#so I've been practicing drawing those characters
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nortedwayfinder · 1 month ago
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trick or treat!!
Hello!! For you I rolled... Treat!
I have so many doodles of "Team Blue" from this older post.
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+ Bonus LoZ doodles!
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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 6 months ago
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Shout out to all artists who had to work without any strong direction or instruction.
I wish you a merry “the client likes it anyways”
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pizzaloops · 2 years ago
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Just wanted to apologise for the current silence gwahahah we DO see your asks and you have many and they are all good and smart and lovely and i want to answer them all so so much GWAHAHAH i've just been a little busy but !! i'll answer them as soon as I can <3
In the meantime? have a bonus Pizzahead drawing
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keeps-ache · 2 years ago
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what's that there?
[opaque background below]
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quantum1mmortality · 29 days ago
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hihi! I saw your curly stuff, I love how you write him!! If it’s possible, nsfw headcanons for what turns him on? have a great day <3
Have I ever mentioned how much I love writing Curly? No? Well I am now. I love writing him. He's so awesome sauce, so boyfriend. My scrunkle
Tw/cw; lingerie, praise, mentions of masochism, accidentally almost wrote a one shot for the last one whoops lolololol, semi public sex IMPLIED
Not proofread
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1; Lingerie
You guys can't look at me and tell me this man wouldn't go BALLISTIC for a nice set of lingerie. He makes good money at his job, good enough to be able to buy multiple sets of high quality, lacy lingerie for you to wear for him; then make you do a fashion show for him when you get them. Curly definitely comes off as a thigh guy, so he'd pick out all the sets with garter belts, specifically so he can slip his fingers under the seam and let go to see all that thigh movement. It actually drives him wild. Those sets can be pretty expensive, so hopefully he gets a raise soon since he's tearing apart every set he gets you.
2; Praise
I know it's overdone to say a character gets turned on by being praised but idc. This man has a praise kink and I will DIE on that hill. For anyone else, a praise to him wouldn't matter. He hears them constantly in his line of work, so at this point it's just noise. But from you? You like something about him? Oh no, he's hard. You could compliment him on the most mundane of things, say his uniform looks good on him and he's thinking about that the entire time he's at work. By the time he gets home, he's in genuine pain at how turned on he's been ALL DAY and not being able to help himself. He could, but he'd rather you do it. He's quite the masochist.
3; Titles
Imagine this; you're the wife of a well respected captain at Pony Express, and you decide to be a good wife and bring your beloved husband lunch. How sweet! You go to his department and call out to him, "Captain, I've brought lunch for you~" you giggle, drawing out his title. He looks up from.. whatever he was doing only to find you, holding a lunch box with a smile. Okay stop imagining, it's headcanon time.
Obviously the first thing he's going to do is thank you for lunch, he was famished. But after that, it's all blurry. It's like being with you has unlocked a bunch of new experiences for him, he never thought being called his title, the title he earned, would turn him on so much. It's like hearing it come from you was completely different from anyone else saying it. You ended up staying his entire lunch break and talking to him, only for your words to fall on deaf ears. He could barely even focus on what he was eating, let alone what you were telling him. Eventually he just had to excuse himself from the conversation, leaving you alone as he attempted, ATTEMPTED to satisfy himself. After a while he just gave up and went back out to where you were, told you the situation, and asked for your help. He was practically begging you, what were you supposed to do? Leave him there? No, you're a good wife. Of course you'd help him, right?
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A/n; sometimes I forget I'm supposed to be writing hcs and accidentally lock in too much and go on little tangents. I'm suffering from success but it kind of fucks the vibe up ngl
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sugurufic · 9 months ago
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Co-Parenting with Suguru
AU where Geto didn't kill the entire village but adopted Nanako and Mimiko (I love mommy geto)
Word Count: 5.3k
Summary: Geto is able to adopt Mimiko and Nanako with your help, and how the girls with Gojo set you two up. Acquaintances to lovers, idiots who care for each other. (pure fluff, and i've tried to avoid using y/n)
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You wouldn't say you and Geto were good friends, but when you were asked to testify on his behalf in front of the higher ups, you readily agreed. You were tasked to look after the twin girls he had brought back from the village and they were the sweetest little girls you had ever met. Even if Geto had killed those villagers, you couldn't blame him - they were torturing two innocent souls on problems caused by their own vices. 
