#i hardly have icons at all i hope it's cool

[cadavercowboy]

You'll Ache To Know My Name

Pairing: Art The Clown x Reader

Summary: Your Halloween night is about to take the spookiest turn of all: having an interaction with a man. Lucky for you, along comes a mysterious clown who won't stand for some loser preying on an innocent, unsuspecting woman. Because that's his job.

Word Count: 11.1k+

Warnings: Explicit content (18+ only). Attempted sexual assault. Violence. Blood. Needles. Drugging. Kidnapping. Torture & dismemberment. Murder. Dubious consent. Oral sex. Overstimulation. Blood kink. Spit kink. Forced orgasm. Fingering. Unprotected sex. Creampie.

A/N: Bad news for everyone...I'm not afraid to admit how badly I wanna fuck the circus boy. Haven't been able to see the third film yet, so I am lashing out in anger by writing this. :) Happy day after Halloweenie!

(Worth noting that this deviates pretty significantly from my personal perception of Art's character (David himself said that he sees him as an asexual creature and unfortunately, I agree :-( but a girl can dream) so this was really just an exercise in self-indulgence with a heaping side of very sick delusion! Hope you enjoy and if not...don't care, didn't ask xoxo)

The steel door slams shut behind you and the cool night air engulfs your overheated skin, prompting you to throw your head back and breathe a sigh of relief. Your shoulders finally fall from where they had spent all night practically tucked up next to your ears so that you can stretch the tight muscles of your neck. Even the glass and a half of straight liquor hadn’t been enough to ease the stress of being packed like a sardine into a hot room full of drunken, rowdy people. 

Your costume — a torn and tattered white slip, hardly reminiscent of the gown worn by Elsa Lanchester in the original Bride Of Frankenstein film — had been chosen last-minute, without comfort in mind. It itches now and clings annoyingly to your damp skin. The hem falls at your knee and the bust is held up with only two thick straps. A cheap, two-toned wig drapes over your scalp and though the long, wavy strands aren’t technically accurate, they’ve gotten the job done. With some decent makeup and a few neat sutures drawn across your throat in eyeliner, you’ve managed enough hallmarks of the iconic character for your costume to be recognizable.

The moon is high and full above you, casting an appropriately spooky glow on the shiny synthetic fabric of your dress. You yank the wig from your head — sick of the way the tight elastic band is beginning to give you a headache — and chuckle to yourself, hoping the hazy beams of moonlight won’t bring a beastly werewolf across your path. Your shoes thud with tired steps down the vacant sidewalk and you’re feeling exactly like the doctor’s stitched-up and reanimated sweetheart. The Halloween party was admittedly fun, but you’re ready to get home and climb into your cozy bed.

A breeze blows, gusting past your bare limbs and sending a slight chill through your body. All the sweat drying on your skin makes the wind feel colder than it actually is. You wrap your arms around your middle and check both ways before crossing an empty intersection. The city street is uneven beneath your feet and you’ve only just stepped onto the adjacent curb when the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. At first, you pay it no mind, but when the muffled sound of steady footfalls emerges from behind, you instinctively turn your head.

Over your shoulder and a short distance away, you spot a man strolling down the sidewalk. His hands are tucked casually into the pockets of a brown leather jacket, however his eyes are pinpointed directly on you. Goosebumps raise across your flesh, having little to do with the night’s dropping temperature. Hoping to avoid an unwanted interaction, you duck your head and pick up the pace, your calves burning as you stride with purpose. 

“Hey, Frankie!” the man calls.

You’re unsure how he’s able to discern your spooky get-up in the dark, wondering if perhaps he recognizes you from the party. He certainly isn’t the hypothetical werewolf you were afraid of, but undoubtedly a predator just the same. You steadfastly ignore him and keep your steps swift in the hopes that he takes the hint. Much to your disappointment, he does not. Dread settles low in your belly; not borne of fear, but rather disgust. His voice is much closer when he yells again which — paired with what he believes to be a clever come-on — raises your hackles and puts you on the defensive.

“Wanna come tighten my nuts and bolts, baby?”

Rolling your eyes, you begrudgingly halt and set your teeth on edge, prepared to use your bitchiest voice to correct the idiot and let him know it was actually Frankenstein's monster who sported steel bolts on the sides of his neck, not his bride. But when you wheel around and come face to face with the man, the words die in your throat. More specifically, they’re caught behind your bared teeth when the pig has the audacity to grab hold of your backside to admire your pretty dress and ponder what material it’s made from.

“Get the fuck off me!” you snarl in a voice that sounds foreign to your own ears.

Utilizing the only mechanism of defense you currently possess, you whip your wig in his direction. The acrylic strands snap harshly across his face and while the accompanying utterance of pain is satisfying, you’ve clearly angered him. He grabs ahold of your other arm and twists it painfully behind your back. You writhe in his grasp and try to reach around to claw at him, but the damned wig is tangled in the stupid Victorian-style ring you’re wearing and your fingers are buried uselessly within the plasticky tresses as he shoves you further down the sidewalk.

“Stupid bitch,” he barks, spittle flying from his lips as you struggle against one another. “Learn to take a compliment.”

Even with your feet planted, you fail to impede his progress as the man wrangles your body towards the mouth of a dark alley. Though the streets are woefully empty this time of night, there’s at least a chance that someone may see or hear you; if he maneuvers you into the shadows, you’re screwed. 

The pair of you stumble between two buildings, the massive structures blocking the glow of the moon and blanketing you in disorienting darkness. He continues dragging you along until the alley splits into an open area which contains a rancid-smelling dumpster and several piles of discarded rubbish. You’re slammed painfully into a wall moments before a grimy hand crawls its way up your dress and between your thighs. 

“Come on. With an outfit like this, you’re pretty much asking for it.”

Just like that, you’re seething. Your rage and fear meld into one powerful amalgamation of force and you manage to twist hard enough to knock you both off balance. You come down hard into a mountain of garbage and your combined weight slams into a half-rotted wooden pallet; its slats are splintered and it boasts several exposed nails. One nail in particular — bent at a rather unfortunate angle — catches your arm as you fall and you can feel the sharp point split your skin from your wrist all the way to your elbow. Blood spills from the wound almost immediately, though the searing pain is of little consequence when your assailant promptly locks both of his hands around your throat, effectively cutting off your airway.     

Choking and spluttering as you fight for breath, you kick uselessly at the heaviness of the violent man on top of you. He has you pinned to the ground in such a way that your legs can gain no purchase to get him off. Your eyes feel ready to burst out of your skull and your hands scramble across the buttery leather encasing arms which vibrate with exertion as he ventures to squeeze the life out of you.

When your vision begins to tunnel, you fling your arms out to the sides in search of something you can grab. Your nails scrape painfully along the concrete until you’re sure your fingertips are rubbed raw and bleeding. And finally you feel it: a short but heavy chunk of the broken pallet. The shards of wood digging into your palm — rendered slippery from the spillage of your own blood — go unnoticed as you use your waning strength to whack your attacker across the head with it. He instantly flops to the side and cradles his wounded head as you suck in a gloriously deep breath.

You roll over with a gasp and a cough, saliva dripping freely from your parted lips. There is only a brief moment of reprieve before you force yourself up onto your knees and ignore your own spinning head as you repeatedly bring the piece of wood down on the man curled up beside you. The ruthless blows have the intended effect and his movement ceases. Two crooked nails protrude from the end of your makeshift weapon and you aim them at the center of his body until blood seeps from under the material of his jacket and begins to pool beneath his immobile form. With a sort of strangled battle cry, you climb to your feet and hit him one last time for good measure.

Beads of sweat roll from your hairline down your temples and your shaking hands release their hold on what remains of the now-bloodied piece of wood. It falls to the ground with a clatter. Sparing a glance at yourself, you overlook the red and black stains that have ruined your disheveled dress to inspect the extent of the injury to your arm. You grimace as blood continues to seep from the rather serious wound. It’s definitely going to need stitches.

You begin to look around for your phone. You dropped it during the tussle and you nearly cry when you eventually spot it…shattered, just a few feet away. A hospital is definitely your first priority, but without the aid of your phone, you aren’t quite sure how to navigate there from here. 

The night is silent save for the rush of stuttered wheezes that still rip from your burning lungs. You pause, holding your breath for a second to swallow deeply when you think you hear something. A shuffling…a rustling of plastic, perhaps. In your heightened state, you shift with the speed of hunted prey; eyes peeled, knees bent and ready to fight or flee. Glancing towards the source of the noise, you squint at the alley you were forced down earlier.

“Oh, what the fuck ?”

You blurt the words without thinking, but the unexpected sight rids you of any ability to hold your tongue. There — tucked safely beneath the cover of shadow — stands a very tall man. Or rather, a clown . At least you think that’s what it is. Your fists clench uneasily at your sides and the tensing of the muscles makes your wounded arm sing with pain.

In the darkness, you can only make out the parts of his costume which are white: a long leg opposite an equally lengthy arm, a frilly collar, silky hood, and a heavily painted face. He takes a single step closer, as if testing to see whether you’ll run from him. 

The moonlight paints a slightly clearer picture of his appearance here. Both his eyes and mouth are encircled with thick blobs of black face paint and a pair of thin eyebrows arch unnaturally high over an exceedingly piercing stare. His ebony lips form a distinct ring of shock and you realize that he’s probably just seen your whole ordeal. Or at least the parts that made you look bad. 

A tiny, jauntily-tilted top hat adds an oddly comical touch to his ensemble. In his left hand he holds a crinkling black trash bag that looks to be filled to the brim with several hefty objects. He raises his right hand and wiggles his fingers with a delicate and playful wave, the long digits encased in a pair of fingerless gloves that may have been white once-upon-a-time.

You naively assume the mysterious clown poses no threat, simply regarding him as an innocent Halloween reveler who happened to stumble upon a terrible situation. Right now, your only fear is that he’s witnessed you beating a man — possibly to death — and has no context as to why . Gesturing to the motionless pile of flesh behind you, you deem it necessary to explain yourself.

“This guy attacked me,” you breathe, pausing to lick your chapped lips. “I was defending myself.”

The clown remains unmoving and silent, giving no indication that he’s even heard what you said. He merely stares, visage still awash with surprise. Uneasy, you shift your weight and raise your eyebrows expectantly in the hopes of prompting a response. 

Nothing. 

You aren’t lying about what happened, but you have to admit…you kind of sound like you are. You try again. 

“I…I don’t know if he’s dead,” you admit warily. “He really would’ve hurt me if I didn’t stop him, so he was kind of asking for it.”

A dry chuckle follows the comment and you cringe outwardly at your poorly-timed humor. While you’re busy kicking yourself, the clown continues to do nothing but glare at you. He’s so static, you might be convinced he were a statue had you not seen him move moments ago. Unsure what else to do, you make one last attempt to earn a response from the costumed man. You point uselessly to the ground where your destroyed cell phone sits even though you already know the clown isn’t going to look.

“Could you maybe call the police for me?” you implore, hoping your willingness to contact the authorities will sway his opinion on whether or not you’re a cold-blooded murderer.

Still, he does not move. Or speak. He doesn’t so much as acknowledge you. Your patience has all but vanished at this point and your shoulders sag, a disgruntled scoff escaping your throat. Just your luck that you run into two total freaks in the same night. 

“Gotta be kidding me,” you murmur under your breath. 

Having had enough of this strange game, you square your shoulders and bravely cross the short distance between you and the creepy clown. You plan to slip past him, leaving both him and your would-be killer to figure things out for themselves, but the silent specter has other ideas. 

When you’re only a few feet away, he releases his trash bag and it crashes to the ground with a deafening, metallic resonance. You stop at once and your eyes drop to the discarded bag before glancing back at the previously stupefied face where you’re now met with a gleaming smile that you can only describe as… wrong . 

The clown’s grin shines with moisture and his teeth seem too large for his mouth. Something about the almost inhuman way his muscles contort to display every inch of his smile unnerves you, nearly as much as the length of time he manages to maintain the severe gesture. You swallow thickly and your nostrils flare with the stirrings of distress. The clown waggles his thin eyebrows tauntingly in response. It’s clear to you that this weirdo is looking to garner some sort of reaction of fear and you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you adopt a bored expression and cross your arms over your chest, being careful not to aggravate your wounded arm. 

Your choices are limited and admittedly risky. Either you push past the clown or take the chance of turning your back on him in search of another way out of the alley. Neither option appeals to you very much. Before you can decide, he finally moves. 

Stomping one over-sized shoe on the ground, the clown bends at the waist and flings both arms up and out to feign a lunge in your direction. It doesn’t even make you flinch which prompts his limbs to drop ever so slowly back down to his sides. You swear you can see his expression pinch slightly in frustration. He studies you for a moment, then his smile deepens as he tucks his chin to his chest so he can peer at you from beneath his brow. 

The gesture is eerie, but your apprehension worsens when he suddenly and inexplicably returns to his full height and the corners of his mouth fall slack. His grin rapidly vanishes, though his long teeth are still partially visible. This is followed shortly by the drooping of his black-painted eyelids. For some reason, his lifeless expression is what finally awakens a real sense of fear in you and a chill begins to seep into your body.

Uneasiness runs rampant through you, dissipating only a little once you realize that the clown’s deadened blue eyes aren’t fixated on you. His gaze trails lazily towards something over your shoulder. Something that leaves him unquestionably displeased. Daring to turn your back on the clown, you peer behind you to find your attacker miraculously stumbling to his feet. Although his face is bloodied and beginning to swell, you can tell that his eyes are focused on you. He staggers and groans; struggling, but clearly determined to reach you.

You look frantically along the ground, yet again in a desperate search for something to defend yourself with. The piece of wood you dropped earlier is too far away to grab before you’re back in his clutches, but it's your only hope now that you're sandwiched between a wannabe rapist and some sort of mute psycho.

To your relief, your attacker stumbles and braces himself against the brick exterior of one of the buildings, stopping to catch his breath before he’s able to resume his pathetic journey to exact revenge. That feeling of relief is short lived as a loud, cartoonish honk bursts through the air and you nearly leap out of your skin. You whirl around to find the clown standing so close to you that your bare arm brushes the silky fabric of his monochromatic costume. A smear of your crimson blood now stains the lighter half of his jumpsuit. 

His nearness prompts your eyes to widen in surprise and you inhale sharply. The clown has finally elicited a reaction and by all appearances, this thrills him. He jumps up and down where he stands, his blackened eyes crinkling with unbridled glee. His toothy grin is back, showcasing a sheen of saliva as his lips split open at an unnatural width to accommodate another terrifying smile. 

With fists raised and shaking victoriously, he honks his bicycle horn several more times, then stuffs the prop into a hidden pocket. Anxiety rattles your bones when the clown throws his head back and practically unhinges his jaw to unleash a completely noiseless laugh. The entirety of his massive frame quakes, quivering with such believable intensity that you cannot fathom how he isn’t actually making a sound.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you squawk with annoyance, putting an abrupt end to the clown’s celebration.

His head tips forward slowly, angled to stare you down as his smile falters a bit. But he recovers quickly, raising his eyebrows close to where his hairline should be while he holds up a single finger, beseeching from you a moment of patience. Unbelievably, he proceeds to delve into a classic magic trick, the kind you’d see performed by an amateur entertainer at a child’s birthday party. 

The clown’s gloved hands wave and twirl dramatically in front of your face as a sort of distraction. You do your best not to flinch when he reaches next to your head without warning. As expected, he reveals a shiny quarter, wanting you to believe he’s pulled the coin from behind your ear. He pinches the bit of silver between two fingers and offers it to you with a fluid sweep of his other hand and an encouraging smile as if presenting something of great value. Playing along, you laugh mirthlessly and hope the bemused set of your mouth resembles a smile.

“Yeah, that’s great buddy,” you say through gritted teeth, accepting the proffered quarter. “Thanks.”

Taking the coin in hand, you move to step around the clown, but he denies you. He repositions himself with alarming speed and blocks your path with his lanky frame, suddenly fashioning his own mouth into a frown. The odd shape of the grease paint surrounding his lips pulls down into a sort of melting effect. Contrarily, the bright rings of blue circling his dark pupils are pure ice. Something in his harsh expression serves as a warning, one which requires no words. Still not permitting your exit, the clown holds his hand up with his palm facing you and continues to keep you an unwilling, captive audience.

Just like before, he repeats his same trick. Only now he reveals what appears to be a thin plastic tube. By the time you notice that there’s a sharp needle affixed to the end of the syringe, the steel tip is already piercing through your skin. He aims for the space just above your collarbone, where your neck and shoulder meet. You cry out and he grins wickedly. The force he uses to jab the needle in would have been painful enough on its own, but the sensitive spot he chose as a target makes it all the more agonizing and your knees threaten to give out.

In your peripheral, you watch him depress the plunger with slow and dramatic flare. His mouth is molded into another perfect circle of facetious shock as the liquid invades your system. Your ears ring while fear pumps white-hot adrenaline through your veins alongside whatever concoction had been forced from the syringe. You stumble backwards, wanting to put some distance between yourself and this maniac. There’s no longer a worry about the dangerous offender still lurking behind you because you’d been afraid of the wrong man all along.

The clown watches, alight with unadulterated joy. He offers a happy and child-like wave goodbye when your balance starts to waver. His fingers flap clumsily with the level of excitement he displays. Your neck burns and you’re feeling nauseous; sweating yet shivering as your limbs grow heavy. 

Little black dots fill your vision and your eyes water, then begin to cross…or slip shut, you really can’t tell. There’s a loud whooshing and suddenly you can’t differentiate up from down, only that your body is swaying, tipping, tumbling. The last thing you register is the tiny ping of the quarter falling from your clammy palm and ricocheting off the ground. A slur of panicked nonsense drags over your sluggish tongue seconds before your world goes black.

If eyelids could be made of lead, you’re certain yours must be. As your body graciously allows you to ease back into consciousness, you struggle for several long minutes before you’re actually able to see. What you’re met with is a blinding halo from the single bulb situated directly above you. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the brightness, you try to pinpoint any indication as to where you are. You even wrack your fuzzy brain trying to remember anything from tonight, to no avail.

There’s a horribly uncomfortable surface supporting your body, rock hard and covered in some sort of sandy grit. A pervasive odor of rust and wood assaults your senses, mingling with the scent of something old and earthen. The aroma reminds you of an antique toolbox your father kept in the musty basement of your childhood home. Somehow the notion of being there momentarily frightens you more than any other possible reality. 

You’re still feeling a little too weak to sit up just yet, but you do manage to lift an arm in order to press a palm to your aching forehead. The movement prompts an unexpected pressure, a sort of tight pulling along your flesh. It turns your stomach and you begin to feel hot and queasy. Your vision blurs for a moment and once that passes, you hold your arm up and turn it over to determine the cause of the sensation. 

A long line of stitches run the length of your wound. The sutures are done in black thread that hardly seems up to medical standards and their pattern is rudimentary at best. Like something straight out of a horror movie, the edges of your wound are still caked in dried, coagulated blood. Obviously left unsterilized, the flesh is jagged, puffy, and sore. You shudder to think what kind of an infection you’re going to end up with.

The sound of metal clanging makes you jump, drawing you from the observation of your injury. Not being able to see your surroundings is making you nervous so you force your lethargic body to cooperate. First you plant your elbows, then carefully use your forearms and palms to ease yourself into an upright position, doing your best to keep your weight off of your ailing limb. 

You experience the worst headrush of your life, but your equilibrium adjusts quickly. Looking down, you find yourself still clothed in your bridal gown, although your shoes are mysteriously missing. You’re sprawled across what looks to be a large wood-topped workbench. With the glaring light overhead, it feels more like a surgical table. The irony is not lost on you.

Directly to your right, there’s another workbench. This one is made of steel. Your vision hones in on a large mass and suddenly the night’s events come rushing back all at once.

