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ghost-proofbaby · 1 year

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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR ELEVEN

in which a line is crossed, and a lie is told.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, smut, upside down does not exist, fingering, oral (m receiving, allusions to f receiving), p in v (be like eddie and r! use protection!), use of mean nicknames (slut), ass slapping, hair pulling, minors dni

→ wc: 7.5k+

→ a/n: the smut has arrived! shout out to @abibliophobiaa and @myosotisa my loves for helping me, but also horny hours in general haha. the pep talks were very much needed and very appreciated.

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

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11:00 ──────ㅇ─────────── 24:00

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

A drink. What you need is a drink.

The moment Robin and Steve brought up the small get together, you’d agreed instinctually. It had been a long month, hard and full of life throwing unexpected punches your way, and the only way you could think to soothe it was with terrible mixed drinks in your friend’s kitchen.

First, it had been the tire on your bike popping. Which in itself wasn’t a catastrophe, but you realized very quickly that going out and about around campus was nearly impossible on foot. You’d shown up to most classes late, not adjusting for the fact you were far slower when walking across campus than you were riding. And then it was your classes; the teachers were already upset as it was in your smaller classes regarding your perpetual tardiness, but to top it all off, every assignment seemed to not be enough. No matter what you submitted, what changes you made to essays sent back to you, it was becoming more impossible to maintain a resemblance of a respectable GPA. You’d nearly flunked a test in your humanities class, when you’d asked for a professor to go back a slide for notes they’d glared and refused the reasonable request. When you’d not understood a question on your literature homework and sent an email plenty of days in advance, the teacher only got back to you once the due date had passed.

And the dates. The terrible, terrible dates of the month.

There was the first guy, who had been kind enough. A simple meeting over coffee and by the time the lattes were cold, you knew there’d be no second date. That was fine. You could live with that.

The second guy had more potential. A first date in a bar was almost a red flag, but after a fun game of pool, you’d agreed to meet again. The second date was at a restaurant that you learned he’d taken his ex-girlfriend to; actually, you’d learned a bit too much about his ex-girlfriend that night. She was the only thing he could talk about, and when you’d later explained that over text for being your reason against a third date, he’d called you every crude name in the book.

And the final guy. A guy you’d really liked, that you’d been messaging back and forth since a month before. He was a busy guy, a bartender and full time student, and you understood – you really did. But he was charismatic and lured you in over the phone, and you hadn’t been so giddy for a date in a while. It felt like there were sparks, like he might be the one.

He didn’t show up. Last night, you’d sat like a fool at the restaurant you two agreed upon for two hours before realizing he wasn’t showing. Sipped your way through two ciders, even picked on an appetizer of fries, telling yourself he’d show up. He was just busy. He’d show up.

He never showed up. He didn’t even text you. The waiter had waived your bill for the night, but his look of pity only made your stomach twist worse.

Pathetic. You felt pathetic.

“We’re all getting together at my place tonight,” Steve had whispered to you during class that morning as you two were packing up things as the lecture ended, “Everyone’s just going to hang out, drink, let loose. You should come.”

And so you came, overly optimistic about the entire idea. You didn’t even think to ask if Eddie was going to be here – even he couldn’t dampen your excitement at a break after the month you’d had, even with his recent mean streak.

Mean. You’d never thought after that first night you’d be able to describe him that way. Cold, sure. Callous, perhaps. Indifferent, of course. But mean? Mean didn’t seem like something others saw Eddie as genuinely capable of. Steve always ranted about how good of a guy he was, Robin would tell fun stories of nights out with him and how much of a good time he was, Nancy considered the guy her best friend. You knew your new friends, and you didn’t take them as being the type to befriend someone so unkind.

But you didn’t see the good guy, the fun guy, the best friend. Whenever Eddie Munson was around you, his guard was up and his words were sharp. They cut through your unbridled disappointment with ease, reminding you that you were not his friend. You weren’t even sure if you were an acquaintance.

And sure, you took it too far at the diner. You could admit that, even before Robin scolded you. But to see him sitting with someone not from your friend group, to see him being so kind and endearing to someone new, had burned you with fury like no other. If he could treat some blonde he’d surely matched with on a dating app so sweetly, why couldn’t he afford you the same warmth? Someone he saw nearly weekly?

So you went for blood. Except, you were the only one wounded in the end, after the silent treatment you’d had to endure as you watched Eddie clench his jaw and pretend you didn’t exist.

“What are you drinking tonight?” Steve smiles when you enter his kitchen, brows still furrowed in careful thought over your miserable month, “I’m guessing something strong?”

“The strongest thing you’ve got, Harrington,” you reply, trying to shake back into excitement. It was going to be fun. You were going to drink with friends, partake in silly conversations no one would remember come morning, and you were going to have fun.

Steve holds up a bottle of vodka, a name brand you don’t care to acknowledge, along with a 2-liter of Coke, “Think this’ll work?”

You nod, and he pours. When he hands you the crystal cup reeking of overpoured alcohol, you take a sip and nod.

Oh, yeah. Two of these and I won’t even remember Mr. Stood-Me-Up.

“I heard about your date,” Steve means well, but the reminder is the exact opposite of what you want. You’re quick to glare at Robin, who throws her hands up in defense.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you quip, taking a larger second sip. If you weren’t trying to pace yourself, you’d probably chug the entire thing, “Not much to talk about, anyways. Got some free food and alcohol out of it, at least.”

“That’s good! I bet you dodged a bullet.”

I probably didn’t. “We can only hope.”

Steve pours himself a drink as well as Robin, and you can hear Nancy and Jonathan already chattering in the living room. No sign of Eddie so far. Maybe he wasn’t coming, and you’d finally caught a break.

“To forgetting the names of men who suck,” Steve chides as he raises his glass, and Robin mirrors him. You hesitate for a moment, a fraction of a second.

You were starting to believe it wasn’t them, it was you. You were the common denominator of all the terrible dates. Did sparks not fly with the Coffee Boy because you dampened the fuse? Was two-date-chump only talking to you about his exes because you didn’t provide anything interesting enough to take his mind off them? Surely, it had to be your fault that you were stood up the night before. Surely.

You pull from your pity party, and nimbly raise your glass. The rim hardly brushes that of your friends’ cups, but you all throw back your poisons of choice regardless. They don’t seem to notice the way you’ve begun to float within your head, the way you’re crashing through violent waves of pathetic self-hatred.

It was you. You’re the problem, and you’re the only one who can solve it. Eventually.

Robin is dramatically gagging on what you think might be redbull and vodka as Steve silently grimaces at his straight whiskey, clearing his throat before he says, “Okay, I know you don’t want to talk about last night, but Robin mentioned you’ve had a few dates this last month. Anything worth sharing? Any luck?”

There’s a snappy remark of clearly not on the tip of your tongue when the doorbell rings down the hall, and the three of you all turn your heads as Nancy calls out that she’s got it.

—

HOUR ELEVEN - 2:00 AM

Once Eddie starts kissing you, he can’t stop.

It isn’t soft, nor caring – the moment his hands meet the flesh of your hips, it’s bruising. He doesn’t even break for air as he fumbles with the knob blindly, giving a final twist of his keys before the door swings open behind you and the two of you stumble backwards into the sanctuary of his apartment. It’s all teeth, it’s all desperation, it’s the accumulation of a year of snide remarks and low-blow insults all coming to head as he kicks the door shut behind you and spins so that your back meets the wood.

Your hands are tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck and– oh God, when did you reach up and grab at his hair in the first place?

He groans at the force of your fist, and it suddenly doesn’t matter. You don’t care how they got there – you only care to keep them there.

He finally breaks the kiss, spit trailing between your lips as you both gasp out breaths, “You-” he dives back in, capturing your lips between his in a harsh and quick action before another break, “fucking-” another break, another gasp. He remains close enough that each harsh exhale flows right into your mouth, down your throat and into your lungs, “infuriate-” this time, he pauses, not moving back in for another kiss as his forehead is pressed hard against yours, eyes wide open and boring into yours, “me.”

The venom that laces the words don’t scare you. It’s all verbal aposematism, rehearsed and practiced hatred that bears no weight, not anymore. Not as his hips are digging into yours and another tug of his hair has him putty in your hands.

You know the dance well. You know the next step.

“Good.”

His next kiss is even more vicious, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip and making you whine into him, one hand finally unraveling from his curls to find purchase in fisting the leather of his jacket. There’s a fine line that neither of you are daring to cross, only toeing as teeth and tongues clash.

This time, when he pulls away, you’re the one chasing after him. You don’t care about breathing; you care about his lips on yours, sucking all the smoke and oxygen from your lungs.

He’s the one to finally cross the line. A hand comes up to your throat, not nearly as rough as it should be, as he keeps you in place with the back of your head pressed to his front door. A pleading mewl leaves your lips of its own accord.

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t be so desperate.”

The line’s been crossed, the chords all snapping between you two. There are no invisible strings tying you to the man before you, the man that has you aching between your trembling thighs and erratic breaths. Only gravity.

