#and halloween is my favorite holiday

[green-cinnamon-stick]

I know I complain about it in the tags a lot, but I can't believe this season of Riverdale might actually be my favorite. I care about the plots, the acting this season is top notch, and the writing (while frustrating and still very riverdale) is actually REALLY good this season. It feels as cohesive as season 1. Riverdale has seemed so scattered lately. In terms of plot, in terms of character arcs, in terms of timeline. And don't get me started on reality vs fantasy and our suspension of disbelief on a LOT. (We're not gonna talk about last season's ridiculous comet superpowers nonsense.)

But this season has been consistent (as far as fiction goes) with the timeline and the character arcs. The drama finally has some depth, due in large to the time period, and they've tackled some pretty big issues. The most I've seen in a *single season. I think if this wasn't the last season, I wouldn't bitch as much. I was kind of hoping they'd let us off easy in the final season and so far I've had to deal with every one of my favorite ships not being together, mostly because of the era and all of the many biases the 1950s had.

[lodium]

New Year will come for me in 4 hours, but still Happy New Year! (wait, maybe there should be The Dawning.. okay. Happy Dawning too)

[pink-glitter]

⌇ 31 DAYS OF AGERE STIMBOARDS! <3

⌇ DAY 4: your favorite holiday! ♥︎

⌇ 🎃 • 🧪 • 🔮 // 🎃 • 🧪 • 🔮 // 🎃 • 🧪 • 🔮

[macfrog]

if patrick bateman were a woman

cowboy like me [bonus chapter]

surprise!! happy halloween!!!! may your day be spooky and your sex be filthy. here's a bonus chapter of clm to celebrate. love y'all !!! despite being cowboy joel and his reader, this is not canon. does not happen in the cowboy like me series. i wish. it's just a little bit of spooky szn fun with my two favorite star-crossed lovers. !!!

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: sarah throws a halloween party. you and joel have a little too much fun.

warnings: as pwp as a macfrog fic can get, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), lil bit titty appreciation, a singular daddy mention, a single slice of degradation, but also praise kink, unprotected piv sex, creampie, it's set on halloween, alcohol consumption, cursing

word count: 4k

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Ice, pretzels, lime juice. Ice, pretzels, lime juice.

I’m giving you one job. Ice, pretzels, lime juice. That’s it.

That sounds like three jobs, you’d said.

Sarah ignored you. Be here at seven, alright? Ice – pretzels – lime juice!

It’s seven thirty. You’re finally on her front porch. The tiny section of bare skin between your stockings and black skirt is pimpled with goosebumps. With each inhale you suck in the sickly-sweet scent of fake blood, splattered across your face. You have a bag of ice slung over one arm, a bag of pretzels balanced on top, a bottle of juice hanging from your fingers and an axe under your elbow.

Only – it’s not lime juice. And the axe is plastic.

Sarah opens the door and spots your blunder instantly. “That’s lemon.”

“I know. They didn’t have any lime.”

“They didn’t have any lime? Where the hell did you go?”

“It’s Halloween, Sarah. Everybody and their fucking grandma is drinking tonight. Lemon tastes the exact –”

“Ah!” She holds a finger up. Her red cape flutters in the breeze. “It does not taste the same. Otherwise, why would it be two separate things?”

“Hey, Wonder Woman,” you drone, “mind letting me in? I’m fucking freezing.”

She scoffs, and steps aside. Mutters, “’s not the same thing,” as you pass.

You click down the hall, head rolling to check out her decorating. The living room and kitchen are lit by constellations of tiny tealights, flickering and blinking and casting tall, warped shadows across the walls. There’s a purple neon sign sat against the wall that reads Spooky. By the fireplace sit the two pumpkins she and her boyfriend carved last night; she’d sent you photos and asked you to pick a winner. When you chose the Iron Man head over the silhouette of Tinkerbell, she sent back a middle finger emoji.

Y: It’s cleaner cut. What do you expect? Shoddy work, Miller.

S: asshole.

Sarah’s slotting the ice into the freezer. Struggling, by the sound of it. You swing back into the kitchen to find Wonder Woman on her ass, hammering her fist against the frozen pack to fit it in.

You’re about to offer help, when someone else does it for you. Someone lower, gravellier. A voice like thunder in the distance, a storm approaching.

“You need a hand?” he asks, and when you turn, you almost drop your fucking axe.

