Quite A Fright
A fill for the kink meme prompt of Critic having a nightmare and climbing into Phelous's bed for comfort. I have never written this couple before, but I really liked their interaction in the Child's Play review, and I do love hurt/comfort, so I decided to give it a shot. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out and I hope we see more interaction between Phelous and Critic in this year's anniversary special!
The title is of course from the Worst Nightmare hoedown, and refers to both Critic's dream and Phelous at the beginning of the story.
Phelous was used to finding strange people in his house. Usually it was Phelous D1, when he wasn’t a cat at least, one of Sub-Zero’s fighter friends, or that stupid Shredder guy who kept trying to join his reviews. But on this night, when Phelous was awoken by someone crawling into his bed with him, he was for the first time in a long time, truly surprised.
“Who’s there?” he asked as he quickly reached to turn on the lamp beside his bed. He blinked at the sudden brightness for a moment before staring down at the intruder. “Critic? Is that you?”
Even without his trademark cap, tie, or glasses, the man in the green Ninja Turtle pajamas who was trying to pull the blankets tightly around him was unmistakably the Nostalgia Critic.
“What are you doing here?” Phelous continued, his meta-senses suddenly switching on. “You don’t even live in the same country as me. How the hell did you end up in my bed in the middle of the night? And why my bed, of all places?” he continued, his tone growing snarkier. “I know you’re the site bicycle and everything, but I thought I was pretty low on your list of potential fuck-buddies.”
Phelous paused when he realized Critic was actually trembling rather badly, his grip on the sheets so tight that his knuckles looked like they were turning white.
“Uh, Critic? Are you okay?”
Phelous tentatively put a hand on Critic’s shoulder, which made him jump a foot before he whirled his head in Phelous’s direction.
“Ph-phelous?” he croaked in a low, tired voice. His face was completely white and dripping sweat, as was the rest of his body, judging by how damp the shoulder of his pajama top felt. Phelous cringed slightly at the feeling and tried to pull his hand away, but Critic whimpered from the loss of contact and quickly pressed himself against the taller man, burying his face into his chest like a frightened child.
“Critic… what’s wrong?” Phelous softened his tone as he stared down at the other man in confusion and slight worry.
“I… I don’t know,” Critic muttered, his voice muffled as he kept his head down. “I was just sleeping and everything was fine… but then I couldn’t see anything and I couldn’t hear anything… there was just nothing… b-but it wasn’t nothing! It wasn’t! I could feel it! It was coming for me, and I couldn’t run, I couldn’t do anything to stop it! I couldn’t!”
Critic’s trembling reappeared with a vengeance and he started to breathe heavily as he worked himself into a panic. He wrapped his arms tightly around Phelous and pressed even closer, as if trying to slip inside the other man. Phelous fought against squirming away and awkwardly brought his hands to Critic’s head where he gently began to stroke his hair.
“Critic, it’s okay now,” he told him, doing his best to sound comforting. “I think you must have been having a nightmare, because I promise you, nothing is coming to get you. Nothing could get you, anyway. You’re the Critic. You’ve beaten death multiple times-not as many as I have, but still a lot-and you’ve survived numerous battles, journeys, and shitty children’s movies. There’s nothing out there that can hurt you, Critic, not even nothing that wasn’t nothing.” Phelous chuckled softly as he spoke. “After some of the shit I’ve watched, I’d kill for dreams about nothing coming after me. They’d be much more preferable to the nightmares I have about zombie fishermen, Internet ghosts, and fucking human centipedes.”
He paused again when he realized Critic’s trembling had lessened and his breathing had calmed significantly.
“Yeah,” Critic said softly, moving his face back into view so he could gaze up at Phelous. “Yeah, that’s right. Your dreams sound really fucking awful. I feel almost stupid for panicking over… I don’t even know what now.”
“It’s fine,” Phelous said, hoping to keep Critic calm so he would finally crawl off of him. “We all get freaked out by dreams now and then. As long as you know nothing’s really after you, you’ll be fine.” He moved his hands lower to pat Critic’s back and recoiled again from how wet his pajamas were. “But you won’ be fine if you stay in those drenched clothes. You should get home and change as soon as possible.”
“You want me to leave?” Critic’s voice sounded tiny and helpless, his eyes widening to anime-esque proportions. Phelous sighed.
“No, I guess you can spend the night here. Just let me get some things so you don’t get sick.”
Critic’s whimpering reappeared when Phelous tried to climb out of his bed, so the taller man looked around his cluttered room and grabbed a stuffed turtle from the ground.
“Here, hold onto Donatello if you feel scared,” Phelous instructed. Almost instantly, Critic brought the toy to his chest, cuddling it tightly. Phelous dug through his dresser for a few minutes in an unsuccessful bid to find clean pajamas before finally just grabbing a T-shirt, as well as a towel, and sitting back down beside Critic.
