#why didn't i add this directly with the drawing

[wis-art]

Regarding my last drawing: the goat is a trans woman, the sword has always been a symbol of violence in my art. She is being tended by her friend who I chose to not show to widely represent both the trans community and allies who help each other, the reason why her hands are bloody is because the support we get it does not shield us from the violence we experience on daily basis and we often are forced to engage in the violence, the support is greatly appreciated and needed, she could never tend her wounds on her back by herself.

The sword was given to her against her will and she is fighting this fight she never wanted to.

[shivasdarknight]

[Image ID: A screenshot of user redwinterroses (from Jan 27, 2022) tinted yellow to indicate that it is a screenshot and not a post on the dashboard. The screenshot reads: All I'm saying is, if a fic refers to characters by their physical attributes instead of their names or pronouns ("he smiled at the older" "the blonde laughed") when we know who the character is, and ESPECIALLY if the descriptions include "ravenette" or "cyanette" or other ridiculous words--

I'm clicking out of that fic so fast my Ao3 history won't even register I've been there. /.EndID]

I'm gonna use this as a launching point for something that really bugs me with regards to how people - especially folks on tumblr - talk about fanfiction and if something isn't "up to snuff" or to their tastes. This ranges anywhere from grammar and punctuation, to even judgement towards someone for their skill in writing and how they frame it on tumblr - such as word choice or dialogue tags (said and its variants). Plenty of other things that get torn into (like POV type like first, second, or third (usually its first getting dunked on, second if you're not a Homestuck); or even tropes) but that's a different discussion, and I'm focusing more on how people talk about things that are "subpar". There are many posts like this, but I want to use this one to talk more about it as it's the one I most recently found. We're going to talk about this attitude, critique vs criticism vs what tumblr thinks is good critique with regards to writers (regardless of skill level, but mostly beginner ones), so this will get a bit lengthy.

Let's get definitions out of the way so everyone is clear here. When I say critique, this is in reference to feedback given towards a thing (writing, art, etc.) with the intention of improving upon it. Critique has a narrow scope, but it often addresses subject, form, technical aspects (in writing, form and technicality are grammar/punctuation, style, and prose - the latter of which is what OP is digging into), and execution. Critique includes both negative and positive aspects because it's important for good critique. Critique isn't tearing into someone for the sake of it, because the point of critique is to improve upon these aspects and become more comfortable in your craft. To take critiques is a skill in its own, but so is giving critiques - the best advice is usually a "critique sandwich" in which you say something positive, point out something that can be improved upon (importantly: not saying negatively charged things), and then summarize in a positive tone. Critique is not an excuse to bully, and critique should always be consensual. Critique appears in classes, in the form of beta readers, asking others for advice, and so on and so forth. The person who made the thing must be open to critique for critique to be effective. If they are not looking for critique and you give it anyways, you're just an ass.

On the other hand, criticism - especially in this context - is broader than critique. It tends to have a more negative connotation of it, but to be critical of something isn't inherently to be negative to it. This is where you see your media criticism, dissection of trends, etc. This doesn't usually engage directly with the source of the criticism most often, it's usually supplementary. Again: broader than critique, but its space does not often overlap with the original thing. Important to note that criticism does not inherently mean that the critic hates the thing being criticized. Criticism is just being critical of a thing. To be critical is not inherently negative; it's just talking about something to a finer degree than casual consumption. It's not admonishment, it's often a way to start a discussion.

This is where people tend to balk at the idea of criticizing fan media because they conflate the two, but critique =/= criticism. Critique is more based in the craft itself (art, writing, etc.) while criticism is more about the broader impact of the thing made by the craft. While critiques do exist in criticisms, and critique can draw from criticism, they are not the same thing.

Examples:

Critique:

Your inking wasn't consistent, so the final print is splotchy. You need to improve on inking your block if you want your final image to look the way you intend it to

You added too much ink to the block and caused a lot of spillage, you need to find a balance between the two in order to get what you want

I like the gestural nature of your drawing, but I think that you would get a stronger composition if you pushed it further and focus on line weight

The alliteration is a really nice touch in your prose, but you fall back on it a lot. I think that the alliteration would be more effective in this moment if you limit it to that moment and change up how you write prose leading into it - maybe slowly increasing the repetition until you get to the three-beats?

Your prose is really strong, and I like what you've developed so far. What I think you need to work on is learning how you can control your technical flow with better punctuation usage, such as a better understanding of when to use commas or em-dashes.

You're using periods at the end of your dialogue that is followed by a tag. Unless there's nothing like "he said", then periods in dialogue must be a comma. Not "'Alright.' He responded.", but: "'Alright,' he responded.".

Criticism:

There is a common trend within fandom to take a female love interest from canon and find a way to shove her off to the side for the sake of m/m shipping. It's come in a variety of forms, but the most notable ones include villainizing, killing her off, or the modern lesbian best friend/wingman which overlaps with the other modern form, the mean lesbian adjacent to the m/m ship.

Despite all the advancements that have been made in terms of accessibility within video games, it almost seems like some games are more inaccessible than ever due to developers prioritizing a key experience rather than making sure it's playable for everyone. A good example of this would be the MMO, Final Fantasy XIV, and its late game raiding that features many fights with non-toggleable flashes that have induced seizures in players, or their lack of color contrast options for color blind players - forcing both groups to either suffer through the content, not raid, or seek out illegal mods if they play on pc. Console raiders have no such options, as the in game effects toggle doesn't apply to the worst offenders.

With these examples out of the way, look back at OP and how they've framed their "advice" (which they say is advice further down this thread - as with all others who jump in on the post with "advice") - does this look like critique or criticism?

This style of post - and how everyone jumped on it - are part of a really frustrating trend online, but especially on tumblr, where people make vague complaints about a kind of writer and use their vague posting to tear into them. At this point, most people understand that unwanted critique is bad, so they instead channel that need to critique in stuff like this. From here on, I'm going to call it ""advice"" - quotations and all.

This is not advice. It's not even good critique. This ""advice"" is taking a common mistake or habit of fanfic writers - most of whom are new to writing, are teenagers, or haven't been professionally trained in writing because so few people have that opportunity - and then tearing it to shreds. This is looking at a habit that fanfic authors learning how to write picked up from other authors learning how to write, and then declaring that if a writer uses it you will not engage with them whatsoever.

That's not advice. It's a vague threat through shaming people for doing stuff. The thread goes on to list actual advice, but most of it is the most bare bones writing tips that doesn't account for people experimenting with style. It's shame through nitpicking and expecting everything to be perfection.

Fanfiction is held to a really awful standard in which it must meet every single one of your needs as a reader, otherwise it's not worth your time. Between the lack of support on platforms like AO3 or FFNet, and then these mass shaming posts that tear into writers for having the audacity of making a mistake, is it any surprise a lot of fanfic writers give up? Why so many fanfics you like just go unfinished with no word from the author?

Tumblr is too comfortable with this idea that they get to sit here and tear into authors who may not be using perfect syntax or use goofy words like silverette. You are looking at someone stumbling their way through a hobby that is admittedly very hard and tearing into them behind their back. When people see these posts, their fist reaction isn't go go "oh thank you for the advice," it's to get self conscious about their own writing and if they do fit the bill, they're not likely to take your advice. They may just stop writing altogether.

What gets to me is that this ""advice"" - this shaming framed as tips from people who "Actually Know how to write" - is it's considered a more widely acceptable way of talking about fanfiction and fanfiction authors than actually supporting authors you like. It's more acceptable than passing around resources. It's more acceptable than actual criticism of harmful things in fandom (see: colonizer lan wangji, op of this thread has talked about it a fair amount) that the criticism of would then make spaces safer for the people impacted (in that case, address the anti-indigenous writing of a horrific fic in the MDZS fandom that was trying to romanticize the tactics used in the genocide of indigenous americans).

Tumblr users seem to know to not take unwanted critique to the comments of the author in question, yet they can't seem to keep their mouths shut; instead, they curate hundreds of posts with thousands of notes to shame authors who have committed the grave sin of using goofy words or having awkward prose - which I'm so sure that no of the people making these posts have ever made mistakes like these in their own writing </sarcasm>

This collective shaming of writing characteristic of people learning how to write or who aren't super familiar with English doesn't sit right with me. Especially since so much of it feels like a reflexive cringe for things that the person grew out of. Maybe something isn't your style, but maybe it works for someone else. Everyone complains about the repetition of "said", but there are some hard hitting stories that weaponize the repetition of "said" for effect. Consider OP: a very specific one that I use still is bluenette, in part because I am a brunette who dies his hair blue very frequently - thus, bluenette (brunette+his is not incorrect in usage for myself, check my pinned; brunet+she would also not be incorrect - so do not come nitpicking me). Bluenette sounds so much like brunette that it comes off as a pun, and in this case it is used intentionally for said pun and often as a joke somewhere in my writing or even just conversation. Is OP going to also apply this logic to people who refer to women as brunets or blonds, or men as brunettes or blondes? Sometimes stuff like this is someone trying to work out their style. Sometimes it's a genuine mistake. Sometimes it's someone doing this with the utmost intention of calling a character by their hair color as a sign of disrespect through denying them their name - you do not know why it's used, and to publicly shame people for a common mistake is not how you're going to get them to improve.

The way ""advice"" is delivered feels like reflexive cringe, like I said, but also like a gross misrepresentation of what criticism is. Criticism's goal is discussion and improvement. Posts like these are just a way to shame people who aren't as skilled as you expect them to be. Let me make this clear: you are reading fanfiction. Many people use fanfiction to learn how to write, and may not have the most polished style. You are reading this for free. It's frankly really shitty to nitpick at someone's writing style and skill and then put it on blast for thousands of people on tumblr to jump in on this dogpile. Even when you give advice - such as in this post down beyond this screen - it's still framed negatively and in a "do this or you're bad" kind of critique. This is not framed to actually help people with their writing; this is shaming them into the style that you like and find engaging. And every following post beyond the advice from OP in this example further dogpiles the original point.

If you are shaming someone through a vague post because you don't like the fact that they're not a skilled writer, then it's clear you do not actually care about these people improving. You would rather mass shame writers who don't fit your view of what technically flawless prose looks like - be it because they're a teenager, they learned writing from online spaces and are still learning, or English isn't their first language - than actually teach them in a way that would be conducive to learning. You would rather have people jump in on this mass shaming as a sense of self importance because none of you write that way, thus everyone else who does is bad.

This is not critique. This is not criticism.

This is shaming writers - specifically writers who are still learning - for the fact that they do not match your expectations, and then gloating about how you never want to touch their work ever again.

The example above is shaming a common writing habit of teenagers and new writers who learned independently, and then following that shame with a threat to never engage with their stuff again, and then some tips sprinkled in with more "if you do this, shame on you" language.

You know, the exact stuff that makes people quit writing as a hobby or trying to learn it because they want to join in when it concerns this aspect of fandom.

This kind of ""advice"" is just vague blogging a writer to shame them. They may not ever see it, but Tumblr sure does a good job of keeping people from ever attempting to write because of the unreasonably high standards for a new/inexperienced writer putting stuff on the internet.

[ssavaart]

Happy Friday All!

In early 2020 (before Covid), I was painting larger paintings like this with Acryla-Gouache. I was really enjoying the medium.

I was inspired by a couple of photos by Annie Bertram on Deviant Art and asked permission to use them for reference.

Since I was just doing these for myself... I had NO plan. No test drawings. No layouts. I just started drawing on a large piece of paper and figured it out as I went.

Because of this... I never really figured out what to do with the hand on the left.

So... it just kind of disappeared.

I may go back and add it in later, I think.

But, for now... it's always a reminder of a time where I just broke out the paints and... played.

A couple months later... Covid hit and it was 3 years until I did my next large painting (the Gothic Vampire).

(Note: I can't find a reply from the photographer regarding permission or not. My memory is I heard back. But I can't find it.)

I DID hear from the model Theresa Fractale, a couple of years later, who was VERY upset that I had sold some postcards of the painting without her permission.

I was mortified. I hadn't even considered reaching out to the model. I offered her and Annie Bertram all of the profits I made from the sales, but she wasn't satisfied... and we left it at that.

These things DO happen with artists. Sometimes people claim you've "stolen" their art or style or likeness. And sometimes they have legitimate reason to do so.

Me, personally... I believe that artists should use ALL of the world around them for inspiration and if it is HEAVILY influenced by one artist or work of art... CREDIT them.

But change it. Don't directly copy it (unless you're studying someone's work... in which case... copy away).

But always credit.

I believe I REFERENCED the photos above, but didn't copy them.

But, I DID heavily reference them and, honestly, had NO intention of selling it (I still own the painting) or prints (I had only sold a few postcards before being contacted by the model... then stopped).

In any case... if the model or the photographer is unhappy with me selling prints... I don't sell prints. It's that simple.

Their work directly inspired MY work and while I feel that I've changed it enough to be unique... I don't want to cause another artist harm in any way.

Every artist is different. Some are open to sharing their art (like me) and others are very protective of their art.

But, there are no RULES to art. There is no such thing as "cheating" in art. There IS copyright LAW. And that is theft.

But that law ONLY (as far as I know) works if you are SELLING a copy of someone else's work. Profiting from it.

Not for learning. Not for practice. And not for posting online.

Just please... PLEASE credit the artist you're copying. Tell people why you are copying.

Nowadays, if I'm going to do a painting I plan on making prints of, I either use stock photography I've paid for or I get permission and pay the rights holder.

But, this is ONLY for pieces I want to sell prints of.

You do NOT need permission to use photo reference or even copy another artist's work for your portfolio or to post online.

Credit them. Share your inspiration with others. Tell them why you copied the works

But you don't need permission simply to make art. Ever.

Art should be shared. Copied. Studied. And most of all... enjoyed.

Sending Big Hugs from the Hobbit Hole. ♥♥♥

Scott

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 19, Unfriended - Pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, yelling, mentions of violence against women.

Word Count: 1.9k

Previously On...: You showed Nat and Wanda the texts. They were as bad as you thought.

A/N: You guys sure know how to make me give you whatever you want with all your flattery! I am WEAK. Keep it coming ;) Also, this scene is the very first one that came into my head during the creation of this fic, one of the first I wrote for it. It had to be redone a lot as the story changed, but I like to think I kept the beats and emotions the same as I first intended to be.

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when I update, please enable notifications from my Blog page!

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43

Tumblr will not let me directly tag the following: @marcswife21 @erelierraceala @jupiter-107 @doublejeon @hiqhkey @unaxv @brookeleclerc

Once inside the conference room, your friends made sure to sit you between the two of them, so that Bucky couldn't park himself next to you. Unfortunately, there wasn't much they could do to keep him from taking the seat across from you.

"Hey," he said as he sat down, "I've been trying to call you; thought we could go get some lunch before returning to our previously scheduled activities. Where've you been?" You acted as though you hadn't heard him, pretending you were extremely interested in something on your phone. It didn't escape your notice, however, when Jade entered the room and sat down in the seat next to him, Bucky instinctively shifted his seat away from her slightly. She glanced between the two of you, a smug smile playing across her lips.

"Bucky," she greeted. "How's things?"

"Carthage," he huffed in response. You made the mistake of catching his eye for a brief second, and he offered you a tentative smile before you immediately hardened your expression and turned away.

Nat jotted down a sentence in her notebook and slid the paper over to you. Your puppy looks like you just kicked him in the face and he can't figure out why.

You suppressed a snicker and wrote back I can't reward a mongrel for indiscriminately humping bitches, can I? You quickly worked to scribble over your words as Natasha positively cackled at you, drawing everyone's attention.

"You alright there, Nat?" Tony asked as he entered the room, moving toward the front of the space and getting ready to begin the meeting. Nat coughed and took a sip from her water bottle.

"Just peachy, Tony," she answered, stifling a smile. "Just peachy."

"Okay, good. Let's get this started, then." He opened up his tablet and flicked a projection over the table. It was a series of photographs of about two dozen or so young women, all looking to be in their late teens to early thirties. "These women," Tony began, "have all been reported missing from the vicinity of Atlantic City over the last eighteen months. They've all got a history of either drugs, prostitution, or both, so the local police aren't interested in wasting valuable resources tracking them down. Fortunately for them, my resources are endless." He gave a sad smile, then with another flick of his wrist, brought up a three-dimensional schematic of a squat building. "This is called the Wiggle Room. It's a Russian-owned club where at least half of the missing girls were dancers at some point in the last three years."

"You're thinking trafficking," you spoke up. It wasn't a question. You knew the signs too well, after all. Tony nodded.

"That's horrible," said Jade "but, I mean, we're the Avengers. Isn't trafficking kind of... I dunno, below our paygrade?"

If looks could kill, you and Natasha would have murdered her on the spot. Bucky rolled his eyes before leaning over and murmuring something to Jade that you couldn't quite hear, but you had a pretty good idea what it was when her face turned red and she looked at the two of you and muttered "Oh, sorry-- I didn't know."

