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arabellasleopardcoat · 9 months

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Prophecy (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Disobedience has consequences. You learn it the hard way.

Warnings: Finally the chapter that marks this fic as dark. Forced nudity. SA. Groping a person under coercion. Low blood pressure. Cursing. General Daemon being nasty.

A/N: Please keep in mind Daemon is not an objective narrator. I do not support his views. Remember, he has a wrapped perception of reality. And if you find yourself urged to send me nasty asks, or comment awful things, I will remind you that I warned you.

Previous parts here.

It’s not often that Daemon finds himself in such a dilemma. Not often, either, he decides to think before he acts. Violence comes easily to him. The best method of conflict resolution, and one that has certainly brought great benefits to House Targaryen through the ages.

Yet, this matter requires more delicacy. It’s his wife, who he is thinking about. And while Daemon might push you around, perhaps hold you down a little, he is not one for hurting women in such a way. This topic requires silk gloves instead of gauntleted fists.

Daemon likes to think the impulsiveness of youth has already left him, but knows himself too well to not recognize he is lying to himself. While he is no longer a flamboyant young man, the urge to have a fit of rage remains. He has gotten better at controlling it, but the dragon still roars and shifts on his chest, begging to be unchained.

He needs to soothe his nerves. Daemon sends for a Dornish red, if only to numb himself a little. The stronger the best, in his opinion. While some men get belligerent when drunk, Daemon it’s not one of them. Alcohol tends to take the edge off, loosen his tongue and inhibitions, but fails to cloud him with the red mist affronts on his pride do.

Daemon doesn’t want to hurt you. He repeats it to himself, over and over again. Not hurt you, not hurt you, not hurt you, not…. He takes one look at your pitiful form and suddenly, it’s easier.

You make quite the pitiful figure on the floor of your chambers. You have never taken a beating in your life and it shows. Curled on yourself on top of a rug and cradling your injured shoulder as best as you can with bound wrists. The whip didn’t even draw blood, but you acted as if it was the worst injury you had suffered in your short life. Every once in a while, you let out a tiny, frightened sniffle, before looking at him to make sure he has not heard you.

His proud, proud little dragon. Thinking a few tears might make you less. Daemon pretends to be oblivious to your little sobs, just to watch you sigh in relief at the lack of reaction. It’s starting to amuse him, turning into a game. Moving his head just so as you sniffle, or reaching for an object, just to see you freeze.

He quits it before the wine arrives. While he often enjoys putting the fear of the Gods on others, it’s not really enjoyable when it’s you. There is something strange curling in his stomach at your tears, something painfully akin to discomfort.

Daemon dislikes righteous people. Viserys gets enough on his nerves as it is. Pretending to have the moral high ground is for the weak, in his opinion. And the stupid. And the reckless. Stepping between a servant and a whip was certainly recklessly stupid on your part. Daemon would never. Not even for Viserys. Perhaps for Rhaenyra, given that she was a woman and needed protection.

Still, when you were the one doing it, he stopped finding it recklessly stupid and found it a little charming and brave. What a troublesome thought. Distressing, in truth. Is he starting to develop a conscience? Or worse, are you growing on him?

Daemon sneers. He has to put a halt to this. Show you who is really in control.

“Speak your terms, little fool.” He sits down on your bed, looking around the room. There are little comforts, and none he feels like taking away from you.

There are a few books, stacked in piles near the bed. You seem to be in the process of reading them, which surprises Daemon. He had been vaguely aware of your ability to read, unusual for a bastard girl. He had figured Rhea had taught you because while she might have been a bitch, she was a proud one. She was a Royce from Runestone, not a Baratheon fool. She wouldn’t have her heir running around without knowing her letters.

The most surprising part is not that you are trying to read the books, but the fact that you are actually making progress. There are a few parchments tucked in, with some terrible attempts at penmanship on them. As if you were slowly decoding them. To actually try to learn High Valyrian on your own spoke of a dedication he was not aware you possessed.

Throwing the books in your chambers had been more of an ambience choice for Daemon. When he had thought about decorating your living space, putting books on High Valyrian had seemed like the obvious choice. A little dreamer, with her Valyrian clothes and surrounded by her little temple, needed books in High Valyrian. It was only right.

Everything was as it should be. Daemon finally had his Valyrian bride. Besides, it didn't matter if you didn’t know how to read them, when he could do so without any hardship. He had figured that if you were a boring lay, he could always turn to the books for entertainment.

Lay. Hm. Perhaps taking the bed would teach you there were worse fates in this world than being the wife of a Prince. But Daemon could already see in his mind’s eye your pouty face. You would whine, and give him your sad puppy look…. Oh, Seven Hells! What was wrong with him? Was he turning into a soft fool, like Viserys had been for Aemma?

Daemon had had plenty of pouty mistresses in the past. In fact, it was a prerequisite of the position. Any woman he took to bed had to be able to get her way via a few well-placed pouts. They knew he had a weakness for it. None had affected him as you.

Besides, you could have nightmares. Or sleep badly. Which was not right, for a dreamer.

“I… I could tell you another secret.” You look up at him, all big sad eyes. It makes something in him jerk. Something stands at attention with the urge to comfort. Daemon doesn’t like it.

“Is that what the girl’s life is worth to you?” And he was not planning on whipping the girl to death, but you don’t know that. The panic in your eyes doesn’t fill him with as much satisfaction as he hoped. Is this some sort of domesticity trap? No. Daemon needs to crack down on you, hard. This cannot keep going. You have denied him too much. “I could easily get that from you by force.”

“You could get anything from me by force.” Defiance. How cute. You look like an angry kitten, more than a real threat. Your eyes are narrowed at him, and he feels the urge to laugh. “What do you want?”

“I dislike your tone, Wife.” In truth, it’s a good question. What does he want? Daemon barely knows it himself. It used to be Rhaenyra. When he couldn’t have that, he had thought maybe Lady Laena was enough. She was pretty, young and would birth him strong Valyrian children. But while he had planned to marry her, and felt aroused by the prospect of bedding her, he didn’t feel the urge to please her as he did with you. Probably, if Daemon had married her, he would have made her miserable with little care. Like he is making you.

What does he want? What does he want?

“You like baths, do you not?” As if struck by inspiration. He would call it divine, were it not for the fact Daemon knows he was forsaken a long time ago.

“I do? What does it have to do with anything?” You give him a confused look.

Daemon smirks. He is not sure what else from you he wants, but for now, the idea of getting close to your naked, wet body, is enough.

“No.” You mutter.

“Or I could just kill the whore. Your choice, Dreamer. What’s going to be?”

Not an hour later, Daemon sits in a scorching hot bath, naked. You sit between his legs, still dressed in one of your shifts, turned transparent by the water. Unchained, for once.

The glow happiness gives you is unmatched. You look deliriously happy in the hot water, talking so fast he can barely keep along. At first, you had been shy, but when he had leaned back, allowing you more space in the tub, you had blossomed.

You had been humming under your breath, but when he made no move to censor you, you had started talking. The words were low, almost to yourself. As if you had almost forgotten he was there. Daemon made no move to remind you, answering to your ramblings with a few well-placed grunts and noncommittal hums.

“…. And I have really been trying to keep all the grime off my hair, but I really miss sulfates, you know? And conditioner. Oh my god, conditioner! You have no idea how hard it is to detangle my hair.”

“Here.” Daemon passes you a comb, lips twitching. He doesn't want to smile at your antics, but there is something really endearing about it. Even if he barely understands a word you are saying. Is he getting old? Are conditioners something you used to have at the whorehouse? And don’t even get him started on the tunes you were humming earlier. He had never heard them, not even in the most raunchy of ale houses. “When you are done, lean back and be quiet.”

You frown. Your mouth opens and closes, as if you are about to be argumentative. It’s one of his favorite looks on you, to be honest, but it’s starting to become a little annoying. This is not an experience to get you to practice your rusty social skills, but to put you in your place.

No matter how much he enjoys seeing you open up to him, Daemon can’t lose the opportunity to finally get you to submit.

“What was the girl's name?” It's only a simple phrase, but it works like a charm at shutting you up. Your body language shifts in the blink of an eye. Your shoulders curl in, defensive, and you start brushing your hair. The strokes are harsh and punishing.

If you want to do his job for him, Daemon will not stop you.

“You just have to accept your place.” He doesn't mean to say it, but it slips out regardless. It's the truth. If you just stopped fighting and stopped getting huffy about all sorts of things, it would be much easier. He could have you out of these cuffs, by his side. You just had to accept you were his.

Daemon places a hand over your shoulder blades and rubs a circle. The feeling of the wet shift is unbearable. He would much rather be touching your bare skin, but you had started pouting and huffing and mentioning Rhea, then Aemma… The night was already too charged to insist on it.

“My place? My place! The sheer audacity of you!” You jerk away from his touch, trying to get out of the tub. Daemon curls his arm around your waist and tugs back, hard. You are sent back into the tub, upsetting the water that splashes everywhere. Ah. Well, some servant will clean it, later.

Unwilling to lose his advantage, he perches his head on your shoulder. He nuzzles the crook of your shoulder, towards your neck. The scent of your skin is intoxicating, clean, and sweet. He likes that you smell exactly how he wanted you too.

Maybe those Seven Pointed cunts were onto something. Marriage was truly a delight. No whore smelt this sweet for him, not even when he gave them the exact perfumes he wanted them to wear. They lack the sweet smell of innocence that gushes out of your pores.

“Why don't you take this off?” Daemon tugs at the shift, despite your distressed whine. This is punishment, after all. No matter how enjoyable he intends it to be, a little fear will make the lesson stick. He can do anything to you, and it’s time you remember it. “And let me rub some rose oil on your wrists?”

“No.” Your lower lip wobbles. Pouting? Again? It's like it's his name day or something. No one told him it would be so pleasurable, teaching an impudent little chit to behave. Because this is more than just about his pleasure, and both of you know it. This is a power struggle, a way to finally get it to sink into your little head. You are never escaping him.

There is something enjoyable about breaking women, Daemon muses. A certain appeal. Getting them to accept their natural place in the world, getting you to submit… It sounds like the stuff of his fantasies.

It has to be done carefully, so you do not realize what’s happening until it’s too late. Other men, less skilled in the ways of pleasure, might think the ways of getting a woman like you to do their bidding have to be violent. Daemon is too proud for it.

It’s a battle of wills. And Daemon will not lose. He knows he is skilled at seduction. All seduction starts with an unwilling victim; otherwise it is not seduction. Still, when you test his temper, like tonight, he does feel some violent urges. Perhaps bending you over and taking you without mercy would leave you much more agreeable.

“Come on. Looks uncomfortable. Wet cloth clinging to you all over and getting cold.” Daemon coaxes, gently kissing your jaw. He maps the path towards your ear with his tongue, blowing slightly to watch the goosebumps rise on your skin.

