#Evaluate your Goals and Needs

[intelisync]

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[walking-loather]

Okay so old timey people didnt shower every day and didn't wash their hair all the time but they were still clean. Like they were obsessed with the idea of bad smells causing disease. And like. They didnt have perfume showers and call it a day, like... They still cleaned themselves and were clean. So what am i getting at. Let me cook. Walk with me. What if being chronically ill and disabled didnt mean that your self care had to fall by the wayside and that you had to languish in being dirty etc. what if you employed historical self care techniques in order to be able to then do things like wash your hair or shower less frequently and still be clean. What if you could have it both ways.

[vikingnerd793]

So there was a take on Tumblr that went something along the lines of

"BG3 would be nothing without Astarion, Neil makes this game."

Let me just talk about fucking trash takes like this that no one, including Neil, asked for.

This is, IMO, a great example of the parasocialism that plagues too many of the chronically online, and particularly those who are younger in Fandoms who grew up tethered to their phones and thinking being a Stan means you have to shit on everything that isn't what you Stan because you think that is how you show devotion to someone who doesn't even know you exist. I know it's probably hard to think about things in a grander scheme, putting these things out on the internet achieves absolutely nothing, for no one. It doesn't make you a true fan of Astarion and Neil. It does make you someone who seems like you could use a healthier attachment to both of them where you don't need to diminish other things to elevate them.

Additionally, this is how you get other BG3 fans to go from being lukewarm on Astarion or even somewhat fond of Astarion, to hating that character. And it paints Astarion fans horribly when you act this way. So, again who do you think you're helping with these AWFUL takes?

And speaking of that awful take -- incorrect. BG 3 is GOTY because of the collective. It goes beyond any one actor. It goes beyond any one character. It is a masterpiece of a game IN ITS ENTIRETY. GOT IT? It is absolutely fucked up that you reduced the impact this game has as a cultural phenomenon, and as a game that had shaken the status quo of the industry, to a single character just so you could feel like your favorite comes off just a little "above" the rest. Stop it. Stop it right now.

And I have said it before-- multiple actors in this game including the incredible narrator could justifiably get nominated for awards. Sam? There isn't a scene in the game that beats the Gortash scene. I will die on that hill. That said, that is one of many outstanding performances, but I am hard pressed to think of any performances that weren't great. They all. Deserve. Praise.

Anyway, back to my regularly scheduled fangirling over BG3. I hope some of you seriously get a grip on yourselves and leave those awful takes out of the community. It is so toxic and so unwelcome.

[wikagirl]

yes it does, your parents are ususally the first people who force you into this kind of behaviour or at least that's why my therapist told me when I asked why that's such a girl thing.

OOF 

(original text from article by devon price)

[malusokay]

How to Have a Love Life (from someone who actually has one)

Step 1. Set Your Standards

Because if you don’t, the universe will send you men who text “wanna hang?” at 11:52 p.m.

Know what you want, even if it’s irrational. Tall, plays piano, Catholic guilt, looks good in black. Whatever. You’re allowed.

No chemistry? No deal. A good résumé means nothing if you feel nothing. You're trying to find love, you should feel something. A spark, a shiver, or a silly smile when he texts.

He should be a bit obsessed. Not restraining order obsessed, but “sent you a poem at midnight” obsessed.

“Busy” is a myth. If he wants to, he will. If he doesn’t, he won’t. There’s no mystery.

Step 2. Prepare Yourself

Not in a “fix yourself” way. In a “become so hot and self-possessed he can’t think straight” way.

Update your social media. Post hot pics, read pretentious books, quote Sappho. Let them suffer.

Romanticise your routines. The skincare, the gym, the getting ready playlist, it’s part of the charm.

Don’t try to be chill. Be passionate, a little dramatic, slightly impossible to forget. (we hate nonchalant here.)

Have a life. Not to impress him. To survive him. Join a class, go dancing, make art. Text your friends more than you text him. You need something to come home to if it falls apart.

Step 3. How to Actually Meet Guys

Yes, unfortunately, you do have to leave the house (or at least open your DMs).

Be online strategically. The story with the books, the wine glass, the dangerous neckline? Essential.

Go places alone. Cafés, galleries, vintage bookstores. Hot people live in those.

Talk first. Say something weird. Say something dry. Say anything at all. Most guys are just relieved. He won't think you're weird, and if he does, that's useful data. You don't want someone who's scared of a girl with opinions and a personality.

Mutual friends? Ask. Being set up is underrated. Just make sure it’s not someone who still says “epic.”

Step 4. Surviving the Talking Stage

Also known as: limbo, hell, emotional roulette.

Keep texting fun. You’re not here to conduct an interview.

Match his energy, then go slightly colder. Mystery keeps the plot alive.

Don’t over-invest. He’s cute, not a life plan. Don't build an entire narrative off a playlist and three emojis.

Pull back if needed. You’re not being “too much.” You’re being someone who doesn’t beg.

Step 5. Dating 101

Congratulations. You’ve made it to the main event. Don’t panic now.

Look stunning, obviously. Even if you’re just getting coffee. Especially then.

Ask good questions. The goal is connection and psychological evaluation.

Stay unpredictable. Be kind, funny, engaging, but also allow for some silent moments. It shouldn't feel awkward.

Know when to walk away. If it’s not fun, not flirty, and not fulfilling, you can go.

Step 6. Debrief & Detox

Even CIA operatives get to talk to someone after a mission.

Tell your friends everything. Especially the ridiculous parts. Especially the unhinged texts. Your group chat is sacred.

Let them reality-check you. They love you. They see the red flags when you’re busy romanticising the beige.

Don’t skip the closure. Even if the ending was awkward or slow-fade. Name it, process it, laugh about it. Then leave it.

Step 7. If It Works Out

Not every story ends in disaster. Sometimes it actually gets good.

Stay a little delusional. You still get to romanticise it all. That’s half the fun.

Keep your identity. Don’t fold into each other like laundry. Stay weird. Keep your rituals. Be your own person with someone.

Let yourself be happy. Not suspicious. Not waiting for it to crash. Just happy. Let it feel real. You don't have to apologise for being loved. You don't have to brace for impact. allow yourself to enjoy.

Still debrief with your friends. Even in love. Especially in love. They were there before, and they’ll be there after—if it ever comes to that.

And if none of this works? Post a blurry photo in your favourite outfit, listen to Norman Fucking Rockwell, and disappear for 48 hours.

lots of love (literally) to all of you and if anyone has a question or request feel free to submit it here -> <3

also, my insta hehehe

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[meownotgood]

forwards, beckon, rebound. / machine herald!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is fem bodied, angst, size difference, fingering, choking, dry humping, praise, russian terms of endearment, somewhat toxic relationship, mild augmentation kink, way too many emotions, mix of arcane + league lore / spoilers. word count: 16.2k

read on ao3

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Viktor enjoys making you feel helpless. 

Technically, it isn't enjoyment so much as it is a responsibility; you'll repeatedly show up at his secluded lab in the Undercity, and as he does with everyone who comes to his doorstep worn and destitute, he'll take it upon himself to give you what you need. You are like the rest of his endeavors — meticulously examined, ambitiously furthered. But unlike his various grandiose experiments and his pursuits for evolution, it isn't just his mind you occupy. 

There is some dusty, disregarded hole in his once-perfect mechanical heart, and if the hypothesis he's formed but doesn't want to acknowledge is correct, you are the most probable cause. Or perhaps, you'd be the cure. 

Carefully, with his usual amount of precision, Viktor pulls his leather glove from his hand. He allows his fingers to flex: scarred skin improved by intricately-crafted metal joints. He's positioned above you, large and imposing while he keeps you pinned beneath him. The firm, steel surface of his giant worktable feels cool against your bare back. The room itself is dim, worktable lit by an overhead lamp that burns when you happen to look directly at it. Thankfully, Viktor's armored form above you, encased in dark shadow, blocks out most of the light. 

The Hextech third arm on his back grasps your wrists unwaveringly, and keeps them in place above your head, utilizing an exorbitant display of strength. You can't move a muscle, not even if you tried. Lingering heat sears into your skin, radiating from the metal — from where the laser he's perfected could easily sever your wrists from the bone. 

What's more, you can hardly think. Your head is spinning; your heart pounds from between your ribs, fiercely yet uselessly. You can only stare at the glowing, emotionless eyes of Viktor's mask, and wait for him to decide what he plans to do with you. Gentle. With the way you're looking at him, you need him to be gentle, this time. 

He presses his palm to the center of your chest, where he can feel the erratic beat of your heart. Slowly, he begins to drag his hand down. It's a knowing, practiced motion — not as soft as it ought to be, considering his cold, purple-veined hand and calloused fingers. As his touch is brought down to your stomach, your waist, you shiver, and your body relaxes. Finally, fully. 

It doesn't take long for you to arch into his touches, just as he predicted, just as you always do. Your flesh loves to sing for him. 

This dance has been performed by the both of you numerous times beforehand. Viktor questions if you'll ever grow tired of it. Of the pirouetting, of revolving constantly around unspoken, trembling complications, just to return, to let your mind and your heart reel all over again. 

What he feels for you — what he has evaluated from you, because machines do not feel — is something unexplainable, foreign, futile. He knows this, this dynamic you've fostered; it hardly makes sense. You are allies with no common goals. You were friends, some disregarded years ago. Every other night, you stumble into his lab to interrupt his work, and he lets you. 

No, he indulges you. 

"You are quivering," Viktor hums, voice muffled and deepened by the mask's filter. A usual, matter-of-fact statement, but the edges of his tone sharpen in the wake of a held-back, dark chuckle. "You want me to touch you. Say it." 

The powerful, vastly-superior Machine Herald already has you right where he wants you. 

Slightly riddled with static, the way his thick accent curls around the words only serves to make you shudder more. Your breathing is choppy, your chest rapidly rising and falling. 

Not from fear, if Viktor had to guess. His scans of your heart rate would come across much differently if that was the case. This is from arousal. Clear, easily definable arousal. Just from his thick voice, his soft touch, and the imagery provided by his large body above yours. 

The sight of you is addictive. Addiction isn't a sensation built into his mechanical repertoire, but it's the best word he can think of to describe this. You are small when you're underneath him. So malleable, so fragile. So human. How abnormal. The compulsive surge that runs through his veins should not, according to all of his tests and conclusive research, be occurring. 

Viktor supposes this type of behavior would be more fitting of the past version of him. Presently, he doesn't have room to let time go to waste. His vision is all that matters. The old him, though, the Viktor you once knew would've given you whatever you desired without a second thought, even though he hardly deserved it. 

He was weak, once. For you, perhaps a part of him still is. 

You are intelligent, you always have been. He has cast away much of his past in pursuit of chasing a better, more important future, but still, he remembers each and every moment he shared with you quite vividly. They play in the background of his mind sometimes, persistent like a system error, recurrent like a late-night looping television program. 

Your inventions often kept pace with his. Your smile was bright, brighter than the pillars of light that shone from Piltover's grandest lighthouses. Starry-eyed and driven, you wanted to improve, as a person and as a scientist. You challenged him to push further right alongside you. 

Of course, you knew him better than most, but Viktor wonders: did you ever expect him to go this far? Did you ever plan on retreating back to Zaun with him, to fall further into madness together? 

By now, you must be smart enough to know he is different. What you might've had, a friendship or a partnership or something delightedly improbable, it is now nothing. Nothing more than another one of his shed weaknesses and old, discarded memories. 

Perfect machinery does not feel. Not even for you, no matter what it once felt. Scientifically, it can't. You should understand this relationship is not beneficial. He could and would gladly break you, it's what he built himself to do. And yet, as he's starting to realize, perhaps being broken by him is exactly what you want. 

"Please touch me," You're begging, as his palm caresses the all-too-human curve of your side. Your voice is warm, lustful. A sweet, familiar taste settles in the back of his throat, as you coo the old nickname you still reserve just for him. "I need you to, Vik." 

And just like always, because of you, because of his predisposed sense of responsibility, or perhaps because of an unrecognized fault in his complex machinery — Viktor gives in. 

He revels in your vulnerable, quivering limbs and your heavy, desperate gaze. The grip of his Hexclaw tightens on your wrists, your hands closing, fingers tensed. He drags his palm down your stomach slowly, carefully. His gentleness is calculated, but it is yours, all the same. 

Your legs spread for him on impulse when his hand reaches your thigh. He squeezes, before he brings his hand between them, allowing the end of his index finger to brush your clit; his touch is precise, with all the efficiency and learned confidence of a flawless, apathetic machine. He could make you fall apart for him so easily, every part of you perfectly attuned to his touch, and his touch alone. 

Yet, he's teasing you, careful and slight touches barely grazing where you're oh-so sensitive for him. Your thighs shake, and spread wider; your body is exposed to him, soft and sweat-soaked expanses of skin contrasting splendidly with his bulky, armored chassis of metal. Now, instead of his index, Viktor uses his thumb, providing more friction and a slightly firmer touch. You squirm, the pretty features of your face washed over in pleasure, before you breathe a small, satisfied whine. 

"That's it," He murmurs firmly. "To think this is all it takes to make you submit." 

Viktor allows his thumb to trace circles onto your swollen, needy clit, and your breath proceeds to hitch so deliciously for him. An action, and reaction. Repeated experiments make for predictable results. Hextech hand practically digging into your wrists, Viktor brings his free, metal hand to your cheek. Oddly tender, his cold palm cups your face. He isn't surprised at the response it gets out of you, your chest heaving with a deep, trembling sigh. Every part of your skin tingles, as you lean into his faux, steel touch. 

"Earlier, you wished to be defiant. Disobedient." Viktor scolds, his thumb flicking over your clit while his fingers brush your cunt, gathering your dripping slick on the digits. He takes his metal hand away from your cheek, and he presses it flat to the table, right beside your head. Your brows pinch disappointedly, clearly unsatisfied with his subtle form of punishment. 

"And now look at you. Wet and desperate." 

He's barely touched you, barely even begun with you, and you're already dripping. 

"I wasn't- I'm not disobedient," You're countering, although it's damn near impossible to keep your voice sounding steady when his persistent touch is toying with you. He's teasing, circling your clit agonizingly slowly, just to make you squirm. "I brought you everything you asked for. Like always." 

"Yes, and you did well," Viktor praises flatly. As though he's reading off a trained script, rather than watching the way your eyelids flutter as his knuckles brush your entrance. "Our current project will run smoothly now, utilizing the tech you acquired for us. But when I told you to wait, to bring the tech after I had finalized our plans, you did not listen." 

You admit simply, foolishly, "I missed you." 

Those words are familiar. You'll often tell him you missed him when he returns to the lab, home at last after finalizing a few affairs elsewhere. You said you missed his face the first time you saw it, your hands gently holding his cheeks, caressing metal and skin — despite how different he looks now. Despite the scars, the mechanical parts. 

He knows you missed him. In a soft, delicate way. In an indecent, desperate way. His form of longing is much, much different. When the mortal matter and fraying wires of his brain yearn to have your presence beside him, with him, under him, it is strong, it is carnivorous. It is encompassing. 

"You nearly comprised everything we've been working towards." Viktor's third arm tightens even more, making your wrists and arms go nearly numb. "There is only so much I can do to protect you. I disposed of the last enforcers to attempt tracking you down, but if you were to lead them here, you will not just be putting yourself at risk. You are threatening our entire vision with your recklessness." 

Carefully, his index finger finds your entrance: sensitive and wanting. He deliberately pulls his hand away when you whine, instead placing his palm back on your inner thigh. Your skin is soft to the touch. Your gaze stays steady on him, on the unflinching shape of his mask, your eyelids heavy, pupils blown with clear arousal. As though he encompasses all you need, anything you could possibly want, and everything that could devastate you. 

You are frustratingly beautiful. 

Viktor hums, the sound low, somewhat mechanical. He gently guides his hand over your neck, just how you like, until large, metal fingers are wrapping around your throat. Not squeezing, just tightly holding. Enough to ground you, to remind you of who you belong to. You let go of a sigh, your eyes growing heavier. Your heart is skipping, and with his hand around your throat, the subtle vibrations of your quick pulse shudder through his complex machinery. 

"Viktor-" You start, voice weak, barely there. "I'm-" 

"I know you want more." He squeezes your thigh, applies just enough pressure to your throat to make your mind go fuzzy. "Tell me what you have been waiting for me to give to you, what you desired so strongly that you ran to me, instead of following the plan. And perhaps, I'll let you have it." 

You tremble: a full-body, tingling shudder. Viktor — the Machine Herald — is so much larger, so much stronger than you. He's augmented himself to be significantly taller, significantly more imposing, and underneath him like this, you must look meager. Pathetic. Fully bare, your legs spread open for him. Giving yourself to him so easily. Your chest heaves, your mortal heart skipping and wavering at the sight of him above you, pinning you beneath his heavy, metal form. 

"Breathe, zayka," Viktor murmurs, his grip on your neck loosening up. "Your heart is racing. Focus on me." 

