#yes this is the personification of his weapon

[cornerstoreclown]

Workshop Fun

Summary: This is a short one-shot (7021 words) where the Reader (female) has an established relationship with Art the Clown, and has been kiiiind of collaborating with him passively. Reader is wearing a dress for the sole purpose of easy access. Reader has a vulva and breasts. 

Contents: Biting, light spanking, ...phone... sex? Having an unknowing participant on the other line is the only way I can word it, light spanking, lots of making out, clothed sex, BDSM, Art being cruel, p in v penetration, finger sucking and light body worship

Author’s notes: Sorry what took me so long to do this, I’ve been sitting on this for years! Male version will be out in a few days. This is LIGHTLY proofread, so keep your expectations at a level where you won’t be surprised if there’s any mistakes. Also once again I am an Art the Clown front zipper truther for my clothed sex kink.

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You loved him.

Did he kill people? Yes. Did he sometimes allude to killing you as well? Absolutely. Has he acted on it yet? Not fully, but you could tell that sometimes he had that compulsion to go through with it, when he’d get that twinkle in his eye.

 Especially when you were up close and personal with him, your bodies merely inches apart, sometimes with him even holding a weapon in hand. He’s a wild animal. A force of evil locked away in the confines of a corporeal body made of flesh and bone.

And yet, all the same, you loved him. The way that his hands would travel across your flesh and explore the parts of you that you never let anyone else. Sometimes he’d leave bruises, other times scratches. Then there were the bite marks. Each intimate encounter would leave you in a different state of mess. He was the lover who was like a cat. One day he’d be here, gone the next. You couldn’t put a thumb on the patterns.

The waits were long, but you’re loyal, and you’re patient. You didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter. You’d wait until the ends of the earth for him. Sometimes during the months that he wasn’t here, you’d dream of him. All of these little fantasies you’d have in your head would sometimes come to visit you behind your closed lids, where reality had no limitations. It would make the ache feel less. Every time that he’d come back, you made sure to find him as quickly as possible the second you heard whisperings pertaining to sightings of him, or any kind of crime scene that felt like it had his signature on it. Sometimes he’d find you first.

Art wasn’t someone who was very materialistic. And money meant next to nothing to Art—the personification of evil had very little need for the vast kinds of desires that plagued man.

But he wasn’t necessarily immune to the pleasures of the flesh, you learned. Despite how for the most part, he remained heavily uninterested in intimacy, he had a few moments here and there, and you capitalized on them when you could. You had a feeling tonight would be one of those nights.

Or, well, you hoped.

Worst case scenario he’d turn you away or ignore any advances, and he has a few times. And that was okay.

You came into his hideout tonight with confidence instilled in you, but yet the excitement still makes your stomach do flips. It’s been too long, and the fire within your chest is reignited. You feel passion, you feel love so strong that it’s enough to keep you up at night, and it has happened plenty of times before. You wonder if he’s got some sort of spell over you, and you’d believe it if that were the case. You’ve never fallen so madly, deeply, for anyone before like you have him. It could be enough to make you physically ill if you thought about how much you loved him. Such a passion came with such a detriment to you.

Past the damaged doors of a since abandoned fairly abandoned warehouse, you have a smooth descent down the stairs, leading you to a type of basement setting. There’s plenty of water dripping. Rats squeaking as they chitter and skitter along. You catch glimpses of them in the dim lighting, but they don’t bother you. As long as you didn’t see a bunch of them with their tails tied together, you wager you’ll be pretty okay.

You dressed up nicely for him tonight.

You weren’t really a dress kind of person, but tonight you made it an exception. It wasn’t fancy or over the top, and by the love of god, it had pockets. You refused to wear heels however, whatever shoes you had that worked and didn’t give you the possibility of breaking your ankle down these flights of stairs was the option you went with. Art might have found it funny if you hurt yourself, but you aren’t too keen on getting yourself dinged up before he gets the chance to do it himself.

The dress was about one thing–accessibility. Easy to lift up, easy for him to slide in right where he belonged.

You loved when he was inside of you, when you’d feel the heat of his heavy breath against the back of your neck. You run your hands over the spot where you last remember feeling the warmth of his breath. You remember being beneath him and feeling as if the very heat that he quietly exhaled felt as if it were smoldering your skin, burning you like the way the flames of hell were supposed to. If being with this clown meant that you’d be burning in the afterlife, you’d gladly bathe yourself in the inferno.

Your stomach flutters.

You shouldn’t be this excited. He’s a murderer. A killer. A man with no morals, and you’re not even sure if he was a man sometimes at all. Yet, his darkness is what drew you in. He was your safe space, and no one would dare come into that space to try and harm you so long as you were in his arms.

When you reach the bottom of the steps, you see it–a single dangling light, and illuminating this dark space is a double door that is plainly rusted. You see a bloody handprint on it. It’s since dried.

You recognize the size of that hand, and feel slightly lighter, just in the moment.

Placing your own hand in the exact space over Art’s bloodied print, you push the door open. The door is a little on the heavy side, but with enough force, the door opens.

“Art?” You call out, making sure that your presence is acknowledged as friendly and not hostile. The room is a little darkly lit, very heavy on the minimum lighting that’s needed to navigate in the space. It most certainly added to the creepy ambiance. Straight ahead, there sat none other than Art. His back was given to you. He was sitting on a stool, hammering away at something on his workbench. He turns his head upon hearing his name, and you see that he gives you a smile, baring his rotted discolored teeth as his eyes are closed. You can see the wrinkles form a little in the corner of his eyes when he smiles.

You liked that. You liked the details etched into his face. It added character among those otherwise gaunt features of his.

“Hey, buddy.” You call out to him, and he gives you a little wave, before gesturing for you to come closer.

You approach him, and once you’re near the bench with him, you can see when you’re close enough that he gives you a once over, assessing you… Judging you, for what it is you’re wearing tonight.

“Like it?” You ask him, twirling from side to side so that your dress splays out a little. It’s simple. Gets the job done. And if it got ruined? No love loss.

Art’s gaze seems fixed on you, first on your dress, then up at you. For a man who doesn’t speak, his eyes seem to say all that needs to be said, as he reaches for the end of your dress and starts to lift it, until you gently smack the top of his hand. Art draws his hand back to his side immediately, glancing up at you, looking a little like a kid that was chided.

Naughty of him, trying to get a sneak peek beforehand.

“Not yet,” You tell him.

Art looks a little irritated, folding his arms across his chest and pouting. At least he seems interested tonight.

You clear your throat, and Art’s attention is still locked on you. He’s watching you expectantly.

“You’ve settled in quite nicely.” It was just yesterday you surveyed the area on his behalf, and helped him move in properly. Already on his workbench, he has got quite a few improvised weapons he’d been working on. Your eyes go to one weapon in particular, and you point at it.

“What’s that?”

Art turns to look at the weapon you’ve pointed out, and when he lifts it to proudly show it, it’s exactly what it looked like–an improvised flail. Attached to a long metal rod, is a long wire, and when your eyes follow to the end of the wire, you see wrapped around in such an intricate and meticulous way are a variety of knives, serving as what would be the ‘spikes’. You’re impressed. He even hands it to you, to which you take it. It’s got a decent weight to it, too. Not too heavy, but not too light.

“Woah.” You say, as Art watches you, quite proud of how dazzled you are. He’s an artist at heart, you knew this. The knives have some rust on them. One of them looks stained from a previous bloody encounter. He’s clearly working with whatever he’s got on him.

“If anyone survives this, they better pray they don’t get tetanus.” You muse, and Art’s face twists in amusement in a silent laugh. You hand the weapon back to him, and he takes it once he’s done getting in a few silent chuckles at your joke, gently placing it back down on the table.

No one escapes Art with their soul still in their body. Literal or figurative. You were either dead, or you were burdened with his encounter your entire life, both physically and mentally.

You weren’t any different. Your bruises and bites and scars have been out of love. One could argue that you got off easy, but you’d argue otherwise.

Being in love with the Miles County Clown is torture in and of itself. There were nonstop dreams that came with it. It seemed as if every other week he’d plague you in your sleep. Not to mention that you had to be extremely clever to not be caught under affiliation with him–which was even more stress. So far, though, so good.

He’s worth it, you tell yourself. Even if he wasn’t anymore, there’s no way you could leave. He’d kill you. And you have zero doubts that your death wouldn't be painless.

After a few seconds of silence, you sigh.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave all the time.” You begin to tell him. Art’s expression is neutral, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. His teeth are bared, as they often are. Your tone isn’t one of whining, but of yearning. You know that this came with the territory, and you readily accepted his lack of presence at any given time.

But it didn’t hurt to dream. Art tilts his head, watching you from where he sits curiously.

“Maybe one day we can find some place that… Is ours. Separate from… This.” You gesture towards the weapons he’s making. Every so often he hides somewhere different to prepare for the trouble he intends to cause. “A place that maybe once you’re done for the day, we both can be in to unwind. And a permanent place for you that isn’t just my apartment. But like. A place for you. For us.”

Taking him to your apartment kept getting riskier and riskier each time. Also, he made it quite clear he didn’t really care for your decor. Giving him his own place to make his own that he could express himself would be ideal, and it wouldn’t be like a place he’d have to abandon every year. He could actually have and keep stuff… If he wanted to even do that.

The more you think about it, the more you’re starting to think it sounds silly. You see the way that he’s looking at you, and he appears very stern. Sharp.

Your confidence begins to drop, and as you’re about to speak again, you stammer, before laughing nervously.

“Yeah. You’re right. Sorry, that was a silly idea–any long term space we made for you would probably get found out eventually, too. I–”

The stool screams as it’s slid across the ground, back towards the bench when he stands up. It sounded like one of his many victims. You go quiet as he’s hovering over you, and you swallow any words that you might have wanted to tell him.

The silence is heavy. His shoulders are rising and falling, and you feel your heartbeat in your ears.

Seconds tick by and they feel more like minutes, and you can’t stand it any longer. You open your mouth to speak, but you’re swiftly cut off.

Art yanks you by the collar of your dress, and forces his lips against yours.

Your eyes are wide briefly in surprise, but they close as soon as you register what’s happening, and you moan in the kiss. Art’s a bit of a sloppy kisser, but you’ve come to love it. His taste was acrid as well, but you craved the bitterness at this point, no longer gagging like you used to. As he leans forward to kiss you harder, you put more of yourself in it as well, mixing his intensity with your passion and desire that’s been left simmering for months.

Now it’s boiling over.