Your next murder-by-death stare went to Bucky. How fucking dare he divulge your secrets to her, especially when you told him he was only one of three people on this entire fucking planet who knew them? You told him that in confidence. He had absolutely no right. He just shrugged at you apologetically. Fucking shrugged. You were going to throw up. How many times was he going to betray you?

"As I was saying," Tony continued, as though Jade hadn't interrupted him, and you were grateful for it, "we want to put a couple of people on the inside, work there for a few months, see what they can find out."

"Oooh!" said Jade, bouncing in her seat and raising her hand like she was in grade school. "I volunteer!" She turned to stage whisper to Bucky. "Wouldn't I make an absolutely adorable stripper? It would be so much fun!"

Bucky had the good sense, for once in his life, to roll his eyes at Jade as Tony spoke up: “You’re benched, Carthage,” he said matter of factly. “Which reminds me; we need to have a discussion about how you managed to sneak your ass onto the Russia mission.

You felt a sick sense of satisfaction when you saw the look of chastisement cross Jade’s face, and were overcome with a renewed curiosity over just how she happened to get herself on that Quinjet in the first place. Not that it mattered, not anymore.

"So, do you think you'd be up for it, Pocket?" Tony turned to you. "Willing to dust off those pasties and jump back on the pole one last time?"

You smirked, having suspected that the ask was coming as soon as he mentioned a strip club. "What can I say, Boss? It'll be like riding a bike."

"Good, because maintenance is putting a practice pole in your room as we speak. Don't want you looking rusty undercover."

"As if I could ever!” You pretended to be affronted.

"Hold up," said Steve, and suddenly, you could feel all eyes on you. Oops. You’d forgotten that part of your history was also not common knowledge. You glanced around and everyone was staring; Sam's mouth was even hanging open. "Are you saying Pocket used to be a stripper?" Steve whispered the last word, as though it was naughty and he'd get in trouble for using it.

"Hey," you said nonchalantly, shrugging your shoulders, "MIT ain't cheap."

"I'll have you know, Cap, that exotic dancing is a craft, and our Pocket here is an artist." You beamed at Tony's words, pride flushing through you. Your past as a dancer wasn't something that you necessarily led conversations with, but you weren't ashamed of it. The money had been excellent, and you'd been good at it. Damned good.

"You've seen her?" Sam asked, mouth still hanging open.

"How do you think we met?" Tony asked him, as if it was the stupidest question in the world.

"No," said Bucky, out of nowhere, his voice hard and angry. He stood up, fists planted on the table, glaring at you.

"It was definitely while she was working at a strip club" Tony said, deliberately mistaking Bucky's meaning. "It's not everyday you get a comparative analysis of the weaknesses of your company's firewalls at the same time you get a lap dance; tends to leave a lasting impression."

"No, I mean Pocket's not going undercover. She's just a civilian and it's too dangerous. Send Natasha or Jade in, instead," Bucky bit out through gritted teeth.

"Excuse me?" You stood up, as well, mirroring his stance and matching his glare from across the table. "You do not get to determine what missions are too dangerous for me, James. You're not my father."

"But I'm your boyfriend," he said, and the fact that you had called him 'James,' and not 'Bucky' or 'Barnes' wasn't lost on him. "And I care about whether or not you get hurt."

You laughed, cold and mirthless. "Since when?" you spat, letting every ounce of pain you felt at his betrayal into your voice. He looked back at you, hurt and abject confusion clouding his features.

"If you're so worried about her, then you can go, too," Tony said. "Go as her boyfriend, get a job at the club as a bouncer. We need multiple sets of eyes."

Bucky seemed almost mollified by this suggestion, but you were not going to allow it. "Absolutely not," you said, the conviction ringing in your voice. "Sam'll come with me."

"What?" both Sam and the super soldier asked at the same time.

"Barnes is way too identifiable with that metal arm," you offered by way of explanation. "No way in hell I'll keep my cover if I walk in with the fucking Winter Soldier by my side."

"She's got a point," Steve said, scratching his chin. "But Pocket, language, please." You stole a glance at Bucky, and his eyes were full of pain. You'd called him the Winter Soldier. Out loud. You'd never done that; you knew how hard he worked to differentiate himself from the monster Hydra had turned him into. It was a low blow on your part, but you couldn't find it in you to give a shit.

Tony clapped his hands. "All right, then it's settled. Pocket and Sam will go to Atlantic City. It's strictly an intel-finding mission, only. No heroics, got it you two?" You both nodded in agreement. While you were excited to go out into the field in an undercover capacity, you had no desire to see combat. Sure, you could more than handle your own if it came down to self-defense-- Nat had made sure of that, but there was a reason you were the computer girl and not an actual superhero yourself. "Pocket, get practicing. You've got about a week before we’ll be sending you and Sam out; don’t want you embarrassing me up there. Any questions? No? Good. That's it, then, class adjourned. 

"Oh, and one more thing," he said before everyone could collect themselves, "don't forget, our girl's turning 35 on Saturday. The party starts at eight. Dress to kill, because I'm going all out for this one."

You couldn't help the blush that crept up your face, despite the rollercoaster of anger and agony you’d been feeling. When Tony had approached you about throwing you a birthday party, you'd demurred, telling him you were too old for one, but he had insisted that, since you'd missed out on so many childhood experiences because of what your parents had put you through, you were going to get a party to remember.

You got up and gathered your things, purposefully avoiding Bucky as Nat and Wanda glared at him while they waited to escort you out. You were eager to get up to your new room so you could start researching the missing women and this strip club and, a part of you admitted with a smile, get practicing your old routine and come up with a couple of new ones. It was just the thing you needed to take your mind off of your current troubles.

“Pocket, Sam,” Tony called, catching your attention, “hold back a minute; I want to go over some details with you.”

Nat and Wanda looked at you, but you encouraged them to go on; Steve had made a beeline toward Bucky after the meeting had been adjourned and, despite Bucky lingering, obviously waiting to speak with you, had managed to steer him out of the room to discuss something you couldn’t give a shit about. “It’s fine, guys,” you told your friends. “He’s gone; I should be able to get back up to the room without trouble.

They exchanged a glance, then looked back at you. Nodding, they left.

“Pocket,” Tony said, once the conference room was clear and it was just the two of you and Sam remaining, “care to tell me why FRIDAY says you’ve moved rooms?”

“Not at the current moment, Boss,” you said. You didn’t want to rehash the drama you’d been thrown into against your will, let alone in front of a completely innocent bystander. Instead, you encouraged him to get on with whatever more he needed to tell you and Sam about the parameters of the mission. Hopefully, it would distract you enough to take your mind off of the sheer agony you felt inside.

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

[thelov3lybookworm]

I Didn't Ask For This (part two)

Part 1

Summary: Marriage had always been something sacred to little Y/n, something dream like, where her husband would come and whisk her away to a fairyland. At least, that's what she had always thought.

All her dreams would be shattered.

But maybe she can salvage them?

•○●⛦●○•

A/n: Okay so ya'll, I expected people to like this series, but I didn't think it would be liked this much. So thank you soo much to all of you for reading this, or anything that I write. It really motivates me and gives me immense joy.

Okay so all of that aside, please enjoy.

Tw: forced marriage, azzie kind of beginning to become an asshole(obviously, he's been forced), none more that I can think of, so please let me know if I need to add anything.

•○🌑○•

Rhysand's pov.

As everyone stared on, the High Lord's eyes flitted between Azriel and the girl in front of the dais, wondering what the hell was going on. But then his eyes sharpened, landing on the hand that the girl –Y/n, as he'd been told by her father– was clutching to her chest. There, on her ring finger of her left hand, was a glowing tattoo of a bargain struck, about to be fulfilled. It encircled the finger, as if a drawing of a ring.

His eyes narrowed. It was familiar. Then it clicked.

Azriel.

He glanced to Azriel, whose left hand had an identical tattoo.

He'd once asked Azriel about it, but he wouldn't tell Rhys what it was for. Now Rhys knew.

Before things could escalate, he ordered the girl, her father and the inner circle to proceed to a meeting room nearby to discuss this matter.

In a matter of moments, they were entering the meeting room. Rhysand pulled Azriel aside before he could enter.

"What is this about Az?" He asked, in his high Lord's voice.

He didn't reply, staring at him flatly. Rhys decided to try and see the his memories, knocking on the walls of Az's mind. He didn't budge for a good few moments. Then he sighed and let his walls down.

When Rhys pulled out, he was horrified, wanting nothing more than to tear the girl's father to shreds. He didn't understand why Azriel didn't want to tell him about it, but he didn't question it. After all, he knew all about wanting to hide some things from his family.

When he finally entered with Az in tow, he found everyone seated around the table, Y/n standing behind her father, her shoulders curved inward, constantly glancing at the nearest shadows, as if she wanted to melt into the them. Then his eyes landed on her father, and the urge to crush his brain arose.

This was going to be an interesting meeting.

•○🌑○•

Y/n's pov.

The table was far too away from the wall for her to go and stand in the shadows. Extremely inconvenient.

"Y/n?" Her head whipped to the High Lord, finding everyone staring at her. That was when she realised that he had been calling her for quite some time now. Blood rushed onto her face, and she bowed her head. "Why don't you sit?"

She glanced at her father, his jaw clenched. She shook her head, shifting on her feet.

"I told you so many times that she doesn't want to sit, my Lord." Her father said, to which the High Lord narrowed his eyes, but thankfully, he didn't say anything.

"Care to explain what happened back there?" The beautiful, blonde lady in a red gown questioned, her brows raised.

Her father said nothing, his chin lifting. He would not answer to a female. Y/n's stomach clenched.

This female probably held more power than her father could even dream of, and certainly, this would not end well if he continued doing this.

"She asked you a question, and I expect you to answer." The High Lord said, his power whipping around the room.

Her father paled, finally answering. "They had promised to marry each other, and because she was about to leave, the bargain's magic worked."

Everyone's eyes flew to the Illyrian standing next to the Lord of Bloodshed.

"And when was this promise made?" He asked, looking directly at Y/n. She blinked, taken aback. Her father opened his mouth, but the General spoke again. "I didn't ask you."

Her father bristled, snapping at her. "Answer."

"When– when he was still at his father's house."

"You mean to tell me, that you struck a bargain when you were a kid?" The female with grey eyes, her hair coiled around her head and sitting next to the general said.

Y/n nodded, glancing at her father.

"Of your own will?" The High lady asked gently. Y/n hesitated before she shook her head, her eyes flitting momentarily to her father, who stared at the table in front of him.

Everyones jaw dropped.

Then Y/n finally, finally glanced at Azriel. His arms were folded across his chest, staring at a far wall. Then, as if he felt her gaze, his eyes met hers. And, she didn't know what she was hoping for, but it definitely wasn't the hatred shining in those hazel orbs.

He hates me.

That was her first thought. But how could he? It wasn't as if she forced him into this. She was as helpless as he was.

Her father stood suddenly, making her step back. He had been speaking while she stared at Azriel, tuning everything else out.

"So, my Lord, are we settled on the fact the they will marry in an hour?" Y/n's head whipped towards her father, who bowed to the High Lord when he nodded.

Her heart stopped in her chest. This could not be happening.

She looked around frantically, hoping, praying she heard him wrong. But the grim faces of the Inner Circle around her told her that her prayers were in vain.

She felt a gentle hand on her elbow then, finding the High Lady standing there. She tilted her head towards the door.

"It would give us immense joy if you would let us help you dress up."

Y/n said nothing, a numbness spreading through her. She quietly followed the High lady and the women of the Inner Circle out the door, not seeing or hearing anything.

I'm going to be married today.

•○🌑○•

Some time later, when the blonde female was styling her hair, Y/n finally spoke. She been quiet for the last hour, not paying attention to anything happening around her.

"Is– is there no other option?" Her voice broke on the last word, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. Everyone quieted. Now that she actually thought about it, there were three women in the chamber. The High Lady, the one that Y/n presumed was her sister, and the blonde beauty.

"I'm sorry." The High Lady said. "There's nothing we can do. But maybe we can be friends now?" She asked with a gentle smile. Y/n tried to smile and nod, but the smile was wobbly.

The door flung open, making her jump. A relief spread through her when she saw her brother, Alexander, walk in. He stopped short at the sight of the other females, hastily bowing.

Y/n couldn't stand fast enough, tripping over her gown in her urgency to reach him. He pulled her to him without hesitation, rubbing her back as she finally let the tears flow. The numbness receded, an ache starting in her chest as he murmured reassurances in her ear.

When she pulled away after cauldron knew how long, he pushed her hair back from her face. She realised the room was empty, save for Velda, who was staring at a painting, her face set in stone. She hadn't realised Velda would be here as well.

Out of the two of her older siblings, Velda was the oldest, Alex bing the second born. Velda never cared much for her sister, or atleast that's what Y/n thought. But that changed on night when she overheard a conversation between Velda and their father. She was twenty then and her father had given her a beating for supposedly disturbing him by speaking too loud.

Y/n was walking to her room when she heard raised voices coming from her father's study. She slowed down and then stopped when she heard her name.

"She isn't an animal that you can do anything to! You can't keep hurting her like that!" Y/n's body locked up hearing Velda speak for her.

"Are you done yet? My ears are hurting." Her fathers voice was nonchalant.

"I will never stop speaking for her." And then a loud crack was heard. Y/n flinched, knowing what had happened. A few moments later, her sister stepped out, her eyes lined with silver. That was the first time Y/n had ever seen Velda cry, and she had never been more furious at her father. Velda glanced at her younger sister before walking away, her back straight.

And after that day, Velda didn't try to hide her contempt for their father, arguing with him whenever he was in a bad mood and tried to hit Y/n while Alex stood off in the corner holding Y/n.

While Alex was a very warm person and always comforted Y/n after a particularly bad outburst of their father, he could never speak up in front of him. And even though Velda was cold towards everyone, Y/n knew she cared a little too much for her own good.

"Ve–Velda?" Y/n mumbled, hesitantly stepping towards her sister. When she got a closer look at her, she was shocked and speechless.

Because Velda, was crying.

Strong, brave Velda. The one who didn't even bat an eyelash when she was told that she'd be married to someone against her will. That Velda, was now crying. Just because her sister was suffering the same fate as hers.

Her nose was red, her cheeks flushed, and tears streamed down them nonstop. Alex nudged Y/n's shoulder, bringing her out of her trance, finally setting her moving. She tentatively touched Velda's arm, making her look at Y/n. More tears streamed down her face as her eyes moved over her baby sister's face.

And then she did something that Y/n never thought she would. Velda pulled her into a hug.

Y/n stood frozen for a second, and them the tears came again as she wrapped her arms around Velda, crying into her shoulder.

She could barely hear anything other than her heart pounding in her ears as well as their mixed sobbing, but she did hear faint apologies coming from Velda.

Somehow, sometime later they ended up on the ground, leaning against each other with Alex just next to Y/n, stroking her hair.

"I wish I could do something." Velda rasped.

Y/n shook her head, taking a deep breath. The door creaked open, and the blonde beauty– Morrigan, as she had introduced herself– poked her head in, her eyes filled with sympathy and understanding.

"I'm so sorry, but it's time." Y/n nodded, straightening and going to stand when Velda stopped her.

"You don't have to go through this, we'll try to find another way."

Y/n shook her head. "There is no other way Velda." As the three of them stood, she turned to her sister and clasped her hands. "I'll make sure to make the most of this. I might have been forced into this, but I'll go there on my own."

Her sister cleared her throat. "Also... I'm pregnant."

Y/n gasped. "Really? I'm sure you'll be an amazing mother." She squealed. "I hope he will be a good father too."

Velda nodded. "I never let him in, but these past few weeks he has started to seem...nice? Now that I actually talked to him, I feel like he is a really good person. I think he will be a better father than ours."

"Does he know?"

"Yes. He was quite exited."

Y/n smiled and all of them made their way to the room where the wedding would take place with only the Inner Circle and her family present.

As they walked, her resolve hardened.

She wasn't a criminal, and she had nothing to do with this. Azriel's hatred was misplaced, and she would either make him stop hating her, or she'd return it tenfold. She knew which she wanted, and knew which she might have to do.

This was a battleground and she a warrior. She'll walk into this with her head held high, it didn't matter if she came out victorious or not.

Hazel eyes met her as she appeared in the doorway.

She would keep her promise promise Velda. And make the most of this inconvenient situation.

•○🌑○•

Taglist: @bubybubsters @maxxieluvs @bubbbllee @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @waytoomanyteenagefeels @tell-me-a-poem @the-lake-is-calling @spaxxxi

I can't tag the ones with a strike through I'm so sorry.

Part 3

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

Hello! I'm back with another chapter of my Feyd-Rautha/Reader arranged marriage series.

