uhuhuhuh. oh noooo. Beavis and Butt-Head is my main fandom again
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DP x DC: The Titans and the Phantom Cat
Danny doesn't do magic. He doesn't understand it or really know about it, and frankly he'd be more skeptical about it if it hadn't explicitly been used on him several times before. His parents are scientists and engineers, and they managed to accomplish what would typically fall under the realm of magic with nothing but recycled parts, wires and Fenton ingenuity.
So, when caught in a magic spell to bind him, he didn't know what would happen if he were to intentionally mess it up. Apparently, nothing good. Danny, free from the intended mind control, is now bound to the form of a cat with minimal use of his powers.
How could this get any worse?
Turns out, no one seems to understand what he's saying, they just hear meows. And without the use of his powers, he get's caught and finds himself in an animal shelter in Jump City.
When a group of young heroes comes through on a mission, and then proceed to mess things up, Danny can't help but throw out some snide commentary. Besides, it's not like they'll hear him
Welllllll... Turns out Raven and Beast Boy can tell what the hell he's saying. Of course the magic user and guy who can turn into animals can talk to him... Still it's nice to finally have someone to talk to, and also get him out of the cage while he's still trying to het a hold of what's left of his powers
Raven immediately clocks him as a powerful spirit bound to animal form. With a little persuasion, she ends up with a new familiar consultant and Danny the Cat gets to live in Titans Tower with them
or
Magic shenanigans happen, now Danny is basically Salem the Cat living with the Teen Titans and teaching them what he knows while mainly lounging around and sassing them. The actual usefulness of his advice may vary
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you have to be sexy but you have to be sexy in a way that's kind of bloody. you learn this early because you are wearing a ruffled skirt and the snow around your ankles kicks little sand particles against your calves. baby's first catcall. welcome to sexiness! welcome to the eyesore of your own body!
you have to be sexy like high heels. like sculpted eyebrows. like lean stomach and highly treated hair. you have to be sexy like youth is sexy, which means you have to be sexy like boxtox and plastic. a 30 year old can be sexy but she's not going to be bloody, and they like the bloodiness of it. a 30 year old is sexy when she is a whiskey glass and a wooden desk.
but you need to be sexy like an open mouth. you need to be sexy like a bitten apple. like plucked skin and white-knuckling the waxing kit.
so sex is a performance, not an enjoyment. for a while, you just assumed everyone else was also in on the joke - nobody actually likes sex that much, right? like, some men probably do, but why would you? it is like a gender - your gender is sexy. your gender is the performance of sex. you are thigh highs and garter belts. which, to be fair, do make you feel sexy.
part of what does make sex good is that you can tell that other people want you, which means the performance of sexiness is both bloody and wanted, which is good, which means you are winning at having a body. being wanted is the prize. being wanted is the thing you are searching for, not hope. you think you are looking for a soft grave in easy loam, but that is bloody but not sexy. to be sexy you must be bloody like a red open sign. bloody like a handprint. this will make you wanted.
any wanted or unwanted body is subject to supply and demand, which is to say that the more demand, the better you are valued. you must be highly demanded to be valued. this is stated in matter-of-fact by some men. sometimes it is a priest that says it, and sometimes it is a podcaster, and sometimes it is the 45th president of the united states of america.
(if you do not have any experience with being told your value, i want you to grab the nearest bird to you and i want you to crush it into a thin paste in your hand. spit into the center, and then hold your fingers closed tight around it for days and days, long after the rot has set in. feel bones itch inside of your fist. this is only a fraction of what it actually feels like, but it will suffice for a moment.)
good sex feels like you have earned their desperation. you have earned your own value. for a while you operated under the understanding that everyone knew about the power structure, even him. that their desire to take you - the violence of it - means that you must desire to be caught. little prince, guardian fox - you would rather have cut your own arm off. you liked the secret, cunning little voice you keep tucked into a box. you think you are fucking me. i am not even here right now. you are fucking what i conned you into perceiving. this is a painting, not a person. dominion over the body before all things.
so you bend your body like a wheat shaft and learn the steps so perfectly that it almost seems graceful. (if you do not have experience faking your own connection to your body and sexuality, cut each of your articles of clothing just a little bit incorrectly. pour fishbones into each of your meals. this way, you will experience the average noon on a tuesday.)
you have to be sexy like light spilled over a desk, but not desperate. not a noose. you can't be sexy like an electric guitar, you are the acoustic. you have to be on top of the bull but you can't have control over the animal.
okay, okay. the little rabbit of your heart went to sleep so long ago that winter has ravaged your concept of the human soul. there's something very-bad inside you, something that has taken over, a little fetid and rabid animal, angry and hurting and willing to bite first.
oh but even that's a pain that's sexy. open your mouth. be careful not to let the canines show.
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