not-amber-schmidt reblogged
Idk how to sign this one art..
...so many people won't able to admire him (cause of Shadow-ban)
Well...
"My Masterpiece"
My heart's bleeding I did something truly special but net will bury my works.
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
- Survive for 10 Minutes with a Werewolf.
- In a Fight.
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
He's so... thin.
..and silly
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
palestine masterpost-masterpost
i've been trying my best to collect a bunch of links to other, more structured resources about the genocide in gaza, and what you, reading this, can do about it, that i'm going to compile here.
DON'T SCROLL PAST. LOOK THROUGH THE LINKS. REBLOG.
less and less people are talking about gaza every day, but it is still a very real crisis.
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
This post changed my brain chemistry and I needed to make my own hc for the alchemy markings
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etsy is waiving their 6.5% transaction fees for orders made through a seller's special shop link now through february 15th, so if anybody would like to order from my shop this is a really good time 👉👈 as a reminder, all stickers ship free in the 50 US states
(reblogs appreciated!)
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
has this one been done yet
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
Nobody Left To Listen - Part 4 - Hunger
TW: Starvation (vampire, btw), repercussions of solitary confinement, desperation, gore, blunt force trauma, bone trauma, jaw trauma, mouth trauma(?), hand trauma, hair pulling, manhandling, touch starvation, collaring, generally Cole being absolutely brutal. Please tell me if anything else should be added here.
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Abelard had been left to digest in the pitch-black belly of a great concrete beast, long after having spat out the molten flesh in his esophagus, a starving corpse left to rot in a manmade stomach.
How long had he waited for Glass to come back? To stare him down behind those cat’s eye lenses, to grab him with those silver-lined gloves, to watch with distant eyes of raincloud gray as he took whatever he pleased?
First, there had been rage to heat his veins, to turn the empty hole in his stomach molten, to push away the stirrings of emptiness beginning to sprout. But anger needs to be fed to survive, and Abelard had run out of fuel to feed any fire long ago. Daydreams of ripping out his captor’s throat had only made saliva gather in the floor of his maw at the thought of fresh blood. Plans of ripping off the human’s limbs one by one had been corrupted into gorging himself on blood-rich flesh and cracking open bones to suck out the marrow. Hunger, hunger, hunger. It all came back to hunger.
The dying embers of wrath cooled into something that wasn’t anxiety, no, just confusion, as the minutes, hours, days dragged on with nothing to do but to sleep and think. Where was Glass? He…he hadn’t just forgotten about the vampire he was holding captive, right?
Darkness seeped into his skin, his bones, the brackish black sludge clogging his very veins. Warmth fled his flesh alongside any vestige of energy as the hole in his stomach grew into a slowly expanding abyss. The longer the darkness reigned, the harder it was to remember that he had not gone blind. The harder it was to remember that he had a body at all.
The ghosts only made it worse.
It had to be ghosts. Whisperings of gibberish breathed hot right against his ear, insectile pitter-pattering crept over his bare skin, disembodied nails dragged down his spine, his neck, behind his ears, down his torso. No matter how he blindly flailed or dusted down his body, the only things he could touch were concrete and his own body. Or the chains.
He regretted messing with his chains. He regretted slamming his leather manacles against the wall hard enough to crack the protective coverings, leaving silver fissures to burn into his flesh, the cuffs too tight to not be touching every inch of skin they could. He regretted clawing at his muzzle, only succeeding in tearing away the rubber that had shielded his cheeks from thin skeins of silver. Slamming his muzzle against the wall or the floor only scratched up his own face and made the muzzle dent inwards, pushing into his flesh, leaving behind gouges in his cheeks.
At least the pain reminded him that he was still alive. But even that was growing dull.
He felt…tired. Empty. Cold. Hurt. Hungry.
Filthy.
He was no longer human. He hadn’t even had any fresh blood in who knows how long. He should not be filthy. Not like a human in his situation.
Yet blood and dried and crackled in his hair, and he didn’t only feel blood when he ran his fingers through his once-silky locks. He felt…dust. It felt like dust had accumulated in the tangles and nooks created by his blood, nevermind the fact that he had bled so very little overall. If there was one thing he could discern about his captor, assuming he was the one responsible for the piercing pain and ensuing darkness Abelard had been hit with on his last night of freedom, Glass was meticulous. Cold, but pragmatic. He did just enough for maximum effectiveness, no more, no less. Abelard could respect that.
