#The clown show is imminent and I will be seated

[starfleetsacademy]

if I was a sports reporter I'd drop everything and tell my boss that effective immediately I'd be covering the lakers '24-25 season.

[indranilchakrabortysas]

Blogpost #2: Analyzing Jump Scares and How They Add to Immersion

I recently watched a Bollywood horror-comedy film called ‘Stree,’ which I found amusing for the lack of horror and a rather comedic take on the tale of an urban legend called ‘Nale Ba.’ The movie is inspired by the story of a ghost that would abduct men who are on their own, and a way to combat said phenomenon would be to write “O stree kal aana or nale ba” (which roughly translates to "please come tomorrow"), which the phantom/ghost would read and proceed to come the next day, continuing the cycle. Interestingly, the only time I felt a little scared was during the jump scares that often happened in the first person, where a head would just appear out of nowhere and scare you, or the phantom would suddenly appear behind or in front of the protagonist.

Anatomy of a Jump Scare

A jump scare relies on the unpreparedness of the audience and banks on a sudden intrusion into the characters' surroundings (Clasen, 2021). These jump scares often rely on a buildup showing glimpses of an imminent threat, a buildup of music or action that turns into sudden silence, followed by the sudden appearance of the threat. Sound plays a huge role in this buildup, as it is hard to counteract and takes time to fade away or escape from (Clasen, 2021). I think jump scares are very visceral to the immersion of the audience when watching a horror film. We mostly feel the fear of a jump scare through the protagonist, but every once in a while, there are jump scares that target the audience directly. It feels like the phantom or the ghost is breaking through the fourth wall, which adds to the immersion as though the viewer were a part of the film. Jump scares are also used to set a rhythm or to add or relieve tension for the viewer.

Jump scares can also be found beyond screens. They are widely used in haunted house tours to add a punch to an already spooky environment. Jack-in-the-box toys also use jump scares, where a creepy clown bounces out of a box to startle the viewer who opens the box. Although the first jump scare is said to have appeared in Mark Robson’s ‘Cat People’ in 1942, I believe Étienne-Gaspard Robert’s Phantasmagoria employed this style of horror much earlier. A Journal de Paris advertisement described the show as:

“Fantasmagorie … by citizen E-G. Robertson: apparitions of Spectres, Phantoms, and Ghosts, such as must appear or could appear at any time, in any place, and among any people. Experiments with the new fluid known by the name of Galvanism, whose application gives temporary movement to bodies whose life has departed. An artist noted for his talents will play the Harmonica.” (Meier, 2013)

This sounds a lot like jump scares which are used in modern cinema to this day. Jump scares are a very controlled means of startling or scaring the audience. There is very little to think about; you rather feel the immediate calculated threat. However, the overuse of them is slowly taking away from the effect they have on their audience, which is quite similar to what happened with laugh tracks. There has been a steady decline in jump scares in movies in recent years. Chris Catt, an editor at the online horror magazine Creepy Catalog, talks about how, due to the overuse of jump scares, audiences know when to expect them, which often might have quite the opposite effect on the viewer (Fowers and Tan, n.d.). I especially felt this way while watching ‘Stree’ as I could tell when a jump scare was coming. Instead of being on the edge of my seat and not giving me time to think about anything, I found myself laughing and looking at the CGI of the phantom.

I do, however, believe that jump scares still have an effect on an audience when done well. They are also more effective when the viewer does not expect them. The Conjuring series, in my opinion, does jump scares quite well; however, after watching the first movie, I could somewhat anticipate the jump scare and brace myself for it. For the audience that does not watch many horror movies, jump scares are quite effective, but for those who have built an immunity to them, not so much.

Citations:

Meier, A. (2013). Robertson’s Fantastic Phantasmagoria, An 18th Century Spectacle of Horror. [online] Atlas Obscura. Available at: https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/robertsons-fantastic-phantasmagoria.

Clasen, M. (2021). The Science That Can Help You Tolerate the Worst Part of Horror Movies. [online] Slate Magazine. Available at: https://slate.com/culture/2021/10/how-jump-scares-work-and-how-to-tolerate-them.html.

Fowers, A. and Tan, S. (n.d.). Analysis | What’s Killing the Jump Scare? [online] Washington Post. Available at: https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/interactive/2023/jump-scare-horror-movies/.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Parental Advisory [18+]

K!nktober 2020 Kink Bingo!: Ass Worship

Summary: You bring Frederick Chilton to meet your parents over a weekend. Chilton is rude them. You do him in the ass at your parents’ house. 

This oneshot stands on its own, but it’s also a side-story from the A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss universe, which has a gender-neutral reader. So this is either pegging or penis depending on how you’re interpreting the reader! (And since even I am not sure, it’s going for the Ass Worship square in @thatesqcrush​’s Kink Bingo instead of pegging or anal)

*There is no weird parent voyeurism or whatever, the walls are thick in this house OK? They’re just there for the awkward social interaction of bringing home a pompous douchebag XD 

5,059 words

“That went quite well,” said Dr. Chilton, voice smooth and velvety with confidence as you settled into the guest bedroom upstairs.

You grimaced, and quietly shut the door behind you. When you didn’t answer, he looked over to see a teeth-gritting expression plastered on your face. He raised an eyebrow. You tried to coax your face into a genuine smile, but only succeeded in stretching the corners of your mouth more tightly until you looked like some kind of face-eating killer-clown monster.

“Did it not go well?”

“Ummmm...” you stretched a long vowel and scratched the side of your neck to fill the pause as you made up your mind on exactly how to explain this to him.

His velvety confidence broke and he closed the distance between you in a quick stride, taking your shoulders and searching your eyes with worry etched into his brow.

“Tell me.”

“Frederick, you can’t just tell people it’s obvious they come from dirt because of the length of stitches in their hem!”

“That is not what I said—I observed the indications of working-class design popularized by the—”

“Frederick!”

“I was showing interest in their cultural heritage.”

“And you thought that was the way to do it?!”

He quieted. “They were not fond of me, then?”

“As first impressions go, it was pretty bad.”

“Shit.” He sank down onto the edge of the bed—a floral lavender comforter matching the rest of the room, tucked crisply around the sides as if it had never been slept in before, which it hadn’t. Frederick rested his elbows on his knees and let his forehead sink into his hands.

He was worried. He had only been dating you for a year, but you were different than his usual flings. For one thing, you had stayed with him for an entire year. You were affectionate and honest. You didn’t care about money. If he made a snipe about you being a hot mess, you would mock him right back for caring too much about appearances. It was, he eventually discerned, because you hadn’t come from a wealthy family, and never envied those who did. You were actually happy with who you were and scorned the idea of status symbols—like his car, his watches, his house, his Montblanc pens—whose only purpose was to display wealth. It annoyed him at first, but then he wondered, if you were not after him because he was a wealthy doctor, what did you see in him?

He was still figuring that out. If possible, he would like to spend a lifetime figuring it out—he even planned to ask you to move in with him—but he may have just ruined that.

***

Dr. Chilton’s poor impression began hours before he even met your parents. Since you were just going home to family, you wore a plain t-shirt and jeans. Despite your specific instruction to dress casually, he wore a suit. And so, the first thing your parents saw when they opened the front door was a pair so mismatched, it looked like an illicit student-professor affair.

He then handed them a very expensive bottle of wine as a gift—but, as was Frederick’s habit, it was too opulently out of your parents’ price range to be interpreted as anything other than boasting. Your father grumbled, “Thanks,” in a way that Frederick seemed blithely unaware meant “fuck you.”

After that, Chilton began observing things like bargain-bin Sherlock Holmes, and generally being Chilton. He mentioned that their entire house could fit inside his garage. After a few minutes of stilted conversation he said, in not a flattering way, that he could “see where you got it from now.”

You hadn’t expected the first meeting between your elitist doctor boyfriend and your down-home parents to go well, but you had hoped he might lean more toward the charming side of his charming asshole spectrum, just for today. He had a way of getting under everyone’s skin at first, including yours. But he was sweet, underneath his WASPy upbringing, and you were sure they would see that.

When Frederick excused himself to the bathroom, your father immediately let out the complaints he had been barely containing for the last hour. “So that’s not going to last much longer, is it?” he snorted, leaning forward in his La-Z-Boy recliner. “How do you stand it? Did you hear him correct me about searing steak? As if that dandy would know the first thing about grilling.”

“He’s right, you know,” you said. “Searing doesn’t lock in juices, it just adds flavor. I Googled it.”

“Now he’s corrupting my own child!” your dad shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “You gonna be a know-it-all now, too?”

“As if I wasn’t already,” you challenged, hand on your hip. Your dad wasn’t wrong, though, so you laughed it off and shook your head. “I know, I know. That’s just how he is. Once we got into a disagreement about how ‘pajamas’ is pronounced, and he wouldn’t let it go until... Well, I just started using the word sleepwear.”

“And he wears double-breasted suits,” your mother chimed in behind her hand.

“Oh? What about it?”

“They’re so sleazy!” she cried.

“They are?” If this was some sort of well-known fashion knowledge, your parents never passed it down to you. You always thought Frederick looked good in whatever he wore.

“I don’t know what you see in that pompous little twerp,” your dad sighed heavily, then grinned. “I bet I could pick him up with one hand and toss him out the window.”

“Dad!”

“Bet he screams like a girl,” your father roared with laughter, slapping his knee.

“Oh, he does,” you said with a cold, tight smile. “And if you lay a hand on him, you’ll be singing like a girl, you get me?”

The laughter stopped, and you found yourself in the most intense familial staredown since Thanksgiving 2008. Your father’s eyes silently growled, “You would threaten your own father?!” and yours narrowed and hissed, “I will if you threaten my boyfriend!”

Your mother broke the silence with a patient, pleading voice. “I get it. He’s rich, and he’s not bad looking. But you know you don’t have to marry for money. Your father and I have enough, and I thought you were doing well for yourself working with the FBI.”

“You really think I’d be with someone for money?” you said, mouth agape with bewilderment. Sometimes you wondered if these people knew you at all. “He’ll grow on you, trust me. Just… try to ignore the condescending shit that comes out of his mouth. It becomes endearing eventually.” Footsteps creaked on the second floor, announcing Frederick’s imminent return. You put on your sternest kindergarten-teacher face and pointed across the living room at your parents. “Both of you, behave!”

***

You stood beside him and tenderly ran your fingers through his thick brown hair—a gesture he adored, reserved for evenings at home and mornings before grooming so as not to ruin his perfect coif. He closed his eyes and leaned into the comforting sensation, grateful that you were, at least for the moment, not upset with him.

“I was trying to be friendly,” Frederick explained, his voice sounding as much like a whining child justifying why he had tracked dirt into the house as it did like a man.

Your gentle fingers clenched tightly in his hair and tugged down on the back of his head with enough force to make him look up at you, eyes opening wide with surprise. You narrowed yours.

“You weren’t trying to get them to like you, you were trying to prove that you were superior to them. It’s what you always do,” you growled.

He stared back at you for a few beats, trying to decide whether to be offended, chastised, or turned on. With your fingers curled roughly in his hair, controlling his head with a firm grip, he knew you were not truly angry. You were slipping into character, playing a game at ‘punishing’ him, which he could stop in a word if he wanted to. But the evening would be more fun if he gave you more to punish him over.

“I did no such thing,” he huffed. “If your parents confuse intelligence and culture with condescension, that is hardly my fault!”

Your lips crashed down on his with a snarl, shutting him up as your tongue invaded his mouth to stop his from wagging. The kiss was bruising at first, an act of dominance, but his loud, muffled moans into your mouth and his soft, yielding lips coaxed you to slow down and enjoy it. Your grip in his hair grew softer again, turned into gentle caresses, and your kiss grew deeper and more passionate. Fuck if you didn’t love it when he was bratty. When you finally broke away, his face was flushed and there were stars in your eyes. You slowly sucked the mingled saliva off your lower lip while you appraised him.

“You are a very rude boy, Frederick,” you said, a long, predatory smile slowly slanting over your lips. “Aren’t you?”

He swallowed, obediently staying seated but leaning forward with anticipation. “Yes.”

You threw a leg across his lap, straddling him, and pushed the center of his chest until he was lying flat on the bed. You followed him halfway down, caging him in with your arms and staring down at him with mock anger. His cock was already twitching under your thigh, and a wave of arousal washed over you, making it hard to keep up your performance. But you wanted to see him squirm.

“Rude boys need to learn their place.” You lowered your mouth to his, but stopped an inch before kissing him. He tried to tip his head to meet your lips, but you sat up, grinning with the feeling of power over him as he whimpered with disappointment. “Nope. You were a bad boy today, Frederick. You haven’t earned another kiss yet.”

“What can I do to make it up to you?” he asked, his voice already heavy with lust.

You thought about it, stroking your chin. “You always act like you’re so much better than everyone,” you observed, reaching between your legs to idly stroke his growing bulge through his pants. His hips jerked, pushing his cock into your palm. “What would your high-society friends think if they saw you with your ass in the air, begging for a lowly commoner to fuck you?”

His adam’s apple bobbed sharply. He liked the idea. He liked it a lot.

“I want you to strip for me,” you ordered in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “Then I want you on all fours.”

Normally he wouldn’t have hesitated, so when you looked down and saw tension, not arousal, in his eyes, you were concerned.

“Will your parents hear us?” he asked, a blush creeping up the sides of his neck. “I was hoping to walk away with at least a neutral review from your family, and I assume being overheard in the throes of passion will not result in favorable points.”

You smirked devilishly. “Then you’d better be quiet.”

***

After a few minutes for each of you to shower and prepare, you had Frederick just as you’d asked. Naked and on his knees. “That’s my good little slut,” you praised, running your hand over his ass and giving it a light smack—not enough to make much noise, but the light contact was enough to make Frederick whimper softly with need. “Such a beautiful ass.”

“Touch me more,” he breathed.

“Good boy, telling me what you want, but you have to be more specific. Where do you want me to touch you?”

“Anywhere,” he whispered with such honesty it was heartbreaking. He really didn’t care, so long as you were touching him. It made you want to forget everything else, hold him as tight as you could, and never let him go… but this was punishment.

“I see,” you tutted. “First you’re rude and arrogant, and now you can’t make up your mind.” You let your hand trail off, and he whimpered louder the moment you broke contact. You stalked a circle around the bed, taking your time to just enjoy the sight. It was only a double size bed, so unlike the monstrosity Frederick owned, you could easily prowl around the entire thing as you appraised his form like he was displayed on a pedestal. “You really are handsome,” you purred, eyes gliding over his broad shoulders and muscular arms, bulging with thick veins bulging all the way down to the backs of his hands. He wasn’t especially tall and seemed so bookish in his suits, but those biceps could crack your head like a walnut, and you’d let him. But he glanced up and met your eyes with a pathetic, questioning look that told you he didn’t really believe you. You could tell him over and over again how perfect he was, but for someone with such a big ego, he was remarkably insecure. Then again, maybe the two went hand in hand.

You finished your circuit and finally stepped up to the edge of the bed behind him, welcomed by the sight of his shapely ass with his tight hole eagerly waiting for you, his weighty balls hanging below, cock already standing in rigid defiance of gravity.

“Now that’s a pretty picture,” you let out a throaty growl of appreciation, and couldn’t resist running your hands down the rounded curve of his ass cheeks. “I can’t wait to fuck this perfect ass,” you moaned.

He breathed deeply, shuddering as you climbed onto the bed behind him, the front of your thighs pressed against the back of his. “Thank you. Thank you,” he whispered as your hands roamed over his back and sides. You dipped one down his soft stomach, smoothing over the raised scar and fine hairs that grew coarser beneath his belly button until you found his cock. It was already rock hard. You took its velvety skin in your hand and gave a few lazy strokes just to hear him choking on his breath, to feel his body tense and go slack at the same time. You brought your fingers to your mouth and tasted his salty precum, closing your eyes as it sent blood surging between your thighs. You licked each finger with a loud wet noise, and hummed as you savored it to be sure he knew what you were doing. When his hips shifted, trying to grind against you, and he whimpered a lusty, “Please,” you knew it had worked.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” you asked, voice thick with arousal.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, shifting back to grind his hips against yours.

“Say it then, Doctor Chilton. I want you to tell me what you want me to do. Tell me what will make you feel good. I want to hear you beg for it, remember?”

“Please?” he whined more desperately. You didn’t give an inch.

“Please what?”

He groaned miserably, and didn’t answer. As strong as his need was, he hated being vulnerable enough to ask for what he wanted out loud, and it didn’t help that you had goaded him earlier about begging. Now he was going to deliberately be stubborn. But you were patient. Before the night was over, he would beg.

“You know,” you pondered aloud, spreading and kneading his thick cheeks, “if you have one thing to feel superior about, it’s this ass.” You gave it another light smack, and he jumped. “It’s so big, and I love—” you cut yourself off, ducking down and kissing the inside of his thigh. You kissed all the way down to his knee, and all the way up until you were moving his balls aside, gently toying with them in one hand so you could press your lips to the juncture of his leg and hip. His breathing was coming out harder, more erratic, but he was still managing to control his voice until you switched legs and gave a sharp nip to his thigh that made him yelp and clap a hand to his mouth. You teased and marked his thighs until they were shaking, then dragged your teeth up his buttocks and gave him a firm nip. Now you really got into it, moaning as you sucked on his flesh, leaving stinging red marks all over his pale ass cheeks. He groaned with pleasure, but stubbornly kept his hand over his mouth, denying you what you wanted—hearing him beg for more. It was a battle of wills he could only win for so long.

“Too bad,” you pouted, dragging your fingers slowly up the sensitive flesh between his balls and his ass. You licked a broad swathe along the same path, and his muffled whimpering and the writhing of his hips was like music, spurring you on. “I really want to finger that perfect ass of yours, but if you can’t tell me that’s what you want...” The tips of your fingers found his tight entrance and circled it slowly.

A long whine came from deep in the back of Frederick’s throat, and finally he panted out, “I… would like you to—please.”

“To what?” you asked, feigning innocence.

He snarled with frustration, squeezing his eyes closed as he answered, “F-fingers!”

“That’s not a very polite way of asking, but it will do for now.” You poured lube over his ass and worked it in until everything was nicely slippery and circled his entrance again, teasing circles that slowly spiraled toward the center, finally pressing a fingertip inside him.

“More… please…” he whimpered. You complied, building up slowly, sinking one finger into him, then once he was babbling frustrated demands for more, stretching him open with two. Pumping your fingers, you curled them down toward his stomach to stroke that tender bundle of nerves that made him cry out with pleasure, toes curling, when you found it.

“Quiet now,” you warned, pressing a chaste kiss to one of the hickeys you’d left, “You don’t want anyone to hear.” The strangled sounds he made into the mattress as he struggled to keep quiet were almost enough to send you right over the edge. Even though you were focusing entirely on his pleasure, it was a turn-on for you, too. “You feel so good, taking me like this,” you cooed, your voice only cracking a little. “So tight.” Wet noises filled the room, and the huffing of his breath came harder. You reached between his legs and barely touched his burning hot cock when his will broke.

“Please—please fuck me,” he panted, ragged and hoarse like he would die if you didn’t. “I want you to fuck me. Oh, god, oh, god. Please!”

“What a good boy, begging so pretty for me.” You slowly removed your slick fingers from his core, and he looked back at you, eyes pleading for you to fill him again. You raised your eyebrows at him expectantly, almost stern, on the cusp of complete victory and he knew it, but was too lost to care anymore. The urgent flames of his arousal burned every muscle in his body, and he would say everything he knew you wanted to hear if it meant he could come.

“Please, please fuck my ass. I am sorry for being rude. I was bad. I know I am rotten and do not deserve you, but please, I am begging you to fuck me.”

An aching pang twisted your heart and took you out of the moment and any desire to torment him. You bent low, pressing your body over the length of Frederick’s back, grasped him by the chin, and twisted his face to lock eyes with you. “You deserve me, Frederick,” you said, voice steady and serious. “You are not bad. You are wonderful, and I love you. I wasn’t trying to… I wanted you to feel humble, not undeserving. You deserve to be loved. Do you understand?”

He nodded, and leaned all his weight onto one arm so he could draw your head down closer and kiss you, fervent and warm. It was a little quick and desperate, all wet tongues and sliding lips, but with a loving softness to it that melted you. “Please,” he urged, “if you make me repeat positive affirmations now before you will fuck me, I swear—” He glowered petulantly, though it was a thin performance. It didn’t escape your notice that he cut his sentence short, as there was no actual threat to fill in the blank of what he swore. He would patiently endure any torture you threw at him, and you both knew it.

You chuckled at his adorable defiance, kissed him lightly on the nose, then ruthlessly pushed his shoulders down into the mattress. He fell with a satisfied moan of anticipation. “Look at this,” you pronounced, as if you’d just walked in on the scandalous scene. “The great Doctor Chilton with his ass in the air, begging to be taken by some nobody. How shocking, simply shocking,” you teased, elongating each syllable the way Frederick did when he was being particularly snobby.

“Please, please fuck me,” he pleaded, voice pitifully small and helpless, half-smothered against the mattress, playing his part as if his depravity were on display to his peers.

Your voice dropped a quarter octave and took on a hungry edge. “I could never turn down such a desperate request from such an esteemed gentleman.”

Frederick had been waiting a long time, and moaned loudly as you finally pushed inside of him, not bothering or not aware enough to control his volume. The pace you set was deep and steady, not punishingly hard, but not languid and easy, either. Sliding in and out of his tightness, you gripped his hips, and angled yours to hit the sweet spot inside him. You knew the moment you’d found it—suddenly, he could barely contain his whimpering and moaning, babbling nonsense as he began to fall apart.

“You were trying to prove you were better than everyone today, weren’t you?” you leaned over him and hissed in his ear as you thrust.

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice strained and panting, so close to his release. He was drooling onto the blanket.

“What have I told you about being humble?”

“To… try it?” he struggled to answer, voice jostling as you thrust into him harder, his hips rocking to push against your thrusts, deepening the penetration.

“That’s right. Because you’re not better than anyone else, are you?”

“…No,” the answer tore from his throat in a shameful gasp.

You sank your teeth into his shoulder, and he cried out with pain and pleasure. “You’re a dirty slut who likes to be dominated, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes.”

“And you’re perfect just as you are and don’t need to prove anything to anyone, aren’t you?”

“Ye—” he almost answered, but then his hips stuttered in their movement and stopped.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he breathed. His hips began to move again as his confusion cleared, meeting yours as they crashed against his muscular ass.

“I think you’re perfect,” you smiled, feeling his muscles tense as his climax neared. “And you would never contradict me, would you?”

“Never.”

“Good.” You sat higher again to get a better angle on his prostate and took his dripping cock in your palm, stroking in time with your thrusts, overwhelming him with sensation. His whole body convulsed beneath you. He shoved a pillow into his mouth just in time to keep the entire house from hearing his lung-shattering wail, his back arching as he painted his seed over the pristine lavender blankets, coming so hard he nearly came on his own face. You slumped down over him, and he reached for your hand, his fingers laced with yours.