“Me? Desperate?” your voice nearly fails you as you lean into his touch surrounding your throat, preening forward so that your lips brush his, “I’m not the one fucking off to porn magazines that look like you, pretty boy.”

You’re both on the same side of the line now as you watch his eyes darken. It’s a sensitive topic, a bruise you’ve chosen to prod out in the hopes that he’ll break at the same alarming rate as you.

You need him to fuck you. You need him to use you, to throw any caution or revelations to the wind. You want him to push you so far you can’t remember your own name, let alone all the emotions that travel the channels between you.

“Think you can do any better than my hand, baby?” he questions as he buries his head into the crook of your shoulder, breath and lips leaving a buzz along the skin he comes in contact with. His fingers tighten ever so slightly, and your head rushes with a weightless bliss.

Your pulse is against his thumb, drumming beneath the pressure of it as you reply, “Do you think you can do any better than mine?”

A dozen insinuations layer the words, and he catches every single one. Your lashes flutter into your eyesight, lids growing heavy as he lifts his face from your shoulder and looks at you wickedly, grin spreading treacherously.

“Are you trying to tell me you touch yourself to me?” he taunts, pressing closer, “You thinkin’ of me at night when you get lonely, all desperate and pathetic, wrapped up in your own sheets? Do you wish it was my fingers, and not yours?”

Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. “In your dreams, Munson.”

“Of course,” he chuckles, “I thought that was a given. Don’t tell me you’re so dumb you’ve figured out I get myself off to your lookalikes, but not that I dream about you, sweetheart.”

The thought of it makes your stomach flutter, your thighs clench. He’s quick to shove his knee between your legs, letting you drop so that your crotch nearly brushes his thigh. But the distance remains and no relief from friction comes, he makes sure of it as his fingers finally lift slightly, letting the blood rush back to your head and into your cheeks.

“Is that what you were thinking about in the bathroom?”

His movements finally falter. You almost have the upperhand again, you almost have him back in your palms, back down to your height in cockiness.

You take his silence in stride, a smirk gracing your own face, “Oh, you were, weren’t you?” you pause, and drop a hand to his torso, nails raking over his shirt and making him suck in a sharp breath, “You thought I wouldn’t hear? You were being so awfully loud, y’know. Surprised you didn’t say my name.”

He breathes back to life, hand unwrapping from your throat to grip your chin, his thumb just barely making contact with your bottom lip as he tugs softly, “You would have fuckin’ liked that, wouldn’t you? As if I didn’t feel you get so hot and bothered by me on the bike,” it’s your turn to freeze, realizing your fears were valid, and he laughs lowly, “Oh, yeah, baby. I felt that. Hard to miss when you were clinging to me like I was your goddamn savior. What were you thinking about, hm? I bet you were thinkin’ about just that – me moaning for you, cumming for you. I bet it drove you fucking crazy, didn’t it?”

“What were you thinking about in the bathroom?” you whisper as his thumb presses harder into your lip, “Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Your hand finally drops to its destination, cupping him through his sweatpants, wrapping around his girth.

He’s big. Bigger than you had expected, and he knows you’re shocked by the way you still once more, cocking his head at you with the utmost confidence.

He’s fucking lucky to be packing. It’d be a shame to be such an asshole and not have the ability to back up all his talk.

“You want me to be honest right now?” he asks, a thread of seriousness binding his words. You don’t hesitate to nod, even with his grip on your chin, “I was thinking about your mouth. Thinking about those pretty lips wrapped around my cock. I was thinking about you on your knees and those eyes looking up at me, all teary as I fucked your mouth.”

Your grip on him tightens, and you make the daring move to suck the tip of his thumb into your mouth, making eye contact as your tongue swirls around it.

“Fuck me,” he groans, throwing his head back, his grip immediately falling slack on your face. You see the opportunity and take it, surging forward to latch your lips onto his exposed neck. You start with light kisses, pressing them in rapid succession down the vein that lays poorly hidden by the stretched skin, pausing once you get closer to where the expanse meets his jaw.

“I’m trying to,” you taunt before sucking hard.

He moans loudly, echoing off the walls of his apartment, the hand still on your waist turning into an even more impossibly tight grip. The hand that once held your face has come up to tangle in your hair, gripping you by the roots and pulling you away just as the blood vessels on the surface have burst and bloomed in full shades of red and pink.

Your scalp burns as he pulls you to be face to face with him, eyes hard as you keep your hand on his clothed dick. You can feel him twitch as your palm at him, no longer caring about being desperate. You were desperate. You wanted him to give up the game, set aside the chase, and ruin you. You wanted his neighbors to hear as you chanted his name like a prayer, as every memory of every reason as to why you resented him fled your system with each thrust of his hips that could pin you to the wall.

“Is that what you want?” he’s no longer teasing you, his tone sounding as if he were asking for permission now rather than taunting you any further, “You want me to ruin you, sweetheart?”

The chase is nearing its end, and you nearly shatter with anticipation.

With one last trick up your sleeve, one last attempt to break him, you shrug as if you aren’t flushed and terribly flustered to the point of no return, “I guess. That’s one way to pass the time.”

When he breaks, it is sudden, and it is unkind. One moment, your break is aching from being pressed against wood, and your core is throbbing as you consider dropping to his thigh to find your own relief. The next, he’s throwing you around carelessly as his mouth slots to yours once more.

Just as it doesn’t matter how your hands found their way into his hair, it doesn’t matter how he pulls you from the door and navigates you to his couch. Your mind isn’t focused on where your body ends up, it’s focused on the feeling of his lips, chapped and pressing to yours eagerly. It’s focused on the way that the weight of his hands pressed tightly to your lower back feels. It’s focused on the overwhelming spice of his cologne, the smell of the night air still clinging to his cheek, the taste of his salt water as you dive under and let yourself begin to drown.

He’s consuming you, lungs and all. Limbs and all. Mind and all.

It’s a bad decision. This is going to be both of your downfalls, and you should stop before it goes too far.

You don’t stop it. Neither does he. All he does is throw you down to sit on his couch as he falls to his knees in front of you, bringing a palm to each knee and spreading your legs as he settles between them.

He’s the prettiest you’ve seen him yet. Even prettier than the first night. His lips are swollen pink, puffy and still lingering with your spit. Your mark on him, the first of many you need to leave, right along with the bruise on his neck. You wonder how hard you’d have to bite to bring blood tonight, you wonder which other spots on his neck would make him melt against you as you explored him fervently and left a whole collection of bruises that spell out your message very clearly – he’s mine for tonight.

His chest heaves as his eyes stare up into yours, hands gripping each of your knees. Even through the cotton, your skin is burning from his touch, your wildfire still thriving as you navigate this ocean he’s thrown the two of you into. A man-made river, more like it. It was made by his hand, it was created treacherously and with purpose against you, and yet you’re still here wading in it, also by his hand.

“Tell me to stop,” he begs, unexpected as his hands squeeze you, his eyes zeroing in on his palms as they travel up to your thighs, pulling you closer and making your back slide down the cushion from the position you’re seated in, “Tell me you hate me.”

For a second, you almost tell him you can’t. You can’t tell him to stop. Not as your leg lifts and his shoulder fits perfectly into the ditch of your knee, not as his hands creep further up to the band of the borrowed sweatpants. And once his fingers curl into the waist, knuckles pressing to your soft skin, you know you won’t.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, making his eyes shoot up to meet yours again, “I hate you, but don’t you fucking dare stop.”

Quickly, at an almost impossible rate of speed, he yanks the sweats down off of you. They’re tossed behind him into a pile on his living room floor, uncared for and quickly forgotten.

Once your skin is exposed to him, he’s planting messy kisses linearly up your shin, over your inner knee, until he reaches your thighs. Marks are left in his wake, shades of deep maroon fading lilac as he nips and sucks against them just as you had to his neck.

“Show me yours,” he mumbles into your skin, fingertips pressing indents as he openly mouths over the hickies left behind.

“What?”

“I showed you mine, now show me yours,” he insists with wild eyes, hair hardly contained by the bun that once contained the curls, “When you touch yourself, what do you think about?”

“You,” you sigh out as he presses another kiss to you, even higher up now, growing dangerously close to your cunt.

“What about me?” he pushes, staring up as he removes contact, “Use your words, baby.”

“I-” you can’t think clearly, mind muddled with smoke and the image of him there before you, on his knees, “I think about your fingers instead of mine. How thick they are, how they’d feel.”

His smile shows little satiation, “Go on.”

You’re so focused on getting the words out, you nearly don’t notice a hand loosening its grip on your thigh, inching up to your panties, playing with the lace edges.

“I think about how deep you’d go, how you’d curl your fingers just- fuck,” you cut off with a gasp when his fingers slide beneath cotton, brushing over your wet folds.

“Just fuck?” he mimics, pouting slightly, “Afraid I’ve never heard that one before. Might need you to demonstrate for me. How do I curl my fingers just fuck?”

“Fuck you,” you whine, writhing beneath his touch as your ankles lock behind his head.