Over the workbench hunches the sleek back of the taciturn clown, twiddling with the rusted teeth of an old hacksaw. Moving as gently as you can, you quietly adjust your position and throw your legs over the edge of the table, letting them dangle limply as you observe him. 

As far as you can tell, there’s only one door out of the dimly-lit dungeon, but your captor is sure to spot you in his peripheral if you try. You watch and wait, hoping he’ll turn away and allow you a chance at escape.

The clown must sense your gaze because he freezes, stands up straight, then — with a remarkable lack of speed — spins his towering body to face in your direction. Although you had been expecting it, the presence of his startling grin still makes your throat tighten with anxiety.

“Where am I? What do you want from me?”

It’s stupid to ask. You know he isn’t going to answer. At least this time he bothers to acknowledge you. He slowly creeps his way over with the tool in hand, walking on tiptoes as if sneaking around and hiding from someone or something when it is he who is the monster. He smells of something familiar and sugary, a scent so offensively sweet it actually makes you gag. The silk of his costume brushes against the front of your legs and your body goes stiff with trepidation.

Your breath catches as a single finger traces the drawn-on stitches that transect your throat. He holds the saw up, pushing it close to your neck and sliding it back and forth, by all accounts interested in making the wounds very real. Concern furrows your brow and the display of fear must please him because he actually takes pity on you. He shakes his head with a mischievous smile and dismissively waves you away to let you know he’s only kidding. 

The clown twists his body to put the hacksaw on the workbench, peeking back to make sure you’re watching. He lays it down with purposeful movements, then indicates that’s where it will stay. For now, anyway. 

A frightened whimper nearly slips free when the clown quickly lifts a gloved hand to push two fingertips against your wrinkled forehead before jokingly smoothing out the deep lines forged by your distress. He points at you and mimes another one of his hearty laughs, but that only makes you frown more; doing very little to actually assuage your growing fear. 

Seeming displeased with your lack of amusement, the clown lifts his other hand to join the first. Astoundingly, he uses a finger from each hand and shoves them quite impolitely into the corners of your mouth. You pull back in surprise, but he simply follows, forcing the long digits deeper until he’s touching your teeth. He doesn’t relent until you stop fighting the invasion. When you do, he wrenches his fingers upwards, forcing your mouth into the shape of a painfully exaggerated smile.

The clown pins you in place with an unflinching stare, his head tilting sharply to the side with intrigue. His face lacks any notable signs of emotion and you look on in astonishment, unable to do anything except endure his assault. He senses your resignation — insignificant as it may be — and the corners of his own mouth lift, gradually revealing more and more of his teeth until even his gums are on full display.

When he finally slips his fingers out of your mouth, you assist in their exit by pushing the offending digits away with your tongue and spluttering loudly. This catches his attention and the clown’s blue eyes widen with interest. Appearing to ape your previous action, he relaxes his jaw and sticks his tongue out at you. The fleshy pinkness of the muscle is a stark contrast to the ink-like abyss of his painted mouth. He allows the muscle to roll over his teeth where its moistened tip nearly meets the point of his chin before it’s snatched back into the recesses of his maw. Then he points at you.

You can only shake your head in confusion, not quite understanding what it is he’s attempting to communicate. Executing a comical roll of his frigid eyes, the clown lifts and drops his angular shoulders with a soundless sigh of frustration then repeats the motion. Tongue flopping from his mouth and painted brows lifting with encouragement, his hands splay in a gesture of presentation that says ‘ see? Like this.’

Now he’s pointing to himself with both hands before displaying two open palms in your direction while nodding in invitation. He’s asking you to mimic him. You don’t want to, but you have a feeling refusal is not an option so you do as he asks, albeit with some hesitation. Lips quiver as they peel apart to make way for your tongue which slips out with jerky, jittery slowness. It leaves you feeling quite foolish, sitting there with your mouth agape and tongue twitching while a six foot clown grins and applauds gleefully in celebration. 

When you try to close your mouth, he stops you. A falling smile and a single loud clap directly in front of your face works just as effectively as any shouted words would have. Your eyes meet his and he holds up a finger, indicating you should wait; remaining exactly as you are while he decides what bizarre performance to put on next. You’re glad your mouth has gone dry so you don’t drool all over yourself and further add to your indignity. 

He presses his thumbs to his temples and opens his hands up like a pair of moose antlers, wiggling his fingers playfully and sticking his tongue out once more. Just like you thought he would, the clown points to you and widens his eyes like an excited child waiting for you to play his game. You try to hide your huff of annoyance, but do as you’ve been directed.

This time, there’s no warning. You don’t even see it coming. Taking advantage of your open mouth and your distracted state, the clown shoves the two middle fingers of his left hand past your teeth. Although you weren’t prepared, he is . His other hand snaps forward to cradle the base of your skull when your head predictably rears back, ensuring you cannot escape his delving fingers. You try to move your face from side to side and relieve yourself of the pressure from the invasive digits, but he holds fast and renders you immobile. 

Saliva floods your mouth as the tips of his fingers reach deep enough to brush the back of your throat. You gag and cough until your eyes begin to water, but he does not let up. Instead, he adds the rest of his fingers so they can twist this way and that; pinching, massaging, and pressing against the textured surface of your tongue. It reminds you of the way someone reaches in to remove the innards when gutting a fish. 

His skin is salty, juxtaposed by the bitter, metallic flavor of oxidized blood you can taste as the edges of his fingerless gloves glide over your tongue and soak up your spit. Tears spill down your cheeks and you fight to breathe, feeling like you’re choking on his hand. No matter how hard you cling to and pull at his skinny wrist, you’re unable to extract him from your mouth. You whimper and start to heave more forcefully until mucus ejects from your nose. 

All at once, he stops. Your throat emits an awful, strangled sound when he removes his fingers and abruptly turns away from you, shaking his hand and flinging a glob of saliva towards the floor as he does. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath and compose yourself while you wipe the moisture from your face, blinking rapidly until the tears stop falling from your lashes. When you look up, you see the reason for the interruption.

At the far corner of the room is a folding chair, its steel legs bent and misshapen. In it sits a face that you wouldn’t exactly call familiar, but you recognize it nonetheless. The man who attacked you earlier shifts and groans, his head lolling from side to side as he tries to get his bearings. You have no idea how the clown heard the man’s movements over your choking and whimpering, but you’re grateful for the distraction. His attention is now centered wholly on the man in the chair, clad only in a pair of checkered boxer shorts and with his arms bound behind him. His torso is riddled with little oozing puncture wounds and you can’t help feeling a twinge of pride. 

You watch apprehensively as the clown picks up a bundle of material from the workbench and shakes it out to reveal a frilly, floral-patterned apron which he promptly drops over his head and fastens behind his back. The man watches this too, slowly piecing together what he’s seeing. Dread colors his features when he takes note of his state of undress and his imprisoned limbs. His eyes volley from the figure towering over him to you, then back again to the clown who bends to dig through a wooden crate full of more tools.

“So what, you two freaks know each other or something?” he questions, panic evident in his shaky tone though he tries poorly to disguise it.

He receives no answer, but the tall clown — having evidently found whatever he was searching for — straightens and peeks over his shoulder at you. Only the upper half of his face is visible when he waggles his brows in response to the man’s inquiry, leaving you clueless as to what it’s supposed to mean.

Now wielding some sort of object, the clown approaches the trapped man with slow and sure steps. He crouches before him and presents the object to the man. You can only imagine the smile he wears. 

In his hand, he holds a terribly rusted pizza cutter. The clown flicks the wheel as if hoping it will glide smoothly, but it doesn’t budge. Deflating only slightly, he tries again using more force, but the pizza cutter only stutters with a grinding sound. He mimes a disappointed sigh and shakes his head, then shrugs his shoulders with acceptance, apparently deeming the utensil useful enough.

Your fingers wrap with crushing force around the edge of the table you sit upon as you brace yourself for whatever is about to occur. Though the unsuspecting man seems equally as dubious, nothing could prepare either of you for what happens next. The clown moves with viper-like speed and precision, snatching the man’s underwear and yanking them down just far enough to reveal his crotch. 

“Wh-what the fuck?” he yells, rattling the chair as he squirms wildly. “Hey man, what the hell are you doing?!”

The rising pitch in his voice indicates he already knows the answer. While the sizable build of the clown shields most of your view, your imagination fills in the blanks vividly enough. Your ears ring with the volume of the man’s ragged screams. 

A squish of flesh and the unmistakable splatter of dripping blood intersperse his cries and you slam your eyes shut as though that will block the awful sounds out. It’s the worst limb for a man to lose and there’s no doubt the dull condition of the clown’s chosen tool is making this experience all the more harrowing. Its lack of sharpness certainly lends to the amount of time the clown spends sawing through the man’s appendage.

From your vantage point, you cannot see the detached body part when the clown places it on the workbench, though that may be due to the fact that you’re preoccupied watching him lift the long cylinder of a propane blowtorch. He fiddles with the nozzle for a moment before rearing back and snapping his fingers like he’s just had an epiphany. Virtually from thin air, he procures a pair of flower-shaped sunglasses and perches them delicately upon his hooked nose. The torch ignites with a whoosh and the hiss of blazing fire does little to disguise the man’s blood-curdling scream as the clown touches flame to flesh in order to cauterize the leaking wound.

When he’s finished, the clown extinguishes the torch and tosses the tank aside with a resounding bang. His impromptu eye protection follows. Turning to you, he swipes the back of his hand across his forehead and flicks away some imaginary sweat before doing a comical imitation of an exhausted exhalation.

By now, the man’s distressed sounds have died down to nothing more than pained whimpers and quivering breaths with the occasional sniffle here and there as he processes the trauma of being dismembered and broiled like a human steak. The clown whips his apron over his head and hangs the blood-spattered garment on a hook with uncharacteristic gentleness, then retrieves the detached appendage from the workbench with equal care. He keeps one hand curled tightly into a fist, hiding the prize he holds within as he fumbles around in search of something. Meanwhile, you’re busy trying to keep the roiling bile in your stomach down.

The clown spins and moves towards you, one hand dripping blood and the other tucked out of sight behind his back. Instinct tells you not to look, but morbid curiosity says otherwise. Your lashes flutter as you prepare yourself and you find the clown’s face stretched familiarly into that same lecherous grin. His delighted eyes burn as bright blue as the scorching hot flame and you know that can’t possibly be good. When it seems his smile might split his face right in half, he finally makes the big reveal.

From behind his back, he dramatically presents a large magnifying glass. The lens is scratched and tinged brown beyond function yet it still serves the clown’s purposes just fine. He swings his arm wide in a theatrical fashion to hold the magnifying glass near his face as he opens the palm of his other hand to unveil the man’s severed member. His drawn-on eyebrows slam down and his lips mash into a flat line as he tries to peer into the lens and proceeds to move it back and forth between his face and hand as if struggling to see the disembodied penis even through the magnification. Without warning, the magnifying glass drops from his hand and shatters on the floor, making you jump. 

The clown’s eyebrows launch upwards and his mouth gapes wide. He bends backwards and mimes a seriously maniacal laugh, holding a hand to his stomach and even pretending to wipe tears from his eyes as an added touch. You almost find yourself laughing at how absurdly fucked up it all is.

A devious expression overcomes his painted face and that smile — the one which lets you know something awful is about to happen — returns. The clown approaches you where you still sit and places a hand on your bare knee, using it as leverage to wrench your thighs open. You instinctively try to slam them shut, but you’re no match for the clown’s strength. What began as panic soon melds into shocked horror when he directs the bloody, limp penis towards your parted legs and moves it in and out in a taunting manner, seeming to threaten to penetrate you with it. 

Your offended exclamation has his probing gaze snapping to your face. He ceases flopping the appendage around only long enough to wag his finger in admonishment. When he shakes his head with disapproval, it doesn’t seem quite as silly as all of his other gags. There’s an unspoken and indecipherable warning in the controlled, reprimanding oscillation of his head. Having sufficiently weirded you out to his satisfaction, the clown blindly tosses the penis over his shoulder with careless whimsy where it lands with a wet slap at the man’s feet.

The sound appears to make the clown take pause, something new churning in his iniquitous brain. His body tilts slowly away from you and he spends a long moment observing the half-conscious man in the corner. There’s an unsettling chill in his eyes when he turns back. In quick succession, he points to the slumped man, the discarded appendage, and then to you; all the while, an impression of inquiry in his expression.

You understand what he’s asking, you’re just not sure whether to be wary of or flattered by the crazy clown’s apparent indignation. Surely, he recognizes the hypocrisy in being insulted on your behalf after what he’s done. Your head shakes almost imperceptibly when you finally respond.

“No, not with that,” you manage to choke out, suddenly feeling inexplicably embarrassed.

The clown’s face is vacant and motionless for a painful length of time. It feels like he’s staring straight through you. He lifts his right hand and points to it with his left, eyebrows raised quizzically. You can only nod your confirmation. His gaze drops to your lap, lingering between your still-parted thighs for longer than you’re comfortable with.

You’re not certain how many times you’ve watched his eyes go blank and his mouth slack, only that the empty expression always serves as a hair-raising harbinger of something heinous. This occasion is no different. You hardly have time for your skin to crawl or your heart to skip a beat the way it has previously when the clown suddenly whips around in a blur of black and white to snatch up the hacksaw he’d been holding earlier.

The man in the chair hasn’t a chance to react either before the clown kicks him with all his might, sending the man toppling to the floor. His head bounces off the concrete and it seems to jostle him from a stupor, launching him into a fit of frantic mumbling which the clown puts an end to when he crouches down and promptly shoves the man’s own severed penis straight into his open mouth. 

Without preamble, the clown leans over and begins to saw through one of the man’s bound arms. Not cutting at the elbow where the joint would allow for an easier amputation, but grinding the teeth of the tool halfway down the man’s forearm. The grating of metal against bone churns your stomach. Screams of pain echo off the brick walls and pierce through your skull in a way you know will haunt you.

Though muffled, his agonized sobbing is disturbing to listen to. Luckily for you, it doesn’t last much longer. The clown emerges from his stooped position with half an arm and a whole lot of teeth. His demonic mouth unfurls with a silent cackle as he flaps the severed limb about, even using it to wave at you. Blood pours from the end of the arm where jagged bone pokes out, the thick liquid spilling down the clown's own limbs and soaking into the shiny fabric of his costume. It's a macabre image like something straight out of your nightmares.

“What are you?” you wonder aloud, horrified.

Not wanting to monopolize all the fun for himself, the clown crosses the room, toting his freshly harvested arm. With two hands, he holds it parallel to the ground and extends his long arms to offer it to you. Fat drops of blood leak from the limb and plop wet and warm into your lap. Persistently, the clown stretches even further to pass the disgusting arm to you and you have nowhere to go except backwards. 

Pulling your legs up, you plant your bare heels under yourself and scoot away from him, using your hands in tandem to shuffle faster. The clown instantaneously releases the arm and it falls to the ground with a sickening sound, freeing up his hands to snatch your ankles before you can get away. You screech instinctively, but he doesn’t heed the terror in your high-pitched utterance. He yanks hard and your much weaker arms offer little resistance as you topple over. You’re pulled in rather violently and he situates you lengthwise along the table, your legs hanging over the edge and bracketing either side of his thighs.

Panic still floods your mind and you immediately sit up, ready to continue your fight to escape, however the clown plants his hands on your blood-smeared thighs and presses his weight down until the crushing pain of it makes you cry out. If you want him to stop, you’ll have to stay still. Your hands curl around the edge of the table and you tamp down every instinct you have in order to do what he wants.

The clown doesn’t let go of you until he’s certain you won’t try to get away. You’d have vehemently promised him your cooperation if the ache in your bones wasn’t stealing your breath. The clown relents and you practically moan with relief, panting and frightened. When you look up at the figure standing between your knees, you’re surprised to find him with his arms crossed petulantly across his stained chest. He regards you with disdain and frustration, displeased with your refusal of his gracious, gory gift.

He takes a single step back — his attention having shifted to the blood-soaked garment that hangs off his lanky frame — and he throws his hands up in mock exasperation. One long arm reaches behind his back and you hear the sound of a small zipper. You half expect him to reveal that his body is actually composed of a million little bugs and spiders beneath the suit, or at least something equally disturbing. To your relief, the revelation is much less sensational. 

The loosened material falls away to expose his shoulders first, his skin so pallid it’s nearly the same shade as his painted face. His long arms and slender torso are so plainly unremarkable that it makes him almost too human. With nothing but the frilly collar stained red still around his neck, the clown looks more silly than scary, but you’re too transfixed by the sheer normalcy of what was hidden beneath to even notice. The costume slips free of his bony wrists, stopping just short of falling away completely when it settles on the protrusions of his hips. That cloying, sickly sweet scent wafts from him more strongly now, starkly contradicting both his gruesome appearance and grotesque behavior.

Humiliation warms your cheeks when he catches you staring, but he’s more interested in something else. He falls easily back into his role as a joker, suddenly gesturing almost apologetically to the sanguine splatters covering your legs. The tip of one finger swipes through a large droplet of blood, leaving a clean streak in its wake. The clown flattens a palm against each of your thighs and drags his hands towards himself, trying to use his filthy gloves to sop up some of the blood, but they’re already so sodden that he only makes more of a mess.

His mouth forms an inspired circle and you can practically see the light bulb flicker above his hat-topped head. Time slows and you watch him pitch forward, hinging at the waist when he bends to lick at the blood staining the skin just above your knee. The wet heat of his lapping tongue is shocking in the worst way. Your body moves reflexively, leaning away from him until you’re forced to catch yourself with your palms braced behind you.

A startled gasp escapes more loudly than you would have liked and the clown pulls his head back at once, a high-browed, jesting look of surprise contorting his painted face. The taut, rounded shape of his mouth soon morphs into a broad grin that makes your stomach flip for a plethora of reasons. His eyelids lower in the closest thing he can manage to sultry and he delves back in with fervor, latching his lips to your thigh even higher than before. Though slender, his fingers grip your legs with incredible strength and keep you in place. His teeth occasionally catch your flesh as he licks and sucks the blood away. 

When your brain finally manages to function somewhat normally, your hands can only float uselessly above the clown, too afraid to push him away for fear of the consequences. His mouth journeys higher and higher until his angular nose reaches the hem of your tattered dress and pushes it far enough to reveal the plain pair of panties beneath. The rush of his breath fanning over your underwear is enough to finally make your paralyzed hands move, but it’s too late.

Sitting up straight, your hands have barely made contact with the warm skin of the clown’s upper arms when the tip of his moist tongue sweeps with pointed precision directly over your covered center. Though you had intended to shove him away, the sensation instead causes your fingers to dig harshly into his soft biceps and you cry out. The clown peers up at you and carefully nods his head with approving enthusiasm before returning to the apex of your thighs to do it again, almost experimentally. The whimper he earns this time is twice as sweet and he pulls away, clapping happily in awe of his discovery.

Still stained with the fruits of his labor, a red-tipped finger sneaks between your thighs and he swirls it with damning pressure directly on your bundle of nerves. You don’t want to react, but a hiss escapes you, unbidden. The clown’s face twists with elation and he does it again and again until your teeth clench with restraint. You know your lack of sounds does nothing to preserve your dignity when you can feel the wet spot you’re sure must be visible through your underwear by now.

He seems to be testing the limits, seeing how far he can push before you’ll break. Adding a second finger, he rubs more firmly and his touch drifts from your clit to your entrance where most of the moisture collects. You keep your eyes fixed securely on the ceiling where you only have to see the termite-ravaged rafters and not what this murderous clown is doing to you. Still, you can feel the clown’s unwavering stare burning holes into your upturned face. It isn’t long before your panties are soaked through and you can actually hear the stickiness as he massages the damp material into your folds.

