#non-euclidean mind

[zanukavat]

will that fix your brain? no? was worth a try

[aran-morinorea]

I wrote some more today! the boys are Getting Somewhere - not physically but they are dropping Important Info on each other

Laurefindelë knows what he’s looking for, and does not actually mind giving it, so to keep him at the edges Laurefindelë simply shows him. He remembers as vividly as he can Turukáno giving him the task, the journey here, the loss of his companions. Their speech is largely in Quenya, to which his host may take offense, but there’s nothing to be done about that. The intense stare does not abate. Without any pretense at a polite expression or tone, his host says, “What is your name, traveler? If we are to speak at length I would address you properly.” “Tell me what became of her,” Laurefindelë insists. In response he feels something in the back of his mind, ice at the top of his spine. “I do not like," his host says, flat and annoyed, "To repeat myself.” Laurefindelë breathes slowly and answers, “My name is Glorfindel of Gondolin,” because there is no point in losing the veneer of civility sooner than necessary. “Well met, Glorfindel. My name is Maeglin,” his host says, the ice receding from both his voice and Laurefindelë’s mind. “Son of Eöl and Írissë.”

[fragmentedblade]

This seems to be a reference to Lorentz transformations? The first formula is apparently a derivation, and seems to be the inverse of the time part of the transformation (there's a space part too), for what I've been able to find.

The second formula is Newton's second law.

[afklancelot]

if you want to really explore the house, climb the Spiral Staircase, and enter the labyrinth, the only way is through

the perfume department

[sniffanimal]

I really need to finish house of leaves. first I need to find my copy of it

[apothekosm]

❝ Look into my eyes... Your heart is filled to bursting with adoration for me... Heed those affections. Give ̸͕͝y̶̛͍ȯ̸̗u̸͚͘r̵̙͆s̴͚͛ė̶͈l̴̺͒f̵̆͜ to m̸̟̋ȅ̵̮ !̸̭͝❞

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

lovers of hardbacks, unite (or, more likely, divide)!

dear reader! hello! do you enjoy hardback books? do you love having opinions and pressing buttons on tumblr dot com?? then oh, boy, do i have just the poll for you!!

say you're reading a hardback book that comes with a dust jacket--a book you own, perhaps, or have borrowed from a loved one or lifelong rival or sworn enemy, or anywhere else besides the library (for the purposes of this poll, we must both Have and Be Able To Remove The Dust Jacket, i'm sorry, it's very important for Science™).

please answer for your IDEAL/MOST COMMON COURSE OF ACTION--weird exceptions need not apply (unless you want them to, or you want to holler about said exceptions in the tags/replies/reblogs. i don't know your lifestyle, but i DO want to know your polarizing opinions on the care and keeping of dust jackets) (you can also holler about why you chose what you did in general, even without weird exceptions. in fact, i look forward to reading this Discourse).

***this is SPECIFICALLY ABOUT HARDBACKS, please don't skew my science with paperback propaganda :( i myself tend toward a paperback way of being, but right now Inquiring Minds Need To Know About Dust Jackets and Dust Jackets Alone***

[smuttysabina]

A Month With Aespa (Ch 4): What Goes Ning In the Night

(Ningning x Male Reader, 3.7k Words) Tags: Diva sex, Spectacular sex, Surprise Sex, Anal Sex, Squirting, Like a lot of squirting, This one sure took a while to come out didn't it, More Aespa sex, Drama-ma-ma-ma-ma, The girls may not be in the back, but they are taking it in the rear, creampies.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

Nothing can quite equal the sublime joys of waking up on a cold morning. The stuffy heat of your blankets, the faint glow radiating down from the skylight, the cool air against your face, the stiffness of your manhood, and perhaps most of all, the transcendent joy of someone's warm lips wrapped around it. You sigh, relishing in the sensation of your maid's mouth sloppily bobbing up and down your length, her body nestled between your legs. You feel another pocket of heat brushing up against your left leg, no doubt another one of your servants had wriggled her way under the covers to join the fun; and a passionate ménage-a-trois beneath the sheets was hardly a poor start to one's morning. You must admit though, that the lady hard at work between your thighs was unusually enthusiastic; gasping and slobbering noisily as she sucks you off. Somewhat bemused by her ardor, you pull up the duvet, cracking open an eye and glance down to see what all the fuss was about (not that you would complain of course, but matters were usually much more relaxed at the start of the day). You blink at the sight, and blandly open the other eye to provide reinforcements to your beleaguered first, hoping that would clarify the situation. Giselle beams innocently up at you, her hand pistoning the head of one of your maids against your crotch; who gags and squirms as she struggles to breath. You stifle a groan as pleasure shoots along your length, causing the idol's smile to turn predatory,

"Good morning, I thought I might help out a little, to make up for yesterday..."

Giselle smirks with serene indifference as she presses the maid's head down further onto your manhood, holding her down so that her nose is buried in your (nicely trimmed, thank you!) bush, "After all, dear Karina seemed ever so upset after dinner, and why, Ningning looked as if she were about to murder you!" The idol giggles demurely, "Not that Winter minded though, I'm sure she was feeling quite smug that she avoided getting her asshole despoiled- Oh, oopsie, I forgot about you." Giselle finally deigns to notice the maid who was now clawing at the sheets as she tried to pull up, her eyes rolling back as she labors to breath around your meat in her throat. Giselle blandly hauls the poor asphyxiating girl off of you, tossing her aside like so much trash as she gracefully slides herself atop of you. You groan as she smoothly mounts you, her sex devouring every inch of you until she has sheathed fully inside of her. You manage a pithy remark as your mind whirls, commenting on her unusual enthusiasm considering her conduct the day before. Giselle bashfully covers herself as well as a smile, her bared breasts squishing together most pleasantly, before answering your question by starting to ride you. Further interrogation is put on hold however, as she expertly maneuvers her way up and down your shaft, banishing any notions of matter more complex than the act of breeding.

The sex was quite different compared to your earlier dalliance with Giselle, instead of the sordid passion that had accompanied your forced anal coupling, she was now entirely professional and composed. If anything she seemed bored as her hips described non-Euclidean paths through the air that would have had your old physics professors frothing at the mouth (and no doubt masturbating furiously), her body performing gravity defying feats as she skillfully rode you. You reach up to grope her swaying breasts as they wobble enticingly around her chest, an act which seems to add a hint of enjoyment to her coolly mocking demeanor; not that it changed the inevitable outcome one iota. Unlike your meeting with Karina, which had transformed from a clinical milking into something more enjoyable, Giselle was this time utterly merciless in her technique to drain you. She completely disregarded her own pleasure, as she steadily dragged your unwilling balls upwards, fucking you as if you were nothing more than a practice dildo. But as you enter into the final stretch, she slows enough to plateau your building climax, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially, "So you are going after Winter next, hmm..." This non sequitur was sudden enough to cause your brain to click back into its usual habits, and you breathlessly request some advice on the matter then. Giselle stops cold, her waist bent at what must be a painfully angle as she stares at your incredulously, "Advice? I simply want to watch you fuck that cold bitch until she squeals," She resumes as suddenly as she halted, now with a bit more vigor than before, "I don't particularly care really, so long as you keep busy rutting with the others, which allows me to keep to myself." Giselle pats your chest without much affection, cocking her head as she feels your manhood begin to pulse rhythmically. At that she abruptly unmounts you, leaving your cock twitch against your chest in the cold morning air; her body twirling as she swiftly hops off the bed, striding gracefully towards the door. Giselle pauses at the doorway, glancing back at you with a mischievous smirk on lips, "What? I helped, a little," She leaves you with her delighted laughter ringing in your ears, as your member mournfully starts to shrink back on itself. It seems of late that your mornings have been quite unsatisfactory.

