Neil only wanted to beat this level without disruptions and he was pretty good at ignoring everything and everyone around him. It's not a hard thing, anybody can do it, but Neil can go far into his head and stay there to accomplish nothing and everything.
Yes, it doesn't make sense but it does when you're Young Neil. Just go with it.
The youngster didn't have anything going for him, he took up the couch as Sex Bob-bomb were doing their 'practice' and Knives was currently in the kitchen getting a snack. He was perfectly within his element of not giving a fuck and about to make it to the boss. It's perfect.
Then Scott sits on him.
"Ack!" He knocks his face against his game boy as Scott settles on him. The older boy doesn't bother watching Neil abandon his handheld in favor of nursing his throbbing face.
"Scott, what the hell!"
"What?"
"Get. Off." Neil hissed.
"It's your fault for taking up all the space." Scott ignores Neil's attempts to free himself, throwing his arms behind the couch. "Besides, I'm tired from standing."
"So that's how you're gonna be, huh?" Young Neil said. Something in his voice spelled trouble but Scott obviously didn't catch it. Kim however looks up from putting away her drumsticks.
"You're fucked."
Scott glanced at her in question but it was already too late. Like a ninja, Neil shoots his hand under Scott's shirt and latches on.
The reaction was immediate. Scott screams in a glorious pitch that could send dogs running as he leaps off of Neil and over the coffee table, landing on his feet, arms raised ready to block.
The four adults stood in silence and only stared at one another. Scott's face is ashen, eyes bulging from his skull as he stood defensively, staring daggers at Neil while keeping as much distance from Kim and Stephen himself.
Neil is anything but clever. He blinks and sits more properly on the couch while giving Scott a look.
"What?" Neil asked.
Kim snorts and Scott flinches.
"Oh my gosh." All eyes turn to see Knives holding a glass of water, eyes sparkling. Scott's feels his gut churn and feels his skin set itself on fire, legging trembling. "Oh mY GO-"
ZOOM
Scott was no longer standing in the middle of the room, his outline showing his missing person. The door is wide open with a bunch of dust kicked up down the walkway and sidewalk.
AN: And so the self indulgent fics begin. This is for the book I’m currently reading, Night Film. I know I’m probably the only person who cares about it but hopefully someone finds enjoyment in it too. Here’s tickletober day 4: reward.
Scott McGrath was a lone wolf. Always has been, or so he told himself. He was convinced he did his best work alone, that these kids would throw off his groove and grind things to a hault. Surprisingly, he found himself grateful for the extra help on the case. He'd never tell them that, not in a million years. Hopper would at least be cool and dismissive about it, maybe even smirk. It was Nora that couldn't know he now welcomed the extra sets of hands. Still, despite the ease their help provided, he found it could border on grating.
Hopper had been endlessly munching a bag of chips, obnoxious crunching breaking through the silence. He'd occassionally brush the crumbs off of his shirt and onto Scott's couch and the carpet below. Nora kept humming some annoying pop song they heard in the car and clacked her nails on the table in time with the beat. Scott had stopped sifting through the files he had on Ashley and instead glared between the two of them. Hopper must've felt his gaze on him because he looked up, catching his eyes. His brows furrowed as he threw up a questioning hand.
"The hell did I do?" he snapped, calling him out. Scott immediately turned away, but the damage had been done. Nora's head shot up and she looked from one to the other and back again.
"What?" she asked, her voice breathy in a panicky sort of way. Scott opened his mouth to defend himself, but Hopper beat him to the punch.
"He's glaring at us like we kicked his puppy or something," he accused. Scott and Nora answered in unison.
"Did not."
"He what?" she screeched, head snapping to look at him. The look on her face admittedly made him feel a little guilty.
"Don't listen to him, he's exaggerating. Don't even have a dog," he added under his breath.
"But he's right. You look, like, really mean right now," Nora said, nodding vigorously. Scott felt more hurt by this than he thought he would. He crossed his arms, opening a folder with a huff.
"C'mon old man, why were you giving me that look?" Hopper pressed. Scott didn't look at him as he answered, "You're getting crumbs everywhere. And your smacking is obnoxious." He might as well be upfront since he's asking.
"I'm smacking?" he repeated, making a deliberate effort to chew quietly as he spoke.
"Yes. It's annoying," Scott deadpanned, but he didn't bother to hide his smirk. Nora gasped.
"Scott! That's rude, don't you think?" she chastised, not so subtly gesturing with her head towards Hopper. He stopped mid chew, looking between them cluelessly. Scott looked him over and panned over to Nora.
"Yeah, he seems real torn up about my comment," he snarked, snickering to himself. Her jaw hung open in shock.
"You are such a grouch!"
"Oh yeah, I'm the grouchiest person in the world," he rolled his eyes, reaching for his coffee and taking a sip. Nora shared a look with Hopper, a sly grin forming on the blonde's face.
"Psh, I'm way grouchier than you old man," Hopper scoffed. Scott glared at him again. "You don't have to keep calling me that, kid."
"No, I think he's right Hop. He's the number one grouch. I think... he should get a prize," she proudly proposed. Scott arched a brow, placing the file back down.
"Thank you, I'm flattered," he played along, curious where she planned to go with this. "So what do I win?"
"You get an all expense paid visit from... the tickle monster!" she exclaimed happily, wiggling her fingers in the air. Scott's eyes widened and he quickly moved to set his coffee down.
"No. Nora- Nora listen to me!" he scolded, but she continued to advance. They now had Hopper's full attention, and he was deeply enthralled with the unfolding scene. Scott launched himself away from his desk, sailing across the wood floor on his trusty rolling chair. He gave another push with his legs to gain speed.
