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wannabespacesmuggler · 2 months ago

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L.H. | When You Call My Name

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: Decades after the events of 1973, Logan finds himself drowning yet again at the bottom of the Potomac River. Luckily, you're there to help pull him out of his nightmare.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings: depictions of drowning, mentions of death, discussion of nightmares, Logan's claws make an appearance, mentions of religious trauma and biblical imagery, mentions of abuse (it's on sight when I see you, William Stryker), mentions of self-deprecating thoughts, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, not really a warning but set after the events of Days of Future Past, loosely based on "Like a Prayer" by Madonna, Logan's POV, gender-neutral reader

Word Count: 2.4K

Author’s Note: So this one got away from me and my own religious trauma may have taken over a tad bit �� sorry in advance (If you find comfort and solace in religion, more power to you. This is simply written from my own perspective and lived experience.) This came to me while listening to "Like a Prayer" by Madonna for the thousandth time since seeing Deadpool and Wolverine. Intended this to be shorter, but then I got possessed by some fanfic phantom and this was created. Super proud of the finished product though — hope you all enjoy.

As Logan’s eyes shoot open, he’s only got one thought running through his mind: his lungs are on fire. He attempts to move but is met with a sudden searing white pain shooting through his veins. His eyes, still adjusting to the eerie darkness surrounding him, search for the source of his injury. Panic rises in Logan’s chest as his gaze follows the metallic glint of rebar weaving through his body. He attempts to draw in a shaky breath, and his chest burns as water fills his lungs.

No.

It can’t be.

He’s drowning at the bottom of the Potomac River.

Logan wants to scream out of frustration, but it’s impossible. He has no more air left in his lungs, and he has no hope of reaching the surface to take a much-needed deep breath. Even if he could endure the agony caused by his body’s movements, the weight of the rebar Erik impaled him with is pinning him to the riverbed. He’s going to die here.

Cold. Alone. Suffering.

And yet, a sudden tranquility washes over his body and mind as he realizes that maybe he can finally rest in peace. He knows he placed his trust in the right people — somehow, Charles and Hank will find a way to stop Erik, and finally, the world will see that not all mutants need to be feared. He did his part — he brought everyone back together against all odds.

Logan knew the risks before Kitty sent him back in time, but there was no other choice. Because he also knew what the future would hold if he did nothing — he’d watch the sentinels eviscerate the last of his friends until he was the only one left. And that’s not a future he can live with. But what he can live with is no one remembering his life before 1973 as long as they’re safe — as long as you’re safe.

His body relaxes at the thought. He may not have a future with you in this new timeline, but knowing you’ll have the life you’ve always dreamed of puts Logan’s mind at ease. You’ll finally be able to live a peaceful life teaching at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters instead of being forced to play the part of a loyal soldier. Although Logan is deeply saddened by the fact he won’t be a part of this new life, he has more than enough memories of you from his timeline to keep him content in the afterlife.

Logan’s eyes flutter closed as he begins to feel himself slipping into unconsciousness. His regenerative abilities may be able to keep the rebar from killing him, but it cannot save him from asphyxiation. But before he can completely drift off, something grabs his body, pulling him towards the surface. Once free from the river’s grasp, he begins coughing up water. His body desperately gasps for air, and it feels like his lungs cannot get enough oxygen.

Logan finds the strength to open his eyes and takes in his surroundings. It’s bright — too bright. He blinks several times to adjust his vision to this sudden change. His attention gets drawn to the sound of several men talking in hushed voices. And as he looks up at his rescuers, the panic in his chest starts growing like a wildfire through his body. Logan might have let out a dry laugh at the sight if he wasn't in excruciating pain. Because instead of being met with any type of salvation, Logan seems to have been cursed with eternal damnation, no matter the timeline, in the form of William Stryker. Some things never change.

He’s younger than when Logan met him in his timeline, but as Stryker smiles down at him, Logan knows this is the same man — the same sick, twisted man he knows all too well. Panic turns into terror as he realizes what he’s about to endure. Agonizing years of torture and torment that he’ll be burdened to forget. He can’t do this again. Not after knowing a life full of not only hardship and loss but also friendship, laughter, and love. He can’t let Stryker take that from him — all those years of happiness. He can’t let him take you.

Stryker opens his mouth to speak, but instead of his condescending tone, Logan hears your voice call his name. Logan’s brow furrows at the sound. Maybe his extended lack of oxygen caused some sort of brain damage. But then he hears it again — a voice he’d recognize in any timeline. Your voice.

And suddenly, it hits him. This isn’t happening. There’s no river, no pain, no Stryker. This is a memory — a nightmare.

His eyes snap open, and his body jolts forward until he’s sitting up. He coughs hoarsely, as if his body is still trying to expel imaginary water, as he attempts to catch his breath. A layer of sweat has formed over his toned body, and his muscles flex as he rolls his shoulders back. He shakes his head roughly, trying to get a grip on reality.

And then you say his name again.

His head snaps up, and he looks at you with wild eyes. You’re standing across the room — arms wrapped around yourself tightly as you watch him worriedly. You take a hesitant step toward him. Logan’s brow furrows at your unsureness, concerned about what he might have done in his sleep. But then he follows your gaze to his extended metal claws, and your hesitancy becomes understandable. This isn’t the first time Logan’s claws have come out in the middle of the night. His eyes nervously scan over your body for any injuries he may have inflicted as he retracts his claws.

“Did I hurt you?”

You immediately cross the room as he speaks. Logan watches as you climb onto the bed and sit crisscross before him between his legs. You gently take both of his hands in yours and pull them onto your lap — the hesitancy long gone in your actions.

“No, Logan. I’m okay.”

He lets out a relieved sigh as he leans forward until his forehead meets yours. He takes a moment to simply relish in the warmth of your touch. Logan relaxes his tense shoulders and melts further into you as you draw lazy circles into the palm of his hand.

“Where’d you go?”