You know it’s twisted and you should stop him, but some incredibly sick part of you wants to indulge his curiosity. And another small part of you just wants to avoid pissing him off, lest you end up asphyxiated on some body part of your own or missing one of your limbs. 

You’re finding it increasingly difficult to think clearly enough to make a decision because the clown’s relentless ministrations have the muscles in your thighs beginning to quiver. His touch is dizzying and when his pinkie finger trails along the seam of your underwear where it meets the sensitive crease of your thigh, your legs part ever so slightly. This is apparently all the evidence he needs of your capitulation because what little control he’d been showing suddenly snaps.

In an instant, the clown has tucked all four fingers beneath the gusset of your panties. He yanks so hard that your bare ass skids across the workbench and nearly off the edge. You barely manage to catch yourself on your elbows before your skull slams into the hard surface behind you. Your underwear is wrenched a second time and the material digs into your flesh for a moment before splitting. He divests you of the shredded fabric, making sure to undermine the moment by wrapping the ruined garment around his head like a babushka.

The clown cups behind your knees and shoves both you and your legs upwards, forcing you to plant your feet on the surface of the table and leaving you laid openly bare before him. He wastes no time ravishing your exposed center, his mouth latching onto you without hesitation. His tongue moves with little finesse, sloppily soaking your already wet cunt with saliva. Your hips lift with a shriek and he wraps an arm around either leg to pin you down while he feasts on you, his sharp nose bumping your clit and sending zings of pleasure through your body.

You’re too far gone to think about the blood still coating his fingers when two of them force their way into your slippery pussy. A whine catches in your throat as the clown curls his fingers deliciously, massaging your walls in a way that has your head tossing from side to side. Using the widest part of his tongue, he pushes the muscle with unforgiving speed against your clit until your vision blanks.

Juices flow abundantly as the clown fucks you with his fingers and mouth. Stopping once or twice to allow a string of saliva to drip from his pointed tongue only adds to the slickness. His tongue occasionally delves into your entrance to taste every bit of nectar you have to offer. When your back begins to arch, he redoubles his efforts, shoving your knees to your chest as he plucks a fierce orgasm from your willing body. His lips latch onto the turgid bundle of nerves and with very little effort, you wail and fall apart like putty in his bloodied hands.

He doesn’t stop when you cum. The rough tip of his tongue slips with agonizing slowness from your cunt to your clit, then back down with the softer, smoother underside of the muscle. The continual onslaught of the clown’s mouth becomes too much once your orgasm dissipates and the stimulation is overwhelming, forcing you to clench your thighs around his head. You finally find your voice and beg for mercy, tears collecting in the corners of your eyes as you endure the torturous slithering of his long tongue.

Eventually, the clown grants the mercy for which you’ve begged and rises from between your shaking thighs. His vast grin glistens more than usual in the low light and a combination of your essence and his saliva coats his chin, tinged pink from the blood he’d cleansed from your thighs. The sight should terrify you, but has the opposite effect, instead tying your stomach in reprehensible knots. 

With your body still propped on your elbows, you have a perfect vantage point to study the looming clown. His shoulders are pulled high and taut, his entire frame expands and deflates with deep, steady breaths. Those long teeth grind, his jaw shifting contemplatively from side to side as he wars with his wavering control. Something decidedly evil brews in his azure irises. 

Your gaze drifts lower along his seemingly never-ending body to where the clown’s partially-shed costume still clings to his trim pelvis. The thin material does very little to disguise the distinct ridge of a growing erection, its outline pronounced and slightly curved. He watches your pupils dilate and your mouth drop open with a humorously audible pop. He holds one palm bashfully in front of his mouth and coquettishly flutters his dark lashes, shyly shooing you away with his opposite hand and shimmying his shoulders in a facade of self-consciousness.

His hand promptly falls to his waist where he nudges the silken fabric of his jumpsuit lower until it slips down his long legs. Bared to you now, you’re graced with the sight of his half-hard cock. The shaft is notably thick and measures up nicely; pale and smooth like marble with the weeping tip the same fleshy pink as his wicked tongue. You’re not as disgusted as you should be by the sight and that thought is sobering. When you use your hands and feet to scurry backwards across the table again, the clown’s dick jerks as it hardens further. 

A punishing grip crushes your windpipe as he takes you by the throat and halts your momentum, his entire body practically thrown over yours atop the table just to prevent you from getting away. You claw at his imprisoning hand, your fingernails leaving several raised scratches across his otherwise perfect skin while you gasp for air and he drags you back where he’s decided you belong. He releases your neck only to slam you flat on your back with a palm splayed across your chest. This time, your head does bounce off the workbench.

Hiking one thigh over his hip and pushing the other at an angle you aren’t quite flexible enough for, the clown spreads you wide open. His height makes it so that he’s almost too tall for his pelvis to align with yours but he does his best, bending his knees just enough for his impressively hard cock to nestle heavily across your pubic bone. Several tumescent pearls seep from the swollen tip, leaving a trail of sticky precum when he pulls his hips back. 

Your muscles quake with the effort it takes to keep your bent leg in place when the clown releases his grip on the limb. Using his free hand, he drags the blood-soaked glove covering his palm along the length of his throbbing shaft, eyes igniting with sinful heat as he watches his fist pumping. His knuckles lightly brush your clit and the contact has you ready to launch straight off the table. 

The clown releases his length, letting it fall back against your pussy with a wet plop. With his thumb wedged just beneath the tip, he angles his cock towards your slick hole and uses its girth to stretch you open. Just as your lips part in awe, his hips thrust forward to bury several inches inside of you and a startled yelp rips from your mouth. He pauses momentarily to laugh noiselessly at you, the jostling of his body allowing his cock to slip deeper. 

The pressure is mind-numbing, though you fear you might actually pass out when the clown drags your body close to his, impaling you until your walls are stretched around the thickest part of his cock and the thatch of hair at the base is saturated in your flood of juices. A full-body convulsion causes your internal muscles to clench and even the malevolent clown is not immune to the stimulation. His blackened mouth hangs open on a soundless moan, eyes hazed with salacious lust as he watches his cock retract from your dripping cunt. The slick pull of his length makes you cry out.

“ Ohh …my god,” you breathe.

The clown plunges deep once more, bottoming out — once, twice, three times — until your breath catches as you watch him sink every fat inch into your pussy. Your eyes pinch shut against the undeniable pleasure. He repeats the motion over and over until his thrusting hips settle into a steady, unabating rhythm that has you racing towards another orgasm. The wetness spilling from your core would prevent any decent friction if the clown’s cock wasn’t so thick, but each precise grind of his hips is wracking your body with ecstasy. As the rapturous sensations build, so too does the volume of your moaned chanting.

“Fuck, oh my god. Oh my god. Oh…my…god .”

Fire licks at the back of your neck and your toes curl, every fiber of your being trying to fend off the intensity of the tumultuous orgasm which approaches. You wrench your eyes open only to find the clown's eyebrows angled sadly and his frowning lips moving in sync with your simpering words, silently mocking every pathetically moaned syllable perfectly in time with your hoarse voice. 

Feeling humiliated by his taunting, your cheeks heat and you reach between your legs to press a flattened hand to his lower stomach in an attempt to put an end to the havoc he wreaks on you. You’ve made the mistake of reaching down with your injured arm and he takes advantage, circling your forearm in his spindly fingers and squeezing — digging deep in the tender wound — until the raw flesh begins to bleed and you yell like a snared animal. You recoil in pain, your body tensing as you do and clamping harshly around the cock still rutting between your thighs. 

Pain mingles with hellish pleasure and your cunt ripples uncontrollably, threatening to bring you both to your end. You slam your eyes shut and hold your breath against the rising tide. Sensing the battle you wage, the clown opts to prolong his torment. Bracing his large hands on the workbench, he uses the leverage to fuck you even harder and deeper, his hips slamming so roughly that it knocks the wind out of you. You’re on the verge of sobbing, each sorrowful sound distorted by the force of the clown’s cock pummeling your body.

A warm palm lands none-too-gently across your face, the clown’s pinkie and thumb tucked between your cheekbone and jaw on either side of your face; his other three fingers gouge indentations into your forehead as he easily clutches the entirety of your skull in his hand. The filthy fabric of his glove crushes against your nose and mouth, soiled with your blood and saliva as it impedes your ability to breathe properly. 

As the clown approaches his own release, his thrusts become brutal, fucking you mercilessly without a care for your pleasure or comfort. He shows no consideration for your life either, judging by the way he continues to smother you. Still, your own orgasm is quickly becoming inevitable and he can tell by the desperate way you swirl your hips, trying hopelessly to meet every stroke of his swelling cock.

He shifts his grasp on your face, allowing you to take a much needed breath. He pinches your cheeks with all of his strength, ensuring that it hurts. When you refuse to open your eyes, he taps his fingers against your damp cheek, hitting you harder and harder until you meet his dominating glare. His fingers proceed to dig painfully into your face like a claw and you’re glad his blunt nails aren’t sharp enough to break the skin.

The clown curls his body ominously over top of yours. He crowds your space, your vision, your mind . You can see and feel nothing but him. You’re surrounded, every one of your senses blotted out by his presence. In a fleeting moment of clarity, you finally recognize that syrupy scent which clings to his skin like an entity all its own: sugary, saccharine cotton candy. A total antithesis to the malicious beast it oozes from. 

His grinning mouth splits wide so a stream of pink-tinged saliva can drool from his open lips and splatter along your abdomen. He holds fast to your cheeks, forcing you to maintain eye contact until his icy eyes roll briefly to the back of his head.

“Shit. Fuck ,” you cry, fearing what’s about to happen and knowing you’ll never be able to stop it.

He smiles evilly and his head nods fervently when he sees the abject horror and realization in your face. Eyes flashing fully white, the clown’s body begins to vibrate with furious, unbridled carnality. In an attempt to get out from under him, you twist your hips in a way that only allows the clown to slip deeper than ever, his cock bumping painfully against your cervix and his tight, cum-laden balls crushed against your ass. 

Your palms slam flat at your sides and his crash down right beside them. Against your better judgment, one of your legs hooks firmly against the taut muscles of the clown’s bare back, locking him in place as your pussy constricts with a release that shatters your sanity. His torso quakes powerfully as he crumbles along with you, his head nearly coming to rest against your chest as he cums deep inside you. 

He makes no noise, but a sharp exhale unleashes a long, hot puff of air across your skin. Every pulse of his cock as he spurts more of his seed extends your orgasm until your whole body shakes with exhaustion. Your cunt squeezes his throbbing length so hard you fear he may never leave your body. 

Contrarily, the clown is already moving between your thighs, thrusting his cock decidedly deep with a final cruel stroke before pulling out with aching slowness. His barely softened length rubs every one of your sensitive nerve endings and your body launches into another, less debilitating orgasm. The tip of his dick slips free along with a flood of cum that drips down to collect beneath you. 

Hardly conscious, you hear the shuffling of fabric as the clown redresses in his bloody costume. He tucks his cock — still partially stiff and slick with your abundant juices — into the suit before casually sliding his long arms down the sleeves. You’re left exposed, your panties missing and your dress hiked just under your breasts. He studies his cum- and blood-stained gloves for a moment, rolls his eyes, then plucks them comically from his hands and flings them over his shoulder with a shrug and a dopey frown. 

Pools of saliva shine on your belly and the clown slides between your open thighs to lick it up. You flinch at the contact, your body still on edge and hyper-aware of his teasing touch. His tongue trails slowly from your belly button to your sternum and back down to the apex of your thighs where he delves gently between your folds to taste your mingeld cum. 

The salty sweetness makes him breathe hotly against your center. It's a soothing sensation, swiftly interrupted by the intrusion of his fingers slipping into your used cunt with shallow strokes. The clown coats his fingers in your juices, dipping in and out until you whimper before using the sticky white fluid to draw three sloppy letters across the space between your hips; writing his name to mark you as his property, a plaything to keep around only as long as it suits his sinister whims.

Writing Masterpost

[reinanova]

Consider:

Harry walks in on Parker kissing Eliot to comfort him (or vice versa) and he backs out of the room in a panic because this poor precious child is unaware of polyamory and the leverage OT3. So, in support of the Bro Code, he goes to Breanna and asks her to send a message to Hardison so he can talk to him.

Now Breanna, the wonderful little sis she is, asks Harry what’s so important that he feels the need to contact Hardison immediately. So Harry confesses that he just saw Parker cheating on Hardison with Eliot and that he needs to tell Hardison about it.

You cannot tell me that Breanna, our gay ace gen Z icon, is not aware of her brother being in a polyamorous relationship. And okay yes, maybe she “accidentally” found evidence of their relationship when she “accidentally” hacked into their phones but that’s hardly her fault. That was just the proof for her suspicions.

Back to Harry. Breanna is just holding back laughter at Harry’s obliviousness and of course she’s here for the drama (and listening to Hardison rant about the interruption) so she sets up a video call with Hardison, secretly sharing the video screen to the room Eliot and Parker are in.

So Hardison shows up on the call, visibly busy with lots of chaos and going ons behind him and is all, “Breanna, what’s wrong?”

And then Harry is all, “Hardison, I gotta tell you something” and tells him what he saw and is very apologetic that he’s informing Hardison that his girlfriend is cheating on him.

Hardison stares into the camera like he’s on The Office, visibly annoyed before going “Really man? Really??? You interrupt me while i’m dealing with [lists like five things he’s got going on right now] for this?”

And then turns to Breanna and says, “You let him call me for this?”

And she gives no fucks about it and just shrugs and is all “I thought it would be funny.”

Now Harry is growing more and more confused and he’s like, “Umm excuse me, are we just ignoring the whole girlfriend cheating on you thing?”

At this point, Parker drops in from the ceiling or something behind Harry and is like, “It’s not cheating when they’re both my boyfriend.”

And Eliot also pops up and says, “I should hope I’m able to kiss my girlfriend when our boyfriend isn’t around to kiss us.”

After Harry recovers from his mini heart attack after getting startled twice by Parker and Eliot, he’s like, “Cool, cool. Wait, what??”

But Eliot and Parker have already wandered off and Hardison is distracted with his stuff and Breanna shrugs at Harry before picking up her laptop and leaving to go catch up with Hardison while she has him on the call. So Harry is left standing there in confused but supportive spirit.

[ellsjoint]

Demosthenes Part 1 - Ellie Williams x Reader

Synopsis: Two British university students decide to go to their online friends’ university – what could go wrong? A lot, considering the reader has absolutely no social skills.

A/N: Hi! This is my first TLOU fanfic, and I haven't written fanfiction in years so I hope this is good. This part's pretty much just setting the scene, there's no interaction with Ellie and the reader YET (and it's short as)... But I hope you enjoy this for now! P.S I won't be writing any smut in this just because I don't want to, and at parts this is pretty much just going to be a comedy and me imagining me and my best friend being awkward in this situation.

Future Content: college!ellie, loser!ellie maybe, slow burn, angst (because I'm funny like that), fluff, not really sure yet but we'll see!

Your POV:

This conversation had repeated itself time and time again for the last month.

‘At this point, why not?’ your best friend laughed lightly, ‘this place is a shithole. We should put ourselves out there!’.

‘Do you really think going to uni with these people you’ve never even met is a good idea?’ you stared at them, shaking your head. ‘My family’s here, my dance team’s here, all the small gigs I do are here. Everything is here - I can’t just drop that.’ To you, the idea was laughable. How could you just move across the globe to what, play house with your best friends’ online friends that you’d spoken to maybe once? It seemed silly, and you knew you’d struggle to interact with new people – not because of any form of anxiety you had, but because you sucked at socialising to the extent that you just stopped at one point. Some people didn’t even know you could speak, whereas those you were closer with (like your close friends and dance team) were well aware of your predicament.

‘That’s why you should go! Bro, you hardly speak to anyone here. In a new environment, you could just… I don’t know, maybe try and develop some social skills? Plus, they’ll be starting their first year too.’ your friend shrugged. ‘Please! It’ll be so much fun! Oh, and you can visit your family, and your family can visit you! And there’s probably another dance team at this uni!’ They continued to ramble, trying to persuade you that dropping everything would be worth it. You weren’t exactly convinced, even if you did think her friends seemed okay from the little you had seen of them from your friend’s phone screen.

Continuing to mull the idea over in your head, your friend continued to rant about the situation. ‘You’ve talked to them once! Give them a chance. They think you’re suuuper cool, which is why you should come! You’d be iconic at their uni. And the girls would be all over you! Maybe Ellie would. Did you know Ellie’s gay?’ You’d seen what, 2 memes that this Ellie person had sent your friend on their phone? You knew literally nothing about her other than a portion of her humour.

‘Good for Ellie…?’ you sighed. You knew they weren't going to stop.

‘Come on, you need to give the world a chance. This would be so good for you to just get yourself out there!’ your friend pleaded.  Of course, they tried to focus on its benefits for you (repeating theirself in the process) instead of the large benefit it would have for them – a meeting with their online friends. ‘Please, I don’t want to go by myself. I can’t leave my best friend, and think about it, all my friends getting on? That would be so cool.’

Once again, you let out another sigh, before nodding. ‘Fine, I’ll try it. But if I don’t like it, I’m going home.’

Your friend let out an excited squeal, and you stared at her, a deadpan look on your face. What were you signing yourself up to? Nobody knew, and only time could tell.

[90s-2000s-barbie]

hi!! I love your room - can you tell me what's the story of it? did it take a long time to put together or is it actually from childhood? ty!

Hi! Thank you very much! Glad u like it. Great questions actually. Well I’ve been a collector basically since I was a kid cause I kept a lot of childhood favorites throughout the years but started thrift in 2009 my freshman year in high school. So at first me and my sister shared that green room when we were super little (it was baby pink at the time) then when we got a little older, my parents gave me this smaller room, and my sister got our old jointed room.

I’ve always been an angst music girl and kept my toys and collection around random places or packed away. Well when my sister moved out of my parents. I got her old room, that iconic room you all have seen. As I always loved my toys and childhood and yeah, I love Metallica and I love the Backstreet Boys too! I just was always super self conscious about it. Finally one day, I just said fuck it! I like whatever I like and I don’t care. I packed all my band merch away and decided to do what I wanted to do is when I did a whole redecoration of both rooms. I did this in 2016. It was the height of my Tumblr famous 90s2000sgirl Blog. Before I deleted all my content everywhere and went on a short hiatus. Those photos It’s definitely not from childhood though people get confused a lot and think it is.

The inspiration was not only just my childhood and collections but how I DREAMED of me and my sisters joint room back when we were small and shared this room together how we would have wanted it. Like how would these little girls wanted this room but thought it was impossible. lol so my parents made me keep the 2 beds and at first I was irritated but then I kinda used it to my advantage cause I had soo many cool Bedding stuffed animals and our old Canopy. Also my best friend use to stay the night all the time so really it ended up coming in handy anyways so that’s why I had the 2 beds. I hated it at the time but they wanted them after I moved out. lol I use to get questions about it all the time but that’s why.

I have a room tour on my youtube channel From that same time I did the redecorating. I use to get lots of questions about a room tour so I did a cheesy video on close ups telling where I got some of my stuff and how much I paid. Though I decorated in 2016, everything is from 90s-2000s. It took me quite a few hours to put everything up but I had it all up within one day but sometimes when I’d look at the shelves, I’d watch tv and move a few pieces around. Sometimes things look fine till ur really sitting there looking back and it looks goofy. lol another thing about my room, I had a lot more stuff too! Even posters I’d swap toys and posters out all the time! My rooms were always changing. No one would hardly notice but I just have so much and not much space. Though I loved this room, I will admit it’s so nice to be in a full house now. I just don’t share photos anymore.

