#10 x 18

[hourcat]

lancierre + mean 👀

Pierre is halfway from his house when his phone lights up with a text from Lance, dont come over im sick 😷🤧🤮, which he probably should have more sympathy for: he doesn't, of course, because he's literally in the car and, he'd never admit it, but he's been looking forward to getting back into Lance's bed this weekend after the last few weeks of drama and idiocy on track.

And like--he's too far out from his own place to turn back, anyway, so he makes the executive decision to ignore the warning and drive the rest of the way, the cool breeze drifting off the coast clearing any concern in his head about whether he should believe that his not-quite-friend is actually sick or just being a bitch about seeing Pierre after their mini collision a few weeks back.

It's a relatively quick ride the rest of the way, fortunately: he doesn't hit any traffic by the time he gets to Lance's block, and there's even a parking space available right out front, which just feels like providence to Pierre--if he weren't supposed to come over, wouldn't this street be, like, double-parked and impossible to get through? He's out of the car and on Lance's front step pretty quickly, and doesn't even bother trying to ring the doorbell, instead choosing to use the spare key carefully tucked between stones and bully his way inside; he'll at least give Lance the courtesy of not tracking his shoes through the place, since it looks like his cleaning crew must've just left.

There's a loud, wet cough from somewhere off to the back of the apartment, and then an unpleasant moan that follows, and Pierre grimaces--he'd placed his bet on the wrong side of Lance today--before shuffling towards the sound, where he finds the Canadian sprawled pathetically on his too-big couch, flopped over one arm rest; when he notices Pierre, he scowls.

"Why the fuck are you here," Lance groans, and Pierre can't help but snort at him before dropping into one of the unoccupied chairs around to teasingly accuse, "Mean."

send me a ship and a word and i'll write you five sentences <3

[grandprix-ao3]

they’ve definitely explored each other’s bodies

[sad-endings-suck]

Still think it’s hilarious that Kratos looked at Faye, a woman that regularly wielded a magic godkilling boomerang axe with ease, performed magical warding spells, and was considered a revered warrior and respected entity among other respected beings, and still thought: “yeah, that’s a normal mortal human person”.

[sunofpandora]

“Lo’ak lost his brother just like Jake did.”

Yes I understand that but hello?

Tuk was the same age Neytiri was when she lost Sylwanin.

[sugdensdingle]

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine taking UTA and Luffy trick or treating with Shanks

Shanks: thanks for doing this, I know you probably had other plans for tonight.

You: *a friend of Makino's who volunteered to take Luffy for the night* It's really no problem, my plans changed when my friend got sick and had to cancel her party, so figured I take Luffy for the night, so both he and Makino could have fun.

Shanks: A party? Is that why you're in costume? Well, Uta'll be pleased, she was very insistent about all of us dressing up for her first time trick or treating.

You: Oh it's her first time?

Shanks: yeah it's something that's only practiced here in the East Blue

Luffy: Hurry up you two, people are starting to go already.

Uta: Yeah! If you take too much longer there isn't gonna be any candy left!

Shanks: Yes, yes, we're coming.... I like your costume by the way, it suits you.

Uta: ( TT n TT) What about my costume?

Shanks: Yours is gorgeous my sweet.

You: *nods your head* I can tell you put in a lot of work into it.

Uta: whatever, I have candy to collect. *runs off *

An hour later

Uta: *notices the way Shanks is looking at you*

Luffy: *runs to you and jumps into your arms* Look! Look! That house was passing out full sized candy bars!

You: oh wow, never seen that in this neighborhood before.

Uta and Shanks: *come over from playing a game at a neighboring house*

Shanks: what's going on?

Luffy: Uta, this house is giving away full sized candy bars. Jumps down*

Uta: EHH! No way! I want one! *pulls Luffy towards the door and rings the bell.*

Old lady: *answers the door*

Uta and Luffy: Trick or treat!

Old lady: *looks between Uta and Luffy, before glancing up at you and Shanks* Oh my, how scary! Who do we have here?

Luffy: I'm a pirate

Uta: and I'm a pop star. *Throws up a peace sign and winks*

Old Lady: I can see, you're very sparkly, dear. *let's Uta pick out a full sized candy bar from a selection* Now I believe I already gave you candy bar.

Luffy: *grins and nods* he he, yeah, thanks, I just came to bring her. You've already paid the toll.

Shanks: *wraps his arm over your shoulders and sighs*

Old lady: *catches the red head out of the corner of her eye and hands Luffy two more candy bars* Why don't you take these to your lovely parents. *Gestures towards you and Shanks*

Uta and Luffy: *look over at you two*

Uta: That's my dad! Keep your hands to yourself!

Luffy: but he's the one touching them?

Uta: and you're not my brother *shoves Luffy and marches over to you*, and you're a stranger.