Until Hopper, cocky son of a bitch, stuck his leg out right as he zoomed past the couch, jerking the chair to a halt. It dumped him onto the ground before landing next to him.
"Thanks Hop!" Nora chirped as she skipped over. Scott moved to scramble away, but the young man who'd been lounging on his couch mere seconds ago snatched his hands by the wrist, holding them above his head.
"Hell no, she doesn't need any more help!" Scott cried, legs flailing around. That made Nora chuckle.
"What's the matter? Don't you wanna claim your prize?" she asked, sitting down beside him. Scott twisted his body away and kicked at her. She grinned mischievously and grabbed his leg. In a horrifying moment, they locked eyes and he knew his fate was sealed.
Since his shoes were on and she didn't want to go through the hassle of taking them off, she started elsewhere. She squeezed up his calf and he went completely stiff, biting his lip to stifle his giggles.
"C'mon Scott, I know you wanna laugh. I can see it on your face," she taunted, scratching behind his knee. He spasmed with a muffled grunt, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smile.
Her nails scratching against the softly worn denim of his jeans created a downright insufferable sensation. He snorted and tried to hide his increasingly red face behind his outstretched arms. Hopper chuckled and joined in the fun, tickling his exposed underarm. He barked out a laugh, tugging on his arms. The dam had cracked, and a flood of laughter was imminent.
Nora began tickling the backs of both his knees, and he was done for. Scott was lost in a sea of bubbly giggles and humiliating snorts. He was either going to die or kill them. Probably the former.
"Congratulations! Tell us Scott; what's it like being picked for such an esteemed award?" she asked, using one hand to pretend to hold a fake microphone. And yet she was still turning him into an incoherent mess. She raked her nails down the back of his left knee and he squealed, jerking back against the couch. Hopper took the opportunity and squeezed down his ribs, bringing forth a bout of deep belly laughs. He couldn't help but roll his eyes at her theatrics, glad he was on her side.
"Hohohorrible!" he answered, because he'd be damned if she tried to claim he didn't hate this. Because he did.
"Aw don't you like your prize?" she asked teasingly, reaching up to sccribble over his tummy, which made him fold in on himself like a lawn chair.
"Nohoho! Ihihit's ahaha bahad prihihize!" he cried falling to his side on the ground. Hopper released his grip and gave a hardy pat to the panting man's shoulder. Nora giggled, slowing her fingers to a stop.
"Well maybe if you weren't such a grouch, the tickle monster won't have to pay you any more visits," she chirped, pinching at his hip. He jerked away with a startled laugh, a groan immediately following.
It’s fun to learn things about your friends, isn’t it? Especially when it’s something you can use against them.
I don’t play a lot of video games, but Monster Prom is absolutely one of my favorites; my partner and I played the crap out of it last year and are so excited for the next game. My piece will feature datable characters Damien and Scott as well as playable character Brian (sweet zombie child).
A werewolf, a demon, and a zombie walked blindfolded into Hell. Brian didn’t know the punchline of that joke, but he was hopeful, mostly because he was in the joke.
Spooky High students had been debating for years on what Hell was actually like. The living among the academia had their theories, the undead had their speculations based on weird dreams and flashes of possible memories, the demons hypothesized from part-time work experience (in internships and desk jobs, which, they argued, couldn’t possibly reflect the entire horror of the realm), and the otherworldly beings who might have had a clue hadn’t been there in so long that, they insisted, Hell had probably gone through a lot of changes (as many as a monarchy of blood and shifting hands will change in a millennia). That left just one student to shed light on the debacle: the prince of the sinners’ realm himself, Damien LaVey. And Damien wasn’t one to ‘shed light’ on anything, unless it was via the blazing remains of some building he’d vandalized and burned. Needless to say, he also relished the suffering, even in such a small matter, of his peers, so refuting to tell them anything about his home realm was one of his most effortless torture methods—not as fun as mutilation or arson, in his opinion, but easy.
So Damien was no help, but his two current companions, Scott and Brian, were soon to have insight that Damien had kept hidden. Midterms had left everyone in high spirits, and, where many of the students had opted to get wasted and crash the Killer Robot Zombie Frogs concert that weekend, Damien, in the mood for a lazier revelry and having “borrowed” some of Polly’s latest chemical brew, had approached the two people he “tolerated most”—“That means we’re his best friends!” Scott had declared, his tail wagging—with an offer of an overnight movie marathon at his place. Scott has grown up in a wooded cabin and Brian literally slept in his grave, so the prospect of spending a weekend in the home of their royal friend, even in Hell, sounded exciting, at the very least. Albeit, for their own safety, the werewolf and zombie guests didn’t see much of Hell; demons’ eyes worked differently, according to Damien, who had explained while blindfolding the pair. Hell’s inhabitants, by purposefully torturous intent, would have their eyes slowly melted from their sockets by the over-saturated red color of the realm. Damien had chuckled, “Hard to watch a movie with no eyes.”
Hard to walk with no eyes, too, especially through the twisted, craggy entrance to Hell’s palace, even from where Damien teleported them nearby. He was a good guide, though, just messing with his fellows a few times and only nearly letting them fall into the Pit of Eternal Punishment that spanned the castle like a moat. Classic.
