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kaznejis · 10 months ago

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We're hanging on by a heartbeat- Erik Lehnsherr x Reader

“You’re bringing Hank, right?” She gritted her teeth, a blush tinging her cheeks as she avoided eye contact, “Yes… not in that way though.” “I need to borrow him.” “What-” She looked confused at first, but then something clicked; mirth creasing at her eyes and twisting her lips as she cocked her head at you, “Y/N! You want to make Erik jealous.”

A/N: Thanks for all of the support on my fics!!! every comment, like, reblog and read is GREATLY appreciated. So, enjoy this fun little oneshot I found in my drafts. :)

Word Count: 5,250 / Read it on AO3!

“He’s gonna be there, Y/N,” Raven sighed, swirling her champagne glass as she pursed her lips at you, “Charles practically demanded that he be there despite his refusals, I think he promised him that he’d get you to speak to him.” She accompanied the last words with exaggerated air quotes.

“Mhm,” You grumbled, fiddling with your outfit in the mirror, “And that means, you are not allowed to leave me unattended. At any point.”

“Y/N..”

“Nope,” Turning towards her, splayed out on a chaise in her human form; a gorgeous dress accentuating her figure and her blonde hair flowing down her back in waves; you simply shook your head, face stern as you spoke. “I’m not going down that path again, I’m done with his idiocy.”

“But… what does that have to do with being left unattended?” A smirk curled at the corners of her lipstick stained lips. You glared right back at her.

“Because, I can’t-” You exhaled heavily through your nose, clearing the nerves from your chest at the mere thought of speaking to him, “If I speak to him, I will just embarrass myself- he, obviously, does not feel the same way as I feel for him.”

Raven just sighed, visibly sick of you and Erik’s antics. Behind the guise of being best friends; you and Erik had been playing an erratic, immoral game of cat and mouse, each interaction felt like a step closer to admitting your feelings for him, but then, a subsequent step back at the very same time. He was complicated, to say the least, plagued by the traumas of his past and present. Plagued by the responsibility that he wielded upon his shoulders as a powerful mutant, the expectation of moral compassion; and, the sordid reality of his beliefs.

You supported him, wholeheartedly, every step of the way. Your own chaotic mutant gene infecting your ability to appear as a normal human being; the green at your irises and the vines that intertwine upon your fingertips only causing fear, despite your god-given purpose being to allow growth. Maybe that’s why the two of you had gotten along so well; both of your powers allow you each to manipulate the foundations of the Earth itself- the ability to shift infrastructure and take lives at the merest of thoughts, at the slightest of movements. the hypothetical extent of what you could do rendered you outcasts, even if you had no desire to inflict pain upon others, they awaited with bated breaths until you would do so.

Whilst Erik had initially viewed his residence within the school as a prison, you had seen it as a safe haven. The lush meadows and ancient trees that adorned the acres of land called to you, allowing for days spent barefoot amongst the reeds, with only birdsong to accompany you. Erik had paid you little mind at first- having only allowed you fleeting glances at dinner, a nod of the head if he agreed with a point, a slither of a smirk when you amused him. But, soon, he let you in; allowed you into the fortress of his conscience, allowed you to peel back the layers of his anger, and understood his desires for vengeance. You had balanced him out, balanced out the choke of his dark turtlenecks with the flow of your hair; balanced out the harshness of his metal with the brush of petal stems upon your fingertips.

As your friendship had developed naturally, your feelings had followed. Abrasive, corrosive feelings. Soon enough, Erik plagued your every waking thought; his essence identifiable within the flow of the river, within the dust upon the floorboards, within the quiet of your room upon nightfall.

He was everywhere, and you couldn’t escape.

You would find him at breakfast in the morning, laughing obnoxiously at Charles; his teeth glinting in the morning light. You would find him in the classrooms, teaching the children their mandatory mutant history lessons; a transfixing performance of great intelligence, his hands enunciating each and every point. You loved watching him teach, perching upon a desk at the back of his room as he interacted with the children, engaging with their conversations whilst simultaneously wielding the ability to hold the students captivated when delivering a lecture.

But, most importantly, your favourite place to find him was beside you. He would join you at the lakeside most nights, smiling to himself as you conjured flower after flower, allowing them to flow in the wind, the two of you watching as they found a home upon the tranquil waters. It was there, in the dark and the quiet of nightfall, that you had allowed your feelings to bubble at the surface, allowed your inhibitions to loosen as you had turned to him, studied the sharp features of his side profile; he had turned to you too, an eyebrow raised as he blinked, confused.

“I was wondering..” You began, fiddling with the petals of a flower within your hands, watching as his loose, plaid shirt fluttered in the wind beside you; a change in his wardrobe that you had inflicted, “Charles is hosting a formal dinner next weekend.”

Erik huffed, smiling at you; though his lip curled confusedly, “I know, I am the co-head of the school; I signed off on the plan.”

Idiot, you chastised yourself, of course he knew that. Erik had turned towards you entirely now, his head tilted in intrigue as he stared at you, “Oh- yeah, well I was wondering, if you wanted to-”

“I’m not even sure why Charles would want to host such a thing, I mean, just an opportunity for the kids to drink too much and make a mess of the house.”

“Yeah, well-”

“And then one of Charles’ assistants asked me to be her date for it and I-”

You felt it, in that moment, as your heart splintered within your chest; its foundations shattering and leaving you only able to gape in its wake. Coldness entrapped your body as the remaining petals of the flower within your hand shrivelled and wilted; the once luminescent petals forming a pathetic grey upon your palm. You simply nodded, zoning out and pulling yourself away from Erik’s words as he spoke, unable to hear him any further. You needed to distance yourself, distance yourself from him, from your feelings for him. It would be for the better; allow him to pursue whats-her-face without your claws of envy sinking into his shoulder blades, dragging him away from the semblance of happiness that he deserved.

“I-I’m sorry Erik,” You stuttered, cutting him off suddenly as his speech screeched to a halt, his eyes widening and form freezing as you halted his words, “I need to go.” You wasted no time in bolting upwards, marching towards the distant lights of the house, not sparing him a single glance backwards.

“Wait, Y/N-” He called, his voice catching in the breeze as he stumbled into pace behind you, “I’m sorry, did I upset you or-”

“No, Erik, it’s fine.” You turned them, your hair fluttering before your eyes in the breeze as you watched him as he came to a halt, his face stricken, mouth agape as he stared at you, “You should go with Charles assistant, I bet she’s lovely..” You turned again immediately, sighing in relief as the house grew closer.

“No Y/N, I was actually going to ask if-”

“Erik.” You snapped, turning once again, for the final time. The levity of your voice brought him to an instant pause, shock prevalent upon his features. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, you can go with whoever you want to. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Oh.” Erik was still, his voice low as he watched you, his brows low and his mouth downturned; he seemed, almost, disappointed. Though, his emotional disparity was not your responsibility anymore, “Well, okay, I will then.”

You nodded, a finality; a shallow smile painted itself upon your features, “Good. I look forward to meeting her.” You didn’t wait to see his reaction, making the final journey to the house before swinging open the door and rushing to your room- where you could comfortably wallow in the drawls of your own heartbreak.

That had been over a week ago; your initial excitement for the formal had dwindled entirely leaving you staring at yourself bleakly as you fiddled with an earring, Raven had continued to watch you; eyebrows raised and mouth curling with mirth.

“This is ridiculous, Y/N.”

“Raven! He said himself-”

“No, but,” She paused, collecting herself for a moment before leaning towards you, hands clasped upon her lap, “You haven’t seen him.”

“Of course, I have-”

“Okay, When was the last time you saw him?”

You laughed, eyes tight as you refused to make eye contact with her, “I saw him at breakfast this morning.”

“Sure, when was the last time you spoke to him?”

Pausing, you cleared your throat, she had caught you there. Your own immaturity dawned upon you as you spoke your confession, embarrassment creating a heave in your chest. “At the lake, last week.”

“That’s what I thought- I mean, that man is a brooding asshole on the usual day, but since he supposedly professed his feelings for someone else to you? He’s been miserable, wandering the halls like a kicked puppy; if he’s even capable of resembling that.”

Shaking your head, you huffed, turning to take a hasty swig from your own glass of preparatory champagne, “Maybe she rejected him after all.”

“Sure, Y/N-”

Suddenly, as the brevity of the reality which was Erik bringing another woman to the formal, a wicked realisation dawned upon you. “I need a favour.” You blurted, turning to her abruptly.

“Okay..’

“You’re bringing Hank, right?”

She gritted her teeth, a blush tinging her cheeks as she avoided eye contact, “Yes… not in that way though.”

“I need to borrow him.”

“What-” She looked confused at first, but then something clicked; mirth creasing at her eyes and twisting her lips as she cocked her head at you, “Y/N! You want to make Erik jealous.”

You shrugged, smirking at her; though the sweat at the back of your neck and legs couldn’t be denied, “I just- want to cover my own back, he can’t think that I’m moping and sad over him and another woman-”

“But, you are.”

Only sparing Raven a glare as she chortled, you continued, “I just want to let him see that I have my own date, and that… it could’ve been him. To everyone else, we’ll just be going as friends, but- Erik doesn’t need to know that.”

Before the danger of your plan could pull your mind to a halt, before it could allow your conscience to screech at its own breaks- Raven was up, crossing the span of the dressing room and pulling the door open; telling a nearby student to find and fetch Hank. The young boy nodded obediently, breaking into a sprint down the hallway. Within minutes, Hank appeared in tow; flushed and breathing heavily as he burst into the corridor, half-dressed in his suit as his tie hung loose around his neck.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Hank panted, a hand planted upon the door frame as he surveyed the room; confusion followed within his features as he surveyed the two of you safe and seated comfortably. Only then, did fear truly grace his features; the dread evident within the tightening of his fingers and grit of his teeth, “What’s…going on?”