Shanks: *mutters* Hopefully not for long.

Uta: What was that!

Shanks: I mean, I know we've only met a few times, but I want to get to know you.

You: really?

Uta: What!

Shanks: yeah, *ignoring his child* if that's okay.

You: okay, sure.

Uta: This is not happening!

Luffy: what's the big deal, it's not like they'll be setting sail with you... wait! If they get to go, take me too!

Uta: *throws the first punch* You're not coming either.

Luffy: You wanna go, fine, winner gets to go with Shanks, loser gets to stay here with my Grandpa. *Dodges Uta's fist and throws a punch of his own*

Shanks: Uta, knock it off!

Uta: More like, knock him out, cause that's what I'm gonna do. *gut punches Luffy

You: Luffy, you don't hit girls.

Luffy: no, you don't hit people weaker than you, which makes her free game, because she's older and bigger, and she knows how to defend herself.

You: does she?

Shanks: yeah, I wanted to make sure she could stand up for herself, and others *Pulls them apart and has to wrestle back Luffy.* Stop moving, ya damn brat!

Luffy: Never! *Flails harder*

Uta: *knows better than to fight Shanks on this and sulks beside you,* He would never choose you over me.

You: I promise I would never ask him to choose me over you. Okay? *Holds out your pinky*

Uta: *hooks your pinky in hers* I'll hold you to that while making no promises of my own.

You: I want you to get to know me as well, for Luffy, you're an important friend of his. So that makes you important to me too.

Uta: Fine, I guess I'll be doing you a big favor, because I'm gonna be famous one day. I'm gonna become the best singer in the world.

You: Well I guess I'll have to get tickets to your concert when it comes to this island.

Uta: You'd come see me perform!

You: I'd love to hear you sing, you could even pick the song.

Uta: I'm performing at Makino's bar tomorrow night at three, don't be late. Oh, and ticket cost a candy bar.

You: Yes, you make have my bar, and I'll be there a two thirty, and you can tell me the tales of the adventures of Uta and Luffy.

Uta: *points* HA! They agree with me, Luffy!

Luffy: Wait what?

Uta: They agree with me that "Uta and Luffy" is a much better than "Luffy and Uta."

Luffy: What! (Y/n), you're my friend, you're not supposed to agree with her!

Shanks: Sorry kid, "Uta and Luffy" flows better.

Luffy: I'd suddenly rather be home with Makino.

List of Up-and-coming works

Support me on Kofi and Patreon

[thesesoldierboysarebi]

Will mostly be reblogging for a while I think, but I’m gonna be real, 70 percent of my reason for making this blog in the hopes of writing was that I noticed a big chunk of CoD x reader posts on this hellsite have readers with like…concerningly low ages. There’s a lot of reader character minor-coding going on, and it’s weirdling me out (no shade to young writers, I know a lot of the reason is that a majority of CoD fanfic writers are 18-25 here, which, yk, fair that you wanna see self-inserts with similar ages).

But as I said, it gives me the ick, so if/when I end up writing x reader, I wanna go ahead and make it clear that I will not be writing a reader character in a romantic/sexual position BELOW the age of 25 at most. Most of the Call of Duty men are, like, 28 at the youngest, and I’m more inclined to write reader characters with matching ages, especially afab readers.

In other words? I’m gonna write milfs and dilfs. I’m gonna write top!reader. I’m gonna write unhinged women that leave the various men of TF141 screaming crying throwing up. I will NOT be writing virginal, innocent, or overly naive reader characters; I do not do minor-coding. Y’all have been warned.

[angelsanarchy]

One Long Weekend: - Clyde/YN One-Shot Series CH 10

"Don't worry, we're not gonna have to fuck in a closet." "Trying wouldn't kill us."

Tagging: @roryculkinluvr @siriuslymooned @cc-luvr @crypticsewerslut @icarus-star @desert-springtime @shady-the-simp @izuoyarmin

SATURDAY, 11:30PM

Y/n wasn't expecting so many people to be here. All of the apartments seemed small but Johnny's was packed, music blaring and smoke of all kinds hover above them all.

"FINALLY! Have a beer! Relax and join the festivities." Beau was approaching with a drink in both hands and Y/n felt an arm around her waist.

"Oh thanks Beau, we're about to hit the smoke circle though." Clyde had spun you away from a disappointed Beau but she couldn't help but laugh.

"You're getting better." Y/n put her lips to his ear so he could hear her and he wiggled his eyebrows at her. They found Snow and Lola who were six deep in the smoke circle but were more than happy to squeeze them in. Y/n was sharing a chair with Clyde when she almost slipped off the side during a coughing fit. Clyde laughed making sure she didn't hit the floor but didn't expect her to plop down on his lap once she regained her composure.