Your pretty features scrunch up, in a delicious mix of pleasure, confusion, and betrayal. Maidens. How fun it was teaching them the ways of pleasure. Always so concerned about being proper and meek, of not appearing too wanton. But Daemon knew the truth about you. You were the blood of the dragon, just like him.

You burned for him. Daemon would bet, if he were to slip his hand between your soft thighs, he would find you wet and ready to be taken. Virgins were like that, after all. It only took a few skilled touches and their bodies were ready, even if their minds were not.

He doesn’t want to take you, tonight. Just explore the crevices of your body a little, understand you better. Daemon can be patient. If he riles you up enough for it, he is sure you will come to him thinking it’s on your own terms.

He pulls at your shift, slowly starting to lift it. You don't notice at first, too lost in the confusing feelings his lips are inciting. Daemon keeps his hand on your thigh, slowly gathering the fabric up until his fingertips brush bare skin.

He keeps it up, fingertips drawing nonsensical patterns on the side of your thighs, your hips. You are so soft, skin plump and smooth. Daemon wants to grab you hard, until you bruise. See his hands digging into your thighs, watching the flesh shift under his grip. But he doesn't.

He doesn't because the moment his hand touches your hip bone, you jolt. You buck under him, all wild mare, trying to get him to unhand you.

“At ease, wife.” Daemon whispers in your ear. “I won't hurt you.”

“I don't want…” You start trying to pull the shift down. He bats at your hands, but you squirm too much to let him keep enjoying it. Anger builds up in him, anger and a certain cruelty. Who are you, to deny him what’s his? As your husband, he has a right to your body. He has been much more patient than other men would be in his circumstances.

The urge to get you to roll over and show your belly, so to speak, is too strong to help it. You are starting to remind him of the worst parts of Rhea, and that can’t be allowed to happen. You are meant to be his delicate little dreamer, not some Bronze Bitch.

So, he leans in, to whisper in your ear.

“Mia… Mary… No. Mina.” Daemon takes your earlobe into his mouth, sucking lightly. You go deadly quiet, all fight gone. He gets to take your shift off, and he groans. Better than he had dared to hope.

Your body is soft. All smooth skin, bared for him to see. Your breasts are a worthy pair, and look firm enough. You have hips and a stomach that look like they could stand a pregnancy well. He finds himself growing excited by the prospect of watching your hips and breasts become fuller, once he gets you pregnant with his heir.

Under the excuse of cleaning you, he starts rubbing at your arms, curious about how far you will let him push. He strokes your collarbones, then your chest. Not groping, barely skimming his fingers over your sensitive nipples. Daemon is enchanted by the almost silent sighs you let out, how you fight and surrender to a pleasure that is clearly so new to you.

Daemon kisses your ear, slowly making out with the shell of it. You struggle against him, trying to get away, but your mouth parts in overwhelmed pleasure. It only takes a few more well-placed licks for you to surrender to the pleasure of it all.

His hands stroke your hips. Then, slowly, towards your inner thighs. Slowly, his cock fattens and begins to ache. Daemon pays it no mind. If he were, you may spook and be brought off the trance you are in. You might oppose resistance.

How he longs to roll his hips against yours, to bury himself deep inside your eager little hole. He knows you would suck him right in. And you would be so warm, just short of scorching hot inside. So soft, too. Perhaps, if he was lucky, when the time came, Daemon would get to pin your hands, so you couldn’t muffle any of the delicious moans that would surely escape you.

As for right now, he likes how quiet you are. Too often, whores will moan loudly in his ear, hoping to provoke a reaction. Somehow, it never works. His cock doesn’t react to that as it does to the way you fight to keep your little sighs quiet. Perhaps one day he will teach you to be unashamed, but right now, the quietness speaks of a modesty lowborns lack.

It’s good enough, Daemon decides. He has enough with pressing his hardened member to your lower back, with having you all flustered. The memories will allow him more than a few pleasant tugs at his cock, later on. The face you make as he scratches at your inner thighs will haunt his dreams for many nights to come.

He can’t help but be greedy, though. How far will you let him push? Will you let him look at the real prize? He lathers his hand with a bit of soap, and slips it between your thighs.

You speak then. Shame. He always liked looking at maiden’s cunnys. The anticipation is very enjoyable. Looking at those tiny holes and thinking how he is about to break them, force them to take more than they are ready for. Watching them cry, watching their expressions turn from pain to pleasure.

“Rhaenyra’s firstborn will be called Jacaerys.” You take his hands in yours and interlock your fingers. It’s a subtle thing. A way to derail him without openly denying him. Daemon likes that you are learning fast.

“Jacaerys? That’s not a Targaryen name.” His interest is genuine. Knowing the future fascinates him. It’s not something he has thought about before, more centered on the past of his house and his present. But getting a glimpse of the future is tantalizing. What will happen to him, in ten years, in twenty? To you?

He lifts your hand and checks your pulse, under the pretense of rubbing some oil into your abused wrists. It races beneath your skin, scared little bird that you are. Despite your awful behavior today, Daemon might get you softer cuffs. Or keep you in these, but release you from time to time. Under his careful supervisor, of course.

“Is it not? It sounds similar to that word, the one you use for Caraxes to breathe fire.” Your voice comes out a little shaky, but you are getting better at pretending not to be scared. Or perhaps you are not scared anymore. Whatever it is, it pleases him.

“Dracarys?” Daemon asks, amused. It sounds similar, but it's not spelled the same way at all. He kisses your temple. His smart, pretty girl, slowly getting interested in her heritage.

“That’s the one.”

“I think it’s a Velaryon name. Why would she allow it, though?” Sure, Rhaenyra was married to a Velaryon, but why did she break tradition so? Daemon had thought her a true Targaryen, like him. It made no sense. She was supposed to understand just how precious their blood was, how special. They had a legacy and centuries of tradition to uphold, and his niece would throw it all away? What was next, naming a child something as common as Robert?

“The boy will have dark hair.” You mutter, lazily. Ah, a bastard. How wonderful. One would think that she would be more careful. Muddying their blood was one thing. Another was doing it so and producing dark-haired children no one would ever believe were her husband’s.

“I see.” He rewards you by adding more hot water to the bath. It's not something he would do for anyone. It's servant's work, after all. But you have been a good girl so far, despite earlier transgressions.

This escape attempt of yours was a blessing in disguise, truly. No real damage was done. The servant girls got whipped for less at the Red Keep in his grandfather’s reign. Maybe not now because Viserys was a soft-hearted fool, but he is sure it’s still happening at other castles.

The servants here… It’s clear there had been an oversight on his part. He had been away too much when he was married to the Bronze Bitch, and she had given them too loose of a leash. Women. Unable to enact discipline, no matter how tough they thought themselves to be. No, a firm hand was needed. Or else his little dreamer would suffer from it.

At the addition of more hot water, you sigh and go pliant, relaxing against him. Your head sags against his shoulder, as if you are exhausted. Poor thing, that you were. Daemon should get you into bed. It was closer to sunrise than sundown. The night had been trying, especially for someone with the fragile disposition of a dreamer.

“This is how I knew you were a dragon.” Daemon laughs a little. You have the cutest blissed out expression. Another proof you were a Targaryen by birth, and not only by marriage. At first, he had thought your love for baths was because you were a bit of a clean freak, but now he realizes it’s about the heat.

You mumble something inaudible.

“Jace… He is… Ugh.”

“Your favorite?” Daemon asks, trying to keep the conversation going, despite the slightest pang of jealousy in his chest. It was to be expected, of course. You would prefer the heir to the Iron Throne. Despite all your eccentricities, your outstanding abilities, you were just a girl.

Daemon would make sure to keep this Jacaerys away from you. He was sure you would lose interest in him, anyway. How could a mere boy compare to him? Now, sure, you thought him attractive, but because you were only a girl yourself. You would learn to prefer a man’s company over a boy’s.

The favor of a dreamer was a heady thing. Daemon would not put it past the boy to try to charm you. The Gods knew it would have been something he would have done if he had the chance. Daemon would just have to make sure the bastard was kept away, perhaps whisking you away to some other place when the boy was growing up.

He waits for you to keep the conversation going, worried about the sudden quiet. He calls your name. You stir and make a small grumbling noise. You have fallen asleep, pretty eyes closed. Daemon lets himself relax a few more moments, greedily enjoying the feeling of you in his arms. Something this bastard Jacaerys was never going to get. Just basking in your presence and warmth. Then, he lifts you out of it and dries you as best as he can.

Daemon places you in a clean shift, with a slightly lower cut than you would choose for yourself. Despite him buying you an entire wardrobe, you seem to favor higher cuts, which he cannot understand. You have a gorgeous body but seem unwilling to flaunt it.

As he looks at you, asleep on the bed, looking like a small otherworldly being, he almost regrets it all. He thinks of leaving the room unlocked, of not putting you in cuffs.

Daemon cuffs your wrists and ankles before he leaves.

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon smut #daemon x y/n #daemon targaryen #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fic #hotd fanfic #hotd #asoif fanfic #asoif/got #divine intuition series

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beastabyss666 · 6 months

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The new Mammon and Fizz episode has been released and I wanna put my two cents in.

The palette is oooof........ One of the most "hard to watch" HB episodes. Seriously, hasn't anyone told Vivzie that her colour choices are just utterly failed?

Mammon was simply annoying and cringe, especially considering he's one of the highest "demons". He curses every few seconds, has an Australian accent and is some kind of a rock star(because......because). Oh yeah, he's also a very bad guy, cuz he disrespects women! Also I find it funny that Vivzie said in one of her tweets that she apologizes the fans wouldn't like him, as he's "fat and ugly". In reality, he's just a typical Vivziepop-ish male character, having sharp teeth and eyes without pupils. And his "fatness" is just looking like a Christmas tree with a round body.

Overdetailed backgrounds and sloppy animation, as always. Some moments look reeeeeally stiff. Maybe Vivzie starts drawing easier backgrounds and make characters with less details so the animation was better and faster to produce? Just dreaming.......

The songs are just generic tasteless pop-stuff. Gosh, I just wish they have a better composer cuz it's tiring to hear these cheap pop tunes every time. Maybe get some real rock or something with synthesizer........ I don't know.....

The background characters in this episode look much less like some early Deviantart furry OCs or cosplay freaks, which is a real plus. Take some cuties:

Hee hee goat boy

Hee hee goat girl(kinda accurate to the demonology, love it).

I really like the left amphibia girl, she's so pretty. Also yeah, bg characters really look better than in previous episodes. Almost like they were drawn by someone who actually knows their job well and doesn't make every person look like different art style or different teenager's OC.

Fizz being tired to be a clown for entertainment, having panic attacks, dealing with crazy fans and a shitty boss was honestly a good idea but the final song was just too weak to handle it. If it was done better, it would be really good.

The sigh language kid is cute and it was interesting to see a disabled person being cheered and supported by another disabled person.

Oh wow Viv made another female characters whose entire personality is being bitchy and arrogant(even to each other, though they're sisters they're calling each other whore, bitch etc.). Can't wait for the fanbase to hate these two or lust for them in the worst way possible.

