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#myos ideas
myosotisa · 5 months
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‖ tags: smut, somnophilia, size kink, p in v, praise kink
‖ word count: 380
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the two of you have had sex 3 times and you've never been able to take all of him because you just get too in your head about how huge he is. he's so patient with you, never rushing you, prioritizing your comfort over anything else. making suggestions to try to make it better, or saying he'll just fuck you with half so it doesn't hurt you, or that the two of you don't have to do anything at all if you don't want to.
you feel bad, self conscious, slightly ashamed, apologetic. he assures you it's more than fine, sex with you is amazing even if you can't take all of him. but. he knows it's all in your head. he knows your body can take it. he asks if you trust him and of course you say you do.
you wake up on your stomach, naked from the waist down and your shirt rolled up to your armpits. it's hot and sweaty and disorienting but holy shit what is that feeling?!
"there she is," he says in a deep voice, rough from how quiet he's trying to be. "good morning beautiful"
you go to say good morning back but it's cut off with an unexpected moan, a feeling deep inside you shifting. "feel that?" he murmurs, sounding a bit cheeky but so utterly pleased. to make his point more clear he rolls his hips, adjusting his thick cock inside you, and holy fucking shit he's balls deep.
"knew you could take it, baby," he says proudly when you gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets beneath you. he pulls back an inch or two and pushes back in, your back arching as you let out a choked moan. he's so deep, you've never felt anything like this before.
"just had to take your big, nervous brain out of the equation. knew it the whole time - your pussy was begging for it, crying for it. and now you're soaking me, sh-iiit, like you were made for my fat cock," he groans, continuing to slowly shift in and out of you, your muscles clenching around him on each drive forward. "so fucking perfect baby. just keep taking it like a champ and I promise to make you feel so good you'll never worry about me fucking you like this ever again."
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blueywrites · 1 year
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I Will Wait
a soulmate!fakemarriage!au with rockstar!eddie and personalassistant!reader (also featuring ronance)
cowritten by @abibliophobiaa, @blue-mossbird, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, and @fracturedarkness
18+ only for mature themes and eventual sexual content. fem!reader
one (9.9k) | next | masterlist | AO3 | 🎵 shmackin' tunes
in this universe, there is no upside down, the year is 1995, and corroded coffin = nine inch nails. if you didn't check out the prequel publications (hot off the press on our series masterlist), make sure you do, since they provide important backstory for the IWW universe! read them carefully; there are secrets. 😉
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Your mind is a buzzing whirl, just like that of the streets of New York City below, visible through the thick glass of your apartment window. Below, where you can hear the blare of honking horns, can see people loitering on the side of the road, hands waving high in an attempt to hail one of the taxis rushing past. You watch as people dart across busy intersections, dodging oncoming cars, scattering like ants across criss-crossed streets that teem with activity even in the dead of night.
It’s a constant, a comfort, something you can cling to as anticipation bubbles and wells in your gut. 
Outside, the sun is beginning its slow descent; glowing bright skies begin to deepen into a powdery orange, hinting at a day starting to close. Your fingers press against the window, a mental note already forming to clean it once you step away, eyes peering out into the bustling city streets. You work your way down the mental list once more: dishes washed, already set aside in the drying rack; laundry ironed and folded, pressed neatly into your drawers in categorical order; counters wiped down, shades dusted, furniture polished; dishwasher emptied, cups, plates, bowls and utensils placed in proper cabinets; AOL inbox checked, your confirmation for the time you would be meeting your new boss responded to, while the rest of the emails were placed into proper folders or deleted completely.
You’ve already changed your outfit three times. Laid multiple options out on your bed and ironed them all. You had held them to your body in the reflection of your bedroom mirror and tossed them into a heap at the foot of your bed. This wasn’t just any day, after all. The importance isn’t lost on you. This isn’t like any of your temp jobs that came before it. This is the first you’ll be working alongside someone with undeniable notoriety in the music space. 
A celebrity, really. 
“I can see your mind working, you know?” Angela, your roommate, glances up from where she sits at your kitchen island. There’s a magazine in front of her with some likely-falsified article about the newest Hollywood “IT” couple on display, dressed to the nines with glowing, airbrushed features. Her nails tap along the countertop, stark red against pale cream, as she arches a brow in your direction.
You’re already walking into the kitchen to join her, skirt sliding against your tight-clad thighs as you reach down beneath the sink to grab a bottle of windex, sights set on the fingerprints on your floor-to-ceiling windows. She twists in the chair while you rustle about, ignoring her as you grasp paper towels from the rack.
“This is a good thing,” she says, sighing with an exasperated shake of the head. Your reflection obscures for a brief moment, replaced by blue spray, before you wipe your lingering prints away. “You’ve wanted to travel for so long. You know, see the world and all of that. This is your opportunity to do it. And shit, it beats working for that asshat you used to deal with. What was his name again?” 
You slip back into the kitchen to throw the towel away, heels clacking against tile. “Carver,” you reply, just as the lid to the garbage falls closed. You lean back against the countertop, smoothing your sweaty palms along the sides of your skirt. “Pretty sure anyone would be better than him. I still can’t believe that Mr. Harrington came to the office looking to mitigate all that tension between Mr. Munson and Jason by trying to partner up Carver Distilleries and Corroded Coffin for a commercial, and Jason went and ruined it by running his mouth. I wish you could have seen it, Ange. Mr. Harrington was so disgusted with how he behaved, he extinguished the deal completely right there in his office.”
“Exactly, because even he knows that man is vile,” she sighs with a pout, her form slipping down from off of one of your shoddy barstools, curly blonde hair swaying around her shoulders as she walks. You snort when her hands curl around your forearms, shaking you lightly. “What did your new boss say? Something about you being more than equipped to handle this position? Didn’t he, oh I don’t know, request you specifically for his client? You’re going to be fine; in fact, you’re going to be wonderful. If there’s anyone in this world who can handle the notorious Eddie Munson, I think it’s you.”
With a newly restored confidence, you set to the bustling streets of Manhattan, sights poised on the recording studio address you were given. You thought your first day might start with something akin to an office introduction. Something, at the very least, a little less imposing than this. But you double checked your email from Mr. Harrington before you left and printed the directions that now sat clutched tight within your hands. 
The building that stands before you at the end of your trek looms arresting and proud in the midst of the bodies swarming around you. Your eyes lift hesitantly to the glass door, your mirrored reflection leaping back at you. Angela’s words ring true in your ears; you are more than adequately equipped. You wouldn’t be invited here if it were not fate itself beckoning at your door. With a resigned exhale, your fingers twine around the cool, metal handle and step inside. 
Schmackin’ Records is a world unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. From the moment your feet hit the mat at the front door, company logo etched into it, you know you’re no longer sitting at the front desk of Carver Distilleries. Your head tilts upward to the records dangling from the ceiling, then lower to the endless sprawling walls littered with posters boasting of accolades achieved by the success of the artists that have roamed these halls. You’re struck with the realization that you’re standing in the shadows of legends that have also trailed this path before you. 
This— this place and this moment, are your current reality. 
“You wouldn’t happen to be the new assistant, would you?” The woman at the front desk catches your attention. Your head whirls, fingers slipping from where they rest along a glass case affixed to the wall, proclaiming a recently obtained platinum record. Her face softens at your visible nervousness. “Sorry to scare you, dear.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine! I’m… ah, I’m actually here to meet with Mr. Steve Harrington. He gave me this address….” You hold aloft the directions in your hand, heart dancing in your chest as your heeled shoes propel you over to where she sits behind a glass panel. The woman before you glimpses down at your directions printed from MapQuest with a pitying grin, her head bobbing before her fingers clack away on her keyboard. 
“That’s right! Hold on one moment, sweetie.” You open your mouth to speak as she lifts a phone from its receiver and dials a number quickly. You can faintly hear a voice on the other end. “Mr. Harrington? Yes, this is Joyce speaking. Mr. Munson’s new assistant is here looking for you… okay— yes, that’s fine. Thank you, yes— I’ll let her know. Goodbye.” 
Your legs plant beneath you firmly, shoulders ramrod straight, head tilted up in anticipation of your new role. Joyce only resumes in her typing, head tilted down toward her computer screen, leaving you to simmer alone in the tense silence. 
“Mr. Harrington will meet you on floor five. Just take that elevator down this hall on your left,” she says, head lifting abruptly from her work. 
“Thank you!” 
Somehow, the directions only bring you more nervousness. The knowledge that all that stands before you and your new role is five floors. A short elevator ride. Merely a few moments in time remain stretched between you and the catapult into a lifestyle you’ve only seen on television prior to this opportunity. 
Your shoes clack against the laminate flooring, a foreboding tap tap tap as you shuffle your way down the short hallway and press the call button for your elevator. The doors open with a soft ping, heart ricocheting against your ribcage as you step inside and the silver metal closes behind you. Hesitant fingers raise to press the number five, the circle bursting to life and illuminating your selection. You step into the center of the room, hands clasped at your side, eyes ahead of you on your distorted reflection upon the surface. 
You settled on a simple outfit for the day. Something pristine and professional. A thin black long-sleeved shirt, pale gray tweed skirt, black tights, and dark heels. Simple and understated, though still maintaining your own preferences for stylistic choices. Those same clothes cling to you now. Your tights suddenly seem too tight, heels increasingly pinchy around the back of your heel, skirt prickly and coarse against your thighs, the neck of your sweater digging into your throat. You’re parched, though you doubt any amount of water would assist you now. 
The door opens to reveal sprawling wooden walls, as well as the figure of Steve Harrington standing before you in a pair of slacks and a simple button up. He looks exceedingly kind just as he did the first time you met him. Dark, depthless eyes with a wide grin spread across finely hewn features. His fingers card through his hair as you step out to greet him, hand coming to extend before you at the ready. 
“You’re here! Oh, thank god.” He shakes your hand briefly and nudges you toward the opening of a hallway, those endless panels of wooden walls surrounding you on either side. The voice that spills from him in a rush is a frantic murmur of, “I’m sorry to have contacted you on such notice. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble—”
“Oh, not at all, Mr. Harrington,” you interrupt, swallowing thickly as he pauses in stride. “Sorry.”