"Making yourself comfortable?" He asked trying to hide his blush.

"Yes actually. You have a very cozy lap." Clyde responded by putting one arm around her back and she rested her hand on top of his. The more they smoked the more Clyde seemed to loosen up, enough so to pull her in for a shotgun this time, letting his bottom lip brush against her own.

"We should play a game!!!" Snow jumped up and down in her chair earning some groans.

"You guys are so fucking lame. What else are we going to sit here and do?! Let's play Kings!" Snow started rooting through her bag and pulled out a deck of cards. The group had gained a few newbies, some who were just smoking and enjoying the atmosphere, others ready to play the card game. Snow explained the rules to everyone and Y/n was feeling buzzed by the time she started drinking. The only part of the game that seemed new to her was the rule for Queens. Snow thought it would be a lot more fun if some sexual tension was released. Anyone who drew a Queen had to pick someone in the circle to trap in the closet for 7 minutes. It seemed like a really immature, teenage party rule but no one sitting in the circle seemed to care.

She remained on Clyde's lap but he settled into the position, leaning his head against her arm on occasion. After the first handful of pulls Y/n almost ate shit when trying to hit the floor for a 4 of Clubs.

"Please don't hurt yourself. I'd hate to have to tell your roommate you ended up in the hospital playing for the win." Clyde teased, cheeks splotchy from drinking.

"Could you imagine? She would kick my ass." Y/n threw her arm around Clyde's neck to tighten her hold on him. The first Queen was drawn by Snow who surprisingly took Johnny into the closet. Lola set a timer on her phone. The game-play couldn't resume until the 7 minutes were up so most people just lit up and grabbed another drink.

"You want another drink?" Clyde asked reaching for the bottle opener.

"Yeah thanks." Y/n watched his hands carefully using the bottle opener and couldn't shake the idea of him using those long, slender fingers to get her off. Clyde was completely obvious to her dirty thoughts but she wasn't sure if she should push that envelope again.

"If I pull the next Queen, you'll have to take one for the team and go in there with me. I don't want to be trapped with a stranger." Y/n said watching Clyde sip his beer.

"That's fine. Sadly I don't think you'll escape the smells since that's Johnny and Beau's shared closet." Y/n scrunched her nose.

"How can anyone possibly get off in a closet that smells like death?" Y/n questioned.

"Johnny and Snow have been on and off for awhile. They could fuck in a trunk and they wouldn't be phased." Clyde explained.

"Aww." Y/n made a face earning a laugh from Clyde who almost spit his beer in his lap.

"Don't worry, we're not going to have to fuck in a closet." Clyde seemed very sure about this but Y/n shrugged.

"Trying wouldn't kill us." Y/n licked her lips making sure not to meet Clyde's gaze as he stared at her with longing. The alarm on Lola's phone went off and Denny the drummer launched the door open. Johnny's shirt was buttoned awkwardly and Snow pulled her skirt down lower.

The game resumed with another round of waterfalls, almost falling out of chairs to touch the floor and some Never Have I Ever's that were shocking.

"THAT WAS ONE TIME!" Johnny yelled making everyone laugh. Apparently shitting yourself while hooking up with someone is noteworthy enough to tell your friends about. The second Queen was pulled and Clyde flipped it around between his fingers.

"Ohhhh finally! I was hoping you would get it!" Snow clapped her hands making Clyde shake his head. Y/n remained quiet as she coyly got up off his lap to move towards the kitchen for another drink and he cleared his throat.

"Where are you going?" Clyde asked curiously.

"To get another drink? Did you want one?" She gestured over her shoulder and he huffed walking towards her, taking her hand and pulling her towards the closet. Everyone whistled and cheered as the door shut behind them, leaving them both in the dark.

"Seven minutes Stevie Wonder! Make it count." Beau slammed his fist on the door and Y/n snorted.

"Stevie Wonder is blind, not deaf. What the fuck?" Y/n was ready to argue through the door but Clyde stopped her.

"How are you feeling? You okay?" Clyde still had her hands in his own and she waited for her eyes to adjust so she could see him.

"I'm fine. Do I not seem fine?" Y/n worried how she was coming off and why he would ask her that.

"You've just had a lot to drink. Just want to make sure you're all good." He smiled.

"So have you, you seem fine." Y/n returned.

"You're not wrong but I get this wasted most weekends so my reboot is pretty good." Clyde bragged. Y/n leans her body into his more.

"Oh yeah? I'd like to see this reboot in action I think." Y/n put her hand on Clyde's chest. She could feel how hard his heart was beating.

"Your heart is beating super fast. Are you nervous?" Y/n pulled Clyde's neck to her mouth to place a soft kiss on the pulse point that she could feel.

