#there’s this artist I won’t say name but every time I see their art one like ‘hell yes my telenovela started’

[harapeveco]

what's your opinion about people shipping their oc with eve characters?

I think it’s cool for them to do so! They are braver than anyone else too so pls continue drawing your ocs kissing eve characters 🫡❤️

[robilover]

https://www.tumblr.com/chernkii/752425029673828352/its-my-pleasure-to-meet-you-my-name-is-robin?source=share

-🐣 anon (can u see the link? It's a knight!robin 🥺)

AAAAHHH KNIGHT ROBIN!! I loved how the artist drew her, she’s so charming. thank you for reminding me of that beautiful art, 🐣 anon <33

Medieval!AU: Knight!Robin Headcanons !

pairing(s): knight!robin x princess!reader

cw: purely sfw, men and homophobes dni.

god, imagine knight!robin being your knight in shining armor, who’s assigned to be (mainly) by your side!! she vowed to protect you, the beloved princess of her kingdom.

she would always wait down the stairs every morning when you wake up to greet you with a smile. as soon as you reach where she was at, she would hold out her hand to you and take your hand in hers, planting a soft kiss on your knuckles. you would blush every time she does this because of how charming she is!

“good morning, my lady!” robin greets you with a smile.

“good morning, robin. I thought I told you to call me by my name?” you replied with a shy smile. robin let out a soft chuckle at that before replying.

“oh, my apologies, my la— I mean, y/n.” she smiled, as you could’ve sworn that your heart skipped a beat at her smile and the way she said your name.

since she is always by your side, she would be very protective of you!

you would always have to reassure her that nothing will happen since she’s there for you. you feel very protected whenever she’s around. she’s a very skilled and trained knight, after all!

“my princess.. er, y/n, are we heading to the woods? you know that you are forbidden there,” robin said with a concerned and worried tone. “if the king finds out, he might replace me with a stricter knight..”

“don’t worry, robin! it’ll only be for a little while. it’s fine, he won’t,” you giggled as you led her to the woods. she sighed and decided to go along with you.

as soon as you reached a stream, you took your shoes off and went over to the water. robin was quite surprised at this but decided to just take her armor off and follow you. duh, she’s still wearing something underneath that armor of hers.

both of you were then just playing in the stream, your feet both in the water as you both splashed at each other, giggling like two people in love.

...some of the knights caught the both of you all wet because of the water. one of them decided to snitch (out of jealousy) and told the king about it.

the king, your father, scolded you and robin for going into the forest without permission. it was dangerous, you could’ve been in danger, he said. however, you did your best in defending yourself, by which robin did as well—she did most of the talking.

in the end, the king couldn’t resist both of you. you are his beloved and only daughter his kingdom has. besides, he entrusted robin with you and he was glad that you weren’t hurt; he dismissed both of you.

you were escorted by robin to your room. you could hear her sigh.

“I told you that the king will find out.” she chided softly. you let out a small giggle.

“but it ended up well, no?” you shrugged. it was your turn to sigh, but it was out of fondness.

“thank you, robin.” you would say as you leaned up and kissed her on the cheek. without waiting for her response, you went in your room, closing the door at robin’s face.

robin was left dumbfounded, her hand reaching up to her cheek as she blushed. she held back the urge to squeal as she earned a kiss from her princess! ah, what a happy day for the knight <33

[iamthatonefangirl]

harvey specter headcanons

if you know me irl, maybe just skip this one!