Though there were actually some beautiful and......esthetic frames.

Am I the only one who never understood why Fizzarolli is considered a sex icon in this show? Like, yeah, Mammon said that he'll exploit his "clown employee" in every way possible and it's all for money, but I still don't get the whole "having tons of sex dolls based on him" thing. Who in sanity would buy a sex doll of Fizz? He looks like a stick with limbs and painted face, which is somehow considered sexy by Vivzie or her fans? Wouldn't it be more logical for a woman to be a sex icon? Lots of real women, including teen idols, were sexualized and fetishized for media by their producers and shown as beauty icons. But I just couldn't imagine the same with males. Like, I'm sorry, but to me Fizz who's a circus performer, celebrity and a sex icon is in the same category as Angel Dust who's a porn star, stripper and prostitute at the same time.

I'm very glad there wasn't much Blitzo.

It's funny that this girl looks like a better design for Loona than Loona herself, lmao.

It's actually a progress to see that Vivzie didn't fetishize a romantic relationship between two men and actually showed them as a loving couple which doesn't talk about sex and cocks every five seconds. She actually has put some unexpected effort in it.

Oh wait she didn't—

#vivziepop critical #anti vivziepop #spindlehorse critical #helluva boss critical #anti helluva boss #helluva boss criticism #helluva boss critique #helluva boss salt

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chaoskirin · 2 months

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How to use Nightshade to Protect Your Art

Nightshade is a program that is relatively easy to use. You can search for it using the search term "glaze nightshade."

You WILL have to download popular image models so Nightshade recognizes what your art is and is able to poison it. This is done automatically the first time you run the program.

I have done extensive research into this, and have even talked Sean Shan of University of Chicago and have been assured that YOUR data is NOT being retained. This is a case of using AI to fight against itself. At this point, it is the best option to prevent your art and photography from being scraped.

Even though this program presents no danger to end users, you should be informed of this.

After everything is downloaded, you should select an image you wish to "Shade."

Once you select your image, Nightshade will pick a tag that it believes covers what's in the image. Sometimes this tag is wrong or not useful. (For example, I loaded a drawing of Brian May into the program, and it tagged it "woman." I changed it to "man.") The tag must be one word, and should be relatively general.

Images with less detail should have less poisoning applied. For my art, I use the default setting. While this does cause noticeable artifacts, it is not so much that it distorts the image. It just looks like a compressed jpg.

You will also need to choose the render quality. I usually choose the highest setting, which is the slowest, and takes about 20 minutes. It's worth it.

Then, choose a spot to save the image. It will save as the original file name with data appended. I generally delete this appended info from the new file before I post it.

When you do post it on social media, your alt text should contain the tag you used when you created it. For example, I posted a skull and put "A hyena skull in greyscale" in the alt text. This ensures that language models will pick up the art as "skull" and this will contribute to poisoning the skull dataset.

If you are posting the image on your own website, you should make sure to add the tag to the metadata of your image.

Then you post it!

Again, if you have any art that you want to run through Nightshade, please contact me and I'll gladly do it for you. There will be a web version of nightshade eventually, which will make the process much easier. But for now, don't be afraid to rely on people whose GPUs can handle it!

#glaze #nightshade #glaze nightshade

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yandere-daydreams · 2 years

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Title: Meet Cute.

Pairing Yandere!Illumi x Reader (HxH).

Word Count: 1.5k.

TW: Violence, Mentions of Blood, and Implied Kidnapping.

The first thing you noticed about Illumi was, unsurprisingly, his hair.

Black as ink, waist-length, allowed to fall in front of his face in a way that just managed to draw more attention to his dull, glassy eyes. It caught the club’s technicolor lights in a way you couldn’t really describe – distorting everything, turning it muted and silvery and dark. That was what you tried to focus on as you approached him, shouldering past people dancing and carrying drinks back to friends already too inebriated to stand. You would’ve liked somewhere more open, less crowded, but you didn’t pick the spot, and there’d be time for that later on, another day, another night.

Right now, you just wanted to talk to the strange man nursing a neon-dyed cocktail and staring blankly at the far wall.

“Hey,” You started as you reached the bar, letting your coat fall off of your shoulders, down to the bends of your elbows. The bartender glanced towards you, but you waved her off, turning to face Illumi, instead. “All by yourself?”

He didn’t say anything, not immediately. At first, you thought he hadn’t heard you, that the music was too loud or you were too quiet or he just didn’t care to entertain your attempts at conversation. But, in a few seconds, he let his head lull to the side and clicked his tongue, taking another generous sip from his drink before answering. “I wasn’t,” He said, nodding towards the other side of the club, towards a man with pink hair and his hands on a woman’s hips. You flinched, about to panic, but if there was any jealousy in his tone, any anger, you couldn’t find it. Just the slightest trace of annoyance, as if someone had stepped on his foot or cut him in line. “But I think I may be, now.”

You let out a breathy laugh, and finally, his attention shifted, centering itself vaguely on you. “Don’t worry, I got ditched too. You know what it’s like with that kind of friend – here one second and gone the next. Never with any warning, obviously, ‘cause that’d make it too easy on the rest of us.” You paused, crossing your arms over the countertop. “At least we can be alone together, though.”

Another moment of silence, just a beat longer than the last. He seemed to evaluate you, gaze flickering from your shoes to your chest to your face – all without ever making any effort to hide his inspection. When he was done, his expression seemed to change, to relax, if only enough for his scowl to soften into what was still definitely a frown, but one portrayed something more apathetic than irritated. “I was about to leave,” A glance toward the pink-haired man, just to make sure he was still busy, then back to you. “Will you come with me, if I do?”

It took you a moment to process the question.

Oh.

That was easier than you'd expected it to be.

You nodded, a little too quickly, then remembered how to speak, stumbling over your words as you rushed to reply. “No, yeah, I’m good—I mean, I will, I—” You grabbed his hand, already tugging him towards the exit. “Let’s go.”

There was a breath of a chuckle, a brush of his bicep against yours as he stepped in front of you to take the lead. You started to let go of him, but he only took you by the wrist, in return, giving you a strange look over his shoulder. You didn’t try to distance yourself from him again.

The club was crowded, but the street outside was nearly empty, occupied solely by a handful of pedestrians and a few couples sitting on the curb, waiting for a ride or trying to sober up before their walk. If Illumi was drunk, if he was even buzzed, you couldn’t tell. He didn’t stumble, or lean on you, or seem flustered at all beyond a light flush dusted across his cheeks, just barely visible in the dim streetlights. You’d arrived after him, had half as much to drink, but you still managed to trip over your own feet, to give yourself an excuse to lean into his side and hold onto his arm as you muttered apologies. Again, if he was affected, if he cared, you couldn’t tell. It certainly didn’t show in his voice, when he next spoke. “My hotel isn’t far. You’ll make it.”

“Ah, a hotel?” Your grin widened, your head coming to rest on his shoulder. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

There really was no one on the street. You’d gotten lucky with the timing – too late to catch anyone coming home from work or heading out for their night shift, but too early for you to have to worry about people draining out of closing bars. You might've thanked him, if that'd been an option. “I’m not. My colleague and I are just in town for work.”

“Oh? What do you do?”

“I take people out.”

Your smile faltered, but barely. “Like... an escort?”

“Not exactly…” He trailed off, a smile ghosting over his lips for the first time that night. “Like an assassin.”

You didn’t say anything, for a second.

Then, you laughed harshly, loudly, until your chest hurt and you were holding onto him for support. “You’re really funny, Illumi,” You said, hooking your arm around his and dragging him off course, into a narrow alleyway – barely wide enough to let two people stand side-by-side. “C’mon, I know a shortcut. You’ll thank me in a few minutes.”

The reassurance was unnecessary. He didn’t argue, even as you led him down the side-alley, even as the streetlights faded into total darkness, even as you came to a wire fence taller than you could possibly hope to climb with any kind of dignity. When you pulled away, letting him go completely, he smiled – a full-blown smile – with that kind of ‘I trust you, but what’s going on?’ lilt. You only shrugged, clasping your hands behind your back, underneath your coat.

Before he could run, before he could react, you found the hilt of the knife tucked into your waistline, pressed into the base of your spine. One motion. Draw the blade, get it in both hands, then plunge it into his neck. Just one motion. It’d take less than a second. One motion, then it’d be done.

He caught your wrist as soon as you raised the knife, and in the blink of an eye, you were thrown forward, into the fence, his other hand wrapping around your throat to keep you in place. “I was starting to wonder when we were going to get around to this.” He was grinning wildly, now, his eyes wide and his lips pulled thin. It looked painful. It looked wrong. “Is someone paying you, or is this just a hobby of yours?”

You bared your teeth, in response, snarled, but he only tightened his hold on your wrist and you cried out, automatically dropping your weapon. You opened your mouth, but he cut you off before you could start to curse him out. “Please, don’t make this difficult. I don’t want to have to kill you so early on.”

You hesitated, but his nails dug into the sides of your neck and his palm pressed into your windpipe and you relented before he could change his mind. There were very few places you would want to be gutted by a total stranger, and a dirty alleyway wasn't on your list. “Paid,” You managed to spit out, and instantly, his grip loosened. His smile didn’t ease up, but you tried to look away. “I don’t know his name, and he paid me in cash. He just said—He said that your family fucked him over, and—”

There were footsteps, coming from the main street. You held your breath, for a moment, considered screaming, but a man’s silhouette came into view before you could, then over-styled pink hair, and…

And blood. Coating his hands, smeared across his street, spotted over his clothes. Immediately, you felt bile begin to rise in your throat.

He hadn’t been joking.

They were murderers. Fucking murderers.

Fuck.

If Illumi was alarmed, he didn’t show it. You were beginning to think he was just like that – as stoic as he was inhumanly strong. “Hisoka, is the target—”

“Taken care of, sweetheart.” He— Hisoka answered, coming to a stop at Illumi’s side. “Did kitten finally use its claws, or did someone lose his patience first?”

His hand drifted upward, forcing you to tilt your head back, then the side, inspecting you again, letting his eyes pry into you unabashedly. “Someone wants me dead.” A blunt explanation, but Hisoka seemed to understand, nodding with a slight hum. “We’ll have to be careful if we ever come back. They may actually contact a professional, next time.”

“And?” Hisoka eyed you, warily. “What do you want to do with our little stray, here?”

Finally, finally, Illumi released you, but you didn’t have time to run. His fist was already wrapping around your collar, dragging you into his chest. In the back of your mind, you realized that he hadn’t stopped grinning, not since you’d gotten him into the alleyway, not since you attacked him.

It was all you could do to hope that he'd stop, soon, and never force you to see something so monstrous again.

“I suppose every stray deserves a good home, don't they?”