He glances to you as he emerges from the dark hallway, the warm glow licking at his graying flicks of hair, nestling in the deep-set lines on his face. His eyes dart down to where your fingers now clutch the plastic handle, holding it against the hem of your skirt like it’ll do anything to cover your modesty.

Your modesty, meaning – the line of sexy black lace curling around your thighs, snug against the supple skin.

What the fuck are you doing here? you mouth, as Joel paces across the kitchen towards his daughter.

He shrugs, palms outstretched. It’s my house?

You roll your eyes, run your tongue like lightning across your scarlet lips. Sarah straightens up, huffs hair from her face and stares blankly at Joel.

He bends, takes the entire bag in one huge palm, and reorganizes the drawer with the other. Your eye drifts to his bicep, flexing under the tight seam of a dark tee. The bag of ice cradled in his arm leaves weak little droplets, running down the tan skin to the crook of his elbow. You want to fucking lick them up, gather the frozen beads on your tongue, hike up up up to the curve of his shoulder, the crook of his neck, the –

“Hey.” Sarah clicks her fingers in front of your face. “You hearin’ me?”

“Huh? No, yeah. No. I wasn’t lis– What did you say?”

She sighs again. Joel groans as he pushes off his knee and stands tall behind her. Wipes the water from his arm with one swipe of his palm.

“Would you put these in a bowl?” his daughter asks, shoving the bag of pretzels into your suited chest. She shuffles off, announcing she’s going to pick a playlist for the night.

Suited is perhaps giving you too much credit. You’re in a mini skirt and waistcoat, a red tie slung loose around your neck. You’ve a clear poncho draped over your shoulders, but with the heat from the million and one fucking candles – and the flush that the forty-something-year-old with his wide frame and fitted sweatpants and toned chest and his big fucking hands has cast over you – it’ll soon be discarded to the newel post.

But when you reach up for the bowl on the top shelf of the cabinet, pushing forward with a palm on the countertop, the marble digging into your pelvis and forcing your ass to jut out – you think yourself pretty fucking smug to be in a skirt that hugs your cheeks and not much else.

You turn, the lip of the bowl in your fingers, and smile sweetly at Joel, whose gaze returns north as you approach him.

“You got nothin’ better to do with your night than babysit a bunch of twenty-five-year-olds?” you murmur, spilling the bag into the blue bowl. You place a pretzel on your tongue, humming at the taste.

Joel smiles, popping the cap off his beer. He spills the amber liquid into his mouth. “I’ll be in my room.”

Your eyebrows lift. “That so? You need any company in there?”

“Nope. Rangers game is on. I’ll be busy.”

The words ghost across your lips. You’ll be busy, you breathe. Joel nods. Then looks you up and down.

“American Psycho?”

“What?”

He flicks his wrist up and down your figure. “What’s his name, again? Pat–”

“Patrick Bateman,” you say together. You nod.

“That’s the one.” Then he turns, leans his jaw nearer until his lips line with your ear. Your eyes shoot across to the empty doorway. Sarah’s skipping song after song in the living room.

Joel’s finger slips beneath the lace trim of your stockings, tugging gently. “I don’t remember ‘im in these, though,” he says, voice low.

You gulp. Swallow to push your heart back into place. “Well,” you glance down, lifting your thigh closer to him, “if he were a woman, he woulda dressed like this.”

“That’s somethin’ I’d like to see,” Joel murmurs, eyes locked on the place where lace separates from skin.

“Yeah?”

He nods. Growls, “Yeah.”

And then he’s walking away.

Within an hour, the house is jumping. Literally. Almost.

You sit at the kitchen island, sipping on a beer, staring down the hall at the sea of bodies – of nylon and polyester, of purples and oranges, of headbands and props and cloaks and hats. There are a lot more than forty people here – a lot more than Sarah intended to turn up.

A lot more than you know, too. She’s barely even four years younger than you, but most of these kids look like they just walked out of middle school. Of the handful of faces you recognize, one is sat opposite you, his arm draped over Sarah’s shoulder, her hand locked in his. She and Ty have been dating for a year now, surviving long-distance when she jets back off to school every few months.