You pull away slightly to meet his eyes, and his breath hitches. Regardless of how many lifetimes he spends by your side, he’ll never get used to the fondness in your gaze as you look up at him. He remembers waking up in this timeline, thinking he actually did drown at the bottom of the Potomac River. Because this had to be heaven: having you tucked neatly into his chest, legs tangled up with his, steady breaths fanning across his neck. But as he felt you stir in your sleep, arms tightening slightly around his waist, he realized that this was real. He’d come to terms with his own death because at least his two hundred years spent suffering on this earth would mean something. But then he woke up from that nightmare, and he’s spent every day since then wondering when he’d inevitably be pulled out of this dream — waiting for history to repeat itself yet again. But he’s still here — and so are you.

“D.C., 1973.”

You hum quietly before bringing his hand up to your mouth and placing a tender kiss to his palm. Logan waits for you to ask another question about his nightmare, but you silently return to tracing circles into the palm you just kissed. He shouldn’t be surprised; you know him better than anyone by now — better than he knows himself. You know not to push him. And he appreciates it more than you’ll ever know. After years of having his autonomy stripped away, you wait for him to come to you — allow him to open up at his own pace. Soothe him whenever he feels that he is sliding backward instead of moving forward. Healing isn’t linear. This has become your mantra for him on the nights when he’s sure that he’s slipping back into the past — when he longs for the familiarity of his vices and self-destructive tendencies. And you sit next to him with relentless patience through the highs and lows as he continues to navigate and grieve the fifty years he lost.

He’s come a long way since he first woke up. And he still has a ways to go before he can say that he’s processed everything he’s lost. Truth be told, he’s not sure he’ll ever truly heal entirely from his past. But you tell Logan that it doesn’t matter. Every time he begins to think that he’s too damaged — too broken — you reassure him that you love him as is. But he still tries to piece himself back together, for your sake. Tries to open up — to show you that he trusts you more than anyone he’s known during his two hundred years across two separate timelines. And so he continues, letting you into the depths of his tortured mind.

“I was drowning. Again. And it all felt so real. I couldn’t breathe, and I was sure I was slipping into the darkness, but then Stryker was there…”

As Logan trails off, he notices how your body tenses at the mention of Stryker’s name. Your hands tighten ever so slightly around his, and Logan lovingly sweeps his thumb over your knuckles. He knows that name holds as much weight to you as it does to him. He knows about the years of abuse you endured at the hands of William Stryker. He vividly remembers when you confided in him. After months of running into each other in the middle of the night, Logan found you silently crying with your back pressed against the railing of your favorite balcony in the mansion. Without a second thought, he slid down next to you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. He didn’t know you — not like he does now. You’d recounted how you first met on Three Mile Island when Scott and Jean brought him to the mansion. And he was thankful for the small piece of his past that you gave back to him. But under the dim light of the night sky, you revealed precisely what you endured during your years of captivity at Stryker’s facility. And that night, Logan made it his life’s mission to get revenge against the man. Not for his sake. No — for you. He would tear Stryker apart limb from limb for what he had done to you.

“You aren’t there. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Although the words are directed towards him, he knows you’re equally trying to convince yourself of that fact. He knows that even though William Stryker is long dead — after Logan made good on his promise to you — he still haunts you. Unlike Logan, your trauma does manifest in the form of nightmares but insomnia. He thinks maybe this is why the two of you work. After years of feeling alone in this world, Logan finally found someone who understands him and what he’s been through. Although your torment isn’t identical, the similarity in your stories bonded the two of you together. You help him piece together the shared fragments of your past as you heal alongside him.

“I know, you pulled me out.”

Your brow furrows at his confession. He lets go of your hands and gently holds your face. Your face flushes as he openly admires you. The faint light of the single side table lamp that Logan had left on softens your features, making you look damn near angelic. Logan isn’t a religious man, but his mother was. He was a sickly child before his mutation restored his body. His mother would often sit by his bedside with a bible in hand. And on the nights when he wasn’t delirious from his fever, he would listen to his mother read to him. One verse always stood out to him: “God is faithful, and He will not let you be tested beyond your strength but with your testing He will also provide the way out so that you may be able to endure it.” She meant for the words to comfort him, but the words only angered him.

He remembers finding himself down on his knees multiple times during his years as Stryker’s mindless, faithful soldier. Praying to that same God that his mother once trusted to save her baby boy from the illness slowly degrading his frail body. He begged Him for salvation — to be given the way out that was promised in the bible verse his mother once recited. But instead of an answer, Logan was met with silence. So if the years of physical and psychological abuse he endured were nothing but a test from the Lord above to prove his faithfulness, then that’s no God worth following.

“I heard you call my name, and it brought me back home.”

God never did anything for him. He didn’t bother protecting the innocence of a broken, misguided child. He refused to provide respite from the harshness of humanity. He never offered him any form of help or guidance during his times of greatest need — but you did. Without even knowing, you came into his life like an answered prayer.

Seemingly at a loss for words due to the intensity of his gaze, you grab onto the front of Logan’s t-shirt and pull him into a tight embrace. Your hands slide under the white fabric and slide across the contours of his back. He melts into your touch — finding relief in the direct contact of your skin on his. He’s never considered himself desirable, but you hold him like he’s something to be coveted. And then you murmur his name again. It’s barely a whisper, but the sound rings in his ears because your voice is heaven-sent.

“You’re a goddamn saint, you know that?”

A melodic laugh escapes your lips as you shake your head at his words. You pull away from him slightly and tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

“I’m nothing special, Logan.”

You don’t mean it in a self-deprecating way. Logan knows that — knows that you simply see yourself as ordinary. But you couldn’t be more wrong. Because you might not actually be a saint or an angel, but you are the only person in two hundred years who’s managed to restore his faith in what this world has to offer.

“Well. You’re special to me, sweetheart.”