Shoko and Gojo couldn't testify to Geto's character - everyone knew they were practically joint at the hip - the three of them are always together. You were closer to Utahime  your senpai, known to not like Gojo and Geto very much. With whatever casual conversations you had had with Geto, you hadn't really found a reason to dislike him. And hearing Nanako and Mimiko call him “Geto-Sama” in their sweet little voices only helped in solidifying your high opinion of him.
You heard their narration of the night and how Geto with his incredible bangs and magic powers stopped the evil people hurting them and took him away and dropped them into your arms.
“Do you really think any of those could be trusted with kids?” Geto asked. You snorted in response and gladly accepted to take care of the two lovely little girls.
“Your Geto-Sama will be right back with you,” you promised the girls while closing the buttons of your uniform. “I will be back in a bit. I've got dolls for the both of you,”
“Thank you,” they tell you, adding “sama” to your name. You blush but don't say anything, having already told them to not address you as such multiple times over the couple of days.
“I don't believe that Geto-San could have gone out of his way to hurt those people. In fights with curses, collateral damage is always there, and Geto had two little sorcerers to take care of. I think we can excuse him this time.” You said when you were asked to speak.
“I don't see anything wrong with letting Geto-San take care of the two girls. They clearly trust him much more than anyone else, after how horribly they were treated by the village. I pitch on his behalf, that he would take utmost care of the two sorcerers under his care.” You said when the question for their custody arose.
“Thank you, thank you so much,” Geto said bowing in front of you once the elders were done with the hearing. They had dismissed everyone else to discuss the matter.
“You've got some lovely girls to parent now, Geto-san,” you say, returning his charming smile. “Are you sure you are ready to be a parent?”
“Not really, no,” He admits. “I will try my best though,” 
“Oh they are such lovely girls, I have half a heart to keep them for myself,” You fawn, feeling suspiciously giddy. “If you ever need a babysitter-”
“I will definitely call you,” Geto nods with a smile on his beautiful face. He has always been beautiful, but today with his hair half-up, half-down, he looks especially charming. He rushes away on hearing footsteps and you walk the short distance to the dormitories. 
“Hello girls!” You excitedly enter your room, holding out a bunch of cookies in your hands, thanks to Utahime. “The final decision of the higher ups will come later today, but Geto should be free to see you,” You give them the stack of cookies and then seeing the styled dolls add, “Do you girls like dressing up?”
You smile with the way their eyes widen with excitement and open your humble wardrobe in the dormitory, giving them access to everything they'd need to get dressed up. They decide to dress you up instead, and the three of you are full of giggles as they take your makeup and freely draw on your face - and be surprisingly good at it. You play some of your favourite music, which the girls seem to enjoy and then they paint your nails. They dress you in your best clothes and you love the way they've styled you.
There's still a long time left before the higher ups will announce the decision, so you take the girls out shopping to distract them. Fortunately, your income as a sorcerer allows you to have the freedom to spoil your girls - and you love it to an alarming extent. Mimiko and Nanako have got excellent taste, you'll credit them that - they pick out the cutest dresses for each other and coloured lip balms that compliments each other's hair well. You encourage them to change into their new clothes in the mall itself  and take so many pictures of them and with them - and you are almost sad at the thought of letting Geto have them, but that's something you will be sad for later.
You've lost track of time at the mall, and when you get back it's already twilight. The girls had a lovely day, and they are still buzzing with excitement when you enter. 
Geto is sitting on your bed, in a semi-clear spot with almost all of your stuff on it - from the whirlwind that dressed you earlier. 
“Geto-Sama!” The girls scream with delight and kneel down in front of him with bows, showing how grateful they were to him - he motions them to get up and hugs them both simultaneously, but his foxy eyes hold your gaze as he says, “Mimiko and Nanako can live with me, from now.”
Your body reacts to the news faster than your mind, and you've already planted a kiss on his cheek and have your arms wrapped around him before you realise what you have done. A crimson blush colours his face along with your lipstick as he thanks you, his voice softer and breather than usual.
Your whole body heats up when you see the colour of your lipstick on his cheek  and the way he makes no attempt to wipe it off his flushed cheeks as Mimiko and Nanako look up at him with glittering eyes. 
You hear your name from Nanako’s mouth, noting the “sama” she had added yet again. Geto's eyes are affectionate as he hears them gush to him about you, about the fun they had with you. 
While Mimiko is in Geto's arms, Nanako makes her way into yours and you feel silly for tearing up. You hug her close to your chest, feeling her little arms around your shoulders. “Thank you for bringing back Geto-Sama,” Nanako whispers to you. You pat her head and plant a gentle kiss on her cheek, now mindful of the transferring lipstick.