“No, no. Please, call me Steve. Mr. Harrington is what people call my father,” he says, smiling softly. There’s a comfort in his gaze, a warmth that oozes from him. The tightness in your chest loosens, a deep breath pouring out. “We’ve… well, his last assistant quit abruptly, you see, and therefore we were obviously left with no notice. So when you said you could start as soon as possible, it was almost a godsend.”
Your hands grip tighter to the band of your pocketbook draped over your shoulder, leather still cool from the afternoon air. “I’m here for whatever you need, Mr. Ha— Steve.”
The hallway leads to a door, dark and imposing, with a wide silver handle. His fingers curl around it and hesitate, head turning over his shoulder to gauge your expression. The worrying of your lip pauses, teeth releasing from their tense position against your skin. Your mouth quirks upward into a hopeful smile, willing those nerves bubbling to subside. 
“What exactly have you heard about Eddie Munson?” he asks you. 
You know he’s not expecting a true answer. Not really. You’ve done minimal research. A quick Yahoo search brings up more articles than you know what to do with in reference to the infamous Eddie Munson. Most of which had brought you to pages detailing his altercation at the Grammy Awards in 1994 and the numerous escapades he’s gotten himself into in the course of his still newly established stardom, as well as his whirlwind romance with his wife. 
“Not much,” you admit, and while it is the truth, Steve seems to deflate a bit. 
His shoulders drop, hand coming to run through that full head of dark hair on him once more. That easy demeanor shifts, mouth turning southward. “Eddie is… he means well. He’s just— well, he’s gone through a few assistants in the past few months, as you know. In the few years I’ve known him, I can tell you with certainty he is dedicated to his craft, but he tends to veer into the wilder aspects of life. What he needs right now is someone who can handle him, and I truly believe that person is you.”
You feel your stomach drop. Initially, when Steve had offered you the position, he boasted of a fast-paced role that required adaptability. Your previous job had been nothing but back to back phone calls, fielding all the incoming clients and their questions, managing the schedules of your manager, and ensuring all issues were handled accordingly. 
Babysitting a rockstar hadn’t exactly been on your agenda; yet even despite all of that, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity and had accepted the job offer. 
“And the others?” you question, hand coming to rub along your bicep.
“I wouldn’t worry about it so much,” Steve says with a shake of his head. “You handled Carver. Eddie should be a breeze.”
Carver Distilleries was not your ideal job, but it was the job you acquired shortly after a brief stint as an administrative assistant for a local community college. The company touted a prolific background of over thirty years in business and you jumped at the prospect. It had been straightforward enough most days. The phones rang around the clock and you handled the calls as expected, passed them off to their proper channels, and made sure the son of the CEO was happy at all times. 
Jason Carver was, to put it lightly, the devil’s incarnate. Most days you wondered if he’d been placed in this life for the sole purpose of bringing suffering to all those around him, with a pitchfork in one hand and tail swishing behind him as he stomped through the halls of the building. 
You couldn’t recall off the top of your head a day wherein he had ever been happy. Shockingly so for someone born from wealth and thrusted into the limelight, silver spoon in mouth at birth. Jason was proof that money hardly ever solved all problems.
He reigned as the crowned Prince of the company, his father’s shining star, who never raised his finger to do anything. For years, he rode on the back of his father’s coattails and treated those around them like they were beneath him, nose always upturned, sneer firmly planted on his face. 
That evening you were already overwhelmed. There was an issue down in the marketing department regarding a mixup in schedules, leaving the Carver’s seated next to a family they didn’t particularly have positive dealings with at an upcoming gala. To add to the rising tension, Jason sent you on an errand to retrieve his requested cappuccino. Light foam, two sugars, extra hot. When you’d returned, he was still in a meeting with some of his fathers business executives, hidden behind a glass door. You left the cup for him there, as requested of you, and rushed back to the front desk just as Mr. Steve Harrington walked into the building. 
He’d come in looking like any other businessman you’d seen grace the building in the past. Perfectly tailored suit and tie, briefcase in hand, hair coiffed neatly atop his head. Steve Harrington, though young, harnessed a professionalism about him that Jason Carver lacked. There were no sneers aimed your way as he approached the desk and greeted you pleasantly, nor did he scoff at the hand you’d extended in greeting, welcoming him with a soft thanks. 
“Mr. Carver is just finishing up another meeting and will be out to retrieve you,” you advise him, walking out from behind your desk. “Would you like coffee, water… tea?”
“I’m okay, thank you,” he says, holding his briefcase tighter within his palm as he made his way over to the small couch positioned across from you, nestled beside a potted plant. You retreated back to your desk as he pulled a phone from his pocket, voice rising just enough to ask, “Do you happen to have—”
“What is this?!” Jason’s voice boomed from down the hall. 
A loud thump echoed from his office, likely from something he’d tossed off his desk in frustration, and you knew well enough to duck behind the covering of your work space. You frantically thumbed the spacebar on your computer to bring it back to life, assuring everyone in your vicinity that you appeared occupied as a shock of blonde hair filled your peripheral. He’d bursted into the room with the dejected coffee in hand, hair strewn about messily atop, eyes narrowed in heedless anger. 
Your eyes flickered to the cup, then settled back on the opened email on your desktop computer. The subject line held a request for a flower arrangement you were set to purchase for Jason’s wife, Chrissy, because he couldn’t be bothered to do it himself. 
You let out a soft sigh and explained, “It’s the coffee you asked for.”
His nostrils flared like a bull, the embers burning behind his eyes glowing brighter. “I know it’s the coffee I asked for. I don't pay you to answer me with that sarcastic bullshit—”
“Mr. Carver—” The rise of your voice caught you both off guard, only further angering him. 
His eyes narrowed, brows knitted tight across the middle of his forehead, vein pulsing against taut skin growing redder by the second. “I asked for a cappuccino with light foam, two sugars, and asked that you make sure it’s extra hot. This isn’t extra hot. This isn’t even warm. It’s cold.”
“Yes, Mr. Carver. It was hot when I left it on your desk two hours ago. Would you like me to go and get you another one?” You try your best to retain a neutral tone. You’re aware of Steve’s eyes trailing along both your forms, interrupted from his own work by your increasingly heated argument. 
He barked out an incredulous laugh, head shaking. “No, I don't want you to get me another coffee. You should have known my meeting would run long and planned accordingly. I don’t know where you get the nerve to talk to me like you are when you seem to have forgotten you are no more than a rece—”
“Mr. Carver.” You both paused at the finality of your tone, throat filled with the bitter taste of the degradation he attempted to throw your way. “Your two thirty meeting for the Tennessee Maple Whiskey commercial is here.”
He clicked his tongue, shooting a glower your way. You already anticipated a meeting in his office later wherein he reminded you of all the reasons why your behavior was unacceptable and why you were lucky to still have a position at Carver Distilleries. 
“Fine. Mr. Harrington, give me one moment and I will call you back into my office. I just need to finish running something by my father. As for you—” His eyes darted back to your form. “—I will deal with you later.”
You exhaled a heavy sigh of relief as the blonde haired man sauntered back down the hall, leaving you to the comfort of your generally quiet front desk. Steve still lingered there, one hand curled around his phone, the other lifting the briefcase he held off his lap to set it in the seat beside him. You watched as he rose to his feet and dropped his phone within his pocket, gliding over to your desk with a small white card in hand. 
You didn’t need to read the words there to know what he’d slid across your desk. It was an instantaneous understanding, the knowledge of a new opportunity, of a way out from beneath the weight of the man who wanted nothing more than to rule with an iron fist and remind others that they were all beneath him. 
He glanced briefly down the hall to ensure no one was listening and leveled his gaze with yours, voice a quieted whisper as he said, “You work well under pressure. Carver is… well, Carver’s an ass. I can offer you more money, if you happen to be looking for another job. You could travel the world working for me instead of sitting behind this desk. Let me know.” 
Standing before Steve, you feel the questions swirling of the validity of the hope he’d placed inside of you. Had it been premature? He’d only seen one encounter between your prior manager and yourself. That was hardly enough to base a whole career off of, and yet his fingers tighten around the door handle all the same, ready to pull it forward and open you up to a world of newness beckoning you. 
Your sweaty palms slide down the sides of your tweed skirt, fabric rustling about your thighs as you step nearer to the door, hardening your resolve. 
It’s now or never, you suppose. 
“Remember,” Steve warns, just as you move to step inside the recording studio. “He means well. I should also warn that he can tend to be a little… flirtatious. But I would try and pay it no mind. You’re going to be great.”
The room inside is grandiose. Roof to floor wooden paneling shrouds everything in a honey warmth. There are a couple of couches near the far wall, one of which seemingly occupied, and a coffee table that sits in front of it. You catch the slow glug of a water dispenser in the distance, nearest to a coffee station in preparation of the long night that lies ahead of you all. To your right is an open closet, then further still a bathroom. The room itself is dim, lights adjusted for a cozier feel. Intimate and fitting for the tracks that are to be laid today. 
The same room, previously full of echoing laughter and vibrant conversation, fizzles into deafening silence as Steve leads you into the room, calling out, “Guys, there’s someone I'd like you to meet!” The announcement has every eye in the room darting your way, faces drawn tight to get a sight of the newest visitor. Only you’re not a visitor, because one of these men is about to be your new client. Steve turns to you then, hand lightly brushing your shoulder to nudge you forward as he says, “This right here is the new assistant, Y/N.”
A round of introductory greetings reach your ears, your voice full of certainty as you return them. “It’s great to finally meet you all.” However, you’ve yet to capture the elusive image of your client, as two of the band members stand closely together, obscuring him from your direct field of view.
Steve continues, “This is Gareth Parsons, drummer of Corroded Coffin.”
The first of the group steps forward. His shaggy head of brown hair flops as he moves, reaching forward with an extended hand in greeting. The warmth of his palm fills the space within your own, squeezing lightly. You feel a little bit of that boiling tension dissipate, the weight on your chest at the notion of a room full of new people unintentionally judging you lightening. 
