#i should practice landscapes more often

[dazzelmethat]

My plant boy oc Ame looking out at a nice landscape.

[hivemuthur]

A Deer and a Man - Ch.3.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit - pure FILTH as promised: hair undone, bras abandoned, naked ankles and no stockings, Reader is in her whore era. Jk, there is some actual filth :v some warnings that I forgot to mention before: Reader is obviously a virgin, Viktor is not, Jayce? Jaybe, Jaybe not, I was told he reads as one and honestly, I don't mind :') Other than that, this fic has an implied age gap, that will be mentioned only once, of around 8 years between Reader and Viktor. So, sorry for the inconvenience, I'm somewhat biased when it comes to this topic, and consider age gaps to be worth mentioning when they oscillate around 10+ years.

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 7,3K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family's wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author's note: @mithrava and @rennethen thank you for beta reading!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You adjust the piano stool to your height and give its mouth an experimental caress. You can see your distorted reflection in the polished lid. Once its teeth are bare, you press on the A key tentatively. Then, you give the keyboard an abrupt slide with the back of your palm, fingernails clacking against each one with a dry, repetitive click. A sigh escapes you, while you contemplate what should be the first tune you play in your new home.

It did not take long for you to grasp that your honeymoon was far removed from any sweet undertones, lingering instead in the realm of the dull and tasteless. The day after the wedding, as you stepped out of the carriage that had brought you and your husband to your new household, said husband took that very opportunity to step into a completely new personality—one you had not yet met.

Almost as if the crumbs of his previous kindness had been scattered before you solely to keep you from straying from the path. And it was not that he was being cruel—no. Distant was the more fitting word. Or rather, absent.

Absent was perfect.

During your silent journey, Viktor had been wholly absorbed in a text on the voltaic pile. You watched as his lower lip disappeared between his teeth, a finger tracing the lines of letters as he re-read the most intriguing fragments. Every so often, he would sigh or let out a soft gasp, his mouth parting as if to speak, only to freeze mid-thought—perhaps deciding that the present audience would not grasp the grandiosity of the subject matter.

He looked rather pretty like this, you noted—focused and flustered over something as dry and practical as a battery. You wondered if this was what you looked like while playing the piano. Yet besides Viktor, who had only ever had the opportunity to watch your back—or so you thought—there were no witnesses to confirm your speculation.

So you sat there, watching his reflection in the carriage window as he flexed his hand, took notes, and grumbled whenever the wheels jolted over the uneven road, smudging his careful handwriting. By the time you arrived, you had memorized the pattern his hair formed on his forehead and the slight crease between his brows when he concentrated. Not that sentimentality was at play here—merely a lack of better substance to occupy your mind. Soon after departing the city, the landscape had dissolved into a monotonous stretch of rolling hills, scattered trees, and shallow ponds.

Viktor offered you a hand to step down safely and an arm to escort you into the main hall, where your new staff awaited. You were introduced to the butler, housekeeper, lady’s maid, cook, and the rest of the footmen before being led on a tour of the house. Room after room unfolded before you, each accompanied by the expectant gaze of Algernon, or rather Mr. Griffiths, the butler, as he meticulously detailed the strengths and weaknesses of each space.

He led the way through the entrance hall, his measured steps echoing against the polished floor. The space was impressive, if a touch austere, with high ceilings, a sweeping staircase, and dark wood panelling that made the morning light from the tall windows seem distant rather than inviting. A large, gilt-framed mirror dominated one wall, reflecting the assembled staff and, just behind them, you and Viktor—him standing with his usual careful posture, his expression impossible to read.

The butler cleared his throat and gestured towards the double doors on the left. "The drawing room, my lady. A fine space for receiving guests."

You stepped inside, taking in the elegant furnishings—brocade-upholstered settees, a stately fireplace adorned with a marble mantel—but your gaze caught on the gleaming pianoforte tucked into one corner. A quiet, unexpected relief settled over you at the sight of it, the first familiar thing in this house that was not yet a home.

You forced a smile, turning towards the housekeeper, a severe-looking woman introduced as Mrs. Forsythe. “It is lovely,” you said warmly, though you wondered if you would ever feel at ease here.

"The adjoining parlour, should you prefer a more intimate setting," Algernon continued, leading you through a side door into a cosier space with softer furnishings, smaller windows, and a delicate tea service already arranged on a sideboard.

Next came the dining room, its vast mahogany table stretching the length of the chamber, surrounded by high-backed chairs and illuminated by a heavy crystal chandelier. The room smelled of polish and beeswax. You folded your hands in front of you, smiling at the cook, Mrs. Harrod, when she stepped forward to curtsey.

"The kitchens are below, of course," she said, eyeing you with a mixture of deference and curiosity. "We’ve a well-stocked larder, my lady, and I shall ensure your meals are to your liking."

"I'm certain everything will be wonderful, Mrs. Harrod," you assured her.

The tour continued, each room unfolding before you as Algernon detailed its use. There was the library, lined with bookshelves that stretched nearly to the ceiling, the faint scent of leather and parchment lingering in the air. Viktor’s gaze lingered here for the first time, but he said nothing. Then, the morning room, light and airy with pale floral wallpaper and comfortable chairs arranged for quiet conversation. The study, reserved for correspondence and household matters, sat adjacent, its heavy oak desk perfectly arranged.

A long hallway led to a billiards room—more for guests than yourselves, you imagined—followed by a small music room, where an older harp sat in one corner alongside another pianoforte. The footmen glanced at you, waiting for a reaction, and so you smiled again, nodding approvingly even as your jaw began to ache from the effort.

Viktor remained silent throughout, his expression unreadable. He neither reacted nor interrupted, allowing Algernon to carry on without interference. Occasionally, you felt his gaze on you, but whenever you glanced in his direction, he was already looking elsewhere.

Ascending the stairs, you kept your posture straight, mindful of the way the staff’s eyes lingered. The second floor opened into a wide corridor lined with closed doors, each leading to a chamber of its own. Algernon led you towards the first of them.

“This,” he said, opening the door with a measured hand, “is His Lordship’s bedchamber.”

The room was of generous size, its furnishings well-appointed yet distinctly reserved. The four-poster bed stood against the far wall, its dark wood frame matching the writing desk stationed beneath the window. The fireplace was already prepared, a modest armchair set beside it. Everything was in place, tidy, waiting. It did not feel like a space belonging to a man who had just taken a wife.

You stood at the threshold, taking it in. Viktor, beside you, regarded the room with unreadable eyes, his hand tightening ever so slightly around his cane.

“I believe,” he said after a moment, his voice deliberately even, “that I shall conclude the tour here.”

You turned to him, expecting an explanation. He was already shifting his weight, his movements careful, precise. With a slow breath, he lowered himself into the chair by the fire, adjusting his leg with practiced care.

“My leg is acting up,” he stated plainly, an excuse so mild it almost dared no further comment. His amber gaze flickered to yours, cool yet observant. “You may continue without me.”

Algernon hesitated only a fraction before bowing. “As you wish, my lord.” Then, with a glance towards you, he gestured toward the hallway. “Shall we proceed, my lady?”

“By all means,” you murmured, your eyes lingering on the door as it closed almost in front of your nose. And that was the last you saw of Viktor that day.

Behind those closed doors, Viktor took his first real breath. He waited for the sound of your footsteps to fade down the corridor before letting the back of his head thump against the thick wood. He sighed to himself.

“Imbecile.”

He did not know what would do more to ease his mind—sleeping or going straight to the workshop your father had arranged for him and Jayce. He did not know how much longer he could maintain this careful performance, nor how he was meant to uphold his end of the secret agreement you two had forged. But he had to regroup.

He slumped onto the bed, arms and legs spread wide, and sighed again.

“Absurd.”

Absurd was the way you licked your lips when you met in the morning to pack your belongings. Absurd was the way your hand had squeezed his when he helped you in and out of the carriage. Absurd was the way you had watched him the entire journey, barely blinking, breathing deeply—your eyes fixed on his fingers, on his hair, gaze burning right through him, making his clothes feel tight and his seat unbearable.

Absurdity. That was what he was making of it in his deranged mind, because clearly, you were just measuring up your opponent.

He loosened his cravat, then, growing impatient, pulled it from his collar entirely. He unbuttoned his shirt and pressed his hands against his chest. His heartbeat was uneven—final proof of his insanity. The heels of his palms pressed deep into his eyeballs, chest rising and falling, brace digging into the flesh of his leg uncomfortably when Viktor tried to make out anything that would make sense to him. And nothing did.

A vague, unsettled feeling took root in your chest when you finally reached your bedchamber, and Mr. Griffiths paused at the door. “Do you require anything else, my lady?”

“I think… Could I use the music room?”

“By all means, my lady. Everything in this house is yours to use as you please.”

Which is precisely how you’ve found yourself here—perched at the edge of the piano stool, subjecting the instrument to a volatile rendition of Mozart’s Fantasia in D Minor, swinging between tender, thoughtful passages and frantic, feverish key-smashing. Hunched over, eyes shut, your mouth moving as if forming words in a language only you can understand.

The sound echoes through the music room, spills into the hallway, and carries through the corridors—all the way up to Viktor’s bedchamber, where he presses his hands to his ears. His core burns, his hips rut helplessly against the mattress, and he mutters, “God, spare me,” desperate and alone.

***

Your first few weeks do not look all that different from the life you left behind. It feels as though you packed it up and brought it with you—everything except your parents, sisters, and, most painfully, Peggy. Your new lady’s maid is much younger and far more timid than she was.

Eliza knocks on your door every morning and helps you dress, just as Peggy once did, yet her reserve and cautiousness make the ritual all the more unbearable. Just to avoid giving the poor girl a heart attack, you almost instinctively continue to slip back and forth between your night and day self, growing more and more adamant by the day.

How many times have you tried to bring yourself to say a polite little no to a short stay, it is only for you to know. The only thing you have achieved so far is your bun becoming looser and looser, to the point of falling apart by the end of the day—much to Eliza’s horror over the number of pins lost somewhere around the house.

You spend your days alone, reading and playing the piano, performing for no one but yourself and your devoted staff. Viktor, meanwhile, spends all his waking hours in the lab, having effortlessly shed the composed facade he maintained upon arrival. Whenever you glimpse him—usually only for a fleeting moment as you cross paths in the dining room—his hair is mussed, his shirt collar undone by at least one button, his cravat entirely absent, and, to your utter ruin, his sleeves are often rolled up, exposing the taut skin of his forearms.

These glimpses are brief. He is always finishing his breakfast the moment you step into the dining room, wiping his glistening lips with a napkin before downing the last sip of coffee—already on his feet. You greet him with a rigid hello as you take your seat at the far end of the long table, another silent symbol of the growing distance between you. And each time, it strikes you: you do not even know if he has just woken at dawn or has yet to retire for the night.

Until today, when something is visibly askew, and Viktor lingers in the dining room a moment longer than usual. He sits hunched over a stack of notes when you enter, not sparing you a glance—only a quiet, hollow, Good morning.

Of all days, today, when you managed to furiously pluck the pins from your hair on the way to breakfast and shove them into a plant pot in one of the corridors, huffing at yourself in condemnation—why are you valuing your lady’s maid’s peace of mind higher than your own in the first place?

You gather your untamed hair away from your forehead, flip it over your shoulder, and sit carefully, mindful not to trap the curls beneath you. You hum and fuss over your plate, chin propped in one hand, until you finally crack the egg open with an echoing smack—and Viktor hisses, visibly annoyed.

“Is something the matter, my dear husband?” Your unamused voice carries through the room, and Viktor winces, huffing before setting the parchment down with a click of his tongue.

“I was an inch from solving a problem,” he replies with exaggerated politeness. There is more to the remark, lingering somewhere in his throat, but when he finally looks up at you, all he says is—

“Oh.”

“Oh?” you parrot.

“Forgive me, I must—” He stands almost abruptly, nearly knocking his coffee over. “I must call for Jayce. And possibly get back to this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the papers scattered on the table.

You watch him as he turns, noting the unevenness in his step—the slight wobble, the way his weight shifts too quickly onto his cane. Before he can pass, you twist in your chair, reaching out instinctively. Your fingers close around his forearm, just above where his hand grips the cane.

“Have you rested at all?”

The question lands between you like a stone dropped into still water. He freezes beneath your touch. The muscles under your hand tighten, but he does not pull away instantly. You feel the warmth of his skin, his sleeve rolled up, the faint tremor of exertion, and then—goosebumps, rising where your palm lingers.

You watch it with glazed eyes, your mouth slightly parted, and it becomes unbearably hard to stay motionless as you dangle between snapping your hand away, smoothing your palm down to his wrist to see if the tremor of your heart has a companion in his, or simply squeezing your fingers around him tighter. To keep him with you for just a little longer.

His throat bobs with a heavy swallow. Then, just as quickly as the moment came, it is gone. He retreats, wrenching his arm away as though burned. He does not dare look at his own skin—fears to check whether the imprint of your touch will be glaring at him, a brand he cannot afford to acknowledge.

“I need not your pity, my dear wife,” he says, sharper than necessary, the words laced with a venom that does not quite belong.

Your breath hitches, but the response comes swiftly, cutting through the tension like the precise stroke of a blade.

“I do not pity you. I am merely guessing that you have not retired for the night.” A pause, deliberate, pointed. Then, voice soft but unyielding: “It is only my suspicion, though, as you are a phantom that shows itself to me on rare occasions.”