The other you know, unfortunately for you, is swaying by your side. Leaning a little too heavily into you. Asking you questions about college, and then talking over your answers to tell you stories about his college. Asking you questions about films you like, and then interrupting to gawk at the titles you reel off. The only times he doesn’t jump in over your answer, are the times he’s asking who you think might win in a fight between prime Mike Tyson and prime Muhammad Ali. And that’s only because you don’t have an answer to give him.

Jace. Ty’s best friend. Fucking – loser.

“And who the fuck are you s’posed to be, anyways?” he asks, slinging a heavy arm over your shoulder. He reeks of beer, warm and stale. His jaw’s swinging, cheeks popping and suckling on a shriveled piece of gum.

You scowl, shrugging the uncomfortable weight from the nape of your neck. “Patrick Bateman,” you mutter.

“Who?”

“Christian Bale. You know, when he –” Sarah mimes lifting an axe over her shoulder, takes a swing through the air, across the island to Jace.

“No fucking idea,” he says, shaking his head. You’re not surprised.

“Where’s your axe?” Ty asks, as Sarah nuzzles back into his side.

You shrug. “Saw someone using it to stir the punch earlier. ‘s probably in the toilet or something.”

He laughs, flashing his dimpled cheeks. He’s got glistening eyes beneath long, black eyelashes. He’s handsome. Sharp jaw, full lips. Sarah links her fingers at his side, plants her cheek against his shoulder. She’s comfortable. She’s safe. Your chest warms at the sight.

He squeezes her arm, and they share a meaningful glance before there’s a yell from across the kitchen, and their attention is diverted.

When they turn to watch two of Sarah’s high school friends sword-fighting, wielding a plastic lightsaber and your axe, you slink off, swiping two beers from the fridge. Swift and silent, you scale the stairs and fade into the darkened hallway at the top, in pursuit of your own dark-eyed, sharp-jawed comfort.

The sliver of light at the end of the hall draws you in, footsteps silent along the soft carpet. Up here, tucked away in the corner of the house, far from the rattling music and rumble of boisterous chatter – you can hear the soft roar of a crowd, the crack of ball against bat.

Your hip nudges the door open, trickle of condensation running over your knuckles. Joel’s eyes are already on you. He’s laying on his bed, legs outstretched, knee cocked. One arm lies idly on his thigh. You get the feeling he shifted it quickly when he saw the door move.

He balances his chin on the end of the remote, purses his lips and lifts his head. “Now,” he mumbles, “you’re s’posed to be downstairs.”

You shrug, holding the bottles up. “Thought you might need a top-up.”

His eyes thin. He sits up straight, swings his legs over the edge of the bed. You come to a stop between his knees, holding the beer down to him. He hums, taking it with his eyes locked on yours.

“Thanks, darlin’,” he says, and his eyes begin to drift down.

You tilt your head back at the same time he does, lifting the lip of your own bottle. The cold drink washes over your tongue, bitter and blunt in its taste, leaving a furry feeling on your gums. When your chin lowers again, Joel’s hand is on the back of your thigh.

He’s staring at the two knolls between you – your breasts round, nipples peaking under the tight waistcoat.

“Welcome,” you reply, swirling the liquid around in the curved glass. Your voice is barely there. But he hears you, and he must hear the want laced deep through that one quiet word, because he instantly slides his beer onto his nightstand.

He curves both hands around your thighs, fingers lifting higher and higher between your legs until they’re crossing over lace and onto bare skin.

You shuffle forward, leaning your arms on his shoulders and propping your knees on the bed either side of his body. Your skirt rides up, exposing the shard of shocking red lace beneath the pinstripe material.

Joel sees it. Like it’s a rag and he’s a bull. It charges something deep inside him. Something that awakens beneath the thin line of fabric between your legs.

You can feel your pulse in your clit. Fluttering, fucking – hammering. Your cunt feels painfully empty, clenching around nothing. Joel’s palms surf across the tops of your thighs until his fingers are teetering along the hem of your skirt.

“Off,” he instructs, swatting the poncho away.

You shake it from your shoulders the same way you shook the blond downstairs off. Joel nods as the material crumples to the floor. He hooks a hand under your knee and yanks your body closer to his. You almost throw the beer bottle across his bed.

“J– fucking hell, my –”

“Shut up,” he clips, and grabs the beer from your grasp to deposit it alongside his own.

His hands find the tiny buttons of your waistcoat, fingers slip through the gaps between them where your skin peeks through. You can feel his hot breath on your chest. A wave of need washes over you, a desire from deep within your marrow to feel him everywhere. His breath, his tongue, his hands. All of him.