You leave your room with a mind heavy with thought, though not before tending to the poor dear who still lay gasping upon the sheets. It would have been ungentlemanly to take advantage of her after she had so valiantly braved asphyxiation; and more notably refrained from gnawing upon the delicate flesh filling her mouth. You ponder upon what Giselle had told you, and trusted her "suggestion" not in the slightest; no doubt she hoped to stir up more trouble as seemed to be her wont. You muse upon the issue as you take your breakfast in the library, peering out of the frosted windows as sunlight fills the sprawling gardens behind your residence. No doubt pursuing Winter would only needle both Karina and Ningning more than you already had; and while revisiting Giselle held a certain appeal, it would not mend your relationship with the other pair. Speaking of which... Karina had seemed oddly affected by the revelation that you had been with GIselle, and if anything Ningning appeared as outraged. She had been quite receptive that morning though, at least until you had started questioning her about the maid Giselle had ravished. Perhaps you should pay Ningning a more, attentive, visit then...

Though the sun had been shining for several hours now, the idol who cracked open her door bore little evidence that she had even bothered to leave her bed. The stale reek of alcohol invades your nostrils as Ningning squints unhappily up at you, peering suspiciously around her door. Her response to your cautious advances is nearly as crass as her appearances, "Shouldn't you be fucking that whore's asshole right now, or was even that hole too loose for you?", with that she once again slams the door in your face, leaving you somewhat piqued. Evidently there is little love lost between the two, or perhaps something else is at work here... So you return to the library, slowly wandering the bookshelves as you plan your next move, taking inspiration from the romantic titles gracing the novels there. You nod to yourself, before motioning a waiting maid over, and after jotting down a quick note, you direct her to take it to the recalcitrant idol. The maid scurries off, and you return to your perusing, running your finger along the spines of the books as you chuckle nostalgically upon remembering their sordid contents. You raise an eyebrow when the maid returns, the poor dear drenched with whiskey but most importantly, returned without your note. You thank the darling girl as best you can, hoisting up her skirt and plying her cunt until she gushes all over the floor; delicious. To tip the scales, you send another maid (the slut no doubt giddy at the thought of being rewarded for her troubles), under strict instructions to visit Ningning. With the trap baited, you merely need to wait.

An hour later Ningning swept into the library, her earlier slovenliness banished as the dawn dispels the darkness, now as radiant as the day she had stepped into your abode. Her sapphire outfit clings to her curves, its cascade of beads shining brightly in the noon sun, her makeup had been applied to perfection, her hair pulled back to roil down her shapely back. Ningning glares at you as you genuflect towards her as if she were of the divine, her foul mode seemingly undiminished as she demands your reasoning for requesting she join you. You attempt to sooth the furious idol, protesting grandly that it should be obvious, why should you not wish to be graced by such a beautiful lady's presence? Her eye twitches slightly, as rank jealousy passes over her face, "Have you not enough sluts to vent your lusts upon? Or have you tired of their slack holes already?" You murmur some soft platitudes on behalf of the other members of Aespa, and are rewarded with a look of smug superiority; it truly was that simple then... So with a submissive smile you beg of her to let you accompany her for the day, to allow you to bask in her radiance and wait upon her every need. Ningning preens at your grandiose declaration, no doubt unduly pleased that she has your full attention, and acquiesces to your request with ill-concealed delight. She puts her leg up on a chair, tastelessly dirtying its fabric with her footwear (though to be frank, that old thing was bleached white for a reason), inadvertently showing you a flash of skin, and grandly orders you to give her a tour of the gardens. However could you refuse?

With the haughty idol on one arm, you graciously escort Ningning through your expansive greenery, showing her all of the little nooks and hidden glades she missed when she rampaged through with her fellows days ago. There were dozens of intimate areas scattered throughout the gardens, where lovers could slip away into so as to enjoy one another in relative privacy; relative being the operative word here. Before grassy hollows, marble benches, and outdoor mattresses, you would pause and subtly inquire if the lady required your services, which Ningning haughtily refused of course, though your fervent attentions visibly pleased her greatly. Eventually she grew tired of erotic statuary and gently burbling fountains (which helped immensely in disguising the sound of vigorous lovemaking), and demanded a repast to sate her hunger. It was little trouble to organize a luncheon for her, the pair of you comfortable resting under an awning as your maids fill the small table between you with a bountiful spread, the harlots bustling to and from the kitchens to accomplish this feat. Meanwhile you and Ningning chatter amiably about a variety of topics, until she eventually begins to gossip incessantly about the girls of Aespa, which you listen to with rapt attention. Which invariably led to prying into your own encounters with the other idols, while the one in front of you leans back with interest, revealing a surprising amount of bare skin leading up around her crotch...

Ningning unerringly interrogates you about the other girls' performances, nodding amiably as you slowly tell her of your sex with Karina in the showers, and your much more brutal session with Giselle in the theatre, and then the unexpected pleasure you had with her this morning... The idol unconsciously strokes her thigh as she listens to how you had made love to her dear friends, smirking as you describe in detail how roughly you had take Giselle; evidently there was little love lost between the two. She smiles dreamily as she imagines how it played out, "You know, that whore gets turned on by shit like that, no matter how much she wails about it, if you just force yourself on her she fucking gushes," Ningning nods as she notes the realization in your eyes, "Oh yes, if you had just held her down and fucked her this morning, she would have loved it, you should try it more often," then she frowns, jealousy flashing behind her eyes, "I have no idea what Karina's problem is though, you should just avoid her if she's being difficult. After all," her expression growing smug once more, "why bother with her, when you could have me." At which Ningning leans back fully in her chair, opening her legs for you and revealing the glisteningly wet flesh between her lithe legs. She glances down before giggling seductively, "I knew I forgot something."

Your eyebrows are practically at your hairline, and you must admit that your pants are currently enduring a rather great amount of strain as you struggle to contain your growing arousal. You had thought that Ningning would require far more wooing before she would acquiesce to your intentions, that it would take a herculean effort to sooth her ruffled ego into submission. Instead she was practically gleeful as she flashed you, as if the thought of showing her fellow idols up aroused her to an unbearable degree. So you are more than pleased to simply watch with rapt attention as Ningning seductively slides her hand down her supple thighs, and you idly wave to dismiss the crowd of maids fluttering about. But the idol opposes their departure vehemently, as she arrogantly proclaims, "I require an audience," before starting to touch herself more sensually. And my, what a show she was putting on. Ningning's sex was as showy as her personality, with a prominent mons supporting a magnificently puffy pair of lips, squished together like a clam, opening eagerly to reveal the pearl within its gooey depths. She licks her lips as drinks in the sensation of being watched by a dozen people, reveling in being the center of attention as she seductively begins to pleasure herself. You are enraptured as the idol shamelessly masturbates in front of you, her performance as eye-catching as it would be on a stage in front of thousands, staring directly at you as her breath quickens and the sloshing noise coming from between her nubile thighs grows ever louder. With a pleasant moan Ningning climaxes, squirting spectacularly all over your brunch as her shuddering legs make the table tremble unsteadily.

