#learning how to draw armor for them

[dropofmidnight]

new d&d character alert ‼️‼️

[quibbs126]

I wanna make Berserk fanart, but I feel like any I make is gonna look like crap

Mostly because since November I’ve been drawing almost entirely cookies and have practically forgotten how to draw humans. Like legit, I don’t know how to draw them anymore. And I don’t feel like the Cookie Run style would be much appreciated for something like Berserk

And it might also have to do with the general quality of the official stuff being so high. Not sure if that’s a factor, but maybe it is

Also I’m scared to draw Guts’ armor. Like I complain about Dark Cacao’s armor being complicated to draw, but compared to something like the Berserker Armor, that’s practically a walk in the park. How the fuck do I draw it. Not to mention generally I use a thick lineart style which doesn’t necessarily cater well to things of high detail

[choerypetal]

Silent Vengeance / Lee Myung-gi

summarize: Who would have thought that a man who sees himself as powerful could be reduced to selfishness by obsession, only for a knight in armor to heal a broken heart?

English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical errors, but I really hope you enjoy it! based on s2 squid game so spoilers ahead!

Thanos’s pride and the attention he commanded among the crowd stirred bitterness in some of the contestants—yours included. It baffled many that a retired rapper would stoop to participate in such brutal games, especially one that involved splashes of blood staining his clothes.

It wasn’t until after the Green Light, Red Light game that his focus shifted. He noticed a particular figure—a silhouette that intrigued him more than he cared to admit. The way you sprinted with precision, timing each step perfectly to freeze at the exact moment, or how you yanked another contestant’s hair to throw them off balance, was a calculated display of survival. That endurance, paired with your quiet defiance of the chaos around you—including his own—captivated Thanos from the very beginning.

While Thanos reveled in his lingering popularity, relishing how some followed his every move like sheep to a shepherd, he couldn’t ignore one undeniable truth: for once, he wasn’t the center of attention. That honor belonged to you.

And never in a thousand of years would he see you here. In flesh. Not after the break up.

Like many others, you had joined the Games with hopes of a better life—a seductive promise whispered by the Salesman. His grotesque smile lingered in your mind whenever you stole a moment to rest, though such moments were rare. Still, your demeanor betrayed none of the turmoil beneath. Your stony expression, coupled with your tendency to linger at the edges, observing the chaos with silent disdain, set you apart. To you, the Games were a grim spectacle—a macabre theater of desperation and misplaced hopes.

Despite this, a few contestants managed to draw you into sparse, fleeting conversations. Thanos, however, stood apart—not because you sought him out, but because he was the last person you’d have ever chosen to engage with. And yet, it fascinated him. Knowing your shared history, he found it almost poetic to see you here, standing as a quiet, untouchable force while his own magnetism faltered in your shadow.

“This prick is getting on my nerves,” someone muttered, their voice sharp enough to cut through the murmurs of the room. The words belonged to 333. His number stood out just as much as his presence as he slid into the seat beside you. You’d learned his name was Lee Myung-gi. He extended a hand toward you, his lips curling into a soft grin that hinted at practiced charm. You nodded slightly, mirroring the gesture out of courtesy. “Y/N,” you said plainly.

There was a pause before Myung-gi’s gaze flicked toward Thanos, his tone lowering conspiratorially. “I don’t mean to stir the pot or anything, but... word is, you and Thanos were a thing. He says you’re pretending not to remember him. And that’s why you—”

“333!”

Thanos’s voice cut through like a blade, silencing Myung-gi mid-sentence. Both of you turned your heads in unison, meeting Thanos’s unyielding stare. You recognized that look immediately—brows furrowed, his glare burning with thinly veiled fury. It was a warning, one that promised Myung-gi wouldn’t survive another word in your direction. The intensity of it could rival any of the Games themselves.

“You should go,” you said quietly, your tone flat but decisive. Your eyes barely glanced at Myung-gi, let alone at Thanos. Yet the weight of his gaze pressed heavily on you, and something inside you churned—a mix of unease, defiance, and something far harder to name.

You wanted to let loose a string of curses, every sharp word you could think of—but you stopped yourself. The memory of a promise lingered in the back of your mind.

Never speak to one another after the breakup.

It was a fragile vow, one you both had clung to out of pride or necessity. But deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time before it shattered completely.

It wasn’t until the bathroom game that the tension reached its breaking point. Thanos never imagined he’d find himself mere feet away from you again, let alone in the confines of a separate room. Yet here he was, his determination undeterred, even as 333 hovered too close for his liking. Thanos wasn’t subtle about his intentions—he wouldn’t let anyone, least of all Myung-gi, encroach on what he still felt was his.

The image of you and 333 pressing X together during the last game still burned in Thanos’s mind, a fresh wound that refused to heal. It festered, replaying over and over like a mocking refrain, igniting a possessive anger he could no longer contain.

As he stepped into the bathroom hall, his focus zeroed in on Myung-gi, the irritation bubbling into something darker. “You’re getting all worked up. So there is something going on,” Thanos said, his voice low and edged with menace.

He stepped closer, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “If you press X again tomorrow...” Thanos leaned in, his words a venomous whisper, “I’ll cut off your finger and give it to her.”

Myung-gi’s jaw tightened at the threat, his discomfort evident. But what unsettled him more was the reason you’d pressed X with him in the first place. It wasn’t a calculated strategy or an empty gesture—it was a fleeting grasp at safety, something you rarely allowed yourself. While you were usually stoic, Myung-gi’s quiet acts of care had chipped away at your defenses, enough to make you question your own resolve.

Thanos couldn’t stand it. The rules of the Games were unambiguous, but what he thought he saw—the almost imperceptible closeness between you and Myung-gi, the way your lips hovered as if to kiss—was enough to set his blood ablaze. The possibility, imagined or not, was more than he could bear.

And that was the last straw. 

“And ask her out. She’ll love it.” 

“You asshole!” Thanos barely registered the punch before his jaw throbbed, the sharp sting waking something primal in him. His thumb brushed over his chin, checking for blood, before he retaliated with equal ferocity. “You motherfucker!” he snarled, his fist connecting with satisfying force.

Chaos erupted as their hands found each other’s throats, both grappling for dominance. Myung-gi’s back slammed against the bathroom stall, the sound echoing in the tight space. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs, fists flying without restraint. “Your money, your girl, your life—they’re all mine!” Thanos spat, driving his fist into Myung-gi’s cheek with enough force to make his knuckles ache.

But then, everything shifted. Thanos froze, his breath hitching as blood sprayed from his own mouth, splattering across Myung-gi’s face. The sudden realization of injury shocked him into silence. Without a word, he pulled back, retreating to the shadows of the stall, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

And yet, in that moment of pain and rage, his mind wasn’t on the fight—it was on you. Always you.

The bathroom games were over. The stalls were scrubbed clean of the chaos that had unfolded, leaving little trace of what had transpired. As you and Myung-gi stepped out, your eyes met briefly. The way he looked at you—earnest, searching—was impossible to ignore. The remaining contestants loitered nearby, their presence a quiet reminder of the fragile truce this space demanded. But Thanos was nowhere to be found. Somehow, the thought of his absence made your shoulders feel just a little lighter.

Despite the unspoken rule of no interactions before returning to the dorms, Myung-gi broke it without hesitation. He rushed toward you, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. For a moment, you froze, unsure. But your hands instinctively found his face, fingers brushing over the bruise already darkening on his cheek.

You couldn’t stop the flood of thoughts about Thanos—how he’d reacted to other men during your relationship, the jealousy that often burned too brightly. The memories made your stomach twist with dread. But as your thumb grazed Myung-gi’s cheek, his eyes fluttered shut, leaning into the comfort of your touch.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the tension lingering in the air.

He let out a quiet scoff, his lips curling into a faint, tired smile. “The prick’s finally getting what he deserves anyway.”

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (04)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 6.4k

Aliyah's Notes: i'll say it again, but specifically this chapter depicts heavy body image and ed descriptions + vomit so i beg of you to skip the beginning if you're uncomfortable with that. besides that, the chapter is cute and full of rafe and reader moments

No, no, no, no, no…

The air in the cramped bathroom felt stifling, its walls pressing close as if they could hear every breath slipping through your lips. Your phone screen glared up at you, the message burning into your mind, twisting your insides. It felt like a rope tightening around your chest, the words somehow dragging you thousands of miles back to a place you fought so hard to escape.

It was just a text. Just words. But your body reacted as if you’ve been thrown into an ice-cold river, your mind spiraling as your heartbeat thumped in your ears, louder and louder, drowning out all your sense of reason. You weren’t supposed to feel this way—not here, not anymore. You fought too hard to let a few words send you back to that place.

The text was simple, it read: "Hey, do you remember me? Just to let you know we're coming to the U.S. in a few weeks."

Your fingers, knuckles white, tightened around the phone as you tried to calm yourself. You had come so far, broken so many boundaries to make it, to have a life that was your own, that you chose. And now? Now your world felt as fragile as glass, your strength chipped away by something as simple as a message.

For years, you pushed that life aside, buried it beneath layers of success and glossy magazine covers, of flashing cameras and compliments that felt like armor. You learned to smile, to keep your chin up, to say what people wanted to hear. Y/N Y/L/N, the golden girl, they’d call you, the one with the perfect life, the charmed career. They didn’t see the cracks beneath, the memories you pushed so far down you could almost believe they’d never existed.

You missed them, sometimes. In quiet moments, when you let yourself think of them, you felt the familiar pang of loss. But you missed them on your own terms, and never to this point—never to the point of feeling that old, oppressive weight. The suffocating sense of having your every move watched, every thought scrutinized and molded into someone else’s idea of perfection. You’d broken free of those chains. Or at least you thought you had.

Your breath hitched as a tear slipped down your cheek, cold against your heated skin. You quickly wiped it away, but another followed, then another, until you were gripping the edge of the sink, trying desperately to hold yourself together. “You’re okay,” you whispered to yourself, your voice barely a breath. “You’re fine. Suck it up, come on.”

The words felt hollow, but you forced yourself to repeat them, steadying your breathing as you stared at your reflection. The woman looking back at you wasn’t the helpless girl from your past; she was someone stronger, someone who’d fought for every inch of her success. But as you brushed away the tears, you wondered just how deep those old wounds ran.

Another shaky breath, another splash of cold water. You didn’t have time for this. Not here, not today. There was a shoot waiting, people depending on you to be the flawless professional you always were. You could fall apart later. That would have to be enough.

Drawing yourself up, you checked your reflection one last time, wiping away any trace of emotion from your face. Your fingers still trembled, but you forced them to steady, exhaling one last time before stepping out of the bathroom, your shoulders set with the poise you spent years perfecting.

As you walked back into the studio, the lights blinded you momentarily, the heat from the set lights prickling against your skin. The room buzzed with activity—assistants darting back and forth, stylists fussing over racks of clothing, and the low hum of the photographer’s voice directing the scene. You slipped back into your role, letting the familiar rhythm carry your as you took your place on set.

“Finally,” the photographer muttered, barely looking up from his camera. “We’re on a schedule, Y/N. I don’t have time for dramatics.” His voice was cold, clipped, as though your presence was nothing more than an inconvenience.

You clenched your jaw, brushing off the comment. Just keep your head down, and keep moving. You struck your first pose, forcing yourself to focus on the rhythm of the camera’s clicks. Each flash, each snap, pulled you farther away from your thoughts, grounding you in the present. You knew this world, knew how to inhabit the perfect persona they wanted from you. You could do this.

“Okay, chin down,” the photographer barked, barely glancing up from his lens. “More. More—there, but tighten up your core, Y/N. It’s looking a little… fat.”

The comment hit you like a slap, the faint tremble returning to your hands. You adjusted your pose, forcing yourself to stay calm. You've heard comments like this before. Your body was scrutinized in ways most people couldn’t understand, your curves debated and dissected like they belonged to someone else. You have been trained to brush it off, to smile and push through it with the poise they expected of you.

But today, after everything, the words dug a little deeper.

The photographer snapped another shot, then lowered his camera, looking you up and down with a critical eye. “You’re slipping, Y/N. You used to be skinnier. Are you having those episodes again?” He cocked an eyebrow, his tone dripping with condescension. “If you’re going to stay at the top, you have to stop whatever it is you’re doing that’s triggering you. That means discipline, diet, focus. Do you have that? Or am I wasting my time here?”

You bit down on the inside of your cheek, the words stinging sharper than you wanted to admit. You knew you gained a little weight—nothing drastic, nothing worth commenting on, but in your world, even a fraction of a change was enough to invite scrutiny. You forced yourself to hold your pose, to keep the practiced smile on your face, even as your heart pounded in your chest.

“No,” you said quietly, your voice steady but clipped. “You’re not wasting your time��I understand. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” he said, turning his attention back to his camera. “Because the camera doesn’t lie, Y/N. Either shape up, or Chanel will find someone who will.”

The ride home was a blur, the city lights streaking past the window as you sat, rigid, in the back seat of the car. Your stomach twisted painfully, a churning knot of anger, shame, and something that felt dangerously close to despair. Each time you closed your eyes, the photographer’s words replayed like a cruel loop in your mind, mocking you, unraveling every shred of confidence you’d managed to build. You’re slipping… used to be skinner…discipline, diet, focus. His voice echoed with the ghost of memories you’d focus so hard to bury.

You barely noticed when the car finally stopped. As soon as you stepped out, the familiar ache in your chest intensified, the weight of everything pressing down, suffocating. You fumbled with your keys, barely able to keep your hands steady long enough to unlock the door. Once inside, you kicked off your shoes, not even caring where they landed, and stumbled over to the couch. Every nerve in your body screamed, the urge clawing at you with a ferocity that was both frightening and familiar.

You sat there, breathing heavily, your fingers digging into the fabric of the couch as you fought to steady yourself. But the memories kept coming, one after another, tearing at you until it felt like you were drowning in them. You saw yourself, younger, lost, staring into the mirror late at night, desperate to feel in control of something—anything. The hunger, the self-loathing, the endless cycle of guilt and relief—it all rushed back with a force that stole the breath from your lungs.

It would be so easy to give in, a voice whispered in the back of your mind. Just this once. Just for tonight. You could have the relief you craved, the escape from the pressure that felt like it was suffocating you from the inside out.