“Sorry, Hank, but you will now be attending the dinner with Y/N.”

“What?” He spat, his tall frame stalking into the room as he ensured the door was securely closed before truly entering the room, “No offence, Y/N, but I don’t understand- do you want me dead?”

“What?” You gasped in turn, rubbing a hand against your forehead as you shook your head; Raven had nodded, laughing at his fear as she silently agreed, “Why would you die?”

The ability to do so being somehow possible, Hank’s voice sunk to a hiss, bowing towards the two of you as sweat formed visibly upon his brow, “Have you seen Erik recently? He would kill me.”

“Exactly,” Jeering, Raven opened the decanter upon the small table between you, pouring Hank a brimming glass of champagne before refilling her own, he took the drink readily once she offered it to him, taking a gusty swallow as his skin steadily grew paler, or even, bluer. “We need to show him what he’s missing out on-”

“No, no.” Shaking his head hastily, Hank held his hands up before him, slowly backing towards the closed-door; a supposed attempt to make a fast escape, “I am not being a pawn in your fucked up-”

“Hank.” Raven whined, cocking her head to the side and moving to expose the skin of her leg; pouting at him endearingly- you could only fake heave at her antics. “Please, for me? Once they’ve sorted their mess out-”

“Hey-!”

“We can have a dance together.”

Hank froze, the frost that had covered his cheeks instantly warming with the rush of blood as he blushed, his face taking the features of a dazed fawn as he practically melted beneath Raven’s gaze. He soon recovered though, turning towards you and sighing, scratching at the base of his head, “Fine, I will enter with you and we can have a dance, that is it-”

“Thank you, thank you.” You interrupted him with a rush of skirts and arms flinging around his neck, peppering kisses to his cheek as you squeezed him, “You are my saviour”

“Okay, okay-” He laughed, holding you at arms length as to protect the ironed linens of his shirt, a genuine smile lining his cheeks, “I need to finish getting ready, but I’ll meet you outside the entrance at quarter past seven.”

“Quarter past? Hank it starts at seven.” You pursed your lips in confusion as he only grinned at you, a twinkle shining in his eye.

“Exactly.” He grinned as Raven gasped, breaking into applause beside you, bravoing Hank humorously as you pulled away from him, to which Hank bowed sarcastically, hand before his stomach like a true guardsman. “We need to ensure that he sees Y/N- so, we enter late; put on a little show.” He wiggled his hips as he spoke, grinning at you fake-enticingly; to which you could only fake-vomit, sticking a finger in your mouth and gagging exaggeratedly as Raven laughed beside you.

Hank departed then, a wave of a hand to you and a cheesy smile at Raven; that is when the plan jumped into action. Raven surged from her lounged position instantly, moving to check you over; your outfit, your hair, the words you would procure upon entering the formal. With a kiss on the cheek and a wink, she left at exactly 6:55; the door slamming behind the trails of her gorgeous dress.

Thus, leaving you with a harrowing twenty minutes to stew on your decisions.

Would Erik even care? Or, would he be too occupied with his supposed date? Gazing at the beauty of her dress and the delicacy of her skin instead of your own, honoured that he could serve as her date instead of wishing he could be yours. You forced yourself to break eye contact with your own reflection; disgusted at the pathetic twist of your features as nerves flooded your guts. Taking a deep breath, you shook your head; if anything, Erik would come to the realisation that you didn’t have feelings for him anymore and this sordid affair would end- you would go back to being best friends, you would swallow the bitter taste of rejection and smile through the burning fires of jealousy as he inevitably grew closer with his date for the night. Maybe the two of you would replace each other entirely, after all.

At exactly 7:10, you left the room; bridled with nerves as you could do nothing but stare at the same features of the room you had been preparing yourself in for hours. Breath in, breath out- the sound of your heels clicking against the empty hallway resounded upon the halls as the inhabitants of the house were located within the main hall- the sound of conversation and light acoustical music a distant mirage.

As you walked, you surveyed the walls of the buildings you called home- the murals upon the walls and the gorgeous art-pieces that the residents had collected throughout the years lining the walls. In the rotten depths of your mind, you wondered if this would be it- if you would have to leave, unable to sleep only doors down from Erik and the woman he would soon call his lover. The thought of it made you nauseous, made your knees beg to buckle from the strain of exasperated grief. Grief of what could have been if you had just stayed quiet, content; if you could have just been comfortable within the throes of friendship.

At the end of it all, you missed him. You missed everything about him- his inherent goods and bads. His anger and his joy; his technicolour darks and lights. You missed the sharp lines of his face, the way his hair curled without the harnessing of a pomade, the prickles of the hairs upon his forearms and the curve of amusement within his lips.

It took everything within you to not detour to the comforts of your bed, to crawl under the covers and hide for the foreseeable- wait for the inevitable to blow over, for Erik to enter your room and laugh at your sad state, just as a friend would; with no romantic-baggage whatsoever.

However, before your jailbreak attempt could successfully be enacted; Hank emerged from the adjoining hallway, hands in his pocket and a meagre smile upon his face, “Thought I’d meet you here before you decided to run away.”

Nodding, you sighed; managing a grateful smile his way as he removed his hands from his pockets and offered his arm to you, to which you took it and began to walk towards the hall’s entrance, “I was just working up the courage to do that.”

Hank laughed, the motion jostling you slightly as you stopped in front of the entrance, the door was closed; the event readily in motion behind it, “We can back out if you want, you can go in now alone and I’ll come down in a few minutes?”

Shaking your head, you tightened your grip upon his elbow; smiling tightly, your voice cracked slightly as you began to speak, the thought of facing Erik and his date alone the most terrifying imagery in that moment, “I can’t go in there alone.”

Hank turned to you then, concerned evident within the downturn of his mouth, his hands moved to your shoulders; the weight of them comforting as he sighed, “If anything happens I- we will be there, okay?”

Nodding, you smiled almost-tearfully up at your friend, your lips curling with emotion as he jostled you; attempting to squeeze some semblance of humour from your state. He beckoned you forward then, one hand upon the door handle and the other curling to rest upon the curve of your waste; that is how you greeted the entire room.

Due to the old-age of the building, the door creaked almost obnoxiously, the sound ostentatious despite the constant hum of the room. Immediately, you made eye contact with Raven; snorting into her glass as she failed to hide her amusement. Then Charles, his hands hanging in mid-air as if he was performing a speech to the group before him; though his face changed during the moment of eye contact, his eyebrows instantly raising and his lips curling into a smile as he looked into your mind, then to the hand upon your waist and finally to a point across the room.

You followed his gaze, and you could swear your heart skipped a beat as it landed.

There, stood Erik; the object of all of your desires, and your afflictions. His demeanour differed greatly from the others in the room, his face was blank; impassive as he met your eye; his hair was neatly slicked back and he adorned a clean, striking black suit. Charming. However, his body language told a different story- the grip at which he held his glass was ironclad, his lips were tight and cheeks haggard; an exact juxtaposition to the sharp cut lines of his suit.

But, as you searched the space beside, behind and above him; the only thing that you could notice was that he was completely alone.

Stood at the corner of the room, in his gorgeous suit with his exhaust-tinged eyes; he was alone. Not a date, of any shape or size or form, in sight.

Your mind only allowed a halting, record-scratch oh fuck before you were herded towards the dancefloor- Charles welcoming the ‘happy couple’ to the crowd, sheer amusement threatening to crumple his confident form as he practically tittered. Hank only rolled his eyes, grinning at you amusedly as he tugged you into the entourage that was beginning to form. You couldn’t bring yourself to smile back. Your breath was quickening, panic flooding your chest as you realised that maybe, possibly you had read this whole situation entirely wrong. As you were whisked upon the dancefloor, a drink shoved into your palm and the waltz of fast-paced conversation already hastily beginning- you used every last essence of your will to build a somewhat passable facade, to not crumple in front of the crowd, to not run towards Erik and beg for his forgiveness, for his attention.

But, oh, you had thought far too soon. Because, after all, you had garnered his attention the moment your heels resounded throughout the shocked quiet of the room.

As you surveyed the crowd, Hank’s arm an all-encompassing weight upon your waist- you failed to stop your eyes from passing Erik’s form. He remained in that very same spot, as if he belonged nowhere else, as if he was sculpted upon the very walls of the building. His eyes were fixed upon your form; no matter the step, position or pose you took- his eyes never faltered from you, never wandered; even when Charles came to stand beside him, amusement towards his best friend tinted the rise in his cheeks. The two of them began to converse, the topic being of considerable tension; seeing as though Charles continued to look ever-amused, whilst Erik’s eyes finally dropped from yours- his face visibly swelling in anger as he glared at his shoes.

“-Y/N? Sorry, Y/N?”

Shocked, you blinked, turning back towards the conversation before you; two older women stared expectantly at you, you dug your mind for any recollection as to who exactly they were- maybe some form of charitable donors? After a series of agonising seconds, to which it felt like the entire room had gone silent; each participant waiting to see what was plaguing your mind, you spoke- smile cringing as you tilted your gaze towards the air just beside the woman, “Sorry, what was-?”

“We were asking how long you and Professor. McCoy have been together?” Obnoxiously red-lipped woman-potential-rich-donor spoke, her lips stretching grotesquely as she smiled.

“Oh, well-”

“We’ve been dating casually for a few months.”

“What-”

“Oh, that is wonderful!” The woman spoke, clapping her satin-gloved hands together and bouncing on her heels.

“Yeah..” Smiling airily, you ensured that oxygen was correctly being executed from your lungs; that you were definitely awake, alive and breathing.

“It’s been a whirlwind,” Hank smiled, jostling you with the hand gripping your hip, “Between me and you, things are really starting to heat up-”

Through the excited gasps of the women you realised with abject horror that Charles and Erik were edging towards your circle; Charles leading Erik with a clutch upon his elbow, to which Erik seemed to be fighting unapologetically.