“Lift your arms for a second.” Critic seemed hesitant but reluctantly moved his turtle friend and complied so that Phelous could pull off the damp clothing with little difficulty. He then set to work drying off Critic’s chest and stomach before nudging him until he rolled on his side and gave access to his back. He also tried to ignore the soft moans this elicited from his bedmate. “Okay, lift them again.”
When Critic was finally in his dry shirt, Phelous tossed the old top and towel on the floor for washing the next day. He crawled back into bed, ready to return to sleep, but soon became aware of Critic staring at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.” There was a moment of silence. “I was just thinking… when you rubbed my back… it was really… soothing. I liked it.” More silence. “Um… could you maybe... do it again?”
Phelous wasn’t used to hearing Critic act in such a meek manner, nor was he especially interested in touching him, but his desire for sleep was starting to overwhelm him, so he acquiesced.
“Turn over.” Maybe if he just gave him a short massage Critic would drift off and let Phelous do the same.
Critic quickly flipped onto his stomach, still hugging the turtle, and waited tensely until he felt Phelous’s warm fingers digging into his back. It didn’t take long for Phelous to realize that this had been a bad idea. Critic’s moans had returned, louder this time, and now Phelous was unable to ignore them. His body grew warmer every time Critic shuddered and squirmed beneath him, and no matter how many horrible movies he thought about, Phelous couldn’t stop the twitches in his groin. Soon he was fully hard and unable to take it any longer.
“I think I should stop.” He pulled away, intending to just leave the room completely, but felt his hand caught by Critic’s.
“No, don’t,” he pleaded, staring at him pitifully. “It’s okay. This can happen to any guy in a situation like this. It’s natural, like morning wood or something.”
“It’s not right. You were scared,” Phelous said, a small blush starting to creep upon his cheeks. “I feel like I’m about to fucking taking advantage of you. I won’t do that.”
“It’s not just you, Phelous.” Critic turned fully over and Phelous almost couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bulge in his pajama pants. “Stay with me, Phelous. I want to thank you for tonight. You did so much for me when you didn’t have to.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Phelous tried to say, but his words became a hiss of pleasure when Critic reached out to stroke him.
“I want to thank you,” he insisted, slowly tugging down Phelous’s shorts so he could wrap his fingers around his cock. “Just think of it as you moving to the top of my list.”
Phelous never figured out how Critic appeared in his bed that night, but he always made sure to keep clean pajamas around from then on just in case.
The title is of course from the Worst Nightmare hoedown, and refers to both Critic's dream and Phelous at the beginning of the story.
Phelous was used to finding strange people in his house. Usually it was Phelous D1, when he wasn’t a cat at least, one of Sub-Zero’s fighter friends, or that stupid Shredder guy who kept trying to join his reviews. But on this night, when Phelous was awoken by someone crawling into his bed with him, he was for the first time in a long time, truly surprised.
“Who’s there?” he asked as he quickly reached to turn on the lamp beside his bed. He blinked at the sudden brightness for a moment before staring down at the intruder. “Critic? Is that you?”
Even without his trademark cap, tie, or glasses, the man in the green Ninja Turtle pajamas who was trying to pull the blankets tightly around him was unmistakably the Nostalgia Critic.
“What are you doing here?” Phelous continued, his meta-senses suddenly switching on. “You don’t even live in the same country as me. How the hell did you end up in my bed in the middle of the night? And why my bed, of all places?” he continued, his tone growing snarkier. “I know you’re the site bicycle and everything, but I thought I was pretty low on your list of potential fuck-buddies.”
Phelous paused when he realized Critic was actually trembling rather badly, his grip on the sheets so tight that his knuckles looked like they were turning white.
“Uh, Critic? Are you okay?”
Phelous tentatively put a hand on Critic’s shoulder, which made him jump a foot before he whirled his head in Phelous’s direction.
“Ph-phelous?” he croaked in a low, tired voice. His face was completely white and dripping sweat, as was the rest of his body, judging by how damp the shoulder of his pajama top felt. Phelous cringed slightly at the feeling and tried to pull his hand away, but Critic whimpered from the loss of contact and quickly pressed himself against the taller man, burying his face into his chest like a frightened child.
“Critic… what’s wrong?” Phelous softened his tone as he stared down at the other man in confusion and slight worry.
“I… I don’t know,” Critic muttered, his voice muffled as he kept his head down. “I was just sleeping and everything was fine… but then I couldn’t see anything and I couldn’t hear anything… there was just nothing… b-but it wasn’t nothing! It wasn’t! I could feel it! It was coming for me, and I couldn’t run, I couldn’t do anything to stop it! I couldn’t!”