No, you told yourself, clenching your fists. You’re stronger than this.

But the temptation was too strong, too insistent, and before you even realized what you were doing, you found yourself in the kitchen, stuffing your face with whatever you could find. You just needed to eat, eat, eat, and eat more. You blinked and found yourself in the bathroom, hands braced against the sink as you stared into the mirror, a tear-streaked, desperate face staring back at you. Your chest tightened as the shame washed over you, the familiar ache settling deep in your bones, dragging you down into the darkness you’d spent years trying to escape.

Your fingers brushed your throat, trembling as you fought against the impulse. You didn’t want this, not really. You knew the pain that would follow, the emptiness that would settle in your chest like a lead weight, crushing you from the inside out. But the need for control, the need for release, was stronger than you were.

As if in a trance, you gave in, the guilt and shame numbing your mind as you went through the motions, each step mechanical, devoid of thought. The feeling of release came in a rush, bringing a momentary sense of relief that quickly dissolved into nausea and self-loathing. You sank to the floor, gasping for breath, your entire body trembling as the full weight of what you’d done settled over you.

The bathroom floor was cold against your skin, grounding you in the present even as your mind spiraled, tangled in a haze of guilt and despair. You pressed your forehead to your knees, the tears coming fast and hot, unstoppable. Your chest heaved with silent sobs, each one cutting deeper than the last as you choked on the bitter taste of regret. The walls seemed to close in around you, trapping you in a prison of your own making, a prison you’d vowed to escape but somehow couldn’t.

You thought you were done with this, that you’d left this part of yourself behind. But here you were, broken and hollow, the fragile pieces of your self-control shattered beyond repair. You wanted to scream, to tear at your own skin, to do anything that would make the pain stop, even for just a moment.

“Why am I like this?” you whispered, the words barely audible through your tears. 

When the tears finally slowed, you felt hollow, emptied, the relief you’d hoped for replaced by a numbness that was somehow worse. You pulled yourself up, the motion slow and heavy, as though your limbs were weighed down by the shame you carried. You splashed water on your face, watching as the streaks of mascara and foundation washed away, leaving you bare and exposed, a shadow of the person you pretended to be.

Stumbling back into the living room, you sank onto the couch, the silence of the apartment pressing in around you, thick and suffocating. Your stomach ached, a dull throb that echoed the ache in your chest, a reminder of everything you’d tried to forget. You leaned back, closing your eyes, your fingers still trembling.

The silence was shattered by the faint buzz of your phone, the sound jarring in the quiet. You opened your eyes, feeling a fresh wave of dread as you reached for it, already bracing yourself for more bad news. The screen showed a message from Rafe, sent twenty minutes ago.

Rafe: “Hey. On my way over. Be ready. We’re going out.”

Your heart skipped a beat, panic flaring in your chest as you processed the words. Rafe was coming here. He’d be here any minute, expecting you to be ready, expecting you to be fine. But you were anything but fine. The thought of facing him, of pretending everything was normal, felt like an impossible task.

You wanted to ignore it, to curl up on the couch and let the world fade away. But you knew you couldn’t. He’d see through you, he’d ask questions, and you weren’t ready for that. You weren’t ready for him to see the broken pieces.

Taking a shaky breath, you sat up, wiping the last traces of tears from your face. You couldn’t fall apart now. You’d have to pull yourself together, put on the mask he expected to see. 

But as you stared at the screen, the weight of what you’d done settled over you, a cold, crushing ache that threatened to drown you all over again.

A sharp knock broke the silence, the sound slicing through the thick air of your apartment. You jolted, your heart racing as you looked toward the door.

Fuck! You hadn’t even had time to fully compose yourself. 

Another knock, lighten this time, followed by his familiar voice. “Come on, open up, sweetheart,” Rafe called out, his tone easy, teasing. He was here. Of course he was here. 

Forcing a deep breath, you pushed yourself up from the couch, running your hands through your hair in a last-minute attempt to look put-together. You brushed a hand over your face, trying to erase any trace of what had happened, then ran to close the door of your kitchen to hide the mess of food sprawled everywhere.

The moment you opened the door, Rafe’s eyes locked onto yours, his playful smile faltering as he took you in. The lightness in his gaze shifted, softening with a concern that made your chest tighten. You could feel his eyes sweeping over your face, catching the lingering redness around your eyes, the slight shake in your hands and naked legs, the way you wouldn’t quite meet this gaze.

“You…” he said, stepping forward as his brow furrowed. “You okay?”

You forced a smile, dismissive, brushing it off as though he hadn’t seen what he had. “I’m fine, Cameron. Just a long day, you know,” you replied, your voice steady but rough, your fingers clutching the edge of the door.

He didn’t move, his gaze unwavering as he studied you, his expression laced with worry. “Are you sure?” he asked softly, his voice careful now. “You don’t look fine. Your eyes…”

“I said I’m fine, Rafe!” you snapped, the words sharper than you’d intended, the force of them surprising you both. His brows shot up slightly, but he didn’t move, his gaze locked on yours as though he were searching for something beneath the anger. 

“I’m just asking, but something’s obviously wrong. You don’t have to—”

“Why do you care?” you interrupted, your voice edged with a defensiveness you couldn’t control. “It’s none of your business, alright,” Your hands tightened into fists at your sides, the sting of tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you willed them back, pressing down the wave of emotion threatening to rise again. “I told you, I’m fine. Just drop it.”

The silence stretched between you, tense, your words hanging in the air like a challenge. You could see the hurt flash across his face, fleeting but unmistakable, before it softened into something closer to understanding, something that only made you feel more exposed.

“Alright,” he murmured, his tone calm, measured. He took a step back, lifting his hands slightly in surrender, his gaze lingering on you, patient, waiting. “If you say so.”

But you could see it in his eyes—he didn’t believe you, not for a second.

You stepped back, allowing him to come inside. He moved past you slowly, his gaze flicking back to you once before staying put. You headed toward the living room, and he followed you, swallowing the lingering shame in your throat as you focused on steadying your breath.

He paused near the couch, glancing around the room as though searching for a sign of what had shaken you.

“Alright, so… where exactly are we going?” you asked, aiming to keep your tone casual. Your gaze dropped to your hands, hoping to mask the slight tremor of your nerves.

Rafe glanced over, he seemed to take a moment to consider his answer, studying you as though choosing his words carefully. “One of my friends is hosting a little get-together…”

“Topper?” 

“Hell nah!” He quietly laughed, shaking his head. “Not this time. It’s Kelce. He throws these gatherings sometimes—more chill than anything else. It’s just a handful of people, around a dozen or so, max. You think you’ll be okay with that?”

His gaze lingered on you, a mix of playfulness and genuine concern softening his features. You swallowed, nodding as you offered a small shrug. “Yeah, sure. That’s fine. So… just friends? Are there going to be, um… other girls?”

He tilted his head. “Yeah, some. Kiara and Cleo are usually around for these things, and…” he paused, scratching his jaw before continuing, “my sister.”

That made you look up, your curiosity piqued. “You have a sister?”

“Two actually, both younger,” he replied with a faint smile. “But only one’s coming tonight. Sarah. I think she’s around your age. You’ll probably like her. She’s… got a bit of a wild streak.”

You nodded and stayed quiet for a moment, lost in thought, before glancing back at Rafe. “So… I’ll just go get ready—wait! How should I dress up? Is it a casual-casual or a casual-but-nicely-dressed type of gathering?”

Rafe’s lips quirked into a smile, visibly relieved to see you bouncing back to your usual self. “Pretty sure, whatever you wear, you’ll make it look elegant, sweetheart.”

“That’s not helpful—but thanks.” You arched a brow at him, waiting.

"Just something simple," he replied with a shrug, leaning back on the couch. His eyes traveled over you, taking in your outfit—a pair of black shorts paired with an oversized, ripped T-shirt splashed with images of Barbie. Somehow, even in that, you looked hot, and he couldn’t help but let his gaze linger.

“Simple?” You tilted your head thoughtfully. “Like…a dress? Wait, maybe a skirt is better for this. But a dress is more of a party vibe…” you started muttering to yourself, lost in wardrobe decisions. “Should I wear something with prints? Oh, wait—”

“Just wear a skirt, baby,” he cut in smoothly, his gaze softening as he watched you.

That one little word—baby—made your heart flutter and stopped your train of thought cold. You caught his eyes, trying to ignore the sudden swarm of butterflies, and arched a brow at him with a teasing smirk. “Oh, I see what this is. You just want an excuse to look at my ass. Bet you’re hoping for a little peek under my skirt, huh, you perv?”

Rafe’s smirk grew, and he sat up, his blue eyes gleaming with something undeniably mischievous. “I’ll see your ass at some point during this marriage, whether it’s tonight or some other night,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “Got you speechless now, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, pretending his words hadn’t just lit a spark that was still buzzing beneath your skin. “No, actually, I was just thinking of all the ways I could strangle you.”

“Kinky,” he teased, eyes alight with amusement.

You groaned, chuckling despite yourself. “Not like that, you perv.” You waved your hand dismissively, shaking your head. “Enough of this. I’m gonna go get ready.”

Before you turned, he grinned and made a move to get up. “Can I come and watch the show?”

You placed a firm hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down with a laugh. “Absolutely not. Stay here and be patient. I won’t be long.”

Rafe relaxed, settling back with a smirk as he watched you disappear into your bedroom, and you made sure to close the door firmly behind you.

You emerge from the bedroom an hour later, dressed in a strapless leopard-print tube top that clings to your figure just right, paired with a faded denim mini-skirt. For makeup, you opted for a natural look with a subtle glow, focusing on your lips, and you left your curls loose, letting them fall naturally over your shoulders, once again. 

You walked into the hallway, slipping on your black Louboutin stilettos. As you straightened, you didn’t need to look back to know Rafe was right there, his presence a steady hum in the quiet of your apartment. You’d heard his soft footsteps the second you stepped into the hallway.

"You—"

"Watch what you’re about to say, Cameron," you cut him off, throwing a teasing glance over your shoulder, "because if it’s about my ass, I’ll slap you so hard you’ll fly out the window."

His smirk widened. "Now, I wasn’t gonna say anything like that," He let his gaze travel up and down your figure, lingering on the way your fitted mini skirt hugged your curves. "But since you brought it up—yeah, it’s the perfect opportunity to take a peek. Especially with you bent over and all."

You straightened up, narrowing your eyes at him, though a faint smile tugged at your lips. "Rafe."

He raised his hands, palms out. "Alright, alright—my bad." He let his eyes travel over you one more time, this time slower, more appreciative. "But you look nice."

"Just nice?" you teased, tilting your head slightly as you stepped closer, noting the way his eyes darkened as he drank you in.

"No..." His voice dropped, his eyes turning hungry as they lingered on you. "You look hot. Really hot."

You felt a satisfied smile spread across your face. "Perfect. That’s exactly what I was going for."

"Well, you succeeded, sweetheart," he replied, voice thick with an admiration that felt too close for comfort.

You smiled, pushing down the heat rising to your cheeks, and made your way to the door, pulling it open. Rafe followed close behind, stepping into the hallway as you both moved toward the elevator.

"So," you asked as you pressed the elevator button, "do your friends know about the arrangement, or…?"

Rafe shook his head, popping the 'P' as he answered, "Nope. None of them have a clue. Not my teammates, not my sister—nobody. So you’re gonna have to pretend to tolerate me for a few hours. Think you can handle that?"

You tilted your head, your smile turning sly. "Tolerate you? For a few hours? I mean, it’s gonna be a challenge, but I think I can manage.”

“Is that so? Gonna be that hard to put up with me?”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything, in fear to hurt your poor feelings but you are extremely annoying and hard to put up with, Rafe Cameron,” you shot back, your eyes sparkling.

“Ouch,” he touched his heart and mocked a pained expression. “You’re hurting your husband’s feelings here, sweetheart.”

“Future husband,” you corrected with a smirk. “And, womp womp!”

The elevator reached the lobby, and the two of you stepped out, making your way toward the exit. Rafe opened the door for you, his hand resting briefly on the small of your back, sending a shiver up your spine.

Outside, his car was waiting, sleek and polished under the streetlights. He held the passenger door open, and you slipped inside, watching as he rounded the front and got in beside you.

The car ride was quieter than you expected. He seemed content, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift. You stole a few glances at him as he drove, catching the glint in his eye as he noticed you looking.

Finally, he spoke up. "You know, if you’re gonna be my girlfriend for the night, you’ll have to act the part."

"What do you mean?"

He smirked, shifting gears smoothly as he turned onto a quieter road. “Maybe try not to glare at me every time I look at you. Oh, and try smiling, or I don’t know, pretend like you don’t find me annoying.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. "Noted. You have some more notes, Mr. Cameron?"

“I do, actually, future Ms. Cameron,” he said, glancing at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “As my girlfriend, you should probably let me put my arm around, or even hold my hand if we’re getting really freaky.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. “Oh, yeah ‘cause touching your hand will make me nut, right?”

He chuckled, glancing over you, his expression full of amusement. “I mean, that’s usually how most people feel—but more seriously, we need to make this believable. The whole world has to think we’re in love.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. "And here I thought this was a marriage of convenience. You know, strictly business. But since we’re giving notes then I think you should show a little more enthusiasm."

He chuckled, shaking his head as he navigated the streets. "Alright, I can do enthusiasm. How about I serenade you while I drive?"

"Oh my God! Please don’t," you laughed, shaking your head. "I’d like to keep my hearing intact."

"Suit yourself." Rafe grinned, glancing at you with a mock-seriousness. "But if I can’t sing, then I have to hold your hand. That’s the rule."

You hesitated, your heart racing at the idea of intertwining his fingers with yours. “Fine…”

He raised his hand triumphantly, a playful smirk plastered across his face. "See? You’re already getting into the spirit of things. Besides, it’s not like our lips haven’t touched—"

“Rafe!” you exclaimed, slapping his chest with a mix of disbelief and embarrassment.

“What? I’m just stating the truth,” he said, feigning innocence as he rubbed his chest, an exaggerated pout forming on his lips. “Come on, don’t get shy on me now, baby.”

“I am not shy,” you retorted, unable to suppress a smile.

“Right, and I’m the bloody king of England,” he shot back with a horrible fake British accent.