A younger you would have filled your pants at such an arousing scene, embarrassingly wasting your precious semen into the fabric as you joined Ningning in orgasm. Luckily for you both however, your mast stood unbowed and undiminished (admittedly, you had leaked a fair amount, but that is not important), and as you wrenched off your pants to reveal it the idol looked entirely too pleased with herself. Of course, the dear maids around you both had fared less well than you, with several of them having produced their own messes on the stone tiles; four of them were still energetically going at it! No matter, as you rise to join Ningning though, the lady in question stops you, and instead saunters over and straddles you, the dark lips of her slit softly kissing your tip. Shaking slightly, you feel your hips treacherously thrust upwards, your member boorishly eager to feel the warmth of this diva wrapped around it. Smirking smugly, Ningning gently rocks her hips, smearing the head of your penis with her fluids, laying her own claim to your manhood; until with an indulgent sigh, she slowly sits on it. You groan as her fleshy folds swallow every inch of your cock, slathering it with her divine nectar and leaking more out onto your crotch. Your balls twitch faithlessly, only too eager to empty themselves into such a fertile woman, uncaring of the gentlemanly need to pleasure your partner. You needn't have worried much however, as Ningning starts to ride you it soon becomes evident that she is relishing this as much as you are. Moaning lewdly, she bounces vigorously atop you, her showy pussy slobbering fluids all over your stomach as she drowns your dick in her cum; her cunt was astoundingly wet. Soon her dress was soaked where it had pooled around the site of your joining, but neither of you were interested in removing it; the both of you aroused by dirtying such an expensive garment. Groaning, you grasp her waist to guide her movements, and to guarantee that this idol would not be jumping ship before you finished properly. But Ningning was as intent on receiving your seed as you were to giving it, and she keeps up her pace even as the first ropes of semen erupt inside of her. Both of your eyes roll back as your load paints her insides, even as she squirts so much it drips down out of the pool forming in your chair, her pussy spasming pleasurably around your cock.

Breathing heavily, Ningning wears a triumphant grin as she looks down at you, "I told you I was better than Karina, now let me put that whore Giselle in the shade as well..." Shivering slightly, the idol promptly unmounts you, staggering a little as a gush of your conjoined fluids comes out of her hole, before turning about and clambering back into your lap. Grasping your still-sensitive manhood firmly, Ningning promptly inserts the quivering length into her anus, letting out a modest yelp as it slides inside of her. With the slop of your previous joining still coating your cock, there was little need to worry about lubrication, which she swiftly assures you, "Fuck me harder than that bitch, I can take it better than she can!" You are hardly one to disappoint, so you comply with her wishes. Ningning's squeals of pleasure echo through the gardens as you relentlessly pound away at her guts, her cries loud enough to be heard over the burble of fountains; and much like a fountain, the idol was producing an impressive quantity of liquid. Stirring her clit constantly, she hoses down the pavement continuously, her fluids spraying wildly over the stones until a vast area in front of her was damp. The thicker juices coursed down her asshole and onto your balls, further lubricating your already messy sex. Grunting, you tirelessly plow Ningning's ass, working out any lingering frustrations you had with Giselle's teasing on her groupmate's rear; who to her credit, had only continued to urge you on. The stimulation of railing her tight coils was fast growing unbearable though, and the excitement from using the prima donna of Aespa's anus like you would a cheap whore's was too delicious to resist. But you knew that more than anything, she would want to put on a show, so you make sure to loudly announce your intention to orgasm some time before you reached that point. Upon hearing this, Ningning cranks things up to eleven, no longer content to simply take your plowing with idle passivity, now she through herself back against your thrusts as if she was attempting to impale herself. Her sweet moans grow ever louder, supported by a choir of wailing coming from your maids, and her urgings to creampie her grow increasingly salacious as the supreme moment approaches. Ningning screams in exultation as your semen spews into her guts, squirting far enough to splatter over the maids as they watched in awe, her body writhing atop yours as your second load fills her stomach with sticky warmth. Purring in the afterglow of her orgasm, the idol is content to lay back against your chest as your balls slowly empty themselves inside of her.

Once she was satisfied that you were finished, Ningning gingerly unmounts you once more, your cock exiting her with a sordid pop that presages a somewhat fouler slick of fluids than last time. Her posture betrays her immense satisfaction with her performance, as she glances around as if expecting rapturous applause from the maids. The perverse ladies had shown their appreciation in a far more honest manner than banal clapping though, as the resultant messes coating themselves as well as the floor gave evidence to their passionate enjoyment. Ningning gives you a look of utmost cockiness as she vainly attempt to smooth down her now ruinously stained dress, grossly confident that she had superseded her compatriots in raw sexual ability. Perhaps she had, you muse, as she languidly makes her way through the gardens back to the mansion, no doubt intent on washing the mingled sweat of your coupling off of herself. Your train of thought is interrupted as one of your maids begins to dutifully clean you off with her mouth, and you recline with a sigh on the soggy seat of your chair as her head bobs energetically upon your cock. You relax as the other maids gradually finish masturbating and start to clear the table, until with a grunt you fill the one kneeling between your legs' mouth with your now thin seed. What a pleasant morning it had been...

Back inside of the mansion, you make your stately way towards the public showers, you yourself were as messy as Ningning had been, and were eager to clean yourself off (not that you minded being coated in sexual fluids of course, it was the height of fashion in some circles). Dumping your soiled outfit into the laundry bin, you enter the main chamber and to your surprise find yourself confronted by the idol in question once more. Nor was she alone, as she had someone's head pinned against the wall, and seemed to be forcing them to clean out her used anus. Ningning glances over at you when you enter, biting her lip and groping her modest breasts as her perhaps unwilling partner gorges upon your leavings. You greet her with a polite nod, before heading to a shower on the opposite side of the room, content to allow the idol to enjoy herself. As you wash yourself off, and your mind wanders, you realize that the body of Ningning's lover had looked somewhat familiar, but when you glance over to confirm your idle thoughts, they had already vanished. How odd.

You could but hope that tonight's dinner table would be somewhat more subdued than the last, but from what you knew about Ningning, you had little confidence that it would be so...

A/N: Haha well this one took a little longer than expected... it took a while for me to figure out how exactly I wanted to write dear Ning2, and even longer to find the time for it, I have been a touch busy writing other girls cough cough. But hopefully the next chapter will cum sooner rather than later, heh

[zanukavat]

Just two regular guys

[occasionaltouhou]

i don't even think she knows they didn't get it bc she asked them afterwards if they understood and they all sort of mumbled and went "yeah" and yukari was just "great!" and didn't even bother to double-check. she still hasn't. she just thinks kasen knows

kasen was in the area development part of the sages which is why she doesn't know how the barrier works. they explained it to her and the other ones but this was in 1478 and yukari's explanation was nonsense and they didn't get it. they just didn't get it

[aran-morinorea]

Seven Sentences Saturday

Thank u @kanskje-kaffe for the tag!

From, as apparently per usual, Non-Euclidean Nan Elmoth:

“Well, who is it?” his host asks, still gently indulgent. “Perhaps I can give you news of them - though if I am perfectly honest, I doubt you’ll be sharing it elsewhere.” Even if - no, Laurefindelë cannot think now about whether he will make it back to Turukáno. Regardless of that, for his own closure, Laurefindelë has to try. He takes a breath and says, “I have come to seek Princess Aredhel of Gondolin.” The stranger’s gaze snaps up from his plate, his whole body seized with sudden tension. Laurefindelë flinches from it, but he cannot keep his eyes averted. Laurefindelë’s host looks at him, pressing at his mind, demanding entry.

I never know who to tag for this kind of thing, idk, @chthonion do you want to?

[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.3. - Suffocation Day pt. 2.

viktorxfemale!reader a teeny tiny bit of filth, but still very much sfw. She would suffocate otherwise :') gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES next chapter ->

word count: 5,3K

author's note: Playlist here! @rennethen and @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3! Translation of the poem at the bottom :v Also see how I'm keeping the chapters reasonable length? Very demure.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

It is eerie in the library. The room is covered floor to ceiling with bookshelves, tomes leather-bound and heavy but besides the obvious titles on all areas that are of Viktor’s interest there are some unexpected—little notebooks of poems, paperback and thin, worn with time, seemingly reached for more than once.