part two

part three

~~~

harvey specter, who always sends your favorite burnt orange-colored roses to your desk to remind you of how much you mean to him. 

harvey specter, who thinks you shouldn’t want a thing. who gifts them to you before you even mention that new pair of shoes or purse you would love to have. 

harvey specter, who rests his hand on your thigh whenever you’re seated next to each other. no matter the occasion, or where you are. 

harvey specter, who craves your touch every time a new obstacle comes up with a case. who just wants to be with you and forget about every trial and tribulation he has to deal with. 

harvey specter, who can’t fathom your obsession with listening to the same songs over and over again. but behind the scenes, he’s orchestrating VIP tickets for the both of you to go see your favorite artist, before the tour has even been announced. 

harvey specter, who is much older than you, and has to remind himself that the looks you get from strangers don’t matter. who has to pretend to laugh with you when the waitress refers to him as your father, but really, he’s wondering what the hell he’s doing with someone twenty years younger than him. 

harvey specter, who is afraid to tell you he’s in love with you. he knows it, but he can’t get over his fear that you’re going to leave him. he just hopes you won’t leave him before he gets up the courage to tell you, to reassure you that he does love you, that it wasn’t you, it was his own insecurities. 

harvey specter, who lets you get away with everything. when you want him to come home from the office at a reasonable hour, even though he’s drowning in work, he can’t resist the way you say his name when you call his cell and ask him to come home, pretty please, Harvey…

harvey specter, who pays your bills before you even know they’re due. and when you confront him and tell him baby, I have a job, I can pay my own bills just fine but he insists and says it’s his job to make sure you’re taken care of. and if you’re really that concerned about it, he tells you, I have a few ideas of how you can pay me back. 

harvey specter, who doesn’t know what to do when you’re sobbing in pain, feeling completely helpless, trying to ask what he can do to just make your pain stop. and when you’re feeling better, you think he sounds like your mother when he can barely get the words out to tell you I just wish I could take your pain on myself so you don’t have to feel it. it’s the most heartfelt you’ve ever heard him be. and as you gently hold his face as you kiss him, you reassure him that you’re okay, and him being there for you is more than enough. 

harvey specter, who is so art deco!! Lana del ray anyone plz

nsfw ones: (seriously if you know me please leave now)

harvey specter, who slips both hands underneath your dress after a date night at the most expensive restaurant in town. who grips your hips tight as he grinds you down onto him, eliciting a whimper of his name from you, to which he tells you say it again, and you do, over and over again until you’re cumming on his fingers not long afterwards.

harvey specter, who can barely keep up with your young, early-twenties sex drive. but goddamn he does. 

harvey specter, who can’t help but fall to his knees the minute you tell him you get off to the thought of it. who puts his pride aside to give you that satisfaction because he loves you so much. 

harvey specter, who is shocked by how forthcoming you are about your fantasies after being prompted. who wants to try all of them immediately, but has to remember that patience is a virtue.

[angelofsmalldeaath]

work song — a.h.b.

a/n: full disclosure, i've posted this before on tumblr for something else. but i love this piece very much and i think it fits for him and this song so well 🤍 (it's gone under quite a few edits too, though)

cw: mentions of death but of well that's a given

the artist flicks through the feature. 

her name is printed in big letters on the cover of the monthly issue, her face—smiling and excited—next to the centrepiece of her latest art collection: cupid and psyche. 

the painting is stunning, a riot of bold colours and patterns, but at the centre is a man, his face hidden, his red-brown curls tousled. his body is relaxed, she thinks there's an air of carefreeness about him. 

and she'd know that for sure, after all that day is etched into her memory. 

when she feels a familiar pair of arms wrap around her, she smiles. 

“you're rather proud of the feature, aren't you?” his voice holds a little teasing note. she's stared at the feature for close to thirty minutes now, discreetly pinching herself in the same spot on her arm. (it sports a tiny, barely-there bruise now) 

“good,” he nuzzles his face into her neck, softly kissing the skin, “you should be. the exhibit was fucking gorgeous.”

“mmm, because you were the centrepiece?” fondly, she teases back, but the memory flashes in front of her eyes—the bustling art gallery, him in a corner, wearing a plain hoodie and jeans and a cap hiding half of his face, absolutely brimming with pride. 

she remembers the journalists asking about the man in all the paintings, the one whose face no one can see. “he's my muse,” she says every time, “this collection is dedicated to him.” 

“someone's going to connect the dots,” he walks around her, settling himself next to her on the settee. instantly, they rearrange themselves into a tangle—her legs on his lap, his arm around her, her head on his shoulders, his head on hers. “if they looked carefully, they'll make the connection.” 

“sweet boy, we have been each other's muse for years now and no one's found out. i don't think they're going to start now. besides,” she snorts, “i think the art world thinks i've made you up in my mind. won’t be the first time an artist's gone insane.”

he laughs a hearty laugh. “maybe you have. you always say i'm too good to be true.”

when she can't think of a retort, she sticks her tongue out, shrieking away as he smothers her in kisses. 

“seriously though, it's fun writing about you. singing about you. and i love seeing myself through your eyes.” suddenly he sounds all sober and serious. she thinks his voice even wavers slightly at the end. he blinks quickly though, and just like that the brightness in his eyes is gone. 

“love it when you write about me too,” she teases, “love being told i give you a toothache just from kissing you.”

“oi! i put my heart into that! it's a precious memory for me.”

“the memory of me taking care of you when you were burning up a fever? the memory of you demanding more kisses?”

he giggles like a teenager, hiding his face in her hair. it's fun to rile him up like this, so she continues, poking him in the ribs. “oh, oh, is it the memory of you passing the flu to me?” 

“we took care of each other though!” he traps both her hands in his so she won’t be able to poke him more. a second passes, and he can’t resist kissing the knuckles. “and so you deserve to have a song written about you. or a whole album works too i think.”

he pauses for a little then tuts. “actually, no. don't wanna tell anyone it's about you, that'll ruin the magic.”

“ruin the magic?” 

“of being your muse and having you as mine. a hundred years from now, when people would see your art as the artwork of this generation, and my music as the tune of our times—”

“tune of our times...”

“yeah, quit laughing at me!” he flicks her nose, kissing it right after. “so when my music becomes the tune of our times, i think people will see it then. they will make the connections.”

secretly, she loves the idea—that their love might transcend time and space, heaven and hell through their art. that decades from now their names might be whispered together, even though they aren’t just yet. 

“of course, we'll be buried together by then. same grave by the way, very romeo and juliet of us.”

“that's morbid!” she laughs sharply, “what will the epitaph say?”

he hums for a bit, thinking. his eyes flutter shut for a second or two, almost like he needs to focus on the half formed thought until it's a complete sentence. then he excitedly clears his throat and gently holds her face between his hands. 

“here lie the artist and the muse; inspiring each other in death as they did in life.”

[hogwarts-legacy-confessions]

Hello! One of the more prominent fandom writers here.

I see this has already been addressed. I don’t come to flog a dead horse and I do not intend to be rude to you, the blog owner.

I want to offer some perspective from someone who has been impacted by this.

I am not offended that you’re unaware of every targeted statement submitted to this blog. I am not either. The issue lies in your apparent expectation to be told if a statement was too pointed. You have—as respectfully as I can say it—not cultivated an environment that appears welcoming for something as vulnerable as feelings.

When things have been posted about my work, I did not anticipate coming to you would make much difference. If anything, I assumed it would make it worse.

I would say the impact it’s had on me is inline with the recent posts, and the fact that there are other posts of this nature makes me wonder how many other larger creators are suffering in silence every time someone pokes at them on here.

Here’s the thing: those of us who’ve “just been around since the start” and “got lucky” have been through multiple waves of bullying. For ships, for our ages, for character ages, for characterization, for writing smut/tropes/dynamics, for not liking or portraying (insert character) as a (edgelord, golden retriever, himbo, et cetera).

Now, we can add to that:

- not replying to every comment on our works and art.

- Not performing enough exhaustive research for something we do in our spare time, free of charge—despite both the canon game and the books/films contradicting themselves constantly.

- Liking characters that we like.

- Not editing enough, as if that is not delegated to a separate career in the professional world.

- Generally, not doing /enough/ to have earned our place in the fandom.

I won’t include the criticisms that were specific to me. I’m aware this is anonymous and you have no reason to believe I am who I say, but I won’t risk stepping off anon and receiving hate atop the rest of that list.

I am just a person. This was an escape for me, and one that gave me a lot of purpose and fulfillment. All of which is gone now. This has completely wrecked my self confidence in writing.

These big, popular creators that are getting bashed are not celebrities. Be it roleplayers, artists, writers, mod creators, or edit makers—they’re just people who wanted community and creative outlet.

To the blog owner, I see you have said that you wonder if the posts were really about [those who assume it’s about them]. I think the nature of the space you’ve created begets paranoia. Even if the posts were not about me or anyone else, does it not warrant your concern if it hurts the fandom we share? I respect the need for a space where unpopular ships, headcanons, and the like can be posted without fear (which shouldn’t exist, this is the nature of fandom). I do not see the need to laugh namelessly at the accuracy of fanart, the kissing mod that people created, proper grammar, and incorrect geographical locations in fics to name a few recent ones.

I don’t believe in censorship. I also don’t believe in encouraging persecution.

I see you have addressed this, as I said. I do not expect you to delete your blog. I hope you have found community regardless of the vitriol here. If I can offer a suggestion going forward: I ask that you don’t allow hate on fanworks. If you can’t do that, then at least do not allow anonymous hate on other creators, even if they do not mention them by name. If people want to say it with their full chests, off anon, I would respect it much more. That would also remove your need to judge the validity of any claims.

If this is published—I want to say that if this is your first fandom (which I suspect is true for many of you) that this is not a game of ‘eat the rich’.

If you had been “early” and “got lucky” and if people said the things you have said about our works, would yours still be available?

Most every popular creator in this fandom only ever wanted to be friends with you, reader.

👀

[ashmcgivern]

Hi I’ve been absent a lot lately, the whole of 2024 in fact I’m realizing.

On top of just not having the spoons to really share much of what I’m doing, in combination with NDA, social media just exhausts me now. The state of the internet in general. I can’t really mentally handle constantly hearing and seeing how AI seems to be permeating every part of online existence, how every website is one big pool of advertisements, and uh, the state of the world in general. There are too many things for my dumb brain.

So I’m taking a bit of a back seat, or rather I have been I guess. Tumblr is really tbh only social media I spend any time on and even then there’s whispers of Automatic partnering up with Midjourney. If it happens I won’t stay here long that’s for sure.

And where does that leave me then? I have a lot of great friends on Discord I talk to and I’m getting into Twitch more, but I know people here still want to see what I’m up to. I have mutuals I like and artists I want to follow that I don’t necessarily want to abandon. But with the state of things, everyone just seems tired. People are sharing less. Is there really nowhere for artists left?

It’s just kind of depressing tbh. I get more fulfillment being away from social media than being on it, which is a GOOD thing, but it sucks that the time I do spend back here doesn’t feel safe anymore.

All this to say, I wish I had more to share, but I’m tired and feeling recluse, and I’m tired of shifting where my social media presence is at any given time. I’m very close to finishing a BIG project that I’ll finally be able to put online, but there’s a lot of processing I have to do first and these things take TIME.

I only have about one month left at WB (unless they extend me AGAIN which would be the 5th time fjdhdhdh) and maybe a break is what I need. But I dunno. I for sure will be streaming more if nothing else, but idk about my other social media presences. If you see me active on social media again, know that it’s def not because I enjoy it. It’s to get my name and face out there ultimately so I can find work again. Not to mention I’ve begun the process of archiving/moving my art blog to a new location where I can self host because…….. I’m so tired.

Idk!!! Morning thoughts. This is nothing my friends don’t already know but for those who are curious, here it is. I spend a lot of time on tumblr but I do t share a lot because of *broadly gestures*. Hope y’all feel me.

[mabelstone]

Provocateur

matt stone x f!reader

genre: enemies to lovers, mature

summary: both trying to advance in the hierarchy of journalism, two sworn enemies will do anything (and anyone) to sabotage one another.

word count: 3.7k

cw: none really besides alcohol drinking. this is more an introductory chapter ❤️❤️ future chapters will be 18+

Her auburn hair shone under the stage lights as she answered questions at the podium. She had rather… interesting style, but that was a given considering she was the hottest artist in action right now. She wore a maxi dress made entirely from pages of her favourite books, mixed and matched poetry on frayed pieces of paper. With every step she took, you could hear the paper crinkle, and in no way was she comfortable. You couldn’t even wrap your mind around her Lady Gaga-esque fashion statements, or even the practicality of how her pieces worked. Albeit, you were completely and utterly fascinated by her. She was beautiful and had a cult following that would surely advance your career if you got the chance to write your article about her.

So that’s why you were here at the Metropolitan Museum of Arts in New York. You’d recently moved to a new prestigious journalism firm in the area, and you were more than prepared to step on some toes if you had to, determined to write your next piece on her. She went by the title Madame Provocateur, and by God, was that name perfect for her. She was here today to display her new artworks, selling for close to half a million dollars each. The artworks ranged from paintings depicting controversial opinions regarding war, to provocative nudist pieces, some even involving casts made of her and her partners’ genitals. As an art lover yourself, you were absolutely captivated by the sheer emotion of her pieces, especially when the overriding theme was rebellion and female liberation.

You dressed the part today, a long black faux leather coat that reached the back of your knees, matching faux leather books that hugged your calves. Your hair was slicked back, simple but dark makeup accentuating your features. You wore a beautiful - far too expensive - black dress underneath, sticking out like a sore thumb among the sea of people in bright colours.

As she stepped off the podium, you thought to yourself, this is my chance. You fixed your posture and casually approached her, the textbook definition of confident in your stature. As you opened your mouth to introduce yourself, a tall figure in an obnoxious emerald green suit slinked in front of you. What is that material? Velvet? You internally cringed, velvet was your least favourite texture.

“Madame,” he spoke cooly, extending his hand for her to shake. “It’s an honour to meet you, I’m a huge fan of your work. My name is Matt Stone, I’m a journalist.” You fought back the urge to roll your eyes as he continued babbling; the poor woman couldn’t get a word in if she tried. You took a glass of champagne from the waiter holding one of the trays like you see in the movies. This place was fancy.

“I was hoping to get your permission to write an article on you and your dedication to provoking controversial conversations in an ever advancing world.”

Oh please, you thought to yourself. Wonder how long he spent studying the thesaurus for that one.

You decided to interject, stepping toward the two of them. You didn’t even bother to acknowledge… what did he say his name was? Mark? Doesn’t matter, you pretended he wasn’t there. No time like the present, right?

“So sorry to interrupt, Madame,” you smiled, extending your hand to her as the other journalist did. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. I won’t bore you with a thousand words, but I’m also a journalist and would love nothing more to write my article about you.” You placed a hand over your chest sincerely, pretending not to hear the scoff that came from the other journalist. “I’ve loved you since I was a teenager, it’d really mean the world to me.”

She looked between the two of you, seemingly unimpressed. She sighed before speaking, “I wonder how many others will ask me the same thing. I get this a lot, you know,” her French accent was thick, and her stare was painfully intimidating to say the least.

You finally looked to the man beside you, who shifted uncomfortably in his place. “But I suppose any press is good press,” she shrugged, looking between the two of you with pursed lips. “Write your little hearts out,” she feigned a smile, stepping away from the two of you.

You both stood there, absolutely shocked as you watched her disappear into the crowd.

He cleared his throat before turning to you, “didn’t catch your name. You are?”

“Y/N,” you looked up to him. Very handsome, short curly hair, peculiar oval shaped glasses.

“And your firm?”

“New York Times,” you grinned, still quite proud that you landed this position. “Trying to advance my position so, I really need this one.”

“Huh… never seen you around.” He rutted his jaw slightly before continuing, “I’ve been there for five years. I’m actually looking to advance as well so… I need this one.”

“Five years, huh? Never heard of you,” you stifled a grin as he clenched his jaw, starting to walk off. He followed close behind, exiting the museum with you. “Well, I’m doing this story. Sorry, sweetheart. I’m sure something else will come up for you.”

You bit your tongue to hold yourself back from arguing, hailing a cab from the street.

“Well, I am too,” you smiled sweetly, a cab pulling up to the curb. “May the best journalist win.”

“You’ll be okay,” he smiled back this time, stepping toward your cab. “I’m sure you’ll get used to losing. Or maybe you already are.”

You were shocked at his confidence, staring into the cab as he climbed in, jaw slack. “You getting in?” He smirked, patting the free seat beside him.

“Not with you,” you deadpanned, blood boiling at the way he shrugged and closed the door. You watched the cab pull away, arms folded over your chest like a spoilt child.