His back rose and fell with each panting breath as he slowly came down from the high, both of you exhausted and sweating and pleasantly sleepy. You rolled over into a more comfortable position to spoon him. The hairs on the back of his neck were soft and ticklish against your nose as you nuzzled him, pressing gentle kisses all along his neck and under his jaw, feeling his pulse surging hot beneath your lips. He groaned softly in the aftermath, melting in your arms. Longing to have more of you to hold onto, he flipped over so he was facing you, wrapping his powerful arms around you snugly, burying his face under your chin. His hair was a mess, partly stuck to his forehead with sweat with one giant cowlick on the side he had pressed against the mattress, and you couldn’t resist running your fingers through it to muss it up more. More happy noises came forth, and a few wet, sucking kisses clung to your throat.

“I love you,” he murmured, and the sound vibrated up your neck.

“Fuck, I love you so much,” you whispered back, wrapping a leg around him to pull him even closer, his spent erection pressing into you. You could feel the stickiness of his release smearing over your leg, but at this point, you were both going to need a shower anyway. “I love you.”

For several minutes you just lay there recovering, warm in each other’s embrace, softly whispering praises. Finally, he pulled back, an ocean of green eyes gazing back into yours with a question in them. He pondered it for a long while, and finally, instead of asking, declared, “Tomorrow, I shall correct my mistakes. I run an entire hospital of psychopaths; I can manage to make your parents like me.”

“Why are you so worried about what they think?”

“I do not care what they think. I worry about what they think and tell you. They… are important to you. If they disapprove, it may sway your feelings. Not right away, perhaps, but that familial bond will gnaw at you day by day, like a rat chewing through bone, until you share their negative opinion, and…” he shrugged, his eyes glassy, “…I will lose you.”

You caressed the side of his jaw and neck, thumb stroking his cheek, and peppered his face with kisses. Smoothing your palm down his shoulder, you pulled yourself close until your forehead knocked against his. “Nothing is going to change the way I feel about you, Frederick. Nothing. I love you. I don’t care what they think. It’s not like I’m just now discovering that you rub people the wrong way,” you chuckled. “That’s part of what makes me love you. You can be… officious. It takes time to get to know you. But I have never regretted a single minute of it. They’ll come around.”

His surrounding arms tightened around you possessively, quietly affirming that he understood.

Circling your hand idly over his back, still damp with sweat, you admitted something you hadn’t told him. “I was more nervous about what you would think of them,” you said, and he pulled back to pin you with a stare demanding an explanation. You squirmed under his gaze, cheeks heating up. “I didn’t want you realizing I’m complete born-and-bred trash.”

“I was already well aware of that, darling.”

A low growl stirred in your chest. “Still rude,” you snarled gleefully, rolling him onto his back, pinning his shoulders down, and biting his neck. He yelped and scrambled into a sitting position, taking you with him until you fell off his lap to the side.

“S-sorry!” you gasped, afraid you had bitten him too hard for him to balk so dramatically, when he was usually willing to play along with anything. A split second later, you realized it wasn’t pain on his face. His lips were curled as if he had stepped in something slimy. Or rather, rolled in it. Which he had.

“Eeuughh!” he shuddered.

“Since when are you so squeamish?” you asked with a sultry look to remind him of all the times he had licked himself off of your fingers.

“It was cold,” he shot back.

And kind of everywhere. He came a lot. And none of it had been intercepted by any orifices, so his full load was painted across the blanket like a Jackson Pollock.

You thanked your lucky stars that the guest bedroom had its own half bath stocked with washcloths, so you didn’t have to venture into the hall while sticky with sex. But after cleaning yourselves up and changing into sleepwear, you stared with dismay at the floral-patterned blanket you and Frederick had ruined.

“I do not accept responsibility for this,” Frederick said. “Having sex in your old bedroom was your idea—I cannot be held accountable for ruining your childhood memories.”

The speed at which Frederick shifted to weaseling out of blame overwhelmed your ability to keep a straight face—you smirked, snorted, and gave in completely to a belly-shaking laugh. He raised an eyebrow and glanced at you sideways.

“Frederick...” your shoulders bounced, “Does this look like a childhood bedroom? My parents moved after I graduated college.”

“Ah.” The tips of his ears turned red with embarrassment. You recalled how impersonal his own bedroom—and entire house—was, and your heart ached to think that he couldn’t even recognize that an ordinary childhood bedroom would be cluttered with forgotten toys and old posters. “That would explain the lack of baby pictures.”

“You can ask my parents to show you the photo albums,” you said offhandedly, and smiled at the way he perked up with genuine interest.

“I have been curious what species of gremlin you evolved from...” he smirked.

“My parents would love it if you let them show you the family albums. I will be mortified, but they’ll love you for it.”

“The key to their hearts, as it were?”

“You know, yeah. It might actually tip the scales. It might even make up for this,” you gestured at the blanket which the bodily fluid and lube stains were definitely never washing out of.

He sank down onto the edge of the bed and covered his face with his hands. “Fuck.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Tags:

@beccabarba / @caked-crusader / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy​ / @mrsrafaelbarba​ / @da-po / @madamsnape921

[bubbletimestories]

Bosom bonus chapter (Destiel fic I guess)

Hello !

This fic is a bonus chapter of Bosom that you can find here if you want ^^

I lost the chapter long ago and had to write it again so it's not very polished but it's cute <3 I hope you're gonna like it.

Themes : pregnancy, hypnosis, mention of blood, Destiel, love, family, desire, fatherhood, Dean and Castiel becoming a real non-platonic family

Little summary of Bosom : Sam and Dean went into a village where men fell pregnant of little girls growing fast, parasites that provoke a huge love and protective instinct in the father and everybody around. The brothers have left the town but Dean is possibly pregnant.

*********************************

(On the road again)

The two brothers set off again on the roads, as they always did, without a specific destination except for adventure. This sentence was very cliché, but I keep it. This little break had been most enjoyable, but now it was time to go back in search of new monsters to kill, new threats to contain. Except that a new case doesn't appear every day.

Sat in the passenger seat, Sam was bored like a dead rat. He watched the landscape go by, a perpetual succession of trees, while thinking that by dint of being stuck with the same person and the same old rock tapes, he was going to go mad eventually. It was probably the nicest option available to him, anyway. It was always better than "dead in excruciating pain", "tortured by Lucifer" or "employed in a fast food restaurant whose mascot is a clown". All in these gloomy thoughts, however, the hunter noticed an incongruous detail: since the time they had been running on the roads, Dean had not yet been speeding. He who was so inclined to make the Impala's engine roar had been very reasonable since leaving the small town. It was both surprising and ... appreciable. But the young man didn't really have time to think about it, because one of the many cellphones started ringing, a sign that they were about to resume service. A few sentences later, they were on their way to a new investigation, such as Scooby-Doo and his faithful companion in the green t-shirt.

- Pee break!

Dean braked hard without warning, his brother almost crashing into the dashboard and choking off a slew of curses as he straightened up. The driver had already gone into the thickets, holding back from laughing, for he had, of course, been looting on purpose. He wouldn't really be him if he didn't play pranks on his dear Sammy. So it was very proud of himself that he settled down behind a bush to… relieve more than his conscience. Knowing full well that his brother would look away in embarrassment, the young man began to hiss pointedly while slowly lifting the edge of his t-shirt. Knowing that he was out of sight, the Winchester finally took the time to examine the slight bulge in his abdomen, smiling as he saw a small glow appear on the surface.

- You are the weirdest food poisoning I've ever seen.

It had been two days since he realized something was wrong and it was already very late compared to other fathers. But come to think of it, Dean's body had gone through so many states (human, vampire, demon) that it took so much more for his body to panic. And then he'd come back from the dead so many times that he wasn't sure he was quite human anymore. Regardless, the hunter wasn't overly worried about not being alone, but he made sure Sam didn't know. It was his little secret.

After putting his belt back on, the young man got back into the car and turned to his brother with a big smile before throwing himself on him, putting his hands on his cheeks.

- A little hug Sammy? - DEAN! You're disgusting, you haven't even washed your hands! - We share everything, brother.

The younger man's insults responded to the older laughter, and a few hours later they arrived in front of an old, dark wooden building as night fell on the horizon. A hunter was waiting for them, anonymous since he will likely die in the fight, and quickly informed them that he had wanted to face the bloodthirsty ghost lurking in the house alone, but had not succeeded. The ghost's body was hidden in one of the walls so they were going to have to play with mace to be able to burn that bastard. As usual, Sam let the other two chat while he got the materials ready, did the final research needed, before jumping into the mouth of the wolf. Ammunition loaded with salt, lighter, iron bar, it was necessary to prepare for all eventualities. Finally, they made their way inside the dark building, their heavy boots cracking the blackish floor.

- We'll take care of the first floor. Sammy, go and inspect the second, we'll go faster.

With a nod, the hunters agreed and parted, soon rattling their hammers against the walls, tearing the silence of the night. They only had a short time before the entity that haunted these places manifested itself, which is why they busied themselves as best they could, sweat soon running down their backs. As Dean wiggled his arms made hard by the effort, he noticed a gaunt form appearing a few feet away from him, that of a black-toothed man staring at him, stroking the handle of a long razor. That's it, the hunt could begin in earnest. Without waiting, the Winchester raised his weapon and fired without taking the time to aim, showing absolutely no fear at the grimacing specter. The first bullet missed its mark, but the second hit the apparition in the head and he disappeared with a furious cry, alas for a short time. It was necessary to move faster, to search every corner in search of the corpse. Sam must have been alerted by the gunshots, his brother raised his voice to tell him that everything was fine, but the movement needed to be speeded up.

One by one, the partitions were gutted, revealing themselves empty as time went on. Fatigue began to win over the hunters who hit with less regularity. Through his plaid shirt, the eldest Winchester brushed his stomach for a brief moment, time to catch his breath. He did not notice until too late the drop in temperature which formed a thick mist as it left his lips and when he turned, it was to meet the perverse gaze of the phantom who was advancing quietly, his long blade outstretched towards the young man.

- And shit ...

Far from being paralyzed with fear, Dean raised his weapon and tried to shoot the murderous specter again, but the latter was faster, the razor cutting through the air to bite into the shirt and especially the young man's hand who stepped back, hitting the bulkhead. A mad laugh rose in the throat of the dead man whose dark eyes sparkled with bloodthirsty madness. Disarmed, his adversary now appeared to him as a prey, a superb victim to be cut up. The latter knew he was cornered and could not think of anything other than his imminent death. What was going to become of his baby? The young man suddenly felt his insides twist and he fell to his knees uncomprehendingly, his mind brutally clouded with pain as the ghost's blade left a deep mark in the wall where the Winchester was.

His partner, whose name doesn't matter, had witnessed the whole scene without really deciding what to do. But the moment Dean narrowly dodged, the anonymous felt a fierce conviction set his brain ablaze, permeating his bones with unheard-of strength that screamed "save him." Save him ”. He knew then exactly what to do, the solution was now crystal clear and he walked up to the specter without a hint of fear. There was no room for fear in his head, only the deep, overwhelming desire to protect the kneeling man and what he was wearing. He rushed at the ghost, an iron bar wielded in his clenched fist like a modern version of Braveheart.

Blood splashed on Dean's shoes as the pain in his guts disappeared, which finally brought him back to reality. He had time to make out the specter before it vanished and a body collapsed heavily on the rotten floor. From the slit throat a scarlet stream escaped, but the hunter's face expressed a proud serenity, as if he had accomplished his mission and died fulfilled. Called upon by screams, Sam ran down the stairs to find the gruesome spectacle. Fortunately, his brother was unharmed, though deeply shocked. He helped him up, being careful not to slip into the pool of blood, two bodies were expected to be burned that night, but they had no time to feel sorry for themselves.

- I couldn't find anything up there and neither can you, it must be in the cellar. - A corpse stashed in the basement, it's so obvious that I wonder why we didn't think about it earlier.

It was with these common sense words that the Winchesters descended into the foundations of the old building to find the corpse and end the grueling night. Turning their backs, they resumed their masses to shatter the plaster of the walls, raising clouds of dust making them cough, stinging their eyes. In the opaque atmosphere soon looms the murderous specter, his livid face completely distorted with hatred and thirst for blood. Rather than stealthily approach to slaughter the hunters, the ghost let out a hoarse cry that caught the attention of its attackers.

"Keep looking, I'll take care of him," Sam cried, brandishing his hammer with one hand, the other firmly grasping a gun loaded with salt.

The iron end of the sledgehammer sliced through the air, but did not touch the apparition, which encouraged the younger hunter to increase his efforts. Although he didn’t yet know where his desire to protect his brother really came from, Sam already had enough of the motivation between brotherly love and the survival instinct. In his back, the beatings had resumed, made more frequent by the situation of ambient stress. The specter's attention kept returning to Dean for some obscure reason, and the other hunter took the opportunity to empty his magazine, causing the attacker to disappear until he was without ammunition.

- Dean! - I'm almost there !

The mass slammed down into yet another wall which revealed a piece of yellowish skull, they were finally nearing their mark. Without bothering to dig out the bones any more, Dean sprinkled them with oil and salt before setting them on fire. The ghost let out a final angry howl before being consumed, calm falling abruptly as the cry of rage still echoed in the ears of the Winchesters. They had won. Yet good humor did not light up their dust-blackened features, for they had yet another body to remove. So it wasn't until early morning that they were able to lean against the Impala to catch their breath, their faces drawn with fatigue.

- Let's go back to sleep, I'm exhausted. - Who are you saying that to…

As always, they had to wash their faces, find a motel to be able to collapse on one of the shabby beds smelling musty but since the time they walked the roads, the boys would probably have had more trouble sleeping. in sheets scented with lavender. Exhausted, Dean sat down to remove his shoes without thinking about the condition of his clothes, a precaution that wouldn't have been wasted judging by his brother's surprised look. Without him explaining it yet, it seemed to the tallest of the Winchesters that a faint glow emanated from the torn shirt. Driven by curiosity, he walked over and parted the fabric to reveal the terrible secret of his elder brother who put his hands on his abdomen, reflexively.

- I can explain everything, Sammy, you see ... - How long have you known?

Instead of his usual disapproving look, Sam's face lit up in surprise as he brushed the slight bump where a unique treasure lurked. Embarrassed, the father-to-be whispered half-heartedly that he must have been pregnant for five days. Five days ... and he hadn't realized it! To say that his brother received such a gift ... it was more luck than they had had in the past ten years and yet they had experienced miracles. The long-haired giant looked up at Dean jokingly.

- Hopefully not all of your children are bloodthirsty monsters.

Somewhat reassured by the reaction of his younger brother, the young man softened and they went to bed in a good mood after this perilous mission. Once rested, they decided to go for something to eat, on the one hand because eating is a vital need, on the other hand to celebrate Dean's pregnancy. Sitting on a tired bench, the latter consulted the menu with the utmost seriousness until a waitress came to take the order.

- The daily special for me, please. Dean, a big burger? - Yes, I'm ravenously hungry ... Although no, the salad. Or the burger? I crave a burger badly, I could devour eight of them, with big fries, but I still have to take care of my body and my health and the salad seems like a much healthier choice, especially now. But I really want meat and cheese, something fatty. I do not know what to choose !

With disconcerting rapidity, the hunter sank into a deep anguish to burst into tears under the stunned gaze of the waitress who did not know at all what to do or what to say. Even Sam, who was always quick to invent an excuse to get them out of any situation, was dumbfounded by such a spectacle. He eventually recovered and mumbled that his brother would have a burger with green salad, giving the waitress the opportunity to run away without asking for her rest. Dean calmed down as quickly as he had panicked and the rest of the meal went off normally, if we omit the curious looks around.

In the days that followed, the two boys decided it was best for the future dad to rest in the bunker until the end of his pregnancy, the life he usually led was not at all suitable. Even if that meant that Sam was going on a mission alone, it didn't bother the giant who kept giving news regularly. Eight or ten days after their departure from the village, the eldest brother received a visit from his dearest friend, the angel Castiel, who was obviously not up to date with the latest news. Knowing the angel's anxious nature, Dean preferred to remain silent and chat as if nothing had happened, not without admiring the shy but sincere face of the brunette. Castiel spoke with his usual seriousness about Heaven, about what was going on in the supernatural world and then, shyly dodging the hunter's gaze, he pulled a box out of a large plastic bag.

- I brought some pie, I thought you'd like it.

Indeed, the sight of the delicious pastry covered with shiny cherries was enough to make your mouth water, the young man had not eaten pie for weeks and he had to contain himself with great difficulty not to swallow it up. Still, he wasn't the only one who enjoyed the dessert and after a few bites, the little being in his belly began to express its enthusiasm by stirring. Nothing to do with the delicate brushing of human fetuses, it bounces with the force of a rubber ball, snatching an exclamation from his father. He couldn't deny it, either for appetite or discretion, Dean laughed helplessly, all the more so when he saw his friend's incomprehension.

- The baby is a big pie lover, too, and she thanks you, I think.

Illustrating his words, he lifted his shirt to reveal his rounded and shiny stomach, still all smiles as if after a good joke. Castiel, on the other hand, wasn't laughing at all. Instead, he jumped up, staring at the bump as if it were the Devil himself. He had never heard of such a phenomenon, and his default mechanism was fear. Coming into something he didn't know was new enough that the angel panicked.

- Dean, what happened to you? What's in your stomach? - It's called a baby, Gabriel must have mentioned it to you in passing.

The joke had no effect on the divine being who continued to stare at the stomach with fear and anger, too powerful to be subjected to the influence exerted by these creatures around. Obviously, Dean was not in his normal state, he harbored a dangerous parasite and it would inevitably end in chaos and death. Feverish, Castiel explained his point of view, encountering the jovial relaxation of the hunter who suspected that the news would be difficult to swallow. He let the angel pour holy water on his abdomen, squeeze a silver blade there, recite a few words in strange languages. Then, he took advantage that his friend was kneeling in front of him to take his face in his hands.

- You think too much, you didn't even congratulate me. - Now is not the time to laugh, Dean, this thing is growing, probably at full speed, we don't have time to ...

Castiel's warning was cut short, muffled under a teasing kiss that stirred the celestial entity to his depths, annihilating his thoughts in a breath, a squeeze. The shock paralyzed him and the hunter took the opportunity to prolong the embrace of their lips as long as possible before pulling back as if nothing had happened, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. The poor angel was completely confused, unable to continue to be worried or angry. So he vowed to watch Dean to monitor the progress of this pregnancy and find out whether or not he was right to take a dim view of it. As he left the bunker that day, he couldn't help but bring his hand to his lips, still feeling the heat on his mouth, the heady sensation of the kiss. He was to learn later that the new condition of Winchester made him very… affectionate. The hugs, the teasing looks sure made the angel blush from ear to ear, but it was nothing compared to the fit of madness when the belly started to draw more strongly. Grateful to his mate for bringing him fries, Dean threw himself on his neck without warning, a move to which the prudish and delicate Castiel did not know how to respond other than by awkwardly pulling away. The hunter concluded that he was undesirable, too bloated for the angel to look at him, and sulked in his room for long hours.

That put aside, Dean enjoyed the quietness of the bunker to go about his business and marveled more and more every day at the evolution of his body and of what was inside. He who had taken so long to realize the treasure he was carrying could only think of that, walking barefoot through the silent halls talking to his child. Besides, he was far from being a carrier father like the others, he was much stronger, much richer than ordinary humans and the entity at the center of his life could only be special too. Imperceptibly, the two beings changed, sublimated with each heartbeat, to achieve a degree of perfection that the first goddess would never have hoped for for her kind.

One day like any other, Castiel arrived for a visit and the hunter almost ran up to jump into the arms of his friend who was still very surprised (and moved) by this sign of affection so spontaneous. Hris blue pupils rested on the body with shapes hardly concealed by a loose shirt buttoned up to the collar, the radiant face, the sparkling eyes, the smiling and sublime mouth... There emanated from all his being a warm joy which finished disturbing the angel with a too human heart. Although what he felt did not depend on the fetal pheromones, he harbored a deep desire to stay with the Winchester, for all eternity.

- If you only knew how happy I am to see you ...

Dean approached his friend and put a hand on his cheek before capturing his lips in a kiss that softened to hot, catching the breath of the young man who felt himself respond to the hug, his own hand sliding behind the masculine back so as not to let him slip away. When he felt the tip of a tongue tickle his mouth, Castiel was electrified, but just as he was about to indulge himself a little more, the tasty lips parted from his. A stifled protest escaped him and he remained petrified, still vibrating from this intimate and far too short exchange. The infamous tempter smirked innocently, looking down at the bump under his shirt.

- She is happy too, we missed you. Very much.

With slow movements, he took the angel's hand and rested it on the outstretched flannel, appreciating to feel him caress his belly, greet the little being it contained. Even if it was not the first time that Castiel had the opportunity to visit his friend and see his fulfillment, it was always a great moment to have this intimacy, without fearing the interested gaze of a Sammy who did not had no illusions about the duo. His hand resting on the brunette's, Dean watched him staring at his swollen abdomen with that shyness all his own. He put words to his own emotion.

- To think that it's been two weeks already… it's happening at full speed. You will see, she has become very restless.

The brunette quickly looked up at the young father, worried about losing himself in their intense green and blushed. He waited only a few seconds, his palm resting against the warm fabric, before feeling a jerk against his fingers, followed by another as if the baby wanted to rest her hand against his. He whispered to himself:

- I would like to see her grow up...

The tender tone of his voice made Dean want to kiss him again, but instead he took his hand and laughed.

- You better be there to help me! On the other hand, I am a little tired, it bothers you if we continue to chat in my room, I will lie down a bit.

Maybe Dean had an ulterior motive, at least the cherub had none and he nodded as he followed the hunter down the halls, their hands still entwined even when the future father stretched out on his mattress with a sigh of relief: without being painful, the belly began to weigh heavily. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Castiel watched his friend slowly undo the buttons of his collar, descending along his finely chiseled chest ... Finally, the young man parted the flannel to proudly expose his more than rounded belly radiating lightly in the quiet of the room. It might sound strange, but the angel found his companion magnificent in gentleness and fragility, a million miles from his usual manly and confident demeanor. He immediately liked both sides, but for the first time he was not ashamed of such a thought. In the half-light an intimate atmosphere created that put the angel at ease, as if inside a soothing cocoon. Dean's pregnancy had allowed the two men to find themselves far from the violence and danger that constituted their daily life, without threat to eliminate, without a deadly shadow to hover over their heads. In the calm of the bunker, they had then been able to meet again, to simply be together and that was enough for the happiness of the divine being. Obviously, he knew things wouldn't last (they never lasted) and that they would soon return to their dark and tense daily lives. But he had decided to worry about it later.

The father-to-be eyed his friend fondly, detailing the locks falling on his forehead, the line of his jaw and his cheekbones that would soon turn pink. Embarrassing Castiel had always been one of the hunter's favorite pastimes, but he had never yet admitted how much he loved to see the blush rising to the young man's cheeks, that candor that then stood out on his face as if he had not been a millennial and heavenly being, but a shy teenager. Dean lifted the angelic hand and brought it to his lips before resting it on his blossoming lap with an encouraging smile.

- Talk to her. She recognizes your voice ...