His voice is kind, edged with humor as he says teasingly, “Nice to finally meet Eddie’s new babysitter.”
The next band member makes himself known. He has dark skin, dark hair and lovely brown eyes, full of a kindness that has your mind easing further. Those same comforting eyes flash quickly to his bandmate, a stern flicker of his warm gaze resting on Gareth’s, the latter of the two huffing from his nose.  
“Behave,” Jeff warns, voice a low murmur that has Gareth resigning to his defeat. That warm hand releases from your own and he steps back enough into the fold of the remaining members to allow Jeff to step forward. “The name’s Jeff. I’m on rhythm guitar and synth. It’s so nice to meet you.” He flashes you a white smile, and you can’t help the grin that blooms across your features at his easy acceptance of your presence. 
“Thank you,” you say, truly grateful that the first two introductions have thus far proceeded smoothly. “Both of you.”
Seemingly pleased with how things are processing, Steve clears his throat. “So that’s Jeff, who you’ve now met. And then you’ve got Harry, who would be the bassist of Corroded Coffin.”
Harry steps forward, his hulking frame shadowing your own, to shake your hand. You lock your hand within his and he opens his mouth to work over the words he’s going to say when a voice cuts through the silence. 
“The name is Harry Cox. And if you’re nice to him, maybe he’ll show it to you.”
“Eddie, fuckin’ really?” Jeff asks brusquely, whirling around in the Eddie Munson’s direction.
You’re not sure what to expect as the men shift and separate, bodies moving one by one to reveal the figure that’s so far remained hidden from your view. In theory, you’ve seen pictures of him. One would have to be living under a rock to not have come across a photograph of Eddie Munson somewhere. The infamous photo of the men standing around you, dated back to when they were teenagers, boyish frames huddled together in the halls of their high school before they had skyrocketed to fame at a trajectory no one ever anticipated; the clippings from not so flattering headlines showing his swift rise and downfall, leaving him on thin ice; the photos documenting his hasty nuptials to his actress wife. However, none of those compare to the intimidating figure that commands the presence of everyone around him as your hesitant eyes clash with his beneath the dark shroud of his sunglasses. 
Your eyes settle on the dark swath of ripped jeans over coltish limbs. Black material stretches tight over sinewy muscle, thighs splayed out in front of him, scuffed Doc Martens thrown carelessly against the cherry wood of the coffee table. Your eyes start the slow crawl upward, tracking along black shirt stretched over his broad chest, with an equally dark leather jacket hugging his biceps. His arms rest over the top of the couch, a confident sprawl of elongated limbs against plush cushions. His face is almost feline, predatory and intimidating, most of the upper portion of his face obscured by those aviator sunglasses. The parts you can see are striking: lengthy, wavy hair that falls to his shoulders, soft and feathery against the leather jacket; those long fingers adorned with silver rings pushed flush against knuckles, broad hands covered in intricate tattoos; the pale skin over high cheekbones, an indent on his cheek that hints at a dimple if he weren't looking your way in disdain; full lips, soft nose, and the slightest hint of shadow along his jaw. 
The Eddie Munson portrayed in the tabloids Angela had showed you over the years pales in comparison to the man that sits before you. This man oozes presence— owns this sort of magnetism that pulls the attention onto him in the center of the room with the mere sound of his voice. 
“And that would be Eddie Munson, lead singer and guitarist for Corroded Coffin,” Steve explains, the arresting presence of the man sitting on the couch in front of you rooting you in place. 
Gareth coughs out a quiet, “Resident douche.” 
Jeff shoots him another scathing look. It’s enough of a distraction to draw your attention away from your new client, uneasy laughter welling up from you. Your stare drifts momentarily to Steve, his warm smile easing your tension, hand unfurling in front of him. The gesture has you faltering, understanding his intent is for you to make a proper introduction. 
You shuffle your way toward the man, disregarding the way he barely even acknowledges your presence within the room. He’s not once moved, back pressing further into the curve of couch cushions, eyes peering up over at you through the top of his sunglasses. Dark and depthless, an endless swirl of ink, devoid of any emotion that might give you insight into how he thinks this initial meeting is going. You hear it then in the vestiges of your mind. A soft howl, nearly imperceptible—the whisper of wind in the distance, echoing in your ears. A warning, an insinuation of something to come. Still, your hand stretches into the spaces between you, left to linger in the open air.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Munson.” Your voice remains firm— unwavering, despite the fact that he dismisses your hand.
Jeff scoffs from beside you, head shaking slightly as his foot comes to shove Eddie’s off of where they rest against the wooden surface. They hit the ground with a dull thud, though Eddie’s posture remains lax, facade unwavering. “She’s talking to you.”  
Eddie remains silent for a time, those dark eyes sliding up over the top of his sunglasses, voice hollow as he mutters, “You can call me ‘Sir.’” It’s innocent enough until the corners of his lips tug into a salacious smirk, fingers moving to push his sunglasses further up onto the bridge of his nose, head tipping upward a bit so he’s now level with your unrelenting stare. You worked with Jason long enough to understand this game, the ploy to see if you’ll break at the first sight of tension, and you’re not falling into that trap now. 
You take a step closer, hand hovering in air untouched, voice unyielding. “I’ll call you Mr. Munson, or Eddie. Take your pick.” 
Gareth chuckles at your left, but your eyes remain focused on Eddie in your battle of stares. Him, veiled through darkened lenses, and you in your refusal to grant him the satisfaction of looking away for even one moment and admitting defeat. You hear that soft howling again, a quiet whir in your ears, just as Steve claps his hands and a new man enters from the recording room, voice slicing the strained silence. “This right here is Argyle. He’s the producer and sound engineer working on this project. Today, the guys will be laying down the tracks for their latest album, so you’ll be here to take care of anything Eddie might need in the interim.” 
Your head turns, breath catching at the unexpected arms that loop around your shoulder, fingers reaching up to press against the hawaiian print on his shirt, those long strands of his dark hair smooth beneath your fingertips. He steps back to take you in, head bobbing animatedly as he says, “Nice to meet you, my dude—dudette. I’m the king of this music castle here. Can’t say I’ll be of much assistance, but if you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask.” His greeting concluded, Argyle meanders back over to his seat again, contentedly rocking the swivel chair back and forth with his feet.
There’s a sudden creak of leather that draws your attention; Steve runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the waves as his gaze darts from you to Eddie, who’s now rising from the couch. Eddie cracks his neck to the side, finally pulling off the aviators and dropping them haphazardly to the coffee table, where they skitter before meeting the magazine stack beside you. You push the top one back into place with the tip of your finger.
“Call me if you need me,” your boss says, one broad hand landing on Argyle’s shoulder, crinkling the Hawaiian print. “Good luck,” he mutters, patting him twice before moving toward the studio door.
You aren’t sure who Steve had been wishing luck to, but since his parting words don’t seem to phase the producer, you figure they must have been meant for you. 
The heavy door thumps closed after him, echoing through the silent room. You can feel almost everyone's eyes on you— the outlier, the new variable in this equation, the only one here who doesn't have a pre-existing role in the narrative. As your gaze darts from one man to another in the span of that brief silence, you see a variety of expressions: curiosity, pleasantness, neutrality. But only one expression truly matters, and of course, unfortunately, it’s the expression of the only man whose gaze is averted as if reluctant to acknowledge you.
You take a moment to study your client now that you can clearly see his face, and what you see does not fill you with confidence. Eddie Munson's eyes are large and brown and framed by long, soft lashes, but there is only hardness in his dark stare. The crinkled lines at their corners would be charming, but they're wrinkled in a critical squint, not with a smile. Instead, though his lips are plush and pink, they're twisted in a faint sneer as he gazes at the plexiglass of the recording room, decidedly away from you.
He means well, Steve had said. But you can't help but think that this man doesn't look like he means anything but ill will towards you, his new assistant. Despite the welcome from others around you, it's making those new-job jitters deepen.
In the middle of your examination, those dark eyes—very suddenly and unexpectedly— flick to yours.
It's an impact you couldn't have braced for. Instantly, a rush of prickling heat crawls up your spine as if Eddie is looking through you, past skin and bone and muscle, straight to your very center. It’s a look that pins you down, flays you open, leaving you entirely exposed in its disapproval.
Blessedly, because of the time you'd worked with Jason Carver, you have perfected your customer service poker face. There is no outward appearance of your inward reaction, aside from the dampening of your palms; smoothly, you run them down textured tweed in the guise of fixing wrinkles before clearing your throat lightly.
It does the trick. The room, which had been suspended in silence following Steve's departure, suddenly stirs as Argyle spins in the chair to face you all fully, folding his hands over his belly. “Well, all right, brochachos,” he says, nodding slowly, his long curtain of black hair swaying as he does. “You ready to record some shit?”
"Fuck yeah, dude," Gareth answers immediately, pushing up from his knees, an enthusiastic smirk splitting his face as he leads the way to the recording room. Harry follows next, his hulking form shuffling from behind the coffee table. He pauses before reaching you as if he's afraid to enter your space; you shift quickly, moving closer to the coffee table to make more room as he fits himself around you. 
"'Scuse me," he mumbles, and the gentle baritone of his voice coupled with the tiny tinge of pink on his cheeks makes you smile. 
"No, I'm sorry," you're quick to assure him, "I was in the way." 
He smiles shyly back as he passes by you, pausing by the recording room door to let Jeff enter first.
Distracted as you were by the exchange, you’re hit with a tiny spike of panic when you realize Eddie has begun to follow them, seemingly with no intention to address you again. It would leave you adrift with no direction— no inkling at all of what you can do to assist him, especially as Argyle already said he won't be much help— and that makes you act hastily. Impulsively.
Your body tilts forward, jerking after him, and your hand flutters out of its own accord, stopping just shy from making contact with his jacketed elbow. Eddie stops abruptly as his eyes dart to you; he squints as his gaze flicks down to your outstretched fingers. Your cheeks heat as you feel almost chastised, but you don’t let your embarrassment show. Instead, you let your hand drop, looking evenly into his dark brown eyes as you ask, “How can I best assist you right now, Mr. Munson? Is there anything in particular you'd like me to do?”
