#salem offers art
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nitten adoption day!
(psst, you can fill out an adoption form here)
#salem offers art#hilda#hilda netflix#hilda the series#hilda alfur#art#artwork#comic#fanart#illustration#digital art#clip studio#csp#hilda nittens#hilda fanart#> this is my first comic in AWHILE. first comic as in first fully fledged comic#> not just little doodles on ibis paint lol#> also begging of you to ignore the continuity errors if you see them. begging pleading#> and while i thought a long while about the writing i probably wasn’t listening to the correct things when drawing the whole thing out LMAO#> wither storm msm ost. funniest minecraft mods. horror games. really just polar opposite of this comic. oops
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i think if you tried to make Salem eat pre-war food he would scream and cry and piss his pants
#not art#he will eat a literal bug but if you so much as offer him a fancy lad snack cake he will explode into dust#oc: salem 6
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if Bonnie had her own “Aunt Jenna” which Bennett witch would it be?
I've been inspired! You didn't ask for a fic concept but here it is.
Emily had always been watching her descendant. She looked after all her kin through the years. The older Salvatore was too caught up in his own self pity to truly honor their deal. It was unfortunate knowing that she was partially responsible for her descendant knowing a vampire's wrath. There were thousands of Bennetts. She couldn't just watch over Bonnie but the teen stole most of her attention with Sheila dying and tapping into her powers. Emily couldn't resist using the power of a hundred witches to resurrect herself along with Jeremy Gilbert. Bonnie needed guidance and Emily was happy to provide it.
To Bonnie, it was strange having Emily in her life. The elder Bennett was more like an older sister than a mother. Emily would agree that she lacked a lot of mothering experience. Sometimes at night she would cry that she missed her children and Bonnie would comfort her. Because of this closeness, Bonnie agrees to go with Emily to Salem to better her magical knowledge. Neither Bennett witch expected Klaus to show up with Stefan.
Klaus was very satisfied with having his best mate, Stefan, by his side but he still longed to create more of his kind. He believed the world needed more hybrids. All his attempts were unsuccessful. He knew he needed a witch. He made plans to steal away Bonnie from Mystic Falls but discovers that she is elsewhere with another Bennett. Two Bennett witches to replace Maddox and Greta? Perfect. In Salem, the Bennetts reject Klaus' offer and a fight ensues with Stefan compelled to assist Klaus.
Upon hearing Emily cry out in pain, Bonnie stops and agrees to go with Klaus. Emily was her family. She wouldn't allow Stefan to drain her dry. Unlike Damon and Elena who were going crazy trying to track Stefan, Emily had another plan. She needed reinforcements. She travels the country recruiting Bennett witches to rescue Bonnie. When they arrive to retrieve her, they find Bonnie in Klaus' lap and she doesn't want to be saved.
The romance between Klaus and Bonnie was not immediate. His seduction of her was slow, far slower than he would have liked. From the moment he saw her in Salem, Klaus knew that he wanted to taste Bonnie's blood, her skin, her lips more than anything. Despite being even younger than Greta, Bonnie was unimpressed by his charm. Their magic lessons were more productive as every brush of their hands caused Bonnie's heart to skip a beat. Between their shared love for art history and Klaus' whispers of worship, Bonnie fell hard for the hybrid. She just hoped Emily wouldn't be too mad.
#bonnie bennett#klaus mikaelson#klonnie#the vampire diaries#tvd#bonnie x klaus#klaus x bonnie#rikkisinbox#anon ask#the originals#stefan salvatore#emily bennett
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THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 28
stranger things
eddie munson x reader
rated e
9k
spotify playlist
for @punk-in-docs
fem/witch/goth!reader, sweetheart!eddie, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, mutual masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, chasing, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, blood, aftercare, nightmares, strict parenting, panic attack, past child abuse and abandonment, semi-public sex, break-ups, running away, guns, fist fighting, everyone survives, suicide ideation, fighting and making up
Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird?
Weird weird?
He shrugged. He liked weird.
In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.
note: This is it, my dudes! The final chapter. No epilogue, because I don't think this story needs it. Thank you for all your comments, likes, and reblogs! Your support has kept me going. I'll post a masterlist directly.
28
Today’s volunteers had been abuzz with the news of Chief Jim Hopper’s miraculous return from the dead. The story was he’d uncovered a terrorist plot and worked with the government to thwart the radicals. Starcourt Mall had been the unfortunate backdrop of the confrontation.
It was also unfortunate a surviving radical had recognized Hopper. Since Hopper had been in danger, he’d been put in a protection program until the threat had been eliminated.
Rumor had it he’d been involved in defeating the rest of these radicals, who had something to do with Hawkins National Laboratory.
You didn’t bother to point out the specific government agency had been conveniently omitted. Same with the terrorist organization. Over sandwiches in the courtyard, Steve said Hawkins Lab had been closed for over a year when Starcourt’s fire occurred.
Nevertheless, while there had been casualties at Starcourt, they’d been few. Everyone considered Hopper a local hero.
A few volunteers discussed Eddie, too. They felt sorry for him and insisted they’d never believed those ugly rumors. Eddie was an orphan who’d been taken in by his uncle Wayne. Wasn’t that sad? Why, they’d known Wayne Munson for years! Wayne was an upright person. A veteran, too. There was no way he would’ve tolerated Devil-worship under his roof.
Those horrible classmates — bullies, really — must’ve targeted Eddie because he was different. Being different wasn’t a crime! Besides, Eddie had never hurt anyone. He performed at The Hideout with his little band all the time. One volunteer knew The Hideout’s owner, Cliff, who said Eddie was a good, if weird, kid.
You’d nodded and hummed in agreement while sorting donated home goods. There was no point in calling them hypocrites. Perhaps some of them weren’t. You wished you’d gone to that town hall meeting with your parents. Then you’d be able to pick out the liars.
On the way home in Steve’s car, Robin turned in the front seat to face you.
“You know, people want to be on the winning side. They like to think of themselves as smart enough to know who’s telling the truth.”
“But they were blinded by fear,” you said in agreement. “And looking for someone to blame.”
Steve said, “Like the pilgrims burning all the witches in Salem.”
You and Robin shared a look. He was close enough.
“Yup,” she said.
He appeared proud to have contributed to the conversation.
Robin rested her chin on her forearm.
“Eddie’s lucky you found him before anyone else.”
“Outside of the military, yeah, I guess.” You offered a bitter grin. “Who knows what they would’ve done to him if he’d survived Vecna.”
Though you don’t think he would have. Most likely, he would’ve dropped dead with the rest of the hivemind. If you hadn’t died from taking part of Vecna’s curse earlier, you might’ve shared that fate.
Steve said, “God, I’m so glad that fuckface’s dead.”
“Me too.”
“Me three,” Robin said with a grin.
Once at Steve’s, you three talked about dinner. Steve had pulled everything this morning to make a pan of baked ziti with roasted broccoli on the side. Robin made a disgusted face at the mention of a vegetable. You laughed at her scrunched nose and tongue poking out. Robin exclaimed eating broccoli was like eating green farts while Steve opened the front door.
Classical music played from the sunroom’s stereo system.
“Hey, Munson,” Steve said, projecting his voice as he tossed his keys into the bowl on the foyer table.
The music cut off, leaving a silence that felt as if you needed to pop your ears.
Robin kicked off her shoes and hung her jacket on an empty hanger in the closet. She reached for yours as Eddie jogged across the living room.
“Hey, good day?” He didn’t wait for a reply as he said to Steve, “I know this is a pain in the ass, but would you take me to my van? I want to do it before it gets dark. It’s on Coal Mill.”
“Dude, I gotta start dinner.”
Robin held up her hands when Eddie looked at her.
“No license. And the last time I tried to cook in that kitchen, I almost set everything on fire.”
Steve smirked.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“Yeah? Tell that to your smoke detector that wouldn’t shut up for fifteen minutes.”
You snorted to hide the pang at being Eddie’s last choice and shrugged your jacket back onto your shoulders.
“I guess that leaves me.”
With a pat to your pockets, confirming you had your wallet and keys, you left the house. Eddie bumbled out the front door a minute later, swinging on a navy sport coat that was a size too big. It clashed with his green track pants and untied blue sneakers.
You kept your comments to yourself as you unlocked your car and got behind the wheel. Eddie sat in the passenger seat as you started the engine. The stereo came to life. The Sisters of Mercy simmered through the speakers. You hit the power button, cutting them off.
Sounding amused, Eddie said, “I haven’t heard that in a while.”
“I was in the mood for them the other day.”
“You can turn it back on, if you want.”
“No, it’s fine.” You shifted the car into Drive. “How do I get to Coal Mill?”
“Uh, take a left. We’ll go the back way.”
You nodded and pulled onto the street. He tied his sneakers. At the first intersection, he directed you to go left. The evening sun’s golden light flickered between the trees. This far from the nexus, the woods appeared unaffected by the poisonous ash. You mentioned it. Eddie asked how downtown was faring.
You lifted a shoulder.
“It’s like a war zone and a natural disaster had a horrible, mangled baby.”
He laughed. “Vivid.”
“There’re construction crews all over, and the school gets dusty overnight. We have to cover everything with sheets before we leave. People sleep with masks on.”
“What a nightmare.”
You nodded as you passed the turnoff to Sattler’s Quarry.
After that, the road narrowed and twisted. Eddie navigated you through more intersections and over train tracks. You passed farmhouses with fields of growing corn and pastures for cattle. He had you take a road into the woods where squat houses sat close together.
The road dead-ended with Coal Mill Road T-ing into it. Behind the houses, sunlight reflected off rippling water. He advised you to park in the gravel at the side of the road; his van wasn’t far. You found a wide, flat section and stopped the car. The peaceful neighborhood didn’t seem the place to stash a van.
You then recognized the house reflected in the rearview mirror as the one from the broadcast identifying Eddie as a suspect. That had been a shitty day. Even for you.
Eddie opened the passenger door. You blinked out of the memory, unlatched your seatbelt, and got out of the car. He was quiet as you came to his side. His grim face had you reaching for his hand.
He stiffened at the touch.
You recoiled and looked away. Rather than the quiet hurt you expected, though you were hurt, this white-hot feeling spread through you. Your jaw locked and vision narrowed. Each inhale became deliberate. You wanted to claw at his pretty face.
“Okay, what the hell is your problem?”
That pretty face became dismissive, and he stepped onto the road towards the woods.
Over his shoulder, he asked, “What do you mean, what’s my problem?”
“You’re…” You struggled to find a word as you followed, but the only one came. “Skittish. I don’t know.”
“I’m not skittish.”
A few yards down from your car, he separated two shrubs to reveal parallel tire ruts in the grass.
“You are!” You waved a hand at his back. “You are. You won’t sit next to me. You won’t touch me. Not that I expect you to be all over me, but you don’t reach for me.”
He stepped between the shrubs and held one back for you.
“I—”
“I take your hand, you flinch.” You tramped into the underbrush and onto a rut. “I sit next to you, you make sure there’s plenty of space between us. I make a move, and it’s always wrong.”
“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, letting the shrub go.
“Really?”
He went to the other rut. You stopped to glare at him.
Did he not see the irony of maintaining four feet of distance?
“Really?”
“I…” He frowned, though he continued walking. “I don’t want to crowd you.”
“Eddie, you’ve had your dick in me.” You resumed walking. “And I’ve never pushed you away.”
In fact, you had only pushed him away when he’d been under Vecna’s control. When it was just the two of you, the thought never crossed your mind.
He sighed.
“I’ve needed space.”
“Then tell me that. I don’t want you to feel pressured.” That heat inside you vanished. “You’re not obligated to… to do anything.”