#logan howlett #james logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett fanfiction #hugh jackman #x men #x men fanfiction #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine x reader #wolverine x deadpool #marvel #marvel fanfiction

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daretoassume · 1 month ago

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the self-destructive nature of resentment

you are poisoning nobody but yourself with your resentment. sure, you want to make them feel your anger, your rage, make them see why you are right, and they are wrong. you want them to know your worth. but the truth is, you are only hurting yourself. do you love yourself enough to let go of that resentment? do you love yourself enough to allow yourself to be at peace? do you love yourself enough to not get revenge?

you cannot really make other people understand something if they are closed to the notion of your thoughts and ideas. what is the point of wanting to be right when they cannot see your perspective at all? what is the point of proving yourself when all they care about is themselves? what is the point of revenge when it only keeps you trapped in a cycle of bitterness?

i have resented people before for years, wanting to show them that they are wrong and that i wanted them to know my worth. but i realized that, for them, it is probably nothing; i have been carrying the burden of anger and resentment, and they don't even care about it. so are you actually hurting them or yourself? are you actually giving yourself peace by hating them so much?

"for thinking like a victim only perpetuates victimization energy" ♱ bashar (darryl anka)

remember that if a person can influence your emotions, you are enslaved by them. imagine seeing someone you hate, and their presence has so much power to ruin your day. is it really okay for you that they have the power to control you like that? why would you willingly give someone else the remote to push your buttons? is that really how you want to live? letting someone else pull the strings while you react? their presence should not dictate your emotional state. you are putting them too much on a pedestal.

why allow someone to have such a high place in your mind when they don't add value to your life?

i didn't say don't get angry at all. i think anger is healthy. whatever it is that is pushing your buttons teaches you patience, teaches you what you need to heal from, and teaches you that you need to set boundaries. but it is only healthy if you let it out in a constructive way, without hurting anyone, including yourself. instead of letting it consume you, use that energy to reflect, grow, and take control of your own emotions.

"do not dwell on the imperfection of yourself or others. to do so is to impress the subconscious with these limitations." ♱ feeling is the secret, neville goddard

you could tell a trusted friend, journal your thoughts, cry it out, scream into a pillow, draw or paint, move your body through dance or exercise, take a walk, meditate, or practice breathwork. you could do all of them or find out what works for you. acknowledging these emotions can clarify what truly bothers you, allowing you to understand why you are triggered and what the reason is.

reflect on your anger and resentment towards others and acknowledge the fact that it will do nothing but harm you more than it harms the other person, so just loosen the grip. don't do that to yourself. holding onto resentment will only hurt nobody but you in the long run.

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writers-potion · 5 months ago

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Let's Talk About POV for Dark Fiction.

Deep POV

Deep POV is like real life - we only know the perspective of one person. These POVs have the effect of drawing the reader in so deep that they forget they're only reading words on the page.

You can write a "deep POV" in first, third or even second person, as long as the narrative is concentrated (and limited) to the mind and emotions of a character.

For most dark, horror-like stories, deep POV is the best choice.

However, there are some drawbacks:

You won't be able to describe important events that happen outside of the POV character's sight - you'll have to use phone calls, television news, or telepathy.

You cannot directly show what the MC looks like unless you have their friend comment on it.

When the POV character dies, the story is over.

To convey what other characters feel, you need to rely on dialogue and body language.

Here are some tricks to engage the readers:

Don't state that the character saw/heard/thought/felt something. Just describe what the experience is like.

Show how the weather and the temperature affect the POV character.

Shows how emotion affects the POV character's body.

Show how emotion affects the POV character's body - especially fear in all its forms (anxiety, terror, panic, shock, etc.)

Serial POV

Alternatively, you can use more than on character's POV, one after the other. Short stories would use this less often, but if your story is long and your MC dies in the middle, you'd want to use this format.

Serial POV doesn't give the same intense experience, but the flexibility in the narrative is well worth it.

Omniscient POV

This is where you would drop into a character's head for one paragraph, then jump into another.

To make this work, stay in one character's head for a short time, but avoid making mid-para POV switches. Insert at least one POV neutral sentence before you enter the next character's head.

Other POV Styles to consider!

Cinematic POV: This is like a video camera - it sees everything, but only from the outside, not inside anyone's head.

Fly-On-The-Wall POV: Here, the POV is a person but somehow not involved in the action and has no stake in the outcome.

Detached POV: This is a dry, factual reporting style, such as a newspaper article or official report. Horror stories narrated in this manner can be chilling to read.

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fipindustries · 7 months ago

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i already mentioned in the past that a friend of mine trained an AI on my drawings so that it could replicate my artstyle, a fun thing is that it fed it a bunch of drawings i made of myself so most of the things it creates look like self portraits i could have done

other just look like random cool guys i could have come up with

(i fucking love the guy with short hair and lipstick, he looks fucking sick, i am 100% using that design)

first of all, i cannot begin to descrive how mindfucky and trippy is to see drawing that *could have been done by me* but werent. every time i see them i have to catch my self for a few seconds wondering "wait, did i do these and forgot????"

second, because i didnt do these they are not worn on my eyes like a drawing i would have made, these are fresh images to my brain. i dont have a memory of having done every line and curve and having observed it a million times as i was doing them, thus the illusion of life is a lot more stronger for me.

so with all this is mind, this little excercise is allowing me to do something i always craved for but that i could never get. to see my own art from an outsider's perspective. to be able to appreciate my work from the point of view of someone else. how does my drawings look to others. i can do that now with these.

and let me tell you, not to sound too conceited but, damn, i really like what i see. i can now see what everyone else sees in my artstyle, its fun! its dinamic! its really expressive in a way i never noticed! and yes, the noses! oh my god the noses! and the way the lips curl and tighten.

on top of that, as i said, a lot of the overfitting in the model is directed towards self portraits that i made of myself, so the AI will tend to use many of the faces and features i use to depict myself. now you have to understand i identify quite strongly with my own drawings. i said often that i see more of my self in my drawings than i do in a mirror.

with this in mind its also super trippy that my friend basically has a fip generator.

every time i see things like this i cant help but go "OMG, THATS ME! THAT IS ME!"