"I wasn't..." Clyde stuttered. He let Y/n run her hands through his hair and continue to suck little kisses into the side of his neck, trailing up towards his ear. Clyde closed his eyes, trying to keep his focus but the way Y/n took little nibbles into the wet skin of his neck and throat were absolutely winding him up.

"Do I make you nervous Clyde?" Y/n asked innocently.

"You know I was watching your hands earlier. You have some really sexy fingers and I would love to see how nice they feel inside me." Y/n let the hand he was holding fall to the front of her bottoms. Clyde's eyes opened wide and he stopped her hand.

"Y/n...you're making this really difficult." Clyde squeezed her hand and she pulled back.

"What? What's wrong?" Y/n questioned. Clyde let out a sigh but before he could explain himself the door flew open.

"Damn Clyde! Nice hickey!" Denny pointed at Clyde's neck. The image of his hair a mess, a fresh hickey on his neck and her hand on the waistband of his jeans must have seemed filthy to some but Y/n was trying really hard not to let herself be upset. Had she read the signals all wrong? Maybe Clyde wasn't attracted to her like that?

Maybe he really was just a really nice guy who was giving her a place to stay for the weekend. Whatever it was, Y/n scurried out of the closet to find an empty chair across the circle from Clyde's. He left the closet with his back to the group, adjusting himself before going to the kitchen to grab another drink. Lola reached out to put her hand on Y/n's leg and she shook her head that she was fine.

[ladykissingfish]

*Madara and Hashirama, taking Izuna and Tobirama to a pumpkin patch*

Madara: Geez, will you two hurry it up already?!

Hashirama: Madara. Come on, we talked about this, didn’t we? This is their first time here, they’re excited, so let them take their time picking out a pumpkin.

*the two lean against a fence, watching as Tobirama and Izuna walk slowly up and down rows of pumpkins, stopping to inspect different ones*

Madara: You realize we could have just gotten them large pumpkins from the market, probably at half the cost of what they charge here?

Hashirama: That’s not the point, love. Picking out your own pumpkin on a farm like this just … it has a different flavor to it, that’s all. Let them enjoy themselves. And anyway what are you in such a hurry to leave for? It’s such a gorgeous day! Almost perfect.

Madara: It’s barely 50 degrees and cloudy. How is that perfect?

Hashirama: Perfect fall weather! And besides … I know you don’t like to talk about this but you know that Tobi and Izu really like each other. But Tobi is so shy around him … spending time at places like this is nice for them.

Madara: *sighs* I know, I know. But they’re too young to date; if I see your brother pull anything I’ll break his hand.

Hashirama: You sure are a romance-killer, aren’t you?

Madara: Izuna is my most precious treasure. You think I’m gonna let just anyone take him from me? 

Hashirama: Is he going to be saying the same thing, when I marry you and take you away, mm? *playfully kisses along Madara’s neck*

Madara, blushing: S-stop it, pervert. And I’m not so easily won. You’re going to have to go a long way to convince me that a Senju is worthy of the hand of the mighty Madara Uchiha.

Hashirama: *whispering in Madara’s ear* Funny because your hand isn’t the part of you I’m most interested in ~

*the two make out for a while, until Izuna comes running up to them lugging a huge pumpkin*

Izuna, to Madara: Big brother! I found the best one! It has no spots on it and it’s perfectly round on all sides!

Madara: You certainly picked a big one, didn’t you? Where’s Tobirama?

Izuna: His is so big he can barely lift it!

Madara: I’ll go help him. You wait here with Hashirama. *walks off*

Hashirama: Hey, how about after this you and your brother come back to our house? We can carve the pumpkins and make some snacks and —

Izuna, voice deepening, eyes glowing red: Listen Senju, I don’t care what you do in private but when we’re in public, you won’t be groping and kissing on my brother like that, you got it?! Have some respect for the Uchiha image, asshole. 

Hashirama: I — I —

Izuna: And another thing, slow the hell down. We’re breaking tradition because I’M going to marry Tobirama BEFORE you get married to my brother. Another ten years and he’s mine. Don’t you dare try and upstage our wedding or … *the two tomoe in his eyes swirl in a circle* You will pay. Got it?

Hashirama: G-got it …

*Madara and Tobirama walk up, Madara carrying Tobirama’s pumpkin*

Madara: I think these guys found the biggest pumpkins on this whole farm. Let’s go pay for these then head out of here. We — Hashirama, what’s wrong?? You look like you saw a ghost!

Hashirama, stuttering while glancing nervously at Izuna: I-it’s nothing. M-Madara. J-just a little c-cold is all.

Madara: *moves toward him* Here, let me help you warm up and —

Hashirama: NO! I mean, I’m okay. Er, here … *hands Madara his wallet* You go pay for their pumpkins … I’ve gotta visit the bathroom really quick … *runs off*

Tobirama: Nii-san is acting very strangely. Maybe I should go check on him …

Izuna: I know what will help … do your transformation jutsu and pretend you’re me. When he figures out you fooled him he’ll laugh and feel better!