#yandere #yandere love #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere prompts #yandere scenarios #yandere oneshot #hunter x hunter #yandere hunter x hunter #hunter x hunter imagines #yandere hxh #hxh imagines #yandere illumi #yandere illumi zoldyck #illumi x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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rosewaterandivy · 3 months

Text

Through Me Prequel - ii. the fool

Summary: Eddie and the Lady of the Lake, feat. advice from one Steve 'The King' Harrington.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader, eventual Steddie x fem!reader in the series

WC: 6.3k

Warnings/Themes: cursing, criticism of religion (catholicism/xtiantiy mostly), religious themes, canon-typical violence, death, idolatry via smut, blasphemy, heretical notions, angst, occasional fluff (as a treat), Biblical & western literary canon and media references/allusions

A/N: This is the second of three prequels centering on the three main characters. If you're up on your tarot know-how, you can glean some info from the banner, etc. 👀

Please do not interact if you aren't 18+.

Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not. This (*) is a singal to check the footnote at the end!

Enjoy! 💜

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“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster. For when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

- Friedrich Nietzsche

Tuesday, July 2, 1985

Eddie meets you for the first time on a normal Tuesday evening.

Well, meets is a generous term for what transpires. He all but stumbles upon you as he’s leaving Reefer Rick’s, struck dumb at the sight of a woman walking fully clothed into the lake.

“Shit!”

He drops the lunchbox from his hand; the metal clanging against the rocks as it rolls to a stop on the shore. “Hey!” He yells, trying to get you to stop or at least turn around before doing something drastic.

Nothing.

Continuing to wade into the water, he has no choice to trail after you in an attempt to prevent a visit from the Hawkin’s P.D. and a coroner’s report.

Eddie Munson did not have time for this, not today. But he couldn’t very well just leave you here to your own devices. Which, judging by the water nearing your waist, were far from altruistic.

“Fucking hell,” he grouses, toeing off his sneakers and fumbling with his belt buckle.

You, mystery woman with an apparent death-wish, may be fine with soaking wet clothes but Eddie was not. Wet denim was simply not his jam— it was bad enough he’d have to wash his hair after this, but walking around in wet jeans, just asking for raw, chafed skin?

No, thank you.

His jeans and shirt joined the pile at the edge of the lake as he psyched himself up to dive in after you.

“You got this Munson,” he says to himself, clad in his boxers and shaking out his arms to rid himself of nervous energy. He keeps an eye on you, head and shoulders still above the water though you’ve waded farther from him now.

Bounces on the balls of his feet and cracks his knuckles. “S’just like riding a bike, muscle memory. No sweat.”

Because, yeah he could swim. But, my god, at what cost? Wasn’t worth the hassle in his humble (and correct) opinion.

Oh well.

The water is not at cold as he’d anticipated, but that’s probably due to the summer heat. He treads water, careful not to spook you. Eddie knows he’s not an athlete, he’s no King Steve, but figures that logically it’s easier to talk someone down who isn’t startled.

Eddie never gets the chance to find out.

Because one moment you’re a few feet away, head and shoulders above the surface of the water. Arms buoyant at your side, floating upon the dark blue of the lake. And in an instant you’re gone, leaving nothing but small wakes in your absence.

As if he dreamt you up.

He turns, checking that you aren’t somehow behind him. And sure enough, he is well and truly alone and briefly wonders if he’s made the whole thing up. Thinks that maybe sampling the product before a walk in the woods wasn’t the best idea.

A splash draws his attention to the center of the lake. Something causing the waters to surge, swirling in a way that can only be described as ominous. Eddie cocks his head in interest— curious, purely from an observational standpoint, of course.

An arm breeches the indigo water, sword held aloft. Fingers wrapped delicately to grasp, nestled beneath the pommel, the blade emitting a bright glow.

There’s no fucking way—

A second arm appears, scabbard in hand.

Then your head crests the waves, wet and glorious. Beads of water dripping down the full of your cheeks, mouth graced with a beatific smile. A shake of your head before you begin to swim toward the shore.

“It’s Eddie, right?”

A hum in the coming dark. Gooseflesh blooming on his skin at the sound of your voice. Far too distracted to notice the subtle buzz in the cage of his ribs.

He struggles to speak, a rarity for him. Nods instead, awe-struck. You sail just out of reach, swimming in a lazy backstroke, sword and scabbard still in hand.

“You make a habit of following strange women into bodies of water?”

“Just the pretty ones.”

He could kick himself. Open mouth, insert foot. Just about to give up and end it all when a bark of laughter slips from your throat.

“Doesn’t bode well for you.” You tip your head back in the water, hair fanning out like a halo.

Eddie wades a bit closer now, relieved that he’d misread the situation and intrigued as to how someone could swim to the middle of Lover’s Lake, dive down and swim for god knows how long, only to surface with an actual sword in hand.

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“Well.” You open your eyes taking him in, pale against the warm hues of fading summer light. Water sloshes as you return the sword to its scabbard, glow extinguished for now. “What if I lured you here under false pretenses?”

“Mmm.” He hums, crossing his arms against his chest, revealing a cluster of bats at his elbow and something else you can’t quite make out further up. “You mean you weren’t trying to drown yourself in Lover’s Lake?”

Pulling your bottom lip between, you huff a laugh. “Shit, is that what it looked like? Yikes.”

Feet grazing the beginning of the shoreline, you reorient yourself and stand. Water cascading from your form.

Eddie gulps, audibly, as it all appears to him in slow motion. Beads of water trail down your thighs, the deep blue denim of your daisy dukes doing fuck-all to contain the globes of your ass. And it only gets worse for him from there.

Water continues to drip from your top, washed one too many times and threadbare. He can see the soft skin of your stomach and the flared curve of your hips. The white of your bra a beacon in the fading light, perfectly cupping the swell of your breasts. And, oh god— is that lace?

His dick jumps at the thought.

You, of course, are oblivious to Eddie’s state. Slotting the scabbard through a belt loop of your shorts, you turn, hair whipping wetly against your back, hands at your hips, and ask.

“You coming, or what?”

It takes him a minute to snap out of it. Muttering something under his breath (“Pretty sure I just did, thanks.”) before saying, “Uh, yeah. Just gimme a second.”

Eddie cannot believe he is at Steve Harrington’s house right now, and it's not to deal party favors.

But when you’d asked if he minded a stop back at the place you’re crashing at, he wasn’t about to refuse. Not when he got to ogle your legs as they worked the manual floor shift— calf muscle flexing and ankle rocking forward, thighs slightly damp from your dip in Lover’s Lake.

He swallows and shakes himself from his reverie.

You trot upstairs as toss over your shoulder, “Be just a sec!” Leaving Eddie to his own devices in the Harrington house.

He tentatively steps into the living room— two fire places, seems a bit much, but whatever— and spies a note on the sideboard underneath the cordless phone.

“So,” he asks over burgers later at the diner. “How do you know Harrington?”

And, to your credit, you don’t balk. In fact, you don’t even blink before tearing into your dinner. After you’d changed back at Steve’s place, you offered to take Eddie out to dinner:

“As a thank you,” You said, shoving your feet into a pair of boots. “Y’know, for checking on me at the lake.”

“No need,” He replied, mentally cataloging any potential blackmail he could use on Harrington. But, damn him, there were no incriminating childhood photos to be found.

There were no photos, period.

“C’mon, can’t my knight in shining armor go unrewarded, can I?”

He barely repressed a shudder at that, relishing in how raspy and low your voice had gotten.

“I could be persuaded…”

Which is how the pair of you wound up at the diner, chowing down on burgers and fries with a bit a flirty banter thrown in.

“Well Rhett,” You drawl in a near perfect imitation of Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett O’Hara, “I suppose you could call him a gentleman caller.”

Eddie only rolls his eyes, but you see a smile tug on the other side of his face.

You scrunch up your nose in laughter, “We’re buddies, he’s just letting me crash with him when I’m in town.”

“Regular ne'er do well, are you?”

A snort.

“Gee, thanks.” You slurp from your soda, “Nah, just get called away for work a lot.”

He nods amicably, questions answered for the moment. You take another bite and watch him do the same. Casually, you shake the ketchup bottle and squirt out a few dollops on to the wax paper of your basket. Then, you add a few globs of mayonnaise and mix them together with a fry before popping it into your mouth.

Immediately, Eddie balks with a cough and sputter. You start laughing so hard you drop the few fries in your hand all over the table. “I can’t do it.” He groans, waving to your dip of choice, “This isn’t right. This isn’t what God wanted.”

“God is dead, bitch.” You reply, with a grin and signal for the check.

Rolling up to Forest Hills, you eye Eddie as he pinches his nose. He has feel the worst headache of his life coming on and the oddest trickle in his nose.

He leans his head back against the headrest and you see the trickle of blood making its way toward his lips.

“Hey, lean forward not back.”

“What?”

A sigh. You keep one hand on the wheel and wind the other behind him to press on his upper back, “You lean forward for a bloody nose dude, not back.” A slight push as you drive through the trailer park. “Breathe through your mouth and spit out any blood.”

“I’m not gonna spit blood in your car!”

“She’s seen much worse, trust me.” After checking that Eddie is with the program— he valiantly rolls down the window and elects to spit out of the car instead— you take your hand back and keep an eye out for his place.

He points it out soon enough and the pair of you hustle into the trailer before the sky cracks open with a roll of thunder and a deluge of rain. Grabbing the sword from your backseat, you meet him on the porch as he fumbles with his keys.

Ushering him inside, you toss the relic onto the sofa and beeline for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Finding an old bottle of ibuprofen, you pop the top and quickly fill a glass with water.

“Ed?” You call out, not sure if he fell into a heap on the sofa or wandered elsewhere.

“Bedroom.”

Following the sound of his voice, nasally from pinching his nose, you round the corner and find him sitting on his bed. The bleeding from his nose seemed to dissipate, and you handed him the water and four pills.

“If your head isn’t better, take another dose of four pills in eight or so hours.”

He nods and swallows the pills with a slug of water before collapsing back on the bed with a groan. His chest rises and falls slowly as he takes a deep breath. And you hate to leave him like this, you really do, but Salvation, Iowa is a calling.

“I’m sorry Eddie, but I’ve gotta go to work. Are you gonna be okay? Is there someone—”

“Wayne, my uncle. He’s at the plant, but he’ll be back tonight.” He breathes out, “Go, go, I’ll be fine.”

With a sigh, you stand back upright and begin to untie his shoes. “It’s bad enough you’re gonna pass out in your jeans, over my dead body are you sleeping with shoes on.”

“Okay boss, whatever you say,” He croaks out.

“Can I leave something here for safe-keeping?” You ask, grabbing a nearby blanket to toss over him.

Eddie cracks an eye open, “Your sword?”

With a smile, you tap the side of your nose with a finger and point at him. “Got it in one, my man.”

He grins at that, “Sure girly, I’ll keep your sword and sheath.”

“Thanks,” You say with a chuckle. “See you later alligator.”

Eddie gives you a half-assed wave, “In a while crocodile.”

