story!" 

Bran ignores his sisters and wraps himself deeper in his furs, thinking about what shade of horse he would be if he had to change his skin. 

Filed under ficlette bran sansa arya game of thrones luckyspike

7 notes

emberkeelty asked: That one time they totally tried the pies. Maybe as a taste test of the first batch, because Toby happily devoured the OLD pies so he's obviously useless. Or maybe just because with so many people exclaiming over how good they are it's impossible not to give into curiosity at least once.

The first batch of pies is nothing special to look at. They smell alright, certainly better than what she served him when he first came in her store, but that doesn’t mean much. Smelling good is one thing, tasting good… 

"Should I fetch Toby? Not that he’ll know the difference mind you. You should have seen how he gobbled up my pies and told me how good they were. I could have fed him sawdust and he would have asked for seconds, poor thing." Mrs Lovett prods the pie in front of her with a dirty fork and watches as a little grease oozes out the top. "Suppose this is a sin ain’t it? Though you go to Church every Sunday and they feed you the body of Christ and that’s fine-" 

Sweeney’s had enough of listening to her and he breaks open the crust, digging his fork into the pinkish meat inside, popping it into his mouth. Lovett goes quiet and watches at Sweeney chews away. It’s… good. It’s good. It’s…

He has another forkful as soon as he’s swallowed the first. The dough is as dry and terrible as ever but the meat, the meat… it melts in his mouth. “Tastes like pork.” 

"Like pork? Huh." She looks at it, and there’s a look on her face, the look he’s come to know as Lovett thinking and coming to a conclusion that is always just a bit… odd. "Suppose it makes sense. So many men are pigs. Nearly all of ‘em, begging your pardon." 

Sweeney doesn’t care. He agrees with her assessment. Swine pass by their windows each day, snuffling and shuffling to and fro. His fork slips in again, and this time, he offers the meat to Mrs Lovett. Her eyes light up and there is a part of him that stirs when he sees how she looks at him. He thought that part of him was dead but perhaps it was sleeping deep inside. Her eyes crinkle and she leans in, parting her lips. He slips the fork inside and feels her tug on it slightly with her mouth, taking the meat and leaving the tines clean. 

"Mmm!" Her voice sings somewhat and she presses her fingers over her lips, eyes wide with surprise. Mrs Lovett chews and chews and swallows, and then she smiles, and he smiles back, even though his is rusty and he’s not sure he feels it all the way down. "That’s lovely isn’t it? Oh that’s grand. They’ll be lining up around the block for a taste of that. Give me another." 

He offers her another and his eyes are drawn to her mouth as she swallows it down. Sweeney has another for himself. The fake-Italian is the best meal he’s had in fifteen years. The meat is so tender, so juicy, so savory. He had forgotten how nice it could be to eat for pleasure instead of sustenance alone. He had forgotten how nice it could be to have someone look at him like that. 

"Always thought people would taste like chicken. That’s how the jokes go." She joins him on the bench and breaks open her own pie. Mrs Lovett fills her fork and offers it to Sweeney, looking at him from under her eyelids. He remembers when Lucy fed him at their wedding. Poor Lucy… poor Lucy. 

Fifteen years gone now. Fifteen years of waiting and he came home to a dead wife and a stolen child and Mrs Lovett. She’s all he has. And he’s all she has. Sweeney leans in and takes the fork in his mouth. The sweetest thing he has had in years sits in his mouth, tasting of blood and revenge. 

Filed under ficlette sweeney todd cannibalism emberkeelty

15 notes

thespiandeacon asked: bioshock high school au, atlas leads the anime club in there attempts to take down the preppy student council lead by andrew

The music from the gymnasium could be heard even deep in the school’s basement, a reminder to Andrew and the rest that they were missing out on the Winter Festival Dance. Andrew felt a slight pang of regret that he was standing up Diane, but she would understand. If they didn’t get the furnace working down here, everybody would be froze out of the dance and then it wouldn’t matter if he did or didn’t show up. 

"I think I’ve got it now, somebody check the vents," Bill shouts out from under the furnace, just his legs and the bottom of his bare stomach poking out. He took his dress shirt off to keep it from getting messed up, but that means he’ll have to go shower and hope his date doesn’t mind him taking even longer than the rest. 

Cohen slides off of the boxes he’s sitting on and thrusts his hands over the nearest vent. “I told you we should have just had a party at my house. The heating never fails there.” 

"We party at your house every weekend." Andrew replies a little testily. Sander knows Ryan can’t go near his house for a while, not while Diane is still vaguely aware of Jolene’s existence. "We’re here tonight." 

"I’m just saying." Sander sulks and Andrew keeps an eye on him, knowing how Cohen can get when he feels slighted. "It’s working." 

"Good, somebody get me out of here." Bill waggles his legs and Andrew helps tug him out. He’s covered in dust and some grease and he tries to wipe it off (but mostly just smears the grease around). "That should do it. If one of you could carry my shirt until we get to the showers, that would be grand-"

The music stops dead, and as they turn their heads upward to figure out what’s going on, something loud, unfamiliar and horribly peppy starts blasting through the floorboards. “What is that racket?”

"It sounds like- " Cohen seems to realize it first, turning to Ryan in horror, "An anime opening." 

They run up the stairs, abandoning Bill’s shirt entirely as they rush to the gym. They’re too late to do anything. The place has been trashed, tables overturned and streamers torn down. Someone’s toppled the archway and as Ryan storms in, he sees Diane sitting on the floor, sobbing as her dress has been stained with red punch. The Snowflake King and Queen display is covered with graffiti, thick red paint dripping down onto the delicate decorations. “DEATH TO PREPS” it reads. 

