I need to know what you think about finding a dark siren Eddie Munson. Maybe he got hurt and washed up on the shore? You’re immediately his mate and he loves you very much even though he’s never been near a human. Very much I hate everyone but you vibes for our bloodthirsty friend.
Boyfriend From the Deep
darkSiren!Eddie x Reader
darkSiren!Eddie art here and here
Blurb 1
Blurb 2
18+ONLY, smut, some monsterfuqqing, mention of gore, mention of throwing up, visit from Murray & Hopper, mention of reader's life not going well, AFAB Reader, love at first sight, soulmates, merman!Eddie. wc: 3k
A/N: Another request I was really excited to sink my teeth into. My hope is to continue this eventually, taking inspiration from the 1984 film Splash. Looking forward to what y'all think of darkSiren!Eddie, thank you for indulging me.
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Eddie choked and coughed as the wave crashed over him, forcing his eyes open with a gargled gasp. He was pinned up against a rocky ledge, half of his body on the sand and the other half in the frigid water. All of a sudden, he felt sick, and began retching clear bile into the sea. He didn’t like breathing the air, he wasn’t used to it, and it caught in his throat like a feather–tickling—until he coughed and retched again. The gills on the sides of his neck sputtered, flapping open like vents, drying out, trying to conform to the new way of breathing.
It was then that he became aware of the dull ache at the back of his head, and with trembling fingers, he reached back to test the spot with a cringe and a hiss. He checked to find that his fingertips were bloody; he must’ve knocked his head on one of the sharp rocks during the transformation. How badly was he wounded? Would be a shame to survive the journey to human form only to die on the beach and rot like a bloated fish.
He braced his hand, fingers digging into the sand, and flicked his hips to swish his tail to get him unstuck, but then two legs kicked out from his hips, stuck in a fisherman’s net, and it startled him, making him slam his head into the rock again. He winced, eyes squeezing shut, whimpering a bit at the sting of the impact as the saltwater splashed up to his knees and misted his face.
This was Eddie’s first time back to land in over a decade. Mostly because he loathed humans. He loved to lure them to their deaths, he loved to watch from under the water as their ships sank so that he could feed on their fear, curling the sound waves of their screams into his belly like sweet nectar.
He twisted, trying to be free of the rough ropes that cut into his skin, but he was weak, and he wasn’t sure how much blood he’d lost. He was stuck there now, for 7 days and 7 nights, and he thought maybe he’d just find a way to stay hidden…
….until he saw you.
It was rare for you to be up at the crack of dawn, unless it was due to the fact that you hadn’t slept at all, which was a regular occurrence. Long, restful sleeps that lasted hours were just a myth to you, ever since you’d watched your life go down the toilet. A breakup, a death in the family, getting fired from your job; all of it happened all at once, and you were still reeling, teetering at the edge of the abyss.
You were all alone in the world, but for your dog, Louie, and the modest cottage you were renting for a week off the Oregon coast. The beach house was tucked back in the woods, and it didn’t even have a TV, so flipping it on to watch the early morning broadcast or some cartoons to relax your brain was not an option. The radio would have to do, and the first song that came on when you flipped the dial was Brandy by Looking Glass. You hummed along to it as you plucked Louie’s leash off the sofa and attached it to his collar. He was a medium, handsome, mixed-breed boy that you’d rescued from the side of the road as a puppy. Part corgi, part border collie, part…dalmatian? You weren’t entirely sure.
“He came on a summer's day
Bringin' gifts from far away
But he made it clear he couldn't stay
No harbor was his home
The sailor said, ‘Brandy, you're a fine girl
What a good wife you would be
But my life, my love, and my lady is the sea”
It was exceptionally chilly for an August morning, making you bundle in a hoodie and boots for the trek out to the beach. Louie was practically foaming at the mouth to get out there for his run, and since your area of the beach was fairly secluded at that time of morning, you unhooked his leash where the dirt path met with the sand, and he bolted into the fog toward the ocean like a shot. There was a wet mist lingering in the air, like salty, seaweed-scented kisses that made you squint against the bright gray hues turning blue with the rise of the sun. A few seagulls squawked and swooshed overhead, diving down to perch on a large piece of driftwood, and you waved to them, as if they’d showed up just to say hello to you.
