#i once more refuse to draw a background

[dalemon]

Time asked the waitress if Wind had "rizz"

[krysmcscience]

It’s finally done, guys – five whole pages of Narilamb AU comic AND MORE be upon you! (If you have trouble reading any of the text, view the full-size! These pages are huge!)

Yeesh, this took forever. <:)

There’s probably a ton of inconsistencies and anatomy/perspective wonkeries, but this was mostly just comic practice, so Oh Hekkin Well, Lol <:D

(Yes, I am aware the Gateway’s door isn’t present in the Afterlife, and the actual way in is just a pentagram portal. Yes, I put the door in there anyway because Artistic License, i.e. it felt more impactful for there to be a prison door of sorts to walk through to freedom, rather than just a bland boring portal on the ground. 😠)

anyway, i hate backgrounds so much lmao

Alternate ending and a buttload of bonus art under the cut, followed by goofy AU rambles and headcanon stuff:

I’m calling it the Revival AU. It’s not all that creative a title, and someone else has probably used it already, but I am too lazy to really care, LOL

Alternate ending page, which you will Definitely need to view the full-size for, Whoopsie Daisy:

The alternate ending was actually the first ending I finished things off with, because I had a brief badbrain moment where I forgot the emotional beat I initially wanted the comic to end on, and I tend to write comedy, anyway. I later remembered and drew out the proper ending, but I preserved and finished this one, too, because it still makes me giggle.

They had to go back for the followers off-screen in the AU’s real ending. And by ‘they’ I mean just the Lamb, because they weren’t about to ask three newly freed cats to go back into what used to be their prison. The Lamb DID spend some time watching Narinder and the bois enjoying the outdoors first, though:

In other news, here’s the Lamb and me making fun of my anatomy-drawing ‘skills’:

Meanwhile, if you’re wondering why the Lamb is just a-okay with how things went down vis a vis Their Murder, this bonus comic should answer at least some of your questions:

Ah, yes, also this is how they get engaged outside of the alternate ending. Forgot to mention that bit. XD (I already refuse to believe that Narinder is capable of flirting normally, so why would his initial marriage proposal be any better???)

Oh, and before any of them get a chance to actually head back to the cult grounds, there is one potential problem:

And by ‘problem’ I mean something Narinder intends to ignore for At Minimum a thousand years. Cuz he’s a petty bitch like that. :D

what do you mean i drew the lamb too tall compared to the background? clearly they’re standing on top of baal and aym lmao, why else would you think those two aren’t in this one??? (aym and baal got way too excited about finally being outside, you see, and their silly modes are nothing to sneeze at)

And, speaking of heading back to the cult grounds, I’m sure y’all would love to know how the Lamb’s followers felt about the brand new change in management:

It all went better than expected. <:D Tiny ramble now, feel free to skip down to the next comic.

Before you ask, no, the Lamb does not have any actual powers anymore, other than the immortality Narinder definitely grants them. The Red Crown just thinks it’s funny to suggest otherwise, and Narinder does nothing to discourage this. Also, the Lamb and Narinder aren’t actually married here yet, but, uh. Pretty safe to say that particular ritual directly follows the events of this comic. XD

Given how quickly he mellows out in canon, Narinder probably chills out a lot in this AU once he’s in charge of the cult, too, if only because 1.) He’s finally free, and 2.) He’s equally smitten with and distracted by the Lamb. He’s definitely in charge at least 95% of the time, though, because the Lamb never actually wanted to be a cult leader and, now that their time as a vessel is done, they just want to be a normal(ish) sheep who’s wholly devoted to their hot new divine husband.

Some followers do still have some valid concerns about these two being together, though, which I’m sure at least a few of you might share…

Unfortunately for any such concerns, the Lamb is a bonafide masochist in this AU. :D

They’re also 100% a sub, obviously

Anyone at all: Your relationship is problematic and potentially toxic

The Lamb: fuck yeah it is, it’s so hot~ OuO

Here’s just the last panel, made transparent for whatever nefarious purposes y’all might have for it:

Additional exchange Narinder and the Lamb have at some point, probably after the Lamb does a fatal whoopsie while out on a mission trip or in response to things getting a little too sadistic in the bedroom, ahaha:

Look, there is a very important distinction between life and death, and if you don’t understand that, then you’re probably not worthy of being the God of Death, anyway. (At least, according to Narinder, and ONLY Narinder.)

Last but not least, have these shittens:

~Such creative naming conventions I have utilized, lololol~ :D Anyway, there's a few deets on them in the rambles down below.

The rest is all ramble, so before I get to that, I’ll just say – likes and especially reblogs are very much appreciated!!! :D If you happen to really really REALLY like my stuff, meanwhile, I do have a link in my bio to my ko-fi page, where I’m accepting commissions and donations if you’re especially generous… ÓuÒ

Now, BE FREE IF YOU AIN’T DOWN FOR READING MY GOOFY RAMBLES

First ramble is re: Baal’s question of ‘Did it really work?’, since I didn’t feel like expanding on it in the comic proper, and it’s arguably pretty vague? He doesn’t ask because he doubts Narinder or his capabilities, exactly, but because neither Baal nor Aym have ever actually seen their god at full power before (he’s still technically not at full power here, either). It’s not expressly stated how soon the brothers were brought to Narinder after his imprisonment, but whether it was early on or after a length of time for Shamura to (somewhat) recover from his attack, he must have already been weakened, since I have no doubts that there was a huge battle that accompanied the Bishops working together to trap him. So, between that fight with all four of his siblings, sharing his power with a variety of vessels over time, and being chained immobile for a thousand years, he must have been severely weakened by the time he lent the Red Crown out to the Lamb, which would have only weakened him further.

I like to think this is how the Lamb is able to defeat him if they refuse to be sacrificed, despite how it took all four Bishops working together to subdue and chain Narinder in the first place.

All that aside, the three cats have been trapped in the Afterlife for so long that Baal also wanted verbal reassurance that they are all, indeed, actually able to leave it now – something that I headcanon isn’t possible without a significant amount of power (i.e. the Red Crown’s cooperation with its bearer/vessel).

(On a semi-related note, I don’t headcanon Aym and Baal as twins. I like sweetheart big bro Baal and snarky little goth bro Aym too much to have them be that close in age.)

Ah, teeny thing: If you noticed I switched up the art style for Narinder on the second page, that was intentional. It's sort of a visual indicator that there has been a Big Change for him - that being, how much power he has after sacrificing the Lamb. As for why I changed up his arms in the grass rollin' pic, I don't really subscribe to the notion that his arms are spooky bones because they're horrifically injured (beyond chain-chafing scars, that is), but rather just because he's the Bishop of Death, so he can change how normal-to-spooky they look at will. At some point I might doodle out how I imagine his appearance to range between least to most eldritch... 🤔

Next ramble, regarding Narinder’s feelings towards the Lamb...he was initially too focused on being freed from his imprisonment to form any real attachment to them. They were a tool for his use, first and foremost, but he did notice their intense devotion towards him. It was impossible not to notice, because the Lamb was always very happy to see him, even if it was because they died during a crusade (yet again). He wasn’t originally planning to revive them once he was freed, either, because he saw no real point to it – after all, they were already dead when they first met him, just as any other mortal would be when meeting him in the Afterlife, so death has very little real consequence in his eyes. But, once the chains were off, and it really sank in that he stood to lose the most devoted follower he’s ever had, he decided…why put their soul to rest for good or leave them stuck in the Afterlife when he could just as easily revive them again? And why not reward them for their hard work, anyway? Not only would it cost him nothing by comparison, but the future devotion that could come of it would surely make up for his (bare minimum) effort in reviving them.

He wasn’t expecting to get a full dose of that devotion and a smiling face so soon after killing them, though~ :3c (because the Lamb is a bonafide freak, and not-so-secretly into the fucked up power dynamics going on here, lol)

I should mention here that I am firmly of the belief that any non-god/vessel who crosses through the Gateway and into the Afterlife just straight up dies. So, Aym and Baal? Also straight up dead, from the second Shamura brought them through. Their souls were just never put to rest so that Narinder could have some company – if only according to Shamura. Narinder kept the two around mostly out of bewilderment, because honestly, who are these kittens, and what is Shamura’s game here, anyway??? They never even explained anything, they just tossed these kittens into the Afterlife and LEFT!!! At any rate, Aym and Baal being dead is how I explain why their souls apparently become lost in the void if they’re killed, along with the added complications required to revive the two because of it.

So, with those deets in mind, and given a bit of time, if Narinder hadn’t chosen to revive the Lamb, and also hadn’t chosen to put their soul to rest, they still would have woken up at some point, despite being as straight up dead as Aym and Baal. Who, don’t worry, were also properly revived while Narinder was waiting for the Lamb to wake up. Because I am also firmly of the belief that, first, the dead cannot leave the Afterlife without the use of a ritual/relic (and can't stay in the living world for long regardless), and second, dead followers’ devotion isn’t anywhere near as potent as that of the living, given how much more the living stand to lose.

Final ramble, regarding the Lamb’s feelings towards Narinder, and why they’re so devoted to him…

Well, you don’t spend most of your life on the run with your steadily-dwindling herd, trying to evade the ongoing genocide of your species, without becoming a little fucked up in the head. Maybe a lot fucked up in the head. Life is suffering, so might as well have fun with it, right? Maybe start finding death and pain to be kind of hilarious, even a little bit hot, once everyone you know and love is dead and gone, leaving you all alone? And maybe after that, there’s something comforting in how, despite the cold, cruel uncertainties of life, at least you can always count on the inevitability of death, patiently waiting for you until your very last breath? Who knows. Either way, as soon as the Lamb was killed, and they learned that the literal God of Death was offering them a second chance at life and vengeance via effective immortality, they were 100% ride-or-die-devoted all at once. Turns out death is kinder than life – go figure. (Of course, it helps that Narinder is 100% their type.)

They weren’t put off by Narinder’s thinly-veiled sadism or manipulations, either – they’re not too different in those regards, albeit opting for vastly different methods. It’s a very ‘two sides of the same coin’ sort of deal. In order to stay alive once they were made the last of their kind, the Lamb had no qualms with using others to their advantage, and that did not change once they were revived and expected to run a cult. They didn’t care for the position of authority, though – being a sheep and all, they’re much more of a follower than a leader, and thus greatly appreciated Narinder’s need for control. With how they had to keep on their toes for so long, the Lamb was also pretty good at reading people by the time they died, so they could recognize that a lot of Narinder’s posturing was just that – posturing. Dude’s 95% bluster and only 5% bite. He could obviously be vicious when he wanted or needed to (the Bishops' injuries were clear proof of that), but underneath his outer layer of cruelty was a generous layer of tsundere, and underneath all THAT was a soft squishy middle sibling velcro cat in desperate need of attention and affection.

(Which, for the record, he Did Not feel comfortable getting from Aym and Baal – Narinder still has no idea why the fuck Shamura sent them to him, beyond acting as keepers at best or trying to sabotage his attempts to escape at worst. Which, he thought HE sabotaged in turn, by guiding the kittens into being his devoted disciples instead. He thought he was very clever for it. ‘I outsmarted Shamura!’ he thought, despite that there was never anything there to outsmart. ‘What do you mean, Shamura sent your kittens to me for company?’ he demands of Forneus later. It may or may not lead him to pull Shamura out of Purgatory just so he can shake them and scream about how they should have Fucking Explained that!!!)

But, getting back on track as to why the Lamb was so willing to be sacrificed, I cannot stress this enough – if you pay even a minimal amount of attention to what he’s saying, Narinder is REALLY NOT SUBTLE about his intentions. ‘Death is of little consequence.’ ‘Followers are for you to use to your advantage.’ ‘Sacrifice a follower to absorb more power.’ So, yeah, the Lamb knew exactly what would be expected of them once the other Bishops were dead. They knew Narinder would expect them to die for him one last time. But, after all, death is of little consequence (not to mention hot), so when the time came, they wanted to see him freed, even if it meant oblivion for them in the end.

He’d given them a second life, and the ability to avenge their kin, and they felt indebted to him for that – so, while they were still pretty glum about the possibility that they might not get to see him free of his chains, nothing beyond their devotion and debt to him mattered. They never wanted all the drama and expectations that came with the Red Crown’s power, anyway, so, better for Narinder to have it back so that he could deal with it. What he did with the Lamb afterward would be up to him, and seeing as he was their god, they’d accept his decision gladly.

Were they in love with him by that point? Oh, obsessively so, but only in the devotional sense – romance was nowhere on their mind nor radar. That is, until he unexpectedly revived them again, told them he still needed them, and then offered down his hand to help them up.

The Lamb fell HARD for him in that moment. :3c

And now, a tiny shitten ramble. Lu and Li are twins, because sheep tend to have those a lot, and are conceived not long after the Lamb and Narinder’s marriage ceremony. Lu is the minutes older one, but Li is much more mature. I have put no further thought into these two, other than that they are utter menaces, birthed by the Lamb, cling hard to both their parents but especially Narinder (who spoils them rotten), and they are both genderfluid, using whichever pronouns/names they feel like at any given time. They are also both intersex, same as the Lamb, who was initially infertile up until Something Something Vague Magic, which I have also put no further thought into ¯\_(シ)_/¯

oh, and before anyone tries to suggest i headcanon this AU’s lamb as trending more female due to them giving birth or whatever, no, no, a thousand times no, they might have a vag, but they've also got a dick, and even if it's not as big as they'd like, they still know how to use it

Finally, the very tentative name for the Lamb in this AU is Yazdi, which is really just another name for the Baluchi breed of sheep XD (Not that the Lamb is this specific breed, I just didn’t like any of the other sheep-related names I found, ahaha...)

THAT’S ALL FOR NOW (collapses into an exhausted pile of goopy limbs)

[seoulmatez]

— 𝒶𝓁𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓃𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝒹𝒾𝒸𝒾𝓃𝑒 ౨ৎ

bakugo katsuki x f!reader. 1.2k wc. ﾉ all characters are aged up ﾉ nsfw (MDNI!) ﾉ prohero!bakugo ﾉ established relationship ﾉ fingering ﾉ cunnilingus ﾉ slight overstimulation

the once discernable dialogue playing through the television speakers and hitting bakugo’s ears fades into the background with your lulling movements. your thumbs smooth over the length of his blonde eyebrows before your two first fingers come to rest on each of his temples, gently rubbing circles against the velvety skin. his eyelids flutter, light lashes kissing the tops of his cheeks as he exhales a relaxed breath.

“feel good?” you ask, temporarily halting your patterned motions. he groans in satisfaction, not bothering to nod. he’s comfortable as is, slotted between your legs with his arms wrapped around your midsection. his chin rests snugly on your belly. it scrunches up the fabric of your shirt (which is actually his) but neither of you move to fix it.

“are you sure you don’t want that tea?” you mean the chamomile you offered to brew him when he stepped through the door complaining of a headache. “it might help.”

he grunts again, this time in refusal. you feel his arms untangling behind you before a pair of heavy hands come to run up and down your loosely clothed sides, lifting his chin so that the fabric can freely be dragged upward. the oversized t-shirt bunches at your hips, leaving your thighs exposed.

katsuki pulls himself back so that he hovers over the space between your thighs. he licks his lips before lowering his head to press a trail of kisses to the plush of your skin. each wet kiss is left higher up than the last and creeps closer and closer to the inside of your thigh. his path is clear and you know so because the shiver that shoots down your spine and the familiar throb between your legs only means that katsuki wants a taste of something else.

you.

his touchy intimacy peaks in the late hours of the day, especially when he comes home with a migraine. he finds that burying his head between your thighs and hearing your moans is a medicine of its own. and if eating you out was his way of distracting himself from the dull yet constant pounding of his head, you’re more than happy to oblige.

while his lips continue to press sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the plush flesh of your thighs, katsuki’s hand sneaks up to pull your panties to the side. the wetness of your cunt causes them to stick before they’re no longer an obstruction and bakugo huffs out a laugh at the evidence of your excitement. he’s barely done anything and you’re already making a mess for him.

his amusement warrants an annoyed remark on your end but your breath catches in your throat before you’re able to get any words out. “a-ah!” your broken moan cuts through the air at the warm, wet contact of katsuki’s lips latching onto your clit, tongue flicking the sensitive nub. you can feel his lips curl into a smile against you.

“mm, sorry,” he pulls away, gliding his tongue along the length of his lower lip. “didn’t mean to cut you off, but i just had to get a taste.” you tremble beneath him as he drags two fingers up and down the slick of your folds with his words.

his muttered apology is a weak one—one you’re positive he barely means when those very fingers sink past your puffy folds, deeper and deeper until his knuckles rest at your entrance. they pull out of you agonizingly slowly before bullying themselves back in. the steady rhythm draws heavy breaths from your chest, heat pooling in your tummy with each in and out of his thick fingers. the predictable pattern disappears when katsuki sees you’ve taken note of it. with a devious smirk, he curls his fingers to hit your spot just right.

“fuck!” your fingernails dig into the threads of the satin sheets underneath you as you choke out the expletive. your back arches and a fog fills your head with the newfound pleasure. it feels good, so good that you’re chasing it—you need more of it. “katsuki… p-please.”

“what baby?” he whispers. the stream of cool air that hits your bundle of nerves sends another jolt of satisfaction throughout your body. a shaky breath pushes past your lips as you attempt to gather your thoughts while the blonde’s fingers continue to pump in and out of your gummy walls.

“more.” you exhale breathily, throwing your head back at yet another crook of his fingers. “i-i need more.”

he grins at your neediness before dropping his head, kissing your clit before letting his lips attach to it. he laps at you like a man starved, the languid strokes of his tongue turning into more hungry ones with each passing second. just like you, katsuki needs more. he hikes one of your legs over his shoulder with his free hand for better access.

you gasp, nimble fingers trading out the sheets in favor of soft locks of sandy hair. they thread through the soft strands before tugging at the roots. the action makes katsuki groan in contentment—he always enjoys it when you’re a little rough with him. it only makes him want to work harder, so he can hear your whiny moans drift through the air and feel your fingernails graze his scalp.

the pace of his fingers thrusting in you and his tongue swirling around your clit picks up. the once tender touch turns to one of frenzy and your hips unconsciously grind to chase your approaching wave of pleasure.

“gonna-ah, ’m gonna cum, katsuki,” you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut, overwhelmed by the intensity of your oncoming orgasm.