Your entire body weight rests on his shoulders, your fingers locking his shirt in two tight fists. Joel doesn’t seem to mind. Barely seems to notice. He pulls apart the first button, watches with a dark gaze as your breasts spill over. The second button pops open easily, and they bounce lower. When he unhooks the third, they drop into place, nipples pointed, welcoming him in between them.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he whispers as he leans in, mouth flattening against the smooth skin between them. “No bra or nothin’.”

“Knew you’d be here,” you reply, head rolling back as he licks a trail across to the darker flesh of your nipple. His lips close around it and he suckles gently. Your nails dig into his scalp.

He pushes the waistcoat over your shoulders and it drops to the carpet, pooled inside the shell of poncho. As soon as it falls, his hands begin the climb up the seam of your thigh, resting on the brush of red – where he feels the quickly dampening mark on the fabric.

“Thought as much,” he says, head cocking to watch your expression warp as he rubs slow circles into your clit. His voice is as soft as his touch, innocent almost, when he asks, “She like that?”

“Ye-ah,” you choke, leaning back.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and uses his other hand to fish beneath his sweatpants. He rubs himself under the gray cotton, watches as your fingers clutch at the waistband to tug it down, releasing him.

His heavy cock springs up between your bodies, dabs precome on the pointed tail of your tie. You giggle, loosening the knot and pulling the thin silk over your head. Your hands wrap around him, twisting and pumping and dragging the milky arousal from his slit down the smooth, warm skin. Joel’s breath catches when your thumbs swipe across his head.

His fingers slip behind your knees and pull them apart, pull them wider on the mattress. You lean forward, chest brushing against his parted lips, taking your panties in one hand and guiding him along your slit with the other.

You cover him in your arousal, the veined skin soon slick and pearlescent. His wide head slips between your opening, notching against your entrance and forcing the breath from your lungs.

His hands sit firmly on your waist, pushing down on your hips, pushing and pushing until he sinks snug into your cunt. When he pauses, his mouth agape and eyes stuck on the sight of his body connecting to yours, you whine.

“More,” you mewl, voice dripping with need, drizzling all over him.

“We gotta –”

“More.”

“Baby,” Joel says, voice flat but crumbling. “We gotta go slow. I’m gonna – You’re gonna make me come, dressed like that, if we go too quick.”

But fuck, you want to feel him. Want him to buck his hips and fill you in one go – fuck the pain. Fuck the discomfort, fuck the way your walls would clamp in a vice grip around him. You want him to fuck you. Want to be fucked so good that you have to time your moaning with the bassline of the music downstairs, unable to contain the sounds in your throat. Fucked so good that you waddle out of the room, that you fling yourself back onto the couch and wince in pain, a sharp memory of the breadth of him shooting between your legs.

Your hips circle, the heat of your cunt swirling around and around on his tip. He groans, hands tightening on your waist to hold you still.

“Stop it, darlin’,” he growls, the words clawing from between his teeth.

“F-fuck me, then,” you moan, curling your back to slowly edge down on him.

“Ask nicer.”

You smile, heavy lids falling closed. “Please?”

His hands roam around the curve of your ass. He starts to push again. “Nicer.”

Your mouth opens wider the further he slides into you. The more he claims of your body, the further you open for him, the warmer your welcome. Your head tips back, eyes tighten until you see stars. When you feel a weight around your neck, you flutter your lashes open, blink the cyan-colored sparkles from your vision.

Joel pulls your jaw back down to face him. Squeezes on your pulse, holding you between his middle finger and thumb.

“Nicer,” he demands.

You lean in, small hands linking around his thick wrist. “Fuck me, please, daddy,” you whisper.

And he smiles like a fucking devil. Eyes drawn black like ink. He pulls you in until your chin brushes against the rough bristle of his own, lines his bottom lip with yours.

Into your mouth, he asks, “You think you can take it, babygirl? Think it’ll fit?”

You nod desperately, anchoring yourself on his wrist. “Know it will.”

He’s only halfway in. Your heartbeat is thudding around your body, focusing hardest on your clit. Your hips move again, and Joel allows it, sitting back to watch as you sink down further.

“Go on,” he says, watching your body slowly attach to his, “’f you think you can do it. Be a big girl ‘n take it. Slow.”