Art places both of his hands on either side of your face, and it’s like he’s trying to suffocate you with his kisses, barely giving you much time to breathe in between them. You’re getting a little lightheaded.

He pulls away from your lips to kiss you a few times on the cheek, then nuzzling his face against yours. Almost like a cat.

It gives you the chance to catch your breath. His hands reach for yours, and you let him, feeling the way that his fingers interlace with your own. You look down at the way that your fingers intertwined with his dirtied and calloused ones. He was a man who worked with his hands–in more ways than one. Those same fingers belonged to the same hands that would worship you, tear and pull at you without ever breaking you completely in half. Sometimes it’d be close, but never fully. They would sometimes draw blood when the nails would sink into your flesh and leave behind crescent marks. Other times, those hands would strangle you, smack you–slap you, and bring a sting across your body that reminded you just how alive you were. Then those same hands would caress you. Cradle you.

He’d cut you on a few occasions, but they were never lethal. And with every cut, his tongue followed.

You feel reverence. Especially as you press a kiss to the tip of his fingers–you kiss each one, tenderly, making eye contact with him as you do so.

Art watches knowingly. He raises his head a little so that when he watches you, he’s looking down at you, all too aware of how you worship him. And he accepts it. But only from you. Just you. No one else.

After kissing each finger, from pinkie to thumb, you stop back at his index, soft lips pressed against the pad of it. His fingers were stained. Caked in whatever gore and dirt and grime he’d touched earlier.

Not that you cared, nor would you let it stop you. You’re a freak. Not well in the head. You’d lick any and all of his love off of the world's sharpest blade if that’s the only way he gave it. If he wanted you to cut your tongue on it, you would.

Bringing his index finger to your mouth, you wrap your lips around it, and watch him. He tastes exactly how you’d expect—foul and wretched. You catch the faintest hint of iron. A taste that you’ve come to associate pleasantly with him. That part feels right.

Art’s gaze is fixed on you. You can’t read his thoughts, and though he doesn’t speak, you recognize what that look means. Even as he observes you, teeth bared subtly, head still held high, which he inclines just slightly as you take another finger in your mouth–his middle one.

You suck his fingers lewdly, and close your eyes. You imagine it’s his cock, even though you know that his fingers can’t compare to the real deal. You push your tongue through his index and middle as you take more of him in your mouth. Art watches your tongue work around him, until he decides to press down on the muscle, effectively stopping you.

You stare at him.

Seconds linger in silence, and he relinquishes pressure off of your tongue, letting you move it freely again.

And you do. You hold his hand and go back to kissing his fingers before fellating them. Index first. Then the middle. And finally the ring finger–all three at once. The taste of iron is stronger. You sigh a gentle moan as you pull your head back and give him back his hand. You kiss at the tips of his fingers again. As you’re about to take his fingers a third time, he leans forward instead, his lips taking yours. You feel the way that he seizes both of your wrists as he floods your senses all over again, and you let him.

You try to say his name in between the kisses, but each time you get a breath between the barrage of affection that seems to practically swallow you whole, Art steals your voice with another passionate kiss. Again, his taste is bitter, his teeth are damn near rotten, but you’ve gotten so accustomed to the flavor that it doesn’t make you gag. It makes you feel only slightly sickly. But the arousal overrides any lingering discomfort.

It’s disorienting. It’s all so much at once. You feel your body temperature rise. Art gives you back one of your wrists, but in doing so, he places his hand at the small of your back and pulls you in against him, until there’s no space left between you.

That’s when you feel it. You feel the heat of his erection pressed against your thighs. You’ve excited him enough, it being quite clear the effect your mouth had on him.

You smile, but his lips are back at yours again, and the taste of bitterness hits at the back of your tongue—the most sensitive taste receptors lighting up and ripping any smugness you had straight out of you as you close your eyes and sigh softly. His tongue mingles with yours.

He begins to move, forcibly taking you with him as you change where you’re standing, so that he’s no longer the one whose back is facing the workbench–it’s you. You feel the edge of the table bump against your ass. With your positions effectively switched, you don’t mind at all, far too enraptured by the kisses of your clown lover.

This was pure bliss.

He pulls away from your lips, now kissing the corners of your mouth, then going to your jawline, until he’s at your neck, sucking and licking and nibbling, giving you goosebumps. You feel your nipples go hard. You close your eyes and moan softly.

This is the few times of the year that you get this. It was the time that you’d be peppered in kisses, ravaged, and torn asunder in such a way that it would take you almost the remaining however many days, months, or years until you’d see him again to put yourself back together.

“Art…” You laugh a little when his lips tickle a part of your neck. He silences you again with his lips to yours. You feel the way that he nips at your tongue this time and draws a little blood. The endorphins from the pain gives you a pleasant buzz. He bites your bottom lower lip next, taking note of how he’s beginning to use his teeth more and more during this exchange, and you think about how he’s eaten the faces of his victims before.

You could be next.

He pulls away and kisses at the corners of your lips a second time. He’s obsessed with using his mouth. Your eyes finally open, and you gently move your head back a bit, until Art finally stops, the both of you staring into each other's eyes. His teeth are bared all the same as they were before, but there’s a sultry gaze you’re familiar with. Up this close, you can see the more subtle details of him.

Like his lashes, which otherwise, from a distance is obscured by the paint over his face.

How could someone–or… Something, be so monstrous… Yet so… pretty? You could get lost in his gaze. You could drown in it. And he knows that. And he likes that power over you.

Your lips turn upwards into a soft smile, and you feel a desire pool at your groin. It’s an undeniable throbbing in tune with your heartbeat. Nevermind that you can feel his own arousal against you. He’s warmer than you–he feels like he’s practically burning up, compared to you, and the body heat radiating from him only serves to make you hotter in turn. Right to the point where you’re developing a thin sheen of sweat across your brow.

“I love you.”

He watches you, and through his body language and eyes, you understand him through his reaction. You see a slow, smug smile appear on his face.

Very much an, I know. No sign of reciprocation. That would be too heavy of an ask from someone like him. But him being receptive to your love was a testament to how much he liked you.

Not that you expected anything less from a cold killer such as the Miles County Clown. The fact that he hasn’t yet killed you throughout all these years speaks in a kind of love on its own, you’d think.

Maybe not the one that people would refer to as being actually in love, but for him, for Art, it was. Love was tolerance. Love was allowing you to live.

You feel a hand slip up your dress again, and this time, you don’t stop him. You part your legs for him this time, willingly letting him indulge in what you denied him earlier. Through your panties you feel his thick fingers, his index and middle pressing against your clit, sliding down between your cunt and back up again. He threatens to penetrate you with the tips of his fingers through your panties with a gentle prod, but doesn’t follow through on it.

You ache, feeling more empty than ever.

He’s doing this on purpose. All because you told him to wait earlier.

“Art,” You say his name with a weak laugh, and he stops to look at you, knowingly, at that, well aware of what it is he’s doing. His little way of being petty with you, and he continues once more, trailing his fingers up and down between your thighs, waiting for you to continue.

“It’s been months,” You plead for him. His face is still inches from yours, and you lean more of yourself against him, as your voice gets low. He observes you through half lidded eyes, analyzing you, assessing you and sizing you up. He’s no longer smiling, and his lips are downturned ever so slightly. The expression looks more neutral now.

“I wanna have some fun.” You purse your lips. “Put your weapon crafting down for a bit?”

Your tone is pleading. It’s a mix of a command and a request–you’re voicing your thoughts. You try to get a reading on his response through his eyes, but he’s put up a wall that you can’t breach. He’s unreadable. It’s been months upon months since you’ve both done anything together.

“…Please?”

Art’s gaze is still indecipherable. It makes you a little nervous. The hairs on the back of your neck begin to stand up. Did he change his mind suddenly?

Had it been anyone else, you know they’d be dead instantly. There was no wondering about that. Not a speculation or doubt in your mind. You hated when he did this, when he was fucking with you like this, leaving you in silence. It’s in times like these that you’re reminded that you’re with a wild animal, and he could snap at any second if he decided he was hungry. It was part of the risk you took and the bargain you struck.

Maybe he’d just stab you here and now. Slit your throat and call it a fucking day because he decided that, nope, don’t wanna keep doing this anymore! He could. Again, he’s pushed you away before. Other days he’s yanked you in against him. His mood was unpredictable, hard to guess, and as volatile as a storm across an ocean.

Without another word, you’re turned around, and the flat of Art’s palm travels down your spine as he presses the front of your body forward and down onto the workbench. He gives you time to adjust, so that you’re at least able to rest your forearms on the table top. As of right now, your tits are squished against the surface of the table. It’s a little uncomfortable.

This is surprisingly tender, all things considered. You remember one time when he’d been fucking you on his workbench, how he tied your hands together with some zipties and then choked you out by wrapping some rusty metal chains around your neck. And that was only after he’d finished whipping your breasts, thighs and ass until you were a bloody bruised mess barely hanging on. You still have some scars from those times. He loved to twirl you over the line of death like it was all one dance, pulling you back at the last second.

You go from feeling his palm to the fingertips travel down your back. If it weren’t for the fabric of your dress in the way, you know those blood and dirt stained fingertips would have tickled you by now. And he’s done that in the past while fucking you–tickling you mercilessly. He even makes a point to wiggles his fingers a little against your back on the way down playfully. You can’t help but laugh a little as you exhale, letting some of the excitement stirring within you leave your body through your lungs. Your breaths are getting deeper, and in times like this, when he thrills you in such a way, you’re reminded just how much he makes you feel…

Alive.

Because when you’re with him, death is always hot on your heels. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Don’t be gentle,” You tell him. He knows. You know he knows.

You hear the metallic zipper from the front of his suit go down as the teeth on the track separate and reveal the body of a man beneath that clown visage. You steal a glance over your shoulder to admire his pale skin that covered over such a thin frame. Amazing how a build such as his carries such supernatural strength.

Unceremoniously, he gets right to work, giving your ass a firm slap after lifting the back of your dress, letting it crumple up over your hips. You yelp gently as you know that there’s likely already a red spot on your rump. Art rubs the spot on your ass he’d slapped, then gives it a gentle squeeze.

You make the decision to look over your shoulder, right on time to experience watching when the killer clown makes the decision that you no longer are in need of your panties. His dirtied fingers slip within the space between the elastic waistband of your undergarment and your skin. He lets it snap against your flesh once–that’s about the extent of use it gets before he grabs whatever meager fistful he can of that excuse of ‘modesty’ you brought to him and rips it clean off your form.