Dean knew full well that his friend would refuse at first, there was only to see his blue eyes rounded with a mixture of joy and worry, his hand trembling slightly at the contact of the plump belly that fascinated him. But the hunter also knew that he could get anything from the angel and that he would not refuse him for such a tiny request. Shy and embarrassed as he was, the young man wanted to bond with this child, it showed on his face. Castiel finally nodded and took off his overcoat to be more comfortable, then resting his hand between the hunter's and the bulging surface. Through the thin skin, a delicate form curled up against the offered palm as if to say hello, a bewitching glow emanating from the fetus.

- Uh ... hello, little girl?

If the two friends could have heard the baby, they would have heard a crystal clear sound expressing simple and pure joy. Fortunately, the little being had other ways of making herself understood and she began to radiate a bright orange, imprinting her shape on one place of the belly and then appearing at the other end of the rounded abdomen, bouncing all over the place. with an enthusiasm that took her father's breath away. Fearing that she would hurt the hunter, Castiel put his two hands on either side of his stomach to calm the overly restless little angel.

- Be good and don't hurt your father.

Immediately the shaking ceased, to the delight of Dean who took a deep breath and laughed, amused by the baby's overreaction, but also by how quickly the latter had obeyed the angel. The certainty that he had the two dearest beings near him (sorry Sam) moved the young man who slipped green eyes filled with sweetness towards Castiel. He rested his rough palm against the beloved cheek, enjoying the touch as he glided lightly up the warm neck to stroke the jawline with the tip of his thumb.

- You see ! A child always recognizes the voice of their parents. - Oh Dean…

The time that flowed like a long trickle of honey came to a standstill as they looked at each other, losing themselves in pale eyes imagining an idyllic, slightly cliched, but incredibly alluring future. The small heat ball continued to form a bump against the hand of the angel, this tiny creature that gathered humans and legendary beings around them. By her mere presence, she had transfigured Dean, given him back a peace and happiness he never thought he would ever achieve and just for that, the angel loved this child. To think that he had wanted to destroy it, to make it disappear from the body of the hunter when he discovered it… Then he had fallen under the spell of this innocent, indistinct form, which made the Winchester smile. He had fallen under the spell of this quiet, simple life, where the man he loved embraced him without embarrassment or reason, where he no longer felt ashamed to feel for his companion more than a brotherly friendship.

- I… I'm sorry I misjudged you. Stay warm for a while longer to be able to grow taller. I'm looking forward to meet you.

Without really realizing it, the young man had leaned down to rest his cheek against the taut skin, the tips of his fingers moving back and forth in imprecise shapes on the thin, sensitive flesh that shivered slightly. Touched by so much tenderness, Dean closed his eyes and began to stroke the mass of dark hair, concentrating on his sensations, on the angel's gestures against his deliciously numb body. This was what he had dreamed of without ever perceiving it clearly, what he no longer believed he deserved after all this time hunting, torturing and killing. Castiel observed the treasure buried in his friend, studied its almost translucent chest, the magical light which moved on its surface in a fragile and bewitching ballet. The young man straightened up and put his lips on the bulge, kissing this unborn child to whom he already owed so much. He began to deposit cuddly kisses along the dark line crossing the belly and the creature began to radiate with joy, changing from amber to a soft pink, from a delicate red to a sparkling gold, extending its light and its warmth even in the bones of its wearer who was at the height of joy, his limbs subtly illuminated from within. The whole thing was so beautiful that Castiel felt a bubble burst inside him, a flood of feelings that fear could no longer hold back. Suddenly straightening up, he spoke without thinking, but did not regret his words, for they came from the heart and had long waited to be released.

- I want that with you, I want to have a child who would be ours. I want… I want… I want to be with you, Dean.

The man opened his eyes again and was silent for several seconds, staring silently at the angel who, if he realized what he had just confessed, couldn't manage to look away or feel embarrassed. Finally, the hunter's face relaxed into a beaming smile and he pulled the cherub close to him with a burst of laughter.

- Cas... Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas... it took a long time!

Even as he spoke quietly, his hoarse voice reflected his emotion and he thought of Sammy, his comments and knowing looks, from the time he had been expecting this. But deep down, he didn't care about his brother, being a pregnant man, or having denied the obvious for so long: he was happy. He hugged the angel tighter against his heart and the angel let it go, putting a possessive arm across the muscular chest without being able to believe his luck. Of course, there were all those kisses, those special moments for several days, but Castiel only saw it as a game, a way for the father-to-be to have fun. But in his arms, he couldn't doubt anymore, not when he felt the tender kiss Dean placed on his forehead, whispering:

- Me too, I want you and forever. I can't think of a better father for this child. We're going to be a family and we'll have another, and another. I love you, Cas.

It was a promise of the future and there needed no sign for the two lovers to decide to sign this pact with a kiss, their lips joining with a timid tenderness to quickly become pressing and feverish. Strangely, it was Castiel who proved to be the greediest, propping himself up on one elbow to extend the carnal embrace, leaning over the hunter until they had to catch their breath. Eyes sparkling with love and mischief, they hugged and when the angel's shirt fell to the floor, his fiery mouth descending down Dean's throat, it was time for the other Winchester to return to the bunker with as much noise as possible.

The day of deliverance finally arrived, life couldn't be reduced to hanging out in the bunker, eating whipped cream with Castiel or laughing stupidly because he couldn't see his feet, Dean was impatient for his child to come out of this big belly to be able to really meet her. He realized how lucky he was, not only to carry life, but to be able to do so without a problem. Unlike previous dads, his features weren't emaciated, he didn't feel particularly tired or weak. However, when the first contractions arrived, he found himself like all the others, on his back breathing hard. The pain was bearable but for how long? Sam had just been warned but it would take him several hours to get back, his brother didn't have that much time ahead of him. Already, the surface of his swollen stomach was moving frantically, lighting up in shades of warm tones to express the urgency of the expulsion. With his hand tightly wrapped around a large knife, the Winchester was ready to do his Caesarean himself but couldn't help the fear surface. Could he survive to meet his daughter?

- Dean, I heard you praying and I made it as fast as I could ...

Castiel suddenly appeared at his side, prayed for his hand and rounded his eyes, feeling his tremble. The great hunter who had faced Death in person, the Devil and the whole of Heaven was afraid. Gently, he wiped his forehead already soaked in sweat, that simple gesture sufficient to appease Dean who gave him a teasing look. Before screaming when the thing that was hiding inside him began to tear his insides to see the light of day. The time for uncertainty was over, the child had to be brought out quickly, without instruments or care, on the carpet of an old bunker. His blue eyes suddenly serious, the angel caught the distraught and pained gaze of his lover, speaking in a surprisingly calm voice.

- I won't let you die, Dean. Neither you nor our child.

They concluded this promise with a silent nod before the young man's world was darkened with blood and pain like he had never felt before.

***

The clock struck the hour but no one bothered to count the strokes, it didn't matter at all. Lying in a pool of blood, Dean stroked his daughter's little head, feeling her warmth against his bare chest. He felt great, which was not the case with Castiel who was catching his breath, still nauseous after all the efforts to keep the man he loved alive and then heal his wounds. Now they could enjoy a well-deserved rest, their fingers intertwined and hearts in unison, a real family.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Ghost Driver” Part 2

When The Joker says you’re his, it means you’re essential to him because he needs your services for his own gain; it literally has zero affectionate connotations. Turbo is The King’s Ghost Driver and although she’s a legend, her life is far from perfect.

Part 1

Four Days Afterwards, 7:47pm

“Good evening, madam. I am tonight’s entertainment,” Frost blurs out as soon as you open the door and instantly regrets his pun. “Sorry, that was stupid to say,” he apologizes.

The reason why you look puzzled is not his joke, but another motive: you never saw Jonny wearing anything else besides a suit or military gear; the fact that he’s standing in front of you wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt is quite intriguing.

“Hi,” you move aside so he can come in.

“Did I wake you up?”

“I fell asleep watching a movie,” Y/N smiles at his comfortable attire. “No big deal. Did Mister Joker send you?” the subtle question indicates you want to find out the reason for his visit.

“No... I was just thinking… maybe we could… and it’s entirely up to you, no pressure… maybe you would want to go and watch the fireworks with me. I have food and sleeping bags, plus an ice chest with drinks in my truck.”

You seem confused.

“Mmmm, you know what? Forget about it. That was completely idiotic to suggest,” Frost realizes that asking a freshly divorced woman to get out of the house after she was kidnapped and starved into her ex’s basement only four days ago it’s not the most brilliant idea he ever had.

“You had me at food and fireworks,” you wink at his insecurity. “The drinks sealed the deal. I’m confused on one detail: do I have to change or can I come in my PJ’s?”

“PJ’s are perfect.”

“Awesome!” you grab the keys from the coffee table. “Where exactly are we heading?”

“Fire Creek Hill, it’s one of the best spots to enjoy the view,” Jonny replies.

“Isn’t that closed to the general public?” Y/N inquires and his logic makes you laugh while exchanging your socks for flip-flops.

“I doubt we’re considered the general public. I had to pull some strings though,” he admits, overjoyed you actually agreed to accompany him.

Not that he shows it in any other way besides the invitation he barely mustered the courage to extend towards The Joker’s Ghost Driver.

*************

9:03pm  

“Oh, it’s starting!” you excitedly nibble on your Alfredo pasta.

The first fireworks bloom in the distance and Frost opens the cooler, pointing out the goodies he salvaged from the liquor store.

“Pick your poison: we have a bottle of premixed margarita, wine, whiskey, tequila and…,” he fumbles around,”…try to contain yourself: water!”

“You definitely bought some of my favorites , including the food. How did you guess?” the bubbly Y/N smiles.

“I pay attention,” Jonny mentions. “So what’s gonna be?”

“Margarita please,” you hold the plastic cup and can’t help snickering as he pours the liquid.

“What?” he suspiciously bites on his cheek.

“Nothing really… I was imagining you without the beard,” you decide not to keep it a secret.

“Damn!” Frost snorts. “I had it for years; didn’t consider shaving because our employer would freak out. Stop giggling, it’s not funny! He totally would!” Jonny elbows you.

“I bet you have a baby face underneath all that facial hair; if you shave I can promise a new nickname will arise: Baby- Face Frost.”

“Shut up!” he chuckles at your quirky proposal. “Yet I can’t deny it has a certain ring to it.”

“See what I mean? It might work!... Oh my God, that’s a huge one!” you gasp, distracted by the sparkling night sky. “What are they celebrating? 150 years since this piece of crap town was founded?”

“Apparently,” Jonny sighs and watches Y/N bundle up in the sleeping bag.

“Thank you for the feast,” your tone changes to a serious one. “I didn’t have this much fun in the back of a truck in a long time. Go ahead, laugh!” you pout at his reaction. “I’m aware how it sounds like; I didn’t mean it that way!!!”

“Still funny as hell!” Jonny is getting a kick out of the conversation.

“Psst! Hey, Casanova!” The Joker’s mop of green hair pop up from behind the car’s high railing.

“Mister Joker!” you get startled by his unexpected presence.

“Boss, what are you doing here?” Frost utters in disbelief.

“Why aren’t you answering your phone, huh?” J ignores his henchman’s inquiry.

“It’s in the glove compartment, sir. I’m enjoying the…”

“Pardon me for interrupting your date,” The King of Gotham huffs.

“We’re not on a date,” the attempted explanation gets cut short.

“Sell it to whoever wants to buy it,” The Joker growls at Jonny’s words. “I had to follow the signal from your cell and trace your location; what a marvelous bonus to find my Turbo also!”

The eerie grin makes you finally speak up:

“Do you need help with anything Mister J?”

“Do I?” he plays dumb. “Probably.”

Why does he have to ruin the night? Frost reflects, annoyed.

Nobody knows, but if he could spend ages in your company, he believes it would be an eternity well spent.

And The Joker had to ruin it.

Goddammit!

“Can you patch me up?” J takes of his jacket, revealing a blood stained shirt.

“What happened?” you and Jonny jump off the vehicle.

“I got myself in a little bit of a situation,” he grumbles. “It’s a clean wound; the bullet came out on the other side.”

“We should take you to the doctor, boos; you need stitches!”

“Thanks for your concern, Doctor Frost,” The Joker sassily remarks. “I’ll go in the morning.  I have more important matters to take care of tonight.”

You peel off his garment and assess the damage; he can’t hold it in:

“I bet you wanted to do this after I texted you my nudes, huh?”

You have to admit he caught you by surprise with his statement and the best solution in this situation is to cooperate:

“Been dreaming about it quite often.”

“Ha! I knew it!” The Clown cracks up. “Were you dreaming about it during your date?” he teases more.

“We’re not on a date,” you frown at the blood gushing from his wound.

“Interesting,” J expands on the subject. “At least you two have one thing in common: you’re both delusional.”

Frost rolls his eyes without J noticing and you signal him:

“Can I please get the whiskey? I need to disinfect this.”

“You have whiskey on your date?! Excuse me, non-date,” his majesty’s obnoxious temper emerges again.

You don’t engage for the moment, just open the bottle that Jonny gave you and splash a generous amount on the laceration.

“Jesus Christ!!!” The King shouts. “Be gentle woman, I’m fragile!!!”

“Sorry Mister J,” you mutter and Frost is certainly approving your tiny revenge scheme. “Can you please turn on the lights on your car? It’s getting dark and I can’t see what I’m doing,” you address The Joker’s sidekick. “Do you have a first aid kit in your vehicle Mister J?” you gesture towards his SUV parked a few feet away.

“I should,” a demented smirk flourished on his lips. “In the trunk!”

“Take a seat in the grass Mister J; I’ll go get it,” you urge the patient.

“Boss, are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the doctor?” Frost offers and instead of obliging your request, J pursues your steps because he doesn’t want to miss Turbo’s reaction.

“It’s fine, I’ll survive until morning time.”

You lift the trunk and gasp, stunned: your stellar ex-husband is tied up in there, duct tape over his mouth, clearly enjoying the repercussions of a confrontation due to bruises you can discern at a first glance.

“Oops, forgot about him,” The Clown yawns, bored.

Adam starts wiggling and mumbling whilst you can’t react.

“The fucker shot me!” your employer hisses. “Had the nerve to try killing me when he’s the one sleeping with MY girlfriend!”

“What’s the plan, sir?” Jonny intervenes, worried at your stunned attitude.

“The plan is simple: since Y/N is intimately acquainted with our guest, I’m willing to work out a deal. I don’t wanna to be accused of not listening to my associates.”

Adam keeps struggling and you finally reach and remove the duct tape.

“Honey, honey please!” he immediately rambles on, panicked. “You know I was joking about your weight, right? You don’t have to lose a few pounds! I admit locking you up in the basement was a huge mistake, ok? OK…? I’m sorry! I swear I’ll never cheat on you in the future. We can work things out, can’t we?” a glimmer of hope alleviates the somber perspective of his imminent demise once you begin searching his pockets.

He has the false impression you’ll untie him when in the matter of fact you are hunting down for his house keys so you can reclaim all the items you bribed him with when he signed the divorce papers.

Bingo! Treasure attained.

“So do you know him or not?” The Joker taps his fingers on the cold metal of his gun.

You take a deep breath, place the duct tape on Adam’s lips and sneer:

“I never saw this asshole in my life!”

“The lady has spoken!” J slams the trunk, unnerved. “Frost, you can go home; Y/N will take me to the warehouse on 8th street: she can borrow a car from there and split. I’ll send someone in the morning to bring it back.”

“Boss, we can leave your SUV here and I can drive you both…”

“DID I STUTTER?” The Clown growls, unhappy with Jonny’s shenanigans.

“No sir.”

“Mister J,” you distract his menacing temper. “Do you want me to bandage your injury now?”

“Nah, you can do it at the warehouse.”

More fireworks illuminate the skies and none in the small group is watching them anymore: the show is over for everyone involved.

You wave at Frost and hop in The Joker’s car as he positions himself in the passenger’s seat; you can tell something is off, besides the obvious of course.

If you’d have to speculate, you would say that his behavior is of a man who wasn’t hurt just physically, but on a different level he doesn’t understand yet: J went after your ex-husband alone when he doesn’t take unnecessary risks; enough proof to indicate he loved Ella and sought revenge for her betrayal without any of his team’s help.

You wonder what he did to the woman: did he kill her? Or worse?... You won’t dig to find out regardless.

The truth is you are The Joker’s Turbo and the statement works in reverse too: he is your Joker who undeniably needs cheering.

And you always deliver. That’s why you’re his.

That’s why you appreciate he made an effort to compromise on Adam’s predicament even if he didn’t mean it.

You steadily drive on the trail until you arrive to the main road, then suddenly accelerate with a specific purpose in mind. You take a sharp turn on Morrison Avenue, already at 100 miles per hour.

“What are you doing?” J bitterly enunciates.

“Why am I your Ghost Driver Mister Joker?” you reply with a question.

“Nobody can catch up with you.”

“Yup, the car to catch up with me hasn’t been assembled. Here they are, Gotham’s finest!” Y/N boasts at the lights glistening behind. “They always have a nightly patrol on Morrison Avenue ready to catch law un-abiding citizens,” you exclaim and J’s smirk widens at your proposition. “What do you say we make them work for their donuts, hm?”

“That’s my girl!” The King gives his blessing while Turbo speeds up the street in a frenzy.

************

11:58 pm

You barely returned to you apartment after the random factors which cut your rendezvous short when the cell chimes: a message from Frost.

“Did you make it home safe?”

“Yes,” you text.

“I’ve been busy. Wait, I’ll send you a picture.”

Downloading picture…

“Holy… shit!!!!!” you yell at your phone because the image depicts a portrait of a freshly shaved Jonny Frost.

“Do you like it?” the sentence appears on the screen concomitant with a knock at the main entrance.

“Who is it?” you drag your feet on the carpet.

“Me.”

As soon as you are standing in front of him, Frost hides his nervousness the best way he can; and he’s not a nervous individual per se.

“I thought you might want to take a closer look…,” he enters the hallway and you slowly lock the door behind him.

You don’t say anything, just touch his face and he pecks your wrist, confessing a secret he kept bottled up for years:

“Do you know I’ve been in love with you from the first second I saw you?”

Y/N doesn’t have to calculate in order to whisper:

“That’s a long time.”

“What’s the verdict?...“ Jonny insists. “You approve the change?”

“Yes,” you kiss him and he holds you tighter, thinking that if he could spend ages in your arms, it would be an eternity well spent.

 Also read: MASTERLIST

You can also follow me on Wattpad and Ao3 under the same blog name: DiYunho.

[letterstothemidnightsociety]

And I’m back from my midseason finale, continuing my journey to decipher how and why a show about two sexy brothers who hunt ghosts aired on television for over a decade. It’s Supernatural! 

Back in 2009, when I rushed head long from “Salvation”/”Devil’s Trap straight into “In My Time of Dying” (Kripke, you’re being a real bitch with these titles), I was not the TV connoisseur who writes tumblr posts about ancient shows that you read before you. The cliffhanger at the end of “Devil’s Trap” is good enough that it didn’t matter that I’d just crossed the threshold from the first season into the second season. What mattered was that Dean was dying in the back seat and holy shiz, they crushed the Impala?? So I popped out one DVD disc and happily plugged in the next without stopping to think what a new season might mean.

Of course, I knew second seasons were precious. You watch Firefly ONCE and you know the fear of a Show Cancelled Too Soon. Supernatural, apparently, was on the edge of cancellation after season 1, but it’s renewal coincided with the birth of the brand new CW, a network built from the ashes of The WB and UPN respectively, that was in need of nightly programming to fill up the air. So Supernatural was saved (aha) from the Cancellation Bear and remained in it’s (primo) Thursday night time slot, 9pm warning label in-tact. 

What do we say to the Cancellation Bear? Not Today!

That’s not to diminish the importance of it’s renewal for season 2! Depending on what network or cable channel (or year), only something like 20 - 30% of freshman shows get renewed for a season 2. To be fair, if every show that aired in the fall got renewed in the spring, there’d be no time slots left for new freshman shows the following fall, so something’s gotta give. SPN getting a season 2, even if the odds were a little more in their favor than they might want you to think, is still pretty miraculous, especially for 2006. Remember, this is pre-streaming services acquiring original content. In 2006, Netflix was a rental service that focused on mailing you DVDs. Via the U.S. Postal Service. And they wouldn’t officially start acquiring distribution licenses for broadcast shows (let alone their own content) until 2007 - two years after SPN started airing. In the early 2000′s, there were fewer opportunities for television shows to make it in front of an audience because there were fewer options for watching television. I’ll say it a hundred times - Supernatural is a DINOSAUR. 

So what do you do when you’re gripped tight and raised from cancellation after your first season? Well if your Supernatural, you start off with one helluva bang.

Maybe more of a wallop. 

As should be obvious by now, I watch a lot of supernatural and Supernatural-Adjacent television. I love a Season One, but very often those shows start to go downhill in Season 2. Why? For the simple fact that your characters are too good now. They’re too powerful. They’ll never be as vulnerable as they were in season 1, and if there’s no vulnerability, there’s less concern about their survivability. I’m not as invested in these characters because I’m not worried about them anymore. There’s not tension of will they/won’t they - you know they will, in the end, overcome. Of course, the solution to this conundrum is to level your villains up alongside your heroes. The trouble with that strategy is you end up with ludicrously, laughably super strong villains that lose their grounding in reality. This is a problem I foresee for SPN post season 5, but I haven’t gotten there yet, so I’ll leave that alone for right now.

So for me, what Supernatural does at the start of season 2 is genius. Think about the end of season 1 - our boys lose. They straight up failed. They had one goal - kill the demon that killed their women mom/wife and girlfriend - and they did not even remotely do that. They’re beaten, they’re bloody and now, just when we think they can’t lose any more, they lose some more. 

I’m gonna be real honest here, this was a real turn on for me Sammy.

First it’s Baby. For two boys who hop from cheap motel to cheap motel, I think it’s safe to say that the Impala is basically their home. They lose the fight and then they lose their home. That’s rough.

Also, Bobby, I love you, but WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT’S SCRAP?!?!

Next, they almost lose Dean. Dean is the only thing that’s keeping this family together and he is donezo. He’s so gone, a Reaper is concocting an elaborate hallucination to get him to come to terms with his imminent demise. Which honestly, is a very nice thing for this Reaper to do, but also bb, don’t you do it!

You gotta hand it to this Reaper, she really knew allll the right buttons to push.

Next, we lose the Colt. They have one (1) weapon to use against the Yellow-Eyed-Demon and John gives it away. Is he also finally acknowledging that his children require his love and care? Yes. Is this the shittiest decision he’s ever made, even if it is to save the life of his firstborn? ALSO YES.

Pretty damn stupid, JOHN.

And finally, in the last 5 minutes of the episode, we lose John Winchester himself. And this bitch ain’t coming back. He’s gone. He’s gone for good. Sam and Dean spent months searching for their father, building up this legend of a man, and we as an audience spent months right along with them, only to watch him die in the first episode of season 2! Sam and Dean don’t start out season 2 back at square one, they’re back at square -10. Sure they know who the bad guy is now, but they don’t know how to find him, don’t know how to kill him, and the only person who did know can’t help them anymore! And to top it all off, they don’t even have a ride back from the hospital!

JK, we all know Bobby came and picked them up and took him back to his place, he’s the Real Hero of this show. 