Brian shambled close to Scott as the trio entered through the ancient wooden doorway the led to the throne room. The whole atmosphere of the realm was giving Brian a headache, like the stinging sensation of a brain freeze he hadn’t thought he could experience with no working organs. Like the fear he felt giving a speech in class and knowing his stuttering grunts and groans would make his voice even more incomprehensible. Standing near to Scott’s massive warmth offered some comfort of familiarity, even if the lycanthrope’s fur was standing on edge; he could feel the weight in the air, too. Although, to Scott, the heaviness clung in his brain as the anxiety of an itch he couldn’t determine the location of, despite the drive he had to find that itch and claw at it even until his skin had been torn away. He shook his head rapidly and whined.
The thickness of their ugly thoughts grew as they approached the rulers of the realm where they sat in regal malevolence. Brian wondered for a moment if Damien was feeling similar anxieties to himself and Scott, and if that was why he felt so much pressure from his dads. Maybe it was a feeling one could never get used to; Brian was sure he could feel several pairs of eyes boring into him—what if they hated him and tossed him into the Pit? was he even facing the right direction?—and making him feel infinitesimal.
Damien cleared his throat, the sound causing both Brian and Scott to jerk at attention—even so little, the voice of a friend was uplifting, especially when it emanated from before them, its owner a shield from unseen terrors. “Kings of Hell,” he boomed, his voice reverberating through the chamber that Scott could smell was tastefully decorated with charred skeletons, “Lords of the Underworlds, Tormentors of Souls, Devourers of only the Choicest Virgin Sacrifices—”
Brian and Scott tried to hide their startled chuckles—Brian by coughing and Scott by shoving his face into Brian’s shoulder—but one of Damien’s dads laughed openly. “Is that what you’ve brought, then?” the king asked, his guffaws like thunder that made pillars shake and the floor crack. “Some choice virgins?”
Oh, shit, thought Brian, trying to nonchalantly stand behind Scott at both the implication and imminent danger of the king’s humor.
The other king chuffed and silenced his partner before addressing their son. “Damien, you sing such high praise to us, it seems as though you miss us enough to visit more. Don’t you think?”
Damien snorted. “Yeah, right.” He must have received some ‘on with it’ gesture, the wind of which nearly bowled over the blindfolded duo, because he reassumed his presenter’s voice. “Fathers of... Me,” Damien dropped back to stand beside the other students, “these are my...” He faltered, then sighed, regrouping. “These are my friends, Scott Howl and Brian Yu. I pray they will find favor with you.”
The first king laughed again, and Brian was grateful to have steadier footing with Damien unconsciously planting a firm hand on his back. “Pray! He prays!”
“Welcome to Hell,” said the second king amicably as his husband’s mirth mellowed. “Help yourselves to whatever you like or may need; Damien knows where everything is. And,” the sly smile was evident in his tone, “let us know if Damien doesn’t treat you well. He hasn’t visited the rack enough recently.”
“Dad,” Damien groaned, undoubtedly turning redder as his father again busted a gut. The trio was dismissed, and Damien quickly herded Scott and Brian away from the throne room and deeper into the castle.
“Can we take our blindfolds off yet?” asked Scott, his ears twitching excitedly.
“Not yet, ass clowns,” replied Damien, affectionately derivative as ever.
“Alright!” Scott leaned over to whisper none too softly to Brian, “Told you! Even Damien said we were friends!”
“So you wouldn’t be burned alive or swallowed whole, fur-for-brains!” Damien growled, his embarrassment plain in the fiery heat his body let off and nearly seared into the back of Brian and Scott’s jackets. He added, hissing, “You better not tell anyone about that, okay?”
“Sure, Damien!” Scott agreed. Brian nodded his assent.
The demon let out a huff of a sigh. “Good.”
A few minutes of expansive hallways and sharply descending staircases later—that, Brian could discern; apparently, everything was bigger in Hell—Damien ushered Brian and Scott through a door and into a room that severely darkened the view behind Brian’s blindfold.
“Alright,” said Damien, kicking the door shut with his heel to produce a satisfying thud, “safe as you’re gonna get. But, I mean, you can keep your blindfolds on if you want. Weirdos.”
The blindfold was Brian’s least weird feature at present, but he still removed it as invited; Scott followed suit. When their eyes adjusted to the dim light, both monsters gaped, Scott uttering a low whistle and Brian juggling his jaw to keep it from hitting the floor. Either the entire castle was much more modern than Brian had been imagining, or Damien’s quarters had been renovated. The zombie assumed the latter, guessing a realm entirely devoted to punishment wouldn’t have much need for such an intimate torture chamber; the wall-mounted torches and shackle doorway curtain to the next unseen room could have supported his theory or been for aesthetic. The room was still red, albeit a less eye-f*cking and more pleasant shade of burnt sienna. It was more of a lounge than a bedroom, too. The bed stood at their left, bearing a classic orange and yellow flame on black pattern—that Brian would not have been surprised to see actually catch fire—and nestled between a mahogany armoire and a similarly colored bookcase overflowing with literature, cases for films and video games, and consoles collected over decades with wires passionately intertwined; meanwhile, on their right, the floor dropped down a few feet, the edge cradled by a dark wraparound sofa and facing a television, a mound of pillows, and a wall of windows, their curtains hospitably drawn.
Except, not every curtain. Scott and Brian winced and averted their eyes, almost simultaneously having caught a glimpse of the searing outside through the exposed glass.
Swearing under his breath, Damien kicked his shoes off and brushed past the other monsters toward the offending window. “Told them to keep them shut, but someone thinks their smarter than me and goes and-” His tirade ceased when the room was properly darkened, and he chuckled. “Least I won’t be on the rack, seeing as it will be occupied.” Hearing no response to his joke, Damien turned to Scott and Brian, who were still rubbing their temples and quelling their ugly thoughts. “Pull up some cute cat videos on your phones,” Damien said, making the chain curtain jangle as he slipped into the other room. “It’ll help with the headaches.”