As if firing the perfect shot, at the perfect time and place, the red-lipped woman squealed at an obscene volume just as Erik entered perfect earshot, “Oh, just imagine, Y/N McCoy. It’s perfect-”

The sound of a glass shattering splintered throughout the room, halting the conversation and what felt like the very air you were breathing. Blood instantly began pouring from Erik’s hand as the surrounding partygoers jumped back in fear, the entire room watching with wide, halted eyes as he shuck the glass from his grip.

“Erik-” Trembling, you swallowed; feeling your heart hammer within your chest as you watched him, the loosening of Hank’s hand pulling and wrenching at the pit within your stomach. You had well and truly done it this time.

Erik seemed to ignore you, shrugging off the onlookers that attempted to come to his aid; allowing the air beside your head one last scathing glance before he departed from the crowd, from the room entirely. Wasting no time in following him, you dumped your purse and drink into Hank’s arms before breaking into a full sprint; throwing any sense of formality to the wind as you shoved through the crowd whilst simultaneously calling to his retreating back.

“Erik, please-” You called as you finally emerged from the crowd, the main doors slamming behind you as you stopped before him. His back was turned, feet poised as if ready to retreat, though he had stopped. Droplets of blood resounded against the linoleum, a steady flow of red dribbling from the cuts upon his hands, “Erik, you need to-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Erik’s tone was demanding, his back clenching as he resolutely refused to turn, to face you.

“What-”

Finally, he turned; spinning on his polished heel and stalking towards you- face practically carved from stone, his gaze bleeding into yours, “Why didn’t you tell me about you and McCoy?” He practically spat Hank’s name, the name convulsing from his lips.

Scowling, you straightened your back; standing strong as you grit your teeth at him, “Why would that have been any of your business, Erik?”

Scoffing, he backed away; scrubbing his non-injured hand upon the stubble upon his jaw, almost in disbelief, “Of course- why would it be?” He laughed sardonically, throwing his hands in the air and shrugging his shoulders.

“What is your problem?”

He seemed to still, to quiet; his throat bobbling heavily as his eyes bore into you- eventually, he looked away, lip clutched beneath his teeth, “You know what, nothing-”

“Okay,” You nodded, feigning deep thought, “Let me rephrase then, why do you care?”

Erik blinked, almost in disbelief, “Come on Y/N- you know exactly-”

“-Because last I heard, you had a date for this-”

“-Who told you that?!”

“You!” You were shouting now, chest heaving at the patchworked conversation presented before you, “You did, Erik!”

He was truly in disbelief now, shaking his head and struggling to find the words; eventually he settled for one, insignificant word. He practically drawled it, set up a board and sketched out the word at agonising speed, “What?”

Laughing, mostly to yourself, you gestured towards him, “You told me.” At his silence, you opted to continue speaking, “At the lake, you told me you were going on a date with Charles’ assistant.”

“I never-” Erik groaned, hand moving to pinch the bridge of his nose as he sighed; visibly exhausted, “I know for a fact that I did not say that because-,” He was the one to laugh then, hacking at his chest as he forged his words, “-Because, you interrupted me, left and then haven’t looked at me since!” He seemed to check off the series of events on the fingers of his uninjured hand before waving his clenched fist in your direction, “So, I am assured in the knowledge that I did not say that, because I haven’t spoken to you in two weeks!”

“Okay, well, I have looked at you-”

“-No, you haven’t.”

Slamming your mouth shut, you scowled, crossing your arms petulantly; he simply watched you, the turn of his mouth pulling in its usual smug fashion. “Y/N-”

“Your hand is covered in blood.”

Smiling, he looked down at it, flexing his fingers before turning his gaze back towards you, “I know.”

“So who did you come with then?” You shrugged, completely disregarding your worries regarding his hand, “Shouldn’t you be with her instead of-”

“Y/N, you are completely missing the point… I didn’t come with anyone.”

“Oh,” You breathed, desperately attempting to hide the relief evident within your exhale, “Why?”

“Because that night at the lake,” He exhaled through his nose; his eyes flitting in between your face and the wall as he breathed, he seemed to be trembling slightly as he conjured the words adjacent to his evidently racing thoughts, “I was going to ask if you wanted to accompany me.”

“Oh.” You repeated dumbly, utterly gobsmacked at his words.

“But, it’s now evident that McCoy beat me to it, so-”

“Me and Hank aren’t together.” The words left you in a rush, you knew that your wide eyes mirrored Erik’s own perfectly; shock evident within both of your features.

“Okay-”

“I completely jumped to conclusions and I thought you were bringing a date, so I- I didn’t want to show up alone so I borrowed Hank…for the night.”

“You borrowed Hank.”

“...Yes.”

Erik suddenly burst into laughter; his face morphing to accustom the sudden change in emotion as he outrightly laughed at you. You could only stand there; slightly offended, slightly relieved at the upbringing of events.

Erik had wanted to ask you to be his date.

Did Erik have feelings for you?

“Okay, just to be clear, you weren’t asking me to the dinner as f-” Your words were abruptly cut off as Erik suddenly broke into a stride, marching up to you before placing his hands upon your cheeks and pressing his lips to yours completely, inhaling heavily as if he wanted to ingest you, taste you. You immediately kissed back with the same fervour, intertwining your fingers with the short hair upon his head and accustoming your senses to the scent of blood that was now smeared upon your cheeks.

Eventually, unfortunately, he pulled away; gazing down at you with hooded eyes. You watched as he bit his tongue, the motion tightening his jaw as he stared down at you, vision unguarded; almost unsure. You knew you looked like something straight out of a horror story, blood smeared upon your cheek and the bridge of your nose- you could only sigh blissfully as he ran his fingers through the mess he had created, spreading it until his finger reached your lips.

You both stilled; breaths catching in your chests.

After a long moment, you nodded, your eyes soon fluttering closed as he began to spread the liquid upon your lips- the copper tang of his blood immediately permeating your senses. His eyes were practically drooping now; his irises blown out in pleasure. Keeping your eyes upon his; you gauged his every movement as you sucked his finger into your mouth, effectively cleaning it and your lips of his blood. You knew in that moment that this was forever; this connection that had been forged between your souls, intertwined at each end and tightened right in the middle. Forged entirely from his very own metal.

#erik lehnsherr x y/n #erik lehnsherr x you #erik lehnsherr x reader #erik lensherr x reader #erik lensherr #magneto x reader #magneto imagine #magneto fanfic #magneto #x men #marvel #the blood play at the end was BY ACCIDENT!!!!#the gremlin inside of me wrote that not me #if anyone has any good erik gifs PLEASD SEND

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vestaignis · 7 months ago

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ГОРНОСТАЙ (MUSTELA ERMINEA).

Небольшой и очень активный зверёк, один из самых маленьких хищников. Длина тела — 17-38 сантиметров (из которых 6-12 сантиметров приходятся на хвост), вес взрослых зверьков — 70-260 граммов. Телосложение типично для куньих: длинное, тонкое, гибкое тело на коротких лапах. Окраска очень характерна: летом горло, грудь и живот желтовато-кремовые, остальное тело окрашено в рыжевато-бурый цвет; зимой весь зверек чисто белый, кроме задней половины хвоста, окрашенной (как и летом) в черный цвет.

Горностай активен утром и вечером. Ведет преимущественно одиночный территориальный образ жизни. В общении между собой большое значение имеют обонятельные (запаховые метки), визуальные и звуковые сигналы. В качестве убежищ используют норы убитых ими грызунов. Выводковые жилища устраивают в норах, дуплах деревьев, под навалами валежника. Горностай легко передвигается даже в совершенно затопленных местах, ловко прыгая по стеблям тростника, хорошо плавает. Питается грызунами, реже другими мелкими животными, падалью, ягодами. Иногда ходит по следам крупных хищников и подбирает остатки их добычи.Так же помимо грызунов, основу его питания составляют также крупные насекомые, мелкие птицы, яйца и птенцы. ��ри изобилии пищи часто делает запасы. Ели пищи не хватает, горностай может покинуть свою территорию и отправиться на поиски более благоприятных условий.

Населяет тундры, лесотундры, хвойные и лиственные леса, лесостепи; по речным долинам проникает в степную и полупустынную зоны. Поднимается в горы до высоты 3500-4000 метров. Селится в основном в речных поймах, на опушках, зарастающих гарях и вырубках, в южных районах — в лесополосах и заросших балках. Часто встречается в агроценозах, лесопарках и даже населенных пунктах.

Максимальная продолжительность жизни — до 7 лет, но в природе подавляющее б��льшинство горностаев живет не больше двух. Основные враги — лисы, куницы, крупные хищные птицы.

STOAT (MUSTELA ERMINEA).

A small and very active animal, one of the smallest predators. Body length is 17-38 centimeters (of which 6-12 centimeters are the tail), the weight of adult animals is 70-260 grams. The body type is typical for mustelids: a long, thin, flexible body on short legs. The coloring is very characteristic: in summer, the throat, chest and belly are yellowish-cream, the rest of the body is colored reddish-brown; in winter, the entire animal is pure white, except for the back half of the tail, colored (as in summer) black.

The stoat is active in the morning and evening. It leads a predominantly solitary territorial lifestyle. Olfactory (smell marks), visual and sound signals are of great importance in communication with each other. They use the burrows of rodents they have killed as shelters. Brood dwellings are arranged in burrows, tree hollows, under piles of deadwood. The ermine easily moves even in completely flooded places, deftly jumping along the stems of reeds, and swims well. It feeds on rodents, less often on other small animals, carrion, and berries. Sometimes it follows the tracks of large predators and picks up the remains of their prey. In addition to rodents, its diet also consists mainly of large insects, small birds, eggs, and chicks. When food is abundant, it often makes reserves. If there is not enough food, the ermine can leave its territory and go in search of more favorable conditions.