Taking in slower, deeper breaths, your mind quiets, your pulse calms. Stars and static thrum in the corners of your vision, your thoughts a knotted up blur. Viktor — his touch is all you can focus on — traces his fingers further up your thigh in approval. 

"There. Very good. You're alright." 

"Your fingers," You pant, "Please." 

Viktor scoffs, his tone mechanical and rough, "You can do better. Try again." 

Huffing, your head knocks the firm worktable when you toss it backward. 

"Bastard." Your hands clench and unclench, your wrists giving a poor attempt at struggling against their hold. To no avail, of course. "Are you at least going to let me touch you?" 

"No. Answer me. Do not make me repeat myself." 

You briefly gnaw on your bottom lip, your jaw tense, thighs shaky. "I need your fingers inside me, Vik. I've missed you, I need you, please. I'm going fucking crazy." 

Viktor's unmoving, glowing eyes examine you carefully. "That's it. That is much more sufficient. So exquisite, when you are begging. Take what you need, then." 

You're well aware he isn't the same man you once fell for, nor is he the soft-spoken, bright scientist you once knew. Rumors paint him as a maker, a monster, a machine. He is cold to the touch. He isn't supposed to feel, he removed such functions ages ago; they were useless to him. As were his failing lungs, his weak legs, his heart. A heart made from machinery never skips. It can't be blinded by love, or lust. It cannot be distracted by old, unkindled flames, in the same way you often are. You envy him, somewhat. 

But Gods, when it's just you and him in his lonely little corner of Zaun, and when you are at the pleasant mercy of his perfected touch, you swear, he feels more human than anything. Nothing else truly matters, because still, he is yours. 

Viktor's index finger slides inside you slowly, just barely stretching you around its thickness. You're wet enough that he could press it in easily, could have you melting and drooling over whatever you're given — but instead, he chooses to let the digit fill you languidly. The feeling is slight, enveloping and enthralling and familiar, yet not enough to make you feel full, at the same time. His fingers are long, dexterous. Pretty and scarred. 

You've watched him work on plenty of augments and automatons, hands tightly grasping a wrench to turn it, fingers carefully holding the ends of thin wires to thread them together. Each action swift, exact. 

With the same level of precision, Viktor presses his finger deep inside you, and crooks it upward to nudge it right against your sweetest spot — and you whimper, your whole body shivering, collapsing. 

"One is never enough to satisfy you," He asserts; he gently pumps his finger into you to a steady, easily manageable pace. "Isn't that right?" 

If his mask weren't there, you're sure you'd see him speaking through a slight grin, maniacal and crooked, impossibly him. Your heart pounds. You're doomed, you must be. 

In response, you nod your head fiercely. Another shaky moan tears through you as he works you on his slender digit. Pressing in, dragging out. Calculated and perfectly steady, like the continuous beats of a metronome. 

"Or," Viktor questions, "Should I have you come undone around just one?" 

"No," You snap quickly, although you're obviously in no position to be making demands. Your eyes flutter open, your face contorted in a mix of pleasure and frustration. He finds your desperation strangely satisfying. All for him. It's the same sort of hungry satisfaction that comes with working on an automation, striding closer and closer to a job well done. He adjusts, pushing your legs apart with his large knees when they tremble and threaten to close. 

"Give me two," You're pleading, "Please." 

Viktor hums, the sound low and vibrating. 

"Guiding you to your peak would prove trivial, even without the means of penetration. You are simple. Easy to unravel." His low, intimidating voice effortlessly sends goosebumps careening down your spine. "You could most likely be led to cum against my shoe or my thigh, from modest friction and my voice alone." 

"Viktor," You almost wince at how pathetic you sound. "Stop talking." 

Viktor eases his index finger as deep inside you as you can take, and heat surges across your form in thundering, breaking waves. "Why would I stop when you are enjoying it?" 

Oh, he knows you far too well. 

"Dammit, at least-" You exhale, trembling through a moan, and Viktor's Hextech arm holds onto your wrists impossibly tighter as your hips roll into his hand — desperate to feel more of him. It works, momentarily. Until he is using his free hand to firmly grip your waist: thick metal fingers digging into warm, pretty skin. He pushes you back against the worktable, holding you in place. 

You groan in frustration. "At least quit teasing me." 

"Such impatience. I am working you upwards, gradually conditioning you to take higher levels of stimuli. It will make the process as a whole much more pleasurable." 

"Gods if you weren't wearing that stupid mask, I would shut you up in no-" 

"I always satiate you, milaya," Viktor answers calmly, as he slowly drags his finger out, leaving you quivering and empty. The nickname he uses is tender, familiar. It reminds you of your once different life. Vividly, it forms blossoms in your chest, unfurling flowers and delicate petals. Tugging sweetly at your thudding heart, despite the cold artificiality of his manufactured tone. Milaya. His darling. 

Though, the Machine Herald does not covet. What he desires, he takes and makes his. 

"Interesting," He's muttering, seemingly mostly to himself. "Your neediness has greatly increased since the last time we convened. Normally, you are capable of controlling yourself. To a certain extent." 

He tsks, metal hand caressing slow, reassuring circles onto your waist, while his other palm dives back between your legs. His fingers drag over your cunt with an irrational sense of clumsiness, considering the motion is coming from him. He lets his fingertips search for nothing in particular, getting them slick with your arousal, nudging your clit carelessly with his knuckles until your back is arching, and your sighs are sharpening. 

"Sorry." You mumble a half-hearted apology, eyelids softly fluttering. 

"It was not a complaint." Viktor presses his fingertips close, dangerously closer. 

Your body needs him, needs what only he can give to you. His hands, his fingers inside you. Every inch of you screams for his touch. As though you are a solved puzzle, a piece of technology broken down to let him understand each individual part. Your thighs shake, and that's part A. Your chest heaves, your shoulders go tense. Significantly human responses. Components labeled B, C, D, V. Your lips quiver, before they mutter another breathless, desperate plea of his name. 

Predictable, and understandable. Yet, for certain, you are a delight to decipher. Those pieces and budding sensations come together as he thought they would, and they — and you, are primed to be bent at his will. 

You expect him to tease you further. When he falls silent, becoming more impossible to read than he already was, you feel your arms and your thighs tense with what must be anticipation. Surely, he can sense how eager you are. 

But Viktor doesn't falter, he does not hesitate. He guides his metal hand underneath your back, predicting its arch, and he presses two of his fingers, his middle and ring, to your drooling entrance. They slide into you with a filthy, wet noise; it's almost obscene how eagerly your cunt accepts them. How you plead with whiny utterances of yes, yes, your voice breaking, eyes closing. He eases them inside you slowly, fills you with them completely — until his scarred knuckles are nudging against you, and you're sobbing through a half-sigh, half-moan. 

He doesn't wait to hear you beg for more. You're given a calculated amount of time, just enough seconds to catch your breath and get used to the stretch of both digits inside you. He fucks you on his fingers, pumping them in and out to the tune of your broken whines and gasps for air. It's a gradual process. A coded, mastered technique well-baked into his mind, his heart, and his hardware. 

Of course, he's long since learned just how to make you fall apart. He has studied you, he's proceeded to subconsciously store your data in the most important vault in his mind. It is simply a matter of getting you there, of drawing out your pleas for him and your tremors and your pulses, to push you even further past your previous crescendos. 

You can always be louder. Finish harder. You deserve to. And when it comes to any and all of his endeavors, including this one, he is persistently, unquenchably ambitious. 

"Vik-" You're babbling, in a wavering voice he might logically, astutely label as precious. His quiet lab echoes with the whirr of various displays and devices. With your soft noises, echoing alongside the wet squelch his fingers make each time he presses them deeper. "Please, I just- I'm so- I want you so much-" 

"You have me," He answers rigidly. Prepared and intentional, his fingers move slower, drawing out your moans and your shudders of pleasure. "Or were you demanding more?" 

"I always want more with you." A faint, endearing pout forms on your features, the kind of look only he can draw from you. "Want- I want you to fuck me." 

It isn't anything of importance; just an aimless, desperate plea. The kind you might be expected to ask of him when you're in this state — your mind wandering, your body relaxed. You need fuel for your building fire, you need to hear him outline through words what he can't through actions. You cannot make him feel as you do, but Viktor is kind enough to let you play pretend. 

Though, for whatever strange, unrecognizable, illogical reason, he goes against the fixed line of actions he was previously adhering to, and he hesitates. He contemplates. He twitches, circuitry briefly inoperable, fuzzy and working against him. His center, his self-regulating core, hums with marginally more force than it did before. The hand he has pressed to your back trembles. It thrums with artificial, built-up heat, before he grips you much tighter. 

Fortunately, he rediscovers his composure as quickly as it waned. Viktor quirks his fingers into your sweet spot to make you cry out for him, and then he drags them half-way out — every moment agonizingly slow, so he can admire the way the digits glisten in the lamplight. 

"Filthy little thing." His voice is thick. His words are stern, making you picture how his jaw might be tightened. "I am already providing you everything you asked for, and yet still, you act greedy. Human desire is terribly intemperate." 

"As if-" You're squirming, sweating, your hair a mess, warm gaze and moon-wide pupils locked onto his obscured face. "As if you feel nothing from this." 

"I cannot feel. You are well aware of this reality. I suggest you do not continue to persuade yourself otherwise." 

"Bullshit." 

"In fact, I do feel nothing." Viktor brings his thumb to your clit on his next press in, rubbing it roughly, circling it precisely. "I am incapable of experiencing desire," His fingers crook and spread. "Nor enjoyment." They pump slowly, while they stretch you around their shape. "Or affection." 

"But you were worried about me- fuck- when I went off on that stupid mission," You're mumbling, barely able to speak through ragged gasps for breath, "You were fretting over my safety. You- hah, you stopped everything you were doing just to check on me, because you felt relieved, you felt happy when you saw me walk in, didn't you?" 

Did he? 

Hours earlier, you returned to his doorstep, and he knew it was you from the way you knocked; he put aside the small automaton he was working on, and hurried to meet you at the door. He gave you a quick once over — in this form, he is vastly larger and taller than you, to the point where you have to crane your neck to look up at him — but you assured him you hadn't been injured. When you fell against his armored chest in something of an embrace, he didn't push you away. Nor did he protest when you pulled his heavy, bulky shape on top of you as you fell back against the nearest surface, his additional sensors picking up your already increasing breathing and heart rate. 

He recalls your arms around him, hands tugging at his cape, removing sections of his armor, fingers threading through his hair. Soft lips pressing to cold steel — 

Viktor tenses. You are plenty capable on your own, capable enough that he rarely considers whether or not you'll return. You always do, after all. This mission was considerably riskier, though. Considerably more worrisome. 

If anything had happened to you, if he discovered you were injured or captured or worse, his subsequent reaction would be less than logical. His mental processes would malfunction, and he would lose the ability to think rationally. The stifling, unstoppable force that would build within him could be compared to something like rage, something like love. 

You swallow thickly, and the room swirls around you in a dizzy haze as Viktor slowly pulls his fingers from you. Leaving you empty. 

He murmurs, "Look at me." 

It's a little difficult of a command to follow, with your head spinning and your eyes all heavy. Still, you force yourself to breathe deeply, to steady, in the wake of the sudden lack of attention. 

You look up, and his hand, fingers slick and filthy, momentarily moves to grasp your chin. He tilts you towards him, to make sure you're watching. Viktor reaches up, and he presses a mechanism on the side of his mask. It hisses, releasing air, small puffs of steam streaming from either side. 

He removes it tentatively. He tosses it aside with a bit less caution, causing it to clink, spin, and nearly fall when it hits the upper edge of the table. 

You're met with messy brown hair, scarred skin, and familiar moles. The entirety of his jaw is made of metal, reconstructed into intricately crafted steel that continues down his neck and underneath his armor. His skin is overly pale, to the point where you can notice deep eye bags, and the criss-crossings of several individual, purple-hued veins. His expression is stern and deadpan, his brows slightly creased. He takes you in, gaze flickering down for a moment, then back up — and searing eyes, dark purple pools and bright orange suns, finally meet your own. 

"Your legs," He's instructing; his voice, no longer filtered through the mask, sounds warmer, clearer, a little less deep. Despite everything, terribly familiar, and blissfully human. "Place them around me." 

Unable to stifle a smile, you lift your thighs, casually locking them around his back at the ankles. You rarely get to see his face, and it's impossible to keep your eyes off of him, nor can you stop your heart from pounding. Viktor returns your gaze, cold and unflinching. It's like he's examining you, regarding you with the same restrained interest as he'd have for the subjects of his experiments. 

"There you are," You're cooing, head tilting, "Vitya."

Viktor's expression finally shifts from his usual indifference, his brows scrunching up to form a slightly irritated scowl. 

"Defiant again. As expected." 

"You used to like it when I called you that. Am I not allowed to tease you now?" You're laughing, and your smaller frame, still pinned underneath him, shifts somewhat when he loosens his grasp on your wrists. A faint amount of mercy. You offer him one of those radiant smiles he can't stand — can't resist. "You can be such a hypocrite." 

"Open your mouth," Viktor sneers coldly, "So it can be put to better use." 

With a firm, metal hand, he holds the curve of your soft side, measuring your individual tremors, paying attention to the steady movement of your lungs. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your lips. Your breath hitches, and your mouth forms a line. You can't help but roll your eyes. 

"I can just leave, you know," You mutter, your voice still playful, yet noticeably a few volumes lower. "But I'm guessing you don't want me to." 

Funny. You seem to think you could escape from his grasp. 

"Open. Your. Mouth. Before I give in, and do something I shouldn't." 

"I'm not-" 

Your protest fizzles out into a surprised noise and a subsequent sigh; Viktor grabs you, he pulls you closer in tandem with surging forwards, and his mouth promptly crashes into yours. 

Finally. 

The kiss tastes sharp, like iron and ash, like something distinctly him when his tongue slowly brushes against yours. You allow your eyes to close — but Viktor hardly leaves you any room for air as he practically devours you. It's deep, enthralling, and clumsy. Needy, on your end, and hungry on his. The kind of kiss that possesses you, consumes you. Your mind is dizzy, your breath is gone, but you need to kiss him more than you need to breathe. 

You melt into him gently, naturally. Like you were always meant to. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheek: a motion far too soft, far too important. 

When he pulls away, finally giving you some breathing room, your eyes immediately meet. Your chest is heaving, your heart warm and pounding to a tempo made just for him. His gaze is once again sharp, once again perfectly composed. 

You miss the softness of his lips already. "Vik." 

And he needs you, needs more of you. He's wanted to feel your lips against his for far longer than you or even he could have realized. Since those days when you were both young and stupid, when you vowed to achieve your dreams together. As though your gentle voice pleading his name is just tender enough to push him over a metaphorical edge, to flip some hidden switch in his complex mechanics — He kisses you again, again, again. 

All of this, it isn't meant for him. It is unfathomably human, from the way you breathe fervently against his mouth; stuttered breaths, quicker than his, heavier than his own could ever be. To the way he touches you, a half-machine's best imitation of intimacy. His still-human palm moves to brush your neck, then glides further to hold the back of your head. Your body is all awkward limbs and soft edges and smooth skin, but you fit underneath him oh-so perfectly. 

He can't stop. It doesn't seem real; Viktor imagines he must have fallen into a different reality, he's in a different body with a different, mortal heart. None of this makes an ounce of logical sense otherwise. Then again, when do you ever make sense? 

He can't focus on anything but your lips on his — because for a few fleeting moments, he isn't defined by metal and machinery; he is himself. He is a mess of muddled thoughts and imperfect touches. Your legs around his back pull his figure closer to yours, and you have him wondering what it might entail without any steel in the way. Just skin against skin. 

It'd be impossible for him to feel such a thing, when there's little skin left. His entire arm, his legs, his torso, his spine; they've since been replaced, improved upon. Is this the closest he'll ever get to you, to love? 

Waves upon waves of warmth wash over you, they drown you, they envelop you. Even once Viktor has finally pulled apart from you with one last soft kiss, you still aren't able to breathe. Your heart pounds against your ribs, so fiercely it almost hurts. 

He settles back above you, and as you calm again, he holds your gaze. His slender fingers move to trace the column of your throat, where they not-so-subtly seek out your pulse. It's racing for him. He looks remarkably composed now, compared to how disheveled you're sure you appear. 

Gently, he trails his hand upwards. His thumb swipes your kiss-swollen bottom lip. Your mouth parts instinctually, allowing him to carefully press the digit into your warm mouth, onto your wet tongue. 

"Do not leave," Viktor murmurs, an analytical edge already returning to his tone, in spite of what transpired between you. He pulls his thumb from your mouth, brushing it over your bottom lip again, smearing your lips with your saliva. "Stay for tonight." 

"Are you asking? Or is that a demand?" Your breath on his skin is foggy and hot. When it's clear he isn't going to answer, his gaze regarding you inquisitively, you propose another question. Your hands clench, they briefly push against the unyielding grip of his Hexclaw. "Will you let my hands go now?" 

"Tsk. Only if you are capable of keeping them to yourself." 

"C'mon…" You hum disappointedly. He appears routinely unaffected by your pouting. So, you change your approach. 