The sound of a camera clicking snaps the four of you out of the trance, and you find the Gojo Satoru standing at the threshold of your room, clicking pictures of the four of you. “Suguru, you get a girlfriend and daughters and you forget all about your best friend,” He tuts, dramatically putting a hand over his chest, his icy blue eyes peeking from behind his sunglasses.
Gojo gasps on seeing the lipstick mark on Suguru’s cheek and takes out his phone to snap even more pictures of a blushing Suguru. “You forgot to mention things were this serious!” He says, mock offended.
“Gojo/Satoru, shut up!” You and Geto speak simultaneously.
“You're even saying the same things now,” Gojo sighs like an old man. Mimiko and Nanako burst out into a fit of giggles. “You agree with your godfather, Satoru, right girls?”
“Godfather? Where did that come from?” You ask, scrunching up your nose.
“Well it was gonna be Suguru as mother and myself as the father but now you've taken in as their mother and Suguru as their father so I've got to take the next best thing-!”
You hit him upside his white-haired head, veins on your forehead popping out with irritation at his words. Gojo rubs the top of his head muttering something under his breath. “This is why I always stay with Utahime Senpai,” you say, making Suguru and the twins laugh.
“Get him, girl!” Geto cheers you on.
“I won't give you Nanako and Mimiko if you continue to be roommates with him,” you declare, narrowing your eyes at Geto.
“I'm renting a place outside Jujutsu Tech,” Geto confesses with a sigh.
“WHAT-?” You and Gojo both yell in shock.
“It's for the best,” He says.
“You’re taking my girls away from me!” You complain, hand on your chest. “This is so unfair, Geto-kun. How will I see them now?”
.
It's been a couple of weeks, and the twins have adjusted well to Tokyo. You've adjusted too, opting to spend your time with them rather than with anyone else. Gojo keeps teasing you relentlessly, not even bothering to stop when the teachers are around. You've grown closer to Suguru as well, spending most of your off-time with him. Shoko has become your refuge now, with Utahime leaving for Kyoto.
It's one of your lazy Sundays, and you wake from your and the twins afternoon nap. They are snuggled to either side of you, and it’s unbearably hot but you don't dare move; admiring their serene, sleeping faces. Your left eye twitched at the thought of the torture your girls were subjected to by those foolish villagers, blood boiling once again.
You reach for your phone instead, going through some old photos. You've scrolled down to when the girls were living with you, a picture of the three of you with matching white bows in your hair when the door quietly opens, and Suguru quietly enters with a pitcher of water and some glasses. He chuckles at your grateful face, pouring out some water for you. You gulp down the water, your overheated body giving out a sigh of relief when the cold water hits your stomach. 
“It's time to wake them up,” He whispers, leaning down to your laying form.
“I don't really want to,” you whisper to him, pleading, not looking away from his pretty dark eyes. “Five more minutes?”
“Okay,” He relented with a sigh, sitting beside Nanako. You think of how different he is now, different from when he is exorcising curses and when he is with Gojo. You also find yourself liking this side of him, that only his girls got to see. And you, one of his girls. 
“Have you thought about their schooling?” You ask, voice quieter than a mouse. Geto lays down, facing you.
“I’ll have them homeschooled,” He replies just as quietly, frowning.
“That’s boring,” You say. “How will they adjust to the outside world? We can’t always be with them.”
“I’m terrified of the curses getting -”
“Teach them to defend themselves, just a little.” You suggest. “You know they can’t rely on others, they will need to learn to keep each other safe.”
Nanako stirs between the two of you, mumbling a hushed “papa,” under her breath as she snuggles into Geto. You fawn all over this, his pretty eyes wide and looking at you, seeking assurance. A gentle smile graces his beautiful face as he caresses the girl’s caramel hair and you have to resist the urge to pull his silky hair out of the bun and run your fingers through them. You opt to lightly pat Mimiko’s dark head instead, and she snuggles into you mumbling, “mama,”
Admittedly, you’ve teared up a little and you excitedly turn to Geto, who is giving you his prettiest smile that you’ve ever seen. In this little moment, you can pretend to be a happy family, living in a rose-coloured dream.
.
Suguru loves spending time with his girls, and it’s even more delightful when you join in. He especially loves it now that you’ve practically moved in - the guest room slowly filling up with your scent and trinkets. He enjoys taking all of you out to different spots in the city - the parks, the malls, cute cafes and even back to Jujutsu Tech, occasionally. 