Tobirama: Good idea … *henges into Izuna* Be right back.

*a few minutes later, blood-curling screams are heard from the bathroom area and Madara and Izuna look to see Hashirama running full-speed from the “fake” Izuna*

Madara: My goodness, Senju’s are certainly strange.

Izuna, grinning: Agreed.

[just-absolutely-super]

VOLUME 14 HAS A TIMELINE OF EVENTS

a not very detailed timeline BUT REGARDLESS A TIMELINE GOD BLESS

[hourcat]

lancierre + promise :)

Pierre is half-asleep out on the unbearably sunny patio when Lance comes rumbling through--too loud as he slides the back door open and then closed at full strength, too loud as his flip-flops slap aggressively against both his feet and the stones beneath them, too loud as he collapses in a heap beside Pierre on the lounge chair that definitely should not be for two people.

Pierre doesn't mind it that much. "Lance," he groans when his lover shimmies close to drop a wet, shapeless kiss to his jugular, "I was taking a nap," as if that'd be protest enough for him to stop what he's doing--as if Pierre wants him to stop.

Lance doesn't, although he pulls away enough to chuckle when Pierre whacks his side halfheartedly: "sorry," he mutters, and Pierre can feel the shape of the word against him, "couldn't stop thinking about you out here during that fucking call with the board, but I'll knock next time, I promise." Pierre knows he doesn't mean it, really, but can't bring himself to fight it--not when Lance's teeth are half sunk into his neck already, still in his meeting clothes while Pierre's got the barest hint of a bathing suit on to maximize his time out here in the sun as the sugar baby of this relationship.

send me a ship and a word and i'll write you five sentences <3

[grandprix-ao3]

lance and pierre sat at opposite ends of the table at dinner making fuck me eyes at each other all night real not fake

[kits-ships]

hi im kit/angel! im 24 and use they/she/ze pronouns! dni: proshippers, zionists, maps, zoos, terfs, etc. (sometimes i just block off of vibes alone btw!)

i'm currently fixated on demon slayer, and my main f/os atm are sanemi + douma :3 (i <3 sharing f/os + source material- pls talk to me if we share + ur ok w/ that!!!) my carrd has my full dni, byf, and f/o list w/ tags!

other info: ♡ i love my ocs/self inserts <3 i adore posting way too much about them ♡ i consider this blog 75% selfship, 25% oc x canon ! ♡ i have a physical husband as well! he doesnt selfship but he knows abt it! ♡ lmk if you need anything tagged! i do my best to tag stuff but i forget a lot!

[secrettreestuffidk]

you ever think about how pretty much the only reason we use base10 is because we have 10 fingers and if everyone had 6 fingers on each hand we'd use base12 and never even think a thing of it and also math would be pretty much better in every way?

[cornerstoreclown]

His Blessing

Summary: This is a short one-shot ( 3454 words approx. ) where the reader has convinced Art to roleplay a hostage situation with them where they get to be one of his victims. Don’t worry, the reader comes out of this fic fine! I genuinely promise, I would tell y’all if otherwise. The reader is gender neutral and has a vulva. The reader is not specifically mentioned to have breasts either, so that’s up for the reader to decide what their chest looks like. 

Content and Warnings: Consensual rough sexual activities, some light BDSM, vaginal fingering, biting, marking, some slight blood, hair pulling, knife play mention, mention of guns and the standard Art paraphernalia, corruption of the reader’s mind, slight transformation (?) that’s more along the line of new abilities of the reader during their descent to whatever Art is making of them. Art’s gift, as it were. Being his ‘favorite’ comes with benefits, after all! 

Author’s notes: This was VERY hard for me to write but extremely indulgent. I struggled a lot, HAHA. I’ve written smut plenty a time, but doing it in a canon x reader fic is something I’ve done rarely. This one took so much time because of that. Anyway, I hope that those who are into this sort of thing, enjoy it! For those that are looking for more domestic stuff, stay tuned--I got you. 

------------------------------------------------------

“Safe word is red,” You tell Art, looking over your shoulder at the man who has just tied you up with metal chains to a chair. You don’t get a response, but you know he’s listening. Your hands are bound to the armrests, your ankles tied to the legs of the chair, thighs parted for him. He finishes the job with a gentle boop to your nose, and you feel butterflies in your stomach, before you feel a little bit of chills down your spine. The room was cold, and being in nothing but a tank top and shorts didn’t do you a whole lot of favors. 

However, given the circumstance, you anticipate that you’ll be warmed up in no time. 

