#papa Smurf is a piece of shit

[batsinnappies]

It's a wonder Brainy doesn't have a traumatic brainy injury- I know cartoon logic and all, but like. Good grief. I watched the Magic Flute today and like- Clumsy gets hurt and Papa immediately treats his injuries. Brainy gets hit with a mallet, and he's just. Left there. Papa even says 'he talks way too much' or something, like- why would you say that about your own kid? And then let the others attack him over it with no repercussions?? Even with Grumpy he says 'we love him' but Brainy? 'Haha, no. He's our village punching bag, see, he has more than enough brains to cope with a little brain damage.'

Great parenting, Papa.

Anyway have some happier Brainy doodles :)

[gunnrblze]

Reunion pt. 2

Continuation of my silly fic

CW: more suggestiveness, fighting the urge to add smut to this lol. reader is gender neutral in the first part, but is she/her now

You’d always thought florescent lights were a bit much sometimes, but now that they were blaring right above your line of sight? You wanted to stab someone over it.

It was difficult to hear, too many people talking, too many machines and noises whirring in the distance.

What you could feel though, was an ache at the back of your skull, dull when you’re still, but sharp if you shift your head the right way on whatever piece of shit cot you’ve been laid on. You assume you fell and hit said noggin when whatever the fuck happened in the forest, happened.

Not that you can remember much yet, all you know is that the Generals murder boys showed up and then you got knocked off your one-way piggy back ride. Which worries you, is Beanie still alive? What about the rest of the circus?

With the way the lights are fizzling above you on the ceiling, the vague smell of medical supplies, and the fact you can feel that big cut on your hip bandaged up now instead of trying to kill you softly with its song…you’d wager you’ve not been captured by the Feds.

Maybe this is the ‘base’ your saviors kept speaking of, something you’d only believe when you really saw it…just in case they’re actually some band of fuckwads posing as a militia and not real soldiers. People are weird, can you really blame yourself?

“She’s awake” a voice somewhere off to the left, or maybe the right, called out. Your brain was a little too hazy to recall if you knew the voice, but as soon as Papa Smurf came into view, you felt some kind of relief that maybe the rest were okay too.

Not that you gave too much of a shit about them, yeah? I mean, you don’t even know them, they could’ve killed you, they could kill you. They just plucked you up off the floor and said ‘come with us’ like that’s a normal thing to do. Who even are they? You have one real name out of the five, but ‘Hesh’ surely to god isn’t the man’s government name-

“How do you feel?” His voice snapped you out of whatever train of thought you were riding. You blinked what felt like a hundred times before you could make out his form standing to your left. He wasn’t really as old as you acted like he was. Maybe early 50s, but he could still take you down as well as the rest, if not better due to what you imagine is well honed experience he has.

You still weren’t too interested in speaking very much to them. Maybe it was juvenile, or maybe your brain was just lacking, unable to figure out what to say in this situation. You relented a little though, giving a shrug and a mumble of something that sounded like ‘fine’. Why was your mouth doing that? Why did it feel so weird to speak?

“You’ve got a mild concussion, and a knocked out tooth” Geriatric explained when he saw what must’ve been confusion on your face.

Oh. A knocked out tooth. Naturally, of course. Whatever, it could surely be worse than a missing molar.

“We patched up your hip. That’s a nasty cut you got, a bit infected, we’ll have to keep an eye on it” he added, which wasn’t a sentence you liked very much. Not because of the cut, you weren’t sure you cared about that anymore. But because they wanted to keep an eye on it? They’d keep you?

Suddenly you felt like a stray mutt. Found wandering in the broken rubble of that office building, feeding on scraps of food because what the fuck else is there to eat in a bombed out wasteland?

You supposed you could get past that degrading feeling. If, and only if your presence didn’t continue to feel like a liability. You’d fight for yourself again, continue to scavenge for food like an animal before you played house, or military, you guess…with people who wished that their dogs nose hadn’t sniffed you out in the first place.

You wouldn’t be following them around like a stray if they’d complain about it, you knew that for sure. Not that they had complained, as a matter of fact, nothing had happened, they were actually rather nice. You were kind of just imagining all this-

“You gonna tell us more about yourself, kid? How the hell did you make it out there? You know where you’ve been?” Geriatric decided to flash bang you with three questions at once.

You gave another shrug, why did it feel like you couldn’t talk? You weren’t exactly scared of them anymore. They clearly didn’t want to hurt you, not at the moment, at least. Why did you feel so petulantly reluctant to explain yourself to people that had actually helped you considerably?