You shuffle, trying to get more comfortable. The table beneath you feels especially firm. "What if I say please? Is that what you're looking for?" 

"Go ahead. It will not affect my decision." 

"Seriously? But I want to touch you. You're so pretty." 

Viktor hesitates, but only briefly. He senses the whirring in his chest, the usual hum of his augmented components. Substitutions where imperfect pieces should be, strength replacing frailty, mechanics coming to life once more as his mind becomes forcibly unclouded. His systems are working as usual again. All it took to experience a malfunction was your lips on his, and all he needed to do to rebuild his composure was pull away. And you are still a gasping, heavy-eyed mess. 

Still, there is something troubling him. The same illogical functions that've been prodding at his mind since the very beginning. Lingering errors. Faults in his perfected frame. When he looks at you now, he strongly senses the push and pull of those inaccuracies. 

If he allows you to touch him, each framework, every mechanism — Everything he's been carefully constructing might come crashing down. 

Would that be so bad? 

Pretty. How ridiculous. Viktor scoffs, his jaw tensing up, his next words arbitrary. "Most are afraid when they look at me." 

Perhaps they should be. Perhaps you should be. 

But you just smile, your expression growing soft as you tilt your head, and you answer in earnest: "I don't think I've ever been scared of you." 

Again, there goes his worthless, thrumming, obsolete heart. 

You should be afraid of a man who's designed himself to fit an image you no longer recognize. You shouldn't try to get so close to him, when his compulsive obsession to destroy and remake borders on a clear line of danger. This new chassis embodies perfection. It has long since relinquished any weaknesses, but if you detested him, he wouldn't blame you. Others are reluctant to embrace his vision, save for a select, fortunate few. You and him have history. History that would make seeing him like this rather difficult, he assumes. 

Usually, Viktor is able to keep any oversights from throwing him off course. He can't be distracted from achieving his goals. The people of Zaun need him. This new body poses no hindrances. Pain doesn't disrupt him; it can be turned out, like anything else. Pain of the body, and pain of the heart. 

You, though. Any thoughts he has of you start as small blips. Tiny, persistent sparks. They build overtime, burning brighter, hotter. Until he sees you, and you look just like how you did back then, so, so long ago. There are tired lines on your face, faint scars, and he knows they're his fault. All at once, his mind is threatening to become a mess of discordant, fraying parameters, of processes that are refusing to function in the manner they should. 

He wants to keep you far, far away; far from him, from this lab. Far from this terrible, awful place you both grew up in. If he could, he'd have you go somewhere so very distant, where you couldn't distract him — where you could be happy and free. You will see the sky, feel the sun's warmth, and breathe fresh, cool air. It'd be what's best for you. And he will continue to further his endeavors in evolution. Alone, as intended. 

But ultimately, no matter what he winds up doing to his mind or his body, he would think of you. Of holding you or unmaking you, sometimes he isn't sure which. If you were truly afraid, if you ran, he wouldn't follow on your heels. But along with you, you'd take a piece of himself, a faint trace he would never get back; for better, or for worse. 

Viktor listens to the sound of your breathing: steady, deep. His gaze studies you, but it lingers on your eyes for longer than intended. You are still looking up at him, smiling, sparkling like a sky full of stars. As though he is a sky filled with stars. 

Your breaths become heavier when he presses his palm to the center of your chest. He drags his touch down, down. You are more sensitive this time, he notes. You lean into him once his hand caresses your pelvis, your waist, and you loosen your legs from around his back to become more comfortable. His fingertips trail up your inner thigh, and you shudder, you shiver. 

He thinks of kissing you once more. A couple times more, maybe. Proper judgment tells him he should resist. The thought remains there, lingering and burning between you. 

"Viktor…" You murmur, your voice a bit broken, but he's hanging onto every word. "Touch me again." 

Pleasant sensory inputs glow within him; tingling veins, reverberating wires. Overwhelming heat fills his shoulders, the back of his neck, his head — the heat of machinery, the warmth of his soul. 

Viktor grabs your waist assertively, metal fingers digging into your hip. His gaze doesn't waver from yours as he guides your thighs to spread. Suddenly, he pushes himself against you, until you are hopelessly pressed between steel and metal. Between him, and the worktable. 

You feel his weight, you feel the intricate ridges of metal plates and hard edges, the artificial heat of his much larger body radiating against your bare skin. Now, you are completely pinned, practically chest to chest, pressed underneath the Machine Herald so closely it's enough to make your head spin. You wonder if he can feel your heart beating. Perhaps he can hear it. Or maybe, he just knows your heart must be pounding for him, as it always does. 

Your limbs tremor with excitement. As his palm squeezes your thigh, you can't help but arch into his touch. Thin, skillful fingers press close and feel how wet you are — still so sensitive, already dripping out onto him. You aren't teased, you aren't even able to catch your breath, because two of his fingers are swiftly dipping inside you, giving you exactly what you need. 

It feels so right. Viktor reaches for your cheek. He encourages you to continue meeting his gaze when your eyes flutter and nearly close. 

Your gaze on his, you let his name leave your mouth in a series of sharp gasps, and desperate pleas. He fills you slowly, but wastes no time building a rhythm; his fingers pump into your sensitive cunt gently, then methodically. Satisfied, Viktor hums, and he carefully shifts his other arm down. He holds your back as it arches, further pressing you against himself. 

Now, the way he pleasures you is deliberate, it isn't enough, but Gods, you'll take anything he gives you. 

"That name," Viktor starts, speaking in a smooth, level tone, perfectly contrasting the airy huffs and whines you utter for him. The name he hoped to relinquish, his name. "It sounds best when you are pleading it." 

You smile through a soft moan. "It's my favorite. Such a sweet name." 

Precisely, determinedly, his fingers crook into the spot within you he knows all too well, and you crumble, you sob. 

"The tech you brought to me will accelerate the completion of our latest prototype," Viktor is explaining, matter-of-factly. As though the conversation is as simple as it is necessary. Like he doesn't have his large body shoved against you, and his fingers knuckle-deep inside you. It just serves to excite you further, honestly. 

"I will install the heat core, and adjust its interior components accordingly. We could have its systems operational by tonight. However, I doubt I will be able to focus." 

You take a forced, deep breath. "Yeah? Because of me?" 

Obviously, he wants to say. You'll be here, staying in his lab, as you usually do after a tough afternoon or a previous sleepless night. He doesn't mind. Your chatter might occasionally be disruptive to his work, but your voice is nice, it is calming. Your presence itself might be a distraction, an interference that his mind tells him he should discard, but having you here is a nice change of pace, compared to the long, lonesome hours he's grown used to. He has never minded. 

Sleep is less of a necessity for him. Resting for a handful of hours a few times per week is usually enough to keep himself operational. The torn leather couch he keeps in his quarters is there just for you. He no longer needs to eat in the typical sense, although he still needs to recharge burned energy. He keeps stocked up on the foods he remembers to be your favorites. 

It's strange, out of everything he's forgotten, he still remembers such useless, trivial details. Each and every detail about you. 

Without you, this space — the adjustments he's made to accommodate your presence, the dip in the couch from where you always sleep, your articles of clothing strewn over the floor and the couch arms. His lab would feel so empty. 

His next words sound much gentler than usual. Warmer, more desperate. 

"Because your voice will not leave my mind. Begging for me. Breaking for me," Viktor murmurs. He nudges his fingers against your walls, testing, teasing you. "Pleading my name." 

Once more, he challenges your limits; his fingers slide into you deep, so deeply you can feel them everywhere. Nudging at your core, filling you perfectly. As if on queue, you whimper a broken plea of yes, and as your eyes flutter, you're cascading into a needy mess of pleasant, shaky gasps. You writhe, your pinned hands trembling, wishing for something to hold onto. Though, he keeps you in place underneath him, blissfully unrelenting. 

"Say it," Viktor demands, "My name. Tell me who it is you need." 

"Viktor," Your voice is light, clumsy and slurring slightly, but in the way you say his name, there's an unmistakable lilt of pure adoration. You need him, you need to feel him everywhere: his practiced touch, his soft skin, his steel-built anatomy. You want him to not have to leave you, to not need to choose between you and the Undercity's future. 

You feel completely, utterly dizzy. You want so much. You want his hands, flesh or metal, to study every intricate inch of you. You want him to stop holding back, you need the both of you to make up for the stupid amount of time you've lost — "I- hhah- I want…" 

With your eyes nearly shut, static and stars flickering at the edges of your vision, you hadn't noticed how close he'd become until Viktor's voice echoes warmly, right against the shell of your ear. 

"You want me to fuck you?" 

And holy shit, his tone is sultry, his accent is thick — you shiver so hard you're sure he's left feeling the aftershocks, your body still pressed up right against his, even through his layers of metal armor. Viktor doesn't stop the steady pace of his fingers, pumping and arching and working you so well. Nor does he quit speaking, simply because he knows this is what you want to hear. What you need to hear. 

"You are insatiable," He scolds, although there's little emotion in his level tone. Just an obvious, already-known sense of acknowledgement. His voice is a thousand times more intense when it is curling directly into your ear; "You wish for me to render you even more weak than you currently are, so you can be shown exactly who you belong to? Oh, and how I'd fuck you. How I would take you. I would make a mess of you, I'm sure. You'd be begging to be given all of me. To be used by me." 

It's merely theoretical, a set of fake promises and dirty words to put pleasant visualizations into your mind — calculated, like everything he pursues. And it works. Predictably, your entire body shudders with pure, forceful need. You pulse around his fingers, throbbing like a heartbeat. You sob, and try to twist to face him, although it's impossible, considering you're still tightly pinned beneath his figure. 

You want to see his face, he figures, so Viktor shifts up. He re-puts himself in the center of your vision, and you glance towards him, eyes flickering across his face; your gaze on his is practically teary-eyed. Desperate and eager, you find ways to plead without words. 

You want to let go. Of course you do — always forced to be strong, you need nothing more than to melt at the hands of the last person left in Zaun that you trust. Even if he is more machine than person. Even though he is not right for you. 

For a moment all too brief, Viktor wonders what it would be like to push those boundaries. To truly have you, beneath his hands and in his heart, to feel you resounding beside him like the echoes of a rippling, rolling wave. 

How would he take you? No, how would you want him? 

He formulates a few possible outcomes. Perhaps you'd want him hard and desperately. You need to be put in your place, to feel him as close as he could possibly be while he molds you to his shape. You want to be obedient. A good little subject. You want to be called good, very, very good for him while he pounds you into the table, or maybe while he leans back, glowing, masked eyes focused solely on you, your hands gripping his armored shoulders so you can bounce on his lap however you'd like. The Machine Herald's perfect little pawn. He wagers with such filthy actions and words, he could make you even louder than this. 

You'd be pinned underneath him, and instead of his fingers, he'd fill you with all of himself — carnal and raw. Warm and sweat-soaked. Yet still, your body pressed to his would be agonizingly tender. 

Or maybe you'd want him in a different way. In a much softer way. 

Tenderness has never been afforded to him, it's hardly a concept he knows, but perhaps it's what he once hoped for. With you, it's what he once pictured. 

Every touch would be slow, delicate. Your hands interlocked. Bodies pressed together, galaxies against galaxies. So close, they could be mistaken for the same shape. He would learn you truly, and honestly. Warm and gentle, you would touch him soft enough to make him human again. 

Your voice would beg for him, whispering sweet nothings into his ears, against his form. Useless, perfect declarations of love. Viktor shudders. He imagines your hands, pretty and delicate, brushing the space between his shoulder and his steel spine. Feeling his scarred skin, alighting fiery sensations he assumed he'd long since lost. 

Compared to who he was before, he is much stronger. He must be strong, must be forged of grit and iron, he must not submit to worthless, human desires. But you make him oh-so weak. 

He isn't supposed to be weak. 

"Please," You're gasping. You are barely able to speak at this point, babbling sweetly between broken noises as he fucks you on his fingers; it's just enough to make you shut your eyes and imagine more. "Fuck- Vik- Oh, p-please…" 

Splintering, throbbing with mechanical heat, his inner workings surge with a sublime abundance of molten, unbridled energy. Burning, it's burning him up from the inside, melting him down and making him fragile. 

You've gone fuzzy beneath him — No, his vision is fuzzy. Your edges are blurred, your chest is heaving as his fingers barely leave you before pressing back in. His hand adjusts, allowing his thumb to brush your puffy clit on the next press in. When you whimper his name, as you've done countless times before, he swears he sees nothing but flickering, colorless static. 

Burning and heightening and building, he must be malfunctioning, experiencing crucial gaps in his design. This shouldn't be happening. He should not feel, and this isn't feeling, but there is something building inside of him, something with your name on it. 

No, no, your name is flickering through him, pounding against his mind like a drum, and he has to establish control. He has to fucking fix this. 

He needs to be closer, so much closer. He needs you in an unexplainable, all encompassing way. In a way that shouldn't be occurring. He doesn't want anything, he can't experience the sensation of wanting because it isn't meant to exist. 

Truthfully, he's past the point of no return, and you might be all that's left to hold him in place. Impossible. The only thing he's ever desired is progress, evolution. Improvement is what matters. Improving, fixing, augmenting. 

You are going to be the death of him. He needs to be pressed against you, holding you, in you, examining your inner workings, guiding you to reach your true potential — 

Something snaps. 

"Do you know," Viktor grasps your face, roughly tilting you in his direction. The newfound harshness to his tone is exhilarating. "How impossible it is to resist breaking you?" 

He laughs, the sound sharp, almost chilling; his smile is crooked, barely recognizable, showing off even more crooked teeth. His gaze holds your own until it practically burns into you. His body is hot. To the point of overheating. You feel the heated metal against your skin, pressing to your chest, your thighs, faint puffs of searing steam pouring out from gaps in the plating. 

The grip his Hexclaw has on your wrists is so tight it nearly hurts. But it's faltering, his hands are twitching. He seems to recognize he might be hurting you, and so he lifts off of you slightly, he forces himself to loosen his hold. 

There's a sound coming from him that echoes like grinding gears, like the hiss of burning filaments. Like something is crumbling. Fighting against itself. 

"It is all I have ever known, milaya." Viktor lets go of something akin to a sigh, although he has no need to breathe. He is utterly ruined — the poor excuse for a heart he once placed between his ribs is aching, shuddering with the anticipation of a touch, soaring with the softness that comes with a kiss. Is this what it feels like to be dizzy, to be lovesick? 

You shudder as his thumb rubs your clit, and he digs his metal fingers into your side, feeling the space just beneath your ribs. "You will soon understand," He murmurs, "And if you are incapable, I am still willing to teach you. To make you into so much more." 

There's a stirring in his chest at that, at the thought of completing you; a deep-rooted abnormality he can't quite pinpoint. Is it excitement? Guilt? Lust? 

You swallow. You're crumbling, as he sends tingles through your veins in the wake of more enthralling words. 

"You are mine. Your fundamental place is at my side." Viktor senses the building heat of his inner workings, a deep wave rolling up from his constructed spine to settle onto the back of his neck. Building, burning, breaking. "I cannot wait to unmake you." 

Pulling you apart would be delightful. 

Your pieces would be disassembled, separated by each individual, pretty, dizzying section, so you could be redone carefully, gently, with a sense of tenderness only he could manage. He wants to understand you. To know exactly what makes you tick, down to your most basic of functions. To be close. Indistinguishable, the both of you made from the same materials. If you were constructed in his image, your components marked by his influence, there would be no doubt who you belong to. 

Through breaking you and mending you, he wonders if he could find new ways to make you sing. You'd relax under each touch, shuddering and breathing his name as he completes your newfound enhancements. Gazes locking. Touches lingering. Metal soldering. Viktor trembles. Gods, how he wants you. 

Furthering your potential and heightening your pleasure both require similar sentiments. Trust, and vulnerability. Opening your chest to watch your heart pound for him is the same as measuring your hitching breaths, growing heavier the deeper and faster he presses his fingers into you. 

Because delicately pulling you apart just to put you back together is some metaphor for intimacy. Carving out a space for you within the confines of his fake heart is some synonym for tenderness. Holding onto his memories of you, replaying everything he can't quite forget to the point of near insanity — to the point where he attempted to forcibly remove you, by removing those emotions. Only to fail. Feeling these sensations for you when he shouldn't is some form of devotion. 

You shouldn't feel for him either, right? 

Having you there from the very beginning meant something; you were beside him when he only dreamed of becoming someone greater. When his ideas for evolution were just prototypes, when he first put the full extent of his weight onto both his legs. Didn't it mean the world to you too? 

You were equally misunderstood. By your peers, by the world. Just as you believed in him, he saw light in you, from the very start. He thinks you could burn bright enough to melt anyone who stands in your way. And now, years down the line, when he is seen as less than human, you only see him. Not what he's become. It's infuriating. It's unmistakably loving. 

You are panting. Getting close. Your bottom lip quivers, and your body tenses, each shudder more forceful than the last. His fingers echo a filthy, wet sound each time they pump into you, and your back is arching, you are simply begging to fall apart around him. For him, because of him. You deserve to. 