You faced the vast expanse of ocean and crashing waves with a mix of awe and defiance, challenging it silently with a lift of your chin. Your reverie was rudely interrupted by Louie’s alarm bark, somewhere deep in the mist.
You followed the sound, walking blind until you caught sight of the jutting rocks at the base of a cliff, and the shrill of Louie’s distress signal was getting further away. Your feet picked up speed, stumbling for purchase in the soft, wet ground as you called for him, a bit of panic stroking your heart. Why did it feel like you were about to start crying? An avalanche of unfelt emotions gathered in your throat as you called for your loyal companion.
But there he was, finally, sitting facing the rocks, tail wagging side to side, making a fan-shape in the sand, basically ignoring you as you collapsed to one knee, cursing, clutching your chest.
You mumbled a whole conversation to him as you snapped the leash back in place and got to your feet. You tried to guide him in the other direction, but Louie was transfixed on something a few yards ahead, and it took your eyes a moment to adjust—but then you saw it. A hand, slightly webbed between the fingers, appeared from around the black rock, digging into the sand, and then another hand gripped the tan earth further along, as if someone were trying to pull themself along by their arm strength alone. The wrists were covered in jewelry that looked like they were made of shell and bone; the forearms tattooed in dotted, swirling black ink patterns.
You were too stunned to scream, mouth hanging agape. You urged Louie back to shield him with your legs. You saw the long, dark hair next, pooling over bare, tattooed shoulders; it was messy and unkempt, littered in bits of fauna and a few empty clam shells, one side matted with blood.
Before your brain could throw the alarm that this might be dangerous, you were already speaking. “A-are you alright? Do you need me to get help?”
That was when his head snapped up, and wide, all-white eyes regarded you with malice, lips curling back to expose a mouth full of pointed teeth. He growled at you, and Louie growled back, but then, after a second, the monster's face softened. The milk white eyes behind tendrils of hair shifted to brown, human irises, and he cocked his head a few times at you, as if trying to understand what you had just said.
You should have fainted.
You should have turned and run screaming in the other direction.
But, for some reason, neither one of those even occurred to you.
You came around to get a better look at him, down along where the water lapped at your boots, and took in the rest of his body; he was tangled up in a crude net from the waist down. He wore a necklace that appeared to be made of intricate fish bones and coral, and shark tooth earring dangled from his ear. The tattoo patterns ran all along his chest, stomach, and legs. You released Louie’s leash, and he sat right where he was told, while you crouched down to meet Eddie’s curious gaze that never strayed from you.
“Will you let me help you?” You asked.
Eddie was in love.
He never believed the stories he’d been told about the imprinting and immediate bonding that happened when you met your mate. He wasn’t just any Merman, he was a Siren, and as a soldier of the dark forces of the sea, he figured he didn’t have time for frivolous things like romance.
But this took no time at all.
You were meant to be his, and he didn’t care who he had to kill to keep you.
He studied your face as you worked to free the wet knot of seaweed tangles on the net, freeing his thighs from the heavyweight, gasping and averting your eyes at the way your touch made his cock twitch and swell. You helped him to sit up, noticing what appeared to be gills on his throat and sides along his ribs. His flesh was similar to that of a human, but also not. It had a thick, rippled texture, like the belly of a snake, and it seemed to glow with a soft blue fluorescence. His muscles were tight and lean, and he didn’t even bother to shiver as a cold wind made your teeth chatter.
You told him your name as another seagull cawed overhead, and asked what you should call him.
His eyebrows clenched together, tilting his head a few times, watching your mouth as you spoke.
“Do you speak English?” You asked it in a cringe way, with a loud voice, as if a higher volume could break any language barrier.
He brought his webbed hand up to touch your face, and you jerked away at first, but then you let his scaled knuckles graze your cheek, the legs of your jeans soaking wet now as you knelt there with what could only be described as a figment of your imagination.