“Shut up,” you laughed, the sound echoing softly in the quiet of the car as you shook your head at his antics.

The banter hung in the air between you like a playful thread. You both lapsed into a comfortable silence, the gentle hum of the engine and the occasional rush of wind outside the car providing a soothing backdrop. As the minutes passed, anticipation buzzed in the air, making each second feel charged with excitement.

Finally, you pulled up in front of a large, ornate gate guarded by stern-looking security personnel. Rafe, unable to contain himself, leaned forward and called out his name with exaggerated bravado, “Rafe Cameron!” The gates swung open, revealing a huge house with lights everywhere.

As he parked the car, you took a moment to steady your breathing, inhaling deeply to calm the flutter of nerves in your stomach. With a final exhale, you opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement. Before you stood three familiar faces, their expressions a mix of anticipation and curiosity as they waited at the door of the house. 

You glanced at Rafe, who had just stepped out to join you, his presence exuding a quiet confidence that somehow eased your tension. The way he stood beside you, relaxed yet alert, made you feel a little more at ease.

“Am I dreaming, or are there three people waiting for us—and they’re jumping?” you asked, barely able to contain your laughter as you watched the trio bouncing in place, their enthusiasm infectious.

Rafe chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “You’re not dreaming. The idiots over there are my sister, JJ, and Topper.”

“Oh, I know Topper!” you exclaimed, a spark of excitement igniting in your voice. The prospect of recognizing someone made the moment feel a bit more comfortable.

“Yeah, you do, sweetheart,” Rafe replied, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. His eyes glinted with warmth.

As you approached the animated group, the sounds of their laughter filled the air, creating a vibrant atmosphere that made your heart race with anticipation. Rafe walked beside you.

Topper was the first to spot you, his face lighting up with a broad grin as he waved. “Love birds! Over here!” he shouted, bouncing on his feet, you could tell he was slightly tipsy already.

JJ turned at the sound of his voice, his expression shifting from casual to surprise when he caught sight of you two. “What the fuck? Rafe is here with a girl—isn’t that—”

“That’s Y/N! What the actual fuck, Rafe?” Sarah exclaimed, her voice rising in disbelief as she slapped JJ’s chest, the surprise evident in her wide eyes.

As you stepped into view, the weight of their stares sent a wave of nerves crashing over you, and suddenly, the words you’d rehearsed vanished from your mind. It was ridiculous—usually, you were the life of the party, friendly and extroverted. Why were you feeling so overwhelmed now?

“Hi,” you managed to say, cringing at the awkwardness of it. A rush of heat crept up your neck as you mentally kicked yourself for being so inarticulate.

“Hi, pretty girl,” JJ chimed, his grin infectious. “Now that Y/N and her boyfriend have arrived, the party can officially start!” He turned and bolted into the house with an enthusiastic shout, followed closely by Topper, leaving you alone with the Cameron siblings.

Turning your attention back to Sarah, you took a moment to admire her outfit—a stunning black leather dress that hugged her curves perfectly, her makeup expertly applied to accentuate her striking features. She radiated confidence.

“I’ve seen stuff about you two on social media, but I didn’t expect you to actually bring her here—respectfully, of course,” Sarah said, her gaze flicking to you as she finished her sentence and you simply shrugged. “This is a first for you, Rafe,” she continued, raising an eyebrow at her brother.

“I’m serious about her, so get ready to see her everywhere by my side,” Rafe replied casually, but the warmth of his words sent your cheeks aflame. “Are you the only girl here—”

“I love your dress, by the way. I don’t know if I said that already ‘cause I’m pretty tipsy, but I love it. Leopard prints suit you so well! Every time you wear animal prints on the runway, I’m always so in love with how it fits you. Oh, and I heard you’re working with Chanel right now—is that true? You can tell me; I promise I won’t spill. Plus, I’ll probably forget about it by tomorrow anyway—”

Rafe, clearly exasperated, swiftly placed a hand over her mouth. “Don’t say weird shit like that, stalker. You’re creeping my girlfriend out.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, placing a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “No, it’s fine.”

“You sure? Because she really sounded like a fucking creep,” he said, feigning seriousness, but you could see the hint of amusement in his eyes.

“Guess that runs in the family,” you teased, lifting yourself on your tiptoes to lean closer and whisper in Rafe’s ear, the warmth of his body radiating against you. “But thank you, Sarah. I was going to say the same about you and your dress. It fits your body like crazy; I’m honestly jealous.”

“Girl, please. Have you seen yourself?” she scoffed, her confidence shining through.

“I have, but have you seen yourself? You’re stunning, like a goddess.”

“Oh my God—”

“Alright, enough with the glazing,” Rafe interrupted, a mock-seriousness creeping into his tone. Sarah shot him an annoyed glare, which you mirrored, both of you momentarily united in your frustration. “I introduced her to you, but there are other people who don’t know she’s here, so get out of the way, Sarah.”

With that, he gently nudged her aside, his protective demeanor hinting at how much he cared, even amidst the playful banter. You couldn’t help but smile at the way he navigated the room with ease, leading you into the chaos of the party.

The room was awash in vibrant colors, illuminated by twinkling lights strung overhead. A long table was set up against one wall, laden with an enticing spread of snacks and alcoholic drinks that sparkled enticingly under the glow. The atmosphere buzzed with energy; laughter and music melded together in a lively symphony. Groups of people swayed on the dance floor, while others engaged in animated conversations or indulged in the delicious food. Rafe was right—though the crowd wasn’t particularly large, the energy was palpable, and the music was loud enough to make your heart race.

You gently tapped Rafe’s arm to get his attention, and he leaned down slightly to hear you over the din. “We’re not gonna go to each person to introduce myself, are we?” 

“Hell no! Just my close friends—” he started, but his words were cut off as someone unexpectedly leapt into his arms, wrapping their limbs around his neck with abandon. Rafe staggered slightly, instinctively holding the person tight to steady them both. Your brows knitted together in confusion and irritation as you wondered who would be so brazen as to interrupt a conversation. The person had clearly come from the front, meaning they’d seen you two talking moments before.

Fucking prick, you cursed internally at the bold interloper.

When the person turned around, you found yourself face-to-face with a woman who had long, straight brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders. Her cheerful smile faltered briefly upon noticing you, but it returned almost instantly, though you could sense the shift in her demeanor.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry for coming in like that,” she shouted over the thumping bass, her voice bright and exuberant. “I was just so excited to see Rafey. I couldn’t contain my joy.”

You waved your hands dismissively, plastering on a friendly smile, trying to keep the peace. “It’s totally fine, don’t worry. I get it.”

“I’m Chiara, by the way. Chiara Romano,” she introduced herself, extending a hand for you to shake. You accepted, noting the warmth of her grip.

“That’s a pretty name,” you said sincerely, your tone genuine. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N.”

“The supermodel who fled from her country, right?” Chiara asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.

You scratched your cheek, a touch of embarrassment creeping in. “Well, not exactly, but yeah… that’s me.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Y/N,” she said with a bright smile before turning her attention back to Rafe, suddenly snatching his arm and tugging at him playfully. “Come with me, Rafey.”

Rafe, who had been uncharacteristically silent during the exchange, finally spoke, his tone firm. “Wait! No, Chiara.”

“Why? It’s gonna be fun—” she retorted, but Rafe’s tone shifted to a more serious note.

“I’m here with Y/N,” he said firmly, the protectiveness in his voice undeniable. Chiara halted her playful tugging, her expression shifting as she turned her full attention to you. “She’s my girlfriend.”

“Oh…” she said, her brows raised in surprise as she studied you intently. “Are you two serious, or not?”

You frowned, taken aback by the bluntness of her question. You knew Rafe had a reputation for jumping from one woman to the next, but he had just referred to you as his girlfriend with such conviction. That had to mean something, right? You couldn’t help but wonder what Chiara would have done if you had said no.

“We’re se—” you started, but your voice faltered.

“I want him to say it,” Chiara interrupted, a challenging glint in her eye as she turned to Rafe. “Say that you two are serious, Rafe.”

The air grew thick with anticipation as you awaited his response. The weight of the moment felt significant; this wasn’t just a casual interaction—it was a test of the fragile foundation of your arrangement. Rafe’s eyes darted between you and Chiara, a mix of uncertainty and determination swirling in them. You held your breath, knowing that you needed him to affirm the seriousness of your relationship, even if it was just for show. Rafe couldn’t afford to slip up, not when so much was at stake. You watched him struggle with the words, a silent plea hanging in the air as he held Chiara’s gaze, and you braced yourself for what would come next.

Who the fuck was Chiara Romano to Rafe Cameron?

chapter five

[fuckyeahisawthat]

There are so many places in the Villeneuve Dune adaptations where he just...takes all the narrative pieces that Frank Herbert laid out and subtly rearranges them into something that tells the story better--that creates dramatic tension where you need it, communicates the themes and message of the book more clearly, or corrects something in the text that contradicts or undermines what Herbert said he was trying to say.

The fedaykin are probably my favorite example of this. I just re-read a little part of the book and got smacked in the face with how different they are.

(under the cut for book spoilers and length)

The fedaykin in the book are Paul's personal followers, sort of his personal guard. They show up after his legend has already started growing (the word doesn't appear in the book until chapter 40) and they are people who have specifically dedicated themselves to fighting for him, and right from the moment they're introduced there is a kind of implied fanaticism to their militancy that's a bit uncomfortable to read. They're the most ardent believers in Paul's messianic status and willing to die for him. (They are also, as far as you can tell from the text, all men.)

In the book, as far as I can remember (I could be forgetting some small detail but I don't think so) there is no mention of armed resistance to colonialism on Arrakis before Paul shows up. As far as we know, he created it. ETA: Okay I actually went back and checked on this and while we hear about the Fremen being "a thorn in the side" of the Harkonnens and we know that they are good fighters, we don't see anything other than possibly one bit of industrial sabotage. The book is very clear that the organized military force we see in the second half was armed and trained by Paul. This is exacerbated by the two-year time jump in the book, which means we never see how Paul goes from being a newly deposed ex-colonial overlord running for his life to someone who has his own private militia of people ready to give their lives for him.

The movie completely flips all these dynamics on their head in ways that add up to a radical change in meaning.

The fedaykin in the movie are an already-existing guerrilla resistance movement on Arrakis that formed long before Paul showed up. Literally the first thing we learn about the Fremen, less that two minutes into the first movie, is that they are fighting back against the colonization and exploitation of their home and have been for decades.

The movie fedaykin also start out being the most skeptical of the prophecy about Paul, which is a great choice from both a political and a character standpoint. Of course they're skeptical. If you're part of a small guerrilla force repeatedly going up against a much bigger and stronger imperial army...you have to believe in your own agency. You have to believe that it is possible to win, and that this tiny little chip in the armor of a giant terrifying military machine that you are making right now will make a difference in the end. These are the people who are directly on the front lines of resisting oppression. They are doing it with their own sweat, blood and ingenuity, and they are not about to wait around for some messiah who may never come.

From a character standpoint, this is really the best possible environment you could put Paul Atreides in if you want to keep him humble. He doesn't get any automatic respect handed to him due to title or birthright or religious belief. He has to prove himself--not as any kind of savior but as a good fighter and a reliable member of a collective political project. And he does. This is an environment that really draws out his best qualities. He's a skilled fighter; he's brave (sometimes recklessly so); he's intensely loyal to and protective of people he cares about. He is not too proud to learn from others and work hard in an egalitarian environment where he gets no special treatment or extra glory. The longer he spends with the fedaykin the more his allegiance shifts from Atreides to Fremen, and the more skeptical he himself becomes about the prophecy. This sets up the conflict with Jessica, which comes to a head before she leaves for the south. And his political sincerity--that he genuinely comes to believe that these people deserve liberation from all colonial forces and his only role should be to help where he can--is what makes the tragedy work. Because in the end we know he will betray all these values and become the exact thing he said he didn't want to be.

There's another layer of meaning to all this that I don't know if the filmmakers were even aware of. ETA: rescinding my doubt cause based on some of Villeneuve's other projects I'm pretty sure he could work it out. Given the time period (1960s) and Herbert's propensity for using Arabic or Arabic-inspired words for aspects of Fremen culture, it seems very likely that the made-up word fedaykin was taken from fedayeen, a real Arabic word that was frequently used untranslated in American news media at the time, usually to refer to Palestinian armed resistance groups.

Fedayeen is usually translated into English as fighter, guerrilla, militant or something similar. The translation of fedaykin that Herbert provides in Dune is "death commando"...which is a whole bucket of yikes in my opinion, but it's not entirely absurd if we're assuming that this fake word and the real word fedayeen function in the same way. A more literal translation of fedayeen is "self-sacrificer," as in willing, intentional self-sacrifice for a political cause, up to and including sacrificing your life.

If you apply this logic to Dune, it means that Villeneuve has actually shifted the meaning of this word in-universe, from fighters who are willing to sacrifice themselves for Paul to fighters who are willing to sacrifice themselves for their people. And the fedaykin are no longer a group created for Paul but a group that Paul counts himself as part of, one member among equals. Which is just WILDLY different from what's in the book. And so much better in my opinion.

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

Exhausted, Papyrus fell on his knees in the dust. It was covering everything in the room, from the floor to the ceiling. The main door was gone, like most of the windows. Thankfully, no monster tried to enter the balcony, too high. Papyrus crawled to pick up the door, still in one piece by some miracle, and put it in its place. The hinges were gone with a part of the wall, but he forced it to hold by nailing it with some planks that held the windows closed and was now on the floor.

He picked up his phone, hidden deep in his armor. His hands were still shaking with the adrenaline. Sans left about twenty messages, asking if he was fine, then warning him Frisk was gone, then asking him again if he was alright, more and more distressed as the hours went by.

Papyrus simply sent: "Alive. Frisk here." before walking to the kitchen to make sure the child was fine. Several bullets ricocheted against the closet door, but it faced the brunt efficiently. He cleared the chairs out of the way and opened the door, maybe too brutally.

Frisk screamed out of terror and threw themselves in the back of the cabinet. They curled up on themselves, hands on the head, sobbing uncontrollably. They were shaking as well.