You decided to suck it up, and explained through your molar-less, iron tasting mouth, that your family died way back when, you somehow wandered into No Man’s Land, you’ve been getting by well enough, etc, etc, the usual.

Now he was being silent, which you almost thought was funny, except for the way that he looked at you like you’d told him a lie. Anxiety set in for a moment, and you felt like you were being cross examined now.

“You just stumbled into No Man’s Land? How’d you get past the wall?” He asked a little more quizzically this time. His arms were set firm across his chest -big arms for an old dude, you couldn’t help but notice- and his face was stone cold. Not your favorite look from American Dad, so far.

You figured if any time was the time to talk, it was now. After realizing what the fuck he meant by the wall, you relayed that you simply crawled underneath it. A divot in the ground that someone had clearly took a moment to dig out. You hadn’t thought much of it, you were more so concerned with not becoming one of those red berets next kill shots.

You remembered it better than you thought you would though, given your concussion. Which lessened your anxiety a bit, he’d probably hate it if you couldn’t even explain that part…

Except, that didn’t quite mean he believed it yet. Back to square one. Your head throbbed and your gums were still a little bloody. The infection in your hip stung and the lights were still caving in on you as you laid in the fuck ass military issue cot. But none of it mattered when you had him looming over you, asking questions like you were an X-File and he was just waiting for Scully to show up.

“You crawled under the wall, huh? And didn’t get caught by any Fed soldiers?” Geriatric asked, his tone almost harboring a little, amusement? It was hard to tell with the way his gaze made your body feel so cold, despite being somewhere near California in June.

You simply nodded though, because…yeah. That’s quite literally exactly what happened. He knew you were a civilian, if that much wasn’t glaringly clear, so maybe he’d also come to understand that you had little idea what the fuck you were doing.

You were both surprised when you suddenly spoke up unprompted and asked about the others, if they were alright. You’d remembered how this all happened, what led up to being knocked off Beanies back, and you couldn’t help but wonder where they were. He raised an eyebrow, but seemed willing enough.

“Hesh is alright, took a bullet to his vest, that’s why you fell down with him” He starts, immediately making more sense than you thought he’d give, seeing as they all seemed to be quite secretive. Hell, you only knew Beanie, Hesh’s, name anyways. That seemed to bother you a bit, not even knowing their names.

“The rest are okay. You two are the only injuries we have right now. He’s been patched up and is resting, which is what you’re gonna do, too” he added. Which again, you weren’t exactly a fan of because what the fuck happens after you rest up?

What will they do with you? They won’t put you back in No Man’s Land, of course, but you have no where else to go. That’s how you ended up here, on this scratchy cot, after the fucking Misfits picked you up by the scruff of your neck like a feral alley cat.

He seemed to smell the confusion and slight fear on you, and during what you imagine is a rare event, seemed to stall with having an actual course of action. So you opened your big mouth up instead. Explaining that you have no where to go, so they might as well just dump you now, get it over with.

You felt stupid when you said anything to them, like you were a toddler learning how to string meaningful sentences together for the first time, so you didn’t feel any more idiotic than you perpetually did after saying that bullshit.

But the way he raised his grayed eyebrow again and looked down at you like you were not as old as you actually were…didn’t help the feeling.

“Don’t worry about that right now, you have to rest up and get cleared from that concussion before we ‘drop’ you anywhere” he said simply, like that would make you feel better. Like the pat on your shoulder would make you feel better instead of making you flinch.

He walked away though, so what choice was there?

You glanced around now that you could see and think better. Stashed away in some room that was supposed to be a makeshift medic-like setting. The walls were gray and so was the vibe, apparently. Not that you’d expect the croaking soldier on the cot adjacent to you to be having a good time with that stab wound it appears he took to the gut…

You were just about to get settled into your spiraling thoughts when an unfamiliar voice appeared on your left. This guy was, naturally, just as big, but had a more athletic looking build. Brown eyes that were more amber than anything, and not nearly as imposing an energy as some of the others. Looking at Baldy for that one.

“Hey, I’m Kick” he tried to give you a smile.

Ohhh. So getaway guy does exist.

You almost felt the desire to return the smile, but you couldn’t. So you gave a nod instead, which seemed to satisfy him enough. He asked how you felt, your point blank response of “Shitty” got a little chuckle out of him. Why was he charming? He’s like Beanie, you suppose, a smile that can go a long way. A smile that you enjoyed seeing since you hadn’t really seen anything in a while.