And you sing, voice trembling like plucked strings, "Just p-please. You can do whatever you want to me, I trust you- I've always trusted you. Vik, I need you. I'm yours. All yours." 

All his. 

Whatever he turns into, whatever becomes of his body, memories, and heart, you would still follow. No matter what his goal might be; to destroy this city for what it did to the both of you, or to work in unison to try and remake it. Or perhaps, he plans to become more. An example of perfection. A God. As if he isn't one already. 

The first time he touched you, when he felt the softness of your skin and heard the plea in your voice, and knew you were in his heart still, still, wasn't it akin to a prayer? 

Oh, he is going to unravel you. 

Viktor allows his grip on your wrists to finally, fully loosen; his Hexclaw presses flatly to the table, helping to support his weight. Relaxing, you exhale a deep breath, but you don't hesitate for long. Your arms waste no time wrapping around him, pulling him close. When you kiss him, a hand cradling his cheek like he is something breakable, and not a perfected piece of unstoppable machinery, the tender press of your lips to his feels undoubtedly inevitable. 

All he knows is since the day he pretended to forget about you, when he decided to become something more, his new heart beat steadily, his enhanced mind was clear. But his systems wouldn't stop buzzing. 

When he hardly knew where you were or what state you'd return to him in, the noise grew sharper. Fervently pulling, Hextech whirring, unsated electricity sizzling like fireworks underneath his skin. Having you in his arms once more only made the static form so thick, he thought his mental processes might completely go haywire. All he knows is that now, as he's kissing you, feeling your lips on his, your body against his own, and your hands tangling through his hair — for once, the static is silent. Blissfully silent. 

And he kisses you, harder than before. Softer than anything and everything. 

"Faster-" You're pleading brokenly against his mouth, between breathy kisses, your voice echoing through him, "More." 

Faster, harder, more. Whatever you desire, he's going to give it to you. Viktor mumbles, "Of course." 

Finally able to move, you hook one leg around his waist, you use it to drag him in even closer. You rock into his hand when his fingers spread and crook inside you, and you grab tight, messy fistfuls of his hair. His lips on yours, kissing you over and over, leave you little room to breathe. 

Once you've pulled away, you're gasping for air, and his gaze fixates on yours: examining, devouring. Viktor takes note of your every movement. How you grind into his fingers when his thumb teases your clit, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, brows pinched. How you fall back against the table when the sensations overwhelm you, eyes shut and limbs weak. Pulsing and tensing around him, so sensitive. So close to falling apart. 

Your arms wrap around him again, and he tries to keep the pace of his fingers steady, while you begin placing hurried kisses to his cheek, his neck. You kiss the side of his face, soft lips on soft skin. Then, your lips continue down, they press to his steel jaw. He tilts his head to let kisses fall over the expanse of metal that runs down his neck. Tingling phantom sensations curl into him and split him open. 

"Close," You're muttering, so quiet he nearly doesn't hear. You hold him as tight as you can manage. Your breath is warm on the side of his face, tickling his skin, making him feel even warmer within. 

"You are close?" He repeats for confirmation; his hand finds your side, and you grip his shoulders, hands brushing over thick plates of metal, desperately searching for something to hold onto. Your nails dig in, firm enough that he thinks the steel might chip. Viktor breathes a slight laugh, "You sound so sweet." 

"So- I'm getting so-" You swear, "Oh, f-fuck…" 

The only way he might quench what's come over him and steady his systems is by watching you come apart. Pleading his name, while you melt into a needy puddle of all the emotions and pleasant sensations he could never let himself have. Brought to your peak by his touch, his voice, because you are his, all his. 

Viktor's free hand traces up, cool steel carefully finding your collarbone, your neck. Then, his fingers are wrapping around. He squeezes your throat just barely, just how you like, enough to make you fall back with your arms sprawled above you. Your head is perfectly dizzy, as his fingers work you steadily, his thumb flicking your needy clit much faster. Pushing you closer, closer. 

Until it's far too much, and you are at his mercy, guided right to the edge of an exhilarating, electrifying precipice. 

"Let go. I have you," Viktor instructs, "Let yourself submit." 

Everything you've been building towards, all of his touches, all of this ecstasy, and how terribly you've missed him coalesces into this. Into a single, shuddering moment, waves upon waves of pleasure pushing you over the waterfall's edge. You're melting, cumming hard for him, your arms shaking, until he's removing his hand from your throat and giving you something to grab onto — delicate fingers laced with thick, strong, metal ones. Perfectly contrasting. 

Your vision goes white. Your body tenses and then goes limp, like you've been shut down. The high is forceful, before it becomes soft, ebbing over you with gradual warmth, his hand in yours enough to steady you. Heart pounding, you take quick, loud breaths. 

You can't help but feel disappointed when Viktor's hand releases yours to return to your waist. He holds you carefully, cold fingers brushing your skin reassuringly. Every touch feels deliciously raw, alight and sensitive. 

Your eyes open slowly. Viktor's hair is a mess in his face, likely caused by you. He seems flushed, if only slightly. His unflinching gaze flickers across your form, before it settles back on your eyes. 

"Breathe," He instructs carefully, gently. His hand grips your side a bit tighter; he's clearly affected by the way you sigh. You do your best to follow along, the aftershocks fading as your pulse slows, and as you start to calm. 

"There. Excellent, you have done so well," Viktor praises. He smiles slightly in satisfaction. "You have never been this breathless." 

Whatever words you could've formed in response don't come. They can't, not when his fingers are still inside you; not when Viktor is pressing them into your sensitive cunt just barely, squeezing your side as he delights in the way you whine. Pleasure, white-hot and familiar, surges through you fiercely. 

It's so much, it's so much, it's too much, he's already fucking you with his fingers, and before you can fully wind down, you're swiftly building towards another high. Your body needs this. You just aren't sure if you can take it. 

"Ah- shit," You murmur; reaching up, you tangle both hands in his hair, gripping tight for leverage. His expression remains infuriatingly calm. "I want- I need more. It feels so good, Vik," You're practically purring those last words, your whole body shuddering through another wave of ecstasy. "But I don't- I'm not sure if I-" 

"You can." Viktor interrupts, assured and composed. "You can cum for me as many times as I dictate." 

You're smirking now, obediently spreading your trembling thighs wide, while you roll your hips into his touch; his fingers are so thick, so impossibly, perfectly deep — "Hah- and you said I'm the insatiable one." 

"Yes. You are the most insatiable human I have ever known. And it would seem you are particularly insatiable with me." 

"You were once- Oh-" 

Your head falls back as Viktor nudges that sweet, tender spot inside you, and your body becomes limp once more. 

He takes the opportunity to bring the Hexarm's hand to your cheek. It's large enough to eclipse your face, the same way it was big and strong enough to easily pin both your wrists in its grasp. The heat radiating from the metal makes your eyes briefly flutter, before he trails it down to your throat. Perfectly responsive, your eyes grow heavy. He provides you with your favorite, much-needed pressure. 

You've watched him use this very same hand to solder metal and create machinery. The device could heat to a temperature a thousand times hotter than it is now, it's capable of firing off a single ray of concentrated energy potent enough to slice through steel. And he has that hand wrapped right around your neck. 

Fuck, that shouldn't excite you. It shouldn't have you quivering more and whimpering, shaking while you try your best to keep meeting his eyes, all because you so desperately want to hear him speak again. Praising you — You are doing so well for me, so pliant, so adorable. Or scolding you — Pathetic, aren't you? Quivering like a rabbit, and all it took was a little brush with danger. You are amusing. 

Whichever he prefers. Because Viktor is so much stronger, so much smarter, and it hardly matters what he chooses to say, when any and all of it still gets you off. 

Deep within your heart, you know he'd never hurt you. He would take away your pain if you asked it of him, so you wouldn't have to feel it again. His words can be sharp, simply because he wants to protect you. He wouldn't even attempt to put his hand on your throat like this if he didn't have complete, total control over the Hexclaw's laser. Carefully, he observes your every movement for any sign of discomfort, calculating and controlling each aspect of your pleasure — and it only serves to make your heart pound faster. 

Of course, he can tell when you start to truly shake. He knows every inch of you is melting with overstimulation, and he's going to give you more. 

"Take it. I know you are capable." His voice gives you goosebumps, while his fingers press into you shallowly, but the smallest movements are more than enough to make a mess of you. "There, perfect, you are performing excellently. Relax. Continue breathing deeply, nice and slow breaths. I will take care of you, love." 

Love. 

"Don't-" You choke, trying to keep your eyes on his despite the way your vision wavers and blurs; your reaction is immediate, predictable, and instantly satisfying. "Don't stop…" 

You're beautiful like this, when you're underneath him. Since his enhancements, compared to his new body, you are now much smaller. He had to learn to adjust to the touches you need, to be gentle. Like you once were with him. Your roles, reversed in such a crucial way. You are undoubtedly strong in your own right, but when it comes to him, you are as sensitive as you are receptive. He needed to study how to keep from holding you too tightly, how to regulate his temperature to not burn your skin underneath his hands. 

You are a pretty sculpture of quivering limbs and glistening skin. Your chest heaving, eyes fluttering. As beautiful as you were back then, before this. Before he lost the warmth he felt in his chest every time he saw you, before feelings on their own became mere faded memories. His iron consequence, locking away his dying love. 

He gives you another. Three fingers press inside your dripping cunt, stretching you, filling you. A hand grips your side, his third lightly squeezing your throat — he works your pleasure for all it's worth, and has you gasping as he wrings out your aftershocks. 

Viktor's mouth can't help but twitch into the slightest smile. "Look at you. You are worthy of the world." 

He would give it all to you. 

The Machine Herald will have this city in his hands. His vision is moving fast and accomplishing much, so it is only a matter of time. If you wanted more, he'd just have to reach even further. Relinquishing his human emotions left him without the need to be happy, nor content. But you, your happiness, keeping you safe, seeing you smile. It is stupid, foolish, doesn't make sense; his mechanics stutter, until he thinks he is choking on his own contradictory tenderness. 

His body is betraying his mind. There is heat at his center, more than the normal amount emitted by his internal components. A very human, very filthy amount of heat. His skin underneath his armor is flushed and warm, his chest is aching from the weight of your heavy destruction. You are destroying him, and he can do nothing but allow it. 

"I missed you," You murmur earnestly, voice weak, close to shattering. Your eyes are closed. Why, why are those words making his hands and his limbs and his heart shudder? "I missed you so bad- don't stop, keep fucking me Viktor- don't, please don't stop talking…" 

Is that what you're imagining? 

So he doesn't stop. 

As you fall back against the table, Viktor removing the Hexclaw and letting go of your neck, he leans in to speak right against your ear. "I am proud of you, lubov. Infiltrating Piltover must not have been simple. You brought me more than I required, you did so with much efficiency. And you returned to me safely. Allow me to reward you. Fall apart for me, cum like I know you so desperately need to." 

Your body curls, your hands move to his shoulders and grip them impossibly tight in an attempt to keep yourself steady. "Vik- Viktor-" You're gasping, you're close, "Kiss me, please kiss me-" 

His hand holds your chin, the cool, rigid steel of his thumb swipes over your bottom lip; teasing you, making you whimper. Sliding further, into your mouth, until you're tasting the sharpness of metal. Until you're gently sucking, feeling the intricately crafted notches and joints on your tongue. When he pulls it out and kisses you hard, when his lips press to yours and your high-pitched moans become muffled on his mouth, you cum on his fingers hard enough to see the afterimage of stars. 

He's trailing kisses down your jaw while you pulse around him, your thighs shaking, your head tilting to let his mouth find your throat. In the wake of his soft kisses, his foggy breath, you melt, and fully succumb to your shuddering high. 

Working you back down is a slow, patient process. A kiss onto your neck for every gasp you take in, the feeling of gentle teeth once your body starts to fully relax. Everything you've wanted, everything you missed; far too tender for who he's become. 

There are faint marks on your neck by the time he pulls away. Signs he was there. Proof he is softer than he is meant to be. 

You could stop here. Instead, the next few moments happen in their own special space of reality. 

Away from this city, away from his lab. A different plane made for just the two of you. Your mind feels dizzy, heavy. Viktor meets your gaze, momentarily scanning your face, waiting to make sure you've calmed. 

He is all you can think of, all that has ever mattered. And even when he is right here, you miss him so, so much. 

You tremble from the end of your spine to the top of your shoulders when he carefully pulls his fingers from you. He brushes his palm from your thigh to your side in one steady, soothing motion. You can feel the scars on his palm, the slight hesitant tremor to his still-slick fingers. You're reaching up, palm pressing to his chest. You absently feel the various ridges of metal. Smooth to the touch, armor radiating the faintest flickers of heat. 

He glances down, watching your movement as your palm brushes further, further. Delicate fingertips trail the dips and outlines that continue down his stomach. Eventually, you reach as far as your arm will let you, your fingers drawing circles onto the rib-like sections of steel crossing just above his hips. As he glances back up to you, he finds your soft, pleading gaze to be already looking at him. As sweet as he's always remembered. 

Your breathing is heavy. "Vik," You're begging, "We shouldn't- I'm sorry. This is stupid. I know we should stop, but…" 

He is going to regret this. 

Before he can stop himself, before his mind and his systems can even be led to form a single rational thought, Viktor is pressing the palm of his Hexarm just above your head, flat to the table. He is leaning over you, he is finding your cheek with a soft hand and a gentle touch. He's pulling you in, crashing his lips against yours, and he knows you're right — you shouldn't continue. He shouldn't allow this. 

Machines do not feel. The Machine Herald feels nothing, and wants for nothing besides evolution. But Gods, you're kissing him like his lips are a drug, all you need after wanting to kiss him for so, so long. Since before you both became dim shells of what you once were. Your legs are wrapping around him, your fingers are brushing his face with such devastating tenderness, and Viktor believes he is feeling everything. 

He's reaching down between your gasps for breath that make gaps in your kisses, and he's deftly activating a set of small, circular mechanisms on either of his sides. The armor on his chest unlatches with a clicking noise, platings becoming loose, unaligned. 

The larger, more cumbersome sections of his armor, including his gauntlets, cape, and shoulder pieces have been discarded from the start, making the portion of chest armor come off as two simple halves. He has to pull away, sit up straight, and partially slide off of you to remove it all the way. Both pieces of armor hit the ground with a particularly heavy thud. 

Most of his body has been replaced. Underneath the metal armor, there's just more metal; sections of iron that've been fused to replace muscle and skin, alloyed parts that reinforce his thin frame. 

You have only seen him like this once. He was fixing some miscalibrated platings on his side, a wrench in one hand, the Hexclaw's laser busy welding a suitable replacement. Two thirds machine, and one part still human, he was definitely much different from what you remembered. Still, there were small sections of pale skin on his back, split where his spine had been reconstructed. And jagged scars, adorned by faint, dark moles. His messy hair still falls around his face just like you remember it. 

You wanted to touch — he says he can't feel, but would he sense your fingertips as they traced his scars, would he shudder as your hands felt his skin? If you kissed what remained of him, his hand and each of his fingers, his back and each of those pretty moles, his chest down to his stomach, could you alight new sensations in him? 

You've never wanted to touch him more than in this moment. 

The bottom portion of his armor comes off much easier, leaving just the thick sections that cover his thighs down to his legs, including the steel brace mechanism. You're only able to catch the faintest glimpse, before he's pulling you into another deep kiss — a kiss that burns with every moment lost, his body pressing you against the table and beneath him. Your arms wrap around him, palms trailing across his back. 

As they've always longed for, your fingertips feel the back of his neck: the ridges and hard edges of his spine, the solid base of the Hexarm, his soft skin. Viktor physically shudders. When one of your hands tangles in his hair while the other falls, landing upturned beside you, he kisses you harder, he absently finds your hand and holds it in his. Your fingers lace together. His hand feels so warm, still slightly larger than yours. His skin is scarred, your thumb brushing over calloused knuckles and thin, purple veins. Every touch is so tender, earnest, human, it's nearly unbearable. Your hand was meant to be in his. Even if it won't last. 

It's a strange sensation, when his body presses ever closer to your own. Metal leads down from his navel, across to his pelvis, trailing underneath the armor on his thighs as one smooth, solid construction. Partially welded into his skin, but seemingly designed to make some sections removable. It is warm like the rest of him, designed with faint ridges and indents. 

Your legs, locked around him at the ankles, encourage him to press ever-closer. He devours you, kissing you deeper than you thought possible. You sigh against his mouth, and hold on tightly to his hair. His body rocks against yours in an instinctual, clumsy motion. Close, pressing, grinding. Warm metal and those perfect little ridges grind between your legs, against your core, against your clit. And you practically jolt. 

Oh. You break away from the kiss to toss your head back with a breathy, pretty noise. Pleasure threads through you, thick and unrelenting. 

Viktor mumbles something that barely registers in your ringing ears: Should stop, you manage to make out. And then, Are you alright? 

"Yes, I just-" You mumble, panting hard, "Don't. Don't stop." 