Monday, August 19, 1985

Eddie’s got a battered notebook on one knee and an ashtray balanced precariously on the other, clad in, wait for it— Garfield boxers that have seen better days. You’d nearly seen his dick twice and hadn’t even been there for half an hour.

“So what’s your deal?” Eddie asks from his position on the couch.

You sit back and pretend to busy yourself with cleaning your knives because the heat crawling up your neck is about to choke you blue.

Returning to Hawkins after a few weeks working on the coast— wailing women, wendigos, and shifters, oh my— you’d pulled up at Eddie and Wayne’s trailer certainly looking a bit worse for wear. So, after a shower and saying so-long to Wayne as he left for work, out of a lack for anything better to do you began to clean your knives. Which were disgusting, covered in dried, caked on blood and god knows what else.

“What do you mean?” You ask back from the sink, running warm water over your hunting knife, mindful not to catch the gut hook with your fingers— wouldn’t want to be put in a position to explain why your own blood was a rather unusual color and viscosity.

Eddie takes a sip from a lukewarm beer and pulls a face. “You know what I mean,” He says, rising from the couch. You squirt some dish soap into your hand begin to work it onto the blade.

“You leave for work, are gone, for like over a month,” He sets the empty can on the counter. You can feel the heat radiating from his body as he leans next to you, and exhales. “You call from Oregon, California, and Colorado but never say what it is you’re up to,” Eddie cocks his head in your direction, inquisitive, “Or when you’ll be back. And then you roll up tonight with no notice looking like hell warmed over.”

“You forgot something.”

“Yeah? Do tell.”

So, you groan, because he’s hounding you and after a month and some change it’s bound to happen.

“First of all, my gig isn't as exciting as you think it is.” You mutter, scratching your nail against a particularly stubborn glot of viscera, finding the task a distraction under his persistent gaze. “And secondly, you forgot that I left a sword with you.”

“Right,” He laughs, “How could I forget that?”

“It’s, um,” You cut the water and let the blade soak, watching as it floats lazily to the bottom of the sink. “Well, y’know the Arthurian legends and stuff. The Round Table and all of that?”

“Uh, sure.”

“So,” You sigh, a knot of tension working its way to the base of your skull, and breathe out in a rush, "The sword shoved into the back of your closet is kindofExcalibur?”

Eddie, silent as the grave, stretches to open the topmost cabinet above the sink. You watch with idle curiosity, noting how the hem of his shirt rides up to expose his stomach. Before you can get distracted by the whisper of hair trailing beneath the band his boxers, he returns with a handle of whiskey.

“Yeah, I’m gonna need something stronger for this explanation.”

But you tell him, truthfully and genuinely. That you’re a kind of hunter of sorts, for lack of a more apt term, dealing predominantly with the supernatural and otherworldly, an exorcist when needed, and master of the hidden arts—

(“Like, magic?”

“Sure.”

“It’s real?!

“Uh, in a sense.”)

—You’re a lone wolf. The last of your kind. And, as a result, your work takes you all over the world with little to no notice. A nomadic existence is normal for you, or, at least, it was until passing through Hawkins back in ‘83. Something or someone kept drawing you back whenever you had the time.

By the time you're finished with this rambling explanation, Eddie's had a few drinks.

Well, maybe more than a few.

“I think I’m gonna vomit.” Eddie whispers. He sets his glass down on the formica table, feet kicked up on the chair between you. “How’re you not as drunk as me right now? You’re not even tipsy!”

You snort whiskey into your lungs in the middle of his lament and spend the next five minutes with your insides on fire. Eddie has his head in his hands and there are tears coming out of his eyes from laughing at your predicament.

Turns out, you didn’t have the heart to tell Eddie that the only thing that could get you remotely sloshed is rosewater.

Saturday, September 21, 1985

Three blinks on the clock when he’s pulled from his bed and dragged into the living room. Eddie had been given roughly thirty seconds to pull his pants on and sit on the sofa before Harrington nearly kicked down the door. There are a million words a minute being thrown around and he’s vaguely aware of a knife being strapped onto your ankle.

“St-stop!" He sputters, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, "Constantine! Cut it out!”

“Angel…” Steve warns, taking the blade from you. You’re already geared up, raring to go.

You relent with a pout, walking across the room to lean against the far wall, dressed in a cropped Hawkins Athletics shirt and sweats as you watch Eddie fumble stupidly, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His elbow knocks into the table, ankle twists when he tries to stand up. It’s a nightmare and Eddie’s about to burst into tears.

“—so how’s that sound?” You point to the table with yet another knife (where did you get that?), papers scattered about as if he’s caught anything you’ve been saying. Eddie’s still chasing off sheep in his brain. “We can swing in tonight, grab the intel, take out hostil—” his eyes shut.

“Babe,” Eddie sighs, using a common pet name to address you. He hopes it’ll get you to let him off the hook, “It’s… so late. Early? Steve is already up. I wanna go back to bed.”

“But there’s a—” He can’t keep up. The vocabulary is beyond his comprehension when he’s on the verge of curling up into the fetal position under the table. You’re spewing words like the spear of destiny and reconnaissance, but he swears you’ve just said take out hostiles, too.

At this point, he’s about to snap—the despair churning into rage. It’s not his fault; he’s a mess in the mornings. “It is three in the goddamn a.m. I need at least six more hours before I can function. Can someone please explain to me, in tiny words, why I’m being accosted in my own home?”

There’s a beat of silence before Steve pipes up, prying the latest knife you’ve procured from your fingers.

“She wants to go with you.” He deadpans. “Wants to make out with you in the impala. Wants to touch your butt. Wants to fuck your brains out.”

A grin stretches across his face while you and Eddie look on, shocked. For the first time in ten minutes, Eddie’s eyes are wide open while yours have shut tightly, clenched like you’re trying to will the moment away.

“Small enough words? I can go smaller.”

“W-what…”

“She. Likes. You.” He punctuates with claps.

“Steve!”

“But you— and her— How—?”

“Don’t think about it too much.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “We try not to.”

Eddie whips around to stare at you, flinching at his questioning mouth. Steve cackles and cracks his knuckles, whistling about how his work here is done and makes his exit, stage right, kissing you loudly on the mouth as he goes. Left alone now, you bashfully hide behind your hands as Eddie blinks at you owlishly. “S-sorry about… that.”

Wide awake and practically on fire with the slew of information, Eddie feels strangely refreshed. A grin matching Steve’s earlier one makes its way over his lips as he swings his arms and steps until he’s next to you. “Sugar…” He croons, “If you wanted to touch my butt, all you had to do was ask.”

He wiggles his fingers.

“Honestly, babe? I’ve been waiting for you to touch my butt for months.”

The only way you can convince Eddie go is by having Steve tag along. So, you’d rolled up to the dilapidated barn, and he wasn’t sure exactly how many weapons you’d strapped to yourself, just knew that it was a lot and he was incredibly turned on by it.

Given strict instructions by you to stay out of sight with a wink directed at Steve, you’d kissed both of them goodbye and walked inside. Not five minutes later, Steve was climbing out of the front seat with a bat and popping open the trunk.

“Dude,” Eddie hissed, “She said to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve mumbles, rifling through the chaos of the trunk. “Stay out of sight, which is do-able. We’ll just sneak up to the loft…”

Eddie rolls his eyes, and thinks he can’t be serious.

“Ah, gotcha!”

The trunk closes with a soft thud and the next thing Eddie knows, Steve’s opened his door and hauled him out of the car. Setting him back on his feet, Steve smooths the creases from where he’d grabbed Eddie’s shirt.

“Okay Munson,” He says, eyes glancing toward the barn. “We’re going to head in there, slow and stealthy,” Hands him a bat with nails ran through it. “Use this if things get dicey.”

He grips the bat. “What about you?”

Steve produces what can only be described as a heavily modified shotgun from behind his back. There is an honest to god crucifix on it, and a flashlight. Eddie struggles to pick his jaw off of the ground.

Casually, he loads the slugs into the rotating cylinder. Deeming it a job well done, Steve doesn’t even wait for Eddie as he walks toward the ladder leading to the hayloft.

“What even is that thing?” He asks once he’s caught up to Steve, who’s currently making his way up the ladder.

“The Holy Shotgun? S’what it looks like Munson.”

Eddie can only shake his head and climb up after Steve.

He could scream.

Steve is seemingly unfazed.

This thing— a skinwalker, apparently, sneers and growls into your ear— a threat that makes your teeth gnash. He squeezes your throat between his forearm and his shoulder.

“Take one more step and I gut her like a fish.”

Ah shit.

They’d been found out, a couple of walkers lurking in the rafters attacked just as they’d ascended the ladder. So much for slow and stealthy, the second his feet hit the floor Eddie was swinging that bat like his life depended on it. And Steve actually had to fire that monstrosity of a shotgun, which was… well, hot, to be fair.

But you’d been distracted from the noise and had wound up disarmed by the skinwalker just below them.

Steve takes the step. Eddie’s eyes are about to pop out of his head when the hand not clasped on you lands the silver glint of a blade poised at your throat.

“Fuck! Don’t!”

“Go ahead.” Steve urges impassively, ignoring Eddie’s pleas. “Do it.”

Eddie doesn’t know because he’s still new to this. Because he hasn’t been with you for long. Hasn’t seen you close up in a fight yet.

He’s only seen the sweetness, only a tiny spark of a flame behind closed doors when you sidle up alongside him on movie nights with a shared blanket and chatter vehemently over the more objectionable parts of decapitation.

“There’s no way! Munson, are you seein’ this shit?” As you toss another handful of popcorn into your mouth, half of it ends up on your chest. “Severing the carotid artery? There’s way more fuckin’ blood than that!

Steve knows the bite and the bark. He knows the claws and the flashing teeth. So he steps again, his cheek dripping a splash of blood from one of the dead walkers. In the blink of an eye, you pluck the blade from your opponent's grasp and slide it home on the unsuspecting walker, and the dagger retracts, giving him a full showing of how it rips from the soft palate of your enemy.

Poor idiot, Steve thinks. Never stood a chance.

Eddie’s gasp breaks the silence, and the thud of the corpse follows.

“S-sweetheart?” He murmurs when you peer up at him. “Y-you okay?”

They descend the ladder quickly, leaving the bodies where they fell.

A grin. Wicked and all teeth— one he’s never seen. Steve slips his arm around your waist, pulls you in for a sloppy kiss, smudging the red from his face to yours.

Eddie’s own blood rushes straight down. Nervous. Aroused.

“She look okay?” Steve smirks. “‘Bout time you find out.”

You approach cautiously, not wanting to spook him. Drink in his surprised face when you rub your thigh over his groin where he grows. “Hey, Ed. Didn’t mean to keep you in the dark… just didn’t want to scare you away.”

Then, you push his head back into the wall, lick the blood out of your mouth and press into him with your whole body.

Eddie moans— quivering, whimpering.

He melts like butter against your lips.