He spoke a word in foreign language, his voice a deep whisper. You remembered how solid white his eyes had been before when he thought you were a threat, but now they were honey brown, almost cat-like in nature as they softly adored you.
“I-I don’t understand,” you breathed, unable to comprehend the time it took for his mouth to find yours, to plant wholesome kisses, to taste you.
You might’ve been in love with him at that moment too, but your jaded heart refused to let yourself believe it.
You did, however, feel the arousal blossom at your core as his tongue fluttered against yours, whimpering with a little click in his throat like a sea lion at the way you returned his kiss.
The urge to mate you, to officially make you his, was too strong for Eddie to take into regard any of the formalities of courtship. Once your hand found his generous girth and began to stroke, encouragingly, that was all it took.
You skittered backwards up onto the semi-dry sand, unzipping your jeans and pushing them down to your ankles as you went, and Eddie followed, bracing himself on top so he wouldn’t crush you, desperate to find your mouth again. His powerful hips bucked against you, and you held him by the neck, begging for more while he spoke to you in that foreign tongue, staring into your eyes, willing you to understand him.
Wanting you to know that no one would ever love you as much as he did; that he would be your one and only mate until the darkness took you both.
The position felt awkward, but there was no time to take your boots off as your hole clenched the air, desperate to be filled. You spun around to get on your hands and knees, and Eddie buried his cock in your wet heat with one swish of his muscular thighs, throwing his head back in a bark of triumph.
You pushed back against him, needing him to move, to stretch you and own you with each push, your fingers clawing into the sand as you whined.
Nearby, Louie cocked his head and tried to lift one floppy ear, but then he turned his face to the sea, trying to give you some privacy.
You’d never been fucked by someone as strong as this sea monster, and your whole body jerked and vibrated under the impact of his deep thrusts. “Yesyesyes…oh fuck!”
It wasn’t long before Eddie clapped his pelvis flush to your ass and spilled inside of you, chanting foreign words, tilting his head to the sky, worshiping you with his offering. He stayed locked there for a while, working his seed deeper with every stroke. When he was done, he flipped you over with a feral urgency that sent sand into your eyes and nose, but you didn’t care, because now his mouth was on you.
Your fingers sank into his matted hair, and that was when you felt the viscous patch and remembered he was bleeding. His big, strong legs were a bit wobbly, and the thought occurred to you, for whatever reason, that he wasn’t accustomed to using them.
But then Louie was barking in the other direction, and you both turned your attention to see a figure appearing from out of the mist. A middle-aged man in a pageboy cap and a trench coat; he was already too close before you knew he was there, and he dropped the walking stick in his hand, his face frozen in shock and terror.
Eddie smelled the foul human approaching and the familiar bloodlust roared in his veins. The fin on Eddie’s back bristled as he rose to a crouch with a ferocious growl. You shuffled as far as you could against the rock, trying to pull your jeans up and cover yourself, not sure what to think of Eddie’s reaction.
Eddie bared his mouth full of sharp teeth in a sneer at the man, his eyes going completely white again. A storm seemed to hit the beach all of a sudden at Eddie’s command, dropping down a gust of wind that rocked the waves and sent the man stumbling off his feet as if the world tilted on its axis, trying to hold his hat on against the force of it. A low, rumbling wail came from somewhere deep in Eddie’s chest as you tried to shield your face from the whips of sand stabbing like tiny daggers in your flesh. Eddie appeared to be sucking the life out of the man from his distance; the human’s body lifted up in the air and bent back. You thought you heard something crack.
It was only a matter of seconds before the man crumpled to the ground, unresponsive, and then Eddie settled, and so did the air around him. After a few heartbeats, there were only the crashing waves and the birds once again, and Eddie’s head snapped to you, searching, making sure you were okay.
He held his arms out and you scrambled over, burying your head in the crook of his neck, letting him cage you, letting him have you.
Louie went over to sniff around at the man on the ground, wondering if he had any treats, and then he lifted his leg and let go of a stream of urine onto his shoe.
—-----
Murray Bauman slammed the paper onto Hopper’s desk, forcing a gust of wind into his face and a couple of yellow sticky notes to go flying.