“I’m trying to,” he pitches his voice to mock your own, and you regret ever saying the words to him. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head, “God, you want me to fuck you so bad, it’s making you stupid.”

His fingers stop teasing you as he finds your entrance, circling only the tip of his pointer finger to gather the slickness. Your hips buck, the desperation clawing its way through your entire body now, leaving ash and destruction in its path before Eddie brings an arm across your waist to hold you down to the couch firmly.

“Beg for it,” he commands, voice shooting straight into your chest, “Be a good girl and say please, yeah?”

His finger still circles your entrance, teasing but never quite pressing in, leaving you a whimpering mess. You begin to wonder if there will be any sign of how hard his forearm is pinned against you.

A battle of both your prides. He can feel you burning up now, he sees the flames dancing and he’s willing to play with them rather than give in to you.

You have to bite your lip to avoid letting the please on the tip of your tongue slip out for him. You’re still fighting him, still defying him.

“I have been far nicer to you than you deserve,” he continues his taunts, a grin growing when he catches the way you’re physically holding back, “We both know it, so just say it. Say the word, and I’ll keep playing nice.”

His finger breeches your entrance slightly, and you gasp, head thrown back immediately, “When have you ever been nice?”

He tsks, removing the tip of his finger, letting it glide up between your folds before it stops just short of your clit, “Oh, I’m always nice. You just never seem to notice.”

You think about it again. All the acts of kindness that went under the radar, all the times you’d buried in an effort to continue to harbor detestation for the man before you. He’s right – he probably doesn’t realize it, but he’s far more correct than you’d give him credit for at this moment.

“Please fuck me,” you whisper to the ceiling, before swallowing hard and leaning your chin back down, looking him in his eyes as you decide to give him more than he asked for, “Please ruin me.”

You’ve watched a mirage of emotions flush across his face on every possible occasion. Anger, distaste, aggression, laughter, annoyance. But you’ve never seen want quite like this grace his features.

“Gladly.”

His fingertip circles your clit, once, twice, three times, applying the perfect amount of pressure to have you crying out before he’s removing his forearm and nearly tearing your underwear to move it to the side and thrusting two fingers into your desperate cunt immediately.

You sob out and nearly double over, the sting and stretch making you keen as he wastes no time. You’ve said the magic word, you’ve played his game, and now, he’s returning the favor.

He’s playing nice. And, God, is nice quite the word to describe what he’s doing to you as he pumps his fingers into you, thrusting them in as deep as his knuckles allow before he curls them and brushes the spot that could make you scream with the right skill set.

He has the skill set. He notes your clenching on his fingers, and he curls again, with more intent this time.

Maybe the thin walls only apply to the inside of his apartment, if you’re lucky.

“Is this what you want?” he questions, leaning in so close to you that you feel his breath wash over you, “Is this what you meant by ruining you?”

You nod, finding it becoming increasingly harder to speak as you gasp, “Y- Oh, fuck. Yes. Ple- fuck. Please.”

He pauses, and you nearly scream out in frustration and protest before he rips your underwear off of you, dragging it down your legs and forcing your ankle to unlock from behind his head as he fights with the flimsy piece of cotton. You expect him to throw it, to let it join the sweats, but instead, he brings them to his face. He’s wolfish as he looks up at you, taking a deep breath in with the cotton pressed to his nose, not saying a word but watching you clench around nothing as he finally tosses the panties over his shoulder.

You see them catch on the coffee table, nowhere near the sweats.

“Smell so sweet, baby,” he coos, bringing his fingers back to you, his tongue peeking out to lick his lips, “I might just have to tast-”

A phone ringing cuts him off. The trill cuts through the silence, piercing both your ears, making you look at each other in fright.

“Don’t answer it,” the words burst out before you think them over. You don’t care about your friends right now. You don’t care about the bet.

You care about his fingers back inside you, curling and hitting that spot you’ve spent endless nights fighting to find without success. You care about getting his clothes off of him, of your eyes tracing over his skin and the ink you’ve yet to see. You care about his cock, springing to attention, before he’s sheathing it inside of you and bringing you both to utter bliss.

A phone call is at the bottom of your priorities right now. You just don’t care.

“It’s your phone,” he counters, glancing behind the two of you to where your phone is buried in the heap of black clothing, “I’m not answering it. But…”

“I’m not answering it, either.”

“If we don’t answer-”

“Eddie, I could fucking care less,” you sit up roughly, leaning in as close as you can in the compromising position, “We’re not answering it.”

The phone continues to ring, and he looks between you and it in clear confusion, “They’ll just keep calling-”

“Let them,” you insist, “If you don’t get your dick in me within the next minute, I’ll call this entire thing off,” you add on the last part as you reach out and your legs fall off his shoulders, hands replacing where your knees once rested as you bring his lips into yours.

Teeth, tongue, salt water, ash. It drowns out the final few rings as you continue to tug on Eddie feverishly, forcing him to rise from his position on the ground and kneel on the edge of the couch, a hand balancing him upright by gripping the back of the couch. Your kiss is all the convincing he needs.

“Fuck, fine, fine, I-” he cuts off, removing himself from you long enough to shrug off his leather jacket, to reach up and grab the collar of his shirt, yanking it over his head. The bun has officially unraveled to completion, curls flowing down over his collarbones and shoulders. You can’t keep your hands off him, fingertips immediately pressing into the exposed skin, “Just give me a second.”

He stands, and you whine, making him snicker as he kicks off the grey sweatpants.

“So impatient,” he teases, and you watch his face light up in delight as you can only bite your tongue in response. There’s something more there, something to be considered later. Later, when you aren’t aching for him. Later, when the moment of desperation has passed, when his waves retreat from your shores and you find yourself capable of breathing fresh air once more.

Later is not now.

The moment he’s down to just his boxers, you’re done waiting, doing as he had for you and dropping your knees to the carpet below.

“Hey, what are you doin-” he’s interrupted by you leaning forward, looking up at him intently as you kiss the tip of his dick through his boxers. Your lips come in contact with the wet spot clearly forming, and you can see the shiver roll down his spine, “Oh, fuck. What the Hell happened to me… me getting… me getting my dick in you…” He’s trailing off, unable to focus as your fingers slip beneath the waistband and tug down, his dick slapping against his exposed stomach.

“It still counts if you fuck my mouth,” is all you say as his boxers pool at his ankles, and you don’t even wait for him to step out of them.

Your phone is ringing again. You can feel the vibrations through the floor as you wrap a hand around his base, as you lean forward and place a proper kiss to his leaking tip, swirling your tongue in the precum.

This time, the two of you don’t argue about answering it. It’s hard to as your mouth is full of him, and his is full of curses.

“Jesus Christ, I- Fuck, right there,” he’s gasping as you wrap your lips around the tip fully, just as you’d done with his thumb, sucking gently and making his hand fly down to rest on the back of your head.

You bob down a few times, hollowing your cheeks and taking him deeper and deeper until your nose presses into the coarse hairs resting at the base. You pause, letting your nose press into him as you breathe deeply, feeling him hit the back of your throat. Your eyes water, just as he described, and you take pride in the way he can’t even look at you now.

You pull back, letting him drop from your mouth, smiling widely, “Better than your hand, right?”

“Fuck off,” his hand rest at the back of your head grips the hair there, tangling up as he shoots you a glare.

“Say it’s better than your hand, and I’ll fuck you off,” you press, letting a hand travel to fondle his balls, pinching the skin delicately, watching his reaction roll through him like waves.

“I- Fucking obviously,” he hisses as you smile, leaning down and pressing kisses along the shaft, “God, of course your mouth is better than my fucking hand. Of course it fucking is.”

“It better be,” you goad before taking him back into your mouth. This time, you suck harder, and his grip on your hair is painful once more.

“Shit.”

He’s at a loss for words, devolving into guttural groans and babbling moans as you quicken your pace, determined now.

You wanted to ruin him. After a year of his bullshit, after suffering through every fight and every argument, every passive glare and every turbulent comment, you want to make them man standing over you crumble to pieces.

Except he wasn’t just crumbling, he was shattering. Splintering apart as his hips started to thrust to meet your mouth, as you choked around him and refused to let up, resorting to stuttering inhales through your nose as you pressed your face back to his pubes, swallowing accidentally and making him nearly scream.

“Shit. Shit- stop. I’m going to f-fucking cum, stop,” he’s pulling you off of him suddenly, gasping for breath, not letting you refuse and push him over the edge.

You’re smug as you lean onto your heels, wiping your mouth clean of the spit that strings from your bottom lip to his red tip with the back of your hand.

“I think I win,” you state plainly, as if you weren’t currently taking heaving breaths, desperate to catch your breath and have his hands back on you.

“Win? Wh- It’s not a fucking competition,” he scowls, raking a hand down over his face, chest flush.

“It is, and I fucking won.”

“Yeah? You think you won, baby?”He recovers quickly, you’ll give him that. He goes from a complete mess to a force to be reckoned with in an absolute instant, stepping out of his boxers and kicking them from his warpath before he reaches down to tug you to your feet, “In that case, if this is a competition, I think I deserve a second chance.”