Your lack of recent human interaction was still confusing your hormones…

He very clearly wanted to ask questions about the elephant in the room, how the fuck are you still alive? But he appeared to have enough decorum to make it seem like bringing it up was your idea when he worked it into the conversation.

But you had nothing much to say. By the skin of your teeth, is how you survived and out-hid the Feds thus far. A yipping and wailing German Shepard who somehow smelled you from too far away, is how you’re alive and on this cot rather than wondering if you’ll find a shelter hidden enough to sleep in tonight.

It appears he’s just as smart as his friends, because he doesn’t push. Just looks at you like you’re some sort of miracle. Really, you’re totally flattered and all, but you can’t quite stop and pat yourself on the back yet for making it this far, when you still have so far to go.

He wanted to let you rest like Geriatric, so he left. And you did not watch his ass in those tactical pants as he went. A nurse-medic-doctor-‘I have some kind of medical knowledge’ person came over to tend to your hip wound. Peeling back the gauze made you hiss, looking down at the gross slice wound made you wince.

Definitely more infected than you thought it’d gotten. Perhaps that’s what the pills they were shoving in your hand were for. You cared so little you didn’t even ask about what you were swallowing.

You laid down again, trying not to tear your hair out of the root due to the way the lights continued to buzz above your head. It wasn’t loud, but it was loud enough for your concussed ass brain.

Apparently these people catch on quite well, you couldn’t ever think of knowing simple army soldiers that had so much interpersonal skills. Weren’t they usually a little dumb? But you’d be damned if you didn’t see Beanie himself spawn at your side with a pair of earplugs. You were beginning to wonder if maybe you would rather be left alone, respectfully.

“We don’t have many of these, but they should help” he said simply, rather than addressing literally anything else that’s happened. You took them though, cracking a real little smile because Jesus fucking Christ if you had to hear a gun go off one more time…

You gave him a once over, noticing the slight raise of bandage near his ribs underneath his deliciously too tight t-shirt. He noticed, because of course he did, and ensured you he was fine. It was all rather normal feeling, for a beyond abnormal situation.

You popped the earplugs in, sighing and trying not to move your head wound on the thick fabric of the cot because Christ on a bike that shit stung. You felt a little more comfortable blurting out a ‘what happens after this’ to him rather than his elder, for some reason.

That seemed to be the question of the hour, though, because he kinda just gave you that knowing look. You figured he’d half ass some kind of reassurance, but instead he asked about the half broken radio in your bag.

Your bag. Your radio. Your stuff. Where’d they even put it? They went through it?

“You have a lot of loose ends in there, why were you carrying all that stuff around?” He’d continue. He wasn’t wearing his little namesake, you just noticed, and you accidentally admired how silly yet handsome he looked with a buzz cut.

Which was also a bit too obvious on your end, so you opted for explaining that you were trying to fix the radio. You used to fuck with them in your spare time, good with technology type stuff, etc etc. Which piqued his interest enough to ask how good you were with radios.

Pretty good was your final answer. You didn’t quite feel like talking about godforsaken radios right now, what with the lights blaring and the exhaustion catching up to your brittled ass body. You weren’t sure how malnourished and dehydrated you were, but you could feel the weakness. He seemed interested enough by you, though, you just didn’t have half a mind to ask about your belongings after taking those meds.

It felt almost too perfect when he explained that they’ve been having issues with their comms system lately…

That maybe you could take a look at it once you healed up more, maybe you could fix it. That if you did, you’d have a place to stay, food to eat.

You wondered whether or not Junior had ran this thought by Senior yet. If he was just planting the idea to help you out, so you didn’t face whatever fate you’d end up with once you didn’t have a need to laze in their cot anymore.

Because you couldn’t really foresee the rest of his buds wanting to actually take you in, whatever the fuck that really meant, here. You were a civilian, who maybe posed a bit of use to them. But that didn’t feel good enough, you wagered. Not during a time like this. Don’t they have people for this stuff?

You shrugged, not wanting to ask why he cared so much about your wellbeing. Maybe he’s just a good guy, a good soldier, but you both knew you had little place here. He seemed to just be trying to carve one out for you. And as much as you appreciated it, you still didn’t like the whole idea of being any kind of burden to these people

He gave you a pat on your shoulder too, like father like son, and told you to get some rest and think about it.