You climbed into the next cab, still in disbelief at what just unfolded with your supposed new coworker.

———

It was Friday morning the following day, and you walked into work with newfound confidence. You made your way into the large building, taking the lift to the highest floor to meet with your boss. Today he was setting you up with your own workspace and wanted to discuss what your next article would be. You knew your article would impress him, knowing the traction a story about Madame would bring. You scheduled your meeting extra early, hoping to be the first journalist to share your idea.

Once you reached his door, you knocked softly, awaiting his permission to enter.

“Come in,” you heard echo from the other side of the door, entering with a soft smile.

“Good morning,” you chirped, approaching his desk. His office was massive and had the most beautiful view of Manhattan.

“It is, isn’t it?” He smiled back, gesturing for you to sit before his desk. “We’re glad to have you on board.”

“Thank you, I’m so grateful for this opportunity,” you beamed, unable to contain the joy you felt. You hadn’t felt so excited in a long time, especially not for work.

“Speaking of opportunities, I see you’ve applied for our promotional position, yes?” He peered up at you through square framed glasses, his computer opened on what you presumed to be your file.

“Yes, sir,” you nodded, folding your hands over your lap. “I chose the topic for my article. Madame Provocateur, the French artist. She’s been the centre of a lot of controversy lately, I feel like she’ll bring us a lot of attention.”

“Well, you might have some competition,” he pursed his lips, checking the time before continuing, “our own Matthew Stone has taken an interest in her as well. He should actually be here soon.”

That motherfucker.

“May I ask what his article is specifically going to be about? Like, what topics will he cover?”

“Hm, I’ll be honest, he likes to stir the pot,” he chuckled, and you fought off a scoff. “He’ll likely be writing an exposè piece as he typically takes that route.”

You sucked your teeth, sinking back into your chair. Well, fuck. You definitely have competition.

“I’m happy for the two of you to discuss your articles, the last thing we need is interpersonal conflict.“

You heard an abrupt knock on the door, followed by none other than Mr Stone walking through the door wearing a well fitted grey suit.

You fought against the muscles in your eyes, forcing yourself not to roll them. I’m going to have a good day, you told yourself. My piece is going to be better, I am better.

“Good morning,” he grinned, taking a seat beside you. He took one look at you and his smile was wiped clean. “Oh… hello.”

“Morning,” you mumbled, shifting your eyes to your hands. The tension in the room grew thick immediately, the feeling comparable to hands around your throat.

“Do you two know each other?” Your boss spoke up, gesturing between you both.

“Nope,” you spoke up, flashing the best fake smile you could muster. You turned to face him, putting your hand out for Matt to shake. “Y/N, you must be Matthew? It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Yeah, likewise,” he gave you an equally fake smile, squeezing your hand a bit too hard. You winced silently, pulling away.

“Matthew, Y/N is writing a piece on Madame as well.”

“Oh, is she?” He turned to you, jutting his jaw as he had the night before.

“I want you to be adults about it. You’re both located in block B, so I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to discuss.” Your boss gestured to the door, silently kicking the both of you out.

“Uh, block B, sir?” Matt questioned, tilting his head like a confused puppy would.

“Just for the time being,” he dismissed, eyes going back to his computer. “Your office is being renovated over the weekend, did you forget?”

“Oh, right, yeah.” He nodded, standing from the seat. He leaned forward and shook the bosses hand. Giving you one last look before leaving the room.

You followed suit, thanking your boss before following after the tall brunette. His steps were so large, you struggled to keep up. He got in the elevator and you had to practically run to make it in. He just laughed under his breath while you stared him down with daggers.

“So what’s your plan, huh?” You finally broke the silence between you both, immediately annoyed at the drawn out sigh he released. “An exposè?”

“Controversy sells,” he shrugged. “You’ll learn that after you get more… experience.”

You scoffed, following him out of the elevator to the B block of cubicles. “You know, I was gonna write the same thing.”

“Oh, really?” He asked, though it was more rhetorical sounding, as if it went in one ear and out the other.

“Mhm,” you followed him to two empty desks, one presumably yours as he took a seat at the one to the right. You took your seat, setting down your belongings, leaning on your elbows before continuing, “I have some connections.”

“Connections?” He scoffed, shaking his head before logging into his computer.

“I know where she’s headed this Saturday.” You spoke matter-of-factly.

“Mhm, the Little Red Door,” he looked up to you, mocking the surprised look on your face.

“How did you-“

“Look, kid. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but it would be smart for you to pick a new topic.”

“Maybe I should,” you feigned a sigh, turning to log into your own computer. He seemed pleased with himself, patting you on the back before leaving his desk. This guy clearly got too much praise from mummy and daddy and genuinely believed the sun rose every morning for him. There was no way you were letting him upstage you. Somebody needed to knock him down a few pegs, and you were the perfect person to do so.

It was 5pm now, your eyes were going all blurry from staring at the screen all day. You jumped when you felt a big hand clasp your shoulder, turning to see none other than Matthew.

“Sorry, jumpy,” he laughed, gesturing to the clock on the wall. “It’s 5pm on a Friday. I’m not spending another minute longer in this building. Let’s go.”

“Let’s go?” You scoffed, logging off your computer and grabbing your things. He was still standing there… waiting for you?

“What’s an uptight girl like you get up to on a Friday night, hm?” He walked with his hands in his pockets, seemingly only bringing his phone and car keys to work. Douche.

“Oh, where to begin?” You joked, stepping into the elevator with him.

“I’m heading out for a drink if you wanna come,” he suggested, eyes scanning your face. Was he seriously asking you out?

“Maybe another time,” you shrugged, trying to maintain the attitude that you didn’t care. Or at least make him believe that. “Got a lot of research to do tonight. This guy at work stole my idea so uh, while he’s wasting time at the bar, I’ll be getting closer to my promotion.”

“I stole your idea?” He laughed incredulously, shaking his head at you. “I knew you were young but I didn’t think you were so immature.”

“Geez, sorry. Didn’t mean to strike a nerve,” you studied his face, the way his eyebrows knitted together when he was frustrated, the way he lazily leaned against the rails in the elevator. The way his dress shirt hugged his biceps so nicely. Stop, you scolded yourself mentally. “You don’t get rejected often, do you?”

He just shrugged, staring ahead at the elevator doors. “You might be pretty, but your looks don’t mean anything if you’re a bitch. I was just trying to be nice.”

You stood there, a bit speechless. This guy confused you on every level. First he was an arrogant asshole, then didn’t speak to you all day, then asks you out for drinks?

“I’m a bitch because I don’t want to go out with you? Get over yourself,” you scoffed for what felt like the thousand time that day, rolling your eyes at him.

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” he stepped through the elevator doors, walking away as he continued, “enjoy your ‘research,’” making air quotes with his fingers.

Why was I so rude? Wait, was I even rude? I’m allowed to say no. You were left again, conflicted and rendered speechless with one underlying thought.

He thinks I’m pretty.

When you got home, you followed your very structured routine. Feed the dog, shower, have dinner, then you could relax. You tried to do what you set out to do, pulling out your laptop to start your research.

All you could think about was Matthew, Matthew, Matthew. He plagued your brain; his pretty eyes, warm, deep voice, the way your stomach flipped when you kept replaying the moment he asked you for drinks.

Why did I say no? You mentally cursed yourself, deciding to crack open a bottle of red and try enjoy yourself. Truth is, you wanted to say yes. But something was holding you back. Maybe if you softened once you’d let him walk all over you? Maybe being nice was his way of throwing you off your game? Too late now.

You fought the thoughts of him the best you could, but eventually, you were overcome with curiosity. You reluctantly opened facebook, typing in his name. Turns out Matt Stone was a very common name. You eventually found him, seeing you had a few mutual friends.

Funny, when he wasn’t scowling or laughing at your expense, he was actually very handsome. Like… gorgeous. Aquiline nose comparable to a Greek God, the sharpest jawline you’d seen in a long time. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled, and his lips curved up revealing a small gap in his front teeth. You continued to scroll through his pictures, getting deep enough to see pictures from his early twenties. Woah. Big hair. Lots and lots of curls, and those oval framed glasses he seemingly always had.

You learned a bit about him. He was roughly 5-10 years older than you. He went to college in Colorado, but must’ve dropped out. He clearly thought he was hot shit, judging by the hundreds of photos on his timeline. He was unbelievably handsome, but you’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing you thought that.

By the time you’d finished the whole bottle of wine, the liquid courage coursed through your veins, controlling your fingers, adding him as a friend.

Shit, what if he thinks I was stalking him?

He added you back almost immediately so… too late. You tried to ignore the giddy feeling you got when you got the notification, opting for blaming it on the alcohol.

———

You had a somewhat productive day, having written the beginning of your article and feeling pretty good about it. Tonight, Madame was going to be at the Little Red Door; a small-ish bar located in downtown Manhattan. It was quite exclusive, but luckily, you had connections. It was relatively cold in Manhattan you’d grown to learn, so you put on a mid length, beige Burberry coat, with a fitted black dress underneath for once the alcohol heated you up. Your black stilettos clacked along the wooden floor in your apartment as you grabbed your handbag and headed out. It was approaching 7pm, and this was around the time Madame was expected to show.

You walked in, being greeted by the bartender you occasionally hooked up with. Whoops.

“How’s my favourite lady?” He beamed, already preparing your drink without you having to order.

“So so,” you smiled, tilting your hand side to side. “And you?”

“Better now,” he grinned, sliding the martini toward you. “This one’s on the house. Talk soon, okay?”

You nodded, blushing a bit as you found a table to sit at. He was handsome, tall, dark features, tattoos completely covering his arms. He was nice enough too, had a nice place, nice car. He was a bit of a coke head though, so you reserved your time with him for strictly sex only.

Fifteen minutes passed and still no Madame. You were halfway through your second martini when Matthew walked in. You knew he would be here, part of the reason you spent extra time on your makeup tonight.

You watched him order, deciding whether you should approach him or act like you didn’t see him. He seemed to have made his mind up, walking straight past you to an empty booth. Your heart accelerated when you saw him. Dressed more casually than at work, but still, he looked so clean. A black fitted t-shirt with black slacks. He had a silver chain on and his usual watch. He watched the band performing live music as he sipped on his beer, tapping the table along to the song.

Either he actually didn’t see you, or he was pretending not to. There he goes stealing my idea again. You decided to bite the bullet, taking a deep breath before grabbing your drink and approaching his table. He finally acknowledged you as you walked over, eyeing you up and down, righting himself in his seat.

You slid into the booth, blank expression. “Matt.”

He cleared his throat, bringing his gaze to your eye level.

“Jumpy,” he nodded toward you, taking another sip of his beer.

“I want to apologise for being rude to you,” you couldn’t meet his gaze, always having a weird reaction to sincerity. “You were just trying to be nice and I was being salty. Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it,” he smiled slightly, looking to his hands on the table. “Shouldn’t have called you a bitch.”

You sucked your teeth, only nodding in response. It was slightly awkward considering you only met two days ago and you’d already gone through the emotions of despise and lust for this man.

“I don’t think she’s coming,” you broke the silence, fiddling with the toothpick in your martini.

“That’d be my luck,” he sighed, running his hand through his hair.

Again, awkward silence. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. “Want another drink?”

He nodded, eyes glued to the band playing across the bar. Asshole. Whatever, you were gonna leave after this drink anyway.

You wandered back up to the bar, ordering a drink for you and your coworker.

Your occasional friends with benefits bartender looked almost offended, looking in the direction of Matt. “You on a date?”

“Him? Oh god no,” you shook your head incessantly, scrunching your face up in distaste. “Co-worker. We just happened to run into each other, I guess. He’s a prick.”

“Want me to spit in his drink?” He laughed, and you laughed too for the first time tonight. You shook your head again, taking the drinks from him.

“Thank you,” you smiled, walking away still giggling. Matt’s eyes were trained on you as you approached the booth again, sliding the drink to him.

“Weird, you must have a funny side,” he murmured, taking the drink from you.

“Are you gonna thank me, or?” You deadpanned, both of you in a staring competition now.

“Thank you,” he smiled, eyes still glued to you. “So who is that guy?”

“Just a friend,” you shrugged, eyes finally leaving his.

“Friends don’t look at each other like that,” he pursed his lips, toying with the neck of his bottle. “Are you fucking him?”

You snapped your head around at this, sure your ears were deceiving you. “‘Scuse me?”

“C’mon, you’re obviously screwing each other.”

“I- wh- that isn’t any of your business, Matthew,” you stuttered, tripping over your own tongue as your cheeks reddened. His face lit up at your implicit admission, a little bit surprised.

“Guess you aren’t as uptight as I thought,” he chuckled, and you threw him a glare.

“Like you’ve never had meaningless sex before,” you rolled your eyes, unamused by the mischievous look on his face.

He shrugged, still grinning. “Touché. I wanna hear more about this. Wanna do some shots?”

[penroseparticle]

Penrose Album of the Day, Day 37: open this wall by berlioz

Surprise! I bet you were expecting a single song. Strap in though, I went a little crazy here. God this album came out literally a week ago and I am head over heels in love with it. Have you ever had love at first sight with something but with your ears? I have.

There’s times when songs or albums or artists or what have you grab me by the lapels and say “I AM SPEAKING DIRECTLY TO YOU. OPEN YOUR HEART WHILE I POUR THE WORLD INSIDE” and I am stuck standing, grinning like a fool with my open socket heart. I think the first time I was aware it was happening was at a concert. I was going to go see Reptar, a band the guy I was dating at the time really liked. The opener was this band I had also never heard of, Young Empires (I had barely heard of Reptar, to be honest. That said they’re not bad, Ice Black Sand is a good listen if you’re interested). The band started to warm up, they looked like nothing special, and well, then they started playing.

I was probably one of the tallest people at the venue of maybe 50-100 people, which was notable but not that weird. Sometimes being 6’1” makes you stand out. Or maybe I’m mythologizing the moment in my head; people tend to do that. Maybe I only remember the bits that matter to me. What matters though, and this is true- what matters is I was taller by about a head than every person in front of me, and I was 5-6 people deep in the crowd. So I had a full, clear view of the stage, and of Matthew Vlahovich (The lead singer). So when the song Sunshine came on, and I slowly realized that I was about to be carried away by this song, and be this band’s fan for life, Matthew watched the creeping realization and delirious, wild smile crawling over my face, the love blooming like a tender beansprout in my heart. And he pointed at me and smiled, still singing the song. I was hooked for the entire set.

I never remember it’s a Reptar concert, by the way. I couldn’t tell you a single song they played. But I won’t forget Young Empires.

I love when the message makes it perfectly to me. I love when I see the vision. I hear the secret. I can’t express what makes a song do this for me either. By all accounts I can’t even tell what gives a song that quality. What’s the rhyme, what’s the reason. There are songs I truly, absolutely love that did not strike me in that fashion. But there are other songs, or whole albums, where this happened. Sunshine by Young Empires. Smoke by Victoria Monet. And now ascension by berlioz grabbed me and never let go.

After I listened to this album in full, I went on a dive and the first thing I saw berlioz’s spotify profile. “If Matisse made house music”. Fuck that’s so pretentious. So. X meets Y. It’s essential, in a way. A great, pithy one liner to describe your music. But like. That’s so arrogant!!! That’s like calling yourself the Da Vinci of music. Like saying not only am I the best at what I do, but I’m directly comparable to not just someone equally as skilled in another medium. But long lasting and prolific. Matisse is a household name for an art style people couldn’t pick out of a lineup some days. And don’t get me wrong, some days I’m people. Matisse. Christ.

I literally can’t disagree though, is the best part. How shocking to be prepared for bad taste, only to find an apt comparison. Even the cover art is very The Cutouts meets Blue Algal meets Madame Matisse in a Kimono meets who gives a rats ass what I think. What do you think. What does this album art make you feel. Do you like it? Is the white background with the vibrant colors reminiscent of something for you? Did you mistake it for a work of art? Was that a mistake? Isn’t it beautiful? How lucky.

I sound like an art teacher. I should be embarrassed but I’m just enthralled. I sound pretentious. Like this means something. And it does, but I don’t talk this way about everything. I don’t talk this way about things that I even feel more strongly about or find more important. Maybe I’ve gotten old, or joy is infectious, or I just like writing words in any order. Maybe everyone else knows the secret that music should enthuse. I don’t know. I just know this album makes me feel like it’s a balmy summer night, which is lucky, because it is. And I want to tell everyone.

Berlioz wants that too- his first EP was titled jazz is for ordinary people. There’s this sentence my roommate used and I’ve never really forgotten it. “People wear jewelry to tell you something”. And well. Artists name tracks to tell you something to. They reference to tell you something. They choose album art. To tell you something. The medium? It’s calling you, and the metadata berlioz has included in his work smacks you over and over again- this music is not special, or for smart people, for the erudite or the well read or the people who can use the big fancy music words. This music was for you. For me. It’s for us to enjoy. Period.

Matisse made art like a good comfy armchair, and berlioz makes art like the music playing in the coffee shop with that armchair in it. So the comparison isn’t a bad one, OK. That’s not to say I think berlioz is Matisse levels of good. I’m saying he has an understanding of narrative. Of evocation. I’m saying he might be a wizard, perhaps. (I guess I AM saying berlioz might be Matisse levels of good, but a good debut is simply that, right?). Matisse is even sampled on one of his works- la danse, from 2022. He gave a radio interview and berlioz just. Sampled his inspiration.