Something caught between a laugh and a whimper drags between your painted lips – something dripping in desire, built from a need to prove yourself to him, to take all of him inside your body, to feel him in the deepest parts of yourself. You push on him, loosen his grip around your neck and flatten your palms on his chest. And you curve your back, pushing him deeper.

“’s my girl,” Joel says, quietly, as if to himself. “This what you wanted? Comin’ up here, dressed like that?”

Your teeth hold onto your bottom lip. “Like what?” you purr, leaning forward until your noses brush.

Joel tips his chin up, lips flush against yours. “Like a little fuckin’ slut.”

You laugh weakly, feeling him finally in his entirety. “Fuck.”

Joel’s hands take your waist, pushing you down until the pain sends bolts of lightning across your vision. The bruising feeling of his head against your cervix. The sweet stretch of your skin opening around his.

“Beggin’ for it, weren’t ya? ‘n now look, you can’t hardly take it.”

“I can take it,” you hiss back, bracing yourself on the mattress. Your hips lift, holding onto him, bouncing up and down steadily. “I can take it,” you repeat, like a mantra, like the only thing keeping you in the room still. The only thing reminding your body to keep moving.

Joel holds a palm steady against the bottom of your stomach, rubs his thumb delicately against your skin. “So deep, baby. ‘m so fuckin’ deep inside you. That feel nice?”

The meat of your ass slaps against the tops of his thighs. You’re quickening, eyes screwing shut. He feels so good. Fills you up so fucking good. Your legs start to loosen, knees weakening the more you fuck yourself on him. Your head drops between your shoulders when his thumb lowers, circles gently at your clit.

“Keep – keep doing that. Fuck, Joel – touch me. Keep touching me.”

“’boutta come, ain’t you?”

“Sh-shut up.”

“Yeah,” he says, “she’s about to come.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, hips rolling now, losing rhythm between the split of his cock inside you and the lull of his thumb on your clit. Your back arches, vision begins to blur. Your lungs close in on themselves as you give one final gasp to the ceiling, and let go.

Your walls clamp hard around him, and in one swift movement, your bodies are flipped. When you open your eyes again, you’re on your back, Joel’s figure towering over you.

“’attagirl,” he mutters, palms flat against the underside of your thighs. He pushes them flat, folding you in two, your knees resting by your shoulders. “So close, darlin’. Ain’t gonna last.”

You’re shaking your head, holding onto his neck, thighs trembling. “I – can’t, Joel.”

“Yeah, you can. You can,” he assures, dipping his head to place his lips on yours. Your mouth opens up for him, tongue falls against his own. It’s barely a kiss – you’re licking at one another, sure, but there’s nothing tender or gentle about it. Joel pulls away only to glance down and guide himself back inside you. “Gonna be my good girl, aren’t you? Gonna make me come.”

With one seamless thrust, he’s back inside you, pressing your legs harder against your torso. You whine, a blur of pain and pleasure mixing where he fucks you.

“Good girl,” he says, tongue skimming along his top lip. “Nice ‘n wide, that’s it.”

Your back arches into him, arms tighten around his neck, lips settle curved around his own. You’re moaning, his name releasing itself from your mouth in shots of breath. Joel takes your knee and hooks it over his shoulder, letting the other fall to his hip. The angle forces him deeper. Deeper and harder.

But he’s starting to jump. Bucking randomly. He’s panting your name, teeth grazing against your neck in attempt to hold on just a little longer, feel you squeeze him a little more.

“You’re close,” you slur.

“’m close,” he says.

“Gonna come in me –?”

“Baby –”

“– ’n send me – ah – back downstairs full of you? Runnin’ outta me?”

Joel’s head shakes. His eyes tighten. “Fuck, darlin’. Dirty fuckin’ mouth.”

“C’mon,” you beg, “give it to – m-me.”

His hips hammer against yours, punching against the edge of your cunt harshly. You sob out, nails digging into his shoulders, until he halts, and you feel the warmth of him spurting deep inside your body. Feel the way he tenses, empties, and stills.

Your head falls back against the mattress. Joel’s still nuzzled against your neck, breathing labored, lips soaking wet against your skin. You sift your fingers through his hair, combing through it as he comes to.

His chest rocks against yours. Feeling starts to sharpen again, the orgasmic haze starting to bleed into the past. The walls of the house thud with the music from downstairs. You feel the weight of his body on top of yours again.