So Viktor grasps your waist in a tight, yet careful grip. His eyes never leave yours, gaze burning with a fire you've never once seen. He guides you to press against him, grinds his body against yours until you're making a mess of the metal. Until the faint ridges are nudging your swollen clit just right, until the heat of the iron is burning through you, into you, and your slick arousal is glistening on the steel. 

Your mind and heart are racing. 

"Oh, fuck-" You're swearing, your words surely seeming broken; he finds your cheek, he tilts your head up towards him, and you can't decide if the gesture is tender, or possessive. "I need you, I really, really do." 

His body feels as though he just touched the surface of the sun, and Viktor hardly knows if the warmth is coming from his overloaded systems, or if it's surrounding him, heat drawn thickly from the friction between the two of you. Perhaps it's a mix of both. 

Either way, he is losing himself. It's all happening so terribly fast; when his body rolls against yours, and you whimper through a filthy utterance of his name, there is a clear, undeniable response. A tingling in his veins, an eager sensation that shoots from his back to his chest to his core, consuming everything like a wildfire, and threatening to envelop all of him. 

He doesn't even know what to do with this. How to silence these disruptions, how to get his stupid brain to stop picturing you shuddering beneath his form as he presses against you, presses inside you, and brands every inch of you with his own name — 

"Milaya," Viktor hums, and you swear, his tone sounds lighter, his voice sounds strained. "I have always needed you. I'm not- No, I want- I shouldn't…" 

Trailing off when you cry out, he swallows. His thumb brushes your bottom lip as he continues to guide you towards him. Sweat beads on your chest, your thighs. He instructs, partially shakily, "Keep looking at me. Please." 

You've rarely heard him stutter or falter, never seen him anywhere close to worked up. You hardly knew if he had the capacity to feel this way, even though he certainly wasn't built to, even though he definitely isn't supposed to. And isn't it all because of you? 

The way your gaze locks with his as he rhythmically rocks against you has your heart skipping beats. There's a slight softness to his cold eyes, to his expression, that you're sure no-one else has seen before. Not since back then. You are impossible to resist, and this definitely needs to stop, this is definitely too far — it's going even further when your hand reaches down, fingertips clumsily tracing the edges of the metal seared into his navel. 

He knows what you want. You're greedy, a glutton for punishment, a sweet, terrible fool. But if he's honest with himself, perhaps he is worse. You are pleading his name again, the sound echoing unendingly in his ears, and Viktor is removing the front-most section of the metal enhancement: a thin plate that forms a triangular shape from his hips, all the way down. 

When he presses against your form, the next sensation to bleed into you is much different. It's smooth, soft latex, shoving against you. The last layer remaining between you and him and — 

And you can feel him. Straining hard and heavy against his underclothes. Firm and warm as he rocks into you, grinding all of him onto your throbbing cunt. You aren't thinking, you can't think anymore. Not when Viktor is hard, and when your heartbeat is so damn loud in your ears, you couldn't possibly hear anything else. 

"Viktor," You're murmuring, your chest pleasantly aching. Pleasure welds with emotion, walking the same shaky line, until your heart is unfurling with delicate petals that fill your throat sweetly, consuming you wholeheartedly, "I love you." 

If Viktor's mechanized heart was still capable of faltering from its pre-programmed rhythm, he's sure it would be fucking pounding. 

Every part of him is set alight. Burning, he feels smoke in his throat, and swears he tastes fire. He's overloading, practically overheating, like a fragile body trembling with need and want, like a system with too many programs open at once — and oh Gods, it just keeps opening more. His vision has long since gone blurry, and every sound in his ears is thick, as though he's been submerged in deep water. 

How long have you wanted to say those words? He thinks of quiet days spent with you in Piltover, the lingering glances and faint touches he tried his hardest to forget. 

How long has he needed to hear you say them? 

Honestly, he could cry, if he was at all still capable of crying. His mind is a mess. Heat is threading through his circuits, devotion and desire, a terrible softness; he's so soft inside, it hurts. It actually hurts, and he believed he taught himself how to forgo any pain. 

Electricity and faulty Hextech sizzle in his core, radiating, echoing. His damn foolish, worthless, synthetic heart. He needs to hold you, fuck you, break you. To encode this sensation into his head and his blood, because forgetting the way your voice strummed those words would be worse than admitting he is too weak to discard them. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

He doesn't deserve this. He was not built to love. Love should be thrown out, along with everything else. Love is a weakness. You may be fine with placing your heart on railway tracks, you might not think twice before putting yourself in danger, but if anything were to happen to you, he might be entirely consumed. 

With his mechanized existence, he could soon become immortal. This longing would surely stick with him after you're gone, an eternity of something he could never understand. Swallowing him whole, holding onto him tight. Endlessly painful. But right now, when he is here and stuck in a dream at the same time, when he is more of himself than he has ever been, and you are all that exists in his veins, could he ever manage to stop? 

You are so close to so much more. So close to ruining everything — just one last layer, one more touch. One movement, one press of his palms to your figure before he slides into you, one last massive, unfixable mistake. 

"Vik, please, please, I'm-" You can barely hold on anymore, as much as you've been trying to. You curl into him, grinding back against him hard; "I can't, I can't fucking- hhah- I'm so close-" 

Your bodies rock together desperately, beckoning and wanting more of what they shouldn't have. His heat radiates into your skin, and your breath fills the air in thick, heavy huffs. You're still so wet, and it makes every movement slick and simple. Your hands feel his back, his shoulders, his steel jaw, his face. Anywhere you can touch, you're making the most of it. 

Viktor finds your chin, he holds it delicately, and when he says your name, it feels personal; devastatingly so. Like he could make a home with the familiarity laced through each syllable. He breathes them like he did back then, coveting you so deeply. Muttering it as one final plea. 

If he can't fix this, perhaps you can reconstruct this part of him. Could you show him how to live again, could you instruct his mechanized heart, and finally teach it how to skip? 

"I have you," Viktor sighs, because he's sure you want to hear his words as much as he needs to say them. He doesn't require a working heart, when he can let all of himself echo through his still-human soul. "I love you." 

Your chest bruises with sparks in the wake of his gentle voice. Still somewhat robotic. Spoken as though each individual, inevitable word is one he is learning to speak. I. Love. You. 

Your legs and arms wrap around him, holding him as close to you as he could possibly get. Exhaling shakily, your whines are broken, your nails digging into his back. They'll leave red marks onto his pale skin; he hopes they do. His chest is pressed right up to yours. Viktor allows his forehead to rest just barely against your own, utterly tender, and he melts, as your thudding heartbeat echoes through him. Body to body, scarred skin on softer skin. Delicate limbs held around a partial chassis of firm, strong metal. 

Helpless. Perhaps for you, he is the helpless one. 

It doesn't matter; everything is crumbling away, and the both of you are thrown right back into reality, because you are falling apart for him at last. One last time. 

You shake, liquid hot pleasure drips over you like burning wax, and you're left at the mercy of your blistering, final high. Another few deep grinds into each other are all you need — the both of you throbbing, his jaw tensing, Hexclaw twitching, stiffening, and radiating a powerful amount of heat. His eyes flutter, the artificial glow behind them flickering like a dying lightbulb. You hold onto him tighter, and he lets go of a slight noise. A quiet, shaky, all too desperate moan. 

You stay rocking against one another even while you're cumming, even after your voice is sore from chanting Viktor's name so loudly, you briefly worry that anyone just outside of his lab might've heard you. 

Finally stopping, you only begin to relax once your whole body is entirely spent. 

You breathe slowly. In, and then out. Deep, calming breaths. Your heart pounds with force. The room refocuses around you, the harsh light of his various lamps burning into the back of your eyelids and making you see colorful spots. Viktor waits a few moments, before he shakily pushes up to prop himself above you. 

There's a hum of ambient, grinding metal coming from him. The hiss of steam. The echo of small shudders, and forceful gasps. Your vision is still fuzzy, your limbs incredibly weak, but you notice when he reaches for something; the thin metal plating, which he secures back onto himself. 

Once your eyes are completely clear and your heart is beating to a normal tune, you're finally able to focus on him above you. In barely any time, with a half-machine's perfected efficiency, Viktor has already regained every last aspect of his composure. 

"Stay. You require rest," He instructs matter-of-factly, his tone filled with his usual sternness. His gaze scans you up and down methodically. "I will supply you with a change of clothes." 

Right. Viktor's heart can't shudder like yours. Soft sensations have no need to linger. You'd almost forgotten. This is what you were always bound to return to: you, an ally. And he is just a machine. 

Through heavy, lovesick eyes, you admire the sight of him above you. His thin figure, enthralled in shadow, light reflecting off of the metal sections of his outline. He runs a hand through his hair to push it from his face, a gesture you find particularly endearing and human. 

"Oh, don't worry," You hum casually, stretching your arms and legs out. Your voice is light, foggy and still weak. The table beneath you feels firm against your back, but with how lightweight your whole body feels, you couldn't care less. "I don't think I'm moving even if I wanted to." 

Viktor raises a brow just slightly. He taps your neck with a single smooth, metal finger. "And something needs to be done about these." 

Briefly, your expression shifts into confusion. You tilt your head, allowing his fingers to trail further, and they examine the base of your neck down to your collarbones; the marks he left on your skin are swiftly darkening, forming blotchy, pretty bruises. 

Realizing what he's getting at, you smile smugly. "Worried someone's gonna ask questions?" 

"Half of Zaun acknowledges you as my right hand. I am not worried. But they will ask. It could prove arduous." Viktor explains, his tone exceedingly controlled. "Come. Hold onto me." 

When you don't immediately move, he stares at you expectantly. So, despite your tiredness, you listen, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his middle loosely. Viktor lifts you with ease. His heavy boots clunk with each step, and he carries you just a few paces from the table, setting you down on your back, and onto the familiar, ripped-up leather couch. It shifts, accommodating your weight and his. Compared to the worktable, when your back hits the soft yet worn cushions, you feel like you're resting on clouds. 

Viktor shifts, starting to move away, but you keep your arms wrapped around him, and speak before he has the chance. 

"Vik…" You're purring, "Stay here." 

A brief look of contemplation crosses his face, categorized by the slightest pinch in his thick brows. You smile, and nearly wind up kissing him again. He doesn't attempt to pull apart from you when you drag him closer to yourself, your lips gently brushing his cheek. 

At first, he's overly stiff. His arm fits underneath your back to hold you out of mere obligation. In contrast, his metal arm is kept beside you, refusing to touch, steel-jointed fingers flexing absently. But once your hands trail up, your fingers tracing the back of his neck, before they run through his hair, he honestly, earnestly relaxes. 

Your body underneath him is comforting. Limbs entangled, your legs brushing steel and the rigid metal brace. His head leans gently into the crook of your neck, almost hesitantly, as though he isn't entirely sure where to place it. He can't help but fall against you, bodies pressed into one another naturally enough to form the same grave. If he ever came face to face with death, he would refuse to accept it, unless it was just like this. 

You let your tired eyes close. You allow yourself to focus on his warmth, on the weight of him, and you can almost pretend this is natural. That you are in the past, or perhaps residing in a much different future. You are both lovers, as you wished you would be; simple and uncomplicated, nothing more, resting together in the dizzying comfort of your afterglow. 

It'd be nice. Nicer than anything you've been afforded. The only problem is Viktor is all firm steel and hard edges. His metal hand shifts to hold your side, and his fingers are digging into your skin, gripping a bit too tight. His weight on yours is making it damn near difficult to breathe. And right now, he is very, very hot. 

You frown, your eyes fluttering open again. "You're overheating." 

"My internal temperature is regulated by a liquid cooling apparatus," Viktor murmurs, after a moment. "It seems to be malfunctioning." 

His voice is smooth, as it always is, but it sounds much warmer, much quieter, when it's spoken this close to your ear. You sigh softly, and shuffle a little under him, trying to get more comfortable. 

"Ah. That sounds concerning." 

"The device will adjust itself in time," Viktor clarifies. "If it does not, repairs will take a few minutes, at most." 

Your fingertips brush over his back. They feel the thick ridges of his spine, and the thin steel shape of the Hexclaw's base. It feels cool and lifeless under your palm. "This is cold, though." 

"It is inoperational. It stopped responding, I will need to reset it individually." 

"That so?" You huff in response, laughing a little. You hold onto him tighter, and lean your head into his shoulder. "Whatever. Just don't let go of me." 

He doesn't. You exhale a long, weak breath. Your hands tremble slightly, as they uselessly grip onto the sections of cold steel that frame his shoulders. Viktor stays perfectly still, and he allows you to hold onto him as tightly as you need to. This might be the last moment you'll have together. For a while, at least. He has much to attend to, after this. Some tasks he can work on at your side, with your assistance, preferably. Some missions he must complete alone. 

The next time you speak, your voice is so fragile, he thinks he should be holding it in his palms. Or else it'll break. 

"We shouldn't- or, I guess I shouldn't have said… you know." You shudder, shaking all over before you tense. You're holding him too close to allow him to see your face, but he can picture your expression: slightly playful, to attempt to hide your uncertainty. "Gods, I'm so stupid. But I meant it. And I just-" You laugh, "I'm sorry, Viktor. Maybe you were right. I've been way too reckless." 

Viktor has no need to ponder his answer. "I know. Don't apologize. You should be resting, our conversation can continue tomorrow." 

You breathe deeply, and he quietly murmurs, his voice echoing through your ears, "I love you, milaya." 

Fake. Expected. A ghost of choked-back emotions, of all-too tender moments already slated to become forgotten memories. But something is there, something that tells you he's trying. For now, you'll take it. It's more than enough. 

You are close to falling asleep; every one of your nerves, washed over by warm, inviting waves, enveloped in his persistent heat. As though he can sense your building exhaustion, Viktor rubs your back with slow, reassuring circles — as best he can manage, considering your shapes are pinned too close together. Your breathing evens out, and you relax into his touch. Your mind feels as heavy as your weary, weak limbs. 

Your love would be soft, he considers, distracted. Gentleness personified, warm like your smile, like the radiant sun shining down on one's skin. Patient and alighting. Like being pulled by the wrists, wrested out of a rocky, dark sea — finally alive, and finally able to breathe. The still-human part of him feels in measures of softness. The mechanical part is much, much different. 

Heat is running through his veins. It's racing through his system, and he knows it isn't from any sort of malfunction. It burns. The taste of it is like sharp blood on his tongue, it spins in his head like the dizzy grinding of gears, sears through him with fraying wires and sizzling static. Pain and softness, forming a mix he might certainly call love, but might also swear to remove. 

There's a certain sharpness gnawing at him. A flickering, raw bruise, brutalizing him from between his ribs, regardless of his attempts to try and ignore it. Your efforts are failing. You are feeling, and that means you have failed. Even dying embers burn out the same as raging flames. 

You've drifted off, it would seem, your breathing slow, your body limp. So Viktor holds you just a bit tighter. 

For once, for the first time since he truly decided who he wanted to be and what he wanted to accomplish, he is lost. 

In the end, he is going to have to make a decision. One that will benefit his vision. Or one that will destroy him from the inside out. He must carve out these distractions, remove the sections of his heart that are faulty, or he must learn what it would mean to embrace them. 

It scares him, truly. Viktor, the Machine Herald, genuinely scared over something meant to be so trivial. Fretting over the one person he never wanted to lose, even though he was sure he'd already lost you. He wonders what his opposition would say, what those who view him as soulless might think, if they knew the truth. And if you knew? 

Just having to tell you, forcing himself to push you away, or coming face to face once more after he's altered his brain to completely forget you — No, the thought alone might be enough to seal his fate. 

He'll make up his mind before you wake. His head will become clearer, eventually. When your voice is gone from his ears, when your phantom touches tracing his skin have finally disappeared. Besides, this moment won't last, and he wants to savor what's left of it. 

Whatever happens next, wherever he takes this, he knows you will follow — to a different path, to a better future. Or to the ends of the earth. 

[prettieinpink]

CREATING AN INTENTIONAL WARDROBE

I. SETTING GOALS

IDENTIFY YOUR STYLE. You don’t have to look through the list of different aesthetics, nor do you have to name it, but at least have a way in which you could explain it in a sentence. 

If you’re someone who is a bit on the fence with their fashion identity, I would start with a ‘base’ aesthetic that you like then start building your own on top of it over time. Think boho, streetwear, y2k, classy etc. 

CONSIDER YOUR LIFESTYLE. I don’t think its a great idea to go buy a fancy dress for a hypothetical event which may not ever happen. You have to think about what you’re doing on a daily basis, and which staples will be worn to their full extent. 

If you’re a very active person, I would invest into activewear or clothes that resemble it. If you’re someone who’s attending university, I would invest into casual cute basics but also smart staples for networking events. 

So in a way, don’t buy clothes for your fantasy self or events. I do understand that wearing clothes that our higher self would wear can close the gap between us and the, however material things don’t mean anything when it comes to that. 

SET A GOAL. Your goal can be anything when it comes to fashion. You could also have multiple goals. Here are some ideas for goals which may speak to you!

Investing into high quality pieces

Having less but wearing them more. 