“Ow!”

You told him to be rough. And he’s planning on taking that quite literally, as he’s taking it for not just the sex, but all of what precedes it apparently. He’s quietly laughing to himself, teeth showing, eyes crinkled.

“Glad you got some entertainment out of it.”

A few more noiseless giggles then he sobers up. Back to the task at hand—fucking your brains out.

He aligns himself right up against your warm dripping cunt, hands gripping your hips so tightly that his filthy fingertips leave stains on your dress. His nails are so sharp you swear that if he tried to sink them in any further, he’d pierce the cloth and right into your flesh. You inhale sharply again, bracing for the moment he sinks in. You feel the tip of his cock press against you and begin to push in, the head barely getting the chance even to get inside you before it slips and glides between the crack of your ass as he misses. Your excitement stutters for a second, but then ramps back up higher than before, impatience and desire washing over you wholly like a wave.

You’ve been grabbing at the edge of the workbench, hands holding tight and then releasing them of their grip every so often to relax your muscles. You don’t say anything.

He’s annoyed at missing you the first push in.

With a look of disgruntlement he instead opts for one hand reaching to push your head down against the table with such a cruel force that makes you worry for a split second that he was trying to crush your skull. It was his way of trying to steady you as he then uses his other hand to line the head of his cock right against your cunt for the second time.

You shiver as you feel him, hands turning to fists that you clench tightly as inch by agonizing inch, he spreads you and fills you out easily. Your body did the heavy work, and has been prepping for him for the last ten minutes. It’s slick, and he can feel the wetness of your cunt hit against his balls when he bottoms out within you. That’s when you sigh in relief.

He almost pulls all the way out, then rams into you roughly, making you exhale sharply as the table shakes upon impact. The few tools laid out shuddered until they stilled. Give or take a few more times of this, and he finally releases his hand on your head, but you still opt to keep your head down.

The rhythm he has is a little awkward at first, but he is quick to course correct, both hands firmly planted on your hips, keeping you steady. You can’t see his face right now, but you’ve seen it plenty of times when you’ve fucked before. How his mouth would go into that ‘o’ shape, and the way his eyes would go half mast, holding nothing but a glimpse of paradise behind him as you could see that he was as close to heaven as his wicked self could get. You were beautiful to him, as far as sacks of flesh and blood went. And you could tell the times that he looked at you in such a predatory manner that there was restraint behind it.

You feel the pressure build up within you at a steady rate as he leans over you, chest pressed against your back, sucking on your neck, marking you. Then he nips. Then kisses, then sucks so goddamn hard on the same spot that you swear that he’s trying to suction your flesh right off your body.

It doesn’t take long for you to be so close. He’s so warm. The sound of his body slapping against yours, mixed with the creak of the workbench that’s forced to undergo the assault of you being rammed into it, a few quiet moans slip past your lips to join along.

You’re unbearably close, feeling yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, just a little more and—

Your phone goes off.

You forgot to silence it.

You feel it vibrating in the pocket of your dress. The ringtone scares the shit out of you and Art, who abruptly jumps a little while still on top of you.

“Of course.” You say sarcastically. “Of course! Who the fuck is calling me?!” You’re irritated now, mood under threat of being ruined. The excitement you felt shrivels up.

Reaching inside your hiked up dress pocket, you pull out your phone and check to see who had the audacity to try and get a hold of you in your time of undoing.

Your friend. Sort of. He was like a close acquaintance? If you could call him that. You met him when you were out and about one night. He’s an okay dude, hasn’t done anything wrong.

If only he didn’t harbor a romantic interest in you when you were already spoken for. But how could you begin to tell someone that you’re involved with a psychopathic killer clown? Specifically the Miles County Clown?

You’re ready to send him right to voicemail, until the phone is seized right out of your hand from over your shoulder.

“Hey!”

Your protest is in vain, as Art too, looks at who is calling you right now. You had HOPED he’d take a look at it, have his curiosity sated, maybe turn the phone off or better yet, you’d even forgive him if he tossed it over his shoulder, just this once!

But the look he’s giving you, then the phone, makes your heart sink as you realize.

“Art, don’t do it—“

His expression turns wicked, mouth upturned into the most shiteating grin you’ve ever seen.

“Art, I swear to god—“

But god’s not here, nowhere to be found in this workshop. God’s forsaken you. Doing the devils tango with a demon can do that.

Giggling silently to himself, in an act of deliberate defiance against you as well as likely for his very own amusement, he accepts the phone call for you and places it right to your ear.

What a gentleman. Truly.

You’re going to fucking kill him. You try to take the phone away from him, but he merely pulls it back out of your reach.

“Hello?”

You can hear the voice on the other end of the line. Art brings it down to your ear again and you try to make a reach for it a second time, only for him to do the exact same thing as before, silently cackling all the while. It’s become apparent that he’s not going to let you have it.

“Hellooooo?”

With a resigned sigh, you don’t fight him any further. Art puts the phone to your ear for the third time.

“Hey.” You answer wearily.

“Hey!” His voice on the other end of the line is suddenly lighter, filled with levity. You can hear the way that his breath is hitched in the back of his throat. Static tinges at the edges of his words.  Must be a shoddy connection down here.

“How are you?”

“I’m–” You start to answer, but are interrupted by Art going back to rocking his hips into you while still over you. Once again, you look over your shoulder to give him the stink eye.

“I’m good, just uh, you know. Hanging out.” You respond, exhaling deeply as Art stirs the fire within you again after it had just begun to cool down.

“Nice, me too.” He says, and lets the silence between you both sink in for a few seconds. “You doing anything tomorrow?”

This would all be so much easier if you weren’t getting dicked down.

“I… I’m uh–”

He’s pounding into you from behind now, still leaning over you, holding the phone for you in one hand and keeping the other on the workbench for stability. Each fluid roll of his hips is equally tantalizing as the previous, his body connecting with yours in such a familiar way you craved. The table shakes, and you’re gripping the edges of it for dear life. You can hear his heavy breath from behind you, excitement building in each time he fills and empties his lungs.

“Art–” You say his name through grit teeth like a warning, with annoyance in your tone, but the excitement you feel, the rush and the thrill of it all has you coming close to release. Why does this feel so good? This man, this sweet man, who has done nothing wrong to you, interested in you, blissfully unaware that your heart belongs to someone else, being fooled like this. It’s wrong. This is wrong. Art knew about this man. He knew about him for some time. Art made it clear that he hated him. The only reason he’s still breathing is because you asked Art not to put this man’s head on a pike, but you fear it’s only a matter of time until your clown lover eviscerates this trespasser for encroaching on what he perceives as his territory–you.

“Art?" He repeats.

This is all an act of revenge done on the Art’s part. His pettiness knew no bounds.

“Yeah, art. You know–Mhn–” Your nails dig into the edge of the workbench as if that’ll somehow make a difference in the fact that he’s pounding into your cunt with such an aggressive force that begins to make you ache.

“You know, p-painting? Drawing. That sort of thing.”

You can only pray the ungodly sinful noises of his skin slapping against yours can’t be heard over the line.

“Ohhh… Well, hey, you wanna hangout sometime soon? It’s been a bit. Wanted to catch up with you if that’s fine.”

You’re not paying attention to a damn thing this dude is saying. It’s just words, in one ear, straight out the other.

“Uhuh.” You say without thinking. You’re close. You’re unbearably close as Art angles himself in such a way that hits just right. He knows how you work all too well. He knows how to unwind you and how to pull you apart piece by piece like it’s second nature to him.

Art’s pushing you towards the cliff, and there’s no stopping it. Your vision starts to blur a little. Your breathing deepens, and Art knows what’s about to come next, which only seems to spur him on as well, exciting him to the point where now he’s going fast not just for you, but for himself, chasing his own orgasm hot on its heels.

“How’s about next Thursday, at 7pm? There’s a new restaurant across the street from where we both met—“

The phone becomes nothing short of white noise. This shouldn’t feel so right, it shouldn’t. But it does. Gods above, it does.

You feel yourself lose sense of the world around you. There’s nothing but ringing in your ears, and you realize how little time you have to prepare before it’s too late.

Your orgasm crashes into you and is ripped out of you all within seconds. You try to keep quiet, your voice strangled and choked out in the process. Your release is violent as it tears you between what feels like the state of life and death. Your cunt tightens around his cock, squeezing him in contractions that trigger him in turn. Art hisses like a serpent, feeling his muscles lock up and knowing that he only has a few seconds to bury himself to the hilt within you, and he does. His face twists into an ugly and horrid expression as he comes inside you, dropping the phone on the workbench in the process while filling you with all the pent up energy he had been keeping away from you for months.

All of what he’d been denying you was now yours.

“Hello?”

You’re finally coming back into your own body a few meager seconds later when you register the voice, and hurriedly grab the phone before Art gets the chance.

“Can I call you back?” You ask, holding the phone to your mouth, but you weren’t really asking. Your friend had no real say in it, and before he even gets the chance to respond, you hang up. And then you lower your head and sigh. All the while, Art has since recovered, but his legs are shaky. You shove him off of you, and he stumbles back with an uneven balance, post orgasm weakened. Goofily he fumbles past the stool from earlier, which he tries to grab but fails in doing so. Instead, he lands right on his ass.

You’re sure to follow that up by throwing your phone at his head, which it does, but it lands with a clack right beside him. The only reason you felt remotely confident in doing that is because you’re both that close. Well, that and irritation made you a bold motherfucker sometimes. Yet despite all of that, he sits there, a wickedly amused smile on his face.

You pull your dress back down. Your legs tingle and you swear you feel some of his come dripping down your thigh, but you’re not sure.

“Proud of yourself, huh?” You ask, leaning against the bench for balance until you get your footing.

Yes. Yes he was proud of himself!

The rest of the night was spent at Art’s temporary hideaway space, lamenting the loss of your panties and calling back your guy friend who had unknowingly been part of something much more than he knew. And you’d never tell him. Not that you would ever have the chance to tell him really anything at all anymore in the future.

You had no idea at the time that Art would meet your friend the day you were both set to reconvene. But you should have known better, and a part of you already did. The reason you know he was dead was because he ended up on the local news the next day missing.

That, and Art had saved the man’s heart specifically for you when you came to visit him again.

[villainsandvictimsalliance]

So many lonely people on Kaiju No. 8 had found companionship with Kafka.

He's the personification of support. A senpai, a role model, a hero, a friend, a cadet, a reliable worker, even a crush. He's someone you can trust and someone that wants to be there for you. Even the comedy relief guy or the saviour of the day!!