Art barged his way into your life, and you willingly let him in. He kept you safe, and you gave him a home. You were his, and he was yours. You’re not sure at what point when you were together that you began to feel less and less like the you that you knew before the Miles County Clown, but whatever influence he’s placed upon you without your initial knowing, you like it. 

You were once shy, reserved. Now, he’s made you brave. He’s made you proud. You fear very little now. And for better or for worse, you’ve even found your mind a little twisted in the process, the thought of danger a thrill to you, and the very concept of others getting hurt a little… funny. People now notice how you look so much healthier, you seem happier, and that you’re far more charismatic than what you’d ever been. As of late, however, you’ve found yourself having a penchant for violence. The craving itches under your skin like a parasite, and hasn’t stopped since you first noticed it. It’s been driving your nuts, feeling like if you don’t act on it soon enough, you’ll go mad. 

You remember telling him about your feelings and those urges, and Art only looked surprised, but your familiarity with him allowed you to see past that response–he was pretending like he didn’t know what you were referring to. Whatever he was doing to you, he was aware of it, and you were too. And yet, you didn’t bother to slip away from it. The red string of fate that is wrapped around your soul is attached to his too, but he’s not ensnared in it like you are–no, he’s the one keeping you restrained in it and has the string between you both wrapped solely around his arm, pulling you along with him like it were a leash. 

The room is full of stained blood splatters at various locations that range anywhere from the ceiling, to the floors, and the walls. The chair you’re sitting on is also stained, and you’re not at all bothered by any of it. You’re not sure if Art had actually killed someone in here, if it was like this before he got here, or if the blood was his own–it was hard to say. He was pretty notorious for bleeding out and taking damage from time to time when wrangling someone. You’ve even tended to some of his wounds before in the past. What you do know is that the place smells a little musty, and there’s one light source, which is the single swaying lamp from the ceiling at the center of the room. Art has a workbench here full of improvised weapons behind you that you saw when you walked in. Things such as forks, glass bottles, scissors, screwdrivers, a hacksaw, an ice ax, pliers, some dental tools–it’s really a mix all out on the table and you didn’t have the slightest negative reaction when you saw it. In fact, you felt a little tickle.

So many things to torment you with if he wanted, and you’re exposing yourself to him trusting him to not kill you with any of it. He’s inflicted pain on you before because you’ve asked for it, and even then, you knew he was showing self restraint during those times, waiting to see if you’d beg for him to stop, and you never did. He’d cut you, choke you, slap you, yank you by your hair, but all of it was wanted. It was something he was even happy to oblige you on.

Something along the way of all those times, there was a change to your body. Your wounds healed fast in the way that his would, and the sensation of pain in your brain transformed to pleasure. It had to be because of him, you reasoned. There was no other way, there couldn’t be. He was changing you, not just mentally, but physically. You don’t know how, but you do know you don’t care to know anymore, because it is what it is at this point. He’s molded you into the perfect toy, built you up from the ground up in such a way that any sensation of pain only fires off reward signals in your brain. You’ve been completely rewired.

Being tied up and at his mercy is what you wanted. You told him yourself that you wanted to be in his victims shoes, that you wanted to feel the way that they felt. This wasn’t something that you ever initially wanted and even once would be horrified to humor. But people were allowed to change, you told yourself. You were allowed to change. What’s wrong with a little consensual roleplay with a killer clown? Nothing like feeling like you’re walking on a tightrope at all times.

Art runs a hand across the side of your face as he lingers behind you and the chair you sit in. You lean into his touch, feeling yourself melt a little. For someone who could kill and maim so effortlessly, those same hands were capable of much kindness, but only reserved for you. Hands that could rip your jaw clean off the hinged joints, don’t. They only caress. 

With his other hand, you feel his fingers massage your scalp before they sharply ensnare your hair and yank your head back to look up at him. It’s then that you are forced to see him looking down at you and towering over you, and you admit—he looks a little intimidating and there’s not a glimmer of kindness on his face to be found for the role he’s playing. The tug hurts a little and draws a light huff of air out of you, but you’re fine. You’re great, actually! You feel the way that your lips are beginning to turn upwards, the muscles on your face aching with just how wide your smile is. He’s smiling at you in turn, and when your eyes meet in understanding, you feel a glow erupt from your core, enveloping you like a warm blanket. He was aware of his position to play, but to see that flicker of awareness only solidifies your trust. He’s gone this far to put this much work into you, why stop now? 

Anticipation has your heart beginning to race and you sigh, desperate to get more air into your lungs to keep up with your body’s demand for oxygen.

Despite all these tools he has around him, you noticed earlier that he has none in hand. He could have used the knife on you again, he could have made you fellatiate a gun like last time. He could have pulled out a saw like that one night when he tried to frighten you. It’s during this smile of his that you realize that the choice of weapon tonight is not anything handheld, but instead part of him–his mouth. He bares his teeth behind those curled up lips like a hungry lion, and how fitting when you’re easy prey, having nowhere to run as you’re bound up like a little present for his consumption. His jaw is strong, capable of tearing through bone and sinew, and yet it only further riles you up. 