Suguru wonders if the two of you could even be friends if not for Mimiko and Nanako - just adding to a long list of things that he was grateful for from that night. Your easy smile and sparkling eyes and the way you shower his girls with your love and care just keeps on adding to all the things he admires about you. He half wishes Satoru’s mindless teasing to become a reality, but he lacks the courage.
Currently, he’s sitting on the floor with Nanako behind him, brushing his hair out and Mimiko sitting beside her twin, acting as her inventory. He’s in pure bliss, and the only thing that can make this better is your presence.
Soon enough there is a knock on the door, and Suguru feels bad for hoping it’s you. Of course, he enjoys your company, but you deserve a chance to live freely and not spend every waking hour with him. Satoru and Shoko are there instead, with amazing takeout for Friday evening.
Satoru spoils his self-proclaimed goddaughters (Suguru wouldn’t trust anyone else, either) with the best of everything. Shoko loves teaching them new things, reading, maths, curses, the human body - everything watered down to suit their tender young age.
The four of them play board games while Suguru does the laundry, putting the clothes on the drying line. Usually, you would be here helping him with the clothes, words flowing easily between the two of you. 
He's distracted from laundry when he hears Satoru call your name followed by a whistle, then yelling, “I can't really blame Suguru, you look so hot!” He hears your grumble something, and then Mimiko and Nanako’s excited cheers on your appearance. “You had a date?!” Satoru says again, his voice loud and surprised.
Suguru’s heart feels heavy, and he makes his way to the rest leaving half of the clothes in the dryer. 
“It wasn't really a date honestly.” You complain. “That guy had no manners! Chewing with his mouth open and not even using the napkins properly! And he barely asked me anything, kept on boasting about himself - it was boring.”
Suguru feels half guilty for the way his chest relaxes, but his breath is taken away as soon as he sees you - you are always beautiful, but you look especially pretty with your brown leather skirt and black jumper. Your jewellery compliments your complexion, and your hair looks perfect. And he has to agree with Satoru- you look hot.
“Where's Suguru?” You ask, looking around.
“Right here,” He says, coming to stand beside you.
He loves the way your eyes sparkle - the lids decorated to match the outfit and a delighted glimmer in your eyes.
“So, I was at the mall and this reminded me of you,” you say, picking up the paper bag on the floor beside you. “The only good thing that came from today, to be honest.”
“You were thinking of me while out with another guy?” He teases.
You get flustered, but respond “Do you want this present or not?” You try to sound stern, but you hand him the bag regardless.
The bag feels heavier than he had expected, and glances in to see the professional camera he had been eyeing for a long time but didn't buy in favour of getting Mimiko and Nanako some limited edition dolls. His pretty eyes widened with delight. “How did you know?” He asks, unable to hold back his excited smirk.
“I am not blind, you know.” You retort, happy that he loved the gift.
“What is it?” Shoko asks. Satoru snaps the bag towards himself, taking out the box of camera and different lenses. “That is one expensive investment,” she remarks.
You chose to ignore her comment, distracting everyone with the little cake you had bought. “And I've got cake!”
“Is today someone's birthday?” Mimiko asks.
“No, baby.” You say, “It's okay to have cake without any reason,”
The little girls are delighted to see the half sky and half forest cake. Neither Suguru, you or his girls have any idea as to when the exact birthday is, so you have them cut the cake together, pretending it to be their birthday. When Suguru takes the cake to the kitchen to cut it up, you follow him, leaving the twins with Shoko and Satoru.
“Suguru, you should get dressed up fancy too,” You say. “Let’s take some good pictures with our girls. I’ll cut the cake up.”
“Okay,” He agrees.
Suguru decides to match you, consciously picking pieces that compliment your outfit well. He is inappropriately fancy dressed up for this photo session. He is thrilled to use the camera you’ve gifted him, and there is no better scene to be his first than his girls(you included) and his friends. He’s brushing his hair out, putting it up in a half updo before giving himself a once-over then leaving.
He’s surprised to see Mimiko and Nanako dressed up too, sitting on either side of Satoru as Shoko and you clicked pictures on the phones. His camera is sitting on the table, still in its box. He has a child-like excitement as he opens the box and checks the lenses with it - the excitement of setting up the camera is unmatched. Even though he enjoys spoiling his girls, he cannot deny that being spoiled is a nice feeling.