(this final piece was actually done by me, lol)

so yeah, this has been all very illuminating

#we do a lot of testing with my friend #i feel there is a lot more holistic understanding you can get out of how these AI work #when you have the artist they were trained on dissecting exactly what aspects of their style it incorporated and how its using them #truly fascinating stuff #AI #AI art

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tj-dragonblade · 14 days ago

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[Bingo Ficlet] Til Death Do Us Part

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: T Word Count: 1463 Tags: vampire AU, vampire Dream, Hob is still immortal, vampiric angst, talk of blood death and sex, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort

Notes: This covers:

@dreamlingbingo Square B1 Hurt/Comfort plus adoptable prompt Forehead Kisses

@monsterfucktoberbingo square Vampire

@mr-sadman's All Hallow's Sadman mini-event, 10/31 prompt Monster

Summary: Dream laments his vampiric nature. Hob offers reassurance, patiently, for the thousandth time

On AO3

~ "I am a monster," Dream is murmuring, over and over, the first thing Hob hears as consciousness returns—that beautiful velvety sonorous voice in the same lament it has been voicing for decades. He can feel Dream's arms around him, cradling him close against Dream's narrow chest and beneath his pointy chin, rocking him gently back and forth. It's comforting, familiar, and Hob sighs happily, as soon as he has the faculties and bodily control for it.

"Hob!" Dream loosens his hold enough to (presumably) look down into his face at the sound; Hob's eyes aren't quite working yet. But he can manage a smile, and so he does, and then Dream's lips are pressed to his forehead in a fervent kiss, Dream's arms crushing him tightly. "Hob, my Hob, I'm so sorry—"

Silly Dream, Hob thinks, fondly. Nothing to be sorry about.

And he'll tell him so, again, as soon he's got enough life back in him to speak.

He can feel the spark and rush returning, little by little, blood replenishing itself in his empty veins; soon enough he'll be right as rain again.

"I'm sorry," Dream murmurs once more, and his tender kiss in Hob's hair holds not the slightest hint of fang.

Seven hundred years ago, Hob unknowingly challenged Death to a game of chance and won. She'd been a great sport about it and honored his winnings, promised she'd never take him until he asked to go.

Fifty-eight years ago, he'd stumbled across a half-feral vampire in the woods and fallen in love. Died a couple of times first, which complicated the process a bit, but obviously it'd all worked out in the end.

Most things did, for Hob Gadling.

"'M fine, duck, jus' fine," Hob manages, several moments later. "No need t'worry, see?"

"I cannot help but worry," Dream returns, and his voice is thick with unshed tears. "I drained you. No matter how many times you come back, it is traumatic to surface from a damned blood haze—a failing I should be well able to control by now—to find my lover dead by my own fangs."

"Understandable." Hob nuzzles his face weakly against Dream's throat. They're both still naked, he can tell now; Dream is…sitting cross-legged in their bed, cradling Hob against him. "But it's very nice to come back to life in your arms like this."

"You would find the optimism in even this." Dream kisses his forehead again and sniffles. "But the fact remains, had you not bound yourself to a monster with abhorrent appetites, you would not be subjected to repeatedly dying—"

"Nine times in fifty-eight years is hardly 'repeatedly'."

"Hob—"

"Eight if you don't count the night we met, since we weren't together yet."

"I have drained you. To death. Nine times."

"And yet I'm here, love, cozy in your arms and having this very familiar peculiar conversation. No harm done. Much opposite-of-harm achieved."

"It does not feel like 'no harm' when your body goes lifeless in my arms, Hob."

Hob's been sparring in this particular argument for a very long time now; perhaps it's time to try a different tactic. "Can I tell you a secret, love? One that might change your perspective a little?" He grins, a little sheepishly. "Might also make you think far less of me, but that's a chance I'm willing to take."

Dream scoffs. "I cannot imagine anything you could tell me that would lower my esteem for you."

"Well. Alright then." Hob coughs, draws a great breath. "It is weirdly enjoyable, to die with your teeth in my throat and your cock in my arse. An orgasm on the brink of expiring, the 'little death' become the big one? There's nothing quite like it."

Dream blinks at him.

"Not saying I wanna do it all the time, mind. It is bloody strange and whatever I might theoretically get out of it is not worth the distress it causes you. But just. It happens when several of your deepest instincts converge, and sometimes you still can't hold back. That's okay. I'm a kinky fucker, as it turns out, and I realized the first time—the first time after we got together I mean—that I could enjoy it. But I could also see how hard it is on you, so I wasn't going to make a thing out of it. But maybe, if it helps you to know, I'm—not getting off on it, I wouldn't go that far, but I'm not suffering. At all. You're neither hurting nor harming me."

Dream, as usual, seems not to absorb the point Hob was trying to make. "But Hob. I am killing you, again and again, because I am a monster whose appetites cannot be controlled—"

Hob stops him with two clumsy-but-gentle fingers pressed to his lips, then slides his hand to cup the side of Dream's face. "My dearest, sweetest Dream. We've been over this, love. You cannot kill me, not in any way that matters. I always come back. Haven't I proven it, these past fifty years?"

Dream makes a sound not unlike a sob, presses into Hob's hand on his cheek.

Hob manages to exert enough pressure to tilt Dream's face down to look him in the eye. "This 'monster' business," he says, so gently. "Utter crap." He leans up to kiss Dream's forehead softly. "You found yourself the only human you can drain without killing and you've not taken anyone else for decades."

"Hob—"

"And when I met you, you were starving yourself on animal blood, living half wild in the forest so as not to tempt yourself on human blood. Centuries without, you'd gone. You're not a monster, darling, you're a person with highly specific dietary needs and a vigilant conscience about how your food is sourced."

Hob was hoping for a laugh, but Dream only sighs, one corner of his mouth ticking down. "I drained you when you found me, Hob. My hard-won self-restraint was for naught as soon as a human crossed my path."

"Because the animal-only route was obviously not enough for you. You were clearly starving, love. And again. You found a human you can feed from without harming, even if you do drain me. I'm still here."

"I killed you four times in the first eight years we were together—"

"And only five times in the fifty years following, because you worked so hard to establish control and to feed ethically and better yourself". Hob pulls himself up, still weak but improving with each passing moment; he gently disentangles himself from Dream's embrace to sit facing him. He takes both of Dream's pale long-fingered hands in his own. "I know you hate the need. I know you hate the instincts that that bastard left in you. But Dream. My love. You are so much more than that and just because you're not where you want to be yet? Doesn't mean you're never going to get there." He squeezes Dream's hands, ducks his face to make sure he's got eye contact. "Please, love, give yourself a little grace. You've come so far, I'm so proud of you, and I'm with you all the way. No matter what. We'll get you there."