Increased confidence

Developing personal style

Having a versatile collection

Comfortable yet stylish. 

There is a lot more goals that you may have came up with by yourself, but this is just to get you started. I recommend just having one goal and really honing down into it, is a lot better in this aspect. 

II. INSPIRATION + PLANNING

CREATE YOUR DREAM WARDROBE, whether digitally or physically. Pinterest is a great place to start, and you can create collages now. Or, you may choose to create a beauty binder which consists of outfits that you like. 

One thing I will add on to this, is to add in people who look like you or just don’t show their faces at all. Attractive and fit people can make most outfits look good, and you may be influenced by that, even if it's not going to be flattering on you (considering colours, shape, texture etc). 

LOOK AT THE CONSISTENCY, which colours were you drawn to the most, did you favour any patterns, are there any pieces which showed up repeatedly? Look for any consistency throughout the outfits. 

TAKE NOTES !

Colours: Did you lean towards lighter/darker colours, were there any colours that showed up repeatedly, patterns that you gravitated to?

Silhouettes: Were the clothes flowy and light, or fitted and shaped the body? 

Minimalism: Were the clothes simple and straight to the point, or were they maximalist and boasting personality? 

Alignment: Does the outfits match the lifestyle that you have and the one that you want? 

Staples: What articles of clothing showed up repeatedly? 

You don’t have to write it down, however I would make a mental note of all these details in your dream wardrobe.

III. DEALING WITH YOUR CURRENT WARDROBE 

LIMIT AS MUCH WASTE AS YOU CAN. More of a disclaimer, than a tip, but you don’t have to throw away everything just to replace everything. A lot of clothes that are in good condition can either be upcycled or have another purpose. 

SORT CLOTHES INTO THREE PILES. Keep, potential or donate. Keep are clothes that align with all of your goals, potential are clothes that are almost there and may need some tweaking and donating is for clothes that you feel misaligned with. 

That being said, don’t keep clothes that you know will collect dust in your closet if you have no intention of repurposing them. You could give them away to your friends, a facebook buy nothing group, if it's really good quality and in good condition then consider reselling it on depop or vinted. It's still wasteful when you’re not using it. 

Before deciding anything, actually wear them instead of evaluating them on a hanger. Hangers can make clothes look worse or better depending, but the only way to find out if you like it, is to try it on. 

IDENTIFY WHAT'S MISSING. From the clothes that you have left, see if there’s anything in your dream wardrobe that you don’t have in your closet. I’m not a big fan of ‘filling gaps’ in closets, so I would avoid purchasing statement pieces to fill that gap, just focus on staples that, considering your lifestyle, will wear. 

Make a list of all of these items, and try to eliminate any pieces of clothing which wouldn’t be staples in your life. 

IV. BEING INTENTIONALLY FASHIONABLE

CREATE YOUR OWN COLOUR PALETTE, I dislike the colour theory for people or colour seasons, just because you may not feel confident in the colours that are ‘best suited’ for you. However, I do love the idea of having your own personal palette that you gravitate towards. 

I would recommend having 1 dark colour, 1 neutral colour and 2-3 accent or statement colours (depending on your style). My current palette is navy, grey, pastel pink, pastel blue and pastel yellow. 

This does not mean you only buy clothes in that colour, it just means that its easier to curate your wardrobe with pieces that you love and do wear. I do wear colours outside of my palette, but I do favour those colours when looking for new clothes. 

AVOID ULTRA FAST FASHION. I’m talking about SHEIN, temu, alibaba or aliexpress. I know the cheap prices seem enticing, but their clothes will fall apart after some time and it's just not sustainable in the long term. Save your money and buy from places which you know will last. 

Other fashion stores are fast fashion (just not to the extent of the ones listed above), so I would still be very intentional about what I’m buying from them. Reminder, expensive does not equate to being sustainable. 

AVOID MICROTRENDS. If you do feel that a trend speaks to you, then go for it, but otherwise I would not give in. You’re buying clothes that are misaligned to you, so you waste money, and then when that trend inevitably dies out, you have a reason to throw it out. It's an endless cycle, don’t give in. 

One trend which I will never give into, has to be baggy jeans. Baggy jeans are really unflattering on my curves, no matter the waist. While they’ve definitely had a decline recently, when I was in year 7, it seemed that was all that everyone was wearing but I just couldn’t get into it. 

LEARN HOW TO TAILOR CLOTHES. It is not a given that all clothes regardless of your size, will fit right. Just because something doesn’t fit you properly, doesn’t mean you have to throw it away or put it back on the rack. 

Personally, I’ve lost a bit of weight over my high school years, so a lot of clothes that used to fit me, become a bit loose on my body. I found it unflattering, so I learnt how to do the basics of hand sewing to make clothes fit me the best. 

Learning how to tailor could also help in upcycling clothes that have potential. There’s a lot of basic clothes out there, which just need subtle changes to elevate the whole article. Plus, you’re saving money!

HAVE A SIGNATURE ELEMENT. Something personal to you that expresses yourself without having to say anything. It could be a certain type of jewellery, a bag, a colour, pattern etc. Its just something nice, but not essential for those who are constantly experimenting.

V. SHOPPING MINDFULLY

KEEP IN MIND YOUR PALETTE. For me, being experimental with so many colours ends up with too many fashion failures. I do buy outside of that palette, but only if I know for a fact that I will wear it (not just once) and I do feel like it aligns with me regardless of the colour. 

Even with that, I’m still very likely to put back anything which is not my palette. As much as I do like experimenting, I find security knowing that I do like my clothes and I will wear them.

PURCHASE INTENTIONALLY. Even if something fits your palette, it may not be something that you will wear or style. Always ask yourself questions when shopping, and if you’re not all in, I would put it back. 

Does it tick all of your boxes according to your dream wardrobe? Do you see yourself wearing it next year? (trends, body changes, lifestyle changes), can you style it with the wardrobe you have now? 

CREATE A WISHLIST. Create a list of all the clothes that you want, regardless of any questions or palette. However, these clothes will have to sit on that list for at least a month. If you still find yourself wanting it, then you can permit yourself to purchase it. If not, you’ve just avoided a regretful purchase. 

If you would like to shop in person, I would still create a list when I go out then only purchase items that resemble what’s on my list.

VI. MAINTENANCE 

REGULARLY CLEAN. If you have a shelving system, at least bi-monthly I would take out all of my clothes and wipe down all surfaces in my closet. If you have a hanging rack instead, I would still wipe it down because of dust accumulation. 

ORGANISE. Whatever system works best for you, keeps your clothes easily identifiable at a glance and it's neat, I would use it. Utilise hangers and baskets to help your wardrobe if needed.

Learn how to fold your clothes nicely yet easy to pick out what you want. Its such a small thing, but I do believe it will improve the quality of daily life as you don’t have to scavenge for what you want.

DECLUTTER BIANNUALLY. Whatever time of the year works best for you, then do it. Turn your wardrobe upside down to see if there’s anything that misaligns with you. Overtime as you declutter, you should be donating less stuff if you’re practicing intentional shopping habits.  WASH YOUR CLOTHES AS INSTRUCTED. Washing your clothes properly will extend their lifespan, unfortunately, just throwing them all in the wash isn’t actually beneficial. Read the care labels on each of your clothes and use them.

[blogmixed]

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[deadsetobsessions]

Hera stood, waiting for her turn at last. The Queen of the Greek Pantheon traced the lines of neon green, its light reflecting against her true form in a soothing way. She’s no stranger to patience, to waiting. But there were little of those that had the gall to make her wait, and even smaller of that number that she would tolerate such behavior. Regardless, this was the one being she could not afford to offend and so, she waits. Her many forms, her divine self, perceived the room and compared it to her own halls of residence.

Olympus was much more intricate, carved of noble marble and inlaid with countless of priceless metals and gems and divinity. Twelve seats of power atop an engineering wonder, halls adorned with the brightest of the original flames, an hearth that was roaring at Hesta’s skillful hands.

In comparison, this throne room had been changed much since she was last here. Gone were the spikes of terror and screams of the damned. Now… it looked like the most bare throne room she’d ever bore witness to.

And yet, as she waited for the Boy King, Hera could feel the subtle thrum of impossible power. The new king did not flare his will and might like the previous tyrant, and for that, Hera approved. She has had quite enough of living with and under tyrants who cared only for themselves… and their bed achievements whilst failing spectacularly in their marital roles. Zeus was not a good life partner and Hera regretted ever saying yes to him many times in her immortal life. And yet… she loved him still.

The doors opened, and a small figure floated in, flanked by the previous King’s Knight. Perhaps that is what makes this Boy King so dangerous, Hera thought as she dipped into a bow, because he can turn the loyalest to his side.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted, in ghost speak.

“Heya, Hera!” The Boy King greeted her back, before waving the Knight away. Hera marveled, a bit, at the sheer confidence he had to dismiss his knight in her presence. Even the last king kept the knights around to ensure his power was always in display, always unchallengeable. The Boy King could destroy her with a snap of a finger and he knows it. He knows that she knows it.

“What did you need?” The Boy King asked, grin still on place as he floated to her instead of seating himself on his throne. Hera masked the bit of confusion she felt in pursuit of her goal.

“I have come here to ask of you a favor,” she began. “I am aware that… you are fond of this, the earth in which I reside in?”

Hera carefully picked her word. Everybody knows that the new King Phantom had laid claim to not only the Infinite Realms as is normal of his station, but an entire Earth as his haunt. He had the power to do so, she could finally see, now that she was standing before him. It would not do for Hera to get her strings cut because she claimed what is his.

“Sure. Why?” The Boy King tilted his head, narrowing that predator green upon her true form.

“Do you know of the Justice League, my lord?”

“Phantom’s fine,” he waved a hand. “And yeah, sure do! Why?”

Hera tilted her many forms in acknowledgement of the command. She bowed.

“My daughter, of a sort, is Diana Prince. Wonder Woman. She is… in grave danger. We can not exert our influence over a land that does not have our history. I can not interfere and aid her.”

“Oh, you want me to help her?” His tone was exasperated, and Hera spoke even more carefully in fear of offending him.

“Yes, if it pleases you. And it would be most gracious of you should Your Majesty have time to watch over her. I fear the danger will not leave her so quickly.”

There was a brief period of silence before King Phantom sighed. “And if it does not please me to do so?”

Hera looked up and locked gazes with evaluating green. “Then I am afraid I will be breaking a fair bit of cosmic law, King Phantom.”

He laughed. “Okay, yeah, I’ll check up on Wonder Woman.”

Hera blinked her many eyes, peacock feathers spreading in shock at how easily he allowed her favors. She did not even have to beg.

King Phantom turned to leave before pausing. “Hera, if you need help, just ask. Preferably without beating around the bushes next time. Also, Pandora misses you. You might want to hang around for tea later.”

Hera regarded him with the might of her divinity, which was but hardly a spec of his own kindness. The last one had not had her respect. Fear, yes. But never respect But this one…

“Yes, my King.”

“It’s just Phantom.” He shot back as he left, the Knight returning to his side once more.

Hera transformed into a more mortal form. She had not seen Pandora in a long time, the young woman had made quite an impression on her. Perhaps her old friend could be convinced in helping her punch Zeus and ruin her beloved husband’s day. Hera hummed, the green that used to flicker acidly against her divine form now only soothed. A reflection of its owner.

King Phantom is worthy of her regard.

——

Holy shit, a goddess asked him to check on the Justice League! She was super weird about it and talked in a really old way of speaking, but Danny hadn’t had anything to do for the past few days while entering the zone for his annual check up.

Danny waved away Fright Knight and dived into the portal that would take him directly to the Justice League and Diana!

He floated down from the portal, blinking at group of disheveled and injured superheroes surrounded by a group of demons. Belial?

“King Phantom.” Belial rumbled. Danny waved, not noticing the standstill his presence forced.

“Shite.” The British man cursed, drawing on his magic once more.

“King Phantom?” Diana Prince, Wonder Woman, said quizzically.

“Who?” Batman, Batman! That’s actually Batman, rumbled.

“High King of the Infinite Realms. We’re buggered if he decides to help Belial.”

“Wait, like the god of gods, that King Phantom?” Captain Marvel asked. Ancients, why are all of them electrical based? Danny hates electricity.

Danny floated closer to them, grinning in a friendly way before frowning as they tensed up.

“King Phantom. May I ask why you have graced us with your presence, my King?”

“Hey, Wonder Woman! Your mom asked me to babysit you!” He grinned, sharp and mischievous.

“What…?” The Flash asked, zipping to their side. “Her mom? Queen Hippolyta?”

“No, Hera,” Danny said, and watched Wonder Woman straighten at his words.

“The Goddess Hera.”

“Yep!” Danny rocked back on his suddenly formed legs instead of the whisp of a tail he usually kept in the Zone. He was also still floating. Danny sent a wave of ice and froze the rest of the demons in one fell swoop.

“The rest of you can take care of clean up, yes? Diana has to get some snacks, dinner, and then go to bed.” He pushed gently at Diana’s shoulders, nudging her towards the plane. She went willingly, respectful but amused.

——

Bruce, intellectually knowing that’s a king but only seeing a superhero teenager: *fills out mental adoption paperwork*

——

Hera, a goddess, terrified of misspeaking and dying as a result: he’s so strong even though he’s young omg powerful and could end my immortal existence

Danny, an unserious king: golly gee why is she speaking like a Shakespeare novel

——

Hera, thinking Danny’s gonna be dignified: pls watch over my daughter

Danny, who has a clone he sees as a daughter and therefore has no issues babysitting a grown woman: lol snacks, dinner, bedtime

Diana:… usually I’m on the other spectrum of this but it’s from a higher up so… okay?

——

Danny, terrifying gods and ancients: they’re my friends! The power of friendship!

[chow0w]

oh i just LOVE your style!!!! if you wouldn't mind, could you explain how you go about designing and what your artistic process is with dragons specifically?? I love your lady jewel design the most!!!!!!

Of course, and thank you so much! @aldershadows also asked this question, and I hope I can give you a comprehensive answer, and will be taking this oppurtunity to create a one-and-done design tutorial to answer any similar questions that may come up in the future.

Bear in mind that I'm not a professional, and I'm not looking to dissuade people from following traditional techniques or other advice. This is purely a discussion of MY process, and what I consider to be good/bad design technique.

Where to Start

There are six important conceptual 'principles' I like to consider when in the initial stages of (Re)designing a character: Story, Personality, Aesthetic, Interpretation, and canon/fanon appearance. Fully understanding these principals can help you understand a character, which will make both your life and design better.

Story: What is this character's actual story? What's their lore? Where do they start, and where do they end up - and most importantly, where does your design fit into that timeline? When I design characters, I try to be clear on exactly what part of their journey they are on. (Ex: blaze and the coat -> sandwing succession war)

Personality: This one is pretty easy - what is your character like, and how do they present themselves to the outside world? When you make a character and show them to the world, everything in the canvas is interpreted by the audience: even down to simple details like posture or background. Treat it like an opportunity to show off as much of your character's personality as you can.

Aesthetic: Aesthetic plays the most important role of all: it's job is to make sure your design is cohesive. It can be a common theme, pattern, color pallet or shape - as long as it reoccurs throughout a design, it's good. Use aesthetics to amplify the other principals, and figure out how to make it *look* nice as a secondary goal.

Interpretation: This one is specific to redesigns, but could also be applied to OCs - I like to consider my personal interpretation of a character: the media I see, the opinion I have... Multi-animator projects, other fanart pieces and personal quirks make up my interpretation of most WoF characters. You don't always need to incorporate your interpretation, but it's good to have in mind.

Canon/Fanon appearances: If you want to design and OC, ignore this. If you're redesigning an existing character, it's useful to consider how your audience views them - for example, most of us collectively agree on a few key design aspects of most characters. That doesn't mean you have to follow those conventions, but keep in mind that they may make your character more or less recognizable. You can also call on the other principles of design to make up for any leap-of-faith redesign choices you make.

Narrow It Down

Now that you're thinking, it's time to narrow those ideas down! Be aware that sometimes, less is more: you might have a ton of cool concepts, but your design will look BAD if you can't stay cohesive. The number of different ideas that can co-exist in one design varies a lot by preference and similarity, so be evaluative when doing this. If you follow my blog, you might notice I tend to walk the line between detailed, cohesive design and overwhelming animator repellent. To combat this, I try to step back often and consider if I've gone too far.

At this stage, it's good to make notes or small sketches - anything to get your ideas down.

Experiment

Test your ideas out with more sketches - alter, add, subtract... whatever your heart desires. Experimentation is the best way to discover your specific design tendencies, as well as breaking new ground and stepping out of your comfort zone. The more you experiment, the quicker you'll improve. This is usually the point where I start testing out different patterns, since those are the main highlight of most of my redesigns. Pertaining to dragons, it's always a good idea to test out different shapes - especially wings, spikes, arms and tails, which are generally the most customizable features of a character. Looking to other artists for advice/inspiration is also a great tactic, but be sure to follow the 80/20 rule of originality within your designs!