“yeah? then cum,” he groans against you. you can’t help it when your quivering thighs close in around his head, trapping him between your legs and against your cunt. the tremors of his voice cause your breath to hitch. stars dot your vision upon letting out a shattered cry of bakugo’s name as you cum on his tongue and around his fingers.

you can still feel his fingers fucking into you roughly as your walls clench and spasm around him. he continues to suck on your clit as you wind down from your high, only letting up when you let out a pitchy whine, writhing under him in an attempt to pull away from his greedy lips. he lets up with one final lick, slowly dragging his fingers out of you. they’re coated in your creamy essence that disappears as soon as katsuki pops the digits in his mouth to clean them off. he hums in delight around them before pulling them out with a smile, a combination of your slick and his spit glistening on his chin.

you smile back at him, the best one you can muster given your current state. you weakly beckon him towards you. he crawls up the mattress to join you. with the sleeve of your shirt, you wipe away the mess on his face. your hands cradle his jaw and you pull him in for a lingering kiss. when you let him go, you ask, “did that help?”

katsuki turns his head to peck the inside of your wrist before answering, “it always does.”

thank u for reading! if u enjoyed, please consider reblogging or commenting ❤︎

[enwoso]

Could we pls have more sunshine/Grumpy reader I love x child reader. Maybe reader is sick and alessia brings her to training just thinking she’s not feeling too well but she starts being sick and alessia is stressed out but it’s just fluff with all of the girls

SICK BUG — alessia russo x child!reader

*part of the grumpy/sunshine universe once again<3*

grumpy masterlist

today was the conti-cup final in wolverhampton, arsenal v chelsea and alessia would be lying if she said she wasn't nervous. this was her first chance of silverware since joining arsenal this season. and she would love nothing more than to lift that trophy at the end of today.

but she also had someone who she had to worry about more which was at the end of the day a lot more important than the cup trophy, that being you.

for the past few days you had been poorly, alessia was hoping that you were going to be feeling better however it was probably the opposite. last night had been a particular rough night as you had been awake for most of it. as if you weren't crying cause you were too hot or too cold, you were crying cause you were coughing and spluttering your lungs up.

alessia spent most of the night drawing shapes on your bare back trying to get you to get at least some sleep along with herself before you would wake up again. the blonde was sure she only got an hour and half of uninterrupted sleep.

when the sun did finally come up, and it was time to get up - you refused covering your face with your blanket, your mum having to carry you down the stairs and sit you on the couch giving you some breakfast which you just nibbled at.

clinging to your mum as she tried to get ready in the short amount of time she had, just before leaving alessia gave you some medicine which was a battle in itself.

"lovie, open your mouth please" your mummy pleaded, as you moved your mouth away from the pink liquid on the spoon, "it'll make you better!"

"no, it taste yucky" you whined, pushing your mums hand away from your mouth making sure that you kept your mouth sealed shut.

a few pleads later and with a bit of a bribe that your mum would let you pick a new toy, you finally caved and had the yucky pink medicine. pulling a disgusting face as the spoon entered your mouth.

the medicine did the trick and eased your illness as well as making you sleepy, as before your mum even had a chance to get you ready for the day you had fallen asleep on the couch — the cartoons playing in the background.

alessia managed to get ready and get onto the arsenal coach that was taking the team to the stadium all with you still asleep.

"a bit early for her afternoon nap is it not?" kyra teased, as alessia huffed sitting down placing your backpack along with her own on the floor.

“don’t kyra”

normally alessia would have laughed or had some remark to the comment but instead it was met with a grumble and a shake of the head as she dragged her hands steph smacking the young australian on the shoulder her as she grumbled holding her shoulder.

"i take it she's still not feeling very well?" steph asked cautiously as alessia hummed shaking her head, as she looked at the two australian who were sitting in front of her.

"no, i think last night was her worst night - she slept a solid two hours" alessia commented, looking towards you moving the blanket from your upper body as your cheeks where starting to go red knowing that if you weren't cooled down you would wake up crying cause you were too hot.

"oh less, are you not tired?" steph said slightly worried for the blonde considering she was going to be playing football soon, not wanting the girl to be overly tired.

alessia hummed, "and then my mum was supposed to be coming to watch her while the games on but her stupid trains been cancelled so she can't even get here!"

"well i'm sure one of the girls who aren't starting won't mind watching her, she's not a bother" steph smiled as for the first time today so did alessia, thanking the girl as you both fell into a bit of small talk.

however you interrupted the conversation, small cries coming from you for "mummy" identical to the ones that alessia heard this morning.

the blonde picking you up from where you were laying on the coach seat, leaving your blanket where it was as you were beginning to burn up as alessia soothed you by rubbing up and down your back as your cries quieted down. your head tucked into your mummy's chest.

the coach stopping a few moments after, alessia knew you were not asleep as you were still twirling the ends of your hair in your fingers an action you did when you were trying to go to sleep.

“lovie? you gonna get down so we can get off the coach?” alessia said, not really asking you more telling you as she peeled you from her chest, placing you on the floor as a few complaints came from you.

“come on the lovie” your mummy said softly holding out her hand for you to hold, her other arm holding her big pink bag which had both everything you needed but also everything she needed.

“where everyone?” you asked, the rest of the team already gotten off the bus, you and your mummy being the last ones off. at you neared the front of the bus, you heard mummy said thank you to the driver before helping you down the steep stairs.

you jumping off the last step, a small smile finding your lips as you walked in front of your mum her telling you which way to go.

“you have a nice nap?” mummy asked as you nodded, “yes, i had a dream” you said so innocently, your mums eyes widening intrigued on what it could have been.

“you had a dream? what did lovie dream about?” mummy cooed, as you giggled a little pausing as you hummed thinking of your dream. “having a pet unicorn when i older” you admitted, walking the corridors of the molineux stadium.

your mummy chuckled a little at your dream, as you continued to tell her about the fantasy of your dream, how you lived with your unicorn in a big candy land.

“you can come visit too!” you cheered as alessia opened the door of the changing room. you finding your mums stop spotting her name on the jersey.

as she put her bag down sitting on the bench, scooping you up onto her knee everyone else around her beginning to get changing into the warmup kit.

as she began to rummaged around in her bag for a tissue for your runny nose. “that’s very sweet of you” your mummy smiled finding the pack of tissues which had peppa pig on the packaging after you demanded them ones in the shop just like you did with plasters any time you fell down and scraped your knee.

you were adamant that the ones with the pictures on made your knee feel a lot better than the ones that were just plain and boring, alessia knew it was just because they had a picture on them and they were colourful that you liked them — no other reason.

alessia wiping your nose as you moved your face further away from the tissue, slipping off your mums knee and sitting on the bench moving so you were snug in the cubby hole picking up your ipad beginning to watch some cartoons on it.

“your here tiny!” you heard a thick irish accent coming from above you, looking up and seeing katie smiling down at you as you nodded in response to her question.

“where were you on the bus?” katie asks, usually you were all over the place moving from one person to the next it helping you to fill the time in especially on away day trips that were long.

“napping, i still poorly” you say a small cough coming from you as katie nodded, “oh yea’ your ma did say something about you bein’ sick,, how you feeling?” the irish girl asked moving to sit beside you as you venture out of your cubby hole you had been in for the past ten minutes while your mummy was getting changed into her kit.

“otay, got a sore throat” you frowned, katie frowning with you — it was sad seeing you so down with an illness usually you were buzzing around the changing room about the football, no matter whether it was games at arsenal or england. win or loose you loved watching each and every match.

“you not repping the arsenal jersey today?” katie pointed to your pink pyjama top, as you shrugged not even knowing if you had it with you.

“mummy!” you yelled to the best of you abilities with your throat hurting, alessia fixing the edges of her hair with a tiny brush which she called the magic brush as it helped to get all your baby hairs into place.

turning to face you with a smile she nodded for you to ask what you wanted, “where my arsenal top?” you asked now wanting to put it on, especially now that katie had put the idea into your head.

“i think it should be in my bag-“ she said putting her tiny brush down and picking up her bag, you peering over her shoulder watching intensely as she dug through the bag looking for the small red jersey.

“it’s not here, oh i must of forgotten to pick it up — sorry lovie” your mummy looked up from the bag, seeing your bottom lip begin to tremble, guilt consuming her as she mentally screamed at the fact she had forgotten it.

tears beginning to fill in your blue eyes but you didn’t know if it was because of the fact you didn’t have your jersey to wear or that fact your head had started to hurt again. a big rush of emotions filling you.

“lovie, it’s okay.” mummy said hoping to squash the situation, you still trying to navigate how to cope with any big emotions you had.

katie moved from her seat on the bench next to your mum, kneeling down in front of you “tiny, dont worry about it, would you like me to go and see if i can get you a arsenal scarf to wear?” katie asked hoping it may help to soothe the situation, while it wasn’t as good as your jersey it was at least something.

you nodded as mummy rubbed you back to soothe you while mumbling a ‘thank you’ to the irish girl, katie rushing off to see if she could get you the scarf as some of the other girls came over trying to cheer you up a little.

minutes later, katie returned a red scarf in her hand as well as some little arsenal flags. a big smile on the irish girls face as she kneeled down like she did moments before hand, handing them too you.

“what do you say to katie?” mummy whispered in your ear as katie put the scarf in your lap while handing you the flags.

“thank you katie” you sniffed, your eyes a little red from the few tears as katie smiled.

“anything for our favourite little gooner!”

liked by katie_mccabe11 and 641,527 others

alessia even being ill won’t stop her from watching her team🥹

comments -

katie_mccabe11 our little gooner❤️🤍

1h 153 likes     reply

-> alessia forever!

leahwilliamson glad to see she understands what’s the right part of london!!

1h 212 likes     reply

-> alessia i don’t think she would have it any other way

stephcatley favourite little fan forever!

1h 140 likes     reply

[snejkha]

✨Updated my Commissions ✨

Prices have been adjusted and I added the outfit design as an option too/ Feel free to give it a look under the cut for more information//

And as always feel free to share around/ <3!

Past commissions

Halfbody commissions

Bust commissions

Reference sheet commissions 

Character Design Commissions 

Fullbody Commissions

If you’re interested in commissioning me, contact me via my email snejkhacom@gmail.com (no asks please!)

Email subject must be “ Commission (insert username/url)”

In the email/message clarify the type you want, I work with visual descriptions mainly// (the more of references you send the better/), same goes for preffered poses, and a short description of the character (what are they like, or what show they are from,etc..) I will add a small fee If theres no previous art of your character since it will be a design from me as well// (this doesnt aply for reference sheets though//)

please mention possible deadlines (birthday/christmas gifts, etc.)  

I have the right to refuse a request for any reason

All payments are in USD and through Paypal and only via invoice/  

After I’m done with the sketch I’ll let you know and you can make changes to the sketch in that time. When you approve the sketch I’ll send you an invoice through your Paypal email. I’ll continue working on the commission after once the price has been paid.

once I’m done with your drawing I will send you a high-res file of the image (usually 200dpi / up to 2000px)

I will probably upload your requested drawing on social media (here on tumblr and on my twitter). if you’re not okay with that, please let me know beforehand! (If you’ll be okay with it please add your URL so I can tag you in the finished picture/)

you can ask for more WIP images of your commission as well //  

If you have any specific flowers/details you want to add let me know//

feel free to ask questions//  

I will draw:

OC’s, fanart, portraits, nudity

animals, anthros, pokemon

simple backgrounds or transparent background

monsters, body horror (after discussion)  

blood (in a smaller amounts)

I will NOT draw:

porn (you can ask for my nsfw prices/), fetishes, hate art/ offensive art (pedophilia, incest, etc.)

robots, vehicles

irl people

gore (srry not in this house..)

No groups of more than three character per picture//(can be discussed tho)

stuff I’m not comfortable with

[novaursa]

Beyond Duty (marriage)

- Summary: Helaena refuses to marry Aegon because her heart was already given to someone else. You.

- Paring: brother!reader/Helaena Targaryen

- Note: @kmassey08 , here is the part 2 I've promised you. 🙂

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Previous part: 1

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @literaturedog

The corridors of the Red Keep are eerily quiet as Helaena makes her way toward her father’s chambers. She can feel her heart beating wildly in her chest, every pulse echoing her nerves. This is something she has thought about for weeks, agonized over in the solitude of her room, in the quiet moments before sleep, when dreams of a future with him seemed both impossibly distant and heartbreakingly close.

She pauses outside the door to Viserys’s chambers, her hands clasped tightly before her. This is a bold step, bolder than anything she has ever done before. But she knows she cannot wait any longer, cannot stand by and let her fate be decided by others without ever voicing what is in her heart. She takes a deep breath, drawing strength from the memory of his smile, the warmth of his voice, the kindness that has always set him apart.

Raising her hand, she knocks lightly on the door. A moment later, the guard opens it, bowing low.

“Princess Helaena,” he greets her respectfully. “His Grace is within.”

She nods, stepping inside. Viserys is seated by the fire, a thick blanket draped over his shoulders despite the warmth of the room. His illness has taken its toll, his once-vibrant face now drawn and pale, but there is still a sharpness in his eyes, a flicker of the man he once was. He looks up as she enters, his expression softening.

“Helaena, my sweet daughter,” he says, his voice weary but warm. “What brings you here at this hour?”

She hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside, closing the door behind her. “I wanted to speak with you, Father,” she said, her voice steady despite the nervous flutter in her chest. “There is something I need to ask.”

Viserys gestured to the chair beside him, his expression curious. “Of course, my dear. Sit. What is on your mind?”

She moved to the chair, settling into it with a grace that belied the turmoil in her heart. She glanced at the flames, gathering her thoughts, then turned her gaze back to him.

“You told me I do not have to marry Aegon,” she began softly, her fingers twisting in her lap. “That I would not be forced into a union that would make me unhappy.”

He nodded, a look of concern crossing his face. “Yes, Helaena. I meant what I said. You are my daughter, and your happiness means more to me than any alliance or tradition. If you do not wish to marry Aegon, then you will not.”

She took a deep breath, the words she had been holding back finally tumbling out. “I want to marry Y/N.”

The room seemed to fall silent, the crackling of the fire fading into the background as her words hung in the air. Viserys blinked, his expression one of pure surprise.

“Helaena,” he begins slowly, carefully, “Y/N is your brother as well. This… this is unexpected. Why have you never spoken of this before?”

“Because I was afraid,” she admits, her voice breaking with the weight of her confession. “I was afraid you would not understand, that you would think me foolish or… or wrong. But I cannot stay silent anymore. I cannot pretend to be something I am not, to marry someone I do not love.”

Viserys’s gaze softens, the confusion giving way to a deep, abiding sorrow. “And what of Aegon?” he asks quietly. “He is your brother, too. He cares for you in his own way. This news about Y/N will wound him.”

She shakes her head, her heart aching at the thought. “Aegon does not love me, Father. Not in the way a husband should love his wife. He does not see me at all. We would both be miserable. I have seen it in his eyes, in the way he speaks. He would be as unhappy as I would, bound in a marriage neither of us desires. You did the right thing when you allowed me to reject the betrothal.”

There is a long pause, the silence stretching between them, filled with the unspoken pain of a father who only wants what is best for his children but does not know how to give it. Helaena can see the struggle in his eyes, the conflict between duty and love, tradition and the happiness of his daughter.

“Y/N is good to me,” she continues softly, her voice filled with quiet conviction. “He listens to me, cares for me. He does not laugh at my dreams or my thoughts. He treats me as an equal, as someone who matters. I love him, Father. And I know he loves me, too.”

Viserys sighs deeply, running a hand through his thinning hair. “This is not what I had planned, Helaena. You know the importance of our house, the need for alliances, for strength. I had different plans for Y/N. But I see now that I have been blind to what truly matters. I never meant to make you both feel as if you had no choice.”

Helaena feels a swell of hope, tentative and fragile, but there nonetheless. “Father, I know our family must be strong, that we must protect our legacy. But I believe we can do that and still be happy. Y/N and I—we can be strong together. Please, give us this chance.”

Viserys looks at her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers, and then he nods slowly, a small, weary smile curving his lips. “You are braver than I ever knew, my sweet girl. And perhaps you are right. If this is what will make you happy, if this is truly what you desire, then I will not stand in your way.”

Tears spring to her eyes, a mix of relief and joy flooding her heart. “Thank you, Father,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Thank you so much.”

He reaches out, taking her hand in his, his grip gentle but firm. “You deserve to be happy, Helaena. I only hope I am making the right choice.”

“You are,” she assures him, her heart soaring with the promise of the future that now seems possible. “I promise you, you are.”

And as she leaves his chambers, her steps light and her heart full, she knows she has done the right thing. For herself, for Y/N, and for the love that will now have a chance to grow and flourish, unbound by fear or expectation.

The day of the wedding dawns bright and clear, the sky above King’s Landing an expanse of brilliant blue, unmarred by a single cloud. The entire city buzzes with excitement, the streets filled with people eager to witness the union of their prince and princess. Banners bearing the sigil of House Targaryen—red dragons on black—flutter in the gentle breeze, and the bells of the Sept toll joyously, their ringing echoing through the capital.

Inside the Red Keep, the Great Hall has been transformed. The long tables are adorned with garlands of flowers in crimson and gold, and the walls are draped in rich silks that shimmer in the candlelight. The air is heavy with the scent of roses and jasmine, mingling with the rich aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine. A hush falls over the assembled nobility as King Viserys rises from his seat, a proud, almost serene smile on his face as he looks upon his children.

You stand at the altar, dressed in the traditional Targaryen black, your cloak edged in deep red. A thrill of nerves runs through you, but it is tempered by a fierce, unyielding joy. Today is the day you have longed for, the day when Helaena will become yours, and you hers, in the sight of the gods and all of Westeros.

The doors at the far end of the hall swing open, and all eyes turn as Helaena enters. She is a vision of beauty, her gown a shimmering cascade of white and silver, her hair, adorned with delicate dragon-shaped pins, falling in soft waves down her back. Her face is radiant, her eyes bright with happiness as she walks down the aisle, her gaze fixed on you.

You cannot help the smile that spreads across your face as she draws nearer, your heart swelling with love and pride. When she finally reaches your side, you take her hands in yours, feeling the gentle tremor in her fingers, a reflection of your own nervous excitement.

“You look beautiful,” you whisper, your voice meant only for her. “Like a queen of old.”

A soft blush colors her cheeks, and she smiles up at you, her eyes shining. “And you, my sweet prince, look every bit the dragon you are.”

Viserys steps forward then, his voice carrying through the hall, commanding and strong despite his recent frailties. “Today, we gather to celebrate the union of my beloved son and daughter. This marriage not only strengthens our family but also reaffirms the bonds of love and duty that bind us together as Targaryens.”

He pauses, looking between you and Helaena with a rare, genuine tenderness in his eyes. “May your union be blessed with joy, with strength, and with the fierce, unyielding love that is the hallmark of our house.”

With that, the ceremony begins, the Septon’s voice rising in the traditional vows of marriage, the sacred words echoing through the hall. You and Helaena exchange your vows, your voices steady and clear, despite the emotion thickening your throats. When you slide the ring onto her finger—a delicate band of silver, set with a single, perfect sapphire—you see her eyes shimmer with unshed tears.

“I will love you always,” you say softly, your voice full of promise. “In this life and the next.”

She squeezes your hands, her smile radiant. “And I will love you, my dragon, until the end of my days.”