Dream holds his gaze a long moment, eyes watery, and finally leans forward to rest his forehead against Hob's collarbone, puts his arms around Hob again and clings to the backs of his shoulders. He heaves a great shuddering breath, wet and trembling, and a tear drips onto Hob's naked chest. "I am weary of the struggle," he says, voice thick. "I wish to be. Stronger. Now."

"I know." Hob caresses his cheek, moves him just enough to kiss his forehead again and pulls him close to tuck him back against his own chest. "But I can see how far you've come already. And I promise, we're moving ever forward. We'll get there, never mind any setbacks."

Dream nuzzles under his chin, brushes his lips so gently over the healed wound where his teeth had sunk into Hob's throat earlier this evening. "I am sorry for hurting you," he says softly.

"Again. Neither hurting nor harming me." Hob runs gentle hands up and down Dream's spine. "I do kind of enjoy it." It still feels weird to admit it aloud.

"You are a peculiar human, Hob Gadling." Dream kisses the healed bite mark again, sighs, and the smallest bit of tension falls out of his spine. "You are also far too kind, too forgiving of me." He drops one last kiss to Hob's throat. "But I fear who I would be without you."

Hob grins. "Lucky then you'll never be without me, hmm?"

Dream laughs, a short watery little bark, and burrows comfortably closer against Hob's hairy chest.

= Started: 10/28/24 Drafted: 10/30/24 Posted: 10/31/24

And that's a blackout! 🎉 Master post to come...later.

#TJs Fics #Sandman #Dreamling #MonsterFucktober Bingo #All Hallows Sadman 2024

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godbirdart · 1 year ago

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Looking at your recent commissions, those backgrounds are soo pretty!! Do you have any tips for backgrounds? I always struggle with them :>

aAA many many thanks!!

backgrounds can absolutely be a struggle but they don't have to be! they just require a little more creative planning~!

whether it be a commission or a personal drawing, if I'm building an elaborate art piece i focus on establishing the background First.

the background is the stage for your character! planning the background first will make it easier to tailor the character's actions and how they interact with the environment around them.

planning the background first can be the difference between your character standing awkwardly front and center with the setting going on behind them, or actually participating in their environment.

if i'm super stumped for background ideas, i browse stock image sites to get inspiration. sometimes it helps to doodle on an image to generate some ideas - kinda like you're playing with JPEGs like dolls.

that said - while i'm pinpointing WHAT i want to draw, i keep the ideas loose. i don't want to focus on the itty-bitty details until i've got the overall aesthetic and layout in mind, as i might get inspired to add something in later!

THUMBNAILING

if you're planning a big piece it can be helpful to break it down into something bite-sized before you go all in and start lining or painting. these are "thumbnails" - fast little sketches that establish the scene in a way that doesn't consume a lot of time or effort. it's also great as a little perspective exercise as a treat.

here i decided i want to draw a character walking home in a back alley street. with these photo references in mind, i can plan a layout and how the character will act in the scene. is this a candid shot? are they posing cutely? are they looking down at us in a tense way? there are many ideas to be had!

after you've chosen the layout / vibe for your idea, you can scale up your thumbnail to your preferred canvas size and start fleshing out the details. be sure to keep referring to your reference images to get additional ideas, such as storefronts, items, props etc!

3D MODELS

If you're trying to create a unique environment that photo references simply cannot help you visualize, 3D models exist! This gives you that ability to rotate / scale things for better visualization. Clip Studio has a vast catalogue of 3D models to download For Free that you can fiddle around with. i know there are many 3D builder sites out there as well, though i've never made use of them so i'm afraid i cannot recommend any off the top of my head. hell, you can even use the Sims game to design a setting and go from there!

also if anyone is going to come into my house and say 3D models are cheating: they are not. using a 3D model to better grasp an angle or get a better idea for perspective is not cheating. using 3D models to help plan the environment in your art is not cheating. they are no different than brushes; these are tools made to HELP YOU. use them!

PERSPECTIVE

perspective and angles can make a HUGE difference in the art piece. there's nothing wrong with static long shots! if that's what you want to draw, do it!! there's no right and wrong here!

but if you're finding your work to be a little robotic and stiff, slap an angle in there. consider an overhead view. these same techniques are applied to photography and film! nothing wrong with wide shots, but every once in a while it can help to throw in a dutch angle.

if there is one note i'd like to leave off on, it's that your backgrounds do not have to be 100% accurate-to-life to be Good. unless realism is something you're really striving for in your style, don't feel compelled to nitpick every brick and leaf in your art. us artists can tend to over-prune our work until our art looks a little bare and soulless. flaws can give your work character, and that's often a lot more appealing than how accurate the scale ratio between background building A and building B are [again, unless you WANT to go for that realistic look then you can fuss over those details all you like].

i hope this helped a little! MY APOLOGIES FOR MAKING IT SO LONG AH

#art advice #art tutorials #godbirdart #long post

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ssplague · 9 months ago

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Benighted Beloved

Prologue

Dragon King Bakugou x Reader

Haven’t decided on the title yet, didn’t want to take even more time to get this out.

Warnings ⚠️ BRIEF Mentions of attempted assault, sex trafficking, & murder.

As the last of the moon’s ethereal, silver light disappears from the skies, a harsh wind begins to blow. This kingdom’s inhabitants are hidden away within the confines of their homes. The silence is daunting as the wind begins to howl through the previously bustling capital streets.

Within the dimly lit castle a woman stares through the her window before shutting the drapes tight.

The atmosphere within the fortress is riddled with tension; Murmurings of prayers can be heard from various servants pausing their duties as they move about. Her bosom heaves rapidly from panting breaths, she fights in vain. Stubborn to prevent the vision attempting to shine through, ignoring the now blurry edges of her eye sight. Ebony hair is sticking to her sweaty face, she’s only standing on shaky legs from leaning against the edge of her vanity table.The door of her bedroom swings open and immediately slams shut. A man has come to see her, he’s briskly crossing the room, before coming to a stop at her side.