You open your mouth to be a smart ass, to say something cruel or something mean, but he steps back before you have the chance.

The look of want has turned stormy, confident and eliciting. A hurricane beckoning to you as he snaps his fingers.

“Take your fucking shirt off, and get on the couch, all fours.”

“I-”

“Now.”

There’s no more fires, no more oceans, and no more petty arguments left in you. You listen to him.

You throw off the sweatshirt, his sweatshirt, as he goes to one of the tables beside the couch and opens a drawer roughly.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, unhooking your bra as well, fully naked and aware that his eyes weren’t on you yet, “You just keep fucking condoms in your living room?”

“Who said I was looking for fucking condoms?”

“Oh, my bad. I just assumed. Should have known you were getting me naked just to go searching for fucking Narnia in your drawers.”

You were wrong. He was looking at you, and you’re only made aware by the sharp slap across your bare ass at the comment. It makes you spin quickly, looking at him and his set jaw.

“Couch. All fours. Now.”

“You’re such a sore loser,” you snark, taking a few steps back, trying to ignore the way the sting on your backside has your clit throbbing.

“You have no idea, baby,” he says without a hint of joking, looking back down into the drawer and continuing to dig as you turn away from him again.

Despite feeling exposed, you do as you’re told – you get onto the couch on all fours as he requested, knees digging into a surprisingly soft cushion that surely hadn’t felt that way earlier in the night when you’d attempted to sleep on the piece of furniture. You don’t dare to glance back at him over your shoulder when the drawer finally slams shut, hearing his heavy breathing as he returns to you being enough to force you to shut your eyes and take in a sharp gasp.

“Still feeling like a winner?” his voice winds around you, nearly choking you as you feel a feathering fingertip trail across your lower back.

“Always,” you lie breathily, voice betraying you as it shakes.

You feel the couch dip from behind you, legs spreading as Eddie fits himself between your calves, one hand latching onto your hip.

“God, I can’t wait to fuck the brat out of you.”

Without warning, he’s lining himself up with your entrance and pushing in, taking all the breath from your lungs as you collapse down onto your elbows and your cheek brushes the cushion of the couch.

It burns, his cock forcing you to stretch and accommodate you, filling you at an unbelievable rate.

You knew he was fucking big, but you hadn’t considered the consequences until this moment, as he truly feels as if he’s just begun his ruining of you.

“Fu-” the curse is lost in your throat, a small gasp as you press yourself down even further into the couch, mind swimming.

“Oh, no,” he tuts, sounding completely unaffected until he leans down over you as he bottoms out. When he gets closer, you catch it – the hitch in his breath, the way he pauses before he can speak, “That won’t do, sweetheart.”

He brings a hand back to your throat, just as he had when you two first entered the apartment, when the fight for dominance first began. It’s more from the pressure of his forearm across your chest, but the pressure is still applied on both sides as he guides you to straighten up your body against him, making him hit new angles that have you hissing out.

“I said on all fours, not just waving your ass in the air like some slut,” you clench around him at his words, and he chuckles breathlessly, “You like that, don’t you? You like being my fucking slut.”

You can only moan in response as he slowly pulls back his hips, feeling every inch of him beginning to retreat from you at an agonizing pace.

“You’re pitiful,” he groans into your ear, pressing his thumb further against your throat, cutting off the circulation for only a moment. Just long enough to send a rush to your head, “You say you hate me, say you can’t fucking stand me, but get cock drunk just from me putting it in. I’m only getting started and you’re speechless.”

You can only continue your pathetic whimpers, reaching back to grasp onto him before he tuts once more.

“Pathetic, baby.”

He slams back in, letting you drop forward. This time, you keep yourself up on your hands, letting out more small gasps, all of the noises getting half stuck on your tongue.

“But you’re winning, right?” he taunts, accentuating each word with a thrust as he begins to pick up his pace, “You’re the winner here, right?”

You don’t answer him, nearly drooling when he reaches forward and grabs up your hair, curling it around his wrist carefully before he pulls. It hurts, it makes you clench down on him, it has you babbling out nonsense you’re completely unaware of.

Each time he snaps his hips forward, his skin collides with yours, ricocheting off the walls around the two of you. Your arms shake, but you stay steady, refusing to collapse beneath him and the euphoria that scathes you.

He pulls your hair harder this time, making you arch your back into him, “Tell me you hate me.”

You cry out, feeling him hit even deeper as his free hand forces your hips to meet every thrust.

“Say it, baby. Tell me just how much you hate me,” he huffs out, clearly barrelling as quickly to his own release as you are, “Say you hate my guts,” another sharp thrust, and his balls slap against you, catching your clit and making your knees shake, “Say you can’t stand me. Go ahead, baby, say it.”

“I hate you,” you weakly respond, eyes tearing up as you feel your gut twist. Your fire, your blooms, his ocean. He’s making good on his promise – he’s ruining you, and you’re reveling in the wake of it all. Embers char you from the inside out, and your brain fogs over in pleasure.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I m-mean it,” you gasp when he reaches around, chest pressing to your back, finger hovering over your clit, “Fuck, right there, please. I mean it. Please, please-”

“Say it again, like you really mean it this time, and I’ll let you cum.”

He stills, deep inside you, waiting with bated breath as his chin ghosts over the back of your shoulder. You stare straight ahead. If you glance down, you’d find your hands turned to fists, his ring still glittering on your finger.

He’s destroyed you. To unimaginable levels. You can’t comply with his request, not without becoming a liar, because it occurs to you that the man currently wrecking you is not a man you’re capable of hating. You hated the situation the two of you were in, you hated the year wasted, you hated the looming pressure of your friends awaiting a return call, you hated the words exchanged between the two of you with the intention of cutting deep. You hated many things surrounding him, but you didn’t hate him.

At Eddie’s core, he is still the man you first met. He’s finally drowned you, dragged you to the bottom of his ocean, and you can see that now. The man that first reeled you in at the bar never left, simply shrank away, hid himself away from you for some unknown reason that you hate. The man that dazzled you, enticed you, provided you with the opportunity of safety still exists.

“I hate you,” you grit out, fisting at the cover of the cushions, your entire body on edge. From him, from revelations, from a build of hate that had been misdirected for far too long.

“Good,” he gasps out, mouth falling open and against your skin, teeth grazing you, “Then this changes nothing.”

You don’t have time to ponder, or wonder why he didn’t mention the feeling being mutual. Once the words leave both of you, his finger connects with your clit, working an expert pattern that has you preening as his vigorous thrusting returns. It’s harsher than before, pain and pleasure blurring together as your scalp aches, your vines tighten, and your flames erupt.

Your vision whites out, and you don’t hear your screams of relief as much as you feel them. Your throat is hoarse, tears leak from the corners of your eyes, and the tension vanishes from your muscles.

Your arms collapse finally, and you don’t fight the way your cheek presses against rough fabric as his hips begin to stutter, his own ecstasy flooding over him before he’s crashing with you.

The two of you stay that way for a second, skin on skin, words lingering in the air, threatening to vanish. You don’t care – you match your breathing to his as he doesn’t pull out immediately.

A vibrating comes from the floor amongst the shared bliss, both of you too fucked out to move to go answer the phone. The money doesn’t matter anymore, not to you.

Everything aches. You come to realize just how rough the two of you had treated each other, pains ringing out from your throat, from your ass, from your abused cunt. Your knees are surely marked from the couch and floor alike, your scalp is screaming in relief without Eddie’s grip against it.

You don’t regret it. You don’t regret any of it, except a singular lie.

I hate you.

What a brilliant, foolish, laughable, bullshit attempt at a lie.

taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @amira0303 @blushingquincy @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @big-ope-vibes @jadequeen88 @sylviin @emma77645 @notbeforelong @lolalanaie @lo-siento-ama @happy-and-alone @micheledawn1975 @aysheashea @moon-huny @munsonswrld @bambipowerblueaddition @averagestudent03 @bakugouswh0r3 @mattefic @mxcheese @bietchz @nativity-in-black @tlclick73 @stezzil @vngelis @coley0823 @folklorebau @luvmunson86 @theherothesavior @keene200213 @hargrovesswifee @m-chmcl-rmnc @cherrymedicine13 @iunaelumen777

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#twenty four hours #my writing #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fic #very terrified because i feel like expectations are so high #please be kind i'm gonna have a PANIC ATTACK #i didn't read this back :) if you see mistakes don't @ me #let's hope for the best smut is between yall and god

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bongo-clash · 2 years

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Peacock Au Part 2

Okay so!!! Part two of this post about the DPxDC eldritch Danny fic that I'm now calling the peacock au lmao!!!!

(Chapter two of the fic under the cut) (Edit: You can now find part 3 Here!!!)

When the feeling of being just slightly dispersed settles onto the outer layer of his skin while he’s lying in bed, Danny knows what’s about to happen.