In the latest manga chapters he was a plushie for a little girl.

There's Reno who lost his entire family. Kafka took the role of the senpai with him: guide and teach the guy, talk with him, show him how to survive and inspire him. Reno met a genuinely good guy that was openly offering his help and friendship, so he went back to thank him and do the same. Hey, your dream is not over, Reno said. What did he get in return? Kafka sacrificing his life for him, telling him to run, giving up the most important thing in his life for Reno.

There's Mina, who is terrified of being alone. She found a personal clown in Kafka, yes, but he was also the boy who helped her keep her hope and made things easier. He would always go with her to the shelter during a kaiju attack, even if he was in another school. He told her she didn't have to kill kaijus all alone. He promised to be by her side. Mina was thrown into a world of giant burdens and expectations, where her failures could mean death and destruction. Kafka saw her not as the weapon she was, but as Mina.

Hoshina was constantly disrespected, overlooked and ignored. He gave Kafka a chance because he reminded Hoshina of himself. For his troubles, Hoshina got a guy that would work hard to reach his expectations, that would rival him, that would call him first thing and spend all that time worried and would apologize before turning into a kaiju to save their lives. Kafka became a friend of sorts to Hoshina through hard work and respect.

Kikoru was used to all types of reactions from the people around her, but not to the level of worry and pride and trust Kafka gave her. It was not for show, he was completely open and sincere in his feelings. Kikoru you're an asshole, Kikoru you're amazing, Kikoru pleaseeee take care of yourself, Kikoru I won't disappoint you, Kikoru you have my permission and gratitude if you kill me if I ever lose control, Kikoru I trust you to finish this battle.

The first thing Kafka did during the second part of the recruitment was support Aoi and Haruichi during their subjugation of a kaiju.

He saved Minase's life by partially turning and risking his life for it. He saved Iharu and Reno that day against No. 9.

Narumi told Kafka that only they knew the weight of the burden they carried for being there the day Isao Shinomiya was killed. Freaking Narumi, who wouldn't share that burden with anyone else.

Like it was noted by his boss while he was still part of the Cleaning Corps, Kafka would do his job after complaining, but he'd do it perfectly and do it again if asked to.

He's reliable. I know I said it before, but he is.

In a world where anyone can die any minute, in the Kaiju Country, Kafka is a presence you don't want to vanish. It's what Mina says: everything is easier with him around, anything is possible.

When in the first chapters Kafka tells the little girl to not be afraid because he'll go and everything will be okay— the girl thanks him. In the anime, the little girl even asks Mina to please not hurt the good kaiju. Once people have met him, they don't want him to go. They'd do anything for him not to go, not to die. When Kikoru saw him losing control and remembered her promise, she decided that she'd rather believe in him 'til the end. When Isao was about to disappear, he thought about Kafka and said he'd leave things up to him too.

Isn't that what it means to be a hero? To be able to say "leave it up to me" but also trust others to help you when you need it? Inspire people to support you because you supported them first?

The only thing scarier than the kaijus is to be left alone in the world— and Kafka fights that.

[starlemons]

Coffee and Crime ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ PART SIX

Pairing ✦ mafia!bucky x reader

Word Count ✦ 1.7K

Warnings ✦ overall story has a 18+ content warning, MDNI, cussing, weapon caused injury (non-fatal), mention of surgery

A/N ✦ I AM SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG TO UPDATE I'VE BEEN SICK :( I'm working on part seven right now and will try to get it posted this weekend

PART FIVE »»» Series Masterlist

I will update the series every 1-4 days depending on my schedule

“Sorry.”, Bruce said as he dabbed a particularly deep cut, you dug your nails into Bucky’s hand, the burning feeling in your feet sending shivers through you. 

Once your wounds had been cleaned sufficiently Bruce reached to his side towards a roll of bandage. 

“Hold off on that right now Bruce.”, Bucky said, “Y/N do you want to go get cleaned up before he wraps your feet? You can use my shower and I can give you some clothes to wear.”

You stared at Bucky, caught off guard slightly, and your face flushed bright red. 

“Yeah-h that works.”, you choked out, feeling overwhelmingly flustered.

“While you’re showering I’m going to be in here with Bruce. I don’t want you coming in here, I’ll come and get you when we are done. You’ve already had a really long night, and I don’t think seeing Bruce perform minor surgery on my arm is going to do you any good .”

Just the thought of watching a bullet being dug out of his shoulder made your stomach roll. 

“Probably a good idea.”, you chuckled. 

Bruce stood up, cleaning up his work area and getting everything prepped for Bucky. You followed, your feet aching. 

“I am allowed to walk around, right?”, you asked Bruce.

“Yes you can, I would recommend you try to walk as little as possible for a few days though.”

“Oh okay.”, you frowned slightly.

“It’ll be okay sweetheart, come on let’s go.”

Bucky smiled and took your hand, having you follow him back out into the hallway and up the stairs to the second level. Entering his bedroom you were amazed with how big it was. 

A large king sized bed with all black bedding sat up against one of the walls, there were several bookshelves around the perimeter of the room, and a small fireplace was in the corner, a velvet green couch placed in front of it.

Releasing your hand for the moment Bucky walked into his closet, returning with a green crewneck and grey sweats.

“I know these might be big on you but figured it would be comfortable.”, he smiled down at you.

“Thank you.”, you blushed, averting your gaze, the thought of wearing his clothes made you feel giddy. 

He handed the outfit to you before he walked through another set of doors into the bathroom, you following behind him. Bucky reached into the small closet next to the double vanity sink, pulling out a towel.

“Here’s this for you,” he said handing it to you, “Also feel free to use anything you want to.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem sweetheart, I’m going to go ahead and head back-”

You cut him off, blurting out, “Are you going to be okay?”

Bucky saw the nervousness in your eyes, he internally smiled, happy with the thought that you were worried about him. 

“Of course I am. Bruce has worked with me for years, I trust him with my life, and besides this isn’t the worst injury I’ve ever got.”, he nonchalantly said, immediately regretting the words leaving his mouth. 

You both stared at each other for a moment. Bucky’s brain was overwhelmed with the realization that sooner rather than later he was going to have to explain everything to you, and as soon as he did that he was afraid you would flee, wanting nothing to do with him ever again. He wouldn’t blame you for that, you were in his eyes the personification of innocence, and he was one royally messed up guy.

“What’s wrong?”, you asked him.

He looked sick, skin pale, and he had an expression of sadness plastered on his face.

“It’s nothing, you need to worry about right now doll. We can talk about it after I get back, I did promise you we would talk about everything tonight after all.”

You nodded, “Okay.”

He reached out and squeezed your hand.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, you can hangout in my room until I get back, if you want to.”

With that he made his leave, closing the bathroom doors behind him. You sat the clothes and towel down on the counter and moved towards the massive walk-in shower. Stripping off your ruined dress, you stepped into the shower and began fiddling with the knobs. Water poured onto you from the showerhead above you.

The warm water rushed down your body, soothing your stressed muscles. You looked at the shelving on the wall noticing several different options of soaps and shampoos. 

Reaching for one of the bottles, you picked up some coconut scented shampoo. Lathering your hands with the soap you ran your fingers through your hair, washing out the dirt and other forest foliage that had become tangled into your strands. After you rinsed out your hair, you grabbed a matching scent of body wash, scrubbing the grime from your body. 

You stood under the running water for several minutes after you had finished washing yourself, enjoying the comfort the warmth brought you, and the sound of the shower splashing onto the tiles. As your fingers started to prune you figured you’d been in there long enough. You turned off the water, and moved to get your towel. 

You dried your body and hair before slipping on Bucky's clothes, which were in fact big on you, due to the fact the man was practically double your size. Picking up your used towel off the floor you refolded it and set it over the edge of the bathtub, also doing the same with your dress. 

Walking out of the bathroom and back into Bucky’s room you looked at one of his nightstands, seeing the alarm clock that sat on it read ten thirty. 

‘Shit’, you thought.

You hadn’t talked to Nat in over three hours, she was probably going to think you had been murdered at this point. Hesitantly you looked towards the bedroom doors, remembering Bucky had said to stay in his room until he was done. Wrestling back and forth on what to do, you decided on going downstairs to try and find your phone, he had just said to not go back into the office so it wasn’t like you were doing anything wrong. 

You slowly eased down the stairs, your feet hurting still. As you stepped onto the first floor, you looked towards the living room, seeing Steve sitting on the large couch. You wobbled over to the furniture, plopping yourself down on it. 

“Can you do me a favor?”, you asked him. 

Steve looked caught off guard at the fact you were talking to him. 

“Uh, it depends.”

“Can you help me find my phone? I don’t know where it is.”

“It’s in Bucky’s office.”

‘Shit’, you thought.

“Okay well could you go get it for me? Please. I’m not allowed in there right now according to Bucky.”

“Yeah no problem.”, he said as he stood and headed down the hallway towards the office.

Steve pushed open the doors to the office space. Bucky laid on his back, Bruce hovering over him, silver tools in his gloved hands. 

“It going okay so far?”, Steve asked.

“Yeah almost got it out, just have to stitch him up after.”, Bruce said as he shifted the tools, Bucky letting out an agonized groan. 

Steve nodded and walked to Bucky’s desk, picking up your phone and heading back to the living room.

“Here.”, he said as he lightly tossed it to you and sat down.

You caught your phone immediately turning the screen on.

WIFEY 6 MISSED CALLS

You rushed to unlock your phone, dialing Nat back.

“Y/N?!”, she said as she answered the call.

“Nat, I’m so sorry I-”

She cut you off, “Dude what the fuck I thought you’d been kidnapped or murdered, I was seriously debating on calling the cops.”

You knew Nat was extremely overprotective of you and wasn’t bluffing.

“You don’t need to call the cops Nat, I’m completely fine.”

Steve stiffened on the couch, immediately shooting you a look.

“What are you even doing right now?”, she asked.

“I’m at his house.”

“Shit I’m being a cockblock right now okay by Y/N, use protection.”, and with that Nat hung up the phone. 

Pulling your phone from your ear, noticing Steve looking at you weirdly.

“So what was that about the police?”, he asked.

“Oh nothing, my roommate thought Bucky had kidnapped me or something and was saying she almost called them.”, you shrugged.

Steve relaxed at that, turning his attention back to his own phone

“Ah okay.”