“Up,” you groan, pushing on his shoulders.

Joel scoffs, pushing against the mattress and rolling over beside you. He slips out, his spend seeping out and spilling onto your thigh.

Your fingers intertwine with his by your side, your nails scrawling into his knuckles.

“I miss you, when you ain’t around,” Joel whispers, glossy eyes blinking at the ceiling. “I’m bored up here.”

You roll onto your side, run your fingers over the halo of sweat around the collar of his shirt. “Good think I ain’t far, then. ‘m only downstairs.”

He smiles. “Downstairs is too far.”

You lean over him and place a soft kiss on his rough cheek. “Just have to keep you at my hip then, don’t I?”

His head turns and his lips find yours. He cups the globe of your head, pulls you harder against his jaw, runs his tongue along your teeth. When you pull away, you shift the damp hair from his glistening forehead.

“You ruined my tie, by the way,” you tell him. “The hell am I supposed to say that is?”

Joel shrugs. “If Patrick Bateman were a woman, ‘n all that.”

[k4pp4-8]

I love my lil' special limited edition Darrell collection

[the-plushie-friendships]

Roleplay Starter: Halloween Wonders

*It’s the time of the spooks, scares, horror movies and games, costumes and more! It is the month of October, also known as Spooky Month! Which mean, people are putting spooky decorations outside their houses, scary movies are popping up everywhere and tricks made to scare are more common then ever.*

*To say Ames wasn’t a fan of this month would be an understatement, this was one of her least favorite months. Everything was so scary and all the decorations looked so real and like they could just come to life at any moment and get her, she didn’t understand what was so fun about an entire month where all everyone did was scare each other and be big meanie heads. Though, she did like that she could wear big, comfy sweaters, and being able to get spooky new plushies, those were two, if not, the only two positive thing about this month she had.*

*Perhaps Ames needs to see just what makes October so special, maybe show her all the new treats that she could get, or maybe tell her about Halloween and how fun that is! There’s so many things you can tell me! And maybe, just maybe. Her thoughts on this month will change*

@ask-the-kitty-crew @ask-paradox-and-friends @ariaacrossthemultiverse @mikado-sannoji @boba-bae-cafe-su-au @hoshi-neko-hikari @ravensroleplays @julieisasimp @craftyjellyfishcatrplog @sun-and-moon-sb @floxy-offical @minusgangtime @the-arcade-doctor @enlightened-darkened-flames @mrcookiesir @rxnowned-vxmpire-hxnter @thecloudsofficalreborn @polygonsblog @anyone else

[dave-me0wstaine]

i'm thinking about bad boy! dave who uses scary movies as an excuse to grope his innocent girlfriend, who's absolutely terrified of them. or any movies, really. he'll watch anything with you if it means you'll curl up in his arms and he's able to run his hands along your breasts, feigning as if he's playing with your hair, or along the slope of your ass, drawing shapes and "accidentally" squeezing your flesh.

and tonight, halloween night, is no different. as always, dave's snuck through your window while your parents sleep away in their room, unaware of his presence. he's brought along a couple of new slasher movies he's rented from the video store for the special holiday. he's almost vibrating with excitement as he comes through the window, and you think it's due to the excitement of the holiday, but really, dave's horny, and he knows he's about to get his hands on you.

it isn't long before the two of you are cuddled up on your pink bed, surrounded by a few of your stuffies, his arm wrapped around your waist and playing with the hem of your frilly tank top. after a particularly bad scare, you hide your face in dave's neck, whimpering at the sight of blood across your tv screen. you feel dave's hand slither underneath your top, his warm hand soothing the goosebumps that rise on your skin.

"s'okay, baby," he purrs, smoothing his hand against your side, fingers trailing dangerously close to the side of your bra. "d'you want me to turn it off?"

he feels your head shake in response, and he simply chuckles in response. you always do this whenever you two watch a scary movie; you always end up terrified, but refuse to turn the movie off.

now, you're laid on top of him, your chest pressed to his, his fingers now ghosting the clip of your bra. another scare, and again you cower into his neck. dave shifts to kiss the top of your head, and gently unclips your bra, and smooths his fingers across the indentations it left behind.

"davie?" you whisper, confused. he's always liked touching you during a movie, you knew that, but always chocked it up to him being affectionate. this, however, was bold of him.