His stare sharpens, plush lips curving in the whisper of a smirk. “You a fan, sweetheart?” He asks, voice gritty with smoke and a quiet smugness as if he already knows the answer. 
You keep Steve’s words in your mind, his warning about Eddie’s potential flirtatiousness. The shift— from thinly-veiled disdain to this— is jarring, but you figure it's probably meant to throw you off. “Of you or of Corroded Coffin?” you ask, expression carefully schooled to neutrality. Eddie's smirk tightens at the corners, grows a little more defined, but you continue before he can respond. “If I’m honest,” you tell him, “I’m not really well-acquainted with your music.”
His brows jerk, and when his eyes scan down your body before returning to yours, they’re narrowed again. “Let me guess. You’re a TLC girl? A little Backstreet Boys groupie?” 
There’s a heavy shade of judgment in his voice that tells you he isn’t really interested in learning the answer, only in confirming for himself that your musical taste leaves much to be desired. You can't deny that the implication rankles you. You bristle at the thought that he presumes to know you when you've only just met, that he considers you lacking before you've given any reason for him to. The injustice of it makes you rush hot again, but not with nerves— with irritation. 
Still, you maintain that mask of professionalism. You don’t let it show. “No,” you reply evenly, meeting his gaze dead-on, unhesitant and unashamed to share your preferences. “More like Smashing Pumpkins. Hole, too.” You ignore how his expression suddenly glints with salaciousness. “Though I do also appreciate harder stuff. Like Alice in Chains, for example,” you add, following it up with a small, polite smile. And it's true— you do appreciate some metal, despite it not being your go-to. It's not as though you don't like Corroded Coffin's music on principle.
But this answer doesn’t seem to excite him. Instead, Eddie’s sharp gaze dulls slightly as you refuse to play into his game. “Right,” he says, expression easing for the first time. “Well then, I do have something you can do for me, sweetheart.”
Pet name aside, it's the most pleasant he's sounded so far, and you brighten, having expected him to put up more resistance. Maybe all you needed to do was show that you were truly here to help him. 
"Okay," you say, face expectant as you await his instruction.
Eddie’s lips twitch up into a tiny, crooked smile. “You see that door over there?” He flicks his finger lazily toward one of two narrow doors on the far wall, set into the wood paneling. You nod obediently, and he leans in, eyes wide and brows tugged up, pitching his voice low and soft like he’s coaching you through something secretive. “Well, inside, there’s a box. A box of all our recordings. Yeah?” 
He waits until you nod again, a little more hesitantly this time. “What you can do for me is go in that box and listen to everything inside. Every album, every EP, every demo. Even the shitty garage recordings. Even the b-sides.” He pauses, tipping his chin down. And though he doesn't raise his voice, its softness sharpens to granite. “Because I’ll be goddamned if my personal assistant doesn’t even know my music.” 
Your face was too eager for him not to notice the way it falls, and Eddie straightens, putting distance between you as he stuffs his hands in his back pockets, elbows jutting in satisfaction. That ghost of a smirk returns as he pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, raising his chin and leveling you with one last look through his long, feathered lashes before he turns away.
His clear dismissal sinks into your chest, and you huff lightly through your nose, rushing with disappointment. Almost as if he can sense the crack in you, he whips back around abruptly; it startles you, and your spine straightens as you jerk to attention. “When we’re done recording, there’ll be a quiz,” he says, and the sharp smile on his face becomes a threat.
You can't help it— a bit of nervousness leaks through your expression then. That seems to finally please him, and Eddie releases you from his dark gaze as he, at last, joins his bandmates in the recording room. The sound of instruments tuning surges before the glass door thumps closed behind him, muffling to silence again.
Now left alone with your task assigned, you turn toward Argyle a little helplessly. He’s gazing at you with an absent smile on his face, still in the same position with his hands folded on his belly, seeming entirely unphased by the contentiousness of your new client. You exhale a quick breath, using it as a reset before asking him, “Can I get a pair of headphones and a Walkman or something?"
"Certainly, my little dudette." He points toward the same door Eddie had indicated. “There’s bound to be some somewhere in that closet.”
Lovely. You nod slowly, flashing a quick smile through pursed lips. “Thank you,” you say before turning and making your way over to help yourself.
The interior of the closet is lit by a single dangling lightbulb, and despite the polished fixings and thorough decor of the recording studio itself, this room is bare-bones in its furnishings. Metal shelving crowds the narrow walls, and the floor is plain poured concrete, barren compared to the plush rug in the lounge area. Your heels clack hollowly as you edge tentatively into the space, avoiding loose cords until you’re standing in the center of the tiny room, directly under the lightbulb. Your hands plant on your hips as you survey your surroundings: shelves and shelves of identical cardboard boxes, all unlabeled aside from an occasional errant number or acronym that means nothing to you, some stacked three high.
Of course.
It takes a good half an hour to finally uncover the correct box. Thankfully, though the labels on the outside are useless, the contents within are masking-taped with far more descriptive labels, written in a messy but still legible scrawl. When you open the box, seeing ‘CC’ on the top CD case feels promising, and a little shuffling reveals some hand-drawn album artwork complete with a coffin and bats that can't be for anyone other than Corroded Coffin. With the correct box secured, you pick your way back to the closet door, setting it down to begin your search for a Walkman, some headphones, and a tape player, since you’d seen a couple of loose cassettes in there, too.
You’re nothing if not thorough. No one can ever accuse you of not doing your job.
When you re-emerge from the closet, the recording room behind the plexiglass is not peaceful like you’d left it. It looks like a television set put on mute as you see Gareth’s hair whipping, Jeff’s shoulders swaying, Harry’s nose scrunched in a concentrated grimace, and Eddie’s lips hugging the mic, pink crawling up the base of his neck, its cords stretched tight with effort. You avert your eyes to Argyle, whose long straight curtain of ink-black hair sways with each bob of his head, his ears enveloped by an oversized pair of fancy headphones. Everyone seems to be moving in time with one another, rocking to a rhythm you can’t hear, and the utter silence in the room combined with those frenetic movements strikes you as comical as you carry your box and its contents over to the smaller couch, placing it on the cushion beside you.
As instructed, you dig out each CD and cassette, organizing them methodically in chronological order and choosing to begin with the oldest one. The faded marker on the front tells you it’s from 1986, and the marker’s haphazard scrawl matches the scrawl of sound that blares from the tape deck when you slip the headphones over your ears and depress the play button. The sound is tinny, echo-y as if it’d been recorded in someone’s garage. And you suppose it probably was. Judging by the year, you figure they were probably still in high school or not far from it when they recorded this.
The Corroded Coffin of 1986 is not particularly remarkable. The kick drum holding the beat isn’t quite precise enough, and the bass is somewhat sloppy. Not every transition is tight; sometimes a beat that should be synchronized is just a split second too soon or late, whether guitar-strum or cymbal-strike. But there’s an unmistakable energy to the sound— a fervor, an insistence that demands you pay attention. You can feel that pouring-out of teenage aggression through the growls and licks and chugging of the guitars, through the lyrics sung in that voice that, though it sounds higher and less smoky than the voice you’d heard from your client today, is still unmistakable Eddie. Corroded Coffin has something to say, and you can’t help but listen.
Your gaze drifts up to the plexiglass of the recording room. Your eyes see them as men, but your ears hear them as boys. And you can almost picture them in that garage, surrounded by brightly-striped lawn chairs and deflated pool floaties, youthful bodies jerking and swaying with no less enthusiasm than what you see before you now. When you think about it, it’s kind of touching to imagine them as young boys with nothing but a dream. Clearly, it took years of effort to become what they are now. You watch Eddie’s long-lashed eyes scrunch closed and his dark curls cling to the sides of his jaw with sweat, and a sense of wistfulness wells up inside you as you think of your client as that boy in the garage, a boy who didn’t know what he’d eventually make of himself.
You’ve only heard three songs before the play button pops up, signaling the end of the tape. Quickly, you move to the next two— more garage recordings, all short and sounding similar— before you’ve exhausted the cassettes and are ready to begin on the CDs. The first is marked as a demo from 1988, so you know it’ll likely be longer than what you’ve listened to thus far. You slip it into the player, settling back against the cushions as you begin, eyes wandering over the wood-paneled walls as you imagine Corroded Coffin recording it right here seven years ago.
It begins with the ticking of cymbals, the clatter of the snare, and the whine of a guitar. Much more polished than the garage recordings but so unmistakably eighties in its sound that you can’t help but feel your lips curl up in a little deprecating grin. Still, your foot bobs along, and you end up listening to half of it before your curiosity for more overwhelms you. You switch to their debut studio album, which is what that demo eventually became, and that same song— now track  begins the same way— the ticking of cymbals mixed with a snare’s clatter, but you recognize the difference immediately.
This— this— is Corroded Coffin.
Eddie’s voice is grittier and deeper, and the band is tighter, and the addition of those grinding metallic sounds and the electronic synth parts, which have clearly evolved past that stereotypical pop-eighties style, create something truly special. You’d been truthful before when you told Eddie that you hadn’t listened to much of his music, but now that you are, you find it genuinely enjoyable. 
Time passes. Argyle’s head bobs, the guys grow sweatier, and your foot steadily bobs until Pretty Hate Machine concludes. And you should move on to the next EP, but you instead find yourself skipping back, back, back until the disc whirls in a blur of muted blue and pink and the first track starts again. You close your eyes and allow yourself to get lost in it until a muffled commotion of voices and thumps rouses you. It’s the guys exiting the recording room, chests heaving, shirts tacky against their chests, looking tired but pleased as they converge on Argyle in a tight circle. You watch their faces light up with smiles and eager chatter, smiling yourself as they seem all of a sudden more boyish for it. Even Eddie, whose visage was once marred with disdain for you, is grinning toothily; as the joy turns his dark eyes amber, you feel a tiny pang low in your stomach at the sight. 
Nuh-uh. None of that. 
It fades quickly under your quick dismissal, smothered by a reminder of the pride you take in your professionalism. He’s objectively attractive, sure. But he’s still your client, and nothing would change that.