The collection is not the largest you’ve ever seen, nor the grandest, yet something about it holds you in place as you scan the shelves. Dim autumn light filters through tall, narrow windows, casting long shadows over rows of dark-stained bookcases. The air is scented with old paper, ink, and the ghost of candle smoke. A fire burns low in the hearth, its embers pulsing like a dying heartbeat, lending the space an intimacy that makes you feel as though you’ve intruded upon something secret.

You step further in, your skirts whispering against the polished wood floors. The library shows signs of frequent presence—papers stacked in uneven piles upon the desk, a forgotten quill resting atop an open ledger, ink dried mid-sentence. Books lie splayed across various surfaces, their spines cracked, their pages lined with annotations in a precise, slanted hand. Even before your gaze lands on the titles, you sense that this is no idle collection of literary indulgence; everything here has been selected with purpose.

Your fingers trail lightly over the spines, murmuring their titles under your breath. Ars Magna Lucis et Umbrae by Athanasius Kircher, Le Monde Primitif by Antoine Court de Gébelin, volumes on astronomy—Ptolemy’s Almagest, Kepler’s Harmonices Mundi, and even a Latin copy of John Dee’s Monas Hieroglyphica. The works on mathematics are no less impressive—Euler, Descartes, and an entire section dedicated to the studies of non-Euclidean geometry.

You pull a book at random, its leather cover cool beneath your fingertips. The gilded letters on the spine read De Rerum Natura, an old treatise on natural philosophy. Viktor’s interests, it seems, stretch far and wide. It’s a scholar’s collection, but not a passive one; every book you examine bears traces of his thoughts—notations in the margins, underlined passages, pages marked with scraps of paper.

Among the tomes of science and philosophy, you notice something softer: a collection of poetry. Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth and Coleridge, Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan, a French edition of Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal. You flip through the pages of one, your thumb pausing on a passage that has been marked in ink:

Quand, les yeux fermés, en un soir chaud d'automne, Je respire l'odeur de ton sein chaleureux, Je vois se dérouler des rivages heureux Qu'��blouissent les feux d'un soleil monotone.

Something in the act of his marking it makes you hesitate, feeling as though you’re glimpsing a side of him he does not often reveal. Something entirely different—curiosity perhaps—stirs your mind into wondering who is on Viktor’s mind when he reads it.

You let the book slide shut, exhaling slowly. There’s something about the house—its silence, its contradictions—that unsettles you. It’s full of missing pieces, of thoughts unfinished. Designed to keep strangers away but those who do step close enough, lure inside and trap.

Straightening, you turn towards the desk where your own work awaits. It’s time to bring your mind to the task at hand. You fix disobedient strands of hair back into your updo as you lay out the materials you gathered earlier. You examine Viktor’s translation carefully, the words from the wall written down with his precise hand.

Iměti tъ, kto vъ tьmě idetъ, ne prozъvati. Sъlovo jemu da ne dašь, i vъ noštь ne ględaj v oči jego. Vězdi on, kъto zovetъ i słyšetъ, ale ne imějęti glasa. Vъ tъmъ iměti, osъvobodi iměti.

The original Proto-Slavic text glares at you, and your eyes immediately settle on the key term: iměti. You know from your studies that iměti means “to imitate”—a verb denoting mimicry, the act of reproducing something rather than possessing it. The word feels significant, but in an unsettling way, as if it’s out of place.

Next, you focus on prozъvati—the word Viktor translated as “to call.” The more you study it, the more you find yourself caught by its peculiar form. It is a term that, in this context, goes beyond a mere vocal summoning. Prozъvati feels as if it is connected to something deeper, a way of reaching out that implies more than just speech—an invocation, perhaps, or a beckoning.

You shift your attention to ględaj. The Latin equivalent, spectare, would generally be "to look" or "to see," but this verb in Proto-Slavic carries more weight. It seems to imply a deeper form of observation, a searching gaze—not simply seeing something, but understanding it with a sense of obligation. It makes you wonder how Viktor’s translation, with its focus on avoiding meeting someone’s eyes, fits into the original context.

As your gaze drifts to sъlovo and zovetъ, you find yourself staring at the delicate balance of meaning these words might hold. Sъlovo is simple, translating directly to “word,” but there’s something about it in this particular structure that implies a weight to what is unsaid. And zovetъ—again translated as “calls” in Viktor’s version—seems to hold a different nuance. The form of the verb makes you think of summoning, but not of a voice or a language—more akin to an intangible force.

The final words, vъ tъmъ iměti, prickle your spine with pins. The phrase resists translation, slipping through your fingers as you try to grasp its meaning. The repetition of iměti is strange, its sense of imitation and mimicry now invoking something even darker. This isn’t just about one person calling another, or avoiding eyes. It’s as though the iměti is a way of bringing something into existence—or denying it.

In a fit of frustration, you lean back, rubbing your eyes. Your research has brought you closer to understanding the intent behind Viktor’s translation, but the true meaning remains elusive. The puzzle pieces don’t quite fit together.

What settles over you like cold stone is the realisation that, with what you have at hand, Viktor’s translation is, in fact, correct—and your expertise here is useless.

The usurper of he who walks in darkness must not be called. Give him no word, and in the night, do not meet his eyes. Everywhere he is, he hears when called, but he has no voice of his own. In the echo, rid the fake.

Nothing about it seems out of place—no lost sense, no hidden clue, nothing to suggest an error. You read both versions again and again, murmuring them under your breath, transposing them into Latin, Greek, and French. And yet, in every language, the meaning remains the same.

A sigh presses from the shallow part of your chest, constricted by the corset’s cruel embrace. You slump backwards in the chair, pressing your fingers to your temple. And the moment you close your eyes, something cold and dreadful unfurls within you.

You are in the library—yet you have no memory of getting here. No recollection of walking, of reaching for the door handle, of pushing open the heavy wooden wings. No moment where you crossed the threshold. You are simply... here.

The word rings between your ears like a church bell: imě. And then—nothing. Blackness, thick and suffocating, folding over you like the sea swallowing a drowning man—until, at last, it disperses into the gentle warmth of the library’s hearth.

Beyond the window, whatever feeble sun had struggled all day to pierce the clouds had long since surrendered. Now, it hovered low over the horizon, its light thin and waning, swallowed by the encroaching dusk. You glance at the clock, swallowing down the lump of disquiet that has settled in your throat. With a lip caught between your teeth, you gather your notes and march to Viktor’s study.

Your heart is a weight on your shoulder, your breath shallow as you raise a hand to knock. The sound barely has time to settle before his voice—muffled by the heavy wood—reaches you.

"Come in."

You step inside, and the warm glow of lamplight casts long shadows over the walls, stretching his silhouette behind the desk. He straightens at the sight of you, his expression soft with familiarity.

"There you are," he says, voice carrying the warmth of a fire just stoked. "It was getting late. Have you found something?"

“I—” You hesitate, pressing your notes to your chest. "Nothing. Your translation is perfect, by my standards."

"Oh," Viktor murmurs, something like a pleased hum threading through his voice. "I am flattered. Are you certain, though? Please, take a seat," he says, extending his hand to the chair facing him.

"Thank you, but I've been sitting all this time. I will gladly stretch my legs," you reply, pacing instead, your fingers tightening around the edges of your papers, your chest still tight with contraption. "I searched through whatever I could find in Greek, Latin, and French," you continue, exhaling sharply. "I have also skimmed through Slavic myths." You shake your head. "And this is so... vague. The possibilities are endless."

Viktor watches you with quiet patience, fingertips idly tapping against the desk. "Would you like to share at least one of them? I do have the time."

"Well, of course," you say, rolling your shoulders back. "Since this is undoubtedly an early form of a Slavic language, the first creature that comes to mind is Licho—or Likho, depending on the region. A one-eyed demon of misfortune, sometimes appearing as an old woman or a beggar to gain entry into homes. It offers false guidance, pretending to bring luck or wisdom, while in truth leading people to ruin. As per the usurper in your translation..."