Papyrus flinched. He saw himself at five years old, in the same position, as Sans was screaming and fighting for their lives in the living room. This was not a world to grow up. No child should ever be born in this hellish place. Bitter, he felt his soul squeezed painfully. It was his fault. He should have brought the child back to the Ruins. Frisk shouldn't have assisted to any of this.

The skeleton kneeled at their level. He never had been really talented to comfort people.

"Frisk? It's over, they're gone. You can come out."

He leaned a hand towards the human. Frisk kicked it away and tried to get as far as they could from him in the closet. Papyrus tried to stay neutral, but his face betrayed for a few seconds how much it hurt him. He didn't want Frisk to be scared of him. Not after everything they went through to protect them.

The skeleton looked around for a second and noticed a hole in the closet door. Small, but enough for a child to witness everything that happened outside. Frisk saw him slaughter attackers and end monsters on the floor without mercy. Papyrus felt guilty. He gave the child some space and sat in front of the closet, unsure what to do.

No Weakness, Chapter 3.

_______________________________________

Hello, hello!

I commissioned this masterpiece to @seirindono, a French (yeah, team French!) illustrator who works on a multi AU universe called The Missing Scarf, which is a banger. Really cool comic with lots of great characters that you really want to read. Go read it!

I wasn't sure on which fic I wanted a drawing at first, but since we already got one for Horrortale: Rotten Apple (thanks again Zeragii, love you), why not No Weakness?

It's a post-pacific Underfell fic where instead of breaking the Barrier, Sans refused Frisk to fight Asgore and brought them back in safety to Toriel. Now Papyrus, Undyne, Alphys, Mettaton, Toriel and Sans are hiding the child away, trying not to get killed.

The story however is about Undyne and Papyrus' friendship. After Papyrus surprises Undyne kissing Asgore, he is promoted to general of the Royal Guard. Except Papyrus knows something is really wrong here, since that role was obviously supposed to Undyne's. But the more he tries to understand, the more people try to dissuade him from learning more. All the hints lead to Asgore, but how to reach the monarch without getting himself killed, and by extension, those he cares the most about? Between his duty and his friendship, Papyrus will have to make a choice.

I asked for one of my favorite parts ever, which is the moment Frisk realizes how things really work in Underfell, after witnessing Papyrus committing carnage right after he got promoted to General. It's tradition :D

Anyway, if you want to read the story, it's right here. I'm on summer break right now, but new chapters are coming soon!

Thanks again to Seirindono for their amazing work, I love it so much <3 Really great artist, don't hesitate to commission them! They're really nice and pays great attention to details. It was really cool collaborating with you <3

Go send them some love!

[lonelysheepling]

Recently read @queenofthequillandink ’s DPxDC crossover fic Unearthed, Reborn

I got inspired to draw character sheets for Danny, Sam, Jason, and Jazz’s vigilante personas. Here’s a link to the author’s drawings of their outfits (these were a vital reference for me when doing this so thank you so much for sharing them Quill) More commentary (like 7+ paragraphs plus 2 images) about this project and the designs below the “keep reading” line.

None of these thoughts I have for each character are in order, but I have a lot of commentary for these since this project was a lot more conceptual than my normal work. I also just like talking about my art/design process. If you ever find yourself wondering at some point why an element from the original design wasn’t included, the answer is that the removal was completely intentional and part of my grandmaster vision for this work and wasn’t because I just forgot about it entirely during the design process.

————————————————————————

Aconite (Sam)

This was the first one I sketched out, I wasn’t even sure at the time if I was going to fully commit to drawing all of them. I thought that Sam was gonna be the hardest since her description was way longer than the others, but then bird boy beat her out. I took a lot of creative liberties with her design, the bag was added bc I couldn’t figure out how to add pockets to the skirt. I was trying to avoid a joker color scheme so I had a lot of ref images that I got by searching like “purple green aesthetic” on Pinterest. The dark purple and dark forest/blueish green won out in the end. I desaturated a lot of my colors for her just to get as far away from the neon Gotham rogue aesthetic. I also added the bdsm harness over the armor to add more punk elements to her design, I know that in real life that would be very uncomfortable to wear over scalemail armor but sometimes we take creative liberties when they look sick as fuck. Also, I didn’t realize until I went to look for a reference for aconite flowers that aconite is wolfsbane! That was neat to learn! Also, the font I used for Aconite is called “zai Art School Calendar 1931”, I’ve used this a few times for other projects, it’s one of my favorite fonts. The ‘zai’ fonts the creator has are all very good.

Shade (Danny)

There wasn't much to add to this page. His outfit is pretty simple (besides the patterning). I wasn’t sure how to pull of an optical illusion pattern but I was reminded how I sometimes get an eyestrain induced headache when looking at someone wearing a patterned shirt with really thin stripes so I just leaned into the idea of a small/detailed hard lined pattern. I originally made 5 separate patterns for him and then turned them into stamp brushes in procreate. I only ended up using three of them, the one on the chest, the one on the legs, and the one on his hand. But, I imagine the patterns fade and shift when he moves, sort of like a lenticular print. I gave him constellation freckles and stylized the hair’s fade into white. The hair was inspired by how time-woods draws Martin Blackwood’s hair (linked: time-woods’s fanart of Martin Blackwood). Also put way too much effort into the teeth on the mask. I just like the chunky teeth design. Oh yeah and the font I used for him is called “Typewriter_Condensed_Demi”

Erinys (Jason)

Repeatedly ran into the issue of not having enough canvas space bc of my fervent need to thoroughly document and plan out how the wings worked. I also reversed the colors for the bodysuit & armor so the under layer was black while the armor plates were red. I only realized afterwards that I may have been inspired by the red centipedes in Rain World (linked: gif of the red centipede, don’t click the link if you’re unsettled/afraid of bugs/insects), artists subconsciously draw inspiration from other artists all the time though so I’m not like upset about it. I stand by it because it looks sick as hell. Also leaned into the magpie theming for the wings. I think the vigilante form was supposed to be reverse magpie coloring? I can’t remember, but I stuck with normal magpie coloring. The anatomy of how the wings connected to the collarbone was inspired by JayEaton’s Magpie Bridge Project. Reference image link. Link to the article the image is from. I didn’t draw the wing armor because I couldn’t figure out how to would work with the wing anatomy and I ran out of canvas space. Finally, the font used for him is “DIN Condensed” this is a default font, I would’ve used something more punk but I needed the text to be legible.

Insight (Jazz)

I did Jazz after I’d already finished the initial trio, so I had to switch to a new canvas for her bc I’d hit the layer limit multiple times on the previous one. I really do love doing that spiked under-eyelash thing with characters. Don’t know when that started. Anyway, I added the shoulder pads to her outfit to help break up the empty space. The golden eyes were a nice accent color since her design is very overwhelmingly green. Honestly the braid hairstyle and gold eyes really do obscure her identity, multiple times when drawing her I was worried that she didn’t really resemble Jazz enough. There wasn’t a drawing from the author for her so I only had the text description to go off of. I just realized that she sort of reminds me of a forest ranger and I don’t know what to do with that realization. I copy/pasted my drawing of her eyes when gold and recolored them to match her normal eye color. There were two layers for that, a hue shift and a hard light layer to emphasize the shadows.

Here’s what it looks like without the hue shift: 

It looks really cool and I’m 100% that color combo in another drawing down the line. Oh yeah and the font used for this sheet was “Euphemia UCAS”. It comes with Apple’s operating system, I use it as a neutral default text most of the time bc it’s nicer than helvetica but not overly fancy like Times New Roman—and why am I talking about fonts. ——————————————————————— Anyway, this project was very fun to work on. The alt text for this was its own endeavor, hope the folks using screen-readers don’t mind 4-5 paragraphs of description text. Also, I cannot remember for the life of me if Dani got a costume description, but if she does I’ll make sure to update this image set with a sheet for her. And to the author, QueenOfTheQuill, if you’re reading this message that I’ve left at the very bottom of this post below a read more line, thank you for the fic. It’s very good and I’m glad I caught it during my slow decent into DPxDC brainrot. I love the interactions between Jason and Tim, it’s nice seeing a revived Jason that’s not bogged down by pit rage. They definitely seem like they could’ve been good friends if not for the unfortunate circumstances that led them to meet in canon. Also, I’m sure Jazz will love interacting with Batman and Nightwing. So much psychological & childhood trauma to unpack with them. Feel free to use/share these images if you so desire and thanks again for your work.

[huicitawrites]

The Hunt

Yandere! Miguel O' Hara x Fem! Spider! Reader

T/W: yandere (slow-burn(?)), dark fic, violence, assault, spoilers for across the spiderverse.

Status: rewritten.

Next Chapter

Word Count: 2,4k

"Y/N! Get. Back. Here. NOW", swinging away from an infuriated Miguel O'Hara wasn't something you had planned or ever thought would occur, never entertained the thought of it. At least not until now, as you desperately attempted to get away from him and somehow escape him- for your dimension-travel watch (as wild as the concept of it sounded) had been snatched by the same man that was madly hunting you down.

How did it even all come to this? Let's rewind, back to the beginning.

Part I

After being bitten by a radioactive spider in a school trip to Alchemax at the young age of 15, you obtained enhanced spider-like abilities: a sixth sense for perceiving danger, incredible reflexes, amazing parkour skills, extraordinary strentgh and flexibility.

And for the past ten years, you have been New York's one and only Spider-Woman.

Learning to use your powers was a whole trip on itself. They awakened rather clumsily -nothing a leap of faith could not fix- as you began to grasp the ropes of being a masked hero in your teenage years [it's safe to say that your teenage years were truly a heck of a rollercoaster].

Handling a double-life was not easy, that is something you have learned with your ten years experience. You saved a bunch of people and thus many lives, you won many times and saved the city countless more. Yet you also earned a bunch of dangerous criminals and villains tailing behind your back that would want to kill you without hesitation and harm you in any way possible.

In spite of the times you were beaten down, left made a mess in the ground, or at the brink of death- you would always get back up because you were Spider-Woman.

Sometimes, getting back up was hard.

The weight of the sake of the city was on your shoulders. And sometimes, that weight crushed you. When you lost your parents it was devastating, because not only had you failed as a hero, but as a daughter.

[Your dad perished in an attempt to save you from an attack of one of many enemies- the Green Goblin . You two happened to be on a ‘father and daughter’ outing in a nice dinner when the Green Goblin tried to draw out Spider-Woman from her hiding place in Brooklyn (unbeknownst of your true identity and much to your own misery and guilt.) After battling the Green Goblin and imprisoning him, you rose with your dead father in your arms, and an huge crack in your heart that would leave a deep scar.

Months later, your mother's followed suit. That day was chaotic, panic filled the streets of New York as The Rhino, a veteran soldier with super human strentgh and a high-techno advanced armor resembling a rhinoceros, laid waste to the city. You were evacuating all civilians nearby, swinging across and into buildings, picking up and scooping anyone you could encounter and putting them out of danger.

It happened as you held falling debris with your arms. You picked up wailing in between the many cries of people, and your spider-sense guided your eyes up from the ground.

A child, no older than five, was crying. He was glued to the floor, too overwhelmed by the calamity surrounding him. A wall from a building was falling on him and your heart beat raced. You still had people below you that were crawling out and the child was a or two block away. Your thoughts raced in your head, you had to save everyone, down to the last live.

"Come on, come on, come on" you muttered in between gritted teeth as you gathered power and lifted the debris into the air. With the help of your web shooter, you pulled all the remaining civilians out and casted aside the courtesy of double-checking as you swinged toward the child.

You could see how the wall fell over him, and you reached out your arm with your forearm out desperately, attempted to pull him out with your web but the wall was already about to touch his head and-

She pushed the child out of the danger, motherly instincts impulsing her feet at the cost of her own life. The child was pushed onto you and you brought him flush against you with your web, arms encasing him as you witnessed the wall collapse on her.

In shock and disbelief, you gently lowered the child to the ground and ran to the fallen wall. Once again in despair, you clawed through the debris and searched for your mother’s body.

You found her bruised and crushed, her face deformed. You brushed the dust off it. Her pained groan was faint, and you begged her right there and then not to leave you. Not to leave you alone, again.

“Is the kid al…?”

“Yes! Don’t, don’t talk. Help, help is coming. You have to stay, you have to.” But her eyes were already fading, and her limbs growing weak. Your disguised hand snatched up hers and you cried,

“Mom!”

She recognized your voice, the one she cherished the most. Her fading eyes gathered all the warmth they could muster and she reached out a quivering hand to your cheek. Her fingers slid into your mask, and she felt your tear stained skin.

“Ah my baby…[Y/n]…I’m so proud... Your father would be so proud... keep it up”. Her last words were voiced with strain, but you would always remember them.]

They became the fuel for your mission, and no matter how many times you were beaten to the ground and wounded to no end, you stood back up. You would save everyone else, no more deaths, you swore upon your parents' last moments.

Now in your adult life, you found yourself in a stable life besides the implications your side hustle not-so-side -hustle brought. You had an adequate job as a writer for small titles in a decent newspaper, and you had a department you shared with your childhood best friend, Peter Parker [who eventually became your tech-desk guy. Hiding your true identity from your best friend and roommate would have never lasted long anyway. You remember clearly the day you climbed into the living's window, beat up, bruised and tired, when the lights suddenly turned on and a Peter with crossed arms and an eyebrow raised was waiting for you like a parent whose child was past curfew. You were without your mask on. Nonetheless, after stuttering uncontrollably and failing to explain and just simply breaking down in front of him. Without saying any words, he took out the first aid kit and reassured you with a smile. You were so grateful to him.]

So now here you were, crouching on the top of The Clock Tower, the moonlight casting its light on your back and darkening your silhouette. Earlier in the day you dealt with some thugs and minor crimes, but since the sun fell nothing happened. That was odd, NYC was never quite, least of all times at night.

But your spider-sense was running, not rampant, but definetely there like annoying itch on the nape. Something had to be off, you knew it.

"Um, I'm not picking up anything, (Y/n). Maybe you should be calling it a night, you've been doing good work so far. You did lower the crime rate, after all."

"You sure Pete? There's this feeling in my gut and-"

"Your 'spidey- thingy' ?".

"Spider-sense, spidey-thingy sounds dumb" you answered with a small groan, rolling your eyes although he could not see the.