“I love you,” You tell him, and you mean it. You do. He knows you mean it, too. He enjoys the way that you adore him, and the way that your will bends so easily to him and your submission to him. You were at his mercy at all times. You’re alive because he decided to keep you alive. Every breath you took, it was because he let you. Even when the both of you were far apart, you felt him in you. His presence. His essence, implanted in the deepest depths of your being, growing and flourishing like an invasive vine feasting on the endless affection you held for him, strangling out any potential of who you could be without him. It’s gotten to the point where the thought of a life without him doesn’t even occur to you anymore. 

Art lets go of your hair and makes his way near your side now, bending down as he seizes your face by your jaw, meeting you at your level. It happens too fast, and you don’t have much time to react when he comes close. You barely have time to register that his lips are pressing to yours, but when you do, your stomach flips. You feel his tongue trying to pry its way in your mouth, and you let it happen, eyes screwing shut tightly and exhaling heavily through your nostrils as the familiar taste of his bitterness registers upon your tastebuds. It’s not terrible, surprisingly, and you’ve learned to crave it. To crave him.

His kisses are always intoxicating, and with each one, you feel as if a part of you is being sucked away. And maybe it is. He’s forceful against you during, pushing against you so hard that your head goes back a bit. You taste iron before you feel it—pain doesn’t have time to settle as pleasure takes over and you realize that the clown bit your tongue. It’s not a lot of blood, but enough that it floods the space between your kisses together and flavors the exchange. He’s sloppy when he kisses, and each time you try to pull back, he follows in such a passionate way that you think he’s almost trying to eat you. When he does finally back away, you innately know that your lips are stained red with your own blood. 

Your eyes meet his again when he pulls back, and there’s no sign of anything that indicates that he’s got much thought behind them beyond the calls of carnal desire, ravenous hunger, or brutal violence. 

You think it’s all three right now. At least, until he went for your neck.

“Art–!!” You only manage to get out his name, gasping as he drags the top row of his teeth across your throat, yanking your head back by your hair again, this time to expose your jugular to him proper. He gives a nip, then a suck and a kiss. Your hands ball into fists as you stare at the ceiling and the various blood spatters. It’s the only thing you COULD do. 

He’s marking you, and you can’t do a single damn thing about it. You can feel that where he’s doing it, that cheeky bastard is kissing and licking and sucking the spaces on your neck that’ll be hard to cover up if you don’t use something like a scarf or a turtleneck. Your eyes shut tightly again as you feel his other hand traveling down your bare shoulder, leaving a trail of fire that has your body temperature rising. You’re a whining and pathetic, whimpering mess, and you can’t do a damn thing. 

It didn’t take much to stimulate you, not when it came to Art. He had a way with you, a familiarity with your body that made you ache and yearn for him. He knew what you liked, what you didn’t, knew how to unravel you from the inside out like it was a game, because it was. This was a game, for now, until he decided it wouldn’t be. And you’d hope he’d never have a second thought otherwise. 

The way that his nails drag across your chest, where he could rip out your rapidly beating heart from your chest cavity and devour it whole, it bothers you not. It doesn’t bother you at the notion of how his hand is sliding down to your stomach, that he can rip and yank out your intestines to spill across the floor in front of you. Your eyes shoot open amid the kisses and nips at your neck when you recognize that his hand is slipping into your pants. He’s gone past your undergarments and settled that hand of his right between your thighs, with his middle finger teasingly tapping at your clit. 

You inhale sharply, face twisting as you lurch back in your seat, squirming as he keeps your head in place by your hair. His kisses are trailing down from your neck to your collarbone. Art bites there too, and it stings before it feels awash with the buzz of pleasure that endorphins provide you. He’s dragging it out, testing your patience while he’s sliding his fingers up and down between your thighs when you just want him to get straight to the point and fill you with him, whether it be his dick or his fingers. You ache, you feel empty without him, and he’s got you gritting your teeth, nails digging crescent shapes into your palm from your clenched fists.  

The clown drags his tongue back up your neck, causing you to shiver as the hair on your arms and the back of your neck stand up. Your face twists into something ugly when that hand of his between your thighs presses against you, palm against your clit and his fingers dangerously close to penetrating you. Instead of following through on that, he forces you to grind into his hand, and you do, desperately. 

The heat between your legs only grows, his touch stoking the fire. You know you’re soaking his fingers–you can feel it. When he lets go of your hair once more and you have control again, you move your neck to get a look at him. 

The moment you make eye contact is the moment that he inserts a finger in you. Your jaw drops and you gasp loudly. 