Viktor hums, his gaze sharp with interest. "Interesting," he murmurs, though in truth, something in his chest stirs—no, it roars—his mind alight with the rare thrill of sharing thought with someone equally consumed by the subject at hand. To watch you pace, to see the way your hands carve meaning into the air, your face shifting with each thread of thought—half offered to him, half spoken into the ether—is, to him, a remarkable sight.

Were it a thought he dared to entertain, he might even say that, in this brief exchange, you had made him feel less alone.

"Also," you draw a breath through clenched teeth, shifting your weight, "Boginki. The False Mothers. Infamous for stealing babies and replacing them with changelings—sometimes pretending to be caretakers, or... well, mothers." You resume pacing, your voice gaining momentum. "There are plenty of such beings across different mythologies, but none fit exactly." You pause, glancing at him. "The do not meet his eyes fragment—why? What would happen if you did?"

Viktor folds his hands atop the parchment, contemplative. "Are you suggesting a creature that turns people to stone?"

"Something like that," you murmur. "Are you familiar with the origin of the Medusa myth?"

His brow lifts, curious. "Is there any other than the widely known?"

"It’s a mistranslation," you say, turning to face him fully. "Or rather—truth lost in layers of retelling. It’s speculated that what we now know as Medusa—who evolved from the Gorgons—was originally a male warrior with wild hair, appearing in Mesopotamian, Near Eastern, and Indo-European myth. The turning-into-stone element simply meant death, brought by the warrior or guardian, whoever he was." You halt at the edge of his desk, eyes steady on his. "It’s a long shot, isn’t it?"

You exhale, finally, and sink into the chair behind you.

Viktor leans forward, pulling the parchment closer, his eyes scanning the inked lines with renewed purpose. "It does not matter. This is exactly what I wanted from you—a fresh mind." He taps the page once. "What else are we missing?"

You lean in, reading the text upside down. Your voice drops to a murmur. "It could also be the Leshy."

Viktor glances up. "No voice of his own?"

"Precisely. Leshy is known to imitate human voices to lure people into the forest," you say, more softly now. "But in most depictions, he doesn’t speak. He only echoes."

"Fascinating," Viktor replies, leaning back. "None of this, however, gives us any clue about the breathing affliction."

"Sadly, it doesn’t," you sigh, pushing yourself to your feet. The long hours seated make it feel as though your chest can no longer hold a proper breath. You drift across the room, gaze trailing over the shelves. “There is also a thing called the Mara,” you say absently. “It’s believed she sits on people’s chests at night, stealing the breath from their lungs and filling their dreams with horror.”

You stop, hand brushing the back of a nearby chair, and release a long, weary breath. “But I really don’t know how to tie all of this together,” you murmur—defeated, yet still searching.

Around you, books and trinkets are arranged with the precision of a mind that values order—yet there are signs of frequent use: papers stacked in uneven piles, ink bottles left uncorked, a cup of tea long gone cold. Viktor watches you closely.

“It is barely your first day,” he says, voice low and thoughtful. “Nothing gets done in one day.”

You scoff under your breath, unsatisfied by the ease in his tone. One arm wrapped tightly around your midsection, the other gliding along the book spines, you scan the titles with mild distraction. Pressure begins to coil inside your ribs again, a subtle ache swelling with each shallow breath.

Then, amidst the neatly arranged oddities, your gaze catches on a deck of cards—its edges plain, the backs painted with modest, medieval designs.

Your fingers brush the stack as you speak. “Do you dabble in cartomancy as well, Mr. Velesny?”

“Occasionally. When I run out of options,” he replies, rising slowly. His steps are long as he comes toward you, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a murmur, warm against your shoulder. “And I thought we agreed—you should call me Viktor.”

“My apologies... Viktor,” you manage, though your voice is thin, breath trailing at the end. Your insides feel unbearably constricted, your corset biting down with every rise of your lungs. Is it the garment—or him? You can’t tell. “It’s an odd deck. I’ve never seen this type before.”

“It’s Minchiate,” he says, reaching around you to lift the deck, the closeness of him sending a fresh wave of heat to your face. “It includes additional cards. Offers deeper insight.”

He presents it to you on an open palm. “Shuffle it. Draw one.”

You hesitate, gathering the cards from his hand. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. Perhaps it will give us a clue—of all things.”

The weight of the deck is unexpected in your hands. The cards are slightly too large for your palms to shuffle gracefully, so you do it slowly. Once you deem it ready, you ask, “Alright then... how do I do this?”

“Cut the deck where it feels right. Pull the top card.”

Your fingers tremble as you lift the cards, the pressure in your chest intensifying. You cut the deck, drawing the top card with effort. “It says only... XI.”

“Hermit,” Viktor replies at once. “Interesting.”

“Is it telling me I’m a loner?” You attempt a smile, though your lips are dry and your vision is beginning to tunnel.

“No,” he says softly. “Traditionally, the Hermit is depicted blind, carrying a lantern. Look—” He turns to the bookshelf and pulls out a small booklet, flipping quickly through the pages. At last, he taps one with his finger. “Marseille, L’Hermite.” He tilts the book toward you, revealing a hunched old man printed in black and white, clutching a lantern, his face disturbingly grotesque. “He carries knowledge where there is none. Hope, even,” Viktor says, voice low, almost reverent.

Your voice breaks on the exhale. “Am I your hope, then?”

“You might as well be,” he says with a quiet smile, though his gaze is searching—watching the colour drain from your face.

Your breath catches—high and shallow. The bookcase in front of you feels like the only thing keeping you upright. A cold sweat breaks across your brow as black seeps into the edges of your sight. Your mouth opens, but no air reaches your lungs. Every gasp is swallowed by fabric and bone.

“It’s too tight,” Viktor murmurs, moving swiftly behind you. His voice drops into urgency. “Miss, you will faint if we don’t fix this now. Do I have your consent?”

It is by absolute necessity, he tells himself, as his fingers hover at the nape of your neck, brushing a few stray strands aside. You nod—unable to spare a breath for ‘yes’—and whatever air remains in your chest hitches when his fingertips ghost the skin just beneath your hairline.

“Dear God, why would you endure this torture?” Viktor mutters, hooking the cane over his forearm. And were he not so concerned just now, perhaps he might have caught the irony in his own words—his breath always shallow, each one measured, careful not to draw too much air into lungs that have never known ease.

His hands settle at the base of your spine, hovering just above the row of buttons that fasten the back of your bodice. You feel him hesitate—the brief pause of a man bracing himself—before his fingers begin their work.

"Who in their right mind designed this number of closures?" he mutters under his breath, his tone caught between irritation and disbelief.

His knuckles brush the fabric with each movement, slow and methodical. He works his way upward, button by button, the task made no easier by how closely they sit to one another. The silence between you is thick, broken by the soft clicks of fastenings getting undone and the occasional flutter of your breath as your lungs strain for air they still cannot fully claim.

At last, the final button slips free, and the bodice loosens at the edges, exposing the laces beneath. Viktor hesitates once more.

“This will be colder,” he murmurs, more to himself than you.

Then his fingers dip beneath the stiff outer fabric, brushing over the linen underdress that lies flush against your skin. There's no bare contact, yet the warmth of your body radiates through the thin barrier, sinking into his touch like heat into snow. His fingertips still, then resume—precise and steady, despite the way his pulse has begun to thunder at his throat.

He says nothing, but you feel him falter just slightly when the curve of his hand grazes the small of your back. Through the light linen, faint freckles are visible—soft constellations scattered across your skin. He memorises them without meaning to.

The laces loosen, one at a time, pulled free in patient sequence. The tension around your ribs begins to melt, and your shoulders drop with a trembling sigh.

When he finally begins to draw the laces back, this time more loosely, the process is slower. The cords resist the rhythm, and his hands must navigate the now-shifting fabric more carefully.