Thanks so much for the ask! hope you have a beautiful day! 🩷😄

[divinegrey]

𝙗𝙪𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙛𝙡𝙮 / 𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙭 𝙜𝙣!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

inspired by sage and her iconic butterfly knife moment in the new cinematic. enjoy you thirsty animals

prompt: while sitting in the common area doing reports, you can't help but take notice to sage's skill with her butterfly knife

words: 1200

warnings: light spice, omega earth sage being dommy mommy, omen being omen

You have an issue. 

It’s incredibly difficult to get anything done when Sage is in the room. Ordinarily, you’d have no problem working alongside the healer to get the massive stack of reports done, but when she’s doing that every second, it’s causing little to get done on your end. 

One might ask what is she doing?

You glance up from your tablet, hearing the sharp schink! as Sage flips out her butterfly knife, twirling it between her fingers with a practiced ease that is oh so casual. She’s not even looking at it, too engrossed in reading a report you’d just finished a few moments ago. Internally, you cringe; the report is likely bad by her standards because Sage’s knife has been attractively distracting. 

You look back down and keep typing, inhaling a breath of the recycled oxygen that comes through the vents of the common room. No such thing as fresh oxygen these days. The supply of Radianite here leaves little room for any advancement, hence the Protocol going out to get more. 

If only our copies would stop getting in the way, you think to yourself. 

Sccccchink! Sage’s knife brings your eyes back up, her fingers nimbly avoiding the sharp edge as she flips and twists it over her knuckles, doing complicated combos that must’ve taken hours to perfect. Of course, Sage would know how to do the advanced moves— if there’s anyone who could, it would be her. 

“Something the matter?” Sage’s voice cuts through the noise of the vents cycling through. Immediately, you shake your head, looking back down at the tablet to fill out the rest of the section you’d been working on, detailing a successful spike mission, but it’s even harder to focus on that when you know Sage is looking at you. Curiosity lines her eyes, and you pretend the flush on your cheeks is because you’re wearing a comfy hoodie. 

Temporarily persuaded, Sage goes back to her little knife tricks, leaving a swarm of butterflies in your stomach every time you look up at her. Every so often (maybe too often), Sage catches you looking. You can’t help yourself— Sage’s strength and confidence has always been one of the primary reasons you like her so much, as a person and as a leader. 

And as something more, dipshit. 

Being alone with her in the common room isn’t exactly helping your wandering mind, either. If only Jett were here; she would be ruthlessly teasing the shit out of you right about now. 

Sage stands up abruptly, twirling her knife still in her hand as she walks over to you. The butterflies in your tummy intensify by tenfold. 

“Curious?” Sage asks, flipping the knife in her hand before throwing it into the air. It spins in circles before landing in her palm, closed and shut. You nod once, hoping your enthusiasm doesn’t show too much in front of her. Sage drops down onto the couch beside you, making you sit up a little straighter. Yet, she’s all too casual with the way she leans back and starts showing off again. 

She’s indulging, you realize. Sage hardly ever shows off. 

“It’s really cool,” you say, holding your tablet to your chest. “I would cut my hand off if I tried doing that.” 

“It takes practice,” Sage replies, before looking at you with a slight smirk. “Plus some dexterity. It’s hard to do tricks if your fingers can’t keep with the pace.” 

You’re not sure if she was actually insinuating something more with that, but your face burns up anyway. Sage laughs, flipping her knife into the open position before turning her body towards yours. The tip of her knife comes to rest on your chin, tilting it up to meet her eyes. 

“I could teach you,” Sage murmurs, “If you’re willing to learn. You need patience, practice… flexibility.” 

You swallow, forcing out a small laugh that feels incredibly awkward. “I don’t feel like we’re talking about the knife anymore.” 

Sage flips the knife closed after withdrawing it, the sound a loud click that feels akin to making a final decision. The healer tilts her head to the side. “Are we?” 

You notice her eyes dip down to your lips, and you take your chances. 

Sage meets you halfway for a kiss, the thought of reports and papers all but abandoned as you meld yourself with her. At some point, you make the ballsy decision to straddle her on the couch, caging her in with your arms. Kissing her is unlike anything you’ve ever felt, ever experienced— it’s something that opens your eyes, a faint coldness to her lips reminding you of the way her healing orbs feel like the cool ocean water over your skin. 

She seems pleased by this result, and honestly? So are you. 

Though it might seem that you have the upper hand and upper position, Sage makes it clear she’s controlling the pace, her hands on your chin to stop you from getting too greedy with it. She forces it slower, until all you truly feel are the worn callouses from years spent shooting a rifle and the heartbeat that thunders in your chest and in hers. 

The switch is flipped; Sage pushes you back onto the flat length of the couch, holding your hands above your head with only one of hers. It leaves you struggling to breath as your eyes meet. Something burns in her irises. 

“I see you watching,” Sage whispers, flipping her knife open. She drags the flat of the blade along your shirt, not nearly enough pressure for it to be threatening, but the motion of it leaves your core aching. “I see you staring when I’m training. Is there something you want? Say it.” 

You thought you hadn’t been so obvious— maybe you were, if Jett noticed. Maybe you were being obvious by standing near the windows that peer into the training room whenever Sage was in there working out her anger and her stress, marveling over her form and her fighting and her body and her—

Stop it. 

Sage’s warm breath tickles your cheek. “Say it.” 

You swallow your pride for the easiest sentence you’ve ever said. 

“I want you.” 

The corner of Sage’s mouth turns up. She kisses you, softer than the rest, and this one feels only a thousand times more intense with the weight of her body on yours. You wish you could reach for her, wish you could touch her and kiss her all over—

The door to the common room opens. Before Sage can pull away, both of you turn to see Omen standing there, holding his beloved bonsai tree in both hands as if cupping a bowl. He looks at you, then Sage, the slits of his eyes pulsing. Omen looks down at his bonsai. 

“Not a word, Omen, and I’ll buy you the bonsai scissors you want,” Sage says, sitting up and pulling you along with her. You’re a mess right now, and it’s only a little embarrassing that Omen is seeing you like this. 

Pleased by the development, Omen places his bonsai down at the table and takes a seat. Sage winks at you, stepping off the couch and taking her tablet to join him. 