Murray waited, hands on his hips, the door to the office wide open behind him. Hopper took a deep inhale and flicked a few bored glances from the cover of the Seaside Review back up to Murray’s severe expression.
“Is this your way of telling me you're taking a vacation?” He guessed, shifting back in his squeaky chair.
“This,” Murray jabbed his finger in the direction of the paper. “Is what I’ve been trying to tell you about.”
In the mood to humor his old friend, Hopper bent forward, furrowing his brow, taking a closer look at the headlines.
Murray continued, pacing in front of the desk as he did so. “Merpeople don’t exist? Well then, explain that to me.”
To the right, at the top of a long column and a sketch, was the headline: Reclusive artist survives a Siren attack on the beach and lives to tell: Merfolk exist.
Hopper cleared his throat. “This is a drawing, Murray.”
Murray stopped his pacing, inclining his head, adopting a sarcastic tone. “Notice anything familiar about that likeness, Jim? Does any part of it ring a bell? The white eyes, maybe? The teeth?”
“Sure,” Hopper picked the paper up and plopped it down, further away from him. “It looks like Elvis. Call The Inquirer.”
Murray flopped in a chair facing the Chief’s desk with a huff. He’d keep talking about it even if it fell on deaf ears because he knew he was right. “The migration of the Sirens. Enki, Poseidon, Amphitrite, the legend of the skin-shedding Merfolk who can walk on land for 7 days during a blood moon. Humanoids. Cannibals of the sea—-”
“Stop,” Hopper put his hand up palm out. “Just, stop. Is any of this supposed to make any sense to me? Why are you here? What have I done to deserve this?”
Murray rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, intertwining his fingers. “The drawing should look familiar to you, Jim, because it’s just like the one I saw when I was a teenager, and three summers ago when I was on that death-trap Alaskan cruise. I told you all about it. I told you that I was—-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Hopper interrupted. “But again, I’ll ask—why are you coming to me with this? You think I’m going to arrest a fish?”
Murray rounded his shoulders. "I know that Sirens exist, Jim. There’s more than enough evidence out there, and I’m going to prove it to you, if not the world.”
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Ascendants at different degrees 🦚🦢 pt 3
hii, hope you have a beautiful day✨🧚♀️ i don’t have an excuse for my delay post but ty so much for all the support AAAAAAAAA😭❤️
Alexandra Levasseur
Ascendant at Gemini degree (3°, 15° or 27°)
they’re hyperactive. They have so much to say bc their mind is a work of overthinking. they have A LOT of ideas that they want to put it into words but can be difficult for them. Every type of process takes them longer or feels longer than what others will express, bc while doing it they’re thinking and thinking, it’s a cycle. Their profession could be related to “communicate” if that’s too obvious HAKDBA. but in every manner, that’s their passion, their need. making songs, advising, doesn’t matter what’s the career, the meaning or the need is present. their purpose is to put those ideas into words and those meanings the words own, reach out to more people. As I said in another post, I have a friend that has Gemini degree at his ascendant and breaths music, but I haven’t mentioned other people Ik that doesn’t represent the conventional example: she is a psychologist, she attracts people when she talks and her charisma. But it’s obvious how they struggle to communicate or it’s not easy to make themselves understood. That’s why they prefer to analyze others or to speak up through a non conventional way. I’ve seen that since ever they have difficulties with educational system, they’re too bored and intelligent -hyperactive- to adapt. what others say and how they process it is interesting…
Ascendant at Libra degree (7° or 19°)
their face is symmetrical. they’re pretty good at giving advice, comes naturally to them. they look “put together”, that they have their things to do, their schedule. they’re not direct -with my friend that have libra degree at their ascendant, I have to ask them specific questions with the objective of reading their mind. For example, I ask if they like my outfit and they’re making rare expressions and saying “YeS” with a rare tone, so I ask them “you don’t like it?” and they don’t say something clear-. I have to interpretate more than listening to a clear answer. Taking care of their appearance it’s essential, if they don’t like it, they’ll change -appearance matters-. You’ll see them owning a lot of makeup products but they look or use a “natural” look/makeup -if they use it-. They don’t try to be too “unique” or attract attention in a way that could be seen as unconventional/rare, they follow tendencies that could be seen as basic but for them it’s more than enough. growing up they could have cared too much about what others think. They could have lived or are still living without questioning themselves what are they doing with their lives, not realizing they’re part of a system and that they’re an individual. in other words, they could have had ignored how they were living, they were “vibing” but have never stopped and asked themselves “what am I doing?”. And if they had, they conformed themselves bc they didn’t want a change, to be “accepted”.