AO3 link here for full fic: And I Don't Want Your Heart - Chapter 5 - ooihcnoiwlerh - Dune (2021) [Archive of Our Own]

Side post that has some of my headcanons for how I interpret Feyd-Rautha's own relationship to his sexuality: Hello, Friend - So I've been working on a Feyd-Rautha/Reader... (tumblr.com)

This fic and this chapter are 18+ up only. Tags, content warning, and full chapter below the cut

Tags/CW list: rape/noncon; graphic depictions of violence; dubious consent; arranged marriage; forced pregnancy; nature versus nurture; implied/referenced child abuse; implied/referenced sexual assault; implied/referenced incest; first time; rough sex; oral sex; vaginal sex; vaginal fingering; blood kink; pain kink; sadomasochism; period sex; problematic smut; inappropriate misuse of BDSM; slow burn emotionally but the exact opposite of a slow burn phyiscally

CHAPTER FOUR: A BLOODY GASH

You're fertile.  You’ve never had any reason to believe otherwise.  This union is contingent on giving him children–at least one son, and as many attempts as necessary to get there ( and you desperately hope that you’ll only need that first one.  You don’t want to raise a daughter in this place, amongst these people .)

So you’re horrified when you wake up the following morning to blood smeared between your legs, staining your chemise that rode up to your hips when you were sleeping, and leaving a smear on the sheets below when you move.

No.  No.  You pull up the hem of your chemise and stare at your inner thighs as if just looking will change the outcome.  Feyd-Rautha came inside of you four times in two days for nothing .  He’ll be furious.  He’ll question your very biology.  He’ll have you examined as thoroughly and cruelly as possible.

You scramble, trying to cover yourself, wondering what you can even do next when Idrisa comes in with fresh water and coffee.

To her credit, she doesn't drop the tray when her eye line goes directly to your bleeding crotch for the few seconds it’s still visible.

“I knew my time for it was coming up, I just didn't think it would,” you say to yourself as much as her and come to meet her gaze.

She glances back down out of respect, but the awkward tension hangs between the two of you for a moment.

“Do you…” you start, embarrassment flushing your face and neck, “do you have anything for it?”  You have no idea how menstrual care even works on Geidi Prime.  You’d just assumed that it wouldn’t be an issue for another ten months.

She composes herself again immediately.  “Why yes, of course, Na-Baroness.  I apologize for my negligence.”  Before you can tell her there's nothing to apologize for, she adds, “I'll help you get cleaned up first.”

“That’s alright, I can do it,” you tell her as you wonder for a moment who she served before that she’d assume you want her to clean between your legs when you’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself.

She inclines her head further.  “Thank you, Na-Baroness.  I’ll be back in just a moment.”  

As soon as she’s out the door you’re up and walking briskly to the bathroom. 

You’ll need to have the sheets changed.

It’s only been two days, you think, washing between your legs.  This doesn’t mean anything bad .  When he asks for you, you can just explain the situation and try again in a few days.  Until then…until then…   For a moment you draw a blank, before remembering a conversation you had a few years ago with a slightly older friend when you asked her if husbands still desired their wives when their wives were bleeding.

“ They honestly just want something warm, soft, and wet to bury themselves in, ” she’d told you matter-of-factly.  “ So most men just use their wife’s mouths .”

“ What do you mean? ” you’d asked, fairly certain you had an idea what she was talking about but still more willing to briefly embarrass yourself by asking than remain ignorant.

“ You know what goes on between a man’s legs, right? ” she’d asked in turn.

“ Of course ,” you’d said, a little offended that she’d think you so naive. 

“ When you’re bleeding and he still wants you to please him, put your mouth there instead, ” she’d told you.  “ Like he’s burying himself inside your mouth instead of your canal.  You can’t make babies that way, of course, but they often don’t care about that .   You can’t really make babies during your monthly courses anyway. ”

You wonder how she reacted when she found out who you’d be marrying.  You never got the chance to ask and assume, like many young women and their parents, that she was relieved that she wasn’t the one hand-picked for him. 

You also haven’t done that to him yet, nor any other man, for that matter, and you’re sure your lack of skill will show.  How are you meant to take the entire thing in your mouth when you can barely fit it where it’s meant to go?  What are you supposed to do with your teeth?  It also just seems somehow more daunting and personal than just having inside of you in the traditional manner.  

He’ll be aggressive with it, like he is in everything else. 

You can’t stop thinking about it as you brush your teeth and hair and try to ignore the discomfort in your lower belly before you hear a click and the door to your quarters opening.

Idrisa’s back with a basket made of some kind of black synthetic material; it’s covered to protect its contents from passing view.  You could kiss her for that, you think, and she starts unpacking.

She pulls out what look like thick handkerchiefs, going to your bathroom to stack them neatly on the countertop.  She also hands you a canister that you open to find a handful of circular tablets.

“They’re not as strong as what I left for your wedding night,” she says, “and they won’t put you to sleep, but they should suffice if you need them.”

You’d chalked up your cramps to nerves but now that you have your answer the symptoms couldn’t have been more obvious.  “Thank you, I think I will,” you tell her as you think about how you’ll likely be expected to join your new family, if one could call them that, for breakfast again.  The thought makes you want to crawl back under the covers.

“Can you also please tell Feyd-Rautha that I apologize for missing breakfast but that I'm feeling unwell this morning and wouldn't want to be poor company in my condition?” you ask.

Idrisa hesitates, nervous.  You realize that she's thinking, You know that your husband finds me far more disposable than he finds you, right?  He could easily kill and replace me and no one would care.  You also realize that she can’t and won’t say no to you.  But just that look reminds you that as frightening as this fortress is to you, it’s much worse for her.  You haven’t seen Feyd-Rautha kill outside of the arena yet, but you also barely know him; killing people who displease him over minor inconveniences, especially if they’re low-born and low-ranking, could be a common occurrence for him.  The Harkonnens didn’t earn their reputation for nothing.

“Unless you think they won't notice if I’m even there,” you add, thinking.  The Baron couldn't care less if he never has a conversation with you again, and outside of the marriage bed, Feyd-Rautha doesn't appear to have any real plans for you.  “I could just…stay here and if Feyd-Rautha has any questions he can ask them.”

Idrisa’s shoulders had been locked and tense but appear to relax just a little at your words.  “I can make a plate for you and bring it back here,” she says, already knowing your preference.  Given Geidi Prime’s incredible wealth and lack of natural resources other than fuels and metals there are imported fruits that you’d never had before coming here that you’re certain you’ll never get sick of.

“Sounds perfect, thank you,” you tell her, and take advantage of the new medication when she leaves.

When she returns with another tray for you, she’s accompanied by two other girls holding a fresh arrangement of sheets; the hems and necklines of their garb are cut a little different from hers and they look younger, perhaps the same age as your little sister.  You wonder if the difference in the way they’re dressed suggests rank?  They keep their heads down and don’t acknowledge you other than a silent curtsy before stripping your old sheets and setting down a new spread.  You look at them for a moment, wondering if it’s at the Baron’s insistence that no staff ever look a Harkonnen royal in the eye or if this rule’s been going on for generations when Idrisa snaps you out of your thoughts.

“I have a tea prepared for you as well, Na-Baroness,” she says, gesturing towards the tray that she’s set on your end-table and removing the cloche covering your plate.  “It’s not medicine strictly speaking but it has soothing properties.”

You turn and look at her.  She doesn’t look much older than you, but the same can be said of most of the female slaves.  Are they banished to where they won’t be easily seen when they reach a certain age?  What’s the life expectancy?  It feels more than a little insensitive to ask right now, so you just let them work as you take a seat at your end-table and take a sip of your tea.

After breakfast is over and you’ve found a comfortable position sitting up in bed, propped up by the pillows and headboards, you read a bit more on the Harkonnen lineage.  The more you read, the more you understand why Father always insisted that Geidi Prime is no place for a woman.  Women in high places, you find, have in history been assassinated more often than the men, or kidnapped to use as collateral and tortured.  You wonder if that’s why you saw so few at the wedding and reception, why they seemed so hidden out of view even while accompanying their high-ranking husbands.

You’re reasonably certain that your new husband’s concerned enough with his image as heir to the Harkonnen throne not to tarnish the alliance your marriage has created, that even if he doesn’t really know you and may never love you–you’re reasonably certain that he’s incapable of feeling such an emotion–he’ll still make sure to protect what he sees as his.  His uncle will likely be another story.  

The door opens unannounced and you look up, expecting Idrisa only to find Feyd-Rautha letting himself in without a word and closing the door behind him.  He doesn’t speak at first, but everything in his demeanor tells you that he did in fact notice your absence and wants an explanation.

You compose yourself.  There’s no need to panic.  “Good afternoon, husband.  To what do I owe the pleasure?” you ask, tone as light and cool as the weather would be on your home planet right now. 

He leans against the door as he folds his arms across his chest and looks you over.  “I missed you at breakfast,” he says.

“Yes, my apologies.  I’m not feeling well,” you tell him.  

He clearly doesn’t believe you.  You don’t seem feverish , he seems to think with his unimpressed gaze.  You seem fine .  “Still getting adjusted to the atmosphere on Geidi Prime?” he asks, and for a foolish moment you hope that he’s giving you an excuse.  Maybe he thinks you’re avoiding him because of last night, and you’re content to let him think that.

“Yes, husband,” you tell him.  

“That’s a shame,” he says, crossing over to your bed and sitting at the edge of it.  “It occurred to me last night that whoever taught you close-range maneuvers didn’t do their job right.  You should’ve been able to evade me.”

You wrinkle your brow and don’t have it in you to hide your insulted glare; your House’s military is considered a force to be reckoned with and a slight against your training is a slight against your House and your father himself.  “Did you want me to evade you?” you ask.

He seems amused by your sudden sharpness, and you realize that he’d wanted to hit a nerve.  He knew what he was implying and got the precise reaction he’d been hoping for.  “That’s not the point, wife.  You said yourself that you were out of practice and as soon as you’re feeling better I intend to rectify that.  Your cute little boot-dagger won’t serve you any good if you can’t correctly use it.”  

He places his hand on your leg, trailing it along your thigh and stopping just shy of your apex, his thumb brushing against it through the fabric of your skirt.  You give a sharp inhale that makes him smile.  You start to close your legs but his hand, now cupping your inner thigh, holds one open enough for him to continue to fondle as he pleases.

His hand stays there for a moment, stays over the light material of your skirt even as you're sure the soft flesh of your inner thigh heats his palm, as flushed as you feel under his touch.  He leans in, inhales as he leans over you and sniffs your hair.  It’s not even the first time he’s done it.  You wonder if he finds your hair to be a sort of forbidden fruit; something he can’t say he likes because to do so would disrespect Harkonnen hairlessness, but still something he finds fascinating or even enviable.  You’re not sure yet whether his lack of it is down to genetics or grooming but you assume the former, if it affects everyone including those who wouldn’t have such prime access to constant shaving.

But then he fully brings his hand between your legs, fingertips rubbing up against you and you flinch.  

Now?  Is he going to try and fuck me right here and now?   You shift, trying to hide what you’re sure is a look of panic on your face, trying to scramble for an excuse as Feyd-Rautha rubs a whimper out of you.

In the moments he does and you freeze, he watches your face a moment longer and then something shifts in his eyes, and he pulls back.

“I’ll call on you soon,” he says.  There’s something satisfied, almost smug in his tone.  He doesn’t wait for a response from you before he gets up and leaves, and you wonder what caused his departure.

Idrisa comes in a minute later with more tea for you.  “The Na-Baron seems mollified,” she says.  “He’s taken the news well.”

“I didn’t tell him.”

You catch Idrisa furrowing her brow-line, incredulous even with her head bowed before she can smooth over her expression into one of polite indifference.

“He doesn’t need to know yet,” you tell her.  “He said he’d call on me later.”

“My apologies for speaking boldly, Na-Baroness,” she says, “but the Na-Baron will still take you to bed tonight or whenever he decides is convenient.  Harkonnen men expect their wives to always be available to them, no matter how they’re feeling.”

You suppose you already knew this.  It certainly doesn’t help the gnawing feeling in your stomach even as the medicine Idrisa gave you has soothed the cramps for now.  

“It appears I can hold him off until after dinner, at least,” you finally say.  There’s that; you also appreciate having another meal without the Baron’s presence.

You wish you had someone you could talk to about this in which it wouldn’t feel weird to ask.  You look over at Idrisa.  She’s the only friend you’ve managed to make so far and while you don’t see that changing anytime soon, you haven’t forgotten that she keeps you company out of obligation.  You can’t be certain as to whether or not she actually likes you, or if she only tolerates you due to her heightened position within the Harkonnen Fortress as your personal attendant.  Still, she’s certainly better than no one to ask.  She takes your old mug and heads for the door.

“Idrisa,” you start.  She turns.  “You’ve…have you been with men before?”

She inclines her head in a polite nod.  “When it’s required of me,” she says.

Your second question dies in your mouth.  Oh.  Right .  Yet again you’re disgusted but can’t say you’re all that surprised.

And instead of asking for advice you’re struck by another thought.  “Has the Na-Baron ever…?” you start and she immediately shakes her head.

“Never, Na-Baroness,” she assures you.  “He has never been known to satiate himself that way with slaves.”

Are you being honest or telling me what I want to hear? you almost ask but spare her the indignity.  You’re reasonably certain that if Feyd-Rautha had taken advantage of her, he’d have gloated to you about it.  “Thank you,” you tell her.  You don’t want to know how men on Geidi Prime have abused her mouth.  “I was just curious.”

“Not at all, Na-Baroness,” she says.

As the hours tick by you wish you'd just told Feyd-Rautha your situation and gotten whatever awkward ensuing conversation over with.

In the evening Idrisa brings you dinner, more tea, and a glass of wine.  “The Na-Baron has given you two hours before expecting you in his bedchambers.”

You sigh.  “Thank you, Idrisa,” you tell her, not quite willing to add, you were right .  You eat, you have your tea, you bathe and clean your hair.  And in the remaining time that you have before you need to leave, you sip your wine. You’d be foolish to assume that it will truly settle your nerves, but it tastes nice. 

“I guess it’s time,” you say finally, looking at the timepiece on your nightstand.  “How angry do you think he’ll be?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Na-Baroness,” Idrisa says as she opens the door to lead you to your husband.  “He’s never been married nor been instructed to sire an heir before.”

When you get to his bedroom he’s already standing in the middle of it, wearing only black pants with a relaxed fit that suggests leisure, maybe sleep.  And here you hadn’t taken him as the kind of man to own pajamas.

He looks over your shoulder at Idrisa, who seems just as surprised to see him as you are even as she immediately lowers her head in deference.

“Dismissed,” he tells her, and she curtsies and scurries out of the room, closing the door behind her, leaving the two of you alone and rather more dressed than you’ve been in this room.

You stand, awkwardly, playing with the sash to your robe as the two of you look at each other in silence.  Or rather, he stares at you and you look down, knowing what you’d rehearsed and still needing to force the words out.

“My apologies, husband, but it’s my time of month,” you finally manage.

“I know,” he says.  “I could smell it on you.  I could feel your rag in between your legs.”

Was that what he was doing?  You look up at his face and find nothing that you can really parse and pause, unsure what you could say to that, before you move on.

“I know it’s not ideal, but we can try again in a few days, and in the meantime,” you try to sound like you’re not as nervous as you are, fully aware that seduction was never something you learned, “I know that there are…other ways to satisfy you.”  A few days and we can resume trying to secure your firstborn .  

He gives a small smirk at the second part of your statement but comments only on the first.  “A few days?” he repeats, as if you’ve just said either the funniest or dumbest thing he’s heard all week.  “What makes you think I care to wait a few days?”

You’re not sure you heard him right.  “The blood,” you say slowly.  “I can’t control it.”

“You think a Harkonnen would be scared of a little blood?” he says.

You’re not sure what to say to that.  In hindsight, you’re not sure why you’d assumed that this man of all men would be too squeamish to fuck a bleeding woman.

“Strip down,” he says, after the seconds of silence that follow.  He sounds so casual as he says it, as if he just told you to have a seat.  You hesitate, still unsure if he’s being serious.

“Did you not understand me?” he prompts when seconds tick by and you haven’t moved.

“I do, husband,” say.  “But still, I have to warn you that it’ll make a mess.”

“Y/N,” he says, his tone somehow light.  There’s an element of danger to it.  “You’re not the one who’ll have to clean up afterwards.”

Nor you , you think.  “So you want me in this state.”  You don’t phrase it as a question but he can hear the confusion in your voice.

The smirk never quite left his face but returns in full as he crosses the few steps over to you that leaves you close enough that you can feel his breath.  He takes your wrist and presses your hand to his groin–it’s rapidly filling out.

“What do you think?” he says.

You gasp, almost giving an incredulous laugh as you glance between his face and back down to his groin.  Harkonnen men are built differently, you suppose.  

You pull away enough to unravel your robe and step out of your slippers.  He doesn’t object to your garments being left on his floor instead of neatly tucked on his dresser, so you keep going, pulling your chemise over your shoulders, pulling down your undergarment and letting it slide down your legs, until you’re bared entirely for him.

He looks down at the blood that gathered in the kerchief lining the gusset of your undergarment as it hits the floor and you step out of it, and then he looks back at you.

“Hold your arms out like this, wrists together,” he says, extending his own to demonstrate.

He still doesn’t seem angry, his tone suggesting patience that you know he doesn’t have, but you hesitate before mimicking him.

