#Linde

[vmiuchi]

[livesunique]

Huis Kiefskamp, Linde, Provincie Gelderland, The Netherlands

Felix Van Cakenberghe Photography

[gzeidraws]

H'aanit and Ochette swap!

Happy Octopath 6th Anniversary 🎉!!!

[heartagramtattoos]

[androidaddict]

did some silly arts w/ @picozapato

[saatkontor]

Walk under the roots of a Linden tree

[vintagepipemen]

West German politician Juergen Linde, 1982.

[henpendrips]

Something that I had in my brain since I played the game back in 2022.

P.S: nobody tell H'aanit about the village clan.

[lapazdelmar]

¿Ves amor? Cerca de aquella rada, en aquel rincón donde los barcos se refugian, allí voy a pensarte muchos días.

Allí no existe la palabra fin, allí hace de todo menos viento. Allí está tu corazón y el mío. Allí escucho tu silencio, te susurro y también me desgarro.

Alma sobre alma… allí, en la linde de la nada.

Buenas noches amor

[vmiuchi]

Linde giving reader guitar lessons and things get smutty

BENEATH THE STRINGS.

Mikko "Linde" Lindström x Female Reader. One shot.

word count: 1289

(NSFW warning)

The studio had that smell—dust, old wood, maybe some faded cigarette smoke clinging to the walls like a memory someone forgot to wipe clean. It wasn’t sterile. It wasn’t even clean. But it felt like a place where music didn’t just echo—it stuck around. Like every note ever played there was still floating in the corners.

You shifted your guitar strap and glanced up at the wall clock. Five minutes past. You tapped your fingers against your thigh, caught in a restless mix of nerves and frustration. When you signed up for private guitar lessons in Helsinki, you were picturing some gray-haired session musician. Someone no-nonsense, maybe a little cranky. Not him.

The door squeaked open.

“Sorry I’m late,” came a voice—easy, unbothered.

Mikko "Linde" Lindström walked in like he belonged to the room. Like maybe he was part of the room. He carried a black guitar case, slung casually over one shoulder, and wore the kind of layered black outfit that made him look like a walking shadow. His hair was pulled back, but a few strands had escaped to frame the sharp lines of his face. Rings glinted on his fingers—almost too many—but somehow, they suited him.

You tried not to stare. He either didn’t notice or didn’t mind. Probably used to it.

“You ready to play?” he asked, already pulling his guitar from its case, his movements smooth and practiced.

You gave a small nod, trying to keep your face neutral. “Yeah. Think so.”

He gestured to the spot next to him. You sat, the strap biting into your shoulder.

The lesson started off straightforward. Chords. Finger positioning. Posture. Stuff you expected. But the air between those instructions—that’s where the strange current lived. Whenever his fingers brushed yours, just briefly to adjust your grip, something lit up under your skin. Not dramatic. Just...electric. And the way he leaned in close to explain something, his voice low and rough, wrapped in a Finnish accent—god, it hooked into your chest.

“You’re too stiff,” he said at one point, stepping behind you. “Loosen up. Let the music move through you.”

His hands settled gently on your shoulders, coaxing them down. The pressure was firm, but not invasive. Grounding. You exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the way your pulse jumped.

“Better,” he said quietly, and didn’t step back right away.

Lesson two was different. More fluid. He asked you questions—what bands you liked, what made you want to play. You answered, maybe more than you should’ve. He listened. Really listened. Then told you about the first time he ever performed, how his hands were shaking so badly he nearly dropped the guitar. You laughed, and he laughed too, and suddenly it didn’t feel like student and teacher anymore. Just two people, talking music.

By the third lesson, the air between you had changed.

You didn’t leave right after. On purpose.

Neither of you moved when the hour ended. Instead, he sank into the worn-out couch against the wall, guitar still in hand. He started playing something slow and familiar—not a song you knew, exactly, but it felt like you should. You sat beside him, not touching, but close enough that the heat of him reached you.

“That yours?” you asked.

He shrugged, barely smiling. “Old one. Never released. Maybe it still deserves a shot.”

“Play it again.”

He did. You watched his hands. His fingers moved like they were telling a story—fluid, confident, quiet. You were mesmerized.