“No, it’s not that.” He stopped and glanced at you. “I haven’t felt like myself since…”
“Yeah.”
“No, not like— It’s like…” He sighed again, his face twisting up. “There’s this emptiness.”
What could you say to that? You wouldn’t diminish his experience by saying plenty of people felt that. His was different. It wasn’t anything one could ignore or fill. You remembered dissolving into silence, and how it had swallowed everything.
You said softly, “Like a hunger.”
He met your gaze. In the sepia light and dusty shade, his brown eyes appeared darker and more vulnerable than you’d ever seen them.
“I don’t want it to touch you.”
You shook your head.
“It’s not a stranger.”
He looked away, into the trees, chin quivering. The tip of his nose turned pink. You wanted to kiss it, kiss him, make it better somehow. You took a hesitant half-step to take his hand, at least, but he walked farther into the woods.
With a deep breath, you followed a couple paces behind. The ruts curved around a dead pine and disappeared behind a thicket. Eddie knelt at the far side of the pine to dig into the rust-colored needles. An old camouflage net covered his boxy van from roof to tires.
You pushed up your sleeves while circling the van.
As you came around, he said, “Look, I know you’re too smart to believe the shit Vecna said.” He pulled something from the needles. “But I want… I want you to hear it from me—”
“Eddie.” You shook your head again. “That’s—”
“No, let me get this out. Every shitty thing he said — I said — was a lie.” The metallic jingle of keys punctuated his statement. “I don’t believe any of it. I never thought it.”
While you didn’t doubt Eddie, there was a part of you that wondered if Vecna was right. You were privileged. Your parents could afford to send you to any college. They’d even set up a savings account for you. You didn’t have to worry about a part-time job. You had a car. You’d been protected from the banal cruelty in the world. You’d taken so much for granted over the years. On top of that, you were a witch.
He straightened and looked at you.
“I don’t know how to prove it. All I got is my word.”
“No, no, I believe you,” you said, holding up your hands.
“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“What?”
“You saved me, sweetheart.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “Kinda feels like a blood debt.”
You grinned.
“Is that a real thing?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I don’t know, but, Eddie…” You drew closer to him. “You owe me nothing. You’ll never owe me.”
The keys rattled in his hand. His gaze darted away.
You continued, “I know what I did spooked you, but I did it because I love you. And it’s okay if you don’t…”
You couldn’t finish the sentence. It was hard to breathe or think or control the swelling sob in your chest. A tear rolled down your cheek, and you swiped it away.
Eddie’s head tilted in sympathy, lips thinning. He stepped near and offered his empty hand. It was the first time he’d done that in days.
Your vision prismed with fresh tears as you grasped his hand. The callused pads of his fingers scuffed against your skin. Your sob transformed into a long exhale.
“Vecna took you from me,” you said, and sniffed back the wet clog in your nose and wiped at your eyes. “I did it because you’re mine. Because he hurt us — hurt me.” You barked a laugh. “Now that I say it out loud, I hear how fucking selfish I am.”
You met his red-rimmed eyes. He shook his head like he couldn’t accept you were selfish. Regardless of his belief, you were, but you’d try not to be with him.
You whispered, “Even if we don’t stay together, you’ll never owe me. You’ll always be special to me.”
He tugged you near and put your palm on his sternum with his hand covering yours. His chest rose and fell because he’d pushed Vecna out, because you’d brought him back. That was something you’d never regret.
His voice was a hoarse whisper as he said, “I love you too, and you didn’t spook me. Don’t… don’t hide from me.”
As gently as you could, you said, “I’m not the one who’s been hiding.”
He stared at your stacked hands.
“Jesus Christ, I’ve been fucking up so goddamn bad.” He shook his head, his hair obscuring part of his face. “I hadn’t protected you. God, I actually hurt you. I can’t give you what you deserve. I can’t even fucking graduate.”
If his last statement was an obstacle, you would’ve tripped over it.
He couldn’t graduate? That made no sense. Nothing was official yet, of course, but Dr. Owens hadn’t balked at the party’s insistence of all the seniors graduating. Had no one told him? Hadn’t it been mentioned in conversation?
“Wait,” you said, trying to remember if anyone had brought it up.
He watched you from under his bangs, eyes so fawn-like, a little furrow between his brows.
You said, “I thought Steve told you about the party’s demands.”
He angled his head.
“No…?”
“One was all the seniors graduating, regardless of standing.” You took hold of his coat’s lapel. “What did you have in O’Donnell’s?”
“A low D.”
“D’s passing.” You grinned. “You’re graduating, anyway, but you passed her class. That’s all you needed, right?”
His eyes went wide and lips parted as he nodded. You glanced at his full bottom lip while scraping your own between your teeth. You hadn’t kissed him in ages.
You stepped closer and slid your hand from his lapel.
“Congratulations,” you said before rising and pressing your lips to his.
He gasped. His lips dragged against yours. Then he jolted, pulling away.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Why would you hurt me?”
His gaze slithered from your lips to your neck to the neckline of your shirt in an invisible touch.
“What if I lose control?”
You studied his worried face in the dimming light.
“Is it the emptiness?” you asked.
He nodded, casting his gaze to the side.
You remembered how predatory Eddie had looked with the MP’s blood on his chin. That hadn’t been Eddie. Not entirely. That had been the hivemind of bloodthirsty carnivores.
“Is it…” You didn’t know how to be tactful with this. “Do you want my blood?”
His tongue worked in his mouth, licking his canine, before he said, “I don’t know.”
You cradled his jaw over the scar and eased his head forward. His focus remained to the side.
“Please, look at me.”
His irises swung to meet yours. A flicker of sunlight illuminated them cinnamon sweet. His dark lashes fluttered as he blinked.
“I know you don’t want to hurt me,” you said. “But if you want to try—”
His posture went rigid as he shook his head. His hand pressed yours tighter to his chest.
“No.”
You pressed on.
“If you want to try my blood, I’ll let you.” You grazed the corner of his mouth with your thumb. “I’m not scared.”
He closed his eyes, mouth pinching and brows furrowing.
“Honey, don’t be scared.” You stroked his cheek to his clenched jaw. “It’s just me and you here.”
“Yeah, it’s just me and you.”
You sighed.
“What, you think you can kill me? You think I’d let you? You think I don’t know my limits?”
He opened his eyes, which blazed with anger and frustration and panic.
“What if I don’t know mine anymore, huh?”
Gritting your teeth, you said, “Then we’ll discover them together.”
With your hand on his chest, you pushed him towards the van. He bumbled backwards, dropping the keys. His back collided with a dull clunk. You slid your hand from his chest to the van, boxing him in, and pressed your front along his.
“Fucking trust me.”
“I do.”
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
He nodded, throat bobbing with a swallow.
“Are you sure?”
Again, he nodded.
You closed the distance with a hand on his nape. He angled his head, lips moving counter to yours. The kiss stole your breath and thought. You ravaged, biting his bottom lip. His hands cupped your ass and drew you against him. He plundered, groaning as your tongues slid over each other.
Teeth scraped your lip, yet it didn’t frighten you. Let them break skin. You didn’t care.
Trembling hands snuck under your shirt. He pulled at your waist, making your back arch. You mewled into the kiss and plunged your fingers into his messy hair. His tentative palms skimmed up your back.
You shivered as your nipples pebbled.
You broke the kiss to whisper, “Touch me. It’s okay. I trust you.”
His eyes gleamed as he drew his swollen bottom lip between his teeth. He spread his feet and maneuvered you between his knees. The firm mound of his erection pressed into your belly. He trailed his hands down to your ass. His fingers met at the central seam of your jeans.
“You’re so hot here.”
“Because of you.”
He caught your lips in another kiss. You gripped his hair as the woods went fuzzy. His hands, more confident, skated up your ass, under your shirt, and up your sides. Cool air swept over your skin. You inhaled as he found the band of your unsexy bra. The earlier work at the school hardly warranted anything fancy.
Eddie didn’t seem to mind. A hungry noise came from his chest as he fondled the underside of your breasts through the bra. He sucked on your bottom lip, and the sensation flowed through you like water. Your nipples tightened further. Your cunt clenched.
“God, you’re so soft.”
You caressed the warm skin at his nape, saying, “I’ve missed you.”
Without waiting for a response, you kissed him. His fingers dragged across your breasts until he pinched your nipples between his thumbs and sides of his palms.
You gasped at the wicked frisson, angled your face up to catch your breath, and writhed. You pressed your hips to his, the thick seam of your jeans rasped between your legs. He rocked his erection against you. New heat zinged down to your toes.
Voice husky, he said, “Fuck, I missed you, too.”
He kissed the side of your neck. Each kiss became more open-mouthed. His tongue moved as if he tasted more than your skin. He pulled his sharp teeth across the big tendon in your neck, like he was teasing you both. The threat of a bite had your heart beating double-time and eyes rolling back.
He pinched your nipples harder, making your lower body squirm from the ache. You kept your chest and neck still as you waited to feel what he’d do. He groaned and mouthed his way to the artery under your jaw. He sucked hard at the skin there, mouth scalding.
You gasped at the delicious pain.
“Jesus,” he said between pants against the sore spot.
As his saliva cooled on your skin, you swooped down to kiss him once more. His tongue slid over yours as his hands left your breasts. You held his head in place by the hair, losing yourself to the decadent back and forth.
He folded his arms around you when you held his smooth cheek. There was no panic here. There were no monsters. It was only you and him, sharing breath and touch.
“How do you feel?” you asked.
“Good.”
You stroked his cheekbone.
“That’s all that matters.”
“I didn’t… freak you out there?”
“By giving me a hickey?” You smiled with a chuckle. “No.” You brushed your lips against his. “I like wearing your mark.”
His cheeks pinked further. He made a happy sound and buried his face in your neck once more.
“Gonna give me another one, baby?”
Muffled against your skin, he said, “I might.”
Tightening your hold in his hair, you pulled his head back. He looked at you with hazy eyes. His red lips parted, breaths shallow.
“Gorgeous,” you said.
His gaze drifted to the side. He wanted to shy away, but you wouldn’t have it.
“You act like I haven’t seen you, but I have.” You traced the scar on his jaw. “And nothing’s changed for me.”
He met your eyes, his own bright with conviction.
“Me neither, I swear, milady.”
You smiled at the endearment you hadn’t heard in too long.
“Then no more hot-and-cold, good sir.”
He nodded as much as he could.
“I’m with you.”
“No half-assed crap, either. I mean it, Eddie,” you said, relinquishing your grip on his hair and lacing your fingers behind his neck.
His spine straightened as if coming to attention.
“Whole-ass-ing it from here on out.”
“Good, I like your ass.”
“I like yours, too.”
His eyes lit with mischief, reminding you of the Eddie you’d first met. The one who quoted the Scorpions during roll call, who always answered the phone, who howled during concerts.
A hand gripped the underside of your ass-cheek and gave it a squeeze. It put to mind him holding you against the cold wall behind The Hideout and fucking you with hungry desperation. You wanted that with him.
“Wanna go home and prove it?” you asked with a quirk of an eyebrow.
He gave you a toothy grin.
“Absolutely.”
He didn’t release you, nor you him, despite the blue of the sky having faded to ginger and blushing violet. Rose-gold sunlight graced the tree tops. Once gentle shadows were now hard-edged and inky.
You liked the heat radiating from under his thin t-shirt and all the evidence he was alive. He’d survived. You had as well. He must’ve had a similar idea, because he surveyed you with loving eyes.
You swayed.
“Let’s go, Muffin Man.”
He groaned and let his head flop back.
“I swear to God, that’s adorable when we were high, but you cannot say that in front of our friends.”
“Not even—”
His head shot up.