It inhabits tundra, forest-tundra, coniferous and deciduous forests, forest-steppe; it penetrates into the steppe and semi-desert zones along river valleys. It rises into the mountains to an altitude of 3500-4000 meters. It settles mainly in river floodplains, on forest edges, overgrown burnt-out areas and clearings, in the southern regions - in forest belts and overgrown gullies. It is often found in agrocenoses, forest parks and even populated areas.

The maximum lifespan is up to 7 years, but in nature the vast majority of ermines live no more than two. The main enemies are foxes, martens, large birds of prey.

Источник://rtraveler.ru/photo/1372831/,//www.rusmam.ru/photo/index?page=421, /fotkiflo.ru/zhivotnye/sibirskiy-gornostay, /ybis.ru/ kartinki/gornostay, //www.vokrugsveta.ru/vs/article/6767/, //astrakhanzapoved.ru/горностай-mustela-erminea/.

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weaselle · 2 months ago

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Stuff From My Weaselle Head

Did you know there are mink in California?

I've only seen one in the wild ONE TIME and i couldn't figure out what i was looking at

it was like 10 years ago and i was like whoa that was the smallest most dangerous nutria i've ever seen!

that's a joke about people thinking weasels are rodents -- nutria are invasive rodents that are just like if a beaver gave up its engineering degree and more than half its body weight, check it out

here's a nutria

the biggest nutria will weigh about 20lbs (9kg) and

here's a beaver

(which max out around 65lbs, or 30kg)

they are both water-adapted rodents (huge, webbed back feet, tho the nutria's tail isn't as specialized) that live in and at the edge of water and eat woody plants (beavers eat trees, nutria eat stuff like cattails)

Nutria don't build dams, but a few years ago, some native beavers in the Portland area and some invasive nutria were observed building a dam together! which is interesting, especially as beaver do sometimes engage in cooperative co-habitation with muskrats.

okay so muskrats are another aquatic rodent with the same design but tiny -- they weigh around 3 pounds (1.3kg)

Muskrat

and sometimes a mated pair of muskrats will spend the winter in a beaver lodge with a mated pair of beavers. The beavers store food for the winter under the cold water (keeps it good like a fridge) and go out and bring back food every day or two. The muskrats eat the more tender bits from the branches the beavers bring in and sleep in the safe warm den, but the muskrats sort of pay rent by going out every couple days and collecting reed stems etc and changing out the bedding that lines and insulates the inside of the beaver's lodge.

ANYWAY. No, for real tho, rodents aside, when i saw the mink, what i actually wondered for a second was "are there tiny river otters in california?"

River otters come in all kinds of sizes, from as small as a little kitty to as big as a person, so. It was a reasonable guess. And it turns out there is actually a river otter species that lives in California, but they are bigger, they get up to 30 lbs (13kg)

N. American River Otter

That's not what i saw tho. Nope, what i saw was an American Mink.

American Mink are semi-aquatic, they are sort of in-between a ferret and a river otter. They weigh about 2lbs (1kg) and look like this

American Mink

and the one i saw was swimming

and i mean like this on the surface but also diving and rolling and sort of scurrying around through the water, proper otter behavior. Like, i couldn't see as deep as this, but look

They totally do otter shit. So you can't blame me for wondering if i had seen an otter.

But it was a mink! I didn't even know there was a native mink here, and it made me learn we also have ermine too! This is an ermine

They are colored brown with a white belly like a common weasel for half the year, and i didn't know there were little river otters OR ermine in California until i was looking up stuff because of that mink i saw :)

Seeing it swim around in the wild was at least as exciting as that time i saw a fisher!

Sort of getting back to the nutria vs. beavers thing, fishers are like a giant marten, basically. A marten is a tree weasel that can weigh a max of maybe 3lbs (1.3kg) . A fisher (sometimes called a fisher cat) is, like, 96% identical to a marten but way bigger, maxing out around 16lbs (7.25kg).

here's what martens look like

and here's what fishers look like

despite their name, fishers aren't aquatic and don't eat many fish. They, like martens, are semi-arboreal (spend a lot of time in trees) and have a diet nearly identical to other martens (mice, rabbits, eggs, berries, basically anything else they can get their teeth on, and a lotta squirrels)

you could easily mistake one

for the other

if it weren't for the size difference

#science and nature #weasels #marten #fisher #otter #mink #ermine

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birdstudies · 2 months ago

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April 14, 2025 - Gray-crowned Munia or Grey-crowned Mannikin (Lonchura nevermanni) These estrildid finches live in grassy marshes, savannas, and flooded areas in southern New Guinea. Found in pairs, small groups, and larger flocks in the non-breeding season, they eat grass seeds, perching on stems to access the seeds and foraging on the ground. Females build covered oval-shaped nests with side entrances from grasses, reed leaves, and fibers while males gather materials. They lay clutches of three to six eggs. Both parents brood the chicks.

#gray-crowned munia #estrildid finch #lonchura nevermanni #bird #birds #illustration #art #grassland #water #birblr art

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rabbitcruiser · 5 months ago

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Grand Central Terminal was opened in New York City on February 2, 1913.

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jillraggett · 4 months ago

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Plant of the Day

Tuesday 4 March 2025

A great characteristic of Calamagrostis × acutiflora 'Karl Foerster' (feather reed grass) is that this ornamental grass continues to stand upright through the winter and catch the light. It is about time to cut back the old stems of this clump-forming deciduous perennial before the new foliage appears.

Jill Raggett

#Calamagrostis #feather reed grass #ornamental grasses #aberdeen #Union Terrace Gardens #plants #horticulture #gardens #garden #park #steps

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ltwilliammowett · 9 months ago

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The Mast

One of the most important elements of a ship are the masts, because this is where the sails are attached that serve to propel the ship.

History

The oldest evidence for the use of one solid masts comes from the Ubaid site H3 in Kuwait, which dates back to the second half of the sixth millennium BC. There, a clay disc was recovered from a sherd that appears to depict a reed boat with two masts.

A painted clay disc with a diameter of 6.5 cm from site H3 with a design reminiscent of a boat with two masts, second half of the sixth millennium BC

In the West, the concept of a vessel with more than one mast to increase speed under sail and improve sailing characteristics developed in the northern waters of the Mediterranean: the earliest foremast was identified on an Etruscan pyxis from Caere (Italy) from the middle of the 7th century BC: A warship with a furled mainsail attacks an enemy ship and sets a foresail. An Etruscan tomb painting from the period between 475 and 450 BC depicts a two-masted merchant ship with a large foresail on a slightly inclined foremast.

Tomb of the Ship, mid-5th century BC

An artemon (Greek for foresail), which is almost as large as the main sail of the galley, is found on a Corinthian krater as early as the late 6th century BC; otherwise, Greek longships are uniformly depicted without this sail until the 4th century BC. In the East, ancient Indian kingdoms such as the Kalinga are thought to have been built in the 2nd century BC. One of the earliest documented evidence of Indian sail construction is the mural of a three-masted ship in the caves of Ajanta, which is dated to 400-500 AD.

This Ajanta mural depicts an ancient Indian ship with high stem and stern and three oblong sails attached to three masts. Steering-oars can also be seen. Location: Cave No. 2, Ajanta Caves, Aurangabad District, Maharashtra state, India, 400-500 AD

The foremast was used quite frequently on Roman galleys, where, tilted at a 45° angle, it was more like a bowsprit, and the scaled-down foresail attached to it was apparently used as a steering aid rather than for propulsion. While most ancient evidence is iconographic in nature, the existence of foremasts can also be inferred archaeologically from slots in the foremast feet, which were too close to the bow for a mainsail.

Fragment of mosaic depicting "navis tesseraria", a messenger and police boat of the African fleet, 2nd century AD

The artemon, together with the mainsail and the topsail, developed into the standard rigging of seagoing vessels in the Imperial period, which was supplemented by a mizzen on the largest cargo ships. The first recorded three-masters were the huge Syracusia, a prestigious object commissioned by King Hiero II of Syracuse and developed by the polymath Archimedes around 240 BC, as well as other Syracusan merchant ships of the time. The imperial grain freighters that travelled on the routes between Alexandria and Rome also included three-masted ships. A mosaic in Ostia (around 200 AD) shows a freighter with a three-masted rig entering the harbour of Rome. Specialised ships could carry many more masts: Theophrastus (Hist. Plant. 5.8.2) reports that the Romans brought in Corsican timber on a huge raft propelled by up to fifty masts and sails.

Throughout antiquity, both the foresail and the mizzen were secondary in terms of sail size, although they were large enough to require full rigging. In late antiquity, the foremast lost most of its tilt and stood almost upright on some ships.

By the beginning of the early Middle Ages, rigging in Mediterranean shipping had changed fundamentally: The spars, which had long since developed on smaller Greco-Roman ships, replaced the square sail, the most important type of sail in antiquity, which had virtually disappeared from the records by the fourteenth century (while remaining predominant in northern Europe). The dromon, the rowed bireme of the Byzantine fleet, almost certainly had two masts, a larger foremast and one amidships. Their length is estimated at 12 metres and 8 metres respectively, somewhat less than that of the Sicilian war galleys of the time.

Multi-masted sailing ships were reintroduced to the Mediterranean in the late Middle Ages. Large ships became more common and the need for additional masts to steer these ships appropriately grew with the increase in tonnage. Unlike in antiquity, the mizzen mast was introduced on medieval two-masted ships earlier than the foremast, a process that can be traced back to the mid-14th century based on visual material from Venice and Barcelona. To equalise the sail plan, the next obvious step was the addition of a mast in front of the main mast, which first appears in a Catalan ink drawing from 1409. With the establishment of the three-masted ship, propelled by square sails and battens and steered by the pivot-and-piston rudder, all the advanced ship technology required for the great transoceanic voyages was in place by the early 15th century.