The two of you sat on the couch in silence, you scrolling through your social media feed. Footsteps echoed from down the hall, Bucky emerging from it. He was shirtless, bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. Your eyes quickly glanced up and down his torso. Seeing you do this Bucky smirked, enjoying the blush that blossomed across your face.

“I’m going to change and I’ll be right back sweetheart.”

“Okay!”, you said, staring after him, admiring his muscular back from behind as he walked upstairs. 

A few minutes later Bucky reappeared, wearing a coffee colored hoodie, plaid pajama pants, and a pair of slippers. In his hands he held another pair of slippers.

“I figured you’d want something soft to wear after Bruce bandages your feet.”

The next several minutes went by quickly. You and Bucky made your way back to the library, Brue wrapping your feet. After that you made your way into the kitchen, following after Bucky. You leaned up against the counter as Bucky made the two of you hot chocolate. 

“Let’s go sit outside to talk.”, he said, handing you your mug.

The two of you made your way outside, down some steps, and over to a firepit surrounded by plush patio furniture. You sat in the chair beside the one Bucky had chosen for himself. You could tell he was nervous as he sipped his drink, his eyes staring into the fire. 

“Bucky?”

He turned his attention to you.

“Sorry.”, he said as he took another sip, “I just don’t know how to word what I want to tell you.”

“Just tell me, you don’t have to sugar coat anything, just be honest.”, you reached out and squeezed his hand. 

Staring into your eyes, he took a deep breath.

“Y/N.”, he started, “I am the head of the Barnes Family, the largest mafia organization in this city.”

PART SEVEN

TAGLIST IS OPEN!! LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT ADDED!

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[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Sun's Out, Guns Out

Anselm Vogelweide x F!Reader • Rating: PG Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • ko-fi •

Summary: Anselm's purposefully got the wrong idea.

A/N: I simply must give a massive shout out to @reallyrallyauthor and their stunning Anselm fics which haunt me every day and night. They have rewired my brain.

Warnings: Anselm being a little shit, fluff, so many pet names oh my god, swearing, reader is wearing a swimsuit, kisses, typos, my terrible German, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 771

“Anselm,” His name comes out a little exasperatedly, which isn’t your intention. “This…” You gesture to him, “This is not what I meant.” 

He quirks his eyebrow up at you, “How so meine Süße?” My sweet.

You give him a look and he smiles, he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

You cross your arms, shifting your weight to your left leg. “You can’t wear this on the beach.”

He looks down at himself for a moment, as if he is seeing his body for the first time before he meets your eyes. Not that you can tell through his dark circle sunglasses. 

“I’m afraid you’re misinformed, meine Hase, weil ich das trage.” My bunny, because I am wearing this.

“Anselm.” You say, unimpressed and his grin widens- the living personification of the Cheshire cat. 

“My love, I don’t see the problem.” He says lightly, practically turning the words into poetry with the rhythm of his voice. 

“Sun’s out, guns out. Means your arms, and,” you raise your hand at the eager look in his eyes, cutting him short, “Arms, as in these,” you poke his biceps, “not weapons arms, not guns.”

“But my dear,” he takes hold of your hand, peppering kisses to your knuckles, “My arms are out.” 

You glare. “You’re a little shit, you know that?” 

“And you love me for it.” He gives you that soft expression that makes you weak at the knees. 

“I don’t think I do.”

“You wound me, my dove.” He kisses your wrist, keeping his eyes trained on yours. 

You shake your head, trying to keep a stern look on your face. “You can’t wear those guns to the beach.” 

The guns in question where in elabourate hosters across his chest and shoulders that you were sure where originally a harness of some sort. The weapons themselves were ornate, practically antiques, and looked like some sort of flintlock pistols. The whole outfit, a pair of black speedos that were a fraction too tight and a pair of khaki green wellington boots (he did not want to get sand on his feet or in his shoes) combined with the guns was… interesting.

He grins, licking his bottom lip. “Yes, I can.” 

“It’s a beach-”

“A private one, we’re the only ones here.” 

You pull an unimpressed face and gesture a little more dramatically than you need to at his bodyguards. 

He places another kiss to your wrist, “They count as ‘the only ones’...” The guards make an obvious effort to not look anywhere near either of you, part of you feels sorry for them, in their three piece suits and cuff links in the heat, their smart dress shoes sinking into the sand.

 “Besides,” he pulls you gently, urging you closer to him. “They’re not loaded.”

“Then what are they for?” You say exasperatedly.

“Decoration, my love.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose with your free hand. “You’re going to go swimming with-”

He shakes his head, “I’m not going to go swimming, I am going to sit under the large umbrella Sebastian will put up and relax.” 

“Anselm.”

“My leg, my beloved,” he gives you the puppy dog eyes, rubbing his brace. 

You tut, “The salt water will do you good.”

“The metal will rust.” He pouts.

“You didn’t have to wear the metal one, and besides, I asked Angelo to bring your cane.” 

He opens his mouth to speak.

“Not that one.”

Anselm smiles and closes his mouth dramatically, but you don’t miss the little glare he gives Angelo.

“Hey, none of that. I asked Angelo and he just did as I requested.” 

“Hmm,” he steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, “I do love when you get all bossy Bӓrchen.” He nuzzles into your neck, pressing light kisses to your pulse point. “Makes me want to take you right here.”

“You’ll definitely get sand in places you don’t want.” 

“Oh, I just don’t want sand in my shoes, I am quite happy to feel it in more intimate places.” He nips lightly at your skin and you shiver. 

“You’re coming in the water with me.” You press, but your voice isn’t very demanding. 

“Of course, my love.” He kisses lower, trailing his lips to your collarbone. 

“And you’re taking the guns off.” 

“Of course, my love.” He kisses the top of your chest, trailing his tongue along the edge of your swimsuit. “But you’re going to be talking this off too.” He lightly dips his fingers under the material at your hip, snapping back against your skin with a smile.  

“Of course,” you say, saccharinely sweet, “my love.” 

Thank you for reading!

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[roxannepolice]

I understand where the "RTD is pulling an obscure past villain in a supposedly new audience focused season" take-with-critical-flavour comes from but. Like, this may be one of the things that make his writing for me, but all of these past situations hardly ever required lore literacy?

Nastene consciousness is a very simple concept that neither benefits nor loses from having seen TotA. The Daleks' focus was entirely in reference to the Time War. Cybermen in s2 were specifically parallel universe Cybermen. The Sontarans were simply on their usual bullshit. Ice Warriors were only brought up as Mars's natives that would explain were the Flood came from (you remember that, right? that the Flood was Ice Warriors' weapon?). Dammit, Rassilon being Rassilon is only established in one line and apart from added epicness of literally fighting your technocratic god this doesn't give or take away much. The Toymaker got one flashback to remind that yes, he and the Doctor already know each other and there's a pinch added bitterness but no, this isn't a revenge story, this is "humanity is fascinating with their little nation dolls and war games" story.

And I left him for the last, because even THE MASTER wasn't there for "history between us" nostalgia fest sake. Yes, the childhood friendship had to be brought up because it's too important in this case, and the times the Doctor stopped the Master as well as the times they cooperated had to be brought up to show how they differ in their perceptions of their relationship, but that's pretty much it and you get all this from the story on its own. You can get an added rush from the little threegado nods but that's just the aesthetic.

Like, the universe is large, multiverse even more so, but sometimes you're just going to run into the same anthropomorphic or zoomorphic personification of pure concepts, and the only thing you can do is deal with it again, with the caveat the gods can't be tricked twice?

[angrycloudloud]

My dear half bloods, I have a theory...

Hi, there's something that's been bugging me since the other day, when I watched the fifth episode of pjo...

Spoilers from here (and a bit of mythology)

When Ares said that he didn't like his children... Okay, I know, I know the gods in this series aren't known for paying child support, but... I think Ares case could be more heartbroken than what we can think at first.

I want to start giving a bit of context in WHY I think there's something really sad behind his words and acts. First, let's talk a bit about mythology...

Ares cares about his children... In his own way.

I'll put a couple of quick examples (just mention something and move back to my point). Ares in Greek mythology it's known for many things and one that I found interesting was that he march in battle with his sons by his side: Phobos and Deimos (fun fact 1 these two are the personification of Panic and Fear, fun fact 2 they are also sons of Aphrodite... Fun fact 3, yes, they are the little "demons" that were the minions of Hades in the Disney movie.) Ares is also known for what happened to his daughter Alcippe, who was 🍇 by a son of Poseidon and Ares didn't took it too well... So he send that son of Poseidon to visit Hades... He unsubscribed that man from the world of the living with his spear... Ares was judged acussed by Poseidon of murder, but the goddesses voted in favor of Ares. (anyway, I invite anyone who is interested in ancient Greek mythology and culture to look up and read about women's rights in Sparta vs Athens, you might be surprised) Now, my point is that he might say that he doesn't like his kids but...

...I mean... he gave Clarisse the spear because he recognized her value as a warrior. It may sound stupid, but I think it was his way of saying that he was proud of her (and maybe he said that to her when he gave the spear to Clarisse, we don't know). What, it's clear, is the fact that she cherished that spear as if he really put all his love in it and said to her "this is my weapon, make me proud"

But why and how does he goes from "I fight with my children by my side in battle" and "don't you f*cking touch my daughter" to "I hate children, even my own"?

And here's when it gets sad, I think he has lose so many of his children in battle, dying too young, that he distance himself from them on purpose to not get too attached.

We've seen, pretty well portrayed in the show, how Ares children are more reckless in battle than Athena's (it's an example because they both are deities of war) so it's more than possible that if those children are in a quest or a battle, they decide to go face to face with the big baddie just to make Ares proud or to prove themselves they are strong enough to be warriors, children of Ares... And if they survived and get older, they are the most likely to end up joining the army... aaand that exposes them to die in battle even when the monsters aren't a problem anymore.

And that's why, I think, Ares had try to detached himself from his children, because he knows demigods don't live long and even if they got to be adults, he knows his children, and probably he knows they'll become soldiers to feel the battle and feel him closer even when they already have earned a peaceful life.

And that is why I think it's sad, because he probably is so proud of them...but also, he is probably so worried about them, that he had to decide if letting himself be vulnerable and care openly for his children or bottle up all his father instincts and detach himself from his children so nobody can weaponize them against him.

Aaaaaand now I'm sad...

[scoobydoodean]

I have some half-formed thoughts about the Sam / Dean autonomy discourse that I wanted to share and hear your thoughts on.