“What ails you?” The tired man asks, helping the woman stand upright by allowing her to hold his arm. Continuing to assist, despite her uncoordinated shuffling to sit on her bed. “If you are to be given a prophetic message, why fight it? Her majesty wishes to know what you have seen”. The woman wraps her arms around her middle, sharp nails nicking at her flesh as she draws in a shaking breath, “This night is tainted by darkness, the goddess is unable to grant us her full protection while her light is repressed…if my body will hold out until the darkness recedes, perhaps tragedy will be prevented from falling upon our kingdom once again”. Light from the single lit candle casted half of her face in shadow. The oracle was ashen faced, her black bangs plastered against her forehead, droplets of sweat leaked down her face onto the floor as she rested her elbows on her knees, shaking hands massage her temples.

“You cannot alter fate Midnight, you are destroying yourself all for the sake of delaying a message you were chosen to deliver” Aizawa says with a heavy sigh, rubbing at his eyes “I know you continue to blame yourself for the death of King Masaru but even the queen herself told you that you were not at fault, you relayed the message, and it was something that simply couldnt be remedied..”.

A shuddering breath racks the oracle’s body and she begins falling forward, only for the exhausted man to catch her,

“Stop this! You are going to die!”.

Midnight knew she was on deaths door, her body would give out soon, unless she relents…

Once again the bedroom door opens silently, the snap of it shutting alerts the two occupants of a new comer entering the room.

“Do it for the sake of the child, if you wish to atone for the death of its father then guide it as it grows, inform the future leader on how to avoid whatever negativity may come beforehand, so that it can be properly dealt with” the stern but soft voice of Jeanist seems to have been able to break through the oracle’s stubbornness.

“Normally only one of you would need to be the scribe for this session…but I would prefer it if there were two perspectives on whatever I report, considering the situation…” requests Midnight as Aizawa allows Jeanist to help the frail woman sit up. Making one more request as the blonde man fluffs and rearranges the pillows behind her:

“Please light the ceremonial pouperie and hand me both selenite and tourmaline towers”.

At the beginning of her life Midnight had been gifted with the ability to predict small things such as who would win a foot race or what she would receive for her birthday. As a teen her visions changed into predicting who would find love and eventually how relationships would end. Life was not always kind to her, and once she reached her late teens she had been enslaved and forced into prostitution.

Luck had been on her side as an adult; One night as the ebony haired beauty made her way through town. She had come across a drunken man attempting to asssault a young woman. Her amethyst eyes catch the glint of an intact bottle neck laying discarded on the alleyway’s grime crusted cobblestones. Those muffled cries of the female being violated brought her back to when she herself had first been enslaved. Slinking up through the shadows in silence, the angry woman would later on be compared to a panther as she came flying out of the darkness. The brute didnt have a chance to fight back as loose shards of glass were shoved into his eyes, the jagged spikes of the bottle were repeatedly slashed and thrusted into his neck, face, and chest until the pig was unrecognizable.

The woman she had saved turned out to be the daughter of a duke, visiting from a completely different kingdom. “Please accompany me for my journey home, your bravery will bring you great favor with my family, im offering you a new life, a fresh start”. Once the dutches and duke had learned about the gift of sight their daughter’s savior possessed, it was only a matter of time before Midnight was called to advise the current king and queen of her new home.

The darker haired man uses the candle to light to light the bundle of herbs, the scents of sage, lavender, and jasmine fill the room quickly.

Both polished stone towers are pressed into her shaking hands, Each man stood at the oracle’s bed side with quills poised and ready. Only then does the ritual begin;

She always hated lowering the walls of protection that had been built around her psyche. It made her feel as though she were stripped naked, vunerable, about to have her dignity snatched away, and soul crushed. Of course those feeling were always what prelude a tainted and unfortunate vision. Her eyes buldge in their sockets as they widen, her plump lips fall open and an amplified emotionless version of her voice spews out the sacred information from her gaping maw.

In this realm,

a blessing descends,

a child of fate,

Whose power immense,

destined to determine

earth’s fate

Born beneath the moon's shadow,

a tale quite bizarre,

A beast hides within,

a spirit touched by mar.

Not at the outset,

but time's relentless flow,

Unveils a name in

history's annals to grow.

Victories numerous,

A heart encased in sin

With a chance encounter,

love's dance shall begin.

Strings of fate weave

a love, pure and oh so divine,

The dragon king seeking

a mate with whom his

Soul shall intertwine.

This love is true,

by impurity shunned,

Great Darkness out shone

by Celestial radiance

Who’s light could

Outshine the sun

Blessings abound

if the moon's grace prevails,

However her failure

unveils hate

as darkness assails.

The Earth shall quake in fright

silence descends in despair,

The dragon king ruthless,

his mate to ensnare.

Land soaked in blood,

tainted with gore

at that moment

T’will be decided

peace within this kingdom

will become a distant lore

Decay befalls living souls,

cursed evermore.

Oh how can one’s feelings

spin a tale so profound?

For only true love shall

Determine whether darkness

Or light shall abound?

In a wing located on the complete opposite side of the castle, a feminine shriek is permeated by the sharp wails of an infant.

“It’s a boy your majesty!” Exclaims a mid-wife who held the freshly delivered baby.

She is quick to clean off the continuously shrieking child, immediately swaddling him in a soft blanket. Queen Mitsuki held out her trembling hands to receive the bundle of joy. “He’s beautiful my lady, I’m sure the king is looking down from heaven with pride” stated one of the other servants as she took away the soiled linens. “Yes he is…my beautiful little boy…my precious Katsuki” the queen whispered, kissing the boy’s head. His tiny whisps of blonde hair tickled her face as she holds him close. A little fist slips out from the blankets, waving about as his wails grow louder. Another servant enters the room, her arms laden with fresh blankets and sheets, “The moonlight has returned!” She happily reports, setting down the bedding and drawing back the curtains some.

Soon as those first rays of the shining silver light landed on the baby, his shrieks cease instantly. Finally opening his small crimson eyes to stare up at his mother, a goofy smile appearing and soft cooing replaced his cries. Everyone in the castle seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as the dreaded eclipse had come to an end.