Viktor blinks caught off guard by your words. His gaze sharpens, but there’s a hint of confusion in it. He turns fully, the squeak of his cane against the polished floor punctuating the moment. You take him in now, properly. The absence of his usual polish makes him appear almost boyish—no layers of coats or stiff cravats, no carefully smoothed-down hair. His shirt is loose at the waist, half-pulled from his slacks, the fabric creased with wear. It softens him, or so it should. But what follows does not suit his harmless appearance.

“I am merely taking full advantage of our agreement, as vowed.” His voice is smooth, edged with annoyance that sends a shiver through you. “Hunting my prey.”

Your breath catches, but you do not waver. His eyes drag over you, assessing, and then he gestures vaguely in your direction. “And yet, between the two of us, you afford yourself nothing more than loosened hair.” For the briefest of moments Viktor conjures the feeling of your curls beneath his fingers, a vignette of his own hand closing around the fistful of hair floods his mind’s eye, warmth waking in an unwanted place. No matter.

He steps closer, slow and calculated. “I do not see you running barefoot. I do not hear you playing the piano. I do not see you eating what you please, reading what you please. I see no effort at all to find your deer—” He leans in, voice a near whisper now. “Let alone hunt it.”

Your heart thunders, but you hold your ground. You meet his gaze, chin tilting upward in defiance. “You could have stopped at ‘I do not see you,’” you say, voice steady despite the heat curling at the back of your throat. “That would have been enough.”

Silence stretches between you, taut and unbroken. Then, Viktor exhales, and when he speaks again, your name falls from his lips softly—too softly. A warning.

You wait, but nothing follows.

At last, he straightens, stepping back just enough to sever the unbearable tension between you. “Indeed,” he murmurs, the usual tone devoid of emotion returning to his voice. “I am feeling rather tired.” A pause, measured. Then, with a glance toward the hallway, “Perhaps I should retire for a few hours before Jayce arrives.”

With that, he is gone, and you realise the spoon you’ve been holding has left a dent on the inside of your palm. A tremendous feeling surges through you—a mixture of anger and excitement. Both halves of you stir with something unspoken, as if you have been challenged, and you wonder if Viktor has the faintest idea of what he has just set into motion.

The answer to your question lingers in the corridor, where Viktor halts his wobbly trot to lean against the wall, pressing a hand to his forehead. The weather has grown unbearably hot these past couple of weeks, he tells himself. He will have to go completely nocturnal to survive this. It is possible—he is already halfway there. Jayce will arrive in the evening and take his mind off the intrusive thoughts. He cannot confuse the deer, not now.

The rest of the day passes in seemingly unimportant activities, though in truth, you strike another contract—one with yourself. Your day and night selves reach an accord: it is time to taste some of the alleged freedom that has been granted to you.

By the time the day dims into evening and Jayce’s carriage rumbles up the drive, you are already retired for the night, determined to wake before Eliza steps into your room, her gentle hands poised to constrict.

And so, when dawn stretches its pale fingers across the horizon, you are not in your bed.

You are already dressed—or rather, half-dressed, as far as society is concerned. No short stay, no stockings, bare feet enveloped by delicate satin slippers. The cool air kisses the skin left exposed by your loosened chemise, and for the first time in weeks, you feel unburdened.

Eliza’s head peeks through the door, her voice tight with worry. “My lady, you are up so early! Forgive me my oversight!” She steps in hastily, hands reaching as if to remedy the damage.

You only smile, brushing past her gently. “I can manage on my own.”

You are nearly at the door when a faint, barely audible squirm from Eliza makes you pause. Without turning, you add, “I can dress myself. But I wouldn’t mind some company from time to time, if you find a moment for me.” Your voice is warm, the offer genuine.

Eliza blanches, her face draining of colour. She nods—too quickly, too vigorously—and you cannot tell whether it is because she has noticed your scandalous lack of undergarments or because, somehow, you have become utterly intimidating overnight.

No matter which it is, you take your leave, stepping lightly down the grand staircase. The air is crisp with the promise of morning, your confidence unshaken—until your bravado falters slightly at the sound of voices drifting from the dining room. Viktor’s and Jayce’s.

You step forward anyway.

Their voices sharpen as you near, rising in a rapid exchange of ideas, heated but not hostile. The dining room door is ajar, and through the gap, you glimpse them—both dishevelled, shirts rumpled, hair mussed, sleeves rolled up, the remnants of a long night spent in relentless pursuit of something just within their grasp.

“I’m telling you, the reaction stabilised, but only for a moment—” Viktor gestures sharply, his cane propped against the table as he leans forward, hands braced against scattered notes.

Jayce shakes his head, pushing a plate of untouched food aside. “Then we’re missing something. Maybe—maybe the cooling process is too fast? We need to slow the transition.”

“That would—” Viktor stops mid-thought, snapping his fingers as if trying to seize the fleeting revelation. “That could work. If we control the gradient, if we—”

You step into the room.

The soft rustle of your movement isn’t enough to pull them from their world. Jayce rubs his forehead, squinting down at a set of scribbled calculations, muttering under his breath. Viktor paces—or tries to, moving in uneven strides before settling for gripping the edge of the table. Neither acknowledges your presence at first.

It’s only when you take your seat—silent, waiting—that Viktor glances up.

His entire body stills.

“Oh,” he breathes, his exhaustion-worn features shifting as his focus lands fully on you. His brow furrows slightly, as if trying to reconcile the image before him with the one his mind is struggling to catch up to. “Did we wake you?”

You shake your head lightly. “Not at all.” A pause. You glance between them, their energy still thrumming in the air like a current not yet dissipated. Amusement tugs at your lips as you add, “But I can't deny I'm feeling like I'm interrupting something.”

Jayce, who has been slower to register your presence, suddenly snaps to attention. His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands abruptly, eyes widening in realisation before he bellows your name. The sound echoes across the room, bouncing off the high ceiling, and before you can react, he’s already closing the distance.

His enthusiasm outpaces his manners.

He sweeps you into a hug, broad arms folding around you in an unpractised but genuine embrace. His hands pat your back—gentle at first, then slower, as if something unexpected has dawned on him. You swear you catch the faintest sound from him, a quiet huh, before he swiftly schools his expression into a bright smile, brushing off whatever surprise had momentarily struck him.

“Why are you all the way over here?” He gestures toward the edge of the table where you had settled. “Come, sit. You must tell me how you’ve been—I was worried we’d miss each other.”

You laugh, wholeheartedly, startled by the first honest touch you’ve experienced in days. Then, you glance over at Viktor, who is still standing, braced against the edge of the table. He gives you a timid nod while closing his mouth, then sits, smoothing down his hair.

Jayce, a faint blush playing on his cheeks, guides you with a hand on your back to take a seat between him and Viktor. He fixes your chair and slumps down beside you, leaning in with a boyish curiosity, shedding the last remnants of formalities now that it’s just the three of you. There is something familiar in it, something that makes you feel less like a wife on paper and more like a natural part of this strange little household.

He leans in conspiratorially. “So, tell me everything—how much of a thorn in your side has he been?”

You consider, for a moment, telling Jayce that something must be present to be a nuisance in the first place. But something deeper, some instinct not yet fully understood, warns you against such an admission. Betraying loyalty—even in jest—would lead nowhere.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, casting a glance at Viktor before saying, with measured amusement, “I find I have little cause to complain.”

Viktor, still smoothing a hand through his hair, blinks slowly at you, eyes narrowing just a fraction before he inclines his head in the smallest of nods.

Jayce huffs. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”

Viktor exhales sharply through his nose. “And are you not going to ask if she has been a thorn in my side?”

And Viktor would have plenty to say on the matter. Not only have you somehow managed to work around his erratic schedule, but it would seem you are well on your way to orchestrating his downfall—death by one’s own sword. The familiarity of your arrangement is creeping into spaces he does not wish it to occupy, slipping into idle moments, threading itself through his thoughts when he least expects it.

The number of times he has stopped by your door, only to hesitate at the threshold, has already reached a ridiculous count—much to his own dismay. And all of this, when the two of you barely see each other.

Jayce barks out a laugh so sudden and loud that it nearly startles you. He claps a hand against the table, shaking his head. “Right. As if there exists a soul more exasperating than you.”

Viktor only rolls his eyes, briefly contemplating calling for a hearse in advance to carry away his still-warm corpse before Jayce tears him apart in front of you.

Thankfully, the rest of breakfast passes without much torment for Viktor as Jayce and you fall into easy conversation, catching up on the time lost between visits. By the time the clock strikes nine, Jayce yawns—big and unreserved—before pushing back his chair and announcing his departure. He remarks that he has already overstayed his welcome and promises to arrive at a more humane hour next time, which, he assures, will be in four days.

Before leaving, he turns to Viktor. “I’ll get the things we need from the city before my next visit.”

With their goodbyes exchanged, Viktor leans back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes wearily. He sighs, then looks at you. “Are you not going to berate me into bed this time?”

You arch a brow. “Last time, it earned me some rather harsh commentary from you, so I will refrain from mothering you.”

His expression softens instantly. And suddenly, he is back—or rather, he shifts into one of the versions of himself that you have grown to like the most. Soft-spoken, his features gentle, a hand lingering on the table as though caught in indecision. He does not reach for you, and yet you feel the warmth of his skin as if he had.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I grow... irritable when I am overtired.”

“It’s quite alright. I am not easily offended.”

He hums at that and stands, bidding you farewell with a slight bow of his head. Yet somewhere between the table and the door, he hesitates, glancing back at you. His gaze flickers downward—just for a second—to your bodice, to your bare feet in their slippers.

“I see you have taken my advice,” he remarks.

You feel warmth rise to your cheeks. “Yes, I am merely testing the waters.”

A sound—so faint you barely catch it—escapes him. Something like a sigh, like the start of a whine swiftly swallowed down. “Good,” is all he says before taking his leave.

You smile to yourself, kick off your shoes, and curl up in the chair, biting into an apple without slicing or peeling it.

***

By the time of Jayce’s next visit, Viktor has managed to adjust his sleeping schedule—if only slightly—into something resembling human behaviour. He cannot deny his own excitement about the threshold they are about to cross. So much so that some of his defences have loosened almost without his noticing.

When the morning following Jayce’s first visit arrives, you take your seat all the way back by the table. Viktor notices before he even means to, and his mouth is faster to speak than his mind can stop him. “I see we are back to the original seat arrangement?”

You glance at him over your cup, the barest glint of amusement in your eyes. “Unless you don’t mind me sitting where I sat yesterday?”

Viktor nearly scowls at this game, realising too late that he is about to lose. He braces himself, carefully setting his spoon down before conjuring an answer that might put you in check. “I would not mind if that was what you desired.”

A perfect deflection—or so he believes, right up until you tilt your head ever so slightly, a knowing glint in your eye. Without hesitation, you approach the seat you had claimed yesterday and sink into it with deliberate ease, smoothing your hands over the tablecloth as though you had always belonged there. “Then I suppose I shall have to keep you guessing as to what it is I desire.”

Viktor stills. His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the edge of the table, mind racing to counter, to regain footing in a match he hadn’t realised was taking place. But you have left him no opening, no move to reclaim the upper hand.

Checkmate.

The air shifts between you, tension strung so finely it might snap at the slightest pull. Viktor exhales sharply through his nose, as if attempting to dispel it, and seizes upon the first neutral topic that comes to mind.

“Did you sleep well?” His voice is steadier than he expects, though he distracts himself by reaching for the sugar dish.

“Well enough,” you reply, mirroring his movement. “Though I admit, I nearly slept through breakfast.”

Your fingers brush against his—just a whisper of contact, fleeting yet electric. Viktor’s breath catches. It is the smallest of things, entirely unremarkable, yet his reaction is anything but. Heat prickles at the back of his neck. He withdraws a fraction too quickly, fingers curling into a loose fist against the tabletop.

You seem unaware of his flustered state, but he cannot risk testing his restraint further. Pushing back from the table, he stands, offering a polite nod.

“I should return to my work,” he says, voice carefully composed. A pause. Then, softer, “I will see you at dinner.”

He does not look back as he leaves, though he feels the weight of your gaze following him all the way to the door. Leaves you with your brows scrunched, before you finally shrug and go about your day.

Another time, he allows himself an odd smile during a brief conversation with you—a small greeting when he finds you reading outside, your belly pressed against the blanket, bare feet swinging idly in the air as you kick at your own buttocks. He is the one to initiate the chatter, asking what has you so engrossed, before his mind catches up with the inevitable flustered reaction caused by the sight of your bare shin.

Viktor nods absentmindedly as you speak, his ears processing the words—something about musical composition, about Bach’s fugues—but his mind does not listen to him.

Some primal instinct takes over, overriding his better judgement, and all he can do is memorise the delicate shape of your ankle, the gentle swell of your calf. His gaze lingers, bordering on something obscene, tracing the bare stretch of your skin where it catches the dappled sunlight. The sight is almost hypnotic, and yet, in your innocence, you mistake it for unwavering focus.

“In fact,” you say, perking up, your expression bright with enthusiasm, “I believe this is something that might catch your interest.” You shift, moving aside to make space for him on the blanket, and in the process, your skirt rides up just slightly—just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your knee.

It is nearly too much.

Viktor coughs abruptly, his throat tightening as if his own body conspires against him. He tugs at his collar, attempting to create more space, but it is no use—the air has grown thick and stifling.

“I—” His voice comes out strained, so he clears his throat again and schools his expression into something neutral. “I would, but I must prepare the lab for Jayce’s arrival.”