“You seem well-versed in unlacing, but not in lacing back, Viktor,” you murmur, a touch dryly, attempting to cut through the electric tension.

There’s a pause. Then—“Is that your concern now?” he replies, and when you let out a breathy chuckle, he adds, “Would it unsettle you if I said yes?”

Caught entirely off guard, you say nothing. Embarrassed—ashamed, even—you feel heat bleeding into your cheeks and scold yourself for attempting to tease a man who can clearly fight back. Noting your capitulation, Viktor only smiles to himself.

Finally, the knot is tied, the corset now sitting far less cruelly against your ribs—and at last, you can breathe. He pulls the bodice, which had slipped from your waist, back into place and begins the mundane task of fastening all the buttons.

To your utter loss, now that you’re finally able to feed your lungs with air, they refuse to cooperate—your breathing remains shallow, faltering. You startle especially when his hands reach the upper part of your back, where the only thing shielding your skin is the almost non-existent undershirt. It burns, nearly, and you are uncertain whether it’s your ears clogging with pressure or if it is, in fact, Viktor swallowing hard.

Once done, he straightens the fabric gently, then lifts his hand to smooth his palm down the length of your back—a final touch, calm and grounding.

“There. Is that better?”

You do not answer right away. You simply inhale. A true breath—full and deep, stale air spilling into your lungs without pain. It fills you so completely it feels like drowning in reverse.

“Yes,” you whisper, steadying yourself. “Thank you.”

Viktor’s hand lingers a moment longer before falling away. The silence between you shifts—not eased, but altered—recalibrated into something that hovers between tension and trust. Something very much alive. It emboldens you enough to say, “It would not unsettle me. To know that you are versed.”

You notice a smile ghosting across his lips as he lowers his gaze. Only now do you realise that perhaps he is just as flustered as you—only far better at hiding it. His cheeks are tinged with the faintest pink, and though his eyes remain half-lidded, their exact shade hidden beneath lowered lashes, you are certain his pupils are as wide as when he speaks of his revelations.

He clears his throat, a subtle but telling gesture, and places his cane back in hand with a practised movement. “The sky is clouded tonight,” he says, gesturing toward the darkened window with the tip of the handle. “But if you wish to breathe some rich air—to make up for the losses of today—I could show you the garden,” he offers, voice low, almost cautious.

You tilt your head. “Algernon mentioned night is not a good time?”

“Nonsense,” Viktor replies without hesitation. A rare sharpness edges his tone, though it fades as quickly as it came. “It’s gorgeous at night. Come.”

He doesn’t wait for your agreement. With quiet assurance, he turns and begins toward the study door, his gait measured, cane making the floorboards creak beneath his weight. You fall into step beside him, still gathering yourself, still remembering how to breathe.

The house is hushed at this hour. Every candle seems dimmed in deference to the dark, casting the corridors in a soft, amber gloom. The air grows cooler as you descend the staircase and take a turn down a hallway you haven’t yet seen—narrow, panelled in darker wood, with windows showing glimpses of the pale grounds beyond.

You pass an arched doorway and then another before he stops at a pair of tall, glass-paned doors, fogged by the moisture on the other side, framed by a narrow marble arch. He produces a key from his coat pocket and unlocks them with a soft click.

The scent reaches you first. Earth. Cold leaves. Damp moss. The faint sweetness of something still blooming despite the season.

He pushes the doors open with his shoulder and steps aside, one hand resting lightly on the frame as he motions for you to enter first.

A winter garden. Quiet and low-lit, enclosed beneath a vaulted glass roof that reflects the barest shimmer of moonlight breaking through the clouds. Ferns and climbing ivy stretch toward the light, while rows of hardy white blossoms open like stars against the deep green. The temperature inside is cool but not unpleasant—tempered by the plants, the enclosed warmth of stone and soil.

A narrow path winds through raised beds, and somewhere nearby, a slow trickle of water laps gently over stone.

Viktor follows you inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “I find this place... peaceful,” he says, his voice quiet, respectful of the stillness. “There are few things here that ask anything of me.”

You glance over at him, watching the way his hand brushes one of the broad leaves as you pass—a barely-there touch, reverent.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. Your voice feels more real here, less strained. “Have you... done this?”

“Yes. Once, I thought herbs and plants might bring the answer to something I was researching,” he replies, his voice gentler now, touched by memory. “They did not. But the garden remains.” He glances around the space, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Everything that blooms here chooses to. Nothing is forced.”

You walk a few more steps in tandem, the air fragrant with damp leaves and faint blossoms. Your lungs slowly begin to trust the freedom they’ve been given—each breath deeper than the last, no longer catching or shallow. You pause beside a low-growing bush with narrow, silver-edged leaves, letting your fingertips brush against them.

“What was the question you were trying to answer?” you ask softly, curiosity laced with awe as you glance at him.

He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “Ah... that does not matter now.” A small shrug of one shoulder. “Even though it was not found, I am grateful for this place.”

There’s something in the way he says it—no bitterness, only acceptance. You watch him a moment longer, studying how different he seems here: his shoulders looser, the lines around his mouth softened, his eyes reflective instead of watchful.

“You really are full of skills,” you murmur, half to yourself, still stunned by the strangeness and serenity of the hidden garden.

“I am full of interests. Of curiosity,” he corrects with a quiet chuckle. “Here, my skills were not much use.”

Before you can ask more, a sudden rustle from a tall fern nearby makes you flinch. Something flutters past—quick and black—and lands on a bare branch overhead with a sharp flutter of wings. It lets out a single, high-pitched squeak.

“Viktor!”

Startled, you turn to him. “A... grackle?” you ask, blinking.

He smiles with unmistakable fondness. “Yes. Meet Rio.” He gestures toward the bird, who has now begun preening one wing. “He comes and goes as he pleases, through that window there.” He motions toward a narrow, open pane set into the far wall. “Be careful what you say around him. He’s gained a reputation for using people’s words against them.”

“Viktor. Sad,” the bird croaks in a mockingly low tone, tilting its head.

“See?” Viktor murmurs, almost amused. “He will paint me pathetic before you even get the chance to know me better.”

There’s a flicker of something like vulnerability in his expression, but it passes quickly. He slips his hand into the pocket of his coat and retrieves a small metal ring, thumbing through a few keys until he unhooks one. Carefully, he places it into your open palm.

“You may come here as much as you wish,” he says, his voice low, nearly blending with the rustling leaves. “I find this place good for the mind.”

You glance down at the key resting in your palm. The cool weight of it feels symbolic, as though you’ve been let in on something secret—something close to his heart. A small part of him, entrusted to you.

Lifting your eyes to his, you find his gaze steady, amber dimmed by the faint glimpses of moonlight through the glass. You offer a quiet, sincere, “Thank you.”

The silence that follows is not uncomfortable—it hums with something unspoken. His expression shifts just slightly, something flickering behind his eyes.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Viktor says, stepping back with a subtle shift in tone, practical again, though a note of softness lingers. “The Černoglav family asked for three days to prepare for our arrival.”

You nod, the name pulling your thoughts briefly back to your larger task.

“In the meantime,” he continues, “I’ve been called to another case. It might be entertaining—should you wish to accompany me.” His tone is hopeful, inviting.

“Oh?” you ask, curiosity tugging at your voice. “What supernatural aid are you bringing this time?”

He lifts his cane slightly, gesturing as though introducing the absurdity of the situation. “A family nearby is being haunted by the ghost of a vengeful horse.”

You blink, trying very hard to hold back a disbelieving smirk blooming on your face. “A vengeful... horse?”

“A stallion, precisely,” he clarifies, with deadpan seriousness. “Do not mock, Miss. They are terrified,” he adds, moving closer and pointing his fingers at you in a playful scold, cheeks hollowing with a ghost of a smile.