You did think about it. Thought about how fucking stupid it’d be if you tried to fix a military communications system. You liked tinkering with radios and what not, desperate to get a signal for even a sliver of music to grace your ears if you could. But you didn’t know as much as you suddenly wished you did.

So you opted for lying on your squeaky cot, feeling the burn of the stitches on your hip, the ache of the gash on the back of your head. And the buzz of the florescent lighting above you.

The earplugs did help a bit. And you fell asleep sooner than you thought you would. To the nice relaxing sounds of sick, groaning soldiers, and whatever the flying fuck was happening on this base.

And naturally, that damned dog again.

[butterfrogmantis]

I've been holding onto Matador since I got back from Barcelona months ago and here he FINALLY is. And also another newbie!

Matador Smurf:

-Ironically very anti killing. He just wants to show off more than anything. Can usually subdue large or dangerous animals into crashing into walls and stuff quite well but he's a noble heart, will never go for the kill. IS a skilled fencer for other sapient opponents when it's fair. Would fight Don more but Don's a swashbuckling kind of hero whilst Matador sticks to fencing rules and would probably lose in a real swordfight.

-The Barcelonian! From the Catalonia region of Spain. Knows both mainland Spanish and Catalonian but tends to use Catalonian to P off Elena who only knows mainland Spanish … bit of a cultural rivalry there XD

-As bad as Smooth for flirting with everything that moves. Actually that includes Smooth too. It's a flirt off. And by that I mean dating but not. It's similar to Smooth and Slammy, both are wayyy too non committal to settle down but after Smooth's 174758th rejection from Jokey and when Slammy is back to doing his part time dating of the band Smooth can usually be found crawling back to Matador

SmurfHemlock:

-Born SmurfSunflower (Sunny) was a shy kid who disliked the other typical grove activities like archery and dance. Thought she didn't really fit in with anyone and would usually just be found down by the swamp poking stuff with sticks. She had one friend tho, a friend she thought was just as weird. SmurfRafflesia was obsessed with the undead and paranormal, and through her admiration of her, Sunflower came to enjoy these things too, finding beauty in death and wanting to preserve it somehow.

-Teenage Sunflower takes on a goth not-phase and changes her name to Hemlock (Sunflower was so … preppy!) and begins to study the art of taxidermy. Still regarded as one of the black sheeps of the grove but she minds it much less now - she kind of revels in the solitude. Begins developing a fairly big crush on Rafflesia before one day … Raff just goes missing out of the blue. It breaks Hemlock's heart and she sinks further into the loner persona. Also some weird demon got out somewhere but Papa and Willow took care of that.

-Lol JK Raff isn't gone forever, she shows up one day as a ghost and claims some Archaeologist from the guy village found her and whoops she's been gone for a century what did she miss haha. Well Hemlock is PISSED. I mean who does that? Esp/ since Rafflesia admits she wasn't even trapped she was just vibing in the mausoleum Archie found her in (Raff and Archie are a bit similar in that way, they're both married to their work and can be a bit self absorbed in it at times)

-Anyway Hemlock's been doing great w/ her taxidermy all this time. She's very careful and only sources natural deaths or kills … but may adopt elderly insects with some ulterior motives. At least she's good to em and they get a very comfortable end of life before becoming art pieces. Go figure. She's made up w/ Raff, it is pretty cool to have a ghost friend after all, and apparently Rafflesia also made some new friends in the village - holy shit is that a talking skeleton?? That's pretty goth.

-Skelly groans internally. Yet more admirers. Will he 'ere be rid of his fans ("Shut up Skelly")

Smooth (c) The Smurfs

Matador, Elena, Rafflesia and Hemlock are mine

[twinge-of-cosmicangst]

The whole Logan asking if Kendall was queer and if he got off with the waiter: Andrew, effected me because I’m not even kenstew, not an anti or anything I just don’t to feel it tbh, but I did actually get bi vibes from Kenny with how he was acting with this Andrew in car before the crash. With this and Logan saying to Roman that he never took him for an f slur, Roman who got handjobs from his PT and possibly had a thing with the fascist in the bathroom. Then theres Shiv wanting to have a threesome with a another woman and being into it when Tom suggested that he just watch while she and the other woman fucked. And do I even have to say anything about Tom himself.

What I’m saying is that the homophobic piece of shit Logan’s Roy has 3/4 of his children and a son in law who are all bi and I think they could sort of work out their differences between each other if they all just came out to themselves, each other and Logan all at the same time and just gave old papa smurf the most terminal heart attack/stroke of all time out of sheer shock.