Also, I’m getting ahead of myself here but I’m on a roll - John’s last words to Dean are basically a threat that oh yeah, you have one more thing that this war on hell will steal from you. If you can’t save your brother, you’ll have to kill him. Sure John. Sure. Dean’s definitely gonna do that, John, you bitch.

And they don’t just write this loss off. Over the next three episodes we see how deep this failure goes. Sure, our guys are still out there, doing their thing, killing evil sonsabitches, but damn they are torn up and they are not handling it well. 

Listen, I don’t know what your viewing experience is like, but the recaps on my dvd play this scene every episode for the next, like, five episodes. 

“Everybody Loves a Clown” is a very clear attempt to get back to normal. So clear that they even say it in the episode somewhere, but they have a lot of climbing to do before they get anywhere near normal. They’re driving around in a minivan, they’re taking cases from strangers, they’re living as carnies - their whole world is upside down.

We get another low blow in “Bloodlust.” Dean learns that a) no one can replace his father and b) that Monster doesn’t necessarily mean Evil. So at the end of the episode, when he asks Sam, “What if we killed things that didn’t deserve killing,” you feel it like a gut punch. Dean doesn’t even get to keep his own faith that he’s doing the right thing anymore.

Hey buddy. While you’re down on the ground, we thought we’d kick ya a little bit, OK?

And then we round that out with “Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things,” a nice zombie episode that is definitely not about the zombies. Sam and Dean are still grieving the death of their father in a very real way and I actually think Sam’s idea to visit their mom’s grave is really nice. He obviously took several psych courses and is handling grief in a much healthier, mature way than Dean. That being said, when he starts to go all Psych Major on Dean, even I want to slap him in the face. And then that whole attitude really bites him in the ass when Dean finally does open up and he realizes he’s not qualified to therapize this shit.

Oh no, it OK, don’t be cry!

See, we as the audience know that John Winchester traded his own soul to save Dean’s life, but Dean was in a coma with a Reaper, so there’s no way to know what Dean knows. But that bitch is astute and he figures it out. The Colt gone, their dad gone, and that horrible wrong sensation when he woke up in the hospital all point to the fact that John’s final gift to his son was the crushing weight of guilt. Dean knows that John should be here with Sam, would be here with Sam, if it wasn’t for Dean. And since a demon was involved, Dean probably suspects where John is right now. And that is something that he is just gonna have to carry for the rest of forever. I mean, I love Dean and I’m glad he’s still here, but that’s a real dick move John. 

John Winchester. Ruining Lives from Before and Beyond the Grave. 

Notice the change in this season - with the exception of the Yellow Eyed Demon, these first few episodes are not about the monster. These are Feelings Episodes, ooey gooey Feelings Episodes, that just use the monster-of-the-week to get characters to deal with their inner traumas. This is SPN saying they’re not gonna stay on the surface of this show, they’re gonna dig deep and focus on Character Substance over the Horror FX Style. And in season 2, that still feels fun! As an audience member plowing through these episodes, I was thrilled that this was the direction the show was taking. I was also thrilled that all these episode end with Dean staring dramatically into the middle distance, just some A+ cinematography there gentlemen, great job. 

In order, Ep 201, 202, 203, 204. I was not kidding. 

I’m also noticing, having written all this down, that these are some very Dean-centric episodes. Like, it’s very heavy on the Dean. Which I’m not mad about, but I just think it’s real funny considering that Sam was definitely our lead protagonist/entry point into season 1.

Now though? This is honestly my biggest fear as I continue my quest to make it through the entire series. I know how it ends. I have a tumblr account and sometimes I like spoilers to prep me for what’s coming, so I know how this all shakes out. And I think the reason that I sort of gave up on the series was because at some point, these Feelings episodes get too heavy. If all your characters are always bogged down by grief and guilt and loss, at some point that’s not enjoyable to watch anymore. You’ve gotta give them a win at some point. A real win that doesn’t come with caveats like Dean sold his soul to the devil, or, Sam’s locked in a cage with the devil, or really anything involving the devil at all. 

So while I’m enjoying season 2 still, I am worried that my enjoyment level is gonna sink as the series goes on. But that’s still a ways down the road, so in the meantime, have more of Dean staring dramatically into the middle distance.

[beauty-proof]

Studio Audience

TW for mature content and non-consent.        “Your husband decided to say ‘fuck Gotham.'  Well I say, ‘fuck your husband.’  Figuratively, of course; he’s just so...old.”

      She watched the owner of the voice stroll out of the shadows, coming into view one bright color at a time.        “So I thought to myself, ‘Joker?',” he playfully put a finger to the side of his garish red lips,  “'What would a man like Bernard Elliot treasure the most?’”         The clown came to a stop in front of the table on which she lay strapped down and gagged.  Her hands were bound together and anchored above her head. Her feet were similarly tied at the ankles and secured to the bottom of the rickety table.       “For most men, that’s easy to determine.  But a guy like your husband?”  He shook his head as if he pitied her.        “I'm just so, insatiably curious.  Does he choose to save his pretty young trophy wife? Or,” he tickled the bottom of one of her feet and briefly stuck out the tip of his tongue. “Or, does he simply call it a lost cause?  And it’s not about the money!” he exclaimed, shaking his head as if she’d asserted that his plan was some cheap money grab. “Not for me, at least.  However, money seems to mean everything to your husband.  Let’s see if that's true.”       He swaggered his way around the side of the table and stooped down toward her face.  “Now, if I remove this gag, am I gonna have to hear a bunch of screaming?”       “No,” she said through the fabric, shaking her head.       He’d removed a knife from his sleeve, flicked it open, and cut off the gag before she even had time to be startled.       “Bastard!” she spat.        Frustratingly, he just smiled back at her.       “It’s nothing personal,” he assured. “I know I probably came in and shook up your plan.  The guy’s old enough to croak any day now and here I am messing with your inheritance.  What can I say?  I’m a curious cat.”       He proceeded to walk around the table, checking her bonds for tightness.  Thin, long-fingered hands worked their way underneath each cord and gave it a quick tug.  She’d expected to feel the bite of rope against her flesh, but it was conspicuously absent.  When all she felt was pressure, she looked closer to see that her bonds appeared to made from a smooth, but sturdy nylon material.  It looked far more menacing than it felt.       Satisfied, the Joker took his leave.  “I’ll be back in a while, doll.  Don’t go anywhere.”  He laughed at his own joke as he strode out of the room.       She took the opportunity to look around the room once more, hoping to figure out where she was being held.  Hours ago, she’d been confronted in her bedroom by a pair of men wearing clown masks.  One chloroform-soaked rag later, and she woke bound to the table clad only in her silk nightie.  The air in the room was so cold against her skin that she could barely stand it.       The room looked to be a storage closet of sorts, but the assortment of items confused her.  Sports equipment, Halloween costumes, random platforms.  An idea occurred to her and she squinted to see as far into the high ceiling as should could.  There were ropes draped across the rafters.  She guessed she was in some sort of theatre.  But where?       She heard the Joker’s dress shoes clicking against the hard floor, returning for who knows what awful reason.  If he was going to hold her hostage, she’d hoped that he would simply leave her alone.       “Mrs. Elliot,” he sang out.  A piece of black satin cloth dangled from his hand.  “Now, unfortunately,” he said in what was clearly mock apology, “I can’t have you knowing where we’re going, so I’m gonna have to blindfold you.  Play nice?”       There wasn’t really much she could do to resist, besides perhaps bite him when he came closer.       She huffed.  “Fine.”       He whistled as he worked, making sure the fabric was nice and secure.       Almost immediately after, she felt cold glass pressed against her lips.  She snapped them shut forcefully, jerking her head to the side.       “Drink,” he ordered.  “I could inject this, but I’m trying to be nice.”       Praying it wasn’t some type of poison, she allowed him to pour a small amount of liquid through her lips.  It left an odd sensation; the liquid was room temperature, but heated as it went down her throat.  The feeling was similar to swallowing liquor, but not quite.       Suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped, she no longer felt cold.  Then, her entire body began to tingle, her skin feverish as she felt wetness pool between her legs.  She felt like she was a star, radiating massive amounts of heat from her core.  A quick frisson of panic hit her.       An aphrodisiac, she realized.       She’d never felt so needy in her entire life, but she was becoming too distracted to be worried.  A single hand slid up between her bound thighs, and she gasped loudly without any forethought.  A shrill giggle met her ears as she felt slender fingers spider-walk their way back down toward her feet.       Stop enjoying this, she chastised herself.  He’s a psychopath and he’s probably going to kill you after he’s done.  For some reason, her self talk backfired; the imminent danger seemed to only increase her drug-fueled desire.       "Now I’m gonna need you to behave for a minute.  Can I get that?  Hmmm?”       “What?” she asked as she squirmed side to side unconsciously.  “Behave how?”       He didn’t answer, but she felt him move his hands to her bound feet.  He wound another cord around her right ankle before anchoring it to the side of the table.  He then untied her feet where they had been bound together, quickly grabbing her free left ankle in a strong grip.  She let out a cry of protest and kicked as he wrapped another cord around the second ankle, moving to the other side of the table to anchor that foot as well.  He pulled the rope tighter on this side, then repeated on her right foot.  She was left spread wide open, unable to close her legs even an inch.  Her ass nearly hung over the bottom edge of the table.  She’d never been so embarrassed in her life and was extremely grateful she still wore her panties.       Just as the thought crossed her mind, she felt his fingertips ghost over the bit of thin cotton fabric.  She found herself panting, wiggling, and unable to stop herself despite her disgust.       “No real point to these anymore.”  He worked his finger underneath the elastic waistband and gave it a snap.  “You’re soaked.  They’re practically transparent.”  She’d have been mortified if she wasn’t so distracted.         He stooped down and she felt him blow a stream of air across the wet fabric.  She was barely able to hold back her sounds, and the urge to strain upward toward the source of light friction was nearly irresistible.       I’m not going to beg this creep to touch me, she promised herself.  It’s just whatever he fed me.       She pursed her lips tightly, preventing the panting breaths trying to fight their way through.  If she were honest with herself, she’d admit that she wasn’t sure how long she could keep this up.       Suddenly, the table began to move and she realized why it had been so rickety - it was on wheels.  She was being wheeled out of the room, still tied open in the same lewd position.  While she hoped that it was just her and Joker in the theatre, she highly doubted they were alone.  The two men who had abducted her were probably milling about somewhere.       “Alright, sweetheart,” the Joker’s reedy voice boomed,  “Iiiiit’s showtime!” he shouted, ripping off the blindfold with a flourish, arms held wide.        Blinking her eyes, she realized that she’d been correct that they were in a theatre.  The Joker stood in her line of sight, the two of them the only occupants of a rather small stage.  The seats in front of them were vacant, save for the first few rows.  The rows were occupied by about two dozen men, all unkempt and rough looking; clearly, these were the Joker’s goons.  The clown put a finger to his lips, shushing everyone in the audience.       “Shhhh.  Show’s about to start boys!” he announced, pushing up the sleeves of his red suit jacket to reveal sinewy lower arms.       "Tonight, live in front of a studio audience, we have the wife of Bernard Elliot, former mayor of Gotham.”       The audience boo-ed.  Her husband was not a popular man.  There had been allegations of embezzling millions from the city, but there was never enough proof to prosecute.  He was, technically, innocent.        “Finally, a guy who can get it up,” he laughed, the crowd snickering along.        It had been quite some time since she and her husband had been intimate in the traditional sense, due to his advanced age.  Still, she’d never been unfaithful, and she did have genuine feelings for Bernard.  Of course she knew what people thought of her - a soulless gold digger.  She’d worked so hard to prove them wrong and, yet, here she was, practically aching to be touched by this freak.         It’s just been a while, that’s all, she reassured herself.  That, combined with whatever-it-was coursing through her body, meant that even the clown’s touch wasn’t exactly repulsive.  Most of her distaste, at the moment, came from the ridiculous amount of exposure. He could've just held her legs open, couldn't he?       The man in question turned away from the small crowd, approaching the table slowly and deliberately.  Nearly hyperventilating in anticipation, she focused on his hands as they slid along the inside of her thighs once again.  She’d always had a thing for men’s hands, and the Joker’s were actually quite attractive.  Prominent knuckles accentuated the lean digits, veins bulging slightly near the wrists.  She held her breath as those hands reached up and made a clean tear through her panties, discarding them to the side.       Finally, he reached out and flicked her clit with his thumb.  Just once.  She saw stars and groaned, unable to stop herself.  Before she could blink, his mouth was on her, hungrily lapping at her sex like a crazed beast.        Within moments she felt her pussy quiver, crying out as an orgasm stole all her senses and she practically gushed.  As she came down, she didn’t feel as satisfied as she'd expected, her pussy clenching uselessly around nothing.       The burning feeling beneath her skin subsided and she felt her mind slowly clearing.  The ecstatic need was gone, but the desire remained; she still wanted his hands on her.  She wanted them on every inch of her at once.  Slowly, the sense of danger crept back in.       “Ah,” he said as he looked up from between her legs, his mouth soaked.  He wiped away the wetness on the back of his hand, a red smear of paint coming off with it.  “I see it’s time for another tipple.”       He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small glass vial filled with purple liquid.       “I’m not drinking that,” she said firmly.  “Do what you’re gonna do, but I’m not taking more of...whatever that is.”       Joker gave her another pitying smile, as if she was dim.  He then leaned forward to hover over her body, whispering close to her ear so the henchman wouldn’t hear.       “Listen,” he started.  She shivered as his warm breath entered her ear.  She could smell a faint hint of her juices on his breath.       He continued, “Let’s make a deal.  You take this second dose and it’s just you and I playing house.  If you refuse, then the whole deal gets scrapped and I give you my guys as their new toy.  And some of these guys?” he raised his painted eyebrows and nodded his head toward the crowd, “They’re real creeps.  No promises on how long your pretty face would last.  Ya follow me?”       She followed, in the sense that she knew that she definitely wasn’t getting out of this.  She decided to go with the devil she knew, rather than dozens of devils she didn’t.       Besides, she thought, not without a bit of guilt, he wasn’t so bad.  He seemed to be nicely built, from what she felt through his suit, and the angles of his painted face might’ve even been handsome beneath the makeup.       “Okay,” she whispered back, earning a lick across her ear that made her jump.       “Gooood,” he cooed, grinning widely as he moved his body off of hers.  He brought the vial to her lips and she gulped it down.  It tasted slightly sweeter than the last dose and - oh no.       Her very being felt like it was on fire, her skin feeling as if it might actually melt if she wasn’t touched right now.  Joker stood with his head cocked to the side, watching her reaction with delight.       “Oh, God,” she moaned, barely recognizing her own voice.  She felt her mind melting away, leaving her a mindless slave to her body.       “Ha!  Not quite,” the clown winked down at her and held the empty vial just above his tongue, a single leftover drop landing upon it.  He slurped it up and shook his head back and forth violently, like a dog shaking its jowls.  “Now let’s have some real fun.”       She lifted her head up to watch entranced as he undid his belt buckle and began to slowly draw down his zipper.  He freed his straining erection from its confines and her eyes grew wide. He was on the upper end of the scale, size-wise, but not extraordinarily big. Still, to her lust-addled mind, it looked enormous.       He took himself in hand and began to stroke himself languidly, watching her reaction as she gritted her teeth in frustration.  She knew he was playing a mind game. He probably wanted to see her beg, but she'd promised herself she'd retain some dignity.  Of course, that was before he'd given her that second dose.       "What's that song I heard on the radio the other day?"  He addressed his followers, slowing the movement of his hand.  "The new one," he searched mentally as he improvised the tune.       "Doctor Feelgood!" one of the guys yelled out.       "Yeah!  Yeah, that's it.  I'm Doc-tor Feelgood baby -" he began to laugh, but was cut short.       "- Please!" she shouted over him, cutting through his monologue of bullshit.  She'd had enough.       He raised one painted brow and smiled evilly.       "Please what?" He guided his cock toward her entrance, rubbing the head back and forth across her clit.       She sat silent for a moment, practically hyperventilating.       "Please just fuck me already," she groaned, finally giving up all self control.  She was just a mindless shell of herself at this point.  Distantly, she wondered if this dose of aphrodisiac would wear off at the same rate as the first.  Somehow, she didn’t think it would.       He reached up with his free hand to slap his forehead with his palm.       "Oh!  Well why didn't you just say so?"       He looked past where she lay on the table, speaking over her shoulder and asked, "We rolling Johnny?"       Confused, she jerked her head back to see a man standing there with a mounted camera.       "Been rolling, boss," Johnny answered. "You ready?"       "Wait!" she cried out.  "So, what?  You’re gonna tape this and send it to my husband? Not very inventive."       The Joker threw his head back and laughed before looking her straight in the eyes.       "Nononono honey. We're about to go live."       It took a second for that to register through the haze in which she was floating.       "What?! No!" she screamed.  It was one thing for her husband to see her like this.  It was completely another for the entire city to watch this happen.       The camera man moved to the side of the table to get a better view of the action.       "Aw, c'mon now.  Where’s your enthusiasm?"  With that, he finally entered her, burying himself to the hilt in one thrust.  She was so wet that there was little resistance.        He started fucking her at a frenzied pace, and her mind went blank once again.  All she could think about was how wrong this was.  Were they really playing this live on TV?  Joker had been known to hijack television signals in the past, so it was very plausible.  Still, she couldn’t help but love every second of him rocking in and out of her.       She began jerking her hips upward to meet his thrusts, urging him deeper inside of her.  He laughed hysterically at her eagerness.       “Yeah, baby, that's the spirit.  What would your old man say if he saw you like this, hm?  Let’s find out.”        The man working the camera returned to his previous position behind her head, opposite the table from his boss.  Joker slowed the serpentine movement of his hips, giving her just enough stimulation to keep her from going completely mad.  She squirmed and let out a sound of protest that went unnoticed.  Instead, he looked up into the camera while continuing to fuck into her.       “Hi Bernard. I know this is probably a little awkward, but I'm really in need of a favor.  See, I'm gonna need you to pay back - Oo! Shit,” he cussed, cutting himself off when she squeezed around him, silently urging him to quicken his pace. He continued slowly, regaining his concentration.        “...to pay back what you took from the people of Gotham.  Now, I know you probably think this is about money, but it's not.  It's about which you love more - your fortune you took at the expense of the city, or your pretty young wife.  Look at the camera sweetie,” he reached up and bopped the bottom of her chin gently with his knuckle, tipping her chin upward to look into the camera.        “5 million for your whore wife. Or I keep her.  Course, she might not object,” he punctuated his statement with a hard thrust of his hips that hit directly against her G spot, eliciting a shriek of pleasant surprise.  The Joker laughed like a maniac.        “Enjoy the rest of the show Mayor Elliot.”       Six months later, the Joker was handed a note by one of the few associates with which he had an amicable relationship.  He was passing it along, he said, for an old friend of his.  The envelope reeked of expensive perfume and was sealed with a lipstick kiss.       Next time you're in Arkham, be sure to check the side doors.  You might just find one propped open.

[the-fiction-witch]

Survivors

MOVIE: MAZE RUNNER AU COUPLE: NEWT X THOMAS + NEWT X Y/N RATING: FLIRTY ;)

Emptyness. The only true constant. Everything fades, and everything dies.

I remember the day this all began, it a seemed so normal. I remember waking up in my bed, it was a red racecar my bed. With clown sheets and my favourite bear to hold me close. I remember waking up to the sweet salty smell of my mother's cooking, I jumped from the bed and ran to the kitchen to find my mother had burnt the toast and bacon as she had been busy dealing with my baby sister. My father just laughed it off and went out for breakfast donuts. It all seemed so normal, so peaceful. But not long after that the news came through, my mouth packed a bag with everything she could fit for me and another for my sister taking us by the hand up to the hill a man said something about places that I later leant was places in the shelter, safe from the bombs that where imminate to fall. And like all good parents did, they made the men take the children all of us the eldest just ten from my town all of us saved from the horror of that war.

Now we have emerged from our shelters, and hiding places. To scout this empty world for survivors and supplies to keep ourselves Alive. I miss my parents everyday, what little I remember of them. And I miss my sister, I don't know what happened to her the shelter men took her from me not long after we got settled her only being a baby... I never saw her again.

I walked along the dusty windy planes for days I was almost out of water and days out of food, I felt like I was ready to drop dead.

""ey mate! You alive?" A voice asked from the dusty cloud to the north "Yeah!" I yelled and within seconds a boy came from the dust,

His leather pants tight to his skinny body, his chest bare covered in what looked like years of dust and sand, a brown moth eaten jacket over him with some protective sections on his back and shoulders, a red and white tie around his mouth and nose with old welders goggles over his eyes, his hair slightly tied back with a similar tie this one blue and white his perhaps once blonde hair caked in dirt, mud and sand. He saw me and pulled the tie from his mouth and nose as he came closer

"'iya, what are you doing out 'ere?" He asked "Looking" I answered "Your a stalker aren't you?" He asked "one of them who wonder's around maping survivers and what not?" "Kinda" I answered "Alright, do you need a ride? I can take you to The Glade?" He suggested "What's that?" I asked "A survivor town not to far from 'ere I came out looking for scrap metal" he explained putting the goggles up onto his headband I could see his face more clearly now, he looked much longer then I assumed he was, his brown eyes wide with a almost laughable clean line from where the goggles had protected the skin below them from the dust, a small excuse for facial hair above his lip "so you want taking?" "Sure, thanks" I smiled "Great" he laughs putting an arm around me and walking me towards the way he came "names Newt by the way" he says "Newt?" I ask "Don't ask" he sighed as we got to a half destroyed car only the frame, wheels and engine still the the rest gutter with two broken seats and a wheel inside the welded frame "it's a long and complicated story" he says climbing into the car and moving some metal around "'op in" he says so I climbed in and we drove off though the sand and dust for a little while it didn't take long before we arrived at this little town it all looked like it was made of tin and wood but it looked abandoned I got prepared to jump and run as this happens alot out here, people go nuts and build little world's for themselves "guys! Storms over get to work you lazy cocks!" Newt yelled and just like that doors and windows opened canopy's opened up and people came out all going about there business "come on, ohh I didn't catch your name?" He says as he climbed out "Thomas" I said "Right Thomas come on, let's get some food in ya" he laughs helping me along "How many people live here?" I asked "Ugh about sixty to eighty at any one time, people move around alot" he explained as he got some food and handed it to me having a seat on some old cinder block "How long have you been here?' I asked "About four years" he shrugs "came 'ere from my shelter so" he shrugs "And you've been here ever since?" I ask "Pretty much, I go out on the junk raids but that's about it" he explained eating his food I gave it a try and it was nice "what about you?" "Been wondering since I got out... Don't really know what I'm doing" I explain "Fair enough, you could always stay if you want" he shrugs "Really?" "Sure, stay as long as you like, 'ell you might find a sexy freind who will keep you forever" he winked "I don't know about that, but sure I'll stay a while" I smiled "Great, you can bunk with me for a bit if you want I have a 'ammock I never use so you can stay there till you get sorted" he offered "Thanks Newt" I smiled "Newt your home!" A voice smiled I looked too see a rather plump girl she looked a little younger then me, y/h/c hair tied up in a complex braid, a little purple dress with some tight strong pants below it, a little sleaveless red leather jacket on her body a few odd tools on a little waist belt "Ohhh 'iya Y/n" he blushed standing up "You didn't get bitten again did you?" She asks checking him over "No Y/n I'm fine" he told her "Well alright, nothing serious to report?" She asks "Nothing" he told her "Alright, in pretty swamped today, come see me tomorrow and I'll give you your checks" she smiled before rushing back off "Who's?" I began as he sat down again "Y/n, she's the nurse. A little overprotective but she means well" he smiled blushing a little fixing his hair as he watched her walking back to where she came from "Are you to?" I ask "What! Me and Y/n? You must be joking" he laughs "I mean she's saved my arse more times then I even remember but..." He blushed "Ohh are you uhh?" I asked "Am I what?" He asked "You know, other side of the swing?" "Ohh! Well... Depends who's asking" he smirked "I'm just asking" I shrug "Let's just say... I use the swing every way it physically can." He smiled "So your fine with that here?" "Absolutely! Why wouldn't we be?" "You'd be surprised some places still..." "Really? Well don't worry about it. You can be and do whatever you want 'ere" he smiled "put your dick whenever makes you 'appy" "Thanks" I blushed "I go just the one way" "Cool, come on I'll show you around" he smiled helping me up, he showed me a few places, the food, the Amory, the clothes maker, the showers and of course Y/n nurse place which Newt did get a little blushy over before atlast we got to a little shack "ta da! 'ome sweet 'ome" he smiled opening the half broken door revealing honestly a tin shed, random junk everywhere a bed tucked in the corner with a duvet that looked as old as Newt, and a old dusty hammock hung on the other side, no windows and a couple candles here and there "Its nice" I said trying not to be rude, 

[momo-de-avis]

Wordtober Day 9: Swing

I’ll be honest, I think this is pretty weak, mostly because the techniques I had to describe were pretty tricky. But it was fun and I learned A LOT about aerial dance!