“No.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” you said with an exaggerated pout.
“Oh, well, please continue, sweet lady.”
“I was going to say, not even—” You imitated his dramatics as you said, “The Muffin of Demonic Charm!?”
He laughed. “I only like the ‘muff’ part of that.”
You backed away with a giggle, sticking out your tongue. His hands went to the sides of his head, pointer fingers out, and stuck his tongue out at you.
You said, “You won’t get any part of that out here.”
He fluttered the tip of his tongue.
“Tempting, but no.”
He spread the sport coat and posed like a centerfold to entice, hip canting to the side and his chest arched.
“Oh, if only I had a camera, baby.” You found the forgotten keys amongst the pine needles and dead leaves. “You’d make Goodwill a lot of money in their annual calendar,” you said and tossed the keys at him.
He straightened to catch them, juggling them to his chest.
“I’ll have you know—” He swept his empty hand down his body. “—all of this is House of Harrington.”
“How chic.”
“Very exclusive.” He pointed to the corner of the van for you to help gather the netting. “Not just anyone can say they’ve worn Steve Harrington’s tighty whities.”
You laughed and lifted the corner of the netting.
Together, you uncovered the van. Eddie gathered the netting and kicked it under the thicket before going to the passenger door to open it for you.
“I’ll drop you off at your car.”
You thanked him and climbed into the stuffy van. The scent of old smoke, warmed plastic, and upholstery seasoned with boy invaded your nose. You rolled the window down halfway after he closed the door.
With a glance at the vacant back, you thought of Corroded Coffin’s equipment there. You’d seen little of Jeff, Gareth, or Dougie at school. You hadn’t asked Eddie if they still played at The Hideout. You hadn’t asked him about a lot of things. There was so much you’d missed since New Year’s.
Eddie opened the driver-side door and hopped in. He made a face, then rolled down his window.
He turned all the air-system controls off, saying, “Cross your fingers she’ll cooperate.”
He shoved the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine sputtered and whined and chugged until something aligned, and it roared to life. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, throwing you a laugh.
You smiled back and fastened your seatbelt.
He shifted into Reverse and maneuvered away from the thicket. The tires spun in the layer of pine needles and budding grass before finding traction. The van lurched forward. You hung onto the seatbelt and prayed the van wouldn’t get stuck. It was too old for off-roading. He steered onto the ruts, tires kicking up dirt as they bit into the earth.
Your prayers were unnecessary or maybe something out there listened to you, because a minute later the van was on the pavement and next to your car.
“Your noble steed, milady.”
With a smirk, you said, “I thought that was you, stud.”
He leaned in, eyes sparking.
“I’m at your beck and call.”
You bent close enough to feel his breath on your lips.
“Get me home, sir, and I’ll show my appreciation for your fealty.”
His eyes darted to your lips.
“I can do that.”
Tilting your head as if to kiss him, you said, “I know you can,” and moved away to unfasten your seatbelt.
His head drooped.
He looked at you when you opened the door, expression amused.
You said, “Don’t go too fast, honey, wouldn’t want to get pulled over.”
“Depends on who’s doing the pulling over, sweetheart.”
You smiled, shaking your head at the cheesy line, and left the van. His attention stayed on you as you crossed to your car, like fingers trailing down your spine.
Once in the car, you made a U-turn and followed him to Steve’s. Eddie was something of a lead-foot, but you could keep up easily. He parked in front of the garage at Steve’s. You stopped next to him and locked up.
He met you at your trunk and offered his elbow.
“Not too fast for you?”
You snaked your arm around his bicep.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
He hummed in agreement as he walked with you to the front door.
“Um, I know this is out of left field,” you said, “but I thought about the rest of the band. I hadn’t seen them at school, except in the hallways sometimes. Like, I don’t share any classes with Jeff or Dougie.”
“Last time I saw them was during the last Hellfire meeting.”
“Maybe you should call them? Now that your name’s cleared, it’s safe for all of you.”
“I don’t know…”
“They’re probably worried about you.” You squeezed his arm. “And unlike me, they can’t use magic to track down your ass.”
He bobbed his head once.
“I’ll call them tomorrow.”
“Good.”
You stopped him before he could make his way to the front door. He turned to you, gaze searching.
The blue hour painted him in shades of purple. Warm light from the porch sconces and nearby kitchen window caught in the waves of his hair. He was a fallen angel, halo stripped yet seraphic nature undeniable.
That felt like a line from someone more imaginative. You were no poet, though you wished you were.
Softly, he asked, “What is it?”
You shook off the thought and grinned.
“Nothing, I just… I just like you like this.”
He glanced at himself before giving you a wry look.
“In borrowed clothes with dirty hands?”
“No, butthead.” You jostled him by the arm. “I like you here — with me.”
That wry look disappeared. His eyes rounded, earnest and affectionate. He drew you in with a gentle hand on your nape and kissed you. His lips were tender on yours in silent relief, as though you’d surprised him. While he’d withdrawn after Vecna’s defeat, and you’d been uncertain about a future with him, you still loved him. That had never changed.
You threw yourself into the kiss, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Blood rushed through your veins. Your cheeks burned as the kiss deepened. His other hand clutched your hip to guide you against him.
It was easy to lose yourself with him. It was easy to love him, and he made it easy to let yourself be loved.
He cradled the back of your head like you were priceless. He held you like he couldn’t get close enough. The mark on your neck was a brand of sweet possession.
At an inevitable pause, you said, “Let’s go inside.”
“I can’t sit through dinner.” With a small shake of his head, he said, “I can’t wait.”
“Then we won’t. We’ll go straight to your room.”
“What about…?” He gave you a meaningful look. “Condoms?”
“I got it covered.”
“Sounds like I’ll be saying that later.”
You laughed, playfully shoving at his shoulder. He looked pleased with himself and trotted to the front door. Hand on the doorknob, he glanced back to make sure you were behind him.
You whispered, “Wait,” and drew energy up your body. It had been so long since you’d obfuscated your presence to sneak around, you’d nearly forgotten it as an option. You laced your fingers with Eddie’s, including him in the silent bubble you created.
“Keep close and avoid making too much noise.”
He nodded before easing the door open.
A top-40s station played on the radio in the sunroom. Robin and Steve’s voices floated from the kitchen. They remained out of sight even after you gently shut the door.
You directed Eddie to the stairs and remained a tread behind him as you both climbed. Once on the second floor, you ushered him to his room. He left the door ajar and lights off. You padded to your room, pocketed the couple of condom packets you’d stolen days ago from Steve’s nightstand, and slunk to Eddie’s room.
He sat at the head of the bed, blanket hiding his lower half with his t-shirt covering the upper. You closed the door and locked it. By the meager light coming through the window, you found the nearest lamp and clicked it on.
“You okay?” you asked.
“Yeah, sure, fine, why?”
The sport coat and track pants draped across the armchair. The sneakers and socks lay jumbled by the bathroom door.
“Just asking.”
You crossed the room and set the condom packets on the nightstand at Eddie’s side. He remained motionless, hands hidden in the rumpled sheets. You perched at the edge of the bed while he stared at the condoms.
Something was off. He should be flirting or reaching for you. What had happened between kissing you, saying he couldn’t wait to be with you, and now? Most guys would be naked and panting like a dog for sex.
With a minute shrug, you said, “If you don’t want to…”
“No! No, I do. Trust me, I do.”
“But…?”
He exhaled.
“I don’t… You should know, I don’t look the same.”
“I’ve seen you in only a towel. I’m aware of what you look like.”
“That’s not up close and personal.”
“You think I’m going to run screaming from some scars?”
He said, “Look, baby, I’m a horror show under this,” and plucked at the t-shirt.
You let out an exasperated sound. “Are you trying to push me away? Again?”
“No—”
“Do you not want me?”
“Oh my god, I want you.” He scooted to you and cupped your face. “I’ve wanted you for weeks. Months!”
“Well, me too!” You held one of his wrists. “Anything you got under there is gonna work for me, okay?”
He scanned your face, gaze roaming from your eyes to your lips and back.
The protective blessing you’d placed in his handkerchief had failed you — and him. Your magic had been nothing compared to Vecna’s power. Eddie had pushed out the hivemind on his own. He was so much stronger than he gave himself credit for.
Through a constricted throat, you said, “Your blood soaked through your clothes.” Your eyes pricked with tears. “You di-died in front of me.”
Eddie leaned in, crushing your lips together. You forgot about tears and the feel of his blood thick between your fingers. He tilted your head. His lips, puffy and slick, glided across yours.
“I’m here,” he said, and kissed you again. “I’m right here.”
You kissed him in reply, letting your greed and relief guide you.
You shimmied your jacket off your shoulders. His hands went to your arms to help tug it off. You grinned into the kiss when the fabric caught on your forearms. He huffed, amused, before yanking at the sleeves. You shook your arms free and flung the jacket.
Planting a knee on the bed, you crowded him back onto the pillows. He put his hands at your waist and pulled you onto him. You straddled his hips, the linens bunching between you.
He hauled you up his body to tuck his face against your throat. He mouthed and bit at your neck, all hesitation thrown to the side. You encouraged him with a whimper and fingers gripping his hair. His soft lips left a fiery line as his hands grabbed your ass.
You arched your back. Your ribs pumped with every rapid breath.
“Wanna eat you alive,” he said. “Fuck, you taste so good.”
“Want you, too.”
Teeth scraped under your jaw, catching on the sore hickey there. You gasped, yet refused to shy away. Let him bite and draw blood. Let it hurt. You could heal yourself.
With a groan, he dug his teeth midway down your neck. The sting made your spine melt. His palms slid up your back, taking your shirt with them. Then he sucked, and you felt it between your legs.
You ground against him — as much as you could through the layers of fabric. You needed to feel his heat, taste his skin and scars. Because he was alive, and you were in his bed.
When he released your skin, sensation beyond pain, beyond heat, bloomed through your neck. It rang in your ears, fisted a groan from your lungs, stole your strength. He folded his rangy arms around you and grazed his lips over the spit-wet spot.
You closed your eyes with a hum.
He kissed you from jaw to cheek. He even kissed your chin. You curled to catch his lips in a languid kiss. It went aggressive in a handful of seconds. You couldn’t tell who set it in motion, but you’d follow it through with sucking on the tip of his tongue and biting his lip. He shivered and squirmed and held onto your waist.
You broke the kiss to leave him reeling.
“You’re mine, aren’t you?”
He nodded, eyes half-closed.
“Then let me take care of what’s mine.”
Again, he nodded.
You directed Eddie’s hands to the pillow, letting your fingertips linger on the silky insides of his forearms. His t-shirt sleeves slipped up to expose scarring on his upper arms. You pressed your lips to the delicate scar tissue.
He inhaled sharply.
You whispered, “It’s okay.”
He closed his eyes with a brief nod.
You kissed the scar on his jaw and the faint one at the side of his neck. He angled his chin to expose himself. In reward, you kissed his lips. His muscles unspooled. You brushed your thumbs over his cheekbones.
“I got you.”
“I know.”
You wiggled down his torso and sat up. Oh-so slowly, you skimmed your hands under his t-shirt to his sides. The jagged edge of a bigger patch on his torso peeked from under the t-shirt’s hem. The uneven texture of the scars didn’t feel ugly or rough. They were interesting, and you wanted to see them.
He clapped his hands over yours.
You met his uneasy gaze and waited, keeping your expression open. While you could offer platitudes or compliments, they’d ring hollow. He knew how you felt and how you viewed him. It was only a matter of time for him to gain confidence — or at least trust you.
His hold relaxed, then gradually drifted away.