I agree that Sam is certainly not the only character who experiences loss of autonomy. I think reclamation of autonomy is the central narrative throughout the entire series (Team Free Will, anyone?). However, I think that the narrative arcs of each character with respect to autonomy are very different. I think that Sam's overall narrative arc is about manipulation, while Dean's is about objectification.

While Sam experiences repeated manipulations by demons, starting of course with Azazel's blood, the visions, and continuing from his childhood throughout season 4 with demons possessing the people in his life and Meg and Ruby etc., he is always treated as a person. Azazel wants him because he admires his stubbornness, strength, and intelligence. Sam would be his second in command. The demons are manipulating him, but they are giving him choices and their goal isn't to remove his personhood, it's to lead him back into hunting and revenge and make sure he develops the skills to be a good leader of hell.

When the angels finally appear in the story and we learn that Sam is Lucifer's perfect vessel, we again see that Sam is treated as a person. The angels see him as an abomination, but moreso they see him as a mirror to Lucifer, who up to that point is the ultimate example of free will and autonomy to angels. Lucifer represents individualism and is himself a manipulator. The angels see and treat Sam through that lens; he is his own person, and they believe he will make the choice of saying yes to Lucifer because of the kind of person he is. Continuing past season 5, other major narratives for Sam are about loss of autonomy through manipulation, namely his possession by Gadreel.

Compare this to Dean, who we see being repeatedly objectified throughout the course of his narrative. From very early on, we see many characters, including Dean and Sam himself, view and refer to Dean as a weapon, a tool, an animal (not to mention the numerous examples of sexual objectification by humans and monsters alike). He is a "blunt instrument" who exists to be used by the people around him - his dad, his brother, angels. He exists to take care of Sam (to raise him so that Sam can fulfill his own purpose) and save people at the expense of himself, because he is not a person, he is an object. This is especially clear when it comes to the angel arc; the angels don't view him the same way as they view Sam. Dean is "the Michael Sword", "the sword of Michael". This is the most objectified way we have ever heard an angel refer to a human vessel. It's most comparable to how demons refer to their vessels as "meat suits". Since angels require consent to enter a vessel, I think that there is still a certain degree of personification to at least the angels' use of the term "vessel". Dean doesn't even get that. To the angels, Dean is not even a vessel; he is a sword. A weapon. An object.

The angels are particularly annoyed at Dean's refusal to play along with the apocalypse because they view him as an object; the fact that Dean is behaving as though he is a person is totally counter to their perception of what he is and how he should be acting. This theme of objectification carries past season 5, particularly with the Mark of Cain. Magnus views Dean as an object and wants to keep him in his collection in the first episode where we see the MoC affecting Dean, and the MoC ultimately makes Dean into a weapon. In fact, it's the ultimate cumulation of how Dean has been treated since his father first put a .22 in his hands at 6 years old and said that the child trying to get his father's love and attention had a "killer instinct".

Anyway. Like I said, some half-formed thoughts. And I'm curious to hear your take.

I think this is very well expressed. To be quite honest, I've been trying to respond to this all day, but I am having trouble picking one train of thought without immediately thinking of 7 other bunny trails of thought. There is something about the entire "autonomy discourse" (or multiple somethings) that leaves me very bothered in a way I haven't been able to put my finger on, perhaps partly because the topic is so broad, and contains so many little intricacies, but I also think it's something about the framing? I'm happy to share some thoughts as soon as I can refocus and figure out how to unpack some of what I'm thinking, but I also think what you've written here deserve a chance to be absorbed on it's own without any additional commentary from me. ❤️

[fanaticsnail]

The three One Piece OCs that started out as SW ones are Nora, Cassandra and Rhann.

Nora and Cassandra went through some change, most notably that I switched their powers and changed Nora's name. She used to be Antoniya, was as Slav-coded as it gets (Nora still has some of those features), and was a Jedi during the Clone Wars, Padawan of Obi-Wan and part of a force dyad with Anakin (we love overpowered Mary Sues in this house because in the end I kill them all anyway) with abilities inspired by old Slavic myths, especially the one about the Polidnitsa (the Midday demon, or the Noonwrath, a corpse-like woman that appears in the cropfields at noon during harvest when the weather is the hottest. Technically she is a personification of the sun stroke, but there is also a positive side of the story – if the Polidnitsa encounters a girl sleeping in the fields she challenges her to a dance and if the girl outdances the demon, the Polidnitsa gifts her a rich dowry.) Those powers in the end went to Cassandra and they kinda lost their connection to the myth, and instead of being born with them she received them as the result of an experiment gone wrong (Casanji failed experiment duo 🤧🤧). Since the Polidnitsa is associated with harvest, her weapon is a sickle which was transferred to Antoniya and later Nora and stayed there.

Cassandra Vau is practically copy-pasted from one universe to the other. She is my SW Republic Commando OC, younger sister of Walon Vau (I didn't even change her last name 😭), and the island she is from in the One Piece world is heavily inspired by the lands Walon Vau comes from. I literally plucked the dysfunctional, power-hungry counts of Gisl and plopped them in the One Piece world. They are big fans of the Celestial Dragons. Or of the oppressive government of their own planet. It's the same, really. Cassandra originally had premonition abilities through dreams and her powers were very DC Sandman-inspired (dream control, dream induction, partial reality manipulation), but in the end in the OP universe I gave those to Nora. Except for the premonitions because can you imagine a character named Cassandra that is not a prophet? Yeah.

Rhann is my dear Tomislav reimagined. Tommy is the son of a corrupted Senator who is stuck between wanting to make his father proud and his need to do the right thing. Rhann is secretly a Revolutionary agent in the Marines, while Tomislav becomes close to Palpatine while working to help the clones and the Jedi win the war and looking for a way to expose the Chancellor for what he is. Rhann is perhaps the one most different from his prototype, because Rhann is bold, straightforward, a little aggressive, a brilliant orator; while Tomislav is much more shy and reserved. In a way Rhann is everything Tomislav wants to be.

Thank you SO MUCH for enabling my rants 😭😭. I'm so happy you enjoy my chaotic thoughts that are barely making sense 💚💚💚

AAAAAAAAAAAAA

I love Nora, Cassandra, and Rhann! Nora in a force dyad with Anakin? HELL YES. I LOVE IT! No, but I legit love overpowered OCs. I think they're great, especially if all of the plots are thought out and planned really well. It all comes down to how they're presented, and I think she's great!

And you've got a commando OC too? And a senator son? AAAAAAAAAAAA. I love this. I am also digging the premonition dreaming. That was one of my favourite parts of Star Wars: the dreams becoming reality. And the ghosts. And the concept of the battle between light and dark. I adore it.

Thank you for sharing them with me. With the three you brought over to OP, do you have a canon ship for any of them? Cassanji does sound like such a vibe 👀

[ao3feed-usukus]

I Capture The Castle

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/X20mDpg by nyoengland "On the other hand, England had wielded his Omega nature as a weapon before. Once. He’d doused one of his cravats in his slick, let it briefly dry, then wore it when dueling Spain in close quarters. It had worked, sending his fellow personification stumbling, his eyes wide open, off the side of the ship. From the panicked shouts of the Spanish pirates, they did not understand, and there was no way for Spain to explain it lest he appeared mad. But what he was trying to do with America tonight was something entirely amplified, a step above that juvenile strategy he never quite had a chance to replicate. Yes, Spain had been a most detested foe and the hate was mutual, but even then England's heat scent incapacitated him, albeit briefly. Now, as for America, who England knew loved him deeply..."   In early 1777, America still receives letters from England every week, justifying himself and his desires by never writing a response back. The War of Independence, as his mentor and leader Washington emphasises, requires all his devotion. He is unmoved, unwavering in his ambition. That is, until England invites him to Maryland, alone. Words: 5054, Chapters: 1/2, Language: English Series: Part 53 of Transatlantic Love Affair Fandoms: Hetalia (Anime & Manga) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: America (Hetalia), England (Hetalia), France (Hetalia), Prussia (Hetalia) Relationships: America/England (Hetalia) Additional Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, canonverse, Nationverse, Omegaverse, Revolutionary War, Porn With Plot, Mentioned George Washington, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, America/England in that order for NSFW but for dynamic a bit more England/America, Bad Friends Trio cameo, Drama, babytrapping, dubcon, Eventual Smut, in part 2, Breeding Kink, Non descript mpreg, Magic, Twoshot, Historical Compliance read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/X20mDpg

[cathedralforlosers]

woe freerun doodles be upon ye. (including notes)

^ these are from a stupid comic idea i'll purrobably n ever finish but it's essentially the post that's like "imagine if the bootboys cut off feetmans rat tail" and i was like "yes. now imagine if it was freerun-"

v these are just freeruns i have lying around.

personal freerun notes below if they interest you *jingles my keys at you*

this is just my personal personification of my own half life speedruns. i think it'd be funny if everyone had their own unique design so the freeruns could fist fight when someone gets a better time than them.

• Is aware that he is in a game. he's here for a fun time, not a long time.

• ^cause of this, he's capable of abusing game mechanics, like object boosting, bunnyhopping, fucking with the fps- yada yada

• Has quick save and quick load abilities (heavily nerfed in the freemanverse)

• Hard of hearing. extreme tinnitus. He can, and WILL talk, and knows how to read lips, but knows LSM for emergencies

• Has memorized map triggers, med stations, and ammo/weapon locations

• Bunny hopping looks like normal ass sprinting from others pov, but he's like ABNORMALLY fast and it's really weird to watch him disappear down a long hall way in under 2 seconds

• really anything he does that's game breaking looks super weird. he looks like a damn cartoon character running around

• ADHD up the wazzoo

• like how feetman loses his arm. and i hc freemind lost his eye, at the end of chp9 freerun gets his damn ponytail cut off. every time.

• ^used to lose his hearing aids too, but going through the game enough times he learned to pocket them before getting jumped.

[myths-tournaments]

Awful Characters Round 3 (4/8)

Propaganda under the cut!

AZULA

Azula explicitly considers herself a monster. She says needlessly cruel things to her brother and friends. She kills the show's twelve-year-old protagonist and masterminds the idea of burning down the entire Earth Kingdom to force them to submit to Fire Nation rule. I have absolutely seen people get called abuse apologists for thinking she's a cool character. But she's also a (canonically) mentally ill fourteen-year-old who was raised by her father to see her ability to be weaponized as her only value. Her mother, arguably the only adult in her life who could have had a positive impact, had a strained relationship with her because she was more difficult than her brother, and then disappeared when she was nine. Her uncle, who was her brother's main healthy role model, took absolutely no interest in her. She watched her father belittle her brother for years and eventually throw him away when he failed to meet his expectations, so that was a threat she was always facing. She really had no chance. And she also has moments that suggest she wants some sort of meaningful connection with another person. She lets her brother take credit for killing the Avatar so he can come back from exile, even though it means she'll be bumped back in the order of succession and offers him advice that seems genuine. Her spiral into a mental breakdown starts when her friends betray her. She's just a much more interesting and multifaceted than a lot of the fandom gives her credit for.