“Very nice,” he says, and you bristle at his condescension as he half-circles you before heading for his armoire.  You turn around to watch him open it, and your jaw drops when you see what’s inside.

It’s lined with whips, rope, chains, knives, scalpels, collars, and other items you’ve never seen before but if this is in his bedroom then it must serve one particular purpose, either on himself whoever has the misfortune of being with him when he wants to use any of these devices.  

He glances over his shoulder and looks if anything delighted by your stunned reaction, the growing sense of dread.  “I didn’t say you could drop your arms,” he says, and turns back to pick out a length of black rope.

You suppose you ought to be grateful that he didn’t pick out any chains.

You watch as he loops an intricate tie binding your wrists.  He does it with such practiced ease he looks directly into your eyes as he does it.  You manage to hold his gaze in defiance even as your heart hammers in your chest and you’re scared of what’s going to happen next.  You know that, like a true Harkonnen, he likes your fear, but it hasn’t occurred to either of you yet that he also appreciates your fire.

“Get on all fours on the bed, pet,” he says, tone light and playful as much as his gravely timbre can make it.

You try to keep your eyes on him as much as possible, making sure he’s never fully out of your sightline as you get on the bed, squirming but managing to maneuver the position he wants while your wrists are bound.  He knows that you don’t trust him, and if anything that seems to elevate his excitement.  

Good girl, he seems to be thinking.  He looks you over, turning and sauntering so he can take a moment to gaze first at your naked profile, then at your backside.

You have to keep reminding yourself that he won’t do anything that will risk you being able to give him children as he turns away and pads over to his armoire.  For a moment you’re not sure if he’s trying to decide what he’d like to use, or if he’s purposefully biding his time to make you more nervous.  His fingertips seem to dance over the whips, then the chains.  He briefly touches the handle to one of his knives.

Not the scalpel.  Please not the scalpel.

You see it–corded leather.  A black whip with multiple knotted tails.  He takes it down from his display but leaves the armoire doors open–undoubtedly to keep reminding you of what else he could be and very likely will be doing to you in the future.

You think about the Bene Gesserit Litany and try to repeat it in your head as you consider the tool? the weapon? clutched in his fist.  At first glance the whip looks like the cat-of-nine-tails your brother-in-law seems so fond of.  However, when you shut your eyes, take a breath, and think of the words– fear is the mind-killer –you realize when you open your eyes again that what Feyd-Rautha’s holding is a lot smaller than a proper cat-of-nine-tails and the tails thicker.  You have no doubt that this is going to hurt, but it doesn’t look like it will rip you apart.

“What, what is this?  A punishment for bleeding? ” you finally ask, unable to handle the silence anymore and because that’s the only explanation you can imagine.

And yet Feyd-Rautha looks amused that you’d suggest it.  “It’s because I want to use it on you,” he says, as if any further explanation would be silly.  “Ever since I first saw you, I wondered what that pretty ass of yours would look like after I’d taken this to it.”  He holds up the device for emphasis.  “I wondered what noises you’d make.  I wanted to know what you’d look like with your wrists bound, naked and helpless in my bed.  What you’d look like squirming and bleeding.

“ Yesterday was a punishment,” he adds.  “This is just fun.”

For you, perhaps, you think.  It’s no matter; you’ll just have to prove that you can take whatever he dishes out.  You just have to decide whether it’s better or worse that he’s not doing this out of anger. 

“Are you scared, pet?” he asks.

“ No, ” you lie in the most adamant and dignified tone you can muster, and once again he acts like what you’ve said is cute.  He clicks his tongue.

“You mustn’t lie to me in bed, pet,” he says, approaching the bed again, his free hand skimming over your ribcage, your side, your hip, as he finally stands beside the bed, and ever-so-slowly draws the corded whip up and down the backs of your thighs.  The tassels brush gently against your skin and it feels perverse, the anticipation he’s building within you.  On his second pass you inhale sharply, shutting your eyes, hips twitching away from the device, and Feyd-Rautha chuckles at that.

“Relax,” he says.

Fuck you.  You know I can’t.  Just do it and get it over with , you want to tell him with your sharp exhale, and one second later he draws his hand back and brings the whip down.

You cry out, rocking forward, your entire body clenching up as much from shock as pain.  Nothing could really prepare you for this; his hand from the first night had been easier, more personal.  The individual cords spread out like a fractal tree, like cracks in a block of ice fanning out. 

The second time is less sharp, more of a thud that reverberates through your body, the impact reverberating in your pulse.  Tears prick up at the corners of your eyes and for a moment you can’t breathe.  It would figure that this man has used this device often enough that he knows how to inflict different flavors of pain depending on whether he’s putting the movement in his wrist or his forearm.  You clench your fists, waiting for the next lash, and then the next.

Your nerves are on fire.  You can barely think, barely focus on anything but the exquisite pain on impact, the sharp sting of the air against your impacted flesh, the sweet moments you adjust, finding your breath, before he comes down again.  You don’t scream, not after the first blow, but the tears forming at the corners of your eyes start trickling down your face and then drop directly onto your forearms the covers below you when you bow your head.  

You don’t know how long he keeps going, don’t keep count.  The pain starts to dull but the intensity becomes overwhelming as he compounds on every lash.  Your ears are ringing.  You taste iron at the back of your throat.  The worst part is that you find, to your horror, your nipples feel stiff.  You start to feel wet.

It has to be a fear response.  This isn’t enjoyable .  It’s intense, it’s painful, and you can’t help but feel shame lance through you that your body would react this way.

Please.  I can’t take any more , you want to tell him, but opt instead to whimper through your clenched teeth.

At that moment the whip comes down and it sends you toppling forward, finally collapsing.  The covers are soft against your tear-stained cheek.  You shut your eyes, panting, waiting for him to haul you back up and continue the process.

But nothing happens.  You don’t try to look behind you and hope that he’s done.  You just take a rattling breath and listen for the sound of the whip and its tendrils slicing through air, and it doesn’t come.  

“You lasted longer than I thought you would,” Feyd-Rautha says, the first time he’s spoken in minutes, and you open your eyes and  turn your head to see him twist the coils of his whip and head over to the armoire.

“Come on,” he says over his shoulder.  “Back into position, pet.”  

You grit your teeth and force yourself back up on your hands and elbows.  “Good,” he adds softly, and it’s embarrassing how one single word of praise makes you flush, sends a pleasant tingle down your spine.  This shouldn’t have the effect on you that it does–maybe it’s because now that it’s over, you feel lighter, almost dazed.  All of your muscles had tightened into coils, but now you feel pliant to the point that your limbs feel rubbery.  You’re exhausted.  You’re hurt.  You don’t know what else he has on the agenda for you tonight but you just hope it doesn’t involve another one of his whips or ropes.

He sets the device back in the armoire and turns to face you.  He looks at your flushed, tear-stained face and smiles, mouth-closed before approaching the bed, his cock hard in his pants, and even though part of you wants nothing more than to melt into the bed and to get some relief for your stinging backside, you know he’s still going to chase his own pleasure.

‘He’ll want your mouth,’ you remember.  

You won’t wait for him to force it or grind your face into his privates.  If that’s what he wants, you’ll get there first, and so you drop your head and fumble as you reach with bound wrists for the fly of his pants.

You’re focused on what’s directly in your eyeline, so you don’t see his brief look of surprise, but you hear his voice, sounding pleased.  “Let me help you with that, pet,” he says, pulling away long enough to pull his pants down, stepping out of them.

It’s even more daunting when it’s this close to your face, but he steps back in, cradling your jaw, and you lean in and lick the tip of him.

For a few seconds that’s all you know to do, to lick around him, feeling the ridges and veins under your tongue.  It’s all the verification he could possibly need that you’ve never done this before, and that spurs him on, cradling your head in one large hand as the other guides himself past your lips and into your mouth.

It confirms what you suspected; he’s too big to take all the way and thankfully, doesn’t try to make you.  

Not yet, a part of you thinks.  You try to breathe, try not to get your teeth on him, try to relax and close your eyes as he controls the pace.  It’s easy enough at first; far from the rutting of the past couple of nights.  It doesn’t occur to you that, by his standards anyway, he’s being gentle with you.  Doesn’t occur to you to wonder why.  You just try to keep up as your backside and the backs of your thighs sting like hell and you hope Idrisa will have some sort of lotion for it when you get back to your quarters.

Feyd-Rautha appears to have yet another reason to like your hair, it seems, as he threads his fingers through it, guiding you onto him in slowly greater increments until he’s suddenly over halfway in and you freeze, nearly gagging, forgetting how to breathe.

He holds you in place for a moment, just long enough for your eyes to widen as you glance up at him and his heavy-lidded eyes and chest heaving with arousal.  He waits until you’re about to struggle and tear away from him before he relinquishes your hair and steps away, pulling out.  You take a deep breath, gulping the air down.  

“Stay right there,” he says, and settles in behind you, stroking your hindquarters like you’re a horse that he’s trying to calm down.  Will he put a saddle on you next?  You exhale hard through your nose, mouth pursing, waiting for what he’ll do next.  Will he mark up the stinging raw skin he’s already flogged with his hand?

Fine.  Fuck you again.  I can take whatever you’ve got.  I can handle it , you want to tell him out of spite.   You sense him shift, dipping his head, and despite your steeled nerves can’t help but gasp and feel something flutter in your core when you feel his breath against your lower back.

What exactly is he–? is all you have time to think before he dives in.

You jolt and wriggle in shock as he licks over one of your growing welts; you can’t quite tell but wouldn’t be surprised if he broke skin.  However, it’s how his tongue glides over your backside before shifting his weight to your folds that sends waves of shock, revulsion, and excitement as you cry out, stunned.

He’s licking my wounds .

You’re trying to wrap your head around how salacious it is that his lips and tongue alternate between licking the impacted skin on your buttocks and the backs of your thighs and dipping his tongue inside of you.  He has your hips firmly in place, which serves him well given that you’re torn between recoiling away from the heat of his mouth and wanting to press back against it.  You can feel him smirk at the sounds of your shocked moans.

He pulls away long enough to turn you on your back and you wince at the impact before you see him slide down along the bed and continue the onslaught.  You can hardly believe it as he grabs your still-stinging buttocks and buries his face against your bleeding pussy.

This is disgusting , part of you thinks.  Another part of you can hardly understand what’s happening.  In all your years you’ve never met a man who didn’t recoil hearing about monthly courses.  You’ve never heard of anyone wanting to taste a…a bloody gash .

Your wrists are still bound, and you grip onto the pillows above your head as he lifts your thighs to rest over his shoulders and dives back in, tongue pressing inside of you.  

It feels incredible.   You’d prefer it if it didn’t.  More than anything else, you don’t want to be enjoying this, wish the continuous whines and moans he’s drawing out of you were insincere, but he can feel as well as you do that you mean every sound.  You, Lady Y/N of the powerful and dignified house of Y/H, are getting your bloody pussy licked by the ruthless barbarian Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen and Great Mother and every forgotten old god, you’re enjoying every visceral and shocking moment of it.

He knows it, too, the smug bastard.  He probably feels even more powerful like this, on his belly and with his face between your legs, than he did when he was tanning your hide.

He raises one hand from your hip to your breast, giving one of your nipples a cruel pinch, smirking against your slit as you whimper in protest, and continues.  His nose presses and rubs against your bud in the onslaught and you finally admit to yourself that any last vestiges of resistance you might have had has caved when you squirm, rocking your hips upwards and desperately wishing that your wrists were free so you could press his face closer into you.

He keeps up his pace, bringing you as close to the edge as possible without reaching it until finally, mercifully, he shifts his mouth to your bud, his fingers replacing his tongue inside of you.  Your unrestrained cries fill the room, spurring him on, and then the force of it hits you as he brings you over the precipice for the first time.  It feels like it comes in shockwaves, especially as he keeps going through it all.

You’re still pulsing and squirming against his tongue when he stops, raising himself up and leaning over you.  Inky, sticky blood coats the lower part of his face, from his chin to his nostrils, and you’re a little surprised at how the sight doesn’t alarm you as much as it probably should, especially since that’s your blood covering his face.

There are far worse ways he could be smeared with your blood .  You gasp, still, at the striking color against the pallor of his face, reminded of seeing him in the arena. 

He presses damp, open-mouthed kisses against your stomach, your ribcage, your breasts and collarbone, as if to mark you with it.  Finally he sits up, bringing your legs over his as he guides himself into you with his bloodied fingers.

He stays upright as he pulls you onto him, and you watch his face as he looks down where you’re joined, his groan like a rumble in his chest as he sees himself pumping in and out of your bleeding pussy.  He won’t last long, you realize.  He’s been holding himself back from fucking you into the mattress since he visited you in your chambers hours ago. 

He curves in then, bracing one hand above your head to grip your still-bound wrists as his other hand grabs your hip to keep you stable.  You realize what he’s about to do a split second before it can happen.

He’s going to kiss you with that bloody mouth .

You tamp down on the revulsion of it and the coppery smell, again refusing to let him shock you or give you anything you can’t take and move in first, leaning up and capturing his mouth in a kiss.  

He groans into it, hips pumping, tongue invading your mouth as he speeds up, going hard, hips snapping into you.  He’s relentless; this would be agonizing if he hadn’t worked you open and pliant with his lips and tongue and even still, it veers on the edge of being overwhelming.  Your whimpers and cries only encourage him.

And then he finally comes, burying his face in the crux of your neck and biting down, not hard enough to draw blood but enough that it will leave a bruise later.

For a moment the two of you stay that way, then he releases your wrists and sinks down onto you, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder as he pulls out and takes a moment to catch his breath.  After a moment he raises himself back up on his forearms, pauses, and takes in the sight of your face and your lips stained red before reaching for your wrists again and untying the rope; once freed you notice that your skin’s been chafed rosy but still fully intact.  

He gets up, and you watch the lines of his legs, the slope and curve of his buttocks, the taper from his shoulders to his waist as he gets up and sets the rope back in the armoire before finally closing it shut.

Guess he’s done for the night .

But is he going to send me back right away? you wonder, turning to your side to watch the way he moves.  It takes some effort.  You feel as depleted as a rung-out damp rag.

He approaches the bed and wordlessly holds out his hand, and once you take it guides you to your feet and leads you into this bathroom.

Like his bedroom, it’s larger than yours.

He doesn’t let you wash your blood off your body; he wants it to remain on you until it dries and peels off on its own.  Instead he wipes his face, rinses and cleans out his mouth, and gives you a cup of water to do the same.  He wipes off in between his legs and then yours, quiet and strangely peaceful.  He takes another cloth and wets it, and then grabs a small bottle out of a drawer.  “Turn around, hands on the counter,” he says.

Fairly certain you know what he’s about to do, you acquiesce.  “Did you draw blood?” you ask over your shoulder.

He shakes his head.  “Not this time,” he says.  “Wasn’t trying to.”  And then he surprises you by getting down on one knee.

You give a small gasp.  It just seems…lewd?  Subservient?  And tired and sore as you are, you can’t help the twinge you feel in between your legs as he gingerly presses the cloth against your reddened skin.  You grip the countertop tighter as he opens the bottle of what you can only assume is ointment because after a moment his fingertips are smeared in a cool balm that offers such sweet relief you drop your head, trying to hold yourself together when your legs feel like they’re about to give out and you can feel Feyd-Rautha’s breath so close to the sensitive skin of your backside.

He seems to be applying the ointment to the worst of the welts, starting in silence and then adding, “You’re sensitive, but you have a decent pain tolerance.  I like that.”

You huff a laugh.  I bet you say that to all the girls, you almost tell him, and immediately think that that’s probably not true.  If it weren’t for the fact that he’s tending to your wounds you’d assume that he’d never do anything like this.  Something tells you that this small act of kindness isn’t to be taken lightly or for granted.

Once he seems satisfied with his work he gets back up, sneaking a glance of your face in the mirror.

Is he thinking about how much you’ve already changed since you’ve met? Since you’ve married?  When you see your reflection you don’t see the same person you did a week ago.  Of course he didn’t know you a week ago.  He barely knows you now.  Still, when your eyes meet in the mirror, he looks at you with something almost close to affection before he leaves the bathroom.

“Stay the night,” he says when you walk over to your abandoned clothes so you can gather them up, get dressed, and return to your chambers.

You look over at him.

“I’ll want to sample you again first thing in the morning,” he explains, “so it’s more convenient if you remain here.”

You huff, torn between incredulity and amusement.  “Taking advantage of the situation while we still can, are we?” you ask.

“I doubt it’ll come again for another ten months,” he says, and then strides, still naked, for the door.  He opens it, and a few words of battle-language later he shuts again.  He sees your confused expression and explains, “Your slave was still waiting for you.  I told her to go.”  He tilts his head in the direction of his bed, and after a moment you follow.  It appears that he doesn’t even want you to pull your undergarment back on.

As soon as you’re under the covers with him he tugs down your end of it to get one last look at your marked chest.  And after he’s looked his fill, he reaches for a switch that turns off the lights and even as the two of you can’t quite see each other, you still find yourselves on your sides facing one another.