When the Septon finally pronounces you husband and wife, you lean down and kiss her, your heart soaring as the hall erupts into cheers and applause. It is a soft, gentle kiss, filled with all the love and devotion you feel for her, and when you pull back, the joy in her eyes is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

The feast that follows is a grand affair, the tables laden with the finest foods and wines the realm has to offer. You and Helaena are seated at the high table, side by side, her hand resting lightly on your arm as you talk and laugh with your family and the gathered guests. The atmosphere is warm and joyous, the tension of the past few weeks forgotten in the light of this new beginning.

But of course, Aegon, already deep into his cups, cannot resist making a scene. He leans forward, a sly grin spreading across his face as he raises his goblet in a mock toast.

“To the happy couple!” he declares, his voice loud and slurred. “May their nights be as sweet as their words, and may our dear brother prove as... attentive as he seems so eager to be.”

The innuendo is clear, and a few nearby lords chuckle awkwardly, their eyes flicking between you and Aegon. Helaena’s hand tightens on your arm, her smile faltering, and you feel a surge of anger, not just at Aegon’s disrespect but at the thought of him making her uncomfortable on what should be the happiest day of her life.

You set your goblet down, turning to face Aegon fully, your voice cold and cutting. “Perhaps, Aegon, you should spend less time concerning yourself with my marriage and more with your own conduct. It would be a pity for your good name to suffer further from ill-chosen words and actions.”

The smile slips from Aegon’s face, his eyes narrowing as he realizes he has overstepped. “I meant no harm,” he mutters, his bravado wilting under your steady gaze.

“Then show it,” you reply, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Today is a day for celebration, not mockery. For once in your life, Aegon, try to act like the prince you are.”

There is a moment of tense silence, broken only when Aemond, seated beside Aegon, speaks up. “Our brother is right, Aegon,” he says calmly, though there is an edge to his voice. “Show some respect, if not for Y/N and Helaena, then for Father. This day means a great deal to him.”

Aegon scowls but says nothing, slumping back in his chair and reaching for his goblet with a muttered curse. Aemond meets your eyes, a faint nod of approval in his gaze, and you return it with a grateful smile.

You turn back to Helaena, your hand covering hers, your voice gentle as you speak to her. “Are you all right, my love?”

She nods, her smile returning, though it is a little shakier now. “Yes. Thank you, Y/N. For defending me.”

You lean in, brushing a soft kiss to her temple. “I will always defend you, Helaena. Always.”

The rest of the evening passes more peacefully, Aegon’s ill-timed comments forgotten as the festivities continue. The hall is filled with music and laughter, the joy of the day wrapping around you like a warm embrace. You dance with Helaena, the two of you moving together as if you were made for each other, the world around you fading away as you lose yourself in her eyes, her smile, her touch.

When the night finally draws to a close, and you escort her back to your shared chambers, you feel as if you are walking on air, your heart so full it seems it might burst. You close the door behind you, the world outside falling away, leaving only the two of you in the soft, intimate glow of the candles.

Helaena turns to you, her eyes shining with love and happiness. “I am so grateful, Y/N,” she whispers, her voice trembling with emotion. “For you, for today... for everything.”

You take her hands in yours, pulling her close, your forehead resting against hers. “It is I who am grateful, my love. For you, for your courage, for the gift of your love. I promise you, I will spend every day of our lives making sure you never regret this choice.”

She smiles, a tear slipping down her cheek, and you kiss it away, your heart swelling with love and tenderness for this beautiful, brave woman who is now your wife.

And as you hold her close, the world outside forgotten, you know, with a certainty that goes beyond words, that this is where you are meant to be—by her side, forever.

[dreadlock-detective]

Hyrule Hulligans Harrass Dilf Dining Establishment

I'm playing around with figuring out tweaks to my cartoony art style for a project I'm working on and decided to test it out more by trying it on these four doofuses. I have to say, I'm really proud of how it came out. Look at how it came out! Look at the shape of Yunobo's doofy head!

That said, I need to actually go back and beat Tears of the Kingdom some time. Sadly I've heard that the Ganondorf Diner shenanigans have been patched out? Not that I'd end up doing that anyway but damn was that funny!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Since this post will likely have more reach than most, I want to keep testing out this style on more characters and to that end I'd like to announce a limited time special for December 2-10th 2023!

More info (and a few drawings I haven't posted) under the cut!

STYLE COMMISSION INFO

So yeah I want to practice this style and other folks always seem to have neat ideas I wouldn't think of and I'm trying to raise some money to help send my wife on a trip next summer! Let's make cool stuff happen!

Details:

Please email zeratanus AT gmail DOT com with the subject Style Commission

Cost is $25 USD, paid upfront via paypal. I'll send an invoice out for you once we've agreed on the commission

1 full body character, colored and cell shaded, no background

Please provide an image reference of the character, preferably in color and full body

Either OCs or Fanart is fine

Safe for Work Only

Unlike my usual commissions, these are supposed to be quick so no approval process. Once the commission is confirmed I'll get to work and post the finished product here on Tumblr when it's done

if you want to be tagged when its posted, please include your tumblr username in the email. Sometimes Tumblr refuses to tag certain accounts so I can't promise this hellsite will work but I'll certainly try!

I'm down to hear a bit about the the character's personality and try to incorporate that but the pose itself is up to me.

I think that's everything! If that sounds good to you, drop me a line!

Guess I'll end off with a few more unposted test images for the project this is actually for!

[spearxwind]

Hello!! Opening up some commission slots for what´s left of july!

▽▲ INFO:

Polygon illustrations are fullbody, fullcolor by default and come with a simple background

Illustrations are also fullbody, if shaded it will also come with a free simple background

Please keep in mind prices will increase for complex designs!

▽▲ EXAMPLES:

Polygon illustrations:

Regular illustrations:

More examples in my art blog @spearxwindart

▽▲ FOR ORDERS:

If you’d like one, hmu at windydraws@gmail.com, and please make sure your email includes the following:

visual references for your character

what pose you want your character to have, or what vibe you want the drawing to have (if you don't have any preference I’ll choose what I think would look nice)

If it's relevant to the pose/scene you can tell me a bit about their demeanor/personality, as well as any details you’d like me to pay special attention to, if any!

your paypal email so I can invoice you (VERY IMPORTANT)

your url if you’d like to be credited or @’d

For all orders, once paid I’ll send you the sketch for reviewing the pose, and once that is approved I will finish the piece and send it your way for approval. You have a right to two tweaks free of charge if I got anything wrong.

▽▲ TOS:

Payment is upfront, and through paypal only!

Turnaround is around four weeks/one month maximum after payment, I will warn you if it would exceed this time for whatever reason.

I will post these on social media by default, if you’d like yours to remain anonymous or to not be posted at all please let me know!

I reserve the right to refuse an offer.

These are for personal use only, commercial rights are cost extra.

If you have any questions feel free to send me an email as well! Thank you for reading!

[renthony]

Official Commission Info Post

(Updated July 8, 2024. Copied over from my main website.)

Pay me to write about a topic of your choice!

Provide me with a topic related to my areas of interest, and I’ll share my expertise, opinions, and insights. My areas of interest/expertise include speculative fiction (sci-fi/fantasy), fiction writing, literature studies, television & film studies, media censorship, animation, and pop/fandom culture.

Note: You choose the topic, not the angle. You can’t pay me to write any amount on the topic, “why Ren’s favorite thing is actually bad,” or, “why Ren’s least-favorite politician is actually a superhero.” I reserve the right to refuse any commission for any reason, with money refunded where necessary. I retain full credit and ownership of my writing—meaning I don’t do homework and I don’t do ghostwriting.

Examples of my work can be found at this link. Further info below the cut.

Rates

$25 USD for 500 words.

Up to 3k words @ $0.05 USD per word.

Over 3k words @ $0.15 per word.

Over 5k words @ $0.20 per word.

Rates calculated using the IWW Freelance Journalists Union rate sheet. Writers of the world unite!

Payment processed via PayPal or Venmo. Final product will be emailed to you as a PDF, and cross-posted to my tumblr and Patreon page along with other platforms as I see fit.

Email me at renniequeer@gmail.com to commission today!

Turnaround Times

I’m disabled and have inconsistent energy levels, so turnaround times may vary depending on my health. At minimum, 500 word essays typically take me about a week, 3k takes about two weeks, and 5k papers take about a month. If there are any unexpected delays to my work, health-related or otherwise, I will email you with an updated turnaround estimate as needed.

À La Carte

Can’t think of a topic but still want to hire me? Here’s a list you can choose from!

General 500 Word Topics

500 words doesn’t give me much space, so these commissions are great for getting my basic thoughts and opinions on a topic. You can use the following list as simple prompts on their own, or as a springboard to come up with your own, more specific prompt.

Science Fiction

Fantasy

Worldbuilding

Self-Publishing

Animation

Tabletop Gaming

Cosplay and Costuming

Media Representation

Media Preservation

Media Piracy

Censorship

Purity Culture

Labor Rights in the Entertainment Industry

Queer Media History

Fandom

3k Essay Prompts:

These topics require a little more space to dig into, so I need at least 3,000 words to do them justice. You can also request any of the prompts from the 500 word prompt list for a more robust essay on the topic.

Always Watch the Background Actors: How Learning Stage Combat Improved My Moviegoing Experience

Animation and Musicals: Misunderstood Non-Genres

Draw from the Heart: Using Familiar Settings to Craft New Worlds

Worldbuilding: Avoiding the Planet of Hats Trope

Worldbuilding: Utilizing Elements of Culture

5k Research Paper Topics:

These are the big topics that will require research, citations, and several long weeks of work. I can write as much on the topic as you want, but it must be at least 5,000 words. You can also request any of the prompts from the 500 word or 3k word prompt lists for more robust essays on the topic.

Killing the Cat: Violence Against the Vulnerable as Sloppy Narrative Shorthand

It Wasn't a Damn Door: Why Jack Dawson Had to Die

Bury Your Gays on Solstheim: Queer Representation in the Elder Scrolls

Invisibility or the Freakshow: Intersex Representation on American Television

The Nuke in the Room: Political Allegory in Samurai Jack

Payment Installments & Discount Options

Times are rough for everyone. If you would like to hire me but can’t afford to pay all at once, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me about paying in installments! Details can be discussed on an individual basis.

For a 15% discount, you may also email me with proof that you have requested my short story, The Queen of Cups, at your local library! For a 25% discount, submit proof that you have requested both my short story, The Queen of Cups, and my wife’s novel, The Last Girl Scout.

[soraviie]

he's not your bias.txt

━ type: bts x gn! reader  ━ masterlist

━ about: fluff ━  pictures taken from Pinterest

━ a/n: requested and thank you for it! Please, like, reblog and leave a comment, you know the drill :]

NAMJOON: "It's Yoongi, isn't it?"

"Please, shut up."

"You shut up!...traitor."

Sighing, you adjusted your spine from where it was comfortably settled in the mattress and turn to the other side where Namjoon was grumbling, fingers tightly gripping the duvet and stare transfixed on a meaningless spot in the ceiling. His jaw was slowly working up into a full blown clench.

Cautiously, you reach to tug his hand into yours, rubbing slow circles on the back of his palm. Thankfully, he allows this and in due time the tension leaves his tightened body.

"Why do you think it's Yoongi?" you wonder aloud once more. When you accidentally let it slip that he wasn't the first one who caught your attention, he said he didn't care, tossing that remark over his shoulder but you should have known better.

"I don't know," he trails off, shrugging. "He's cool, quiet, determined, caring. A perfect guy, really."

"So are you."

You smile into the duskened air of the dim bedroom, hoping this will be the straw the breaks the back of his worried camel but then he turns up his nose, offended.

"Not enough to be your bias."

Your head slams against the pillow - exhausted.

"I'm with you not him. I admit there are a lot of admirable qualities he has but it's just that. To me he's an idol, but you're Kim Namjoon."

Tepidly, he takes the bait and glances at you from the corner of the eye, imperceptibly scooching closer, sheets rustling in the quiet.

"And is he so great? This Kim Namjoon?"

"The greatest," you press a soft kiss against his cheek. "Now be a good boy and go to sleep."

You place his hand firmly over your waist, relaxing once more and you hear him do the same thing as well. He did not need to know who you actually biased - that certain bandmate would get his ego stroked far too much than even a fan such as yourself could allow.

YOONGI: "I'm completely fine about meeting him! Now just pretend we don't know each other and be casual about it."

Yoongi draws a deep inhale, refusing to let your hand go.

"There's only two of us here," he remarks, pointedly glimpsing around his studio. The air was laced with the stench of paint whilst the canvas you both worked on dried away in the dark corner.

"So? I could be a new staff member."

"You're sitting in my lap."

You glance down to where your thighs rested on top of his.

"Perhaps you're a pervert," you state off-handedly. This offends him and rolling his eyes, Yoongi unceremoniously shoves you onto the floor. It was exactly in this moment when you fought to preserve your balance, the door cracks open and to your great mortification Jimin comes in.

The easy smile on his lips drops faster than your gut can and with gaze hastily flickering between you and Yoongi, he steps cautiously forth.

"Oh, hello," he greets, trying to mask the awkwardness streaming out of his very pores. "I don't think I've seen you around...?"

"Yes, I'm just..." you floundered, quickly growing breathless in the presence of someone shaped like a sheer perfection. The pixels truly did not do him justice.

"Your biggest fan," Yoongi concluded dryly from his seat. "So if you could be so kind and sign a scarf or something, I'd be grateful. This one is slobbering up all my studio."

You could only turn around with mouth wide open despite no sound falling out of it. Innocently, Yoongi meets your gaze, daring to be so aggravating and proceeding to flutter his unfairly pretty eyelashes.

"Oh," Jimin laughs brightly in the background. "I don't mind signing something..."

Whilst the blood in your head boils to the degree, a straying fear arises of it simply pOpPing off your head, Jimin so graciously loops his signature on the back of a ripped note containing your and Yoongi's grocery list. Once he finishes, he lifts his head, gives an absolutely paralyzing smile and...

...winks.

WINKS!

"Ehhhhheheheheh, thankyou."

You think that somewhere in the back of Yoongi's throat there rises a sentence of "that's just embarrassing" but as you whip around, murder in the eyes, he chooses to ultimately stay diplomatically silent.

"I just remembered, there's a thing I need to do," Jimin excuses himself, bowing politely and you try to do the same but it comes out as a bit too deep. More like you're ready to accidentally worship him. As he leaves, lingering for a second too long in the doorway, his gaze jumps curiously between you and Yoongi.

"Interesting," is all he says to himself before leaving altogether.

Deep silence veils the room, interrupted only by the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

"We're breaking up," numbly, you announce.

"No, we're not," smugly, Yoongi remarks over the shoulder.

JIN: "Well, I can't say I'm surprised," Jin speaks over the rim of his steaming cup, overtly self-satisfied. "With a face such as this and my perfect personality to boot, you really stood no chance."

Personally, you have had a very, very long day. The kind of which leaves your brain leaking from the side of the ear and the soul from the bottom of the waterline, so hearing that coming out of his mouth, accompanied with a smug expression that just begged to be humbled, you slammed him down with no hesitation.

"I was talking about Jungkook. Jungkook is my bias."

The cup in between the saucer and his lips freezes halfway and you can even vaguely hear an error noise drawn from the depths of his perplexing mind.

"The sexy brunette, hitting all the notes with a grace of an angel..." he clarifies, closing his eyes. Does he think - see no evil, hear no evil?

"Is Jeon Jungkook. 190811 concert to be specifically."

The error noise grows louder.

"He was very sexy in that one. Absolutely mesmerizing. My core memory actually."

Calmly, Jin places the cup back onto the saucer, daintily pushing back a strand of unkempt hair.

"I see," he concludes and after a prolonged moment of stretching inaction during which you almost grow to believe he has entirely turned into a statue, Jin states with nothing short of cornucopia of attitude.

"Well, I raised him so by any good business model, 25% of affection belongs to me anyhow."

"Oh, only 25%?" you grumble. "How gracious of you."

"You're right," he leans his head to the side as though genuinely thinking it over. "Inflation. Make it 45%."

And to your surprise no fuss was made. He went to sleep and kicked you twice in his sleep - as per the standard rate. A year went by and the fact was never brought up, be it in passing or even when conversation was on the topic, he merely sat smiling politely in the sidelines. You assumed that the piece of this knowledge was so traumatic, he suppressed the memory of it altogether.

"Hey, Jin," you called out, rifling through the bedsheets. "Have you seen my phone?"

Over the sounds of his infuriated screams about losing yet another game, there comes a hasty "no, sorry".

"Okay, can I use your phone to call myself?"

"Su-AH YOU GODDAMN TOE BRAINED ASSHOLE-re, honey!"

The password on his phone - your birth year, not exactly hacker worthy. You hover over the contacts list not finding in the appropriate section. Babe? Nothing. Honey? Nothing. Annoyance? Not even that. You trail purposelessly throughout the small splattering of contacts - an outcome of being forced to change numbers every - accidentally stumbling on a particularly suspicious name.

"Traitor 💔"

"Drama queen," you mutter fondly, deciding to let him and the name be.

HOSEOK: "He's a sweetheart," Hoseok whispers in the vicinity of his elbow where you were using him as an impenetrable shield. "He's literally going to be happy to learn you biased him."

"Look at his face! He thinks I'm annoying!"

"That's just how his face looks, silly. As Tae-biased you must know that."

"But he's scary," you whimper. "I adore him as a bias but I also want to run away. I do not want to be perceived."

You shrink smaller the second those soulful, weary eyes glide over to where Hoseok was so suspiciously angled. You squeak and hide even further behind Hoseok's back, praying Taehyung doesn't come over.

"Get me out of here, please," you mutter and with a quick wave, Hoseok leads you out of the building. There, in the chilly air of the oncoming night, the awkwardness and, truthfully, no small amount of panic evaporates into the black sky. For a while, both of you are simply content in holding hands and watching them swing back and forth.

"Ugh, I'm so lame," you whine.

"No, you're not. It's natural to be shy around people you idolize," he scolds you gently. "You don't think I'm soaring on the ninth wave of confidence when meeting my stars?"

"Well, you're cool yourself so there's no reason why you shouldn't," you scoff.

"And you're cool as well."

There's that tone again - it's useless to argue. Hoseok was not here to entertain your insecurities, he made sure of that from the very start. You smile to yourself, gazing out across the slowly running river. Walks like these were precious. Treasured even as they were so rare.

"You're not upset by it, right?" you clarify cautiously. Partially knowing that of course such a minuscule thing as this would not upset him but...it just didn't hurt to make sure.

"No," he chuckled airily, before awkwardly scratching the back of his head. "Actually I'm kind of glad about it."

"Glad?"

"Well, it'd be difficult to date you if you kept running away from embarrassment."

You chuckled, facing the ground as the streets and the river slowly molded themselves into a nondescript background.

JIMIN: "So...Namjoon told me you hung out?"