ELIAS BOUCHARD

He manipulates the main character consistently, makes a character cry by telling him how much he looks like his dad, forces the knowledge of her father's dearh into a different characters head and ends the world through aformentioned manipulation of the main character

(this is about jonah!elias to be clear, og!elias is a different character) i love him so much he's so much fun but i'm not very open about it because he's the main villain and some people are very weird about it,,,, i have seen people say he's a personification of capitalism and if you like him you support capitalism or you didn't get the point of tma (which is just wrong, tma is vaguely a metaphor for capitalism yes but also for a lot of other things and elias isn't even a capitalist he runs a non-profit?) so many people call him homophobic or racist (because he's technically from the 1800s) and say if you like him you're a bad person but there are literally no canon basis for that at all (plus. he's literally a fictional character) i have actually seen a parody of the miku binder thing with elias to say that people who like him are just like people who woobify jefferson. which. what. you'd think people would latch on to the brutal pipe murder or the eye gouging that lead to body possession for his quest to be immortal or the constant manipulation to call him a terrible person but no apparently?? (or the. y'know. literally ending the world)

[haveyoureadthishorrorbookpoll]

Have you read...

note: If you did not finish but feel you read enough to form an opinion, you may choose a ‘Yes’ option instead of 'Partly' (e.g., Yes, I didn’t like it). Interpret "neutral or complicated" however you like, I intended this category to be a broad option between like and dislike.

First came the days of the plague. Then came the dreams. Dark dreams that warned of the coming of the dark man. The apostate of death, his worn-down boot heels tramping the night roads. The warlord of the charnel house and Prince of Evil. His time is at hand. His empire grows in the west and the Apocalypse looms. The plot centers on a deadly pandemic of weaponized influenza and its aftermath, in which the few surviving humans gather into factions that are each led by a personification of either good or evil and seem fated to clash with each other.

submit a horror book!

[aliensupersyn]

3a. Maki: One of Gege's Chosen Three

Sukuna was on the rise. He had just destroyed Shibuya, leaving a crater after the first use of his domain expansion in the modern day. The King of Curses had made his first move against Japan.

Manga spoilers below!

How does one of the strongest, most politically formidable structures in jujutsu society, Japan even, respond? They attempt to kill one of their strongest assets. Why? Because she's a woman.

In Jujutsu Kaisen, bureaucratic powers take advantage of the youth and inhibit their growth. In response to a politically corrupt world, the young cast take power into their own hands and save Japan while also healing their own familial scars. Though, for someone like Maki, that healing was found in the pools of her family's blood, while wielding the soul of her sister as a blade. The two sisters work together to combat not only misogyny and bureaucracy, but the other demons plaguing their world as well.

Maki, the Ronin Zenin

Gege uses the Zenin as a familial and systematic personification of misogyny. Despite the fandom's memes, Gege does not legitimize the Zenin's misogyny at all throughout the narrative. Maki's attack against the Zenin reminds me of something like Kill Bill or Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon; these tales focus on a woman protagonist forced to retaliate against a system that harms them first. Beatrix was forced to fight through her husband's organization to reach him and finally get her revenge. Jen Yu spends the entire movie attempting to escape marriage and male control, and not even the strongest sword in the world can help her achieve that. Maki joins the elite fighting force within the Zenin, probably as its only woman combatant, and attempts to be part of the system, i.e. jujutsu society. Yet, her entire family still abuses her in some aspect and purposely inhibits her growth.

I argue that the significance in Maki's annihilation lies in her being motivated by vengeance. In All-Out Attack, Godzilla rose as an amalgamation of vengeful spirits who sought to remind Japan's of its horrific, and imperialistic past. Godzilla represented unheard voices of the suffering and powerless. Maki represents the every-woman discarded by her paternalistic family for not being a good enough daughter. Instead of doing something like an allegorical Seppuku, Maki betrays her masters and slaughters them. Maki was resurrected as a vengeful ronin to not only remind the Zenin of their sins against Toji, but their daughters as well (to drive the latter polnt home, Maki's mother takes vengeance on Naoya). Maki's character encompasses many profound cultural taboos; she defies Seppuku, filial piety, and jujutsu, yet she's portrayed as a hero throughout the story. Her complex story, mixed with love, misogyny, paternalism, politics, and power, demonstrates how all of those things tie back to bureaucracy for Gege.

I argued in part 2 that the Zenin act as politicians who carry out the legislation ordained by the Higher-Ups. As such, the Zenin maintain the power to influence how the Higher-Ups grade sorcerers. Maki and the main cast understand that the Zenin were inhibiting her from moving up grades, but she first attempts to continue abiding by the system to defeat the odds, as if to prove herself to them.

Maki's evolution involves her discarding the system, deciding to no longer abide by her family's rules, and finally to destroy them. Like Beatrix, Maki fights through the system and succeeds. Unlike Jen Yu, Maki's weapon successfully tears through the patriarchal forces within her life. Gege goes so far as to condemn Gojo and Kusakabe as Maki's teachers, placing her within her own realm of power; Maki acknowledges that neither of her teachers could have helped her unlock her hidden power because it was only something that she could do. Yes, Toji unlocked this power as well, but he never acted as a teacher in Maki's life either. Therefore, while Maki did have a predominately male guidance throughout her journey, the onus for her breakthrough was placed wholly on herself. The sumo lesson revolved around Maki needing to look inward and draw out her own power.

The destruction of the Zenin was not only an act that aided in dismantling the bureaucracy within JJK, but also the symbolic defeat of Gege's personification of misogyny. Gege depicts misogyny as being systemic, something performed from the top down. To destroy these harmful social norms, Gege argues that sometimes, one must attack the government powers that perpetuate them. Maki begins the series using a polearm, something considered to be a woman's weapon. Yet, in the arc where she defeats misogyny personified, she wields a katana capable of severing souls. She defies her family and kills her parents, disobeying her masters in every way. She becomes something akin to a ronin, referred to as a monster. In the end, even though Maki killed her, Maki's mother was thankful for her daughters.

The kaiju's rampage may be disastrous, but in Japanese media, it takes a calamity to finally enforce change.

[gaunt-and-hungry]

OC Introduction: Erebus (Wilbur) Flamel

Erebus -- Ancient Greek: Ἔρεβος, '"darkness, gloom"' - also known as Erebos - The Personification of Darkness. Son of Chaos. derives from the Proto-Indo-European *h₁regʷ-os- ("darkness"), and is cognate with the Sanskrit rájas ("dark (lower) air, dust"), the Armenian erek ("evening"), the Gothic riqis, and the Old Norse røkkr ("dark, dust") Wilbur - Name of Birth - Wilbur derived from the mediaeval nickname 'wildbor', which means 'wild boar'. The wild boar was considered one of the most difficult creatures to hunt, indicating that the bearer was particularly tough or strong. Wilbur is also a name in Old German, meaning 'resolute' or 'brilliant'. Captain Blackwater - So Called, As They Say: For His Love Of Coffee Captain of: The Revenge Three Anchor Three Mast Frigate Thirty and One Half Metres

Born in Iceland. Mysterious Background. Tragic and woeful. Knows the icy northern waters and the indigenous folks of Greenland. A pirate.

Spent six years as a prisoner aboard an English Vessel as a wanted criminal.

He/Him/They/Them , Pansexual / Queer / --- Terrified of gentle hands. ---

A young Sea Captain with a distaste for the English and the damage they have wrought across their colonialism. His life is held in the balance of how useful he is to the British Admiralty. Once his usefulness is up it's the hangman's noose for him... less he finds a way to weasel out. Willing to go to any lengths to free his crew from the collateral of his crimes.

People Of Interest: Captain Francis Crozier ~ Captain James Fitzjames ~ Petty Officer Thomas Jopson ~ Heinrich Cornelius Reiss (Open to OC on OC interactions in your own terrorverses)

Hungry. Guilty. Haunted. Gaunt. "Could I be someone for someone else? Am I even worthy of such a thing, Captain?"

Weakness: Compassion. Lead by a compass.

You cannot spell Compassion without Compass. Strengths: Navigates the oceans solely by intuition and the stars. If he has an image of someone he can find them through intuition alone like a bloodhound.

The stars told me where you were. Their secrets reflect in the sea.

"Sacrifice is what we do for the people we love." - If the word of the law doesn't get you And the guilt you ignore's gonna set you Free, free, free If the cross on the door doesn't scare you And the beast of the moor's gonna spare you Boy, come home to me - (Phildel - Holes in your Coffin)

"Your lives have a future so long as mine ends. I can save you, yet. I just have to get these men home." - Waking up in the fog, the dust and the pain And of the sunny days, no traces remain How could you be the one if you sail away Without you I can't stand the sound of the rain - (Ghost Lights - Woodkid)

"I have no home to go to, Captain. No one to go home to. It is either I bring you back to England alive or I am promised the ropes of my ship and a nice tree." - Watching the figures, all the saints, but mostly sinners Come and go and some are desperate, but the others have The sense that they do belong And I do not belong - (notre dam - Paris Paloma)

"Soft hands terrify me... I never knew soft hands. Many have made sure I would have plenty of reminders of that." - Oh, 'cause they will run you down, down 'til the dark Yes and they will run you down, down 'til you fall And they will run you down, down 'til you go Yeah, 'til you can't crawl no more - (Way Down We Go - KALEO)

"Love may blossom in the darkest and coldest of places. So long as love blooms there will be warmth in the cold." - Holding you close feels like a cut-throat Losing blood, the weakness of falling in love - (Afraid of the Dark - Phildel)

"I don't sleep so well anymore. Too many cold bodies in my mind in my bed. Often, I dream of drowning." And I was never afraid of the dark No, I was never afraid until you Oh, the weapon you make of my heart (Afraid of the Dark - Phildel)

I've never not known what hungry means. I have never not known pain. I have known such strife and suffering in the world. The Revenge? She's my ship. And on my ship there is no loud voices of anger. There are no empty bellies. Only joy. On my ship there are no lashes that split skin. There is no cold hearts. People are free to be who they are. To love as they are. Isn't that the world we all wish to live in? That is what she means to these people... my crew. It is their place to be safe. To have a home.