There’s a Rolling Stone Interview where he’s talking about his sample work actually and I do love what he says- he’s talking about the Nancy Wilson sample from open this wall (the namesake track), and what he says about spontaneity and how sampling can be more evocative due to its nature, like. The fact that any sample is not intended for use in the song it’s being used in, so it’s earnest and somehow, despite being recorded many moons ago, fresh and spontaneous. A thought fully formed springing from the head, like Athena. I think jazz, house, and black classical (ode to rashaan was very clear ok) all lend themselves to this dreamy, illustrative, almost building block-esque feel that a lot of Matisse’s art gives me. Dance (I) but given auditory form. Where you can take pieces and fit them together and have something that’s more than the sum of its parts.

Open This Wall is 34 minutes long. 34 minutes! She is baby. She is tiny. I want to hold her, this newborn babe, carried into this world so gently, with such promise. I don’t think anything really taught me about potential as much as this tiny musical blip. This short, infinitesimal series of soundwaves. This cosmic ant of an album, engulfed by the world and not even trying to hide it. 34 minutes isn’t just enough. It’s perfect. Ascension grabs you with some truly smooth saxophone (I hope most ardently that it’s Attlee himself playing it) and just the most quietly groovable house track you’ve ever rolled molly to. And 30 minutes later you’re free. But changed.

This music simultaneously is music I think I could dance with someone to. Music I could make dinner to. Music I could read to. Music I could fall asleep to. This is music, most importantly, I would wholeheartedly recommend to you if you are excited to try something new. Dip your toe into some house music, or some jazz.

If 34 minutes is too much of your time, my 4 personal favorite songs are ascension, open this wall, something will happen, and nymtp.

You could, however, use this as an excellent jumping off point for some other music. My favorite thing about music like this is that. The samples are a way deeper. You can listen to Nancy Wilson. See what drew berlioz to her in the first place. On ode to rashaan, you hear a sample extolling black classical music, and the song is written about Rashaan Roland Kirk. Do you want to dig deeper, to find the connections? I’ll let you look up the sample. A good puzzle for those who care.

I genuinely, wholeheartedly loved this album. And hey. You could be dead right now. Go listen to something you love. I know I am.

[moonsandstar-s]

i’m sorry guys i can’t contain myself bumbleby has me in tears not even 48 hours later and i just have to gush about all this

Anyways… looking back on this has me awestruck, honestly. This is a story we’ve been patiently and impatiently attending to for years, a mesh of writing and art and voices and storytelling and animation cobbled together from the hands of many and the initial vision of just one. That seems pretty incredible to me. 

My first girlfriend introduced me to this show when I was 14. Just barely a high school freshman. It was 2015, and Volume 3 hadn’t aired yet. Monty had just passed away and a lot of you, in the FNDM, didn’t know what lay ahead for RWBY. I joined after the uncertainty, before everything that followed. What we had was Burning the Candle, a couple cast jokes, and a few teasing hints that were eventually dismissed by the doubtful. I contented myself with how unlikely a lesbian couple was to ever occur onscreen, and made do with my own imagination. I loved the rich imagery of Blake and Yang’s partnership, the allusions of it, everything it could be. I mourned that it would likely never come to pass and vowed to explore it in my own time, with my own plan.

In the years that followed, I wrote over a million words (I did tally this from my Ao3 account!) and grew enormously along the way. It was this that made me decide to major in English & creative writing at a time I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go to college (I will be graduating next month with a magna cum laude in my field, which I can’t even fathom!) I made friends whom I still talk to, to this day. I devoured absolutely gorgeous pieces of fiction that tended and grew the love from the seed we had seen in the canon show into a garden of extraordinary variety (special shoutout @lightsaroundyourvanity, @thirteenyasmin, @thecousinsdangereux and @pugoata)! I pored over breathtaking works of fan art (looking at you @frankielucky, @corvophobia and @frishbi). I saw some damn good analysis from so many people (hey @almea, @canonbumbleby, & @bumblebyaf!) I watched Blake and Yang throughout the FNDM’s shock at the end of V3, the infighting throughout V4 as it seemed our high hopes would culminate in nothing, our bated breath at their reunion as V5 ended, to our euphoria in V6, and now. We watched, doubting and wondering and celebrating, as incrementally, Blake and Yang found their way back together first in presence, then in spirit. All the while, wondering, will-they-or-won’t-they? 

I hoped so much, and doubted just as often, as many of you did, too. Prior to ever watching RWBY, I’d realized I was gay, but hadn’t ever expected to see someone like me represented in something I loved - at least not in a way where it wasn’t their whole identity rather than just another part, like loving the color blue or preferring coffee to tea. When we watched Lexa get shot, when we saw show after show with lesbian couples result in cancellation, when we became merely a moment in a finale or a passing scene, easily dismissed, it became so easy to let discouragement be the loudest voice of all. 

But sometimes persistence pays off. Sometimes you do get to see the things you’ve loved for so long become more than wishful thinking. Sometimes you get days like yesterday. Where some of us cried, most of us laughed, and we all collectively lost our fucking minds in a way that felt like being a little kid again where everything just feels right.

I guess what I want to say is this: eight years passed. I am not the same person I was when I fell in love with the love that hadn’t even grown enough to be named as such between Blake and Yang. But that girl does live inside of me still, and yesterday, I got to celebrate with her just as freely as she did with me. Over the moon for all of this. Thank you CRWBY, thank you Eddy, Kerry, Arryn, Barbara, Yssa, Miles, and every other animator, concept artist, scriptwriter, every person who had even the slightest hand in making this possible. What a time to be alive! 

[blair-the-juggalho]

Hey this is my first time requesting😭i love your work could you do Ericsons group with reader who is really good at drawing if you haven’t already?

Ofc! and tysm lovely!<<<3333 I hope you enjoy! Sorry if any of these are short </3 and that it took awhile :p!!

TWDG Ericsson kids with a reader who’s a good drawer

Violet

She thinks your so amazingly talented!

And if you ever draw her anything she will keep every drawing

She’ll also make silly request that she doesn’t actually expect you to do but once you do them you manage to get this girl all emotional 🥲

She’d subtly encourage tenn to hang out with you more as you two are the only one who can draw at Ericsson’s lmao

Mitch

He thinks you and your drawings are sick!

He will also “jokingly” request that you draw him as some big badass dude on a motorcycle holding up a grenade with flames in the background

However if you do it you have this man actually bouncing his leg with excitement and giving you a compliment or two 🤫

That is going up on his wall along with any other drawings you’ve done

When your drawing, him and Willy will leave you be if you want to be alone

However they will come up to you a lot because they’re nosy and want to see what your up too lmao

Marlon

He thinks your talent is totally cool!

He will also proudly display any of your drawing all over his office and the school

He will try to encourage you to show off your talent more!

And he is your No1 hype man fr fr!

Also if you can draw animals, and you draw a picture of Rosie you know this man is gonna start tearing up

Louis

He will constantly hype you up!

He will boast about any drawing you did of him too

“Guess who was (names) lates model? Spoiler! It was me, I was (names) lates model.:)”

He will also make lots of silly requests that he never expects you do actually do

but if you do do them he’s jumping up n down like a mad man

He will also get you to draw him and his dream house (plus everyone in his “future band” lmao)

Your know ‘the head of any future music covers’

Tenn

Little dude is so exited that there’s another person who can draw!

You two always trade tips, drawing, and you always do silly drawing challenges together

He’s also always open to polite criticism and is definitely always willing to take a few drawing lessons from you

Everyone considers you the artist of the school and rightfully so

He will also look up to you and admire your work like a lot a lot!

Willy

He thought it was super awesome!

And little dude also wants some super cool drawing of him

Maybe even as a superhero or a swashbuckling pirate!

He will brag about all the drawings you’ve done of him lmao

He’s never been good at drawing since it was never his thing

However he’s always down to sit with you and do some silly doodles next to you

Aasim

He really respects your talent!

Sometimes he likes to sit next to you while you draw!

He wont say much but that’s because he’s to busy watching you lmao

He’s never really been one to draw but he totally wants to know how you learned and how you got that good!

He finds it very oddly satisfying to watch you draw

Omar

He really respects your talent too!

He thinks it’s very cool and low-key wants you to teach him a few things lmao

He also loves watching you draw its very calming!

He won’t make any requests but if you did draw him something, the dudes tearing up lmao

Ruby

She loves it when you draw

It’s all a sense of normality to her yk!

Whenever she sees you drawing she’ll just leave you too it but when your done she’s begging you to take a look lmao

And you should already know that she will always compliment you and your work lmao

“Wow (name) your gonna be the next da vinchi!”

Your art style is probably nothing like his but you get the idea lmao

Also I feel like she wouldn’t follow art anyway and she just said any famous artist she could think off

Brody

She really appreciate your skill!

She also finds it super relaxing to watch you draw

She’d never pressure you to draw anything or to show your drawings too her

However if you do this girl will feel so honoured

She’s never really been into drawing she would do small amateurish doodles now and again

She’d sit and draw next to you sometimes, if you where ok with that :)

[k-n-e-o]

Nct Dream as high school students

This has been in my drafts for years! I’ve just reread it now and I think it’s pretty decent to post lol.

This is also mildly based off of my own highschool experience (which it’s now been years since I’ve graduated so obviously not current experience lol)

Disclaimer: this doesn’t have mark in it because he wasn’t back in nct dream at the time of writing, so I had it in my head that he already graduated and is in college

—————-

[ Renjun ]

This is used a lot but it fits him so well

He’s our little artist

Loved art class

Helps the drama kids make the props and costumes

Made a chair once for an art project, absolutely hated it (this was taken from something a friend of mine had to do once lol)

He was covered in black, red, yellow, and blue wood stain for weeks

He also smelled like saw dust for a while too

I think he’s the only one that would make and bring his lunch just because he doesn’t want to have to deal with the other idiots at the school during lunch

Him and the boys stay in the art room at lunch, it’s quieter

I want to say he’s the only one in the group that actually studies

But knowing this group of boys,

None of them are getting anything done lol

[ Jeno ]

We all know this boy is the jock of the group.

He’s also one of the responsible ones

Being the driver of the dreams carpool to school everyday

He also uses the schools fitness centre (basically a weight room and stuff)

Gets his lunch money stolen by Haechan all the time so he now brings double so he’s not asking Jaemin to steal stuff from the cafeteria

Track and field boy

Probably beats his own records every year

Also probably does football with Jaemin (spoiler?)

A goofball in all his classes, especially the ones he shares with Jaemin

Leaves little smiley faces on his friends work when they aren’t looking.

[ Haechan ]

I’m sorry but he’s a theatre boy

Auditions for all of the plays

Leaves his I.D card on the stage all the damn time

So he can’t sign out a computer when he needs one

Ends up using his phone instead and sometimes gets in trouble for it

He’s known all around the school even if people don’t actually know him they know of him

Every teacher knows him too

And they only roll their eyes when he’s loud and goofy in class

I won’t lie he probably doesn’t know any of the names of people in his class so he has to ask whenever he’s paired up with them for projects even though he’s been going to school with them for years already (how can you tell I was the person who people forgot lol)

But they can’t be mad at him for long when he’s got them bent over in laughter a few seconds later

[ Jaemin ]

In culinary arts, so he gets free food sometimes

Especially when he works in the cafeteria at lunch

Sometimes if jeno doesn’t have lunch money Jaemin will sneak some fries out for him

Also on the football team

(I don’t know why I see him doing this but I do so fight me)

Forgets his water bottle all the damn time so had to do push-ups whenever any of the football coaches catch him

Heart breaker of the century

Has girls (and some guys) staring at him and stalking his social media

Taking bio and chem at the same time

Quickly regrets that choice he made lol

Spends his spares annoying Renjun in art

Ends up painting his arm or hand and gets scolded by the art teacher

Friends with almost all of his teachers

Yes like Haechan he’s also that kid who the teachers know instantly by name and who they tell their other classes funny stories about

Probably almost blew up the chemistry lab with Haechan once

Now Haechan and him aren’t allowed to touch any of the lab equipment

Works out with jeno but sometimes slacks off

Makes jeno stop by the local coffee shop every morning on the dreamies way to school

[ Chenle ]

I don’t know why but I struggled so much with Chenles

It’s weird

He’s probably a band student who uses the piano in the room as often as he can.

He goes into the band room in the morning when jeno and Jaemin have early football practice and he goes when he has a spare

And when he’s still there after the school he plays the piano

I mean, he probably has like three pianos at home

But there’s something about the giant nearly empty room

And just playing the piano just to play

He’s a simple boy with simple desires

You can expect this boy will try out for the basketball team

And if he’s not with his friends or at a piano in the band room

He’ll probably be in the gym shooting hoops

Hate hate hates doing homework

He’s the main reason why Jisung gets nothing done too lol

Also if the dreamies aren’t “studying” at a cafe you can bet they are at Chenles house

And the only reason is because his house is the only one that can fit all six of them comfortably

Sometimes mark joins too, for old times sake

[ Jisung ]

You can fight me on this but this boy would be in the poetry slam club

He’s that quite cute boy who everyone glances at through out the meeting

Never used his locker

Instead he puts all his stuff in Chenles locker because, and I quote

“It’s easier”

Goes to all the sports games cause Chenle drags him there

Attempts to study

But we all not that ain’t happening

Gets really stressed during exam season

Probably eats one to many instant ramen packages

(He found Chenles secret stash)

Probably doesn’t skip class

Although he tried it once with Haechan but decided it wasn’t his thing

Eats lunch with the others at a near by food place every Friday as an end of the week treat

Is late to his afternoon class because they lost track of time

He’s the one always asking for a pencil or a pen

Probably tried out for the soccer team

And obviously got in

Kinda disappointed that the soccer season is short tho

But works hard none the less

Always forgetting his water bottle

Works on his writing when he has a moment of free time in class

Probably the kind to leave little love notes in his crushes locker

I don’t think he’s a huge party person

But he gets invited to a lot of them

Always complains about his student I.D photo 

But it’s not as bad as he says it is

Hands in assignments late because he keeps forgetting to do them

[luvclimber]

☆Introduction☆

☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

About me:

1: Hello there! Welcome to my blog! You can call me by my username or Climber, but my real name is Alana but I will mostly feel comfortable going by my username! My pronouns are He/Him but I’m actually a female but I feel oddly comfortable with those pronouns than She/Her pronouns! I’m also Cupioromantic and lithromantic! I’m also a multifandom, multishipper, rareshipper, crossshipper as well!

2: I am a self-taught artist! I have had many moments in my life where I felt about giving up on art, but I have soon to realize that I started to get better at art the longer I continued to try and practice on my own and make more art! I was a little hesitant on showing my art work to the public internet community since I thought people would make fun of it! But I saw that people started to like my art work that I post and so that gave me more confidence to post more of my art work and improve!

3: There are specific stuff that I post on my blog, things such as DemJay, Law of talos, Endzone, Burning Avalon, Witches dimension! I will sometimes post some slightly suggestive stuff but I will mainly post normal and fluff art of my favorite characters! But I may take a week off here and there every once in a while but I promise to post daily every week!

My top 4 kins:

Random facts:

1: I have actually been through many sexuality from the start of a very young age! I desperately tried to look for the right sexuality that fit me! I went from thinking I was a lesbian, straight, bisexual, asexual, pansexual, aromatic, quoisexual, to finally finding the right one that fit me! Cupioromantic and lithromantic!

2: I was a Lankybox fan for a long period of time until they started to post some stuff that I didn’t really find entertaining anymore? I guess that’s how you can put it? I mainly started to watch TikTok and other YouTubes more often now. I actually had a Lankybox TikTok account which one was Gacha and one was edits of them! But I did end up deleting them and changing my account entirely. I did have one other Gacha account on TikTok that I was famous on but sadly I got logged out.

3: I have a YouTube channel that my father used for my garden, the channel and videos are still up, actually! But of course I won’t give you the name of the YouTube channel because I find them cringe and the videos were so long ago-

4: Whenever someone new follows or likes my post I just take a look at their account and see what type of stuff they post! So I kinda stalk your account for a little while!

Interact if:

People who are in the DemJay, Law of talos, Endzone, Burning Avalon, Witches dimension fandom! I love meeting people who have the same interest as me!

Climber fans or kins! I actually have been a fan of Climber since 3 years ago! Also I don’t want people to think I’m saying I’m his number one fan since I find it cringe to say I’m his number one fan. I just really love Climber and could relate with him-

Artists and small artists! I love seeing people’s different styles in their drawings and the fact they put work into it! Like I said, I’m a self-taught artists and worked to get to find the art style I like!

Do not interact:

Problematic people! I really feel uncomfortable with people who are problematic follow me. If you are associated with a problematic person and just make them as an exception for their problematic acts, just because they’re cool in some way or your friend or anything like that, please do not interact with my account. Things like proshippers, pedophiles, loilcon lovers, darkshippers, racist people, homophobic’s, anything like that. And please do tell me if I do or say anything problematic! If you still continue to interact with my blog and ignore my boundaries you will immediately get a HARD block!