Steve purrs. Poor guy, he smiles fondly, ravenously. Eddie never stood a chance.

November, 1985

After that, the tension melted away between the three of you, and things went back to normal.

Well, as normal as you could get when hunting things that go bump in the night.

As he’d come to expect, your work took you all over the place with little to no notice. A phone call would come through, either at his place or Steve’s, and you’d be off again, shouldering a worn bag and dashing off into the night.

It was an adjustment, both your penchant for abrupt exits and Eddie finding himself spending more time with the former King of Hawkins High.

When you weren’t crashing at Forest Hills, it was Loch Nora. Not that Eddie minded, per se, the Harrington’s had an abundance of space and seemingly no cares about whatever their only son got up to on his own.

But he couldn’t bring himself to coexist with Steve in your absence, it wasn’t like the two of them were exactly friends, shared Hellfire gremlins aside. So, like clockwork, as the sound of the impala’s engine faded into the distance, Eddie would grab his things and head home.

Which is how you found him on a bright autumn morning, sleeping away the day back at Forest Hills. You’d let yourself in with the spare key and tiptoed back to his bedroom.

Eddie, for all his high cheekbones and Raphaelite curls, is a complete disaster artist when it comes to sleep. Starfishes out so his lanky frame takes up each corner of the bed, tosses, turns, and is liable to kick on occasion.

Good thing bony elbows and knees aren’t a detriment to you.

The warm autumn sun lazes through the blinds as it pleases, shafts of light illuminating his exposed chest, dancing along his rib cage as it rises and falls with his breaths. Leaning on the doorjamb, you let yourself take it all in— the messy room, haphazardly “organized” books and records, bed clothes rucked down to his hips, a lone leg kicked out from beneath them, his foot grazing the floor as he sleeps.

Stepping further into the room, you quietly close the door and toe off your boots. The articles of clothing drop with each step you take— jacket landing in a thud by the closet, pants falling in a heap by the desk. Down to your shirt, underwear, and socks, you sidle under the covers alongside him, luxuriating in the heat that radiates from him.

Curling against his back, you rub your face against his shoulder blade, nose grazing against the fine hairs there. In sleep, he recognizes your presence, a deep contented sigh tumbling from his partially open mouth, body relaxing against yours.

A cold hand skirts down his torso, nudging him awake before it settles at his hip. Groggily, Eddie’s head turns toward you with a hum. Cracks one eye open in interest, his hand running down the back of your thigh and giving it a squeeze.

“Cold?”

At the rumble of his voice, that low rasp he gets just after waking, sent a ripple through you, a thrumming whirl along your skin and a surge of heat that pooled in your gut.

A nod against his back, your chilled hand curling at his hip.

He turns in your grasp with an, “Alright, c’mere, sugar.” Calloused fingers hiking your leg up and over his hip, drawing your chest to his at the movement. Your hand settles at his ribs, fingers ghosting along the notches of bone.

“Better?”

Head settling into his chest, you nod, desperate to eek out each ray of heat you could. Breathing in the familiar aroma of coffee, weed, and cigarettes cut through with a crisp note of soap and skin. As you lose yourself to comfort and your eyes begin to drift shut, Eddie cradles the nape of your neck, his thumb rubbing idly against the base of your skull.

It’s not often he gets to see you like this, relaxed and languid like a cat seeking out the sun. It’s even less often he gets to have you free of responsibility and obligation. And it’s a rare occurrence indeed to have you to himself.

“But you— and her— How—?”

“Don’t think about it too much… We try not to.”

And well, Eddie had done just that.

Up to this point, it had been kisses on cheeks, looped pinkies, clasped hands, a frenzied make out here and there, flimsy cotton giving way to the prodding of ring-clad fingers, breaths falling in percussive puffs from a spit-slick mouth, the furrow of your brow as you fell apart beautifully for him.

Eddie is well-aware he’s not the only horse in your stable, but that’s a conversation for another time. Right now, he is fully aware that you are blissfully pliant in his bed and his blood is steadily rushing south.

Nudges you towards consciousness by peppering kisses along your face—eyelids, cheeks, and nose while skillfully skirting past your lips to graze against the shell of your ear, “Missed you, angel.”

A small smile pulls at your lips as you open your eyes. “Missed you too, babe.”

His fingers traced your collarbones through the threadbare fabric of your shirt, caressing the dips and hollows. Arching toward him, your lips nearly brush, barely a breath apart. A faint sigh falls from your mouth as Eddie drags his lips against yours, kissing you so delicately your toes curled.

Eddie turns and lays you out beneath him. His fingers lace with yours as he dips down to kiss the breath from your lungs, languorous and endless. A delighted spark zips up your spine, a heady warmth enveloping your limbs. For there are few things in life that feel better than lying under a devoted lover.

As a general rule, he didn’t devote himself to much. Easier to cut and run with fewer strings attached, a thing learned time and again in his life. But that doesn’t diminish his desire to do so, at least, not when it came to you. And if he failed to notice the wisp of crimson thread knotting against his finger and looping him to yours (and subsequently Steve’s), who can blame him?

Stranger things happen every day.

Finally, Eddie drew his mouth away from yours, pupils so blown his eyes were nearly black. He slowly traces the swell of your breasts with a fingertip. His hips shift against your own in a slow grind. Buries his nose in your hair, breathing you in deeply as his fingers continue to wander down.

There’s a few beats of silence— heavy breaths and shuddering gasps as he blows a cool breath against the column of your throat. A ghosting of lips against your own, “G’na let me take care of you?”

You swallow thickly, “Uh huh.”

Fingers slip against damp heat, a soft curse escaping lips, a bruising kiss, an apt tongue. A canting of hips as clothes are shed, fervent and impatient hands caressing in the warmth of the autumn sun. Sweet nothings whispered against exposed skin: c’mon baby, feel good angel?

His voice vibrates through your chest, husky and low, in between sponged kisses along your throat and jaw. Lewd wet noises punctuated with bitten curses, groans, and whines of, “Eddie— Please, I—“

A wicked smile settles along his lips as he works you through it, fingers urging you toward the precipice. Molten lava swoops and pools low in your abdomen with each press and thrust of his hand. The sheer heat of it is near blinding.

“Need you,” You plead, grinding up against him, “I’m burning up.”

He bites back a groan in favor of crushing his lips against your own. His tongue slides against your own sweet and heavy with promise into the cavern of your mouth.

“S’okay, I’ve got you.” His free hand snakes along the column of your spine, freeing you from your shirt as a moan is pulled from you. “So fuckin’ gorgeous,” He whispers pulling back to look at you. You whimper in response, too far gone to process the compliment.

The pair of you are entwined like vines, his hand palms against the base of your spine. Your hand winds its way into his hair, gripping for purchase. His eyes fall shut with a moan as you slot your lips against his.

You rock up into him as you briefly part to toss the shirt elsewhere. The bra comes off swiftly in the effort to get your hot little hands back on him. Bumbling through a mantle of heat, as if you’re cursed by it. Burning away at the core.

Jesus wept– Eddie’s already slick with precome and throbbing with need. You pump him once and feel his groan rattle through your chest. Pulling your mouth from his, you stick two fingers in and sluice them up with spit, “Need to feel you,” You whine with a lingering kiss and a slow drag of your fist around his cock.

At this point, you honestly might explode.

Salvation comes in the form of a ragged thrust and choked gasp.

Eddie moans at your touch, hands dragging down his chest, and bites his lip, flicks his tongue over his teeth, and swallows thickly. You’re so hot. And tight. And wet. Tries to lessen his grip at your hips because it feels like he could honestly break you— holy hell— but soon enough he bottoms out in spectacular fashion.

Coming back to himself, he pulls back so that his cockhead catches inside your cunt. But before he can even catch his breath, you cant your hips up, lock your legs at the small of his back to pull him back in and he nearly loses his damn mind.

He’s never felt something so perfect before. Wave after wave of pleasure courses through punching the air from his lungs. And all he can do is ride it out— soft rolls of your hips against his quick fast bucks. Soft mewls and stuttering breaths filling the dappled sunlit room.

He repeats your name, like a penitent at prayer.

Your hands are everywhere. On his chest, his stomach, fingers hooking into his open mouth. And it is divine. His cock is entirely drenched in you and he swears he could come just like this, with you open and gasping beneath him.

Eddie memorizes the cherry wet of your mouth, the furrow of your brow, eyes rolling back and lost to pleasure. You’re a fucking vision, one that he’d be happy to supplicate himself to for the rest of his days. Rising up, his mouth finds your shoulder and bites at the glistening skin there. Eddie’s grip is tight at the nape of your neck, your entire body folded against him and pulled taut like a bowstring.

He kisses you desperately, tongue surfing into your mouth like an inferno. Shuddering against him, you’re startled as he walks his fingers closer and closer to the wet heat between your legs. “Come for me angel,” He purrs just as his thumb presses against your clit.

The tether inside of you snaps as you kiss him stupid— a blaze of white light. The inferno continues to rage as you let out a strangled pant, “Eddie.”

“There it is,” He bites against your jaw, “…Yes.”

"Fuck.” You blink the spots from your vision. God. Your entire body quakes.

Frantic circles against your clit and a few more sloppy thrusts, a demand of “Gimme all of it.”

He slams into you once more before the inevitable descent, your eyes screwing shut as you try to remember how to breathe. And it’s all Eddie can do to lick your jaw, push his tongue into your mouth, and work you through it.

An ephemeral, throbbing sensation falls from you. Slides right out to soak his thighs as he chokes on his own breath from the way you arch up and into him, your perfect tits pressing against his chest while your walls seize him like a vice.

When Eddie comes it's with an invocation of your name chased by an errant fuck or yesyesyes. It shatters him entirely, fueled solely by the desire to dive deep and spill into you. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, mouth open and gasping against damp skin.

And just like that, everything feels brand new. The world has sloughed from your shoulders and it's pure bliss in the comedown.

The whisper fate pulls taut— a nearly indiscernible thread of crimson looped for three.

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #fic: through me #stranger things fanfic #constantine!au #Spotify

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ineffectualdemon · 10 months

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I love the things that you learn as a kid only from other children

And some seem largely universal or at least exist across nations

Like the "secret s" you know the one:

This pointy bitch

Or skipping rhymes or urban legends

But I also love very regional specific ones

I don't know how common this one is but it existed in my elementary school and I have never encountered anyone who didn't go to my elementary school who knows about this:

We had a schedule for the days of the week. Each day had a name and a corresponding action to do.

I will warn you now that Friday is not good. Very misogynistic and upholding everything wrong in the patriarchy. Going to drop it all in a quote box so it's easier to skip Friday

Monday: Men's Day - the boys chased the girls

Tuesday: Toes Day - you had to try to step on people's toes

Wednesday: Woman's Day - the girls chased the boys ...it should be noted that for both this and Monday no one knew what you were supposed to do if you caught someone so if you were going to catch someone you'd generally slow down and let them get away. But at least there was equality in the chasing.