Scott pulled out his phone—with the intent to search for puppy videos rather than cat videos, thank you very much—and opened a browser. “Wow, really good service.”
“Yeah,” Damien called. “I don’t have to suffer. That’s why I painted my room—so it wouldn’t suck ass like the rest of this place.” He poked his head through the curtain, and Brian smothered a smile as Damien’s unbroken horn definitely didn’t almost get stuck in one of the metal loops. “Kitchen’s here,” he knocked with the side of his fist on the wall, indicating the room his torso emerged from, “You’re welcome to whatever. Bathroom’s straight across the hall; you’ll have to shut your eyes to get there, but you’ll be fine once you’re inside.” He was about to return to the kitchen, but he turned to flash a feral grin at his guests. “Just make sure you don’t wander down the hall by accident, or you’ll end up in the tiger pit.”
Scott opened his mouth as Damien left, his silence enough to ask if the warning had been in jest or not, but Brian could offer no more eloquent answer and shrugged. Best not to wander around in Hell.
Hell’s kitchen was popping—literally, audibly popping; Damien must have begun making popcorn. “Alright, noobs!” he declared, leaving the popcorn to cook and sliding into the main room, “get ready for the most badass movie marathon ever!” Spurred by Scott’s whoops and Brian’s enthusiastic fist pump, Damien dashed to his bookshelf, flinging cases over his shoulders and onto his bed haphazardly. “We’ve got Die Hard, we’ve got Jaws, we’ve got Predator, Lord of the Rings, Deadpool, Shawshank, and we have got-”
“Homeward Bound?” Scott asked, despite the film Damien had last thrown down to clearly be Rambo.
Damien lost no traction. “And we most f*cking certainly have Homeward Bound! We’ll just have to stream it.”
Tail wagging, Scott let out a celebratory howl, at which Damien chuckled. “We break into the movies only once pajama armor has been donned and I’ve mixed some drinks. Brian, I know have some brains in my fridge I could blend; any idea or preference of what goes well with that?”
“Gin, absinthe, orange and lemon, I think,” Brian signed thoughtfully. Brains went well with everything, in his humble opinion.
Damien blinked, then snorted. “Did you just ask me for a Corpse Reviver?”
Brian grinned. He liked his irony drinkable.
“Alright, one Corpse Reviver #2 for the corpse. Scott, what do you want? If we’re on theme—Hair of the Dog?”
“Damien,” Scott said seriously, “I happily drink toilet water; you could give me any drink, and I would enjoy it, mostly because I knew I came from you.”
The demon rolled his eyes at Scott’s praise, the sentiment making his stomach keel even as his cheeks grew hot. “Shut up. Three Corpse Revivers, then,” Damien decided, “and I’ll make sure one of them is inundated with rat poison. Not gonna tell you which one, but it’ll be one of them.”
It was Brian’s. He didn’t mind, though; poison did little for him, but it didn’t taste all that bad. He nursed the drink through the first leg of the movie marathon, sipping carefully so as to avoid spilling on the t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms Scott had loaned him. The generous werewolf lay on the carpet, spooning a pillow and beaming at the television as it played sweeping piano music over scenes of dogs and cats running across fields. Damien sat on the couch behind Scott, and Brian lounged midway between them, on the floor and leaning against the sofa. The demon’s legs were thus assuaged from all sides, Scott’s happy tail batting against Damien’s shins and the zombie’s head resting against his knee. Damien’s cheeks were warm, but he blamed that on the alcohol more than the closeness. Brian’s cheeks were flushed, too (as much as they could be), and he knew it was from the closeness. Not with Scott—Scott, lovable and daft, had little understanding of the concept of personal space, and those who were friends with him expected sloppy wolf kisses and bone-crushing hugs when interacting with him (which many of them pretended to hate but never pulled away from)—but with Damien, who Brian had to resist stealing glances at. Brian’s heart had long gone silent, but Damien—whose scarlet skin had flickered under the light of rainbow flames during a recreational takeover of the high school chemistry lab, whose teeth gleamed in wicked cachinnation when his prank resulted in the entire gym catching fire during the homecoming basketball game, whose golden eyes had sparkled lazily as he blew smoky shapes from the auditorium catwalk—Damien made Brian’s heart feel like it was the bass drum of a symphonic orchestra.
Brian’s daydreaming fizzled to a halt when Damien stood up halfway through the credits of Homeward Bound, taking his criminally comfy knee with him. “My turn to pick,” said the demon, stepping over Scott to kneel before the entertainment center. He yawned as he took the ejected disc from the DVD player, his sharp teeth making him look more like a sleepy kitten that the dangerous persona he usually put on would ever allow him to be. “Need something with a f*ck ton of explosions to wake me up.”
Scott, who had been until that moment nearly sleeping with his face in the empty popcorn bowl, suddenly lifted his head, indignant. “Damien! You think Homeward Bound is boring!?”
The reply Damien gave was a noncommittal noise. Brian hid a chuckle in his arm both at said noise and the look of pure shock Scott wore. Shock that quickly turned to mischief.
“I’ll wake you up!” Scott growled, playfully pouncing on the demon.
Quick as a flash, Damien had turned in anticipation of the attack, bracing himself with hands extended. So, when the werewolf barreled into him, the pair rolled over with Damien ending up on top, his hands latched onto Scott’s sides and his grin villainous.