He chuckled, "Yeah, yeah, whatever," he turned serious " but I'm not getting anything from anywhere. From police radios and stations to our own hidden cameras"

"Nothing? Sure?"

"I mean everything is awfully quiet now that I think about it... All I can pick up is glitching, let's see... let me do my thing and-" you could hear frantic typing through the comms of your suit within the mask, you could even picture Peter hunching and fixing his eyeglasses.

What he said left you pondering. Glitching? It couldn't be a coincidence that all the radio signals he could pick up were glitching.

"Aha! Here it is, your spidey-thingy was right." this time, you chuckled as if saying 'see?'. He continued, "-this should be a very hidden signal from the special forces team. Seems classified, man they should really put a little more money into whatever software they use to protect their privacy" and he pushed on one final 'enter', the glitching and static got louder almost startling you to which your friend apologized softly, but it evened out.

"Report the situation, Lieutenant Stacy"

"Requesting back-up right now, suspect is armed with advanced equipment, we are at the Port, South East, many of my men and women have been wounded and- oh, shit, shit" The man's words died down with the sound of something big crashing and breaking.

Well, that's your cue. You stood up on your toes and balanced you body weight forward, diving to the ground. With your limbs extended, you stretched your forearm and extended your wrist, web shooting out from the slick web shooter Peter designed.

Swinging from building to building under the night sky, you jumped across billboards and slid past tight spaces as you were heading to the location of the conflict, and the closer you swinged, the wilder your spider sense got.

When you arrived at the port, you saw a SWAT truck that was flipped over, it had a huge dent in the form of a what seemed to be a claw mark, and the windows had been broken. There were a few members on the floor, and you noticed there were two trying to lift the heavy vehicle.

"Let me help," you announced your presence and they whipped their heads. Their faces were glistening with sweat and dirt, and you could notice their equipment was damaged. You crouched and lifted the truck, there was one member there below, and his leg was twisted the other way, but he was breathing- well, panting.

Without further a do, the soldiers went and dragged out their friend. A soldier's face lit up, though they seemed hesitant [after all, your line of work was kind of controversial among the government and its forces] but they were thankful. "Thank you, Spider-Woman", their voice was genuine and you smiled below the mask.

"Your welcome, leave it to me" winking at them through your lense, you nodded and propelled yourself to the ceiling of the warehouse. You noticed a roof canopy at the center, lucky you, and brought the palm of your hand to it. Utilizing your sticky finger pads, you carefully removed a pane of glass and entered the building without making a sound.

"Be careful, please" Peter voiced with worry.

You hanged the web from it's strongest point at the peak, and slowly lowered yourself down until your hand gently brushed the cold floor . You got off the web and crawled in direction of the tingling of the spider-sense. You found some warehouse crates, pressed your back onto them, slowly leaning your head out to take a peak.

A man stood there, a middle aged man by the looks of him. He had a round pair of black sunglasses on and a large leather coat on, but the most outstanding feature was apparently behind him. Four metal tentacle-like arms sprouting from his back, with threatening looking claws. That had to be the thing that put such a dent in a SWAT vehicle, the advanced equipment you heard of in the interception.

He was ranting about something, speaking to himself. "The power of the sun at the palm of my hand, only to be ruined by that fucking-"

‘What is this man even talking about…’

His words died down in your ears as it took a few seconds for your spider-sense to peak, and you scrunched your face features. Your eyebrows furrowed and your eyes squinted, cheeks squeezing up and causing the lenses of the mask to stretch and flatten.

"(Y/n)? Found anything yet?" Peter inquired.

"This man... I think I know him... but also not..." At this point, your spider-sense was rampant. Your gaze still confused as you tried to decipher him. Your spider sense was alerting you of this oddly familiar feeling. It was someone you had dealt with before, but also someone new. Simply off-putting.

Then the realization fell on you, his tentacle-like arms.

"Is that Doc Ock!?" Without getting a hold of your reaction, you accidentally raised your voice and revealed your location. Your spider-sense tingled again, this time, sensing imminent danger as you backflipped and dodged the incoming attack. The crate you were hiding behind of was broken into splinters.

"Come on out, Spider-Man!" he shouted, his voice in pure anger.

Spider-Man? As long as you remember, you never referred to your disguised self as Spider-Man...

"It's Spider-Woman, mind you" You revealed yourself off the shadows, and the light basked in your costume, revealing its signature colors and design. "Do I know you by chance?" you tited your head, inquisitive in your tone as you were trying to figure things out.

The man's expression fell, and his rage was replaced by annoyance.

"Is this some kind of sick joke, Spider-Man? Have you forgotten the name of the man whose work of life you ruined, Otto Octavius." His tongue rolled of his name with spite and you widened your eyes.

"Doc Ock? But, you are different. You are totally human". Last time you checked, Doc Ock was a mad scientist that turned himself half-octopus by bioengineering his genetics in the name of some sort of sick evolution idea. He had tried to turn the city into mutants like himself for 'the sake of humanity's future' and you managed to stop his plans. Furthermore, he had been sent to a high-security prison for villains, where an anti-serum is being developed to turn him back and halt his aggression.

"Are you pulling my leg Spider-Man?" He said with disbelief, and he began to appear more and more angry by the second. He muttered something below his breath, and you swore you saw one of his tentacles turn toward his face as if it were sentient and listening...

"I've told you it's Spider-Woman." You huffed out, chest puffing out. You had a bad feeling about this...

The man's hand ran down his own face and he groaned, visibly tired. "Well, whatever, but you do appear to be an ally of Peter Parker's, your costume and your name leave little room for further speculation". The mention of your friend raised up your guard, how did he know Pete? Any doubts and hesitation erased themselves of your mind, for your friend could be in lethal danger.

"Oh? What's the matter, 'Spider-Woman'," he sneered.

"Picked right on the web, hmm?" He edged on, a dangerous smirk dancing on his face and two claws raising up in the air, ready to pounce.

There was not much to it, as you jumped sideways to dodge whatever that clawed-tentacle-armor was. You found yourself right back at the gig, fighting a villain as the one and only Spider-Woman.

Or so you thought.

A/n: Hi! So when I first saw this fictional man I KNEW I had to write about him, originally, it was going to be a long one shot, but I decided to break it into parts. I expect this story to be up to 3 parts or 4 as most. Anyhow, I hope you come to like it!, and sorry for the long- ass intro, I really wanted to dwelve deeper into reader as a spider person. Next is the real thing. I have seen some people have asked me to tag them, so don’t be shy to ask too!

[marcskywalker]

alright alright

Merlin has made a habit of laying protective charms and spells on Arthur's armor. The man is a big liability (king or not, Merlin will say it as it is). Running into danger head first, without thought or concern, is his top favorite activity.

It's what makes Arthur Arthur; his courage in the face of death.

So yes, it's become a necessity for Merlin to charm his armor for strength and endurance.

He decides to charm the King's new set of armors in his royal chamber in the middle of the day, while Arthur is away presumably listening to another one of mind numbingly boring reports from his knights.

What is a safer place for Merlin other than this room? Where else can he walk in as he pleases? Move about as he pleases? Leave a mess, jest around, lock the door and loiter as he pleases?

Within these walls, no one would dare to question him.

The King's trust is loud enough.

So, Merlin lays out all the metal on the floor and begins. He holds the cold, sharp chestpiece in his hand. Imagines Arthur under it; Arthur's beating heart and his warm, soft, breakable skin.

His magic flows out of him without command or permission, desperate to erase all the images of his mortal king bleeding and weak.

Oh, protectors of Earth and Magic! Cradle him as you would cradle your son.

His eyes are ember, words still on his lips, the shimmer of magic over the metal, when door swings open.

"Leon is one of my oldest and closest friends, but by Gods he makes me miserable," Arthur lets out a long breath, as if to blow out all the air in his body, looking right at Merlin as he does so.

The gold finally fades from his eyes but Merlin is frozen in place, his bones and breath refusing to move, watching Arthur's face scrunch in confusion, a myriad of feelings flashing through his face before settling on stern eyes and pursed lips.

"Mingling with the druids a lot now, are we?"

"Arthur, I-"

"I know, I know!" he sighs, commanding his face to neutrality, stepping over Merlin and metal towards his desk, "They are my people, too. You're allowed to trade and learn from each other."

Despite his resigned tone, Merlin knows how hard Arthur has worked to ensure a place for Druids in Camelot. Writing in stone, clear as day, that he is more than his father's son; he has claimed them as citizens of Camelot, opening the doors to courts and trade and provisions equally for all in the Kingdom.

Watching Arthur grow into the prophesied will be Merlin's greatest pride. Even if magic is still prohibited to practice under the law, magic users aren't hunted like animals for existing. And Merlin has all the faith in his King that when the time is right, he will bring magic back into the land. Until then, he's happy to live in half shadows.

"I'm allowed to learn magic?" he can't help the skepticism and shock bleed into his tone.

"Well, no! I'm not allowing you for anything, Merlin. But I'm not stupid enough to believe that that's about to stop you."

"So," he draws out the word, unsure of how to step out of the conversation. Unsure if he should even be stepping out of the conversation. "I can learn more magic?"

"You know how I feel about this. The price I have- we have had to pay for it. If you still find yourself curious, do what-" gestures to the laid out armor on the ground, "-ever this is. I only ask that you be careful."

"I'm enchanting it. To keep you safe."

"In exchange for what, Merlin?"

"Nothing-", Merlin loses his grip on the conversation faced with the frightened heartbreak on Arthur's face; the courageous bones bending in unfamiliar ways. "I swear. Nothing. It's not any big magic. The druids do it all the time, we won't have to pay a price for this, Arthur."

"We'll see."

[504py]

Scalding-Hot Steel - Knight!Leon Kennedy/Reader

He finally lets you try on his armor.

I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG TO GET OUT!!! 😭😭😭😭🙏🙏 i got caught in a bit of a slump, but i hope this can make up for it, and that this was worth the wait!! the chapter after this might be the finale, so i may take even longer to get to it. nonetheless, thank you to everyone who's been reading till now, and thank you all for 600 followers!!!

Historical inaccuracies, I suck at old-timey speak, reader referred to as "my lady" but no other gendered terms or descriptors besides that, no use of Y/N, Leon is a total puppy, mutual pining.

1, 2, 3

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You're unsure what it was, but following that interaction at the library, you and Leon have grown closer.

This upgrade in your relationship has made you be able to relax more in his presence, now that you see him as more friend than foe. Well, to call him a foe was a gargantuan exaggeration, but you did find him intimidating. You still do sometimes.

Even if you've backed off and retired your old obsessive habit of being way too observant about every single little detail about Leon, you can't help but still notice how it seems like your roles have been swapped.

Leon has begun to follow you around like a dog, to put it simply.

You swear it's not just you fixating on him, you really have started seeing him around much more often. He's started waiting by your door to greet you a good morning with a small smile, before heading to the courtyard. During lunchtime, he's begun to engage in smalltalk with you, talking about mundane things like the weather, or your schedule for the day. He's especially chatty if he learns he's going to be part of it. At night, when his usual routine would be to simply see you off at your bedroom door and say goodnight, now he sits by your bedside and talks about anything 'till it lulls you to sleep. He'd be mortified if you knew how long he stayed after you've dozed off.

Leon has begun studying you, in return. He likes to think that he's observant, but that usually only applies to combat, or if he's been trained beforehand on the matter. With people, he's never really had much luck reading them, unless it's too obvious for it to even be called "observing."

Leon admires that about you, how keen your eyes always are. He wonders if you're as drawn into his quirks as he is with yours. If you were, he envies your ability to drink in information so tactfully. If the devil were in the details– in your details, Leon would love to become a sinner.

His attempts in learning more about you were painfully amateurish. Even if Leon were a great tutor, a great protector, a great fighter, he tends to be terrible at holding conversation.

"My lady–"

"I told you to stop calling me that." You sigh and roll your eyes playfully.

"Sorry." He huffs your name bashfully, drawing closer towards you. You look up at him, and he drinks in the sight before you're squinting slightly at the rays of sun attacking you from behind his head.

"Please step into the shade, milady." He insists, holding his hand out for you to place yours on, before leading you underneath a large tree.

"There you are again, Sir Leon." You laugh, resting your back against the smooth bark of the tree.

"Hey, I asked you to forgo the titles as well." He muses, noticing you were still straining your eyes slightly, so he steps in front of the sun. It makes your face relax, and once again, he realizes keeping you happy and protecting you brings him fulfillment like no other.

"Just doing the same as you are, Sir Leon, since you won't drop mine." Chuckling, you sit down on the plush grass and wait for him to follow.

He smiles and breathes out a laugh, setting down the picnic basket in front of you. Leon wants to sit beside you, but then his back wouldn't be there to shield you from the sun. He sits where he is.

"Alright, I'm sorry." He says, almost jokingly. Saying your name out loud makes him feel shy, like saying the name of a god. It feels almost forbidden to be molded by his tongue, but you always invite him to say it, and the intimacy makes his heart race every single time he dares to. He mumbles it quietly again, getting a high from it.

You look beautiful. He thought that from the day he first met you, but the closer you two have gotten, the more and more he finds himself thinking that, and even more does it make his heart ache in his chest. In the shade under this tree, windy summer day illuminating the soft curves of your face so enchantingly, Leon can't help but look like a bit of an idiot drinking the sight in.

"Are you feeling hot?"

His eyes look at your lips first, ears registering your voice second. He closes his mouth, realizing it's been hanging slightly agape.

"I, uh, no– no, I'm feeling alright, my–"

You tilt your head down, and send him a playful warning glare. He stops in his tracks and looks down for a second, smiling breathily.

"I'm alright."

"Really? Your head tilts to the right this time, and Leon's heart skips a beat at how adorable he finds the gesture. "That armor you're wearing looks pretty hot. Can't you take it off?"

"It's only chainmail." He reassures, taking off his helmet and combing a hand through his flattened hair, "The helmet is a little troublesome, though."

You chirp, "I can imagine." before you open up the picnic basket in front of you and start rummaging through it.

Leon watches you munch on some biscuits for a bit, before his eyes flit back to the helmet by his side. "...Some time ago, you said you had wanted to try on my armor."