You followed the taper of his torso until you held his undulating ribs. With the t-shirt bunched at his pecs, you could assess the havoc the bats had wrought. Beyond the patch on his lower torso was a line of bites and healed sutures on his left. A wedge of pink scar tissue defaced the right side of his ribs. Between the larger patches were claw and teeth marks.
You traced them with a light touch before looking at his face. His teeth dug into his lip as his gaze jumped from between your bodies to the side to your face and back again.
“So, this is the horror show you promised?” you asked with a playful look.
He frowned, mouth opening.
Before he spoke, you asked, “Can you feel my touch?”
He wet his lips and nodded.
“Yeah?”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
“You don’t—”
“No, I don’t whatever. I’m not grossed out.”
To prove your point, you bent to kiss the bite mark on his sternum. The satiny, pitted skin wasn’t disgusting. It was just skin — that smelled like him. You nudged the t-shirt higher to get at his left nipple. You teased it with your tongue, and he stilled. You pinched it between your teeth, and he arched against your lips. You soothed the tiny hurt with a kiss, and he gasped.
You inched the t-shirt higher until you propelled his arms up. He took over and snatched the t-shirt over his head. He dropped it beside the bed as you caressed his chest.
Only fragments of his demon-head and black-widow tattoos were visible around a darker scar. You followed the scar’s border with your fingers and pouted at the loss of the tattoos. Not because they were the most beautiful you’d ever seen, but because they’d been Eddie’s.
“You can have these redone.”
“Nah, I’d rather get a cover-up.”
You smiled before bending to pepper kisses on the scar.
“That’s going to be a big cover-up, honey.” You kissed your way from the scar to the dip of his throat. “Maybe I can hold your hand through it.”
He tilted his head back with a soft groan. You angled his chin to the side and sucked at the hot skin of his neck, giving him a faint hickey. You kissed your way up to his ear and sucked on the lobe.
With a near growl, he said, “God, I can’t—” and pulled you into a burning kiss.
You opened for him as he teased your tongue with his own. He kissed your hot cheeks and your forehead. His hands surged down your sides, then under your shirt. You straightened onto your knees and stripped off your shirt and bra. Your nipples puckered in the cooler air.
His hips jerked as his hands gripped your hips. He stared at your chest and licked his lips.
Instead of asking if he wanted to touch, because that seemed obvious, you bent and guided his hands to your breasts. You encouraged him to support them, squeeze them, while you watched his flushed face.
He circled your nipples with his thumbs, his touch graceful yet electrifying. A feeling like goosebumps trickled through your gut and had your thighs tensing. You curved into his caress in encouragement. Your underwear’s saturated cotton grazed your pussy, and you wished it was his cock.
Eddie held your ribs and rose to bury his face between your breasts. He mouthed at the valley between them and kissed the beginning swells. You held the back of his head. He sucked at one nipple, then the other. That goosebump feeling intensified until you were a quivering mess.
He undid your jeans, and your eyes popped open. He looked at you through his pretty lashes. There was a voracity in his dark gaze that said only you could slake his need — and you wanted to be the only one to do it, too.
“This okay?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Y-yeah.”
With no hesitation, his hand slithered between your stomach and underwear. It burned a line down the curve of your belly through your pubic hair. His middle and ring fingers glided between your wet folds. You gripped his shoulders, hard muscle moved under his skin.
The first long stroke to your clit had your nails digging into his skin and sucking air between your teeth. You couldn’t stop the tiny sound you made. He nibbled at your collarbone, teeth scraped your skin. You leaned your weight against him as your watery legs trembled. His free arm held you upright by the waist.
Rather than circle your clit, he kept stroking. The first wash of pleasure fueled you to move your hips counter to his fingers. His calluses pulled at the hood of your clit, then drove it down. He pressed harder, sparking a sensation deeper than your clit.
Your focus narrowed to your rising orgasm and the thought of his cock pumping deep inside your juicy cunt. You wanted to feel his strong hands restraining you, his sweat-slick skin on yours, and his lush mouth between your legs.
An animalistic keen left your throat at the jumble of images. Your heart hammered in your ears. You rode that knife-edge of climax. It was right there.
“C’mon, baby, fuck those fingers.”
You moaned, doing as he ordered, until ecstasy forced its way through you — so hard, so deep. The internal throb of it stole your strength as it went on and on. You crumbled, putting more of your weight on him. He held you without protest.
“Can feel it,” he said, petting your oversensitive clit.
You writhed in his arms and begged for something you couldn’t put words to. He kissed your throat as he lay still pressure on your clit. Your cunt pulsed strong enough that your hips moved of their own volition.
After a moment, he pulled his hand from your underwear and brought his fingers to his mouth. You sat on his thighs to watch him suck at his wet fingers. He hummed in satisfaction. Your cunt pulsed one last time, as though it hadn’t had enough.
Maybe it hadn’t.
He met your gaze and offered his flushed lips for a kiss. You cradled the back of his head and kissed him with unexpected fervor. You tasted the tang of your own come on his tongue. He held your face, sticky fingers on your cheek, and pushed into the kiss. You sucked your flavor off his bottom lip, pulling a moan from his chest.
“Take the rest off,” he said, falling onto his back.
“You too.”
He smirked.
“Not much more to go.”
You let your eyes track from his chest to the wrinkled lump of blanket covering his groin. Despite knowing, intimately, what was underneath, getting him naked continued to be a thrill.
“Good.”
He blushed, and his smirk softened.
You climbed off him to sit at the edge of the bed. You untied your Docs and wrenched them off. Your socks followed. Eddie kicked the blanket away. While he wiggled out of his briefs, you hooked your thumbs in your underwear and jeans, rising enough from the bed to slide them down your hips and off your legs.
You pivoted on a hip to find him reaching for a condom. His eyes went wide with a question. Or like you’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t. You bent a leg on the bed and plucked a condom from the pile before he could.
“You know,” you said, holding the condom like a cigarette between your fingers. “I think I need to get on the pill.” You got on all fours. “Or get an IUD, or something.”
Sounding on tenterhooks, he asked, “Why’s that?”
You crawled between his legs. He spread his thighs to make room for you.
“So I can have you raw.”
He let out a breath, cheeks reddening further, and wrapped a hand around the base of his cock. A thick bead of precome pearled at its slit.
“Would you like that, honey?”
“Shit, you know I would.”
You gave him a playful wink before hunching to lick the tip of his cock. He groaned through a smile, squeezing his cock. You savored the salty taste of him.
You tapped at the back of his hand.
“Let go.”
“I swear, I’m gonna blow in, like, ten seconds flat.”
You sat on your calves with a self-satisfied shrug. He needed to feel as good as he’d made you feel. If that happened quickly, that was fine with you because—
“We got all night,” you said, and tore open the condom packet.
He still hadn’t released his hold.
“Eddie, honey, let go.”
“Just—” He swallowed. “Get it halfway down first.”
You pulled out the lubed condom and discarded the wrapper. He bit his lip, looking as though you were about to perform surgery on him. Keeping your touch light and at the minimum, you pinched the tip of the condom and rolled it over his shaft until it met his fingers.
He shuddered with eyes closed and a crease between his brows.
You said, “Let go.”
He exhaled and thumped his fists to the bed. You wasted no time in rolling the condom the rest of the way down. He panted and keened. His cock twitched in your hand, but you wiped your palms on the sheets before he could embarrass himself.
With a gentle shush, you caressed his hips and ran your thumbs in the shallow groove of muscle on either side. You kept at it until his breathing slowed and tense thighs relaxed.
You maneuvered your knees on either side of him and balanced yourself with a hand on his chest.
“Ready?”
When he nodded, you reached between your bodies to brace his erection. You were so ready, so wet, for this. Even the feeling of the condom didn’t turn you off. You found your hole and eased onto his thick cock, inch by slick inch.
Once you settled, you had to give yourself a moment. You sat with hands on your thighs while you adjusted to the fullness. He felt perfect and delicious. You looked at Eddie to see him watching you, bottom lip between his teeth and fingers digging into the mattress. Emotion filled his bright eyes.
You wanted to soothe him, but if you moved, it would set off a chain reaction he’d been trying to suppress.
“Don’t think.”
Through gritted teeth, he said, “Trying not to.”
If you didn’t take the initiative, he would torture himself for the rest of the evening. You rotated your pelvis. The simple movement made you gasp. It had been so long, and you were so eager for this with him. Under you, he choked on a desperate sound.
“I can’t wait to feel you without any barriers,” you said, rotating your pelvis again. “Feel you come deep inside me.”
He grabbed your hips to propel your movements.
“I’ll fill you up,” he said.
You planted your hands on his chest with a groan and rode him like he wanted you to. You rose only to sink down a second later, never letting him slip out. His hands glided up your sides. With a hum, you encouraged him to touch you — touch you anywhere, everywhere. You couldn’t get enough of his cock, of his nimble hands, of his body tight against yours.
Your need ramped to a boiling fever, some thrilling sickness. You bent to kiss him, sucking on his lip and tongue, as you rolled your hips in a frantic rhythm. Your skin slapped against his, but it wasn’t enough. You hid your face in his shoulder and whimpered when you found no relief.
His arms looped across your back, as if you’d try to escape. Like you could get away from this desire.
You stilled in time for him to roll to the side and on top of you. He pushed his cock deep. You mewled, your thighs stretched around his hips.
His gaze roved over your features.
“I’m gonna fill your sweet pussy.”
You nodded.
He said, “I’ll make you come.”
You closed your eyes as you imagined it. Hands all over you, gripping you, going between your legs, holding you steady as he worked your body. Your cunt clenched at the image.
“Because you’re mine, too.”
You nodded once more.
He adjusted his stance, knees dipping into the mattress. He grasped one of your shoulders as you held onto his arms with shaking hands.
“Look at me and tell me you love me.”
You stared into his eyes. It was all written out there for you to see: no denial, no hiding, and no more doubt.
“I love you.”
He caught your lips and kissed you so thoroughly you forgot anything beyond him. His hold tightened. His hips minutely rocked. His heavy cock kindled that heat hidden inside.
You moaned against his lips and pulled at him. He needed to move. You’d been wanting him for what felt like years. You’d both gone through hell, seen oblivion, and returned to each other’s side. You needed him to move — now.
He buried his face in your neck, lips against the marks he’d left. The rocking of his hips descended into grinding, then full-out thrusting. He fucked you hard. His cock dragged at the underside of your aching clit. The bed springs whined every time he bottomed out.
You couldn’t catch your breath as his thrusts became desperate. He yanked at your hair to bare your throat. His long hair — that smelled of your shampoo — veiled your humid face.
He kissed his marks and murmured something you couldn’t make out. You agreed anyway. He groaned in reply, driving you down while he thrust up. The sheets stuck to the sweat on your back. His hips snapped forward over and over, his cock ramming deep. You tried your best to move with him, but he was too fast.
Then you couldn’t move at all. Your belly quivered and your thighs tensed. His cock was too much. You strained against him, with him, until that fever broke. You shook in his arms. Your jaw clenched. Orgasm burned through you like a geyser. It sizzled up your spine. You couldn’t catch your breath. Hot tears trickled over your temples in rapturous agony.
Eddie fucked you through it, holding you tight. Your cunt throbbed and clamped around his pistoning length. He cursed in needy growls until he seized, breathless. His voice cracked. His thrusts slowed, yet remained fierce, as his cock pulsed with each thrust.
He stuttered a jumble of cut-off thoughts, all of them flattering and loving. You grinned and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, hugging his sides with your thighs. He mouthed at your neck lazily.
After a tranquil moment, he kissed you, gentle yet demanding. You felt him — every bit of him. His lips tasted of salt. His hands sheltered and cradled. His gaze warmed you. You could only respond in kind. He melted as you smoothed his hair away from his flushed, glowing face.