You press a knuckle to your lips, attempting not to laugh. “Have they tried feeding it some phantom sugar cubes?”

“That is our job,” he replies smoothly, though the corner of his eyes lift up, and a smile wrinkles his face. “What do you say?”

You pause for effect, then sigh with mock gravity. “Ah, maybe a bit of distraction will serve us well in all this. Why not.”

“Brilliant,” he says, already half-turned toward the door. “We leave tomorrow after breakfast.”

“I shall await impatiently,” you reply, taking a step to join him, when Rio’s squawk snaps both of your heads toward the source of the sound.

“Imě, imě, imě!” the bird repeats, flapping his wings menacingly on the branch before launching himself through the open window, disappearing into the night.

Viktor blinks, wide-eyed, then looks at you, equally surprised. “Forgive me, Miss, he does that sometimes. Has he startled you?” he asks, quickly recollecting himself and extending a hand for you to grasp.

The memory has already eclipsed in your mind, buried under a cairn of today’s events, when you are suddenly pulled back to both your dream and the eerie door on the first floor. You take his hand but study him carefully, and instead of answering, you ask, “What’s behind the door upstairs?”

“Oh.” Viktor’s brows draw together, taken off guard. “Nothing that should concern you. It’s something from my past, insignificant,” he attempts to dismiss you, but you do not falter.

“Are you certain it’s insignificant?” you press, squeezing his palm insistently.

“Why would you ask?” Viktor pushes back, his expression shifting to one of discomfort. His hand leaves yours, and seeing no answer, only an expectant stare, he takes a step back and straightens himself.

“If there is no justification for this, I do not feel inclined to share.” The cane twists to the floor as he turns his back to you and begins walking toward the door. “Do not raise that matter again, please,” he throws over his shoulder. “And be ready to leave in the morning, should you still wish to accompany me,” he says finally and disappears into the corridor, not giving you a chance to wish him goodnight.

Left alone in the dim garden, the air seems to shift around you, growing colder with each passing second. You hug your arms tightly around yourself, a shiver rolling down your body as the silence presses in. The question lingers in the space between your thoughts, but now there’s something more—something hidden in the shadows of the house. You wonder if the answer you’ve been seeking lies buried somewhere here, wrapped in layers of forgotten memories. The chill in your bones isn’t just from the night air; it’s a creeping unease, the sense that Viktor has closed himself off, and that something crucial remains locked away. Guilt tugs at you for startling him, for prying when perhaps you should have let it go. But the key in your hand—so small, so weighty—feels like a promise, something shared with you. You clutch it to your chest, as if it could offer some comfort, and sigh deeply. At least you can breathe again.

—

Les Fleurs du mal translation:

When, with my eyes closed, on a warm autumn evening, I breathe the scent of your warm breast, I see unfold happy shores That are dazzled by the fires of a monotonous sun.

[marsupials-of-mars]

I have a theory. It's a lot of speculation, but an interesting thought:

Euclidea was a hivemind. Or, at least part of it.

This is my main "evidence." The line "One of the few conciousnesses" and referring to the lonely humans as "you" somewhat implies that he himself is or was part of a hivemind consciousness. Like, for example, a fungal spore network.

With what we know of Euclidea (strict adherence to rules, valuing uniformity, fearing non-uniformity), it wouldn't be a surprise.

What constitutes as a "hivemind" here is vague, and if it is the case with Euclidea, it doesn't mean that all of the Euclideans were the same person with the same shared knowledge.

It may be more of an extrasensory connectedness, uniform patterns of thought, a general understanding of what others are experiencing/feeling, physically or mentally. This aligns with some of Bills powers: reading minds, possessing multiple corpses all using his own voice, seeing through many eyes (not necessarily simultaneously, but as "peepholes")

If we follow this idea, it makes the Euclideans seem less like fascists and more like people looking out for their community. So averse to a reality-breaking mutation because it posed a threat to the minds of anyone connected to bill.

Maybe, rather than forcing baby bill to be medicated just to make him normal, his parents were doing what they thought was best not just for their child, but for their people.

(^ I'll admit some of these screenshots are more "thematic" than "evidence")

Maybe it was so easy for Bill to destroy his whole dimension much by accident because all he had to do was stop taking his meds, and let this mutation which nobody else was physiologically able to handle into the minds of those people.

He felt so stifled that he made the conscious decision to endanger people; it wasn't fully an accident, nor was it fully violent in intent. But his choices directly resulted in the massacre.

All this to say, this concept is mostly just more fuel for angst. Bill not only destroyed friends and family, but pieces of himself. His blue flames and red anger aren't just influences or genetics from his parents, because his parents weren't just parents; They were pieces of himself.

He was alone in the universe, but it was worse than that. He was alone, truly alone with his thoughts, without knowing how to even process what "his" thoughts were, or what "alone" really meant.

He blacks out when he recalls the day he tried to fuse everyone into his own individual perspective, because the memories missing are the memories of countless dying people.

He's an idea. Not a soul, not a conciousness, because the soul was shared among his whole race of people.

Maybe this could be why he's so desperate for attention, belonging, friends, and family: He's desperately trying to fill in the gaps of his own consciousness.

And, it could explain why he's so, so very bad at it: Because he can't conceptualize the desires of individuals. They should all want what he wants, think like he does, that's how it's supposed to be when you love someone!

Your family is an extension of yourself, so why wouldn't they want to make you happy? If you're happy, everyone is happy!

He's a handful of selfish thoughts that persisted after the soul they belonged to was destroyed.

Now don't come at me with your conspiracy pants on and tell me how little evidence I have and how unsubstantiated and speculative all this is, I KNOOOWW but I'm having fun and playiiingg!!

[darling-stardust]

WHAT WAS HE MADE FOR?

Bonus images and text below cut:

Barbie is always in fashion babes I love her immensely and I love HERM immensely hahah....

I wanted to do a paper doll type of image and had no idea who I would draw, and then this hit me like a ton of bricks. I worked on this for 6 days LOL

Please let me know if you guys would think this would be a fun print? I might make one for myself anyway lol

Tumblr hates my guts so feel free to open images and explore

Here is the text for the image:

From the Makers of "Slap-Bracelet of Befriending", "Kellogg K-Nife", and "The One Ring to Repulse Them All"-

Dungeons and Daddies present:

BUILD A BOY - featuring - Hermie The Unworthy

Hermie is not your typical teen -ager, he is the son of a Non-Euclidean Being and the King of Hell !

Posing as a student of Teen High from Chaparral High School, Hermie's special interests are acting with the drama department, working up on stand - up routines, and being actively left out of the minds of his friends - turned - spouses Scary Marlowe, Lincoln Li-Wilson, Normal Swallows-Oak-Garcia, and Taylor Swift (no, not that one) while assisting on their quest to save the world their parents f*cked up.

He's also got his eyes set on stealing the Teenie the Teen mascot as a prank for Chaparral - And all before Finals ... If he can make it out alive!

Dress him - pose him- give him a tight five routine to perform!

He's an actor! He wants to do it!

"He's just a thing! Put an outfit that you want on him and he's going to look how you want him to look - it's for a purpose, he's not a person."

CHOOSE FROM A LARGE WARDROBE OF COSTUMES

Dark Acadamia- pinafore dress with lace button down and fashion heeled booties (book not included)

Joaquin Phoenix's "Joker" - Suit with loafer shoes and reusable face paint

School Dance* - Suit and heels with a single rose picked from his mother's garden

*pair with a veil and bouquet for an intergalactic wedding! (sold separately)

[rauferes]

WIP Wednesday

Had a sudden and acute attack of bisexuality, and then got too embarrassed to write the spicy bits. Bon appetit.