The thing is, he’s in his pyjamas. Sure, he could just stay in his human form for the summoning- because he’s done it before and it went fine- but he never knows who it’s going to be, and being spirited away to some college students’ dorm in his pyjamas is embarrassing. And sure, having something appear in the circle in the first place is probably enough that they’re not paying attention to what he’s wearing either way, but he refuses to bank on that. So, with a sigh, he allows himself the transformation, his human appearance falling easily away.

It always feels more natural to be a ghost during rituals, probably because they’re summoning a ghost and not a human, but still, it’s different. He feels that little bit looser, maybe even a little more himself, though he guesses being a bit more glow-y is just nice generally, and the space decals that tend pop up as part of his whole light-show-summons are a homely touch. On the other hand, it does make it harder to take stock of his surroundings when he finally fades into view wherever he is. He can make out vague grey walls and floors, but that’s about it.

Well, that and the man in front of him. Blond, taller than him if he wasn’t in the air, somewhere past his forties, wearing a beige trenchcoat and looking oddly terrified. Danny can see his hands shaking just a little. Does he know this guy from somewhere?

“Uh, dude?” Danny calls, going for something light. It’s annoying being dragged from the comfort of his own home, definitely, but this guy doesn’t look like some cult member, and if he’s alone and this scared it might mean he really needs the help. Danny can sympathise with doing stupid things in stupid situations. “You good? You’re not looking too hot there.”

He knows he’s using ghost speak, but it feels weird to use English in a summoning like this, and fortunately, Danny spies a translation sigil wrapped around the inner centre of the circle, so he knows it should be translating right back to the guy in front of him. Very handy for language barriers, he’ll admit- and it’s working, too, if the reply is any indication.

“I was told you could- you could help with the pits?”

His voice is gravelly, and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s nervous, doesn’t speak much, a smoker, or all three. Either way, probably not Danny’s business, and right now he’s just curious about what the man’s talking about. “Pits? That’s kinda vague, man. What pits?”

“The Lazarus pits to, uh, to be specific. There’s a huge one cropping up under Gotham that’s not supposed to be there, and the local- I mean, the locals are getting antsy about it. I… heard you could take care of ‘em.”

Lazarus Pits. He’s heard of those, Clockwork’s mentioned them a couple of times. They’re natural portals that open when enough energy is built up, and end up stabilising into the ground instead of collapsing to help seep ambient ectoplasm into the air. They don’t work as actual portals after that, but it’s vital to keep at least a few around no matter how corrupted they can get through human interference, because it keeps the balance of both realms steady. Having too many around isn’t a good thing, though, and especially not in populated areas. It can cause ecto-contamination, which is a lot more dangerous when you haven’t been around it since birth (or if you aren’t from Amity).

Speaking of which, it certainly is stinking up the place, now that he’s aware of it. Or maybe that’s just Gotham, he’s heard a lot about-

Hang on. Gotham. Weird potentially magic dude. He knew he recognised him! That’s John Constantine! Danny’s heard of John Constantine! Sam’s got her fingers in enough credible occult spaces that they’re at least vaguely aware of some of his endeavours, but if he’s in Gotham then that probably means he’s doing something for the Batman and, wow, Danny totally would’ve tried to go more professional for this if he knew this was going to be his first encounter with the Justice League,of all things.

Well, he guesses it’s too late now. At least the guy’s not being too weird about it or anything. “Man, yeah, I’ve totally got the smell stuck up my nose now that you mention it. Do you get that as well? Since, y’know, you’ve probably dealt with a couple ghosts.”

“Uh… no, I don’t think so. But can you fix it?”

Dang, the guy seems stressed about this. Maybe he just doesn’t like being in Gotham territory? He’s pretty sure he’s heard of Batman having a thing about magic. “Sure I can.”

“…Will you fix it?”

Danny figures that if they already know about his status through his Zone maintenance duties, and he’s going to be helping the Justice League, he might as well show off a little bit. Assenting with a hum and trying not to grin, he puts his hands to the floor, and lets his ectoplasm reach out to the source of the smell, sending a flash of light across the ground as it goes through. When it twinges back a response, he closes his eyes, and his energy curls around it, threading through like needles to seams, and pushes it shut with a gentle nudge. Luckily, it hadn’t been around for too long- barely fully formed and not even corrupted by human contact yet- it would’ve be a lot more difficult if it had.

He lets his hands rise up again after a long moment, looking to Constantine for a reaction. He can’t quite gauge what the man is thinking. “Alrighty, that should’ve done it.”

“Uh… cheers?”

He’s about to say something along the lines of ‘no problem’ or ‘you’re welcome’, but then he remembers he should probably warn him about the aftermath so he doesn’t freak. “The pit shouldn’t come back again, but just as like, a PSA: you might see more shades than usual hovering around for the next while. It shouldn’t be too big a deal so long as you leave ‘em alone, though, so don’t worry about it.”

For all that Danny’s trying to be considerate here, Constantine doesn’t look very considerated. “Can I- uh, yeah, great advice. ‘Appreciate it. But, can I ask just, y’know, what you are? Or not.”

“…Dude, what d’you think I am?”He replies, thoroughly bemused. Isn’t this guy supposed to be one of the League’s paranormal experts or something? He really should be able to recognise a ghost by now. “I keep your Lazarus Pits in check. You know, the pits of the dead?”

Okay, maybe a little rude on his side, but he thinks Constantine’s expression is a bit of an overreaction; he can see the sheen of sweat across the man’s forehead reflecting the light of the sigils. “Fair enough! Forget I asked- cheers for sorting out that pit, though. Uh, don’t suppose you’ll just let me go on my way or anything now.”

“Well, I mean, this was a favour for Batman, right?” He asks blithely, pointedly not paying attention to the way the man’s face keeps contorting. He swears Sam said he was more stoic than this. “I’m gonna go- ‘cause I’ve got things to do- but I guess if something comes up I’ll come to you? Or Batman, since this is his city and all. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know.”

Figuring there’s nothing left to be said, Danny lets the return sigil on the edge of the circle activate and punt him back home, wheezing a half-sigh and arching his back once the wispy image of wherever they’d been recedes. He probably looks exhausted after all that- no matter how recently formed the pit was, it still takes a little strain, and he’d just been about to sleep before he got summoned- but looking in the mirror on his wall for confirmation, he doesn’t find his usual face. Something twinges against where his spine should be, confirming its own previously unnoticed presence in the mortal plane.

…He didn’t go ghost when Constantine summoned him, he used his true form. That must be why he looked so nervous that whole time! And, man, ghostspeak never translates over quite right in this form, either- the Ancients use a different dialect to original ghostspeak- the man probably wasn’t hearing what Danny thought he was at all. What if the only reason he wasn’t attacking was because he was terrified? What must Constantine have thought of him?

Crap. He has to fix this. How is he going to find him?

#Peppered in some of my own worldbuilding about ectoplasm/the pits in DC there but Still-#I just thought it'd be Really Funny if Danny had absolutely no clue what he was saying was coming across so terrifying #Like- sure he Can say that kind of ominous stuff on his own- but I think it'd be really great #If no one knew when it was a translation error or if he meant it #If there's any mistakes in the please be kind I forget how to read when I'm editing-#Chapter 3's already done so I should be posting that either tomorrow or the day after!!#It'll pretty much be the conclusion to this whole thing but I've been talking to Bones and she's got So Many cool ideas #That I really want to make a part 4 for because they're really fun!!!#Either way this has been really nice to do!!!#dp au #danny phantom au #dp fic #danny phantom fanfiction #dpxdc #danny fenton #danny phantom #Bongo's Aus!!!#Bongo's Writing!!!#peacock au

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sciderman · 6 months

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I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with so much Iranian hate and drama <:[

oh anon. hate to break it to you (a lot of people make this mistake) but iran and iraq are two entirely separate nations.

and also i think reducing it to the words "hate and drama" kind of doesn't cover it, anon.

#i think if people were. just a little bit more informed. then maybe people would see that the people from this region are humans actually.#so anon. please. like... look at a map and do some reading maybe. if you care just a little.#i'm sorry anon but i'm a little bit at a loss for words over this message. like it rendered me speechless for a little.#but it's so common in my life that i've been called iranian and i constantly have to correct people on it. c'mon man.#i mean i have SO many iranian friends even though iraq and iran you know. aren't exactly bedfellows. politically.#but those politics don't really follow me. like in my day to day. iraqis and iranians in the uk of this generation. are again.#pretty divorced.#but it's kind of really frustrating that people Without Fail make this mistake over and over.#it's like how people just refer to “africa” as a whole. instead of recognising there are seperate nations there and.#it's not just a homogenous “other”#please. there are humans there. it's not just “foreign”.#i don't know if you're american anon but i see it a lot that anything outside of america is just “foreign”#and i mean #even as a brit. americans are constantly surprised i'm british because they forget anything exists outside of america.#i think it would be so so so so sexy of you anon to take a look at the globe tonight. give it a spin.#look at the world. it's so full and so beautiful and there are So Many Nations.#i'm going to look at my globe tonight too. i have a really cool old one. it spins so good.#and i'm going to pick some countries i don't know a lot about and do some reading about them. for funsies.