He says this mid-chew, so you hurry to get your food down so you can respond, "Oh, you remembered?" You wipe away a few crumbs from your lip, Leon finds the act charming, and it makes him smile softly. You continue, "Mm, yes, I did. Why bring it up?"

"Well," Leon holds up his helmet, "Would you like to try it on now?"

The way your eyes light up can't help but force a boyish, giddy grin on Leon's face. It feels strange and his cheeks feel weird, he can't really remember the last time he's smiled this hard. It does scare him a little, how foreign it is, but the feeling is so, so welcomed.

"Of course! Are you joking?" You put the snacks in your hands away, and move the basket to the side so you can inch closer to Leon. The feeling of your legs touching make butterflies take flight in his stomach.

"I-I'm not– I–" He's sputtering and he finds his brain struggling to function at being so flustered.

"Calm down, Leon." You laugh heartily. He wonders if you know the effect you have on him, but with how darn observant you are, he's sure that you're well aware what you do to him. It makes his cheeks burn red and glare at you with a kittenish frown. He wishes he could be more suave about his feelings towards you.

"I will once you stop making me so flustered." Leon huffs, hoping that wasn't too bold of a thing to say. His cheeks burn deeper. His eyebrows lower at your surprised look.

"Do I now?"

"W-Well– See, you're doing it again!" Leon groans, letting go of his helmet to hide his flushed face in his broad hands and whine. His ears turn red at the sound of your hearty laugh.

"Well, it's only fair that I do it to you too."

"Too?"

Your face warms, realizing what you've revealed. Leon grins, elated at the mere implication that he makes you feel the same way.

"Y-You've noticed, haven't you? In the library, you asked why I felt so uncomfortable around you."

"You didn't exactly answer... I thought it was because you disliked me."

"...Now you know that I clearly don't. We get along rather well, don't we?"

He's beaming at you, and it's not just the sun shining on him, it looks like he's literally glowing with serenity and love.

"We do, my lady."

"Leon!" You interject him calling you by your formal title.

He can't seem to let the title go, because in his mind, it's more of a pet name than a title. A term of endearment. Leon clings to the "my" part of the title, he liked the tiniest hint that you could be his. My lady, my lover, my sweetheart, mine.

Leon giggles, and he pauses for a moment after, realizing he can't remember the last time he's let out such a noise. He gazes upon you in awe, amazed at how you were able to bring out this side of him.

"What is it?"

Leon blinks, getting drawn out of his haze and shaking his head dismissively. He keeps his soft gaze on you, though.

The pads of his fingers rest on his helmet, feeling the ridges of it. Maybe it was too rough for someone he deemed as delicate as you. His eyes lower and rest on the piece of armor, noting how it's covered in scratches and dents, how it isn't so shiny as he'd like for it to be. It washed over him like a small wave of shame, thinking it not worthy for someone of your standing to don. Not even socially, but the standing that you held within his mind and his heart. Leon never thought he'd be insecure over such a trivial thing.

"So... Can I try it on, my good Sir?"

Leon lets out a little snort at what you call him, freezing and making an embarrassed face at the undignified noise, but then he he sees how happy it makes you– perhaps how happy he himself makes you, and he feels at ease.

"Yes, of course, Your Royal Highness."

You playfully slap his bicep at the absurd title. "I am not royalty!"

"You are to me." He mutters as he adjusts his sitting position, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

He's kneeling in front of you, being mindful of your hair or anything on your clothing the helmet could snag on, gently lowering it before the hard metal rests on the top of your skull.

Leon sits back down, and can't help a cheesy, tight-lipped smile when he sees how awkwardly it fits you. It's crooked, and it simply is too rugged in contrast to your usual attire and demeanor.

"...How is it?"

"Wow, I can barely see. This is amazing!" Your hands rest on the sides of the helmet to try and stabilize it, yet it still tips over off balance after adjusting. Leon lets out a snort, and this time, he's only half-embarrassed.

"How do you fight in this? I can't see anything."

Leon wordlessly pulls the visor up. His heart pounds at the sight of your flushed face and messy hair.

"Ohh. What if an arrow lands in my face, though?"

"I can assure you, you won't be getting into that sort of situation anytime soon."

"You seem very sure of yourself, Leon."

"Of course, it's my duty to protect you."

"...Do you enjoy it?"

"What? Protecting you?"

You nod, "Yes."

"I look forward to it every day."

The two of you share a wide smile, beaming at the intimacy of this interaction, and you two have never felt closer. I want to kiss you, is all Leon can think about.

Right as he was mindlessly leaning in, you let out a small laugh for whatever reason, and Leon is forever grateful that you do, because it snaps him out of his trance, and he feels so stupid for trying to make a move on you.

"That's good. I don't think armor suits me very much anyways." You clumsily take his helmet off of your head, and rest it by your hip.

"I'm glad to have you protecting me, Leon. I'm so happy to have you by my side every day, not even as a knight, but as a companion." You say this so demurely, looking down at your lap with a cherubic expression on your face that has his heart pounding in his strong chest.

Then, you just had to look up at him, and meet his lovestruck stare, and maybe he's gone crazy from how flustered he's been all day, but he swears he can see the same look in your eyes.

Leon throws out whatever he was last thinking straight out the window, encases your wrists in his hands, and kisses you.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

[shadowdaddies]

Timeless

Cassian x Reader fluff

A/N: based on a headcanon I have about one of Cassian's hobbies

The rising sun cast a golden glow through the room, spilling like liquid light across your bed. Cassian’s long onyx hair was splayed out on his pillow, hazel eyes cracked open to meet your own with a lazy smile.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice a deep rasp as a warm hand settled on your waist, pulling your bare chest flush against his. 

Basking in the comfort of his warmth, you released a pleasant hum and settled into your mate’s embrace. Eyes drifting shut, you found yourself longing for sleep once more - to enjoy this lazy morning together.

“Cass, I can’t do training today,” you mumbled drearily, words as lips brushed against his torso.

A deep chuckle vibrated through Cassian’s chest, the feeling of a kiss pressed to your hair soothing as he leaned down to press a warm cheek against yours. 

“Then let’s skip today,” he whispered, making you lean back in shock, eyes appraising your mate for the joke that was sure to follow. 

“We can have a relaxed day. I have a place I would like to show you,” the general murmured, eyes twinkling in the morning light as a calloused thumb brushed your cheek.

You laid in bed for awhile longer, savoring the feel of Cassian’s hands lazily drifting over your body, his soft lips tracing your bare skin. 

Eventually, you managed to rise from the eden that was your bed and get dressed for the day. Cassian hadn’t told you where you were going except into the city, and you wondered where he could possibly take you in Velaris that you hadn’t been before.

After a short flight down to the rainbow, Cassian set you down to walk beside him, wing and arm wrapped warmly around your shoulder as he guided you down the cobblestone street.

“Just in here,” he murmured, nodding to an unassuming door that lay tucked beneath an awning. Pushing down on the brass handle, Cassian’s hand found your lower back as he encouraged you to step through the threshold.

The inside was as unassuming as the out, with stacks of tomes and maps crammed into every shelf of dark wood that lay illuminated by warm flickering faelight. 

A stout older male smiled up at you both from his desk, the crinkled corners of his blue eyes showing how old he must truly be for a fae as he nodded respectfully at your mate before turning to you.

“Finally decided to bring your mate, did ya?” the male teased with a wink, drawing a key from the desk that he handed to Cassian without further question.

“I did,” Cassian affirmed with a nod, murmuring a ‘thank you’ to the gentleman before twining your fingers in his own and leading you to a door where he turned the key.

The hinges of the door creaked in protest, heavy wood sliding against the floor as light flooded into the space. Your jaw dropped at the sight before you - high vaulted ceilings with grand chandeliers, artworks and murals framing the wallspace between shelves of books.

Feeling his gaze on you, you turned to see Cassian’s roguish grin as he smiled down at your awed expression.

“What do you think?” he whispered. almost nervous-sounding while he glanced between you and the impressive space.

“This is beautiful, Cassian,” you breathed, legs subconsciously drawing you closer to the large mural on the far wall. Warriors clashed from each side, light and dark contrasted in a perfectly captured moment of fear and triumph, love and loss.

You couldn’t tear your eyes from the image, a new expression on someone’s face or detail on another’s armor captivating at every glance. The warmth of Cassian’s presence settled beside you, soft lips pressing to your cheek.

“All of the continent’s history is documented here, including Prythian’s military history,” he nodded to the painting, arm moving in a sweeping gesture to the shelves on his left. 

“I come here to learn from previous generals - what worked for them, what didn’t...” he trailed off, strong arms wrapping around your waist as his chin rested on your shoulder. “And sometimes, I come here to relax. It helps me to come to a quiet place, surrounded by the knowledge of those before me, and I’m reminded of the vastness of this world, to see what I can learn from those who came before me and find comfort that there’s always a path forward.”

His last words hit you hard, a weight pressing on your chest as your eyes drew up to your mate’s sparkling hazel. “Do you ever feel like there isn’t a way forward?” you dared to whisper.

Swallowing thickly, Cassian took a deep breath before turning to fully face you. “Before you, I did. Since you came into my life, I feel that there is always hope. But there is wisdom to be found here, nonetheless.”

You hummed at his intelligent words, pulling a book from the shelf that caught your eye and pressed a kiss to your mate’s cheek. Leading him towards a warm sofa by a roaring fire, the both of you relaxed in the comfort of your place of solace.

A calloused thumb rubbed your shoulder, gently waking you from a sleep you didn’t realize you had fallen into as you looked up at Cassian’s amused face. “It’s late,” he murmured, slowly pulling the book from where it laid open in your lap. “Want to go get some dinner in town tonight?”

Cheeks still flushed from sleep, you nodded and released a yawn, lazy smile spreading across your lips as Cassian helped you to stand. Reluctantly, you left your newfound eden and stepped back out into the chilly evening streets where a band played music.

Their old tune rang out down the street, various couples dancing and walking, children laughing as you were reminded both how timeless and special life is.

[sunnydbeam]

a lil flowa for u

so, regarding your pokemon au, i read earlier that you said one of your favorite pokemon was ceruledge. does that mean lyn's charcadet will evolve into ceruledge at some point?

That's a reasonable conclusion! However, and as ironic as it may be, I feel that due to the nature of that Charcadet (and Lyn), Armarouge would be the most appropriate evolution and would better fit the lore I have planned for that story

[insipid-drivel]

Warhorses: Which horses are actually good candidates, anyway?

This post is in honor of @warrioreowynofrohan, who asked the question in the comments under my guide, "Horses: Since There Seems To Be A Knowledge Gap". Their question, "Given what you said about too much weight breaking a horse’s spine, how did that work with knights in plate armour?" is one I'm going to try to answer here, since the answer can be very nuanced depending on where and when you're talking about.

Also, while I was a stable hand for years as well as a rider, I never had the opportunity to directly learn more ancient styles of tacking, horse training, and combat, so I don't have any direct experience to draw from with regard to horses used for military purposes. I'm still gonna do my best here with what I know, and research what I don't.

As I've covered in the past, large horses (draft horses) make less-than-ideal warhorses, and so do carriage horses like the elegant and dramatic Friesians.

Let's begin by addressing this from the perspective of creative writing. For you writers and content creators out there, an essential part to the continuity of any historically-themed work you do involving horses will be depicting breeds of horses that didn't exist before a certain time in history. I'm going to approach this question from the stance of, "Medieval-type era warhorses". Horses were used in warfare as late was World War II, but actual horses you ride into battle with knights and archers and bannermen? We actually have to drop the subject of specific modern breeds altogether aside from using them for comparisons.

When discussing warhorses, various cultures have approached them differently. Some cultures will value a specific type of horse above all others, such as the Mongolian Steppe Horse or the American Mustang. Other cultures, which may be from biomes and territories where multiple types of horses are needed for different forms of warfare and tactics, value whichever horses can get their jobs done without their riders getting killed.

Carrying vs. Pulling:

Horses have been used in warfare since as far back as 4000 BC, but their first applications were more as chariot horses. Humans have been riding and working with horses since before we even had stirrups to more easily ride them with! As archaeologists and anthropologists make more discoveries, the more we learn that we humans have been working closely with horses since before we had specialized tools to ride them with. The very first warhorses pulled chariots or carts, which is much easier for a horse's anatomy to handle compared to carrying a heavy weight like an armored rider on their backs, which puts stress directly on their spines where they have very little supporting muscle for supporting a lot of heavy downward weight.

Warhorse Size Categories:

Really, any breed of horse can apply to a niche in warfare if it's needed enough. Even very small, delicate horses have had their place in the history of human combat! Before I continue, it's important to know that there's a unique unit of measuring a horse's height. Rather than measuring a horse's height in centimeters or inches, they're measured in units called "hands". A single "hand" = ~4 inches/10.16cm, and a horse's height is measured based upon the distance between the bottom of their hoof to the tallest part of their shoulders, just at the base of the back of their necks. We don't actually include neck length/head height in a horse's measurements with traditional measuring.

Another rule of thumb: The average horse cannot safely carry anything heavier than about 30% of their total body weight. This is a serious factor to take into mind when deciding on a type of or breed of horse for a mounted warrior of any kind: You need to factor in the OC's starting body weight, and then add on the weight of armor, weapons, and any armor the horse itself may wear along with the weight of its tack.

Light-Weight Horses:

A few examples of lightweight horse breeds whose ancestors have historically been used in combat are Arabians, Barber Horses, and the magnificent Akhal-Teke. Lightweight and delicately-boned horses like those are best applied for military maneuvers that require precision, speed, and endurance, and the rider themselves should specialize in some form of combat or reconnaissance that doesn't require them to wear heavy metal or laminated armors. Archers are good candidates for riding smaller horses, or lightly-armored swordsmen like an Ottoman Janissary.

Central-Asian and North African horses also benefit from having a higher tolerance for hot climates. They can absolutely suffer from heatstroke and cardiac arrest from being forced to run and work in extreme temperatures and should always be provided with the same protective measures in a heatwave as any other horse, but they have a little bit of an edge over horses descended from freezing and temperate climates.