The excuse is polite, reasonable, and entirely necessary, lest he make an utter fool of himself. Without waiting for your response, he inclines his head in farewell and turns on his heel, making a swift retreat before temptation can take root any further.

Leaves you blinking dumbfoundedly as your mouth stops speaking mid-sentence again.

Never mind that, the rest of your day is consumed with the attempt to put your freshly devoured knowledge into practice. You spend hours hunched over the piano, fingers chasing after patterns, testing the way structure gives way to emotion in each phrase. The passing of time eludes you until the golden light of the setting sun vanishes entirely, leaving only the soft glow of candle sconces to guide your way.

Footsteps in the corridor signal movement in the house, the shuffle of weary men returning from their labours. You take it as your cue to retire for the night.

Stepping into the hallway, you find yourself crossing paths with Jayce and Viktor. They are both visibly spent, their shoulders drawn with exhaustion, but there is something undeniably triumphant in their expressions. Viktor carries the scent of burnt oil and paper, while Jayce's hair is in complete disarray, as though he has run his hands through it a hundred times over.

"Any groundbreaking success?" you ask lightly, directing the question to Jayce as he stretches with a groan.

"Hopefully," he says, laughing. "We’re making progress—some of it even intentional."

You huff in amusement. "I shall look forward to hearing the grand announcement, then."

"You’ll be the first to know," Jayce assures you, then clasps Viktor’s shoulder before departing. "Goodnight, you two."

That leaves you and Viktor alone, the silence between you both weighted, not uncomfortable but not quite settled either. Without speaking, you fall into step together, instinctively adjusting your pace to match his—slower, deliberate, the quiet tap of his cane punctuating each measured stride—as you ascend the stairs in tandem.

At the landing, where your paths are meant to diverge, Viktor hesitates. Just for a breath. Just for a moment too long.

Your eyes meet.

And then, as though scalded, he steps back, inclining his head with the faintest of nods before slipping away into the dark.

With a huff of resignation, you allow Eliza to undress you and prepare you for bed. She moves deftly, fingers working through the laces of your gown, but you do not miss the way her lips press together as though suppressing a question.

You arch a brow at her in quiet encouragement, and with a shake of her head—half exasperation, half amusement—she finally relents.

“If it is not too bold of me to ask, my lady—” she hesitates briefly before pressing on, “—it has been nearly a month now. How do you find marriage suits you?”

You let out a small breath of laughter, too tired to weigh your words with careful diplomacy. “Not too different from unwedded life, if I am to be truthful. Save for the absence of my sisters’ endless chatter.”

Eliza hums as she loosens the ties of your corset. “If I may say so, my lady, Mister Viktor strikes me as a good husband. Hardworking, thoughtful.”

You pause for half a moment before answering, smoothing your hands over your chemise. “He is a good friend, that much is certain.”

A small huff of laughter escapes her then, as though she cannot help herself. “Oh, my lady,” she says, shaking her head, “I may be young, but even my inexperienced eyes can see that you and Mister Viktor have long since passed the realm of friendship.”

You blink at her, caught off guard, and at once, she seems to realise she has overstepped. Her back straightens, her expression tightening as she rushes to amend her words. “I—I beg your pardon, I spoke out of turn, I did not mean—”

You hold up a hand, cutting off her flustered apology. “No, no, I rather liked that,” you say, surprising even yourself. A smirk tugs at your lips as you add, “Much more, in fact, than your continued attempts to sneak me a short stay each morning. I do hope we will soon be past that.”

Eliza exhales in relief, her mouth curling into a warm, genuine smile. She dips into a small curtsy. “Anything you wish, my lady.”

With that, she bids you goodnight and quietly takes her leave.

Left alone, you crawl into bed, drawing the covers up to your chin. The house is still, save for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant hush of the wind beyond your window. But despite the quiet, despite the heavy comfort of your bedding, sleep eludes you.

Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to Viktor. To the way he had lingered by your door just moments earlier, caught in a hesitation neither of you had dared to name. To the way he had spoken to you at breakfast, as though testing boundaries he did not yet fully understand. To the fleeting brush of his hand against yours, his fingers warm, his breath catching just so—

You turn onto your side with a soft, frustrated sigh. Morning will come soon enough.

And yet, you do not think you will sleep at all. You swing your legs over the frame with an intention take a stroll to calm your mind.

Your bare feet make no sound against the polished floorboards as you slip into the corridor, the cool air brushing against your skin like a whispered warning. You tell yourself this is only a brief walk to settle your thoughts, to quiet the restlessness that refuses to let you sleep. Yet, without meaning to, your steps carry you past Viktor’s door before you can register the path you have taken.

You mean to keep walking. Truly, you do. But then—

A ghost of your name reaches your ears.

You stop short, the breath catching in your throat. Perhaps it was nothing—a trick of the night, the house shifting in its slumber. But then it comes again, unmistakable now, low and hoarse and pulled from behind that door.

Your fingers hover over the wood as if drawn by an unseen force. You glance down the corridor—empty, silent—before pressing your ear against the surface.

What you hear sends a shiver racing down your spine.

His voice is rough, uneven, his breaths laboured between the syllables of your name. Even through the barrier of the door, the strain in his tone is evident, the sound of it sinking straight to the pit of your stomach. He is panting, sighing, the rhythm of his breaths quickening into something unmistakable.

Your mind can only grasp at the edges of what is unfolding beyond that door, yet the images come unbidden.

Viktor, alone in the dark, his fingers ghosting over his parted lips as he imagines yours wrapped around him instead. His hand strokes himself with urgent, desperate movements, the need unbearable, overwhelming. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, like a curse. His mind is flooded with visions of you—your bare skin, your hands gripping at him, your body surrendering beneath his touch.

He pictures you riding his cock into oblivion, your hair cascading down your back, tickling his thighs as your head lulls on your shoulders in pleasure, lips moaning out his name. Your throat calling out for him, for God, as his thumb rubs you and his palm clasps around your waist. Your belly stretching over a bulge where his cock fills you up—if he were so lucky for you to lean back, propping yourself on his legs, presenting yourself to him. Your body long and arched as he runs a palm against your stomach, feeling himself hitting that spot that makes your thighs clench around the sharp angles of his hips.

Then, it’s your mouth on him again. That sweet tongue you stick out whenever you play the piano is now flicking against the bundle of nerves under his tip, teasing him. His thumb, no matter how precise, does you no justice—he is certain. His hand is a poor tribute, nowhere near good enough to mimic what your mouth would feel like, sucking on him. Were he so lucky. But clearly, he isn’t.

What he has instead is his own hand—calloused from years of tinkering and writing, ink stains embedded into his skin for eternity. His wrist aches, on the verge of pain, as he pumps himself hastily, chasing completion that wears your face. His free palm runs up and down his torso before clasping around his balls, picturing your wet cheeks pressing against them.

He writhes against the sheets, his self-restraint fraying, his control slipping with every ragged breath. He curses himself for this weakness, for this indulgence. But even as shame wars with desire, he cannot stop.

His own contract—his careful, calculated arrangement—has turned against him. He had thought it would be a shield, a safeguard. But instead, it has left him starving.

And now, the second contract—the one he has spoken aloud in front of many witnesses, the vow to worship you, body and soul—feels dangerously within reach.

His stomach contorts and curls as lust coils tighter and tighter. His skin nearly burns with the friction of his swollen cock, twitching in his own grasp, fingers curling tighter as he pretends it’s your cunt squeezing him. He pretends it’s your mouth enveloping him, your cheeks hollowed out as you hum around him.

With a wrenched-out grunt, he paints his own belly white, chanting your name to the rhythm of his stuttering hips. Drenched in sweat, he pumps his cock until the last drops of seed take their exit, leaving him spent—yet his soul still longing.

The last groan has you gasping, your body tightening and clenching around nothing—a sensation wholly unfamiliar until this moment. It is strong, undeniable, leaving you weak as you stagger back to your bedroom. You bury yourself beneath the covers, heart racing, mind muddled, lips dry. What on earth?

And Viktor groans again in his damp bed, his stomach slick with his own spent. The want for you is overwhelming, insatiable—his hand nearly not enough. How he is meant to keep his part of the deal, he does not know.

He may as well call for that hearse.

[enviedear]

Okay but Billy with an innocent reader>>>>>>>> LIKE HES SO PROTECTIVE OML

billy + innocent!reader

stop i love this. this should be an au hell i may just write more for it

tw— for use of a gun, toothrotting fluff

request

"go ahead, honey. pull the trigger." billy's voice is sweet against your ear.

your face morphs into a coy apprehension, "and you're sure this won't send me flying on my rear?"

he chuckles, straightening your arms a bit, "m'right here, i won't let that happen."

your eyes focus in on the three rusty cans in the distance, set atop a dry rotting log. you know there's no way you're going to hit them all. you'd be lucky to hit one.

but billy is adamant in both that you need to learn how to shoot, and that you’ll be a ‘natural’. his driving objective, however, being that since he can't be with you from sun up to sun down, he'll have to settle with teaching you how to fend for yourself.

it's not unlike him to behave this way. in the months you've known the gunslinger, you've come to find that his urge to protect you is enormous.

his protection isn't reserved just against the infamous wild men of the west, but rather, anything and anyone. if it could possibly do you harm, physically or mentally, he's there to guard and defend.

like a knight out of the princess tales your mother used to tell you.

you let out a harsh breath before your finger begins to press into the trigger. too soft at first, the metal remains in its' spot, you muster up all your courage and pull the trigger. your eyes are screwed shut as the bullet whistles away, and you quickly turn into billy.

his arms ensnare you, wrapping you tight, "what're you hidin' for? you hit it dead center, sweetheart!"

you lift your head, staring unabashedly into his blue eyes, "did i really?"

he hums, using his dominant hand to steer your gaze away from him and toward the target. sure enough, the can on the left side has a small hole right in its middle.

billy chuckles, his chest rumbling against your back, "told you, my girl's a natural."

you can't help but grin, the tension releasing from your shoulders, "or i've got a good teacher." you tease.

he gives you a squeeze before letting go, gesturing toward the cans, "c'mon, let's see if you can do it again."

emboldened by your first success, you square your shoulders and take aim. this time, you focus a bit more, remembering the sensation of the recoil and trying to replicate it. the shot rings out, and you open your eyes to find another can hit.

billy lightly claps you on the back, "see? just like that, sweetheart."

as you reload, you can't help but appreciate the way the afternoon sun plays on his weathered hat, casting thin rays upon his lips, "m’not as hopeless as i thought."

he grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "do i e’ver lie to you?”

you ignore his sly remark, focusing back in on your targets. with newfound confidence, you continue to practice, the rhythmic sound of gunshots filling the air. as the sun begins its descent, casting a warm glow over the landscape.

the sounds of gunfire continue, each shot feeling more controlled and confident than the last. with every successful hit, billy's pride in your progress shines through his loving stare. he stands by your side, offering guidance and encouragement, a quiet guardian in the backdrop of your learning.

as the sun dips even lower, casting a dim hue over the landscape, you catch a glimpse of billy watching you with a softness in his eyes. he often got this way, completely lost in you. especially when you're doing things his way— not in the way you'd normally feel inclined. you're rather tame and harmless in comparison to billy, the entire west, really.

growing up away from the fast-growing townships and travelers, when you met billy he completely flipped your world upside down. you gave him all your firsts, shooting his pistol only adds to the expansive list of firsts you've given him.

you go to take aim again, eyes closing as you shoot, still too frightened to keep them open— your bullet flies past your targets, missing entirely. you've grown used to the sound of a hit and when you open your eyes to find the miss, you groan.

billy's safeguarding nature becomes even more apparent as you meet his winsome eyes, his gaze lingers on you, subtle worry etched on his features.

he knows you're inexperienced, a stark contrast to the harsh realities of the world he's accustomed to. he knows it isn't, but if this were a shootout, that big of a miss would have cost you your life.

the mere thought of you in that situation is something he's not willing to entertain.

"you're doing mighty fine, sweetheart," he reassures, a tenderness in his voice that speaks volumes, "but remember, there's more to this than cans and targets. gotta keep those pretty eyes of yours open, alright?"

you nod, appreciating his concern and the earnest care he extends. it dawns on you that learning to shoot isn't just a practical skill— it's a testament to the depth of billy's affection. he's arming you with more than just a handgun— he's giving you a piece of his own resilience and determination.

as the sun sets, casting long shadows across the landscape, you take a moment to stand side by side with billy, appreciating the warmth of his presence. the sky paints hues of orange and pink, a picturesque backdrop to the bond that's been forged between you.

"thanks, billy," you say, sincerity lacing your words. "for teaching me, for being patient."

he smiles, a softness in his expression that contrasts with the rugged exterior, "my pleasure, sweetheart. always want you to be able to take care of yourself."

with the last rays of sunlight fading, you holster the gun, feeling a newfound sense of empowerment. billy wraps an arm around your shoulders, guiding you back towards the homestead. as you walk together, the echoes of gunshots in the ears serve as a reminder that you're not just learning to shoot— you're learning to navigate billy's world, and with his protection, you're sure you'll do just fine.

—reblog and like if you enjoyed, let ur local writer know you like her work !

[yuu-kantokusei]

Valentine's Day❤️

First year version

Characters: Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Sebek

TW: cute, fluff, wholesome

♥️Ace Trappola

Ace isn't one for grand romantic gestures, but he also wants to make the day special in his own way. He teases you all morning, pretending to have forgotten about Valentine's Day, only to surprise you with an impromptu date at the Heartslabyul garden.