Head tipped back with a sleepy smile, Brian wondered for the briefest moment who would win if Damien and Scott actually fought. Scott was strong, and Damien was wild, and they were both powerful. Still, Brian couldn’t even imagine the two good friends trying to hurt each other. Hence why the scene before him—Damien tickling poor Scott to pieces—was not surprising but unbearably sweet, especially for how little silly affection Brian had ever seen Damien take part in, let alone dole out.
“No, Damien! These aren’t the kind of belly rubs werewolves like!” Scott chortled, tail thumping against the carpet in rapid wagging and feet kicking as he flailed to grab Damien’s hands. Unconcerned, Damien’s fingers only scribbled faster, one hand just under Scott’s ribs and the other zeroed in on his navel, really making Brian howl. “Brian, help!”
Brian blinked; he’d gotten so used to getting called in to mediate his classmates’ shenanigans, but maybe now would be the time to pick a side, and perhaps get even closer to Damien in the process.
> Scott can handle this! Besides, it’s a great view watching these two hunks wrestle.
> Help Scott.
Brian wasn’t terribly gifted in the ‘speed’ category. Luckily, Damien was too caught up in digging his fingers into Scott’s ribs and chuckling maniacally to take note of a slow-moving new attacker. Okay. Brian could fight fire with fire, metaphorically and a little literally. And it would either end up with him getting his spine ripped out and the rest of him tossed into the Pit of Eternal Punishment, or it would be so adorable that Brian’s barely-beating heart would explode. Meh. Things had gone worse for him; his school was weird. With all the boldness he could muster, Brian struck, jamming his hands beneath Damien’s armpits and scribbling his fingers like mad.
Immediately, the demon’s laughter was cut off with a yelp, only to shift to mad cackling as he thrashed at the touch. He thrashed so hard, in fact, that he wrenched himself off Scott and away from Brian—away from Brian, but not from Brian’s hands. Zombies, of course, had the neat little quirks of having decomposing bodies, so their limbs could be coaxed off pretty easily. When Damien moved one way, Brian simply let the bones, muscles, ligaments, and other fleshy bits of his wrists tear. So Brian stayed put, but his hands, now cleanly detached but still scribbling, followed Damien, who had now sprawled onto his back and was now shrieking expletives.
“Thanks,” Scott said, sitting up with a smile and a hand on his chest as his own laughter receded. “Any longer, I think I would have peed myself.”
The werewolf and the zombie watched, amused and transfixed, by the sight of Damien LaVey writhing on the floor in ticklish agony, stuck between lifting his arms to try and dislodge the attacking hands or keep his arms clamped to his sides to keep those hands from targeting anywhere else. His grin was wide, head thrown back, and laugh booming but not nefarious as usual—it was a softer sound, lighter and higher and sweeter than any laugh Brian had ever heard from Damien. Focus, Brian, the undead student chided himself. Get too caught up, and Damien will be loose and hungry for vengeance.
“Think you can keep him down while I use the little wolf’s room?” Scott asked, standing.
Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, Brian nodded in reply.
“Cool,” Scott said. “If he gets loose, scream loud or throw something heavy so I know to come help.” As Brian rolled his eyes, Scott added, “And if I don’t come back in fifteen minutes, please come save me from the tiger pit, since that’s probably where I’ll have ended up. I normally like all fuzzy animals, but Hell kitties might not be as friendly as normal kitties.”
With that, Scott excused himself from the situation, leaving Brian to his work. It was certainly work Brian could enjoy, sitting back and only focusing on letting his hands keep his crush in stitches. Damien’s tail lashed as Brian dug his thumbs purposefully into the demon’s upper ribs, his fingers were still trapped and wiggling. Leaning over to sip some of his Corpse Reviver through its straw, Brian enjoyed the view. Maybe this little power trip was making him too bold, because, he figured, since it had been revealed that Damien, Prince of Hell, was ticklish, Brian would be crazy to not search for more sensitive spots, even if just to keep the knowledge to himself. Brian wormed his detached hands free from Damien’s underarms, setting them squeezing down the demon’s sides and to his hips.
It took a few seconds for Damien to realize the tickling sensation had moved, but, once it was no longer pinned to his body, he reared up, swatted Brian’s hands away, and leapt to his feet, cheeks flushed and chest heaving with a glower.
Brian knew he wasn’t fast enough to escape the revenge promised in Damien’s shining eyes, so he sat frozen, a deer in the headlights, as Damien stalked over to him.
“You think that was funny?!” Damien demanded, though his smile hadn’t quite receded and his eyes were sparkling with something other than vengeance, something softer and far more playful.
Unable to help himself, Brian snickered at the question, shrugging.
“Let’s see how funny you think it is,” Damien leered, his grin positively diabolical, as he plopped himself down on Brian’s lap, effectively pinning his legs, “after you’ve had a turn.”
Now, to burst some bubbles, zombies usually weren’t very responsive to tactile stimuli. No flinching at the brush of fire to their fingers, no sighing at the whisper of grass under their feet, no laughing at the tickling of claws on their ribs. This was… mostly true for Brian. His undead nervous system was sort of selective, and he wasn’t sure how. He never felt the bite of fire, just the warmth. Cold wind was a kiss to his cheek, and a pencil through his hand—his school was so weird—was more like a pinch to his skin. Sometimes he felt things in their entirety, sometimes just in essence, depending on how awake and engaged he was in a given situation. So, alcohol making his blood tingle, the softness of the carpet beneath his back, the warmth of Damien’s hands snaking under his shirt—Brian felt all of it.