“I wake up earlier than you’re probably used to and I’m a light sleeper.  Your slave assured me that you don’t snore,” he says.

“Not that I’m aware of,” you tell him.

“Once you stop bleeding I’m going to start having you train in my Halls,” he adds.  “I was serious earlier.”

“But for the next few days I’m chained to this bed.”

“That could be arranged,” he says.  “In any case you weren’t complaining when I was licking your cunt earlier.”

He won’t see your flush, but he must know that it’s there.  “So… is it safe to assume that none of this is…” you try to find the right words, “typical?  For a man, I mean.” And in quite possibly the biggest understatement you’ve ever made, “You’re not a normal man.”

You’ve adjusted enough to the dark to see his smirk.  “I think you've known that since before we met, Y/N,” he says.  And after a moment he lays his head, settling in and getting comfortable.  He doesn’t say another word to you that night, just closes his eyes and within a couple of minutes his breath slows.

It’s hard to imagine being able to let your guard down enough with this man to sleep beside him, even if he falls asleep first.  Like sleeping beside a wild animal.  

Sleep does come to you, though, after long minutes watching him sleep, waiting for him to wake up and scare you, lunge for you, and it doesn’t happen.

You turn to your other side, facing away from him then, and the only signal you get that he’s not entirely asleep is that as you start to drift off yourself, he reaches one arm to pull you in closer to him.

Tag list: @wo-ming-bai @blazeflays @richardslady121

Let me know if you'd also like to be tagged!

[daintcas]

can you write something where you go into mean!rafes tent when you’re camping with friends late at night, claiming you heard a noise but he doesn’t believe you and he discovers you’re true intentions was just to get in his pants🙏

oh my god this is so creative 😭 switched it up just a lil but i think it still fits ur idea !! apologies it took me so long to finally get around to it!

the leaves crunch under your feet as you approach the insanely massive and luxurious tent just a few feet from your own.

you knew it was risky since everyone else was already asleep in their equally as expensive sleeping arrangements. it must have been the long night of partying around a bonfire because the only sound filling your ears were the crickets lingering at the nearby creek.

with nobody to interrupt your poorly thought out and drunken plan - after a few too many hard seltzers - you slowly unzipped what you were pretty sure was the zipper of rafe's tent. in all honesty, you didn't know him. he was just one among many guys a mutual friend invited, but you were coherent enough to recognize the suggestive glances he spared you.

you bit your lip while carefully stepping inside, attempting to minimize the ruffle of the uncomfortable material. it's pitch black in the tent - which is tall enough for you to stand at your full height. that is until the light of a phone screen exposes you standing in the unwelcome space.

"the fuck are you doing?" the voice is low and mean, clearly irritated at the invasion.

blinking your eyes open and looking straight into the only source of light, you pause for a moment before remembering the excuse you prepared earlier. "i, um— there was a noise. i thought it was coming from here?"

a scoff is what you get in return and the click of a lantern replaces the accusing spotlight from the device. that's when you get a good look at him, clad in grey sweats and a dark hoodie, socks bunched at his ankles. "a noise?"

blinking your heavy eyelids and looking up at him through your lashes, you can't help but feel adrenaline at the sarcasm in his tone. the drinks weren't working in your favor, that's for sure.

"mhm," you all but bob your head "in— in here. a noise." the amusement spreading across his face in the form of a smirk seals the deal, suddenly making you feel so small under his tall stature steadily approaching.

"riiight.." he draws out, raking in your form just like he had been before, but this time really taking it slow. from your fluffy socks up to the tiny victoria secret boxers, up to the lace bra peeking out from under your baggy sweatshirt.

if a cold night in the woods didn't give you goosebumps, his gaze certainly did. you let him encroach on your space, eyes glued to his face and tilting your head back to keep contact.

"you lyin'?" he finally questions, though his expression shows he already knows the answer - and already knows how you intend on responding.

"no.." you reply in a weak effort to keep up your story and use your hands to symbolize a crash as you add, "it was like a.. like a bang!"

his smile is a bit softer before returning to the menacing way it was before and he nods along with a taunting hum. nodding his head to end the discussion you both knew ended before it started, he acknowledges you directly. "why don't you tell me why you're really in here? not very safe sneaking around at night, is it?"

with a defeated sigh, you shake your head, tucking some hair behind your ear and standing calmly in a way you normally wouldn't if sober and well-rested.

a million thoughts run through his mind of exactly how this situation could play out as he tongues at his cheek and watches you closely. eventually deciding to think with the tent in his pants rather than the one sheltering the two of you, he leans right in your face and nudges your chin up to face him with the knuckle of his pointer finger.

"i'm sure your lil tent is cold, huh? why don't you uh— let me keep you warm, hm?" he offers while letting the scenarios run wild in his head. a pretty girl willingly bringing herself to him in the middle of the night, secluded, with nobody else in earshot.

it's like that's all you were waiting for because an eager yet still sweet and innocent smile finds your face. only able to squeak out a "'kay" before he's leading you gently by your upper arm to an air mattress - as of now still completely inflated.

[discworld-heritage-posts]

What do you think you add? Do you think you make a poignant post better when after scrolling down through it we see someone saying it's "official"?

I'm choosing to interpret this ask as a genuine question (albeit one that's been worded a bit rudely) instead of a hate anon, because I wouldn't want to tarnish people's dashboards with hate anons.

Now, to answer your genuine question... The "Discworld Heritage Post" tagline I add to the end of posts has as much validity as I have authority to bestow it: none. Do I think my tagline makes posts better? Of course not! And I certainly don't think I make them official, (and neither my url or my pinned post claim that I do so).

I don't know what reasons other people had to start their own Heritage Posts blogs for other fandoms, but I will gladly tell you mine: I got into Discworld. I discovered the Discworld fandom in Tumblr. And, one day, while scrolling down some Discworld related tags, the idea just popped into my head. After checking that there wasn't a Discworld Heritage Posts blog already, I decided to make one.

I personally follow a few Heritage Posts blogs, and my reason to do so is probably the same as to why many people follow this blog: I wanted to see that kind of content. Tracking tags and being up to date on the most popular posts of a fandom is doable, but doing so for the dozens upon dozens of media I'm into is impossible, so I like to follow some Heritage Posts blogs to get some of those posts directly into my dashboard (it's also worth mentioning that sometimes, some iconic posts are made when people comment stuff on them, and those don't appear in the search tags, so following blogs that post about a certain fandom is the best way to come across some of those collaborative posts, because otherwise you'd rarely get to see them). So yes, I created a blog that, had it already existed, I would have liked to follow. Also, while other blogs with this gimmick usually limit themselves to reblogging, let's call them the "greatest hits", I've said since the beginning that I didn't care about how many notes something had. Be it cool art or a funny or insightful post, if I like it, I send it to my drafts.

However, none of those reasons are the main reason why I made this blog. The main reason is that I did it for myself. After exhausting all the content that showed up in the Popular Posts tab, I couldn't help but think of all the gold and treasure that wasn't there, buried and hidden due to the way Tumblr's search engine works. If you're familiar with the Discworld concept of "lies-to-children", that's what the "top posts of all time" is in Tumblr. A 20k post from 2016 will not be there, but a six month old post with 400 notes will show up. Surely there had been amazing Discworld posts and art posted in 2015 and 2013, but I wasn't going to find most of them unless I expressly went looking for them. And this blog was the perfect excuse to do so. As of replying to this ask, there's nearly 600 posts sitting in my drafts, and if I didn't have this blog I would have never discovered 90% of them. And those are the ones I've seen. I still have dozens of places I haven't searched.

I know that if I reblog a month old post with over 2k notes, a lot of people in the fandom will have already seen it. However, a 2k notes post from 2014, or a drawing with 40 notes from 2012 is something that is less likely to have hit people's dashes recently, or at all. When you come across the "Discworld Heritage Post" tagline in a post, please don't picture me as an uppity monarch performing the Tumblr equivalent of a knighting ceremony, or a stuffy museum curator deigning a piece worthy of being included in an exhibition. Picture me as a kid enthusiastically jumping and flailing my arms around while yelling "holy shit guys check out what I just found!!", because that's how I feel running this blog.

Ultimately, whether one of my posts does better or worse is indifferent to me, because they aren't my posts, or memes, or drawings. I'm just the intermediary. That being said, of course it's not indifferent to me, because more engagement means that was a post many people hadn't seen before, or had forgotten about, and one of my goals was to run a blog that would allow people to find those hidden or long forgotten gems.

When all is said and done, Heritage Post blogs are just another one of Tumblr's gimmicks. If we're not your cup of tea, you're free to ignore or block us. If you want to reblog something and don't want the tagline, you can reblog it directly from OP (or from another reblog if OP has deactivated their account).

[eliyips]

HOW DO YOU MAKE X SO FRIENDSHAPED?!

But also genuinely curious about the design translation from the actual skins to your interpretations due to the small but mighty details added in

Infodump as hard as you want!

If i ever pass up an opportunity to talk about my X design, it will be because I am either dead, or dying!!! neither are true at time of posting, so here you go! I will be going over my ENTIRE design process for Xisuma, starting with my initial design:

My initial design for Xisuma wasn't anything special, in my opinion. Most of what I included was directly ripped from the classic Doomslayer. Though, the face scars were inherited from fanon, of course. :) The changes that I did make were in service of having things make more sense for Xisuma. Namely, the belt buckle, and the fabric covering the arms...

The belt buckle is simple - bullets didn't really make sense as a design motif, all considered - but the fabric is more complicated. I have a couple different ideas about why Xisuma wears the suit, but I haven't settled one way or the other on some of the specifics, so forgive me if I'm a bit vague. Ultimately, It is just my impression that X is not comfortable having his body visible more than it needs to be, whether that be for health-related reasons or for personal/emotional reasons. I don't intend to ever draw Xisuma with his helmet off, because of that. To me, it feels like a violation of boundaries. To be perfectly clear though, that's just for me - more power to other artists who draw him without the helmet/armor! :)

By the time I was full-on fixated on Xisuma, I realized I was unsatisfied with this first pass at his design. Mainly, in regards to the helmet. So I did more work on it!

I feel like my re-design process for the helmet is a good example of the importance of using reference. :) I did a lot of unsatisfactory sketches before pulling up pictures of real helmets, at which point I feel like I settled on something I was happy with very quickly.

Specifically, I referenced motocross helmets! My choice of reference was mostly driven by my passing interest in sports equipment design, though motocross helmets are similarly bulky and have the same distinct mouthpiece as X's helmet, so I think it was a good choice. I also feel like the pixels at the top of Xisuma's skin can be pretty easily read as the brim of a helmet, so it works out!

Other than the motocross helmet influence, I also made the choice to add tubing to the sides and back of the helmet. This rolls with my headcanons about the purpose of the helmet, connecting to air tanks on his back! I also think it helps to distinguish him from the doomslayer, in addition to the new helmet shape.

The only other changes I made were to the helmet's palette, added a few additional grey tones for contrast, and the positioning of his scars. I decided I wanted them to be a little off-center, leaning towards his left eye. I'm pretty inconsistent with how I draw the scars though, lol, so it changed again by the next time I drew him.

At this point my design is mostly settled for him, and I don't expect it to change very significantly any time soon. I don't have much else to say about it, but I listed the other iterative changes I made to the design above! I figure I will continue making small tweaks to his design every time I draw him :)

That said... I have yet to answer your initial question! So I will answer it now:

"HOW DO YOU MAKE X SO FRIENDSHAPED?!"

My answer is that it's (almost) all in the eyes!!! I have already talked pretty extensively about Xisuma's eyes. So I won't dwell for too long! In short, human facial recognition is very closely tied to the eyes. The ability to see the eyes of a character clearly affords you a lot of flexibility when it comes to making a design seem approachable, or "friend-shaped." I painted over a screenshot of doomguy to illustrate my point!

My drawings tend towards being a little cutesy, of course, so that helps :) but you can see that the bright, saturated color, big distinct eyes, and less harsh expression all contribute to making him seem like he is less of a threat, despite this literally just being the doomslayer.

Another thing that helps is, again, related to the style I draw in. My art is very "clean" looking, not gritty. I use a lot of soft shape language and don't texture things too heavily. With Xisuma specifically, I also make no effort to make him seem intimidating. I use very neutral angles when drawing him, I don't frame him in a way that makes him seem intimidating or imposing, I don't pose him too confidently or angrily. Because he's not that kind of guy! Though it would be an interesting challenge to try and make him look as intimidating as possible :) I certainly think he could be quite scary, if he wanted to be. Just a matter of what I'm trying to convey.

... I think that's all I have to say for now! Once again, blown away by all the nice things people have to say about my Xisuma design and my art. Everyone here has been so kind and encouraging, and I really appreciate that. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to yell about Xisuma! If you have follow up questions, by all means, I am ready to answer :)

[mymainwastoocluttered]

Sudden Soulmates (Jamil)

Soulmarks are, obviously, directly connected to the soulmates' souls. Unfortunately, blot is too. Alternatively: the consequences of Overblot in relation to soulbonds

NOTE: I only write for female reader but everyone is welcome to read it!

Sudden Soulmates Masterlist

This one came to me as I was reading this Sudden Soulmates inspired fic by @amys-curious-wonderland . Go read it if you haven't!

⚠️ WARNING: ANGST with a happy ending, wild speculations about overblots and blot in general because Disney refuses to tell me anything this is not FNAF, Mickey

— (•́⁠ ⁠ ⁠‿⁠ ⁠,⁠•̀)

Jamil practically saw his mark form, watching as the forms twisted together and burned themselves on the canvas of his skin.

A circle with a head, a simplistic drawing of a snake. In the middle, a smiling waning moon. A snake around the moon. He has no idea what it means, but then again, this is a soulmark that decided to only appear almost two decades after he was born. Jamil isn't sure he's supposed to understand it.

Well, no matter. Life goes on.

Life goes on and Jamil turns his back to the whole soulmate thing. He avoids touching people he's not a hundred percent sure of their soulmark. Lucid dreams are spent walking away from where his guts wanted him to go. Actual dreams were forgotten as soon as he could, the empty space occupied with his duties. Any and all "soulmate calls", as some call the phenomenon, that he can avoid, he avoids.

He never, however, never once denied the soulmark.

No matter how troublesome he thinks getting entangled with a soulmate is, he can't bring himself to reject the soulbond.

Because it is his.

Jamil has long forgotten how it feels to have something that is only his. He has no idea when was the last time he was allowed to have something only his, something he didn't have to share or yield to Kalim.

This soulmark is all his.

So, as always, Jamil adds another complicated relationship to his little box, together with his complicated friendship with Kalim, and his complicated frustration with himself.

He knows he's being selfish, and that he should probably let the person leave their doomed romance, but Jamil had long forgotten what selfishness feels like, to the point he can't figure why it feels so exhilarating despite being a so called sin. So he clings to it, he clings to the little Fate has blessed him with in the hopes to balance the curse it bestowed upon his existence when he was born under the name Viper.

And maybe it's that selfishness that pushes him into trying to take over Scarabia and betray Kalim, like a vizier betraying his sultan.

Though he hesitates to blame his soulmate, for their only sin is to exist.

Their only mistake is to exist.

Her only mistake is allowing Fate to connect them.

The overblot is doing terrible things to him, all parts of him, and he can tell, but it feels so good. So euphoric. Like the world could be bent into a bow by a snap of his fingers, or maybe even by just one of his stray thoughts.

Jamil has craved feeling at the top of the world ever since his parents first hit him for surpassing Kalim.

It lasts no longer than a second, because the Ramshackle Housewarden suddenly yells in pain, clutching her side and falling to her knees, and Jamil doesn't need more to know the burn she feels is the same he feels. Another yell comes, but it gets interrupted by blot, the inky liquid running down the side of her mouth in mockery.

And then Kalim dares touch her, in his pure hearted goodness, and Jamil doesn't even see what he does, but he moves and he moves fast.

The three pesky Octavinelle mermen, Kalim and that annoying weasel monster are gone.

Left behind is the one most call "Prefect".

(Y/N).

Soulmate.

She flinches when he approaches, but does not shy away from his touch. No, in fact, she leans on his once warm skin, and clings to his clothes like a lifeline, only showing discomfort when another wave of pain comes from their soulmark.

He's hurting her.

His overblot is hurting her.

Jamil tries to let go, afraid the blot covering his arms will taint her, will torment her more, but she refuses to let go and he–

He is not a good enough liar to say he doesn't want to cling to her too.

"Jamil..."

"Shh..." Jamil picks her up effortlessly, and a tinge of worry colors his messy thoughts. She has not been eating well, no doubt a result of the Headmage's incompetency. "It's ok, you'll be ok."

He assures her in a soft voice, soft enough, he hopes, to convince him too. The blot entity hovers behind them, imposing and dangerous, and every step taken towards the lounge area, the more of his consciousness it steals. Almost as if trying to take over. Be the only one left.

Jamil sits down on the most comfortable seat in the lounge—he knows is the most comfortable because he arranged it himself—, placing the girl on his lap, taking in the feeling of completion having her near brings, a feeling he's been deprived for too long.