He smirks, holding out a box behind his back. "Oh? You actually thought I’d forget? How could I, when you’ve been blushing at every couple we passed today?"

Inside the box is a mix of chocolates—some gourmet, some oddly shaped—and a single playing card, the Ace of Hearts, with "Trappola’s Special Valentine" written on it.

"You better treasure that! That card’s got sentimental value, y’know." he says, grinning but looking away slightly, as if embarrassed.

Afterward, he takes you to play some games at the fair stalls set up by different dorms, winning a stuffed animal for you (after losing a few rounds first, much to his frustration). The day ends with Ace casually throwing an arm around your shoulder, laughing at how "lucky" you are to have him.

♠️Deuce Spade

Deuce spends weeks planning for Valentine’s Day, even getting advice from Trey and Riddle. On the big day, he shows up at your door, nervously shifting from foot to foot, holding a carefully wrapped box of homemade chocolates.

“I—I made these myself! Trey-senpai supervised, so they should be good. I hope…”

Inside the box, the chocolates are heart-shaped but slightly uneven, showing how hard he worked on them. There’s also a little handwritten note, written with intense concentration, saying:

"Thank you for being my precious friend. You make my days brighter. Please accept this small gift."

Afterward, he takes you for a motorcycle ride through a scenic route outside the academy, making sure you hold on tightly. At the highest point, they stop and watch the sunset together, his face turning red as he quietly mutters, "I’m really glad we met."

🐺Jack Howl

Jack isn’t one for sappy holidays, but he recognizes that Valentine’s Day is important, so he makes an effort. He finds a small but meaningful gift—a handcrafted leather bracelet with a wolf charm attached, something practical yet symbolic.

When he gives it to you, he scratches his ear, looking away. “This is… uh, something to remind you that I’ve got your back. Always.”

Instead of a traditional date, Jack takes you on a morning jog with him, where they share a quiet but peaceful time together. Later, he surprises you with a picnic under a large tree, bringing some homemade sandwiches and fruit.

As you eat happily, he watches you with a soft expression, muttering under his breath, “You should smile like that more often.”

If you tease him about it, his tail wags despite his flustered protests.

🍎Epel Felmier

Epel, despite his usual complaints about being treated as ‘cute,’ fully embraces the romance of Valentine’s Day. He invites you to a surprise horseback ride around Pomefiore’s flower fields, where he guides you gently through the scenic landscape.

At the end of the ride, he pulls out a small wooden box with a beautifully carved apple pendant inside. "I made this myself," he says proudly. "It’s apple wood from my family’s orchard. So even when you’re not with me, you’ll have a piece of my home with you."

They spend the evening watching the stars, sharing stories from their childhood. At one point, Epel, thinking you have dozed off, whispers softly, “I wish we could spend every Valentine’s like this…”

Little does he know, you heard him and smiled.

⚡️Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek insists that Valentine's Day is an insignificant human tradition, but deep down, he takes it very seriously when it involves you. He prepares a dramatic, formal speech about your “importance” in his life but keeps getting flustered halfway through.

“Ahem! I— I wish to bestow upon you a token of my— No, that’s not right! CURSES!"

Eventually, he simply hands you a carefully wrapped book—a rare edition of a famous knight’s tale. “This story… It’s about loyalty and strength. You remind me of the hero.”

Despite his usual loudness, he spends the day unusually gentle, guiding you through a serene walk near Diasomnia’s quiet gardens. By the end of the day, he clears his throat, trying to look serious.

“You—You are truly exceptional, And… I shall protect you for all eternity!” His face turns red as he abruptly storms off, embarrassed.

[windvexer]

the Chicken furthermore tries to convince you to practice sorcery in a fun and fulfilling way

There is a difference between practicing goal-oriented practical sorcery, and placing the entire value of your sorcery on whether or not you achieved the goal. One of these things is soul-crushing.

Practicing sorcery should be it's own reward. The actual steps you are performing should be stuff that you like, or thrills you, or captures your fascination. As an activity, practicing sorcery should be satisfying regardless of whether or not the spellwork manifests properly.

If the sorcery on your plate is not satisfying, compost it and return to the endless buffet and try a different type of sorcery.

If you do not have the things you need, your first step to a spell becomes innovation. What is the purpose of the thing in the spell, and how can it be replaced?

A spell can be cast with a length of string, or a paper and pen. Or with a bit of crayon. Or a dead fly. Or with just you.

Sorcerous knowledge tends to reveal itself when the clutter of correspondences is placed aside, so having few things to practice with is not a curse.

You do not need an interpersonal spiritual friendship with every single spirit you want to work with in magic. YOU DO NOT.

Interpersonal friend relationships with spirits should probably be reserved for very special spirits in your "inner court," the beings with which you choose to share your life and that you honor as teachers and guides.

Many spirits are pleased to assist with magic, but have no interest in getting to know us personally.

Imagine if everyone in your askbox wanted to ask you for help on something you're knowledgeable about, but instead of just asking for help, they first wanted to DM you for a few weeks to make sure you're comfortable with being asked for help, meanwhile on your correspondence chart pinned post it says "I can help with [topic]! Just ask!"

Asking spirits for help in magic is a good, valid way to start building a relationship with them.

Repeatedly calling on the same spirit or type of spirit over and over in spellwork is a fantastic way to deepen your relationship with them.

Working with a spirit in magic does not mean you are obligated to build a shrine to it, venerate it, talk to it outside of spellwork, or any of that.

Practicing sorcery is not the same thing as casting a spell. Practicing sorcery also means practicing the composite skills which come together to make a spell.

A spell is like a completed painting. But to make that painting, the artist needed several skills: the ability to sketch the scene, knowledge of how to apply and work with their paint, color theory, an understanding of how to render landscapes, and so forth. As a sorcerer, your skillset might be imbuing intent, raising energy, centering and grounding, practicing trance, practicing psychism or divination, etc. As you gain familiarity with these things, spells become less like an imposing stranger, and more like someone you're sure you've met before.

Practice can be it's own reward, but discipline is often required for progress.

Raising energy once a day, forever? I think not.

Raising energy once a day for seven days? Or, dedicating to doing it a total of ten times this month? Perhaps so.

An artist may not be in love with every single step of the process, and sometimes a sorcerer may have to get good at a skill that's not their favorite. But if no part of the process sparks joy, then something is wrong.

Sucking at something is the first step to being kind of good at something. Be reasonable with yourself: does the beginner artist doodle a landscape, then look at their work and declare that their art "doesn't work"?

Not every witch is talented at every sort of sorcery. Not creating a potent prosperity spell after five tries doesn't mean you're bad at magic. It might mean that your current understanding of prosperity magic precludes good results, or that you are casting on one very intransigent situation, or that your true talents lie in destruction and chaos instead of peaceful growth.

Set practice goals, give it an honest go, and move on when the time is right: "I am going to practice raising Fire energy and putting it into this stone using the Pore Breathing method. I'm going to do it fifteen times." (3 months later): "That sucked and it never worked, but I did it all fifteen times. Next I'm going to do a grounded roots visualization and use it to channel water energy to cleanse my room." (10 days later): "That was awesome, I want to do it more than 15 times."

Play around and be silly with it. Taking your path seriously is not the same thing as taking your path somberly.

Sports teams practice drills to be ready for game day. Sorcerers are wise to take a page from their book, because when real-life game day arrives, it feels much better to deal with it when you know you've been having pretty good success with channeling water energies, so maybe it's best to do something with that, because you can't move fire for dick.

[paperbackribs]

Tags: steddie, getting together, featuring the chaotic friendship of Eddie & Dustin

🤎🌱🤎

Steve's hands are already at his hips, “Eddie, what are you doing down there?”

Eddie glances up from the hole he’d dug in the woods beyond Steve’s backyard. Looking at the dirt nearly up to his shoulders he belatedly realises that he may have become a tad fixed on his big idea.

Dappled sunlight falls through the tapestry of foliage above and the chirping of birds nearby cheerily fill the lush landscape, but none of it seems to distract Steve from his concern as he squints down at Eddie.

“Where’s Dustin?” Eddie counters like he doesn’t currently resemble a cartoon villain digging traps for the native wildlife. He resists twirling an imaginary moustache over his bare upper lip, but Steve must have an idea of his thoughts because he squints suspiciously over his arms as he folds them.

“I don’t know,” Steve says slowly from high above, “should he be here while you create what looks like your own grave?”

Eddie props his arms over the lip, tilting his chin up and aiming for charming. Playful even. “Now, why would I do that, Stevie? Life is a magnificent thing, worthy of delight and whimsy.”

“Whimsy,” Steve repeats sceptically, “like you practically digging up my backyard. You know, someone could fall and sue me, right?” Despite his scolding tone, Steve bends to kneel on the ground, his delicious thighs by Eddie’s folded hands and head hovering over his.

Eddie flutters his eyelashes as Steve waits on him, nearly close enough to kiss if he would just tilt down a fraction. “You could get in here with me, make it so there’s no room for anyone else.”

Steve’s bright hazel eyes flash and Eddie wishes he could get a handle on whether it’s because of Eddie’s suggestive tone or if it’s that Steve is simply annoyed with his antics.

Just when the silences stretches for a second too long, enough that Eddie thinks Steve might lean forward, close the gap and take Eddie’s lips in what would surely be a spectacular first kiss, he instead smirks, slyly pushing a handful of loose dirt into the hole from the high mound above Eddie’s head. It rains over Eddie’s right shoulder, which he shrugs fatalistically — he’s fairly covered at this point anyway.

“Eddie, tell me why you’ve dug a hole near as tall as you by my backyard.”

“Or what, you’ll bury me with all the other bodies out here?”

“Something like that.” Another handful rains down and Eddie sighs, “It’s a compression hole.” Steve’s hand halts, “Like the socks?”

Eddie takes the opportunity to reach out and clasp Steve’s hand, ostensibly to stop it from pushing more dirt over his shoulders but really just taking the opportunity to touch Steve. Hold the warmth of his hand within his own, stroke the silken back of it with his thumb.

Eddie steals many moments like these and Steve always lets him, but he never knows whether it's because of Steve's generous nature or if it's because he wants Eddie touching him, specifically.

“Like the socks,” he agrees, eyes sharp as Steve’s cheeks flush a faint red. Yet he retains a sceptical mien about him so Eddie further explains. “Dustin has this book—”

Steve snorts, “Here we go.”

“Dustin has this book and it says that the Aboriginals from Australia have known for ages how to take care of deadly snake bites.”

“With a hole.”

Eddie is always fascinated to see the evidence of Steve’s smiles in the shine of his eyes, and he delights in being one of the few people who often brings out its brightness. “With a hole,” he agrees with a cheeky grin, happy at Steve’s amusement.

“Bit by a Red-belly then you're in the hole for x amount of days. By a King Brown then for an nth amount of days. Placed in the hole and buried up to your neck, the compression of it all works the venom safely through your system.”

He's sad to see those pretty eyes hidden from him as Steve closes them with a deep, bracing breath. “Eddie,” he begins in a warning tone, drawing his hand away, “is Dustin finding a poisonous snake to bite you with.”

“No, definitely not,” Eddie hedges but at Steve’s stern look he squirms, “because poisonous would mean that I can’t eat them?”

“Venomous then!”

Eddie thinks that maybe he’s losing his capacity to charm Steve if the ire rising in his eyes is anything to go by. He shifts uneasily on the hard dirt below him, feeling particularly trapped as Steve’s frown deepens while looking like he’s considering burying Eddie without the bite and definitely above his head.

The sounds of eager feet crunching over dry leaves and fallen branches sound behind Eddie and he tilts his head in time to see Dustin fly through the trees with a long, wriggling animal in his hands. “Found one!” He calls triumphantly, the curls around his face bobbing in excitement. There's a smudge across his cheek that Eddie suspects was made by crawling through the dirt and bushes to find his captured prey.

About twenty inches long, thin with yellow stripes framing its scales of green and brown, the garter snake wrapped around Dustin’s left arm tastes the air in front of it with its pink forked tongue. Simultaneously looking unhappy at being captured while utterly disinterested in the humans surrounding it.

Dustin’s face crinkles in confusion as Steve starts laughing behind Eddie’s back. “What? What is it?” He asks Steve who, Eddie looks over to see, has fallen back onto his butt, head tilted to the sky as he snorts and chuckles at the harmless animal Dustin has procured for their experiment.

“Never mind,” Steve waves an expansive hand towards the two of them, “carry on. As you were.” Humour dances over his brow and broadens his smile, “Here, I’ll even help. Pass it over, Dustin, I’ll throw the terrible monster at Eddie myself.”

It’s Eddie’s turn for his cheeks to flush now and he might be more embarrassed if it weren’t for Steve catching his eye, sharing a look of amusement with him rather than at him, and Eddie finds himself charmed by Steve Harrington once more.

It's not the first time and he knows that it won't be the last. Steve has had Eddie firmly wrapped around his little finger for far too long to say now, and Eddie's only waiting for the barest hint to step forward.

He sighs and turns back to Dustin, “Let the snake go, it’s a bust.”

Dustin opens his mouth to protest, but Eddie heads him off, explaining that the only creatures in danger of the carnivore in his hands are worms and maybe a mouse or two.

Eddie reckons that if Dustin were a mouse his tail would drop in disappointment right now, looking as sad as one can as he trudges away to release the snake in a safer place deeper in the woods.

He turns back to Steve to find him crouching now, braced with a hand outstretched towards Eddie. His eyes are still bright from his earlier laughter, but an invitation now winds its way through them.