Before long, the group around Argyle disperses. Gareth and Jeff wander towards the couches while Harry stops at the water cooler, gulping down two fills of the plastic cup dwarfed by his meaty hands. You quickly move the cardboard box beside you to the floor and pull the headphones from your ears as you watch Eddie divert from the path, heading back into the recording room without his bandmates.
“What’s he doing?” you ask Gareth as he flops down, sagging against the arm of the large couch across from you. He shakes his damp bangs out of his eyes, flicking sweat that narrowly misses you before he replies.
“He’s laying down the rest of the synth parts for the most recent track. We have to record it separately.” His lips tilt in a grin as he adds playfully, “Ed might be talented, but even he can’t sing and strum and play keys at the same time.”
You find your interest piqued as Eddie folds himself onto the bench behind the keyboard. “He doesn’t need a break?” You watch as he stretches his back with a grimace before shaking out his hands, ruddy fingers turning to a blur. 
Jeff just huffs out of his nose, drawing your gaze. His dark skin is shiny with the evidence of his exertion. “Oh, he needs a break,” he says, exasperated though his eyes are fond. “He just won’t take one.” 
“Yep,” Gareth adds, “He’s a stubborn bastard. Won’t stop ‘til it’s done.” Gareth and Jeff each accept a tiny plastic cup from Harry gratefully, and you shuffle closer to the couche’s arm to make room for him next to you. You tilt toward him as he sinks down carefully beside you, but it doesn’t draw your eyes. They’re stuck on Eddie, on the look on his face as he nods at Argyle: focused, as if his fatigue is nothing to him but an insect to be flicked away. Argyle nods back, tapping a button on the complex board of switches and sliders in front of him. As Eddie’s head begins to bob, you realize what they just recorded must be playing in that plexiglass box, silenced from your ears.
Before you can overthink it, you rise from the couch, the muffled thumps of your heels shifting from thick, plush rug to clack against wood. As you come up next to Argyle, he remains gazing evenly ahead, eyes never wavering as his head bobs in time with Eddie’s. You’re considering whether or not to interrupt him when, without looking at you, he asks mildly, “What can I do for you, brochacha?”
“Are you able to play it out loud?” 
Argyle glances at you then. “Alright,” he drawls, stretching out the word as if impressed. “You wanna hear the bitchin’ beats? Certainly.” 
And with the push of a button, the once-silent studio fills with sound. 
It’s a perfect marriage of grit and polish, evoking both the garage recordings and their first album in the best way. The distortion on the vocals makes Eddie’s voice sound even more imposing than it was in person when you first met him, and you watch his shoulders rock, brow scrunched tight. “This world rejects me. This world threw me away. This world never gave me a chance; this world’s gonna have to pay.” Eddie’s voice projects over the speakers, though his plush lips are motionless now. With such ease you almost don’t notice them, his fingers begin to dance over the keys, adding a subtle electronic melody beneath the drums and grating synth. 
You can feel the tension of the song— the building of something carnal, something furious brewing beneath the surface, threatening to whip your hair back from your cheeks. Its energy builds and builds as Eddie’s voice goes almost breathy underneath the effects, singing, “Something inside of me. It screams the loudest sound. Sometimes I think I could…”
You sense it’s coming, and yet you’re not prepared for it when Eddie’s voice becomes practically a howl: “I’m gonna burn this whole world down!”
The guitars, the drums, the bass and synth— they all explode out in a whirlwind of thrashing sound and driving noise as Eddie’s body rocks, fingertips turning white as he forces sound from the keys. His teeth are grit, his face is pouring sweat, and the sight of it speaks to one thing: determination. 
You can’t help but admire that.
You don’t even notice that your head’s been bobbing along to the beat until it ceases, and as you grow still, it whips to the guys at the couch. This song is better than almost all their others. If the rest of the album is like this… Your eyes sparkle with the force of your excitement as you beam at them, and in their pleased smiles and behind their eyes, you can see it: pride and confidence, knowledge that this album they’re creating is going to become something big.
That feeling is effusive, bubbling in your blood as the door to the recording room opens and Eddie emerges. His curly bangs are plastered to his forehead, his eyes are ringed by dark circles and his lips sag in fatigue. Yet despite it, from within, he’s positively glowing.  
Caught up in the moment, all you can do is blurt, “Holy shit.” You blink dazedly at Eddie for a moment as his face goes slack, and then he tosses his head back and laughs. 
Eddie’s laugh is husky and wild, unrestrained in his amusement. Utterly unfiltered. He laughs as if you’ve told the funniest joke he’s ever heard, and it’s then you realize this is your first day on the job, and you’ve just cursed in front of your client. 
Your face fills with heat, cheeks burning as you stutter, “Mr. Munson, I’m so sorry, that was entirely inappropriate—”
Eddie snorts, waving you off, looking not only unbothered but positively tickled that you’d cursed in front of him. To give yourself a moment to recover, you spin, clacking toward the water cooler to fill up one of those little plastic cups like you’d seen Harry doing earlier. You stammer past your indiscretion, and as you focus on expressing yourself, you feel the burn in your cheeks begin to recede. “I shouldn’t have forgotten myself like that. But that song was just… I mean, seriously. It was like… like a return to your roots or something, but not just that.” You pass him the cup carefully, falling back onto your hip as you cross your arms and your eyes dart to the ceiling. You’re trying to put it into words, and you feel frustrated that you’re struggling to. “Okay. It sounded like those early garage recordings where everything was just raw. It’s gritty and angry and cathartic. But it also feels so… new. Like compared to your last album, but also compared to what other bands are doing right now. You know?”
It doesn’t seem entirely adequate, but that’s all you’ve got— all you can do to express that almost intangible quality that you felt but can’t describe. You finally let your chin drop to meet Eddie’s eyes and are surprised to see them no longer dark and shuttered or squinty with mirth. Eddie’s eyes are wide and bright, amber like sun shining through whiskey as they stare unwaveringly into yours.
"Yeah, you picked up on that?” For once, there isn’t a sharp edge to his voice; in fact, he sounds almost pleased. “With this album we're experimenting with something a little different, really trying to focus on the textures and moods. Trying to find ways to create sound that’s not music. Not in a traditional sense, at least.” 
You nod eagerly, caught up by the enthusiasm in his voice. “Yeah! That’s it. I don’t listen to metal much, but it just doesn’t sound like what you typically hear nowadays.”
Eddie crosses his arms, holding his elbows as his tongue plays against the inside of his cheek. “You’re right,” he concedes, so easily that it comes as a surprise. “In a way, we are going back to our roots; all the way back to being the freaks who don’t want to be packaged up in some neat box. Especially seeing where this industry is going. Like, I’m watching bands that got me through the hellscape of high school crumbling and folding to the pressure. I mean, fuck.” A whip of sweat-damp curls as he shakes his head, his gaze heating with molten passion, pinning you so intently that you couldn’t look away if you tried. “Do you realize the irony of a genre that prides itself on being anti-establishment becoming part of the establishment?”
“Fuckin’ bullshit, man,” Gareth pipes up from the couch, and Eddie’s arm flies out, an eager finger shaking in his direction as his eyes go wide and almost wild.
“Fuck-ing bullshit,” Eddie enunciates, and as his voice roughens, he almost seems to puff up with the strength of his ranting. “Look, I do get it. They’re not the first to end up caught in the wheel; happens before you even realize it. But you know what you’re left with at the end of the day? Jack fucking squat. And we’re just as angry and powerless as we were as kids.” He jams two ruddy fingertips against his open palm, brows raised in emphasis as if willing you to understand. “This— this music was our escape back then. And it’s going to be our escape now. And I don’t give a fuck what anyone says about it.” 
He’s nearly craning over you now, breath hot as it puffs against your face, face drawn tight with his fervor. But you aren’t afraid. Because though he’s nearly yelling, Eddie’s ire isn’t directed at you. Your expression doesn’t harden up or crumble under the weight of his passion; instead, you accept it, letting it whip against you without faltering. 
Your steadfastness seems to temper him as the tension in his face eases slightly, though he doesn’t back away. More quietly, he says, “All they want is the next sound-bite, the next commercial success. Sorry, Arg,” he throws a glance toward his producer, “but I honestly don’t give a shit whether there’s even one song on this album that would be a successful single. It’s not meant to be consumed that way— picked apart like fuckin’ buzzards on a corpse.” 
Eddie’s amber eyes hold you as he breathes, “This album is raw. It’s ugly, and it’s personal—”
His words choke in his throat, and for a moment, there’s something tentative connecting you, drawn thin between your gazes. Something fragile but nearly tangible, like the foam of the sea that bubbles against sand but melts to nothing if you reach for it.
But then Eddie blinks, and the connection is severed as he seems to realize he’s talking to you: his personal assistant. 
His glorified babysitter. 
All at once, the passion is gone. He flattens, taking a step back. And there is no preamble to the sudden switch in his demeanor as he demands, “Where’s our dinner?”
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the next chapter will be released on @abibliophobiaa's blog!
🌿bluey's masterlist | 🌙luna's masterlist | 💌myo's masterlist
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cliaban-rilag · 13 days
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With the storms of Ondra's Mortar calmed, Captain Variel of the Guiding Star (formerly the Watcher of Caed Nua) wanted to be the first Eoran ship captain to reach Yezhua. Aloth, finally freed from his self-imposed responsibilities regarding the Leaden Key cult, asked to stay with Variel, now and until the end of their lives. She was never happier to say 'yes'. Accompanied by their friend (and translator), Rekke, and Variel's insatiable thirst for exploration, they sailed into the unknown.
yet another playthrough of pillars completed, so i drew my watcher's epilogue
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youphoriaot7 · 7 months
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It's already getting late when Cellbit and Richas set out to finish the tasks. There's only the museum left, but they forgot to catch it on the way back to the house. Richas insists they do it before bed, however, so they decide to take the walk back to the main square, a comfortable silence settling between them as they head out.
There's a flicker of something on the edge of Cellbit's vision. It's been there for a few hours now, constantly hovering just outside of his field of vision. But it's starting to drive him nuts, and he rubs his fingers across his eyes in the hopes that it might get the image to clear.