Easy. Casual. Even somewhat in passing. But you know him better than that and the second your sixth sense catches onto the lingering shadow in the background of his chords, you lift your head from the magazine and stray to where he was leaning against the countertop.

"I don't like him like that. Please, do not misunderstand."

"I'm just asking," Jimin defends, more so out of instinct. The very best and simultaneously the worst thing about the relationship you'd both cradled like a gentle flame is that by now you could read each other's mind. Despite not being there with him in person you know of the pang in his heart he'd felt when seeing a picture of you trailing next to Namjoon as you both were immersed in a conversation about art, one that'd surely make him bored quite easily. And despite Jimin not literally finding himself dug deep into your brain, he knows you worry, he knows you suspect, knows you're working overtime into scheming all possible future scenarios.

"Stop overthinking," he chides but there's no malice behind it and simply just as that the tension stretches and unwinds until there's only the soft ambient noise of life swirling all around.

"Does he know? You go rabid over him?"

Fully offended, you point the spoonful of yoghurt in his direction, a fat glob of peach splattering clumsily onto the tiles.

"I do not! Go rabid over him!"

Before you get the chance to reach for the paper towel, Jimin has already snatched a ply, wiped up the peach yoghurt and discarded it into the trash.

"Thank you. But I do not go rabid over him!"

Jimin pointedly stares at the your keychain where not one, not two but three Koya's hung limply around the metal circles.

"Of course, absolutely sane."

"Do not patronize me, Park," you glare at him but once geared to amuse himself in your miffed state, he shows no sign of stopping.

"You are so chill about it. Not like you spent hours creating TikTok edits of his dimples."

"You swore to take that to the grave," you growled underneath the nose, your clenched fist indicating you were extremely close to choking him. Which Jimin didn't exactly mind. In fact, such was his goal.

"Oh, make me take it there," he winked.

TAEHYUNG: "I'm not going to share Hobi with you."

"I'm your partner!"

"And? You're not getting Hoseok privileges."

You pouted the rest of the day away, grumbling about the unfairness of the whole situation. But secretly you felt your heart draw a heavy sigh of relief. It'd been so hard to get together with Taehyung that unwillingly it felt that even the smallest of things got inflated to magnitude you feared could drown you whole. But it was fine. If anything he seemed overjoyed in hearing that it was Hoseok who'd caught your attention first and kept a rather brutal chokehold over the course of these few years. Yes, it was fine. However, should Taehyung ever reveal you had drooled on yourself while watching "MORE", you would kill him and then yourself. A promise you'd made loud and clear to which he swore to obey.

And it wasn't like meeting Hoseok was something so necessary for you to live, feeling rather content watching him from the sidelines. In between life, Yeontan, Taehyung and all the secrecy that one had to accept came with him, your life was...full. So when one of these factors suddenly became absent, you grew suspicious.

Why did he sneak away before you woke up and came home when you were asleep? He couldn't be mad at you, could he? You think back, absent-mindedly tapping at the phone screen. "Daydream" blasts into your ears all too loudly and flinching you yank them away much to Tannie's disappointment. As of late, he appeared to be even more judgmental. You reckon the little rascal never grew to be quite okay with you taking so much of his dad's attention. But to be fair his dad's attention was on whatever third party that kept him away the entire day.

The slowly running anxiety prodded your eyes wide open so it's not like you planned to stay awake for when unmistakably Taehyung shut the front doors cautiously behind him. No, there was nothing for him to be angry about. He hadn't been home often enough for it to happen. As such, guided by latent curiosity, you pretended to be wholly asleep, cracking the barest sliver of one eye open to observe him through the dark.

Stumbling ungainly through the minefield that was your bedroom, it was no surprise he stubbed a toe against the dresser and choking on a series of half-withheld curses, collapsed onto the duvet.

"Good evening," you greet him smoothly. "Fun night?"

He yelps from the shock whilst you turn on the lights. Though you find him not with guilt gleaming in the eye or lipstick on the collar but rather brandishing two dozen of balloons and a photo album.

A photo album of carefully and might you say, artistically gathered collection of photocards, signed at the end by Hoseok himself.

JUNGKOOK: His eyes never left your figure, analyzing each and every interaction with a hawk-like precision.

Jimin? No, you were far too unperturbed talking to him. Jin? No, he'd been in your home far too many times drunk of his ass. Frankly, after he'd slathered your favourite plushie in the contents of his stomach, Jungkook doubted you could hold any sense of idealization towards the man, regardless if he was your initial bias or not.

Jungkook hummed to himself. Decisions, decisions. All of them wrong. His investigation was fruitless for so long Jungkook had all but abandoned it, resigning himself to sitting quietly by the stewing pot when at last something in you changes. Yoongi casually recommends a dish as he'd taken notice of your befuddled stare upon the cornucopia of the dinner table and you lover your gaze, bidding a very quiet, meek "thank you". As a year old boyfriend of yours, Jungkook could definitively say - you were not meek.

Ah, so it was Yoongi.

Why did he want to know so bad? He himself did not even know. Perhaps because you hid it away and the spitefulness of your action flared his own competitive nature. Or perhaps it was nothing at all.

Laying down in the sparse room of the lakeside guest house, he listened to you shower, weighing should he bring the matter . You loved him, not Yoongi. After all you were his partner, but...

No "but's", he scolds himself, turning to lay on the other side. You pad softly to the bed and with a drawn out sigh of utter content jump down next to him.

"Why do you keep sleeping with your hair wet?" Jungkokk nags, twirling a strand between the fingers. "It's bad for you health."

"I sleep better that way."

He gives a non-committal hum, knowing so much already. He briefly opens his mouth as though the words were already there - in the papillae of his tongue but then he closes it shut once more, leaving things unspoken

It doesn't much matter, he reckons happily, while you were still by his side, he would not doubt a thing.

© soraviii/soraviie, 2023

[77gigabytes]

Under the Same Sky {Sylus x Reader}

You guys loved A Moment of Rest so much more than I could ever have thought >///< Thank you so much ♥ ♥ ♥

Hopefully, you enjoy this one as much as I did hahaha.

I accidentally spun Sylus around on the home screen and saw the stars through the window in the background XD. I immediately thought of stargazing.

-Seven

|| Masterlist ||

It all started with a meteor shower

“Sylus~” You sing and loop your arm around his, “I heard there’s going to be a meteor shower tonight!” You look up at him with expectant eyes

but he merely raises a brow and says, “Oh?”

You deflate a little at his unenthusiastic response, “Will you…” watch it with me?

You quirk your lips, would he do something as mundane as stargazing?

You clear your throat and even your tone, “Will you be watching it tonight?”

Seeing your internal dilemma, Sylus can’t help but smile a little, “I suppose don’t have any pressing matters to attend to, so…”

Your eyes twinkle at his revelation, “So, you’ll watch it?”

He chuckles a little, “Well,” he pets your head, “this excited kitten clearly wants to watch it, so how could I refuse?”

That night, the two of you laid upon a blanket and watched as the meteors painted streaks across the night sky

“Look!” You turn to Sylus with a bright smile

But the words die in your throat when you find that his gaze is already fixed on you.

The world stills for a moment.

From how close you are, you can see the stars reflected in his eyes.

You gravitate towards him, leaning ever so slightly closer.

Closer.

But stop yourself short.

The pinch of your clenched hands quickly grounds you to reality.

You clear your throat and shy away from his gaze “The stars are so bright from here.” You say as you look up at the sky once more

He hums in response , “I told you I knew the perfect spot to enjoy the scenery.” He lays back with a sigh.

“It actually reminds me of the city lights in Linkon.” This time you face him, and with a longing voice, you say, “I wish you could see it with me.”

From that night onwards, it became a common occurrence to watch the stars together.

Most nights, you would talk about your day or the missions you went on.

You would tell him everything, whether good or bad.

He listened to you as if he, himself, was there in those moments.

He listened and imagined a life where he could do all those things by your side. Without hiding.

Some days, you would stay awake long enough to watch the night sky fade into sunrise. A sign of a bittersweet goodbye.

But oftentimes, the light breeze against your face as you snuggled up against his side was more than enough to lull you to sleep.

Sylus would always let you fall asleep first. Waiting until your breaths evened out and your weight was completely rested against him.

Only when he felt the coldness of your cheeks would he carry you back inside.

He hadn’t outwardly admitted it, but being with you like this was the best start to his day.

One particular night, he had the blanket tucked around you, almost swaddling you to his side.

You wriggle one of your arms free from the blanket and reach up to the stars, “Do you think there’s another world out there?” You ask

“Even if there was,” He reaches up to your outstretched hand, intertwining them, “Don’t leave me here.” He draws your hands to his lips where he leaves a little bite against the back of your hand.

He quickly presses a kiss to the same spot, then guides your hand to lay flat on his chest, where he covers it with his own.

In this position, you can faintly feel the thrum of his heartbeat against your palm, “Do you…” You untangle your hand from his to lightly trace the length of his fingers, “Do you think in another life we’d still be stargazing together like this?”

He sits up slightly to look at you, using his forearm to hold his weight.

After a few beats of silence, he replies, “Even if our lives are as numerous as the stars,” he leans down to press his forehead against yours, “in every life,” the warmth of his breath fans against your cheeks, and your eyes flutter shut at his proximity.

“I will always stay beside you.”

His hand finds yours to give a gentle squeeze. Almost sealing those words against your palm.

It causes an unfamiliar ache in your heart. As if it was a whisper of a promise he’s made many times before.

He cups your face, coaxing your eyes open as he runs his thumb back and forth across your cheek, “No distance is too far so long as I decide it isn’t.”

As you hold his gaze, you’re met with such conviction in his eyes. It makes you want to believe he’ll cross leaps and bounds, galaxies even, to find you.

What could you possibly reply to such a profound yet sombre declaration?

At your silence, he leans away, letting out a slow sigh as he tucks an arm behind his head.

You unwittingly follow his movements and sit up to hover over him. Not wanting to break the distance between you.

The movement causes your hair to trickle down over your shoulder, casting a shadow across his face.

“Sylus, I —” Your words fall short on your lips.

With a tender gaze, he brushes the curtain of your hair behind your ear with a soft smile, “You’re so beautiful.” He says.

Ever so slowly, he inches closer. Leaning upwards to meet your lips in a sweet kiss.

Unaccustomed to the feeling, you break the kiss with a gasp, “Ah,”

But he’s quick to close the distance, and yet is still so gentle to press his lips against yours.

With your eyes closed, all you can focus on it the warmth of his lips against your own.

It makes your head swirl and you melt into him, “Mmf.”

With a firm hand to the small of your back, he steadies you, and without breaking the kiss, he leads you to lay down on the blanket.

In a daze, you lift your hand to grasp at the back of his shirt.

He cradles your head against his other arm, and languidly pulls away from your lips.

He lingers there for a moment before coming up to rest his cheek against your temple.

Your blood is thumping in your ears, but is silenced even as Sylus speaks barely above a whisper,

“There’s not a star in the sky I wouldn’t bring down for you. No world where I wouldn’t return to your side.”

Which one should I write first?

'Grassland Romance'-based story involving all the LaDS boys (will take much longer, probably a series? idk)

OR

2. Bandaging Sylus' wounds? (one-shot)

ALSO! I sent the Artsy bird emoji titled "Love Ya" to Sylus and LOOK AT HIS RESPONSEEEEEE!!!

SO CUUUUUTE

Thanks for reading! :3

-Seven

|| Masterlist ||

[ghcstao3]

more mi6 ghost and sas soap i beg!!! it itches something in my brain so hard!!!! i love ur writing sm ur sosososo talented <333

(original post since it’s been so long i am so so sorry. also apologies if it's paced weirdly i never had much of an idea where to take the original prompt. thank you though, for supporting my writing :) <3)

-

Soap would never be so naive as to expect a warm welcome from a team of elite agents, but the cold shoulder he's thus far received from one of said agents hardly seems necessary in its place.

He's barely even said a word.

The haughty bastard keeps staring at Soap, too, like Soap can't tell there are eyes on him behind sunglasses, and a frown behind a medical mask. He refused to shake Soap's hand, hadn't even been introduced by name like the others—Ghost, is all that was offered—and now he was scrutinizing Soap in some indecipherable way that Soap would put up to a cause of him being military, if it weren't for the fact that no one else of similar status was getting the same treatment.

It's bizarre. It couldn't even be the mohawk, for once, because he'd actually grown that out in anticipation of this high-honour, high-stakes mission.

Of course, the treatment doesn't ebb as days, weeks stretch on. But Soap learns to live with it, throws himself into the mission like he has something to prove, acquaints himself with everyone else.

Ghost becomes a background nuisance. He and his perfectly tailored suits hardly hold any weight to Soap by the time they're forced together and everything becomes a whole lot clearer.

Two months into the operation is when the team finally encounters the kind of action Soap is used to; bouts of gunfire, ducking for cover, barking out commands, incapacitating enemies with force before stealth. Begrudgingly, Soap and Ghost are left to cover one another's sixes.

Admittedly, Ghost is a damn good shot and has a rather keen eye for enemies. Soap would never utter this statement aloud, but they work terribly well as a team.

When everything goes silent for several minutes and they've received confirmation that the area's been cleared, that they're free to proceed with the mission, Ghost and Soap cautiously move from where they'd been taking cover.

Then Ghost is shot in the chest.

Another few gunshots ring out following, as Soap drags the agent back into their hiding place. Thankfully his bulletproof vest had taken the brunt of the blow, but it's obvious the wind had been knocked out of Ghost, evidenced by the sharp, wheezing gasps that try to pull air into his lungs.

Soap offers nothing more than a clipped sorry before ripping off the mask that's clearly hindering Ghost's ability to draw a proper breath.

His heart drops. Soap knows that face.

For good measure, he removes Ghost's sunglasses as well, and—fuck. Yes, Soap knows that face. Intimately.

"Simon? You bastard, what the hell?"

Simon winces. He's still breathless when he replies, "Johnny, don't—later. Fuck."

Later. Soap huffs. He only agrees because there are more pressing things, of course, but also because he's not happy to imagine the nasty bruise that was surely going to blossom across his partner's chest in the coming days.

They're not as useful the second time around, but they get what they need done. Soap operates purely on confusion and a mild frustration until later finally arrives, because he'd just like to know... anything, really.

Unfortunately, later doesn't even come when the mission is completed. Later doesn't even come until about a month following Soap's discovery. Suspense nearly kills him.

They're both home again. The operation had been of enough importance that it had, thankfully, warranted everyone at least a short break. Simon is only home because of the bruise that has yet to fade.

Things are tense, initially. Words are terse yet not unkind; they give each other space yet they go to sleep in the same bed each night. Their mutual stubbornness keeps them both from acknowledging the elephant in the room.

Until Soap grows too impatient, nearing the end of his own leave.

Over an otherwise silent dinner, Soap finally asks, "Will I ever get to know what was going on during that mission, then? Why you were being such a prick?"

Simon pauses, setting his fork down with a sigh. His shoulders slump as he sits back in his chair and drags a tired hand over his face, and Soap almost scoffs. Like the issue hasn't been bothering Soap as well.

"I didn't want you to worry about me over the course of everything. In case something happened," Simon confesses.

Soap snorts. "What, like you wouldn't be worried about me? Like you aren't worried about me, already knowing what I do for work?"

"No, Johnny, that's not what—" Simon sighs again. Soap catches the way he almost moves his hand to rub his chest in habit, before rethinking the choice in remembering the bruise. "Of course I worry about you. I just... didn't want to create any unnecessary risks. I trust you, more than anyone, but I've also been in this line of work for a while. I know my own limits."

Soap hangs his head. He... understands. He does. His own career requires the same kinds of limitations, but he's still upset that Simon felt he couldn't manage.

"I'm sorry," Simon eventually murmurs. He reaches a hand across the table and covers Soap's balled fist with a warm, callused hand. "I was wrong. You're a good soldier. Should've known that seein' you were chosen for the task force."

A blush burns at the tips of Soap's ears, and gradually he unclenches his hand. "I forgive you," he says. Soap doesn't think he could fault Simon forever, anyway. "But you'd better make it up to me."

"Of course." A smile tugs at Simon's lips, something almost mischievous. "Anything you like."

(This, of course, meant that Soap would be taking great pleasure in beating Simon's records at the gun range. And perhaps a few other things as well.)

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 4

< PREVIOUS | NEXT >

pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: Leon, a paladin of the temple who became a disillusioned oathbreaker, returns from years of war with a noble title and shattered faith. Once devoted to the Saintess who healed him, Leon's admiration has twisted into repressed desire—feelings he could never express, tainted by guilt and shame. Now a celebrated hero, he’s drawn back not to the kingdom’s praises, but just for a glimpse of you to move on with his life.

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 15K

warnings: reader dissociates and has derealization at the beginning. this starts out fluffy but quickly turns into angst, and then frustration because of stonewalling. pre-smut raunchiness towards the end. dom/sub undertones (you'll never guess where this is going)

author's note: i am a FILTHY liar. this isn't the end EITHER. the finale will be the next one (DONT WORRY I'VE WRITTEN IT.

🌀 READ ON AO3 !

The day of the wedding arrives cloaked in a fog that lingers over the estate, muting everything—the sounds, the colors, the emotions. You stand before the mirror, fingers trembling as they trace the lace edges of your veil. The soft fabric feels foreign against your skin, as if it belongs to someone else, as if this entire day belongs to someone else.

Voices murmur outside your door, distant and muffled, as though they’re speaking from another world. The maids have been bustling for hours, preparing you, fussing over every detail of your dress, your hair, your appearance. But none of it feels real. Not the silk of your gown, nor the weight of the veil draping over your shoulders. Even the reflection in the mirror feels detached—someone else entirely, a woman cloaked in white, staring back with wide, unblinking eyes.

Only the mask is missing, you realize.

You look too much like the saintess you were that it's put you in this dazed, almost absent state. Like a ghost trapped in the memories of a former life.

The Saintess looks out into your soul from the confines of the mirror and judges every inch of you for your lack of identity. Your flaws. The inadequacies of someone like you. You feel like you're going through the motions, not truly present, but watching yourself as if you were in a dream. And yet, this reality isn't a nightmare—it's just indifferent. Like an observer witnessing some otherworldly event transpire.

The day passes in fragments, snatches of moments that slip through your fingers before you can catch hold of them. The scent of fresh lilies, arranged meticulously throughout the chapel, fills the air—ironically, the flowers you’ve longed to grow yourself surround you now, yet you can’t even bring yourself to appreciate them. Everything's starting to blend together and melt in one giant blur of activity and movement. You answer questions politely and mechanically, forcing a smile when appropriate. But your mind refuses to engage, drifting farther and farther away from this scene until it becomes nothing more than background noise.

Then—finally—it's time. The ceremony begins.