People who are firm believers about being a hater. If you’re going to simply going to go on my account and hate for no reason, you will get a HARD block! All of us are just trying to have fun!

[kriz-fics]

The Sword's Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Eighteen: Paints and Seas

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters), Slow Burn

Length: 12.2K

CW: None for this chap

“Glaring at the thing won’t make it finish itself, you know.”

His spirits, already so low, plummet even further, if that is possible. Jean grits his teeth, forces a breath through his nose, and persists glaring at the half-filled canvas before him. “I told them I was not to be disturbed.”

A soft scoff answers those words, followed by soft footsteps, and the sound of things clinking and rattling against each other as she moves further into the room. The sound is familiar, but for the life of him, he can’t quite place it.

Not that he is particularly bothered to at the moment.

“Lord of Trost you may one day be, but your lady mother is not without her own power. My word has as much weight as yours, my son.” The rustle of paper resounds somewhere behind, which tells him his mother has stepped on his artist’s leavings. “How many times have I told you to pick up after yourself?” the Lady Eleanor Kirschtein tsks disapprovingly. She is always so disapproving. And, gods, does that always set his teeth on edge.

“If I’m to be Lord of Trost, I have every right to do as I please. Especially in my own rooms. And most especially in this room, where I am not to be disturbed at all times.”

His mother sighs. “Must it forever come to war between us? Since when did my sweet little Jean-boy become this war-like?”

It is all he can do not to physically recoil at that old pet name. “Boys such as me were meant for war, Mother. Best not forget that.”

“How could I, knowing what you are now? It was such an opulent ceremony, the one that made you, so contrived as to never be forgotten. And that cloak… I pray that is the last time I see you cloaked in red.”

The worry, sadness, and fear give him pause. And guilt. She always gives him that, it seems. You can be the most difficult boy, a voice within tells him, so matter-of-fact. Inwardly, he sighs, deflating. He is not angry at her, he reminds himself. He never truly is. It is just so easy to unload everything on her, especially his rage. She will never hate him for it, no matter how vile and disagreeable he becomes. Because that’s just how mothers are.

He hears the rattle and clink of something being placed on a table, and then his mother’s footsteps coming closer to his right. “Ah, of course. The Muse, as always.”

How can it be anything else? Only Mikasa Ackerman’s lovely visage can bring him out of the darkest pits of his mind. If he can only get it right.

“Those lessons are well worth it, I told your father, and I am right. You have gotten so good at this artist’s business.”

Not good enough. “Not nearly good enough.” He is angry again, just like that. “If I was any good, her fingers wouldn’t look so crooked, the sword wouldn’t be so lopsided, the red would be the right shade-”

“Jean.” His mother places a hand on his shoulder, and this time he does recoil. An unpleasant silence drapes over the art room like a heavy shroud. “I brought your favorite,” Lady Eleanor says, light and gentle. No amount of gentle lightness can conceal the hurt, however. That brings on more guilt, and guilt has never been known to lighten the mood. “Come, eat. Sometimes, it is best to step away for a while and not agonize overlong over one’s troubles. Unwind, let loose, and before you know it, clarity will come and all will fall into place.”

It is only then that Jean could bring himself to look at his mother. A smile lights up the plump, matronly face, deepening the lines around her eyes and mouth. The brown of her tightly knotted hair is streaked liberally with gray, though she is still shy of forty. Plump and aging and female she is, but her face is his all the same. He has more of her in him than he has his father, or his forefathers, for that matter. Only his height marks him as the heir of the horselords, they who have oft been described as golden-haired and gray-eyed and tall as lithe willows. They have been blessed to escape the long face of the Obsts, too, but then how many of them could claim to have Obst mothers, as his is? Not nearly enough.

The horse-faced horselord, how fitting, murmurs a voice nastily, and it sounds like Eren, like Porco, like all the spiteful little shits of a squire there are in the castle yard. He grits his teeth against the onslaught and looks away from Lady Eleanor. 

He is not angry at her.

Jean does not resist when his mother takes hold of his arm and steers him toward the nearby divan. Sun Day eggs, he sees sitting on the wooden table beside the divan. Lusin’s Day has long passed. Yet he is to have his treat. Guilt makes his stomach roil, but soft fondness throws the worst of it back, far enough away to let him eat, at least. There is even a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, a southron delicacy so rare in the North. The smell of it all sets his mouth to watering. He is hungrier than he thought.

“It is good to see such a healthy appetite,” his mother beams from her seat at the other divan on the other side of the table, watching as he wolfs down his meal. A more comfortable silence falls over them as he focuses on nothing more than his repast. Neeps and cheese and eggs take the place of portraiture, bodily structure, and composition in the forefront of his mind, and he is glad of it. “I wonder how it goes, with her and hers.”

That slows his ravenous gorging down considerably. Jean looks up at his mother to see her glancing over at his unfinished painting standing before one of the arched windows, face contemplative. She catches his eye and smiles. “I’m sure they haven’t experienced anything near as… exciting as we have so far this season, but I do wonder about those rumors.”

There are a lot of those flying left, right, and center certainly, brought on by all the excitement. We certainly saw that excitement, Jean thinks grimly, recalling that most memorable entrance into Egstatten all those months ago at the beginning of the season. They had been traveling for weeks, and home was mere days away. He was the only one of the immediate family not to be in the wheelhouse at the time and so had the full extent of the commons’ ire.

“Swords! To swords!”

“Call the banners! Vengeance for Zheletov!”

“Richard! To swords!”

Swords, swords, swords, they all screamed as cabbages, turnips, and tubers flew all about the Kirschtein convoy. The captain of the guards had led them through the gale of produce with all his might and main, his men keeping the boiling press back until the high, sturdy walls of the Barrow welcomed them into their protective hold. The ordeal shook Jean, more than he knew. Their reputation for hotbloodedness aside, he had never seen their folk this livid, much less had that rage directed at him and his. It was a most chilling encounter.

The Lord Dot Pixis had begged pardon of his folk most earnestly that very same night. “They are boiling but not yet boiled over, thank the gods. These are yet manageable, you have no cause to fear, my lord, but still…” The bald, aged lord gazed somberly at them all at table. “You cannot deny their rage has merit.”

As the closest of neighbors, Egstatten and Zheletov have ever been partners through thick and thin regardless of their differing States. Both oft provide brides to one or the other through time immemorial and are thus bound by blood as well as proximity. They had suffered through Tybur’s incursions together; it is only meet for one to avenge the other. How many of the slain Zhelevic were fathers and sons and husbands to Egstattian fathers and sons and wives?

Merit. Jean chews on that word as he chews on his eggs. The senseless slaughter of one’s blood is as good a reason as any to seek vengeance, he supposes. A man has a right to it, after all - it is the law of the gods themselves. The law of the land forbids any man to flout his own king, however. If the king is behind the senseless slaughter, what can anyone do but seethe in silence?

Perhaps the law of the land is worth more than the laws of gods, in the end.

“Kolozniki, isn’t it, the outlaws’ refuge?”

“That’s what’s being said, yes,” his mother confirms quietly.

The talk isn’t much of a surprise. He won’t be surprised if they’d fled to their own neck of the woods, to the Yuvichi border to the northeast. The far North has always been the haven of the most unsavory sorts. Wild it is and big - no Prior or learned man has ever mapped its true breadth. Up there, wolves and tigers and trees hold sway, and who knows what else. Up there, the laws of gods and men mean nothing. It is the end of the world.

“Lady Hareckaya has just arrived.”

“I know.” He had taken a respite from his paints and slipped out into the art room’s terrace not too long ago. Even from that distance, the Lady of Yuvichi’s convoy was not hard to miss. He had watched its slow trek through the city for some time, stomach churning, before returning to his muse. The dread hour that brought me here is nigh. Jean the Heir is always needed to be on hand to greet noble guests and play the proper lordling. Let Jean the Artist hold the reins just for now, just for a little while. Gods know the poor sap needs to see the light of day; being cooped up for extended periods of time does no one any good.

“Get dressed after you finish, your father expects you downstairs in a quarter hour.”

His shoulders slump down in resignation. “All right.” It is time for Jean the Heir to come out and play the proper lordling once again. Jean the Artist must needs be cooped up once more. Poor sap.

The sky has turned to lead, he sees as he glances out the window behind his divan. It is snowing; soft, delicate flakes drift across the capital city of Dübenrus and paint the buildings white. Above, the leaded glass dome of the art room is streaked with drops of snowmelt. The air had begun to grow chill, but the braziers they had lit all around the chamber keep the space comfortable.

It is only the Month of Storing yet snow there is this early, for them as live in the North. First to snow, last to thaw, as that jolly little quip notes. It never truly thaws up here, though. No northman has ever known true summer, or heat.

Jean finds his feet dragging as he follows his mother across the room. He does not want to face their gracious guest and have his misgivings given life. He does not want his father’s secret inquiry to bear fruit. He does not want to be a true knight in truth. Not yet. Not so soon. With the way things are, though…

Their reception in Egstatten and the people’s mood seemed like the first act to some sinister masque, the ending of which he does not know but dreads. Then, there is the matter of Ishvelune, brought up time and time again by their visiting vassals… a matter of which, no doubt, adds further fuel to the flickering northern flames.

Interesting, that. The North has never been known for its flames. What fires burn up here come within. Now that they are known - and hated - for.

Countless Mikasas, including the unfinished one that had vexed him so, are all about them to usher their way out. Mother and his aesthetic tutor had urged him time and time again to expand his range to something other than his muse, which he had, eventually. A true artist should have more in his arsenal than his constant, after all.

Hence the land became his muse. One side of the chamber is dedicated to Lovaya’s wonders, made by man and nature both. Lenberg’s many rivers and streams and falls aare displayed next to the Knight’s Rise, that magnificent seat of the Brauns, something his lord father will contest vehemently; as such, the very existence of this painting is kept a tightly guarded secret. 

A much more paternally palatable image is in front of the secret canvas, that of Inareom, Thunderwing, who stands forevermore atop this very city, turned to stone by Dübenrus’s defending mages as the dragon sought to bring death and destruction upon the horselords’ capital all those centuries ago. Now, he brings the city life through wealth - thousands come from all over the realm and all over the world to see the most perfectly preserved dragon in existence, and that great stream of curious hearts brings a great stream of income to their coffers.

Like most artists, not all his pieces are complete. One such stands near the stairway leading down to his private rooms. Jean had been looking to tales for inspiration of late, and what better inspiration is there than his own blood? No matter his feelings about the man, it cannot be denied that Gerald Kirschtein was the greatest knight of his time. There he is beneath the royal box, bold as brass as he holds out his lance for the favor of his lady love. His royally married lady love. She never discouraged the attention, in any case, as far as the histories and songs are concerned. Which is just as well. No woman - or man, Jean should think - in her right mind would want to be wed to her own brother and bring forth abominations cursed by the gods.

Without features, it is hard to tell the depth of the knight and the princess’s feelings for one another. Without color, their loving moment seems much depleted, and lifeless.

Without features, they could have been any knight and his lady.

Another Mikasa is displayed just a short distance from the drab work. She smiles at Jean so tenderly, dressed in cardinal red and crowned with sword lilies of every conceivable shade. Her Majesty, the Queen of Love and Beauty.

He will bring the knight and lady to life soon enough. He will leave the place as Jean the Heir, but Jean the Artist will return to finish what he started. He always does. And, gods willing, he always will. Whatever comes next.

“I hope my lady is pleased with the work?”

“Oh, I am, Master Dinu, this is all I could have asked for, and more.” You gaze around your privy chamber, watching as the master artisan’s apprentices hang the last couple of glass frames up on your gold and crimson walls. It is good work, indeed, you think, well-satisfied, as you stare up at a small bunch of pressed monk’s roses encased in the finest Rhoseine glass. Your knight’s summer gifts are in their rightful places at last, perfectly preserved and forever beautiful, each one a memory of the early summer when all was light and lively and fun. Each one a reminder of his affection, of him.

The very first of these, the most special of them all, you have displayed in your bedchamber, along with the goldenglow. Autumn is at its half-life, it will not be long ‘til winter sets in, and with it its beautiful roses. Lady Theresia had told you to press the ice-blue blooms between the pages of a book, to conserve the memory of your beginning. You obliged, more out of rote than sentimentality, really.

You are glad you did. The new trothed little lady had not the slightest inkling of how much that young man in front of the shrine would come to mean to her all this time later.

Speak of the young man… “Is that all of them, good master?”

“Yes, my lady, that should be all of them.” The glassblower sweeps you a deep bow, as do his apprentices. “This one is pleased to have pleased you, my lady. Should you have further need of fine glassware, do not hesitate to call upon Marcel Dinu’s services once more.”

“Of course, good master. The steward should be on hand, Paul will see to your payment.”

You hasten to your bedchamber and into your bath to change out of your formal vevda the moment the last of the men leaves. The dark red charovma you choose is as far away from formal as any garment can get, falling to just above your knees and dipping down low at the back to bare as much skin as possible. The day is so nice out, it will be pleasant to spend it by the coast. And coastal outings call for comfortable clothes.

Your fingers brush the side of your neck when you reach up to fasten the halter dress in place. The light touch of pain gives you pause and makes you take a good, long look at the silvered mirror in front of you. The halter straps slip from your hands, leaving your dress to pool around your waist.

It is a thing of great fortune that Yelena’s services as handmaid are reduced in the autumn. It had been no simple feat to hide the imprint this past week.

Eren’s mark had faded but the pain remains. You trace over the unmarred stretch of skin once more, and feel the sweet soreness. Feel his hands trace lines of fire up your legs, feel the hard, lean span of him pressing you down, feel his lips and tongue and breath sear your skin. Feel his teeth sink, hard, into your flesh and set you ablaze with desire, so much desire. 

He is fire made flesh, and his fires burn hot. So hot, so much hotter than you are primed for, and all-consuming. You have only ever been subject to a boy’s passion. Clumsy, eager, yet tentative for all that. The passion of a young man is another thing entirely. His passion stunned, and scalded, and hurt. But, gods, if you did not welcome the pain with all your being.

Already, he is overwhelming. He hadn’t even truly touched you. He hadn’t even kissed you. Not where it matters the most. You can only imagine what it will be like, what he will be like when you, at last, have him in full.

Your hand drops down to your side. On your neck, the dull ache of his now unseen seal fades away into nothing. But no power in this world will make you forget.

For a spell, you and the girl in the mirror stare at each other. Gooseflesh has risen all over the lass’s bare torso, and her nipples have begun to harden, though there is no hint of chill this fine autumn afternoon. Her breaths have quickened, coming from her slightly parted lips in soft pants.

Was this how you sounded to him then, gasping, panting as you poured your lust into his ears back there in the cave?

You avert your gaze from the mirror girl’s, from those dark eyes full of such desire, and resume dressing.

No, you will not be forgetting any time soon.

You finish dressing, go back to your desk to snatch up the token, and leave your rooms, light and happy and eager.

The object of your desire is nowhere to be found within the palace, though you scoure his haunts as thoroughly as you can. Not even your sister’s rooms yielded the young knight. He has been spending some time with the younger Rhyzkov girls of late, to their bemused amusement, always in Darya’s chambers under the watchful eye of her governess. It is nice, you suppose, and heartwarming to see him make the effort of further endearing himself to the family. 

Something tells you this is more than just an attempt at brotherly bonding. More than once, you had caught Lydia and Darya whispering and giggling pointedly at you when they thought you weren't looking. That was most baffling, indeed.

He must have gone out, Darya tells you when you come calling, once again bursting into poorly concealed titters. You raise an eyebrow at that but act on her counsel.

Your betrothed is by the crafts arcade, reclining behind old Taras’s stall, manned today by his son, Pietro. Otto, one of Eren’s menservants, is stationed not too far from the table, scanning the passing folk for any signs of trouble.

You find yourself just standing there at the edge of the path, keeping your distance for the nonce, lost in the splendor that is Eren Jaeger. Will there ever come a day when his beauty will diminish in your eyes? You scan over his fair features, taking in the fringe of dark hair falling over his eyes, the fine line of his nose, the sensual mouth, which is just now turned down at the corners in complete concentration as he focuses on his latest project. His large hands work the knife and the block of wood in his grip so very deftly.

When the skies turn green as summer grass. When the oceans boil and seethe and turn to flame. When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. Only then will he diminish in your eyes.

“Beg pardon, goodman, I would like to buy a carving, if you please.”

Eren freezes, eyes widening down at his featureless piece. He is whisking it away the next moment, hiding it in the table’s drawer before you can so much as blink. He stammers your name out a little and coughs into his fist, trying to salvage his composure. You smile. “Y-you found me.”

Your smile widens. “It seems I have.”

“Milady.” Pietro the woodcarver stands from his seat beside Eren and bows low.