Ascendant at Aquarius degree (11° or 23°)
they’re THE bitch. they know their worth. their passion or what calls their heart is to be someone in the society we live, to make a change. people will prejudge and have a wrong idea of them: they’re loners, they’re mean and they only think about themselves, they’re egoists. only bc they don’t try to be as everyone, only bc they’re not people pleasers and they’re true to themselves, doesn’t mean they’re egoists. In reality, all their thoughts end up on the same final: to help the fcking humanity. it sounds cliche, it’s too cringe for them to admit it ⛓️🖤 since their childhood, they have been exposed to information that showed problematics in the world. they process information logically bc their surroundings taught them to, suppressing their emotions. they search for solutions logically, they could suffer for explaining what are their needs without judging themselves. they could be bad at advising bc they’re struggling to even comfort themselves. trough all their life, they have doubts or not an stable self-esteem: god complex. ik its impossible to not mention this phrase for an Aquarius placement: they have had and have difficulties feeling part of a community, to not feel lonely -not alone bc it refers to be “physical by yourself”-. They could be feeling really lonely but they sabotage themselves remaining they don’t have to feel, like a robot. they’re complimented by their style💋 unique
Ascendant at Sagittarius degree (9° or 21°)
they’re chill, they take things as they come -or that’s how they appear-. they’re calm but calm that can take a joke that’s supposed to be offensive and they’re sarcastic about it. it’s like they’re mosquitos around and they have repellent -the best example 🤩-. STILL they’re pretty sensitive. I think they try to be as calm as they seem to not worry their mother/parental figure with all the struggles they’ve had. They tried to be their sunshine: they are but as time passes they converted these behavior on a mask, hiding how they feel really. They vibe. surprisingly, they’re not chaotic or histrionic, it’s like they’re good, like “meh” good BUT sure they have their moments. change my mind, they’re or “calm you should be afraid of it” or they don’t give a shit but in a “dog that needs to be taken for a walk way to waste that energy” -as a sag placement i recognize and reaffirm 🤓☝️ i need to be taken for a walk like the bitch I am, that’s an horrible jk god-. They remind me of a taurus ascendant but they actually don seek comfort and if they do, their whole life is about going out of their comfort zone bc of their drive of wanting to know more. they actually know, even though they’re not scorpios, they know shit and let things happen naturally. in other words, they have acknowledged that if they tell people what’s happening it’s not gonna hit them as how it’ll if they live it. and they’re loyal, they’ll tell their friends or loved ones but they won’t control the situation. their life is about experiencing things instead on basing themselves on other experiences, they want to know and the diversity of perspectives is a whole galaxy to explore for them. again, it’s not about professions, it’s about their passion. people would judge and say “they’re players and blabla” could be right but that’s not the point, they experience to grow and they’re not afraid of not being perfect -and if they’re they try and they’re brave-.
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❀ Based on my personal experience and what I’ve analyzed in my surroundings.
❀ English is not my first language.
❀ I’m not a profesional astrologer, I just love astrology and I’m willing to learn.
Thank youu. baibaiii🫣🫶🏼💋
Do not copy. Please give me credits.
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I don't want people to reblog that AI art post so I'll put my addition here:
One thing that will always make me cringe with those AI imitations of middle to late 19th century art is how the intelligence will always try to match ALL the women figures with the current 21th century beauty standards. Now, of course, I wouldn't be complaining if these kind of images weren't plaguing the "classical art" or "oil painting" tags. But since they are, I will show you what 19th century painting of women really looks like. And yeah, I know, some paintings match with current beauty standards but it's still more complicated than that. "Classic" painting is not all about representing pretty ladies. Otherwise historians of art would be bored.