Somewhere, in the distance, bells toll, signaling the hour, drawing you out of your trance as you snap back into place. You walk down the aisle, but the sensation of your feet hitting the cold stone floor barely registers. It’s as though your body is moving on its own, propelled forward by forces beyond your control. You see faces in the crowd—friends and nobles alike—but their names and faces escape you.

Leon stands at the altar, waiting patiently, clad in formal attire and a cape that matches yours. White like in his paladin days that you might think both of you have slipped back in time.

His expression betrays no sign of anxiety, only solemn resignation to the ceremonial requirements of such a display. In fact, he looks almost bored by the whole affair, as though he were reading an instruction manual on how to properly wear pants.

The priest speaks, but the words barely reach your ears. Vows, promises—it all overlaps together in a haze of formality, something you are meant to endure rather than savor. The cool metal of the ring slips onto your finger, settling heavily on your flesh, binding you to your fate as you stare blankly ahead. Leon says something—his voice low and solemn—but the words don’t quite register. You nod, because that’s what’s expected. You offer a faint smile, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. But beneath it all, there’s an emptiness, a hollow space inside of you where your heart should be rejoicing, where you should feel something other than numbness.

There’s a murmur of applause as the ceremony comes to a close, and suddenly, it’s over. The veil is lifted, and for the first time, your eyes meet Leon’s directly. He hesitates when he sees your face, his already low set of brows knitting further together in a confused frown, and you wonder what kind of face you were making for him to respond that way.

"Are you alright?" is what he asks, however.

You give a tired nod.

"Do you need to sit?"

You say something that resembles, "I would very yes."

With that, he takes your elbow and guides you out of the hall, not saying anything, a focus so condensed that it belongs in a sword fight instead of a wedding . Everyone watches as the newly married couple leave before the reception begins, and you're grateful for the relative silence, the hushed whispers only an addition to the buzzing in your head as you trudge down the long aisle. No one knows what to think about the sight of a dead-eyed girl whose dress drags behind her as she's led by the hand to the carriages.

At the last moment, you spot Claire, looking extremely pale and distraught at the back of the mass. She gives you a shaky wave and a tense smile, looking incredibly worried about you. When you manage to wave back in response, her face crumples briefly before she immediately pulls herself together again, fixing a stiff smile on her face.

Leon helps you climb into the carriage, following after and shutting the door behind him, securing the latch tight. Then you're both alone. With no one else to pay attention to. Just you and your husband.

"Hey," Leon starts softly, gazing at you intensely, attempting to catch your eyes. "Talk to me. Hey. Come on, look at me. Do I need to call for a healer?"

"I... I'm fine," you manage to rasp out as you clutch the seat's edge, your knuckles turning white under the force of your grip, struggling to ground yourself in this moment. "Don't know what's wrong with me today, sorry."

His brow furrows more, but he doesn't comment as he folds his arms across his broad chest, his mouth drawn into a firm line. You know he's assessing your condition, analyzing everything you've been doing over the past few hours to ensure you're physically sound, despite his own reservations about your mental state.

"Cold feet?"

"No," you reply without hesitation, looking at him directly for once.

"Okay," Leon murmurs under his breath, before asking, "What happened then?"

"I..." You try to speak but find yourself unable to answer. How could you begin to put into words the feelings raging inside you?

"I don't need big words, walk me through it however you want," he encourages in that familiar patient tone of his that never fails to coax information out of you.

You inhale deeply and take a moment to think. To sort through the confusion swirling within your mind, pushing back the jumbled mess and focusing on the core issue.

"Where do you think this started?"

"I..." You pause as you reflect on the question. Where did it start? When exactly did you lose your confidence and enthusiasm? Was it before you entered the chapel, as you got dressed for the occasion? Perhaps during the long procession from the Temple to here, surrounded by dozens of strangers wishing you well? "Just... white," is all you can say, finding it hard to elaborate. Your hand reaches up to grip your veil and unhook it from the place, laying it on top of your lap. "The white, it... This. All of it."

Your mind says, It brought me back to when all I wore was white, I got stuck in the clothes of a saintess with no temple to pray in or services to attend, but your mouth doesn't want to cooperate.

He looks like he understood all of that, however, his intense blue gaze scrutinizing your face with so many thoughts forming behind it.

Then out of nowhere, his whole standing changes. He unhooks his arms from where they crossed on his chest and leans forward, expectant and light, "Say, how would you feel about a round of painting? Let’s ditch this place. Hunnigan can handle the rest."

"I don’t think we should…”

“It’ll be fine, you need to unwind. We can’t go back with you like this.”

“But…”

“Don’t hold back, just say yes.”

“Yeah,” you give in, not seeing the point in keeping up with the facade of appropriateness when you have no energy for any of it. “Okay.”

Leon nods approvingly before lifting a hand and knocking thrice on the wood separating him and the driver, alerting the carriage to turn a corner and head down a different road. "Great. Let's go get some paint."

"No canvases?"

"We already have those," he says, smiling for the first time since leaving the chapel.

His hand waves between you and him, and it takes you a bit to notice he actually is referring to your wedding dress and his formal clothes, respectively.

"What! We can't ruin these!"

"We can, and we will. The white bothers you, I get it. What better way to express that than literally destroying it? I think it sounds cathartic." He holds your gaze for a while, as if to emphasize the message and give you a moment to protest, but he finds none in return, his expression morphing into one of excitement.

The ballroom is expansive, with large windows that let in the soft afternoon light. The floor is spotless, gleaming beneath the chandelier’s glow, but not for long. The servants have already arranged several jars of paint along one wall, brushes of all sizes and colors resting beside them. It’s like an artist’s dream, and it’s all at your disposal.

Leon takes a few steps forward, surveying the setup with a satisfied nod. "Perfect."

You hesitate at the edge of the room, glancing down at your dress. It still feels strange, thinking about what you’re about to do. The lace, the silk, the hours of careful preparation... it’s all meant to be pristine. But now, with the paint before you, it’s as though you’ve been given permission to break free from the expectations that have suffocated you all day.

Leon watches you with quiet patience, his face softening. "Whenever you’re ready.”

You take a deep breath, then step forward, your fingers brushing over the cool glass of one of the paint jars. You choose a bright red first, dipping the brush into it slowly. The rich, vibrant color drips from the bristles, and for a moment, you simply stare at it, mesmerized.

Then, with a sudden rush of determination, you lift the brush and swipe it across the bodice of your dress. The bold streak of red stands out sharply against the white fabric, and something inside you shifts. The tension, the numbness that’s been clinging to you all day, begins to melt away. As though this simple act—this tiny splash of color—has unlocked a part of yourself that you hadn't even realized was locked away.

"Ah, I see you've gone with red for a foundation," Leon comments, coming up behind you with a light tone as if this is merely a casual conversation instead of... whatever this is.

"Your turn," you say, offering him the brush.

He takes it without hesitation, dipping it into a jar of deep blue paint. With a scheming grin, he steps closer and makes a sweeping motion across the hem of your skirt. The color spreads in a swirling pattern, and you can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it.

"How about we team up on this one?" He asks, pulling out a slightly smaller brush and dipping it into green paint. "I can paint something on you and you can paint something on me."

"That sounds perfect." The image of Leon covered in blots of colorful spots is vivid in your mind, making you smile despite yourself. His playful expression and cheerful demeanor are infectious, drawing you in and reminding you that you don’t have to do this alone.

He motions for you to turn around, which you do so with ease, moving back to hold the front of your dress upwards as you do so. This allows him to have easier access to the back and draw or paint whatever he wants there.

A wet feeling slides over your left shoulder blade, causing you to suck in a surprised gasp.

"It's fine, I promise, I know what I'm doing." Leon reassures before his brush moves to draw something that feels like... words? On your other shoulder blade. You try to not think about how he could be writing an insult right now to tease you for later. "Hold that position. I'm not done yet."

As he continues to dab paint on various parts of your back, the shape of his art becomes more pronounced. You are able to follow the strokes, which go from the base of your spine to your hips and shoulders. It's definitely something artistic, that much you can confirm.

"What are you drawing?"

"What's the fun in telling you?"

He pulls back then, finally allowing you to lower your dress and smooth it out, although some of the material still catches onto the dampness of the paint. When you glance in the mirror, there are two identical, but opposite symbols in dark green pigment. "Is that... a tree?"

"If you'd like it to be," he says nonchalantly, before stepping forth to be in the line of view for the mirror. "Come on, your turn now."

After a second of deliberation, you pick the smaller brush, grabbing a jar of yellow paint. Leon's shirt is just a few shades lighter than ivory, so the color won't show as starkly on him as it did with the pure white of your wedding dress. Still, he rolls the sleeves of his buttoned-up shirt as far back as they'll go, showing off toned forearms as you dip the brush into the jar and begin tracing little dots up and down his arm. It's not difficult work—only tedious—and after a few minutes, you're finished with both arms.

"Now you look like a walking ray of sunshine," you declare cheerfully, setting the brush aside.

He raises a skeptical eyebrow at your comment but doesn't argue as he inspects your work. A crooked smile appears on his lips as he laughs lightly, running a hand through his golden hair. "So I do. Will you keep going?"

You nod, reaching for another jar, this time a deep purple hue. You decide to paint a flower on his back, carefully choosing where to place the petals and stems in your mind--but since his outer layers are removable, so will your masterpiece be.

"Can you take these off?" you ask, tugging on the cloak first and then tapping on his suit. "For a flower to really blossom, I need a smoother canvas."

Leon's head snaps to look back at you over his shoulder, and one would think you'd asked him to drop his pants the way he was reacting. You just want access to his shirt, is all. Or was that an inappropriate request...? Maybe you should have worded it differently, you thought worriedly, chewing on the side of your lip nervously.

"I mean... If you're fine with seeing me naked, sure?" he replies after a brief pause of consideration, guarded but ultimately agreeable as he turns back to face forward again.

"W-what! I just want your coat and cape off! And the waistcoat! Just the shirt will do."

Now why are you acting so defensive? You curse silently inwardly, your face flaming from embarrassment. And in return, the tips of his ears turn bright red as well at the misunderstanding as he clears his throat uncomfortably.

"... Yes, of course. I'll take that off and also remove my cravat while we're at it." he mumbles, embarrassment in his movements as he hastily throws his jacket aside without care as if trying to dispel the awkwardness hanging in the air immediately, followed by taking his vest off. He starts unbuttoning the first couple buttons at the neck, revealing some of his skin underneath, before loosening the tie around his neck and letting it drop to the floor carelessly. "There, is that better for you?"

You get a glimpse of his cape lying crumpled just beside your discarded veil in a corner. It’s a pleasing sight.

"Thank you." Not wanting to dwell on any accidental suggestive wordings, you focus all your concentration on painting once more, using your thumb and forefinger to press against the ends of each petal one by one, applying pressure until they stain his body. It reminds you of a technique the children use for drawings back at home--dipping their hands into ink and then pressing them down upon paper for creating landscapes, trees, and oceans--except this case involves human bodies rather than paper, and paint instead of ink.

Every stroke adds dimension, building layers of depth atop your canvas—your friend and companion. As you continue working, your movements become smoother, more confident. Each gesture flows seamlessly from one shape to the next, gradually bringing the picture together. The petals themselves require precision; if done incorrectly, they'll resemble nothing more than uneven ovals. However, with steady strokes and careful application of pressure, they blossom beautifully, filling his entire upper half with color and texture.

When you finish adding details, you step back to examine your artwork closely. Satisfied, you wipe off most of the paint lingering on your fingertips on his upper arms and draw an unexpected laugh from him, startled by the sudden touch.

"I see you've used some technique there," he notes curiously, standing still as he examines your work over his shoulder before looking forward once more, facing himself in the mirror. There are patches of leftover pigment all over his form. "If we're fingerpainting now, here, just..."

He dunks his entire right palm in red paint, squinting his nose up a bit at the sticky feeling that must be surrounding his hand, before showing it to you and wiggling the fingers. The excess layer of paint starts trickling down his wrist, dripping onto the floor below like water off of a leaf.

He then makes a stamp right over your heart, causing it to jump unexpectedly in surprise upon contact with his cool hand. The resulting imprint causes you to instinctively suck in a breath, unprepared for how it made you feel emotionally at first. But then his hand rises higher to pat it over your temple and cheeks playfully, getting you messy and all splattered with red.

"There we go," he remarks cheerfully, pleased with himself and his actions as he retracts his hand, smiling genuinely and widely, which shows off his pearly whites and crow's feet crinkling around his eyes.

"Was that necessary...?" you huff out softly in mock annoyance, wiping a dot off of your face, even though internally you do admit to enjoying it quite thoroughly. There's something intimate about this whole endeavor that makes you wish for more moments like these.

You swipe at him again, a splash of blue this time, aiming for his collar.

“Missed,” Leon teases, dodging just in time, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eye.

Your laughter bubbles up uncontrollably, filling the large ballroom. His own chuckles are rich, echoing off the painted walls. For once, everything feels easy. Unscripted. Natural.

You dip your fingers into the paint, abandoning the brush altogether, and smear thick lines of yellow down his sides the moment you can catch him. “There,” you say with triumph, wiping your hands on his chest, your breath still catching from laughter. “Fixed it.”

Leon lets out a low hum, stepping back, his hands finding a jar of green paint. “Revenge is best served... messy.”

Without warning, his fingers, wet with paint, slide across your waist, leaving a trail of green over the delicate lace of your dress.

A shiver runs down your spine at the unexpected sensation of his hand dragging through the line of your waist, his fingers pressing just a little too long. You glance up at him, your smile faltering, but he’s already looking away, dipping his fingers back into the paint, determined to keep the game going. You're no longer meticulously trying to paint beautiful flowers or symbols; now, it's become almost a competition--or dare--to who can make whose partner look more ridiculous.

Though something has shifted in you after he has put his hands on your waist like that. And then there's this warmth that emanates from those same places--the spot on your nape where he brushed your hair to the side when cleaning away excess paint, the crook of your neck that tickled slightly when he traced circles there accidentally whilst applying an intricate design with his pinky, your bare forearm as he tested a shade of orange upon it, and countless other small instances that seem insignificant yet stick out prominently in your memory. The last place he touches leaves goosebumps in its wake, although whether it's from the cold, wet paint itself, or perhaps the feeling of being marked by someone else, you aren't entirely sure.

But the way Leon looks at you—his blue eyes full of wonder, shining brightly amidst a backdrop of colorful pigments—makes your heartbeat quicken beneath your ribs. The delicate material of his shirt has begun to stick to the lines of his muscles, and without meaning to, your gaze lingers on the way the fabric molds to his chest, the faint outline of his toned torso visible beneath the wet paint.

Embarrassed about the awareness of something you can't place, you decide to focus on his legs rather than what's seized your attention. There isn't a single crease in sight on his trousers, so you decide to run up a hand covered in black paint over his thighs in order to change that, creating two distinctive handprints on either leg, purposely making them bigger to cover the area completely. The white seeps through, making it look like a ghost had groped him multiple times before dissipating. It's not the funniest joke ever but you're pleased all the same nonetheless, giving yourself a pat on the back for it, and hoping he'd notice your wit and intelligence through your work.

In contrast, Leon seems to have frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at the blatant action you've taken towards him. Had you made him uncomfortable...? Well, this is certainly not a thing people did often, to men or women alike. Your stomach clenches anxiously, wondering if perhaps you crossed a boundary. He coughs awkwardly into his elbow and rubs at a spot on his chest, presumably in an attempt to appear busy. Or maybe because there's itchiness or residue still drying on his skin that he couldn't reach otherwise, your conscience reassures weakly as you get up from your knees.

"Oh, uh..." He finally speaks after a good ten seconds of silence passes between you two, only for it to falter quickly enough. "Well... I guess... I lost."

"Was it a competition?" you inquire, tilting your head cutely to one side with genuine curiosity coloring your features. His posture seems tense though, strangely rigid despite the lighthearted nature of his mannerisms. It does seem as though he is nervous for some reason or another. A shame since the atmosphere was quite pleasant before the awkward pause ensued.

He swallows thickly, appearing momentarily tongue-tied by whatever thoughts plaguing his mind, and shrugs dismissively. "It might have been. Perhaps unintentionally. Regardless of that fact, however," Leon continues smoothly, regaining composure in record time, flashing a friendly smile at your direction, "it appears as though my skills are inferior compared to yours."

Before you can answer to dispel this weird tension he's suddenly experiencing, the doors to the ballroom opens and Hunnigan comes crashing in, an uncharacteristic angry look marring her usually impassive and calm expression, looking like she ran halfway across town in that heavy formal wear.

"You... you disappeared from the wedding reception just to do this?!" She shouts outraged, stomping further into the room towards the two of you with no care of getting splashed by stray droplets of paint, gesturing wildly at the chaotic mess all around.

Messy from head to toe like you were two children rolling around in a sandbox of paint, Leon and you share a look, and break into uncontrollable laughter.

The candlelight flickers gently in the spacious chamber, casting long shadows across the floor and walls. The quiet hum of the manor settles around you, muffling the noises from outside as the world winds down for the night, but the air feels thick, almost stifling, as the weight of expectation presses down on your chest. To distract yourself from it, you glance around the room, taking in the ornate furnishings, the heavy velvet drapes, the dark wood that lines the walls. It’s all so different from the simple quarters you’d grown accustomed to before marriage, so different from the sanctuaries you once found comfort in.

It’s almost impossible to believe that just a few hours ago, you were laughing together with Leon, splattering paint across your clothes, and feeling a connection that had left you almost breathless with hope. But that moment feels distant now—like a hazy memory from a different day entirely.

You stand awkwardly at the foot of the bed, the hem of your nightgown brushing lightly against the floor, and Leon stands on the opposite side of the room, near the fireplace. His back is turned to you, broad shoulders tense and rigid, his hands resting on the mantle as though he’s bracing himself against some unseen weight. It’s a stark contrast to the lighthearted, almost playful Leon you had seen earlier—his smile wide, his eyes crinkled with joy as you both painted each other’s clothes. That moment felt so real, so warm.

But now? Now, the connection between you feels cold, stifling even.

You can’t help but feel the sharp sting of confusion prick at your chest, the whiplash of his sudden emotional distance leaving you unmoored. You had been so sure that the painting, the laughter, the closeness you shared had been a turning point—like the two of you were finally beginning to understand each other. But this silence, this stiffness in his posture—it’s as though he’s putting up a wall between you. One you don’t know how to break through, even though you're the one who needs directing tonight as the both of you consummate your marriage.

You've been... informed, advised, and instructed of what was expected of you to perform your duties here tonight, but that was weeks ago. In reality, you had no clue how to accomplish your task right. What kind of acts were supposed to transpire in a marriage bed? Should you start undressing yourself, wait patiently until Leon comes forth, or should you be initiating something? The advisor on this matter did tell you to lay flat on your stomach with legs open for the lord husband to enter easily, but then it sounds so impersonal—dehumanizing, actually.