“Goodman. Well met,” you answer, nodding at him, very much the proper lady. You shed the mask as soon as you put it on. “May I borrow your ‘prentice boy for the day? I promise to return him well and whole for work tomorrow.”

Pietro laughs, blue eyes twinkling on his sun-tanned face. Though his wavy hair is yet dark to his father’s white (and more plentiful), the likeness is uncanny. “Milady asks, this one answers, and he says, aye, ‘course you can take him. ‘M sad to see him go, though, business has never been more booming with him around. Boy of yours has a way of drawing in the womenfolk, eh?”

You laugh, light and polite, and not disposed to be either. Sometimes, it is good to have two faces. “I’m sure he does.” You turn to your betrothed, your smile warmer. For half a heartbeat. That knowing smile of his freezes you up again. He can be such a little shit sometimes. “Is that amenable to the ‘prentice boy? I’d be loath to take him away if he does not want to be,” you state, frostily.

“It’s very amenable to the ‘prentice boy, milady,” Eren repeats the new Rakivan words, slow and careful, and grins at your jerky nod - you have taken to speaking in the Old Tongue of late for his benefit, you had felt so remiss in not doing so earlier for his tuition. It has not been too much of a hard jump for him as Rakiva is part of the highborn curriculum; it is only a matter of getting him used to its usage. He is a fast learner, at any rate, and is improving at a prodigious scale, taking in new terms and making fewer grammatical mistakes. “Anyhow, I think I’m done for the day. Tomorrow again, the soonest,” Eren tells the older man, who bobs his head with a grin. “Give our regards to Povik Taras.”

“As you say, Sir. Have you a good day. And to you, milady.”

“Don’t,” you say sharply once you are well without earshot of the woodcarver.

Eren closes his mouth agreeably and snickers. “Only you, love,” he states simply, patting your lesos-covered head all gentle-like. You huff and look away, suddenly hard-pressed to suppress your smile. “Where to, my lady?”

“I thought a visit to the docks, and then the beach?” Your mood lightens when you see his eyes light up. They truly are terribly beautiful things. And made more beautiful today by the sea-blue vidnon jacket he is wearing. Blue has such a way with his eyes. Truly.

“Oh, the beach, hmm? I’d love that. But, before we go, I’d like to take a little excursion, if you will.” He tugs you along animatedly, toward another arcade.

The Arcade of Gold, you realize, puzzled and more than a little intrigued.

“I seem to have upset my lady earlier, so I thought to get her a trinket to get back into her good graces.” You approach the stairway to the most prosperous arcade in the city. While it is common for the more affluent merchants to hire swords to protect their wares, the case is doubly so for the goldsmiths. Here, rank upon rank of guards stand, to prevent light-fingered folk from making off with the valuables. They salute as you and Eren draw near, and immediately step aside to let you pass.

An elaborate fountain of naked figures splashes away halfway up the steps. A fine, cooling mist sprays over you as you pass, carried by the soft breeze that gusts lightly through the city. You blink at your betrothed, befuddled. “I don’t think it’s necessary-”

“But I insist.” He leads you through the almost empty marble hall once you step into the arcade proper, passing several stores - still guarded by heavily armed sentries - with the most interesting air of assuredness.

As though he had been planning for this occasion for some time now.

“Master Thabiso,” Eren greets the black-skinned proprietor of the shop you stop at at length. A Goldvein of Rabari, you recognize, noting the elaborate braids clipped with golden beads that fall down his back in long, heavy strands. Rabari custom dictates the sort of braids the Goldveins may wear, you recall from your studies. There are clan braids, family braids, braids for one’s vocation, and so on, all of these unique to each facet of life. Even the beads that hold them fast are special to their worldly status. You have never truly had a chance to examine such trappings before. What you see now is most fascinating; the whole custom is fascinating, truly. It is an astounding thought that one can immediately know intimate things about a stranger just by looking at his hair, if one knows what to look for.

“Sir Eren, it is good to see you returned to my premises,” answers the merchant, bowing low and coming up smiling amiably. “My Lady Rhyzkova, well met. It is an honor to have you grace my establishment with your esteemed presence.” He bows once more, lower than he had before, and straightens up. His eyes and his attention return to Eren as he inquires, “Has my lord come for-”

“Yes, if you still have it.” Eren gleams down at you but does not answer your silent query when you turn to look up at him, utterly stumped.

The master goldsmith smiles and leads you further into the shop, past glass cases full of the most exquisite work - the Goldveins are the best goldsmiths in the world, this is known - to the back of the room where stands his counter. He reaches behind the table and pulls out a green and silver filigree box, which he opens with a flourish. “Saved for you, Sir, as requested.”

Inside lies a hairpin, a most intricately wrought piece of silver and emerald that draws the eye. An expertly carved emerald rose is the heart of the piece. Atop it rests a silver bird, its silver wings spread wide as it braced itself for flight. Filigree chains drip down the rose, set with emerald beads and another smaller rose of silver, which dangles at the end of the longer chain.

You look at the pin, then Eren, and back again, starting as he reaches up to gently pull your lesos down to bare your head. You stare at him, questioning.

“Let down your hair,” is all he says, smiling and gentle, so very gentle.

You reach up to remove the simple bronze hairpin that keeps your hair up in its knot. Your tresses tumble down your back, heavy and curled from prolonged twisting at the back of your head.

For a while, Eren merely takes you in, as though spellbound. You fight the urge to fidget under his gaze. He had seen you with your hair loose a hundred times before, especially in your nightly jaunts. What is so different about you now?

“Tilt your head up for me,” he bids you. You comply, then bite back a gasp as he takes a hank of your hair and twists it up, nimbly, back into a knot, securing it in place with the new, more elaborate hairpiece. His hand slips slowly down, from your hair to your face, rough, calloused fingers feathering lightly over your cheek. He cups your face, rubs tender circles on your skin and leaves warm, tingling trails in his wake. “Yelestala.”

Beautiful.

His eyes have never been more beautiful than they are now. No emerald ever mined can ever compare. The way they behold you makes your throat close up.

He’s never looked at me that way. Never. Never.

It is then that you wonder. What does love look like?

Thump, thump, thump.

One last gentle caress, and he is turning away to ask the shopkeep for a looking glass. It is not long before you are once again staring back at the girl in the mirror. She is a great deal more astonished, and a great deal more elegant than she was earlier. You step forward before you have quite gathered your bearings. When did he learn to style hair? The young woman in front of you will not look out of place in some ball but for her common garb. Had you not known better, you would have attributed the look to Yelena’s skillful hands. The hairpin completes the ensemble.

You can feel your fingers trembling a little. You twine them together and rest your hands on your stomach, now besieged by a battalion of butterflies.

“A beautiful piece for a beautiful lady,” beams Master Thabiso, to which Eren murmurs agreement.

“Ten crowns, yes?” he says, handing the merchant a small money bag, which he hefts.

“I thank you kindly for the custom, Sir, my lady. And for that display. Ah, the romance of youth. There’s nothing quite like it, I do believe. It’s not every day I am treated to the sight of earnest, honest love.” He bows you out of his shop soon after with further thanks.

“You didn’t have to get this for me, you know,” you mutter as you cross through the arcade’s lavish hall and start down the stone steps. Eren’s hand in yours has never felt more comforting. Never have you felt this shy around him either. Which is passing funny. Not even his ravishing of you made you feel so timid in his presence. You had been as you always are with each other, afterward. Except, perhaps, for that added tension. As if our pool of tension needed more filling. A couple of drops more and it will be set to overflowing. The gods only know what will occur then. The prospect is most thrilling.

“But I want to,” Eren answers, smiling sweetly down at you. “I, uh, just remembered… since it’s near the end of the Month of Storing, we most likely missed the Day of… Lovers,” this he utters with the softest pink flush rising up his tanned cheeks, “being in the Old South and all. And I haven’t, you know, ever gotten you a gift for the day… we weren’t really all there during our first celebration, so…”

That reminds you. You reach into your pocket for the token and draw him to a stop beside the fountain. “I… was also thinking about the Day of Lovers lately,” you murmur, somehow finding your clasped hands much easier to look at than his face. “And I thought to make you a present.” You laugh and find the mettle to look him in the eye once more. The affection in his gaze makes you feel surer of yourself, so you continue, “I didn’t know you were getting me something that cost the earth. Now my token seems so paltry in comparison.” You hold out the shell-and-twine bracelet you had woven for him the past couple of days. “Should’ve bought you that set of gilt shortswords you were eyeing so keenly that last time.”

You had found the prettiest shell that day, the first you took him to the beach. You had never seen him so happy. The seawater woke echoes in his eyes and made them come to life so beautifully. You wove the memory of the sea and of that day into your token, to keep him company when he is far from his beloved coast. And his beloved lady.

He stares down at your gift for a good while, then back up at you. Your heart thrums at that look. Is this what love looks like?

“The gift was made with your own hands and laced with your affection. That alone makes it worth more than gold.” The corner of his lips kinks up. “But I wouldn’t say no to those shortswords, if you’re so minded to get them.”

You giggle. “I’ll keep that in mind.” You tie the bracelet around his right wrist. It is a good fit. The tan of his skin brings out the white of the shell in its black twine setting.

“Much thanks, my lady,” he says, taking up your hand in his and giving it a long, lingering kiss. His eyes bore into yours, green as the emeralds in your hair and twice as stunning. Behind you, the fountain splashes away. Below you, the silent sentries stand, keeping a watchful eye on the passing folk.

None of them exist. None of them matter. But he moves away and so the spell is broken. 

It makes no matter. He can always cast it again.

“I didn’t know you could style hair like this,” you remark as you proceed to the docks. The cool sea breeze blows strong about you as you cross one of the bridges to the pier and, from there, to the Lodge where the foreign ships are allowed to berth.

“Uh, I don’t, actually,” he laughs and scratches the back of his head. “I only learned recently. With loads of help from Madam Sonya and a little help from your sisters.” He makes a mock grimace. “I hate being indebted to a little brat like Lydia but I guess I do owe her some.”

So that’s why he’s been spending time with them. His confession makes you hearken back to the past week or so, wondering which of your sisters’ many hairstyles had been his work. You feel your heart melt into mush.

Eren turns to you with an anxious look. “Do you like it? The hair, I mean. I know it’s nowhere near Yelena’s best work but-”

“I love it, Eren. It’s simple but elegant. It suits the pin well,” you tell him and feel yourself swoon as he flashes you a relieved, and crooked, grin.

“I’m glad you like it. I’d hate to tarnish such beauty, after all,” he says, thereby sending the battalion in your stomach into the frenzy of battle. He has gotten so irresistibly romantic; it is a wonder your lines hold every time he goes on the offensive.

You are nearing the end of the bridge and thus the docks. You draw your lesos back up to cover your head and the pin. Leaving something so precious out in the open is only courting trouble, especially in a place as seedy as the port. It is the only time you will allow your guards’ proximity.

Not a couple of paces behind trail Otto and Troian, the latter of whom was also your guard that fateful day of the cave. He had been so terrified when he had come upon you at your… affections. For good reason, you suppose. Your father would have sacked the man had you lost your virtue during his watch, and Troian needs this post for the mouths he feeds and provides for. That was the only thing that drew out the guilt, and even then, not by much. Losing yourself to Eren even for the briefest of moments is never something you will ever rue.

You had come so close to allowing him further liberties with your body… That you would have crossed the line, you do not know, but the thought is terrifying in the way that terror often is: rousing and exhilarating. And there is a sweet irony in being deflowered in a field of flowers.

There are worse places to become a woman in truth.

Eren pulls you closer to him as you step foot on the docks’ streets. Behind you, Otto and Troian close ranks. Not that they will make much difference, Eren blustered, he is a better sword than either. “I could keep him safe better than he could me,” he claimed after his first solitary excursion into the city, when you had asked if he had protection. Otto keeps guard but he isn’t truly one, not in the sense that any of your tails are. “He���s more a manservant that has some skill with the blade. I only keep him around for both our fathers’ peace of mind. Your lot would never let me out otherwise.” You took his word for it. He is the anointed knight after all, and trained by the greatest knight in the realm. The more swords in seedy places, the better, in any event, no matter how little trained.

For all its seediness, though, the docks offer its own brand of delights. The noisier, dodgier Lodge is a seedbed of adventure and wonders in a way that the relatively safer, cleaner Cradle - the port where local ships moor - simply isn’t. The Arsechkalan ports are some of the greatest in the realm, filled with myriad sights and sounds and smells.

The sights and sounds and smells are a deal more exciting in the Lodge. Inns and taverns and pillow houses of every ilk line the streets. Here and there, the odd temple to foreign gods sits between the establishments, to cater to the myriad sailors’ prayers for a safe voyage. Captains and oarsmen and mates amble about amongst vendors and urchins and cutpurses, this last easily avoidable by hunching in, staying discreet, and keeping a sharp eye out.

You revisit the qaxan parlor, though this foray ends up an utter dud. It starts out well enough, with a few wins. Until Eren happens upon a most interesting conversation. It seems as nothing at first, until you see his face grow ever darker with every passing heartbeat, until his moves become more careless than the last, until he starts losing everything he has won. You hurriedly pluck him away before he can lose his whole purse.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” you ask once you have gone outside, standing in front of a baker’s cart. The harbor seems quiet to you that day, though it does not lack for bustle. Dimly, you note the far-off thunderheads all the way out to sea. The sea breeze gusts over you, bringing with it the scents of the docks: cooking meats and sweets, tar and spices and humanity, all bound by the pervasive smell of salt.

Eren is silent for a moment, glaring down at the ground, before finally answering. “My father… they were talking about Father.”

“Who?” You had not heard anyone speak of the Magister. Not in any of the Lovayan tongues, anyway.

“These sailors, foreigners, who know fuck all about our matters.” His hands clench into fists. “They were going on about how it’s so much better trading with us this year as opposed to last year with the port fees and all. Father got greedy, they said, all that about filling up the royal coffers was a big lie, he just wanted to line his own pockets by skimming off honest men’s gold. They know fuck all,” he growls, voice steadily rising. “Father would never do that, he’s never done that, we don’t need more gold, we have more than enough-”

“Eren.” You reach up to take his face in hand. His eyes flash up to yours, wide with surprise and indignation. You hold his gaze, and caress his cheek with your thumb. “What they say makes no matter. You’re right, they know fuck all.” You smile when he chuckles a little at that, and continue, “And it is enough that you know otherwise. It was not what he wanted, Lord Grisha. But even he cannot supersede the king.”

For all his promises to bring back port fees to their earlier rates, the king dragged his feet on enacting his policy. To make the contentious decree hit the tradesmen hard. The yearly spring opening of the ports had not been pleasant for those in the business. Even Father, a tradesman himself, had seethed, yet he did not complain to the king’s face. Though His Majesty often, and loudly, made it known to all and sundry that his Magister was to blame, Lord Alexander knew the way of it all too well. It was only at the start of summer that the fees were lifted and put to rights.

Eren deflates at the mention of His Majesty. “It all returns to him, doesn’t it?” He reaches up to wrap his large hands over your smaller ones, keeping your touch on him, caressing your skin as you had his. He brings both your hands down at length but laces his fingers through yours, holding on. “It all returns to cutthroat politics in the end.”

“His Majesty and your father… don’t always see eye to eye.”

“Because Father is the shadow king.” His voice has quieted. He looks almost thoughtful as he utters the words. “That’s what they all say. But it’s true, isn’t it? I don’t see His Royal Majesty getting off his fat arse to make this kingdom better for us all. It’s all fallen to Father all these years.” He snorts, derisive. “At least we know there’s one thing that royal belly can’t stomach. I suppose truth is an acquired taste to some more than others.”

You glance about reflexively for too-close ears. The baker, behind you by his cart, is making a new batch of honeycakes; Otto and Troian are talking nearby. Six years at court have taught you not to tread around such sentiments lightly. The Quaestor, Darius Zackly, has little tattling birds everywhere, as is his right as the master of espionage. One can never be too careful when it comes to airing treasonous thoughts.

“Truth it is but best have a care. There might be those around who will find it as unpalatable as His Majesty does, and you do not want them giving him fodder.” You smile to lighten the mood. “Here, a sweet to sweeten the bitter humors,” you say, turning to the baker for a couple of honeycakes, which you munch on as you continue your stroll through the docks.

You bring your betrothed around to the quays to explore what is to be had from the outside world, knowing well that this will bring the life back to him. So it does. Galleys, cogs, carracks, the most accommodating of these you visit. The cheapest place to buy goods is off the ship, and the sheer quantity and diversity of foreign wares are too much of a temptation. A cog or three later and your guards become pack mules, weighed down with a couple of kegs of Caerleine firewine, bolts of beautiful bronze lace and silver damask, and a book detailing the life and reign of Rhodora Braveheart, the most famed queen of Huanurian history.

News, too, you have in plenty. There is plague in the Countship of Mechiriya, south of Lakpathar. A dragon has been found in one of the mountains of the Gleaming Isles; this you dismiss as fanciful sailors’ talk - there are no more dragons, that is known, not since the Sundering. You are more apt to believe the news of a leviathan lurking beneath the Diamond Depths, and the holy schism occurring in southern Anderven seems even likelier.

“She’s older than my lady grandmother, and she’s dead,” Eren mutters, repulsed, as a whore, old as sin and twice as ugly, loudly propositions him from across the street. He lengthens his stride at once, hauling you along as you try not to laugh.