You’re left on the couch staring at the ceiling with the thought of what the fuck just happened?

~~~~~ A/N: ehehe top sage brain go brrrrr

[msnihilist]

what do you think about rook's character in ben 10 in general?you know I never really liked that he was this serious and workaholic partner from beginning to nearly the end,in Wikipedia says he's kinda ben's other best friend too but they hardly had a memorable scence for that together maybe except 1 or 2,and also he has scenes where he mocks ben seriously which I didn't like,idk it feels like his character is so unexplored he had more potential to him since he was ben's partner replacing gwevin in OV so just wanted to know your opinion👍🏻

I've already put all of my thoughts about Rook into my fics. Namely, Separately (S2-era Rook, who would disrespect Ben's boundaries purely for his own curiosity and then feels like shit for it), In All The World... (pre-canon Rook, and how/why I think he grew to idolize Ben and become a Plumber), Cross Your Heart (and Hope to Die) (puts Rook through absolute hell to break him down into one of the rawest character studies I've ever done), and Diamonds Are Forever (post-canon fic that explores the kind of person Rook is and how Ben has changed who he wants to grow to be/how Rook defines himself without Ben around).

But I know that's a lot to read, so here are the SparkNotes:

Rook mellows out a lot by season eight. This change is incredibly noticeable if you watch two episodes back-to-back.

Ben and Rook are very close, and this is something else you can see if you watch season one and then season eight to compare.

I think Ben and Rook had plenty of memorable scenes/moments. Their fake fight in season one, Rook being pushy during Showdown and later apologizing for it, "I don't always get him, but he's cool." "The feeling is mutual.", Rook physically holding Ben back from attacking someone (twice, lol), Rook fighting Lord Transyl's mind-control to warn Ben, "I have worked with Ben long enough to know that when he foolishly charged headlong into a trap, I should have foolishly charged after him.", Ben meeting Rook's family, literally all of their interactions in The Vengers, "Ben! I made a wisecrack!", acting like proud parents after Young One's tail fell off, Rook's promotion to Magister (and their successful fist bump!!), "It has been an honor to fight at your side," (Rook using his final words to tell Ben how important their partnership has been to him and that he doesn't regret a thing just does something to me), etc. If you don't think they're as iconic as Ben and Kevin, that's fair, but they do objectively have plenty of relationship-defining moments.

Rook has scenes where he mocks Ben. In early seasons, this is a character flaw. In later seasons, this is a product of the Omniverse writers thinking it's funny when the punchline to a joke is, "Ben's an idiot." If I held it against Rook, I'd have to hold it against literally every character... So I ignore it, lol.

Here are some episodes that I think do a good job of exploring Rook's character.

S2E6: Bros In Space

S2E7: Arrested Development (not a character-heavy episode, I just think Rook is really funny in this one.)

S3E2: Tummy Trouble

S3E8: While You Were Away ("You have become a hero while you were away," just makes me grin like an idiot every time.)

S3E10: The Frogs of War: Part 2

S4E2: The Ultimate Heist (I loved the scene towards the end where Albedo called Rook out on his willful ignorance.)

S4E8: OTTO Motives

S6E1: Catfight (Another one where Rook is really funny.)

S7E2: Rook Tales (Rook's fight with Kundo is iconic as hell to me. "You taught me everything you know. But we are not in your training hall anymore.")

S8E6: The Final Countdown

S8E10: A New Dawn

Rook is not an overly complicated person. He's a solid guy who gets character development and learns to loosen/open up. He's not as nuanced as Kevin. He doesn't have the history with Ben that Gwen does. But Rook is not a bad character by any means, and his bond with Ben feels earned.

But if you still aren't impressed with Rook, you can always rewatch UAF :p

[catierambles]

as referring to my last post, the said fictional situation went as thus...

(under a Keep Reading for choice sake and because the more I write it, the longer it gets)

I have a running, I dunno what you want to call it, RPF? Delusion? In my head where I have a friendship (just a friendship) with Henry Cavill because he started playing ffxiv. If y'all know me, I love this game. I (actually) have a toon on the EU servers (Chaos-Phantom) and the running thing is that he had just gotten into the game, I was hanging around the Limsa aetheryte plaza (as one does) and he came up to me and messaged me in the pink (private DM) saying basically "I'm new the game, I have no idea what I'm doing, can you help me out?" Does it denote a bit of arrogance on my part that he would come to me versus any other player in the game? A bit, but whatevs.

The thing to realize with the ffxiv community is that we (for the most part) love sprouts. The term "sprout" refers to the little icon next to a New Adventurer's (player's) name, it's a little green plant sprout, so the community calls them "sprouts".

I am no different. If you're a sprout and you ask for help either of me directly (it's happened) or in say chat, I will help out to the best of my ability. I will send you links and resources and help you on your journey in this wonderful world that is Eorzea. I'll even ferry you around on one of my two-seater mounts if need be. If you decide to part ways with me after you get your footing, by all means, I hope you enjoy yourself. If you decide to stick around and continue talking with me, that's your choice and I welcome you.

Anyroad...

So he comes up to me and says the aforementioned and myself, not knowing who it is behind the keyboard and mouse because how could I, do my usual and go "Absolutely, my dude, what's up?" And it goes from there. We go from ffxiv in-game chat to Discord just for ease and I basically go "It would be easier to do voice comms, here's a discord server I'm in, if you want to, hop on into voice chat. If you don't have a mic or are not comfortable talking, you don't have to, just listen." Because not everyone does or is.

Some time passes, I get him through the start of the game and he decides to stick around. Just from my personal experience, if a new player finds someone that is willing to help them out with no expectation of getting anything in return, they tend to stick around. Humans are pack animals, we intrinsically like grouping with others, especially if unconditional kindness is shown.

I still have no idea about this little sprout's true identity and when he does decide to share it, I'm basically like "Okay, cool, thanks for letting me know." *screaming internally* He starts posting screenshots of our toons on his insta (with our toon names turned off for privacy's sake) so the cat's out of the bag. The ffxiv community goes a bit nuts with the knowledge that Henry Cavill plays their game and Square Enix is also just tickled.

The internet being the internet, our toon names are eventually tracked down and the more...passionate among his fanbase are all "Why tf is he wasting his time with this nobody? She probably just wants something from him." I don't, but yanno, self-projection, and all that. Someone helping another person with no thought as to reward or personal gain? Unheard of.

Anywho...

With the decline of WoW, ffxiv saw a bit of an influx of new players, it became a big thing. Celebrity media outlets caught wind and I, all of a sudden, found myself with a lot more attention heaped on me than I'm used to. (Good thing I work from home and hardly if ever leave my apartment)

He messages me and is like "Hey, so and so wants the both of us to be on this interview show, you don't have to do it if you don't want to."

"Do you want me to be there?"

"...Kinda, yeah."

"Then I'm there." If a friend wants me to do something that would otherwise make me uncomfortable to do on my own, I'm going to be there because they want me there for whatever reason.

It's the first time he and I will have met in person, but at this point, he's not Henry Cavill to me, he's just Henry, the wee little sprout that could.

We go on the thing, I'm very uncomfortable but pushing through it. And then the interviewer drops a bomb

"So we found your tumblr..."

"Oh, really?" I ask.

"Yes, it's very interesting."

"You don't say." dread rising. They then proceed to pull up some of my thirstier posts about him (which have been few and far between since he and I started playing together, so they're quite dated) basically trying to be all "Aha! Isn't this dramatic and exciting! Oh, the ratings!" After a bit of neither myself nor him saying anything, I just kind of look at the interviewer and go:

"If you're trying to embarrass me, mission accomplished. If you're trying to embarrass Henry, by looking at him, mission accomplished. If you're trying to look like an asshole, mission accomplished." And I get up and walk off stage because fuck them, honestly. Bastards. Henry stays behind and I head back to the dressing room and send him a message via discord.

"I understand if you don't want to talk to me anymore. I understand if you don't want to associate with me anymore. I understand if the thought of seeing me or talking with me makes you uncomfortable. Trust me, I understand. What I need you to understand is that I never, not once, wanted or was going to ask anything of you that you were not willing to give. I didn't have any grand delusions or thoughts about our friendship or our relationship as a whole. I do not, and will not ever, ask anything of you or from you other than your friendship. But now that shit has been laid out, if you would rather not, I understand."

I basically just leave it up to him whether or not he wants to stay in contact, or cut off contact completely.

If you made it this far, congrats, you got to the end.

...I need coffee

[chewypussy]

mario posting

i know games like mario kart 8 and tour have too many characters but its interesting who they “passed up” in some regards. like why has e gadd never been made playable in any game, even when luigis mansion stuff is featured like a stage or whatever. they gave king boo a LM costume in tour when LM3 released and thats cool, makes me wish that was his default design but the current one is cute at least. its also funny to me that the honey queen bee’s icon is on a badge in tour but shes never been added to the game. do the devs know how much people hated her and knew no one would whale for the fucking bee from galaxy lol i think the reason she was added to 7 in the first place was because the director wanted another heavyweight female driver. its why rosalina is so tall, when galaxy and mk wii were in development together, the wii staff knew a new princess was being introduced in galaxy and wanted her in the game, but the director probably wanted to even out the genders of the weight classes with at least one woman, rosa is the only heavy woman in that game after all. so he requested she be made tall so it would make sense. even now she’s the only woman in the large size class in 8, but pink gold peach was introduced to add another heavy woman. so honey queen was plucked from galaxy to fill that role in 7. of course this all came, somewhat, at the cost of waluigi which is super funny ngl. i wonder why madame broodal wasnt added to tour as well tbh. theyre so weird with odyssey stuff, like new donk, pauline’s new persona as the jazz singer mayor, and some minor gameplay mechanics have found their way into some side games but hardly anything, like characters or new enemies, have been featured. when sunshine release, piantas were fucking everywhere, all the sports games featured sunshine references, you went to delfino isle in smash, all that stuff. galaxy gave us lumas and several new enemies that leaked into spin offs, but most of it has been from new super mario bros. even 3d world barely had much influence. the cat characters are in tour at least, and cat peach is in 8/dx. but where are the tosterenans? the shiverians? the loch ladies? where is cappy, its so weird its like they want to keep the mario branding so tight theyll only allow the main series games to go “off script” with characters and designs but not any side games or other devs. whatever. i hope pauline is added to the mk8 booster courses

[galactic-empress]

The Karim vs Janai/Coup, Trial/Sunfire plots were the better parts for me this season. Multiculturalism, diversity, respecting and preserving cultural traditions and differences, preventing cultural loss, hysteria, racial issues, political intrigue, reforming justice laws, coping after societal collapse and the uneasy peace process, etc. are what I am here for over relationship drama and adventuring. I want to see less implied racism, I want to see portrayed more historical grudges and hate crimes and discontent. And thus, I really liked Karim. His appearances gave us that. (He's also hot-). I think so many are caught up in him going after the favorited Janaya pairing, and fail to see the complexities and interestingness he brought to the story, however flawed. He just lost his sister, his home, and he doesn't trust that things will improve, he is making dumb choices by pushing away his sisters happiness and overreacting, but he is hurting, he doesn't want his culture to be erased like my Tibetan friends who have been robbed of their nation, language, history and identity. He doesn't want burial rituals to be mocked as superstitions by the people supposedly giving them aide. If nothing else is learned by Lucia, don't become a volunteer in another country unless you intend to learn about it actively, it's not the time to be a know it all when you are a guest. She got community service but will she ever be kind? I felt more for Karim (someone only mentioned by the Twitter account and like a paragraph in Tales of Xadia) than I ever have for Viren or Aaravos (and that's a lot coming from someone with his icon lol). I hope we get to see more of him, but they have way too many characters, so he and Miyana will probably do nothing ever again. It would have been nice if the elf who's ceremony was disrupted said more or there were more examples of misunderstandings or retaliations or further riots. Maybe show some humans starting to leave, renouncing their aide, like the threat that brought them together has passed, they assisted in their relocation, and now they are getting persecuted, so why stay at all.

Just more time spent on all of above, other than Viren's panic attacks and journey to cheat death, Rayllum getting back together simulations (it was really frustrating watching them be upset the entire bloody time, and Rayla was muted, hardly even there), dragon shit, Zubeia teaching us history, and Aaravos being cool (haha elf illuminati), because we already nearly knew all of that. I want to see dark magic debate besides Claudia's stinky point of view (hating elves by concept), I want more factions for and against peace between the elves besides just Karim, I want to see what the human Kingdoms' policies are towards our makeshift alliance. I appreciated that they finally gave us an elven community Earthblood who are dicks to dragons, and that Rex Igneous is at odds with Avizandum, showing dragons have complexities.

Anyways, as someone who lost my favorite and a very impactful story (The OA) at the hands of Netflix, I get why they expanded to all mediums; books, comics, d&d, games, as a contingency plan, but I do agree, if you haven't followed or bought everything you are at a great disadvantage.

I would also really love to know more about the history and culture of the Sunfire elves but "Mount Everest still existed before it was discovered", like the message is that it's worth protecting and having interest in their culture even if you know nothing about it, despite centuries of hostility. I am not Tibetan, nor am I Asian, or an inch religious, or an immigrant, but I would never want to witness my culture fade away. Tibet is just one example of an independence movement and cultural erasure. Rampant racism now against anyone slightly Slavic with the war, and decades of discrimination against anyone Muslim, are two others. Also yeah, I love Terry (also hot-) but he was oblivious to how his girlfriend just invaded Xadia, discriminates elves by her fathers influence (also if ya'll can like Viren a human nationalist, I can like Karim and Aaravos (who's manipulating and moulding everyone)), and she does the number one thing that makes elves mistrust us for, and how does he not know about the dangers of breaking out Aaravos, that seems like something they would teach.

Okay, tldr; to those calling this a filler season, all of these themes are very important even if most were told and not shown, Karim's strength through violence is flawed and wrong but it wasn't worthless or nothingness...and selfishly I don't want them to hear all of this negativity and we get cancelled shhh And anyways, if they rushed things with Aaravos or the Moonshadow family reunion or more romance, then what would be next.

[allinmymincl]

flipping the hand which rests beneath hers, drew's fingers begin brushing back and forth across the inside of luna's wrist, index finger following the lines of the thin veins and bones that reside where the hand connects to the arm. an absence of feeling understood is something that he can identify with, too. "i never say anything that doesn't make perfect sense to me. problem is, most of what i say requires encyclopedic knowledge of at least three iconic slasher movie characters, the most morbid things to ever happen in recorded history, and / or the entire scream franchise, which i almost always forget that most people don't have. so, you know, the list of people who make me feel seen and understood is ... " he pauses, mentally compiling it. " ... really just rory and you. and it's different with rory." he doesn't stumble through asking them out on vaguely defined dates for one thing because gross. "i think rory and i have just, like, spent too many hours together throughout our lifetimes for it to be at all possible for us to not get each other most of the time." although it turns out that he's spent more hours with luna than he realized before a few minutes ago. because luna is one of the first people he ever shared the earliest, roughest drafts of drive - in with, and the singular first person to ever discuss horror movies with him and match his enthusiasm. the realization isn't actually that surprising after he thinks it over for hardly any time at all. from the moment they met, conversation seemed to flow so easily and naturally between the two of them, almost like they were two old friends who had known each other forever. drew grins. "what i'm saying is : you're not scary. you're just kinda ... kooky. you know ? " absolutely certain that she does know, he's still grinning as he leans closer and gives them a playful nudge with his elbow. he doesn't immediately recoil, and his tone softens as he becomes sincere again. "you don't have to thank me. i like you because of your ' oddities ' ... if you really wanna call of this stuff that, but i think it's all so cool ... not in spite of them." drew knows that he needs to leave soon for ... something that he suddenly can't recall a single detail about as he's stands close enough to luna to count each freckle on her nose. "i ... um, i have that thing," he eventually reminds them, somehow recalling that he had told them he would have to duck out at some point to attend a different engagement back when they had made these plans to meet up. still, drew doesn't move. his fingers linger along the soft flesh of her wrist. "i think that i'll have to go soon, but i really hope that i can see you again soon."

                     as   someone   who   was   quick   to   jump   to   conclusions,   confirmation   of   their   worst   fears   gripped   them   quickly.   in   the   short   span   of   five   minutes,   luna   had   convinced   themselves   that   she'd   ruined   everything   with   drew.   not   only   would   he   look   at   her   with   disappointed   eyes   and   pained   frown,   but   he'd   never   want   to   see   them   again.   there   would   be   no   apologies   she   could   give   to   change   his   mind.   maybe   if   they   had   let   him   speak   early   she   would   have   learned   that   wasn't   the   case.   '   i'm   not   mad   '.   three   simple   words   released   a   wave   of   relief   enough   to   drown   out   every   wrong   ending   they   thought   would   come   between   the   two   of   them.   ❝   you're   not   ?   ❞   tone   immediately   softened   with   the   clarification;   brown   eyes   blinking   at   him   in   delighted   confusion   as   a   smile   tugged   at   the   corner   of   their   lips   once   more.   the   hope   of   a   potential   future   with   drew   quick   to   build   up   once   again.   there's   a   desire   to   interrupt   him   as   he   speaks;   tell   him   that   he   shouldn't   worry   and   everything   is   fine   but   they   don't.   instead,   she   settles   for   shaking   their   head   to   display   how   much   they   disagree   with   what   he   was   saying.   admittedly,   it   was   surprising   to   know   how   much   drew   had   loved   luna's   work...━━━   admired   them   as   a   creative   but   he   didn't   know   how   validating   that   was.                    luna   could   be   in   a   room   with   director's   like   radio   silence   and   tim   burton,   have   critics   on   the   board   of   the   emmy's   decide   that   her   performance   is   worthy   of   a   nomination,   and   still   ━━━   they'd   wonder   if   drew   would   have   thought   it   was   good.   ❝   you've   always   been   more   than   a   friend   to   me.   ❞   luna   started   softly,   a   hand   reaching   out   to   his   but   suddenly   feeling   too   shy   to   hold   it   so   instead   an   index   finger   gently   brushed   along   the   back   of   his   hand.   ❝   back   then   and   especially   now,   i   always   thought   you   were   the   coolest.   i   was   always   trying   to   impress   you   so   learning   that   you   were   a   fan   without   even   realizing   was...━━━   ❞   there's   a   pause   as   a   wide   smile   broke   on   her   features   and   happy   sigh   soon   followed.   ❝   ━━━   i   don't   know   if   i'll   ever   find   the   words   for   how   amazing   that   felt.   i   mean,   i'm   glad   you   know   now,   but   there's   something   really   nice   in   knowing   that   you   didn't   have   to   know   it   was   me   to   be   a   fan   of   the   work   i   did.   ❞   though   they   found   it   hard   to   look   at   him   while   being   so   vulnerable,   it   was   impossible   to   look   away.   finally,   sharing   with   him   things   they   held   onto   for   nearly   ten   years.   ❝   you   were   the   first   person   to   really   make   me   feel   seen   and   understood   for   all   of   my…━━━   oddities.   ❞   she   offered   the   last   bit   with   a   small   laugh   as   they   gestured   to   the   spiders   that   surrounded   them.   ❝   i’m   happy   i   can   finally   say   thank   you   in   person   for   that.   ❞

[danakin-skywalker]

Under the Dock (Danny Wagner Fluff)

Taglist: @flowervanfleet @weightofdreams-gvf @sierraahhhh @jakekiszska @amourleger @theweightofstardust @samkiszkabreakmyback @prettyintopeerpressure @greta-flanveet @fosterkidwiththebrokenjaw @the-chaotic-cow @ghostly-luck @mywaysooon @tlexx @screechesincoherently @garagebandvanfleet @gretavanhoney @stardustdanny @joshysgf @cowboysamkiszka and potentially you, just lmk!

Request:  Your tags on a Danny picture said “hot camp counselor vibes” AND I AM BEGGING FOR THAT FIC. PLEASE. He’s sweet and funny kinda hunky guy everyone likes. With campfire talks and skinny dipping 😩✋

(A/N): Had to celebrate my new icon with some Danny fluff. Okay, this is a request I got back in December based off some tags I left on this picture of Danny. I put off writing it until now because I wasn’t sure how completely out-of-season I wanted to go. But I’m impatient and tired of waiting, plus I know a couple other writers have camp counselor ideas so I figured I’d get this one out ASAP so that we all don’t accidentally write about the same camp-like things. However, I absolutely DO NOT own the concept of the boys as camp counselors so even if there are similarities I won’t be mad. Who ever read a fanfiction and thought to themselves “wow that was awesome I hope nobody has ever written anything else remotely like this?”  Like, when I read a cool trope I like I immediately look for other writer’s interpretation of said trope. 

This is a request I’ve been particularly excited about because I actually worked as a camp counselor at a Girl Scout day camp in high school. Not only that, I frequented several sleepaway summer camps as a child. So this is a vibe I am absolutely familiar with and excited to share this cold January evening. 

I hope you enjoy!

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

Under the Dock

It was your third summer working at Camp Huntington. You had attended the sleepaway camp as a child and couldn’t resist the stable seasonal employment when you went off to college and found yourself needing to make money on your breaks. 

Camp Huntington is a youth summer camp on one of the Finger Lakes in Upstate New York. Every July, it housed hundreds of children and preteens along with several dozen counselors. Including yourself. And him.

Danny Wagner was indisputably the kids favorite counselor. There was always one, and everyone knew. And since he started here last summer, he basically had all the kids at his beck and call. The little girls all had adorable crushes on him, and the little boys thought he was the coolest guy they’d ever seen. Either way, he constantly had children eager to please and impress him. 

And honestly, he deserved it. Even outside of the kids attention, when other counselors would take breaks to moan and gripe about their little assholes of the day, Danny had nothing but cheery disposition and positivity to relay about his kids. And why wouldn’t he? They would never give him a hard time. 

That first summer, you two hardly even talked. You didn’t really get to know him. But all the little girls in your cabin certainly made sure you knew who this tall man with the pretty hair was. Occasionally, he would come staggering up to you with two of your campers dangling from his biceps, only to plant them on the ground in front of you with a smile, “I believe these belong to you.” Or during his famous campfire sing-a-longs with his friend Sam and their two guitars, you would occasionally find him glancing over at you from across the fire, admiring the way you softly stroked the head of the younger camper sleeping with her head resting on your thigh. 

This summer, however, has been different. Even the kids can tell.

You showed up to counselor orientation a few days before camp was set to start. There were hardly any new counselors this summer for TJ (the head counselor) to train, so pretty soon you and everybody else were busy hauling cheap bunker mattresses into the dusty old cabins on the other side of the grounds. 

You and a few of the other counselors were tending to this one particularly musty cabin when you heard a squeak and felt something scurry across your sneakers. All three of you turned to look at each other before screaming and running out of the cabin, shaking your limbs to try and rid yourselves of the icky feeling.

As you kept backing up, your back collided with something solid. You turned around and suddenly found yourself nose to nose with Danny. “What happened?” His eyes were slightly widened with concern, and you tried not to chuckle at how ridiculous you were about to sound.