***

The Fade is, at times, a strange place. A person does not always step out the same as they went in.

…which does not lessen the shock when the Veilguard passes through one strange little non-Euclidean corner of the Fade and Emmrich emerges with his impeccably tailored clothing suddenly fitting rather differently.

“Uh,” Rook says intelligently, staring at Emmrich’s new and unexpected breasts. Small, of course—he’s still rather lean—but enough to make a tiny gap in the buttons of his shirt. The skin underneath is bare, pale. Rook’s eye snags on a faint freckle—

Rook’s humiliating lapse in control goes unnoticed, thankfully, as Emmrich looks down, frowning thoughtfully, and then turns to look at the rest of their party—Rook, Lucanis, and Bellara are no worse for wear. Lucanis raises his eyebrows, and Bellara’s puzzled expression quickly morphs into avid intellectual curiosity.

“How unexpected,” Emmrich says mildly. “Ideas?”

None of the first thoughts that come to Rook’s mind can be said aloud. Bellara fills the silence eagerly, so excited that she can’t finish one thought without starting three more.

“Maybe it’ll fix itself if you went back in and came out again?” Rook says, stupidly.

Emmrich gives an elegant little shrug, disappearing back into the archway (Rook can’t help but notice the curve of his hips as he goes, what with how snugly his pants now fit there, and that a little change in anatomy has only accentuated an already lovely behind, and Rook hates themself. Just a little bit.)

Rook’s foolish suggestion does not, of course, work. Emmrich emerges the same as before, his impeccable, short hair framing a strangely bare face.

Rook had just managed to get over the flutters in their stomach every time Emmrich smiled. With the changes, it’s like Rook is seeing him for the first time again, and they'll have to start all over. It isn’t fair.

“Well,” Emmrich says, and pauses for a long moment. “I suppose I’ll have to investigate this later. It’s not exactly pressing, at the moment. Shall we?”

They continue on to their mission, Bellara theorizing at full speed the entire time.

Rook spends the entire time feeling all of thirteen again, unable to look away. Every time they break their stare, their eyes slowly creep back again. They could not tell you what they did for the rest of the mission if their life depended on it.

When Rook finds Emmrich poring over texts two nights later, the strange magic still hasn’t worn off. He’s borrowed one of Neve’s shirts, for comfort—buttoned up higher than Neve has ever worn it—but his pants are still his own. Rook has begun to use half their brainpower on keeping their eyes above neck level every time they speak to Emmrich.

“Any progress so far?” Rook asks.

“Inconclusive, still,” Emmrich says. He sighs, pushing his chair back, and stands to stretch his lower back.

…Emmrich’s height hasn’t changed in the least. Rook’s mouth goes too dry to speak.

They don’t manage to straighten their mortified expression before Emmrich catches it.

“Come now, you needn’t be so uncomfortable with me,” Emmrich coaxes. “I’m no different, underneath.”

“Yeah, but you’re so gorgeous that my brain shuts off,” Rook says. They snap their mouth shut, far too late—ugh, case in point.

“I see,” Emmrich says, an amused glint entering his eye.

“Please forget I said that,” Rook groans. “It was out of line, and—”

Their apology dies as Emmrich presses a knuckle under their chin and gently tilts their head up.

“Do I look upset?” Emmrich says lightly.

Rook licks their lips. Emmrich’s gaze drops. He studies Rook’s mouth for several long moments where Rook holds their breath.

“I will admit to a certain… curiosity,” Emmrich says slowly, meeting Rook’s eye again. “The ability to experience another form is a rather impossible exercise, under most circumstances. I wouldn’t wish to impose, but—that is, I wonder if you might be willing to indulge me in—”

“Oh,” Rook interrupts, their brain finally catching up. “Please.”

Emmrich leans in, capturing Rook’s mouth in a deceptively gentle kiss. Deceptive, because wow is he a good kisser. Rook’s hands settle on Emmrich’s hips as they try not to moan.

[the-barefoot-hatter]

Hi, i just learned about the niblings Pyramid Steve AU and i love it but now i have so many questions. that i am going to dump here now lol. Is Bill jealous that Pyramid Steve can access both the mindscape and the physical world? I like to imagine that he was born like Athena from Greek Mythology since he was created in a dream. Or maybe does it not work that way, it's like Looney Tunes rules where anything can happen just as long as it's funny lol? Is Pyramid Steve existing in the physical world more of a motivator for Bill to demand that Ford finish the portal asap? If Ford learns about the original purpose of the portal, will he think that Bill made Pyramid Steve as a manipulation tactic? Would he be emotionally devastated, thinking poor Pyramid Steve was given life because he was merely a pawn in his sick father's mind games, and try to protect Pyramid Steve from Bill, not accepting Bill's insistence that he is just as confused as Ford? Or would he think that Pyramid Steve is "in on it" with Bill? If something goes down like what happens in canon, who is taking Pyramid Steve in the divorce? 😂

eeeee, a fan! I'm glad you like it! my au tag is the: non euclidean geometry au search it up on my tumblr for a bunch more silly little comics <3 the nibling comic is where I started actually really thinking and adding continuity, so some of this is wobbly/subject to change:

Is Bill jealous that Pyramid Steve can access both the mindscape and the physical world?

A little bit! Also very proud, because LOOK how ADVANCED his baby is!!! Obviously the BEST BABY! (Oh, your's can sit up on it's own? what cute little accomplishment there, you must be so proud)

I like to imagine that he was born like Athena from Greek Mythology since he was created in a dream. Or maybe does it not work that way, it's like Looney Tunes rules where anything can happen just as long as it's funny lol?

A bit of both! They aren't exactly sure how Pyramid Steve was made, since he popped up right after karaoke night and memories are... hazy lol

Is Pyramid Steve existing in the physical world more of a motivator for Bill to demand that Ford finish the portal asap?

Yes, absolutely! You can't separate family!

(also having a baby around is making Bill much more tired/slip up about what's really going on/change his plans for the benefit of his family, so the result of opening portal is bit less end-of-the-worldy. probably)

If Ford learns about the original purpose of the portal, will he think that Bill made Pyramid Steve as a manipulation tactic? Would he be emotionally devastated, thinking poor Pyramid Steve was given life because he was merely a pawn in his sick father's mind games, and try to protect Pyramid Steve from Bill, not accepting Bill's insistence that he is just as confused as Ford? Or would he think that Pyramid Steve is "in on it" with Bill?

lol, well you see, this Ford is slowly coming to realize that his Bill is not actually a Muse of Knowledge but is in fact just some guy. A smart but so, SO stupid guy with a lot of issues. It's more like the horror of finding out the guy you are seriously dating has been faking his entire resume, but has been real with you, emotionally. Just not about his job or his background or his initial intentions and oh god, he's dating a stan-type conman. And the conman fell for his mark.... Is his life some sick hallmark movie?? (They love each other and will work it out)

but IF this AU went the darker paranoia/betrayal route like in canon, Ford wouldn't think Pyramid Steve's in on it (because Ford is paranoid but he can recognize that PS is just an innocent baby). Ford would be utterly gutted at being 'baby-trapped' and pretty resistant to listening to Bill about the situation at all, because Ford is a pretty unforgiving guy prone to dramatic grudges, especially once he learns you lied to him.

If something goes down like what happens in canon, who is taking Pyramid Steve in the divorce? 😂

;-; oh, that be a tough one!

Bill is much more powerful, but Ford is scrappy and determined!

IF this AU went the paranoia/betrayal route like in canon, and Bill has Pyramid Steve, Ford will stop at nothing to get him back/kill Bill. If Ford has Pyramid Steve, Bill would be a thousand times more desperate to escape the Nightmare Realm and get them BOTH back/on Bill's side.

(ps, i welcome anyone else playing with these setups, just link me so i can enjoy them too <3)