"shh, just turn a bit for me," he says, shifting your body to where you're laying on your side, so that he has access to your breasts. he begins kneading the flesh of one of your breasts, occasionally rolling your nipple between his fingers.

"hey," he says, taking his hand away from your breast to lift your head out of the crook of his neck, "keep watchin' the movie, okay? it's almost over."

you nod your head, but it's hard to focus when he's playing with you like this. eventually, you feel his other hand slide down between your legs, groping your pussy through your panties. he rubs hard circles around your clit, making you squirm and try to close your thighs around his hand.

all of a sudden, dave shifts, moving to hover over you. he leans down and gives you a deep kiss to your lips, and it's only then that you realize that the movie has ended, and is now playing the credits.

as he's kissing you, dave spreads your legs and pulls your panties to the side. as he pulls away from you, he rubs the underside of your thighs, admiring you laid out underneath him.

"did so good, baby, watching that movie like a big girl." his eyes trail down to your glistening heat, to your innocent doe eyes looking up at him. he rubs a calloused thumb against your clit, and revels in your breath hitching and your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks.

"how about i reward you for being so good, yeah?"

[sketchycerberus]

Two besties shopping 🖤

[artist-issues]

Halloween is coming!

Imagine what it must've been like to see the first autumn. Everything changes color, and you get to harvest what you've been working so hard at—but maybe you discover that in some places you did it wrong, or poorly, and you don't get to harvest as much. And then, horror of horrors, those plants you worked so hard on appear to die. They drop all those beautiful leaves or their brilliant colors start to turn to brown.

And it gets colder, and the nights come faster. Imagine being a person seeing that change for the first time, and going, "this is it. This is the curse. This is horrible." And you cling to like your wheat or your corn that you harvested as it gets colder and you wonder if you have enough, because the plants are dead, there's no more to get, and it's only getting darker and colder.

Makes the first (second?) spring even more wonderful!

I don't know theologically if that's how it happened. But no wonder Autumn comes around and you have this dichotomy in the human response: celebration and thankfulness for what you have, versus fear and awareness of death as everything around you fades into winter and darkness. Did you make the most of your time? Did you make the right choices and sow the right seeds? Any little slip up is life or death, and death is everywhere, inescapable like the consequences of your actions—but actually, not inescapable. Not undefeatable. Because there's such a thing called grace. It's not all down to you. There is a God who gives gifts you didn't sow, didn't deserve, in the darkest time of year. (Hello, Christmastime!) So when the monsters come out you can go, "yeah but you won't win!"

Something something Halloween.

[marbletheunworthy]

hm hm hmm. can i request. hermie and normal dressed as barbie and ken for halloween?

I decided to do the rodeo outfits because they looked fun to draw (they were not) but Yay! Halloween Oakworthy as Barbie and Ken

[soaps-mohawk]

A healthy “fuck you” to that Anon making fun of PTSD and trauma. Not to rant but Ghost is an extremely comforting character to me, and seeing someone laugh at a very real depiction of how PTSD manifests shows that we still have a long way to go with mental health and awareness. There is a difference between dark humor and being so deeply disturbed that killing and slaughter is funny to you. I’m still learning how to cope and acknowledge my mental health without shoving it down, much like Ghost.

Anyways, love your story and I’m super excited to read the next chapter! Quick question, and if you’ve answered it I’m very sorry, but what is the pack’s opinions on halloween and would they dress up with reader?

Yeah, mental health acceptance and understanding has made leaps and bounds compared to what it used to be, but there's still a long way to go. I've gotten a few responses/asks/comments where I just knew there was a wild misinterpretation of the story due to a lack of understanding of mental health. It plays a vital role in not just the characters storylines but also in the overarching plot of the story. Hell, I've even talked about the metaphor and comparison between how omegas are treated in this universe and how those with mental health struggles are treated in ours. (There's other metaphors in there as well, but that's a different conversation)

So yeah, I agree. Making fun of someone's trauma is fucked up and someday you'll face the ramifications of those decisions. Be it karma or real-life consequences, or even better, both.

It's so hard learning to acknowledge and accept mental health struggles. I get it, I've been on that journey for years and I've been going through a lot of that this year too. It's so hard and so many people have no sympathy for it because they have a severe lack of understanding.

Anyway, on to the happy.