Medium-Weight Horses:

Medium-weight horses started showing up in the archaeological record around about the Iron Age, where chariot warfare was becoming an increasingly utilized form of mobile combat, and people needed bigger, stronger horses capable of pulling heavier loads - such as a chariot with two passengers rather than just one. As cultures began to develop heavier-duty armors made of metals and laminated materials, it also became important to breed horses that were tall and stocky (muscular and with relatively short spines compared to their height), and therefore more capable of carrying riders in increasingly heavy armor. Medium-weight horses were also essential at the dawn of the gunpowder age when the cannon came into use in siege warfare for pulling the heavy, iron cannons into position.

Medium-weight horses are really where we see the beginnings of knights and other warrior classes on horseback come into the forefront of warfare. When you have a horse that's big and strong enough to carry heavier armor and heavier weapons along with a rider wielding them, you have a much deadlier force at your disposal. Strikes from a sword or spear from the back of a galloping horse basically results in a sword capable of cutting through enemy soldiers like a hot knife through butter.

Important Note: Traditionally, cavalrymen wield blunt swords when attacking from a charging horse's back. When a horse is charging at full speed, the sharpness of a blade becomes less important than the blade's ability to stay in one piece when it impacts hard armor and bone. A blunted edge basically turns a cavalryman's sword into a thin club that's better at holding up against smashing through multiple layers of armor and bone compared to a thinner, more delicate sharpened edge that can shatter from a high-speed impact.

Heavy-Weight Horses:

The direct ancestors of modern draft horses, such as the Shire Horse, only began to appear around about the beginning of the European Medieval Era, and were far and away not even close to the enormous sizes of the draft horses we have today. Any horse counts as a "Heavy-weight" classed horse if its weight exceeds 1500lbs/680kgs.

Heavy-weight horses were really more bred for pulling enormous weights rather than carrying knights. While yeah, there is some evidence that suggests that heavy-weight horses were used by heavily-armored knights, historians argue a lot about whether it was a rule or an exception (such as with Henry VIII, who continued to ride well after he had begun to weigh more than 350lbs/158kgs, and even went to war in France in his final years on horseback). Generally speaking, medium-weight horses tend to be the right balance of agile and strong for carrying someone that's going to actively be fighting. Heavy-weight horses were bred to be a lot more tolerant to the chaos and frightening stimulation of the sounds of battle, but medium-weighted horses generally tended to be more suited to moving efficiently through dense packs of soldiers and weaving around other horses.

Ponies:

While actually being the smallest class of warhorse, ponies were essential when it came to carrying cargo and working as pack-horses. In certain forms of terrain, such as mountains, large horses pulling big carts full of supplies or soldiers could often be extremely impractical. In situations where an army needed to move on foot and form a narrow line in order to travel, ponies were able to traverse much narrower and rougher terrain while carrying smaller loads to their destination, when heavier horses would struggle more under their own weight and dexterity.

Europe-Specific Terminologies:

If you're a writer reading this and writing a piece set in the European Medieval age, there are specific terms used for the different classes I listed of warhorses above that I'm gonna list:

Destriers: The Destrier was a universal term for the iconic knight-carrying, jousting horse. They were also sometimes referred to as "Great Horses" due to their reputations in combat settings. Destriers could have just about any appearance, but were rarely taller than 15.2 hands, or 62inches/157cm. They were capable of carrying heavily-armored knights (although knights in full plate mail rarely rode into battle and stayed on the horse the entire time - they tended to specialize at grouping up and killing a lot of footsoldiers swarming them at once and preventing breaks in defenses from being overwhelmed by an oncoming army; in the case of Edward the Black Prince, we have substantial evidence in the form of his surviving brigandine that a mounted soldier or knight was more likely to wear chainmail and brigandine with a tabard on their body with their arms, feet, and heads the most heavily armored in plate when they intended to fight on horseback, making them a little lighter and more maneuverable, but I may be waaay off base there because I'm thinking of more of Italian soldiers who used full plate and how they applied it in battle more than any other example) and wearing armor themselves.

Interestingly, the sex of a destrier was often chosen strategically. Stallions (horses that haven't been neutered) are more aggressive, and could both act as combatants on their own if their knight was dismounted or killed, but could give away an army's location if they were attempting to move stealthily. Stallions whinny and shriek a lot when they're horny or arguing with each other, which is most of the time.

Mares were often chosen by Muslim armies for being much less vocal, and therefore much more capable of stealth. Geldings (neutered males) were the preferred mounts of the Teutonic Knights, a Catholic military group, since they couldn't be stolen and used to breed more horses for the enemy army.

Coursers:

Coursers were the most common Medieval European warhorse. It's important to remember that in Medieval Europe, most armies were almost entirely comprised of common men - serfs subject to the will of their landlords, not far removed from slaves in many ways - who couldn't afford the highly-prized and expensive Destriers. Coursers were usually a bit lighter than Destriers, but were still strong enough to carry someone wearing armor. Coursers were also a little more utilitarian, because they were also sometimes used in hunting as well as warfare, so they had a valuable use outside of warfare that the owner could benefit from.

Rouncey:

A rouncey was an all-purpose horse that could be used for leisure and travel-riding as well as be trained for war. They were a lot more likely to be found on the farm of a serf or independent farmer of some kind, as they could fill a lot of different roles depending on what they were needed for. Their sizes weren't really important as much as their ability to get the job done.

It's also critical to remember that, when talking about warhorses, we're usually talking about eras long past. In general, thanks to resource availability and incredible advances in medicine, modern humans are significantly taller, and therefore heavier, than people from the European Medieval era and prior. While fatness was valued in many cultures for its suggestion of wealth, most working-class and serf-class people worked intensely physically-demanding daily lives just to maintain their own homes. They were a few inches shorter on average than we are today, had greater fluctuations in body fat distribution depending on how harsh or bountiful the harvest season had been and the season in which a war was taking place (the average person's weight would swing by 30lbs or more on average every year prior to the industrial era), and cavalry were usually chosen based upon skill in the saddle as well as physical size when considering the application of medium or heavy armor being placed on the horse's back and body.

[lady-of-glass-and-bone]

Sway The Stars Which Dazzle Like Pearls

Pairing: Din Djarin x female!reader

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Warnings: reader is mute due to trauma that isn't specified and uses sign language taught to her by Din, everything in italics is being signed.

A/N: I feel like I haven't written anything in forever and I was worried about not being able to get this done in time and that if I did that it wouldn't be good enough anyway. But, here it is, good or bad. If I got anything wrong as far as communicating via sign language, let me know so I can do better! My fic for the Summer Lovin' 2024 writing challenge. @pedgito @chaotic-mystery

The planet they land on seems to have an eternal night, a never ending full moon and black sand beaches. Here, the stars reflect perfectly in the still waters, a mirror image of the galaxy spread out above. She walks down the Razor Crest's ramp silently, assessing these surroundings with a sharp eye.

He watches her squat down on her haunches to scoop up a handful of the dark sand, crushing it around between her fingers like she's feeling for the quality of an expensive fabric woven on a far off planet. Her face gives little away of what she is thinking.

Din doesn't know much about her past, about what happened before he found her stowed away on the Crest and petrified of her own shadow after his (first) explosive departure from Nevarro, the tiny green kid in tow.

All he knows is that she can't talk. The words are there, he can see them tumbling around behind her eyes, but they seem to get clogged up in her throat, like a gummed up hyperdrive. So he'd started teaching her to sign.

Her footsteps crunch the gravel-sand as she makes her way over to his side, brushing her hands together to clean off the excess sand but some grains still cling to the creases between her fingers, almost sparkling in the moonlight like jewelry. She pins him with a questioning gaze and signs

'Why?'

"Why what?" he motions backs and she fumbles another word, face scrunched in frustration until she finds her rhythm

'Why are we here? Bounty?"

Din shakes his head, considering what he would call this little excursion between jobs before he replies with

"Pitstop, for fun"

"You do fun?" she pulls her mouth into a smirk, pleased at her little joke.

Din tries not to sigh. He's glad they can communicate so freely now, it's light-years better than their rough early days where any movement to sudden or big had her flinching away violently. But he has no idea how she learned to put so much sarcasm into her gestures. Not that he minds now. Anything is better than seeing that unfiltered terror in her eyes.

"Come" he turns and takes a step toward the gently lapping waters edge but doesn't hear her follow, he turns back with a questioning tilt of his helmet

"What is it?" she asks, expression concerned, still rooted in place

"Something good" he assures

"Promise?"

"Yes."

When they reach the water, the ship and the sleeping green child inside it are only a few yards away, a hulking silhouette jutting out of the otherwise flat landscape.

Pulling off his gloves and tucking them safely away, Din crouches down, the toes of his boots touching the water. His companion mimics him, watching carefully as he slowly submerges his hands in the water before carefully feeling around in the wet sand below.

She taps her knuckles into the soft place just below his beskar pauldron, knowing from unfortunate experience not to catch the armor with her bare hands, furrowing her brows when he turns to look at her, seeing her ask

"What are you looking for?"

"Just wait" Din says aloud and she leans back to sit properly on the ground, still curiously watching him dig around, one of her own hands drawing meaningless shapes in the sand beside her.

It takes him a few tries before he finds it, a small orb made and shaped by time and natural forces until it was washed ashore, waiting to be found.

Sitting back beside her, Din holds out his find nestled in the palm of his hand. It stands out stark white and shining in the odd moonlight.

She signs something he doesn't recognize at first, she watches him for a moment, waiting, and then tries again

"Diamond"

"No, pearl" he says out loud and signs it once, twice, then watches her repeat the motion.

The first few times are uncertain as her eyes dart between her hands and his, studying the movement he makes which shapes this new word. Then a couple more times, each with more confidence until

"Pearl" she signs, grinning over at him

"Good" Din smiles beneath his helmet, holding out the pearl to her, an offering.

"Mine?" she quirks a brow at him, still uneasy with receiving things she doesn't feel she has earned.

Din just watches her, hand outstretched and waiting patiently for her to accept this small gratitude.

Eventually, with the barest brush of her fingertips across his naked palm, she takes the pearl. Holding it reverently, worry flashing across her face before she curls her hand around the gifted treasure.

Din had learned to sit with silence long before he met her, so he turns his head out toward the water, then upward just a little, like he's watching the stars.

He isn't. He is giving her the privacy to feel those sometimes tumultuous emotions that come with receiving a gift.

She frowns at her closed fist, lips pulled down in a deep scowl. If her eyes look a bit glossy, she would never admit it. There's a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, a roiling feeling that urges her to not accept this. Not to trust.

But she can see the Mandalorian from the corner of her eye, pretending to watch the stars, nervously rubbing the tips of his fingers together and smearing the gritty sand there until it sloughs off and back onto the beach.

Her courage feels like a finite thing, urgently flopping around in her chest like a gasping fish on land. She leans over closer to the Mandalorian, sees his helmet shift but not quite turn fully toward her as she wraps her arms around his bicep, the pauldron on his shoulder cold even through her shirt.

Hugging him feels like a monumental leap, her cheek pressed against the mudhorn sigil on his beskar shoulder. Her courage has waned and she feels weak, vulnerable, but the little pearl clutched in her hand reminds her that it isn't gone for good.

That it is okay to lean into her companion, her friend, who seems like a forever sturdy rock in the storm that has eclipsed her life.

Awkwardly, arms still wrapped around her Mandalorian's arm, she tells him

"Thank you."

Din makes a sound of acknowledgement, smiling gently beneath his helmet and watching her from the corner of his eye. Her face seems content and his chest constricts in pride, to see that he has hopefully earned her trust enough for her to relax in his presence.

"You're not even looking at the stars" she softly accuses, leaning forward to fully grab his attention

"Neither are you" he retorts.

She huffs a small laugh, tilting her head and raising a hand slowly toward the smooth metal cheek of his helmet. She guides him so they are face to face. Sort of.

They stare, her watching the reflection of the stars in the visor of his helmet, wondering just a little if his eyes are bright beneath all this beskar. If he's looking at her as gratefully as she is him.

Din watches her face, unsure about the hand she has on his helmet, but far more distracted with trying to decipher her expression. Joy seems too big, maybe contentment?

Either way, neither one of them is watching the stars turn above them, a precious pearl clutched between them, a symbol of more. Of hope.

[meandtheyeehaws]

Hey

I knew you from your Overwatch days

I miss your roadrat art, but am really enjoying your hellaverse art as well

im glad friend drawing ow was a lot of fun. it made me learn how to draw robots and more detailed armor

also happy pride month to them

[gremlingottoosilly]

The Horror and The Wild [Emperor!Konig x fem!Reader] Medieval Fantasy AU (ch.4)

You had a nice, simple life. Serve the princess, obey the princess, protect the princess with your life. You never thought that this nice, simple life would bring you to be kidnapped by the infamous Northern Emperor. Konig never thought that kidnapping a wife would be much easier than courting one.

CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2| Chapter 3| Chapter 4| you're here! AO3 Word count: 3469 Tags/Warnings: Medieval fantasy/Alternative European history AU, Age gap, Enemies(one-sided)to lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Forced marriage, Size difference(Konig is absolutely huge), Somewhat one-sided slow burn, Yandere Konig Warnings for this chapter: Dub-con oral sex(f!receiving), outdated views regarding sex

— Now, dear princess, your husband will expect certain…qualities of his wife. Please, you must listen to this as closely as possible if we want to avoid…traumas. 

You pout, eating the apple that was provided to you by a group of servants who looked way too scared to be appointed to a princess. If Her Highness saw this, she would order them whipped – a servant shall never look unhappy in front of their patron, as not to invoke nasty feelings of sadness, misery, and empathy in the royal rulers. Princess made you smile and laugh through hours of her extensive, albeit a bit improvised and amateur, singing. You were to hold her hair while she was doing it, listening to the melodies of desire to escape the castle. 

The servants in front of you were sent by the Emperor – König, to…teach you something. You were not too interested in his, way too invested in weird fruits from foreign countries that they provided – still, you are too well-mannered to ignore them. 

— Traumas? Is his Emperor’s Illustrosicy going to torture me? 

Servants look over at each other, nervous. You tilt your head to the side, trying to see if you can decipher their gazes – but you see nothing but sympathy. Sad, miserable kind. Your blood runs cold as you get another bite of that apple. 

— You’re as innocent as Emperor said, your Majesty. 