Damien gave him no preamble either; one second, his hands were sliding under Brian’s shirt—adding yet another factor to get Brian’s heart kick-drumming—the next, his nails were wreaking havoc on Brian’s stomach and sides. Brian wished so badly that he had his hands back so he could cover his mouth, one side ever-toothy under torn flesh and the other side gaping in a grin that nearly split his cheeks. If not cover his mouth, then at least stifle his laugh, which was all breathy snorts and chuffs and grunts—nowhere near as cute as Damien’s.
Damien. Shit. So close to Brian now and all but holding him as he scratched wheezing laughter out from Brian’s ribs. It tickled like hell, sure (ha), but it was also sweet somehow? Brian was probably thinking too hard for the lack of oxygen currently getting to his brain.
“And look who’s down a few hands to defend himself!” Damien chuckled, able to ignore the flush in his own cheeks seeing Brian’s burn so cutely. Hair mussed, smile wide, body so close and warm, Damien wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted more to… Damn these f*cking feelingsssssss.
He was mercifully spared from thinking upon hearing the noise Brian made—a new noise, and a very un-Brian-like one. Damien thought his own laugh suited him, raucous and cursing and wild; he hadn’t expected something like that from Brian, who spoke rarely and hummed more than laughed when something tickled his funny bone. But that noise, the one Brian had made when Damien skittered his fingers just so on the zombie’s waistline, that had been a chirp. Had anyone else made that noise, Damien would have lorded it over them for-f*cking-ever. But not Brian, Damien’s cantering heart insisted. That chirp, that smile, this Brian—they were all his. And he thought Brian tickling him had taken his breath away.
Damien played with the chirp spot for a while longer, finding that slowing his touch and even just skimming his nails over it made Brian buck weakly. Savoring the warmth for just a moment longer, Damien gave Brian’s sides a pat and let his hands withdraw with a sigh. Then he grinned, watching Brian’s drooping but happy eyes and tired smile. “You son of a bitch, you’re still proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
Brian nodded.
“Fine,” Damien rolled his eyes, realizing where he was seated and trying to be nonchalant as he removed himself from Brian’s lap to sit just beside him. “But this stays between the two of us. And I mean the two of us; Scott’s probably dead by now.”
At that, Brian snorted. (Across the room, his phone buzzed with a text from a very not dead Scott, but neither the demon nor the zombie had it in them to journey all the way over and check the message.)
“Oh, yeah,” Damien said, clearing his throat and retrieving Brian’s hands from the floor.
Brian had been mortified enough at the grin Damien had worn upon discovering the spot on his waist; he was sure the demon would literally tease him to death if he saw the was Brian’s hands had been spasming in the background during that ordeal, still tethered to Brian’s reactions and reflexives even if not to his body. He did have to chuckle when his brain gasped internally, ‘Damien’s holding my hand.’
Damien raised an eyebrow and smirked. “One of my hands didn’t get stuck under your shirt, did it?”
If Brian hadn’t been so flustered and exhausted, he probably would have replied, quiet but flirtatious, “No, but you’re welcome any time.” Instead, he grunted his thanks as Damien set the hands in Brian’s lap. The zombie arranged them in the proper order and hovered his wrists over the point of detachment. As easily as zombie limbs came off, they could be just as neatly reattached with a little home-brew magic. Vicky, his friend and fellow frequent limb-loser, appreciated his methods of reattachment, and had once offered to use her expertise to sew a limb back on for him if he magicked one back on for her. He had agreed to the deal, but still quietly preferred his own tactics, the use of old undead spells that didn’t mind mumbling or stuttering. Within a moment, his hands were reattached with a faint glow of a flash, the ancient magic sweet and fading upon his lips.
“Woah…”
A little embarrassed being observed doing magic as well as overall embarrassed from the past ten minutes, Brian glanced at Damien, seeing his transfixed eyes and curiously tilted head, before looking away. “Mm?”
Damien scooted imperceptibly closer, eyes on Brian’s hands. “What class did you learn that spell in? I’ve never felt magic that… gentle.”
Sure his voice would fail him and now equipped with his hands once again, Brian signed in reply, “It’s… I guess it’s family magic. Zombies have a habit of losing body parts.”
“Huh. Makes sense.” Damien shifted, facing Brian with bright eyes. “What else can you do?”
Brian twiddled his thumbs thoughtfully. “You can make fire, right?”
“Duh,” Damien repelled with a scoff, demonstrating by holding out his hand and, with a spark, letting crimson and magenta tongues of fire bloom from his palm.
Reviving the magic, Brian closed his eyes and whispered softly. The power bubbled up in the back of his throat, lovely and irresistible as laughter had been when Damien had played his ribs like a banjo. Swelling from his core and spreading to the farthest reaches of his nerve endings, making his left hand, for that was where his focus was trained, spark with a gentle light. The fingers of his now luminescent hand dipped into the edges of Damien’s fire; only when Brian glanced up to see Damien’s eyes transfixed on him—and had blushed furiously at the eye contact—did Brian slip his hand into the flames.
Warm.
Warm, the fire as it caressed Brian’s fingers and rose with kaleidoscopic vibrancy past his skin, a new rainbow of burning colors. Warm, Damien’s eyes, transfixed by the rainbow. Warm, Brian’s ears as his gaze rested on Damien’s flame-glowing features.
“Woah,” Damien breathed.
“Not the most useful,” Brian signed, withdrawing his hand but remaining near. “But,” Brian’s eyes flicked to Damien’s, then looked down with a shy clearing of his throat, “pretty.”
Damien scoffed, cheeks burning as he extinguished the flames in his hand. “What else you got?”
Seized with courage unprecedented before that night, Brian rubbed the back of his neck and replied coyly, “Well, I suppose I could show you... nah, you don’t wanna see that.”