He kissed you one more time before steadying the condom and slipping out of you.
You relaxed, allowing your tired limbs to sink to the bed. He rolled to the side and dropped the condom on the heap of his dirty clothes. You wrinkled your nose, but didn’t comment. He flopped beside you and pillowed his head on a bent arm. The heating system kicked on. Your sweat cooled as you contemplated getting out of bed. Instead, you tucked your feet between the folds of the blanket.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie said.
You hummed in acknowledgement and glanced at him.
“I was thinking, and you might not be into this, but you want to go to LA? With me?”
You stared at the ceiling.
Los Angeles: broken glass glittering in gutters, live music every night, fluttering neon, cars with their tops down, a bland apartment with a mattress on the floor, your feet warmed by sunshine as you read the newspaper’s entertainment section, Eddie writing songs at the kitchen table.
A smile spread across your face.
“Hell yeah.”
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson smut#eddie munson#stranger things#em tagd#waywardrose writes
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WIP 🚧 WEDNESDAY
Tagged by @satashiiwrites @disasterbuckdiaz @giddyupbuck @bekkachaos @wildlife4life @exhuastedpigeon
I started this last night and who tf knows where it’s going, I present to you 🪵lumberjack buck 🪵:
Eddie Diaz often hated his past self for not having taken the job in L.A. that was offered to him after he finished the fire academy and instead moved to Salem, Oregon.
There was nothing really wrong with Salem at all, the weather was nice, the cost of living was less than L.A. and after selling the house in Texas he was able to buy a nice property there, big enough for himself and Chris; the city was big enough to keep the fire department busy, and it had a enough arts and science extra curricular programs to keep Chris happy and entertained. It was really the perfect city for them, except for one thing: Evan Buckley, also known as Buck, their lumberjack next door neighbor.
Buck was by any means one of the nicest men he had met in town, aside from a little bit of rivalry happening at the very beginning of their relationship, they had soon fallen friends and now their lives were pretty much intertwined in every aspect, all except for their jobs. And even if Buck spend his days chopping wood out in the open, he would always chop his own wood in his backyard, and it was a little bit of torture for Eddie.
He might also be harboring the biggest crush on his best friend known to man.
Tagging if they wanna do this @brokenribsdiaz @loveyourownsmiilee @cowboy-buddie @loserdiaz @buddierights @prettyboybuckley @alyxmastershipper @rogerzsteven @heartshapedvows @honestlydarkprincess @bigfootsmom @jesuisici33 @folk-fae @spotsandsocks @hippolotamus @shortsighted-owl @elvensorceress @mysteriouslyyounggalaxy @housewifebuck @911onabc @spaceprincessem @leewithme and whoever else wants to do this
#wip wednesday#buddie#buddie wip#wip morning wood#(not the actual title but it’s funny)#I feel like I’m forgetting to tag someone but I can’t remember who
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Time & Again (Blades)
A gift for @saibug1022 from @oh-so-youre-a-nerd (art exchange) featuring Salem’s MC, Asterin. Implied or referenced relationships: Asterin x Tyril; Asterin x Mal; Asterin x Aerin; Tyril x Mal. (So yes, that ask was from Thia but on my behalf hehe).
Warnings & A/N: This fic deals with canon compliant kindnapping, torture, and trauma. It also features medical torture and experimentation, compliant with this fic by Salem. ~3200 words
[Huge thanks to my proof-readers. Any mistakes are mine not their’s. There is only so much you can get me to edit haha.]
A bright, unnatural light overhead.
Thick, suffocating shadows blotting out the room.
Gleaming scalpels and saws reflecting that light into the shadows where it is consumed. Along with what little hope he may have clung to.
There is only that familiar all-consuming dread.
They are only snatches of memories, glimpses really, he can’t call them anything else. Nightmares maybe? For those bits of memory, visions, reality - he doesn’t know - what he does know is they are the only things to fill his waking dreams and haunt his sleepless nights.
He wants to close his eyes to escape but she waits for him on the other side. There is no escape and yet he succumbs to sleep where he is met with exactly what he feared he would find. What he always finds.
He’s not sure what is real and what blanks his mind is simply filling in to try and cope with the trauma. But he knows one thing-
She stands over him.
That’s how it always starts. Her over his prone, scared and beaten body.
At first she simply looks him over, taking notes here and there in the eerie quiet of the laboratory. Weeks, days, hours later - he doesn’t know - her examinations turn to poking and prodding. Measurements taken and written down in the margins of a parchment she keeps referring back to.
The feeling of emptiness is all that fills him.
He is alone.
So very alone.
The feeling that comes next - weeks, days, hours later - drowns out that emptiness. That dread is replaced by a deeper, more excruciating one.
The pain is all that fills him.
He is reminded he is not alone.
So very much not alone.
He jerks awake in the warm night of the Deadwood. It’s as dark as his memories. He watches Mal stoke the fire before Tyril throws another branch on.
“Do you think he remembers more than he’s telling us?” Mal whispers as Tyril takes a seat beside him on the cooling ground and wraps his arms around the rogue.
Asterin closes his eyes again and listens.
“You believe he would keep vital information from us?”
“No. No. Not like that sort. He said he was experimented on but doesn’t remember much,” Mal trails off as Tyril nods his head in understanding.
“It is possible.”
“Why won’t he talk to us about it?”
“He will when he is ready. Until then, we wait and offer what support we can.”
“Maybe I should go talk to him?”
She stands over him.
He’s back on that cold, metal table. He watches as she picks up a blunt ended scissors. He feels the cold metal on his skin as she slips it around the hem of his shirt and works her way up.
It is an out of place sound in so quiet a room. The tear of threads and the rhythmic click of the blades meeting as they get closer and closer to his neck.
He holds desperately still, not a single breath taken until she slips his tunic open and sets the scissors aside.
Weeks, days, hours later, who can say, his eyes fall closed and he reminds himself to breathe.
Breathe.
And he does, until that very breath is stolen from his lungs as he opens his eyes and finds her watching him. Her gaze is steady, cold, empty. Her face is the same mask until the smallest of grins tugs at her lips and her gaze turns bright and a unearthly fire lights her eyes in wicked mockery of his fear.
He jolts to the surface and sucks in a deep, cleansing breath of air as he swims through the murky water to the shoreline, crowded thick with all manner of lush, verdant life.
“Asterin!”
The cry greets him before he sees two sets of boots wade into the water to help pull him to shore. He waits, bent over, for his heart to calm down as Imtura stands beside him, on guard and at the ready. Tyril kneels down beside him in the mud and tilts his face up.
“Are you okay, Asterin?”
It’s a soft question.
He shakes his head, and the bad memories from him, and stands up as Mal calls out.
“Where’s Nia?”
She stands over him.
She picks up a needle and plunges it unceremoniously into his arm. He grits his teeth as she digs around until she finds a vein. She works methodically to attach a tube to it and he can only watch in horror as his blood drains from his body.
“It will help,” she says cooly.
“With what? Dying?” he quips.
“With what is to come next for you Realm-Walker.”
Her all-too-pleased grin is the last thing he sees before his body protects him and he passes out.
Weeks, days, hours later, he is awake and wishes he was not. The light is far too bright for his eyes and his mind swims as he struggles to move his head and regain his bearings.
Everything hurts and he is alone.
So very alone.
And yet he knows she’s there.
Not so very alone.
He can hear the quill scrap across the parchment, her gentle breathing, the lower murmur of many voices somewhere in the distance. Even the obsessive silence is loud.
She looks up as he groans at the pain his movements cost him and scowls at him before turning her attention back to her notes.
He starts as his hand falls on his shoulder.
“It’s okay, Asterin. Breathe.“
He turns slowly to face the person speaking to him, a part of him fearing the face won’t match the voice. But he finds he can breathe when that unsure smirk greets him.
“Aerin?”
“I’m right here.”
He shakes the already fleeting feelings of dread that cling to him but he can’t shake that all-consuming, bone-numbing fear he seems to carry with him now wherever he goes. He can’t shake the memory of her cold, calculating eyes, or the chill that runs down his spine upon remembering her smile.
mmm
The people of Riverbend draw his attention back and he smiles the same smile he has practiced since returning to this realm. What was it? Weeks, days, hours ago?
He doesn’t remember that much, only happiness. Bliss found them tucked between sheets as smooth, unscathed hands ran up his back. Stars, relief, sanctuary until it was torn from him in a few words, hastily scrawled on a piece of paper abandoned. Like him.
She stands over him.
It was as if he was no longer in his body but floating above it as he watches her hesitate but a moment before making the first incision starting near the left shoulder and working down to the end of the breastbone. He watches as she methodically repeats that same incision from his right shoulder before continuing down from the sternum, around his navel, until she pulls the scalpel from him and sets it aside.
He watches in horrified fascination as she moves aside tubes and casts another spell over him lulling him deeper into the strange inbetween world he’s found himself in.
The inbetween?
No, that can’t be right. The Watcher would be here then. No, this is some other-worldly space that is meant just for him. A trap just for his mind. Another trick she has played on him to confuse his already rapidly fraying sense of reality.
He turns back to the scene before him. It is a deeper cut than it feels, he thinks to himself.
She peels his skin back, as nonchalantly as if she were peeling an orange, and takes notes before reaching for a bone saw.
He reaches for her, desperate to stop what he knows will happen, but his hands reach blindly and fall through her as if she were not there.
She smiles knowingly and looks up to meet his eyes, seemingly knowing his consciousness is still there even as his body lays trapped, asleep.
Asleep. I’m only asleep, he reasons. But he knows that’s not true. That was a conversation from another time. Not now.
“It won’t hurt,” she says, bringing him back to the now, or then, or will be. Hells, he’s not even sure anymore.
He looks at her through tear-stained eyes.
“Why?” she asks as if reading his mind. “Because I’m curious.”
The widening grin is maddening and chills him to his core as he closes his eyes and listens to the sound of metal sawing through bone in the vast emptiness of the Shadow realm.
He is thrust back into another world as a dull humming sounds from copper pipes above them.
“We need to find a way out of here.”
He looks around wildly. Desperately trying to gain a hint as to where they are. He feels like he’s reeling, falling into some endless abyss until warm brown eyes meet his.
“Asterin?” Mal asks.
The dwarvish dungeons well beneath the subterranean city of Zaradun. He breathes. He’s here, not there. That is something at least.
“I got an idea. You with me, kit?”
He doesn’t remember that much, a tight swallow and a slight nod is all he is capable of until chapped lips meet his and he melts into the kiss. Bliss found them wrapped in each others arms. Nimble fingers teasing the fabric of his shirt. Warmth, relief, sanctuary until it was torn from him.
She stands over him.
Beating heart cupped in one hand as she moves the left lobe of his lung further to the side with the heart, to look deeper into the gapping cavity that is - was - his chest.
Huh, there is not as much blood as he would have expected.
“I stemmed the flow,” she says not looking up from her examination and probing deeper.
“What?”
“There is not much blood because I stemmed the flow. Makes it easier for me.”
He looks at her, she is almost giddy with excitement. It’s such a stark contrast to his own emotion. He looks back to his prone body, strapped to the table. Deathly still.
This isn’t real.
“If you say so,” she chuckles and tucks his heart back in place before turning to a scribe sitting in the corner.
“Chest contains the usual. The heart is within normal size for his species and in typical condition for an elf of his age. Lungs are supple and a healthy pink. Nothing of note in the upper cavity.”
She pauses and glances back at him.
“Moving on to the lower abdominal cavity.”
His wide eyes watch her every move.
“What are you looking f-“
“Whatever I please,” she says and looks down on his body as she brushes a stray hair back from his face with a bloody hand. He feels his blood on his scars as she traces one and then another near his eye. It’s warm still, slick. He can smell iron in the air.