But your mixed feelings about the subject doesn't really matter, you barely know anything about intimacy in the first place other than the fact it isn't supposed to be enjoyable for the woman. So you'll try your best to give whatever's expected of you to do. It wouldn't be bad if it's with Leon is your opinion on every step of the way, however. At least, it's better than with another man you weren't close to. You just wished you had spent more quality time with him prior to this evening so you'd be able to anticipate his cues and desires, knowing how to please him without issue or question.

“Leon?” You call his name softly, but he doesn’t respond. His body remains still, as if carved from stone, and it sends a chill down your spine.

You take a hesitant step forward, the soft fabric of your gown brushing against your legs. “Is there something wrong?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You’re not sure what you’re hoping for—that he’ll turn around, give you one of those soft smiles, tell you that it’s just nerves. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge you. The fireplace casts a halo around his silhouette, making him look larger than life, like some sort of avenging angel.

The silence stretches on, oppressive, and it only heightens the sense of wrongness settling in the pit of your stomach. Your mind races, trying to understand what could have changed between the painting and now. Why is he shutting you out like this? Why does he seem so far away?

“Did I do something?” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

He shifts slightly, his fingers tightening around the edge of the mantle, but still, he says nothing. The tension in the room seems to coil tighter, suffocating you, and you feel your heart beating faster in your chest, the sting of hurt starting to well up inside you. How could he be so open with you before, only to shut you out now? It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks—his voice low, strained. “You should rest.”

His words are clipped, emotionless. He doesn’t even turn to look at you.

It’s like a slap to the face, the bluntness of his words cutting through the air. Rest? After everything? After the day you’ve had, after the vulnerability you shared? It feels dismissive, cold, like he’s brushing you aside, and you can’t stop the wave of hurt that crashes over you.

“That’s it?” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but you can’t help it. The confusion, the hurt—it’s all bubbling to the surface now. “Why are you ignoring me?”

Leon finally turns to face you, but his expression is unreadable, his blue eyes guarded, his jaw tight. It’s like he put on a mask for tonight, closing himself off from you. And the sight of it stings more than you want to admit.

“I’m not ignoring you,” he says quietly, but the tension in his voice is palpable. He takes a step toward you, but it feels like he’s still miles away. “I just... I think it’s best if you get some sleep after the stress you went through today.”

It's not exactly a lie but it certainly didn't hit you as true.

You stare at him, incredulous, unable to fathom how he can be so calm, so distant after everything. It feels like he’s pulling away from you, and the realization hits you hard—he doesn’t want to be close to you tonight. He doesn’t want you.

"But... Aren't we supposed to... consummate?" You bite your lip hesitantly, glancing down at your clasped hands, waiting for an explanation.

For one agonizing second, he stares at you silently, his expression inscrutable. Then he looks away, a strain between his low brows before responding tersely: "No. We're not supposed to do anything at all. Ever. Don't worry."

"Ah," you manage to squeak out, feeling an ugly embarrassment creeping into your cheeks. You thought there would at least be physical affection involved or mutual consent in regards to... 'intimate' interactions with each other in the future, but perhaps you had misinterpreted things along the way. You assumed Leon liked you enough to desire a familial relationship in addition to sharing a roof under, but maybe this entire arrangement had been built purely around duty--no passion required nor desired.

You never thought you'd have expectations like this, it's quite... silly when you think about it logically. Though your gut had told otherwise. The two of you seemed compatible in ways beyond simply friendship alone, why would you, to put it simply, want like this, as if you were looking forward to spending a romantic night together...?

You wish you knew the answer yourself.

Then a question comes up suddenly, startling you greatly with its implications: Did you have expectations for having relations with him, rather than performing a simple act for him as commanded? Is that the real source behind this confusing dilemma? If you did hold such desires, then where did they come from? And why is it only surfacing now that you are married to Leon?

This is so embarrassing.

“It’s not...” He hesitates, as if struggling to find the right words. “It’s not you.”

"Of course," you murmur doubtfully, biting down harder on the soft flesh of your lip, nails digging into the smooth skin of your palms, trying to hide how much his rejection hurts.

The post-wedding haze settles into a mundane rhythm, the chaos of vows and awkward wedding night fading like a distant dream.

You and Leon hunker down in his estate, grappling with your new roles in the capital's bubble. While he plows through his duties with his usual stone-faced resolve, you're drowning in crash courses on how to be a proper Margravine. Etiquette, court politics, future responsibilities—it's a never-ending barrage of lessons.

It's an odd sensation, bypassing the grand social events yet gradually becoming enmeshed in noble society. Though absent from opulent balls and galas, you’re drawn into a more intimate circle. Claire and Jill, ever by your side since before the wedding, have taken it upon themselves to integrate you into their world. They introduce you to friends and confidants who share their more laid-back perspective on court life.

The lessons are relentless—endless hours of memorizing noble lineages, perfecting the art of curtsying without toppling over, and learning to navigate conversations laden with hidden meanings. You grit your teeth through it all, determined to prove yourself worthy of your new title. But when Claire or Jill appear with mischievous grins, you feel a weight lift from your shoulders. They whisk you away to secret nooks of the estate or into the bustling city streets, where you can shed the mask of propriety and simply be. In these moments, laughter comes easily, and friendship flows as freely as the wine they occasionally smuggle in.

Nights, however, are a different story. You collapse into bed, muscles aching from maintaining perfect posture all day, only to find yourself wide awake in the small hours. The emptiness beside you yawning as a pit, an unavoidable reminder of the distance between you and Leon. That connecting door looms large in your mind, a barrier you're too uncertain to cross. Leon hasn't made any overtures to change the sleeping arrangements, and you're left wondering if this is how married life is supposed to feel—so frustratingly separate.

Leon himself is an enigma, his politeness a mask that reveals nothing. You catch his gaze lingering on you in quiet moments, only for him to quickly avert his eyes when discovered. It's maddening, this dance of stolen glances and hasty retreats.

You wonder if you've committed some blunder, some social faux pas that's driven this wedge between you. But when you gather the courage to approach him about household matters or finances, he offers that familiar half-smile and engages as if nothing's amiss.

Yet the distance remains, a chasm neither of you seems willing to bridge. The frustration gnaws at you. Is this to be your fate? A marriage in name only, two strangers sharing a title but little else? The irony isn't lost on you – married to someone who once knew your very soul, now reduced to stilted conversations and polite nods.

As you navigate this new life, you become hyper-aware of Leon's presence. It's like a sixth sense, the way you can feel him enter a room before you see him. Not intrusive, but impossible to ignore – a constant reminder of what could be, but isn't.

His presence haunts your lessons like a persistent shadow. As you pore over texts or struggle through your tutor's droning on household management, you catch glimpses of Leon. Sometimes he's lingering by the library's arched doorway, other times half-hidden behind the courtyard's stone columns, looking up at the window you’re sitting by. He never speaks, never interrupts. Just watches, silent and stoic, much like he did as your paladin.

Initially, you dismiss it as mere coincidence. This is his estate, after all. But as the occurrences multiply, doubt creeps in. Is there more to his constant hovering?

One particularly tedious afternoon, after an etiquette lesson that felt never-ending, you escape to the garden. Your fingers absently smooth your dress as you breathe in the scent of roses and fresh earth. The stone bench by the fountain beckons, and you sink onto it gratefully, closing your eyes against the warm sun.

But your moment of peace is short-lived. That familiar prickle of awareness crawls up your spine. You're being watched.

Your eyes snap open, darting around the garden. At first, all seems normal - rustling leaves, dappled sunlight. Then, beyond the perfectly manicured topiary, a flash of movement. Black and indigo.

Leon.

He stands by the old stone wall, aides clustered around him, clearly in the midst of some discussion. Yet his eyes are fixed on you, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He makes no move to approach, just... stares. As if waiting for something you can't name.

Your stomach knots, twisting tighter with each passing second. This distance he maintains, this silent observation—what does it mean? It's as if he's unsure of his place in your world, hesitant to step fully into it despite your shared history.

You pretend to focus on the fountain's gentle spray, but your attention remains locked on Leon. He lingers for a few more agonizing moments before finally retreating, his tall frame swallowed up by the hedges once more.

This happens more frequently now. During your walks with Claire and study dates with Jill, while you’re reading in the library, or even while you sit by the window at night, lost in thought. You catch glimpses of him, hovering at the periphery of your life like a ghost.

He doesn’t approach you directly, and yet, his presence never fully leaves. It’s as though he’s trying to be part of your world without intruding, without imposing his presence on you.

And it’s frustrating.

There are times when you want to call out to him, to ask him why he keeps his distance, why he seems so determined to stay on the outskirts of your life. But the words never form. You bite them back, unsure if you even have the right to ask.

One evening, after your newest friend Lady Rebecca has left for the night, you find yourself sitting alone in the small drawing room, absently flipping through the pages of a book you can’t seem to focus on. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

Your gaze drifts to the doorway, where Leon stands once again. His posture is relaxed, one hand resting on the doorframe, but there’s a tension in his eyes, a hesitation that betrays his calm exterior.

For a moment, you both lock eyes.

This time, you don’t look away.

He seems to falter, his expression softening ever so slightly, but he doesn’t move. The air between you feels heavy, thick with unspoken words and the weight of everything neither of you has been willing to address.

"Leon," you finally say, your voice breaking the silence, though you don’t rise from your seat.

His name lingers, but he doesn't respond, doesn't step forward, just nods slightly before turning away. Once again, he retreats into the shadows, leaving you alone with the lingering sense of something unresolved.

The frustration builds inside you, but so does something else. A realization, perhaps. That he’s not distant out of disinterest, but because of something deeper, something he’s unwilling or unable to share. You’re left to wonder what holds him back, what keeps him from closing the gap between you.

The journey to the Margravate is long and winding, the rolling countryside stretching endlessly before you as the carriage bumps along the uneven road. You doze lightly, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the wheels, your head occasionally resting on Leon's shoulder, his scent wafting towards your senses, comforting and familiar amidst the unfamiliar landscape. The quiet company of his body next to yours makes you feel safe enough to fall asleep in his arms; you trust him that much, regardless of this distance that separates your hearts.

He only seems to take his place beside you to let you lean on him when you sleep. When you're awake, however, he's at the opposite end of the cushioned bench seats of the luxurious vehicle, looking intently out the small window. Dressed casually in a simple waistcoat over a cream shirt, sleeves rolled up, with dark blue fitted slacks and leather shoes polished to perfection—he looks every bit like a duke or earl traveling down country roads. So striking, in fact, with his gorgeous features and handsome profile, that even you steal glances from time to time at him in wonderment that such a fine man exists among human kind, let alone be your lawfully wedded husband for life.

From his appearance, it might seem like you two were still in a honeymoon period. Certainly others would assume you to be freshly fallen in love given how fondly you stare at him during these times. Your adoring gaze isn't exactly hidden nor unnoticed. Anyone who looked at you and observed your body language could tell easily enough about your feelings toward him, especially since this behavior began shortly after the wedding months ago.

But Leon seems unaffected by your affections. His reactions are impassive to everything—not rude and callous as with outsiders, but merely well-mannered. The sort of gestures you would expect of any polite, good-natured gentleman towards a young woman.

He’s been like this for the entire journey, withdrawn, the faint connection you shared before your wedding slowly eroding with each passing mile. His quiet presence, once comforting, now feels distant, like the growing chasm between the two of you. Every time you glance his way, his gaze remains distant, as if his thoughts are miles away, tethered to something you can’t reach.

Eventually, the carriage slows to a stop, and when you peer out the window, your breath catches in your throat.

The Margravate is... unfinished.

What stands before you isn’t a grand estate or a lavish castle, but rather the skeletal framework of what will one day become a home. Scaffolding surrounds the main structure, and construction workers move about, hauling stones and materials to continue their work. The foundations are in place, and the walls rise high enough to give the shape of the building, but it is far from being complete.

Leon climbs out of the carriage first, holding out a hand to help you down. His expression is unreadable as he watches your reaction, his lips set in a thin line as if bracing for something.

You take his hand, your fingers trembling slightly as you step onto the uneven ground. The air is fresh and cool, the wind carrying the scent of damp earth and sawdust. The land around you is expansive, a blank canvas of green fields stretching out toward the distant horizon. It's a beautiful expanse, but it feels empty—much like the vast space between you and Leon.

"This is... our new home," Leon says quietly, gesturing toward the half-built castle. His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it—a thread of uncertainty that you can’t quite place, almost apologetic.

You nod, taking in the sight before you. It’s daunting, seeing the bare bones of what will eventually become your residence, but there’s a strange sense of possibility here as well. A blank slate, a fresh start.

It should feel exciting. And yet...

"It has a good foundation," you offer meekly in encouragement, wishing for the warmth in his smile to return. His countenance had faded as time passed, leaving you wanting, desperate for contact that went beyond a chaste touch on the hand meant for guiding or shoulder. "That's the most important part."

Leon looks at you, but his gaze is sharp, scrutinizing, as if he’s searching for something in your expression. "There’s still a lot of work to be done."

His tone is practical, detached, and it sends a pang through your chest. This is supposed to be your shared future—this place, this castle, this land. And yet, it feels like you’re standing at opposite ends of it, separated by more than just the distance between the carriage and the castle.

You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling the cool breeze bite at your skin. "Do you have any ideas for how you want to design the interior? The decorations and furniture?" you ask, trying to steer the conversation toward something lighter, something that might pull him back to you. "I remember you once mentioned you had preferences for architecture..."

"You can handle that," he cuts in, his voice tight. "I trust your judgment."

You blink, caught off guard by his sudden dismissal. "But... don’t you want to be part of the process? It’s your home too."

Leon sighs, rubbing his forehead, and for a moment, his carefully composed façade cracks, revealing a hint of exasperation. "I need to oversee the construction," he explains wearily. "And then there will be countless other duties that require my attention. Do whatever you think is best and would make you comfortable, okay? I won’t mind whatever choices you make."

The words land like a stone in your stomach, heavy and cold. It’s not just that he’s leaving the decisions to you—it’s the way he says it, like he’s already checked out of this part of your life together. Like he’s holding himself at arm’s length, unwilling to invest in the place that’s supposed to be your future.

You try to hide your disappointment, but it’s hard. You wanted this to be something you built together, not something you were left to manage on your own.

"I just thought..." you trail off, unsure of how to express the frustration bubbling inside you. "I thought it would be nice to do it together."

Leon looks away sharply, his jaw clenched, and you know right then that it was the wrong thing to say. There's something simmering below the surface, something buried deep in him that you can't reach. "Perhaps another time."

Then, he turns away, walking toward the construction workers who are busy unloading more materials. You watch him go, a sinking feeling in your chest, the gap between you growing wider with every step he takes.

You stand there for a moment, the wind whipping around you, your fingers curling into fists at your sides. The vastness of the Margravate stretches out before you, empty and raw, and you can’t help but feel like it mirrors the state of your marriage—full of potential, but painfully unfinished.

As Leon talks with the workers, you slowly turn back to the castle, letting your eyes trace the lines of the building, imagining what it could be when it’s complete. You picture grand halls, filled with light, rooms adorned with rich fabrics and art, a garden blooming with flowers—lilies, of course.

But all of it feels distant, as if it’s happening to someone else.

The days that follow your arrival at the Margravate are filled with work—endless decisions about the design of the estate, choosing colors, fabrics, and furnishings, overseeing the construction of the final touches on the walls, and speaking with the laborers who are bringing the castle to life. And yet, despite all the bustle around you, there’s an emptiness that lingers in the air—a tension that sits heavy between you and Leon.

You spend most of your time focused on the interior, meeting with craftsmen, selecting tapestries, and wandering through the unfinished halls, imagining what the rooms will look like once they’re complete. Your excitement for the project grows, but it’s tempered by the growing silence from Leon.

He leaves most of the decisions to you, keeping himself busy with matters outside—overseeing the construction of stables, inspecting the grounds, and working with the estate’s caretakers. His days are long, filled with activity, but the moments you share together are fleeting. A few words exchanged over meals, brief, stiff conversations at the end of the day, his gaze always distant, his mind elsewhere.

One evening, you find yourself in the library, sitting by the window with a thick book of fabric swatches spread across your lap. You run your fingers over the different textures, frowning slightly as you compare a deep crimson velvet with a lighter, airy blue. Which color scheme suits the room better? Will the blues complement the light from the large windows? Or should you go with the darker hues to add warmth and depth? The browner tones of the library make for lovely contrast, but sometimes you imagine white curtains that would frame the glass beautifully against the early morning sunrays.

You sigh, setting both options aside and reach for a third option. Perhaps a solid pattern instead of florals or stripes...

Your hand brushes against something firm, warm, startling you enough to drop the booklet on the floor. Before you can pick it up, strong, deft fingers pluck it off the rug and hand it back to you. "I'm sorry for startling you," Leon offers immediately upon delivering the materials. Then, he clears his throat awkwardly. "You seemed so immersed."

"Not a problem," you reassure him quickly, clutching the swatches tightly against your chest.

“Do you have a moment?”

"Of course," you reply, lovering the book down, heart giving a little leap at the sight of him, but there’s also a nervous flutter in your stomach, a gnawing uncertainty that’s become all too familiar.

He moves around you slowly, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, you think he might pull a chair and sit beside you. But instead, he stops by the window, his hand resting on the ledge as he gazes out into the fading twilight.

"You've been working hard," he says after a long pause, carefully neutral.

You glance down at the swatches in your lap, unsure how to respond. "There’s still so much to do," you say softly, your fingers tracing the edge of the fabric. "But I’m trying to make it... feel like home."

Leon’s gaze shifts toward you, something unreadable flickering in his blue eyes. "It’s your home. You should have it how you like."

There it is again—that distance, that indifference that feels like a wall between you. You want to ask him why he’s keeping himself entirely separate from the narrative, why he’s letting you make all the decisions without any input. But the words stick in your throat, too heavy to speak aloud.

You stand, brushing the fabric off your lap and stepping toward him, feeling the tension in the air thicken with each step. "It’s our home," you correct softly, coming to a stop beside him. "I want it to belong to both of us."

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. His gaze is fixed on the window, watching as the last rays of sunlight fade from the sky, casting the world in shades of gray. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turns toward you, his eyes meeting yours.

"It already belongs to you," he says quietly. "Everything here is yours to shape. I trust you to make it what it should be."

Your heart sinks at his words. He’s giving you control—giving you everything—and yet, it feels like he’s pulling further away, withdrawing into himself. You can’t understand it. You can’t understand why, after everything, he’s still holding himself back.

"But what about you?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. "What do you want, Leon?"

He hesitates, his jaw tightening as he looks away. "It doesn’t matter what I want."

The answer hits you like a blow to the chest. It doesn’t matter what he wants? How could he say that? How could he think that his desires, his needs, don’t matter?

"You don’t mean that. Leon, we’re building this life together. How can it not matter what you want?"

He’s silent for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then he takes a slow step back, putting more space between you. "This is your chance to be free," he says quietly, his voice tight with something you can’t quite place. "I won’t... impose myself on that."