The inky beast hisses in displeasure, and suddenly there are many many voices tangled together and running wild inside Jamil's mind, bringing forth every instance of him giving up a piece of himself so Kalim could shine, whispering words of poison and chanting melodies of wrath and hate and hurt and suffering.

As if the beast is trying to remind him of his plans. Of his purpose. Of his fate. Of his parents. Of Kalim. Of his family. Of all his damned shackles that he did not make that he did not accept that he did not want that he did not have a choice of having that he wanted to destroy even at the cost of himself–

"Jamil."

He gasps, feeling gentle hands hold his face.

Right.

Jamil is not only his anymore. He is hers now too. He has always been hers. The only bond—not a shackle, never a shackle, not her not her—Fate has given him that he fully accepts.

"Past me must've been a much better man if he got you to fall for him," he jokes after a few deep breaths, trying to cling to the only hint of color in the blackness of blot. He almost laughs when she gives him an unimpressed glare, no doubt catching the dig at his current self.

"I, myself, quite like the you of now," (Y/N) answers, thumbs caressing his cheeks and grounding him to the moment. "I can't take my eyes away from the great man you're becoming."

Jamil has no idea when was the last time he cried, but he does not deny the tears that blurry his vision. They burn his blot cold skin, only stopping at the warmth of her hands, hands that lovingly wipe them.

The blot entity hisses again, but this time Jamil meets it with a hiss of his own. Now with a clearer mind, he can see what it really is: the weakness of his timorous heart. The part of himself he turned a blind eye in fear of what he'd see. The part of himself that is his, but not him.

The part of himself he does not want to be.

"Begone! This stops here!" Jamil roars, baring his teeth at the beast of his own creation. "Disperse the blot and return to me!"

The entity roars back, the pain excruciating. However, the most painful is the knowledge that his is not the only tortured scream that fills the lounge. The hands clutching his clothes shake, knuckles white, and he can feel a wet spot forming on his chest.

"It hurts you too..." he murmurs, horrified.

"Keep going," is her response, mumbled against his lips as she brings his face to hers with still shaky hands. "I can take it if it's for you, my Jamil."

Independent of who he was in the past, and of who is was in his past, the Jamil of now is hers, and the Jamil of the future will be hers, and he wants to be the man she sees in him.

So first, he needs to stop this overblot. Then he'll nap with his soulmate for an entire day, duties be damned.

The ones he banned to the ends of the pocket dimension find the couple talking quietly in the lounge, no blot entity nor inky mess to be seen. Jamil glowers at the mermen's faces, particularly Azul's, and then sighs tiredly when Kalim asks for an explanation.

"I'll tell you if you promise me you won't throw a party to celebrate, if I have to cook yet another grand meal right now, I'll overblot again."

He won't, of course, but the giggle he gets from his lover is enough reward for his remarks.

[genericpuff]

Rachel "Retcon" Smythe Strikes Again!

Okay, so I've been seeing pictures of Volume 4 of Lore Olympus floating around, and people are ALREADY FINDING RETCONS.

Most notably so far, some added panels in the Hades and Apollo confrontation that happens outside Artemis' house (when Persephone steals Apollo's lyre) in Episode 81.

This is the original scene, for anyone who needs a refresher:

Aaaand here are the panels that were added.

(all pictures of Volume 4 are courtesy @iwannagutyou on IG!!! thank you for giving me permission to use these! <3)

First of all, the art. It's so noticeably bad. You can tell Rachel has completely lost her ability to draw these characters in the S1 style, I'm fairly certain she took the panel of Hades from the old version and just copy pasted it to try and get around it (look at the posing) but it's incredibly obvious looking at that third panel that LO is not and can never be what it was back in 2017-2019. Those first two panels seem like they were copy pasted from the previous ones, which is just sad if those are the lengths she has to go to to come even close to replicating the older style.

Now, this just might be due to camera translation, it could very well look better IRL, but the colors just look so incredibly desaturated and the lines blurred out, to the point that people are doing double takes over whether or not panels have been directly changed - they haven't been, they've just been so sucked dry of their colors that they look off enough to cast suspicion.

If anything it's a harsh reminder that LO has kinda always had art problems, especially with its lazy humor and stupid meme faces.

Of course, to be fair, color loss can happen in print, but seeing how slapped together these books tend to be, I wouldn't be surprised if they just didn't put in the effort to convert the page art to CMYK or at least tinker with the saturation in editing some more to ensure it would come out more vibrant in print.

Now. Excuse me while I go on a bit of a crackpot rant here. Newbie puff pals beware, because this is gonna get dicey and you're about to learn where my tinfoil-hat rep comes from but I just have to talk about it.

Back to the added Apollo panels, where Persephone asks Hades not to hurt him and he looks nervous before she says "I just want him to leave".

Maybe it's just me, but it's a little weird that THESE are the panels they decided they needed to add. It's weird that she's asking Hades not to hurt Apollo when she's about to break into his car and steal his lyre just a few moments later. It's weird that the implication seems to be that she's referring to Hades' act of violence towards Tori... but Persephone doesn't know that's happened yet. So this feels like an unnecessary retcon that's doing more harm than good.

But I feel like the timing of this is kinda messed up as well, as this book released just days after the release of the last FP episode in which Apollo has his 'side' of the assault story told through his perspective, which is often considered a HUGE no-no in writing assault stories because it often comes with the implication that it's asking for empathy from the audience. We already know Apollo is delusional, we already know he thinks him and Persephone are meant to be despite her constant rejection of him, we didn't need a flashback from his own warped perspective explaining that very thing, the only purpose to do such a thing this late in the game would be to try and get the audience to 'connect' with him (it's giving S3 Bryce from 13 Reasons Why vibes). Now we have this scene of Persephone asking Hades not to hurt him (despite the structure of the episode being literally fine before, this change wasn't needed) getting snuck into the physical book release just a couple days after the newest FP tried to present Apollo in an empathetic light (and let me tell you, that's a whole essay and a half that I'll be getting into eventually).

Shit, if I wanted to get REAL Pepe Sylvia with it, I might say that hypothetically, the whole point of the random Leuce abuse episode - despite Persephone having no way of knowing what she attempted as Hades hadn't told her and she wasn't there to see it and we weren't shown her overhearing them in any way - and the following episode that was mostly padding of Hades and Persephone having sex - no consequences or follow-up whatsoever to the Leuce scene - was just to pad out the episode release schedule and buy time until the book came out so that Rachel could release that Apollo POV episode right before the book came out and revealed those new added scenes of Persephone asking Hades not to hurt Apollo, in what could be a sly artificial attempt at minimizing the SA plot so Rachel can finally just brush aside the one major plot point she regretted writing the most. After all, it wouldn't be the first time Rachel's controlled the pace of her comic to release certain moments at certain times that line up with IRL events.

But, y'know. I'm gonna quit on that thought while I'm ahead because it's probably making my credibility meter drop into the red. My ADHD has been real bad lately and it's really starting to show LMAO All ima say is that IDK who Rachel thinks she's fooling here, this kind of shit is stupid easy to fact check when the digital version of the comic is available online to read.

To end on a much funnier and lighter note, remember how Rachel tried to retcon the Demeter/Hera/Hestia relationship by changing the line "I miss my sisters" to "I miss my friends"? Well, there was one panel that had been missed in the webtoons version that still refers to them as sisters. You can still find this unedited line in Episode 78.

And uh. They forgot to fix it again for the book.

It's permanent now. That's permanent marker. It would have cost them nothing to find this in the webtoon version and fix it before it got sent to the book editors. Now it's gonna cost them thousands because the book editors didn't bother (or know) to check.

There's also this... weird shit going on with the speech bubbles. Like, they're REALLY FUCKING OVERDOING IT with the speech bubble outlines. I don't know who made this choice but it was a bad one. Gross. Don't do that. It looks so cheap.

But let's be real, at this point I feel like the book editors are just outright sabotaging Rachel because who the fuck calls themselves a professional when they do this shit-

Oh, and there's no bonus episode, just sketches. Which is fine. But it makes me chuckle to think that Rachel just didn't have time in her already razor-thin buffer to draw up a new episode to pass off as "cut content".

[phoebepheebsphibs]

Hide & Seek references compendium

I put so many little easter eggs and hidden things in my Hide and Seek fic, so here is my little ongoing list of references I purposefully put in the fic for those of you who like this kind of thing idk man

Chapter 1, Disney's Hercules: "Hey, Mack! Ya wanna buy a sundial?" Disney's Jungle Cruise: “Trader Sam’s! Come shop at Trader Sam’s! He’ll give you a great deal on shrunken heads! Two of his heads for one of yours!” the Holmes Hotel, Hugh's Pies is a reference to Nickelodeon's Jimmy Neutron series, Lilo's Stitches and Embroidery is a nod to Disney's Lilo and Stitch, "Crusty the Crab" is a nod to Spongebob Squarepants, Chell's Portal Stop is a reference to the game series Portal, and the final scene is from the ROTTMNT episode "Hidden City's Most Wanted".

Though this is not technically a reference or Easter egg, I wanted to add this note… I made a point of referring to Splinter as Lou Jitsu when he was mad or angry or selfish, and as Hamato Yoshi when he was scared or sad.

Chapter 2, Leo's determination to have Raph call him "the world's greatest ninja" is a reference to the film, Leo's quote "Land safely!" is taken from the episode "Mystic Mayhem" as well as the episode "The Evil League of Mutants", Leo's complaining to be leader is a nod to his future role, Raph referring to his father as a "sewer monster" is a reference to the episode "Man vs. Sewer", Splinter has a flashback from the episode "Goyles, Goyles, Goyles" and the line "OW! Why, you little--!" is also taken from that same episode.

Chapter 3, Mikey's dream is obviously a nod to all that he will do in the future.

Chapter 4, The origin of Lace Face from the episode "Man vs. Sewer".

Chapter 5, Phineas and Ferb "Escape from Phineas Tower": "That's some mole!" The line "Raph! Your enormous body is crushing me!!” is a reference to Disney's Lilo and Stitch, "sweater town" is a reference to the Gravity Falls episode "The Hand that Rocks the Mabel", the line "I didn't want to believe it, but... *sigh* science." is taken directly from the ROTTMNT film as well as a moment when Leo mentions that Donnie was wrong, Donnie uses two really's, a reference from the episode "Breaking Purple", Donnie gives Leo the comic seen in the episode "Jupiter Jim Ahoy!"

Chapter 6, Splinter's tv flips through several channels which include clips from media. These include a Thomas Sanders vine with "Weatherman Al", the quote "My leg!" from Spongebob Squarepants, part of the Fairly Odd Parents' theme song, Mrs. Cuddles' catchphrase "Let's be friends forever!", "I've got bad feeling about this" is a quote from Star Wars, the fake show about "Goosey" is an easter egg to @gooeseyleo and her Gooseyleo series. When Leo goes onstage, he does "a few improvised dance moves", which is a nod to Ben Schwartz and some dance moves he did in the Netflix improv comedy special "Middleditch and Schwartz”. The Lou Jitsu play the boys perform is a parody of the Godzilla franchise and the Pacific Rim films. Donnie's line "I strive for accuracy" is a reference to @sleepis4theweak 's comic (which I think about every gosh darn day), Horsebot-3000 and Splinter's line "I liked Horsebot-3000" are references to the show Community, season 3 episode 7: "Studies in Modern Movement".

Chapter 7, in the illustration Leo and Donnie are wearing Transformer and Decepticon t-shirts, respectively, and in the background you can see spray paint that spells out "Atomic Lass", as well as a drawing of the turtles' weapons.

Chapter 8, a young BEBOP AND ROCKSTEADY make an appearance, as does a very young Harvey Hokum from the ROTTMNT comics. When Bebop tries to sell Leo, he calls him “Shelly”, a reference to my pet turtle of the same name. In the illustration you can see a goldfish on the shelf, which is meant to be Piebald.

Chapter 9, How It's Made, APRIL O'NEIIIIILLLL, Harvey Hokum, Warren Stone and Kendra are referenced, "Operation Blue Suede Shoes" contains the title of a song, a reference to how in the show there are several similar code-names used for the characters ("Purple Rain" for Donnie, "Yellow Submarine" for April, etc.) Leo says that Mikey has empathy amplified, a reference to the fanfiction of the same name written by @filsa-mek on AO3.

Chapter 10, the boys watch "Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit". Leo promises to never leave Raphael alone and to always find him. Raph offers several scenarios that actually happen in the future where Leo searches for Raph - sewer monsters (a reference to the episode Man Vs. Sewer), getting captured by bad guys (the episode Bug Busters), and aliens attacking (the events of the film). The chapter as a whole is also based off of a few sketches I made - one of which shows the boys watching the film with Splinter, and one where Raph has a bad dream and wakes up to seeing he hurt Leo, who offers to help and gets the bros together for a turtle pile.

Chapter 11, the episode is heavily inspired by an episode of the audio drama series Adventures in Odyssey, specifically the episode "Mandy's Debut". The line "Wow, the shortcake of death" is a reference taken from said same episode! During Leo's flashback, a reference to the meme "She knocked that smug look off my face, but fourtunately I had a smaller smug look underneath" when Leo takes off his sunglasses to reveal a cooler pair of sunglasses underneath. Leo and Raph make a note to the fact that Leo is not the eldest in this universe.

Chapter 12, Raph, Leo, and Mikey teach April a game they play in the episode "Late Fee". When using sign language, Donnie tells Leo to "Stop yelling at me", which is inspired by a moment in Spy Kids 4. April introduces Raph to Ghostbear's starting career. Mikey repeats a line from the episode "Bug Busters", which is "Remind me not to ask questions anymore." Mikey uses the phrase "hydrate or die-drate", which is taken from a meme but is also something I say constantly as well. When in the Hidden City, Splinter hears people calling out to customers, one uses the lyrics to the Fairly Odd Parents' theme song, another is selling Mary Poppins' umbrella, a third is selling the three mystery journals from Gravity Falls, the fourth is selling Cinderella's glass slippers, and the last one is selling the Stanley Parable bucket of reassurance. Ochimizu is a Japanese mythical elixir of eternal life. The introduction and origins of Loathsome Leonard and the Mud Dogs. Malicious Mickey uses the "creepy doctor" line from "Stuck on You".

Chapter 13, Donnie delirium is directly based off of my own experiences with delirium, as well as his and Leo's conversation about whether or not Leo would miss him when he dies (which was an actual conversation I had with my mother when I was sick with croup as a little girl). The second half of that conversation was adapted from a scrapped fic called "The Kids Are All Dying". Donnie references the song "Big Yellow Taxi". The seven-tailed fox comes from Japanese folklore, but specifically this one was a reference to Naruto! Mikey sings the first line of the "Wonderfilled" song by Owl City. The secret ingredient being a discontinued soda was inspired by the ending of the musical "Be More Chill". The toad yokai becomes Heinous Green.

Short story, in the illustration you can see several signatures and sketches on Leo's cast, such as Raph signing "Mad Dawgs" and Mikey drawing his stickers. On the wall behind Leo is an eye exam that has the words "RISE" and "PHOEBE" on it. There's also a computer monitor in the back with Leo's vitals on it, as well as a notification about the trackers, and a list of all Hamatos Donnie tagged.

I will update more when I post new chapters... ;)

[the-astropaws]

❔️ Since some posts are circling around again for mogai/coin blogs not being accessible. Let's add in a perspective from one of the disabled person directly affected by this. While also calling attention to editing blogs, many also fall into mogai side blogs. Feel free to reblog, add on, or ask questions that aren't answered here.

What is inaccessible? Well. Fonts first and foremost. With or without plain text as well. Adding that does not stop the font itself from crashing our screen reader and us having to click away from the post anyway. We can't handle the noises it makes, we can't handle that it stops mid way and we can't click on the plain text specifically. Some screen readers can but ours can't. We have to read the whole post out. So please stop using fonts. Even people who dont need a screen reader can't read many of the fonts.

Symbols. There's a huge issue already in the coining and editing community of using symbols that are part of languages but that can be for a different post. This is about the amount. Some symbols break screen readers no matter how much or little it's used. To help make it easier for screen readers and other issues like reading/processing issues. Less is better. You can stop using symbols all together or limit the amount. Don't fill the post with faces and symbols as it's difficult to process. Even with plain text it can be hard to manage if the other parts are flooded with them when scrolling to the plain text.

Coloured text. This is also a huge issue for many disabled people. Is it cute? Sometimes! Can small amounts draw attention to the important part? Like a link or the name? It can. But in moderation. Do not fill your post with a bunch of different colours. It can hurt someone's eyes if the colours are neon or super bright, (there's custom colours we've seen be coded in), it can also make half the post blind in a way to some. Us for example, if every other word is a colour we will not be able to read it. We'll focus only on the white parts. Adding plain text is amazing for this but still remember to be aware of the colours and use before the plain help. As sometimes we can't look at it long enough to find the bottom.