He shouldn’t feel it but he does. He knows it’s real and he flinches as she caresses his cheek.
“No!”
His scream draws all their attention to him as they sit at a tiny, scared table. They all look up from their meager dinner plates to him.
“Asterin?”
He’s pale and shaking. He can feel it.
“I’m fine. There is nothing wrong with me,” he mumbles as he brushes Tyril’s hand from his arm and stares daggers into the violet eyes across the table from him.
“Dinvalir,” Tyril leans in and whispers, “that is not true.”
The creature of his nightmares stares back at him with a playful smile on her face.
“I can assure you there is nothing wrong with him. I checked. Thoroughly,,” she says in Tyril’s direction but her gaze remains fixed on Asterin.
“And just what does that mean?” Mal’s hard voice asks.
He narrows his eyes at Valax as he jumps up. Chair legs scrapping harshly against the floor and making Asterin flinch.
“Let’s just eat,” Asterin cuts off any further conversation.
He doesn’t remember that much, only Tyril’s firm, yet gentle, voice in his ear. Bliss found them in their own world of whispered comforts for a moment. Calmness, relief, sanctuary until it was torn from him.
She stands over him.
He’s sputtering on the bank of a river, coughing up water. The rain a deluge around them, watering long dead trees and parched ground. The sky, darker than is natural, adds to the oppressive nature of the realm.
“You saved me?”
It’s half statement, half question, and he is utterly and entirely confused.
“Your light-realm witch made sure I could do no other,” Valax crosses her arms.
“Of course.”
He would thank her but the pain that radiates from his chest stops him from such foolish behavior. After all, the water he is coughing up is from lungs she held, while the bones she cut from his body shield the heart she could have crushed in her hands.
She deserves no such kindness from him for she has shown him none.
“If you are quite through, we should find shelter,” she states and is walking away from him before he can respond.
He stands reluctantly and thinks over his nonexistent options. He does not want to follow her but neither of them have a choice right now. His body screams at him to run but she will find him. She is bound to him.
His worst nightmare, ever present, made hauntingly real. If he thought he could escape it - escape her - before, well he sure as hells can’t escape it now. Nia saw to that.
Does Nia even realize what she has done? Does she understand the re-lived pain she is inflicting on him by binding him to his kidnapper, his torturer. Logically he knows Nia was only trying to protect him, protect them all, but he can barely breathe with the thought of Valax, much less the reality of what he is subjected to now.
The cave is cold but dry and higher than any flash flooding could reach. He follows her in and stands warily off to the side, near enough the entrance to escape if she should turn on him.
“We should build a fire.”
“I suppose you should,” he states, aiming for her nonchalant coolness.
She glares at him and time stretches into eternity. He won’t give her the pleasure of looking away from her no matter what nightmares he sees fresh in the depths of her dangerous eyes. She relents before his resolve crumples and soon enough a fire is lit before them. Small but enough to keep them warm.
She sits down beside it and watches him over the flames.
“You should rest. I’ll keep first watch.”
His laugh is a bitter thing echoing off the high walls.
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t be a fool. I require little sleep. You do.”
“Did my vivisection tell you that?”
He could almost fool himself into believing there is a flash of regret in her eyes but then again, fire plays dangerous tricks with those that believe it’s warmth will not burn.
“Your mortality does,” she murmurs into the flames.
He watches her a moment longer before settling down on the opposite side of the fire. Leary but exhausted enough to not care.
They watch each other for weeks, days, hours, he’s not sure. But they simply sit there for what could be eternity or mere seconds.
“Don’t look at me like that!” he finally snaps.
He doesn’t like what he sees with her eyes lit by and within from fire. There is something primordial, predatory, primal in the dark emptiness there.
“Like what?” she demands in turn.
“Like there is more you haven’t cut from me, more you haven’t discovered.”
“You think I’ve not exhausted all my options with you, day-walker?” she spits.
He feeezes a moment at her words, her tone, the shifting of her shoulders as if she is only barely holding herself back from ripping into him anew.
“I don’t care. Just don’t look at me like that.”
“What would you have me look at? There is not much here beside you and me.”
“Look at the fire then.”
“Fine,” she says and does as she was told.
Weeks, days, hours later he finds his eyes drooping with the weight of too many sleepless nights. Running from a demon that he can’t fight. A demon that now lies in wait, biding its precious time, before him.
“Talk to me,” he says.
“What.”
“You heard me.”
“What would you have me talk about?”
“I don’t care.”
He listens to her voice, asking occasional questions to keep her talking. She asks questions of her own which he answers cautiously.
He just needs to stay awake or at the very least know where she is by the sound of her voice. He cannot risk sleep with her here.
Keep her talking but don’t give anything away. Keep her talking but don’t give anything away. Keep her talking but don’t….
She stands over him.
“Seems there was more to discover about you after all,” she smirks.
He’s on his feet before she can move and he’s backed away from her, realizing too late that he is trapped between her standing in the mouth of the cave and the wall behind his back.
She watches him look around wildly for a moment before he has his sword in hand. She rolls her eyes at him and turns away.
“I hear your friends.”
“You do?”
The tip of his sword drops slightly until she takes a step towards him and he levels it at her in warning as he strains to listen.
Sure enough, he hears the telltale sounds of Mal and Tyril bickering and Imtura egging them on while Nia yells at them to shut up.
He smiles and gestures for Valax to continue on out of their shelter.
The earth is just as parched as it was the day before. Smooth dried mud cakes the ground and is already splitting, cracking, peeling away from the ground. There is no smell of fresh rain, only decay. It is nearly enough to break him until hope springs in his heart at the sight of them.
Soon he is wrapped in Mal and Tyril’s arms and he can’t help the choked sob that escapes him as he sinks into their embrace. He takes a deep breath. He is warm and safe.
“You came,” he whispers.
Joy leaps in his heart as they cling to him tighter in answer.
“You came for me.”
She stands over him.
“There is nothing here!” she fumes.
It’s a shout of disappointment. Anger. Frustration.
“Princess?” the scribe asks.
“Lower cavity shows nothing unusual. All organs are accounted for, healthy and normal. Nothing to explain,” she glances down, “him.”
He blinks a few times until she is in focus. He’s on his back on the same hard metal table. A bright, unnatural light hangs overhead.
The same thick, suffocating shadows blotting out the surrounding room.
She continues to look down at him, into his glazed over eyes, as she closes him back up.
The needle she uses to sew him up reflects the light into the shadows where it is consumed. Along with what little hope he may have been clinging to.
There is only that familiar all-consuming dread.
“I will learn your secrets. You will beg to tell me them before the end.”
How long has it been? Weeks, days, hours - he doesn’t know any more. Doesn’t know if he ever did.
But he’s alone.
So very alone.
And no one came for him.
#playchoices#choices blades#choices bolas#blades of light and shadow#content warnings#blood cw#medical experimentation cw#kidnapping cw#torture cw#trauma cw#art exchange#my drabble
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The Dressing Doll - Interview with the Coven
This story is a continuation. Click here to view the previous entry. Click here to view the first entry.
Context: This story was submitted as part of #EmptyOctober's prompt for day 30, "Coven."
"So it's my understanding that you wish to join our coven, Mister Alist—"
"Miss. Alice," the applicant firmly interrupted.
"Ah, right! Miss Alice…" the coven leader repeated, letting the name roll over her tongue experimentally.
Between her close-cropped silver hair and the custom-tailored suit she wore, the elder witch had the air of a woman trying to keep her finger on society's pulse. Her one bit of traditional adornment was the hat, the symbol of her sisterhood, that she hung from her chair.
Her office in general exuded professional authority. It was covered in more awards and accolades than most witches could ever hope to achieve; Ink 500's top CEWs, multiple publications in Magick, even a photograph of her hobnobbing with the Agatha Harkness.
In one corner, her smiling face reflected back at them from behind the glass frame of a rainbow-splattered New Salem cover page on which she proudly featured. "Duvessa Cross Speaks Out! The Importance of Coven Inclusivity and Intersectionality," it boldly proclaimed.
"Gosh, I'm sorry about that," the real Duvessa said, attempting to start over. "That's so hard to get right, you know? Especially looking at your history here." She held aloft a ream of parchment; the resume Alice had sent in as part of her interview.
"Ah yeah… I guess there are some… standouts there," Alice admitted, trying not to show her embarrassment.
"I'll say! A letter of recommendation from the dean of the Academiae ad Maleficum himself? Most impressive. Those are not easy to come by. He's quite the demanding sort."
"You… don't know the half of it," Alice responded, laughing uncomfortably. "He was my direct mentor before he was granted the deanship. He could be… quite exacting…"
"Truly! But such a fine establishment for a young warlock like yourself to come up in."
"Witch."
"What?"
Mustering what waning patience she had, Alice explained, "It's a fine establishment for a young witch. You said warlock."
"Oh, I suppose I did. But it is an all-boy's school, so you were a warlock at the time. Isn't that right?"
"Yes, but… nevermind…"
"That does segue rather conveniently though. Tell me, when did you first feel Lilith's call drawing you to the witch's art?" Duvessa inquired. "That must have been quite the thing to experience given your… circumstances. I can't imagine it myself."
"I mean, it's only now that I realize I'd been hearing it all my life. I always just shrugged it off, thinking it was something all…" Alice paused, tensing before continuing, "…warlocks heard but… she never stopped calling."
"And yet it's taken you this long to decide to answer?" The coven leader's tone betrayed more than a hint of disbelief. "You must admit, it's a bit late for a... career change... at your age. Is it not?"
Ignoring the slight, Alice responded, "I suppose, however there are resources your prestigious sisterhood possesses that I would draw on to further a new direction in my craft. As you know, the Academy has precious little aid to offer one investigating the mysteries of Dollcraft"
"Yes… well… I must admit, what caught my eye about you was not a novice Maker seeking my sisters' secrets." Duvessa's countenance took on a hungry, predatory glare. "You bring knowledge, experience, and talent in Magicks we sorely lack here; Academy Magicks."
"I'm… I'm trying to leave those behind," Alice stammered, trying to bring the conversation back on track. This interview was not going anywhere close to how she had hoped. "I said as such in my application. They are… ill-suited to both my current craft and my current goals."
"Yes. Yes. Your 'experiments.'" The elder witch didn't even bother to hide her disdain. "What I'm proposing is far grander though. An exchange of secrets. Your Academy learning for our coven's knowledge. It's a fair trade."
"It was my understanding that all is shared freely within the sisterhood," Alice answered. "'To not share with one's sisters is a betrayal of Lilith's gift.' Those were your words according to one interview. That hardly seems to square with the offer you're extending me."
"Yes, well, that's for our… fully-fledged sisters," Duvessa said, bemusedly. "I'm not entirely sure that one of your talents is quite the right fit for that. You understand, don't you? Regardless, we could both stand to benefit a great deal from each other. Come. Work with me."
"No… No, Miss Crosse, I'm afraid this interview is over."
"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. My door is always open to one of your… unique qualifications, Miste—Miss Alice. Should you ever change your mind."
"Don't count on it," Alice spat back.
_______________________________________
Elsewhere, two dolls were busying themselves, seemingly attempting to burrow a channel in the flooring of their Maker's manse as they paced anxiously back and forth.
"She's going to hate it," said Natrium.
"It's ugly," said Celestine.
"This is a terrible plan."
"The worst."
"It was that one's bright idea!" shouted one.
"That one agreed to it though!" retorted the other.
The two were about to descend into mutual awawas when suddenly the front door burst open, their Mistress silhouetted in the doorframe, the air around her shimmering with curses.