Judge yourself (not literally)

Evaluating your designs as you make them is always a great idea, but sometimes you need multiple tests/sketches in order to know what you REALLY want. Compare your experiments - what do you like about them? What do you dislike? Which are more faithful to the character, and which ones confuse you? understanding the flaws in your design can help you to overcome even the biggest challenges.

I've used Kinkajou to show how important evaluation is: despite being my favorite character, she has proved exceedingly hard to redesign (to my satisfaction,) even with multiple attempts from this year and the last. She might not even be released by the time this post airs - but with the power of critical thinking and good evaluation, her design has gradually improved over my last few attempts.

Stay on your toes

Did you think you were done? Did you think it was over? NO. Life doesn't get easier just because you made it past the idea stage. When you have your final thoughts and want to get chugging with your reference page/illustration, make sure to stay alert! Keep evaluating, keep experimenting, and make sure to stay mindful of what you do! One of the more common issues I have is that I turn my brain off while I draw, and then slowly my designs drift further and further away from the idea I actually wanted to put down. Asking yourself questions along the way can help to sharpen your design, and train your mind to think more artistically.

It's always good to take a once-over of your final product: check for errors you might have made, and think about whether or not your design still looks good. Does it show personality? Is it consistent?

If you do find that your end product isn't what you really imagined, don't despair - there are plenty of lazy tricks you (And I) can pull to string things back together again. Using gradient maps is a great way to fix your colors, and simple filters like 'overlay' (procreate) can help to neutralize your pallet. My favorite trick is to use the 'curves' tool (procreate) to make certain colors darker, in the case that I feel my design doesn't use a wide enough range of light and dark shades. I also like to turn saturation down if I think there's a color problem, to see if it's actually my pallet or if I'm using too many colors with the same tone.

Keep Going

My design strategy relies on confidence. You won't be able to improve if you doubt that you can! So, my most important piece of advice is to keep going, no matter how fast or slow you seem to make progress. My second most important piece of advice is not to compare yourself to other artists - focusing on their progress is neglecting your own.

To everyone who made it this far, thank you so much! Posting here truly is an amazing experience and I adore you guys. Sorry if this got a little out of hand. I hope this was helpful to you and anyone else with the same question, as well as being a useful resource to other artists in the future! As always, my askbox is open to any and all questions + requests for redesigns!

( ´ ω ` )ノﾞ

[channieschaoscorner]

First Meeting - Stray Kids x female!9th member reader

*Prequel to Tipping Point*

Pairing: ot8!Skz x 9th member reader, platonic Chan x reader

Summary: During one of Chan’s lives, he tells the story of how you met.

Genre: Fluff, platonic love, maybe slight Chan x reader again if you squint hard enough but idk the reader is running away from me at this point and doing her own thing.

A/N: Thank you so much to the anon who requested this one, this is the prequel to Tipping Point of how Chan met our lovely 9th member. As always thank you for all your love and support on my work, please send in any ideas or requests that you might have and I hope you enjoy!!!!!

Prequel to Tipping Point

Masterlist

────୨ৎ────

Chan threw his head back and laughed as he read the questions during his live.

“Who wrote ‘Red Lights’? Hyunjin. Hyunjin did.” He nodded.

“Who wrote “I Like It? That would be Y/N. I don't know what children I've raised, you guys need to talk to them about that.”

He could hear the scramble in the hallway and braced himself for what was coming as the door to his room flew open.

“You liar!”

You burst through his door and shoved him out of frame, he didn’t even fight back. Chan landed on the floor laughing as you attempted to do damage control with what he said.

“I did not write ‘I Like It’ Stay, please do not listen to a word this man says. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying.” You begged. “He’s just trying to cover up his own lyrics and he needs to take responsibility for them-will you shut up?!”

Chan was still in stitches on the floor, he knew there was no taking back what he’d said and that Stay would run with it now. He could picture the comments flying in and couldn’t hold back his glee. He crawled back up, wiping at his eyes to be met by your very unimpressed face and crossed arms.

“They believe you, you’re actually the worst.”

“You love me really.” He teased.

“I don’t, you’re a demon. I regret ever joining this group.” You tried to keep a straight face but the corners of your mouth twitched. In an effort to move on, you turned your attention back to the comment section.

I can’t believe Chan exposed Y/N like that

I love them

They’re so funny together

Welcome to IDidn’tWriteTheLyricsRacha Y/N!!!!!!

Actual friendship goals

How did you guys become friends?

“How did you guys become friends?” You repeated. “Have you never told the story of how we met?”

Chan shook his head.

“Go on, you tell it better.” You encouraged him, leaning back to listen about how you’d met your best friend.

────୨ৎ────

*Flashback to your trainee days*

Chan rubbed his face, hoping to wake himself up slightly but there was no point. It was closing in on 2am and he’d been in here since this morning. He admitted defeat and started to pack away his laptop. He closed the studio door and paused.

Was that music?

It was faint but it was definitely there. He assumed someone had left their phone hooked up to a speaker or something because no one would still be here at this time. He was so used to being alone in the building that he pushed the door of the practice room open with no hesitation, only to be greeted with the sight of someone dancing.

That someone being you.

“Oh!” He froze. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone was here.” He bowed down in apology, mortified at how he’d just marched in.

“That’s ok!” You smiled warmly at him. “I don’t blame you, I shouldn’t still be here right now but monthly evaluations are coming up and I want to be perfect.”

“You’re a trainee?”

You nodded and bowed, introducing yourself to him. “I’m Y/N.”

“I’m Chris, but most people just call me Chan. It’s nice to meet you, I’m sorry again. I’ll let you get back to practising.”

Chan left after that, but that wasn’t the last time you saw him. In fact, you started noticing him more. In the hallways between practices, the days you left the building before him, seeing him sit on his own to eat. You wanted to go up and speak to him but seeing everyone else give him a wide berth made you hesitate. He seemed nice enough that night but maybe that was just him being polite, maybe he wasn’t one for friends. So you didn’t speak though, not until he found his way back to a practice room in the middle of the night again.

A knock on the door made you pause. “Come in?”

Chan poked his head round the door. “I didn’t just want to barge in again but I heard the music.”

“Sorry, is it too loud? I can lower it down, I’m just used to practising late and no one being here.”

“No no it’s ok! Actually I was just… I wanted to see if… If maybe…If you…” He was tripping over his own words and rubbing his ear. You could practically feel the anxiety rolling off him right now.

“If I?” You prompted.

“IfeelreallyguiltythatIdidn’tmakesureyougothomeoktheotherdayandI’msorry.” The words fell out of his mouth, quicker than he seemed to anticipate.

You blinked trying to process what he’d said.

“I feel guilty that I didn’t check to make sure you were ok going home on your own the other day and I’m sorry.” He tried again. “I just wanted to check and see if you needed me to walk you back or anything because it’s late. But it’s ok if you don’t or maybe you’re not comfortable with that, it’s not like we’re friends. I mean you don’t even really know me, I just wanted-“ He was starting to ramble again and word vomit.

“That would be great actually.” You interrupted.

He visibly relaxed and smiled, you resisted the urge to comment on his dimples “Ok cool, I can go grab my stuff and I’ll come back.”

He left so you could pack your stuff up, you were glad he’d come back. You’d been contemplating approaching him whenever you saw him but he always looked so busy and at times intimidating. You knew he wasn’t very friendly with other trainees, you weren’t sure why but now you knew it wasn’t because he was an unfriendly person. Unfriendly people don’t offer to walk other people home just to make sure they’re safe.

You waited outside the practice room for him and smiled when he came down the hallway. “You ready?”

You walked in silence for a while before he broke it, “How are you feeling about the evaluations?”

“Nervous, it’s my first one. They gave us a few months to settle in before starting the evaluations.”

“You’ll be fine, they’re intense but just listen to their feedback and you’ll do well.”

You nodded. “It’s a group and individual evaluation so they’ll see me a few times.”

“That’s good, you have a chance to really show them what you can do.”

He gave you some more advice on the walk home, which you happily accepted. It was nice to be able to talk to someone who’d already been through this. He told you about joining 2 years ago, leaving Australia and his family but how he hoped it would all be worth it once he debuted. He offered his number to you once you got to your dorm.

“Just in case you’re rehearsing late again and need me to walk you home.”

────୨ৎ────

You settled into this routine then, one of you would text at some point in the day to see if you were staying late and you started to coordinate the nights so you always had company for the walk home. You felt more comfortable heading up to the studio to get him once it reached a certain time, always concerned about his lack of sleep. He was more than able though to turn the lecture back to you reminding you that it took more energy to dance into the early hours of the morning than produce. Despite knowing you were in the practice room drilling your routines for the evaluation, you wouldn’t let him see.

“I want it to be a surprise. You need to see it with everyone else for the first time.”

That was how Chan found himself waiting with other trainees and staff to watch the evaluations of the new trainees.

“I heard there’s a girl here that JYP wants to come down and see personally, he loved her audition but she’s not even meant to be that great of a singer.” Chan heard someone gossiping. “It was her dancing that got her in, said he hasn’t seen a dancer like her in years.”

Chan stopped paying attention, he’d spotted you warming up in the corner. You waved shyly at him, trying not to attract too much attention which was hard because you were currently sat in the splits looking far too comfortable.

“Are you friends with him?” A girl in your evaluation group asked.

You looked up at her. “Erm, kind of?”

“How?” She pressed.

“We bumped into each other, just got talking.” You held back on telling her how you’d actually met for more than one reason. One, you didn’t want it known that you stayed late to practice most nights. That time was your safe haven and two, you didn’t want your time with your time with Chan interrupted. The idea of others joining in on that made something stick in your throat. You coughed to try and shift the feeling but it wouldn’t leave you.

In fact, that uncomfortable feeling stayed with you right until the staff announced they would begin the evaluations. They were starting off with groups first then moving onto individual performances. The groups were more strutted, dancing, singing, stage presence. Everything you would need if you were going to debut in a group, but the individual evaluations is what you were looking forward to. You’d been allowed some leeway with this one as it was your first and were allowed to just perform a chosen skill e.g. singing, rapping or yours, dance.

The door opened and the room fell silent as JYP took a seat. You’d heard people gossiping that he might come to watch and give his opinion but it had all been rumours, nothing confirmed until he walked right through the door. He was truthful as the groups performed, telling them what they needed to work on, what was done well and if needs be, what went completely wrong. Your hands were trembling listening to him speak, your mouth had gone dry and no matter how much water you drank none of it helped. He waved the group away and called out the next one.

Yours.

You took your place, your eyes searched the room until you found Chan again. He offered you a small smile when he realised you’d been scanning the room, he nodded encouragingly. The music started and your body went into autopilot. The moves came naturally but that wasn’t because you enjoyed them. If you had to be honest, you’d say that girl group choreography just wasn’t your style. It was too delicate, too cutesy, not you. That didn’t matter though, this is what you needed to do in order to debut and so you’d do it without complaint.

You hit your final positions and then lined up in front of the staff to listen to their feedback. It was all similar.

“Danced well together.”

“Timing is good.”

“Need to be cleaner in some moves.”

It was JYP that you held your breath for, he spoke to the others first before finishing with you. He was helpful but firm, they all nodded and absorbed his feedback, taking in every word.

“Y/N.”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“I expected more.”

That was it. He offered no other feedback before you were dismissed and sat back down. He expected more? What did that even mean? You knew the dance wasn’t your style but you didn’t think that you were terrible. You tucked yourself into a ball and dipped your head. This wasn’t good enough, you were a dancer. You’d been born to move, to dance, to perform. You had one more shot to impress him and you were not going to let this go to waste.

Chan watched you deflate in the corner of the room, he felt terrible for you but he’d be lying though if he said he disagreed with what was said. You were good, great even but you danced like you were just going through the motions, not like you loved what you were doing. It confused him. This didn’t seem like the girl who stayed rehearsing until 2am because she had to be perfect. He watched you fold into yourself for the rest of the groups until they announced the solo evaluations.

They were good, he couldn’t deny that. Between singers and rappers, there was a lot of vocal talent in the room. They moved onto the dancers and he watched your head lift up. Your jaw was clenched and there was a hard look in your eyes. They moved through the list, and many different styles were performed. Between lyrical, contemporary, the stereotypical girl group style. Your name was called last. You stepped into the centre, ignoring the whispers surrounding you.

The speakers came to life and everyone was silenced when ‘Doom Dada’ blared out. Chan watched your face light up and an attitude that he’d never seen before as you moved. It clicked in his head instantly, of course you were going through the motions before it wasn’t even close to being your style of dance. This, right now, you were like a whole other person and the love for what you were doing shone through.

You finished in a low squat with your arms crossed and held eye contact with the staff in front of you. JYP leaned forward with his hands crossed, you held your breath.

“That was exactly what I wanted to see. That is what you’re capable of and I don’t want to see anything less than that ever again.” He stood up, finished with the evaluations and addressed the room. “That is your standard for dancing. Anything below that is not enough.”

“Well, I guess we know who he wanted to see now.” Someone muttered behind Chan. He wasn’t listening though, he’d already stood up and crossed the room to speak to you.

“You didn’t think to mention you can dance like that?”

You were breathing heavily, the weight of what you’d just done beginning to hit you and your body was tiring quickly. “I told you I wanted you to see it with everyone else.”

“I won’t lie, I was worried after the group but that? That was insane Y/N, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

You felt your face flush at his compliment. “It’s not that big of a deal.” You brushed him off.

“Nope, forget about waiting on me when I’m producing at night. You’re going to help me learn how to dance like that.” He grabbed your shoulders and started steering you out of the room. “We’re going to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” You didn’t object to the pushing, just let him guide you out.

“Celebrate that my dance evaluations are going to go through the roof now!”

────୨ৎ────

*Back to the present*

“So that was how we became friends.” Chan finished. “It wasn’t even a question for me when I was told that I could make the group to ask her.”

“I was always surprised that you asked me.” You admitted, shifting in your chair and tucking your knees up to your chest.

“What?!” Chan’s eyes almost popped out his head, you’d never told him that before.

You shrugged. “You were told to form a boy group, it had been so long since you joined that I never even thought you’d fight to make it co-ed.”

Chan was shocked, you’d been the first person on his mind the second he was told he could form his own group. He’d gone back straight away to explain how he couldn’t do it without you, what you’d bring to the group and he’d fight to have you there with him. It had been years and you’d never once mentioned that you had been genuinely surprised that he asked you to do it with him.

He was silent for a moment, thinking of his words carefully. “You were my first friend in 2 years that I knew wouldn’t leave.” He spoke quietly, so quietly that you nearly had to strain to hear him. “I couldn’t imagine doing any of this without you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

You held his eye contact, until the buzzing of the comments was too much to ignore.

I’m actually crying at this

Omg actual soulmates here

Y/N looks like she’s about to cry I can’t cope

If she cries I’ll cry

Forget friendship goals I fully believe they’re in love now

Aww Y/N as a girlfriend would be so cute!!!!

“Nope nope none of that.” You scrolled through. “I’d be a terrible girlfriend to anyone.”

Chan laughed again at that, agreeing with you.

“I’m a workaholic that spends all hours choreographing even on my days off. Never mind when I have a busy schedule full of practicing, touring, interviews. Honestly, I’d be the worst girlfriend. I hope no one ever asks me.” You were completely exposing yourself here and you didn’t care.

Chan looked at you slyly and then back to the camera. “Spoken like the true writer of I Like It.” He teased.

Your jaw dropped and you lunged at him to push him off his chair again while the comments exploded at his words.

[windvexer]

Advice for if your practice is feeling stressful or unfulfilling (that isn't 'just stop practicing')

Before you expand: long text post!

I think it's interesting that the first line of advice stressed and unhappy practitioners often receive is 'stop practicing! take a break,' because besides a breather this doesn't actually do anything. When a person is done with that break they're still going to have the same stressful, unfulfilling practice they did before.

Stop practicing is useful advice for someone who is about to deep-fry their brain in uncontrolled Witch Fire. It's useful advice for someone who experiences unexplainable catastrophe every time they engage in magic.

I'm not sure it's useful advice for people who want to practice and are actively seeking help figuring out how.

So here are some ideas. Feel free to add your own.

If your practice has too much of a time load:

Scrape over-engineered ritual. Examine ritual formats. Are you spending a majority of your practice time engaging in elaborate ritual? Where can that be paired down?

Swap ritual for enchantments. If ritual performs an action (laying a compass), can you substitute for that ritual action by making enchanted objects that take less time to activate (enchanted compass altar cloth)?

Minimize ingredients. If you regularly perform spells that require lengthy enchantment of ingredients, can you use fewer ingredients to achieve the same results? If you're using more than 3 correspondences for any spell, is this because you are wise in your own ways, or because you just feel that more is merrier?

Mash rituals together. Do you have a string of rituals, even small ones, that you perform one after the other? Is it possible to reorganize these so they're all done at once, in the same ritual? For example, setting out an offering to the gods, a different offering for the ancestors, another for helper spirits, etc. Can you combine these all into one single offering?

Check for over-tending. Is it possible that you're repeating magical acts, like feeding wards and cleansing, more often than you need to? Did you arrive at this schedule through trial and error, or did you just guess this is how often you should do them?