“Oh, you don’t want to tick these off,” you say, glancing back and catching the glare the ancient slattern shoots at your backs before looking off for likelier sport. “Dockside whores are vicious.” No local man with half his wits intact will touch them with a ten-foot lance. New-come sailors who don’t know any better are preyed upon most malignly. They are robbed as they are fucked, and those can count themselves fortunate. Better to be robbed and live to tell the tale. Once in a great while, they will find a bloated, naked corpse on the pier, all that is left of the sad sack unfortunate enough to run into a Killer Cunt.

Eren shudders, looking ill. “Well-”

You are stumbling behind a wall of young man the next moment as he abruptly pulls you out of the way. The suddenness of it all does not leave you time to ponder.

A child’s cry, the crash of a dropped crate, the soft thumps of falling fruit. A piping babble of a tongue most foreign to you, answered by the deeper, intimidating tones of your betrothed as he speaks in kind. The rough and rustic burr of the Traders’ Tongue makes him sound even more menacing.

You peer over Eren’s shoulder once your faculties return. A boy with deep brown skin is on the ground, thrown back on his rear from his collision with the older boy. Blood oranges are scattered all about him, spilling from the upturned crate at his side. A conical red hat has been knocked off his dark head. Wide green eyes stare fearfully up at infinitely more terrifying ones as Eren speaks to him once more, voice hard and pressing. His hand has gone to the dirk on his right hip, his other holding tight to your wrist as he shields you with his body.

The guards have come running up to flank you and Eren protectively, their loads dropped and forgotten on the ground behind them. The boy shrinks back even more as another lad, this one younger, brown-skinned and brown-haired, runs up to you and rattles frightened, pleading exclamations in the Traders’ Tongue.

How frightening they must seem to two young ones, you think, these tall, looming guards of yours, them with their naked steel, hard voices and equally hard gazes. Only Eren is privy to the conversation, and for a while, he and the boys trade foreign words. At last, the stream of talk ceases to flow.

Eren eases up, but only just. “Cabin boys,” he tells you all, switching back to the familiar Belin of your homeland, more for Otto’s benefit than anything. “Just having a little lark, a race to see who could get back onboard first.” He sighs, scratches his head. “I suppose we could take them at their word… purses still whole?” He pats his own person to check his purse and look for any tears in his garments, coming up short of tears and with his money bag intact. You and the guards do likewise and announce yourselves equally as untouched.

“We should help them,” you say, watching the boys scramble for the fallen oranges. It is the least you can do for giving them such a fright. You step forward with a smile for the lads. The elder’s eyes - green, like your knight’s, yet of a different shade - sparkles as he looks up at you and utters something in his tongue. Incomprehensible he may be yet you need no linguist to translate the sentiment behind the words. That sweet smile is enough.

Eren hesitates yet acquiesces in the end. “Just keep close to me. And keep a close watch.”

The lads are glad of the help, in any case. So much so that you and Eren find yourselves invited to the lads’ ship, As Samaditha, a big-bellied carrack off the coast of Qa’ihij, west of Agankaya, captained by the boys’ father, Qamar. Ramzi and Halil, the boys are called, and they had a grand time showing their guests around the vessel. Ramzi, in particular, had taken a shine to you and kept you close, with Eren trailing behind as linguist. The most miffed linguist you had yet seen, you thought, noting his increasing crossness as the hour passed. He lightened up considerably when the lads took him aside to play a game of knucklebones, a novel pastime not oft seen in your side of the world, as the boys and their ilk are not oft seen in Lovayan shores; Agankayan merchanters are rare in these parts, after all.

You left the ship laden with good memories and foreign tokens. Ramzi had given you a beautiful glass bottle of red sand from the Ruby Basin. It had healing properties, he claimed through Eren, and was good for burns and indigestion. The thought of edible sand astounded you, and you thanked the boy profusely; this would be good for your own budding stores of Healer’s supplies.

Eren had come away with his own set of knucklebones. “Nice of him to give me something. I thought he’d forgotten all about me, with the way he was hoarding you and all. You’d think no one else existed outside of you.”

“Hoarding?” you snort. “He wasn’t hoarding me. He played with you, didn’t he?” You direct your course to the beach at last; you have had your fill of the docks for the day. “I was meaning to ask you - he kept on repeating a certain phrase, ‘Gim-’”

“Gim verrhia.” The phrase seems to offend him, to judge from his expression.

At once, you are apprehensive. “What does it mean? Is it some kind of backhanded-”

“Pretty lady.”

You blink at his cross face. Being called pretty is hardly backhanded and is nothing to be offended by. It is most flattering. “Right. I’m glad it wasn’t anything offensive… but why are you so-” You break off abruptly, cast back to his steadily souring mood on the ship, and put two and two together. “Eren, are you jealous?”

“No,” he denies immediately with a scoff. The reddening tips of his ears give the lie to his denial, however.

“He’s a child, Eren.”

“I told you, I’m not-”

“He’s a child and a foreigner, that was probably the last we’ll see of him.”

“Good,” he rumbles under his breath.

His irritated jealousy is the most delightful thing. You giggle and hug his arm close. “Oh, love, don’t you worry. There’s only one green-eyed dark-haired boy for me.”

There is that crooked smile again, so sweet, so endearing. “What of brown-haired ones? Blonds, reds? Those with blue eyes, gray, brown, black? What of them?”

You smile, and nuzzle close. “There’s only one boy for me. Only ever one. And he’s here in his rightful place: by my side and in my arms.” As he should always ever be.

The smell of the sea comes strong, and the blue is calling. There is nothing for it but to answer, and so he does.

Eren drops the shell he is examining back into the foaming waters - it is no good for his collection, not with that unsightly hole - and looks over at the receding back of his betrothed. You make an enchanting figure, you with your driftwood wand tracing spells in the sand.

The enchanting maid is a sensual one as well today. It is not the first he has seen you in such garb but it is the first he can look his fill without fear of being accused of impropriety. It had been a beautiful autumn day, which the Rhyzkov women took advantage of by heading to the beach, bringing him along as your most esteemed guest. His eyes had near popped out of his skull when you dropped your lesos and exposed a great deal more than he bargained for. You had worn charovmaya before in his presence but never one so short. He spent the day in a silent frenzy of desire as he contended with not only your smooth, naked back but also those fine, shapely calves, so exposed by that knee-length garment - never mind that Lydia was similarly attired.

Without your mother and sisters and attendants, he is free to bask in your glory (there are your guards, but they do not matter). He cannot do so properly at this distance, though, hence he must needs come closer.

He stuffs his shells in his money bag and makes his way to you. The surf is cold around his bare shins, frothing against his skin. The brisk breeze blows fierce inland, chill and salty and fresh, tugging at his hair and clothes, insistent as a desperate lover (insistent as he hopes you’ll be as a lover). Overhead in the overcast sky, the sandpipers that give the bay its name fly in their scores, filling the air with their trilling cries. They are your only companions in this stretch of coast.

“How goes the casting?”

You turn to him with that smile that never fails to tug at his heartstrings. He had secured your hair well, he sees, pleased; only a few tendrils escape your bun to whip about your face. The emerald rose sparkles in your hair, a green distinct from the ocean waters, untouched by any hint of blue. “I just finished.”

He glances at the pale sand beneath your feet. ‘Happiness,’ ‘Luck,’ and ‘Safety,’ are writ large upon the shore in the ancient runes of Old Lovaya. Already, the waves are claiming the words - the bottom of the rune for luck has been wiped smooth. “The Old Man means to grant your wishes.”

“Or the old gods. But the sea isn’t usually their domain.” You turn toward the sea, Old Nyrdos’ domain, and stare out at the churning waters. “They make an exception.” Not far from the coast is a rocky outcrop, a tiny tidal island covered with sea-loving vegetation. Between two palms a godstone stands, worn and weathered by countless years of salt spray and salt wind. “Perhaps we can visit them, for a better chance of being heard.”

“We’ll get wet.”

“Is the Falcon Knight put off by a little seawater?” You raise your eyebrows at him.

That makes him bristle a little. “I was weaned from the stuff, love, no amount of seawater would be too much for me. By all means, let’s go, but we don’t have drying sheets. I’m not sure how well you’ll like dripping your way back home through the city.”

You smile in the face of his indignation. “We could use my lesos. Or the guards’ cloaks.”

His lips twitch upward. “Why don’t we use that fine damask you bought while we’re at it? You have yards of it, more than enough to rub us dry.”

Your smile vanishes like a snuffed candle. “Piss off, Jaeger, that thing cost a fortune.”

That makes him laugh out loud. “Now I know how to get your hackles raised. Threaten a good bolt of cloth.”

“A most expensive bolt of cloth.”

“We could always go naked.” His grin widens at your look.

You turn your head away, with all the appearance of a prim and proper lady turning away from bawdy humor. It is most convincing but for that smirk. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“If I told you how much, you’d never hear the end of it.”

“My lesos it is.”

You strike out across the heaving sea very much clothed.

Not that it matters. Eren lets his lady lead the way, if only for his visual pleasure. Southron fashions truly are the best, the charovma best of all. It is the most revealing garb you have yet worn. Never has he seen so much of you, short of you being naked. A long, ropey braid had served to, at least, partially obscure your bare back, before. Now, there isn’t even that; a large part of him wants to pat himself on the back for putting your hair up and out of the way of such perfection.

That day in the cave had brought you to that place where the line of tension and desire had stretched so taut between you that it had near snapped. He wonders how close you were to doing so, how far you would have gone had the gormless guard not come into the picture; Eren had hardly looked at the man all day, his sin is too fresh for forgiveness. He had sinned anew by balking your plans, and it was only through your silver tongue that you managed to wheedle the man into assent.

The waves roll toward Eren, slapping lightly against his stomach, though never higher, as he cuts his way through the gray-green crests in the wake of his lady. Your dark red charovma swirls about you like some gigantic nennymoan, those flowers of the deep.

His fae maid is in a new element. Vilas, that is what they are, the fae of the deep. He is fortunate, he feels, to have earned the favor of one. But he knows the tales. The fae are as lovely as they are lethal, just as like to kill him as to kiss him. For all he knows, this lovely vila means for him to drown. With one such as this, though… he will be more than happy to enter the Fields by your hand.

Eren watches the swells of water enfold the swell of your hips, eyes the play of movement beneath your skin as you wade through the waist-deep sea, traces the dip of your spine down that supple back. You are as smooth and faultless as you ever are. That only makes him want to mar you, mark you as his. His mark had vanished, he sees with a burst of displeasure. He can always leave more, he placates himself. It will be so gratifying to leave them all over that flawless back as he holds on to your hips, biting all over your silky skin as he ruts you hard into his mattress…

It is a good thing the seawater is cold.

The islet looms over you, deceptively large at this vantage. You haul yourself up the stone steps slick with sea lichen and seaweed. The action breaks his attention away from the cluster of barnacles that cling to the bottom of the rocky formation.

She might as well have gone naked, is his only thought. The weight of the water makes your dress cling to your body like a second skin. There is next to nothing left to his imagination at this point. Every curve and dip and line of you is limned by crimson. The sway of your hips as you climb the steps makes him want… His hands are twitching, itching to grab hold. You make him want. So badly, so madly, so desperately. He drags legs of lead up the steps, taking deep, calming breaths of the cool sea air. He is a man, not a beast, he won’t lose himself to lust in such a place.

The gleam of wet, naked thighs as you wring out your skirt makes him want to scream. Surreptitiously, he glares at the godstone; how dare they test his mettle in such a way.

“Here we are, you old gods,” you say, running a hand atop the worn monument reverently. “May my words and wishes reach you.” You look over at Eren and beckon him forward. Fast as that, worship is done. That is what he likes about the Old Faith.

He brushes the godstone himself, letting his pettish consternation vanish with the wind. May her words and wishes please enough, you old gods. He follows his lady deeper into the little island, striding past the palms into the back of the place.

The stretch of rock ends here. You sit down on the stony ground, unmindful of the dirt, and wrap your arms around your legs. Eren sits beside you, heedless of the sensation of his sodden pants sticking to his skin. The chill sea breeze does not bother him either; it never has, though his bottom half is soaked to the bone.

“A crown says Troian’s having a conniption back there,” you quip lightly.

“I’ll pass on this wager, I am in total agreement,” he rejoins, amused, fiddling with the hems of his rolled-up trousers. “This’ll be the last place anyone would want to play the pillow game in.”

“Oh, but they do.”

He stares at you, not quite sure if you are teasing or not, you have been so playful of late. You are, yet there is truth in your eyes all the same as you go on, “I’ve seen a couple long ago, fucking in full view of the coast, right in front of this godstone itself. Figured they were new-wed. It’s old custom, and it’s not oft practiced anymore, but it was tradition to consummate Old Lovayan marriages in the sanctum, right in front of the gods. I don’t know why they didn’t do it in the Great Sanctum… it’s roomier and all, but I guess doing it here has its thrills.” More of the memory seems to come back to you then; whatever you recall seems comic, to judge by your expression. “Mother, bless her fusty new blood, was scandalized, of course. Rushed us all out of here faster than the hare in his race.”

“I bet she did,” he chuckles, tickled by mothers’ general fustiness, new blood and otherwise.

“You new blood are such hidebound creatures,” you remark, pretending to derision. “It’s that sort of thrill that gives life such flavor. Imagine fucking in the Great Temple. It’ll be the grandest bedchamber to tumble someone in.”

He cackles, long and hard, at the statement. “Ah, the scandal of that, though. But who’s to say someone of our sort hasn’t done that already in some obscure village shrine?”

“Hmm, true enough.”

“What say we lend his fears legitimacy?” His heart begins to drum inside his chest as you turn to look at him. It is a jest, of course it is a jest, yet the ever-growing primal, irrational part of him is as serious as a stab wound. He grinds the beast down beneath his proverbial boot. You deserve better for your first than some rocky crag in the sea (no matter how holy, or traditional). And yet… The cave wasn’t any better but she was willing, you saw her.

His brazen lewdness makes the minx stick out her wanton head. Just a little. “I knew you were adventurous,” you murmur, and the heat of your gaze makes the beast stir beneath his abstract foot. He fights the harder to tamp it back down. “As much as the idea intrigues me, I’m afraid we’ll have to put it off.”

“Put it off, hmm? So, it’s a given for us somewhere down the line. I’ll hold you to that, my lady.” That should’ve been that, it should have ended there, yet his eyes fall on your lovely neck and he is lost. 

“It’s vanished,” he says, reaching up to brush gentle fingers across the terribly unmarked skin. You draw back, as though his touch scalded you, but not by much. The gooseflesh blooming beneath his fingertips gives the truth to your feelings. He has not crossed a line, he can see, relieved. Never will he have you balk at his advances.

You reach up to put your fingers on his, your touch so very light. “It still hurts, you know.”

“Oh?” He traces over your skin once more, the flesh so very soft yet pebbled. “You still feel me, here?” He presses down, lightly, and feels you shudder, hear your barely stifled gasp. Your fingers twitch above his. “My mouth, my tongue… me. Do you still feel me on you?”

You look away, dropping your hand and releasing his digits, but he knows better. Your face can lie, be covered by a mask, be concealed; the rest of you is there to bare your truths. And, truly, you are so very responsive to him.

His touch trails down your shoulder, your arm, down to your leg, bare to the knee and still slightly damp with seawater. He leaves a trail of goosebumps in his wake; he watches them rise, entranced. Eren lifts his eyes to catch yours. Those are pools he will never be able to swim.

The line of tension and desire stretches taut between you. One more move and it may just snap. One more move and one or the other of you may break. He wonders who will succumb first. He has to laugh at that; at this point, he won’t give a groat for his own chances.

“Is this where you got it, this scar?” he asks, following the thin raised line that slashes down your right calf. “Those stairs are slipperier than politicians.” Again, yet again, there comes a time for a change of topic. It will be better for you in the long term, he thinks, if you can dispel some of the tension now. You will always deserve better for something as dear as your first than a quick tumble born from rampant lust. You are more than that to each other, surely.

The old wound is lumpy and rough. Some may call it disfiguring, the only thing that ruins your perfection. Not to him, never to him. It is only proof of that fire, that spirit that so draws him to you. The scar is as fit a match for any of his own. It is further gratifying to know that he is not the only one willing to tough it out. You can keep up with him.

You stare down at the old lesion, drawn into memory and out of the heat of your preceding desire. “No, it was another sea mont from another stretch of this coast. It was the worst day of my eight-year-old life. I thought I’d never walk again.”

He is drawn into his own memory, too, of the day he first saw the mark. It was the Day of Sun and Youth, and you had worn simple garb such as a milkmaid or a shepherdess might wear in the country in summer (he had never seen peasants’ garb as clean and well-cared for, to be sure). Your short peasant skirt had fallen to just a bit above the knee. He would’ve lost himself to a silent fit of lusty excitement, but the sizable scar marking your right calf gave him pause. He had missed the scar all those times he had caught flashes of your bare legs. They were flashes, though, quick and swift and hurried, and they had not come often, not at your conservative court, certainly not with the cover of your long gowns. He had the tale from you much later in the day as you headed back to the Bulwark after your Sun Day frolics. It is one of his better memories of the summer.

“I’ve always thought it an ugly thing, this mark. I’ve learned to take it on the chin, though, over the years. But you… you don’t look at it with disgust. You make it seem as if it’s something I should be proud of.” The smile you favor him with seems almost shy, and so endearing.