“My Katsuki, you’re going to grow into a strong, dependable man, eventually you’ll become the greatest king the world has ever seen…isn’t that right Masaru?” Mitsuki snuggled the baby, tears rolling down her cheeks. She wasn’t able to see the man standing beside the two of them, but Katsuki could. The spirit of his father placed its hand on his little head, and the baby began to giggle happily. “I cant do much in this form, but I’ll do whatever I can to help you make the right choice when the time comes…take care of your mother for me…I love you both so much”.

A/N: We’re starting a NEW series!

What did you think? Pay attention to that prophecy, any ideas on what it’s talking about?

#katsuki bakugou #Bakugou x reader #Bakugou x y/n #katsuki bakugo x reader #dragon king bakugou #mha fantasy au #mha fanfiction

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frodo-with-glasses · 2 months ago

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Where have you been?

Uhhh, France?

(That’s a Hamilton reference, btw. I have never been to France.)

So! Another Hobbit Day is upon us. On this day last year, I’d promised you all that we would take another trek through LotR, with all new drawings and poems and fanfics. I fully expected to be finished with Book One by now, at least halfway through FotR. What actually happened is that the blog struggled through the first five and a half chapters of the book before suddenly going radio silent.

So what happened?

Well, as you might expect, real life happened. I won't go into the details here—since it has nothing to do with LotR—but I can explain in DMs if anyone is interested.

Basically, a change in my family led to a reexamination of what I thought I knew about my family, which led to a reexamination of what I thought I knew about myself, which kicked off an intense period of self-improvement.

Over the course of this past year, I began to unpack my family's abuse; I learned about boundaries; I started to unlearn my old people-pleasing tendencies; I reconnected relationships that were broken, reevaluated ones that were in the wrong place, and cut off ones that weren't good for me. I discovered there was a little kid in my head who's been waiting years and years for an adult to love her, and to take her needs seriously, and I finally have the chance to be that adult. And I'm happy to say that I've come to a place where I feel safer in my own head than I have ever been.

Probably very little of that is going to show through on this blog. It's all inward stuff; foundational stuff. But one thing that might affect you guys is that I left my (dreadfully overstimulating and stressful) part-time job, and I'm now working full time somewhere else. As much as I love what I do for a living now, working 40 hours a week does mean that I am become Boring Adult who does not have as much time for interneting. With my current schedule, there is no way I'd be able to sustain the intense schedule of "must post one drawing a day" that I had in the early days of this blog; and I don't expect myself to.

But! I would like to—slowly—get this train rolling again.

I find it hilariously apropos that the last piece of art I posted on this blog was of Frodo suddenly disappearing. From Merry's perspective, he completely vanished without explanation or warning. From your perspective, so did I.

But I find myself here again, on another September 22nd, and once again I'm beginning to feel that pull; that pull to read, and draw, and create, and share, and laugh with all of you. Life has calmed down enough for me that I once again have the mental space to think about pursuing my hobbies. There are so many things I want to do—so much to do with the time that is given to me. And I want this blog to be on that list.

My current goal is to post some new book art every other day. If that's too much, I'll adjust it. But if I find my groove and really get into it, who knows? We might return to your regularly scheduled Daily Dose of Frodo-With-Glasses. We shall have to see.

Anyway. If you've read this far, thank you! If you've stuck with this blog since the early days, thank you. And if you are one of that lovely core Fellowship that has had my back and prayed for me all along, I cannot thank you enough.

This past year has been an absolute ride. Not as difficult as a trek to Mordor, maybe, but not easy either. But no matter where I walked, I knew I didn't have to take the journey alone.

Anyway! Enough sappiness. Happy Hobbit Day! I'm excited to see what the next year has in store for us. 💚

#lady glasses speaks #long post #my writing #featuring:#frodo baggins #lord of the rings #lotr #my art #fig tree au

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needle-thread-thimble-spear · 2 months ago

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Revolutionary Girl Utena and Epistemic Violence

Why Anthy is not a trans girl (but she is to me)

Ohtori, as any good setting tends to, carries a lot of thematic weight. It’s a fairy world, where metaphorical illusion blurs personal hopes over a poisoned interior structure, to the point where an outside perspective may struggle to distinguish between what a character is thinking and what is actually happening. Time and memory are suggestions whispered in the ear of its students, a cyclic hell where the same puppets are played in position, memories broken but dreams intact, to test new victims and forge new swords. A kingdom of nowhen, ruled from above by a king that refuses to see that the prison he built cannot ever free him. A hierarchy where the misogyny taught to children to prepare them for the grown up version is baked into the very structure of the world, belying a culture of horrible sexual violence. And at the very bottom of that hierarchy, the victim-witch, is the kings own sister. A sort of broken Omelas, where one girl must suffer forever and ever, not to end the suffering of others, but to keep them in the dark. Especially her brother. What Ohtori is, and the hierarchies that it represents both within the work and outside of it, hinges on the suffering of that girl. And, maybe more importantly, her silence.

Revolutionary Girl Utena changed my life. I’ve been saying this nearly two years now, mostly as a joke, but with distance I can see it really isn’t. When you are in the depths of an abusive relationship, it is extremely difficult to see what’s happening to you. I don’t wish to dwell on my own story here too much, but how can I ignore it? RGU was the language I used to understand what had happened to me. Images from the show flit through my mind as though I were a Tamarian. Utena, in the window. Anthy, with the candelabra. Utena, her hands cut with thorns. Anthy with the white beret. After finishing the show for the first time I felt sickened. Not merely because of the subject matter depicted, raw and horrible as it is, but because I saw myself in it. Why do I feel such a kinship with Anthy?

I think, dear reader, you may be able to imagine the horror inherent to that realization. You might have felt it, you may be feeling it now.