PS: I never actually went to a circus in my life lmfao

Past the curtains, the people gave a flimsy cheer. Their claps were sparse, measured, and all there was, was their gasps of awe, brief and hollow. She looked through the curtain; the trapeze artist flung himself in the air, catching his partner’s hand just in time.

The artist stretched her back, her legs, her feet; she felt the hardened muscles tense and relax, joints popping and cracking, and every part of her body fell back into place in harmony, connected again by the filaments of that human body made to contort and twist beyond the marvels the audience expected. She put on a wide, glowing grin—somehow fake and honest at the same time—just a bit beyond her compulsion—and poised gracefully before the ringmaster made the announcement.

The trapeze artists finished their act; the crowd fell into brief silence, enough for the ringmaster’s voice to flutter into a metallic reverberance as it travelled through the imponent circus, and then, there was cheering again. The spotlights flashed all around, nearly blinding the artist, but her smile didn’t die—and the curtains drew back. She poised again, hand stretched far graciously with the promise of a good show.

She tapped the silks, swaying ever so slightly at the soft breeze that blew, and hid a frown upon noticing it. She detested whenever there was a draft, but nothing else to do but to carry on. Unwelcomed winds were far more problematic things for the trapeze artist; all she needed was her long silk tails.

She twisted her foot gently around the red fabrics, brushing against her skin with the same tenderness of an age-old lover, and locked it strongly with a wrap, heaving herself—as high as she possibly could. Below, the gasps of awe came again as they watched her—one single circular spot of yellow casting a glimmer on the clambering artist and her two red silks. It certainly helped the lack of certain resources; the artist would have preferred to be given a crane for additional swinging movement, but the small town the circus settled in didn’t have so much. She would have to create movement and clamber her way to greatness by herself.

A fallen angel to steal some breaths, she thought, and twisted and turned into a drop, round and round as she fell. The crowd gasped—there was even a shriek—and she grinned. It delighted her always to get a grip of that sense of peril, of dropping her head just a pair of palms away from the ground, and the crowd thinking she lacked skill or grace enough to prevent disaster. It excited her.

She locked again, straddled to the red silk, and climbed her way up under the applause. In the back, the calliope organ sang, and she thought for a brief moment about how much it annoyed her when she noticed its high-pitched, childish melody. In the past, the ringmaster had employed real musicians, with decent instruments worthy of an orchestra—but those had been other times. Long times. Times in which they were venerated, adored, admired for the same grace and skills she displayed, and others—when the freaks were stars, the ugly were cast into beauty, the outcasts coming together for a marvellous performance.

They had delighted, seduced, charmed; it was the magic of the circus. A trapeze artist, back in the day, was but a cheap-trickster, and after a show, one would find the little ones sneaking to the back, lights out and curtains pulled shut as everyone retired to their own privacy. But the kiddies ventured into dangerous corners, sneaking past the sleeping lion and its tamer, or the fire-breather who minded not their presence, and all for one thing: to figure out just what the trick was behind their trapezes. Eventually, a soft, whispered scream would be heard, in the childishly excited tone of a little boy, saying: see!, I told you they had nets below and straps on their bodies, it’s all fake!

Then, the ringmaster—who had caught on to their presence a long time before—would sneak under the shadows to catch them in the act. But he always released them back into the wilderness of their own jovial and perilous curiosity.

But there was nothing fake about the artist with the silks. She floated and swung and flew like a swan clad in lustrous silk, wafting in balletic poses, hung high in the air. The silks and she were one and the same; she never got friction marks on her back, no matter how skimpy her maillot, and her ankle protections had gone from leather straps to just the cold skin of her body. She was a soaring angel drifting far and wide—no matter how small the space around her: she glided. She was a tamer of silks, a contortionist and a dancer; more skilful than any ballet dancer, more dramatic than the most tuneful opera singer.

In a time long gone, they had cheered them for their grace. Back when they travelled far, to forgotten corners of the world, the populations trapped between mountains or enclosed in tall ridges of snow; the uneducated people, illiterate, barely able to write their own names, who just wanted to be given the chance to appreciate the beauty city-folk were offered on a silver platter. Men and women in ragged clothes, dirty fingernails and shoes filled with holes—they, of all, loved the circus the most. With carmine cheeks and yellow teeth glistening into a bright grin, they loved—they appreciated true artists. Not the fraudulent spectacles of major cities, not the opera singers clad in monumental costumes of paper-mâché and tall wigs, not the boring poetry-readers of a Parisian Café-Théâtre.

But now, with their televisions and their entertainment, and their lives filled with distractions—their actions movies and special effects and green screens—nothing seemed to please the crowd anymore. Nothing impressed them.

The clowns bored them—they deemed them creepy and unfunny. The lion tamer amazed no one, because they had all seen a lion already—in person, even! The fire-breather was an inconvenience, and they complained about the heat. To their listless eyes, the magicians were spurious performers, and under scrutinous observance, these demanding little idiot insisted they did not bear real magic to their hands, but cheap tricks with spotlights and hidden trapdoors. Even as the magician floated above the air, suspended in gravity alone, they were unimpressed. Even as the magician made a member of the audience disappear to never be seen again, trapped into a nothingness far beyond the world he had ever known, they rejected his true skills. They had seen it all, seen all the movies and all the tricks, and they thought they knew.

Children never wandered into the back again, daring to uncover the trapeze artists’ secrets, and the ringmaster grew bored. Pesky little audience.

The only thing they liked, the only thing they admired, that made them feel, was the imminence of danger to an act. An unnatural, inhumane twist of the body, a second short of smashing a skull against the hard floors—and they gripped their seats in dread. The moment a trapeze artist’s hands nearly slipped the grip of his companion, threatening a deadly fall, they revelled—in morbid and twisted pleasure, they adored that lingering danger. The fright, at least, brought some colour to their faces, and they lived for a little while, distracted from the things they knew and disbelieved because they lived in a world of forgeries, vague and insipid, where everything with the littlest speck of beauty meant, of course, it just had to be fake.

It was up to the artist and her silk to make the crowd rave again. To send them into a feverish reverie they’d fall trapped to, enchanted and cursed, never to realize the hypnotic powers of her dance. Not in time, anyway.

It was her flowing, swinging red silks the only thing that stole their focus, until their pupils dilated and they were made of stony awe as they watched, rigid on their seats before a delicious mix of horror and amazement began to bubble in their flesh. It was her, the artist suspended in her silks high above, who made them prisoners to the artistry they failed to see.

Straddled way up high, the artist stopped. The show must go on, she thought, and the calliope organ rattled like old keys in the distance. She still hated its sound, but it helped create the effect. The music was always quite cheerfully grim, if such a thing could even be possible.

She missed the emotional, epic tunes of the old orchestra that used to accompany them, but that too had ended. Before industrialism came, musicians felt joy in accompanying the most magnificent circus, from where the grace of all artists shined bright atop a ladder, or where the fine red silks of the aerial artist hung and swung; a time when clowns made little boys and girls laugh and magicians shared their true power to delighted audiences. But then machines came, and they riddled the air with thick, grey fog—dirty, unbreathable fog—and rail wheels and tracks substituted horses and carriages. Nobody even said ‘break a leg anymore’.

Then came the movies, with their special effects, and cinema charmed all as the truest form of forgery, of lying and deceit—and the circus artists were cast aside, laughed at, left to oblivion. The musicians stopped seeking them; nobody liked to accompany them anymore. All they had left was an old man and his calliope tune, but he too had been with them for hundreds of years, and he too would never leave.

She smiled wide, silk wrapped around her right thigh, and let her body fall back, arms dangling high above and head gently bent back as she closed her eyes—as if she soared alone in the air. For a moment, the artist swung freely, back and forth as the silks took over her entirely, and from then on, they would dictate her next movements—where to go, where to dance, where to be. Suspended in grace, floating in beauty, the world existed only in silence; from below, not a single gasp, a cough, a cheer. They were bewitched already—otherwise, she knew, someone would be tearing open a pack of crisps or a cell phone would disrupt her meditation. They show so little respect, these days, she thought.

Then, she rose slowly to grab her silks with both hands, strapped her left leg, and tumbled back into a swift falling cadence, stranded in the air, upside-down, in a perfectly vertical line; she watched: their dull eyes, frozen into that enchantment they couldn’t entirely explain, but felt under their skins—that soft vibrancy running in their blood, like tiny critters gnawing at their flesh. It looked more beautiful like that: inverted. She twirled her feet on each strap of silk, swayed her arms with grace, and rotated up; the tails of red danced behind her like hovering feathers.

The artist held the silk behind her, straightened her body like an up-standing peg, perfectly balanced and weighted on one wrapped leg, and looked down; she opened her arms wide and dropped—swirling, swirling—once, twice, three and four times—and the gasps of dread and near-horror came then. And she fell and fell, silks tensely curled around her leg, though they let go and go and go—and she stopped. The crowd was collectively pale, and she knew they wanted to cover their mouths—but they were absolutely frozen.

The artist looked at the ringmaster, and he made a bow, stepping back slowly, offering her the spotlight. Then, she twirled herself into her silk again and began another climb—the real menace would follow. Her legs opened into a split, and she hovered above the crowd, frozen into her position. Arms stretched wide, as balletic as any high-paid performer of a Grand-Théâtre, she closed her eyes, and her legs contorted; they bent, the joints cracking as they rose, and the split wasn’t a split anymore, but something inhumanely impossible—like spreading wings, her legs twirled more and more into the silks, and that hollow crack of bone began to echo into the silent circus.

She reverted back to her human position, both feet locked into the silks; if the crowd still failed to admire her strength, they were all just senseless idiots—so she made it all the more bewitching. She stood, straight and tall, as if on two walkers made of soft, swaying fabric, and looked down. She could swear some were crying, and it made her laugh; it would teach them something, she thought, if only to appreciate true artistry. Her legs spread open again, but this time they didn’t stop into a simple split—they moved up and up and her body twisted below them; gripping the silk, she fell down, her torso rolling between her perfectly stretched legs as if the two weren’t even connected, and going round and round until one arm cracked again and there was a loud pop in the joints of her shoulder.

She laughed when the screeches came. How much they wanted to move, but were glued to their seats, motionless and gripped by inner terror, though something—they could certainly tell—could sense it already. A little boy’s lips quivered, and his mother’s hands wanted to reach out and cover his eyes, but it was stuck to the bench; a man trembled on his seat, and his eyes rolled away, to the door that would dictate his freedom, but they always seemed to find the charming dancer up above to be far more enticing.

They were possessed by a growing sense of veneration, though bittersweet it must have felt for them—reverence and terror, delight and horror, as they watched the graceful artist’s body contort into inhumane shapes, as they were certain what they were hearing was the sound of her joints dislodging and her bones cracking, but somehow she transformed back into the same beautiful woman who glided above their heads like an angel.

Then, she twisted an ankle, and another, into perfect locks; she wrapped the red silk around her body, and gave it a slight push—and danced and danced. She swung, as freely as a gliding swan above the still waters of a lake; and with one last hypnotizing glare, shot mercilessly onto the crowd below, she dropped.

The silk dictated the way down, and it rolled and tangled around her body; like a mortuary shroud, it wrapped her dislodged members and muffled the cracks of bone that should have meant it was broken, but somehow—somehow, against all auspices of the contortionist that twisted herself into a tangled, broken marionette—certainly no longer human to their eyes—somehow, she reached the end of her act.

She stood, hovering in silence just a few inches above the hard ground. Her leg was twisted below the kneecap, the bones of her shoulder jutting from below the skin, nearly ripping it apart; below the ankle, her foot twisted the opposite direction, and on her neck, one could see the tightly pressed folds of her twisted skin, as she looked at the crowd with dull eyes from above the bare skin of her back.

They watched in silence. Their eyes were glazed with tears. They could not speak, but breathed deeper than they ever had; the air was sucked out of the circus through every gaping mouth that watched with horror, wondering if the artist was even alive.

But the artist blinked her eyes. With several deafening, loud cracks and pops, she pieced her body back together, fitting back the bits of joints and bone, none but a puzzle, and again she was human. She swung one last time, and with a graceful jump, her feet touched the ground and she landed beautifully in a conclusive, marvellous poise of victory.

Before the artist, the crowd was collectively covered into a pallor of dread and horror. There was no cheer, no applause, but she bowed still. She thought then it might just have been her best performance yet.

The ringmaster sounded a bell, and they all snapped their eyes open, their bodies slowly releasing themselves from their prison. He wanted to thank them for coming, wanted to present the artist by the name, make them remember just whose stunning and unmatched skills they had just witnessed, first-hand—the unique chance to see it before their eyes, a two-hundred-year-old artist who had danced for kings and common folk alike. But by the time the clapper of his bell stopped moving, they stood up and ran.

And when the artist stretched her body again and flexed her muscles, the circus was emptied of attendees.

So the artist giggled. Let them learn to enjoy true artistry, she thought; and at last, she realized the calliope organ had fallen silent.

____

Past Challenges:

Wordtober Day 1: Ring

Wordtober Day 2: Mindless

Wordtober Day 3: Bait

Wordtober Day 4: Freeze

Wordtober Day 5: Build I

Wordtober Day 6: Build II

Wordtober Day 7: Enchanted (Encantada)

Wordtober Day 8: Frail

[hartlessfics]

Title: Mementos&Memories Artist: @pantydean Author: NadiaHart @hartlessfiction Rating: Explicit Pairings: Dean/Cas, Destiel Wordcount: 17,182 Read on A03

Summary:There is a distance between memory and reality and it doesn’t always look as you’d expect it to. Sometimes it’s a tangible thing, a long stretch of deserted back roads. Pavement, patched and faded from years of weather and wear. Sometimes, it doesn’t have a look at all, but a sound. The whirr and buzz of an old Polaroid camera printing a photo.

There is a distance between then and now. Sometimes the distance is small, just the space of an exhale. Sometimes it’s fathomless, like the fall from heaven to earth.

Castiel is a man making his way across the chasm between divinity and humanity. A distance between who he was, and who he is now. Along the way he learns about himself, the family he finds, the memories he makes, and all of the moments he manages to capture in-between.

Link to art masterpost

“Nooooope,” Sam stiffens and turns on a dime, heading back to the Impala.  

“Sam, what the hell?” Dean sighs, tossing his duffel bag back into the trunk with more force than is probably necessary. “I just want a fucking shower, man!”

To be fair, Dean is covered in some sort of slowly dripping green goop, his shirt plastered to his chest and the flannel he’s wearing is more or less in ribbons down his back. He’s pulled off the highway into the first town they found, then into the first parking lot of the first motel he saw from the road. It’s a severely run down little dive called The BigTop. Castiel is halfway out of the back seat when his eyes snap to what has caused Sam’s sudden one-eighty and Dean’s outburst.

Behind the dingy reception desk, standing under a flickering yellowed bulb is a seven and a half foot tall statue of a clown. It’s in disrepair. Its already creepy face–the paint half chipped off like at some point someone had tried to move it and instead dropped it on its head, cracking the veneer–is mangled and sinister looking, to say the least. The flickering light casts slithering shadows across its hollow eyes and eerily parted half curled mouth, make it seem like it's snarling. Like it’s peering directly into your soul and just waiting to suck it right out of your mouth.

Castiel shivers at the sight of it, and the longer he stares at the statue, the more uneasy he feels. He can understand Sam’s hesitancy. The half balding man hunched behind the reception desk, on the other hand, is more interested in the battered paperback in his hands than realizing the imminent threat of that statue looming over his shoulder obviously poses, as Sam Winchester clearly does.

The passenger side door slams closed as Sam slides resolutely back into his spot. Sam’s made his decision; they won't be staying here tonight. Castiel glances around at the bleak motel with its faded circus theme and spots at least two more equally forlorn statues scattered around the property.  He’s more than pleased to slip back inside the Impala, grimacing as Dean catches his eye and silently implores him to take his side. When Castiel shrugs, Dean slams the trunk and stomps around the Impala, grumbling as he slips back behind the wheel.

“This shit fucking itches.” He complains as he throws the car into reverse. Sam’s shoulders visibly relax as they back out of the parking lot and onto the freeway. “If I get a rash…” Dean grumbles as Sam flicks on the radio. Castiel watches the interaction fondly, fatigue makes him weary, his head tipping to lean against the window.

The streetlights pass wetly over the Impala as Dean drives through the night, the sound of his voice singing along to the radio and the rumble of the car pulling at Castiel’s mind until he’s drifting. Now that Castiel’s fallen and the last remaining vestiges of his grace are fading to nothing, sleep is something he is learning to treasure.

There are lots of things, in fact, that he’s learning to treasure. Hot coffee in the morning, peanut butter and jelly on white bread before bed, buttered rye toast and runny eggs, cheeseburgers with bacon, pie––and cake, but he keeps that to himself. Sheets fresh out of the dryer, the smell of old books... orgasms. He hums a sigh rolling his forehead against the cold glass of the back window. He’s really learning to treasure orgasms. The heat, the rush, the sudden euphoric rise, and crash. He especially enjoys them in a nice hot shower or tucked between the sheets of his bed in the bunker, right before he falls asleep at night. There’s nothing like that loose-limbed feeling to pull him into a dreamless slumber. Dreamless nights are few and far in between, now that the nightmares of his past chase him whenever his mind starts to wander.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” Dean rumbles, mirth in his tone. Castiel lurches as Dean yanks the door he’s leaning against open, his body sliding towards the ground before he can stop it. Dean's there, though, hand on Castiel's shoulder to keep him from tumbling to the cracked pavement.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, voice deep like thunder until he clears his throat. “Why would you do that?”

Dean smirks. “Found a place the princess deems acceptable.”

“Shove it, Dean” Sam’s voice calls from somewhere by the trunk.

Castiel nods and licks his lips, accepting Dean’s hand when he extends it to help Castiel out of the back seat. He takes a moment to stretch, flexing his fingers and arching his back until it pops and he sags back in on himself with a sigh. “Where are we?”

Dean tosses him his duffle. “‘Bout four hours outside of Tulsa.”

“You drove all night?” Castiel’s brows rise. “Why?”

They are standing in the parking lot of another motel. It’s always another motel, and if it’s not, its the backseat of the Impala. Now that there are three of them, that's not an option anymore, so they stick to motels. This motel appears, at least, to be without a theme, though it’s many decades out of date, which isn’t unusual for them.

Dean shrugs in response to Castiel’s question, the: ‘cause it’s what they do, they’re hunters', goes unsaid. They move around the country, drive all night, face one close call after another until the call is too close and they end up another John Doe in the paper mauled by a mountain lion or eaten by a bear. No one believes that werewolves or wendigos are real, anyway.

Castiel falls into step with Sam as the trio approach the reception desk. His eyes stray to the bulletin board as Dean flirts with the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

“What is a... swap... meet… ?” Castiel asks, his eyes drawn to a little orange flyer.

Sam slides up next to him and reads over the advert. “Huh. It's kind of like a yard sale, or... um...”  he’s obviously struggling, his eyebrows furrowed, lips pinched. Castiel patiently waits for Sam to find a suitable analogy to make him understand.

“You know what? Why don’t we go check it out? I can take you down; it's a good place to pick up some cheap supplies. We could all use some new shirts…” He spares a glance at Dean, who obviously cleaned up a bit during the drive last night but still has dark green stains along the back of his jeans and behind his ears. “It will be a good experience.”

That is something Sam’s been saying a lot recently. It will be a good experience . Since Castiel fell, since he became the hollow shell of what he once was, Sam has been trying to fill the void with distraction. Dean, on the other hand, seems resolutely determined to ignore the fact that Castiel is different now. Though Dean always seems to be close by, hovering on the edges of Castiel's awareness. It would be endearing if it weren’t so annoying like he’s just waiting for Castiel to fuck up… again . Not that Castiel could blame him really, he’s been fucking up pretty badly for a long time now.

“Hey,” Sam says softly, his face morphing in concern. “We don’t have to go…”

Sometimes Castiel forgets that his face shows more emotion now that he's human. That whatever he’s thinking no longer has the buffer of his grace to soften it before it’s written into his expression. Now they are one and the same.

“I’m not going,” Dean says before Castiel can respond. He pushes the spare room key and the keys to the Impala into Sam’s chest. “You two lovebirds can do whatever you want. All I want is a nice hot shower and my four fucking hours.”

“Dean…” Sam hisses scolding his brother for what Castiel assumes is Dean’s apparent lack of concern for his feelings. He can’t help but roll his eyes. He might be (mostly) human now, but that doesn’t mean he needs Sam acting like he’s going to break from getting his feelings hurt. He’s not fucking fragile. Well, maybe his body is fragile now, but Dean’s ordinarily crass attitude is something he’s used to. It’s a constant, and sometimes it even makes him feel like he’s still his old useful self.

“Fine,” Castiel says, handing his bag off to Dean, who takes it without complaint.

“Bring back food.” Dean calls over his shoulder as he juggles the bags, “... and pie!”

It turns out that Cas loves the swap meet. He points at random everyday objects with a contained sort of speculative wonder. He spends over twenty minutes at a table full of snow globes and old tea sets. Once Sam’s able to drag Cas away from examining a blender made in the sixties he manages to get a few gently used Carharts from a hunter who’s arthritis is keeping him out of the cold. Sam encourages Cas to try on a pair of hiking boots, and they hit a gold mine at a table run by an elderly woman whose kids have long since moved away. Apparently, her sons went through a ‘hipster phase’ because they find a bunch of henleys, flannels, and a few pairs of jeans in both Dean and Cas size. Cas nabs a pair of running sneakers and Sam spends a few minutes looking through a stack of old musty books.