You weren’t, in reality – you’re a liar, a traitor to your nation, the only one of the servants who was too scared to die alongside the royal family and performed that foolish gamble in order for a chance to save your hide. Such silly things like an untouchable hymen between your legs or lack of knowledge of intimacy, saved for a few books, are nothing compared to the life you are saving in your mind, There is nothing innocent about you or your actions. 

— W…well, you see…you are of child-bearing age. 

That was up for discussion. You might be an adult by all standards, a bit too ripe even, too sheltered for the age in which young men are already taking their family’s businesses and women are giving birth to their second and third children, but it doesn’t mean you want to bear someone’s kid. Definitely not conceive from a man who destroyed your future. 

— I won’t do it. 

You act like a princess would – bratty and pouty, all the new dresses and the room they place you in acting like a perpetuar of your ego. 

— My Lady, this isn’t up for discussion. Please, we need to…we need to teach you how to do it, in order to prevent…accidents. 

— What accidents? 

The other servant, an older lady with tired eyes and snappy gestures, took out a pile of drawings from the bag she was holding. Quite a lot of drawings. Quite detailed drawings. Quite nasty drawings. 

Quite…bloody drawings. 

Gods, is this what a woman must endure during lovemaking? Is this even lovemaking, or is this a dissection straight from the medical book? The drawings are lewd and horrifying – whoever was the artist, they didn’t spare the details of the act. Pain, blood, torn flesh…god, if they wanted you to learn how to take your husband properly, they did a horrible job – now you don’t ever want to see him again. Not without armor plates protecting…that thing. 

— I w…won’t do it. Behead me this instant.

Your voice is weak, horrified. Servants look equally scared. 

— Your Majesty, you must know that it’s just…the worst outcome. If you listen to your lessons and relax, you will escape such a fate. 

— How could a living being relax while they are being impaled on a spear?!

— With certain balms and extracts, such fate can be escaped. 

— How can a balm prevent this?! Too angry to ever listen to the servants, you drip the drawings from your hands, along with a half-eaten apple. Un-ladylike, but you need to preserve your life – and your dignity – before they would show you even more horrifying things that would never let you sleep again. Tugging on the heaviness of your skirt, you ran to the nearest hallway as soon as possible. 

The emperor’s palace is disgustingly big and dark – you’d say it was magnificent in that scary, gothic style, but you don’t have the time to think about all the artistic choices that the architects made by installing so many dark hallways in a place that suppose to protect Emperor from possible assassins. Still, you drop to the nearest dark corner, hoping that no one will follow you. 

With a calm sigh, you brush the dust from your skirts. God, you had to bring that apple with you – it was delicious. 

— I never heard anyone calling my cock  a spear before, Liebling. You’re full of surprises. 

Big, gloved hands are enveloping your waist, putting you in the hug you didn’t want. This embrace is all too familiar and too terrifying – you forget that this castle serves the only true owner, and your desire to escape will never be considered an option. Like a rabbit in the wolf’s mouth, you freeze. The worst company you could expect after such a horrifying lesson – your only hope is that, like men from the novels you and Princess were reading sometimes, The Emperor was into his comrades more than he would be into you. 

His warm hands, pulling you into a tight hug against his body, however, make you think otherwise. 

— Let go of me! Pl…please. 

You plead because the drawings installed a new fear into your body. You're not afraid of death – if anything, you wish for it. However, the fait of constant pain and suffering which each nightly visit makes you more terrified than any death sentence would. 

König only laughs, holding you as close to him as possible. A warm hand grazes over your stomach, making you shiver from anticipation. You don’t know what he is thinking about – you also don’t want to. 

— Why would I let go of my precious wife? 

— I’m not your wife yet. 

— And won’t be for quite a while, considering the lessons my servants taught you? 

Blood drains from your face. Even the slightest reminder makes you whimper – like a puppy without its mother, you let go of a pathetic little sound, and your face finds comfort in the armor plates that Knog wears even in many of his castles. Cold metal makes you slightly calmer, and you can force the dreams of touching his chest instead of deep in your mind. Bane to all the lewdness, as you saw the amount of blood it would drain from your body. 

— I will never succumb to such fate. 

— I promise it won’t be that bad. I can whip my servants for installing fear in you if you want to, little princess. 

No matter how scared they made you feel, you will never bestow such fate on any of the servants – you, perhaps, the only one who knows how hard and horrible work as a lady in waiting might be. You might not be the perfect princess, but you certainly aren’t a cruel one. 

— No. They…they shall not be harmed, Your Majesty. 

He chuckles, pushing a hand on your face. A few tears fall down your cheeks – he drains them with his gloved finger, making you whimper only more. God, you look divine like this – eyes are glistening with tears, the face is hot from fear and embarrassment, the mouth is open with a sweet little pout…it takes every last inch of his self-control not to simply pick you up and bring you to his bedroom before you could say anything. 

— You’re kind for a princess. 

There is suspicion in his voice – but you quickly try to brush it away by forcing yourself out of his embrace. Unfortunately, he only holds you tighter, making you bury your face in his armor again. To be honest, it’s not the worst place to be. 

— Shouldn’t you be in the courtroom? 

— I ran. Never liked to greet new people. 

You almost choke on your breath. Is he serious?! His face betrays his emotions – despite how confident his mask is, you can see that his eyes are colder than usual. More nervous than usual. His hands are shaking, if only for a little bit, holding you tight, as you can simply escape through his fingers like sand. You’d love to have such powers. 

— I thought the Emperor had responded. 

— I do. And an army of men to do these responsibilities for me. 

— You’re hiding from my country’s Ambassadors? 

— Collaborators and traitors of your people, yes. The only ambassador I care about is in my hands. 

With this, he quickly pushes you up in his hands, forcing you to sit on the cold stone ledge. The new dress design makes it possible to manipulate and move the skirt as he pleases – you hate this new fashion because it makes it ridiculously easy for König to simply push your skirt upwards, revealing your legs and your dignity, concealed by only a pair of short, frilly white underpants with so many bows and ribbons, it feels obscene. 

You try to kick him in the face, but he catches your ankle before you can do anything. He was a horrible, terrible man – totally unfit for the ruler of half of the world, you have no idea how a man this villainous could still be held in high regard for his people. This place is just as barbaric as their ruler, you presume – no dignity or sense of taste as König holds your skirt up, tearing apart the delicate fabric. God, it probably cost a fortune! 

Emerald green fabric lays like green ocean waves under your legs. You must admit, even the cold of the inner parts of the palace does not make you feel uncomfortable – if anything, this moment of exposure of your legs makes you feel a bit more comfortable and fresh. The light breeze caresses your legs, and you almost want to close your eyes and just enjoy wearing clothes without the stuffiness of the full gown. 

With your corset, torn skirt, and underpants, you almost feel like you’re wearing pants – an obscene picture, you assume, a lady should never show her ankles to anyone but her husband…and you would do everything to stop him from being marked as one. Still, König places his large imposing body between your legs, and you panic immediately – is this monster terrible enough to show you what those illustrations meant, not even in the comfort of a marriage bed, but in the coldness of the stone hallway? You close your eyes, kicking him to your heart’s content – and he is laughing every time you’re trying to resist, only catching both of your ankles in his grip and forcing them open. God, this is the end. Torture that you never wanted to experience will be bestowed upon you right about…

His tongue goes to rub you through the rough fabric of your underpants. Dispute all the layers of expensive material, your maidenhood feels like it had been set on fire. 

You are suddenly aware of the silly things you have between your legs. You can feel them too well right now – every second of movement of his tongue against sensitive flesh makes your legs kick him less and less. Your nails are trying to dig into the stone of a small ledge you were sitting on – but you can’t do anything to stop this sweet torture he is perpetuating. You want for everything to stop this instant, and you want for him to finally take off your undergarments. 

— Wh…wha…what are you doing?! You don’t scream as loud as you can, only because you know that the maids are nearby and you don’t want to be making a scene. Putting the emperor back in his place and revealing him as a pervert would be nice, of course – but it wasn’t as nice as having your dignity saved. You bite your lips, feeble attempts to save at least parts of yourself – still, you feel like you’re being boiled alive by his masterful tongue, without even the need to bring your pants down and feel him on your flesh directly. 

— I want to show you how nice this could be. 

— How nice what could be?! You are still kicking your legs, and he is slowly taking down the fabric of your underpants. You wish he had exposed hair so you could tug on it – you wish he wasn’t afraid of showing you his face, just so you could break it properly. A lady should always protect her virginity from a man with evil intentions, and König was certainly the most evil person of them all. 

Still, his tongue felt so good, circling around the parts you were only finding accidentally, blindly searching for pleasure like a dumb kitten, trying every little button in your body to see what would make you squirm. He is masterful at this, every action is deliberate and strong – every little thing in his movements makes you wonder just how many women he bedded. 

You can still feel the little tremble in his hands, his fingers that supported you and kept your legs apart are trembling, if only just a bit – you wonder if he truly is nervous about everything he is doing or if he just wants to make everything perfect. His touch leaves a trail of bruises on your inner thighs and you never thought that you’d yearn for a man whose touch is literally hurting you. 

— I know how to make… consumation go painless, little princess. Certainly have the experience for this. 

— Is fondling my undergarments a part of this experience, Your Highness? 

— If you wish for me to lost my control, little princess.

Before you could say anything else about not wanting for him to simply take off your underpants and throw them on the cold floor of the castle, he had already lowered them to hang around your ankles – revealing your sensitive folds, already glossy and wet from all the fondling he performed to make you nice and ready for him. 

König knew he shouldn’t be doing this – losing control would be too easy in this case. Little princess, out of her own depth, can barely stop him when he wants to take something precious from her – still, he wanted to at least try to be slower, softer, to make everything perfect and make her his precious trophy. Her dread over bedding him would prove horrible for their marriage – if she didn’t wish for the workers to be saved, he would already sent those dumb maids away. 

Princess is adult enough to learn the pleasures of being a woman – still, he understood why a king would want to hide a precious flower like this. You don’t behave like a spoiled brat would, no matter how much you want to make him think you were nothing but a pouty face and frowned brows, and he wants to see your true self – your inner nature, revealing itself in front of him. And he knows just a way to do this…

Your cunt is perfect – he is a soldier, a man of war and little romance, he can’t sing you a song of how beautiful and perfect your maidenhood is, but he can lick it and tease it and make you come on his tongue more than you ever could with that dainty fingers of yours. 

He isn’t ashamed of touching your sweetness when he is burning his face between your legs. Not even caring that his hood, which he had to draw back as fast as possible, is going to get messy with all o your juices, he licks and tugs on your clit, your folds, on every sensitive bit of skin of your body. 

And, by god, are you sensitive? 

Soon, your little cries of pleasure are turning into moans that you are pathetically trying to hide. Soon you are marking his rough, rugged face wet with your juices – his nose is pressed on your clit constantly, and that well-mannered, perfectly bred royal woman in your body is moaning like a common whore. 

König isn’t trying to be too gentle – his mind is filled with that boyish nerves and anxiety, the fear of getting spotted not because anyone would have anything to say to the literally fucking emperor, but because he doesn’t want anyone else to see how easily he can drown little princess in pleasure. She is a perfect girl, so pretty for him, so nice and wet when he pushes his tongue in and out. 

He forgot the last time he experienced such pleasure – his dick only grows with each gentle stroke of tongue in your folds, and he doesn’t even need to touch himself. You’re perfect for him, writhing under his touch, he had to force himself to stop putting too much pressure on your poor swollen clit. König almost forgot just how sensitive you are – he had to introduce you slowly to the world of pleasure, not pushing you into the depths before you could even get married, but…well, he was never one to follow the rules – and you, as his precious bride, deserved something nice outside of the wedlock. 

— St…stop, it’s t’ much…

You are mumbling, holding his hood in your hands, and he is almost afraid you are going to pull it to reveal his face even more – but even your ruined skirt is enough of a cover to make his identity concealed, and he isn’t afraid of pushing your gummy walls with his tongue, gently caressing your insides. 

You are clenching around his tongue, the intrusion is unfamiliar to you – he makes sure he kisses your clit from time to time, holding the sensitive bud between his teeth so as to threaten you gently. He usually involves a lot more biting and would love to put some permanent marks on your thighs and soft lower tummy, but if you were scared of the drawings those dumb maids put on to you, he doesn’t want to fuel your fear any further. He could try later, making your perfect body into a canvas for his desire. 

— Patience is a grace for a princess, ja? Be patient, Meine Liebe. 

— Pl…please, stop, I don’t…

— What is it? 

— It’s too much, you shouldn’t…

— I’m not claiming you yet. God won’t be against a bit of fun, Schatzi. 

— I’m against it…

— Your moans tell another story, little princess.

He knows you don’t want to be patient – he tugs at every nerve inside your body, his tongue swings in and out, and his lips caress your soft folds, collecting any juice that might be escaping. He will have to gift you another dress after this – but he is so used to seeing you in torn clothes it becomes a thing that stirs his manhood again and again. You look perfect when you’re not perfect – by god, he is unable to control himself. 

You whine lightly as he presses a final kiss to your clit, catching your orgasm and drinking your pleasure. He is a messy eater through and through – his stubble makes you whimper from sensitivity, you sob lightly as he pushes back, a hood returning to conceal his face before your dazed eyes would be able to catch him. 

Hell, you look precious. 

Panting, with sweat beads glossy on your skin, with your lips open and moans escaping it – with your face completely turned into an expression of enormous pleasure, he doesn’t know what to do with himself as he watches you breathe heavily, chest going up and down. If he could, he would chain you to a bed in his bedroom, not ever allowing your precious figure to escape. 

He might just do this when you’re married.

You whimper under him, your eyes are still glazed with that pleasurable expression, making him smile under his hood. You may hate him all you want, but he sees the truth – knows just how perfect you are in your stubborn desire to defy him. 

— Wh…what was it? 

You are still shocked but regain some of your senses – you take on your underpants quickly, stubbornness spreading across your warm, embarrassed face. How he loves that expression. 

— I wanted to show you that our wedding night wouldn’t be as bad. 

— I would rather live without a wedding night, Your Majesty. 

— Now, was it that bad? 

You tilt your head to the side. 

— I am not here to feed your ego. 

— You’re sure it is feeding my other senses. 

He brushes his hand over your face. You allow him to – not because you wanted his touch, but because you needed some time to think, and his touch was gentle enough to ignore. Yes. That is the truth.