“It is something to be proud of, love. It shows what you truly are beneath all the frills and decorum and propriety.” He leans in close, grins at the widening of your eyes, and flicks his nose lightly across yours. “It’s never an ugly thing to be a free spirit.”

“Are you going to make a habit of that?” you ask, sweetly, shyly discomfited, yet smiling all the same.

“Mm-hmm.” He does so like to tease you, after all, no matter how gently. Another remark - about outer appearances and what lay beneath and true selves - comes to mind, yet he dismisses it as being too ribald. He’ll make it some other time. When you are there.

Movement from far off across the horizon catches his attention. “Incoming traders,” he announces. He knows the origin of every one, of course.

“Caerleon, Mbokel, Ithasa,” you list off, giving his thoughts a voice. The merchanters and carracks and galleys make the slow trek toward Lovayan shores, each one distinct from the other. Nearer to your vantage is the sacred lagoon of the Great Sanctum; the towering godstone is silhouetted against the gray skies, as imposing as ever. “Have you ever thought of traveling? Just getting on some ship to see the Known World and its wonders?”

“Of course, but especially as a boy.” He smiles in wistful recollection. “Armin and I would often talk of stowing away when we were in the docks back in Lenberg. Never happened, as you can see, but it was the most exciting thought.” He fiddles with his new bracelet - she had such nimble hands, his lady - and notes, absently, the rising of the tide and the choppier waters slapping up against your little rock. “Nowadays, it’s not really too much of a thought… but it’s still there. We’re a lot more dutiful - and like to get more dutiful, lord that he is and knight that I am - but perhaps someday… when the poxy bitch permits.” He grimaces. “To be in thrall to such a mistress turns my stomach. I’d rather be in thrall to the one woman.” He gleams at you, filled with suggestive mischief, and you giggle, leaning into him and resting your pretty head on his shoulder. He feels his smile soften and presses a soft kiss on the cherished head.

The wind has grown stronger. Above and around you, the palms and the surrounding shrubs sway with the draft, rustling. “It would be nice, to get away.” Your voice is quiet, eyes fixed on the horizon and the far-off lands you have yet to see. “To see the world and live a little. Away from court, and the realm, and reality. The realm doesn’t matter when you’re elsewhere. It’s only one of many, after all.”

Realm and reality. Your realm and reality seem headed to stormy seas, if the news from the North is anything to go by. Even this far South, talk is rife. Of outlaws and dens and lost justice they all speak. Eren wonders what Father is making of all this. As the Magister, it is his duty to stick his nose into everyone’s business. Our shadow king.

“Storm coming,” you comment, lifting your head from Eren’s shoulder. A bolt of lightning turns the gray skies white for half a heartbeat, the thunderheads have come closer; the rumbling thunder comes not long after. Ships are coming in yet none are going out, he just now realizes. Your day at sea is at an end. “We had best get going. I think I hear the sound of Troian calling even above the waves.”

He is calling, Eren can hear. He would’ve admired the man’s devotion had he not found it so stifling. And amusing. “Right. We wouldn’t want him having a convulsion or something. I don’t think we’re doing his heart any favors. And the water’s getting rough,” he adds, looking down at the gray waters churning below you.

You chuckle and stand. “Don’t worry, I’ll tow you to shore if your legs give out.”

He scoffs and pinches your calf before standing himself. “I’ve been swimming before I was riding, my lady, I’m as good a swimmer as you southron eels.” He turns his head and looks back at you, smirking. “Do we have a race?”

“If you think a man can beat an eel in her own turf.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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A/N:

Relatively shorter chap this time but only just.

Jean the Artist is given more focus, and he's not as much of a mama's boy as Eren was. Eren is getting even more romantic sighs swoons that hairpin is such a precious thing. We see the docks, hear things said about Grisha that pisses Eren off, and meet Ramzi and Halil! They have a happier ending here, thankfully (unless the storms sink their ship on their way home… huehuehue, I kid, I kid). A visit to a holy sea shrine somehow makes Eren unendingly horny. And beneath it all the North is stirring. Storm coming indeed.

This isn't as frisky as last time but we'll get there, we'll get there.

Forever and always, thank you all for reading! Til next update!

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu @lukepattersin @tojis-discord-kitten

[piratesexmachine420]

Okay I actually have one more thing to say about Minecraft and the Minecraft Movie. (Sorry, A Minecraft Movie.) I’m seeing a lot of people make the claim that “they whitewashed Steve” and while I absolutely see where they’re coming from, I disagree semantically. “Whitewashing”, to me anyway, implies that Steve was at one point intended to be nonwhite before then Mojang changed their minds. This is not the case. Notch intended Steve to be white.

Should he have been intended to be white? I’m not gonna interrogate that. Take it up with a sociology professor. Should we care if was intended to be white? Probably not, for most intents and purposes. In vacuo it’s very easy to read Steve as racially ambiguous, and that reading is all that really matters for most players. But that’s not been the case behind the curtain.

(Warning: long post, slightly messy post ahead. I could revise it further but I’ve spent way to much time on this. Maybe if I was arguing something a little less easy to take as racism. Sorry about that, BTW.)

Exhibit 1 (↓) : The current Steve skin.

This hasn’t always been the default player model. Obviously, right? Look at those rolled-up sleeves, those haven’t always been there!

This (↓) is the original.

It’s May, 2009; and this new game–not yet called Minecraft–is still a very pliable thing. No “Minecraft Bible”, no brand identity to uphold, no vision for the future. There are almost no features here–it’ll be another 9 months before the game’s trademark–infinite terrain–gets added on a whim.

Note the differences between this first model and the current one: the slightly lighter skin shades, the weird harsh edges on the detailing, the jarring lack of detailing on the pants, etc. etc. This is a placeholder: it’s been copied from another abandoned game prototype, where it had been copied from a second, unrelated, abandoned game prototype. Like so much of Minecraft’s early development, it’s been thrown together just to see if it’d work. It’s haphazard.

What would Steve look like if he’d been, well, designed? Created with intent? We actually don’t have to wonder. For a brief period of time between December 2009 and February 2010, Mojang had an artist: Hayden ’Dock’ Scott-Baron. Not just a programmer who happened to be making textures. And this (↓) is the design they came up with:

That’s a white guy. Notch got the chance to redesign Steve, to clarify what he intended, and he went with making Steve a white guy.

Well, to be fair, they also made “Black Steve”. (↓)

Yikes. “Black Steve”. I don’t know about you, but the fact that white Steve is just “Steve” and black Steve is “Black Steve” implies to me that this was a Mojang who thought of white as the default. Or at least that Notch thought of white as the default.

Dock would soon leave Mojang, and the game would never really get around to implementing any of his work. They stuck with Notch’s placeholder. And as the game got bigger and bigger, that placeholder became brand identity. By 2011 or 2012, Steve was too famous for them to go back and “correct” (and I mean that pejoratively) to white. (Not unlike creepers, but that’s another story)

And they’ve chafed under that ever since. Every depiction of Steve outside of the game itself has been obviously white, be it in promotional art, LEGO sets, the upcoming “film”, Super Smash Bros.–you name it, he’s white there. Mojang either hasn’t noticed or is unwilling to accept that anyone sees Steve any other way.

What should they do about this? Well, updating Steve to be unambiguously white in game would be pretty bad for what I hope are obvious reasons: bad optics, bad for their brand recognition, and really, really rude to anyone who didn’t think of him as white. They could also start depicting him accurate to his texture, but that might piss off racists. Pissing off racists is based, but you have to appeal to racists at least a little if you want to be the richest corporation in your market segment. They won’t go for that.

So what will they do? Nothing. Steve will continue to be an unambiguous white guy everywhere except Minecraft, where he’ll be treated like a white guy despite not exactly looking it. Is that whitewashing? I don’t think so. Whitewashing is deliberate, and this is a situation that’s evolved out of inertia more than anything else. But it isn’t much better than whitewashing.

[chaoskirin]

Have you found that you’ve been less motivated to create art now that AI has become so good?

I don’t really draw anymore because whenever I start a new drawing, I’m immediately plagued by thoughts like, why even bother? This piece is going to take hours when, theoretically, I could ask Mid-journey to do it for me and it would take about 10 seconds and probably look way better. So like, why should I even try?

I’m at college getting a degree in illustration but I’m afraid that by the time I graduate and get out into the field, I won’t have any job prospects. Human artists are becoming increasingly obsolete in the corporate world and I feel like nobody is going to want to hire me. I mean, from a shitty CEO’s perspective, why hire human artists when AI is right there? It’s faster and cheaper. Many established studio and corporate artists are already being fired in droves. We’re seeing it happen in real time.

I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle. AI has drained me of my creativity and my future job security. I’ve lost interest in one of my dearest hobbies and my degree may end up becoming completely useless. I loathe AI for the way it has stripped me of something I’ve dedicated so many years of my life to. Something that was once so precious to me.

I feel that I’ve spent thousands of hours honing a now useless skill. And that really sucks.

Sorry for ranting in your inbox, I hope you don’t mind… but since you are a working adult and do art and writing (of course writing AI has gotten stupid good as well and I’m bitter about that too) professionally, and as a hobby too, I figured that you would definitely understand.

Hey! This is a great question, and I have what I hope is a very hope-filled answer.

By the way, I don't call image generation "AI." It's not. There's no actual intelligence involved. It's an algorithm that averages images and combines them into something new. I refer to it as GenSlop.

First, the reason you're seeing such a proliferation of image generators attaching their dirty little claws into every website on the internet is due to what I call "just-in-casing." Rather than develop an ACTUAL ethical image generator (which would only use images from creative commons or pay artists for their use) generators like Deviantart's DreamUp and Twitter's Grok (?????? wtf is that name) have just stuffed LAION-5 into their code and called it a day.

Why? Why not wait and create an ethical dataset over several years?

Because it's become more likely than not than image generation is going to become strictly regulated by law, and companies like DA, Stability, Twitter, Adobe, and many others want to profit off it while it's still free and "legal."

I say "legal" in quotes, because at the moment, it's neither legal nor illegal. There are no laws in existence to govern this specific thing because it appeared so fast, there was literally no predicting it. So now it's in a legal grey area where it can't be prosecuted by US courts. (But it can be litigated--more on that in a bit.)

When laws are passed to govern the use of image generators, these companies that opted to use LAION-5 immediately without concern for the artists and communities they were harming will have to stop. but because of precedent, they will likely have their prior use of these generators forgiven, meaning they will not be forced to pay fines on their use before a certain date.

So while it seems they're popping up everywhere and taking over the art market, this is only so they can get in their share of profits from it before it becomes illegal to use them without compensation or consent.

But how do I know the law will support artists on this?

First, litigation. There are several huge lawsuits right now; one notable lawsuit against almost every major company using GenSlop technology with plaintiffs like Karla Ortiz and Grzegorz Rutkowski, among other high-profile artists. This lawsuit was recently """pared down""" or """mostly dismissed""" according to pro-GenSlop users, but what really happened is that the judge in the case asked the plaintiffs to amend their complaint to be more specific, which is generally a positive thing in cases like this. It means that precedent after a decision will be far clearer and have a longer reach than a more generalized complaint.

I don't know what pro-GenSloppers are insisting on spreading the "dismissal" tale on the internet, except to discourage actual artists. What they say has no bearing in the court, and it's looking more and more likely that the plaintiffs will be able to win this case and claim damages.

Getty Images, a huge image stock company, is also suing Stability AI for scraping its database. I'm not as well-versed on the case, though.

The other positive, despite what a lot of artists are saying, is the new SAG-AFTRA contract.

It's not perfect. It still allows GenSlop use. But it does require consent and compensation. Ideally, it would ban the use of artist images and voice entirely, but this contract is far better than what they would have gotten without striking. If you recall, before the strike, the AMPTP wanted to be able to use actor images and voices without any compensation or permission, without limitation.

And you can bet your ass that Hollywood isn't going to allow other organizations to have unregulated GenSlop use if they can't. They might even step in to argue against its use in front of congress, because their outlook is going to be "if we can't make money stealing art, no one else should be able to, either."

TL;DR: the huge proliferation of image generators and GenSlop right now is only because it's neither legal nor illegal. Regulations are coming, and artists will still be necessary and even required. Because the world is essentially built on a backbone or artistry.

I personally can't wait to drink the tears of all the techbros who can't steal art anymore.

[mdazzle151]

Content creation and the things I miss

Being on an indefinite hiatus has really made me think a lot about what I did and didn’t enjoy about content creation as a whole, and it’s been pretty eye opening.

Obviously, there’s parts of it that I miss. The community, namely. But there’s other things too. I miss streaming- it was always really fun to be live and able to chat directly with my audience in real time while we draw together.

The redesign videos were really fun to make as well! I still have ideas of what I want the future redesigns to be for the “phantasi revamp”. I think I want the twins to be sea monsters! I’ve had a general idea of what I think they would look like in my head for a long time, but I never got around to doing it before I left.

I’m never sure if it’s self-centred or not- (recently I’ve been leaning towards not self-centred)- but I watch my videos a lot too. I put a lot of work and love into all of them, especially the later ones, and it’s fun to look back on them. Not to toot my own horn, but I think they’re pretty entertaining! 

There’s parts of editing that I miss- it was always a long process, but I can honestly say I enjoyed every part of it. Sometimes it was just hard to find the motivation to finish.

I still get comments every now and then on videos, and I read them all. Some of them are really sweet-actually a good majority of them are really sweet! One person wished me a happy birthday in March and it just about made me cry /pos

I’ve been enjoying interacting on Tumblr, and I still want to take things slow, but the more the days pass, the more tempted I am to start streaming again.

Part of me is disappointed in that felling, but I’m trying to be easy on myself for that. There’s no way I could’ve known how I would feel now, seven months later. Five if you’re counting from December.

The deal I made with myself was that I would stay “offline” for a minimum of six months- and ideally would be gone for two years so I could focus on my studies.

But honestly, if I’m missing content creation this much only six-ish months in, I’m wondering if I’m going to make it to that two year milestone. Maybe I won’t, maybe I will, but I need to remind myself that healing happens at different speeds. Maybe I thought I needed a longer time to heal and I just didn’t. Maybe I’m not ready to go back yet. I’m still figuring it out, I’m trying to take it slow.

Exploring my comfort on Tumblr has been interesting to say the least! It’s been fun, and I haven’t had anxiety around it. I’m really happy. I haven’t been focussing on the numbers or amount of interaction. I’ve just been having fun sharing my thoughts and drawings, which is what I want out of content creation.

When I left seven months ago, it was because of bad mental health and connecting self-worth to what I’m able to create. I still struggle with self-worth, but I think I’ve successfully separated it from my creativity- and in doing so, I’ve realized that I love Contant creation because of the creativity- not the possibility for opportunity.

I’ve noticed a pattern in every aspect of content creation that I have longed for in my time away. Everything I’ve had an itch to do has had to do with sharing creativity and passion for the art of creation. Where I used to think about play buttons and numbers and conventions- I now think about all the little details that I love about making videos and comics and stories.

Script writing, editing, recording voice overs, implementing comedy, delivering a message, exploring my artistic boundaries, over analyzing my old work, teaching others what I taught myself… there’s so much that I enjoy about it, and it makes my heart blossom knowing that THESE are the parts of being a CC that I miss, not the analytics and competition.

I’ve said for years that I see it as a hobby- a creative outlet for me and my community, and I truly believe that! But I’d be a liar if I said it was always this way. There were definitely times where I was focussing way too much on the career aspect of it, even though I haven’t wanted that to be my career for years now.

This break has really been good for me and my mental health- and it’s been really good for me to reconnect with what I actually enjoy about what I did.

I know that I’ll always struggle with mental health in some capacity- this isn’t something that you can just miracle away, after all. It’s going to be something that I struggle with for a lifetime, and even though that’s a hard pill to swallow, I’m slowly accepting it. I won’t ever be 100% okay, and that’s okay. what’s important to me is that I keep my heart happy and find joy in life- remember what I love and why I love it.

I get a little burst of excitement in my stomach when I think about returning too much. I’m not sure when it will happen, and I’m still not going to say it will happen (I have no idea what the future holds), but for now I can say wholeheartedly that I do hope I will return soon, wether soon means next month or next year.

Have a little excerpt from one of my journal entries, as a treat :) I think it explains my feelings pretty well.

“I still think about my past online, but not nearly as much as I used to. It’s just part of my history and that’s okay. I don’t need to explain myself to anyone. And that feels really nice.” - March 19 2024

(Maybe it’s a little ironic since I did just explain myself in great detail- but I think it’s important to note that I wrote this all because I wanted to, not because I felt like I needed to.)

Merci beaucoup, tout le monde. Bonne journée et à bientôt.