It clears, alright. Just not the way he expected.
A figure hovers directly in front of him. They're about Richarlyson's height, and they're following along at his side. The white hood covers their hair, coming to a little point at the top, and the blue designs scattered along the hem stick out—if in a bit of a...ghostly fashion.
He blinks. And blinks again.
But the figure is still there.
Acting before thinking, he reaches out, grabbing Richas' shoulder to tug him back a few paces. The boy stumbles, turning to glare back up at his pai before scanning their surroundings for whatever danger he thinks Cellbit sees.
The figure in white turns as well, the image flickering slightly as in faces them. There's a soft smile on their small face, and they raise a hand to wiggle their fingers in a wave.
"...do you see them, Richas?"
The kid glances around, confused, before looking back up at Cellbit with a raised eyebrow and a shake of his head. Cellbit manages to tear his gaze away to look down at his son's reaction for one second.
When he looks back up, the figure is gone.
He tries to put the incident out of his head, pass it off as insomnia and move on, despite Richarlyson's worry. But it keeps happening. When he's talking to Forever in the president's office, the little figure is crouched behind the desk, peering up at him. When he heads upstairs to talk to Mouse, they're there, swinging their legs off the edge of her bed. When he works on the Ordo late at night with Roier, they appear, running around the chairs with child-like glee. And none of them seem to notice, always glancing at him in concerned confusion if he brings it up.
It takes him way longer than it should've to figure out what's going on.
One day, the keychain on his backpack falls off. The hook gives away, and the small egg he'd taken from the adoption center smashes face-first into the dirt near his castle's waystone. And he doesn't realize it right away, proceeding about his day as normal.
When he comes back near sunset, he happens to glance down—and there it is, laying in the mud. Quickly, he crouches down, dusting it off as he clasps a hand around it.
When he stands back up, there they are. Kneeling in the dirt near the waystone with a look of pure grief etched onto their features, the figure in white flickers a few times, the translucency of their outline uncertain.
Immediately, Cellbit pockets the keychain and moves over towards the child. They aren't looking, head in their hands as he kneels down next to them. Hesitantly, he reaches a hand out, trying to touch their arm.
It doesn't work, of course, it goes right through. Ghosts aren't solid. But it must've been jarring enough, because the child looks up at him in surprise.
"You...can see me?"
It's less of a whisper and more of a breath, the words just barely audible in the quiet autumn evening. Cellbit nods, too afraid to speak and break whatever spell it is that's allowing him to interact with this spirit.
The child smiles hesitantly, almost nervous. Then, in a breeze, they vanish.
But they're not gone. Not really. He still sees flashes of white in the corner of his eye, generally whenever he's least expecting it. The keychain stays tied to the backpack—extra sturdy, now. Wherever he goes, the child follows.
Unforgotten.
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chat-perlipopette · 1 year
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❤️(Delayed) Valentines 3D render collection with the AI gals!❤️
Inspired by GBF's Valentines CG artworks Has a certain spoiler character from AINI under the cut!
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yoonia · 2 years
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My cat during bath be like: 
“Where are u taking me hooman?” “Why am I in YOUR bathroom?” 
“What is th--water??? nuuuu.....!!!” 
“you are NOT going to-- unhand me peasant! how dare you make me WET?” 
“What is that soapy thing? why are you putting that on me? do not touchy touc--oh wait, that’s not so bad...” “yesss, that’s the spot...a bit lower...puurrrfect...” 
“why are you stopping...? no...no more water! stop it! stop it this instant!” “let me go before I BITE!!!” 
“this is monstrosity...a treason...I shall bury my claws into your---fuzzy towel???? GIVE ME YOUR FLESH THIS INSTANT!” 
“NOT THE BLOWER!!! NOT THE BLOWER!!! I SHALL NOT GO DOWN WITHOUT A FIGHT!!!” *swat swat swat* 
“oooh...snack!!” 
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luffisparks · 1 year
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A couple of weeks ago I created this costume at point blank range in that sketch in the notebook during couples and made it a reality still on my character.
As for me, it's fine, I still admire these works, they are one of the very first works that I drew on a tablet, to be honest, I only draw on a tablet for a month.
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yujicafe · 8 months
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filter ideas !! ^^
myu myo muy muu
luv eu mylo mylu
min nyo str hrts
ysi yuu kiyo kit
i mostly call this user ending words
but it’s alright !! getting used to tumblr
reblog if u used any of these !! <3
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oozblob · 7 months
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When Cellbit unscrambled the words for the riddle, each one was a type of flower.
Do you think our little egg read books about flowers?
Do you think the first thing they wanted to do if they were adopted is to make a botantical garden?
That they would be best friends with Tallulah, Leo, and Pomme? That they would make their own gardening club with their parents?
For the egg I would like to call it Myo. Short and reference to Myosotis. Also, known as forget me nots
I like to imagine Myo has a flower on its head.
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Note: I just found out that Cellbit's chat named the egg, Hope. What I love about the Egg A1 and Hope appearance, fans can create their fanon or headcanon for the little guys while still being respectful to QSMP fans and their ideas
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amazingferret · 5 months
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Joey's home burned before his eyes, his sister nowhere to be seen.
The village had provided them nothing about Myo. Despite probably coming from a well-to-do family, this corner of the world was far too removed from any big city. It was unlikely any noble ever made their way through these parts, and even unlikelier that the ones making it through might be acquainted with some random lost man.
The party that attacked them on their way back was a different matter - headhunters, not local from what Joey could tell, who had a keen interest on the man. They didn't seem inclined to answer any questions, however.
Bloody and battered after they got rid of the group, this was the sight that greeted them as they arrived to the familiar clearing.
It seemed that, since they couldn't get Myo, they had decided to take something else.
"YOU!" Joey let out a pained scream as he pinned Myo to a tree, in an unforgiving choke-hold. "You did this!"
"Joey, I'm- I'm sorry. I don't know who they are, I.."
"Yeah, you don't know who they are, and you don't know who you are, and we don't know who you are! Why did I ever help you! You could be a criminal for all I know!"
"Joey... Joey... I'm sorry..." The man gasped as the pressure increased on his windpipe, when a glint caught his eye. Perhaps a last hope. "Your necklace..."
The blond looked down. The life jewel of the necklaces he and his sister shared was unblemished, undisturbed. He might not know where Serenity is, but she was not dead. Not yet, at least.
Joey trembled as a million thoughts went through his head - the stranger, the head hunters, his sister, his home...
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"You had better be worth it, bastard. Let's go. Let's find out who you are. The kid you mentioned - he toldja to go past the border, didn't he?"
"Joey..."
"Move. You're right, Serenity is still alive - and the only way of gettin' her back is finding out who the people I need to beat up are. You're their target, so you're my only solution. So, for the sake of everything, move."
---
Red eyes are like
super strong, btw.
Serenity can lift a cow.
Thank you @twottie-m8 for the idea and the help.
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gravi0la · 7 months
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Something about the friends we've never met.
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(click for better quality!)
Design notes & thoughts under 👇
Super late to the part but oh well...
-I kinda like the idea that the eggs start "blank" but shapeshift to look more like their parents, which is why they both start looking more or less the "same"
A1-
They never got the chance to "evolve" themselves and differentiate from other eggs.
-HOWEVER, they still grew a few yellow and black feathers from seeing ElQ- Afterall, that's all A1 ever knew aside from the white walls.
-In my other design for them (with the beanie picture above and the image below) they take more on Quackities appearance. Whether it's how they look like in the afterlife, or how they'd look in a AU, it's up to you.
Myo/Mio/Hope
-Starts blank as usual, turns into more Cellbit like appearance in the afterlife.
-Has an adventurer jacket to mirror that
-I wanted to make a design that wasn't just copying his cubito, so that's why there's a blue motif and striped etc. It gives of more "child" vibes than the usual greyish tones Cellbo wears.
Pretty much every other design pick was completely arbitrary and made because I felt like it. Afterall, we never got to see their personalities fully.
It's kinda funny how I didn't give them too much attention till now (I did find their stories sad, I just didn't react to them the same way the fandom did) and then last night something randomly possessed me and I rushed over to make their designs lol
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Peace and love on planet earth !!!
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myosotisa · 1 year
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Us versus Them - e.m.
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Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader
‖  summary: You made the mistake of telling your boyfriend Eddie you were having trouble using one of your toys because it was too strong. He's determined to help.
‖  notes: smut, it's porn without plot, graphic sexual content. 'sir' kink, rope bondage, overstimulation, sex toy use, spitting, slapping (face and body), choking, degradation (slut, whore, etc.), praise, unprotected p in v, implied creampie, implied squirting, mean!Dom!Eddie (with aftercare). it's messy y'all, let me know if i missed anything.
‖  word count: 2.6k
‖  this was written for @ghost-proofbaby because i said i would use all her kinks against her and this is my attempt. so here you go, babe. thanks to @fracturedarkness, @blue-mossbird, and @abibliophobiaa for proofreading and helping me write the ending. enjoy!
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“If you don’t stop pulling on the rope it’s gonna break your skin, baby. Maybe I should get you some nice padded cuffs so you can struggle all you want without hurting yourself. But we can’t do that right now so,” the only warning you receive is the meat of Eddie’s palm touching your inner thigh, lining up the shot, punctuating the next 3 words with harsh slaps, “stop fucking squirming.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m so sorry! It’s just so, so much,” your voice breaks into a croak at the end, catching on the end of the sentence as your back arches away from the toy that Eddie holds relentlessly to your clit. He tied you up what felt like hours ago and has barely given you a chance to fucking breathe since he’d gotten the Rose Toy in his hand.
He pushes up onto all fours, moving from his prime viewing angle between your quivering legs to hover over your tear stained and flushed pink face. “Poor baby,” he coos in a mocking tone, his free hand running knuckles down your sweating cheek. “Too sensitive for her new toy. I told you I was gonna help you, didn’t I? Told you I was gonna tie you up and get you used to it, didn’t I?” The relentless buzz sends your eyelids fluttering again, a whimper crawling its way out of your throat as you try to process what he’d asked you. 