Typing quirks. These are very difficult for screen readers, dyslexia, and other issues some disabled people have. An example being replacing s with z. Like "zhe iz zo cute" (she is so cute). Our screen reader reads that as "z h e i z z o". Now.. you can see why that's so hard to understand. It reads the letters out. This is just an example of the easy tq's. Imagine the ones using symbols, fonts, and a ton of letter changes. It's impossible to read. We have some typing quirks. We understand liking a typing quirk but we will always stop using them for others. The bare minimum is to please translate them no matter the type. Add a plain text. And stop using ones full of fonts.

Possible questions or statements about this post.

"But my blog looks pretty with these :("

Great! But why should a pretty look matter more than disabled people being excluded from your blog?

"I'm disabled and don't struggle this much with the blogs"

That's amazing to hear you aren't as limited. But never act like all disabled people work the same. There's different types and needs. It's unfair to assume otherwise.

"I didn't know these were an issue. Am I abliest?"

If you didn't know, then that's okay. Education and asking disabled people how to help is an amazing step. You are only abliest if you learn this and purposely ignore it, or think your blog matters more and continue to do these things.

"What are screen readers?"

They are a disability aid. They read out a message, post or page. They also read out peoples names, usernames and status's on apps like discord, twitter etc. It's used for those who have vision issues/loss, have dyslexia, have light sensitivity issues, or have other reading or processing issues. Some people even use them if they have chronic headaches or pain that makes staring at a screen for long times hard.

"What if I have a disability that causes my spelling or words to be hard to understand? Or what if English isn't my first language"

You aren't abliest for either of those. We understand some people have those influences that can make posts hard to understand. If that's the case we can ask for help understanding from someone else / someone can translate it for us. There's a lot of easy ways to work around multiple disability needs. There's blogs dedicated to going around and adding translations, ids, plain text etc to others posts. They love to help and be tagged in things normally!

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

if dorian didn't show up, do you think louis would have shot minnie?

I do. I know some people think either he wouldn't have or he would've missed so that's why the writers had him shoot Dorian instead, but mmmmmm no, I don't personally think so. I like to think that if he had taken the shot, his shaky hands would've caused him to shoot her fatally.

Mostly because I'm already so normal about the fact that of the Ericson crew, Marlon and Louis are the only ones with a body count. Well, that we know of, but shown to us in the game, at least. Plus, we know it's Louis' first kill.

Like yeah, Clementine and AJ become part of the crew and they have bigger body counts, and if we're counting indirect kills caused by actions, then Tenn has a count... and I guess everyone has blood on their hands for blowing up the boat... but I'm talking about killed directly with a weapon like....... I lied, I'm not normal about that at all, Louis and Marlon are the ones who have killed someone in Louis' route. I'm also not normal about the fact that Louis kills Dorian and then even as he's clearly in shock, he tries to go with Clementine to get AJ, and then later on when they talk about it, he says it feels like bile but not quite and he's glad he has it in him to do it.... listen, listen, listen... I'm obsessed with that.

Anyway, so if Louis shot Minerva, I think he would've accidentally killed her and can you imagine? He's already enough of a mess after killing the woman who pinned him down and tried to cut his finger off [or succeeded] but he knew Minerva, they were friends before the twins were taken. Even Violet couldn't kill her even though that would've been the smarter thing to do, and we know thanks to meta knowledge that killing her would've saved lives, but Violet couldn't, and I don't think Louis would intentionally either.

Speaking of Violet, if Louis killed Minerva, I hate to think about what that would've done to Vi. I think she might've actually left at that point, like what was planned before it got changed to her being burned. I don't think she would've attacked Louis over it, though, like yeah she attacked Clementine in the cell but Louis? I don't know, but I don't think so just because it's Louis and he'd be a mess about it anyway.

Though if he did kill her, it would be a neat parallel to draw... y'know, because Louis forgave AJ for killing Marlon even though he was pissed and heartbroken, and Violet was annoyed with him the entire time... but could she ever forgive Louis for killing Minerva? Y'know? We already have a similar parallel with AJ shooting Tenn, but still.

If Clementine killed Minerva in that moment, though, then I could see Violet attacking her since in her eyes, Clem proved her right.

So yeah, I get why they added the Dorian kill to his route. It adds another compelling element to Louis as a character, but we also need Minerva alive for episode 4; Louis can't kill her, he can't miss, and he's not going to stay with her because we need Violet to stay on the boat and him to be on shore for all routes.

[jazzycurls]

Meant to be

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

Summary: It's a surprise 😉🤫

Warnings/Tags: Dark, Noncon, dubcon, mentions of suicide, arguing/raised voices, curse words, smut, (let me know if I missed something)

Recommended: Listen to The Weekend- Call out my name. Had it on repeat while I proofread this lol. Tumblr wouldn't let me add it to the post for some reason 😒

An: Hi you guys! I'm new to writing of any kind. All feedback is welcome, be gentle please haha. Please do not steal or copy my work. Don’t repost without credit. This is my written work, everything besides the characters and plot points by the original writers, belongs to me. Also this is a dark theme, please read the warnings. If this isn't your cup of tea, please don't read.

Word Count: 6,856

You're the queen of Hawkins High, there isn't anything you can't get or take if need be. With just a flutter of your lashes or a pout on your full lips and it's yours. It also didn't hurt that your father was the mayor of this town. The captain of the cheerleading squad, simply put, you run this school and everyone in it, well almost everyone that is. There was one, however, who refused to respect the rules of the social hierarchy.

You sighed as you looked in the bathroom mirror, you were flanked by a group of girls as you reapplied your lipstick.

"Are you going to the party this weekend?" Your friend Jessica asks you as she stares at her reflection in the mirror beside you.

"Nope," you reply with a pop of your lips. You cap the top of your pink lipgloss before tossing it into your bag.

Your response catches her attention, she turns to you with a hand on her slim extended hip. "Why not," she questions, one brow raised in confusion.

Annoyance flares within you at her questioning you. If it was anyone else you would've reduced them to a puddle of tears for the offense, but this wasn't just anyone, it was your closest friend. Not enough to be called a best friend but enough that you preferred her the others.

"I already have plans," you shrug, not feeling the need to explain any further. You turn and walk out of the bathroom, a small path clears through the group of girls surrounding you.

A frown forms on her face as she follows behind you but before she can ask you another question, the bell rings signaling the tardy bell. "See ya later hun, I gotta test in History today," you give air smooches before turning to the rest of the girls.

"Bye girls, I'll see you at lunch," you give them a small wave and a smile before heading to class. When you walk into your class it's five minutes past the bell.

"Sorry I'm late Mr. Breedlove, I was having a quick meeting with the cheer squad," you lie giving him a dainty smile. He doesn't say anything, only giving you a quick smile before asking you to take a seat.

Multiple people greeted you as you walked to your assigned seat.

"Hey y/n, I like that skirt," Lindsay Melton said with a wave.

"Thanks," you said giving a small twirl before taking your seat. You place your powder blue bag onto your desk, taking out your notebook and pink pom pom pen.

Soon after Eddie Munson strolls into the classroom after you've taken a seat. "Mr. Munson, it would be in your best interest to make it to class on time, you can't afford to do otherwise," he reprimanded.

Eddie stood at attention, giving him a salute "Yes sir," he replied with a sardonic grin. He walks over to his seat and sits down with a flop, which was directly in front of yours.

Eddie Munson was the bane of your existence. He made your life a living hell without even knowing it. It wasn't from him being mean or cruel to you, Munson didn't have it in him to be mean to a woman. He saved all of that for the men who made the mistake of taunting or teasing him but it was clear that he didn't like you. Plus the fact that you were in love with him made it so much worse.

Eddie was someone who didn't blend in easily, always drawing attention wherever he went, including yours. You hated when people bullied him, it wasn't something that you agreed with, contrary to what most people believed. Most assumed that you were a bully, but you never messed with anyone who didn't have it coming.

It also didn't help that you had every class with him. Which forced you to see him constantly every day. You pretended to take notes as you marveled at the curls that draped across his shoulders. Most men kept their hair in short vanilla looking styles. He was one of the few who went outside of the norm.

You didn't know what you liked more, when his hair was loose or when he had it in a bun at the nape of his neck. He had approximately seven beauty marks scattered across the back of his neck. You knew because you had counted them on more than one occasion.

You're not sure when you fell for Eddie, it may have been on your first day of high school. You were a lost little freshman and couldn't find any of your classes. He had escorted you to all of them, making himself late in the process.

It could've been in elementary when your parents were late as usual picking you up. You sat on the steps of the school alone as you waited for a ride. You were used to being alone so that didn't bother you.

Eddie Munson had walked out of the double doors of the school and had taken a seat beside you. He had a buzz cut at the time and wasn't nearly as tall as he is now but you still thought that he was cute and a nicer than most. You knew he was a walker so he had no reason to sit and wait with you.

When your mom had finally shown up, as you were getting in the car, you noticed him walking in the other direction. Those acts of kindness endeared you to him and you had never forgotten, keeping them tucked away safe in your memories.

The problem now was that you were popular and had been for a while, and it was a known fact that Eddie hated popular kids. So you had settled for admiring him from afar. Your eyes never strayed too far from him whenever he was near.

You had a plan though, a grand scheme to help you finally get what you wanted the most. You were going to confess to Eddie, tell him how you felt about him. There was a chance that your popularity could dip but it wasn't anything that a little damage control couldn't solve.

It was a known fact that Eddie stayed in the woods by the benches after school. If anyone wanted to score, all they had to do was go to that area. If anyone saw you, you could just say that you were buying from him.

A little smile formed on your face as you doodled hearts onto your notebook. All would be as it should be in due time. With a shake of your head, you looked towards your teacher and began to take notes.

♡♡♡♡

You were just getting out of cheer practice and were headed to the woods behind the school. After making a pit stop at the bathroom you were on your way. It had taken almost five minutes along with your iciest glare in order to convince your friends that you didn't want to hang out after school.

A gust of air blew around you as you headed into the dense woods. Fall was in the air, the leaves were molten-red, crunching under your sneakers with every step. After a few minutes, you made it to the small clearing where the picnic table was situated. Your breath caught as you saw Eddie.

He had yet to notice you as you stood off to the side and watched him. He looked so beautiful in the late evening sunlight. His head was tilted back as he blew a puff of smoke into the air, while his fingers tapped a beat against the wooden table.

You cleared your throat as you stepped closer. The spell was broken and Eddie instantly became guarded, the moment of peace was gone with the announcement of your presence.

"Hi," you whispered shyly, your heartbeat had increased significantly. You step over into his line of sight and move closer to him.

"S'up— what you looking for," he says in a monotone voice. He reaches behind him and grabs his metal lunchbox, sits it on his lap, and opens it.

"I— I'm not," you stammer over your words as your nerves continue to build. Your usual confidence has vanished as you approach Eddie. The speech you had prepared in your mind disappeared when he first spoke to you.

He looks at you with a raised brow, patiently waiting for you to finish.

You take a deep breath trying to steady your breathing "I'm not looking to score," you rush out.

His shoulders are tense as he looks around nervously. "What do you want then," he says coldly.

Tell him your mind screams as you just stand there. You focus on his big expressive eyes, so full of emotion, it's easy to know exactly how he is feeling. It's one of the things you love most about him. In the world you are from, no one ever shows their feelings, unless it's premeditated.

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. Confusion is etched across his face as you begin again "I fell—," you stammered.

You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. "You got this," you tell yourself silently.

"I fell in love with you the day that I met you," you smile to yourself as you remember that day.

"Whenever I would feel lonely or scared, just thinking about you calmed me down and gave me comfort." You open your eyes to look into his "I want to be with you and I don't care who knows it." you say sincerely.

You smooth down your skirt as you gauge his reaction. His mouth hangs open in shock and his eyebrows have skyrocketed up to his hairline. Moments tick by as you wait for him to respond. You edge closer to him as you wait.

He chuckles in disbelief, which turns into a fit of giggles. "Not gonna lie you had me going there for a minute," he lets out as he attempts to contain his laughter. "Kay jokes over princess," he snarks sarcastically.

"I got better shit to do than to be the source of entertainment for you and your minions." His tone is harsh and full of bite as he glares at you with contempt.

Your heart had dropped when he had first begun to laugh. The thought that he was laughing at you had caused your heart to crack.  But it was okay! He only thought that you were playing some sick joke on him.

"Of course he does," you thought to yourself sighing in relief. You lifted your eyes to him, holding his gaze. "This is no game, Eddie. I love you, with all of my being," you assert.

He looks at you his eyes are wide, finally taking you seriously. "Wow," he says as he looks away scratching at the back of his head. "Jesus Christ, you're really serious aren't you?"

You nod as you move again toward him, finally standing directly in front of him. Your knees are inches away from his, all it takes is one more step and you would be right in between his legs.

He clears his throat nervously, his Adams apples bobbing up and down in his neck. "His neck is so long and thick," you think absentmindedly. "Focus," you scold yourself as you once again get lost in your thoughts.

"Um, I'm flattered, I really am. I mean, shit, who wouldn't want the queen of Hawkins as their girlfriend," he says nervously, avoiding your eyes.

"But," you say when he takes too long to continue.

"I like someone else," he explains with sympathy in his eyes. "You're a great girl and all but you're not my type," he adds.

Your heart begins to crack again. "Not your type," you say incredulously.

"Yeah you know, popular," he tells you as he waves his hand.

You stare at him in shock, this was not supposed to happen. He was supposed to accept you, to realize that he loved you too. You were supposed to be safe, wrapped up in his arms in a loving embrace by now.

"I can be whatever you want me to be," you state weakly. You know you sound pathetic but your desperation has kicked in, leaving you grasping for straws.

"I'm sorry darling, that's not how it works," he says with finality.

You stand motionless, your brain screams at you to do something. ''Show him how much he means to you,'' you think.

You step closer to him and straddle his lap unexpectedly. "I know this can work, just give us a chance" you murmur as you force a kiss onto his lips.

He breaks the kiss instantly as he pushes you off of him causing you to fall back onto the ground. Tears spring forward at the embarrassment, shame, and heartache you feel.

"Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," he says as he reaches a hand out to you. Pity is etched into his features.

You take his hand, relishing in the feel of his hand in yours before he pulled away. You dust off your skirt as you turn away, trying to hide the tears falling down your face. "Sorry for wasting your time," you whimper as you walk away hurriedly.

You don't look back, no matter how much your heart begs you to. By the time you clear the forest, you're composed, face clear of any remnants of tears. As you get in your car, you look in the mirror, finding your eyes void of any emotion.

Cranking up your car, you start the trek home, not a single thought on your mind.

♡♡♡♡

You're in your bedroom sitting at your vanity. You haven't moved from this spot since you arrived, which had been over an hour ago. When you had gotten home, the house was empty as usual.

Your parents were away on another one of there countless business meetings. When you were little you would always pretend that your parents were spys and that they were fighting their way back home to get back to you. That was a long time ago, back when you still held hope that your parents loved you.

Once again you were alone. The house phone had been ringing off the hook, more than likely it was your friends calling to talk to you about mundane bullshit.

Even though you had plenty of friends you still felt alone. No one ever checked on your well-being or ever asked if you were okay. Not even your so-called best friend.

"Finally," you had thought. You had thought that finally, you would have someone who would care for you and love you unconditionally.

Love— you couldn't remember anyone ever telling you they loved you. A humorless laugh escaped you as you stared in the mirror. Your eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from crying. ''Fuck this,'' you thought bitterly.

Who does he think he is turning you of all people down? He should've been thanking God the moment you told him. You grabbed the whiskey bottle and turned it up angrily. Your dad's liquor cabinet in his office was never locked and was always easy to access.

Usually, you never touched the stuff but today would be an exception. You also had raided your mom's bathroom cabinet. She had a variety of pills to choose from, so you just chose the bottle with the highest dose.

Between the liquor and the pills, you were feeling pretty good. You felt numb and disassociated from it all. Nothing mattered to you at this point, not even yourself. It was at that moment that you had an epiphany. You knew exactly what you needed to do, you just hoped you had the guts to see it through.

♡♡♡♡

Eddie sat in his room, staring up at his ceiling. Usually, he would be practicing a new song with his guitar or writing material for a new DND campaign. He didn't feel like doing anything at the moment.

He felt horrible about the way he had treated y/n. He hadn't intended to come off so cruel but a love confession was the last thing he had expected from someone like you.

It was true that you weren't his type but that didn't mean he wasn't attracted to you. Any man worth his salt would be, he just wanted someone with a little more substance.

Plus the fact he hated your kind. Rich, popular, good grades, and loved by all. You had everything, while he had nothing. He would be damned if he would be added to the list of things that you wanted and eventually got.

But with all of that said, it couldn't stop the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach. Had he made a mistake? Maybe he should've given you a chance to explain yourself.

He had liked the person you were before you got popular. You were a shy and nervous little thing, alway smiling even though it never seemed to reach your eyes.

He sat up, rubbed the back of his head deep in thought. There was no sense in worrying about it now, what's done is done. Plus he was starting to get a headache from the constant thinking.

As he headed towards the kitchen, the ringing of the phone caught his attention. "Munson residence," he answered with a southern drawl.