Critic’s trembling reappeared with a vengeance and he started to breathe heavily as he worked himself into a panic. He wrapped his arms tightly around Phelous and pressed even closer, as if trying to slip inside the other man. Phelous fought against squirming away and awkwardly brought his hands to Critic’s head where he gently began to stroke his hair.
“Critic, it’s okay now,” he told him, doing his best to sound comforting. “I think you must have been having a nightmare, because I promise you, nothing is coming to get you. Nothing could get you, anyway. You’re the Critic. You’ve beaten death multiple times-not as many as I have, but still a lot-and you’ve survived numerous battles, journeys, and shitty children’s movies. There’s nothing out there that can hurt you, Critic, not even nothing that wasn’t nothing.” Phelous chuckled softly as he spoke. “After some of the shit I’ve watched, I’d kill for dreams about nothing coming after me. They’d be much more preferable to the nightmares I have about zombie fishermen, Internet ghosts, and fucking human centipedes.”
He paused again when he realized Critic’s trembling had lessened and his breathing had calmed significantly.
“Yeah,” Critic said softly, moving his face back into view so he could gaze up at Phelous. “Yeah, that’s right. Your dreams sound really fucking awful. I feel almost stupid for panicking over… I don’t even know what now.”
“It’s fine,” Phelous said, hoping to keep Critic calm so he would finally crawl off of him. “We all get freaked out by dreams now and then. As long as you know nothing’s really after you, you’ll be fine.” He moved his hands lower to pat Critic’s back and recoiled again from how wet his pajamas were. “But you won’ be fine if you stay in those drenched clothes. You should get home and change as soon as possible.”
“You want me to leave?” Critic’s voice sounded tiny and helpless, his eyes widening to anime-esque proportions. Phelous sighed.
“No, I guess you can spend the night here. Just let me get some things so you don’t get sick.”
Critic’s whimpering reappeared when Phelous tried to climb out of his bed, so the taller man looked around his cluttered room and grabbed a stuffed turtle from the ground.
“Here, hold onto Donatello if you feel scared,” Phelous instructed. Almost instantly, Critic brought the toy to his chest, cuddling it tightly. Phelous dug through his dresser for a few minutes in an unsuccessful bid to find clean pajamas before finally just grabbing a T-shirt, as well as a towel, and sitting back down beside Critic.
“Lift your arms for a second.” Critic seemed hesitant but reluctantly moved his turtle friend and complied so that Phelous could pull off the damp clothing with little difficulty. He then set to work drying off Critic’s chest and stomach before nudging him until he rolled on his side and gave access to his back. He also tried to ignore the soft moans this elicited from his bedmate. “Okay, lift them again.”
When Critic was finally in his dry shirt, Phelous tossed the old top and towel on the floor for washing the next day. He crawled back into bed, ready to return to sleep, but soon became aware of Critic staring at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.” There was a moment of silence. “I was just thinking… when you rubbed my back… it was really… soothing. I liked it.” More silence. “Um… could you maybe... do it again?”
Phelous wasn’t used to hearing Critic act in such a meek manner, nor was he especially interested in touching him, but his desire for sleep was starting to overwhelm him, so he acquiesced.
“Turn over.” Maybe if he just gave him a short massage Critic would drift off and let Phelous do the same.
Critic quickly flipped onto his stomach, still hugging the turtle, and waited tensely until he felt Phelous’s warm fingers digging into his back. It didn’t take long for Phelous to realize that this had been a bad idea. Critic’s moans had returned, louder this time, and now Phelous was unable to ignore them. His body grew warmer every time Critic shuddered and squirmed beneath him, and no matter how many horrible movies he thought about, Phelous couldn’t stop the twitches in his groin. Soon he was fully hard and unable to take it any longer.
“I think I should stop.” He pulled away, intending to just leave the room completely, but felt his hand caught by Critic’s.
“No, don’t,” he pleaded, staring at him pitifully. “It’s okay. This can happen to any guy in a situation like this. It’s natural, like morning wood or something.”
“It’s not right. You were scared,” Phelous said, a small blush starting to creep upon his cheeks. “I feel like I’m about to fucking taking advantage of you. I won’t do that.”
“It’s not just you, Phelous.” Critic turned fully over and Phelous almost couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bulge in his pajama pants. “Stay with me, Phelous. I want to thank you for tonight. You did so much for me when you didn’t have to.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Phelous tried to say, but his words became a hiss of pleasure when Critic reached out to stroke him.
“I want to thank you,” he insisted, slowly tugging down Phelous’s shorts so he could wrap his fingers around his cock. “Just think of it as you moving to the top of my list.”
Phelous never figured out how Critic appeared in his bed that night, but he always made sure to keep clean pajamas around from then on just in case.