-"But not for you."- The Revenge is my crew's home. I cannot see a future for myself. To settle down? I'm tired of being wanted for the wrong reasons. I'm exhausted of running. I am tired. I am so, very, very tired. But I have no where to go. Not with all I have done. But if I can pave a road for my crew... They are good people. If I can do that, well... Then all I have wrought upon myself will have been worth that. -"You're atoning?"

I'm washing the blood out of my hair and off my hands. I'm trying. I'm trying. God, am I trying. If I can do just this one expedition... If I can. Whatever becomes of me after this? That is up to the Admiralty... My fate lays in their hands.

Very big special thank you for the inspiration from @gayarsonistslullaby who did it first. I had so much fun with this and it was incredibly cathartic for me.

[shibe-myths]

( In response to my other ask about the pantheon of gods)

Yes I would

This is gonna be long, expect multiple parts.

Edalehan Deities

Gwælbáeth.

Lady of Light, Goddess of Justice

The Goddess of both an ancient death cult found in Edalehan and that of the Goddess of Justice, Gwelyn, Gwelbáeth is the personification of the Dale’s tribal past and of the Houses that make up what remains of the past. In later years she became known as Gwelyn. In her divine form she took on the aspect of a winged she-ram, better known as a Satyr with a woman’s torso and goat legs, a pair of ram’s horns sat atop her head. In her divine aspect she was seen dressed in a man’s toga, one breast on full display- tattoos and all, while the other was chastely covered. Her hair was the color of the darkest of ink with eyes the color of the deepest greens was seen across several paintings born during that time. Scholars claim that her weapons of choice were an ironwood bow and axe, and from eyewitness testimony, her arrows were bolts of air.

Gwelyn was one of the few gods to have arisen, before the She-Dragon’s rampage. However, it is not known when or how she came to have awoken- if she ever was asleep in the first place. The Goddess of Justice was also one of the few gods found to be at full power at the time of the End. In journals and paintings dated around the same time as The Fell, Gwelyn is seen shooting arrows at the She-Dragon and her followers while the sea rises in anger at her feet. The goddess is also believed to be one of the first gods to to have vanished not long after the arrival of Magic. No one knows if the Goddess of Justice and Light was killed or not, however, like her daughters, she has not been seen since.

Dwæla.

Twin of Life, Goddess of Death

Twin of the Three-faced Life Goddess, Morcana, nine-winged Dwæla ruled over the other side of her sister’s coin, in the domain of Death. Specifically on where the dead dwelled, The Final Plains. She along with her sister were one of the few gods who did not awaken during the rise of the She-Dragon, nor have they been seen since. Instead, they still slumber in places unknown. From murals it can be deduced that Dwæla was similar in form to both her mother and sister, with goat horn atop her head and goat legs. Unlike her mother, she possessed an additional seven wings, the eighth having been removed for unknown reasons. Like her sister she appeared in the form of a young girl with solid green eyes and dark lifeless flesh.

Morcana

Twin of Death, Goddess of Life

The Three-Faced Goddess of Life, much like her sister, Dwæla, Morcana has not made an appearance on the mortal plane in eons. Instead, it is only her influence of creation that has been witnessed in the rise of new species and races that tells us that she still lives. In murals, Morcana took on the visage of a young faceless girl born with small horns atop her head and three floating masks, or faces, that she would change into depending on who she spoke to. Her true face was never seen, however one myth claimed that if one were to ever look under it, they would find themselves entranced. Like her sister and mother, she possessed a pair of wings, however hers had never matured and remained close to her body, unfeathered and burnt.

The Burning Stag

Master of Good Omens, God of the sky

The Burning stag, while ancient, was believed to be a strange god formed long time before The exile of Elves. Born from a backwoods cult, The Burning Stag was one of the few gods to have been awake before the She-Dragon arose as well as one of the few gods to have never taken on the aspect of a human. Fully seen as a Deer, The Stag is believed to have been hunted by the She-Dragon’s followers for three months and eleven days before falling to her merciless talon. He was the first to perish at her hands and it was his blood that many believed to have brought back magic. Or cursed us with it more like it.

The Deer God’s bones and horns make up both the Godswood’s throne of the Round Table, where King Dugant and his Mistress of the Hunt sit during meetings, as well as the King of the Deep Wood’s crown. Neither acknowledges the fact that neither worshiped the Burning Stag, nor that his followers have all since vanished past the Fell-Mountains. Interestingly a few of the Groa and Lilibuel bear shields with the aspect of a burning deer...

The God of the Forest

The Whisperer, God of the Mother-grove.

The God of the Forest, also known as The Whisperer and Bane of the Phantom was a possible Godling, who lived at the edge of the Fell-Mountains in what is Modern day Edalehan. He took on the form of the mutilated corpses of both man and Deer. With elongated limbs, rotted flesh spliced with hundreds of eyes along his flesh. antlers and horn ridges that ate at the festering crown of his head, and a twisted- doglike smile filled with jangled teeth that made up his mouth. It is known that he could drive followers of his and other gods to madness with just his voice- and some believe it was he who maddened the She-Dragon. His voice still calls for rescue and vengeance even as its speaker sleeps.

Not much else is known about The God of The Forest, other than the fact that he was born not long before the Rise of the She-Dragon and that he was turned to stone while in mortal combat with a woman only known as The Ghost by modern historians. His body can be found in the deep forests, just south of The Thuldarans, his killer's body however was taken not long after the battle and was interred in a mausoleum within the Deep Forests of what once was Dunholde, by a hamlet that claimed to have been saved by her while she still lived. The bones of her steed are buried below her glass casket. Those who journey to her resting place have noticed that her body has not decayed since her ‘death’; as her blood still oozes and her lips seem to still draw breath. She has not aged in the near six-hundred and fifty-three years since her death. A Mourning Owl guards her grave, though none know why.

Grima, The Crone

Crone of The Mother Grove, Seer of the God of the Forest

The Crone is not a god in the traditional sense, it is believed that she was once the follower or mother(?) of the God of the Forest, who was eventually given immortality and magic not long before the rise of the She-Dragon. Or that she was one of the first mages to be born during the age of the elves. Either way, she is an ancient beast,

It is said that both she and The Ghost are bound by the God of the Forest and that they will not perish until either magic is taken from the earth or That every God has perished. She is often seen as an exceedingly elderly woman with deep, purple and pitch black sclera. She wanders the Deep Forests and the various slopes of the Fell-Mountains in search of children and the lost to sacrifice to her god. Driven mad by unheard voices. She is seen as an ill-omen to those who travel in the area.

Though, there are times when The Crone is calm, in these times she takes on the visage of a middle-aged woman with ink-black muck for hair and funny lilac eyes- she tends to help passerby and claims her name to be that of Grima and that she is searching for her missing children; a girl and a boy named Lorelei and Zagreus. However, few know if this is to be true. When she is in this Grima persona she tends to give startlingly accurate fortunes and advice.

Domus

Shadow of Death, God of Guiding the Dead

An ancient psychopomp, Domus is believed to have never gone to sleep before the rise of the She-Dragon. Forced to wander the lands of Tor in search of the Dead, he was one of only a few gods able to survive the fall of Gods and the rise of Magic. Even the She-Dragon bade him credence once he came for her soul, or so it is believed. Taking on the aspect of a young man in a traveler’s cloak, his veil was a black as the night and his blade gleamed with the wrath of the last soul he slew. It can be noted that he was seen in the company of the shapeshifting godling, Rūn not long after the fall of man.

Rūn

Hound of secrets, Godling of loyalty.

The shapeshifter Rūn is a godling, born from the remnants of a tribal-woman and a wolf within an unknown Mother-Grove. It is not known how old Rūn might be, seeing as how they frequently come up with different answers depending on their rather weathervane mood. Though, what is known, is that they chose to wander the earth in search of adventure and companionship. Even while they are a new god, Rūn is old enough to have seen the end of the old world and the rise of magic in their human and wolf lives respectively. In their Godling form, Rūn has seen much, much more, though they do not always understand it. Recently they have taken up following the Psychopomp, Domus for their own amusement.

Rūn takes on the appearance of either: a robust Canine of impressive size- with silver fur and yellow eyes, or that of a human of either gender with silver hair and yellow eyes. Not much else is known about them other than the fact that they enjoy wandering and keeping their life debts. The only thing that remains are the eyes and color of their fur/hair. Yellow and silver.

[visceravalentines]

Ngl you're right about the black phone but like. Honestly about half the movies in the "slasher" fandom aren't slashers at all. Like you cannot tell me the boy is a slasher when literally two (2) characters are killed. I know some disney movies with more kills than that. (I've also seen some people calling beetlejuice a slasher and at this point? Fuckin go for it, there are no rules here, anyone is a slasher if we want them to be)

fuckin preach. i sometimes see pennywise in the mix?? like........that's a alien clown personification of the evil in men's hearts, not Guy With Knife. once i saw the Joker. like..........he do murder, yes. with pencils and bombs. it for sure doesn't matter, chase ur bliss, but sometimes people do just be saying things huh??

nobody asked for this but i'm gonna take this opportunity to plug (once again) My Heart is a Chainsaw by Stephen Graham Jones by laying out the slasher requirements according to the protagonist Jade who is all of us. gospel below the cut if u even care

1. THE PRANK: "Years ago there was some prank or crime that hurt someone and then the slasher comes back to dispense his violent brand of justice" 2. BLOOD SACRIFICE: "Think Judith Myers...Casey Becker...Marion Crane" 3. ADULTS: "Those parents and teachers and cops who dismiss all this tomfoolery of the kids just being kids." 4. OVERNIGHT: "The slasher needs for all this to happen pretty much Overnight. The reason you need that is because a slasher that happens over a single bad night in Haddonfield, it's believable that the adults who could put a stop to it are distracted or it's their night off" 4.5. PARTY: "Slashers love to crash parties." 5. SIGNATURE WEAPON: "Jason has his machete, Michael has his kitchen knife, etc." 6. SOMEONE TO WIELD THAT WEAPON: the slasher themselves obvi 7. THE FINAL GIRL: the slasher's opposite. "Final girls are the vessel we keep all our hope in. Bad guys don't just die by themselves, I mean. Sometimes they need help in the form of a furie running at them, her mouth open in scream, her eyes white hot, her heart forever pure."

anyway i love that book and slashers and horror analysis bye