“How about I help clean you up?” Steve asks in a dark murmur and Eddie lights up, finally finding an answer to the question that's been jittering in his heart.

“Why don’t you,” Eddie grins in agreement, clasping Steve back and pushing up to meet him halfway. As he scrambles out of the hole, Eddie pats the lip of its edge in affection as he continues to hold onto Steve’s hand. He silently thanks the soon-to-be-forgotten experiment and winds their fingers together, following Steve home.

💚 More steddie here

[dsknsk]

Limbus Company and its visual portrayal of female characters, an essay

Limbus Company, and by extent, Project Moon has been a great example of how female characters are visually portrayed. In this article, I’ll try to dissect why and how, focusing on Limbus Company as it has by far the largest amount of images I can talk about. Let’s dive in.

Disclaimer: I'm by no means a professional so please, PLEASE don't clown on this i.e mention the summer controversy. I have a personal trauma on that and do not wish to revisit it. I know it's practically impossible to ask from tumblr, but still.

Visually portraying a subject

Where to start? At the very beginning, of course. Portraying a subject visually (not talking about female characters in specific yet) has a number of things attached to it. Perhaps the first question one can ask themselves is this:

Where do I want the focus to be?

Now, you can be short and say ‘the subject, of course’, but even then, that won’t often be precise enough. Let’s say you have a butterfly as your subject. Do you want the focus to be on its beautiful wings? Or its curious multi-faceted eyes, or its roll-up tongue? What do you want the viewer to notice immediately? 

Arguably, even photos of landscapes have at least one point of focus. The pretty waterfall, the vast mountains, the green pastures or the starry sky. Some have the focus split up in two, where both the lake and the mountains are to be spotted immediately.

How focus can be created

There are multiple ways focus can be drawn to a specific part or to a specific subject. 

One way is to simply make everything but your point of focus uninteresting. A common effect used is the Bokeh, which blurs out the background so that it will automatically appear as less interesting and more as a faded bunch of colors that contrasts with the point of focus which is sharply shot in HD. You can also make the background to be a flat color, like black or white. Some pieces of art additionally add colored shapes or lines behind the subject as to accentuate it further.

(an example of Bokeh. In addition, the direction in which another character looks shows what our main subject is, who is actually positioned off-center.)

You can also just…fill the space with the subject, as in a close-up of the thing in question. Following the previous butterfly example, it’s like only showing a small part of its wings, enlarged to comparatively huge proportions. This is also seen in portraits and to a lesser extent, similar art like waist-ups.

The eye is immediately drawn to what we should look at, which is the character who’s front and center in the image. Secondarily the blood. Her hair also uses the next point below: color.

If you’re working with color, then color is an excellent way to bring the focus to a subject. Bright colors and contrasts can be used, like what’s done here:

The bright red forms a direct contrast to the green that dominates the color pallette. It thus leads the eye to the red areas - aka the blood the character is spilling as well as her face, which is technically a tint of red. The red returning in her eyes which have a small trail, and on her bloodied face, as well as the yellow of her tie, further help to bring focus to her face and her expression. (Other than that, this image also has classic cartoon speed lines, which are minor but do help).

Light is also something I should mention. Using the image from above, the character is actually rushing towards the darker areas of the image. The light is coming from where she seemed to come from, judging by the speed lines and the trail of red we just saw in all its glory. The light forms a line around the subject which keeps said subject’s green uniform from blending into the darkness and the green of the image.

There is a specific technique called chiaroscuro (lit. ‘light-dark’) which is totally a real thing that even old masters like Rembrandt have used to bring focus. The gist of it is that the painting has very bright areas which is the subject, surrounded by dark areas, with not much in between. This technique is often used to make scenes more dramatic, and to immediately show us what the artist wants us to see, without any possible doubt. It’s like putting a spotlight on your head in a dark room. Chiaroscuro is also seen in Limbus:

You can’t actually see much of the room our subject is in. The only light is coming from the candles, illuminating the top part of our subject. The other, darker half is much harder to see the details of. This makes it so that the eye is led from either the character towards the source of the light (the candles) or in reverse, both of which are possible and valid because in both cases, we ignore the pitch black part of the artwork.

How to create focus with characters (in specific)

Now, humans and humanoids are fascinating subjects to focus on, because there are so many situations a person can be in, and so much stuff a person can be. Are they the commander of a spaceship? A medieval ruler? An overworked office clerk? There are specific things that more or less pertain to humanoid characters more. I’m going into two aspects, clothing and posing - I’m aware there’s more, but for the sake of making this not longer than it is I’m going into only those two.

1. Clothing

What someone wears makes up a considerable part of how they’re seen and what they are presumed to be. This is also a large part of stereotyping. If you're wearing a t-shirt with pants, sunglasses, and have a camera around your neck, chances are people think you’re a tourist. To them, it likely won’t matter if you are, they will perceive you as one anyway. This is also important here: you might want to pretend you don’t know anything about the portrayed character or show their image to an unknowing friend and see what they think that the character is.

And that brings me to this point that I have seen so many times with female characters: their description/role not directly matching with how they are supposed to look if that were true. I’m talking about the battle-hardened veteran without muscles or scars of both kinds (even if adequate healing/scar removal is available in the setting). I’m talking about the scientist with a leotard under their lab coat. However, I’m not saying they should look a certain way or be the same - that’d be boring - I’m saying that…hey, it might make the viewer not take the character as serious as you want them to be.

The way clothing is built up can also serve as a way to bring focus to a specific aspect. Which will most often be either the boobs or the butt (or both) in the case of female characters. Look at this (non-Project Moon) example.

The woman in the front (obviously the focus due to the place she is standing in being squarely in the middle, and her red hair standing out) is the leader of that squad…as well as the strongest in battle. Without any protection of vital organs. With a shape under her boobs that would stab her fatally in the liver if she does as little as bend over.

The way her clothing is built up also brings the focus to her boobs - not only with how they’re prominently on display, but also with the shape the top and the fabric covering her shoulders makes. In a similar vein, her ‘pants’ and the belt all lead the eye downwards to her crotch as well. Furthermore, her thigh highs look skin-tight, bringing secondary focus to her legs, of course.

And last but not least. The guys behind her are actually properly armored from the neck down, making them somewhat more of a homogenous whole… in theory. The different body types, hair, and colors of the armor of the right and left dude make them stand out slightly more, which in turn only accentuates this ridiculous difference. 

I don’t really have many Project Moon-originating images on hand that are similar to this. Every time we’ve had an ID with a female character being the leader of their group (of which we’ve had surprisingly many, actually - Don has two Section Director IDs to boot) they have usually been posing alone, or well, posing…their full uptie art normally shows a moment when they’re beating their enemy into a pulp instead of posing for the camera like in the above image. This is really consistent with the other half of the playable characters, who are male.

I want to give a special mention to two characters despite that. Faust and Rodion are both known as the more well-endowed characters, but from their IDs and E.G.O it is treated as something that’s there rather than something to be exploited.

The blue glint is the highlight here, illuminating her blood-stained clothing but also finding its equal in her small, blue eyes. I have found eyes like this and expressions like this to be quite rare on female characters. Just look at her and her face. She’s completely lost it, wrapped in twisted and warped euphoria of the moment of ‘purging’ another ‘heretic’ - and from the looks of it, the last one on the scene. She’s not even trying to clean her own clothing or face, or expose her boobs. That’s not what matters to her image, showing any kind of skin doesn’t add to her character. She’s caught in this violent moment, having her victim completely in her literal grip - not even her eyes are looking at the camera. This image showcases the violent and sadistic nature of the character.

I find this art to be a curious thing. The background is actually rather bright, making the inverse true: the character is dressed in dark clothing, so that’s what the focus is on instead. Her coat flared out in such a way it can almost be mistaken for the underside of her long hair, making her seem even larger (something certain animals use when threatened to scare others into leaving). Her actual figure is thus more obscured, it only being a few tones darker. The thing that keeps her from being a dark blob in the foreground is her sword, large enough to be an odachi. Because she’s unsheathing it, the glint that comes from the blade immediately draws attention - arguably away from her partially unbuttoned top. The animation of this in the game supports this: no boob jiggle, just her standing calmly in the moment she’s just about to unsheathe her sword.

Because I’m going to use this example further in this thing, keep this one on hand.

An image that’s again in the middle of the action. Rosespanner Workshop Director Rodion is right now turning an enemy into an unrecognizable stain on the pavement with her huge weapon. The highlight is her weapon again, but this time it actually serves as a secondary source of light, illuminating her face. The yellow coloration of this secondary light source also makes the whole thing more interesting than if it just had the background light that serves a similar purpose as it did in the first image of this post. Even though the image has a heavy pinkish tint, the red that splatters all over the scene is still very much present and they draw the eye back to the yellow light. While her pose is ambiguous, it keeps things vague by not putting any sort of focus on her lower body. In any other piece of media this pose would be viewed from another angle, as to profit from as much of her body’s curves. Not here. Her killing an enemy with visible ease is important. Not her pose. This sounds logical, doesn’t it?

2. Posing

Which brings me to this. The way a character is posed also plays a part in their portrayal. It is possible to accentuate certain body parts with this - like when a character brings their hand to their chin, or the way their legs are posed. No matter the actual scene that’s meant, the way the character is posed is a factor that decides how it’s viewed and where the focus lies. Most often I’ve found this to be when a character is shown wielding a weapon, but their ‘battle pose’ being rather something that accentuates their bare skin, or their little clothing that does the same thing.

Is your character actually showing that they’re dangerous through being shown fighting…or are they just sexily posing with a weapon in their hands to add a sense of ‘danger’? Some can be highly difficult to distinguish. Some CGs can show the middle of the action yet the way the character is posed still brings the focus away from the violence or brings a secondary focus to it. Unfortunately I don’t have examples of those on hand but I know they exist.

A character just posing with a weapon isn’t wrong - I draw that all the time - but when the focus is brought to a character’s boobs and/or butt with the pose the character is in, it will be kind of obvious (even if it isn’t true) that sexualizing those features of the character what the artist is really intending to do instead of showing how dangerous she is with the weapon.

I’m going to use this image from Echocalypse as an example. I regularly take poses like this as a reference point and then attempt to make them more realistic, or, funnily, point out their weirdness by putting a male character in it. Often I do this by using them for a different, more appropriately clothed character. This goes to show that clothing can already decide a lot in posing itself.

This character is posing with a weapon, a…particularly huge odachi in this case (I thought it was a staff at first until I saw the hilt). Which is exactly the same what Rodion is doing up there in the image we already handled. Yet, there are subtle differences between that image and this one, and it’s actually more minor than you think it is (disregarding the thematics of the pieces). Both characters…

are posing with an odachi of similar size (assuming that both characters are of similar height for ease of comparison) as opposed to being locked in battle; theoretically making the focus more on how pretty they look

have long hair (that, minus the bun and the bangs, have a similar cut) that makes their silhouette appear larger than it is

do have a relatively bright and sort-of detailed background going on

have large boobs

are unsheathing their weapon just slightly

However, to get to our first difference, we need to get back to point 1: clothing. Using the same two images, the largest difference is clothing. Kurokumo Rodion is wearing all-black clothing that covers her from the head down except for the unbuttoned top. If I had to describe what the other girl is wearing, I’d say she’s wearing a piece of armor on one of her arms, a flowered collar, thigh highs but no footwear otherwise, and something…obviously lingerie/bikini derived. I’m actually not sure if that’s a tail or part of the clothing.

But to return to our point: posing. The pose of Kurokumo Rodion is actually fairly neutral. She’s just standing there, menacingly! (I should note that their normal character talksprites are also just standing there neutrally) No, literally. Anyone with working legs and arms, can reproduce that. Just give them a sword prop and you’re done. Coat cape optional. The way she is standing does convey some sort of subtle confidence, however, just like the way she is actually looking down (at the viewer). It’s likely you’ll see the sword first for the reasons I mentioned when first discussing the piece above and then look at her from top to bottom as usual.

The way our other girl is posed…is a little harder to replicate in real life to say the least. Not only is this a floating pose (i.e you’d need support), the way her body is bent sharply brings the focus upon her boobs and butt. The human body is actually rather flexible, depending on how you’re built of course, but even so I do doubt whether anyone can do this pose even if they could somehow float in mid-air. Or do this lying down. I (someone with joints that are a little too flexible for my own good) haven’t tried and highkey don’t want to. The thigh and upper leg that is prominently on display, along with the way her body curves leads the eye to her butt or downwards towards her legs and feet.

Her facial expression is neutral, but I get some sort of… ‘dreamy’ vibe from it from the traditional anime-like proportions (huge eyes, tiny nose and mouth). Almost as if she’s doing puppy-eyes to beg for candy or something. It’s, well, what most people call to be a ‘babyface’. Kurokumo Rodion is also in ‘anime-style’ and her facial proportions are still a little bit unrealistic, but I do dare to say they’re more realistic than those of the other girl.

Also, small sidepath. What do you think the second girl is based off? One would judge from her tail that it must be some sort of water creature but whether she’s a shark or any other kind of sea creature isn’t really obvious. Would it surprise you if I told you she’s based on a bake-kujira, a SKELETON-whale (which sounds cool as all hell)? Without any kind of skeleton-parts worked into her design? To be fair, I wouldn’t have guessed it either if it were not for her canonical description.

Also, one last note about that latter image. I think that an odachi of that format would be extremely tricky to unsheathe in such a pose, because of the distance between your arms. Her arm that actually unsheathes the thing is also obviously reaching out, so she’d need more strength to do that than what the look of her arms suggest.