In the 16th century, the cross-section of the masts was made up of several pieces of wood and held together with ropes and iron rings.

A lower mast with sections from 1773 to 1800

In order to achieve a greater height, the lower mast is extended, so that a total length of up to 60 metres can be achieved, measured from the keel. From lowest to highest, these were called: lower, top, topgallant, and royal masts. Giving the lower sections sufficient thickness necessitated building them up from separate pieces of wood. Such a section was known as a made mast, as opposed to sections formed from single pieces of timber, which were known as pole masts.

This is a section of HMS Victory's main mast

The forces of the sails on the mast construction are transferred to the hull construction by standing and running rigging, forwards and aft (stern) by stays, and laterally by shrouds or guys. In order to enable sailors to climb up into the rigging, which is particularly necessary for the operation of square riggers, rat lines are knotted into the shrouds like rungs of a ladder. The upper end of a ship's mast is called the masthead.

Mounting

The mast either stands in the mast track on the keel and is passed through the deck or it stands directly on deck. In the first case, the opening must be neatly sealed with a mast collar, otherwise water will penetrate into the living quarters. If the mast is on deck, it must be supported from below on the keel so that the loads do not bend the deck. Practically every sailing ship therefore has a more or less visible vertical support through the cabin.

Masts are usually supported by the standing rigging. The shrouds pull the mast downwards with several times its own weight and thus prevent it from tipping over.

Traditionally, when a sailing ship is built, one or more coins are placed under the mast as a lucky charm (according to my theory, the coins were also used as money to pay Charon the ferryman in the underworld if the ship sank); this custom is still practised today. Just as a horseshoe was nailed to the mast to bring good luck.

Mast types

For square-sail carrying ships, masts in their standard names in bow to stern (front to back) order, are:

Sprit topmast: a small mast set on the end of the bowsprit (discontinued after the early 18th century); not usually counted as a mast, however, when identifying a ship as "two-masted" or "three-masted"

Fore-mast: the mast nearest the bow, or the mast forward of the main-mast. As it is the furthest afore, it may be rigged to the bowsprit. Sections: fore-mast lower, fore topmast, fore topgallant mast

Main-mast: the tallest mast, usually located near the center of the ship Sections: main-mast lower, main topmast, main topgallant mast, royal mast (if fitted)

Mizzen-mast: the aft-most mast. Typically shorter than the fore-mast. Sections: mizzen-mast lower, mizzen topmast, mizzen topgallant mast

Some names given to masts in ships carrying other types of rig (where the naming is less standardised) are:

Bonaventure mizzen: the fourth mast on larger 16th-century galleons, typically lateen-rigged and shorter than the main mizzen.

Jigger-mast: typically, where it is the shortest, the aftmost mast on vessels with more than three masts. Sections: jigger-mast lower, jigger topmast, jigger topgallant mast

When a vessel has two masts, as a general rule, the main mast is the one setting the largest sail. Therefore, in a brig, the forward mast is the foremast and the after mast is the mainmast. In a schooner with two masts, even if the masts are of the same height, the after one usually carries a larger sail (because a longer boom can be used), so the after mast is the mainmast. This contrasts with a ketch or a yawl, where the after mast, and its principal sail, is clearly the smaller of the two, so the terminology is (from forward) mainmast and mizzen. (In a yawl, the term "jigger" is occasionally used for the aftermast.)

Some two-masted luggers have a fore-mast and a mizzen-mast – there is no main-mast. This is because these traditional types used to have three masts, but it was found convenient to dispense with the main-mast and carry larger sails on the remaining masts. This gave more working room, particularly on fishing vessels.

Cock, John. A treatise on mast-making , 1840.

Fincham, John. A Treatise on Masting Ships and Mast Making , 1854. Kipping, Robert. Rudimentary treatise on masting, mast-making, and rigging of ships , 1864.

Steel, David The Elements and Practice of Rigging, Seamanship, and Naval Tactics, Including Sail Making, Mast Making, and Gunnery , 1821.

Steel, David. Steel's Elements Of Mast-making, Sail-making and Rigging , 1794.

Layton, Cyril Walter Thomas, Peter Clissold, and A. G. W. Miller. Dictionary of nautical words and terms. Brown, Son & Ferguson, 1973.

Harland, John. Seamanship in the Age of Sail,1992

Marquardt, Karl Heinz, Bemastung und Takelung von Schiffen des 18. Jahrhunderts, 1986

#naval history #mast #parts of a ship #very long post #sorry #ancient seafaring #medieval seafarinh #age of discovery #age of sail #age of steam

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speaknow-sw · 5 months ago

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•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : fluff, kissing, weird dreams, mentions of unaligung, mentions of blood.

A/N : Filler chapter honestly. We’re diving in the backstory of everyone bcs I can. Anyway y’all aren’t ready for chapter 4 bcs I think I cooked, TENSION TENSION !! Enjoy this one.

•| ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪɪɪ : ᴀ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛɪᴍᴇ |•

THE DREAM COMES LIKE A WHISPER, soft as the wind over the hills, carrying you back to a time when the world was kinder—when love was not a thing of tragedy, but of laughter, of stolen moments, of whispered secrets beneath an endless sky.

The sun is setting over the Tiber, its surface gilded in molten gold, rippling like silk with the lazy current. The air is thick with summer, warm and fragrant with the scent of cypress and distant olive groves. Cicadas hum their ceaseless song, blending with the rhythm of your breath as you run.

You are breathless, your feet barely touching the earth as you chase after him, your laughter rising like birds startled from the fields. Anakin is always faster, his long strides effortless, his body all coiled energy and restless motion. He looks back at you over his shoulder, a grin splitting his face, curls damp with sweat clinging to his brow. But tonight, for once, he lets you catch him.

Your fingertips brush against the bare skin of his forearm before he spins around, catching you instead. His hands find your waist, your momentum sending you crashing into his chest, and for a moment, you are caged in the circle of his arms, the rapid rise and fall of your breaths mingling. His laughter is breathless, boyish, warm against your temple.

The old fisherman’s cabin stands on the riverbank, its walls worn and leaning, its roof patched with reeds, barely holding together. It is your place—hidden from the world, a sanctuary untouched by war, by duty, by the gods who watch from above.

Here, Anakin is not a warrior. Not a leader, not a shadow of a legend fated to be forgotten. He is only a boy with golden curls and sun-warmed skin, a boy who smiles too wide, who trips over his own feet when he gets too excited, who dreams too big for the world that would try to contain him.

He collapses onto the soft grass outside the cabin, dragging you down with him, his body a tangle of limbs and sunburnt skin. He lands first, and you follow, your laughter muffled against his chest as the scent of earth and crushed wildflowers fills your senses.

“You almost had me,” he teases, voice thick with amusement, roughened from the day spent shouting, laughing, living.

You swat at him, indignant, but he only grins, catching your wrist in his calloused hand. The touch lingers, playful at first, but then something changes. His fingers tighten just slightly, his thumb brushing over the delicate pulse at the inside of your wrist, and for a moment, the world is still.

Your breath catches.

His eyes, impossibly blue, flicker to your lips.

But then, just as quickly, he releases you, tilting his head back against the grass with a contented sigh, one arm thrown lazily over his face.

You exhale, the moment slipping away like water through your fingers.

Your hands, desperate for something to do, drift to the wildflowers growing beside you—soft blues and whites, their delicate petals trembling in the breeze. Carefully, you braid them together, weaving stems into a makeshift crown, your fingers working with practiced ease.

When you finish, you reach for him again, your touch light as you settle the crown atop his golden curls.

Anakin tilts his face toward you, blinking up at you through a fan of dark lashes, something unguarded, something unbearably tender in the way he looks at you. His cheeks are flushed, whether from the sun or something else, you do not know.

“Do I look like an emperor now?” he asks, voice rich with amusement, though his eyes betray something softer, something raw.

“No.” Your fingers thread through his curls, combing through them with absent reverence, marveling at the way the dying sunlight turns them to gold. “You look like an angel.”

He laughs, shaking his head, but the sound is soft, almost disbelieving, as if he has never thought of himself as anything but mortal, as if the thought of being something more, something worthy of such devotion, is foreign to him.

And yet, when you lean in, when your lips ghost over his—hesitant, questioning—he does not pull away.

Instead, he meets you halfway, his mouth warm, yielding, uncertain in the way of boys who have never known softness.

His hands find your face, thumbs tracing over your cheekbones, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache. He kisses you as if you are something sacred, as if he has spent a lifetime searching for you and only now realizes you have been here all along.

And for a moment, there is no war.

No gods.

No curse that lingers over your love like a shadow.

There is only Anakin—smiling, clumsy, unbearably sweet.

And you—falling, always falling, knowing you will never stop.

The dream is soft, blurred at the edges like sunlight on water. It carries no weight of the future, no echoes of war or fate—only the sweetness of a love still new, still unbroken.

The fisherman’s cabin waits for you both, hidden by tall reeds and the gentle murmur of the river. The summer air is thick with the scent of wildflowers and damp earth, the sky melting into the hues of dusk. You run ahead, laughing, your sandals kicking up dust, your tunic fluttering as you spin to face him.

Anakin is slower tonight, letting you win. Or perhaps he just wants to watch you, to memorize the way the fading light kisses your skin, to etch the sound of your laughter into his heart.

When he reaches you, he does not speak—just reaches out and tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering at your temple.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and then immediately looks away, as if embarrassed by the boldness of his own words.

Your lips part in surprise, warmth blooming in your chest. He has never said it before—not like this, not without teasing, not without laughter to soften the edges.

You want to answer, but before you can, Anakin pulls something from the folds of his tunic. A small bundle, wrapped in cloth. He hesitates, then presses it into your hands, his fingers curling around yours as if unsure whether to let go.

“A gift,” he says.