“You pick things up fast,” he said eventually. “Most people chase perfect. You just listen.”

Your mouth felt dry. “You’re...easy to listen to.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And set the guitar aside.

“What are you really here for?” he asked. Not accusing. Just curious. But your stomach flipped.

You didn’t answer with words. Just stood, heart in your throat, and stepped into the space between you. He looked up, breath shallow, but didn’t move away. When you leaned in, he met you halfway.

The kiss started slow. Careful. Like both of you were checking to make sure it was okay. When his hand found your waist and pulled you closer, you melted into it, your fingers threading through his hair. He kissed like someone who’d been thinking about it for a while.

He stood without breaking contact, guiding you gently until your back hit the wall. His body pressed against yours, warm and solid. You gasped into his mouth, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. He pulled it off in one motion, and there he was—tattooed, lean, marked by time and experience.

Your hands moved over him. Slowly. Exploring. He shivered.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded. “Yeah. Really sure.”

He kissed you again, slower now. Like a song that builds instead of bursts. When he undressed you, it was with care, pausing to kiss each new inch of skin like he was discovering something sacred. It wasn’t rushed. It was warm and a little wild and a lot real.

The couch creaked when he laid you down. He hovered above for a second, just watching you. Like he was saving the image.

When he moved inside you, it was patient. Measured. A rhythm all its own. His hand cupped your cheek while his body pressed deeper against yours, breath mingling, skin sliding, every movement deliberate. He watched your face closely, reacting to each gasp and whimper, like you were the melody and he was learning it one note at a time.

His pace quickened as your hips met his, a wordless harmony building between you. He whispered to you between kisses—fragments of your name, things that didn’t need translating. Your legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him even closer, grounding yourself in the weight and warmth of him.

His mouth traveled, leaving kisses on your neck, your shoulder, your chest—pausing just long enough to make your heart race harder. His fingers threaded through yours, pinning one of your hands above your head, the other hand cradling your waist as he thrust deeper, the rhythm turning urgent and full.

You arched beneath him, riding the edge of something that felt too big to name. The pressure built slowly, then all at once—waves crashing into waves. You cried out, your body trembling with release. He groaned your name against your neck, following seconds later, his grip tightening as if holding himself together through you.

After, he collapsed beside you, both of you panting, flushed, limbs tangled. The room was quiet except for your breathing and the faint hum of an amp in the background. His hand found yours again, fingers linking naturally.

Later, wrapped in a blanket, skin still buzzing, you lay tangled together. He traced lazy shapes on your back.

“You okay?” he asked.

You smiled. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He kissed your temple. “Didn’t want to rush it.”

“You didn’t,” you murmured.

The amp in the corner buzzed softly. A few guitar picks had scattered onto the floor, like punctuation marks no one planned. The whole room felt different now. Like it had recorded what just happened.

“Next lesson’s gonna be weird,” you joked.

He chuckled. “We might need a bigger couch.”

You glanced at him. “So this wasn’t just...spur-of-the-moment?”

His gaze sobered. “Not unless you want it to be.”

You reached for his hand. Linked your fingers.

“I’ll be back next week.”

He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Don’t forget your guitar. Or the strap.”

You smirked. “I’ll bring extra picks.”

He grinned. “Smart student.”

You left eventually, walking together into the cool Helsinki night, soda cans in hand, silence between you—but this time, it felt like something. Not an ending.

A beginning. And yeah... it sounded a lot like music.

[ikazooks]

recently i participated in an offsite archanea themed art exchange event. this one's mine, and it's for johnchrom! :]

[mageknight404]

Linde - Golden Glow

Just a portrait this time, wanted to do something quick. Intended to aim for that kinda soft shading style I see a lot these days, so this was more practice than anything. I'd like to do a full body illustration someday in that style.

[a-day-in-the-life-feh]

Installment 109: An understanding leader featuring Seteth, Rhea, Linde, Norne, Lyn, Xander

Artist: Nagao Uka

Released: December 8 2021

[fe-smashorpass]

[videogamequeens]

MISUNDERSTOOD.

[johnchrom89]

FE Summer Time 2024 Part II

Headliner Petra with Ogma and Linde. Not much to say. Back to dailes after a few ideas I got.