Speaking about arms…

On paper, our Limbus girls would have all the reason to have twig arms. After all, the City allows one to get stronger without visually changing their physique much. One can carry around huge weapons like chainsaws, lances and zweihanders without visible muscles. And yet. And yet.

One of the few times bare arms are seen (most art prefers to cover them up - for Limbus standards, this would be the ultimate fanservice thing), it becomes very clear that they at least have a basic tone. Like, the basicest of basic efforts is done to make them not look malnourished. Even if this girl above is not like, the strongest of the world (for as far as we know...) the muscles she does have are very lovingly shaded and detailed. 

To end this, I’ll showcase something one last time with a funny in-game example: Roseate Desire. Roseate Desire is an E.G.O which wraps the wearer in pink ribbons and is highly implied to especially speak to the sin of Lust (which is the affinity of the attack). In the game, this E.G.O is given to two characters, a girl and a guy. In any other gacha game, it would only be given to girls.

While bent over and with a happy expression, she’s still coming to get you. How can you tell? For one, the huge anchor she has with her is within her hand (i.e opposed to it being tied up next to her or something like that), and the shield that’s tied to her arm. Despite being wrapped up, she does still look as if a portion of her is still in control, and her attack suggests the same. 

Hong Lu wearing it always makes me grin. He does wear clawed gloves and his fingers are arched, that’s true, but the way he’s strung up like a puppet makes it so that he can’t even get you with those. The manner in which he is posed and his head is tilted is highly reminiscent of how one would pose a marionette. And ingame properly he doesn’t even use these claws in close combat! He wraps up the enemy in the pink ribbons with doll-like movement. Even the way he’s covered evokes a sense of powerlessness, like he’s led on by the ribbons instead of controlling them.

I think this example, along with the others, is implicative of how Project Moon’s visual portrayal of female characters is done so well. They’re equally portrayed as the male characters, if not arguably more powerful, and there’s an equal roster of 6 to 6. They’re not overtly sexualized by bare skin or impossible poses while the men are covered up in a sensible pose. These are characters designed for their personality and role first, not with fanservice or money in mind first. Even the female NPCs fit within this rule, even though they have less art to go from. When you have a game which had 97% completion on the story and a mere 64% on the systems (i.e monetization) it would kind of figure that character designs fall in line with the role the character fulfills, is it not?

[inklesspen]

Like many of you, I didn't think this outcome was truly possible. I believed that enough people would pay attention to what's been happening these past several months, and do the right thing. I was wrong.

This is not a story. We will not win by blowing up the Death Star or by dropping the Ring into the fires of Mount Doom. We will not win in one single moment, but through a long twilight struggle.

From now on, every day we wake up is a win. Every time we stand up and say we will not be silenced and we will not ignore the suffering of others; that's a win. Every life we save, every right-wing policy we delay or frustrate or block, these are wins. And these wins will often be small, and they will often be conditional. We will have to keep defending them for the rest of our lives; this is not pleasant to hear, but it is the truth, and we must not shy away from the truth.

Remember the airplane rule: secure your own mask first before helping others, but do help others. We have to stand together. We cannot break ranks if we want to survive. And part of this is to know your own limits; everyone can do something, but nobody can spend their every moment in the fight. Manage yourself so that you can work for a better future without burning yourself up in the process.

The playbook from the first Trump administration is mostly still relevant. Many things will be different but more will be the same as they were. The general patterns by which we resist the authoritarian machine are still valid:

Do not obey in advance. Most of the power of authoritarianism is freely given. In times like these, individuals think ahead about what a more repressive government will want, and then offer themselves without being asked. A citizen who adapts in this way is teaching power what it can do. Make eye contact and small talk. This is not just polite. It is part of being a citizen and a responsible member of society. It is also a way to stay in touch with your surroundings, break down social barriers, and understand whom you should and should not trust. If we enter a culture of denunciation, you will want to know the psychological landscape of your daily life. Practice corporeal politics. Power wants your body softening in your chair and your emotions dissipating on the screen. Get outside. Put your body in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar people. Make new friends and march with them.

Dehumanization and scapegoating are weapons which only ever serve the enemy. Learn how to recognize these weapons when you see them, and speak out whenever they are employed, even if by someone who is supposedly on your side.

There will be people in your communities who have fought these battles before. Learn from their experiences; these lessons were often paid for in blood.

Learn about alternative ways to connect and communicate. Opsec isn't just a meme. Security is a set of tradeoffs; if you keep things secret, you will be safer from the authorities, but it will be harder for like-minded folks to find and join you. There is no one right opsec protocol for all situations. (In particular, Discord is not end-to-end encrypted; you will want to know about and be familiar with messaging platforms which are.)

Hope is hard work, but despair will kill you. Let us therefore resolve to set aside fear for courage. I love you. Take care of yourselves and your communities.

[thesummerestsolstice]

Headcanon Crafts for Everyone I Missed Last Time:

Idril: a sculptor. She worked with every kind of stone imaginable, and often went looking for new material in Gondolin’s mines with Maeglin. (Look my Maeglin head canons are complicated but they should get to be friends the narrative has hurt them too much already) She actually preferred not to make elvish figures, instead focusing on strangely beautiful stone landscapes and various animal-like figures. She was actually responsible for Middle-Earth’s version of the gargoyle, having carved several to stand guard over Gondolin. Several elves swore that the statues moved, but she never addressed those rumors. She also liked to paint her work with bright colors, which would’ve been seen as odd back in Valinor, but fit right in in First Age Middle-Earth.

Maeglin: a smith, but his craft was more in-line with Avarin practice than Noldor practice; with much less focus on the idea of making gems and heavier focus on understanding natural geology and the properties of various gems and metals. He knew the mines of Gondolin better than anyone, and wrote plenty about the the earth under the earth. His work also had fairly significant Dwarfish influences. He liked to make mechanically complex pieces, with moving parts or even some internal gear work.

Finduilas: a hunter. Her and her father were both nature people, just in very different ways. She was silent, with all the grace of a dancer, and quick enough to outrun most of what she hunted. She preferred to go after more aggressive animals– wild boar, wolves, bears, even wargs– and leave the deer and rabbits be. She was born in Beleriand, and had never met the Valar, but sometimes, privately, offered up prayers to Orome. She liked to imagine she could’ve been in his hunt, if things had turned out a bit differently.

Celebrimbor: a smith, in the very traditional Noldor sense. Gemworker, specialized in jewelry, made various famously beautiful pieces, etc. Was never quite happy sticking to hairpins and necklaces. Longed to try his hand at imbuing his work with real power, but always talked himself out of it. A whole binder of concepts for works of power sat locked away in a chest in his workshop for centuries. He never talked to anyone about it. He was as ashamed of his feelings for his craft as he was of his feelings for his family. By the end of his life, he’d made peace with only one of those things.

Earendil: a mariner? Alright, he was definitely a mariner, and he loved the ship life– he even built a few boats of his own, in a similar fantastic style to Turgon’s architecture– but he also had a longstanding fascination with the natural world, and filled volumes and volumes of journals with information on various plants, animals, and minerals. But natural lore isn’t a recognized Noldor craft, since it involves learning but doesn’t really produce tangible results. Still, it was a passion he got from afternoons spent learning about geology with “Uncle Mole,” and one he shared with Elrond. Researching the beauty and wonder of nature gave Earendil something to do with his immortal life, and was a big part of the reason Elrond chose to be immortal at all.

Gil-Galad: a king. No, really, he’d been the high-king of the Noldor since he was a child, and hadn’t really had time for trivialities like “finding a life purpose” or “having fun.” He was too busy learning how to stay alive in late stage Beleriand (read: hell) and learning to rule the least cooperative group of elves imaginable. He wanted to be a painter, and while he found enough practice time to get good at his chosen craft; because of how long detailed paintings can take, he almost never had time to actually make anything. He tried not to let it bother him too much. He didn’t always succeed at that.

Elrond: in a bit of a weird spot. Elrond is most associated with lore and healing; but, as discussed, “lore” isn’t considered a craft. And, well. Healing had to be Elrond’s craft, right? He’d been doing it since he was seven, and just about the only person in Amon Ereb who could still use healing powers. And it was good work, and it was rewarding, even if it often left him feeling so burned out and worried that he forgot to eat or sleep. It took him a long time to admit to himself that healing for him was what fighting was to many other elves: a necessity. Truth be told, he’d rather be gardener, working with the earth to create a place of peace and beauty. Also, Elrond is basically a nature spirit. So. It was something he began to explore in the peace of the early Second Age. He found that his Ainuric powers had all sorts of interesting effects on plant life. He also learned how to breed new varieties of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. Still, he never really considered that it could be a proper craft for him. At least, not until he first saw the valley that would one day become Rivendell.

Headcanon Crafts for Finwe and his Children, the House of Feanor, the House of Fingolfin, and the House of Finarfin.

[girl-next-door-writes]

Snowfall Serenade

Characters: Loki x reader

Summary: Best friends, winter magic, and a holiday resort straight out of a dream—will a week of snowy escapades spark something more?

Word Count: 1496 words

Prompts: Ski resort. Best friends to lovers. Wearing their clothes.

A/N: The fantastic @savvy-devine666 requested a little festive Loki and who am I to object?

The air was crisp and smelled of pine, the snow falling in thick, glittering flakes that coated the resort like powdered sugar on a gingerbread house. Christmas lights twinkled in the distance, casting a warm glow across the frosty landscape. You adjusted your scarf and rubbed your gloved hands together, staring up at the grandiose lodge that you and your best friend, Loki, would be calling home for the next week.

“This place looks like it belongs in a holiday movie,” you said, nudging him with your elbow.

Loki arched an eyebrow, his dark hair falling just shy of his shoulders, and gave you that trademark smirk that always seemed to hold some secret. “A bit over the top, isn’t it? All the glitz and glitter. Too festive for its own good.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “You say that, but I know you’ll be the first to steal the best seat by the fireplace.”

“Not if you claim it first, darling.” There was a teasing lilt to his voice, but you noticed the faint flush on his cheeks. Probably the cold, you thought. Definitely the cold.

The truth was, being here with Loki already felt like magic. After years of being inseparable friends, this trip had been your idea—a break from the chaos of life and a chance to finally relax. Loki had reluctantly agreed, muttering about “tourist traps” but secretly excited, as you’d caught him researching the best ski routes days before you left.

Inside the lodge, it was even more beautiful. A roaring fire crackled in the stone hearth, and the scent of mulled cider and cinnamon wafted through the air. Loki, ever the gentleman, helped you out of your coat and scarf, his touch lingering a moment longer than usual. You ignored the way your heart skipped at the gesture. This was Loki, your best friend. Nothing more.

“I’ll grab the key for our suite,” he said, his green eyes flicking toward the reception desk. “You find us some hot chocolate, perhaps?”

“On it,” you replied, grinning as you made your way to the cozy café corner.

When you reconvened, steaming mugs in hand, Loki led you to your shared suite. It was charming, with rustic wooden beams, a Christmas tree adorned with silver and green ornaments, and a balcony overlooking the snowy slopes.

“This is... nice,” Loki admitted, setting his bag down and glancing around.

“I knew you’d like it,” you teased. “It’s practically screaming your aesthetic.”

“I suppose it’s tolerable,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

The next few days were a whirlwind of winter activities. You dragged Loki to the slopes, where he proved to be a surprisingly graceful skier, despite his earlier complaints. You weren’t nearly as skilled, but Loki stayed by your side, catching you every time you wobbled.

“You’re doing splendidly,” he said after your fifth near-tumble.

“Liar,” you laughed, breathless. “You’re just saying that so I’ll keep humiliating myself.”

“Nonsense. I’m saying it because it’s true.” His voice softened, and for a moment, his gaze lingered on you, unguarded and vulnerable. Then he cleared his throat and turned away.

Nights were spent curled up by the fire, sipping cider or cocoa while playing cards or talking for hours. Loki seemed more relaxed than you’d ever seen him, the usual sharp edges of his sarcasm dulled by the holiday cheer. You found yourself watching him more often than you should, noting the way the firelight danced in his emerald eyes or the rare but genuine smiles that crossed his face.

You tried to shake it off. He was your best friend. Nothing more.

On Christmas Eve, the resort hosted a moonlit snowshoe hike. Loki was skeptical, but you convinced him with the promise of a quiet night under the stars. Bundled up in layers, you followed the group through a trail that wound around the forest. The snow sparkled under the full moon, and your breath puffed in white clouds in the frigid air.

Somewhere along the way, Loki fell behind the group, and you stayed with him.

“You’re brooding,” you teased as the two of you trudged through the snow.

“I am not,” he replied, his voice defensive but tinged with amusement. “I’m merely... thinking.”

“About?”

He hesitated, glancing at you briefly before looking away. “Nothing of consequence.”

You stopped walking and grabbed his arm, forcing him to face you. “Loki, what’s going on? You’ve been weird all day.”

He sighed, his breath visible in the cold air. “It’s nothing. Truly. I suppose I’m just not used to this sort of... festivity.”

“You mean fun?” you teased, earning a small chuckle from him.

“Yes, fine, fun,” he admitted. Then, softer, “I suppose I worry I’ll ruin it for you. I’m not exactly the ideal companion for such a cheerful holiday.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you said, stepping closer. “Loki, this trip wouldn’t be the same without you. I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.”

His eyes met yours, wide and vulnerable. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he gave a small nod, his lips quirking into a faint smile.