“There’s, uh, either the world’s biggest mouse or the world’s smallest rat living in that cabin. Just ran right across my foot.” You shuddered again at the thought, only to freeze when Danny placed his hand on your shoulder. 

“Ok. I’m on it.” He patted you a few times with a determined look and a sly grin on his face, before bounding over into the cabin, exaggeratedly whipping the flashlight keychain from his pocket like a gun from a holster as he disappeared into the darkness.

Your fellow counselors appeared next to you, “What was that about?” One asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You fought the blush heading toward your cheeks. “What? He’s just being nice.”

From inside the cabin, you hear a muffled, “Oh SHIT, you weren’t kidding!”

It was at this moment you remembered that Danny walked in there empty-handed. You couldn’t help but yell back, “What’s your plan here? Pick it up with your bare hands?”

You and the other counselors chuckled at the idea, but were all knocked into stunned silence when Danny emerged moments later shirtless, holding his shirt like a sack in his left hand. He smirked over at you.

“C’mon now, Y/N. Have a little more faith in me.” He jeered teasingly as he brushed past you. You couldn’t resist turning around to watch him leave, eyes tracing over the toned muscles on his back. 

You were brought back to reality by one of the other counselors nudging you, “Hey. Let’s get back to work before you flood the place with your drool.” You rolled your eyes and playfully shoved her back before returning into your cabin.

After a few days of passing flirtations over the course of orientation, it was finally the first day of camp. Excited campers were flooding in from the entrance gates with bags and parents in tow. You and all the other counselors were ready on standby as you guided individual campers and their families to the cabin where they would be spending their month. You watched as they said their goodbyes, some more emotional than others, and you thought back wistfully to your own time as a camper. 

This place had been your home away from home. As a child whose parents both worked full time and could never take off for your summer break, this camp was a welcome relief from being tossed back and forth between aunts and uncles or really whoever else was free to watch you. You knew the grounds like the back of your hand, and you had really come to love being a part of creating those same core memories for the children in front of you. 

Even though you knew perfectly well that little kids can be an absolute nightmare sometimes.

There was one time in particular, about a week or so into the season, when everybody was supposed to be leading their assigned group of campers in an outdoor cookout at one of the many camp grills stationed around the grounds. You were supplied with charcoal and lighters and the ingredients for whatever meal your group decided they wanted to make. 

The way Camp Huntington operated was such that you had a new group of campers every week, and this week you had been blessed with the opportunity to take care of the youngest group. They had picked an easy enough meal, just hamburgers and corn on the cob, but when you struggled to get the charcoal lit, all hell broke loose. Children were screaming and wailing over their grumbling tummies, getting antsy and trying to run off to do something else while you slaved over their meal in vain. Finally, you turned to your co-counselor and declared that you were going into the stock shed to find some newspaper to kindle the flame. They agreed to hold down the fort, understanding your absence was for the greater good as they continued trying to corral in the feisty 7 year-olds. 

As you started walking toward the shed, tears pricked against your eyes. It was all so overwhelming. You were disappointed in yourself for not being able to provide fire for your campers, and for holding up their meal. But kids this little don’t really have much empathy yet, so they couldn’t possibly understand how their screams and groans were chipping away at you. By the time you got to the shed, you had given up on wiping away your tears and instead just pressed your forehead against the warm tin exterior and let out a long shaky breath.

You jumped when the door flung open and... oh of course it has to be him. Danny walked out with a jug of lighter fluid, whistling a happy-go-lucky tune you didn’t recognize. He looked perfect as ever, in a camp shirt he cut the sleeves off of and his long hair pulled up into a messy bun on top of his head. However, his face fell and he quickly placed the jug on the ground when he took in your state. “Oh, Y/N, what happened?”

He didn’t waste a second before pulling you against his slightly-sweaty chest, arms wrapping tightly around you and rubbing soothingly against your back. 

“Kids are assholes.” You mumbled, sniffling. You could feel Danny’s chest shake a bit with laughter as you felt some of the stress leave your body. “I can’t get this charcoal to light for my goddamn life and these kids are losing their minds. And I know it’s just because they’re hungry but it’s so overwhelming and I should be able to do this if I’m a decent counselor and I don’t know why-”

Danny pulled back a bit to place a finger over your lips. As his face meets yours again, he stifles a chuckle before speaking. “First of all, you are an amazing counselor. Your kids love you even if it doesn’t seem that way all the time. Second of all, I just got note from TJ that half of the charcoal they got today isn’t instant-light. You probably got the kind that needs the lighter fluid I’m getting now.”

You let out a breath at Danny’s words, relaxing at the logical explanation for your incompetence. But Danny hasn’t let you go yet. He reaches up to wipe the wetness from your cheeks. “And thirdly, you have charcoal dust all over your face right now. Here.” He couldn’t help but free the chuckle he was suppressing as he used his thumbs to wipe your cheeks and forehead clean while you blushed furiously.

“Oh good, so I truly did look like a mess when you found me.” You mumbled as you separated from his body. 

Danny shrugged, “Not a mess, just in need of a little help. C’mon, lets get that grill going and those campers fed.” He reached for your hand and you hesitantly took it. He reached down and grabbed the jug of lighter fluid in his other hand and the two of you headed back to your group.

You really should’ve known better than to approach a group of 7 year-olds holding hands with a boy. Much less the boy they were all obsessed with.

As soon as they all saw you approaching with him, the glum and annoyed looks melted right off of their faces as they started bounding toward him. “DANNY!!” they screamed.

He stayed with you until you got your grill ignited at last, relishing in the victorious smile that graced your face, before scratching the back of his head and announcing to the group. “Alright ladies, I’ve got at least four more grills having this same problem across camp so I need to get going. Promise me you’ll be nice and say thank you to your counselors, okay?”

The little girls all nodded aggressively up at Danny, stars in their eyes. He flashed a smile and a quick wink over at you before picking back up his jug and heading down the trail at the end of the field. 

It took about two seconds for one of your campers to ask, “Is Danny your boyfriend?”

And pretty soon, seemingly the entire camper population was speculating on yours and Danny’s (nonexistent) relationship.

By the late-afternoon counselor meeting, while all the campers were at the waterfront, Danny was sliding into the empty chair next to yours with a smirk, “So... have you heard we’re dating now?”

You choked on the sip of water you were taking, leaning down to let out a few coughs and feeling his hand gently pat your back a few times. You were really getting tired of immediately humiliating yourself every time you saw him. 

Once you’d finally regained your composure, you looked back over at him, “Wow, that was fast. Dating already, huh?”

“Yeah, apparently our romantic stroll from the shed to your grill was enough to convince every camper I’ve seen today. All afternoon I’ve been asked about you.”

You looked down sheepishly at the thought, before lifting your head back up again to meet his eyes, “And?”

Danny shrugged with a small smile, “I don’t know, it’s kinda fun to just humor them. Give super vague answers and let their little minds speculate. Keeps things interesting. Why, you got someone you’re trying to appear single for?”

You, you thought. But obviously that didn’t matter in this situation.

“No,” You responded pointedly, “But you do realize we’re about to get harassed about this all summer and it’s not even true. Plus, what if someone says something to TJ?”

Danny rolled his eyes, “TJ doesn’t care. As long as we’re not literally making out in front of campers he couldn’t care less what they’re talking about.” 

You couldn’t keep your mouth from opening slightly in surprise at his words, cheeks flushing. Before you could respond, TJ himself approached the front of the room to begin the meeting and all conversation came to a screeching halt. 

A few more days passed and you were starting to see what Danny was talking about. You had campers of all ages approaching you under the guise of starting their boondoggle keychain for them, only to then sit down next to you and interrogate you over your supposed boyfriend. You could only laugh off the comments and, like Danny said, offer vague answers about how he’s a “really nice guy” and a “great counselor.” 

It was worse with your cabin. This week, you had girls on the older side of the camp’s age spectrum, topping out at 12. These girls were absolutely determined to catch you and Danny canoodling somewhere. You felt like you always had eyes on you and, since you had naturally been avoiding Danny as a result, you wondered if he was experiencing the same. 

You didn’t get a chance to ask until another campfire night. Sam and Danny were winding down the sing-a-long while you had a steady queue of campers waiting in line for you to braid their hair. Your hands were getting tired but you couldn’t bring yourself to say no to their cute little faces. 

However, once the s’mores supplies were brought out by TJ, your line seemingly vanished and the girl you were working on urged you to finish up so she could claim her own stick and marshmallow. You laughed as you tied up the braid and helped her up, watching her bound over to the nearby pavilion where all the other campers were. 

You were slightly startled to feel someone new sit at your feet, leaning their weight against your legs. You looked down to see Danny looking up at you, head tilted back onto your lap and hair cascading down your legs. “Me next?” He asked with a smile.

You couldn’t help but chuckle as you gently tilted his head forward to begin. “Oh, they’ll get a kick out of this, that’s for sure.” You mumbled, so that only Danny would hear. At this point, the other counselors were in on the speculation too. Seemingly everyone was convinced that something was going on between you two. And honestly, you were starting to consider it too with the way Danny acted around you.

Sure enough, you were about halfway through Danny’s braid when the campers came streaming back to the fire, marshmallows on sticks. You watched them giggle and whisper to themselves as they watched you work dutifully on Danny’s head. Danny beckoned one of his campers over, one of the younger boys, and whispered into his ear. The camper ran back over to the pavilion and returned with another stick and marshmallow, handing it over to Danny.

You smiled as the little boy climbed into his lap and the two roasted their marshmallows together. He really did just have this magic way with kids. With everyone, it seemed. But especially with the campers, it made your heart swell. 

By the time both marshmallows were properly toasted, you were tying off the end of his braid. The camper squirmed out of his lap and sprinted off to the pavilion again, while Danny held both of their sticks. You expected him to get up after you were done, but he remained firmly planted on the ground against your legs until the camper returned, with graham crackers and chocolate for two s’mores. You watched as the two of them perfectly crafted their s’mores, the little boy absolutely beaming at the opportunity to do this with Danny. You were so distracted by the scene before you, but you were somehow surprised by Danny taking the s’more he made in his hand and leaning back to meet your eyes again, holding it out for you. 

You could hear the campers cooing around the fire as he grinned up at you, “For your services, m’lady.”

You smirked down at him, taking the s’more in your hand and thanking him softly before playfully pushing his head back down toward the fire in attempt to hide your blush. But unfortunately for you, even if he missed it, the dozens of pairs of eyes around the fire most certainly did not.

Things finally came to a head near the end of the month, when it was time for the camp-wide game of counselor manhunt. All of the counselors were instructed to hide throughout the grounds, some in easier places than others, so that once they were found they could assist the kids in helping find the rest.

You were tucked away behind a tree on a trail when a group of 10 year-olds found you, shouting victoriously.

“I bet you know where Danny is too, then!” One exclaimed.

You laughed, “I don’t know where anybody is but lets go look!”

You and your new squad of 10 year-old boys were able to track down a few more counselors before reaching the waterfront. You studied the dock curiously as you took in the muddy footprints leading up to the end of the dock, only to disappear a few feet before the ledge.

You stepped closer to the edge of the dock, humming to yourself curiously. “Well that’s suspicious...” You said out loud, already having an idea of who would be crazy enough to fully jump into the lake for a game of manhunt.

Just when you were about to crouch down and test your theory, you felt something from below push the dock upwards, making you lose your balance and fall right into the lake yourself.

Your 10 year-olds took their time laughing before coming up to see if you were okay, and in that time you were able to emerge from the water and look under the dock to see exactly who you thought you would. The only person who wouldn’t immediately be in for a beating for pulling that stunt. You didn’t have time to glare at him before another voice pulled your attention.

“Are you okay Y/N?!” One of the other counselors you’d found asked, bounding up to the edge of the dock. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Danny press further away from the edge of the dock, clearly trying to preserve his hiding space. But you could feel his eyes on you.

You had a decision to make. Give away Danny’s hiding spot and put up with these little boys not only fawning over him but making fun of you for falling in, or make up an excuse for the group to leave you. Alone with him.

“I’m fine, just slipped I guess. Don’t come too close to the edge.” The other counselor stepped back warily at your instruction. You sighed and ran a hand through your soaked hair. “I’m gonna get out and go get changed. I’ll need new sunscreen after this too. You guys just go on without me, I’ll explain to TJ later but let them all know I’m found.”

The other counselor nodded and turned the group around until everyone was back in the woods as you slowly made your way to the edge of the dock, now mere feet away from Danny. When the coast was fully clear, you didn’t waste a moment to use your hands to splash lakewater into Danny’s face.

“You dick!” You laughed, “What if that wasn’t me? Also who the hell jumps into the lake during manhunt, isn’t that against the rules?”

Danny chuckled back at you and half-heartedly sent another splash your way. “I knew it was you. Also technically, as long as I’m still on the dock it’s not cheating.”

You rolled your eyes, “Oh okay, for sure. I should’ve given you away for that alone.”

Danny moved closer to you. “But you didn’t.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he got you there. You took a moment in your close proximity to get lost in his eyes. They were different down here under the dock. In the sunlight, his eyes looked like pools of gold. But under the shadows, they looked darker. Deeper. More hypnotic. It was like he was staring right inside of you.

“Well what kind of a camp girlfriend would I be if I ratted you out?” You responded softly, turning down to look at the murky water beneath you when his gaze became too much.

“You know, camp’s almost over. You busy for the rest of the summer?” You saw his hands fiddling with the water, making little ripples on the top.

You shrugged. “I mean, not really. I go back to school at the end of August but until then I kinda set the time aside to enjoy a bit of the summer. Have some fun.” It sounded so lame, you cringed as it came out of your mouth.

But when you looked back up at Danny again, he was also looking down at his fingers in the water. “Well, if you were looking for someone to have fun with, we could always do something together. Go out and make some memories outside this camp before you’re off to the books again.” He smirked down at the water.

Your eyes widened at his words. “You mean like a date?”

Danny turned his head back up to look at you with a smile. That damn smile.

“Yeah, like a date.”

“You wanna take me on a date?”

He knit his brows for a moment before letting out a chuckle. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I? You know I would’ve shut down those dating rumors at the start if they were with someone I wouldn’t actually mind dating. I actually feel like at this point I owe you one.”

You couldn’t help but giggle as you looked back down at the water, cheeks flushing red as you too began to fidget with the water to ease your nerves. “Well you don’t owe me anything. But yeah, I’d like that.”

Danny’s hands slipped back into the water and you had to hold back from jumping when you felt his course fingertips brush against yours, not even visible from the mere inches below the surface where they hovered.

Both of his hands hesitantly interlocked with yours as you turned your head back up to his. You suddenly felt like the two of you were much closer than before. You watched as he licked his lips, staring down at you. “It’s a date, then.”

You smiled up at him, shrugging your shoulders as nonchalantly as you could as you found yourself once again lost in his eyes. “It’s a date.”

There was a brief moment of silence between the two of you, waist deep under the docks, holding hands below the surface, staring into each others eyes.

You watched as his eyes briefly darted down to your lips, which only made yours instinctually dart down to his. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been thinking about them for majority of the summer. You almost didn’t even notice him leaning in, until suddenly you were nose to nose. His eyes were still boring into yours, putting the ball in your court as he patiently waited for you to make a move.

You used your hands in his to will him that extra bit forward, guiding his hands behind you as your lips landed onto his. You gently freed your hands from his to bring them up to his jawline as he kissed you tenderly. His hands, in the absence of yours, joined together at the small of your back as his mouth moved softly against yours. You could feel your heart ramming against your chest as you finally relieved the tension that had been building all month long.

Suddenly, you heard voices approaching. Small, squeaky child voices.

And suddenly you remembered exactly where you were.

You pulled back from Danny with wide eyes, opening your mouth to gasp. Before you could, Danny reached his hand up and clamped it over yours.

You both froze in place as you heard little footsteps approach the dock. The only thing that could be heard was the water drifting onto the shore, Danny’s breathing, the creaking of the wood- wait.

Danny was still catching his breath from the kiss. But with no other noise around, this could still give away your precarious position. So, you took it upon yourself to clamp your own hand over his mouth.

He raised his eyebrows at you and you were glad his hand was over your mouth to stifle the laugh that fought to escape you.

Unfortunately all this did was start a chain of you and Danny staring at each other and trying not to laugh.

When you heard the campers finally make their way out, you moved your hand from his mouth and he moved his.

“You really think those kids were looking for the sound of me breathing?” He asked teasingly.

“Oh and me gasping would’ve given us away?” You fired back, laughing through your words.

After a moment you turned to look back out onto the summer day continuing on outside of the dock’s shade. You sighed. “Alright, well I guess I should go get changed. Both of us can’t show up to dinner soaked.”

Danny nodded in agreement, but as you turned around to leave, he caught your arm and pulled you back close to him. You couldn’t help the smile that graced your face before he reached his hand up to cup your cheek and place one more shorter kiss onto your lips.

He pulled back with a small smile of his own. “Couldn’t help myself. I’ve been thinking about this for a while and who knows if we’ll even get another moment before camp’s over.”

You beamed up at him, reaching a hand up to experimentally fiddle with the drenched ends of his raven hair. “Well, there’s always next month.”

You winked at him before back-stepping away, still holding his hand that pulled you back before the distance became too great and the connection broke.

As you emerged from the water and started to wring out your hair and shirt, you couldn’t help the butterflies running rampant in your stomach and the blush you’re sure was coloring your cheeks.

You couldn’t resist turning to look back one last time at the dock, and sure enough you could just barely make out Danny’s head poking out from underneath, watching you leave.

You smiled and turned back around, heading for your cabin feeling a bit like one of your giddy preteenage campers.

Who knew your summer love would find you under the dock?

[sailors-fightinginthedancehall]

Okay so I saw Black Panther Wakanda Forever last night here are my thoughts.

(DM's are open for incoherent screeching about how good it was)

Chadwick Boseman. My god. This movie felt like closure for us too, as well as the characters. It was truly beautiful. I was in a cinema with a couple of assholes who liked sprinting down the stairs making fast noises and talking but they were silent with that intro. Everyone was. It was so goddamn powerful my god

This movie was so fucking emotional. I lost count of the amount of times I cried. This is the first cinema I've been in where EVERYBODY clapped when Shuri was there in her Black Panther suit, "The Black Panther lives!" And it felt amazing.

The themes of grief and vengeance feel awfully similar to Peter in No Way Home, having lost absolutely everyone and getting so goddamn angry, but in the end you don't kill them because you're not like that. And this is in no way a complaint. I LOVED that Shuri was able to show all these emotions and yell and scream and grieve and cry. I honestly would have said "fair enough" if she killed Namor. Letitia Wright is such a fucking amazing actress and she absolutely blew me away.

Also just every woman in this movie makes me so goddamn gay and we love them for it

Anyways speaking of Namor! He was really cool! I could agree with his motives and his look was just so cool. The underwater scenes were breathtaking. And I absolutely fucking LOVED the siren song sort of thing they had. Literal chills, just seeing them all. Jump off. Just like that. They really were a show of power and I was genuinely uneasy about the outcome of the fight.

I feel M'Baku definitely convinced me in this movie that he's more than just a comedic relief side character, he really gave it his all and was there for Shuri and he's iconic in his skirt.

The Dora Milaje remain as every fucking badass, I love them so much. I will now be holding onto Ayo and Aneka for the time being, for safekeeping. And Okoye remains as ever an icon, the scene where she is stripped of her rank really hit you right in the feels.

I never really thought of Queen Ramonda a lot, but she really left a lasting impact for me here. Her speech at the UN was very powerful and she held the attention of any room she was in. Her death is fucking heartbreaking and M'Baku holding Shuri back while she screams for her mam - like fuck. Why do you do this to me. Why.

I think Riri Williams will be fun to see again, I don't really have much to say about her in this movie but she was a good character. The parallels to Tony Stark were not gone unnoticed.

T'CHALLA AND NAKIA HAD A SON😭😭😭

Everett Ross could probably have gone without being in this movie lol but he was good to see, we love our American white boy trying to keep things peaceful while having no fucking clue of anything that's going on. He's just trying his best.

And I hardly recognised Val, so she's the director of what, the government?? Also that nugget of information that she was married to Ross at one stage it's like wait what - 😃 But anyways. Hope she shows up more and maybe we can learn more about her!

Overall this was a fantastic movie, it made me cry so many times and gave us a beautiful story. Thank you everyone involved in making it and RIP Chadwick 🕊️<3

[papipopsicle]

AFTERTASTE PART SEVEN

Pairing: Archie Andrews X Reader

Summary: In which two best friends since childhood test whether sex and friendship can co-exist without causing conflict. Including OC's Flick and Cherry, a bisexual and lesbian in a sapphic relationship who are best friends of Y/N.

Song: Dream Boy by Waterparks

Warnings: swearing

Words: 2.1K

MASTERLIST

feedback is always appreciated

Y/F and Y/M Robins were far from perfect parents. Y/F had the mental age of a toddler at times, and being an estate agent who always has to go the extra mile- he often wasn't home when his wife needed him the most. Y/M, on the other end of things, had been a stay at home mum until Y/N turned 16 last summer, and now she helped with all the administrative work for Mayor McCoy. She was a maternal creature which, coupled with her brilliant sarcasm, made for some explosive conversations. The two met on the first day of university and got married a week after the last.

When Y/M first found out she was pregnant with little Y/S Robins, the two realised they wanted a quiet bubble of a town to raise their children and grow up with them. But it wasn't until their second daughter was about to turn seven until they found their forever home in the quaint town of Riverdale. Ten years passing before their eyes, and the picturesque place didn't seen all that anymore.

Jason Blossom's death had nothing to do with the short gunshot sounding over the waves of Sweetwater River, the noise which woke Y/N from her sweet unmemorable dreams every few nights. The summer days rolled into early August without anyone caring, Y/N spending most of them at Cheryl's side listening intently to her past adventures with her brother. Betty threw herself into an internship at a publication house; Flick and Cherry had volunteered at a summer camp, and Archie was helping his dad out more and more with constructions job.

Although it hadn't been the start to the relationship Y/N had hoped for- the nervous giggles and hand holding, short and sweet kisses on late night walks followed by poetry worthy cuddling. There was a magnificent silver lining as Archie's muscles gained definition, and he suited the sweaty builder look far too well.

[INSTAGRAM]

♡ 602 likes

y/n Humph!

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Cheryl busy being my own icon