Abelard would have respected it far more had he not ended up on the wrong side of Glass’s tools.
He wanted to go home.
Sometimes, in his weakest moments, he begged. Begged between cracked lips for Glass to come back. To do- something. Anything. Anything but forget about him here. Anything but leave him here for good. He ran out of tears sometime during the first week. His pleas were never answered.
Mostly, though, he just slept.
He didn’t know how long he slept, and how long was spent half-awake, body and mind haunted by resentful ghosts.
But then there was sound.
Footsteps. Soft and padding, bare soles against polished cork. When he cracked open his eyes, he saw light. For the first time in eternity, there was light. The thinnest sliver of light, cast from an open door, trailing down the steps, coming to a rest over the thin crack separating the two doors of the cabinet. A familiar silhouette of a man, a shadow facing the abyss as light flooded his back, invading the belly of the beast.
But that wasn’t as vivid was what hit his nose. As what hit his ears.
Blood.
Blood. Fresh blood, pumping through human veins, an overwhelming tha-thump tha-thump tha-thump pounding in his ears. The smell of drying iron muffled by wool and leather and cotton. Saliva managed to pool beneath his dry tongue, to fill his dry mouth, canines elongating in desperation. Blood. There was blood.
On the other side of the silver bars.
On the other side of the fucking bars.
The yawning cavity of his own stomach lurched forth in need. If it could escape his body to crawl its way to the source of that divine aroma padding down those steps, it would have in a heartbeat. It clawed at his belly anyway, a living parasite desperate to survive. Desperate to feed.
Then; white.
He squeezed his eyes shut, hiding his face behind his knees as the aftershocks of the sudden bright light rippled hazy colours behind his eyelids, head beginning to pound. After so long, such brightness was blinding, white-hot daggers piercing his brain.
Carefully, he fluttered his eyes open, cautious, wary of the pain brought on by such brilliance after so long in darkness. Slowly, the world came into focus.
It was just the cell which had been suddenly illuminated, leaving Abelard exposed and vulnerable, the light stripping him of all defenses. His fingers shook as they dug into his own knees, struggling to hold himself back from just flinging himself at the bars in the vain hope of somehow getting through to the delicious-smelling human on the other side. To prey.
Glass, in comparison, stood in the darkness. He had unlocked the cabinet and now he was hidden behind its swinging doors as he rummaged for…something. Abelard could hear the human’s movements as he grabbed two light things from inside, slipping with the sound of wool. Then, something heavy dragged through the hidden compartments, only to slip out, held loose and low in Glass’s grip. When Glass swung the two compartment doors shut, all Abelard could see was the light trailing down the man’s spine, his distorted shadow stretched over the closed cabinet like a looming phantom. And the light reflecting off his glasses.
Cat’s eyes. Cat’s eyes hiding silver.
Phantom insects skittered down Abelard’s back with icy feelers.
Was this how Abelard’s prey felt when cornered in a dark alleyway?
The man began to approach Abelard’s cell bars, and the closer he got, the louder the calm beats of that fresh, living human heart grew. Pounding in Abelard’s skull like a drum. Rushing through those delicate veins. Drying beneath that machine-made clothing. Abelard’s mind whirred, yanked this way and that, between the fear and the hunger, the rational and the beastial, the civilized and the wild, the predator and the prey, muddling the waters of his thoughts.
His fangs grew heavy in his mouth, even as his claws sank into his own skin. He wouldn’t ram himself straight into the bars. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He- he was better than that! Glass hadn’t managed to break him that easily. He could hold himself back. He would. He would. After all, there was no moving those bars, and with those bars in the way, any attempt would only be in-
There was a creak, then a groan, then clanking.
The bars began to rise.
He couldn’t hold himself back. He shot towards his prey like the bullet which had been wedged into his own brain. His claws barely grazed the stoic hunter’s cheek, the smell of fresh blood bursting in his nostrils…only for a sudden impact to crash through his cheek.
The pain only awakened in the wake of his jaw crumbling in on itself, slivers of bone lodging into the inner flesh of his opposite cheek. Revolting long-dead corpse-blood coated his tongue, tickling at his gag reflex. The weight of a tooth lay on his scraped-up tongue. He wobbled on his own two feet, head hanging to the side, brain blank, as his shaking hand rose towards the site of the blow. How…
He wasn’t given the time to touch it.