"Stupid fricking covens…" The entryway rug completely unwove itself. "Stupid academies…" The door shut itself with a cacophonous slam. "Stupid supposed sisterhood…" A nearby vase shattered. "Arrrrrgh!!" Alice roared as she crossed the threshold.
The two dolls got straight to work, pulling off Alice's cloak and boots and guiding her to her favorite seat without interrupting a single step. A fresh pot of tea was already brewed and steeping, though they both worried that chai wouldnt be strong enough for the mood she was in
"Six times now! Six! How many more of these humiliating interviews am I going to have to sit through for even one to take me seriously?!" Alice cried out rhetorically.
Pouring a cup of tea from the pot, Celestine cautiously asked, "So… they didn't give Miss her Big Hat?"
"No, no my dear doll, they did not. Those are for 'fully-fledged sisters,'" Alice mocked.
"This one is sorry, Miss," Natrium apologized faultlessly. "You deserve your Big Hat."
Dejection filled Alice's voice as she sighed, "In due time… I'll just have to… apply elsewhere."
The two dolls saw their opportunity.
"If it please you, Miss…"
"…these ones had a thought."
"That's a dangerous thing for dolls to be having," Alice mused, perking up slightly, despite the simultaneous spike in anxiety. "What was your thought?"
"Well, we heard once…"
"…that sometimes if you can't make something on your own…"
"…store-bought is fine."
"So we thought…"
"…'Why not the reverse?'"
"If they won't give you your Big Hat…"
"…then making your own is fine, right?"
From behind their backs, the two dolls pulled out the most comically oversized witch's hat she had ever seen. It was ostentatious. It was gaudy. It would certainly be the Biggest Hat in any room. Alice would have to figure out by what Magicks they hid it behind their backs later.
It was also far beyond their sewing capabilities, she noted.
"You… how did you… this is… where did you get this?" Alice stammered.
"Well, she told us not to say…"
"…but Satin stitched it."
"It was this one's idea though!"
"Nuh-uh! It was this one's!"
"Satin made it…?" Alice asked, interrupting the two before they got too into it.
"Uh-huh! She said it was…"
"…'for a new sisterhood.'"
"Whatever that means."
Hearing those words, it was all Alice could do to not drop the tea cup she'd been handed. Placing it down, gently as could be, she accepted the hat from the two dolls, eliciting the widest smiles she'd ever seen them wear.
Placing it atop her head and taking a moment to adjust the overly wide brim, Alice declared, "Yes. You're absolutely right. Making your own is fine. Now come, you two," she said, grabbing her dolls by the hand, "We have a lot of work ahead of us."
End 🧵
(Can't believe I forgot to post this one here... Well, with that I believe my entire archive is here now, so that's nice. Now hopefully someday I'll actually finish one of the six fricking drafts I have sitting around. All I seem to do lately is start new ones though... Oh well. Such is the way of things.)
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How to Get Over the End of the World by Hal Schrieve
Boldly weird, cool, and confident, this YA novel of LGBTQ+ teen artists, activists, and telepathic visionaries offers hope against climate and community destruction. From the National Book Award–longlisted author of Out of Salem.
James Goldman, self-described neurotic goth gay transsexual stoner, is a senior in high school, and fully over it. He mostly ignores his classes at Cow Pie High, instead focusing on fundraising for the near-bankrupt local LGBTQ+ youth support group, Compton House, and attending punk shows with his friend-crush Ian and best friend Opal. But when James falls in love with Orsino, a homeschooled trans boy with telepathic powers and visions of the future, he wonders if the scope of what he believes possible is too small. Orsino, meanwhile, hopes that in James he has finally found someone who will be able to share the apocalyptic visions he has had to keep to himself, and better understand the powers they hold.
How to Get Over the End of the World confirms Hal Schrieve as a unique and to-be-celebrated voice in LGBTQ+ YA fiction with this multi-voiced story about flawed people trying their hardest to make a better world, about the beauty and craziness of hope, about too-big dreams and reality checks, and about the ways in which human messiness—egos, jealousy, insecurity—and good faith can coexist. It also about preserving the ties within a chosen family—and maybe saving the world—through love, art, and acts of resistance.
#how to get over the end of the world#hal schrieve#transmasc#trans book of the day#trans books#queer books#booklr#bookblr
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@intcritus said (inbox):
Salem can see all the imperfections in their painting, yet it's still displayed as if a masterwork ( it was, but they're a perfectionist ). When someone joins them in looking at the painting, rambling quietly, they listen with rising amusement. There's praise, veritable gushing and plenty of questions about the process and Salem merely chuckles. ❝ ━ What do you think they were thinking about when this was made ? ❞ It's a haunting picture -- tall, moss-covered trees, the swamp, murky and dark with eyes peering from the deep. There are other intricacies hidden with swirling bark, drawing the eye with muted greens and warm browns. ❝ ━ Each brush stroke is so precise. Even with all the mistakes...❞ ( for percival )
ART NOWADAYS WAS SO wholly different from what he had seen when alive, that he couldn’t help but be fascinated by it. How incredible it was to him, that something someone created with their entire heart could make one pause and feel something from just a glance. Even if that individual wasn’t quite sure what they were feeling, the fact of the matter was that they still felt something, and to Percival, that was an accomplishment in itself. As a knight, he had been required to learn certain things in order to speak to nobility, so no doubt that if pieces like this had existed in his era, it’d be the talk of the upper crust for days on end. Eyes taking in the abstract image before him, he slipped his hands into his pockets, intrigued by the beauty of what he deemed so simplistic in comparison to some of the more ornate paintings, yet equally just as breathtaking to behold. Pulling himself from his thoughts the moment another spoke to him, he quickly shifted his focus from the painting to them. Ah, he wasn’t expecting anyone to speak to him.
❝I wish I could say, but I feel it would be impertinent on my end to offer my opinion on that particular question. However,❞ he paused, looking back at the painting with quiet appreciation once more, ❝I would like to think that they were at peace when they did this. Relaxed, I suppose?❞ He chuckled, shaking his head a little. ❝Forgive me. This is not my area of expertise, so I, unfortunately, cannot offer anything more than that. As for the mistakes…even if I had the discerning eye to see them, I do not think that would detract from the beauty of this piece. If anything, I think the mistakes add to it. It brings…❞ Percival paused, trying to find the right word for how he was feeling, ❝…a certain…human quality to the forefront.❞
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Freddy seems like he gets really into soap operas and telenovelas. Like, he loves the drama and the weird ass storylines. And of course he gets inspired by them, too. Catch some poor teenager waking up screaming about the "Salem Strangler" from Days of Our Lives trying to kill them.
OMG DOES THAT COUNT AS, LIKE, A FORM OF WIERD SCARY OLD MAN FAN ART?? I think it does XD He's one of us.
I totally agree he gets into that stuff 😂😂 Imagine sitting there with him watching him get so into, like, The Bold and the Beautiful or something XDD Filling you in on bits you missed and offering you popcorn.
Hm... its lddly cute XD
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alfur “little guy” aldric
#salem offers art#> I AM ALMOST DONE WITH SEASON 3 BUT NO SPOILERS FOR THE LAST EPISODE PLEEEAASSEE#hilda#hilda the series#hilda netflix#hilda alfur#hilda fanart#fanart#art#artwork#illustration#digital art#clip studio#csp#> aldric? alduric??? i think its aldric but i cant check rn 😔#> ALSO I DIDNT DRAW HIM WITH CEDRIC GODDAMMIT
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John Waterhouse, Circe Offering the Cup to Odysseus, 1884, Oldham Gallery, Oldham, UK.
When I think of depictions of witches, I think of a medium that predates popular media like television. I think of witches depicted in art. The painting above, painted by one of my favorite artists, John Waterhouse, depicts Circe(from The Odyssey) offering a chalice to Odysseus that she has enchanted. What Waterhouse has painted so well is the power she possesses innately in herself, so while Circe is not a queen, she has the power of one through her ability to do magic. The flowers around her being purple serve to advance that point.
In the mirror behind Circe, we can see Odysseus warily approaching. This perspective shows how Circe is attempting to bring Odysseus under her spell.
In 1884, this painting would have been a different depiction of witches than most depicted by the media. At that point, society had shifted to a more stereotypical depiction stemming from the Salem Witch Trials. However, Waterhouse depicting Circe as more of an Ancient Greek queen serves to convey the long history of witchcraft in the media.
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Fine Pair of Federal Carved Mahogany and Inlaid Satin Birch Side Chairs, Attributed to John and Thomas Seymour, Boston, Massachusetts.
35 x 19 1/4 x 19 in., seat height 18 3/4 in.
Note: This pair of chairs represents a fourth variation of Thomas and John Seymour's curved diamond back chairs. The same style is illustrated in Robert Mussey Jr.'s work, The Furniture Masterworks of John & Thomas Seymour (Salem, Massachusetts: Peabody Essex Museum distributed by University Press of New England, 2003), on pp. 388-9, no. 127. Mussey explains this chair is "the sole example found during [his] study that was designed for full over-the-rail upholstery."
Sold at Sotheby's New York in 2004, these chairs were from The Collection of Alice and Murray Braunfeld. A single chair, of the same style and attributed to John Seymour, is in the collection of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA). It is listed as a gift of Mrs. Murray Braunfeld in 2006 (M.2006.51.21). Although it is rare that sets of these chairs remain, given the fragile nature of their construction, it is probable this pair and the single chair at LACMA are related.
Two similar pairs of chairs probably by Thomas and John Seymour sold at Sotheby's New York in Property from the Collection of Dr. Larry McCallister, September 22, 2022, lots 98 and 99.
According to Sotheby's catalog note: "The masterful execution and carefully conceived design of this side chair places it among the most sophisticated examples of scroll-back chairs made in Boston. The exquisite combination of light and dark woods, reeding and carving, and rectangles, quarter ellipses and diamonds results in a tour de force of the Federal aesthetic.
The same overall configuration, wood combination and exceptional craftsmanship is found on chairs attributed to John and Thomas Seymour of Boston, whose furniture epitomizes the height of workmanship in Boston during the Federal period. Several similar sets of seating furniture are known. Once is represented by two settees and a pair of side chairs at Winterthur and a pair of side chairs at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, all with out-turning front legs (see Charles Montgomery, American Furniture, The Federal Period, nos. 37-9, pp. 90-2 and Edwin Hipkiss, M. and M. Karolik Collection of Eighteenth-Century American Arts, 1941, no. 116). A chair at Bayou Bend and one at Yale University also with out-turning front legs offer another variation (see David Warren, et al, American Decorative Arts and Paintings in the Bayou Bend Collection, 1997, F157, p. 99 and Patricia Kane, 300 Years of American Seating Furniture, 1976, no. 154, p. 174). Additional examples of the form representing two different sets are in the Kaufman Collection and the Henry ford Museum (see J. Michael Flanigan, no. 48, p. 134-5 and Vernon Stoneman, A Supplement to John and Thomas Seymour, Boston, 1965, no. 57).
Another side chair of this type in the Kaufman Collection displays ring-turned reeded tapering legs related to those on this pair of side chairs (see Flanigan, no. 47, p. 132-3). Similar legs appear on an octagonal center table attributed to the Seymours that sold at Sotheby's, Sinking Spring Farms: The Appell Family Collection, January 18, 2003, sale 7867, Lot 1265.
Condition
Both in overall good condition with expected nicks and wear. One with small repairs to the back splat. Both with old repairs and replacements to the upper section of the front legs. New corner blocks underneath the seat. Finely carved and structurally sound.
Stair Galleries, Americana sale 8/10/2023.
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fic where one of them gets arrested?
not like prison au but maybe some club fight or being in the wrong place in the wrong time or some false accusations but with happy ending?