Check for your own levelup: spell maintenance. If it's been a while since you re-evaluated your ritual/offering/maintenance schedule, your increase in skills may mean you need to do these tasks less often to achieve the same result.

Check for your own levelup: techniques and routines. Some techniques, like carefully entering trance, grounding, and centering, are like training wheels that wear ruts into our paths of magic. As we improve in skill, old rituals and techniques that have been carefully couched in these helpful devices may become ingrained in us so that we can perform them in almost any state of mind, much faster and easier than we could before. Experiment with any technique you've been doing for a while and see if you still need to perform time-consuming meditative or focusing techniques before you can perform the skill.

Be reasonable with your own goals. I find most 'laywitches' give themselves daily and weekly schedules that would put actual cloistered monks to shame. Did your spirits tell you they expect daily offerings, or did you decide on that an run with it? Where are you overcompensating and overexerting in your path when nobody, including yourself, asked you to?

If your practice has too much of a work load:

Much of the advice of the prior section applies. Also,

Just work less. Are you putting in 100% effort when 20% or 30% would do? Are you treating every act of magic like a performance review that will control the outcome of your magical career? I'm not being sarcastic; an actual solution to your path being too much work is to just put in less effort. If you've never tried this you may be shocked at how effective magic can be when you're only doing what needs to be done.

Find simpler, more reasonable stuff. Find new techniques, and spell and ritual formats that are paired down to fit the amount of effort that's reasonable to exert for any given magical act. If you can't work with correspondences without a lengthy act of activation, find a way to cast simple spells that doesn't rely on correspondences.

Limit research and prep. Ask yourself how much research you reasonably need to get started on any given project. Remember that a huge amount of a witch's education is experiential; you will probably never know enough until you've already done it three or four times.

Be goal-oriented; prioritize actions. Ask yourself if you've set arbitrary workloads before you can get started with anything, such as forcing yourself to write artistic grimoire pages before you're allowed to perform a ritual you're interested in.

Learn skills to help prioritize actions. If your practice is consumed by acts of upkeep such as cleansing and empowering objects, focus on learning energy sensing so you can reasonably determine whether or not an object actually needs to be cleansed or empowered.

Administrate your own practice - what can go on the back burner? Make a list of all your active ongoing projects and maintenance, including upkeep of energy batteries, spells that require maintenance, and situations you want to change and are casting spells on. Prioritize them; see which ones you can set aside.

Restructure your projects to minimize maintenance. Consolidate spells and projects where possible. For example, if you have multiple protection spells for many people that require upkeep, condense them all onto a protection altar so you can feed and tend to them all at once.

Work in batch and bulk. See where you can do batch work to lighten your load. You can bulk enchant candles and incense, instead of enchanting incense every time you do a ritual. You can enchant oils, waters, and incense to feed your spells, taking time out of upkeep.

Levelup your charging and maintenance skills. Learn energy work to attach energy tethers to batteries and other important projects so they're able to drink from the wellspring you attach them to, and stay charged.

Scrape routines that don't serve you. Examine any daily routines. Are you doing them because they're helping you, or because you feel like you're supposed to be doing something every day? See if you can replace more intensive daily routines with something less tiring, like a prayer to your path itself.

If your practice feels too silly:

You have a right to privacy. Cocooning is valid. It's fine to take steps to limit who can see and potentially judge your practice. You can keep things to yourself until you're ready.

Tend to your emotional wellness. Self-therapy, in any form you feel comfortable with, can help mitigate the inner eye of judgement.

Reduce your beliefs to palatable doses. Believing in magic for only the duration of your work is perfectly fine. You don't have to 'believe-believe' 24/7. If you're not ready to integrate the belief of magic and spirits into your baseline worldview, don't - you can agree to buy in to those beliefs only while you practice techniques and cast spells, and then put them away the rest of the time.

Scrape stuff you really can't get past. Ask yourself what about your practice feels silly. Are there trappings - like altars, ritual movements, and speaking aloud - that you don't like? Change them. Is the idea that religious faith itself is a bit cringe? Self-therapy (or you know, the regular kind) may be assistive.

Ask for help modifying your process.Is there something very specific about a ritual or technique that you just can't get past, but you don't know how to change it? Research and see what other substitute rituals are available. Ask others and see if they can help you brainstorm.

Embrace the silliness. It's not going anywhere. Believing in your practice and holding it dear and sacred is not the same as being ✨super serious gravitas✨ all the time. There are lots of things about witchcraft, and the acts of the witch, that are silly and make you realize you're doing something ridiculous. I came out here at 2 am after it's been raining to climb down a slippery riverbed to get a branch of a tree that I think is talking to me?? Because some medieval guy said Tuesday is the planet Mars and I think trees talk to me?! Ridiculous. Yet I still love it dearly in a sacred place in my heart. It can be silly and glorious at the same time.

Cast a wider net. See if you're barking up the wrong tree. Traditional Witchcraft, folk magic, lodge magic, chaos magic, eclectic neopaganism... these things are not interchangeable. If you've never explored different traditions, why not give it a go? You might find another path that feels a lot more natural to you. A lot of people fall into a certain path just because they don't know what else they could be doing!

If your practice feels unfulfilling:

What are you doing to bring yourself fulfillment? Why did you get into witchcraft? Make a list of your top 5 reasons (if you have that many). Which techniques, spells, and rituals are you regularly performing are designed to deliver these desires to you? If one of your goals of practicing witchcraft is to 'feel connected,' how often are you performing acts where the only goal is to make you feel connected?

Grow your path deliberately in the direction of your needs. What do you wish you had in your life right now? Is it the feeling of being loved? Inner peace? Feeling like nature is alive and watching you? Look for what techniques and rituals in your practice will bring these things to you. If there are none, find or develop them.

Ask for help and share your feelings. If you work with gods and spirits, do you regularly tell them how you feel about your practice and ask them for help finding fulfillment?

Find contentment in the process. It's vital to find joy in the process. If you have regular routines or upkeep you need to do, how can you modify it so that process in and of itself is satisfying to you? Try considering the visceral element of witchcraft: the words, scents, sounds, moods, and thoughts that you want to experience in your present moment. Witchcraft is experiential: a great deal of the experience you create in the tidepools of routine is under your control.

Contemplate the larger purpose. Some witches do have magical chores and responsibilities they can't or shouldn't shirk. If this is true of you, and you can't modify those routines, try refocusing on why you're doing them and the importance they hold in your path. See if you can find balance elsewhere in your practice that feels rejuvenating; sort of a 'work-play' balance of your own craft.

Set short-term goals you can celebrate. Are you undertaking a lot of 'workout routines' that are designed to basically make you magically buff, or get good at a particular skill, but you're doing them with no endgoal? Try creating short-term goals that excite your sense of wonder or accomplishment. Like, practicing tarot until you can read the Celtic Cross, or practicing energy work until you can make a four-element layered energy shield. Build goalposts for yourself, both in the short and long-term, and celebrate your successes.

Scrape routines you're not doing for any good reason. Are your regular practices things you're doing because they fill you with mystery and wonder, or because you're just pretty sure that's the kind of thing witches do? If you're bored or unfulfilled by a particular routine, consider stopping it altogether, especially if you can't think of any short-term goals that it's helping you work towards. Think about the reasons you got into witchcraft: what practices would help you fulfill those reasons, while also feeling good to practice?

Seek out a likeminded community. A good working group of friends can be invaluable. My close group of witch friends, whom I've been hanging out with for years, started as a Tumblr post asking if anyone wanted to make a small server to study witchcraft. Reach out and see who's out there to study with, talk to, and practice with. It can be loads of fun to do short-term study and practice challenges with friends, and a great way to get feedback and support.

Evaluate your spiritual relationships. Although it can be painful and challenging, sometimes we enter into our paths working with gods and spirits that after some time, we need to move on from. Is it possible your path has become stagnant because you don't want to keep working with a god or spirit that your path has been built around? It may be time to see how you can move on.

When 'take a break' might be helpful advice to heal your practice:

Of course, YMMV :)

'Taking a break' doesn't mean stop being a witch, stop believing in magic, or stop 100% of your practice. It can also mean putting a lot of projects on the back burner, switching to bare-minimum (or below minimum) maintenance, and squashing regular routines.

I'm talking specifically about taking a break in the interest of your own practice - not the conditions under which someone is ""allowed"" to stop practicing witchcraft.

Take a break to rest and let your seeds germinate. 'Fallow periods,' when you have no desire or motivation to practice witchcraft, and when it seems like there's nothing for you to do, are normal. Some witches experience this cyclically, perhaps during certain seasons or when predictable life conditions are met. There's no need to force yourself to practice when it's just not flowing. The snow on your mountaintops needs to melt to replenish your waterways, bestie. There's nothing wrong with you, the sun just isn't out yet.

When you're hitting yourself with a hammer. When something in your practice is triggering or harming you, and stopping will have no consequences, then stopping your practice for a while is probably a good idea. Use the downtime to seek healing or reformat your practice.

To open your life up for necessary work. Not every witch can out-path every problem. Consider taking a break when the problem is something you will have time and energy to work on if not for your regular magical practice.

When you're about to deep-fry your brain with Witch Fire. Consider taking a break when the problem with your practice is that you are practicing too often - such as fatigue due to excessive spellwork, divinatory obsession, trouble staying out of the spirit world (compulsive astral travel), or focus on spirits/magic/the spirit worlds are starting to erode your home, school, or work life.

To let the ripples settle. When you've done so much magic or ritual work that your life is a boat on a stormy sea, and you just need to batten down the hatches for a while and let things settle.

[bloomzone]

self care is . . .

Reading a book: Engaging with literature to relax, learn, and escape from daily stress.

Meditation: Practicing mindfulness to calm the mind and reduce stress.

Eating a balanced diet: Consuming a variety of nutrients to maintain overall health.

Exercising regularly: Keeping the body active to improve physical and mental health.

Getting enough sleep: Ensuring sufficient rest to allow the body to recover and function optimally.

Listening to music: Enjoying music to boost mood and reduce anxiety.

Stress management: Implementing techniques to control and reduce stress levels.

Setting boundaries: Establishing limits to protect personal time and energy.

Being creative: Engaging in creative activities to express oneself and relax.

Time management: Organizing time effectively to balance responsibilities and leisure.

Taking regular breaks: Resting periodically to maintain productivity and prevent burnout.

Stretching: Keeping the body flexible and reducing muscle tension.

Practicing gratitude: Focusing on positive aspects of life to boost happiness.

Looking after your skin: Maintaining skincare routines to promote skin health.

Effective communication: Clearly expressing thoughts and feelings to foster healthy relationships.

Saying no: Declining unnecessary obligations to prioritize personal well-being.

Challenging your mind: Engaging in activities that stimulate cognitive growth and learning.

Learning new things: Continuously seeking knowledge to enhance personal development.

Regular medical checkups: Attending routine health screenings to prevent and detect illnesses early.

Hanging out with friends: Socializing to build strong support networks and enjoy companionship.

Spending time with family: Connecting with loved ones to strengthen family bonds.

Me time: Dedicating time solely to oneself for relaxation and self-reflection.

Self-reflection: Evaluating personal thoughts, actions, and experiences to gain insight.

Asking for help: Seeking support when needed to manage challenges effectively.

Setting goals: Defining personal objectives to provide direction and motivation.

Developing healthy habits: Establishing routines that promote long-term well-being.

Using your voice: Speaking up for oneself to ensure needs and desires are met.

© bloomzone

[glowettee]

the real secret to self-improvement no one talks about

hi lovelies, it's mindy

self-improvement isn’t just about perfect morning routines or buying cute stationery. while those things are fun, they’re only surface-level. real self-improvement goes deeper. it’s about creating meaningful, lasting change in your life. if you’re tired of the same recycled advice and want to level up in a way that sticks, this post is for you.

✨ 1. repair before you upgrade

you can’t build a glow-up on a broken foundation. most people dive straight into new habits and routines without addressing the things holding them back. maybe it’s overthinking, procrastination, or negative self-talk. whatever it is, fixing those cracks first will make everything else easier.

actionable tip: spend time journaling or reflecting on the things that sabotage your progress. ask yourself:

what’s draining my energy?

what beliefs are holding me back?

what habits do I need to stop?

self-awareness is the first step to meaningful change.

✨ 2. curate your inner aesthetic

we talk so much about physical aesthetics; outfits, skincare, room decor. but what about your mental aesthetic? your inner world is just as important as what’s on the outside.

ask yourself: is my mind calm and confident, or is it cluttered with negativity and self-doubt? start curating your mental space like you’d curate your pinterest boards.

unfollow people who drain you.

limit scrolling and spend time doing things that actually bring you joy.

romanticize stillness, it doesn't matter if it’s taking a slow walk, reading, or just lying in bed and thinking about life.

actionable tip: create a mental vision board. write down three feelings you want to embody (e.g., peace, gratitude, confidence) and focus on habits that help you get there.

✨ 3. think small to go big

one of the biggest mistakes in self-improvement is focusing on huge, intimidating goals. instead, start with micro-challenges, small, manageable steps that feel fun and doable.

for example:

instead of aiming to wake up at 5 a.m., try waking up 15 minutes earlier for a week.

don’t overhaul your diet overnight; start by drinking one extra glass of water daily.

tiny wins build momentum, and that momentum keeps you going.

actionable tip: pick one micro-challenge to start this week. it could be as simple as organizing your desk or texting a friend you’ve been meaning to reconnect with. small changes lead to big transformations.

✨ 4. audit your environment

your environment shapes your energy. if your space is cluttered, your mind will feel the same. start by decluttering one area of your life.

but don’t stop at physical spaces. think about the people you surround yourself with too. are they uplifting and inspiring, or are they draining your energy? leveling up sometimes means letting go of what doesn’t align with your future self.

actionable tip: dedicate one day this week to an “environment refresh.” declutter one physical space and evaluate one relationship. ask yourself: does this align with the person i want to become?

✨ 5. embrace your soft power

self-improvement doesn’t have to be intense or overwhelming. there’s strength in soft, intentional growth. it’s not about becoming someone else; it’s about becoming the best version of you.

romanticize your growth. make it feel special:

play calming music while you clean your room.

use a pretty notebook for your to-do lists.

light a candle before you start studying.

the more enjoyable your journey feels, the more likely you are to stick with it.

actionable tip: turn self-improvement into a ritual. add little touches that make the process feel fun and cozy, like wearing your favorite outfit while journaling or drinking tea while planning your week.

✨ key takeaways

real self-improvement isn’t about quick fixes or following trends. it’s about improving yourself in small steps that align with YOUR path.

hopefully this post helped you all

<3 mindy.

[itertarot]

Random information about your future husband:

Pick an image:

PILE 1:

Your future husband is very likely to be of an air or water sign. There's a lot of air energy in this reading, especially Aquarius and Libra. He is someone with excellent judgment. People may often seek his opinion to evaluate situations and give a verdict on who is right. He takes the time necessary to analyze all sides of a situation before making a decision. He would make an excellent judge or even a lawyer, and he might have a strong interest in social causes. Your future husband is a very attractive person, someone who catches eyes wherever he goes and may be seen as the ideal romantic partner. He is incredibly romantic and loves showing affection. He wants to demonstrate his love through acts of service and gifts, and for some of you, he may even show his love through cooking. In this case, I can clearly see you coming home to find him with a cake or meal already prepared for you.

PILE 2:

Your future husband is not someone easily accessible, he often appears disinterested in almost everyone who tries to capture his attention. He is a highly logical person, which may make him seem cold and distant to others. He has a neutral or expressionless face, making it very hard to tell what he’s thinking or feeling. Your future husband focuses all his energy on creation, dedicating himself to his work, which might have earned him a higher position. He protects himself emotionally to avoid getting hurt and tries to keep people at a distance as much as possible. However, when you come into his life, you will discover his tender and gentle side. Despite being indifferent to most, he will be very affectionate with you, which might surprise you or those who are used to seeing him as robotic.

For some, there may be a connection to Las Vegas.

For some honeymoon in Las Vagas, for others in Italy.

He might even be a bartender, or you will have a significant memory involving coffee, like offering you coffee at work or something.

A few in this pile will like cassinos.

PILE 3:

Here, my pile 3, you are shown as a very grounded woman with strong earth energy. You nurture and care for what is yours, valuing stability and tranquility. You radiate a serene energy and have the ability to build a solid and abundant foundation for your life, possibly even creating generational wealth for some of you. Your future husband, on the other hand, exudes strong fire energy, he’s full of action, determination, and ambition. He goes after what he wants and is fiercely driven to achieve his goals. The two of you complement each other perfectly, balancing each other's strengths and weaknesses to create harmony. For example, if you are very introverted and struggle with communication, his strong social skills will open doors for both of you. In this pile, this relationship will blossom after a difficult period. Someone may initially be closed off to love due to past heartbreaks and will need time to heal. However, when you meet this person, your heart will smile again, filled with hope, optimism, and, most importantly, trust. You will complete each other beautifully. This is a love meant to last a lifetime.