The words leave you stunned, your mind reeling as you try to process what he’s saying. He doesn’t want to impose himself? On you? On your life together? But that’s not what you want—you don’t want this distance, this coldness. You want him. You want him to be part of this, to share in this life with you.

You step closer to him, your hand reaching out instinctively to touch his arm. "Leon, you’re not imposing—"

But he pulls away before you can reach him, his expression hardening. "It’s late. We should both rest."

And with that, he turns and leaves the library, his footsteps echoing down the hall until they disappear into the silence of the castle.

Yet, despite the distance, there are small, fleeting moments when the delicate balance between you shifts—when his presence feels less like a wall and more like a quiet support.

One evening, after spending hours debating between colors for the tapestries in the dining hall, you find yourself overwhelmed by the pressure of the task. You’re at your desk, head in your hands, rubbing your temples as the endless decisions pile up. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, but the warmth does little to soothe your frustration.

Without a word, Leon steps into the room. You hadn’t noticed his arrival—he moves like a ghost, silent and unobtrusive. He stands at the doorway for a moment, watching you, his brow furrowed slightly, as if he’s weighing whether or not to intrude.

Then, quietly, he crosses the room and places a steaming cup of tea beside you. The fragrant scent of herbs fills the air, calming your frayed nerves. His movements are deliberate but gentle, and though he says nothing, the gesture speaks louder than words.

"You looked tired," he murmurs, his voice low and even. There’s a softness to his tone that you haven’t heard in days, a quiet concern that lingers between you.

You lift your head to meet his eyes, and for a brief moment, you see something there—a flicker of emotion, of care—but it’s gone as quickly as it came. He doesn’t stay to chat or press further; instead, he turns and walks away, leaving you alone with the warmth of the tea and the silence of the room.

It’s a small thing, but it touches you deeply. You sip the tea, the warmth spreading through your chest, and though the distance between you and Leon still looms large, the memory of his quiet kindness lingers in your mind long after he’s gone.

A few nights later, you’re still awake long after the castle has gone quiet. The plans for the Margravate are scattered across your desk, a mess of papers and sketches that no longer make sense to your tired eyes. You’ve been working late into the night, your fingers stained with ink and your mind buzzing with the endless possibilities for the estate’s future.

The rain taps lightly against the windows, a soft, steady rhythm that lulls the rest of the castle to sleep—but not you. You’re too caught up in the details, too determined to make everything perfect. After all, Leon had given you free rein over the design choices. "Whatever you like," he had said, his indifference leaving you both empowered and... disappointed.

As the hours drag on, the chill of the night seeps into the room, wrapping itself around you. You barely notice it until your hands start to tremble from the cold.

Then, without warning, a soft warmth settles over your shoulders.

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat as you realize that someone has draped a blanket over you. You glance up, but the room is empty. Leon is gone, having slipped away as silently as he came, leaving only the blanket as a testament to his presence.

The gesture is simple, almost fleeting, but it strikes something deep within you. He hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t needed to. His actions spoke of care, of a desire to see you comfortable, even if he couldn’t bridge the emotional gap that had grown between you.

You clutch the blanket tighter around yourself, staring at the open door where he must have exited. It’s frustrating, how close he seems in these moments and yet how far away he remains. He’s there, always on the periphery, watching over you but never stepping fully into the light.

Another morning, you find yourself standing in the grand hall, examining the tapestries that have just been hung along the walls. The rich colors of red and gold shimmer in the early morning light, catching on the intricate designs woven into the fabric. It should be a moment of triumph—a symbol of your hard work, of the progress being made—but instead, it feels hollow.

As you reach out to trace the edge of one of the tapestries, you hear footsteps approaching behind you. You don’t have to turn to know it’s Leon; you’ve grown used to the sound of his quiet, measured steps.

He comes to stand beside you, his gaze focused on the tapestries. "They’re beautiful," he says softly, his voice devoid of the usual formality. There’s a warmth in his tone, but it’s distant, like he’s speaking from behind a glass wall.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. The tension between you is palpable, an invisible force that keeps you from closing the distance, no matter how much you both might want to.

He glances down at you then, and for the briefest moment, you think you see something in his eyes—something raw and unguarded. But before you can decipher it, he looks away, the shutters closing once more.

The storm outside reflects everything brewing between you.

Heavy rain pounds against the unfinished walls, wind howling through the half-finished windows, rattling the doors in their frames. The sky is a swirl of angry black clouds, flashes of lightning illuminating the barren landscape beyond the castle’s skeletal structure.

You’re soaked to the bone, your clothes sticking to your skin after having made sure to personally direct the laborers in positioning some materials with waterproofing oil slathered thickly on surfaces, securing them safely. Leon had insisted earlier you allow his men to do so instead, but you'd brushed it off, feeling a sense of ownership towards this project due to being the one most invested in making this place feel like a home and not simply a new job posting. It was worth it--the newly installed interior pieces weren't damaged thanks to your efforts, nor were they lost because of sudden gusts of winds carrying them astray, which pleased you greatly.

At one point after realizing telling you to go inside wouldn't work, Leon drapes his coat over your shoulders, protecting you from the rain while also hiding the state your clothing is in from prying servants. And as soon as it's deemed safe and the rains finally died down enough to warrant stopping work on the exterior portions of the castle, he sweeps you off your feet to carry you inside bridal style.

"Let me walk, please!" you demand, heat rising to your face as you hold back a shriek of surprise.

But despite your request, your arms lock around his neck to stabilize yourself, the broad expanse of his chest radiating warmth beneath your hands despite his similarly waterlogged garments.

Even through layers of drenched cloth separating skin-on-skin contact, your senses are invaded by the feeling of Leon--his scent mingling with fresh rain, the rise and fall of his breathing as he effortlessly carries you indoors, even the sensation of his pulse beating beneath the elegant curve of his collarbone. You're suddenly overwhelmingly aware of every detail about him, causing butterflies to stir in your belly when he leans ever so slightly closer, making you wonder if maybe he isn't totally unaffected by your proximity either.

Despite the weight of your combined bodies, Leon doesn't appear fatigued at all, briskly crossing through hallways and stairwells to make it to the main wing of the estate where the family living quarters are located. Some of the maids catch glimpses of the unnecessary spectacle you're trying to de-escalate, and knowing that rumors spread easily amongst servants, you fear you might be the center of gossip for tomorrow morning... but something tells you that's likely not Leon's goal here. It wouldn't reflect well on him if his bride returned to the bedroom dripping wet like this without him as protection from scandal. At least he can say he provided adequate cover in public where people might've seen you soaked through.

Reaching your bedchamber door, Leon nudges it open with his foot to avoid risking dropping you in his attempt to turn the knob, entering swiftly and kicking it closed once both of you are securely inside the private space. With one strong arm propping you up, he uses the other to flip your fur-lined cloak off you with a flick of the wrist, allowing its full length to fall to the floor in a heap. The cape has served its purpose since he shielded you with it during the storm outside, now acting as a barrier between you and the carpet should any excess water drip from your persons.

In the next moment, Leon places you back on solid ground, supporting your waist as you adjust to standing upright again. Your limbs feel weak and shaky, leaving you clinging tightly to him as if he's a lifeline in more ways than one. Your mind is spinning from the intensity of being this close to each other, so near that you can see the droplets of rain clinging to his eyelashes like dew, the way they roll down the slope of his cheekbones and jawline only to drip off his chin. His normally blond hair is dampened, darker from being completely soaked, a few tendrils falling to hang over his forehead in an appealingly roguish manner, giving him a younger, more boyish appearance that somehow makes him all the more handsome and masculine.

"I'll get a bath drawn for you," he says breathlessly after a lingering pause, displeased lines apparent on his forehead. "You need to warm up."

Before you have time to protest, he reaches up to push several strands of loose hair away from your face, tucking them gently behind your ear. For a second, his fingers linger along the curve of your temple, caressing your cheek like you're something precious. It's the most he's touched you willingly in weeks, and you find yourself leaning into his touch, longing for the intimacy that seems just out of reach.

Then, abruptly, the moment shatters as he lets go of you altogether, striding away stiffly toward the fireplace to start preparing kindling. With one movement, the connection between you breaks, and suddenly, the distance feels wider than ever.

It leaves you stunned for a moment, stuck in place where he set you down, watching him move away. You could reach out to stop him, but the tension in his posture tells you not to. And suddenly, you notice you're in the same position you were on your wedding night, with his back turned to you over at the fireplace, busying himself to keep some degree of separation between you both.

"How long will this go on for?" you suddenly cry out impulsively, fed up with being treated like a doll kept at arm's length.

Leon pauses, one hand frozen in place over a stack of logs, "I'll go get the maids in a minute—"

"You know that's not what I'm talking about, Leon," you retort, surprising even yourself at your boldness. Your hands move on their own, raising a bit to gesture wildly around the room even though he has his back to you and won't see it. "What is this? Is it me, did I do something wrong? Tell me how I can fix this."

At your plea, he stops short. There's a flinch in his shoulder, barely perceptible but noticeable enough that it sends a stab through your heart. You hate this stalemate. Hate how disconnected you feel from him right now, and you want nothing more than to break through the barriers between you. Even if there's pain underneath it all. Anything would be better than being trapped in this purgatory, neither of you able to let the past go while unable to move forward.

His posture changes, his head tilting ever so slightly like he wants to look back at you, but he doesn't follow through, remaining faced towards the hearth.

"Listen, I..." His words come out uneven, faltering as he struggles for purchase over them. Then he takes another deep breath, exhaling slowly. "We both knew our marriage would not be normal when I proposed to you."

Oh. So this is what we're doing. Going around the elephant in the room. Deflection. "That doesn't mean you get to keep punishing me."

"I'm not punishing you," he protests weakly, almost childlike. Almost sounding like how he was in the garden on his first visit to the Ethelian temple all those years ago, stammering apologies while shaking under the light of the sacred moon.

"Doesn't seem like it. It's obvious that whatever I've done is going to stand in the way of us getting closer unless I figure it out and apologize..."

"Wait, no—" Now Leon actually whirls around.

Your anger gives you a boost, taking advantage of his momentary confusion. "Do you regret proposing to me?"

The question catches him off guard, and for a second, his expression is so open and vulnerable that it steals the breath from your lungs. It's such an intimate moment; like peeling back the layers of his mask and seeing the person underneath.

Instead of answering you directly, though, what he says is, "Can you put something on? Please."

And just like that, the walls are back up. He shifts back into that composed demeanor, looking at you in a way that betrays nothing except mild distaste at your current state, breaking you free from the illusion of closeness and honesty.

"What does that have to do with anything right now? Do you even listen to anything I say?" you fume, resisting the urge to stomp your foot like a child. "I'm building this home for us, our future," you croak weakly, arms coming together to cross in front of you defensively despite there not being enough strength to raise them high enough and form a proper barrier. The desire to hide is instinctual, though. Something you picked up as the church raised you from birth. Cover yourself. Be modest and demure, a conduit for Ethelion's grace. A perfect example of sanctification for the masses. "What I want is for you to be a part of this with me. But it feels like you’re running away from it."

His tone goes flat and clinical. "While it may have escaped your notice, you're practically naked," Leon states matter-of-factly.

"It doesn't matter, you're my husband," you huff, trying to ignore how silly the situation is. Both of you drenched and arguing over nakedness.

"I can't see you like this, you're the Saintess!"

Leon winces immediately upon blurting those words out, like he knows it was a mistake to reveal so much in the moment, turning his face away and squeezing his eyes shut. A hand raises to press against his mouth, stopping whatever else might accidentally slip out and betray the feelings he hides, desperately struggling to remain composed.

So that's it. He won't acknowledge you because to him, you were the Saintess of Ethelion--someone unreachable and divine, separate from yourself as just a woman.

"You don't see me as a person, do you?"

"No, I—"

"Am I really still wearing the mask on my face?" You scoff at how ridiculous the situation is. The very same man who pleaded for you to consider him as a potential spouse now acts like you are still beyond reach, elevated high above mere mortals. "Of course. Of course I am. You married me because of this. You didn't want a connection with me, you wanted a connection with Ethelion. I'm your prayer beads, is that it? A walking shrine dedicated to Him?"

"Stop," Leon grits out, holding his hands out in front of his face to ward off the verbal assault. His head turns side to side, denying your accusation despite his lack of direct response, paling as if struck. "Just... give me a moment."

There's no escape route for either of you anymore--no retreat option besides standing still. And that isn't working either. You refuse to back down until some sort of change happens. "I've given you weeks. Look at me!"

The crackling of the wood as it burns seems too loud compared to the silence hanging thick between the two of you. Seconds pass with nothing changing until finally, with agonizing slowness, Leon lifts his head to stare straight at you with stormy blues filled with conflict. There's so much pain buried within, held deep below the surface for too long. And suddenly you realize you never actually saw him without his armor or regalia, nor him without the veil and robes obscuring your features. Like children dressing up in fancy costumes and playing pretend, except not. This whole relationship was built on two people pretending to be something they're not.

Neither saintess or holy knight but merely mortal humans, terrified and lonely.

"I'm lonely, Leon," you confess softly, dropping your gaze to the floor. All the energy seems drained out of you, leaving only exhaustion and weariness in its wake. "It's a lonely place being isolated on a pedestal. I only ever wanted to be loved, like everyone else."

The admission hangs heavily in the air for several seconds, each tick of the clock painfully slow and cumbersome. You wonder what he's thinking; whether he understands, whether he sympathizes, whether it makes any difference to him at all. If anyone could understand what you mean, it would be someone who has known suffering firsthand like the scars hidden by bandages underneath his clothing or the emptiness he hides under the guise of stoicism and duty.

A tear rolls down your cheek, splashing onto your white dress shirt, darkening the spot where it lands. Another follows behind the first, tracing down your other cheek and dripping from your chin onto the cloak you're standing on.

"I'd like that bath now, please. The cold is starting to get uncomfortable," you mumble, resigned. The fight left you the instant the dam broke on the secret thoughts you've been harboring throughout this time together. And honestly, there's nothing more to do but move past this obstacle blocking the path forward. Whatever the outcome will be after today remains unclear, and dwelling on it longer probably won't make any difference. "Alone, preferably."

Without waiting for his reply or looking up at his face, you turn around sharply on your heel and approach your dressing room closet area attached to the en suite bathroom. Stepping through the doorway into the private space allows some relief--not that you're any less aware of Leon's presence nearby, but now he can't see your expressions clearly when you pull clothes off hangers with shaking hands and begin stripping yourself.

One by one, your soaked garments hit the floor with a thwack, forming a pile at your feet that grows larger by the second. Once fully nude, you reach over to grab a towel off the shelf in haste, intending to wrap it around yourself quickly, thinking of making a dash to the bathing area without revealing yourself to him. Yet, as soon as you spin back around, planning to hustle across the room to the washroom, you jump nearly out of your skin in surprise to find Leon standing right there directly opposite you--so close, yet just far enough apart to maintain proper personal space etiquette. You hadn't felt him sneaking up behind you at all.

His presence seems to suck the oxygen from the small enclosed chamber, leaving a vacuum effect that leaves your vision blurred for a few seconds while adjusting to being confronted with him upfront without warning. Still, the rush of surprise pumping through you doesn't let up enough to allow full perception to return as smoothly as normal, leaving everything seeming oddly foggy like a dream sequence in play.

He looms before you taller and broader than usual thanks to the heightened awareness of your own nakedness contrasting against how wetly clothed he stays, forcing you to tilt your head up somewhat awkwardly to meet his eyes that stands out in stark relief against pale skin and dark hair framing features sharpened by shadows that dance. Even if Leon doesn't step closer, he crowds the tiny closet-like space significantly compared to your frame, putting pressure on every inch of available space between the two of you.

Something seems different in the way he watches you in this moment—less intense than before. Perhaps calmer or gentler, even, considering how he isn't as tense and coiled up as before. Whatever causes this transformation leaves little doubt as to its nature because one thing that doesn't change is the fact that he's definitely checking you out shamelessly, despite trying valiantly to keep an aura of indifference around himself. Those ocean waves appear a touch hazy in shade as if clouded with lust, pupils dilated visibly until only a thin ring of blue encircles the black pits blown wide.

"Did you want something?" You manage to stammer out nervously, cheeks warming with shame.

Never in your life has anybody seen this much bare skin of yours; not even another girl back at the church growing up since those sorts of interactions were expressly forbidden outside of emergencies wherein nudity occurred inadvertently rather than intentionally due to limited access points such as shared washrooms. Especially not any adults! Such lascivious behavior went against everything they taught at services about respect and modesty.

Suddenly, he huffs out a loud laugh that surprises the both of you, although mostly yourself, judging by how fast his facial muscles tense after, realizing what sound came out of him involuntarily.

"Ah..." Leon trails off, looking embarrassed and wistful at the same time, averting his gaze briefly before refocusing squarely on yours again. "No? Yes? More or less?"

"Can it wait?" Your breath hitches slightly as you try unsuccessfully to maintain steady breathing, mind racing along with rapidly accelerating heartbeats.

"I don't want it to wait," He admits quietly, almost shamefacedly, lowering lashes halfway down half-lidded eyes.

"You couldn't have done this before I undressed?"

He has no answer to that, though something flashes across his face momentarily; a hint of something perhaps akin to remorse, or maybe guilt for having barged in unannounced on your vulnerable moment without consideration for boundaries . Although truthfully speaking, neither of you had set up much structure for yourselves other than mutual understanding regarding certain key points --such as keeping distance from each other unless necessary--and following basic common sense rules for respectful behavior like knocking beforehand.

"I do see you as a person," he mumbles softly, taking a single step towards you while still maintaining the illusion of personal space for both of you. His hand raises up hesitantly as if unsure what he intends to do with it, hovering midair in an awkward manner, fingers curling inward to form a fist at first before relaxing and repeating the motion several times, opening and closing slowly, indecisively.

You watch silently with bated breath, wondering where he might aim next. If you weren't so caught up in your own head, you might have noticed sooner that his gaze kept darting between your collarbone and your jawline, seemingly mesmerized by how they connect seamlessly together beneath smooth expanses of soft, supple flesh. It takes several seconds of staring at his face before realizing that despite appearing fixated upon one spot in particular, his focus shifts subtly every now and then, tracing invisible paths across curves that dip beneath your towel-clad figure.

"I see you as a woman," He whispers, sounding pained as if admitting defeat or confessing sins committed against someone precious to him. The hand that had previously been frozen in place descends downwards in a slow arc, tracing downward along the edge of the terrycloth fabric until it reaches the spot where it bunches together right above your navel. His fingertips brush against the fabric gently, not quite touching directly but close enough to send sparks flying throughout your nervous system at such proximity. "When... When I shouldn't. Not like that. You were the Saintess. You are... You... And I... I couldn't..."