You unwrap it carefully, curiosity prickling at your skin. Inside, a delicate carving rests in your palm—a tiny bird, its wings folded, its shape smoothed by hours of careful work. It is not perfect, a little uneven where the blade must have slipped, but it is beautiful.

Your throat tightens. “Anakin…”

He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly restless. “I saw you watching them last time we were here. The swallows, by the river.” He shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant, but his fingers twitch at his sides. “I thought… maybe you’d like it.”

You press the carving against your chest, as if to hold the moment there, to keep it safe.

“I love it,” you whisper.

Anakin exhales, relief softening his expression. And then, as if emboldened by your words, he steps closer.

“You always bring me flowers,” he says, his voice quieter now. “I wanted to bring you something, too.”

You smile, warmth flooding your veins. “Then I’ll keep it forever.”

At that, his lips quirk into something shy, something utterly unlike the bold, brash boy who charges into the world without fear. His gaze flickers to your mouth, and your pulse stutters.

He swallows. “Can I—?”

You do not let him finish.

You kiss him first, catching his breath between your lips, letting the golden light of evening wrap around you both. His hands find your waist, hesitant at first, then firmer, pulling you against him. He tastes like summer, like honey and sun-warmed figs, like something impossibly sweet.

When you part, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the still air.

“I’ll carve you a hundred more,” he murmurs, his voice a promise against your skin. “A whole flock of them, if you want.”

You laugh, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I only need this one,” you whisper.

And in this moment, the world is small—just the two of you, the river, the soft hum of crickets in the distance. There are no curses, no gods watching from above.

Just first love, bright and unbroken.

But the dream takes a darker tone and soon it’s not a dream anymore…it’s a nightmare.

The dream shifts.

It does not end, but unravels, pulling you deeper, as if the past itself refuses to release you.

The summer fades into autumn, the fields growing brittle beneath the cooling winds, but your stolen world remains untouched, hidden from the slow decay of time.

You see yourselves again—days, weeks, maybe months later. The fisherman’s cabin stands unchanged, its walls leaning against the wind, the roof stubbornly holding its patchwork of reeds. The river is lower now, its banks lined with fallen leaves, the water sluggish as it drifts past.

Anakin is waiting for you.

He sits on the worn wooden dock, his feet dangling over the edge, skimming the surface of the water. His curls are longer now, kissed by the late-season sun, and his tunic is loose, slipping from one shoulder. His sword lies forgotten in the grass beside him, a rare surrender.

He hears you before he sees you.

“You’re late,” he murmurs, not turning, but you see the way his shoulders tense, the way he feigns disinterest while his body betrays him.

You step closer, your shadow falling over his bare skin. “I didn’t know we were keeping track.”

At that, he finally looks at you.

His blue eyes catch the light, impossibly bright, impossibly deep. The kind of blue that drowns.

“You always come,” he says, quiet. “I would have waited all night.”

The words hang between you, heavier than they should be.

You don’t answer—not with words. Instead, you sit beside him, your hands brushing as you lean back on your palms, the sun slipping toward the horizon. The silence between you is comfortable, filled with the rustling of leaves, the distant cry of birds preparing for their flight south.

It is Anakin who breaks it first.

“Tell me a story,” he says, and there is something unbearably gentle in his voice, something that makes your throat tighten. “A real one. Not one the elders tell in the city.”

You hesitate.

You should not tell him.

You should not plant the seeds of remembrance. The gods do not take kindly to interference.

And yet—

Your gaze drifts to him.

To the boy with sun-gold curls and warrior’s hands, who still believes in forever, who does not yet know that some things are meant to be lost.

And so, selfishly, you give in.

“There was once a boy,” you begin, watching as Anakin tilts his head, listening. “A boy with golden hair, born beneath an ill-fated star. He was beloved by his brother, by his people. He was strong. Fierce. But he was never meant to rule.”

Anakin frowns, sensing something unspoken beneath your words.

“And then?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You inhale. “And then the gods cursed him.”

His brows furrow. “For what crime?”

For loving me.

For dying too soon.

For making me want to follow.

But you cannot say that.

Instead, you drop your gaze, tracing the grain of the dock’s wood with your fingertips. “Does it matter?”

Anakin watches you, unmoving, his eyes unreadable.

And then, suddenly, he shifts.

His hand covers yours, warm, grounding. “Tell me how it ends.”

The wind stirs through the trees.

You swallow.

“It doesn’t,” you whisper.

Anakin’s fingers tighten around yours.

And then, without warning, he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles.

Something in you shatters.

You look at him, wide-eyed, but Anakin is unrepentant, his lips still ghosting over your skin, his gaze never leaving yours.

A silent challenge.

A promise.

Slowly, as if testing the limits of fate itself, he turns your hand over, his lips trailing down to the delicate pulse at your wrist.

Your breath catches.

His voice is barely a murmur.

“If the story doesn’t end…” His lips graze your skin. “Then what happens next?”

You know what happens next.

You will love him.

You will lose him.

And then the cycle will begin again.

But in this moment, with the last light of the sun turning his hair to fire, with the warmth of his breath against your skin, with the past pressing down on you like the weight of the heavens—

You do not care.

You reach for him.

And the gods look away.

The dream is soft at first, like a breath of wind stirring the surface of a still lake. It comes in flickers, in the golden haze of an afternoon long past, in the echo of laughter that feels too familiar to be anything but real.

Anakin does not question it. He does not stop to wonder why he feels the warmth of a hand in his own, fingers threading through his with easy, practiced certainty. He does not ask why the scent of wildflowers and sun-warmed earth fills his lungs, or why the sound of running water trickles somewhere in the distance, weaving through the soft murmur of voices.

He only knows that it is right. That this moment, this place, belongs to him.

There are three of them.

The first is his brother.

Not Romulus—not the man Anakin has known, sharp-eyed and measured, his voice always lined with something that sounds like disappointment, like caution, like love forced into the shape of a lesson.

No, this is Obi-Wan.

He stands tall and steady, his hair catching the light, the sharp angles of his face softened by amusement. He is speaking, though Anakin does not hear the words at first—only the cadence, the rhythm of a voice that has always been there, always known him. There is no weight in his expression, no burden of duty, no crown of responsibility. There is only warmth.

The second is—

Anakin does not know.

He feels her before he sees her, but when he turns his head, her face remains just out of reach, blurred as though wrapped in mist. He sees her hands, though—delicate, strong, fingers curled around his wrist, tugging him forward.

And he follows.

They are by the river, the water running clear over smooth stones, the reeds swaying gently in the breeze. Obi-Wan crouches by the bank, sleeves rolled up, his hands dipping into the cool water as he splashes it in their direction. Anakin lets out a startled laugh, dodging back just in time—only to be caught by the girl whose face he cannot see, her grip firm as she shoves him toward the water with a triumphant sound.

He stumbles, catching himself just in time, the laughter bubbling up in his chest as he turns to her. "That was low," he accuses, though there is no real heat in it.

She does not answer—not with words. Only with laughter. It is bright, ringing through the warm air, carrying with it something ancient and full of life. And Anakin—

Anakin thinks he could drown in it.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, amused. "You two never change," he remarks, pushing himself up and stretching his arms behind his head. He looks at Anakin then, his eyes filled with something knowing. "Always like children."

Anakin rolls his eyes, but before he can respond, he feels a familiar weight settle atop his head. He reaches up, fingers brushing against something woven together—soft petals, twined stems.

A flower crown.

His pulse stirs, his breath catching for reasons he cannot name. He turns, and—

She is there, still faceless, but closer now. He cannot see her eyes, but he feels them on him. Watching. Waiting.

"You look like an angel," she says, her voice a whisper, carried by the wind.

Something in him tightens.

Something in him breaks.

And just like that—

The dream is gone.

The heavens are silent.

No whispers pass between the gods. No thunder rolls in warning. No omens stain the sky in blood and fire. But they watch.

From the heights of Olympus, from the dark corners of forgotten temples, from the spaces between mortal dreams, they watch.

Something unnatural stirs in the fabric of fate.

Anakin was never meant to return.

His soul was claimed long ago, swallowed by the hungry jaws of his brother’s destiny, scattered like dust into the wind of time. His blood had fed the roots of Rome itself, his death carved into the foundation of the empire that rose in his own flesh name.

His story was finished.

And yet—

He lingers.

Not as a shade wandering the banks of the Styx, not as a whisper carried by the wind, but as something far more dangerous. He lives. He breathes. He fights.

And the gods do not know why.

Jupiter sits unmoving, his expression unreadable as he gazes down upon the world of men. The thunderbolt in his grasp crackles, restless, eager to be thrown—but he does not strike. Not yet.

Juno watches with narrowed eyes, fingers curled against the marble of her throne. She has long despised those who defy the natural order, and this—this is a defiance unlike any other.

Apollo is silent, his golden gaze following the man called Anakin as he fights, as he bleeds, as he walks the earth with a soul that should not be his. The god of prophecy sees many things, but in this—there is a blind spot. A mystery.

Mars watches with something that might be amusement—or might be fear. Anakin is a warrior, forged in battle, honed in blood, but there is something in him that does not belong to Mars alone. He is a soldier, yes, but also a wildfire, untamed and burning, answering to no god’s call.

Venus, from her place among the divine, traces her fingers through the reflection of Anakin’s dream. She sees the flower crown, the faceless girl, the laughter that once rang through sunlit fields. She sees the love that lingers, eternal, undying, and her lips press into a thoughtful smile.

The Fates, who weave the threads of all things, hesitate. Their hands falter upon the loom.

This was not written.

And yet, it is happening.

A soul returned, bound in chains of mortal flesh, walking a path that should have never been tread again.

A goddess watching him, drawn to him, pulled by the weight of centuries, by love and tragedy entwined so tightly they are indistinguishable.

Something unnatural.

Something dangerous.

The gods do not speak.

They watch.

As always when it comes to inferior beings.