“Don’t hold back on me, brain-breath,” Damien rolled his eyes. “Whatcha got?”
“Well, I wouldn’t wanna put you out...”
The demon shifted to sit fully toward Brian, grin challenging. “You think I’m gonna puss out? Come on.”
Brian did his best to keep a smile from growing at how easy Damien was to bait. Either this goes exceptionally well, or I’ll be the next one to visit the rack. He sighed in mock resignation. “I can only do the magic if you kiss me.”
Damien’s grin vanished, and his eyes went wide. He tried to recover, smirking unsteadily. “You’re bullshitting me.”
Brian shook his head, matching Damien’s wobbly smirk with a toothy grin of his own.
With a fierce blush and bright eyes, Damien growled, “Fine.”
The zombie was floored, first at the fact that Damien hadn’t shot down the invitation to kiss, and second at the kiss itself. Brian had expected a peck on the lips, but, by his own admission, Damien was not one to puss out. Had it not been for him already leaning against the couch, Brian would have been knocked over with the kiss Damien gave him, forceful and strong yet heart-wrenchingly tender. Warm, warm hands cupping Brian’s face and sharp teeth holding his lower lip-
Brian, FOCUS. He would have loved to get dizzyingly lost kissing Damien all night, but he’d set up a magic trick and he needed to follow through. Of course, few spells had such silly conditions as needing to be kissed for them to work, and the spell Brian chose to mentally utter was not one of them. But what kind of self-deprivation would he have suffered not making an opportunity to kiss his crush? None now, that was for sure.
The pair were nearly horizontal by the time Brian had collected himself enough to think the spell to completion, nearly having to push Damien off of him, to let both of them breathe and to finish the show. Damien watched, a little dazed and a little awed, as a sunflower blossomed from Brian’s open mouth. The zombie clipped the stem of the bloom with his teeth and, with a chuckle, tucked the flower behind Damien’s broken horn. “Ta-da.”
Damien snorted, face redder than he’d ever felt it but with none of his usual instinct to hide it. It was just warm. “And here I almost thought you were just baiting me into kissing you.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“And it took you long enough.” Damien grinned. “Does it work like a gumball machine? Do I get a flower every time I kiss you?”
Brian mirrored the smile, drawing Damien in close once more. “Why don’t you find out?”
A/N - Hey y’all, sorry about not posting a fic yesterday, so there should be two today. Just to let you know, Ficruary is physically exhausting me, so after the month is over, don’t expect something for a while. It also doesn’t help that I’m ill and all, but not that anyone gives a shit, really. Anyway, I had this fic in my WIP folder so I finished it and I hope you guys like it! It was prompted by @amazingmsme like a million years ago so I doubt she remembers talking about it! It’s Ant Man so I hope y’all enjoy it!! Thanks everyone!
Word Count: 1,272
“Hohohope! Nohoho!” Scott Lang giggled as he slipped down the wall, falling onto the floor with a thud. He had been training for the past few weeks with Hope van Dyne to become the best hero he could be before taking on Darren Cross. After training, nearly nonstop for the past few days, Scott was not in the mood to train today, instead preferring to flirt than spar. Unfortunately for Scott, Hope had other plans.
“I won’t stop until you fight back,” Hope smiled deviously, digging into Scott’s ribs, sending him into hysterics. She alternated between squeezing each rib to pinching above his knee. Simply throwing his head back, Scott could do nothing but laugh. “Are you going to fight back?”
“Nohohoho!” Scott squealed in admittance as she wiggled her fingers along the backs of his bare knees, forcing him to resist the urge to kick. His fists beat against the floor, though never doing anything to stop her torturous fingers. She quickly pinched his sides, causing him to squeak and attempt to curl up into a tight ball.
“You know, I think you like this,” Hope teased, her fingers quickly switched places, fluttering along the back of his neck. Letting out a snort, Scott scrunched up his shoulders, not once protesting. Hope knew what she had said was true, Scott having recently let it slip one night after a few too many beers.
“Ihihihi dohohohon’t!” Scott fell forward, his head against her shoulder. She smiled, her eyes full of malicious intent as she took the opportunity to dig into his worst spot. He shrieked as she dug into lower back, beginning to thrash. She wrapped her arms around him, keeping him still, her devious fingers vibrating against his lower back.
“Just say you do,” Hope said in a sang. She loved reducing Scott into a giggling mess. The man had gone through so much, she can at least make him smile and laugh for a bit.
“I dohohoho!” Scott yelled out between peals of laughter. Hope immediately let go of him, allowing him to fall onto his back. After a few moments of him trying to get his breathing back to normal, he sat up and pulled Hope close. He beamed, squeezing her shoulders tightly. “You suck; you know that?”
“I don’t and you know it,” Hope kissed his forehead before scribbling her fingers over his belly.
The one-sided tickle fight resumed, though neither of them knew that Scott’s colony of ants was watching.
***
“All right, Scott,” Hank Pym huffed, growing weary of the upcoming confrontation. Pym knew it was his duty to prepare Scott for his fight against Cross, because if he didn’t, no one would. No one would be able to stop Cross and Pym would just be sending Scott to his death. He could not do that again.
Never again.
“We’re gonna play with the ants again today?” Scott asked, bouncing on his toes like a child on Christmas morning. They had practiced with the ants before, but today was solely dedicated to perfecting micro-combat and using the ant’s different abilities.
“If he thinks this is play, then we might as well just put me in the suit,” Hope rolled her eyes, sharing her father’s concerns. She cared for Scott, a lot, and would be heartbroken if anything happened to him. She also trusted him to get the job done, but when he acted like this, she had to force herself to stay calm. She wanted to fight, to defend her nation, to help her father, to save everyone. Pym, however, would never let her do so.