“Oh my, yes.” The elder woman says with a smile. “Jimmy loved that silly thing.”

Sam’s looks around in time to see Cas’s head snap up. “Jimmy?”

“Mmm, my son,” the woman hums softly, shuffling over to where Cas is standing. “It's an instant camera. A Polaroid.” Gently she takes the gray and black box from Cas’ hands and shows him how to use it, the rainbow neck strap hanging limply from its hinges. “Have you not seen one of these, deary?”

“No…” Cas replies, his voice a deep rumble that Sam recognizes by this point as him feeling emotional. Sam knows he’ll be getting Jimmy’s camera for Cas. Selecting one of the books from her table at random, Sam moves to stand next to Cas.

“Here, smile!” The woman says, lifting the camera to her eye and snapping a photo. The old device whirrs and whines as it prints. She deftly plucks the picture from the mouth of the camera and gives it a little shake. Cas takes the photo with both hands when she offers it over to him, his mouth parting in wonder as the image develops before his eyes. And like a child, his head snaps up to Sam’s, eyes shining with the silent question.

“How much?” Sam asks with a small indulgent smile as Cas’ head swings back to the old woman. Sam knows Cas is giving her the puppy dog look he’s been accidentally perfecting on Dean since he fell. The old woman smiles at Cas, the lines around her eyes deepening.

“You know what. Ten dollars and I’ll throw in the box of film I’ve got around here somewhere.” She shuffles off, shifting around a few boxes until she comes back with a small retro style suitcase, it’s got all sorts of stickers across the top and the name Jimmy in faded black print along the bottom right corner. “I hate to see it go, but I think…” she slides the case across the folding table “it’s going to a good home.”

“Indeed” Cas agrees, and he shares one of his rare gummy smiles with the elderly woman. Even Sam feels the warmth radiating from the fallen angel. It’s the little things, he thinks, the small experiences that make being human worth it .

On the way back to the motel, packages in hand, Cas sits in the front seat the camera carefully draped around his neck by the rainbow striped strap and clicks open the buttons on the little suitcase. Even Sam is surprised at how well this mysterious Jimmy ket his things organized. The instruction book is in there, along with what appears to be two dozen unopened boxes of film and a small red photo album explicitly designed to hold Polaroids. Inside is a photo of the elderly woman looking much younger smiling up at the camera, a son on either side of her. They seem happy. Sam watches Cas trace his fingers over the image before returning it to the front slot of the photo album. He flips the page and adds the photo of he and Sam smiling in the old church parking lot among the piles of stuff at the swap meet.

Cas picks up the instruction book humming as he reads it all the way up to the motel door. Sam unlocks it, juggling the bags from the swap meet and sees Dean passed out on one of the two queen beds. “Shh,” he hushes over his shoulder, stepping into the room with Cas on his heels.

He’s setting down all the packages, sorting out things to wash when the absence of movement draws his attention. Cas is standing just a few paces from the door, frozen like a statue, his lips parted slightly, eyes wide and focused on Dean.

His brother is sleeping belly down on the bed in just a t-shirt and a faded pair of boxer briefs. It’s a sight Sam’s seen a lot in their life of motel hopping. It must still be fairly new for Cas though, because he slowly lifts the camera to his face, hesitates for the breadth of a heartbeat, and snaps a photo. The sound of the camera working is loud in the quiet room, and Dean flinches, his whole body reacting. His hand snaps out from under his pillow; a gun pointed directly at Cas. Sam watches the former angel shift back slightly the camera dropping from in front of his face.

“Sonnova… Cas, what the hell man!” Dean snaps dropping his head back onto the pillow with a low groan. He takes stock of the situation half of his face still pressed into the pillow, and his one-eyed gaze falls with accusation on Sam. “Why did you buy him a fucking camera, Sam,” he says, arching a brow.

Sam shrugs, a smile spreading across his lips “I dunno, but I feel like it’s going to be a good investment.”

Dean chucks the pillow at Sam’s head.

READ THE REST ON A03

[dendromancer]

TFP and Dream Symbols

While writing my two freudian metas I stumbled upon the symbolism of dreams and turns out it was a rabbit hole with no return, so I decided to write an exclusive meta on TFP. In this post I will make a reference to many scenes from this episode and then write their symbolism/how they can be interpreted. I operated under the assumption that this is John’s dying dream, as @waitedforgarridebs has said in this meta and @jenna221b here. And truly, it seems like this reading is not only supported but also encouraged.

The good news is that the clown scene, Dangledebs, the skull and all that ridiculousness can be explained very accurately. The bad news is that this reading is painful. But there’s no need to worry, because this ends on a good note, as does the episode. Diving into details under the cut.

TFP opens with the scene of a girl on a plane. Seeing yourself in the role of a little girl in a dream, as if you were having a childhood memory or simply experiencing the life in the shoes of a little girl is often not a very positive sign. You could soon experience disagreements, disharmony or conflictive tension with others.  Furthermore, you want someone else to protect and care for you. John is scared, so it’s only natural that he would feel like that.

GIRL’s VOICE: Are-are you still there? SHERLOCK: Yes, hello? (She doesn’t respond immediately.) SHERLOCK: Hello. We’re still here. Can you hear us? (x)  

The girl is talking on the phone. Problems using the telephone or getting the phone to work right represent issues in communication with the person you were trying to talk to on the phone. Sherlock and John’s micommunication has been a theme ever since the first series. ‘’Answer your phone I’ve been calling you’’ (TBB).

The plane is falling; As with most common dream themes, falling is an indiction of insecurities, instabilities and anxieties. You are feeling overwhelmed and out of control in some situation in your waking life. John has obviously had enough with everything that has been happening to him. He doesn’t have control over his life. That’s why he is not the one navigating the plane, he is just a helpless child on the passenger’s seat, not knowing what to do about the inevitable crash. To throw some Freud into the mix, dreams of falling indicate that you are contemplating giving in to a sexual urge or impulse. According to him, most dreams are centred around sexual oppression that is suppressed by society morals. In this case, the oppression could come in the form of heteronormativity and homophobic parents. 

Dreaming of an airplane crashing may be a metaphor for some aspect of your life that is in danger of ending quickly and unexpectedly. This really supports the garridebs scenario. John was not expecting this, but he is facing his own death. The crashing airplane represents your self-defeating attitude and self-doubt. Flying down toward the ground may mean that you are attempting to be more in tune with your unconscious mind. FTR, the unconscious is where our repressed sexual urges exist.‘‘Flying in a vehicle or airplane means there is some bad news coming soon. You may be ignoring this and continuing on as if everything is normal John.This is a message to push you into seeing the truth in your life.’‘

Another interesting interpretation is that seeing yourself as a little kid could represent your desire to be engaged in sexual behaviors that you may have never performed before. Okay then.

Moving on to the real cringe-worthy moments of the episode. Seems like the clown could be your reward that your mind is giving you for just having had to go through something awful.The clown is trying to raise your spirits and let you know that everything is going to be alright. This is what clowns are meant to do, make you happy. Alternatively, the clown could be trying to help you get through a tough time in a different way, by trying to teach you to laugh things off. BIG YIKES, FOLKS. John is dying and trying to make light of the situation in order to comfort himself, as he lies alone. Anyway. We find out that John was shot by ‘’a tranquilizer’’.This means you may be avoiding some issue in your real life like the fact that you are dying, or you may feel that you are being deceived or lied to in some way. Which has happened to John loads of times.

Mycroft comes to 221B and we hear the fake story and the fire incident. To see something burning in your dream indicates that you are experiencing some intense emotions and/or passionate sexual feelings. There is some situation or issue that you can no longer avoid and ignore. To dream that a house is on fire indicates that you need to undergo some transformation.

Now, the drone. The drone symbolizes the loss of possibilities or having your privacy invaded. The grenade means one has been badly surprised by something. Did Mary shoot John? Did he have an accident after learning something surprising?

Bombs appearing in a dream usually indicate some form of explosive situation with which we need to deal, like repressed emotions or an impending disaster. Or both, in John’s case. Of course there’s also the reading of explosion as a sexual climax.‘’ A forceful explosion of sexual release can accomplish a cleansing. A dream may be a safe space in which to accomplish this, the emotion having been suppressed for some time.’’ 

Cut to Sherlock and John on the boat. Dreams about pirates suggest that some person or situation is bringing chaos to your emotional life, since water=emotions. It could also refer to justifiable trust issues in a relationship. This really is a good description of their relationship.

We finally reach the place John’s sexuality is kept in. Remote islands symbolize something that has come from the depths of your unconscious, but is now established in everyday life. More evidence then for what Eurus represents. Also they symbolize feelings of isolation or loneliness, or your attempt to cut yourself off from others due to your feelings about them. John has been feeling lonely. And he almost did cut himself off Sherlock (or was thinking to do so, if we take TLD as John’s distorted POV and not reality).

Sherrinford is like a mental institution but Eurus is kept in a cell. Mycroft describes the place as a fortress. Nevertheless, if one sees himself in a mental institution, it means that he might go to jail for a crime he committed. Did John kill Mary? Was he framed? It also suggests that you are feeling tremendous mental strain and are trying to reach out for help. John is reaching out. He even left a note to Sherlock. He sent him texts but Sherlock deleted them.

Eurus is ‘’imprisoned’’. A prison represents the feeling of being trapped in daily life. When one is stuck in one particular prison cell, this is representative of feeling completely chained to the decisions you’ve made in life. John is leading a life which is the opposite of what he wants. He has succumbed to a heteronormative lifestyle, marrying an emotionally abusive woman who is even gaslighting him to believe that it’s his fault that he has ended up where he is.

There’s a rifle on the wall (chekhov’s gun). As we know, from a Freudian perspective, a gun represents the penis and male sexual drive. The colour red (on the walls) is considered to denote anger, but also danger, violence, blood, shame, rejection, sexual impulses and urges.

This is another ridiculous scene which is actually painful. Unfortunately, to dream of seeing a hanging with a noose represents feelings about someone else being noticed as a total failure. Feelings about not mattering anyone or being insignificant. ‘’Who you really are, it doesn’t matter.’’ Feeling that you have no options left in a difficult situation. Fearing embarrassment that you never really mattered. A very insensitive display of failure. John feels unimportant. With the garridebs allusion, we could imagine that he considers his feelings for Sherlock a failure; he never acted upon them or expressed them, they just made him feel awful time and again. 

Hangings with nooses may also show up in dreams if you have been having suicidal thoughts. You may have some powerful insecurities at the moment may not believe in yourself enough. The garridebs reference is becoming very ominous here. There are many hints pointing towards such a bleak scenario for John, as @hawksmoor17 has demonstrated here, @teaandqueerbaiting in this post and @toxicsemicolon in this meta.

JIM’s VOICE: Come on now! Aaaaaall aboard! (High-pitched) Choo-choo! Choo-choo!

JIM’s VOICE (softly, from the speakers): Mind the gap.

To see a train in your dream represents conformity. In our case it could be complying with heteronormativity. You are just going along with what everyone else is doing. Hearing a train in your dream means that something is passing you by. You have missed or lost an opportunity.‘Trust me Sherlock, it’s gone before you know it.’’ The train driver in the dream wants to control not only his life but the lives of everyone else as well. He wants to be the boss – the one who drives things forward. Moriarty is the one who supposedly drives the train. So in John’s mind he is the one that is bossing people around, controlling his and Sherlock’s life. 

Coffins in dreams represent the need to get rid of unhealthy habits or relationships. Unhealthy habits could be in this case miscommunication and repression. They also represent locked issues. The coffin is symbolic of a person dying physically, mentally, and emotionally. John is dying physically, but he is also dying emotionally because he is suppressing his feelings until what seems like the end. The countdown symbolizes anxiety of having some sort of deadline. In this case, it could be John’s imminent death.

The grey colour on the wall is very prominent in this episode. It indicates fear, fright, depression and ill health. You may feel emotionally distant, isolated, or detached. John is ticking all the boxes.

Seeing a well in your dream alludes to depression. It also could mean a fight in one’s family involving jealousy, envy and betrayal. John’s marriage. Falling into a well in a dream also means being accused of an alleged crime from which one is clearly innocent. Another indicator that TST is John’s alibi and he has been framed for Mary’s death? We know that as far as TST is concerned ‘’that’s not what happened at all’’.

Because of the water, drowning depicts fear of being overwhelmed by difficult emotions or anxieties. This might apply to natural urges such as loving or sex, that some people have enormous conflicts about. You feel like you are struggling to ‘keep your head above water’. It’s no news that John feels completely overwhelmed by his feelings for Sherlock.

A skull represents a serious loss/fearing a loss. It may also reflect a fear of death. John is afraid of dying. Alternatively, you may have something you are hiding that you are afraid to reveal to others. Something from your past that you want to keep hidden. -Oh and I almost forgot, dreaming of a skull is a sign of your need for repentance. John is regretful of his missed opportunity with Sherlock........[sigh] moving on.

Sherlock comes to John’s aid with a lantern, which is the omen of illumination, enlightenment, and positive light. So we could say that Sherlock is John’s conductor of light as well. Nice! 

Near the end of the episode (and imagining John’s predicament is worsening) we have something akin to an unnecessary filler violin concert. Violin represents contentment, happiness, especially in domestic situations. It could also represent sadness or comforting one’s sorrow. In this situation, John is comforting himself by thinking of Sherlock playing the violin and them being together in 221B. Tthe only plausible scenario in his mind is them staying friends. He does not dare to imagine anything else even now. 

Lastly, something to lighten up the mood a bit (don’t worry there’s no parentlock on my blog):

Dreaming of holding a baby more precisely of the female gender, could perhaps speak of upcoming changes. In particular, someone of your close relations, such as a partner or a good friend would be the one responsible for those positive transformations in your life. Another sign that Sherlock will confess his love, which will bring about the positive change of them becoming finally a couple <3 In your own time Mofftiss, but quite quickly.

I am in the process of writing two other metas so if you are interested in being tagged let me know, I don’t want to annoy you. For now, tagging people who might be interested: @obsessivelollipoplalala @green-violin-bow @tjlcisthenewsexy @whimsicalethnographies @devoursjohnlock @gosherlocked @inevitably-johnlocked @antisocial-otaku @worriesconstantly @may-shepard @teapotsubtext @jenna221b @sarahthecoat @dickeddowndetective @shamelessmash @impossibleleaf @darlingtonsubstitution @kimbiablue @loveismyrevolution @marcespot @just-sort-of-happened

[trendingnewsb]

How Edinburgh changed British comedy – BBC News

Image caption Lee Evans won the top comedy award in Edinburgh in 1993

Comedy did not feature at all when the Edinburgh Fringe began but over the past three decades it has become the “spiritual home” of Britain’s funny folk.

While London lays claim to being the birthplace of “alternative” comedy in the 1980s, it was the Scottish capital where the new generation of comics received their education before transforming British humour.

Image caption Sarah Millican is one of the many stars to have broken through in the past decade

Comedy talent such as Steve Coogan, Lee Evans, Bill Bailey, Alan Davies, Harry Hill, Jo Brand and Al Murray all got their big breaks in Edinburgh.

According to comedy impresario Nica Burns the “golden year” was 1991 when Frank Skinner won the Perrier Award, beating Eddie Izzard, Jack Dee and Paul O’Grady’s character Lily Savage.

Some found fame quickly while others such as Graham Norton and Michael McIntyre slogged away in Edinburgh for years before getting their big break.

Despite constant claims of its imminent demise, the Edinburgh Fringe has continued to be a unique showcase for comedy talent over more than 30 years.

Image caption Jack Dee was nominated for the Edinburgh comedy award in its “golden year”

In more recent times John Bishop, Sarah Millican, Kevin Bridges, Ross Noble, Russell Kane and many others have seen successful Edinburgh runs springboard them to TV fame and arena tours.

Image caption Bridget Christie won the Edinburgh comedy award in 2013

This year’s Fringe features more than 3,000 shows and more than a third are comedy.

That means more than 1,000 comedy acts from all over the world will be in the city during August.

Nica Burns, who took over the Perrier’s, the awards that became synonymous with Edinburgh comedy, says: “When I started with the awards in 1984 I used to personally go and see all the shows. You could not start to do that now.”

Image caption Steve Coogan returned to Edinburgh to present the Edinburgh comedy award in 2013, two decades after winning it

These days she employs a judging panel to go around the 700 eligible comedy acts and make a shortlist for the award, now sponsored by lastminute.com but still coveted by comedians.

Richard Herring, who has appeared in Edinburgh for most of the past 30 years, does not qualify for the comedy award because it does not include people who have already had a TV series.

He broke into TV in the mid-90s with Stewart Lee in Fist of Fun but even though he is a 50-year-old Fringe veteran he says: “Sometimes I’ll be annoyed I’ve not been nominated – then I remember that no judge has seen my show because I’m not eligible.”

The Edinburgh hour

Image caption Richard Herring, here with Arthur Smith in 2011, says the Edinburgh hour was important leap for comedians

Herring says that the Fringe is still the “best arts festival in the world” but it has changed beyond recognition since he first performed in a student revue in 1987.

He says that sketch shows by Oxbridge students such as him were coming in for a lot of stick from the new wave of comedy stand-ups who were starting to see the Fringe as their domain.

They saw it as a place to come for three weeks, hang out with other performers and hone their material.

Herring says one of the major changes that Edinburgh developed was the one-hour comedy show.

Even in the late 1980s it was rare for stand-up comedians to do a full hour-long show on their own and they would often partner up with other performers to fill the Edinburgh hour.

Image caption Nica Burns, seen here in 1993, has been in charge of the comedy awards for 33 years

Nica Burns says: “The Edinburgh Fringe became the learning ground because in the clubs you could only do part of the show.

“You started with a five-minute guest spot, if you were any good you could do 10 minutes and work up to 20 or 30 minutes for the headline act.

“For that jump to a whole show, to be able to play in a larger theatre, to be able to go on the road, you need to develop your material live.

“Comedians suddenly realised that Edinburgh was a fantastic place to come and book yourself a hall.

“That’s the great thing about the Fringe, it’s not curated, so anybody can do it.”

Image caption Simon Munnery has been appearing at the Fringe for 30 years

Comedian Simon Munnery, who has also been performing in Edinburgh for 30 years, says: “The hour-long slot gives you more space to experiment. For most comedians it’s a big step to go from 20 minutes to an hour.

“When you are doing that sort of time there is more pressure to have some sort of theme or to have something to say.”

Fred MacAulay first appeared at the Fringe in 1989 as part of a collective of Scottish comedians called the Funny Farm.

Image copyright Robert Perry

Image caption Fred MacAulay said the move to doing an hour-long show was a big moment for comedian

For his first four Fringes he was part of a composite show with other comedians, taking a bigger time slot each year.

He says: “It is always there very much on the horizon for you as a new stand-up that the target is to do an Edinburgh hour.”

“I always thought it was very much like a skiier,” he says.

“You are skiing on the blue runs but out of the corner of your eye you can seeing a red or a black run and you know ‘I’m going to have to tackle that one day’.”

MacAulay says that a few festivals around the world, such as Melbourne in Australia, have followed Edinburgh’s comedy model but the Fringe remains unique in its scale and scope.

Political movement

Image caption Karen Koren has been running the Gilded Balloon for more than 30 years

Karen Koren was there at the start of Edinburgh’s comedy boom.

She founded the Gilded Balloon venue in 1986, which along with The Pleasance and The Assembly led the 1980s comedy boom.

“I was certainly there at the beginning of the stand-up comedy surge,” says Koren, who set up her first comedy club because her friends were looking for a place to perform “alternative” comedy.

“I blame Margaret Thatcher myself,” she says.

“It was really satirical and political back then.

“Nowadays anything goes but then it was quite serious comedy, with the likes of Mark Thomas and Mark Steel, Jeremy Hardy and Kevin Day. Although there have always been silly performers as well.”

Image caption Alexei Sayle, one of the originators of alternative comedy, is back at the Fringe this year

Nica Burns agrees that the Edinburgh comedy boom was fuelled by acts who were reacting to the politics of the time and Prime Minister Thatcher.

But she says they were also seeking to overthrow the old comedy establishment.

Burns says: “It was a really exciting time because alternative comedy was a political movement.

“For the original comics, such as Alexi Sayle, it was about changing what comedy stood for – no more homophobic, racist or sexist jokes.

“Within a very short time they had run off all the old comics and TV moved into the new era.”

Burns says that the new comedy movement may have begun in London but Edinburgh was the “school for clowns”, where they learned to how to perform.

Comedy around the clock

Image copyright PA

Image caption Al Murray won the Edinburgh comedy award in 1999

Koren quickly went from running one studio theatre with 150 seats to 14 venues of various sizes dotted around the Cowgate.

To maximise use of her spaces Koren wanted comedians to perform day and night.

She says: “I remember that stand-up was always considered to be for the evening.

“No performers wanted to go on before 7pm and they didn’t want to go against each other.

“I had to push that concept to them all. The more the merrier. Think about your own show and what you are doing.”

As well as getting to perform your own show there was another factor that attracted comedians to Edinburgh – the camaraderie.

Munnery says: “It’s wonderful to be in the same place at the same time as all these other people who are in the same sinking boat.”

Funny women

Image copyright PA

Image caption In 2005, Laura Solon was the second woman in 25 years to win the Perrier

For Herring his early appearances are as memorable for the nights out with fellow comedians as they are for his shows.

Koren says: “I started a show called Late ‘n’ Live. It ran from midnight to four in the morning.

“We had the latest licence on the Fringe. It became a place where people came to see other comics die.

“It was where all the comics got drunk and had a great time together. That type of camaraderie that was around then really enhanced it and pushed it forward.

“There was lots of young kids going ‘I want to be like that guy up on stage’.”

Image caption Jenny Eclair was the first solo female winner of the Perrier Award

And it was usually a guy.

Despite Burns and Koren being a strong female presence on the comedy scene they both agree that it was very much a “boy’s club” in the early days.

Burns says: “The number of women doing shows was so small you could count them on one hand at the beginning.

“When it started it was much harder for women.

“There was a real feeling that when a woman came on there was a collective folding of the arms by the audience, and they were saying ‘OK, show us you are funny’.

“The audiences was very male because it involved smoking and drinking as well and quite a lot were above pubs.

“There was nowhere to get changed back stage, certainly nowhere for women, they had to get changed in the toilet. It was a tough environment and a tough way to learn your craft. They had to overcome a lot of hurdles.”

The first women to win the Perrier Award was Jenny Eclair in 1995 and it was another decade before the next, Laura Solon.

However, Burns feels that recent years have seen a breakthrough and women, who still only make up less than a third of comedy performers, do not have to persuade audiences they can be funny any more.

Adventurous audiences

Image caption Ed Bartlam has been running the Underbelly since 2000

Female comedy performers, just like their male counterparts, are cashing in on a comedy boom that has seen more and more of them touring large venues.