The temple is ancient, older than the empire itself, older than the gods Rome has claimed as its own. It stands at the edge of the world, where the land crumbles into the sea, where the sky stretches vast and endless, where the air is thick with the scent of salt and prophecy. Few mortals dare to seek it. Fewer still return.

But you are not mortal.

You walk through the entrance, past the crumbling columns, past the withered offerings of past supplicants—wreaths turned to dust, coins swallowed by the earth, prayers unanswered. The temple is silent, save for the whisper of the wind through its hollow bones.

The Fates do not call you. They never do. It is the seeker who must come to them, always.

A great loom dominates the chamber, stretching from floor to ceiling, its threads tangled and endless, glowing faintly in the dimness. The air is thick with the scent of wool and something else—something ancient, something neither living nor dead.

Clotho sits at her spinning wheel, her gnarled fingers twisting raw thread into being, her expression unreadable. Lachesis stands beside her, measuring, pulling, judging the length of each life with a slow, deliberate movement of her fingers. Atropos waits in the shadows, her shears gleaming, her lips curved in something that is not quite a smile.

You stand before them, your heart steady, your voice unwavering. "Tell me why he is here."

The Fates do not look at you. Their fingers do not still. But Clotho hums, a low, rattling sound.

"His thread was cut."

Lachesis tilts her head, her dark eyes flickering to yours. "And yet it continues."

You step closer. "Why?"

Atropos lifts her shears, turning them between her fingers, watching how the dim light catches the metal. "Some debts do not end with death."

Your fingers curl into fists. "This is not an answer."

Lachesis' hand brushes the loom, fingers trailing over threads that shine like woven moonlight. "Not all punishments are swift. Some take lifetimes."

A chill settles in your bones. "Punishment?"

Atropos hums, testing the sharpness of her blade against her fingertip. "A crime unanswered. A debt unpaid. A curse unfinished."

You step forward, your voice a whisper now. "Who cursed him?"

For the first time, Clotho's fingers falter on the thread.

Lachesis' eyes darken.

Atropos' smile fades.

Silence.

The threads shift, as if caught in an invisible wind. The loom creaks.

You feel it then—a presence, heavy and watchful, lingering just beyond your reach. Something vast. Something unseen.

Something that does not want you to know.

Clotho speaks first, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "The gods are not kind."

Lachesis' hands tremble on the thread. "And they do not forget."

Atropos looks at you then, her gaze sharp, cutting, like the blade she holds. "You have walked this path before. You know how it ends."

Your throat tightens. "No."

The loom shudders. The threads tremble.

"You cannot change what has been written," Clotho murmurs.

"You cannot escape what is owed," Lachesis whispers.

Atropos leans forward, her breath cool against your cheek as she murmurs the final words:

"The story is not yet finished."

And with a single snap of her shears, the temple vanishes.

You wake with a gasp, the taste of prophecy bitter on your tongue.

The sun beats down mercilessly on the sand of the ludus, turning it into a searing bed of dust beneath Anakin’s feet. Sweat slicks his skin, his muscles burning with the strain of the wooden sword in his grip. The rhythmic clash of training weapons fills the air—the grunts of men, the sharp bark of the lanista, the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground. Another day, another fight, another step toward the next battle that may very well be his last.

Anakin moves through the drills with deadly precision, his body acting on instinct, honed through years of combat. Strike, parry, twist. His opponent falters—too slow. Anakin knocks the man’s sword aside and slams the hilt against his ribs. The man collapses with a cry. Weak.

But as Anakin steps back, something flickers at the edge of his mind, as if a shadow is passing behind his eyes.

A hand in his own. Soft.

His grip tightens around the hilt of his sword. The scent of iron and sweat fills his nostrils, yet beneath it—something else. Wildflowers. Crushed beneath hurried footsteps. A crown of petals, woven by delicate fingers. A voice, laughter like a summer breeze.

He shakes his head, growling under his breath. Focus.

The lanista calls for another match, and a new opponent steps forward. Anakin raises his sword, eyes narrowing, but his balance feels off. A strange weight presses against his chest, something that does not belong.

The sun shifts overhead, the glare catching in his eyes, and suddenly—

—The scent of wet earth after rain. Green hills rolling endlessly beyond the horizon. The wind catching in golden curls. A man, smiling, breathless, tackling him to the ground.

"Come on, Remus, fight back!" The voice is teasing, full of warmth, full of love. "You’re not going to let me win again, are you?"

Remus.

The name rings in his skull, splitting like a crack through stone. His heart stutters.

His opponent lunges.

Anakin barely manages to parry in time, his blade twisting to catch the strike before it can land. He stumbles back, gritting his teeth, breath heaving in his chest. The name lingers, echoing. A ghost of something just out of reach.

Remus.

The world around him wavers. The sand beneath his feet shifts, and for the briefest moment, he is somewhere else entirely.

A river, dark and endless. A city of marble, glimmering under the setting sun. A man—no, a brother—standing at his side, hand clasped in his own. A silent promise between them, stronger than the walls of Rome itself.

Romulus.

Anakin stumbles back, the training yard snapping into focus around him once more. His opponent hesitates, confused by his sudden loss of form, but the lanista barks an order, and the fight resumes.

He forces himself back into motion, but the memories press against his skull like a rising tide, desperate to break free.

A hand in his. Soft.

A brother’s grip. Firm.

Obi-Wan.

Blood on the ground. A scream swallowed by the wind.

Anakin snarls and swings his sword, striking harder than necessary. His opponent barely blocks the blow, his stance faltering. Anakin seizes the opening and sends him sprawling to the sand.

The training yard erupts into noise—the lanista shouting, men murmuring—but Anakin barely hears them.

His chest heaves. His heart pounds.

His hands shake.

He does not know why.

The sky hangs heavy over Rome, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down upon the city. In the heavens, the gods watch in silence, their breath held like the stillness before a storm.

Anakin should not remember.

And yet, something stirs in the marrow of his bones, in the pulse beneath his skin. It is not just memory—it is something deeper, older. A pull, an ache, a whisper threading through his blood like an unbroken chain to a past that should have been lost.

The gods had decreed it.

Remus was never meant to return.

The Fates had cut his thread, had let his soul dissolve into the void, a punishment carved into the fabric of eternity. The twin who had been cast down, whose name had been swallowed by history, whose fate had been sealed in the blood he spilled.

And yet—

Here he is.

Breathing. Fighting. Dreaming.

Each fragment of his past life that flickers through the cracks of his mind is a violation. Each whisper of remembrance is a defiance of divine will.

And the gods are watching.

High upon Olympus, beyond the clouds that wreath their marble halls, they sit in uneasy silence. The Moirai murmur amongst themselves, their fingers twitching over the great tapestry of fate, watching as the weave begins to fray. Jupiter’s gaze darkens, his grip tightening upon his scepter. Mars stands restless, the scent of battle clinging to his skin. Even Mercury, swift-footed and clever-tongued, says nothing, his sharp eyes fixed upon the unfolding unraveling below.

Anakin’s dreams should have remained as shadows, as echoes. But they are becoming more.

He is remembering her hands.

He is remembering laughter on the wind, the warmth of a brother beside him, the weight of a promise not yet broken.

The gods had torn him from history. Had ripped him from his own story. Had ensured that Remus would never rise again.

But the soul does not forget.

And if Anakin remembers—

They will have no choice.

They will intervene.

They will have to unmake him.

There is no mercy for those who defy fate, no clemency for the souls that claw their way back from the abyss. The gods had decided long ago—Remus was never meant to return. His story had ended in blood beneath his brother’s hands, his name meant to fade into dust, his spirit cast into darkness where no mortal nor god could reach.

The weight of his defiance reverberates through the heavens, rippling through the great weave of destiny. The Moirai tighten their grip upon the threads, their hands moving swiftly, but the fabric of fate resists them. Something is changing. Something is wrong.

If Anakin remembers, he will have to be erased.

The gods cannot allow a dead man to walk among the living. If they do not act, he may reclaim what was stolen from him. He may seek vengeance against the brother who struck him down. He may tear apart the order they built upon his ruin.

Jupiter’s wrath crackles in the sky, thunder rolling over Rome as he weighs the punishment. The halls of Olympus tremble beneath his fury.

Mars hungers for the bloodshed to come. He watches Anakin closely, eager to see him fall again, to test his strength against the will of the gods.

Pluto waits in the underworld, sharpening the chains that will drag him into the void. He does not belong in Elysium, not with the righteous dead. No, if he will not stay dead, then he must be cast into the deepest pit, where not even the light of the sun may reach him.

Tartarus yawns open, its shadows stirring. It has not forgotten the name Remus. It has been waiting for his return.

And if Anakin remembers—if the last piece of his past clicks into place—

The gods will come for him.

And this time, they will make sure he never returns.

"The dead do not walk among the living… and those who try are dragged back into the dark."

Orpheus and Eurydice

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin x you #anakin x reader #evie writes

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nib-mettaton · 10 months ago

Text

(FYI: Comic shouldn't imply that classic Mettaton is suffering from emotional neglect. Headcanon is just headcanon. :P)

A short comic of Nib!Mettaton making good use of free therapy offered by Mettaton!Stitch (i.e. Stitch taking the shape of a Mettaton). Nib unpacking his emotional baggage was an idea I had for some time, but I couldn't figure out the best scenario where he would do it. And then I saw the Stitch AU and thought, yeah, he would eventually hear about Stitch's free therapy services through the cyberspace grapevine and try it out.

Credit where credit is due: Mettaton!Stitch is from the @stitchau by @centfornothing

There was supposed to be some stitching right in the middle of Stitch's face, but apparently my scanner did not pick up well on that. Also the scan of the last page went wonky and I'm too lazy to re-scan. Scanner troubles be troublesome. ಠ_ಠ

Slowly getting back into the groove of making more comics after the life debacles of the past two years. I had to adjust my comic-making process to adapt to certain life changes, so the comic style is experimental; let me know if the text is too small for the Tumblr dashboard.