“You know we aren’t doing that,” Pym replied quickly, trying to stay away from the topic. “She is right though, Scott. This isn’t play. You understand that, correct?”
“Of course, I do,” Scott crossed his arms, eager to shrink down again. He knew he had an important duty to uphold, but he wanted to have a bit of fun before going into battle. Frankly, Scott was terrified for his life. He was almost sure something was going to go wrong here in a few days, that he would have to give up his life defending those he cared for. Scott was afraid, so he hid it with humor. “C’mon. Let’s do this!”
“Go ahead. The ants are all around. Find them, control them, tame them, befriend them,” Pym said with a wave of his arm. Scott flashed him a grin before putting on the helmet, mentally and physically preparing himself. He took a deep breath, glancing at the father-daughter duo, before pushing the button.
His body jolted as he was simultaneously struck by lightning and being compressed into a tight box at the same time. The world flashed before him, everything blurring as they grew in his eyes. Within an instant, Scott Lang was small again.
Letting out a loud cheer, Scott began searching the yard for his colony of ants. It didn’t take him long to find the colony, thankfully. While the yard was large, the ants did their best to find him first, speeding up the search.
“Hey guys,” Scott exclaimed, his arms wide. “Antony! How are you man?”
The ants stared at him, some tilted their heads as he spoke, processing the sound of his voice. Antony, the given name of the unofficial ant leader, approached Scott. This was normal, as Antony was Scott’s official steed, riding him as they were in flight. Scott was surprised, however, when he was pushed onto his back.
“What the hell, Antony?” Scott remarked as he looked up at the ant, his back against the rough soil. “I thought we were friends.”
Antony responded by stepping closer, his antennas twitching before lowering to feel around Scott’s body. They wiggled around Scott’s midsection, causing the man to squirm and try to wiggle away.
“Antony,” Scott whined through a string of giggles, confused by his predicament. “Stahahap!”
The sound of his laughter provoked some of the other ants to inch closer, taking a gander at the situation. Some were bold enough to replicate Antony’s motions, their antennas dancing around Scott’s body, putting enough pressure for Scott to feel every motion through his suit.
“Dahahammit, guys!” Scott let out a snort, ticklish sensations coating his body. He could not combat these feelings, though he didn’t particularly want to. He enjoyed this, almost too much, despite having work to get done.
“What’s going on, Scott?” Hope asked through her microphone, puzzled by the screeching she was hearing through her earpiece.
“They’re tihihickling mehe!” Scott squeaked as he felt an antenna brush against a sensitive spot near his hip. “Mahahake thehem stahap!”
Hope glanced over at her father, an eyebrow raised in mild amusement. He simply shrugged, not knowing what to do. The ants were out of his control at the time, giving it all up to let Scott be the one to take over of the training for the day.
“Sorry, Scott,” Hope said, a hint of pleasure in her voice. “We can’t do anything from up here. I guess you’ll just have to wait until they stop. That or when you finally die. Either way works.”
“Hohohohope!” Scott yelled, knowing full well she was enjoying this. It was true though, no one could do anything about the situation. Hope and Pym waited, listening to Scott’s hysteric laughter, for a good twenty minutes before the ants stopped and Scott was able to begin his training for the day. Scott would never admit it, but that day was the best training day he had ever had and hoped he would have similar ones in the future.
Scott/Stiles "I just realized I don't have to worry bout your asthma anymore"
“No no nononono-”
“Yes! YES!” Scott throws his hands up in the air and shouts in victory as he crosses the finish line a second before Stiles. “Whoooo!”
He glances over to Stiles, who has flopped back onto the floor of his bedroom and is staring at the television screen with a mixture of betrayal and dismay. “How could you do this to me, Bowser?” He moans, tossing his controller onto the floor beside him. “I trusted you to take me to victory!”
Scott rolls his eyes. “You know, you just beat me five times in a row,” he says. “Can’t you just give me this one?”
“But Mario Kart is supposed to be the one thing I’m better than you at, now you’re all werewolf-ed up,” Stiles laments, tossing an arm over his face.
With another eye roll, Scott reaches out to tickle Stiles’ belly, a spot he knows is sure to elicit a reaction from his friend. Sure enough, Stiles immediately yelps at the fingers wiggling over his stomach and retaliates by grabbing for Scott’s sides.
They spend a good minute or two rolling around on the floor trying to one-up the other before Stiles ends up straddling Scott’s hips, looking triumphant. After all, It would be unfair if Scott used his strength to beat Stiles in every tickle fight, and it has absolutely nothing what-so-ever to do with the fact that Scott kind of likes being tickled. Nope.
However, when Scott notices Stiles’ expression grow more mischievous, he can’t help but be slightly worried. “What?”
“You know, I just realized I don’t have to worry about your asthma anymore,” Stiles muses thoughtfully, before launching a tickle attack on Scott’s ribs.
“Nahahaha, Stiles!” Scott laughs, immediately starting to squirm. “Stohohohop!”
“Make me,” Stiles counters. When Scott continues to wriggle and laugh but makes no real move to stop his friend, Stiles grins. “You love this,” he says, slipping his hands under Scott’s t-shirt to better tickle his ribs. “You love it. And you can’t blame me for taking advantage of the fact that you’re not gonna start wheezing after five seconds of this, can you?”
Scott doesn’t protest other than to say, “You’re thehehe wohohorst! I’m- hahaha, I’m going tohoho get you bahahack for this!”
“Sure you are bro. Hey, I wonder if your feet are still really ticklish too?”