Later that night, back in the suite, you found yourself rifling through your bag for warmer socks. Loki had gone to take a shower, leaving his clothes draped over a chair. Without thinking, you grabbed his oversized sweater and pulled it on. It was soft and smelled like him—a mix of cedarwood and something you couldn’t quite place.

When he walked back into the room, his damp hair curling at the edges, he froze.

“Is that my sweater?” he asked, his voice somewhere between curious and flustered.

You looked down at yourself and grinned. “It’s mine now. It’s warm.”

Loki’s cheeks flushed, and he looked away, muttering something under his breath.

“What was that?” you asked, stepping closer.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, his gaze darting anywhere but you.

“Loki...”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I said you look lovely in it”

You blinked, startled by the sudden confession. A warmth spread through your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you smiled. “You did. And thank you.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the air between you seemed to shift. He opened his mouth to say something, but then hesitated.

“What?” you prompted gently.

“Nothing. It’s... nothing.” But his tone was soft, almost wistful.

The next evening, Christmas night, the resort held a small gathering outside by the firepit. Guests milled about, sipping hot drinks and chatting. But you and Loki had wandered off, drawn to the quiet beauty of the moonlit slopes.

You stopped by a clearing, where the snow fell gently around you, the world bathed in silver light. Loki stood a few steps away, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his expression thoughtful.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you asked, breaking the silence.

He turned to you, his green eyes catching the moonlight. “I was just thinking how odd it is that I’ve spent so much time resisting things like this. Happiness, connection. I’ve always thought they were... out of reach.”

“They’re not,” you said softly.

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the snow. “Perhaps not. But they’re frightening, nonetheless. To care for someone, to let them in... it’s a risk.”

“It’s worth it,” you replied, stepping closer.

Loki’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, he looked as if he might argue. But then his expression softened, and he reached out, his gloved hand brushing against yours.

“You make me believe that,” he said quietly, his eyes widening as he realised the words had escaped him. “Did I just say that out loud?” he chuckled sheepishly.

Your breath caught as he stepped closer, his gaze searching yours nervously. Snowflakes clung to his dark hair, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. He looked impossibly beautiful, and your heart ached with the intensity of it.

“Loki...”

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You shook your head, your voice barely a whisper. “Don’t stop.”

His lips met yours, soft and tentative, as if he was afraid you might vanish. The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you, caught in the moonlight with snow falling around you. When he pulled back, his gaze searched yours, uncertain and vulnerable.

“Was that...” he began, his voice barely audible.

“Perfect,” you finished for him, a smile breaking across your face.

He let out a soft laugh, his tension melting away as he pulled you into his arms. For the first time, Loki looked at peace, his insecurities replaced by the quiet certainty of your presence.

And as the snow continued to fall, the two of you stood there, wrapped in each other and the magic of the moment, knowing that this Christmas had given you something far more precious than either of you could have imagined.

[the-final-sif]

Well, it's for a school research paper and we have to gather data on how social media affects stress and people's mental health.

Thank you for answering my dumbass questions even though it probably seems stupid, i really appreciate it

First off, asking for help on finding sources is not stupid/dumbass, it's the opposite. Smart people ask for help when they don't know what they're doing.

Second, since you said school and not uni, I'm going to assume you're at high school level roughly and not uni/college. If so, then google scholar is going to be a fine starting point for you to find sources. It's generally user friendly and going to provide decently quality for what you need.

Unlike main google, it's been untouched by the AI nonsense and functions mostly like it did 5 years ago. It's also handy because it will often provide free copies of papers when it can find one. It should help you get some good research papers as sources that you can use as citations, and it'll let you save articles/handles citations for you.

Here's a quick guide for what you need to know to use google scholar!

When searching, put in keywords, NOT questions.

For reasons unclear to me, search engines and humans being weird has trained people to type in queries to search engines like questions. This is bad!!! It will get you worse results!! You want to instead remove any unnecessary words and focus in on giving the computer the most unique keywords to match you with what you actually want. For example:

BAD: how does social media affect stress and mental health?

BETTER: social media stress effect mental health

BEST: social media mental health

You really want to par down your keywords as much as possible, limiting connector or filler unless you absolutely need it. The more specific words you use (ie using "depression" rather than the more general "mental health") the more specific your results. Focus on practicing that and you'll do excellent.

With that out of the way, for actual google scholar use:

Right here, we have a very important feature, the free copy. If google can pull up a free public copy of a paper, it will! Always use those when possible.

Always check the date on the research you're pulling! For a topic like social media, I would be wary of pulling any source that's 5 years or older, since it's an evolving landscape! For other topics, the rules vary a lot depending on the topic and quality of research available.

Next up, saving & citation. The save button lets you save an article for later. You can stick it on a particular list. Handy for keeping track of sources. The cite button generates citations for you, in most of the common styles. Saves you having to mess with making them yourself.

Finally! Further research! When you click down here, you can see articles that have cited this paper and related articles. Both are quite handy for exploring a particular topic further as you look for research that builds on what you've found. Particularly when the area you're looking at is niche or highly specific. Also a great way to find systematic reviews of data that are sometimes a bit stubborn about showing up in research results.

Hopefully all of that is helpful, best of luck on your paper anon!

[click4rainy]

Could you do Reiko (MK1) and the reader (who is also in the Outworld army) having a knife throwing contest? (You can choose if it’s platonic or romantic and who wins)

Right on target.

👽: I chose a super light flirty theme :) I’m not really good with reiko so bare with me here 💀🫶🏼 (not proof read)

⚠️: SFW//None really// bit of flirting? I think…banter???

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

★ In the secluded training grounds nestled within the heart of Outworld, you and Reiko engage in a private knife throwing contest, the rhythmic thud of blades hitting their targets echoing in the crisp air. Surrounded by the rugged landscape, the tension between you two crackles like lightning, fueled by the competitive spirit that drives each throw.

★ Reiko, usually composed, finds himself strangely drawn to your presence. His stoic facade begins to falter under the weight of your charm, his eyes lingering on the graceful arc of your movements and the sparkle in your gaze. Despite his attempts to maintain focus, his thoughts stray to the alluring figure before him, his heart racing with a mix of companionship and something more profound.

★ As the contest progresses, playful banter and teasing jabs punctuate the air between you, each exchange laced with an underlying flirtation that neither of you can ignore.

★"You call that a throw? I've seen toddlers with better aim," you jest, a smirk playing on your lips as you effortlessly land another bullseye.

★ Reiko chuckles, a rare warmth flickering in his eyes. "Careful, Y/N. Don't let your confidence get the best of you," he retorts, his tone teasing yet tinged with genuine admiration.

★ You share a knowing look, the air thick with unspoken tension as you trade playful barbs and competitive banter. Despite the intensity of the contest, there's an undeniable connection between you, a magnetic pull that draws you closer with each throw.

★"Impressive," Reiko concedes, his voice low and husky as he watches you sink another blade into the target. "But we’re just getting started."

★ You grin, a flicker of challenge in your eyes. "Bring it on, Reiko. I'm not backing down anytime soon."

★ As the contest continues, the sun dips below the horizon, casting long shadows across the training grounds. With each throw, the bond between you deepens, forged through the shared thrill of competition and the electric spark that ignites between you.

★ Reiko's gaze softens, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You're quite skilled, Y/N. It's refreshing to find someone who can match my prowess."

★ You feel a rush of warmth at his words, a sense of camaraderie mingled with a growing attraction. "Likewise, Reiko. It's not often I meet someone who can keep up."

★ As the contest draws to a close and the winner is declared, a charged silence envelops the training grounds. With a knowing look exchanged between you, the air crackles with anticipation, the promise of future encounters laden with flirtatious exchanges and stolen glances.

★"Looks like I win this time," you remark, a playful glint in your eyes—seeing as your knives were more on target.

★ Reiko's gaze twinkles with amusement. "Perhaps," he concedes, his voice tinged with a hint of challenge. “We should do this more often—to better my aim of course…”

★ “Oh right—to better your aim.” you echo back, a small grin curling onto your lips teasingly. “But of course…”

★ As you both agree to practice more together, the bond between you deepens, forged through the shared thrill of competition and the undeniable chemistry that simmers beneath the surface.

[lowpolynpixelated]

“The Golden Age of Gaming” didn’t exist, has never existed, has always existed, and exists right now

-Written by Clair Beckett

“The Golden Age” is a very common reference point when talking about any concept that has any sort of history. Things were good then, they aren’t now, we should make it like that again. Perhaps trying to make things like that again is a fruitless effort, perhaps its for the betterment of the whole concept, or perhaps, just maybe, the whole concept of a “golden age” is rubbish. I’m here of course to talk about video games, and the supposed gilded ages that reviewers and critics love to harp back to. I’m here to say that video games have always been great, they’re great right now! The way in which the mainstream public eye views them must simply shift to a different angle. Let’s get into it. If you’ve ever partaken in any sort of video game criticism you’ve probably heard this phrase. Hearkening back to the earlier days of development and hardware, where creativity was boundless and the market was strong. It’s a bit more complicated than that but you see the point. These types of arguments posit that the modern era of video game development and hardware pales in comparison to what came before.

While this can certainly be the case for some aspects of the greater gaming sphere, it undermines the growth of creativity within it as well as all the new advancements and skilled artists working within the sphere in the modern age. These talking points are usually only aimed at the mainstream “triple A” part of the gaming landscape, and often forgets the massive swathes of it taken up by independent developers and artists who create new interactive works of art almost every day. I miss the Wii Shop Channel as much as the next gamer, but I’m not ready to write off the entirety of itch.io just because I can’t get Mario Kart 64 there. “The good old days” are every changing, constantly shifting forward to account for the nostalgia of the ones who prop up the argument. Technology has come such a long way that we can make the games we were making then now with less issues and better workflow than we ever could back then, and people do! Look at projects like Bloodborne PSX, Anodyne, Ultrakill, Lunacid, Crow Country, all games that wear their old school inspiration loud and proud. These games were made with modern tools by modern people to capture those feelings, to make “the good old days” today, and tomorrow, and the next day. And they did a bang up job as well. Discounting entire generations of new games and developers just because they don’t have the nostalgic branding is, quite frankly, a horrid thing to do. Inspiration comes in all forms be it stylistic, mechanical, or simple nostalgia for something once experienced.

To say there was a fixed point in time where games were “good” and that now they’re “bad” is a flatly incorrect way to view such a gorgeously complicated art medium such as video games. Many of the problems and systematic issues the gaming landscape faces now existed and were invented back then. Was it better than modern crunch time practices for Insomniac games to make the Spyro the Dragon trilogy in just four years? Where the 100 hour work weeks in the 1990s worth more than the 100 work weeks worked today by developers forced to meet deadlines for publishing companies that only demand results without caring about the cost? Video games have always been hard to make, we made a market out of them. One could argue that once upon a time the bedroom programmer making a few thousand dollars off a surprise hit was commonplace, but that was such a short burst of time before the grip of corporate marketing and the newly created market closed its fist. Things have always needed change. Many of the classics people will endlessly prop up as examples of perfection within their genres or within the medium as a whole have these flaws. They took off because of well funded marketing teams, and passionate developers. Only one of these things is truly needed for a video game though.

No one needs to be a big name in the business to make a good game. I promise you that in corners of the internet like itch.io and other free distribution sites, your next favourite game probably exists. Putting the tools in the hands of passionate creatives is the only thing needed to make good games, and its easier now than its ever been before. With the advent of true online marketplaces and free distribution and hosting websites the number of video games to experience has only gone up. No longer do you need to send out demo floppy disks with cereal boxes or offload CD-ROMs at your local book store. The games are there, we just have to look for them. The mainstream “triple A” landscape has reached a critical point of stagnation. Companies abide only by industry trends, only content to let new creative projects slip through the cracks a small fraction of the time. Relying only on the brand names you know to experience art is not the way forward. This of course doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the myriad of multiplayer online only shooters or battle royals, or co-op based video games. Not at all. But I do implore you to branch out. Really see what’s out there. Check out small teams that don’t have the money to be in a Nintendo Direct, give the game with an awkward 6th gen art style a try, always search for new and interesting things. The greatest era of video games has not passed us by in a flurry of low poly models and low resolution textures. It’s always ahead of us in the form of free to use engines, independent developers, fresh ideas and inspirations, and of course, people to play the games that get made. It’s easy to think that with the way the largest parts of the landscape are right now that the whole has gone rotten, but that’s simply not true.

Video games are art, and art is ever changing. You can’t pin down the best of something to an era that barely knew what it was doing. I promise that someone will make the next Mario Kart 64 or Halo Combat Evolved, it might just be someone who only programs on the weekends and has two friends making models and textures. It also might only be on a website others deemed “not a real platform”. But I assure you it is, and that game is somewhere out there. Either neatly packed into a .zip file for you to download at a name your price rate, or in the mind of some hobbyist developer who’s just cracking open a tutorial for the engine they downloaded.

Brand new games are released every day online! Go find your new favourite at places like itch.io!

[chase-solidago]

I'm guessing that as a graduate student you have read a zillion and one documents and books and papers and things in your field. Would it be outrageous to ask for recommendations/your favorites? I'm really interested in learning more about the history of Native land use and food systems in the midwest (which I suppose is a very long history, I'd be happy learning about any time period), prairie ecology, and the current outlook for native plants and pollinators (and conservation recommendations). Even one recc for each would be amazing. Feel free to postpone this ask if you're too busy! P.S. can't wait to read your dissertation.