Once his camera is ready, he snaps a picture of the scene - you sit between your girls now as Satoru and Shoko click pictures. The flash from the camera distracts everyone, and his eyes find yours sparkling, looking at him with the sweetest smile on your face. He cannot help but wonder how your lips would taste. Suguru smiles at you instead as you wave him over, Mimiko and Nanako between the two of you. Satoru and Shoko give him a knowing once over, the deliberate matching not missing his best friend’s six eyes.
Your hand touches his - neither of you attempting to move as Satoru clicks a picture of the four of you in Suguru’s new camera. Satoru is grinning like an idiot seeing Suguru’s blushing face, motioning Shoko to click some pictures of their idiot friend in love with his daughters’ mother. It is stupid, Gojo thinks, the way that the two of you act like an old married couple but are too terrified to confess your feelings for one another.
“Mimiko, Nanako, come here for a moment, dears,” Gojo calls them. “Suguru, Y/N, please stand closer. You aren’t rivals.”
Suguru narrows his eyes at Satoru, but doesn’t comment on it, too happy when you’ve pressed yourself at his side, your arm wrapped around his waist. He swings his arm over your shoulder and leans his head towards yours. His face burns with the soft warmth of your body pressed against him - but he holds his smile steadily, looking at the camera. He looks at your beautiful face for a moment, the serene smile on your face and he forgets all about the jerk who had taken you out.
He just prays that he gets the courage to ask you for a dinner date - perhaps before someone else snatches you out of this perfect life of his.
.
Satoru is at Suguru’s flat, spending time with the sweet little girls. Both you and Suguru had some unavoidable business to attend to - you with some curses and him with his parents - and he finally got the chance to babysit them. Satoru is currently sitting on the floor of the twin’s bedroom, with pink bows in his white hair and getting his nails painted in a pale blue colour by Mimiko and Nanako.
It's not his favourite thing for amusement, but he lets it pass. He does get why Suguru lets his girls do these things to him - they look just so precious with the little forehead creased in concentration. His mind is cooking up a scheme - a scheme which can only be fulfilled with the little one's help. It’s only with him that they address you and Suguru as mama and papa- feeling too shy to address the two of you as such face-to-face.
“Dears, do you think your papa and mama love each other?” He asks the little angels painting his nails.
The girls share a secret look with a smirk that tells Gojo everything that he needs to know. “I’ve seen papa look at mama the way Nanako looks at crepes, Gojo-sama!” Mimiko snickers. “He always has a big smile when mama is home.”
“Mama is also the same, Gojo-sama!” Nanako says. “She looks at papa the way Mimiko looks at ice-cream!”
Gojo laughs at their childish description of the two, wondering how blind you guys must be to not see that the feelings are shared.
“Gojo-sama!” Nanako jumps, excited, as she remembers something else, her caramel bob shaking. “One evening, when mama fell asleep on the sofa, papa carried her to her room. We brought her blankets and he tucked her in, but she held his hands in her sleep.”
“Yes!” Mimiko jumps up too, brown eyes gleaming with giggles. “Papa had turned so pink when Mama did that. He could barely speak.”
“That sounds familiar,” Gojo giggles with them. “Do you want to help me set-”
“Yes!” the twins shriek before he even finishes the question.
Once the three of them are done with the set up, Gojo calls Geto to let him know that he has some urgent clan business to attend to, while Mimiko calls you to tell you that Nanako had a bad dream and she misses you terribly. Both of you rush to return while Gojo and his goddaughters leave for the evening. Gojo leaves a little post-it-note on the fridge, with a brief message.
Geto has been running for 10 minutes straight, red faced and out of breath as he reaches the door of the flat. The elevator dings open and you step out, looking just as out of breath. “Did Mimiko call you too?” you ask, panting.
“No, Gojo told me he has some clan business - ” He says, taking a moment to completely process your question. “Why did Mimiko call you?”
“Nanako had a nightmare, she was asking for me only, apparently.” You say, standing beside him now. The enticing smell of your perfume fills his senses and he is grateful that his girls have you to comfort them. He too finds comfort in your presence - albeit it’s for different reasons than his girls.
When no one opens the door for a couple of minutes, you put your ear to the door and try to hear something. The house is quiet, devoid of any movements.
“I think they’ve fallen asleep.” you comment.