He wanted to see your face the instant that he slipped in, and he’s not disappointed, going so far as to part his lips in the way that you are now, a reflection for you to see of how your own expression appears, like a mirror. Only, he eventually gives you an amused and twisted smile.

“Art…” You get his name out a second time, but once he’s got you set, he’s back at your neck again like some sort of goddamn vampire. This time you expose your throat to him in devoted submission, offering him the opportunity to rip your trachea straight out of you between his teeth if he wanted. Instead, he bites and sucks again. Your neck is going to be so bruised up after all this, you think. He wanted people to know you were his, and his alone. He’s made that quite clear, and that’s not a fact he’s shied away from in the past with you. Hickeys are nothing compared to literal murder he’s done for you as a means of showing those feelings. 

One finger turns to two after a few thrusts, and he stretches you out so good with both fingers. He makes a scissoring motion with his index and middle, taking the time to prepare you for the third one. 

You can only moan.

He’s even taking his time with the pacing, putting his whole hand into it as his fingers move in and out in such a way that, while still satisfying, you wish he’d go faster. You’re not chasing your release–he’s bringing it to you, building you up in such a sickeningly sweet and leisurely way that’s torture, and it’s plain to see on your face. No amount of improvised weapons could make you look as agonized as you are when the eventual third finger goes in and he’s got you whimpering and shaking. The only noise that’s heard in this otherwise silent space is you, the rattling of your metal chains keeping you stuck to this chair, and the sounds of Art’s fingers sliding in and out of you. 

His easy pace begins to transition into a faster one, and you feel the shift that would otherwise have your legs shut if they weren’t forcibly chained open. 

“Fuck…” You whimper. 

The sound of his hand smacking into your thighs is loud, to the point where it’s eventually the only thing in your ears you can really register, and you’re sure it’s the same for him too. 

Your climax is close, and you feel it rising inside you like an ocean tide. Art’s kissing your shoulder again, but you're too lost in the tingling between your legs. It’s hard to think right now—he’s since gone from pulling you up the mountain to pushing you right to the ledge, and now he fully intends on shoving you off.  

You feel your muscles tighten and your toes curl, your breaths becoming sharp as your lips part, jaw slack. He can feel it coming, he can feel the way that your thighs and muscles clench and your body begins to tense up.

You feel as if your soul is about to separate from your body, until there’s a slight jolt of pain, right in the middle space between your shoulder and neck. Warmth and endorphins flood to the source as your eyes open and your head turns, where you see that Art is biting you. 

It’s too late, not even those jaws could seize your soul to put it back into your body as your orgasm wracks throughout you, the initial pain that’s since transformed into pleasure working in tandem with his fingers between your thighs. He did it on purpose, waiting for the perfect moment, and it worked.

Your eyes shut again and behind your lids are fireworks, a collage of colors all at once, and then there’s nothing. You feel light as a feather, and then the steady decline as you feel yourself weighed down by gravity again. It’s enough all at once for your head to slump. 

You need a minute or two to recover. And Art gives it to you. He’s at least that merciful.

As you regain yourself again, you feel his fingers slip out of you, leaving you empty, but satisfied, and when you finally lift your head, he’s licking his fingers, tongue curling around his digits, reveling in the taste of you. He’s looking rather shameless about it too, sucking his fingers like he’s just handled the best dessert. You even see that your blood is on his lips, smeared down his white chin. The muscle between your shoulder and neck has a distinct marking of where his teeth were, along with the unmistakable crimson smudges that you know is your drying blood. The wound is already clotted, impressively enough, your skin is well on its way to knitting itself back to pristine condition as if nothing had ever happened to begin with. In three days tops, it’ll be gone. Pretty impressive, actually.

You can tell he’s smug, even though it might not be direct. It’s there. You know it is. It makes you huff another laugh. You’re not in any pain. You’re fine, fit as a fiddle. 

You have his blessing, after all. 

“Shit,” You mumble, just above a whisper. “That was good. Can you free me?” 

When you expect that he’d oblige your request, Art has a glint in his eye, with a smile to follow through. You thought you were done, but it’s clear you’re not. Your stomach flips again in delight.

He instead heads somewhere out of view behind you, presumably to his bench, but you don’t really know. Was he finally getting the knife out? Was he going to try and scare you? You’re not sure, but you’re ready for anything. He’s trained you well. 

No need to worry about strapping yourself in for the ride, you’re pretty secure as is right now, aren’t you? 

“Remember, the safe word is red,” You remind him, glancing over your shoulder. 

His back is to you when you look behind you. He’s fiddling with something purposefully hidden from your view, but he does give you a glance, and an understanding nod. He knows. 

You look forward again, face turned away from him, and smile to yourself.

The fun was just getting started. 

[sugdensdingle]