It seemed obvious to me then, for reasons I could not begin to fathom, that Anthy was a trans girl. Reeling from my first watch, this felt like the only conclusion I could draw though I couldn’t tell you why. For years, I have drafted and redrafted essays attempting to justify this feeling. Recently, I posted an reading of Miki as a transfem character, and I don’t feel particularly strongly about that reading! Sure, aspects of his character were relatable to me, I could draw analogies well enough, but that was completely secondary to my actual goal. Practice for the transfem Anthy essay. Looking back on what I’d written now, I don’t. Hate? What I wrote. There’s definitely some aspects I’d repudiate now. If you enjoyed reading it, if it meant something to you, I’m glad. But even as I was writing it it felt incomplete and limited. And I believe I understand why.

What did I get wrong about Miki and Kozue? What lies in Ohtori’s heart? What lies in that bed of rotten rose petals?

We all know what does, but we do not want to see it and certainly don’t want to talk about it.

It’s Nanami’s disgust with Anthy, with herself. It’s Miki and Kozue’s confused but earnest posturing. It’s Utena looking up at Akio, it’s Anthy’s vacant stare.

Even here, I’m speaking in abbreviated reference. But it’s abuse, sexual, at times incestuous abuse, that touches every character in RGU.

I’d recently seen a few posts which I think hit on a really common phenomena among fans of the show. Our own stories, our own disgust, our own fears and our own traumas, sort of get in the way when we talk about RGU. I think it’s a natural consequence. RGU deals with heavy subject matter that is very difficult to sit with. I don’t think it’d be incorrect to say most western fans of RGU are queer in some way. We’re much more likely, as consequence, to suffer from interpersonal abuse. And naturally, we are drawn to these characters since they represent, with so few holds barred, some of our worst experiences. But does that make them like us?

For the record, I think it would be ridiculous to suggest that RGU isn't a queer show and that it isn't filled with queer characters. But, for as obvious a conclusion as this is, a surprising depth of that queerness is veiled in subtext. It’s worth considering, the endless arguments over whether Anthy and Utena are lesbians or bisexual, is sort of inconsequential. The important thing is that they have escaped, together! We could suppose that, were Ohtori a real place, we could go track down the two of them and demand from them an answer. How do you feel, Anthy, about your attraction to Akio? What does that mean to you? Would you please quell that horrible disgust we feel thinking about it? Inquiring readers would like to feel better know!

When one leaves Ohtori, one leaves the view of the audience. Utena and Anthy are in love with one another, but what that means to them (and themselves) is out of our reach.

And yet, I can’t seem to shake my original conclusion, from my first watch. Surely it cannot be intended! Hell, even the fact that Anthy is desi is sort of incidental to any commentary on social injustice, the motivation for depicting her (and Akio) this way was to exoticize them relative to the rest of the school. So is this image of Anthy as a brown trans girl, her position in Ohtori being a result of transmisogyny, some western myopia? Mere projection of the aggrieved self on a character who, by her nature, absorbs the feelings and impressions of those around her?

Sort of?

Revolutionary Girl Utena was created in a Japanese cultural context, to be sure, but it’s worth noting that while the precise execution of (trans)misogyny and other gender injustices may vary from culture to culture, patriarchy isn’t exactly exclusive to the west. There is a lot of different directions we could run in here, but the one I want to focus on is epistemic violence (a good primer linked here if the term is unfamiliar). *

In Ohtori, all girls are like princesses, unless they are like witches. And, sooner or later, all girls are like the rose bride, the doll-witch, the synthesis. This is how patriarchy works. There is a concept of “permissible” femininity, and an “impermissible” feminity. There is the wife, the mother, the domestic servant, who is permitted some limited social power by her utility to a patriarch (primarily as a mother to trueborn children). Then there is, well, everyone else. “Loose” women, sure, but also those who have been damaged by sexual violence. Those who cannot bear children, because of some accident of their physiology. These women are used, for feminized labor, for sex, but because of the stigma associated with them and the issues they present toward patrilineal succession, they are subject to various censure. One does not talk about survivors of sexual violence or sex workers in polite society. It is possible for some to travel between these two categories, although it is far, far easier to go from “type 1” to “type 2” than the other direction. Indeed, for some it is not possible to have ones “virtue” restored. If we aren’t being reduced to predatory inhuman monsters, trans women, both a hypersexualized object of intense fetishization and incapable of bearing children, are placed into the second category automatically. Lots of would be abusers are happy to whisper in our ears, that they will treat us like we are “type 1”, but invariably they do not.**

The most maddening thing to me about being a trans woman is this, inability for anyone to see the violence that happens to you. People don’t believe you can be the subject of (sexual) violence, even though the fact it occurs to you, regularly, should be obvious to anyone who thinks about how we are perceived for just a moment! You cannot speak up without sounding delusional, it can happen right in front of a stranger, your best friend, and they wont bat an eye. That you are so incredibly disgusting, no one would want to hurt you that way.

Anthy isn’t a trans girl. But the system that silences her, treats her like she deserves her victimization, that she is irrevocably tainted by her relationship with Akio, the system that keeps us, the audience, from internalizing the dreadful truth of her character, this veil of silence, of covered ears and closed eyes, is extant in the lives of all misbegotten gender-oppressed rejects. If we are going to draw analogies between ourselves and Anthy, or Utena, or Nanami, or any the rest of them, we need to pull back that veil. Indeed, it's confronting (and then escaping from) that choking, word-stopping bile that sits at the core of RGU's thesis. I don’t think it’s wrong for us to relate to the characters in RGU, and write about that. But we might stop to consider why before we do!

*If you’re curious to read more about patriarchy across cultures, here is a really incisive article on the phenomena of third sexing, the operation of (trans)misogyny and gendered violence in parallel across cultural contexts, and how that relates to the western and desi sphere (but also more broadly).

**It should also be noted that there can be no comparison of suffering of anyone under patriarchy. Even the most vaunted cis man, I suppose. But there can be a comparison of power, and this is why we discuss it rather than throw up our hands.

Thank you for reading, I think this is the last I'm going to write about RGU for a while, though there's quite a bit I want to say about Utena and Anthy's relationship. So someday, I'll get around to more! And a perennial thank you to @empty-movement for the high quality archival images.

#revolutionary girl utena #anthy himemiya #akio ohtori #touga kiryuu #utena tenjou #spinning

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