Thank you in advance!
I intended to try and do a full rec list of these, but since I can't find a lot of fics like this, I thought I'd just make you a shorter rec here on your ask!
—Arrested Fics—
Tied Down by HamPalpert / @ham-palpert (E, 48k)
The most interesting case in Liam and Niall's careers falls directly into their laps, courtesy of an epic fuck-up of one Harry Styles, partner to the almost-infamous drug dealer Louis Tomlinson. The investigation yields an unexpected yet satisfactory outcome for Liam and Niall. For Harry and Louis, however, things are far more complicated.
Come on baby, come and get me out by Justanotherlarry (M, 11k)
''Well, is this fun for you? Is that what you do now that you work for the police? Chase your exes down and put them in cells for the night to make them pay for whatever they did to you?''
''Damn it Louis, I took you here so you wouldn’t get a ticket, I know your mother would not have been pleased.''
''Don’t talk about my mother like you know anything about her.''
''I know her quite well. Which you would know if you were actually interested in me but no, you just like to fuck people around and leave, don't you ? You arrogant prick.''
''You just proved that I was right : You ARE holding a grudge against me and this is your way to make me pay– I wonder what your colleague will say when he hears about your abuse of authority!''
''Fuck you Louis.''
''You wish.'' Louis smirked at Harry mischievously.
''It wasn’t me who said I was hot.''
Or the AU where Louis gets arrested for public urination and the policeman who arrests him happens to be Harry, his teenage crush...
I roll and I roll, 'til I change my luck by @scrunchyharry (E, 8k)
“They’re not my best pictures.”
“I wouldn’t say that, I think you look quite good being manhandled by a bigger man.”
Louis chokes on his sip of hot chocolate, feeling it burn its way down his throat. He coughs a few times and then clears his throat. “I’m sorry?!”
“You heard me. You should do it more often, it might make you more humble. Maybe you’ll learn to respect people.”
Or Louis is a bored, rich kid whose latest stunt got him arrested and forced to attend a fundraiser at an ice rink, Zayn is his unlucky partner in crime, Harry is the cute hospital volunteer who is having none of his attitude, Niall is the worst DJ in the world, and Liam is Leslie Knope.
A Spectrum of You by @duchesskitty16 (M, 8k)
Lou has just graduated from high school and she's found herself in a bit of trouble and an arrest for vandalism. She gets an offer to do community service at a camp for LGBTQIA+ youth in the Catskills and reluctantly accepts it. There she meets Liam, Niall, Zayn and most importantly Harry, and forms friendship bonds that will last long after the summer ends. Will Lou and Harry also form a bond that goes beyond just friends?
Misdemeanor by LittleSpoonStyles94 (G, 8k)
Louis is arrested at LAX airport Los Angeles.
Always Darkest before the Sunrise by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup (NR, 7k)
Salem, Massachusetts, 17th century.
“You have attacked without need and without mercy, you have used arts so dark they are of the Evil One, and for that you cannot be allowed to walk free.”
What?
Harry starts struggling. It’s no use, he’s not even doing it with any sort of rational plan, the whole town at this point stands between him and freedom, but the words leaking from the preacher’s lips are filling him with a bile more sickening than he’s ever known.
“Harry Styles, ward of the church no longer, you are under arrest for the use of witchcraft against the innocent townspeople of Salem, Massachusetts.”
i'd make wine from your tears by bloubird (E, 6k)
He's the one Forbes writes about, who has bank accounts all over the world, a gold ring on each finger, and a tiger of his own in his huge mansion in the heart of California. Harry Styles, a devilishly rich stockbroker, is accused of a number of financial crimes. And Louis Tomlinson, the FBI agent leading the investigation, finally gets hold of evidence against Styles and shows up at his party to arrest the broker.
“Your body is the only form of currency in this world.”
#ficrec#ask#anon#bloubird#ladylondonderry#littlespoonstyles94#duchesskitty16#scrunchyharry#justanotherlarry#hampalpert
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HISTORICAL MOVIES ABOUT WITCH PROCESSES
🇩🇰/🇳🇴🇨🇿🇫🇮🇺🇸🇪🇸🇮🇸🇫🇷🇵🇱 From the best known to the least known.
The Crucible (1996) - based on the play of Arthur Miller. Miller likened the situation with the House Un-American Activities Committee to the witch hunt in Salem in 1692 (the love story is purely fiction). Other American films & series that are based more or less in to Salem trials are: The Maid of Salem (1937) & Salem Witch Trials (2002) with Kirstie Alley, Shirley MacLaine, Alan Bates, Rebecca De Mornay.
Witchfinder General - see my previous post.
🇬🇧The Devils (1971) based on the book of Aldous Huxley, loosely based on the historical events in France. The Loudun possessions, known in French as the Possessed of Loudun Affair (Affaire des possédées de Loudun), was a notorious witchcraft trial that took place in Loudun, Kingdom of France, in 1634. A convent of Ursuline nuns said they had been visited and possessed by demons. Following an investigation by the Catholic Church, a local priest named Urbain Grandier was accused of summoning the evil spirits. Polish 🇵🇱Matka Joanna od Aniołów, also known as The Devil and the Nun (1961) is an art Film based on the same book.
Kladivo na čarodějnice (Witchhammer) Dir. Otakar Vávra (1969), adaptation of Kaplický's novel of the same name about the Northern Moravia trials. It is drawing from original historical documents.
🧹This film is very provocative, but it also offers a bit of a view of the layers of society and political motives. Indeed, the film is considered an allegory for the Stalin’s political show trials. What was quite exceptional in this historical case was that lawyer Jindřich František Boblig z Edelstadtu sought mainly the Conviction of local wealthy burghers.💰
🇩🇪Mark of the Devil (1970) - only the location is real. Schloss Moosham (moosham castle) is in Salzburg , Austria 🇦🇹 The Zaubererjackl trials or Salzburg witch trials, also known in history as the Magician Jackls process, which took place in the city of Salzburg in 1675–1690, was one of the largest and most famous witch trials in Austria but the movie has nothing to do with this it is basically torture porn.
🇩🇰Vredens Dag (1943) - Day of Wrath is a 1943 Danish drama film directed by C.T.Dreyer. It is an adaptation of the 1909 Norwegian play AnnePedersdotter by Hans Wiers-Jenssen, based on a 16th century Norwegian witchtrial case. It might reflect also the Nazi occupation in Denmark.
The Basque word AKELARRE means 'the field of the he-goat' as well as 'witches sabbath'. 🎥Akelarre (2020) centers on the relationship between a judge called Rostegui and a group of teens suspected of witchcraft. In an attempt to evade execution, the six teenage girls decide to tell the judge what he wants to hear. Their leader, Ana, realizes that the judge is desperate to prove the reality of the sabbath.
Pierre de Rosteguy de Lancre or Pierre de l'Ancre (1553–1631), was the (56 yo) French judge of Bordeaux who conducted the massive Pays de Labourd witch-hunt in 1609. In 1582 he was named judge in Bordeaux, and in 1608 King Henry IV commanded him to put an end to the practice of witchcraft. However before that 2 noblemen from Labourd asked help from the King.👑
Total of suspects in the area was 5000 but there are no clear records how many was killed in local trials. In famous Logroño trials 6 people were burned alive, 4 women & 2 men, 13 died in prison.🔥 five burned in effigy. (and many toads 🐸 were hanged too)
Finnish film Tulen morsian (2016) Devil’s Bride, is partly based on research but the plot (love story) is fiction. Influenced by the Feminist-movement.
Did you know that before the famous Swedish witch trials ( in Dalarna - Mora) they started from Finland? 🔥In the 17th century Finland was part of Sweden 🇸🇪🇫🇮and at that time (in 1655) man called Nils Psilander was appointed to be an Åland island 🇦🇽district judge.⚖️ District judge Psilander was the man behind the only linked trials in Finland (a snowball effect that led to multiple death sentences). Demonological ideas such as the demonic pact, the sabbat, and the Devil’s mark come to the fore. Psilander’s university studies in Tartu, with its German teachers, help to explain his knowledge of these ideas. 😈 7 women (+1) were beheaded and burned in these trials.
🇮🇸 Myrkrahöfðinginn (1999) Dir.Gunnlaugsson
⛪️This witchtrial film is loosely based on the historical events in Iceland. The trial & the burning in Easter week 1656 in Skutulsfjörður, Ísafjarðarsýsla, of the two Jón Jónssons, father and son, from Kirkjuból for witchcraft against their parish priest Jón Magnússon. (Ellison 1994-97)
#movies#witch#witches#witchcraft#cinema#horror film#folklore#demonology#history#film#horror#folk horror#great britain#satanic#witch trials#finland#norway#denmark#island#germany#basque#art#politics#persecution#death sentence#metoo#winona ryder#daniel day lewis#arthur miller#salem
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Agent Rosebush and Agent Redacted, two members of the Agency.
Rosebush first:
Place of birth: Salem, Massachusetts
Nationality: American
Date of birth: October 1st, 19XX
Height: 5'8
Eyes: Green (Right), Light brown (Left)
Hair: Light brown
Blood type: O-
Dominant hand: Right
Status: MIA
Flavor profile: Sweet
Favorite Color: Spanish Carmine
Zodiac: Libra
MB Type: ENTJ-T
Weapon of choice: Revolver
Pronouns are she/they.
Originally assigned to the Handler division, Agent Rosebush was recommended to the Agency by a cadet (who was also a good friend of hers). She was assigned to this cadet when they became an agent, and the two ran several successful missions until they were nearly killed. Rosebush VERY quickly realized that she gets attached to people much too easily for an agent supervisor, and that she'd inevitably have a breakdown if she got someone killed, no matter if the agent were her friend or not. Despite the missions that did go well, she switched over to the EOD and gained her title through Not Dying and being recognized through her rose hairclip.
She's got a bit of an alcohol and smoking addiction, but she's a great shot and a skilled agent. She knows French and starts counting in it when she's stressed. She has a grappling hook, and her shoes have retractable wheels.
Now, onto Redacted:
Place of birth: (REDACTED)
Nationality: British
Date of birth: (REDACTED)
Height: (REDACTED)
Eyes: (REDACTED)
Hair: (REDACTED)
Blood type: AB
Dominant hand: (REDACTED)
Status: Alive
Flavor profile: (REDACTED)
Favorite Color: (REDACTED)
Zodiac: (REDACTED)
MB Type: INTJ-A
Weapon of choice: Blackmail
Wow. That was informative. /sar
Anyways, pronouns are she/they/he, but they make their voice sound more masculine or feminine depending on which they prefer.
They appeared in the world of espionage out of nowhere, stealing information from different big companies and selling them off or publishing them to purposely causing public outcry. (All of which was apparently done for fun). Eventually, they popped up on the Agency's radar and were offered a way to do this job legally. It was thought that Redacted was actually a group of people at first, when in reality, they've mastered the art of disguises. Nobody at the Agency knows what they look like, and if the doctors who gave them their implant do, they've probably been threatened into silence via Blackmail.
Redacted has lots of connections to lots of people, and usually goes on intel runs to discover Zoraxis's latest plans rather than to actually stop them (that's Rosebush's job). They're also pretty good with computers, and send people their own coordinates/pictures of themselves if they annoy Redacted. Their nickname was gained when Shawn from HR couldn't find any personal information, and was rebuffed when asking the agent. (Redacted might have even crossed things out of their own file without Shawn realizing). They think the nickname is fitting.
#i expect you to die#ieytd fandom#ieytd oc#ocs#im so normal about these two i swear#thats a lie#Rosebush has so much trauma#meanwhile Redacted started this job to cause drama#i might do a colored drawing of them who knows
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