[heli0s-writes]

Flavor of the Day

Summary: You never know what’s going to rile you up next. Pairings: Bucky x Reader A/N: Word count 1.5k-- and apparently I’m into the intimate act of getting a haircut.

Bag of Tricks One Shot Masterlist

Some things just get you riled up.

Stupid things, mostly. Things that bubble out of the incomprehensible blue of your mind. Innocuous things, sometimes things that made most others unwell: Sam picking up the corner of the couch to grab the remote, Maria wiping lipstick off her teeth disdainfully, goddamn Smurfette talking Smurf gibberish to Papa Smurf.

It was always a mixed bag.

So, when the bomb explodes on a regular Wednesday afternoon recon mission in the flat ghost town prairie of Gun Barrel, Texas of all places, a sudden tickle travels up your spine.

Destruction, apparently, is the flavor of the day.

Bomb aside, Texas is the pits when you’re not in a major city. Hours and hours of driving, your thighs chafing in the back of the mini-van, stupid easy-listening crooning because Steve can’t stand any excitement. Grumpy old fuck.

There hadn’t even been any sights to see, other than cows of enormous sizes, dilapidated barns, flat, straight, endless pasture, and—

“Hey!” You had yelled, pointing.

“What?” Two voices replied, whipping around to see what your exclamation was meant for.

Bucky scoffed when he realized your smashed finger against the window had been pointing to the swirls of yellow flaxen threads piled atop each other: hay.

You thought it was hilarious. Steve, spitefully, turned up the warble of ancient, sizzling-static, sometimes accompanied by a shrill voice. Bucky leaned his seat back until it hit your knees.

“Grumpy old fucks.” You muttered, drowned out by terrible noise.

So, again, when the bomb explodes and levels the top floor, you are aching for something good. Rubble crashes from the ceiling, tearing cavernous holes in the current room while an alarm blares, dousing the entire place in abrupt and flashing red. Your blood is rushing, heart beating madly to the rhythm of the siren’s shriek.

Gunfire erupts from the next room where Steve is, but you either must make it to the stairwell and survive, or chance being crushed with him.

Risk, you realize with a ferocious grin, is the flavor of the day.

You barrel through the door, taking it completely off its hinges and sink your knife into the man scrambling to get Cap. It rips him neck to his goddamn tailbone and the eggshell-white notches of his vertebrae slip out to greet you.

“Hell!” Steve screams, “Is that fucking necessary!?”

He pushes you roughly out the collapsing room and nearly throws you down the stairwell. There’s some smart comment or another that gets lobbed at him, but Steve prudently ignores it and your voice ebbs away when you are launched down three flights of stairs. Bucky is stepping fast paced by the thirteenth story.

You gasp for breath and put one hand on his shoulder, “Race ya.”

Steve’s heavy boots land with a thud, breaking up the moment. An enormous piece of drywall crumbles and sprinkles dust and fire from above.

“Move!”

Your arms break out in goosebumps when Bucky grabs the back of your suit and takes you down.

-

Wednesday night in a shared hotel suite sheds too much light on your problem. An itch that can’t be scratched, sitting on a queen-sized bed while two others smush up on the pull out because of some old-fashioned boy-chivalry.

You take the last shower to relieve the frustration, feeling somewhat sated when you emerge bright pink from scrubbing. The robe is tied loosely, and you slip into the kitchenette to find a snack, tiptoeing through the dark shadows so neither of them will be bothered.

The mini fridge has tiny bottles of vodka and a chocolate bar and they all get tucked under your arm. When you turn around, Bucky is peeking over your shoulder.

“Goddamn, Barnes! I almost shit myself!”

He catches your pilfered treasures deftly in his hand and set them on the counter. The fridge door swings open limply, yellow light reflecting the lines of his face, confused and a little bewildered by the spread of alcohol and candy.

You quirk your head too, because one side of his mane is singed off. “From the fire?” Your wry smile tells him it’s as bad as he thinks it is, and Bucky frowns, running his hand through, clenching his fist around the frayed ends. "Do you want me to trim the rest?"

For the first time that you’ve known him, he looks like a little boy, almost petulantly so and a little flutter in your stomach gives you pause. Lingering behind him, your fingers reach up to grip his hair, catching the uneven strands between them. He still smells like smoke even after his shower. The ashy scent mingles with the hotel complimentaries—dusty cedar and pine notes accompanied by gunpowder. Clean sweat that is purely boy.