A shuddering sigh escapes him, his chest heaving with pent-up emotions, and his head bows slightly like someone weighed down heavily by unseen burdens. He seems torn between wanting desperately to reach out further than just barely brushing knuckles over cloth covering sensitive skin and pulling back entirely to prevent himself from crossing lines better left untouched.

You don't speak up either, too afraid of breaking whatever fragile spell has descended over you both. Your body trembles slightly from nerves and cold combined, skin prickling everywhere beneath the thin layer of fabric separating skin from skin, practically feeling the weight of his eyes following the path of goosebumps. The intensity in the way his gaze traces every inch of your form sends heat pooling downwards despite your best efforts to rein in whatever it is that threatens to burst forth at any second.

"...You're not someone to be looked at with... impure intentions," Leon finally manages after another moment of tense silence passes between the two of you, lifting his head once more and fixing his stare straight into yours unblinkingly. His words come out hoarse yet sincere; a desperate plea mixed with fervent prayer for strength to resist temptation laid before him so invitingly wrapped up nicely. "To be worshiped, yes. But not defiled."

His thumb brushes over the curve of the towel that wraps around your torso, tracing upwards towards your chest where your breasts press against it, leaving dampened outlines visible through the material. The sensation of his finger sliding over the cloth-covered peak of one nipple causes a gasp to escape from your lips, followed immediately by a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously similar to groan escaping from the back of his throat.

"Leon-" you whisper breathlessly, not even aware of what else you might say beyond saying his name aloud. Your heart pounds wildly within your ribcage, hammering away like an overworked drumstick against sensitive tissue and bone, threatening to break through the cage containing it. Blood rushes in your ears, deafeningly loud and dizzying in its intensity.

He inhales sharply as if burned, his nostrils flaring, and then his entire body stiffens abruptly. Then he turns on his heels and walks briskly away, nearly colliding headlong with a nearby wall in his haste to put distance between himself and your towel-wrapped figure. His shoulders rise and fall visibly as he takes several deep, steadying breaths before finally speaking again, albeit much quieter this time, as though he fears someone may overhear even though the two of you are alone in this room.

"I won't let myself do that to you," he declares firmly, sounding resigned and defeated rather than angry or forceful. There's something sad about his tone, too—a sense of loss permeating throughout his speech that makes your chest tighten painfully with regret and longing for things unfulfilled. "I refuse. I'll keep my vow to cherish and protect you from all that might harm you. Even if that means myself."

Before you can think better of your actions, you reach out and grasp his sleeve between trembling fingers, halting him mid-stride as he attempts to flee further away. A surprised grunt leaves him at your sudden movement and subsequent contact, his body tensing momentarily before relaxing again slowly at your touch.

"I'm not something to be worshiped or preserved. I'm just a woman," you choke out thickly, tears welling up in your eyelashes. "I'm not pure and perfect. I'm just like any other person, Leon."

"Please don't say such things," he begs quietly, turning partially toward you without actually meeting your gaze directly. "Don't demean yourself like that. Don't compare yourself so…."

Your grip tightens on his sleeve, tugging lightly to force him closer despite knowing full well it won't make much difference against someone twice your size or strength if they wanted to resist.

"I don't want to be revered!" you cry desperately, blinking rapidly as hot tears spill down your cheeks. "I just want...!"

A pause. The air hangs heavy around you both like a dense fog rolling in off the ocean waves outside. The fire crackles loudly, its warmth doing little to chase away the chill seeping deep into your bones from more than just damp clothes sticking uncomfortably to your skin. You shiver violently, suddenly acutely aware of how exposed you truly are standing before him half-naked, barefooted, hair dripping wetness onto your shoulders and back.

"I just want my husband," you finally manage after swallowing past a lump forming in your throat. Your mouth feels dry and sticky simultaneously as you croak out those words, tongue heavy and clumsy against the roof of your mouth.

Silence falls over the space separating you once more, punctuated only by the sound of his ragged breathing and yours intermingling with one another. He stands still as a statue before you, unmoving save for the occasional shudder rippling through his frame at random intervals. His gaze remains fixed firmly downward at some unseen point by his feet instead of meeting yours directly, though whether out of shame or guilt or something else entirely you can't tell.

"I want you," you continue softly, barely audible over the pounding of your heart thundering within your eardrums. "Not as the Saintess or whatever title comes next after that. Just as me."

"Don't, I can't," he hisses through clenched teeth like someone trying very hard to keep themselves under control despite being pushed dangerously close to breaking point. "You don't want that. You don't understand what it would do to me if I gave in and acted on this feeling. I couldn't live with myself if I did."

"You can love the Saintess but not me?" You ask quietly, releasing his sleeve slowly as if reluctant to let go completely yet knowing there isn't anything else left for either of you to say right now without causing further harm than good. "Am I really that undesirable?"

His head jerks upward sharply, finally locking his stare directly onto yours, ocean irises blown wide open with surprise mingling freely alongside horror written plainly across his features.

"No!" He blurts loudly enough that it startles you slightly too, causing him to immediately lower his volume when speaking again afterwards. "No, of course not! How could I possibly find fault with you when everything about you leaves me weak-kneed? But it goes against all my vows and beliefs, and I can't betray them any more than I already have simply by looking at you with these sinful thoughts..."

He shakes his head firmly back and forth several times before turning away from you fully once more, shoulders slumped downward heavily as he retreats further backwards until he's nearly pressed flush against the far wall opposite yours.

"Please," he whispers hoarsely, almost inaudibly over the noise of raindrops pattering steadily against glass windows throughout the castle halls beyond your chambers' doors. "Please, let me continue serving you as your protector. Your knight in shining armor. Nothing less, nothing more. I'll do anything. I'll give you anything."

The defeat lacing every word he utters cuts through your chest worse than any physical wound ever has been able to achieve thus far; the pain sears deep within your heart, leaving behind only bitter regret and emptiness in its wake.

You want to scream at him for being such an idiotic fool who refuses to see reason or listen to anyone besides himself regarding matters concerning his own happiness and desires, especially considering how much he claims to care about yours. Yet no amount of yelling will change his mind or force him into seeing things differently from how they currently stand between the two of you now, regardless of how frustrating and maddening it may be.

"Okay," you murmur softly instead after several tense minutes pass, neither of you move or speak again nor dares break this fragile silence lest it lead down another path towards destruction. Apathy settles heavily upon your shoulders like a cloak of lead weighing you down. "I want a lover. Someone to hold me. I want someone who wants me. Someone who will make me feel wanted and cherished and desired. Someone who won't shy away from my touch or cringe at the sight of me unclothed."

His shoulders stiffen visibly beneath his drenched shirt, muscles tensing visibly beneath the dampened cloth clinging tightly against every curve and contour, outlining hard lines underneath.

"Since you made it clear it won't be you, then I can look for someone else. I'm free to do so, aren't I?"

The effect your question has upon him is immediate and palpable; a strangled sound escapes from somewhere within the depths of his throat, low and guttural and raw, filled with equal parts despair and fury. It seems almost inhuman coming from such an otherwise composed man like him, coupled with the fact that his entire body seems suddenly coiled tight as though ready to spring forth into action. Yet, he doesn't move nor speak further beyond that single noise which speaks volumes more than mere words ever could alone regarding just how deeply affected he truly is by everything happening between the two of you here today.

"...You are," he finally grinds out through clenched teeth.

"Then that's what I'll do," you state simply, without any trace of hesitation or uncertainty lacing your tone, despite knowing full well exactly what kind of reaction those words have caused within him.

"Don't," he chokes out raggedly, his expression twisted into a mixture of agony and desperation unlike anything you'd ever seen cross his features before now. He looks absolutely wretched standing there before you like some poor soul condemned to an eternity of torment for sins committed against an unforgiving god.

"Or what?" you challenge softly, slowly make your way towards him, and reach upwards to cup his cheek gently in one palm, fingers brushing lightly over smooth skin slickened by rainfall still dripping steadily down his face in thin rivulets. "What can you possibly say that will make me want to stay here with someone who doesn't even see me as anything more than an untouchable ideal?"

He flinches violently beneath your touch, jerking backwards so hard that it hits the wall behind him, as if burned by mere contact alone, yet he remains rooted firmly in place rather than fleeing further away from you. Instead, he merely bows his head downward, until his chin rests against his chest rising rapidly beneath labored breaths.

"I love you," he rasps hoarsely after what feels like hours spent waiting patiently for some sort of response or reaction beyond silence from him thus far. Those three little words slip past trembling lips unbidden by conscious thought or effort; they spill forth freely like rainwater cascading down a mountainside, falling heavily upon parched earth below, seeking sustenance desperately needed after months spent under scorching sun beating mercilessly overhead. "I can't bear to think about another man holding you intimately. It kills me slowly inside just imagining it happening. But I can't do it myself. I can't touch you without feeling like Ethelion himself will make me burst into flames. You were the Saintess, I was the paladin. We shouldn't have crossed those lines."

"Then stop thinking of me as the Saintess," you urge quietly yet firmly whilst stepping closer towards him still despite knowing full well doing so might very well result in being rejected outright once more should he choose to do so again. Your hand slides along the side of his neck, trailing fingertips delicately across taut muscle tensed tightly against bones beneath warm flesh, tracing downward along the curve where his shoulder meets the collarbone peeking through the partially unbuttoned shirt collar, damp fabric clinging stubbornly against his skin.

His entire frame quivers beneath your feather-light caresses as if fighting against himself not to recoil from them outright or push you away entirely, though he does neither, simply allowing himself to remain motionless beneath your ministrations instead. He closes his eyelids tightly shut, squeezing them tightly together as his jaw clenches, teeth grinding audibly within his mouth. A shudder ripples visibly throughout every inch of him at the gentle pressure of your thumb rubbing circles against his clavicle bone beneath the thin cotton shirt sticking tightly against flushed heated skin.

"Please," he whispers pleadingly through gritted teeth clamped down hard enough to leave imprints upon his bottom lip, turning his head away from yours while keeping his own lowered still.

He won't move away in pretense of not being able to, rather stay in the torment of enjoying your touch but unable to respond in kind, but you won't let him escape that easily. Not now that he's finally given in somewhat after all this time spent dancing around each other's feelings without ever truly confronting them directly.

"Sir Leon," you start, with the authority of the saintess you were trained to be, "look at me."

He freezes at your tone and words, before his head jerks back, meeting your gaze with wide, disbelieving blue orbs. You hold his chin and prevent him from turning away. His throat bobs as he swallows, and the air crackles between you two with tension. Your breath catches in your throat as you realize how close he is, how easy it would be to just lean forward and press your lips to his.

"Do you prefer it this way?" you ask, tilting your head in question, "Do you prefer me acting as your superior, instead of an equal? Will it be easier for you to listen to me if I'm on a pedestal, talking down to you?"

You watch as his expression flickers through emotions quickly, too quickly to read properly before settling into a conflicted one, brows furrowing slightly, "I..."

"Do you want to be absolved of your guilt by submitting yourself to the Saintess? Would kneeling before me and letting me do whatever I want with you make it better for you?" You continue, letting a finger trail down the front of his shirt, stopping at his heart. "Thinking you're in service of another, rather than acting on your desires?"

His breath hitches at that, and you feel his heartbeat quicken beneath your fingertips. It's a fierce thing, pounding against the cage of his ribs, a wild beast straining at the leash.

"Go kneel before the bed if the answer is yes," you command, letting a little of the Saintess's authority slip into your tone, and his pupils dilate ever so slightly. You're sure he's going to refuse, going to walk away. But to your surprise, and maybe his own, he slowly sinks to his knees, never breaking his stare away from yours.

You take a step back, taking him in, and then turn around to walk away from him. He lets out a soft gasp as you do, his hands twitching at his sides like he wants to reach out and stop you but doesn't dare.

You walk to the bed, sitting down on the soft mattress, and look at him expectantly. He's still kneeling on the floor, watching you with wide, hungry eyes, the color of a deep lake.

"Come here," you order, and he obeys, crawling towards you on his hands and knees, the movement strangely graceful for such a large man. He stops at the foot of the bed, looking up at you, waiting for you to tell him what to do next.

[snejkha]

✨Commissions are now open✨

Prices have been adjusted and I added a fullbody as an option too/ Feel free to give it a look under the cut for more information//

And as always feel free to share around/ <3!

Past commissions

Halfbody commissions

Bust commissions

Reference sheet commissions 

Character Design Commissions 

Fullbody Commissions

If you’re interested in commissioning me, contact me via my email snejkhacom@gmail.com (no asks please!)

Email subject must be “ Commission (insert username/url)”

In the email/message clarify the type you want, I work with visual descriptions mainly// (the more of references you send the better/), same goes for preffered poses, and a short description of the character (what are they like, or what show they are from,etc..) I will add a small fee If theres no previous art of your character since it will be a design from me as well// (this doesnt aply for reference sheets though//)

please mention possible deadlines (birthday/christmas gifts, etc.)  

I have the right to refuse a request for any reason

All payments are in USD and through Paypal and only via invoice/  

After I’m done with the sketch I’ll let you know and you can make changes to the sketch in that time. When you approve the sketch I’ll send you an invoice through your Paypal email. I’ll continue working on the commission after once the price has been paid.

once I’m done with your drawing I will send you a high-res file of the image (usually 200dpi / up to 2000px)

I will probably upload your requested drawing on social media (here on tumblr and on my twitter). if you’re not okay with that, please let me know beforehand! (If you’ll be okay with it please add your URL so I can tag you in the finished picture/)

you can ask for more WIP images of your commission as well //  

If you have any specific flowers/details you want to add let me know//

feel free to ask questions//  

I will draw:

OC’s, fanart, portraits, nudity

animals, anthros, pokemon

simple backgrounds or transparent background

monsters, body horror (after discussion)  

blood (in a smaller amounts)

I will NOT draw:

porn (you can ask for my nsfw prices/), fetishes, hate art/ offensive art (pedophilia, incest, etc.)

robots, vehicles

irl people

gore (srry not in this house..)

No groups of more than three character per picture//

stuff I’m not comfortable with

[charbies]

linktober 31 - HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

I thought for the last day I'd write a little retrospective on what this whole thing was like and what I learned. I'm too tired to draw literally anything else I'm due for a break lol

So this was my second time ever attempting a linktober/october drawing challenge, but my first time managing to complete all the days and prompts. I feel super proud of myself and accomplished for pulling it off.

There were a number of things that were surprising and that were challenging for me that I wasn't expecting this month. If anything, I think this challenge really highlighted my flaws and mental blindspots with how I approach making art.

For one thing, I came away from this not liking everything I made. I think I only like about 9 or 10 of the 30 pieces I put out there. When I don't like my art, I tend to get stuck in this mental stalemate of refusing to finish a piece until I like it, but also refusing to retrace my steps and erase/rework what I have so far for fear of losing progress or not being able to replicate the line/angle/color/etc that I liked.

It was surprisingly hard to accept when I didn't like a piece but had to move on for the sake of time and post it anyway. But once I did it a few times, it got easier. I realized prioritizing my standards over my available energy is not gonna promote progress. If I kept sinking myself into one piece and not moving on until it was optimal, I never would have finished anything-- that was the pitfall that ultimately made me bail out 10 days in last year.

I also realized my sunk cost fallacy/"what if I erase this and can never redraw it good again" stems from some real lack of confidence in my knowledge and techniques with art. I'm self-taught, and I think I tend to believe that everything I make is a dumb happy accident, even though I have mental rules when I draw, use tons of references, and have a process lol. There are a few pieces I started over 2-3 times before I got them right, and that's starting to feel liberating instead of like failing to me now, which I never expected to come out of this experience so that's cool.

Another place I had to learn to let go of control in this was with allowing for style variation. I really wanted each and every piece to be coherent and painterly, like they all came from the same book or something. But then I couldn't decide whether I wanted to do all/no lineart, all/no detailed background, all/no heavy rendering, etc. At the end I settled on just keeping the same canvas dimensions and just prioritizing filling up the space. Glad I ended up doing this, because I really would benefit from continuing to chill out and scale back how much I default to making dramatic, high-render pieces. I gotta break out of my comfort zone and make more sketchy little guys!

Sometimes my attachment to the prompts fluctuated; some prompts I thought I would love and then just wanted to get them over with. Some prompts I thought I would hate and subsequently half-ass, then I ended up redoing them and putting more effort & time into and loved the end result!

It was funny to also see how some pieces that I loved straight up did not get a whole lot of notes or attention. Some pieces I was "meh" about did crazy numbers lol. I'm used to posting maybe 5-6 times a year on here, so I'm usually indifferent to getting notes (by which I mean, I'm super grateful for likes & reblogs and the super sweet & funny messages in y'alls tags, but I'm not butthurt when I don't get notes because whatever happens, happens). Churning out 30 pieces in 30 days made me sometimes get bewildered by what did and didn't get notes, but frankly in the end I think it helps reaffirm that I should continue putting whatever I want out there because it! is! not! graded!!!

So would I do Linktober again? Probably not, sorry! it was a lot of time & effort and took me away from fall festivities more than I would have liked. I kinda only managed to pull this off because I was transitioning between jobs this month and had a week off to just draw. But I also completely see the value in taking on a challenge like this and finishing what I started, I'm super glad I did this, I think my art improved from it. I would definitely do future drawing challenges/prompt things that are quicker or have less prompts!

My advice to prospective future linktoberers: pace yourself and be gentle; this is a great chance to do something exciting and new with your art, but above all it's about you having fun. There are no prizes at the end except for what you've learned and how you feel about it, and that's for the best!!

One thing's for sure, I am zelda'd out lmao so I'll be branching out towards some little projects I have lined up for personal art and other fandoms I'm into right now

So anyway thanks to all of you who read this or who gassed me up this whole month, I appreciate you!!!!!!!! ヾ(＾∇＾)

[static-arz]

I did a new monkie kid oc lately :3

His name is Shen and he's also part of the brotherhood <3

Here are some more info abt him:

Shen Xiaotian:

- overlord, celestial warrior (formerly)

- villain

- 2000+ years old

- big flirt

- manipulative

- cocky and ignorant most of the time

- vulgar and curses a lot

- violent

- Pansexual/Polyamorous

- shows his kindness only to those he considers an ally

Short Background:

- Shen served the jade emperor once and was the strongest among the combined armies of heaven. He was promoted as a general as well. Leading an army of Archer's alongside the celestial court. He faught against the brotherhood but their motive to change the world into a better one slowly started to convince him too. After time passed he started to feel pity for the ones suffering in the mortal realm because of this world system. Seeing the life conditions and unfairness humanity had created, he had the desire to create a paradise for everyone on earth.

- On one point Shen had to complete a mission which he refused to do so. Because of a misinformation spreading around it was seen as possible betrayal. He was banished from heaven as punishment for the crime "attempted treason."

- His immortality was taken away, leaving him for dead. Though before he could pass away, he was found by the brotherhood. They took him in and he slowly became one of them.

There is more but I'll slowly manage to draw about it!