The next slap hits you across the cheek, lighter than the smacks on your thighs, but still harsh enough that your eyes shoot back open and your cracked lips break apart in a gasp. Eddie’s thumb and forefinger press into your cheeks on either side, locking your jaw wide as he leans in even closer. Reeling back an inch, he spits hard into your open mouth, hitting the back of your throat and triggering your gag reflex. “I asked you a question, dumb whore.”
“You did,” you mumble out through the way he grips your jaw, struggling to swallow the thick saliva that pools in the back of your throat from yourself and him. “You told me, Eddie.”
“There we go, now was that so hard?” He asks, eyebrows raising to let you know he does expect an answer. You shake your head the best you can given his hold and he rewards you with removing his hand and the press of a button, making the vibration swap from a constant swirl to a pulsing vibration that you feel from your scalp to your toes.
“Edd-ie!” You keen, your back bowing as your body tries to pull away from the overwhelming sensation. He’d learned that if he left it on one setting for a long enough period of time, it would start to lose potency, almost like a numbness, which made swapping the pattern that much more powerful.
“Eddie!” He parrots back to you in a high pitched tone. “Aw baby, you’re drooling all over your chin. Messy girl.”
Eyebrows pinching tight together, a broken moan echoes out into the room as your pussy clenches down hard on nothing. “Please, sir, it hurts.”
“You can’t handle it? It hurts?” His voice pitches up in a taunt, clicking his tongue and shaking his head in disappointment. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down hard, tears spilling out from the corner of your eyes as you nod. “That’s a shame baby. Because I need you to squirt all over your pretty blue bed sheets before we’re done.” The idea of needing to hold back in order to achieve that has you whimpering in the back of your throat – your last 3 orgasms had torn out of you like wild animals.
“I can’t – I can’t do it, Eddie. I can’t,” you babble, the words stuck on your tongue like a skipping record as your hazy and sluggish brain tries to make sense of anything.
A ringed hand grips your throat, not cutting off air or blood flow, but with enough pressure to pin you down and make you really feel it. There’s an absolute inferno of lust in his eyes, pupils blown out in an oil fire that shows no signs of stopping any time soon.
“You can, and you will.” His command is deep gravel, sending an electric shiver down your spine. “Don't be ungrateful baby, you take what I give you, understand?”
A sob tears from your throat, tears falling freely as your thighs clamp down on Eddie’s hand and the toy it holds. But you don’t answer fast enough, Eddie’s other hand tightening on either side of your neck to stamp the blood flow to your brain. “You really have lost all your manners, haven’t you, sweetheart? Not a single brain cell in that whole noggin’.” He lets go quickly after, huffing a little laugh at how you suck in air, and then flicks your temple with his middle finger. “Just a stupid slut that can’t think of anything other than how much you want to be filled up.”
The idea of some kind of stimulation other than the Rose has you begging before you can even second guess it. “Please, please sir, want to be filled up so bad. Want your fingers or your cock or your tongue, please, just anything.”
“Anything, huh?” He asks, manic gilt in his eye as his plump lips spread in a sharp grin. “Anything at all?”
“No, no no no no, please, want you Eddie! Want you inside me, please!” You know he would comply maliciously to your request unless you scrambled your thoughts together enough to make a more specific one. Attention wavering from your own body to him as you try to ignore the pressure building in your abdomen for the who knows how many-th time.
“Sounds so pretty, baby,” his sharp grin goes soft, just a bit of teeth behind bitten red lips. “Beg for it again. Better this time.”
The vibrator switches patterns on cue.
“Please!” Comes out as a screech, a burn crawling down your vocal chords that you know you’ll be feeling tomorrow. “Please, sir, want you to fuck me so bad. Want your cock, want your cum insi-ide me. Please, pleasepleasepleaseplease-”
A whispered “fuck,” is the first sign you get that Eddie’s resolve is crumbling. It has you gasping out, fingers twisting in the rope that still binds you to the headboard in anticipation. Whenever he got like this, wanting to bring you to tears and desperation more than anything else, it was hard to get him to change his mind. But once the first pillar cracked, betraying his carefully curated domineering persona, it was a short matter of time until all that remained was splinters.
His free hand flies to his belt, fumbling fingers trying to pull it loose. “Okay, baby, I hear you. I’ll give you what you want if you give me what I want, okay?” You nod harshly, a full body shiver coasting through you as another moan hits the air. Then a sharp pinch on your inner thigh has you yelping. “I said, okay?”
“Okay, yes, yes, whatever you want,” you rush out, the words tumbling over each other in your haste to not halt the progress of getting this adventure to finally be over, “I’ll do anything.”
“Good girl,” he hits a little love tap right where he pinched, sending another shock straight to your cunt, before he goes back to yanking his belt free. It takes an awkwardly long time for him to do with one hand but you know better than to tease him for it now. You just wait as patiently as you can while he undoes his fly and shimmies his pants and boxers down just low enough for his fat cock to hit the air. Just the sight of it, skin tinted with an angry red and pearly white pre-cum pooled in the foreskin that covers the tip, has your toes curling and your thighs tensing. All you can do is watch as he wraps his long-fingered hand around the top of it, easing the skin back so he can spread the substance down his shaft, a shaky exhale leaving him as he pumps his fist a few times before tilting his hips down toward you.
Realizing he’s going to fuck you fully dressed while you lie naked on your bed has your breath catching again before you even feel the hot mushroom head of him press into you below where the Rose still buzzes relentlessly. “Fuck! Baby, you’re so wet – shit, so fucking t-tight.” He stutters out, clearly affected as he starts to feed inch after inch of his hard cock into your fluttering cunt with a hand gripping the base to stop him from finishing before he can even get all the way inside.
The feeling of him splitting you open, how your own slick pushes its way out of you in rivulets as he bullies his way inside almost threatens to undo you immediately. Your gasp comes out as a croak, your eyebrows drawing tight together in near agony as he bottoms out.
“Sh-shit. Baby, I’m not gonna last. I can-” he cuts off with a groan as you clench down on his length when the vibrations come back to the forefront of your attention. “Can feel the vibe. Feel how close you are.”
“Eddie, please,” you whimper, fingernails digging into your palms as you lose the only control of yourself that you had left when he starts to pull back. He rears back only a scarce inch or two before his hips rush back forward, lips parting soundlessly as his face contorts in feeling. You prepare for the onslaught but curse loudly when he pulls all the way out, leaving you feeling even more empty and bereft than before. Before you can openly question it, he grips your leg and folds it back, knee towards the bedside table, and wedges himself beneath your hips and the bed. He reaches over and hitches your other leg up similarly, using the elbow of the arm that is still wedged between your legs to keep it in place.
Hips tipped up, he forces himself back inside your awaiting hole without warning. Positioned like this, he rubs directly up against the spot on the front wall of your cunt that has you seeing stars and trying not to scream. “There she is,” he sighs out, a satisfied smile gracing his face when he sees your eyes roll back. His hand goes back to gripping the underside of your thigh, pressing the fold deeper as he grinds down into you. “Now we’re giving her what she wants, isn’t that right?”
It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about your pussy and that knowledge sends you spinning, barely keeping afloat as he begins to fuck into you in earnest. “Fuck, baby, never gets old,” the rough material of his jeans rubs against your ass, the metallic clatter of his belt slapping the sides of your thighs each time he bottoms out. “Like this pussy was made for me.”
“Yours,” you manage to squeak out, trying to focus on the way his cock splits you apart instead of the numbing pain of the Rose that still swirls against your overstimulated clit. “Yours, yours, yours.”
“That’s right,” a throaty laugh rumbles through him as he looks down to where the two of you are connected, “my pretty pussy that’s gonna gush all over me, just like I asked.” The vibrator swaps patterns again, the new one way past too much for you, and you can’t stop the scream that forces itself out of your dropped jaw. Eddie groans above you, feeling both the new vibration and how strongly your muscles clench around him as it reacts to the stimulation. “Can feel you, my little slut.” His fingers dig into the meat on the underside of your quivering thighs as he settles into a bruising pace. “You gonna give me what I want? Gonna soak my cock, make a mess of your pretty sheets?”
“Eddie!” Is the only response you have to offer as your eyes pinch closed, trying to focus on letting the pressure within you build beneath the pain of the overstimulation.
“Right here, baby,” he confirms, cold rings rubbing along your thigh to soothe you, “I’ve got you. Just gotta give it to me, sweetheart. Give me what I want. Make a mess.”
The wet squelch of your pussy is obscene as you squeak out an exhale each time he drives home, pressure tipping higher and higher until your fingers, toes, and lips go numb. “E- euh,” you try to get out his name, let him know you’re going to come, that you’re going to give him what he wants, but all you can do is moan out. Loud and long, voice pitching up as his satisfied grin returns again. It only takes a few more rolls of his hips against yours, the curls at the base of his cock flattened wet with your own slick, before you lose yourself entirely.
Vision whiting out, back bowing, muscles in your body clenching tight as all sensation centers around your bullied cunt and then explodes outwards in a rush of endorphins you simply cannot feel. If there was ever a moment that you would describe as ‘leaving the Earth’ it would be this one – and in the overwhelm of that rush, you abandon the ground, floating up amongst the stars until all goes dark.
Did so good for me, sweetheart.
So pretty, so perfect.
Come back to me, baby. Nice and easy.
When your eyes blink back open again, all you can see is the side of Eddie’s head, his hair tucked behind his ear. He’s looking down your body, and as you follow his gaze, the feeling returns to between your legs, where he is carefully wiping you clean with a warm, wet cloth. You're unable to stop the whimper from coming out as you instinctively twitch away from the gentle touch. His big, brown eyes shoot to yours at the movement, pulling the soft cloth away from your sensitive skin. “I know, I’m sorry, baby. I’m almost done. Doing so good.”