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"Earth to my gorgeous queen? Y/N/N?" Cheryl quizzed her friend, who currently resided at the poolside of Thornehill Manor. Her mind was off on a glorious tangent about her rendezvous in the kitchen at two in the morning. Fixing herself a glass of water, when Archie slips his hand into her pyjama shorts, his other around her mouth muffling her needy moans.

The red headed beauty shoved her y/h/c friend playfully, warm skin sweaty under her pale touch. Y/N blinked innocently and sent her an apologetic smile, "What?"

"I asked if you've thought about dating anyone else since Clayton?" The fiery ginger girl enquired with her usual upbeat tone.

Cheryl knew she had a unique quality about her which made it almost impossible for Y/N to lie to her face. The y/h/c girl scrunched up her nose, hiding the smile the idea of Archie Andrews brought to her face. 'Yes. We started off as fuck buddies but never actually fucked. Then I drunkenly asked him to be my boyfriend, now a month later I think we may genuinely work out.'

"Maybe." Y/N bit her bottom lip, listening to her friend's squeal as she squeezed her sun tanned arm.

"I knew it! You have this euphoric glow you only get when someone else makes you climax." The redhead affirmed confidently, watching the Robins girl's eyes bug out before hitting her arm, "Y/N/N, you know your secret's safe with me."

"Fine." She sighed and took a sip of her fruity cocktail, "It started off as just fooling around, honestly I just needed to let off some steam after everything. I knew he was into the kinds of things I was, I mean he used to tease me about it non stop. And it was good, so good I stopped being a pussy and asked him to be my boyfriend."

"Holy freaking hell!" The Blossom girl grinned with excitement, "Dare I ask, who is it?"

Y/N deadpanned at her friend, "Guess."

"Please don't tell me it's that muscular oaf Reggie, he's pretty but there's not exactly much going on upstairs." Cheryl tapped her temples and rolled her eyes at the thought.

"Nope."

The ginger thought for a moment, consulting her liquid courage and splashing her feet around the waters edge, "It's Archie."

All it took was a side-eyed glance at the y/h/c girl's blooming rosy cheeks to know she definitely wasn't wrong. Y/N severely lacked the ability to lie, even if her tone held conviction, her features were far too expressive and told the truth all on their own. It's not like they were hiding it from anyone, but the past four weeks had gone far too quickly without any moments to spare for the world around them. They slept together each night, the majority of that time not actually spent sleeping, but they hadn't been given the chance yet to explore more romantic avenues.

"It's fucking Archie Andrews- you're fucking Archie Andrews and don't you dare deny it." Cheryl gawked in her gorgeous white and nude bikini, watching as her friend lay back against the hot marble slabs which encased the large pool with the largest grin adorning her plump lips.

"We haven't had sex yet, so technically you aren't completely correct." Y/N winked but carried on before the girl exploded with a hundred questions and could never be turned off, "Trust me, I want to, and I'm sure he does too. But you know, it's his first time, I want it to be perfect for him."

"Y/N/N, you really love him, don't you?" Cheryl gagged to begin with, but she found it sweet in truth. She wanted someone to hold, who would hold her right back just as tight for no other reason than needing to.

Y/N sat back up and paddled her feet, "You have no idea, Cher."

Arch 🧡

That new post should be illegal

Tiger 💛

Ooo

I like this reaction

Maybe I should post more

Like this one

Cheryl pushed me in the pool

And I may have had a drink

Or three

Arch 🧡

Well that's sexy

I swear nobody looks good like that how on earth

You're a goddess

But also

How's she holding up?

Tiger 💛

🥺😇

Broken

But she's strong yk

You coming over for dinner?

Arch 🧡

Yeah Y/D invited my dad too

Need me to pick you up from Cheryl's?

Tiger 💛

Awe cute we love a bromance, and it's all good my mommas coming now anyways :))

Hours had elapsed far too fast and soon the summer heat simmered into cool waves of wind brushing over sun kissed skin. Cheryl's arms were clasped around the blonde's shoulders in a tight embrace.

"Thank you so much, Y/N/N, I don't know what I'd do without you!" The Blossom girl professed with sparkling eyes and a brilliant smile.

Y/N beamed up at her, fingers carding through her damp y/h/c hair as she looked over her shoulder to see her mum pulling into the driveway, "You don't need to thank me, Cher, friends look after each other. Message me if you need me, okay?"

Cheryl promised she would and the two teen girls hugged goodbye, with Y/N soon heading home- listening to her mother gossip about Hal and Alice's screaming match last night, Y/N loved her inability to keep her mouth shut sometimes.

"Mom," The y/h/c stopped her mid sentence and received a side eyed glance in response, "I need to tell you something and you're totally not allowed to freak out while you're driving."

Y/M's eyes widened and her grip tightened around the steering wheel, her daughters very rarely confided in her. While she knew her youngest was safe in her promiscuity, neither of Y/M Robins' girls ever shared their secrets so for the most part she took finding out into her own hands.

"Honey," The forty four year old's calm tone was hardly comforting to the teenager, "if this is about you and Archie fooling around, your father and I figured that out a long time ago, like so long ago. Who do you think does your laundry? When your underwear starting looking like dental floss, we caught on pretty quickly."

Y/N felt like a deer in headlights, "Mum, what the hell?" Her cheeks heated to an inhuman temperature.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about, as long as you're being safe and he's-"

"For the second time today, and I can't believe I'm saying this to you, but I am not having sex with Archie Andrews!" Y/N's high pitched voice sounded through the car. It truly was a blessing and a curse to have such open minded parents in situations like this. She thought about telling her mother the truth, but Y/M was a blabber mouth as well as a gossip, so Y/N chose to withhold certain pieces of information.

The Robins matriarch dropped the subject but didn't forget about her daughter's tone, and continued to ramble on about how odd she found Penelope Blossom and the whole Blossom family in general. "Like why on Earth is Rose in a wooden wheelchair? They know it's the twenty first century, right?"

As expected, the Robins household was once again filled with warm laughter and copious amounts of food. The topic of Jason was skimmed over, and Y/S found herself away from the dinner table. The eldest Robins sibling was currently pleading with Alice as she began shoving all of Polly's belongings in the boot of Hal's car. She couldn't comprehend life without her best friend, not after losing Jason. They were meant to be going travelling together for a year- working the worst jobs and staying up all night to watch the sun rise in different countries. But instead, Y/S's eyes were blinded by tears as she screamed down the street at the speeding car, with Polly Cooper taken out of her life indefinitely.

Y/N was oblivious to the dark inner workings of the Cooper clan, Betty's knowledge about her and Archie unbeknownst to the loved up teens. She'd spent every second not occupied by her internship trying to justify the romantic act as a fleeting moment of loneliness fuelled by alcohol. She wrote in her diary ideas on how she could win Archie back over, not knowing it was in fact, too late. Betty found herself hopelessly in love with the boy next door, unfortunately for her, the girl across the road was the only one his mind found.

Archie and Y/N washed up while their parents resided to the living room with three glasses and a bottle of white wine. The short girl turned the tap off after placing the last utensil on the draining board, flicking her sudsy hands at the boy's face. "What the-"

She didn't give him a chance to finish that thought, jumping up and wrapping her legs around his torso- planting a kiss onto his lips, then cheeks, then forehead. The two fell entranced by each other, planting pecks across nape of her neck and top of his head.

"Son," Fred's voice called out from the next room and the two immediately pulled apart, hearts beating in their ears, "we're going in a minute."

"Alright." He replied, placing his girlfriend on the floor once more.

"I wish you'd stay." Y/N pouted childishly, she meant the words entirely but hated feeling overbearing. Her life had been turned upside down this summer, it started off with her unable to fall asleep with another person next to her- now Archie's chest was her most comfortable pillow and is arms were the warmest blanket.

"Tomorrow night instead, Princess? I promised my dad I'd spend more time with him before senior year." The boy reasoned, holding her close and unknowingly feeling the exact same way, he adored holding her by her waist and pulling her close under the duvet.

"Monopoly night at yours?" She grinned and he nodded back in reply, the two sharing a final kiss in the kitchen before walking into the hallway.

Y/N felt at ease as she wished the two a goodnight and headed up to bed. She took off her tea dress and replaced it with Archie's bulldog t-shirt, managing to reach the same length on her thighs as her dress did.

Arch 🧡

I can still smell your perfume on my sheets

Tiger 💛

Marking my territory obviously x

Arch 🧡

I love it

Hope you sleep well baby x

Tiger 💛

Call me that tomorrow and we won't be sleeping so you better rest up tonight x

Arch 🧡

Whatever you say, baby x

Tiger 💛

Goodnight x

Arch 🧡

Night princess x

part eight?

wanna be tagged? just send in an ask x

[gunterfan1992]

Episode Review: ‘Wizard City’ (Distant Lands, Ep. 4)

Airdate: September 2, 2021

Story by: Adam Muto, Jack Pendarvis, Kate Tsang, Hanna K. Nyström, & Charley Feldman

Storyboarded by: Maya Petersen, Hanna K. Nyström, Anna Syvertsson, & Aleks Sennwald, & Haewon Lee

Directed by: Miki Brewster & Jeff Liu (supervising), Sandra Lee (art)

An episode focusing on Peppermint Butler’s dark side is something that the fandom has craved ever since the little guy demanded Finn and Jake’s flesh in season two’s “Death in Bloom.” While installments like season five’s “The Suitor” and season six’s “Nemesis” did much to scratch that itch, the story of the Dark One remained mostly unknown…

And after “Wizard City,” it still remains largely unknown. But that’s OK, because instead of focusing on the character’s history, this special focuses on Peps’ quest to relearn magic at a magic school. Put most simply, this special is largely a fun excuse for the show to riff on Harry Potter and The Owl House-style “magic school hijinks,” and it mostly all works.

The special follows Peps quest to go to WizArts (a definite play on CalArts, the school that Pen Ward and Adam Muto, among many others, went to) so that he can relearn magic and once again become one of the greatest dark wizards of his time. Initially, Peps tries to make friends with cool kid Spader and his posse, but once they learn that Peps is not as talented at magic as they had initially thought, they kick him to the curb. It is at this point that Cadebra, Abracadaniel’s adorkable niece who is fascinated with stage magic, enters the picture. Cadebra tries everything in her power to befriend Peps, but Peps pushes back, since she’s not “cool.” It does not matter, though, because both Peps and Cadebra are sorted into the same “house”—the “Skink House—and are forced to work together.

While Peps and his cohort begin learning more and more complex magic, a secret cult of school professors, led by the otherwise caring Dr. Caledonius, are scheming to resurrect Coconteppi, a powerful dark wizard whose putrid heart has been discovered underneath the school excreting a very powerful ichor. The school cult kidnaps Spader and gives him some of the ichor to drink; they hope that because of his talent, he will be able to house the spirit of Coconteppi. This does not go as planned, and Spader is graphically killed (albeit off screen). (In a more humorous moment, Bufo, the scam wizard from season one’s “Wizard,” also ingests some of the ichor, believing himself powerful enough to handle it, but it kills him.)

Eventually Peps and Cadebra learn what is going on. Dr. Caledonius welcomes Peps, believing that he is strong enough to handle the ichor. When Cadebra’s life is put in danger, Peps reluctantly gives the putrid fluid a swig, which infuses him with the power of Coconteppi. Coconteppi-Peps then kills all the cult members before Cadebra manages to remove the ichor from Peps body. For uncovering a heinous plot, Peps is promoted to the highest house, “Salamander,” but he decides to remain a Skink and learn magic “the hard way” with Cadebra as his friend.

As I mentioned near the start of this review, “Wizard City” spends most of its time riffing on the “magic boarding school” trope, with much of the episode feeling like a light-hearted parody of Harry Potter: The characters, after all, are “sorted” into “houses,” they learn various types of magic from skilled “professors,” and they bunk in different parts of a large castle-like campus. Of course, Harry Potter didn’t invent the idea of a boarding school, but when setting your story in a school for magic, it is very hard not to lean at least somewhat into the Hogwarts relation. And this really is a double-edged sword, for while Harry Potter references can be fun here and there, they can also make the overall story feel like a fanfic parody. This special does a good job focusing more so on the characters rather than the setting, but I won’t lie, at times it did feel as if they show was really trying to make you realize it was making a Harry Potter joke.

Of all the characters introduced in the special, the breakout star is easily Cadebra, voiced by Chloe Coleman. Radiating a sort of Mabel Pines energy, Cadebra is the beam of optimism who shines brightly in an otherwise macabre special. There is something about her plucky personality and sense of wacky individualism that charms the viewer. I appreciate how the show compared and contrasted her with her uncle, the one and only Abracadaniel: like her uncle, Cadebra is a good person who wants to help others, but unlike Abracadaniel, she has a sense of courage and fortitude that results in her taking on a Coconteppi-possessed Peps at the episode’s climax. (Say what you will, Abracadaniel stans, but our favorite custodian would never have done that!) Thanks to her bravery and dedication to Peps, Cadebra is easily the heart of the special.

The episode throws an interesting little curveball into the mix by having the ‘ghost’ of Past Peppermint Butler constantly haunt Peps in the here-and-now. Past Peppermint, it seems, was so determined to become a great wizard, he cursed himself, so that if anything were to go awry, his Past self could materialize and set him straight. It’s confusing, but I do think that mixing the “overbearing parent” trope with a curse is a clever idea; it gives the whole special some dramatic heft. The whole setup is made even funnier by the special’s conclusion: After Future Peppermint Butler is ‘defeated’ and the day is saved, Peps reveals to Cadebra that he still wants to be a great and powerful dark wizard… but he wants to earn that power through hard work and determination. (Peppermint Butler might commune with demons, but he would never sell his soul to one for power; Glob helps those who help themselves, ya know?)

One of the special’s strongest points is its background art. Adventure Time always had some beautiful set pieces, and this special goes above and beyond to give WizArts an ancient sense of grandeur and mystery. Ghostshrimp, a freelance artist who was the show’s lead background designer during seasons 1-4, return for this special as a “visual developer”—basically, he mocked up a bunch of rough designs for the locales, and then the episode’s background artists worked up the final pieces in his style. On his podcast, Ghostshrimp mentioned how hectic he found Adventure Time to be, because he was used to taking his time on pieces. As such, the decision to bring him on for just development was smart, as it allowed him to still come up with iconic background designs while also playing fast and loose with everything. Hopefully the show will continue this approach with the Fionna and Cake miniseries that is coming up. After all, Ghosthsrimp’s style is the look of Adventure Time.

Another strong point for the episode is its voice acting. For one thing, you have your regulars like Tom Kenny and Dana Snyder, and Duncan Trussell, who all give a solid performance. But to voice many of the special’s new characters, the show brought on a bevy of fun actors: Saturday Night Live’s Bill Hader, for instance, is now voicing Bufo, and he does a solid job hamming up his role as the old fogey. And then there’s Toks Olagundoye, whose British accent gives Dr. Caledonius a sense of knowledge and expertise. To my delight and surprise, SungWon Cho, an internet personality and voice actor perhaps better known as ProZD, was tapped to voice Brain Wizard, and he does an excellent job. And finally, Anthony Stewart Head, a very talented actor who I know best as Giles from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, voices Con Wizard, and is even given a fun little ditty to sing. I can safely say that the voice acting in this special is likely the best of the bunch, and it’s obvious that the actors were all having a great time playing their parts.

What drags the whole thing down, in my opinion is the excessive murder. (I joked on Twitter that during the climax of “Wizard City,” it felt like I was watching an Adventure Time-ified version of Invincible!) Infused with the power of Coconteppi, Peps goes on a brutal killing spree, boiling Potable Wizard into steam, zapping Dimension Wizard into another plane of existence, smashing Berdzerd, and—perhaps most graphically—excerebrates (had to look that word up!) Brain Wiz. On Twitter, @sometipsygnostalgic​ argued that while, yes, the scene is startling, it does wonders to transmute “a poor Summer Camp Island knockoff [into] Adventure Time chaos.” The more I think about it, the more I think that’s a fair point; after all, this is hardly the first dark thing that has happened in Adventure Time. But the part that I cannot really stomach is the fact that Spader was murdered for no real reason, and the special ends without anyone really expressing their horror at the situation. Sure, Spader was a schoolyard bully, but he was also a child. And killing a child—either for the drama or the lulz—feels decidedly out of place in an Adventure Time episode. It’s hard to express, but it just felt unnecessarily nihilistic and mean-spirited.

All things considered, I think this was a fun episode, but it was somewhat underwhelming for a ‘finale.’ Much of this is because it had to air after the perfection that was the back-to-back “Obsidian”/”Together Again” wombo combo. But I can’t help but feel like this special just felt a little... off. A little too meanspirited, and it leaned a bit too much on standard tropes. Still, it was a fun spin, and I know that I’ll rewatch it.

Mushroom War Evidence: As Peps rides the bus to school, he passes a bunch of abandoned houses, some of which are buried in the ground. There is an unexploded bomb above the fossilized elephant in the school. Cadebra has a dream that takes place in the ruins of a city.

Final Grade: B+

[jjkpls]

the wishlist (m) - 2

“Since when do we buy each other sextoys?”

> genre : light angst, fluff

> pairing : jeon jungkook x reader (f)

> words : 5k

> content/warnings : back at it again w/ the bff2l; one sided love, lot of pining; sextoys talk; explicit language; ambiguous infidelity; chaotic oc; clueless koo

previous - next

It all starts with the first box and the vague memory of a warm touch on your face.

When you wake up that morning, groggy from exhaustion and the sensation of having spent the night waking up, again and again, you sense something. You struggle to point out if you’ve dreamt or if it really happened, but there’s the lingering of a warm hand's trace, cupping your cheek, soothing the stress lines on your forehead, and softly brushing your hair back from your face. You can’t tell if it’s happened but it left a lovely sensation both on your skin and heart. 

You get up and out of bed, slowly stroll to your living room with a lazy hand raising to your head, meaning to scratch at the snake nest you expect to be sitting on it. Instead, your fingers are met with a rather neat braid you definitely didn’t go to sleep with as you were too fucking done with this day to even try and deal with your tight bun -the very bun that elongated your time to fall asleep by at least a good half an hour. The same fingers that caressed your face took care of your hair and you know exactly to whom they belong. 

Of course, giddiness ensues and the mildly serious feeling of mortification -you despise the idea of not knowing in what state he found you, in what state of ugly, of dishevelled, of smelly. There’s no room for embarrassment in this friendship, not this kind anyway, fortunately or not, he’s seen you at your worst (at a time when you didn’t care much if he did or not) so it counters, always a bit, the shame.

He hasn't left your side yet, has he? And he’s exposing himself to this face of yours, so why should you feel bad about it? He sneaks into your apartment at night just to brush your face and bring the covers up to your chin, tuck you nicely in as if he’s your mom or something, so why should you care. He doesn’t seem to mind. He never seems to mind. He’s the best of friends. The best of all the people you know and the best of your friends. 

And of course, naturally fitting this role, you’d find the morning of Christmas, a mysterious box you’ve never seen before sitting on your coffee table. 

The girls, your friends, have presents for you, you know they do, but yesterday you were working and couldn’t see them, therefore, the little celebration was reported and you didn’t expect, you wouldn’t expect them to come at night or early in the morning to bring you your gifts. It can wait (so they decided). 

But Jungkook is sweet like no one else is. 

And he came to wish you a merry Christmas even if you were too tired to wish him back and he left a present for you. 

There’s not a name attached to it but it’s obvious it comes from him. There’s just a post-it he stole from your desk, with a Merry Christmas written on it, the lines of the letters, round and neat, you’d recognize from any other lettering and a bunny with teeth as big as the eyes smiling at you, drawn next to it. 

The box is so pretty, you feel an actual pressure thinking about opening it, as if there is a certain way, a proper way, to go about it. 

And apparently, there is. You go wash your face and rinse your mouth, prepare yourself one of your good teas, tear the curtain wide open and slowly, almost ceremoniously, take a seat on the ground, right in front of it.

The box is neat. You don’t know what’s inside, probably a perfume or some kit for the bath you’d assume, but you already know that whatever is inside, even if it’s not of your liking -which is impossible, it comes from Jungkook-, will be balanced out by the appearance of this perfectly elegant, tasteful box that you’ll use again to stock anything, maybe your face masks, maybe nothing -it’ll just sit, looking good on a shelf. 

It’s a pastel blue, with a black rose drawn on top of it, the icon to a brand you absolutely don’t recognize. With fingers trembling with excitement you drag the box to yourself, it’s mildly heavy, for some reasons, it gives you a little rush of anxiety. There’s just a tiny black ribbon holding the box firmly closed. A tiny pull on it and it slips open. 

Slowly you lift the lid, a grin already plastered on your face, hurting your cheeks. You expect a blinding magical light to come out of it, with the sound of bells ringing near your ears and sense to suddenly knock into you as you’d understand what wondrous present is in front of you.

But none of it comes. There's just a thing hidden inside a black satin bag.

It’s not a perfume nor a bath kit and you’re confused.

A bit scared.

Honestly, maybe a little shameful part of you has guessed it. But the louder yet weaker rest of you can’t see it. It would be too... ludicrous. And wouldn’t make sense, would it? You’ve never actually seen any in real life so how would you know what the packaging would look like and how would you come to this conclusion now? And how, why, how would he, Jeon Jungkook, come about to offer you this?

Doesn’t make any sense. 

But somehow, when you pick up the courage to open the little bag and drag the object out of it, you hardly even gasp in surprise when you discover a dildo. You just let it drop to the table, thumping loudly the fake wood. 

Why did you guess it to be that and why did he get you this shit?

Scorching red seize your face and your whole being.

You are infuriated.

How dares he? You are mortified.  How dares he?

What does this fucking mean? 

A joke?

Is it a joke?

If it a joke then what’s the fucking point? It’s not fucking funny. It’s weird as hell and you can’t believe he came in the middle of the night, pretending to be Santa to leave you a fucking kidding present as if your miserable life needed that. 

And if it’s not then what the actual fuck? Does he think you’re that desperate? Does he have really no notion of boundaries?

Conveniently your phone lays centimetres away from the offending thing, you don’t even need to get up to grab it and therefore, you start looking furiously for his name in your recent call list. After only two rings as if he was just expecting your call, his bright hello reaches your ear. 

“What the actual fuck, Jeon?” He must hear the madness in your voice, both the anger and the hysteria. There’s a pause during which he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a sound and you even check your screen to make sure he hasn’t hung up on you. 

“That’s- not- the reaction I expected.” He sounds sheepish. Mumbled words, lisped syllables, long pauses. 

“What did you expect?” You yell a bit, you can just picture him, dragging the phone out of earshot and winding, the same way you do when your mom who doesn’t get the concept of telephone screams in it each time she calls you. The realization hits you, that in your quiet little apartment, in this (for once) quiet morning, you are screeching like a banshee. You quiet down instantly, some of the anger soothed down by embarrassment. “Are you insane?” You whisper in his ear and comically, he starts whispering too, with the same alterations to his usually bright and open tone. 

“M’not. I just- you said that’s what you wanted so I got it for you.”

Now he’s making stuff up and blaming this insanity on you and that serves to raise a bit more the bar of anger -along with the loudness of your voice, “When have I ever said that I wanted a-“ You choke on your own saliva once your brain realizes that you’re supposed to say the word, out loud, to him. In an angry whisper, as if someone, your mother, for example, could be listening “fucking dildo!” You blush furiously at that and it’s ridiculous. Probably the reason why you didn’t own one in the first place and maybe shouldn’t yet. Because you’re a grown-ass woman of a quarter of a century, living alone and admittedly independent and responsible for your own existence, but you can’t even say the word “dildo” out loud to this asshole of a friend who apparently, and that’s new news, doesn’t have an issue talking about sex and everything related to it with you. 

“Y-you said-“ There’s a pregnant pause. You can’t know for sure since you’re not seeing him if he’s faking it or not but he sounds confused as hell. Like he genuinely doesn’t understand what’s wrong. Moron. “You said you wanted sex but not a boyfriend so I thought- it’s pretty much- it’s exactly what it is. Why are you so mad?”