Older readers might recognize the dialogue from the "Overgrown" chapter (from 2021!) and this minicomic happens sometime after the events on "Overgrown". I like to design my comics so that new readers can jump in easily without having to read any of the older stuff. But if you're new and want to know more (or if you're an old reader and need a refresher), more thoughts under the cut:

In "Overgrown", Reed!Flowey is the one who originally says that the reason for doing good things doesn't matter so long as the result is good. At one point, Nib and Reed have a bit of a spat, causing Reed to go onto a tantrum, and Nib throws back this same answer at Reed to get him to calm down.

But needless to say, that's viewpoint on being a good person makes more logical sense for Reed (because he can't feel most emotions) versus someone like Nib (whose actions would be emotionally driven).

There was going to be more explanation to where Nib's emotional neglect stemmed from. Essentially, it would be revealed that Nib's sense of emotional neglect was related to working at the farm at an early age. Basically, he was discouraged from things he really wanted to do due to farmwork, and most positive reactions was often tied to doing things for other people or just (i.e. being responsible) doing a good job.

Hence, he would sometimes have a hard time distinguishing when doing something good for himself is healthy/neutral versus something selfish/hurtful, as well as have a hard time telling people "no" or speaking up when a healthy boundary would need to be set.

But the mini-comic was meant to be experimental process, there was no way I could unpack all this info in three pages. Maybe in another comic.

#mettaton #mettaton ex #undertale au #nib!mettaton #stitch!mettaton #stitch au

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serpentface · 2 months ago

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How do the Wardi like their tobacco? Smoked in a pipe, in a room, a classic cig? They've got so many different kinds too, is the use commonplace or more just for certain occasions/people?

The variety of smoke delivery methods stem in part from the biggest external cultural influences/movements of people into the region. The proto-Finnic and proto-Wardi peoples both had long established use of smoking pipes prior to first contact, though the former mostly made pipes from bone or wood and the latter mostly made pipes from bone or clay (the former also Probably brought cultivated tobacco with them as they dispersed, but this strain appears to have gone extinct and smoking broülje (adapted as ‘birolge’) is now preferred amongst most Chenahyeigi-speaking peoples). Burri influence introduced the concept of the cigar/cigarillo, either smoked on its own or with a bone/wood/clay/reed/metal holder, though the leaves of the native janaët are a little too small for neat wrapping and this never fully caught on. Yuroma migrants brought traditions of reed or wooden tubes that were stuffed with the ground leaves and smoked that way, often elaborately carved and/or decorated with beads.

First: Ceramic pipe shaped like a man smoking a pipe shaped like a man smoking a pipe. Second: Ceramic pipe shaped like the front half of a khait. Third: Simple painted wood pipe with 'legs'. Fourth: Imported Burri cigar and holder made to resemble maize (top view). Fifth: Yuroma style beaded reed pipe, meant to be stuffed with tobacco for smoking. Can also double as a cigarillo holder.

The most common Wardi smoke delivery method is still the pipe, usually ceramic, wood, horn, or bone. The typical style is long and straight, with even the simplest pipes usually having ‘legs’ so they can rest upright and potentially double as incense burners. Ceramic pipes with decorative figurative elements are popular but very fragile, often reserved for special occasions or to be used as grave goods. These are intended to be smoked with two hands to support the bottom-heavy weight, and are too fragile to transport and usually kept at home. The simple but effective reed tube has become increasingly popular (mostly among peasantry) for its ease of transportation, and the practice of carving and beading reed pipes is retained in the Erubinnosi subculture. The highest quality imported Burri tobaccos are transported already in cigar form. These are luxury items and usually smoked with holders, which are status symbols/fashion items/potential backup weapons in Bur but mostly novelties here.

As mentioned in the other post, tobacco is considered to be a potent medicinal herb that energizes the body and calms the mind via ‘strengthening’ the heartbeat and encouraging healthy bloodflow, and used in a large number of medical treatments. It is commonly chewed for energy during physical labor, which is also considered a medicinal use (though is often functionally recreational). There’s no proscriptions against purely recreational use, though non-medicinal smoking of tobacco is intended to be something worked into the schedule/formal occasions/social life rather than something you do whenever the hell you feel like it, and a degree of thoughtfulness, moderation, and gratitude in this act is expected.

Recreational smoking usually occurs in the evening after daily bathing, and is considered to be a social activity and mildly weird to do alone. Sharing a pipe is a common ice-breaker with strangers, often being used to initiate formal meetings and introductions. It is most commonly done after dinner (considered to help aid digestion) while still seated with one’s family/guests, with a pipe being passed around to everyone present (aside from very small children, though most people allow their kids to at least Try to take a drag starting around the age of 5). One of the expectations of hospitality in the as hachoäm code of virtue (will get to a post about that someday) is that tobacco (or broülje) should be offered to guests along with food and wine.

Tobacco is usually smoked with full inhalation, rendered less severe for recreational use via cutting with other herbs. Most tobacco blends include pleasant smelling dried herbs and flowers, commonly camiche, rose, lavender, or catnip. Medicinal blends are often cut with other herbs too as necessary, though you're rarely going to be lucky enough to be prescribed something that smells good and goes down smoothly.

There’s a grand total of 10ish strains of tobacco (from three total different species) at least Accessible via trade, though only a few are actually grown here on any significant scale. Most of these are received from Bur and from the Dehiamenmanwe league of Yuroma city-states, though other tobaccos are Occasionally obtained from other eastern seaway/White Sea traders. The imported strains vary in expense/ease of acquisition from ‘special occasion for a commoner’ to ‘special occasion for nobility’. Most Yuroma-derived strains are the former (many of them can be grown here, though not at enough scale to meet demand) and all of the Burri-derived strains are the latter (none grow well here and are almost exclusively acquired as imports). Accessibility also depends on whether you live in/adjacent to a coastal city that receives these trade goods. If you live far inland and away from any major river/land trade route, smoking foreign tobacco is likely to be a once in a lifetime occurrence, if ever.

Two separate Nicotiana species are grown in and imported by Bur. The zhisequi tobacco is native in part to Kosov. It has a higher nicotine content than janaët but is not Overwhelmingly strong, with most users finding it to be potently energizing while also having a calming mental effect. It is mostly used recreationally, though it is also assigned the same (but Stronger) medicinal effects to janaët. It’s pretty expensive even IN Bur (largely a hot-summer mediterranean climate) because it only grows well in year-round humid conditions (such as the montane forests found in parts of Kosov), and is an a luxury item in Wardin. The average person (on the coasts) can afford to smoke it maybe once a year AT MOST, and it’s commonly reserved for new year’s celebrations. It’s more accessible to the nobility, but even then is treated as a special-occasion smoke, with janaët being more appropriate for everyday use.

Choqui tobacco is from the tropics, though arrived in Bur several hundred years ago and is now the most widely cultivated form of tobacco there. It adapts well to these subtropical conditions and can handle cool winters, but cannot survive wholly dry summers and is thus very difficult to cultivate in Wardin on more than tiny scales. It has a Very high nicotine content and taking a hit will generally cause a notable head rush, which a lot of the Wardi populace finds unpleasant and thus will extensively cut it down with other herbs. The fact that most Wardi smokers’ first instinct in trying a choqui cigar will be to take a full lungful and then almost DIE tends to be found very funny (the typical Burri method of smoking is to work through a cigar slowly, and the smoke is sucked into the mouth rather than inhaled). Choqui is notable for being the only tobacco widely recognized as having negative effects on pregnancies (this is not usually attributed to other tobaccos). In both Bur and Wardin, its use is discouraged during pregnancy, or alternatively Prescribed along with abortifacient herbs to better the chances of miscarriage when abortion is desired. This one is cheaper than zhisequi, but still much too expensive for frequent use and treated as a luxury.

The Yuroma city states have a very long history and wide scale of tobacco cultivation and have developed a variety of strains (originally derived from the same species as the janaët), some of which can be grown in parts of Wardin and some of which are too humidity-dependent and mostly received as imports. The Dehiamenmanwe league of city-states is the only one Wardin trades with on a regular basis, which supplies most of this tobacco (as well as, more importantly, turmeric and ginger).

The most popular Yuroma tobacco strains are uugai yashet (‘rice tobacco’) and uugai imeshli (‘horse tobacco’). Some of the former was first brought here by Yuroma migrants (along with rice itself) and is still widely grown in the semi-permanent marshlands around Erubinnos, but the average person receives it as an import. Uugai imeshli has a slightly higher nicotine concentration than janaët; uugai yashet is about the same but has a headier taste and is generally considered to smell better. They are less expensive trade goods than Burri tobaccos, in large part due to arriving via safer and easier White Sea coastal tradeways that operate year-round (crossing the Mouth seaway can be very hazardous in the winter, and there's more piracy going on in there). The average person can get ahold of Yuroma tobaccos and smoke them for special occasions multiple times a year (if living near the coasts).

The native janaët tobacco is, by far, the most accessible to the average person. It is widely cultivated and can be found growing wild, though has somewhat picky growing conditions and (while Relatively drought tolerant) is one of the first native cultivations to fail in prolonged droughts (though among the better-tolerant of rare flood years). It is less accessible and less hardy than the broülje plant (not a tobacco but a nicotine-containing shrub from a fictional Solanaceae subfamily) which is Not widely cultivated but is a mega-common wild shrub that tolerates a variety of growing conditions. Broülje has a lower nicotine content than the janaët and its smoke is generally considered to smell a bit unpleasant, but it forms the majority of the average person’s non-medicinal stimulant use. Most people will keep smoking mixes that are 2:1 broüje to janaët (plus other herbs) and will reserve pure janaët leaf for moderately special occasions (once a month, on holidays, when guests are visiting, etc).

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