As comedy has become big business, festivals have sprung up all over the UK but Edinburgh has maintained its position as the number one place for comedians.

Ed Bartlam, who founded the Underbelly venues in 2000, says: “Edinburgh has been a platform for alternative comedy and that is still the case.

“The Edinburgh audience and the Edinburgh critics are adventurous and they like to see something different. Edinburgh is a great example of a festival that manages to fit both the mainstream and the alternative very nicely.”

Underbelly runs comedy venues on the South Bank in London but it is Edinburgh that acts as a feeder for new talent.

Bartlam says: “In Edinburgh we have got 17 venues ranging in size from 50 seats to 400 seats, therefore we can show lots of different acts at different levels.

“In London we have got two tents and they have both got 400 seats.

“Inevitably it means we are programming shows we think can sell that amount of tickets.

“In Edinburgh we’ve got this broad range of venues so we can programme interesting new material which might only sell 50 seats.

“Edinburgh is so important because it allows those at the beginning of their career to play in small spaces.”

Constantly evolving

Image caption John Kearns started his career on the Free Fringe

Another factor in Edinburgh’s reinvention has been the rise in the Free Fringe over the past decade.

Free Fringe shows, which are predominantly comedy acts in the spare rooms of pubs, allow the audience to watch for free and they are invited to make a contribution at the end.

It is a cheap way of getting to perform on the Fringe and has led to comedy careers for a number of new comedians such as Imran Yusuf and John Kearns.

Herring says his generation of comedians often wonder if they would have made it if there had been the same amount of competition when he was starting out.

He says the current crop of comedians are much more polished and professional than the acts of the 1980s.

“In 1992 I came up with shows I was still writing,” he says.

“By the end of Edinburgh I hoped to have a good show but now you can’t really behave like that. You need top be good on day one.”

Image caption Imran Yusuf has also progressed from the Free Fringe to larger paid venues

He says many comedians these days keep themselves fit and don’t drink.

“The performers from the 1980s and 90s would find that very strange,” he says.

Another major change has been the costs involved.

“It was bit cheaper for everyone in those days – for the punters and for the acts,” Herring says.

He says he has lost thousands of pounds on Edinburgh shows but always hoped to win enough work to make up for it later.

The gig economy

Image caption Russell Kane won the Edinburgh comedy award in 2010

For Fringe veterans such as Koren, whose Gilded Balloon venues were forced to move to the Teviot after a devastating fire in 2002, the peak was in the late 80s and early 90s.

“Now everybody wants to be a star and not everybody is going to become a star,” she says.

Munnery says some aspiring comedians go to extreme lengths to get noticed.

He says: “There are some ridiculous things like huge twice-human size posters for a show and then venue is some portable cabin.

“They are spending more on advertising than they can possibly make back at the box office.

“I used to be with an agent like that,” he says.

“They tell you that you are investing in your future and at some point you have to ask ‘when is my future going to start?’.

Munnery adds: “You basically go to Edinburgh, lose thousands of pounds, spend a year paying it off and then go and do it again.

“It would probably be illegal to be employed on that basis but because you are employing yourself it’s alright. It’s the gig economy, literally.”

Despite the skyrocketing costs of Edinburgh rents and they increased competition for audiences, performers keep coming back year after year.

Herring says: “Even when I’m negative I’ve never said it’s not amazing.

“It’s the best festival in the world and it is an amazing thing to be a part of.

“I’ve spent two years of my adult life in Edinburgh just by coming to the Fringe.

“It’s a phenomenal festival and it’s breath-taking how good the shows are.”

Read more: http://ift.tt/2vBgJkC

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2wwM31k via Viral News HQ

[mavwrekmarketing]

Image caption Lee Evans won the top comedy award in Edinburgh in 1993

Comedy did not feature at all when the Edinburgh Fringe began but over the past three decades it has become the “spiritual home” of Britain’s funny folk.

While London lays claim to being the birthplace of “alternative” comedy in the 1980s, it was the Scottish capital where the new generation of comics received their education before transforming British humour.

Image caption Sarah Millican is one of the many stars to have broken through in the past decade

Comedy talent such as Steve Coogan, Lee Evans, Bill Bailey, Alan Davies, Harry Hill, Jo Brand and Al Murray all got their big breaks in Edinburgh.

According to comedy impresario Nica Burns the “golden year” was 1991 when Frank Skinner won the Perrier Award, beating Eddie Izzard, Jack Dee and Paul O’Grady’s character Lily Savage.

Some found fame quickly while others such as Graham Norton and Michael McIntyre slogged away in Edinburgh for years before getting their big break.

Despite constant claims of its imminent demise, the Edinburgh Fringe has continued to be a unique showcase for comedy talent over more than 30 years.

Image caption Jack Dee was nominated for the Edinburgh comedy award in its “golden year”

In more recent times John Bishop, Sarah Millican, Kevin Bridges, Ross Noble, Russell Kane and many others have seen successful Edinburgh runs springboard them to TV fame and arena tours.

Image caption Bridget Christie won the Edinburgh comedy award in 2013

This year’s Fringe features more than 3,000 shows and more than a third are comedy.

That means more than 1,000 comedy acts from all over the world will be in the city during August.

Nica Burns, who took over the Perrier’s, the awards that became synonymous with Edinburgh comedy, says: “When I started with the awards in 1984 I used to personally go and see all the shows. You could not start to do that now.”

Image caption Steve Coogan returned to Edinburgh to present the Edinburgh comedy award in 2013, two decades after winning it

These days she employs a judging panel to go around the 700 eligible comedy acts and make a shortlist for the award, now sponsored by lastminute.com but still coveted by comedians.

Richard Herring, who has appeared in Edinburgh for most of the past 30 years, does not qualify for the comedy award because it does not include people who have already had a TV series.

He broke into TV in the mid-90s with Stewart Lee in Fist of Fun but even though he is a 50-year-old Fringe veteran he says: “Sometimes I’ll be annoyed I’ve not been nominated – then I remember that no judge has seen my show because I’m not eligible.”

The Edinburgh hour

Image caption Richard Herring, here with Arthur Smith in 2011, says the Edinburgh hour was important leap for comedians

Herring says that the Fringe is still the “best arts festival in the world” but it has changed beyond recognition since he first performed in a student revue in 1987.

He says that sketch shows by Oxbridge students such as him were coming in for a lot of stick from the new wave of comedy stand-ups who were starting to see the Fringe as their domain.

They saw it as a place to come for three weeks, hang out with other performers and hone their material.

Herring says one of the major changes that Edinburgh developed was the one-hour comedy show.

Even in the late 1980s it was rare for stand-up comedians to do a full hour-long show on their own and they would often partner up with other performers to fill the Edinburgh hour.

Image caption Nica Burns, seen here in 1993, has been in charge of the comedy awards for 33 years

Nica Burns says: “The Edinburgh Fringe became the learning ground because in the clubs you could only do part of the show.

“You started with a five-minute guest spot, if you were any good you could do 10 minutes and work up to 20 or 30 minutes for the headline act.

“For that jump to a whole show, to be able to play in a larger theatre, to be able to go on the road, you need to develop your material live.

“Comedians suddenly realised that Edinburgh was a fantastic place to come and book yourself a hall.

“That’s the great thing about the Fringe, it’s not curated, so anybody can do it.”

Image caption Simon Munnery has been appearing at the Fringe for 30 years

Comedian Simon Munnery, who has also been performing in Edinburgh for 30 years, says: “The hour-long slot gives you more space to experiment. For most comedians it’s a big step to go from 20 minutes to an hour.

“When you are doing that sort of time there is more pressure to have some sort of theme or to have something to say.”

Fred MacAulay first appeared at the Fringe in 1989 as part of a collective of Scottish comedians called the Funny Farm.

Image copyright Robert Perry

Image caption Fred MacAulay said the move to doing an hour-long show was a big moment for comedian

For his first four Fringes he was part of a composite show with other comedians, taking a bigger time slot each year.

He says: “It is always there very much on the horizon for you as a new stand-up that the target is to do an Edinburgh hour.”

“I always thought it was very much like a skiier,” he says.

“You are skiing on the blue runs but out of the corner of your eye you can seeing a red or a black run and you know ‘I’m going to have to tackle that one day’.”

MacAulay says that a few festivals around the world, such as Melbourne in Australia, have followed Edinburgh’s comedy model but the Fringe remains unique in its scale and scope.

Political movement

Image caption Karen Koren has been running the Gilded Balloon for more than 30 years

Karen Koren was there at the start of Edinburgh’s comedy boom.

She founded the Gilded Balloon venue in 1986, which along with The Pleasance and The Assembly led the 1980s comedy boom.

“I was certainly there at the beginning of the stand-up comedy surge,” says Koren, who set up her first comedy club because her friends were looking for a place to perform “alternative” comedy.

“I blame Margaret Thatcher myself,” she says.

“It was really satirical and political back then.

“Nowadays anything goes but then it was quite serious comedy, with the likes of Mark Thomas and Mark Steel, Jeremy Hardy and Kevin Day. Although there have always been silly performers as well.”

Image caption Alexei Sayle, one of the originators of alternative comedy, is back at the Fringe this year

Nica Burns agrees that the Edinburgh comedy boom was fuelled by acts who were reacting to the politics of the time and Prime Minister Thatcher.

But she says they were also seeking to overthrow the old comedy establishment.

Burns says: “It was a really exciting time because alternative comedy was a political movement.

“For the original comics, such as Alexi Sayle, it was about changing what comedy stood for – no more homophobic, racist or sexist jokes.

“Within a very short time they had run off all the old comics and TV moved into the new era.”

Burns says that the new comedy movement may have begun in London but Edinburgh was the “school for clowns”, where they learned to how to perform.

Comedy around the clock

Image copyright PA

Image caption Al Murray won the Edinburgh comedy award in 1999

Koren quickly went from running one studio theatre with 150 seats to 14 venues of various sizes dotted around the Cowgate.

To maximise use of her spaces Koren wanted comedians to perform day and night.

She says: “I remember that stand-up was always considered to be for the evening.

“No performers wanted to go on before 7pm and they didn’t want to go against each other.

“I had to push that concept to them all. The more the merrier. Think about your own show and what you are doing.”

As well as getting to perform your own show there was another factor that attracted comedians to Edinburgh – the camaraderie.

Munnery says: “It’s wonderful to be in the same place at the same time as all these other people who are in the same sinking boat.”

Funny women

Image copyright PA

Image caption In 2005, Laura Solon was the second woman in 25 years to win the Perrier

For Herring his early appearances are as memorable for the nights out with fellow comedians as they are for his shows.

Koren says: “I started a show called Late ‘n’ Live. It ran from midnight to four in the morning.

“We had the latest licence on the Fringe. It became a place where people came to see other comics die.

“It was where all the comics got drunk and had a great time together. That type of camaraderie that was around then really enhanced it and pushed it forward.

“There was lots of young kids going ‘I want to be like that guy up on stage’.”

Image caption Jenny Eclair was the first solo female winner of the Perrier Award

And it was usually a guy.

Despite Burns and Koren being a strong female presence on the comedy scene they both agree that it was very much a “boy’s club” in the early days.

Burns says: “The number of women doing shows was so small you could count them on one hand at the beginning.

“When it started it was much harder for women.

“There was a real feeling that when a woman came on there was a collective folding of the arms by the audience, and they were saying ‘OK, show us you are funny’.

“The audiences was very male because it involved smoking and drinking as well and quite a lot were above pubs.

“There was nowhere to get changed back stage, certainly nowhere for women, they had to get changed in the toilet. It was a tough environment and a tough way to learn your craft. They had to overcome a lot of hurdles.”

The first women to win the Perrier Award was Jenny Eclair in 1995 and it was another decade before the next, Laura Solon.

However, Burns feels that recent years have seen a breakthrough and women, who still only make up less than a third of comedy performers, do not have to persuade audiences they can be funny any more.

Adventurous audiences

Image caption Ed Bartlam has been running the Underbelly since 2000

Female comedy performers, just like their male counterparts, are cashing in on a comedy boom that has seen more and more of them touring large venues.

As comedy has become big business, festivals have sprung up all over the UK but Edinburgh has maintained its position as the number one place for comedians.

Ed Bartlam, who founded the Underbelly venues in 2000, says: “Edinburgh has been a platform for alternative comedy and that is still the case.

“The Edinburgh audience and the Edinburgh critics are adventurous and they like to see something different. Edinburgh is a great example of a festival that manages to fit both the mainstream and the alternative very nicely.”

Underbelly runs comedy venues on the South Bank in London but it is Edinburgh that acts as a feeder for new talent.

Bartlam says: “In Edinburgh we have got 17 venues ranging in size from 50 seats to 400 seats, therefore we can show lots of different acts at different levels.

“In London we have got two tents and they have both got 400 seats.

“Inevitably it means we are programming shows we think can sell that amount of tickets.

“In Edinburgh we’ve got this broad range of venues so we can programme interesting new material which might only sell 50 seats.

“Edinburgh is so important because it allows those at the beginning of their career to play in small spaces.”

Constantly evolving

Image caption John Kearns started his career on the Free Fringe

Another factor in Edinburgh’s reinvention has been the rise in the Free Fringe over the past decade.

Free Fringe shows, which are predominantly comedy acts in the spare rooms of pubs, allow the audience to watch for free and they are invited to make a contribution at the end.

It is a cheap way of getting to perform on the Fringe and has led to comedy careers for a number of new comedians such as Imran Yusuf and John Kearns.

Herring says his generation of comedians often wonder if they would have made it if there had been the same amount of competition when he was starting out.

He says the current crop of comedians are much more polished and professional than the acts of the 1980s.

“In 1992 I came up with shows I was still writing,” he says.

“By the end of Edinburgh I hoped to have a good show but now you can’t really behave like that. You need top be good on day one.”

Image caption Imran Yusuf has also progressed from the Free Fringe to larger paid venues

He says many comedians these days keep themselves fit and don’t drink.

“The performers from the 1980s and 90s would find that very strange,” he says.

Another major change has been the costs involved.

“It was bit cheaper for everyone in those days – for the punters and for the acts,” Herring says.

He says he has lost thousands of pounds on Edinburgh shows but always hoped to win enough work to make up for it later.

The gig economy

Image caption Russell Kane won the Edinburgh comedy award in 2010

For Fringe veterans such as Koren, whose Gilded Balloon venues were forced to move to the Teviot after a devastating fire in 2002, the peak was in the late 80s and early 90s.

“Now everybody wants to be a star and not everybody is going to become a star,” she says.

Munnery says some aspiring comedians go to extreme lengths to get noticed.

He says: “There are some ridiculous things like huge twice-human size posters for a show and then venue is some portable cabin.

“They are spending more on advertising than they can possibly make back at the box office.

“I used to be with an agent like that,” he says.

“They tell you that you are investing in your future and at some point you have to ask ‘when is my future going to start?’.

Munnery adds: “You basically go to Edinburgh, lose thousands of pounds, spend a year paying it off and then go and do it again.

“It would probably be illegal to be employed on that basis but because you are employing yourself it’s alright. It’s the gig economy, literally.”

Despite the skyrocketing costs of Edinburgh rents and they increased competition for audiences, performers keep coming back year after year.

Herring says: “Even when I’m negative I’ve never said it’s not amazing.

“It’s the best festival in the world and it is an amazing thing to be a part of.

“I’ve spent two years of my adult life in Edinburgh just by coming to the Fringe.

“It’s a phenomenal festival and it’s breath-taking how good the shows are.”

Read more: http://ift.tt/2vBgJkC

The post How Edinburgh changed British comedy – BBC News appeared first on MavWrek Marketing by Jason

http://ift.tt/2wwdVlW

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “The Work Wife” Part 3

You’ve been working for The Joker for the past 10 years: you speak and act for him and no matter the circumstances, Y/N is always there to take care of everything he needs.  The King of Gotham might not be married, yet he has a perfect partner: his work wife.

Part 1      Part 2     (Part 3 as voted HERE)    Part 4     Part 5

5 months later

“Are you just gonna sit there the whole time?” The Joker splashes the water in the Jacuzzi while you look outside, not even hearing his words. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”

“Oh, I’m watching everything to make sure it’s safe,” you finally pay attention and analyze the surrounding buildings from behind the smoky windows belonging to the second floor of “Serenity Day SPA”; it’s one of the businesses J owns, primarily operated for money laundering.  The rooms upstairs are never used by anybody else except him: he seldom visits and actually uses the amenities since the place is very luxurious.  

“We have 15 men with us, I think we’re OK. Come on, lose the suit and relax,” The King of Gotham requests your presence in the hot tub because you seem absent minded today.

“I’m good,” you mumble and continue to search for any signs of suspicious activity out there even if so far nothing seems out of the ordinary.

“You know how much I hate to extend my invitations twice,” he watches you take a deep breath and gaze his way.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” you come up with the easy excuse and J gestures towards the variety of dressers containing bathing suits, swimming shorts, towels and fuzzy robes.

“Use theirs!”

“Ughh,” the exasperation reaches his ears and it’s not approved.

“Maybe one of these days you could just, you know, drop the attitude?! Only a mere suggestion; don’t lemme stop you from annoying me!” The Joker growls as you choose a random attire and start changing behind the panel as fast as you can, hoping he will shut up.

“Don’t lemme stop you from annoying me” speech is usually between 10--15 minutes long and you are certainly lacking any eagerness to put up with it.

“Why do I have to get in there?” you protest his orders and emerge into a floral bikini bottom with the matching bra.

“Because,” J huffs and completely lowers himself in the bubbly water for a few seconds, then gazes your way. “I must say Y/N, you look decent for a fossil.”

“I’m not a fossil!”

“You turned 36 last month. Basically ancient for my scaling system,” J taunts and smooths his wet hair, thinking that the usual extra feistiness is not present within his work wife today. You step in the Jacuzzi, half afloat until you reach his side.

“Your scaling system sucks, that’s why you don’t have a steady girlfriend,” you lift one of your eyebrows in order to underline the accurate reality.

“I only need company that takes care of my needs for the night; you take care of the rest so I’m fine,” he pauses and waits for the sour remarks to continue but they don’t.

You’re awfully quiet, definitely preoccupied by more important matters than the usual dispute he’s searching for.

“What’s the matter?” J elbows a distracted Y/N.

“Today…” and your voice cracks,” today is Kai’s birthday.”

That’s why she’s like this, he thinks and moves closer to you.

“Wow, the first snowflakes,” you sadly smile and change the subject because you feel you’re suffocating.

“Yeah, I like winter,” he adds on the topic in his usual way of dealing with things. “Much easier to get rid of dead bodies.”

“So charming,” you candidly reprimand. “That’s why women are flocking from all sides; one better than the other.”

“Precisely,” the insolent Joker is glad you’re getting absorbed into his little game; it kind of feels a major part of his daily life is missing if you two don’t clash and he’s aware he has to put in extra work today in order to obtain the desired outcome.

“Please enlighten me so I can prove a point:  when is the last time you went on a date?” you turn towards him, interested in what he has to say.

“Ummm… three nights ago,” J immediately replies.

“One night stand is not a date! As usually, I had to get rid of her in the morning and I’m getting tired of taking out the trash,” you scoff, irritated. “You should have kept the girlfriend you had two years ago; she wasn’t bad.”

“I got bored,” he dismisses your suggestion and stretches his legs under water while you have more to include on top of the earlier statement:

“It’s exciting to see you’re satisfied with bimbos that think you have a stamp collection to show them at the penthouse or drunken ones that you marry on a whim at the sham drive-thru chapels around town.”

“Yes, it is exciting indeed,” The Joker winks and Y/N is done with his crap.

“You know what J ?!!”

Oh boy, here she goes! J grins because he’s getting what he wanted:

“You know what J ”speech is usually between 8--14 minutes long and by far his favorite; you usually blur out a list of judgments about his behavior that you don’t agree with and it falls on deaf ears, yet it’s worth it.

“Mister J,” Frost suddenly knocks at the opened door. “Sorry to interrupt but the weather forecast is showing an imminent snow storm about to hit Gotham in less than 3 hours. Traffic will be hectic since everyone would want to finish what they have to do before roads are closed. Would you like to leave now in order to avoid that?”

The Clown Prince of Crime smacks his lips, debating:

“I suppose so,” then addresses you: “Hold that thought, Y/N! You know how much I love to hear your opinions,” the sarcastic smirk makes you shake your head in annoyance. “I guess is better if we bail than having to deal with the craziness on the streets. Tell the crew we’re out of here in 10!”

“Yes sir!”  Frost complies and you discern the shouted instructions on his way downstairs.

“Right when I was getting comfortable,” J sighs and sinks under the fizzy water one last time while you’re already getting out of the Jacuzzi.

“You can continue at the Penthouse,” you remind the King of Gotham he actually has the same hot tub at home.

“I guess I can,” the grouchy voice mumbles.

The Joker watches as you dry yourself with a towel, his eyes lingering on the only tattoo you have: the Japanese kanji rows inked on your back containing the phrase you’ve been using for years as an inside joke.

He stalls leaving the steamy ambience for a few more seconds before finally abandoning his temporary oasis.

You switch back to your black suit behind the bamboo panel and come out to help him finish up. The white, furry winter coat is placed on his shoulders while J elects to modify the plan:

“Y/N, I want to spend some time at my cabin instead of returning to the Penthouse.”

“Are you sure?” you start walking beside him, surprised at his choice. “With the snow storm you’ll be trapped there for days.”

“It’s fine; I’ll have you to keep me company,” J brushes off any projects you might have like he always does.

“I rather stay at my apartment.”

“No, you’re coming.”

“Seriously J, I don’t want to be dragged in the middle of nowhere. I like that place in the summer and that’s pretty much it,” you try to make him forsake his ideas and pay attention to the stairs you’re both descending.

“I’ll let you know when I give a damn,” The Joker scoffs, signaling some of the men waiting along for his passing to follow.

The door leading towards the secluded parking lot on the north side of the building is already opened and you walk outside, mad he doesn’t care you’re not in the mood to visit that accursed cottage during the crazy weather that will soon hit the area.

Two henchmen are already waiting by their cars and you slowly blink for a few seconds, feeling the snowflakes melting on your face. The faint sound of the bullet shrieks by your ear and you instinctively turn towards J, his eyes already looking down at the fresh wound that’s beginning to stain the white coat.

“What the..?!” he touches the blood in disbelief, suddenly out of breath. You are quick to push him against the nearest SUV, screaming at the others:

“Sniper!!! Get down!”

The goons already outside scatter behind the cars in the parking lot and you help The Joker sit on the ground and press on the oozing injury, the red spot exponentially growing each time he forcefully inhales.

“Shit…” he moans and you gesture at the men that didn’t make it out of the building, including Frost.

“Stay inside! There’s a sniper!!”

“What do we do?” Jonny yells and you shout back:

“Everybody regroup inside!! Stay low and sneak out through the other side of the property! Go in groups of 3 and sweep the surrounding places, maybe we can catch whoever did this! Take the rest of the team and call for reinforcements!”

“You need help?” Frost peeks from behind the curtains, ready to aid if required.

“I’m OK, I don’t need an escort!”

You open the car door and help The Joker crawl in the back seat; he’s wheezing louder and louder due to the painful lesion.