Because Bucky always keeps a knife on him, he wordlessly places one in your open palm and sits down on the floor silently.

“Where’s Cap?” You ask, surprised when your voice comes out unsteady.

The first handful slices through with a whistle and Bucky tenses under your touch. “Went out.” He replies. Another strip comes clean off and you work to even the edges, cutting in delicate motions. “Watch the ears.” Bucky warns as you crawl around him on your knees.

“What? You need ‘em?”

The long side is clipped to match the burned side, and your fingers slowly slide upwards, palm rubbing against his scalp, strands pinched. A few more cuts and then you begin to even out the back, smiling slightly at the softness of his dark locks.

Bucky leans into your hand with a slow hum, and you poke his neck with the handle of the knife to straighten him out—to give him distance from you. Or to give you distance from him.

He grumbles when you fist his hair again, tucking the knife into the front waistband of your underwear and shuffle around to look at the front. With two hands, you pinch the sides and fluff the top, moving tufts left and right to ascertain the correct way to part his hair. They all looked about the same.

“Well, it’s not bad—but I’d certainly get it redone later.”

He’s peering at you with half a frown and a furrowed brow, and you shrug in response, pushing your hand forward one last time nearly out of habit now. When Bucky suddenly sighs with your palm over his head, your eyes widen and you come to the third realization:

Bucky, apparently, is the flavor of the day.

The two of you stare at each other in the dim light of the kitchenette floor. It probably wasn’t a good idea to chop off all his hair in the dark, but all of that is out the window now as you blink at him. With it away from his cheeks, he looks changed.

Strikingly handsome.

The overhead light starts to flicker, showing you his face in half-second pulses. He blinks once. Twice. His mouth opens ever so gently.

Then the door swings open with a clatter and Steve announces his return with three grease-soaked bags of fast food plopped on the counter. “You two okay? Is that a knife in your—Jesus! Will ya cover up?”

You hadn’t noticed that the front of your robe has fallen open, revealing the sheer bralette and underwear with Bucky’s knife tucked in the front. As Steve sputters and turns around, pulling out his meal, Bucky reaches forward and takes his blade from your hip, bottom lip pinched between his teeth.

His eyes lock on yours as he moves forward onto his knees. You’re trapped in his gaze, unaware of his hands tugging on the front of your robe, pulling it shut. Steve’s body lands heavily onto the couch, and the crashing of its back against the wall rips you from the moment. Your eyes flutter, searching Bucky for answers.

He gives you nothing but a slow sweep of his tongue in the corner of his mouth. His lips purse, breath escaping in a tiny, hot, pant.

Then slowly, he lifts himself up to his feet.

“Hey, Stevie, where’d you park the car?”

Steve perks up from the couch, “Just to the left, why?”

You follow the shape of Bucky’s legs as he steps out of the kitchenette, turning ever so slightly to look down at your crouched form still on the floor. He tucks his knife back into its sheath.

“We’re going out for a bit.”

You nearly plant face-first getting to your feet, toes slipping against the scattered dark strands of Bucky’s hair.

“You got a haircut!?” Steve hollers as Bucky yanks the door open. “Buck?” And then he sees you running after, damp cotton robe flapping against your thigh. “Wha—”

The door slams shut before Steve can get another word out and Bucky is pressing you up against its frame, hands underneath your breasts, holding you up. “We’re not goin’ anywhere,” he whispers before scraping his teeth against your collarbone, “I’m gonna fuck you in the car.”

Holy shit.

Bucky pulls you along by the band of your top, not giving a fuck if your tits fall out in the middle of the parking lot.

Apparently, you think, with a shudder as he looks back mischievously, you are Bucky’s flavor of the day.

[smurfingsfans]

Pobre brainy 😥😥

It's a wonder Brainy doesn't have a traumatic brainy injury- I know cartoon logic and all, but like. Good grief. I watched the Magic Flute today and like- Clumsy gets hurt and Papa immediately treats his injuries. Brainy gets hit with a mallet, and he's just. Left there. Papa even says 'he talks way too much' or something, like- why would you say that about your own kid? And then let the others attack him over it with no repercussions?? Even with Grumpy he says 'we love him' but Brainy? 'Haha, no. He's our village punching bag, see, he has more than enough brains to cope with a little brain damage.'

Great parenting, Papa.

Anyway have some happier Brainy doodles :)