Okay, if it's a "classic" painting, let's go with neoclassicism which is basically a return to the classic inspirations from antiquity and a return to simplicity after years of the wild Baroque and Rococo of the 18th century. Want to see portraits of women in that time?
(Left : Detail of Portrait de madame de Verninac by Jacques-Louis David, 1979. Right : Portrait de Madame Duvaucey, 1809, Jean-Dominique Ingres).
So far, notice how these two women don't look at all like the women in those fake AI paintings. They are portraits of real women, thus real models. But even when they were painting gods, 19th century painters HAD models! Not only that, they were also inspired by antiquity, which wasn't really doing realism either, they had their own ideals like, to cite one exemple, the really straight noses you always see in greek statues. Well, that's also in neoclassical paintings! Look:
(Detail of La Mélancolie by Constance Marie Charpentier, 1801)
On the other side, you've got two strong opponents (and logical responding movements) to this return to classical culture : Romantism and Realism. Once again, look at the diversity :
(Left: Details of Les foins by Jules Bastien-Lepage, 1877. Right: Jeune orpheline au cimetière, Eugène Delacroix, 1824.)
Realism is pretty self-explanatory. The painters were going back to show normal people, farmers and workers. They weren't here to make them beautiful or to conform to beauty standards but to show the world as it is. Result was a lot of controversies, notably with Courbet and Les baigneuses, a representation of a strong woman in an unflatering pose and dirt on her feet that shook the beauty standards so dear to the academic ideals of his times. Check it out if you're interested, there's plenty of articles about it.
And romanticism? Once again very diverse. Just look at pre-romantism, with Goya, who loooved representing fucked up little scenes. Or with Delacroix, here with one of his most famous portrait (Jeune orpheline au cimetière) probably because of the expression, the pose, everything that makes that girl look alive, real, unique.
But wait.... You've already seen classical paintings were the ladies looked like all the ladies nowadays, right? Maybe you've seen those very pretty pre raphaelites paintings with those women that look kinda like Florence Welch. Maybe you've seen academic art, the most palatable of 19th century style when it comes to beauty norms. And it's true, it could be similar to these prompted AI classical babes, except once again, it's not. Because once again, they had models, and models were different from paintings to paintings. And this is this systematic same face vibes that makes AI so boring. Because even when real historical art comes close to that, it is always way way way more rich and full of surprises.
(left : The North-West Passage by John Everett Millais, 1878. Middle: Detail of Contemplation by John William Godward, 1922. Right: Detail of La Naissance de Vénus by William Bouguereau, 1879)
Then, you have all these art styles that AI weirdly stays away from : those where the style and process is so strong, so much more important than the subject, that it would be hard to copy without noticing the difference. It could be impressionism, it could be symbolism or better, it could be the avant-garde artists that announces then blends into the wild, colorful and tortured art of the first half of the 20th century.
(Left: Le chemin de fer by Edouard Manet, 1973. Middle: I lock my door upon myself by Fernand Khnopff, 1891, Right: Jane Avril by Henri de Toulouse Lautrec, 1892)
Conclusion/ TLDR : If fake historical AI art becomes more realistic every day, it will never be as rich and diverse as the real deal because it will always be used to appease an algorithm for people who just want to see pretty images that catters to them and never challenge their views. When it comes to beauty norm, this could be dangerous and make people believe that these was always how women looked like. That all girls were born with removed buccal fat and symmetrical faces, even in old paintings. I don't know, it may be nothing, but it may be something. Thank you for those who read all that and I hope see many cool paintings in museums :)
Addition: This is of course a very european centric vision of art but it's what the AI will take inspiration from anyway. For the same reasons, these paintings are very white but I was also trying to avoid the icky orientalist representations that were so trendy in the 19th century. Note that there is an even better diversity in paintings when you open your eyes to non-european centric art.
(If I see a terf reblogging this, i'm blocking on sight)
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