“Keep pressure on it!” you gather his coat around the wound as much as you can, this way it soaks up the blood. “I’ll take you to the doctor; just hang in there, alright?” an apparent composed Y/N creeps on the driver’s side, twisting the keys in the contact.

“It fucking hurts,” J groans and his acknowledgment makes your heart beat faster:

The Joker has a high tolerance for pain so if he says that it hurts, it means the discomfort is beyond what a normal person would be able to tolerate.  

“Hang tight!” you begin to drive, keeping close to the concrete wall enclosing the parking lot, watching him through the rear view mirror. “I’ll take the back streets,” you mumble and immediately accelerate, taking a sharp turn once the protection of the wall is over. The tires screech under the abrupt impact and you speed towards Madison Avenue, having to distance yourselves from the shooting range as soon as possible.

“How are you doing?” you gaze at him and the only answer is a growl.

The Joker’s teeth are clenched together; he couldn’t say a word even if he’d wanted to.      

You nervously squeeze the steering wheel, paying attention to the road again.  

“I think I can make it there under 40 minutes,” the affirmation makes him shiver: the pain is becoming so unbearable he feels he’s going to pass out.

Another turn on Coldwell Boulevard and the last thing J hears prior to losing consciousness is Y/N’s warning:

“Hey, don’t fall asleep!”

**************

The Joker gradually opens his eyes, trying to adjust to reality. You’re sleeping in the recliner close to his bed and the venue seems familiar: it’s the same private clinic you were taken after the unfortunate events that left such a deep scar on your cheek. He’s groggy and a bit confused, a typical secondary side effect of all the medications present in his body.

“Nurse…” J whispers and has to gather his strength to say it louder since you didn’t hear him. “Nurse! Wake up!”

This time the exhausted Y/N promptly snaps out of her troubled dreams, gasping when she realizes The King of Gotham is glaring her way.

“You’re awake,” you jump out of the recliner and move close to him, so happy to see he’s out of danger you actually smile.

A rare occurrence these days.

“Why are you wearing scrubs?” J licks his lips and you reach for the cup of iced water on the cupboard, offering some to the patient.

“We’ve been here for 2 days: it’s easier to blend in, just in case,” you explain while waiting for him to finish drinking.

“What’s the verdict?” he taps his fingers on the pillow, seeking your company for the requested briefing. You lie down next to him and relay the main points to the weakened Joker:

“By the time we arrived, you’ve already lost a lot of blood. You had a clean wound: the bullet went right through; almost pierced your kidney, only half an inch away from disaster. They couldn’t stop the bleeding and I was scared you’re not going to make it,” you gulp and touch his face, upset it was such a close call.

“Why? Were you afraid you’ll be unemployed?”

“Basically. You pay well.”

“True,” J utters. “Do we know who did it?”

You remove your hand, the immediate change in attitude making him aware you’re displeased.

“So we do know,” he figures, wondering why you look at him like that.

“Yes.”

Perfect silence; you are flustered, that’s for sure.

“Well?” J yawns, tired and drained.

“Do you remember your last flame? The one I got rid of 5 days ago?”  

No answer. Because he can kind of tell where this is heading.

“Apparently, she didn’t like that you threw her away the next morning so she did something about it. Thank God she can’t aim that well, I’m sure she tried for the head.”

J is speechless since he was expecting a different outcome.

“The Great Joker, taking down by one of his one night stands. How stupid is that?!” you hiss and try to calm down the urge to strangle him.

“That is quite stupid, my reputation would be ruined,” he tries to joke since he knows he’s going to hear about it forever. “Is it fair to assume she’s not around anymore?”

“I made sure,” you frown, scooting closer to him again. “If you were planning to sleep with her again, she’s not available.”

He grabs your waist, loving the bitter expression written all over your being.

“Any other news?” he changes the subject, delighted you’re so worked up.

You cut him some slack for the moment, sharing your observations:

“I think one of the nurses likes you. She keeps on lifting your hospital gown, checking out the area.”

“Probably to see if I need my bandages changed,” J grins, satisfied with the little confession.

“Or maybe checking out your components,” you honestly reply.

“Components!” he chuckles and regrets it the next second: the sore wound is definitely there.

The door opens and you grumble in a low voice:

“That’s her, that’s the nurse.”

“Quickly, fix my hair,” The Joker demands and you comb the green locks with the tip of your fingers. “How do I look?”

“Like crap,” you sigh, unable to repair too much due to the present misfortune.

“Dammit,” he completely covers the both of you with the sheet, shielding the intimacy of the discussion from any prying ears.

“Miss Y/N, it’s not safe to be this close to a recovering patient with a raw injury. There’s the risk of infection. Could you please go back to your recliner?” the woman requests out of concern for the medical staff’s own safety: she knows that if something happens to The Clown Prince of Crime while under their care, they will pay for the consequences.

“Make me!” you sneer from under the covers, irritated with her plea.

“Yeah, make her!” J growls also and it’s a red flag for the nurse to leave before one of you snaps. The care giver leaves some medications on the cabinet, planning to return later.

“Try not to contaminate me,” he pouts and you roll your eyes. “I already sacrificed a lady’s interest in me by siding with the competition.”

“You’re so full of it,” you kick his knee, careful not to touch the stitched laceration.

He has no clue how much it terrified you that he almost died on Kai’s birthday; it would have been unbearable to think each year at the same date about two men you care about no longer around.

*************

After 3 weeks

The Joker was released from the clinic yesterday and went straight to the cabin in the Willow Woods, hauling a vexed work wife with him against her will. You sure detest the place in the winter time; there are days it snows so much you can’t even walk to the shed to restart the generator. But he said the fresh air will make his recovery a piece of cake and for once you didn’t argue with the bullshit reason.

You are so worn out after taking care of J 24/7 that the tempest going on outside doesn’t bother you. Y/N dozed off one hour ago and the strong wind sweeping the wilderness slams branches, snow and frozen leaves against the windows.

A strand of your hair is being tugged by the crabby King of Gotham; he has insomnia and of course he sneaked into your bedroom after drinking 2 cups of chamomile tea that did absolutely nothing.

“Y/N, are you awake?”

You barely make eye contact, the brain fuzzy from all the restlessness you dealt with in the past weeks.

“My back is stiff,” The Joker indirectly implies a massage would be more than welcomed.“Did you hear me?” he pokes your shoulder when you nap again.

“Why won’t you let me rest?” you finally blur out, wishing you were at your apartment and not in the boonies at the cottage you can’t stand.

“I can’t work out for a while and my bones are cracking every move I make. Plus, I can’t sleep because your dumb tea didn’t work. Are you gonna do anything about it or not?!” he loses patience describing his hardships to the woman that should know all about them.

“Don’t nag me!” the unexpected response containing what J usually throws at you makes him search his mind for a sour admonishment.

In the meantime, you get on your knees and slap his side so he can turn face down, beginning to rub his back along the dragon tattoo since he won’t quit bugging you.

“That feels awesome,” he grunts when your hands work around the tight muscles keeping him up at this hour of the night.

“Jesus, one knot after the other!” you blur out frustrated, trying to relax the stubborn tissue under his skin.

“Told you I‘m stiff; I wasn’t lying. Keep going,” he motivates the grumpy Y/N. “Aren’t you happy that you still have a boss to take care of?”

He senses your fingers stopping, then restarting and something that sounds like sniffling.

“Are you crying?” the muffled question arises from under the pillows.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your fleece pajamas, watching the flames in the fireplace crackling in the darkness. The Joker reaches his left hand backwards and grabs yours, pulling you next to him again. There’s no resistance from your part and his face moves on top of the cushions again.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing…” you bite your cheek and refuse to say more on the topic.

You don’t really have to though; The Clown Prince of Crime is neither stupid or blind.

“I’m still here old girl,” he emphasizes due to his twisted desire to get you out of your misery while still being a jerk.

“I’m not old,” you defend your 36 years of existence like you always do.

“According to my standards you are,” the silver teeth maliciously glisten 2 inches away from Y/N’s lips.

“Your standards are pure crap,” you sulk and he wraps your arms around his neck, compromising at last:

“Probably…” and your sudden kiss takes him by surprise and in the same time it doesn’t.

That’s new, The Joker thinks and enjoys the opportunity of making out with the feisty Y/N that clings to him so tight he cannot move.

“I think I’m still out of commission,” he purrs in between kisses and you couldn’t care less.

“That’s fine,” you smile and give him a second to catch his breath.

“Wait…Wait…” J carefully debates. “Ummm…On the brighter side, I believe we might be in luck but you’ll have to do the hard work giving my present situation.”

“That’s fine too,” you accept his proposal and lean over to whisper:

“Don’t worry, I’ll be nice.”

**************  

7 months later

“Did you get what I asked for?” The Joker barks at the smuggler that’s taking too long searching the metal crates from the last shipment received yesterday.

“Yes, Mister Joker, just one moment. I know it’s in here, I saw it myself.”

“I don’t have a moment!” the impatient King of Gotham retaliates and the dealer picks up the pace, relieved to finally discover the item buried inside the box.

“Here you go Mister Joker,” something resembling a booklet is being handed to J.

The opulent wedding ring beaded with purple and green diamonds stands out on The Joker’s finger and the smuggler’s eyes get big.

“Oh, you got married Mister Joker?!”

“Yeah, two days ago,” he gets ready to bail since he’s late for his own honeymoon trip to Las Vegas.

“Congratulations!” the guy has nothing better to do than offer his best wishes.

“Why??” J’s mood switches for the worse. “You think I got a good bargain out of it?! I didn’t !! She’s been nagging me for 11 years; I just made it official !”

“I’m sorry Mister Joker,” another wrong reply escapes the dealer’s lips.

“Why are you sorry, hm?” the pissed Prince of Crime raises his voice. “You think I can’t handle my own wife?!”

You are waiting for J next to your car, playing with the bottom of your short summer dress. There was certainly a commotion going on until a few moments ago when the noises stopped; you’re about to check on it but J is coming out of the building, brushing pieces of glass off his clothes.

“What happened?” you inquire.

“I got you a present,” he avoids replying and gives you the booklet.

“What is this?” you open it, confused. Nothing but a bunch of stamps neatly organized inside.

“A stamp collection, Y/N! You always complained that when I brought girls at the Penthouse I said I have a stamp collection to show them when in the matter of fact I didn’t. So I fixed the issue: these are actual stamps I can show them; very valuable: I paid one hundred thousand dollars!” he boasts in front of an annoyed Mrs. Joker.

“No girls, no stamps!” you flip the expensive collection straight into the trash can near you.

“Wha’… What are you doing?!”

“No girls, no stamps!” you repeat, urging him to get in the vehicle.

“How dare you?!“ he has an outburst that you don’t pay attention to. “You’re fired!”

“No I’m not,” you calmly go around the car since you’re the designated driver for the vacation. “Come on, get in,” you reach from the driver’s side to open the other door for him. ”Traffic will be horrible across the Bridge of Angels. We have to leave,” you pat the passenger’s seat and J is hesitating. “You really don’t need that stamp collection; you have me.”

“Pfft,” he huffs and enters the car, not wanting to admit to himself that his work wife is right.

Actually work wife and wife.

No matter what anyone says, now there’s finally no difference.

Also read: MASTERLIST

AO3 account - same blog name: DiYunho

[trendingnewsb]

How Edinburgh changed British comedy – BBC News

Image caption Lee Evans won the top comedy award in Edinburgh in 1993

Comedy did not feature at all when the Edinburgh Fringe began but over the past three decades it has become the “spiritual home” of Britain’s funny folk.

While London lays claim to being the birthplace of “alternative” comedy in the 1980s, it was the Scottish capital where the new generation of comics received their education before transforming British humour.

Image caption Sarah Millican is one of the many stars to have broken through in the past decade

Comedy talent such as Steve Coogan, Lee Evans, Bill Bailey, Alan Davies, Harry Hill, Jo Brand and Al Murray all got their big breaks in Edinburgh.

According to comedy impresario Nica Burns the “golden year” was 1991 when Frank Skinner won the Perrier Award, beating Eddie Izzard, Jack Dee and Paul O’Grady’s character Lily Savage.

Some found fame quickly while others such as Graham Norton and Michael McIntyre slogged away in Edinburgh for years before getting their big break.

Despite constant claims of its imminent demise, the Edinburgh Fringe has continued to be a unique showcase for comedy talent over more than 30 years.

Image caption Jack Dee was nominated for the Edinburgh comedy award in its “golden year”

In more recent times John Bishop, Sarah Millican, Kevin Bridges, Ross Noble, Russell Kane and many others have seen successful Edinburgh runs springboard them to TV fame and arena tours.

Image caption Bridget Christie won the Edinburgh comedy award in 2013

This year’s Fringe features more than 3,000 shows and more than a third are comedy.

That means more than 1,000 comedy acts from all over the world will be in the city during August.

Nica Burns, who took over the Perrier’s, the awards that became synonymous with Edinburgh comedy, says: “When I started with the awards in 1984 I used to personally go and see all the shows. You could not start to do that now.”

Image caption Steve Coogan returned to Edinburgh to present the Edinburgh comedy award in 2013, two decades after winning it

These days she employs a judging panel to go around the 700 eligible comedy acts and make a shortlist for the award, now sponsored by lastminute.com but still coveted by comedians.

Richard Herring, who has appeared in Edinburgh for most of the past 30 years, does not qualify for the comedy award because it does not include people who have already had a TV series.

He broke into TV in the mid-90s with Stewart Lee in Fist of Fun but even though he is a 50-year-old Fringe veteran he says: “Sometimes I’ll be annoyed I’ve not been nominated – then I remember that no judge has seen my show because I’m not eligible.”

The Edinburgh hour

Image caption Richard Herring, here with Arthur Smith in 2011, says the Edinburgh hour was important leap for comedians

Herring says that the Fringe is still the “best arts festival in the world” but it has changed beyond recognition since he first performed in a student revue in 1987.

He says that sketch shows by Oxbridge students such as him were coming in for a lot of stick from the new wave of comedy stand-ups who were starting to see the Fringe as their domain.

They saw it as a place to come for three weeks, hang out with other performers and hone their material.

Herring says one of the major changes that Edinburgh developed was the one-hour comedy show.

Even in the late 1980s it was rare for stand-up comedians to do a full hour-long show on their own and they would often partner up with other performers to fill the Edinburgh hour.

Image caption Nica Burns, seen here in 1993, has been in charge of the comedy awards for 33 years

Nica Burns says: “The Edinburgh Fringe became the learning ground because in the clubs you could only do part of the show.

“You started with a five-minute guest spot, if you were any good you could do 10 minutes and work up to 20 or 30 minutes for the headline act.

“For that jump to a whole show, to be able to play in a larger theatre, to be able to go on the road, you need to develop your material live.

“Comedians suddenly realised that Edinburgh was a fantastic place to come and book yourself a hall.

“That’s the great thing about the Fringe, it’s not curated, so anybody can do it.”

Image caption Simon Munnery has been appearing at the Fringe for 30 years

Comedian Simon Munnery, who has also been performing in Edinburgh for 30 years, says: “The hour-long slot gives you more space to experiment. For most comedians it’s a big step to go from 20 minutes to an hour.

“When you are doing that sort of time there is more pressure to have some sort of theme or to have something to say.”

Fred MacAulay first appeared at the Fringe in 1989 as part of a collective of Scottish comedians called the Funny Farm.

Image copyright Robert Perry

Image caption Fred MacAulay said the move to doing an hour-long show was a big moment for comedian

For his first four Fringes he was part of a composite show with other comedians, taking a bigger time slot each year.

He says: “It is always there very much on the horizon for you as a new stand-up that the target is to do an Edinburgh hour.”

“I always thought it was very much like a skiier,” he says.

“You are skiing on the blue runs but out of the corner of your eye you can seeing a red or a black run and you know ‘I’m going to have to tackle that one day’.”

MacAulay says that a few festivals around the world, such as Melbourne in Australia, have followed Edinburgh’s comedy model but the Fringe remains unique in its scale and scope.

Political movement

Image caption Karen Koren has been running the Gilded Balloon for more than 30 years

Karen Koren was there at the start of Edinburgh’s comedy boom.

She founded the Gilded Balloon venue in 1986, which along with The Pleasance and The Assembly led the 1980s comedy boom.

“I was certainly there at the beginning of the stand-up comedy surge,” says Koren, who set up her first comedy club because her friends were looking for a place to perform “alternative” comedy.

“I blame Margaret Thatcher myself,” she says.

“It was really satirical and political back then.

“Nowadays anything goes but then it was quite serious comedy, with the likes of Mark Thomas and Mark Steel, Jeremy Hardy and Kevin Day. Although there have always been silly performers as well.”

Image caption Alexei Sayle, one of the originators of alternative comedy, is back at the Fringe this year

Nica Burns agrees that the Edinburgh comedy boom was fuelled by acts who were reacting to the politics of the time and Prime Minister Thatcher.

But she says they were also seeking to overthrow the old comedy establishment.

Burns says: “It was a really exciting time because alternative comedy was a political movement.

“For the original comics, such as Alexi Sayle, it was about changing what comedy stood for – no more homophobic, racist or sexist jokes.

“Within a very short time they had run off all the old comics and TV moved into the new era.”

Burns says that the new comedy movement may have begun in London but Edinburgh was the “school for clowns”, where they learned to how to perform.

Comedy around the clock

Image copyright PA

Image caption Al Murray won the Edinburgh comedy award in 1999

Koren quickly went from running one studio theatre with 150 seats to 14 venues of various sizes dotted around the Cowgate.

To maximise use of her spaces Koren wanted comedians to perform day and night.

She says: “I remember that stand-up was always considered to be for the evening.

“No performers wanted to go on before 7pm and they didn’t want to go against each other.

“I had to push that concept to them all. The more the merrier. Think about your own show and what you are doing.”

As well as getting to perform your own show there was another factor that attracted comedians to Edinburgh – the camaraderie.

Munnery says: “It’s wonderful to be in the same place at the same time as all these other people who are in the same sinking boat.”

Funny women

Image copyright PA

Image caption In 2005, Laura Solon was the second woman in 25 years to win the Perrier

For Herring his early appearances are as memorable for the nights out with fellow comedians as they are for his shows.

Koren says: “I started a show called Late ‘n’ Live. It ran from midnight to four in the morning.

“We had the latest licence on the Fringe. It became a place where people came to see other comics die.

“It was where all the comics got drunk and had a great time together. That type of camaraderie that was around then really enhanced it and pushed it forward.

“There was lots of young kids going ‘I want to be like that guy up on stage’.”

Image caption Jenny Eclair was the first solo female winner of the Perrier Award

And it was usually a guy.

Despite Burns and Koren being a strong female presence on the comedy scene they both agree that it was very much a “boy’s club” in the early days.

Burns says: “The number of women doing shows was so small you could count them on one hand at the beginning.

“When it started it was much harder for women.

“There was a real feeling that when a woman came on there was a collective folding of the arms by the audience, and they were saying ‘OK, show us you are funny’.

“The audiences was very male because it involved smoking and drinking as well and quite a lot were above pubs.

“There was nowhere to get changed back stage, certainly nowhere for women, they had to get changed in the toilet. It was a tough environment and a tough way to learn your craft. They had to overcome a lot of hurdles.”

The first women to win the Perrier Award was Jenny Eclair in 1995 and it was another decade before the next, Laura Solon.

However, Burns feels that recent years have seen a breakthrough and women, who still only make up less than a third of comedy performers, do not have to persuade audiences they can be funny any more.

Adventurous audiences

Image caption Ed Bartlam has been running the Underbelly since 2000

Female comedy performers, just like their male counterparts, are cashing in on a comedy boom that has seen more and more of them touring large venues.

As comedy has become big business, festivals have sprung up all over the UK but Edinburgh has maintained its position as the number one place for comedians.

Ed Bartlam, who founded the Underbelly venues in 2000, says: “Edinburgh has been a platform for alternative comedy and that is still the case.

“The Edinburgh audience and the Edinburgh critics are adventurous and they like to see something different. Edinburgh is a great example of a festival that manages to fit both the mainstream and the alternative very nicely.”

Underbelly runs comedy venues on the South Bank in London but it is Edinburgh that acts as a feeder for new talent.

Bartlam says: “In Edinburgh we have got 17 venues ranging in size from 50 seats to 400 seats, therefore we can show lots of different acts at different levels.

“In London we have got two tents and they have both got 400 seats.

“Inevitably it means we are programming shows we think can sell that amount of tickets.

“In Edinburgh we’ve got this broad range of venues so we can programme interesting new material which might only sell 50 seats.

“Edinburgh is so important because it allows those at the beginning of their career to play in small spaces.”

Constantly evolving

Image caption John Kearns started his career on the Free Fringe

Another factor in Edinburgh’s reinvention has been the rise in the Free Fringe over the past decade.

Free Fringe shows, which are predominantly comedy acts in the spare rooms of pubs, allow the audience to watch for free and they are invited to make a contribution at the end.

It is a cheap way of getting to perform on the Fringe and has led to comedy careers for a number of new comedians such as Imran Yusuf and John Kearns.

Herring says his generation of comedians often wonder if they would have made it if there had been the same amount of competition when he was starting out.

He says the current crop of comedians are much more polished and professional than the acts of the 1980s.

“In 1992 I came up with shows I was still writing,” he says.

“By the end of Edinburgh I hoped to have a good show but now you can’t really behave like that. You need top be good on day one.”

Image caption Imran Yusuf has also progressed from the Free Fringe to larger paid venues

He says many comedians these days keep themselves fit and don’t drink.

“The performers from the 1980s and 90s would find that very strange,” he says.

Another major change has been the costs involved.

“It was bit cheaper for everyone in those days – for the punters and for the acts,” Herring says.

He says he has lost thousands of pounds on Edinburgh shows but always hoped to win enough work to make up for it later.

The gig economy

Image caption Russell Kane won the Edinburgh comedy award in 2010

For Fringe veterans such as Koren, whose Gilded Balloon venues were forced to move to the Teviot after a devastating fire in 2002, the peak was in the late 80s and early 90s.

“Now everybody wants to be a star and not everybody is going to become a star,” she says.

Munnery says some aspiring comedians go to extreme lengths to get noticed.

He says: “There are some ridiculous things like huge twice-human size posters for a show and then venue is some portable cabin.

“They are spending more on advertising than they can possibly make back at the box office.

“I used to be with an agent like that,” he says.

“They tell you that you are investing in your future and at some point you have to ask ‘when is my future going to start?’.

Munnery adds: “You basically go to Edinburgh, lose thousands of pounds, spend a year paying it off and then go and do it again.

“It would probably be illegal to be employed on that basis but because you are employing yourself it’s alright. It’s the gig economy, literally.”

Despite the skyrocketing costs of Edinburgh rents and they increased competition for audiences, performers keep coming back year after year.

Herring says: “Even when I’m negative I’ve never said it’s not amazing.

“It’s the best festival in the world and it is an amazing thing to be a part of.

“I’ve spent two years of my adult life in Edinburgh just by coming to the Fringe.

“It’s a phenomenal festival and it’s breath-taking how good the shows are.”

Read more: http://ift.tt/2vBgJkC

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2wwM31k via Viral News HQ