The question in itself serves to drag you a little further over the edge. So much so, it clogs your brain with anguish and leaves you unable to give him an answer.

When he’s starting to talk again, maybe ask again his question, you just hung up, slamming your phone down on the carpet. 

You hear it vibrate to life twice before it shuts down completely. Good. At least he knows you well enough, still, to assume rightfully so that you won’t pick up his calls anymore. Not today.

You just have the time to pack the dildo back in its bag and inside its box, throw away your tea that tastes unbearably bitter and maniacally scrub your face in an attempt to get rid of the red patches that don’t want to fucking leave before the telling high beeps of your front door’s digital lock alert you. Your face is soaking in cold water, another attempt to cool it, your face and your troubled mind.

You mean to ignore him. Dipping your head further in the filled up sink, closing your eyes tight shut hoping somehow it’ll help you push aside the calls of your name better.

For a few seconds, it works. You can’t hear him anymore. You wonder if the furious pleas you were chanting in your head could have been loud enough to make the sound of the door slamming behind him as he would have left, completely quiet.

He’s such a try-hard. You hung up on him because he’s saying batshit crazy things and his first reflex is to barge in your house again. You really need to change your lock and not tell him. You can do that. You’re an adult and you have the right to your own fucking place. It’s not a fucking benevolent stay in, for fuck's sake. 

The cold water really seems to work. You feel better, light-headed, coming down after the earlier hysteria. And knowing that he’s left and won’t pursue this mess any further, for now, surely helps a lot. 

Except it doesn’t last for, as soon as your face leaves the water, your hands reaching clumsily for a towel that falls magically in them, one wipe at your eyes and your worst nightmare is standing right in front of you. 

“Fucking- Jungkook!” Burying your face back in the towel, drying your face as much as possible, maybe even trying for a second to suffocate yourself, you wish vainly that when you’ll take it off he would have disappeared.

He is still here though. Watching with dark eyes and a straight severe line replacing the cute button he owns for a mouth, he looks awfully serious for a guy that’s never really serious. Your towel ends up centimetres away from his face, he catches it right before it touches him. You hoped it would blind and confuse him momentarily, long enough for you to escape but of course, this guy would never miss a shot, even a surprise one. 

“Why are you like this?” He asks when you try and push him from the ribs, out of the door frame. You hate that you think about it. About his chest being so hard and warm and his fucking smell of sweat that you’d recognize amongst any others (pretty easily as any other makes you gag and this one, probably because you’re a primary animal guided by hormones, leaves you dizzy and wanting). He doesn’t budge until he decides to, mercilessly stepping aside to let you through. Because you’re an idiot, you don’t think and head for the living room and it’s only once you’re there, very aware of his steps following you, that the devilish object of your discord is right fucking there, obnoxiously sitting on the middle of your coffee table. You groan and squeeze your eyes tight.

What meditation technique, an extra effective one, could you use right now before you definitely lose it and throw yourself out the window?

Before you find one, you end up clinging to the opposite wall, forehead pressed to it, back to him, in a vain attempt to suppress yourself from the situation. You might look a little insane or at best, somehow on edge, but who cares at this point?

“Jungkook, if I don’t pick up your call, do you think I want to see your face?” 

“But why though?” His tone is still harsher than usual. You notice it and you notice you don’t hate it either. What a little bitch you are. If you like his usual self, with the bright smile, soft words, boisterous laugh, dainty manners, you can’t deny that this rougher version of him, genuinely pissed off as you’ve never seen him, tickles your fancy. You’re fucked. “Seriously these days you- you’re such-“

“I’m what?” You bark, swirling on your feet, expression distorted by an offence he hasn’t even made yet. You completed the sentence he’s never finished with terrible words that you’ve never heard him use talking about anyone: bitch, hysterical, cunt. 

“You’re trying to pick a fight with me all the fucking time, I don’t get it!”

Now you feel terrible. You’re still bothered by the raw edges of his tone, it’s literally sending electric shocks to your lower tummy. But his eyebrows have dropped and his fiery dark eyes have turned shiny and sad, your heart hurts in your bosom.

Ugh.

You’re such a bitch. 

“I’m sorry. I know I’m insufferable. I’m on my period. Sorry.” You send a mental apology to womanhood. You're just an idiot lacking imagination. 

Jungkook frowns, his eyebrows dancing in all kind of ways, before they settle for an, unfortunately for you, attractive finale, one straight down, one tilt up. He stares at you, dubious. 

“For three weeks. You’ve been on your period for three weeks.”

The first thing you take notes of is the fact that he dated it way shorter than you would have. Honestly, you found yourself becoming a weirdo with inappropriate feelings that reindeer you into an asshole for at least a month and a half. Before that, it was extremely tamed, totally under control. You’d just notice his handsome face and cute smiles and nice smell, thinking “oh yeah that’s right. He’s kinda attractive. How funny I never really noticed.” And slowly it progressed to not being able to handle him touching you without having something close to a panic attack.

The second thing you note is that he doesn’t believe you. His stare is insistent, turns a bit dark as he lingers, studying your own eyes with judgment in his. He’s frowning even more, looks down at the floor and sighs so deep, heartbreakingly so. He looks hurt that you’re lying and don’t want to share what's really been up with you. If only you could be a better liar. 

“It happens sometimes, all women are diff-“ 

He just sat down on your sofa, eyes fixed on the blue box. Before you can finish your sentence, he sends you a glare that awfully looks like a threat. You shut up. He doesn’t believe you anyway. He knows you and your periods (sort of) way too well. He knows you’re in pain the first day, you’re a bit tender on the following ones and he takes it upon himself to be gentler and not try to play WWE with you on those but you don’t turn into a mean dragon. This much he knows for sure. 

There’s something he’s seeking for within the box. He’s grabbed it, holds it now in between his fingertips, piercing virtual holes into it. It’s probably the answer he didn’t find in your eyes. 

It makes you flush furiously. Seeing his pretty hands with his long fingers touching it. Here’s the reason, he would have caught it on your cheeks if he wasn’t so busy looking for it elsewhere. 

“I really thought that- you’d like it.” He sounds so saddened. You’re caught off guard. Again. So this present wasn’t meant to be a joke. It is a genuine one. It makes sense that he’s hurt then. You’re shitting all over his gift but how could you not? How could he believe that you could just accept that for a random gift? Slowly he makes the top of the box slide up, pout sucked in in concentration, dimple out. Your heart seems to stop at that. He’s not going to take it out, is he?

He can’t take it in his hands.

You’ll die if he takes it in his hands. 

Fortunately, he just opens the box, looks at the satin bag, looks at it with a pained expression as if he feels bad for the thing, then closes it back. 

“The woman at the shop said that it’s one of the best ones, for starters.” He sulks like a child. Bottom lip all plumped out, shiny eyes under curved eyebrows.

Jungkook looks up at you, ultimate sad puppy look on.

“She said the size and the texture were perfect if you’ve never used one before. It wouldn’t be too... what was that again?” He asks aloud as if you’d know. And you’re mortified. On behalf of him. The concept that he’s not embarrassed right now and that he went to an actual shop, browsed through the shelves and asked an actual saleswoman for help is absolutely insane. Unbelievable if it were not for the sincerity he’s dipped in. “And I picked blue because I know you like this colour. It matches your planner, doesn’t it?” He adds as if he’s not sure when obviously he knows.

It is surprisingly very close in shade. And so what? He expected you to love it so much, take fucking aesthetic pictures with it and your planner sitting on your fake marble desktop, next to Diego the succulent? What an idiot. And for how fucking long did he talk to that woman?

Silence hangs heavy between you. You watch as he scowls some more, mumbles under his breath while staring with despair at the box.

Slowly, resolute to be the better friend you have not successfully been these past weeks (months), you leave your protecting wall. Taking a seat on the carpet, on the opposite side of the table, you do your best to ignore the blue patch invading the bottom of your vision and try to give him the softest expression you can come up with at this moment. 

“Why are you so butthurt?”

His curiously perfect round eyes raise in a swift motion, pouty lips agape in a silent little gasp. 

“Sorry.” You apologize before he even gets to respond because, maybe, you could try harder to be good and nice to him. 

“Because it’s a present.” He starts at a very slow pace. He pauses between words like he’s addressing a dim, dim brain. And he might be honestly. But he’s one to talk. How can he not see an issue? “That I’ve looked for and bought for you. That’s why I’m butthurt, what do you mean?” 

“But- since when are we buying each other-“ You need to grow up. There’s no one else but him hearing you and since your last conversation about it, when he too was embarrassed, he’s able to say it just fine apparently. Still, you whisper the following, “sex toys?”

“Since you turned twenty-five and said you were interested in it.” His right-hand raises from the box to start flapping the air and you know it means bad news. He’s upset. When he needs his hands to further accompany his speech, it means he’s a bit too taken by the conversation. And in this case, you don’t feel like it’s a good idea for him to be. “When you were fourteen and into Legos, I bought you a set of Legos.”

Hardly makes sense. 

“You’re just going to pretend it’s a random present?”

“It’s not random. I put thought into it.” His eyes are digging up intensively in your own. It might be desperation that leads you to remain still, allow him to look. Hopefully, he won’t dig deep enough to find stuff he shouldn’t. “Why do you hate it? I thought- I don’t know- you’re a- flourished single woman and-“

Flourished? Really? The words don’t come out of your mouth but he reads them on your face and an adorable smile cracks open the mask of gravity.

“Jungkook.” You owe him an effort. Maybe you should look into why it requires an act of inhuman courage for you to admit your shame. It might be because if he were anyone else, you’d be embarrassed by the present for five seconds because clearly, you’re still half of a fucking child but soon enough, you’d probably be enchanted by the thing. Who doesn’t need a good sex toy? You definitely do. You thought about getting one for a long while but never got to it for some reasons and here’s one offered to you (in a very pretty shade of baby blue).

The thing is you don’t think about anyone sexually except for him (and his friend Jimin, once in a while, just by curiosity because the guy is a very sexual being). If you don’t even consider them in this light, you don’t have to think about them using it, do you? But he’s all you think about, unfortunately. And you’re friends. And it feels like one step closer to your fantasy while simultaneously one step closer to betrayal. And he certainly is not offering you this wishing for you to keep close in mind the fact that this is his. His present. He knows about it. Maybe can think of you using it and liking it without any further implications. Because obviously, it’s not like that for him. “It's awkward. How can you not see that.”

“Is it? What is?”

“First of all, we don’t- we- don’t even talk about... it. And suddenly you’re buying me- this?”

“Yeah, I realized that too!” It’s too much enthusiasm. Eyes too big and hands not leaving the air. You can already guess his next sentence. It’s probably going to be a terrible suggestion. “I talk about sex all the time with the guys,” Your eyebrows jump to your hairline at that. You’re not even that surprised but the formulation could probably be fixed. “and you talk about it with your girls, right? But we’ve known each other the longest and we never talk about it. Isn’t it fucked up?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘fucked up’-”

“Well, I would. I am.”

“Don’t you- don’t you see that you’re a boy and coincidentally you can easily talk about it with the guys who happen to be boys and I am a girl, right? And I-“ Who would have thought? It took you fifteen years to finally be giving him the beginning of the talk about the birds and the bees. You would have given it to him sooner if you’d have known how far behind he’s been. 

“But what if I need girl advice-“

“I’m sure Jimin knows a whole lot about girls, Jeon.”

“From a girl point of view. Real girl advice.”

“Jungkook-“

“If I ask what the G spot exactly feels like, what-“

“Jungkook!” 

He’s amused, the fucker. He’s not as clueless as he sounds. But the crooked grin on his face is too telling. He might just be messing with you. Usually, when he’s just playing he wouldn’t insist so much, he wouldn’t take the conversation this far so surely, there are some genuine intentions. However, he's still having way too much fun.

With his frowned nose, and squinting shiny orbs and stupid bunny teeth. 

“You’re just embarrassed, aren’t you?” You might have terribly loud red streaks painting your cheeks that you try naively to cover with your hands. He can see it all and silently, he nods his head, looking like he’s reached the final touch of his experiment. “How? What happened to the teenage girl who spent her nights writing dirty stories about Harry Styles?”

Horror.

How the fuck-

“How the fuck do you know about that?”

“You showed me!” He defends, hands high above in the air like a soccer player claiming innocence. “You did! You don’t remember?” No, you don’t. But you can tell he’s not lying. Apparently, young you was quite the fearless bitch.

What happened indeed? 

Years happened. A growing sense of self-preservation along with them. Undesired feelings for an idiot with a bunny smile. An inappropriate sense of shame along with those. 

“Anyway. So it’s a bribe for girl advice?” You ask, chin pointing to the box. Jungkook looks down on it, drums his fingertips lightly on the top before he looks up, beaming. 

“Sort of.” Shrugging, he adds with a shifty eye that telltales a certain vulnerable sincerity. “I just wish for us to be able to share everything. Be comfortable like before.”

“Before what?” He stares for a long time, mouth shut. He then blinks the moment away and for the first time, you might believe ever, Jungkook looks like he might have a secret too. 

“Just before. Back in the days, I mean.” He simply explains. His attention is back on the stupid box. He’s staring at the rose on top of it. Fingers playing with the corner of it. 

“Back in your old days.”

“You’re older than me. So you really don’t want it?” Here he comes again with the sad puppy face. Why would it be breaking his dumb little heart to refuse a dildo from him? What kind of insane parallel universe is this? “Is it like a 'men are fine but little Jeon Jungkookie still has cooties so I can’t accept his present, it’s gross'?” 

“Something like that.”

“Oh.” Defeated, he sighs. Another one of those soul-harming sighs. “Fine. I’ll get it refunded and you’ll buy yourself something else with the money then.” 

Is he really going to make you do that?

As if the question is even to be raised. He can make you do anything. 

“No, Guk, sorry. It’s fine. Sorry.” You start, hands clasping over the box you drag your side of the table. The only way you can do it is if you don’t actively think about what’s inside. “I’ll keep it. Sorry.”

“So you kind of want it?” He is grinning from one ear to the other. You can feel him giddy and excited, kind of jumpy on his seat and really, you don’t see any difference with the excitement he portrays each time he gets you any kind of presents and you tell him that you like it. 

“I won’t use it.” It’s almost a threat. Eyes squinted in severe slits, index finger millimetres away from poking his eye. “It’s a gift so I won’t make you get a refund, that’s rude but- I won’t use it.” After a second of seemingly deep reflection, he breaks out in his loud, annoying boyish laughter. Eyes watery at the corners and hands clapping like a stupid seal. “I’m serious!”

“Sure.” He’s still cackling, the idiot. “But you should. The lady said it’s a best seller too.” 

“Great. I don’t care.” 

He has his eyebrows high, a twitch in his wide grin, and the amused black orbs. He doesn’t believe you one bit. “Course, you don’t.”

The idea that he sincerely expects you to use it might drive your delusional brain for a loop. He just wants to be the best gift-giver, the best Santa, and wants you to make good use of whatever he's got you. But how can he not consider that you could not use something like that, to pleasure yourself, when it’s directly related to him, your best friend? It’s weird as hell. It can’t be just weird to you. 

Unfortunately, there’s no one you can come up with the question to have them agree with you. You already know what the girls will say. They’re even worse than you when it comes to Jeon Jungkook and your ambiguous (on your side solely) friendship. They’ll say the ship is sailed and start buying themselves bridesmaid matching dresses.

They don’t understand. It’s not like they’ve grown up with someone like him. Someone rather simple, authentic and kind, so much so, so much more than most people, that it turns him complicated because so different from other humans you can meet. There’s nothing to be read in between the lines with him. It’s always lovingly honest, blatant, generous.

He doesn’t mean anything else behind the gift besides a “have a good one!”. 

And you didn’t mean anything else but the truth when you said you wouldn’t use it. 

At the moment, anyway, you meant it.

A/N: hoping it makes sense and is not too raw, edited it at midnight TT; may i manifest a sugar daddy that would pay me to stay home and write fanfiction for you guys all day :). i really hope you like it, and hope also that you can handle the secondhand embarrassement because even i struggled. let me know what you think of the series so far, sending everyone reading this an infinite amount of virtual kisses and hugs, take care of yourself, love yourself and others a lot, BYEE.

tag list: @moon-asia​ @btstrasht​ @jkbangtan7​ @taehugger​ @kaepjjangiya​ @daggerbeneathmygown​ @cuteipat​  @jinsalpaca​

PLEASE ASK TO BE TAGGED IN THE COMMENT FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER! TY <3

[maxwell-grant]

If someone were trying to make a new character inspired by pulp heroes, but the new character had to be a teenager, what existing pulps heroes should they look to for inspiration?

I'm not exactly in touch with the yoof so I could be off the mark here, but let's talk about teenager characters for a bit.

Now, I could just tell you to look for characters that appeal to you and use them as a baseline and that's probably the best advice here, but if you want the essay and history lesson: American pulp fiction didn't used to market much to teenagers. Teenagers as a consuming market haven't always been the all-encompassing force they are considered today, and the pulps were largely marketed either towards young boys, or for working class men, mostly the latter. This is part of why teenagers tend to show up in these stories largely as sidekicks, which was something carried over to comic superheroes, and part of why Spider-Man was such a breakout hit, because he was a teenage superhero who was not a sidekick.

The biggest pre-1950s traditional pulp hero I can of who was a teenager would be Jack Harkaway, an 1871 penny dreadful adventurer who would go on to be published overseas, one of those characters who was big enough in his day to inspire imitators a plenty but didn't quite make it past a specific time period. Comic strips had plenty of kid or teenage protagonists who are a bit closer to pulp heroes, like Tintin or Terry Lee, one in particular I'm highlighting above is Ledger Syndicate's Connie Kurridge, arguably the first female adventure hero of American comics. Overseas you can find a couple of prominent examples of teenage adventurers published in what we call the pulp era, the biggest and most influential of which being The Famous Five, but as I stated in answering whether Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys were pulp heroes, these were not published in pulp magazines, instead their direct opposites in glossy and reputable paperbacks.

There are other examples of pulp heroes who were teenagers and not sidekicks, but nearly all of them are very obscure and you will probably not find much material for them. And the thing is, these characters were not made for teenagers. They were made, for the most part, by grown-ups, and for grown-ups, and I can't say any of them ever really grabbed a teenage audience. Usually, it's the 60s as an era that really starts to pander to and include teenagers at the forefront of storytelling, so a good start for you might be to look at what was going on in the 60s-onwards worldwide in the realms of pulp and pulp-inspired works, which probably means you're going to have to look outside of the US.

Another word of advice would be to look up characters that are beloved by teenagers. I don't think "teenager" is a great baseline trait to start building a character, but if that's the number one priority to you, then ideally you should look for a good baseline of what appeals to that demographic, what appealed to you at that age and why. You're probably going to wind up with a lot of anime anti-heroes in your research though, because teenagers are deeply miserable creatures and few things appeal more to them than characters who are miserable but they act cool and badass and edgy about it. Teenagers are forced to live with the miserable reality of being teenagers with little to no upsides, so I think teenage characters could benefit more from being based on the kinds of characters teenagers would ideally want to read about.

So, "cool, badass and tortured character super popular with angsty teenagers", "rooted in and subverting older storytelling traditions for a fresh new audience", and "60s pulp hero". I think Elric is probably as good of a place as any for you to start.

Elric wasn't just popular, he wasn't even just popular with teenagers (boys and girls alike, which is also quite the feat), he was "cool". He was avant-garde, he was the hip new thing on the block. He wasn't Conan or Bond or Batman, and you'd hardly mistake him for a hero. He got the rock albums and fans tattooing him. He was penned by the guy who was openly called the "anti-Tolkien". Elric was Loki before Loki, the edgy anti-hero before them all. The emaciated warrior with white hair and black clothes and a demonic sword who suffered in a cool way, cool in his uncoolness. When I think of pulp heroes who achieved a substantial popularity among teenage audiences, Elric is definitely the first that comes to mind.

Another good example might be Captain Harlock, easily one of the premier Pulp Heroes among manga and anime due to how heavily Leiji Matsumoto incorporates pulp space opera into everything he does. Not only directly influenced by it, Matsumoto even has actual pulp credentials as an illustrator for C.L Moore's Shambleau, Northwest Smith and Jirel of Joiry. The space pirate, while not created in manga and anime, is one of Japan's premier pulp hero archetypes, and Harlock's as good of a baseline to work with as any.

The most popular pulp-inspired works nowadays among teenage or younger audiences are definitely the ones derived from pulp horror, several creators have been getting a lot of mileage these past decades out of plundering and remixing stuff from it. The big ones are Lovecraft and related works like The King in Yellow, but because they soak up all the attention, it also means that people are sleeping on authors like John W. Campbell, William Hope Hogdson, Clark Ashton Smith and Karl Edward Wagner, Nictzin Dyalhis and Olaf Stapledon, and many, many more, which gives you a lot of narrative real estate to work with should you take this direction.

Additionally, one thing that you could consider is that, for a very large portion of the history of pulp fiction, a significant amount of the most popular stories and characters were those that were based on celebrities and real life figures. The biggest of dime novel protagonists was Buffalo Bill, and following him was Nick Carter, a literary equivalent to Eugen Sandow (the Schwarzenegger of his day). Thomas Edison inspired an entire subgenre of dime novel fiction, even Jack the Ripper was a pulp protagonist in Dutch magazines, because sometimes the term "pulp hero" doesn't take the "hero" part much into account.

The precedent for celebrity stories is older than pulp fiction itself, but it was in the dime novels and novelettes and pulps that the idea really found it's footing. The Shadow's exploits took a lot from Gibson's own experiences with Houdini (who himself starred in fictional stories, one famously penned by Lovecraft). Doc Savage was visually modeled after Clark Gable and supposedly inspired on Richard Henry Savage. Eddy Polo, Charlie Chaplin and Tom Mix were the protagonists of several pulps and comic strips across the world, as well as Al Capone (who starred in pulp magazines in Germany and Spain), who fought Nick Carter in a Brazilian story guest-starring Fu Manchu (reportedly based on real figures Sax Rohmer claimed to have met) and Fantomas. Today obviously there are much greater restrictions at play concerning celebrity images, but if dime/pulp magazines were around today, we would have quite possibly seen figures like Keanu Reeves, Tilda Swinton and Lil Nas X either star in their own magazines or be used as models for rising protagonists.

So I guess one other way you could go on about creating a pulp hero, who's either a teenager or appeals to teenagers, would be the route of taking a look at some celebrities that either are, or appeal to those demographics, because if pulp magazines had stayed around unchanged past the 60s and 80s and whatnot you definitely would have seen the likes of David Bowie, Will Smith and Dwayne Johnson get their own magazines. I don't know much about what celebrities are popular with teenagers these days and I'm not about to start caring now, but you could take a look at some icons you like, or liked when you were younger, and think about what made them appealing to think about as characters, and how you could apply that to something closer to a pulp story.

A word of advice would also be that, if you want to make a character inspired by pulp heroes, if you want to create a convincing modern pulp hero, you might want to look less at the pulp heroes themselves and instead those that they were inspired by or working to defy and stand out when compared to. You take the building blocks and rearrange them in a different way. If you have a specific character you want to design yours in reference to, you can send me an ask or a DM about them and I'll dig into my files to give you a few pointers, and what kind of history or cultural predecessors they have that you could take a look at to make something more genuine.