Not before the second impact exploded against his left side.
His legs gave out under the sheer force of the blow.
The pain hit just in time for the sledgehammer to fall directly onto his kneecaps. Again. And again. And again. Grinding his knees into little more than bone meal. His flesh into ground meat. Again. And again. And again.
Abelard could barely breathe.
His left ankle imploded, and he screamed.
He right ankle splintered, and so did he.
Through the pain, he barely comprehended when the barrage of blows paused, shivering beneath the shadow of a monster. It hurt. It all hurt. Had anything ever hurt so much? Being left out to burn in the sun? Being locked away to melt in a silver casket? Being forced down and ripped apart by-
A shaking hand reached out in a vain attempt to drag his broken body back into his cell. Glass couldn’t hurt him further once he was past the bars of his cell. Once he was out of arm’s reach of the bars in his cell.
This time, Abelard had a front-seat view to the head of the sledgehammer landing on his outstretched hand.
This time, he crumbled. Trembling from the pain, centuries-old blood forced through tearducts down scratched-up cheeks, a puppet without strings splayed facedown on the floor. He couldn’t think. Not past the wreck the sledgehammer had made of his body. Past the waves of agony pulling him back out to sea.
How could he have ever thought that Glass would bring something good? How could he have ever wished for this?
Fingers tangled in his hair, and Abelard’s head was wrenched up from the floor, scalp shrieking as the hand began to bodily drag the broken body back into its cell. The slick of oozing rotten blood was the only protection against the rough surface of the cement. Finally, he was dropped, face and shoulders banging against the ground where he lay limp. All he could do was shiver.
If he moves, he’ll get hurt.
A knee wedged itself between Abelard’s shoulder blades, a hot weight in contrast to the chilly cold of the floor. A warmth which sank into his spine alongside the weight of the monster on top of him. A gloved hand grabbed him by the chin, thumb pressed against his bottom lip, fingertips digging into his broken, bruise-mottled left jaw. Abelard shivered. Not entirely out of fear. Not entirely out of pain.
The other hand wrapped something around his neck, something rough and heavy and somewhat smooth, like leather. Two metal prongs dug into the back of his neck.
The hand dropped his head, and the whine that left his lips was not just from the pain of the thump when his head hit the floor. Why… why did the abandoned skin ache with that faint warmth?
Had the brute force trauma scrambled his brain?
A hand once again found his hair, and began to comb through it, taking care not to pull too hard at any of the tats. Something coiled within him at the touch. Something within him ached beyond the physical, as hungry as the hole in his stomach.
A half-forgotten whisper of a voice sank into his ear.
“There’s a good boy.”
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Sorry it’s been a while! School’s been catching up on me, and exams are starting by next week, so I’ve been a bit busy. And distracted. But here’s the next part! Abelard’s really getting the short end of the stick, it feels, and Glass is compensating for inexperience in taming vampires with simple brute force and experience in hunting vampires. Talk about a second impression.
But yeah, describing what that two-month period was like for Abelard and getting to the more active whump took longer than I thought it would. I hope I did it justice. Total isolation sucks ass, even when all your other needs are technically being fulfilled. There’s a reason why it’s considered torture.
Beyond, well, the more obvious torture going on.
Tag List:
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
“I think it’s important to realize you can miss something, but not want it back.”
— Paulo Coelho
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
Body type + Height headcanons
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
Omg I love this.
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
child’s play
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
Vamptober 2023
Day 15: Alucard
father and child
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
(individual frames under cut)
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
ACNH x Hellsing Ultimate
Vladcard, Girlycard, Anderson, and Alucard designs for anyone interested
not-amber-schmidt reblogged
Summary: There were theological differences between the falls of Icarus and Lucifer, but right now, Father Anderson felt disturbingly like both.
Or, Alucard's original form is giving his nemesis certain problems.
To the best of my memory, @loadinghellsing and @anderseeds were the (inadvertent) main culprits behind this idea, which was "Wouldn't it be fucking hilarious if Anderson saw Vladcard for the first time and just got KOed by all the gay thoughts he'd been avoiding for however long it was?"
I have done my best to ensure that yes; yes, it would be hilarious.