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kathaynesart · 11 months

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What advice would you give to someone who really wants to get into writing/drawing comics, but doesn't know how or where to start? What would you recommend? Even if/ especially if they already have a decent history in writing and drawing

SHORT ANSWER: Don’t do what I’m doing with Replica haha! I’m breaking all my own rules with this comic but maybe we can use it as a good example of what not to do in my rant below…

LONG ANSWER: (below the cut)

Hoo boy… there are so many avenues this question could take. I assume you don’t necessarily mean entering the comic industry as a professional (there are far more experienced people you can ask about that). But simply drawing your own comics? I'll try my best to break down some of the basics I've picked up over the years. Note these are just my opinion and there is always room for other methods...

1. ASK YOURSELF WHAT KIND OF COMIC AM I DOING?

The first thing to consider is what is your intention with this comic? Do you want to tell a story centered around a preexisting fandom or tell a completely new story you came up with? What genre do you want to focus on? I'd recommend finding something that really sparks your interest, because you're going to be working on it for far longer than a regular art piece. Plus if you like it, someone else is bound to like it as well!

2. ASK YOURSELF DOES IT NEED TO BE A COMIC?

This may sound silly... but often times I find people fail to take into consideration whether or not the story they are telling works best with the medium they are considering. Had I done Replica as a fan fiction, I would be much farther along with it... but with comics there comes a wide range of subtle visual cues, parallels, and symbolism I can use that I wouldn't be able to show through writing. The written word also has many strengths that comics lack... it just comes down to what you want to be able to show in your story.

3. KEEP IT SHORT AND SIMPLE

If this is your first time doing a comic, I recommend not overextending yourself with some grand epic that is going to take you forever (like Replica haha.)

Example: Years ago a close friend and I did a webcomic called Perpetual Flux that we were unable to finish. It went for about 2-3 years, was over 110 pages long, and yet we had only managed to get about 3 chapters into what would have probably been a +30 chapter story. We came up with this huge epic we wanted to tell and while it was a story we still wanted to finish, it just became impossible to continue as our lives and availability changed.

So start small! And take that experience you gain into bigger, future projects. Obviously I have not learned my lesson with Replica, but at least with this project it's something I can do on my own time and is supported by a wonderful community who keep me inspired. Speaking of which...

4. FINDING AN AUDIENCE

If it’s a story based off something with an existing fandom then half the work is already done! You just need to start interacting more with people in that fandom, and I mean really interacting. Talk to other artists, join Zines, leave comments, and share other people’s work. It can foster a community and help you be a part of the fandom so that people will be interested in what you have to share.

If it’s a new story you’re going to have to create your own community. Nowadays it’s easier than ever to get your work out there, but the competition for eyes is much steeper. What I find that works is rather than starting the comic cold turkey, draw out some highlights from your future story. Moments that have yet to unfold that might wet a random viewer's appetite for more. Kind of like… a trailer for what’s to come. Keep dropping those little crumbs of interest as you prep your comic to garner some interest and that way when you do start you may already have some followers who might share your work around!

5. CONSISTENCY IS KEY

Get into the habit of drawing and writing regularly. I know it can be a hassle and the last thing you want to do is make it a chore, but like exercising I find that the more I do it, the easier it is and the better I feel about it. Nowadays I feel weird if I'm not at least writing some script or drawing a few sketches towards my comic/projects every day.

Also, if you can make sure to update fairly regularly (something I also fail at with Replica haha, but at least I try to post little things here and there when time allows). It's important to let your followers know that you are still there and you care! It also helps keep you at the front of their minds. My fellow Apocalypse AU creators Cass and Tapakah0 are GREAT at this as they post a ton! It helps garner a strong community and a lot of continuous excitement! I wish I had that same energy and time but you'll have to make do with my old-lady pace of things, bless you all haha.

6. GRAPHIC DESIGN

Obviously as a writer and artist you're used to doing both... but with comics there's another aspect that can come into play. Graphic design! Whether it's your title, your font choices, the word bubbles, or the way you break down the panels, these area all things you should take into consideration. For example, every webcomic has panels, but they can vary tremendously in style. Because of Tumblr and the nature of the scroll method I chose to forgo the typical "comic book style" for more of a... loose storyboard feel where I care more about the angle of the shot within each panel rather than how these separated images link up to one another. Where as with Perpetual Flux, it was laid out on actual comic pages so we had to take serious consideration into how they fit together within each page. IngunnSara is also a great example of this more traditional method of paneling and it's gorgeous and difficult and they have my utmost respect for pulling it off with Hamato Wanderers! So I recommend looking to some of your own favorite comics and see what jives with you.

7. FIND A STYLE THAT WORKS FOR YOU

Also failed this with Replica haha, but to be fair I went right into it with the intent on learning the style as I went. But I recommend having some grasp on the style you want to use and whether or not it's a viable to be drawing over and over again for your comic (for example, if you make it too detailed it will take you far longer to draw!)

8. FORGET ABOUT PERFECTION

Perfection is a lie. There is no place for it in art, especially if you're just doing this for your own pleasure. Don't strive for it. Don't worry about it. Don't compare yourself. Just keep doing what you're doing and keep learning from it. You'll get much farther!

Ok... hopefully that helps a bit. I'm sure there's plenty more to talk about but I feel like I've talked enough for now. Thanks for listening to my TED Talk and lemmed know if you manage to get your comic off the ground :)

#Also uh... if you used to be a PFlux fan... so sorry about that... maybe someday we'll continue it but that won't be any time soon #And if you're curious and want to search for PFlux... don't lol #please #we were young and stupid #and the site doesn't exist anymore #I think it's still on Tapastic or something but you will find yourself with a very unsatisfying ending #q&a #replica #kind of #mostly just ragging on myself #learn from my mistakes kids

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hephaestuscrew · 7 months

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Thoughts on the patterns of who speaks the episode title phrases in Wolf 359

This analysis is based on the data I gathered in this spreadsheet and summarised with graphs in this post. Basically I've been looking at which character first says the episode title phrase (i.e. the exact words which form the name of that particular episode) in every episode of Wolf 359. Go and look at the spreadsheet if you want more context.

I think we can view the episode title phrases as often expressing the key problem or question of that episode. (I might talk about this in relation to individual examples another time.) Through this lens, the consideration of who speaks the title phrase is about which character gets to frame the key issue of the episode for the listener. This doesn't necessarily mean we are meant to share that character's view of the issue, but it's why I think there is some potentially significant analysis to be done on this topic. (See below the cut...)

The proportion of title phrases said by Eiffel reduces with each season. 69.2% of the Season 1 title phrases are (first) spoken by Eiffel, compared to 46.6% in Season 2, 22.2% in Season 3, and 20% in Season 4.

This is perhaps unsurprising. Eiffel is very much the main perspective character and the primary narrative voice at the start of the series. And, as someone with unusual speech patterns, he is excellent at coining a good memorable title phrase. However, while I'd argue that he never stops being the main protagonist, over the course of the series, the narrative focus broadens away from a singular emphasis on Eiffel's perspective. This perspective shift is reflected in episode titles being spoken by a greater range of characters.

I think the decreasing proportion of Eiffel title phrases also reflects the podcast's shift towards a generally more dramatic rather than comedic tone. While Eiffel is capable of being serious at times, I'd argue that his mode of speech is particularly well suited to generating amusing unusual turns of phrase that work well within a more comedic context (e.g. Succulent Rat-Killing Tar, What's Up Doc?, Bach to the Future). As the stakes become higher and the tone becomes less humorous, characters other than Eiffel, who are more often inclined to take things very seriously, are more likely to speak the title phrases.

There's also just the fact that as we get more characters involved in the action on the Hephaestus, the opportunity to speak the title phrase is spread between more characters.

Although Eiffel is by far and away the most common speaker of title phrases in Season 1, in the first three episodes of the whole show, we get all the characters of that season represented in the title phrases. Minkowski speaks the title phrase in the second episode and Hera does in the third episode - but probably quoting a phrase from Hilbert. This gives us a good early indication that, while Eiffel may be the focal point particularly in this season, this is going to be an ensemble show and all of these characters are going to be significant.

Hilbert's only title phrase is in Ep12 Deep Breaths, in the first stage of his mutiny, arguably the only point in the show where he appears to clearly have the upper hand while acting alone.

After the SI-5 are introduced at the beginning of Season 3, we get five Kepler or Jacobi title phrases in a row, which solidifies the SI-5's presence in the show. It also highlights the fact that the SI-5 have taken over the Hephaestus and are now (at least ostensibly) the ones determining the aims of the Hephaestus mission.

In addition, these patterns might be seen to reflect the shift in the show towards a more conflict-focused tone (related but not identical to the movement away from comedy). While Wolf 359 has always been a show full of conflict, the balance of this conflict shifts with the arrival of the SI-5. For the first team, our protagonists are facing a unified team of antagonists. The potential for violence feels higher, as do the stakes. This might explain why, while we only had one antagonist-spoken title phrase across Seasons 1 and 2 (Hilbert in Ep12 - Lovelace doesn't get a title phrase while she's serving as an antagonist), 44.4% of our Season 3 title phrases are first spoken by antagonists.