Thursday: Throw Up Day - ....we couldn't come up with a better rhyme but nobody wants to throw up so we just went about the day like it wasn't a special day. If someone did throw up on a Thursday though it was very satisfying

Friday: Flip Up Day - the very problematic day. The boys would try to flip up the skirt of any girl wearing one. Normally this was resolved by not wearing a skirt but 1. That shouldn't have been the solution 2. It didn't always work. Willy in 1st grade tried to flip up my shirt and I punched him.

It was unfortunately a early lesson in slut shaming because we did judge girls who wore skirts to school on Friday. Which ignored the fact that we were all actual children who might not have had control over our own wardrobes (ETA: also of course the girls should just have been able to wear whatever they wanted without having their skirts flipped up obviously. Though it is possible it was originally meant to limit when boys would try. Idk tho. Maybe it was a child version of the purge)

If anyone else grew up with this days of the week schedule at their school I'd love to know about it

Now problematic elements aside I am fascinated that this is something that older children passed down to younger children

This part of the human development of things you only learn from other children is so fascinating to me

Because like as an adult I know how to draw that s shape up above. But I never taught my child and when they came home telling me about the secret s they learned from their friends it filled me with joy

Children's secret mysteries and knowledge is fascinating

And it's fascinating how as parents we leave these things for our kids to learn from other kids to an extent, just like we did

#child development #parenting #kids

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ckret2 · 10 months

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hey ^^ I love your bill goldilocks cipher, and I was wondering why he possesses a female-presenting body. I am a huge fan of your art btw so don’t take this the wrong way, I just would love to know how you designed him!

The short answer: because he's canonically referred to with he/him pronouns.

The long answer: if you meet somebody who, at a first glance, appears to be anatomically female, and everyone refers to this person with he/him pronouns, you don't immediately know what's going on.

Maybe he's a trans man who's comfortable with his body the way it is as long as everyone around him still treats him as a man. Maybe she's a trans woman with really transphobic acquaintances. Maybe he's nonbinary, maybe he's genderfluid, maybe he's a drag queen who's dressed up for an event but not currently in character, maybe he's a he/him lesbian—you don't know, and it likely isn't your business.

There's only one thing you do know: whatever's going on here, it probably ain't cishet. This person has something going on that does not fit the gender binary. All you can say about him is that he's queer.

Bill's gender is triangle. This simply does not fit within humanity's popular ideas about the male-female binary. Whatever his sexual orientation is, it is not restricted to "only females/only males (as humanity defines femaleness/maleness)"—and so he can't possibly be heterosexual in a manner readily recognizable to human beings. Amongst Bill's own species, maybe he was the most cishet guy you've ever met, I haven't decided; but if you stick Bill amongst humans, regardless of how he sees himself, he'll look queer to us.

On top of that: stick Bill in a human body, and there's a disconnect between his self-identity and the shape he's wearing. Strangers will see him as something he's not: human. He feels trapped in a wrong-shaped form amongst people who think this is normal and what he feels he should be is strange—and if he ever explains that psychological weight of feeling wrong-shaped, the humans most likely to go "I think I get it" are the trans folks who know what dysphoria feels like.

I don't think Bill cares what pronouns humans give him; I think he's called "he/him" either because his human victims decided he sounds male-ish, or else because he consciously decided to take advantage of sexism by presenting himself as male to seem more authoritative. And I don't think Bill cares about the anatomy of the human body he's in; he could have been given any variety of genitalia, secondary sex characteristics, hormone balances, body fat distributions, etc., and he would have been equally uncomfortable in any because they're not a triangle. It makes no difference to him.

But it does something to you (you, The Readers In General): it makes you wonder about his relationship with his body.

Because we're speaking English on the Internet in the 21st century, you and I are participating in a culture that sees having both a vagina and he/him pronouns as Not The Default. It makes Bill look genderqueer-in-a-human-way, and that makes it easier to slide readers over to seeing him as genderqueer-in-a-nonhuman-way. It makes you think about queerness, about dysphoria, about nonbinary folks who defy the expected correlations between pronouns and anatomy without changing their bodies to make them "match."

This is the second or third time somebody's asked me why I put Bill in a female-presenting body. If I'd done the opposite, nobody would have ever asked me why I put Bill in a male-presenting body. Because that's "normal." And I want you to ask questions! I want you to think about Bill's self-image, his internal landscape, the gulf between who he is mentally and what he is physically.

Before I ever directly draw attention to queer topics, I can get folks primed to think about them and to understand that his body doesn't accurately represent his identity just by slapping a pair of boobs on him.

So I slapped a pair of boobs on him.

#anonymous #ask #about my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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genderkoolaid · 2 years

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was thinking about why marginalized people often use slurs in describing oppression. like in the phrase "magical negro", or using the term "cripple" or "tranny" when talking about how people see us. its not reclamation, it's more about specifically forcing the dominant group to face their bias.

bc when it comes to overt forms of bigotry, there isn't really the need to do this. the bigot will very directly tell you why they hate you- because you are a [slur], a stand-in for everything the believe about the group they hate (being unnatural, criminals, dirty, sinful, ugly, a drain on society, etc).

but generally those kinds of overt bigotry are harder to have in polite society, especially when the marginalized group in question has enough visibility and has been loud enough about their treatment that people have to acknowledge it. now, saying you hate black people or trans people or immigrants is a social faux pas, and people acknowledge that hating those groups is Bad.

but anything less than hatred is still looked over, because critically examining how our actions contribute to social patterns is Hard and requires abstract thinking, and it's much easier to just get rid of the most blatant forms of bigotry and wipe your hands of the whole nasty "systemic oppression" issue. overt bigots are bad, ostensibly because of their bigotry, but largely because they just are so gauche about it, you know? it's easy for Good Liberals in the US north to mock the gun-obsessed fat Southern man caricature who doesn't believe in climate change and says slurs, but they often get quiet and awkward if someone brings up the liberal white woman from New York who quickly locks her door when a Black man walks by her car on the sidewalk. She doesn't hate black people, so she can't be racist- there's a world of difference (in her mind) between herself and the Racist. even if, whether it's through gun violence on private property or calling the cops because she feels scared, a Black man gets killed because a white person's racist bias.

getting back to the original point about slurs: using them in this context forces people to recognize that all of that bias is the same. your racism, transphobia, ableism, isn't different just because you use nice words. dominant groups get uncomfortable when marginalized groups use slurs to point out their bigotry (i.e "you want me to be a good tranny") because it draws a direct connection between the blatant, socially unacceptable bigotry and the socially acceptable, low-key bigotry. a lot of times, society reacts to oppressed groups fighting for liberation by addressing the most obvious elements while allowing and encouraging the subtle elements, so that way they calm down and stop causing problems, but society doesn't have to meaningfully change. drawing that connection pulls the cover off of society. no more "but I don't hate immigrants so I'm not xenophobic!", because xenophobia isn't just ICE officers keeping kids in cages, it's also getting annoyed with people who have strong accents because why can't they just learn to speak English better and making every movie set in Eastern Europe have a blue filter so you know it's Foreign and Sad.

basically, slurs are used as a weapon to remind marginalized groups of every stereotype about them, and "put them in their place". but they can also be used to force polite bigots to face their own bigotry, blowing away the smokescreen of "only violent oppression is real oppression". There's a power to be found in bringing your issues into the light when the world would really rather you sit pretty and smile and thank it for doing the bare minimum while still making your life hell.

#m.#I'm just rambling but it was interesting thinking abt the reasons we do this #bc polite bigotry is so fucking annoying #ive always hated the conflation of violence w bigotry #and how people will insist they CANT be bigoted because they aren't literally a neonazi #also a lot of times ppl will complaining about how ''everything is bigoted now!!'' because they don't understand how sociology works #but that's another issue #racism #homophobia #transphobia #ableism #eugenics #transandrophobia #antiblackness

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mywitchcultblr · 1 year

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NSFW and the importance of AO3

My biggest concern if Twitter really die is nsfw artist and sex workers. Us NSFW artist has been betrayed time and time again by many platform who used to welcome us then spit us out once the platform is big enough or to bow down to advertisers.

TikTok censorship is beyond ridiculous

Pinterest wouldn't even allow topless art of a woman

Instagram too not that friendly to nsfw artist

Tumblr banned porn post 2018 and wouldn't hesitate to delete your blog

I'm not sure about pillowfort i heard it's allow nsfw but not as free as twitter? Correct me if I'm wrong tho i never use it

Facebook? Nah i wouldn't even bother.

There's Pixiv but it's not accessible for all people

Mastodon is still new and frankly many said that it has a steep learning curve

DeviantArt turned it's back both to both nsfw and sfw artist with their censorship (literally i see more and more artist who have to censor tits, cock, asshole and even pussy) and also their bullshit piece of shit AI generation + stealing from artist for their generator

Sites like Rule 34 and Hentai site are there but they are not really platform to grow your audience as an artist + too many art thief

Patreon I heard implementing more censorship? It's not social media but many artist using it

Poipiku is a Japanese platform and not all people are native Japan speaker

The fucking dystopian corporations like apple and Google ( and purity culture both in fandom and non fandom) keep sanitizing the internet and wiped out nsfw content for profit (it's not for protecting children or blah blah blah it's all for ads) kicking out all nsfw content creators from all platform they touch, forcing us to wander with no home to express ourselves. NSFW artist still have some wiggle room to thrive but I think sex workers have it harder to thrive on a more mainstream platform...

I know there's many sites for sex workers like for camgirl or whatever but mainstream sites that once more accepting of nsfw has been kicking down sex workers down to the curb again and again and again

If Twitter let's say goes down suddenly or gradually goes down and maybe banning nsfw... Artist will lost the last mainstream global platform that allow them to grow an audience as an nsfw artist

This for fandom nsfw artist who are not using site like poipiku and pixiv it left us with only AO3 to store our art

Yes you can post art to AO3 just tag it as art, literally it is the best safe haven for writing + art with it's mission to protect people creation, they even have lawyer and stuff to protect your rights + AO3 is super nsfw friendly literally you can upload anything that is legal within the USA law (that's a lot of things, thank God it's not based on my country Indonesia law or you wouldn't even see gay people kissing)

But AO3 is primarily used for fanfic + it's not a social media and shouldn't ever be a social media, it is an archive to preserve fanwork. It is fanwork library of Alexandria. The downside because it's not a social media and thus doesn't have features like chatting, algorithm and stuff is that it's harder for you to grow like in other social media. Let's say Twitter really gone if i want to post a series of comic/manga

Then i have to post the sfw/censored pages to Tumblr + post the nsfw page to AO3 it'll be a hassle for both me and my readers but it's possible

Still such a hassle and it'll be easier to just post to Twitter or when Tumblr still allowed nsfw

Also original artist will find it harder to gain audience faster on Tumblr and AO3 because both website are primarily for fandom. Like i can draw a sketch of let's say Anakin Skywalker and it'll get more traction than a fully rendered piece of original artwork

I mean it's possible but if you want to get traction easily as an original artist your art have to be godlike to be noticed amongst seas of fanart that the general public sees as more favorable... I mean you can try to build audience with doing fanwork and once you got big you can post more OG art

Still... It's easier to grow as an original artist on Twitter than on Tumblr or other platform...