I think Johnny and Kyle love Halloween, and of course the reader does too. They put up decorations, buy far more candy than they can eat themselves, dress up (usually in matching costumes with a theme). They go all in with scary movies and make it a big party

I think Simon secretly enjoys it because it's like the one day he can wear his mask and not have anyone say anything stupid about it 🤭 he even gets compliments. After the reader joins them, he's a bit more openly excited, and may even be convinced to join in on the costumes.

I dont think John really cares one way or another, he participates because it makes the kids happy 😂 let's himself be dressed up and watches horror movies with them, and eats candy until his teeth hurt. Definitely more of a savory kind of guy.

[gatorgrumbles]

My Halloween costume is so cute I had to draw it. Why can’t I be this every day

[dreammeiser]

IT IS THE SEASON FOR SPOOKING!! My friends had the brilliant idea of making matching Halloween icons of our Dreamalong characters on instagram, so I indulged and made a Ghost Host Archie! He looks quite dashing in the suit he was buried in, I think!

[foresttdreams]

as a past mr.love queens choice player I need the new love and deepspace players to understand that the company used to go all out for halloween and christmas in mr.love so u need to HOARD your gems

[dailydemonspotlight]

Day 11 - Pyro Jack / Jack-o'-lantern

Race: Fairy

Alignment: Neutral

April 3rd, 2024

On the streets at night in the cold, deep darkness, a candle flickers. You know this means only one thing. Hallow's eve is right around the corner. Introducing the second of the Jack Bros, Pyro Jack!

In Ireland since the 1700's, it's been a tradition to put up Jack-o'-lanterns as the month errs towards Halloween, inspired by the legend of a man known as 'Stingy Jack.' According to the story, there was a tricky drunk in an Irish town with the name Jack, a man who would sell a soul for six silver coins or break into a bank in order to fuel his ever-growing reliance on booze. He was hated, by even the heavens itself, yet soon he found himself at death's door. That is when the Devil came to him, to see if he was truly as terrible as the stories painted him out to be.

One night, Jack wandered the cobblestone roads before coming to a dreadful sight- a body, laying smack-dab in the center of the road. However, it had a face not of death, but rather, devilish envy, as the Devil himself made his presence known. Jack had one last request, one typical of a drunkard- to get one last drink in before the end. The Devil obliged, likely finding it foolish, and took him to a pub, where they both drank the night away. Jack, then, asked the Devil to cover his tab. His idea? To turn the beast into a silver coin. Impressed by his trickiness, the Devil did as asked... only to be slipped into a pocket with a crucifix, held captive by slippery Jack, who had now fucked with the devil himself. Baffled and trapped, the two made a deal- Jack would be given 10 more years on the earth.

Unsurprisingly, when the time came, Jack yet again tricked the Devil, and was granted eternal recompense, as the Devil was forced to make him never go to hell. Ever. When Jack's time came, however, his life of deceit and fraud only gave him a ticket out of Heaven's pearly gates, and the Devil wasn't one to give up on a deal either, so he was eventually forced back to earth, forever to roam as a lost spirit held alive by the flickering light of a lantern within a turnip. Ever since, Jack-o'-lanterns have been a popular tradition of Halloween, originally starting as incredibly freaky looking rutabagas before eventually changing to the far more iconic autumn fruit of a pumpkin.

The idea behind the lighting of the Jack-o'-lanterns is scarcely known, but it's mostly thought to be a tradition to help guide Stringy Jack along the roads and to help his soul find peace in his eternal roaming of the plains of earth.

Pyro Jack, unsurprisingly, is based on Jack-o'-lanterns, though mostly in his pumpkin head. The lantern he carries is likely an allusion to Stringy Jack, lighting the way for his soul to wander aimlessly in the megaten world. Being the second Jack Brother, Pyro Jack is also his counterpart, representing the flame to Jack Frost's ice. Pyro Jack is also based on the phenomenon of Will-o'-wisps, flickering lights that appear in the dead of night with no real explanation, typically around swampland and forests.

He typically appears in every SMT game, mostly as an early game demon, as well as a component to his big brother, Black Frost. Overall, Pyro Jack has a fun and festive Halloween design, some really fun folklore, and, while simple, works as a perfectly effective little spooky spirit in the smt series.

[maryjaneszombies-blog]

Maybe Halloween will make things a little better