The only title phrase spoken by Maxwell is spoken by her in a recording that we hear after her death. This isn't even the only posthumous title phrase spoken from the past in Season 4 - we've got one from Commander Zhang of the Tiamat as well. It's an interesting kind of legacy, an interesting way to emphasize the questions characters leave behind after death, recalling similar themes to those explored in Ep46 Boléro.

#Wolf 359 #w359 #There's probably more to say but I'll leave it there #Sorry to end it kind of abruptly #I haven't got an overall conclusion #I don't necessarily think these patterns are conscious decisions by the writers btw #but I think they can be significant anyway #I know I said I was going to put these thoughts in a reblog to the original post #but this is too long for that #and I want to be able to put it in the tag again #Please feel free to add on your thoughts on the spreadsheet or anything #The moment when the episode title phrase is said could be thought of as the 'roll credits' moment #Idk if the significance feels different because they don't say the episode title in introducing the episode #but generally you have to see it when pressing play on the episode so most listeners will probably be vaguely aware of the episode title #the empty man posteth #I'm worried that there might be mistakes in my maths but not enough to check it

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newspecies · 1 year

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HI this is my thousand word ramble about Rocky and his relationship with other characters and my thoughts in general. I'm normal about Lackadaisy I promise.

Calvin

Calvin and Rocky are cousins that grew up together, with Rocky being 5 years older. The mini comics all make it seem like he spent most of his time there and later he says “it was home more than home was.” (Lackadaisy Breakdown). The cousins wrote to each other while Rocky was traveling around and Calvin kept them all inside a box instead of throwing them away. Aunt Nina tells Rocky "[Calvin]'s the only one in all o’ creation who'd follow you" (Lackadaisy Somersault) so they're clearly extremely close. Calvin lies to his mother several times to keep Rocky out of trouble, even when it's about something illegal. Despite his moral compass and the fact that he almost went into law enforcement, he's working with Lackadaisy and regularly shooting at people presumably just because Rocky wants him to (and because Ivy's there... but in the beginning it was for Rocky). They strike me as having more of a sibling relationship than a cousin one due to growing up so close.

Aunt Nina

Nina does not have a very high opinion of Rocky and she makes this very clear. She trusts him not to get Calvin into too much trouble but she doesn't let him stick around when he stops by. He’s under no illusions that he’s welcome at her house (Lackadaisy Somersault) and he tells Ivy that “[his face]’s only abided in small doses” at Nina’s house. He starts telling Ivy there was a small family tragedy and "it had an author... and with already ink-stained hands, i signed my name on it" which means that something bad happened and he either was to blame or took the blame and that is the reason he left Missouri, "so time could dull my fresh reminder face." (Lackadaisy Breakdown). My guess is that this family tragedy had something to do with his mother because his father was alive at least a little bit after he left because he was sending letters and stopped (Lackadaisy Correspondence) his mother is only mentioned once, in Lackadaisy Breakdown, described as “chasing Red Death” Red Death is not a real sickness and its instead from Edgar Allen Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death. This could mean that his mother had some sort of bloody sickness. My guess is tuberculosis. It was one of the biggest causes of death in the early 1900’s and one of its most well known symptoms is coughing up blood. Sorry this is supposed to be about Nina and I kind of went off the rails there. Anyway I don’t think Nina hates Rocky at all; she still does his laundry and lets him visit and lets him drag Calvin around. But she doesn’t trust him and makes sure he knows that.

Mitzi

Some people seem to think Rocky has a crush on Mitzi, and him threatening Wick certainly gives the impression but I heavily disagree and I think he sees her more as a mother figure. He clearly looks up to her and seeks her approval constantly; he goes out while extremely injured and hiding that injury from her (Lackadaisy Deliria) presumably because he realizes that the pig farmers' attack on Lackadaisy was his fault and he really wants to fix it. His behavior towards Wick strikes me more as a child really not wanting a step parent. As the audience, I know that Wick is basically incapable of evil (he has killed once and it was a duck and it still haunts him) and Mitzi is the one taking advantage of their relationship, but from Rocky's perspective Mitzi is just an innocent widow looking for companionship and Wick is a weird rich sleazeball. I honestly don't think Rocky is aware of Mitzi's own sleaziness, and if he is he’s ignoring it to the best of his ability. but Mitzi likes having Rocky around. Every time she's upset over something and Rocky starts joking around she immediately starts smiling more (Lackadaisy Proposition, Lackadaisy Haggersnash). She’s undeniably fond of him, despite his many shenanigans.

Mordecai

Okay this one is a little bit more out there. “But Rotten!” You may argue, “Rocky doesn’t actually know Mordecai! They only interact like once outside the mini comics!” Yes dear reader but consider this: they have so many parallels. They are opposites on the surface; Rocky is silly, Mordecai is serious. But looking closer they have a few things in common. Mainly: TRAINS!!!!!!!!! They both have recurring train motifs and it makes me insane. For Mordecai he met Atlas on a train (Lackadaisy Thaumaturgy), and for Rocky he has a drawing of one on one of the letters he sent to Calvin (Lackadaisy Correspondence) and he said his father worked on the railroad (Lackadaisy Breakdown). In relation to the trains, they both left home at a young age and wrote letters home. They also both seem to have a habit of gaining enemies; when Atlas met Mordecai he was running from people (Lackadaisy Bookkeeper) and Rocky’s… everything makes making enemies extremely easy for him. These two have PARALLELS and I need everyone to know!!!!!

Rocky

This last section is about Rocky himself! First off, to state the obvious: Rocky is extremely impulsive, he doesn’t seem to think about the consequences of his actions whatsoever and it gets him into all sorts of trouble all the time. He’s not oblivious though; in Lackadaisy Posterity he immediately jumps to the conclusion that he ruined something, he just didn’t remember it. Rocky puts on a show of being confident and sure of himself but the moment his walls are torn down in the Posterity and Breakdown pages he’s calling himself a horrible person. He is extremely aware of how other people feel about him; even though his exclamation of “they tolerate me” in Lackadaisy Palaver is framed as a joke, it feels pretty real. A lot of people don’t like Rocky and he knows this. I don’t remember where I was going with this. Just know that I’m obsessed with Rocky and I’m thinking about him always.

In conclusion

#rot.txt #lackadaisy #rocky rickaby #i probably made an extremely embarrassing spelling or grammar mistake somewhere in here. ignore it please?#im so glad im done with this i kept getting distracted and working on this instead of school work #rip my essay for ap lang you kind of suck </3 #aaaanyway. i hope this is slightly comprehensible. im normal about fictional cats i promise. come closer

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the-pale-elfs-love · 3 months

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Head Empty. Only Astarion.

Astarion Sketck.

#started drawing since losing more than half of my vision :( please be kind #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #bg3 astarion #really really wanting to digitalise this but my tav isnt turning out so good :/#sketch #wip #art wip #traditional art #i did trace his face so i could get back into drawing people and coming up with a cartoon design for him #rough draft #still needs a lot of tweaking and fixing the mistakes #ignore the mistakes

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willowser · 10 months

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trying to hide your plagiarism isn’t a good look bestie

okie !! taking this moment, for the first and last time, to say, overall: if you're coming into my inbox to be hateful, it will be deleted outright 😌 i am a grown, adult human being and this is my little space and !! i won't allow anyone to poison it 😌 thank you !!!

to you specifically, anon-dear !! you have come to visit me and left me hateful messages just about every day for going-on three weeks now !! so i will finally acknowledge you publicly and give you the attention you so desire !! 😌

you have yet to supply me with any evidence whatsoever that i've plagiarized, as i asked you to do in my first response, and that proves to me that there is none ! you claim that i locked my blog to delete evidence, but — again, i ask you — what evidence ? if you would be so kind as to give me even a smidgen of an idea, i would be glad to pull it up for you ! bc i didn't, in fact, delete anything while i was private.

again, i offer you the opportunity to message me privately, if this is a real concern of yours ! which i don't believe you will do, but ! i will be waiting ! if you're still insisting that i've stolen the "love island bakugou" concept, then i urge you to understand what plagiarism really is.

you've also called me a "white, racist piece of shit" that "steals from woc", which is hilarious, considering i'm hispanic.

and finally !! this will not continue 😌 please understand that every message you send to my inbox with no other intention than to be hateful and ugly, will only be seen by you and i and it will die there because that's what i've decided 😌 you will not exist here in my lil safe space, because, again, that's what i've decided 😌

genuinely, i wish you the best, and i hope that you will grow from this ! if you would ever like to come into my inbox to talk to me about the things you love or whatever head-canons you have for your favorite 2d men or any other thing that belongs in this place — i would love to have you 🩷✨️

#genuinely i am so sorry for all of you that have to see this #but i want to once and for all say to — anyone: if you're coming here only to be ugly i will not acknowledge you #i willingly gave this person the reaction they wanted ! but it will not happen again #and i'd be glad for anyone to test that theory bc i may be kind and small but i will not be walked over #not in my own home #i want nothing but kindness and sincerity here #and AGAIN: if anyone ever has any concerns about the authenticity of something i've written on — please reach out to me #i an adult human being that is open to discussion and clearing the air and owning up to any mistakes !!!! please believe that !!!!#but i have not intentionally or purposefully plagiarized anyone #and while i dont believe in this anons sincerity — i take these accusations very seriously #✿ ask willow

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guillemelgat · 1 year

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Hey hello I made a thing! As perhaps a few of you know, I have spent the last half a year being completely unhinged about Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin books, and I’ve always been particularly interested in the character Stephen Maturin and his relationship to Catalonia. I saw that there was a lack of stuff about this part of his identity, and, being me, I felt the need to fill it in the only way I could: compiling music and yelling about it for thirty pages. Hence this playlist.