Look yeah it's fun to see Twitter on fire but if it's really gone it'll be a disaster for nsfw creators/artist especially those who are making money from it to keep the roof above their head. I hope Twitter doesn't die tbh (I only made acc to see nsfw art, if Tumblr didn't ban porn i wouldn't even bother to use it or too many social media) also this situation brought back the reminder of AO3 importance as the safest and biggest archive especially for nsfw writers and fan artist that keep losing places to post their work, express themselves and earn a living

#ao3 #essay #discourse #fanwork #fanfic #fanart #twitter #capitalism #puritanism #pro ao3 #ao3 discourse #social media #writing #censorship #artist

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polarisdelphi · 4 months

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Back on posting old art I never posted, Frau Schneider, my beloved 🖤

I'm seriously considering turning her into a sticker and slapping it everywhere I need to remember something to do. Drinking water? Frau is there judging me. Writing? Frau is waiting. Sleeping at a decent time? She's at the clock, looking at me with hatred in her eyes.

Jokes aside, this was more of a try on stylized drawing, which I completely suck. Since I studied Schneider's face thoroughly once for another drawing, I figured stylizing him would be easier for me as a first try.

I love his nose HAHAHAHA that's my anchor on his likeness xD

Sketches, breakdowns on how I got here, what I thought on shapes and more on his features - and just general artist blabbering, down below!

It was born from these loose sketches:

And I do like the ~proper~ one too. Took a lot of screenshots of the video's making of to understand his mannerisms when ~in Frau~, and there's a big change between the video and the live versions.

Video is a proper, collected, older woman with a dark side from repressed unfulfilled desires, live one is a brute, angry, harshly dominant one. 100% angry all the time, taking her dogs for a walk 🖤

Keeping some harsh shapes on the first one 'cause we all know she's evil, and some more organic ones on the second one 'cause she's UNHINGED.

(Also, Frau's coat are a thousand little Edelweiss 'cause you know. Schneider, Austria, his wife hahahaha aaaaand I have roots from there too, so I decided to shamelessly slap Edelweiss everywhere xD)

Another interesting thing to note, was trying to keep the male proportions on a female presenting appearance. Because we all learn about better shapes for women, how they usually are ~smaller, softer and more delicate~ than males (please read with sarcasm) but Schneider is still a man in woman's clothing, acting like a woman. So I had to keep in mind what I'd draw if it was just him as himself - big hands, big feet, tall as a fucking tree, very large shoulders, toned arms and muscles, all that. No ~delicate~ features 'cause he's still a man, but in here he's a woman.

I'm not saying I succedeed. But it was a good first try :)

Given I have so many drag queen original characters, it's something I think it was nice to study and have in mind T-T

About his features, like I said, I studied him once 'cause I was trying to go for stylized Live aus Berlin Schneider illustration once, but all I got is: I can draw his likeness from memory now, that's it *cries in incompetence*

I said before, I'm not good at stylizing.

So, his key features are: very slim and small mouth, big nose (gods I love his nose, I'll always say that), kinda small eyes and there's almost no distance to his eyebrows (on the video they paint his brows to make a LOT more arched, almost like original Maleficent), longer face, big and square chin, sharp and high cheekbones. I figured if I kept all that in mind, I'd have his likeness.

That's what I used to go figuring out how to draw Frau like that :)

And why am I blabbering all this?

I just hope it helps other self-taught artists out there who have a hard time finding resources and see other people's drawings and go "oooh man how do I get there?" and the artist always go "I dunno just draw a lot and you will get there :)"

Yes, yes, draw a lot. If you don't practice, you won't learn. But there ARE tools, observation studies, drawing studies and a WHOLE lot of things you can learn from other people to get where you want to faster and easier - but most of these resources are, nowadays, behind a paywall. So I just figured I'll share what I learned and hopefully it'll help someone struggling with the same things I did less than a year ago ;)

#schneider #christoph schneider #art #stylized art #illustration #character art #I'm just having nonsensical fun at this point hahaha #I do pity enourmously my mentor #getting all these crazy unhinged people drawings to analyze #but hey I don't make the rules #frau schneider lives rent free in my head #and schneider too for that matter 'cause he's the reason why I remembered I can't live without music #rammstein #frau schneider

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outlaw-apologist · 1 year

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Just seen the Charles x micah's sister reader, very cute :) !! Could we get some headcannons for micah and his sisters relationship? Like do they get along ? Thank you :)

Thank you for requesting, anon! It's a nice spring day. The sun is shining brightly and the mountain looks beautiful. I'm listening to the birds while the deer eat my bushes. This is a perfect day to write some HCs, so let's get to it!

Micah's Younger Sister - Headcannons

- Micah loves his sister but his version of love is very skewed. We know by the stories he tells of Amos he doesn't seem too fond of his brother; however, the letter Amos sends Micah suggests Micah cares enough about his brother, (and thought his brother cares enough about him), to inform him that he was not hanged and that he's doing well.

- This suggest to me that Micah does have some love for his siblings. I think he would really love a little sister. Especially if the age gap is big enough because he can probably easily get her to listen to him and do whatever he wants.

- We know that Micah Bell the II was an awful father. If Micah's sister grows up with him, I can't see Micah ever protecting her from their father's wrath. However, I do think he would offer to teach her how to stand up for herself.

- I view this in more of a 'sibling unity' type of way. He's not doing it to protect her, but because he wants his siblings to be at his level. They grew up the same way and endured the same abuse. I think Micah might feel as if his siblings are the only people on earth who will ever truly understand him.

- He teaches her how to use a gun. Probably buys her a gun specially engraved. Of course, his sister has a wicked quick draw, taught by one of the finest gunslingers.

- I also think Micah would gift her a hat that looks similar to his. It would make him swell like pride to see her in his image.

- They hang out a lot! Neither of them would admit it but they're best friends. His sister is his little buddy.

- It's odd having a brother who doesn't like women but likes you. It fills her with a sense of pride whenever Micah treats her better while simultaneously disgusting her.

- They'll go into town to see a show together every once in awhile or do mundane things like getting their horses shoed or stocking up at the general store.

- Of course Micah's favorite activity to do with his sister is to put her to work so he can rob folk easier. This is all she's even know, so to them it's more like a hobby and they always end up having a blast!

- Micah is clearly very bitter Amos didn't stick by him. After Amos leaves Micah would immediately sink his teeth into his sister, figuring out how to make sure she stays by his side.

- Because of this she ends up in the Van Der Linde gang!

- Micah has ways of being charming. Charming enough to eventually make a massive gang of his own. His sister is much more charming than Micah could ever be. She has a unique perspective on life. Being the youngest child of an outlaw, and a woman in a time where she had no rights. She knows a good sense of humor can be a matter of life or death.

- The SECOND Mary-Beth asks her if she likes to read they're immediately best friends! Micah's sister opens up to the other women of the camp easily and creates fantastic relationships with them.

- Despite being friendly with all the women, Micah's sister would be very weary of the men. Of course, she's probably out robbing with them. Used to violent misogyny all her life, it's much harder for her to connect with them even when she spends so much time amongst them.

- Javier would be the first one she opens up to, I think. And it's his music that lulls her into a sense of security. Every time Javier sits down to play his guitar or sing she comes to sit near him and listen until one day she finally compliments him and they start a very pleasant conversation. It also helps that Javier has befriended many of the women in camp. This helps her trust him more.

- Because she hasn't been treated the best by her father or other outlaws, Micah's sister has more empathy. I also don't think she'd follow Micah's footsteps when it comes to racism.

- Dutch repulses her. She's noticed his lingering eyes. His 'compliments' towards her spoken with hot breath. How many times had she been around men who've looked at her that way? Too many. She tries to avoid him the best she can.

- But Hosea???? She's shocked at how fatherly he is. He's kind, wise, and one of the first people to sit down with her to try and really get to know her. I think Micah's sister would yearn for a father figure who is gentler and more human than her father ever was. She opens up to him and wishes he would replace her father.

- The blow-out fights start when she develops a sense of security within the gang. No longer does she listen to Micah. She stopped dropping everything for his beck and call. She's beginning to form a better sense of self. She's safe here, secure, no longer does she have to do what everyone else wants her to do. Obviously Micah isn't very happy and it starts fights.

- Micah assumes it's just a phase and so he drops the subject after they scream back and forth for awhile.

- It isn't until Micah notices that his sister spends a lot of time with Arthur that he becomes furious and jealous. He begins to feel like she's slipping away from him. Their fights become worse and more viscous His sister refuses to back down because she can't understand why Micah is so threatened by her happiness. She doesn't realize, from Micah's point of view, she's abandoning him.

- Eventually Dutch has to step in and tell them to cut it out because they're disturbing the camp's peace. Micah and his sister hardly speak to each other after that except to give the other a snide comment every once in awhile.

- Despite this I think both siblings would be very broken up about it. Micah will feel abandoned while his sister feels betrayed.

- After awhile they're put on a job together. Things go south pretty quickly and they both manage to narrowly escape. While hiding in the forest, struggling to catch their breath, they look at each other and burst out laughing. Neither Micah nor his sister ever talk through their issues with one another. They simply decide they're okay with each other again and resume talking as if nothing ever came between them. Forgiveness is their silent apology.

- Sometimes you just have to accept your sibling chooses a different path but that bond can still remain.

- If she ever gets hurt or shot, Micah will go ape shit!!!! He loves an excuse to slaughter someone. That paired with the threat of his final family member being injured? Oh he'll wreck havoc on the poor soul that decided to fuck with his sister.

- As the days go on and Micah's betrayal becomes more and more clear. Some of the gang start projecting their feelings for Micah onto her. Watching her with great suspicion. This would hurt her deeply. She doesn't want to lose her new family and she'll struggle with this a lot.

- If she falls in love with anyone from the gang, she knows it needs to be kept a secret. If Micah ever finds out.... She knows her lover will "mysteriously" go missing one day.

- I think during the final showdown she wouldn't choose Micah's side. She decides to choose whatever life she started building for herself. Micah destroyed the gang that made her feel loved and accepted for the first time in her life. She's furious with him and can't even look at him anymore. If her lover survives, she'll choose to stay with the lover.

- After a few years guilt will eat away at her and she'll return to Micah, joining his gang. Despite her 'betrayal' I think Micah would welcome her with open arms.

- At the end of the day they're just two lost souls who accept each other in a very raw humanity type of way. No one will ever know them the way they know each other. After everything Micah and his sister have been through together they will always end up in the same place again and again.

#Micah Bell #Micah Bell x reader #Micah Bell's sister #rdr2 #my writing #answered

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