Sniffles and whimpering could be heard through the phone "hello, who is this?" he said instantly worriedly.

"Is this Eddie?" a female's small voice replied on the other line.

"Yeah it is, is everything okay, is this y/n?" Eddie recognized your voice instantly.

"No, it's not. I thought that I could do this, I can't pretend anymore," you murmured.

"You can't do what anymore? What's going on y/n, talk to me please!" Chills began to run down his back as understanding started to dawn on him. He felt physically ill.

"I really did love you, ya know? I know it's hard to believe but I really did even though I tried not to. I tried so hard not to," You continued to ramble on incoherently not responding to him, only talking at him

"Y/N, what's your address huh? I'm coming now," he said. He slipped on his shoes and jacket, turning around quickly he jotted down your address before hanging up the phone and rushing out the door.

He hoped that it wasn't too late by the time he made it, he wouldn't be able to live with himself if something happened to you because of him.

♡♡♡♡

The first thing he noticed as he screeched into your neighborhood was how pristine it was. The hedges and lawns were immaculate and all the homes were at least two stories. "Of course," he thought bitterly

He turned into your driveway right beside your car, it seemed that no one else was home besides you. He hurried out of his car, running up the steps, and banged loudly on the front door. He peered into the windows noting that all the lights were off except for a bedroom upstairs.

After a moment had passed he cautiously opened the door and stepped inside. "Y/N, it's Eddie," he called out loudly. No one stirred within the home. He walked through the dark halls towards the only source of light upstairs.

Decorative paintings lined the wall and pieces of art sat perfectly atop expensive furniture. A shiver ran down his back, even though the house was beautiful, it felt cold and unwelcoming.

As he reached the top of the stairs he saw a light coming from under the door at the end of the hall. Seriously, he hoped you were okay but he was scared out of his fucking mind right now. He loved horror movies as much as the next guy but this was too damn much.

"Y/N," he yelled again softly as he walked up to the door. Your lack of response was adding to the feeling of terror right now.

He pushed the door open slightly, sticking his head partially through the door. It seemed to be your room as he noted Ji the light blue decor but you weren't in it. As he turned to the left, he noticed you standing behind the door holding a vase above your head.

"Hi Eddie," you whispered, your eyes looked dull and unbalanced. Your face was the last thing he saw before everything faded to black.

♡♡♡♡

You huffed out of breath as you finally managed to get Eddie's body onto your bed. Honestly, it was the hardest fucking thing you've ever had to do but years of cheer practice and exercise helped a lot.

You had tied him to your bed with some rope you'd gotten from the garage. Thanks to girl scouts, the knot you tied him in, he wouldnt be going anywhere.

As you sat on the bed beside him, you took this moment to admire him up close. His lashes fluttered softly over his pale skin, you noticed that he had tiny light freckles scattered across his nose.

Your hands ruffled through his soft curls. They were slightly frizzy but still curly and defined nonetheless. You moved from his hair to caress the side of his face. He stirred a little and you held your breath.

You didn't want him to wake up just yet. He looked so peaceful right now and you knew that as soon as he woke up, all hell would break loose. You leaned forward and laid a light kiss on his plush lips.

Your first kiss you thought dreamily. Contrary to what everyone believed, you were a virgin. Never had been kissed until now.

You always knew that you wanted Eddie to be your first. Your first love, first kiss, and your first time, albeit wasn't supposed to happen this way but destiny had a way of working itself out.

Eddie began to toss and turn, mumbling as he came to. You stood up, moving from the bed and waited patiently for him to wake. You wanted this to go as smoothly as possible, it had to.

He opened his eyes slowly in confusion. At first, he thought he was still at home in his bed and had dozed off. As he tried to move his arms he discovered that they were tied to a bed, by his sides. There was only enough slack so he could raise them to hover above his hips.

Fear seized his chest, panic began to brew in his stomach as he realized the severity of his situation. "Help!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "Somebody, help me!"

A movement in the corner caught his attention, and that's when he saw you. "Oh my God Y/N, you gotta help me, please!" he cried out twisting towards you.

You stood there perplexed, it seemed that his mind had forgotten the events leading up to you knocking him out. "I can't do that Eddie," you stated softly. You walked over to your queen-sized bed, resting your hand on his knee.

He jerked away from you "why the fuck not!" he spat angrily.

You remained quiet, staring at him expectantly.

Suddenly, it dawned on him. You weren't going to let him go because you had done this. You had lured him here! The last thing he could remember was seeing your face before getting hit with something hard.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck! Let me go you crazy bitch!" his voice raised several octaves in irate fear. His head unexpectedly snapped to the left, his cheek felt like it was on fire.

"Don't call me that, ever," she said, her voice low and laced with threat. Instantly her demeanor changed and her face was replaced with a sweet, concerned look. Her manicured hand stroked your cheek softly as she cooed.

"I'm sorry baby, I didn't mean to do that," she whispered. What was worse was that when you looked into her eyes, you actually believed her.

"What do you want from me?" You lifted your chin defiantly. She may have had you at a disadvantage but you refused to lose hope.

"It's simple baby— I want you, Eddie. That's all I've ever wanted," she replied with a small smile.

Your jaw dropped, "Was she serious? Did she kidnap you because she wanted to be with you?" you thought silently. Fear like you'd never known coursed through you. You were more scared than when you battled the Demobats in the upside down.

At least then you had your friends to help you. You were alone now, no one knew where you were and you hadn't left a note for your uncle or anything. You had to face the facts that this didn't look good.

You sat as you waited for him to come to terms with his situation. A series of emotions flashed through his big expressive brown eyes. Drops of unfallen tears dangled from his long lashes.

Your heart ached to comfort him but you knew he wasn't ready yet. His gaze finally turned towards yours with a determined look. He opened his mouth and began to scream. Your ears rang as he yelled and yelled for what felt like forever.

After a while he eventually stopped, he was exhausted and his voice felt hoarse.

"Are you done," you said after he had calmed down. "The rooms in this house are soundproof," you explained. "Plus even if they weren't, no one is here, nobody ever is." He shook his head before throwing his head back onto the pillow with a groan.

"Careful," you chided as you reached for him. You had treated the wounds on the back of his head thoroughly, he wouldn't have any bleeding as long as he was careful. "I don't want you to start bleeding," you explained as you peered at the bandages.

Eddie stared at you like you had two heads. How could you pretend to care about an injury you had caused in the first place? He shook his head "what's your endgame?" He needed to know where your head was at. Would you kill him no matter what or did he have a chance to survive this?

"It's simple, Eddie. Just love me and don't ever leave me," you whispered. You stood up from the bed and began to remove your clothes unhurriedly. Once you were done you stood in front of him unashamed, letting him gape at your body.

He could pretend all he wanted, the body could never lie and his body definitely wanted you. You leaned over him, keeping eye contact as you unbuckled his pants. You went to the foot of the bed and pulled his jeans off ungracefully.

Your breath hitched as you looked at the outline of his cock straining through his boxers. You climbed onto the bed beside him and he twisted away from you. "Don't touch me," he bit out.

You didn't seem to hear him, your eyes had glazed over as you stared at him in a trance. Suddenly you pulled off his boxers, throwing them across the room, leaving him in just his shirt and socks.

Minutes went by as you stared at him unabashedly, your eyes darting from his face to his cock and anywhere else that showed skin.

"You're so beautiful, Eddie," she murmured, peering up at you beneath her lashes. You could see the love shining in her eyes. Why was your heart beating so fast? Were you scared or something else? You held your breath as she leaned closer and closer to your cock.

Heat flushed through you as you grabbed him. A low moan immediately left his lips, making your head snap towards his. An embarrassed blush spread across his beautiful face as he turned his head trying to hide his face from you.

You could feel yourself getting wet at the sight of him. His cock was lengthy and had a heavy weight to it. Your mouth watered as you admired the veins that ran along the sides stopping underneath the head. Your hand fit perfectly around him, like he was made just for you.

Slowly you lowered your head taking him into your mouth. He bucked against you as he strained against the ropes. The taste was salty but not unpleasant. He tasted exactly as you expected him to, it was something you could definitely get used to.

You pulled back and peeked up at him. His eyes were trained on you watching your every move. It felt like this was your moment to prove yourself. Like the biggest audition for the best position.

You licked your hand and wrapped it around his base and pumped slowly. Your eyes never left his as you licked his mushroom head slowly, lathing it with your tongue. You silently thanked your friend Jessica for telling you about her sex trysts, without her you would've been clueless.

He bit his lip as he tried to contain his moans, he didn't want to give you the satisfaction of breaking him. He threw his head back and closed his eyes, trying to think or imagine something else.

You noticed his eyes were closed and decided to up the ante. With an inhale through your nose you pushed the rest of his length down your throat, gagging in the process.

A high unadulterated moan left his lips at that and he tilted his head back to you with hooded eyes. You bobbed your head as you felt your throat clench around him. You lifted your head completely from his cock before diving back down again.

You dragged your tongue along him as you lifted up, swirling around his tip before going back down again repeatedly. As you came back up you replaced your mouth with your hand.

Small pants left his mouth as he regarded you. So many emotions were etched across his features that it would take days to decipher them. You slowly scooted down to the foot of the bed and pushed his legs apart. For once he didn't resist, only watching with those vast eyes.

Taking your eyes from his, you lowered your gaze down his body to his balls. They were heavy looking with a line down the middle. You leaned onto your stomach and took one into your mouth sucking gently.

His reaction was instant "Jesus H Christ," he cried out in pleasure. He lifted himself slightly, straining against the ropes again. His wrists would be bruised later.

You caressed him with your lips and tongue leaving no spot untouched. You switched to the other side showing them equal attention as your hand still pumped him languidly.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he muttered. You released his sack from your mouth with a pop and took his cock down your throat again. You hummed as you felt spurts of cum shoot into your mouth.

You loved the noises he made, the space between your legs was soaked and swollen with need. He began to wine as you continued sucking his sensitive cock.

You smiled up at him as you ease your way up his body. He was completely relaxed, gusts of breath came and went as he tried to catch his breath.

You straddled him, pressing your center onto his softening length. Even though he had just come, he still felt heavenly. A sigh left you as you began to rock back and forth. Your clit twitched as you rubbed yourself against the entire length of him, coating him in your fluids.

"Oh Eddie," you moan brokenly. Your hands fly up to twist and pinch at your nipples, rolling them until they were hardened peaks. You began to move faster as you catch his eye.

It feels like your heart is in your throat as he watches you rub yourself on him. "Do you feel what you do to me, Eddie? Feels so good,  I'm so wet," you frown in concentration as your climax starts to build.

He nods his head yes, it's small but you saw it nonetheless. He's hard again and wet from the slick gushing from you. He throws his head back with a pained groan, the wound on his head still sensitive.

"Fuck," he mumbles, his words are low and drawn out. He doesn't want this, he chants those words over and over in his head as his hips grind up into yours.

He ogles your body, shame and pleasure at the forefront of his mind. He feels weak and vulnerable, but he also has never felt more alive. He's not a virgin by any means but it's never been like this. Nobody has ever responded to him like this and he isn't even in you yet! He's never been more turned on in his life and he hates himself for it.

You tilt your head back bracing your hands Aon his knees and thrusting your chest outward as you roll your hips. Your body jolts as your orgasm hits you unexpectedly. A sob escapes you as your core clenches around nothing as you cum.

Heavy pants leave your mouth as you try to catch your breath. With a sigh, you fall forward onto his broad chest. You focus on the sound of his heart. Its beat is fast and wild, thumping crazily behind his chest. "Eddie," you whine as he thrusts his throbbing cock against your sensitive clit.

A sly smile graces your lips as you lift your head resting your chin on his chest. "Someone's anxious," you chuckle as you trace the outline of his chest through his Hellfire shirt.

He turns red from head to toe, thoroughly ashamed. "It's okay baby— we're soulmates, meant to be. You wouldn't be able to fight it even if you wanted to," your voice is sweet and full of emotion.

Lifting your hips slightly, you slide down his length achingly slow. You're not even halfway down when you feel his tip meet resistance. You bite your lip, clutching at his chest as you push past it until you're deep-seated on his cock.

Pain ricochets through you making you whimper. You hold yourself still as you allow yourself to get used to him inside of you. Eventually, the pain gives way to a dull ache.

You rise slowly and drop back down with a smile. His chest rises and falls rapidly as you repeat the motion a few times. "She's so pretty like this," he thinks to himself. The pleasure he's feeling has his brain fuzzy, any and everything is running through his mind right now.

A low moan leaves his lips as you roll your hips sensuously against his. Your face twists with pleasure as your wet clit rubs against his patch of curls.

Unable to hold back, he snaps his hips up into your's earning a gasp from you. A small smirk frames his lips as he keeps up the momentum. "Fuck yeah," he rasps as he fucks into your wet cunt.

"Ed's, I'm going to cum," you sob as you bounce on his cock, holding onto him for dear life. Your eyes are on him as his gaze bounces back and forth from your face to your breasts bouncing and the thrusts of his cock into your cunt.

Every time you slam down onto him, the curly patch of hair at his base creates the perfect friction on your sensitive bud.

A gasp leaves you and your mouth hangs open as your climax hits its peak. Your bones turn to jelly as heat flows through your entire body making your toes curl.

"Fuck Y/n, so wet," he exclaims feeling your walls contract around him as you cum. Eddie follows behind you as he cums with a shout. Your name falls from his lips as his cock paints your walls white in spurts. Your walls continue to clench around him from the after-waves of your orgasm.

You lean forward again, resting your head on his shoulder. A yawn slips from your lips, sleep threatening to take hold of you. Sleep is the last thing that you want, you wish that this moment could last forever.

"So handsome," you think silently for the thousandth time tonight. Your faces are inches apart as you stare at his full lips. You hold your breath as you lean toward him. Your lips meet his cheek as he turns his head defiantly.

Rage flares through you as your heart breaks from his rejection. "Why won't you just love me!" you scream as tears streak down your face. You know you look unhinged right now but you're too hurt to care.

He shrinks back in fear, his eyes are big and wet, trying to desperately hold back his tears. "Oh God, is this how I die? Taken out by the captain of the cheerleading squad?" He would laugh if he wasn't scared out of his fucking mind. "C'mon, man up and be brave," he tells himself silently.

"He's scared of you. After all that, it still isn't enough," you think solemnly. You lean your forehead against his temple and kiss his cheek gently. "I'm sorry," you tell him softly.

You lean back from him and turn his head towards yours. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just— I want us to work so bad." You sniffle as you attempt to wipe the tears from your cheeks.

"Why do you want me? Why do you love me so much, when you could have anyone you want?" he asks, his voice low and raspy.

You slide off of him letting his member slip from you slowly. He hisses from the contact of the cool air. Hurriedly you throw the comforter over you two as you snuggle into him.

Just as he thinks that you aren't going to answer, you reply "I know you think I have it all Eddie, and in a way I do." "I'm popular, pretty, and rich, the world is mine for the taking."

You look at Eddie, seeing that his face is hard with resentment.  A bitter laugh tumbles from you "yeah I would hate me too."

You shake your head sadly "no one has ever told me they love me, not ever." "From as early as I can remember my parents were never here. If they were here it was always brief and then they would leave me with a nanny who saw me as only a job."

Your fingers play with the light patch of curls on his chest. "You were the only person to show any type of care towards me. Every day after school you would sit with me and keep me company, you never left until you were certain that I was safe."

You tilted your head to look up at him "with you I never felt alone," you whispered, a glowing smile spread across your face. "You're my light in this sea of darkness, even though we don't talk, just seeing you and being near you is enough to keep me afloat."

He didn't pull away as you slipped your fingers through his fingers "I love you, Eddie. I love that your heart is big and pure, even with all the Hell this town has put you through. I love how your unapologetically you and you don't give a shit who likes it or not. You're a good person Eddie, regardless of what these shitty hicks think of you and even though I don't deserve you, I love you anyways."

Your lashes flutter as you feel yourself dozing off. For the first time in your life, you feel safe, you're not alone anymore. "Finally, you have someone who would love you," you think as you drift off to sleep.

For the first time in his life, Eddie is stunned speechless. He never would have guessed the depths your love held for him. If he was honest with himself, besides his Uncle Wayne, no one had ever told him that they loved him either. He could sympathize with you on that.

Maybe he judged you too harshly, maybe he should've given you a chance. Was this really his fate, destined to be chained to you for the rest of his life? He desired and despised the feeling. He fell into a fitful sleep, where even in his dreams he couldn't escape you and he wasn't even sure if he wanted to.

♡♡♡♡

[cttncndyiscreamm]

Drawing Tablet brands with Linux support as of 2024 (that I know of)

Huion (Ubuntu)

XP-Pen (Ubuntu)

Xencelabs

Gaomon (FINALLY!)

I fucking love Linux more now I'm crying

EDIT: Why didn't you add wacom or insert other tablet here? 1. I'm only choosing products based if the driver is directly from site 2. Read the parentheses 3. I'm staying the fuck away from wacom because of the companies shitty ethics after doing more research + never heard of the brand until controversy happened.