You really don’t need to know anything about these books to listen to this playlist. You also don’t need to know anything about Catalan (I hope). Catalonia and the Catalan Countries in general (including Valencia, the Balearic Islands, and parts of southern France, Aragon, and Sardinia) have a really interesting musical and literary tradition, and I wanted to make that more accessible, so I put together a few songs I liked, translated them, and wrote a bit about each of their significance, including the most important cultural tidbits I could. Some things don’t translate super well, and I hope my Catalan followers will forgive me for trying to adapt them more for English-speaking audiences than perhaps would be preferable; I usually don’t choose to do that, but in this case I wanted to open the door, and not to intimidate people.

Now that that’s out of the way, here is a link to the PDF of the liner notes (graphic design is my passion, as they say): https://drive.google.com/file/d/1MUpRM84W8aypznEIrt0eA1jG5OxaRZvz/view?usp=sharing

Under the cut I’ve included the ephimera and unnecessary commentary that you know and love, feel free to read or ignore it as you will

These roughly follow the order of the songs and are varying levels of seriousness

If you like "Sant Joan, feu-lo ben gran" then I'd highly recommend listening to the whole Tornaveus album. I almost included the “Stabat Mater de Sudanell” and the “Goigs de Sant Julià de Lòria”, which are both from western Catalonia, and they also have more cançons de pandero, in perhaps a slightly more traditional style. A lot of the other songs have interesting cultural commentary in them, especially on feminist topics, and they’re very well-researched because literally one of the members of the group is basically the ethnomusicologist of Catalan music at the moment. Anyways, if people would like the liner notes perhaps next time I’m home I’ll scan them, they’re in Catalan and English and very well-written. Also note the legendary Lluís Llach song which has been turned into a polyphonic piece lol (and I did not include the “Goigs de la Nostra Senyora de la Llibertat” but tbh that might have been a mistake on my part) (Blorbo side note that I think this fits Stephen’s childhood very well which is mostly why I chose it)

“L’Hereu Riera” is one of my favorite Catalan folk songs I love it so much and if you want to hear the Catalan version (as opposed to the Valencian one included here) and see the dance and also see a cobla, I am including a link to this version by Germà Negre which is tragically not on Spotify. I chose the Valencian one because (1) Al Tall and (2) I think it fits The Blorbo better (specifically I was thinking of his fiancée who dies before Book One who idk if anyone ever remembers shdjfhskf). That being said, Stephen would probably know the Catalan one (and almost certainly not the Valencian one). Also, on a memey-er note, Hereu Riera bisexual king and literal icon <3 love how he has to remind his girlfriend on her deathbed that actually he'd technically be interested in both her sisters AND her brothers if he wasn't so into her that he never wanted to marry anyone else

I literally did put in Roger Mas just so there would be at least one person with a Lleidan accent, #diversity win

Many points about the “Cançó de pandero de l’Urgell” and “Jo no canto per la veu” so here we go:

I put these two songs in mostly because I got very obsessed with the cançó de pandero from Alcarràs (which is a great movie that came out last year about a farming family in a village near Lleida that is winning all the awards atm). Anyways, since Carla Simón has been too busy winning things to put up the gotdam soundtrack, I did a bit of digging and it turns out that it was written for the movie?? By her brother??? It's excellent and very anticapitalist and you can listen to it here and see the trailer for Alcarràs all in one! (Includes English subtitles)

The original “Canto per un amic meu que per mi daria la vida” is probably from a Valencian cant de batre, although I could not get any confirmation on that. But regardless everyone should listen to Pep Botifarra's version of it, which I would literally marry if it had a physical form it’s so so good. (I posted it here back in ye olden days but it's been long enough I think I can post it again)

Valencian music side note because I can’t stop myself: the second pair of verses in the "Cançó de pandero de l'Urgell" (starting with “vos esteu ben acotxada…”) are sung by Miquel Gil, who is a very famous Valencian traditional singer, anyways you should listen to this version of him singing “Del Sud” by Obrint Pas (you want to go down a Valencian music rabbit hole so so bad)

I firmly believe that Stephen would canonically be obsessed with Ausiàs March, and the fact that he has not yet recited any of his poems is Patrick O’Brian’s biggest failing in my eyes. Anyways I have more thoughts but I’m saving them for other posts shdfjsd

If you read this before listening to the playlist please just listen to "El testament d'Amèlia" and follow along with the lyrics in real time before reading the blurb, it's such a good experience to let that song hit you as it comes. I won't say more than that but you'll get it when you get it. (Also obligatory listen to Marala they're so good <3)

From the Càntut album, I also quite like the songs "El pomeró" and "El divino vull cantar", and Càntut in general is an incredible resource, it's a database of folk song field recordings from northeastern Catalonia.

Brief pause to scream about the fact that Maria Arnal and Marcel Bagés WERE ON NPR??? AND NO ONE TOLD ME???? Anyways link in the sources section, also they're great and you should listen to their whole discography

As the #1 Roba Estesa stan blog on Tumblr, listen to Roba Estesa. And Ebri Knight. And El Diluvi.

I chose this version of "La presó de Lleida" because I like it but here's a more traditional one sung by Joan Manel Serrat, another Catalan legend. Here's another one in Catalan rumba style with Sílvia Pérez Cruz singing, the sound is a bit wonky but it's also one of my favorites. The Valencian version of this song is called "La presó de Tibi" and El Diluvi have done a very explicitly anti-monarchical rendition of it (the Balearic one is "La presó de Nàpols").

I'm sorry for never putting the Sílvia Pérez Cruz version of "Corrandes d'exili" but if you want it here it is. Also note that the statue of the Virgin in the poem is a reference to the Virgin of Montserrat, it literally all goes back to her shfjkshdf (also apologies for being very bad at Christianity and Catholicism, if I mistranslated things let me know)

HOO BOY SARDANA TIME

Okay so I have a whole essay to deliver on this that I've been holding inside for the past like two months or so, I apologize in advance for my excessive pedantry on the topic.

In Master and Commander, Stephen delivers this speech:

"‘Then I must tell you that on Sunday mornings it is the custom, in that country, for people of all ages and conditions to dance, on coming out of church: so I was dancing with Ramon Mateu i Cadafalch in the square before the cathedral church of Tarragona, where I had gone to hear the Palestrina Missa Brevis. The dance is a particular dance, a round called the sardana.’"

I hate to be a hater but it is very, very unlikely that anyone would have been dancing a sardana as far south as Tarragona in this time period. The sardana as the symbol of equality and brotherhood emerged in the Renaixença and would not yet have been a thing; Stephen could well have heard sardanas in Ullastret, but they would have been a more typical folk dance, and not anything like the way they're described in the book. It's very ironic, then, that they've become THE Catalan music style for Aubreyad readers, but hopefully this playlist can change that a bit :)

(also sorry for being a sardana-hater on main, someone bring me to dance a sardana and maybe I'll feel better)

Songs that didn't make the cut: La cançó del lladre, Rossinyol que vas a França, La balanguera, La gavina - I'm always happy for more recs!

Originally, this list was also going to include songs in Irish; I quickly realized that I was in over my head with that one, but the working list of songs is here (may be subject to changes so save songs elsewhere if you like them!). Also I would add "Fé Bhláth" by Imelda May and Kíla if it was on Spotify but alas it is not; and "Amhrán na Leabhar" which I have not had time to add but was kindly recommended by someone. I'd love it if someone was interested in actually doing a proper playlist for Irish though—it's a gap in my knowledge that I'd love to start filling.

Aaaaaaand that's a wrap. I hope. Final comment to say thank you to everyone who voted in the cover image poll, turns out you all won :) (Pirineus did win and take the cover of the liner notes though)

#my masterpiece is done i have peaked i'm retiring now #jkjk but i've been working on this since like. november #so it is kind of insane that's it's finally done #please notify me of any mistakes or corrections <3 #and hopefully this is enjoyable for you all!#it's a little funky at times but i think it works???#it's not really a playlist. it's more like one of those weird compilation albums that i definitely didn't consume too many of as a child #did kind of want this to show up in the aubreyad tag but i wanted links more so rip :// anyways here goes nothing #aubreyad #catalan #catalan:general #catalan:music #catalan:reference #catalan:culture #general:music #general:reference #general:culture #there'd better not be any typos or i'm fighting someone

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