This is a big ask, and I get a lot of these types of asks! In the future it'd be nice if people were more specific about their interests and not asking about general, huge topics. There's a level that you can and should be googling yourself! Many academic papers are online for free through sites like academia.edu and I'm not a search engine!

General answer if you're interested in this range of topics is Robin Wall Kimmerer's Braiding Sweetgrass. She comes from the midwest and writes some on prairie and the book is all about Indigenous science stewardship.

Otherwise, the topics you're asking for don't have one single source that will tell you everything you're looking for. People make small studies of one community, one ecosystem, one plant. Whether it's ecology or ethnobotany, there's no one making compendiums of info, especially not in the midwest. That's why I do the work I do, but even what I do is imperfect. Be suspicious of anyone who/any text that claims to be comprehensive on a huge, complex subjects; they probably are bsing you.

Indigenous Land Mgmt:

Two good recent papers:

The subject of indigenous wild management is more intensely covered in California (M. Kat Anderson) and Vancouver (Nancy J. Turner). Those two authors are great for both nuts and bolts chat and philosophical perspectives about how people have lived in and altered and restored their ecosystems.

A compelling academic book on the subject is Roots of Our Renewal: Ethnobotany and Cherokee Environmental Governance by Clint Carroll, which is just as much about philosophy, knowledge production and protection and community building, as plants.

Prairie Conservation Practices:

Like I said above, currently published stuff is about very specific interactions and focuses, like a particular pollinator group in a particular plant. What you're looking for, a generalist summary of the field, doesn't really exist.

If you're looking for plant lists and how-tos Tallgrass Restoration Handbook or the Tallgrass Prairie Center Guide. Do not go for Ben Voigt. If you're looking for a general conceptual entry to Midwest conservation/restoration, there's Ecological Restoration in the Midwest

If you're looking for general recommendations for free, Xerces.org is the resource for bee-friendly landscaping and planting.

If you live near a University or Arboretum or Botanic Garden, this is the kind of thing where you should just browse the shelves near the books I've recommended! Chances are you have free access to the libraries, if not the ability to check the books out yourself!

[hisui-dreamer]

the edge of adventure

Pairing: Jade Leech x gn!reader

Synopsis: Hiking can be thrilling, but even more so when a certain eel is with you.

Tags: hiking, fluff, slight banter, reader has hair, bot proofread

Word count: 1k+

Notes: i went hiking on a trip by the seaside and of course, hiking reminds me of this slippery eel<3

Masterlist

As you approached the trailhead, the warm, golden light of the sun spilt over the landscape, casting the rolling hills and jagged cliffs in a soft glow. Jade was in his element, practically gleaming with excitement as he led you up the treacherous path.

He had invited you on this outing a few days ago, his voice infused with a bubbling enthusiasm that was so rare for him as he enthralled you with vivid descriptions of the rugged sea cliffs and the undulating hills, promising magnificent sights that would leave you spellbound. His words painted a picture of a spectacular adventure that would take you into uncharted territory. Having been rather exhausted by your errands at school and in need of a break, the thought of immersing yourself in nature was a balm to your frazzled nerves. The lure of the great outdoors, with its stunning vistas and vibrant colours, was too hard to resist. What better way to lift your spirits than the dazzling sky?

His tall, lean figure strode confidently ahead of you, a backpack slung over his broad shoulders. Every so often, he would glance back at you with an encouraging smile, lending you a hand where the steps were unsteady and slippery. You could tell he was elated to explore the rocky landscape and discover new wonders, his gaze scanning the rocks and cliffs with a childlike curiosity.

The salty air filled your lungs as you neared the top of the cliff, and the sound of crashing waves grew louder and more insistent, beckoning you closer to the cliff's edge. Jade's eyes lit up as he spotted an interesting patch of mushrooms growing by a tree, and he eagerly took out his camera to snap a few photos, before carefully harvesting the fungi.

Meanwhile, you were transfixed, gazing out at the endless expanse of cerulean sky and sparkling ocean. The sea cliff was a towering behemoth, standing high above the tumultuous waters below. The waves were a symphony of power and violence, rising up in towering peaks, their foamy white caps akin to glaciers reaching for the sky before crashing down onto the rocks below with incredible force. A frothy contrast to the cliff's rough and jagged surface, the sea foam clung to the rocks like delicate lace. It appeared as though nature had woven an intricate tapestry onto the jagged rocks, smoothing their sharp edges.

As you stood on the edge of the sea cliff, the raw power of the waves crashing against the rocks below filled your senses with a thrilling sense of danger and excitement. The wind whipped at your hair and clothes, as if taunting you to take one step too far.

"Are you sure you should leave your back open like that?" His words broke through your trance. "Someone cruel might just push you, you know." You turned around to see his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes glinting with a mix of playfulness and sadistic glee.

You couldn't help but laugh at his antics, his teasing only adding to the thrill of the moment, the adrenaline pumping through your veins. "Haha, you wouldn’t do that," you chuckled, calling his bluff.

His eyes widened in surprise before a wry smile spread across his face, revealing his sharp teeth that twinkled in the sunlight. "My, what confidence you have in me, dearest," he said, his words laced with a mix of amusement and challenge.

"I trust you," you said, your voice firm and steady. "And besides…" You took his hand and pressed it to your chest, feeling your heart beating strong and steady. "Even if you did, I'd just come back and haunt you. There's no way you're getting rid of me that easily!"

You tugged on his arm playfully, the force pushing you back a step. "Go on, I'd like to see you try," you said cheekily.

As the wind continued to whip around you, Jade's teasing demeanour suddenly melted away, replaced by profound affection.

He let out a soft sigh as he enveloped you in his embrace, his arms like a fortress around you, providing a sense of safety and protection. As he held you close, you could feel the steady thud of his heart against your chest, a rhythmic beat like the tide of the ocean.

"Mmm, my dear pearl," he murmured, his voice a smooth caress of love. "You truly are so endearing."

With those words, you felt a warm and comforting sensation spread through your chest, a strong sense of love and belonging that made your heart sing.

You leaned into Jade's touch, resting your head against his chest and breathing in his musky scent mixed with the freshness of the sea. As you closed your eyes, you felt his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back, a tender and soothing gesture that made you feel safe and loved.

With a gentle but firm movement, you pulled out of his embrace, your hands still clasped tightly together as you looked up at him with a bright and eager smile.

"Come on, Jade," you said enthusiastically. "We've still got so much more to see! The day is just getting started."

As you spoke, you noticed a fleeting hesitation in Jade's gaze, his eyes reflecting a reluctance to leave the comfort of your arms. You reached for his hand, fingers entwining with his, his gloves a barrier against the chill of the morning air, and tugged him forward, urging him to embrace the anticipation for the journey ahead.

Shaking your head fondly, you pressed a tender kiss to his cheek, the last remnants of his hesitation melting away like snowflakes in the spring sun under the warmth of your affection. His sigh was heavy, but it was a sigh of surrender, as his eyes once again alit with the thrill of exploration. "You're right," he said, a hint of eagerness creeping into his voice. "Let's get going."

Without another word, you resumed your journey down the path, the cool breeze tousling your hair as you gazed in wonder at the breathtaking scenery that surrounded you. The verdant foliage of the forest stretched out before you, dappled sunlight filtering through the leafy canopy overhead. And with him by your side, everything would only seem more enchanting and wondrous.

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

[someoneelsepx]

TERAPHOBIA LORE DUMP

Hell yeah

In Teraphobia, each island is sorta like its own country, and while each island/country's culture varies, a few things are largely the same across most, if not all, islands. Those things include:

- Skyships are used as public transportation.

- Random eyes are pretty commonly found around the landscape and architecture of most islands, and nobody except Cameron questions this.

- City/town/villiage designs and architecture are intentionally built to properly accommodate for all native monsters varying anatomy and differing abilities/disabilities.

- During seasonal events, most monsters travel to the island the event is hosted on, making tourism very common {Like, people visit Plant Island for Spooktacle, Fire Haven for Feast Ember, Water Island for Eggs-travaganza, ect ect}. Since seasonal events last for around a week, monster tourists often stay in hotels overnight to celebrate.

- Clothes are optional. Neither nudity or modesty is seen as weird. And, socks with sandals is considered fashionable {this is canon in MSM}

- Breeding isn't seen as anything sacred, romantic, sexual, or anything like that. It's just something done casually between friends to keep the population up, plain and simple. Because of this, monsterlings are not raised by any one by-blood "family" {stuff with monster genetics/biology means those don't exist} and are raised by the community as a whole, finding their own family in the process.

- Most monsters are at least somewhat religious, and the closer you get to the Celestial Sanctuary, the more religious monsters you get. Atheists are seen as weird because the Celestials and Colossals are literally right there {this is not me making fun of atheists, I am atheist lmao}. They only have one religion {with different ways to practice it}, only the odd few follow human religions. The religion itself will be elaborated upon later gkszglsglzglzog

- Monsters can choose to buy their own home to live in, or live in castles {which are more apartment-like than castle-like} for free. Castles offer the same quality of life as owning your own home, albeit you might have to deal with the occasional annoying neighbor.

- This should be a given but music is VERY important to them. Not being musically inclined, even slightly, as a monster is seen as a disability.

- And more I haven't thought of yet HA-

Individual island cultures under the cut, because it's gonna be a lot. Note that I'm not gonna do all of them because I don't have lore for all of them.

PLANT ISLAND

Plant Island is the second largest largest island in size {being about the size of the continental United States of America} and the largest in terms of population and diversity. The island landscape itself is a blend of peaceful, quiet forests and loud villiages and cities, both bursting with color and life.

Similarly to the USA, Plant Island is a bit of a cultural melting pot. Because of its diverse population, you can find a little bit of everything depending on where you go; though, one thing that stays consistent is a deep connection with nature and a love for all things spooky.

{The main character, Handler-Helper Cameron, lives in the currently unnamed capitol city of this island.}

COLD ISLAND

Cold Island, despite being the largest island in terms of land, has a relatively small population because most of the land is just not habitable for monsters {although the populationis still decently large}. Kinda like Canada or Russia. I haven't thought much about the culture other than they value found family and generosity, and that the towns there are very similar to Snowdin from Undertale.

AIR ISLAND

Air Island is a stereotypical steampunk paradise, comprised mostly of floating islands and large cities, with very little walkable ground. Most citizens are avian monsters and the monsters that aren't have to travel by skyship to get anywhere.

This island's culture values love {whether it be familial or otherwise} and romance, making it a very popular vacation spot for anniversaries.

They also have a lot of fancy restaurants.

EARTH ISLAND

Florida

Literally just fucking Florida

They have natural disasters galore, namely earthquakes, so their buildings are sturdy and built especially to handle things like that. They also have a large Wubbox population because they have frequent power outages {self-explanatory} and therefore need backup generators.

Even when they're not having a random earthquake, the place is still absolute chaos. Just think of any Florida Man™️ story and I can garuntee you it's happened there /hj

{Despite this, the monsters there are still surprisingly kind and have a strong sense of community, always helping out those affected by natural disasters even outside the island when they can.}

SHUGABUSH ISLAND

Shugabush Island is the one of the smallest islands by far, only being the size of a small rural town in the South; it has a population of less than 100 monsters, and is the home of the Shugafam {who are individual monsters in this AU instead of a species family}. Life there is pretty simple, and almost everyone knows each other. Overall just a chill place for the most part.

More often than not, the island is quiet; however, every one in a while, the Shugafam hold concerts there and the island lights up with life and country fans from all over the Taurus visiting to see.

AMBER ISLAND

Amber Island is like a blend of Native American and black culture, with a focus on community and healing. Very small, like Shugabush Island. Not gonna elaborate more because I'm white and haven't done enough research to represent this accurately.

PSYCHIC ISLAND

{My descriptions ger slightly shittier from here as I have less developed for them, sorry}

Psychic Island is a bit weird. They're very spiritual, with an emphasis on holistic medicine and other hippie shit that I don't know how to word. However, they also highly value education and have some of the best schools and most exapnsive libraries in the monster world. It's also fairly large, and is mostly comprised of big cities.

FAERIE ISLAND

Faerie Island is like something straight out of a Faerie tale book, and no I don't mean the weird and fucked up original versions. More like, idk, Shrek? Yeah, Shrek. That sounds right. Idk how to elaborate more than that.

BONE ISLAND

Bone Island is less of an island and more of an elaborate underground cave system full of water that may-or-may-not be safe to consume and beautiful crystal formations that connect all other underground islands together {like Haven, Wublin, Water I think, ect.}. Despite the cave system being massive, the area where monsters actually live in is comparatively small. Culturally, they're very similar to Hispanic cultures on Earth and have a notably strong connection to the Beat Hereafter {mostly because it's where Clavaveras are native to, who can literally speak to the dead}.

ETHEREAL ISLAND

Ethereal Island is the embodiment of surrealism; because it's located in the pocket dimension, they're very isolated and most things in there are almost impossible for any outsider to understand. Quite a few areas are incorporeal, landscapes are constantly shifting, twisting, and turning making it almost impossible to navigate without help from a native, their technology is leaps and bounds more advanced than we could ever dream of, and the atmosphere is toxic to boot.

It's absolutely gorgeous there tho, if you don't end up with a debilitating migraine from trying to process everything.

MAGICAL SANCTUM

Similar to Ethereal, just more tribal.

CELESTIAL SANCTUARY

Celestial Sanctuary...

...Will get its own dedicated post because I am obsessed with the Celestials and ended up giving them too much lore for my own good. Just note, it is a lot different from the rest of the islands.