Nullified by his praise, you grit your teeth and bare it as he does 2 more soft swipes across your swollen folds and then tosses the rag back toward your bathroom with a wet slap. “Okay, now some water.” A hand tucked behind your shoulder to lift just your head off the mattress, a cold glass of water presses to your dry lips. You take a few grateful gulps before pushing back against his hand to let him know you're done. Not wanting to push you to drink more, he sets the glass down on the bedside table and reaches for your hand, gripping the tender skin of your wrist between his own fingers and pressing a kiss to the marks the rope left behind. “What else do you need, anything?”
Swallowing hard to attempt to find your words for the first time, you shake your head. “Just you, Eddie. Just you.”
- - -
Sneaking back into your shared apartment a few weeks later, you’re careful not to let the plastic bag in your grip make too much noise as you run as quietly as you can to the bedroom. 
Your new purchase is a bit different than the toys you and Eddie have played with so far, but your excitement is almost beyond measure.
After all, payback is a bitch. And it’s you versus him.
.
.
.
.
.
let me know if you enjoyed, thanks for reading :)
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freespeechwyngro · 2 months
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Hi there, I actually found this blog purely on accident trying to find a blog for a differenr species and omfg I have never felt more vindicated reading through some of these responses. For context I joined wyngro back in the summer of 2017 (you know back when MYOs were like $11) and it was my first ARPG/evolving species ever and I was really excited. But from the moment I actually got into the group I felt disheartened with my experience.
I remember getting mocked in the discord for getting excited about a character idea, and because my art was poor I had issues finding anybody who wanted to even speak to me let alone plot. The entire experience felt so cliquey and it really messed with my self esteem for awhile. I even got kicked once from the discord with 0 warning or any form of explanation.
As an example I vividly remember the bug camp event and how I struggled and struggled to find a group because I was a nobody. Then the price hikes happened and suddenly what little I could have done became nothing, I never got to make a dream character, never had a chance to try breeding, couldn't even do a magic class, I was quite literally priced out of the game and had no hopes of ever getting something nice unless I got connections with somebody who was willing to spread the wealth. In addition reading some of this stuff I wonder if some of my misfortune was related to the fact I was a tad vocal in my distaste in the direction wyngro was taking when that whole debacle happened. But I'm probably just being paranoid.
Anyways, I know all this stuff is like ancient but its been repressed for a long time and honestly it does make me sad, I did love wyngro, I loved the world and the atmosphere and my characters, but it did cause me a lot of pain over the years and in all honesty wasn't something I had fun doing, but I do earnestly wish I could have more good memories to look back on like other people did.
.
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cliaban-rilag · 10 days
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i'm trying to post more sketches, so here's zoiana's azata form and a daeran
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gust-jar-simulator · 6 months
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[walks to center stage, snaps out a scroll, and lets the long end roll out to the floor]
Alright this idea is an excuse for me to be very silly but also have a good time. So. @kittyreaper, and the rest of the audience, please enjoy an unfiltered look at what I do when designing an AU and OCs within it.
Because I’m having fun and the initial post gave me ideas, I am calling this the Hot Girl Shit AU. Sometimes I have serious titles, today is not one of those days.
Initial idea: link here
Since Ganondorf’s design was somewhat based on either Zhu Bajie or Fudo Myo-o depending on the game, I wanted to carry some references to that over in Shadow’s design. He’s already got a very good and iconic manga design (purple hair and red eyes), but since I want to emphasize his connection to Ganon and mythic position as the heir of Din in this evil little triforce trio, I figure I can spice him up. Make him look Gerudo, possibly give him a high ponytail, etc.
Shadow was created by Ganon in FSA after he took possession of the Trident of Power and, as far as I can tell, used it somehow on the Mirror of Darkness. Combining a LttP reference and a Twilight Princess reference is indeed a powerful move. So, with Shadow newly resurrected and off the string, I feel like it would be funny to give him a plot device trident of mass destruction.
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I am also severely tempted to give him sleeve tattoos that look like the inscriptions on the TP Mirror of Twilight. To my eternal disappointment, the script doesn’t actually say anything except maybe a misspelled “OPEN” repeated ad infinitum.
Next up: OoT Dark.
He’s the hot one. I want to lean on the fourth wall a little and acknowledge the fact that he was everyone’s fifth grade fictional emo boyfriend. Dark remains clueless, because he’s the reflection of a toddler trapped in a teenager’s body whose sole purpose was to duel, but clueless or not he’s still hot.
White hair, solid red eyes, black clothes, grey-black skin, you know the drill. Since he’s the representative of wisdom and water in the trio, as well as everything the Hero of Time is insecure about, he’s the obligatory Hylian of the group. Or at least he looks like one. Shadow manages to teach him enough shapeshifting to look less like a sleep paralysis demon, and he copies his hero fairly well (keeps the hair), but he still prefers demon form if he can afford it.
Later on in their adventures, because I like causing problems, he manages to update his “reflection” of the Hero of Time and steal the Fierce Deity’s look. In black, naturally. He mostly uses a dark copy of the Master Sword and the Hylian Shield though.
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And then.
Last but certainly not least: Zelda 2, Link’s shadow, here nicknamed Nightmare.
Nightmare gives me a lot of room to play with since he’s mostly flat black pixels shaped like Link’s silhouette. I decided to base his design notes on what I imagine would give the Hero of Hyrule a heart attack, as well as natural inspiration he might get once Shadow explains the wonders of shapeshifting.
They’ve all got mostly grey-black default forms, even Shadow, but Nightmare takes the longest to switch his up. He’s got two major notes to start off with: Hyrule is terrified of bleeding, especially in public; and I imagine he’d be very secretive about his ability to turn into a fairy, out of fear of exploitation. Nightmare doesn’t wish him any ill will, and looked fairly plain during their duel, but during this second chance at life he starts going through a bit of a punk phase and indulging things his counterpart represses/would never do.
So! He shapeshifts freely into a little shadowy fairy whenever he wants, trailing sparks of darkness instead of fairy glitter. His fashion choices point to his fairy side as well as details of his boss room:
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I decided one cool column is all the excuse I need to give him a knee-length chiton, also pulling in the neat drape texture of the curtains. His hair is that same light blue because I have a sense of humor. Skin tone mostly matches his counterpart and/or the tan bricks of the boss room, and while he likes to have red eyes to fit in with the other shadows they’ll also occasionally be the ominous magenta of his duel backdrop.
I have a theory that the fight might have taken place inside Hyrule’s mind, which is one explanation for why all the lights go out and then come back on the second he kills Nightmare. So Nightmare can have some spooky and currently undefined mind powers, as a treat. Also for extra fear points, he can have a Great Fairy form.
Hyrule is terrified of bleeding because his blood is a necessary ingredient for reviving Ganon. Nightmare doesn’t actually have the cursed blood, he’s just a nightmare, so he doesn’t have to worry about bleeding. If anything, he actually gets used to the idea of being an individual by just… bleeding at random for the aesthetic. It could be from anywhere, but a slice across the throat is a pretty good reference to what various monsters want to do to drain Hyrule. Nightmare is not only free of that burden, but he’s also a magical creature that can either cast illusions or just might be immune to bleeding out, so. He’s doing hot girl shit.
When he’s not in the mood to be intensely colorful, he’ll switch his hair and chiton to black, and his eyes will mostly stay red. His magic still has a weird magenta or ultraviolet tinge to it, though.
I will make another post at some point to cover my vague plot ideas because I have a hilarious concept to put forward. I’m hoping this post is coherent, I am Very Sleepy.
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freneticsir · 10 months
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seriously? Closed species? Give me a break. They're nothing but a bunch of Avatar wannabes, lacking any originality whatsoever. It's infuriating to see talented artists wasting their skills on such a dumb and pointless concept. And DON'T even get me started on how they feed off people's consumption addictions and profit from the least original idea imaginable. Ugh, it's enough to make me want to create my own so-called ""illegal"" alien furry just to mock the whole ridiculous closed species trend
the TIMING and the irony of WHEN the notif from your post popped out on my screen while I was watching this video ~
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wait when you discover that I also ‘waste my talent’ on drawing kinky NSFW furry commissions to make a living. and all commissioners I had so far - are all wonderful people who respect artist’s hard work.
if you want talented artists to not ‘waste their talent’ on ‘unworthy things’ - you’re absolutely welcomed to support them financially and help them to direct their talents towards their actual dreams and ambitions. for example: my TRUE dream since 2014 is to create an animatic series about my alien OC Isay. you can help me to direct my talent towards this dream by subscribing to my Patreon. if I ever achieve at least 500$ monthly income from Patreon - I will finally be able to focus on my original story releasing instead of frantically seeking one way after another to make a living.
just support your favorite artists financially if you want them to stop ‘wasting their talent’. otherwise, you don’t actually give a single shit about artists. you just want them to provide you a free entertainment medium YOU prefer.
P.S.: Sirises - are my alien original species and a crucial part of that exact story which I’ve been developing since 2014 but never had an opportunity to share a single piece of it due to being too busy while trying to survive. my main OC Isay - is a Siris, a main character of this animatic series in question, and my meaning of life. if I’m as autistic artist with depression, PTSD, ADHD and numerous health issues including one that requires surgery can somehow monetize Sirises in the moment of my life when I have NO OTHER WAY to make a living at all due to being a war refugee in a foreign country - I will monetize them to survive so I be able to move towards my dream.
P.S.S.: art - is a luxury item, not a necessity like food or meds. no one forces people to buy commissions, adopts, MYOs (Sirises by the way have a plenty of free options to obtain but of course you’d never bother to check), action figurines, games, physical music albums etc etc etc. it’s always person’s decision and person’s choice how to manage their earned money. and if this little purchase makes person happier and doesn’t harm anyone, and if I can provide this little piece of joy to someone while also making a living myself - why fucking not? it’s their choice, it’s their business. not yours. not mine either. it’s not my place to validate or invalidate the way other adult people manage their income. my place and my only responsibility - is to make sure that I myself have money to pay my rent and bills, to buy my meds, antidepressants included, and food, to visit a doctor, to prepare to my gallbladder removal surgery, to manage my iron deficiency anemia. to survive. and to fulfill my dream.
and it’s not your place to judge me and the ways I make a living,
Monsieur Privileged Anon the Cowardly.
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