Ryan looks at the mess, at his weeping on-and-off girlfriend, at the destruction of what was supposed to be the perfect send off to the New Year, and he clenches a fist in rage. 

"The anime club won’t get away with this." He turns, giving orders quickly. "Bill, find Atlas. Cohen, get the paddle."

Cohen opens his mouth to make some remark, the spark dying half a second later as he realizes, “Oh, for Atlas. Some people have all the fun-“

"Not now," Ryan hisses and Cohen gets a move on. Bill shrugs and does the same, leaving Ryan to seethe furiously in the midst of the ruined Winter Formal. 

Filed under ficlette bioshock cohen ryan bill thespiandeacon

10 notes

hungoverskeletonguy asked: itchy giving everyone bad dragons dildos for midwinter

Doze isn’t surprised to find a sex toy in the suspiciously generic box from Itchy. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t shocked when he unwraps a bright blue and yellow stripped toy covered with bumps and about the same width as a pop can.

"Itchy I can’t fit this inside of me," he blurts out. It’s wider than Doze’s forearm. Just looking at him makes him clench up a little in fear.

"Oh sure it can, we just gotta stretch you out." He pats Doze on the back, reaching out and prodding a flappy bit. "Hahaha check that out!" 

"No, Itchy, this is too big. This is way way too big." He says, or tries to say, and is promptly ignored as Die opens his box and squawks in outrage at the green and yellow horsecock inside. Doze isn’t sure his belongs to a real animal and he’s not sure if that’s better or worse. 

"Oooo~~ look what I got!" Clover shows Doze his box, which is full of tiny dildos. He picks up a few and waggles them around. "Teeny-weenies for my tiny-behind!"

Doze looks at the teenie weenies and then down at his dildo. Maybe he should be flattered that Itchy thinks that could ever fit inside of Doze? No, no… it’s hard to feel flattered when he imagines that butting up against his… butt. “It’s not going to fit.” 

Itchy doesn’t hear this protest. He’s too busy hitting Die in the face with his own gift. 

Filed under ficlette itchy die clover the felt nsfw hungoverskeletonguy

3 notes

trexila asked: if you need an official ask for this then topside assassin Jack/hitman boyfriend Sean + hilariously bad (for anyone who isn't them I guess) phone sex.

Sean is drunk and he really hopes that Jack is too (or as drunk as he can get considering how quickly he sobers up and that he’s got to pound it back constantly to stay pissed) because if he’s sober right now, Sean’s going to be embarrassed by everything he’s saying. 

Filed under ficlette underswater superman steals our hearts nsfw trexila

15 notes

thespiandeacon asked: ITCHY pranks quarters in the most awesome way that kills him*

The blast shook the Felt Mansion to its foundation and collapsed half of the left wing. It came down with a thunderous crash, transporting Sawbuck to the future by four years, killing about a dozen versions of Eggs and Biscuits (though not the primes) and burying every last effigy under a ton of green wood and slightly-different-shade-of-green furniture. 

Quarters was not dead, though by the time they found him when sifting through the rubble, it was clear he wouldn’t survive. His hat was missing and though Stitch had thrown together a quick effigy, the repairs he had made using a makeshift hat hadn’t stuck. 

Itchy knelt beside Quarters in the rubble, taking his bleeding stump in his hands. “Hey, Quarters… hey buddy. You awake still?”

He groaned out in pain, his eyes unsteadily fixing on Itchy above him. There were no words said, only a single loud grunt.

Itchy’s eyes welled with tears as he tightened his grip on Quarters’ arm. “Hey… big guy… do you need a hand?”

The other leprechauns all wept, moved to tears by the depth of Itchy’s romantic feelings for Quarters. Only he could have a partner considerate enough to pull one last joke on him as he lay dying. 

"You asshole," Quarters spit out, his eyes shiny with unshod tears. He made a tender fart noise with his mouth and died, his feelings for Itchy finally fully realized. 

Filed under ficlette the felt itchy quarters thespiandeacon

10 notes

thespiandeacon asked: Deuce is in charge of the fireworks on slick day

The band gets about three bars into the song before the sky dissolves into a blinding white mass of light and sound that temporarily deafens at least half of the crowd and leaves everyone shading their eyes. For a moment, Slick assumes that Deuce fucked up and set off all the fireworks at once. 

But it continues unabated for a solid twenty minutes. It’s like a war zone above them and any colours or details are lost in the blinding haze. Many flee once it becomes clear that the display will not stop and the park empties as people seek shelter in nearby stores, alleyways and anywhere that blocks out the raw fury of the fireworks show and turns it into a slightly less overwhelming display of might. 

Boxcars is the first to leave, followed quickly by Droog, who appears to have only stayed just so he wasn’t the first to retreat. Slick attempts to withstand it but he can feel the explosion bearing down on him, making his shell shake and driving the air from his lungs again and again until he feels like he’s suffocating. He curses as he retreats, but the most filthy tirade he can come up with is lost completely in the wall of sound.

Only Deuce remains, his white eyes fixed on the sky, staring with the sort of intense feavor usually only seen by those experiencing some sort of miracle. He stays to the end, arms spread and face turned up towards the finale, which is so bright and loud that the force of the explosions forces him onto the ground and pins him there for a solid three minutes. He only knows the show is over because he can sit up again, his eyes and ear both rendered useless after twenty minutes of sensory overlord. 

Deuce smiles, knowing it was absolutely worth it, and waits for someone to help him seek medical attention. 

Filed under ficlette boxcars deuce slick droog thespiandeacon