Geto then opens then closes the door as quietly as he can, trying not to disturb the girl’s sleep. He bumps into you standing in the hallway after taking off his shoes - only to gasp as he sees the immaculate set up in the living room. A sheer white canopy covered in fairy lights and seemingly all of the pillows and some mattresses of the house thrown in the tent - and some of his and your favourite snacks. There’s a movie paused at the beginning and red roses and candles and mild incense decorating the room. Geto blushes when he realises that it’s a set up for a date, heart pounding against his ribs in part-annoyance and part-excitement as he sees your shy face. He’s half mad at Gojo, but he can see the traces of Mimiko and Nanako as well - with the way the pillows are laid out and the flowers are placed.
Geto’s phone rings, breaking the tense silence. It’s Gojo. “Suguru! Put me on speaker!” Gojo’s excited voice says from the other end. He can hear his girls giggling in the background. 
“Fine,” Geto sighs.
“Oh hey!” you turn around on hearing Gojo call your name, face hot and worrying your lip between your teeth. “Your little girls, they thought we should let you guys have an evening to yourself - relax and watch a movie. How did you like that set up?”
“You didn’t really have to-” You start to speak as Geto rolls his eyes, fully knowing it was Gojo’s plan. He knew Gojo well.
“Nonsense, you won’t let your daughters down by saying that,” Gojo says, and Mimiko and Nanako giggle louder. “Alright, bye! Enjoy yourselves. There’s wine in the fridge, Suguru.” He says before handing up.
“I’ll get the wine,” Suguru offers. You smile at him before sitting down in the fairy-light canopy, looking much like the woman of his dreams, like a princess waiting for her prince. His heart aches, for he can’t call you his, not outside of his mind. He smiles too, pretending that it’s date-night for you.
There’s a note on the fridge in Satoru’s messy scrawl which gets his attention first. Suguru, take one for the team and ask her !!! Your daughters and friends are rooting for you. She likes you, you blind idiot. A blush colours his face as he crumples the note and throws it in the bin.
His favourite wine is in the fridge, and Suguru is half surprised at Satoru’s thoughtfulness. He pours out two glasses and brings them to you, the bottle left back in the fridge. “Wine for you, ma’am,” he says, and you get the cutest blush on your face as you accept the glass, humming in delight at the taste. He follows your stead and lazily relaxes against the mountain of pillows under the canopy.
“What’s this movie?” You ask, fidgeting with the remote.
“I have no idea,” He says, praying that Satoru doesn’t embarrass him.
The movie begins with the main character, the girl getting ready to go work. It seemed like a cheesy hollywood christmas movie at the beginning, where the girl would be frustrated with her job and go to her small town and never return. That would have been better, in hindsight. Because as the movie progresses, and the love interest comes in - a single father, who had to send his daughter into foster care because he was wrongfully accused of embezzlement - the foster parent being the main character. The girl testifies for him in court while she lives with a new normal - caring for the love interest’s daughter as her own.
Suguru's face burns with how similar the movie is to you and him - he can barely even look at the screen. While the movie played, he subconsciously reached towards you, your warm cheek now resting against his shoulder. It’s hard for him to ignore it now that he realises that this movie was a deliberate selection, and the comment in the note about him being blind. 
Suguru steals a quick glance at you, finding you looking at the screen with a little smile, cuddling one of the bigger pillows. You seem totally unaffected by the movie. “It’s so cute,” you murmur. 
“Hm?” he prompts.
“The story,” you say, glancing up at him then back at the screen. 
“Would it be cute if it were real?” he asks, heart pounding against his ribcage.
“Even cuter,” you nod, cheek moving against his shoulder.
His heart threatens to crawl out of his throat at the admission. He eyes the two hands, one his and the other yours - so close but not touching, afraid to cross that invisible boundary which has built over time. He dares now, for once to cross that boundary, to test the waters and puts his pinky finger over yours, interlocking them. He can feel your smile get wider as his heart nearly makes a hole in his ribs.
You take it a step further and intertwine your hands with his.
“I love the way your hand fits in mine,” he says after a long tense silence, sounding breathier than usual.
“You have nice hands,” you shyly say.
It brings him confidence, the way you say it. Emboldened, he turns to face you and wraps his free arm over your waist, pulling you closer. His nose touches your forehead and he inhales the smell of your shampoo, never tired of smelling it in the pillowcases of your room. He lowers himself to your eye level, stroking your cheekbone. “Would let me kiss you?” he whispers to your lips.
“Always,” you whisper, parting your lips to welcome him.
The kiss is everything he could have imagined and more. It’s pure bliss, the way your mouth slots against his and the way to taste better than he could have possibly imagined. Of course, you have always been pretty, but he found you the most beautiful in this moment, in his arms, with your soft tongue fighting against his. His brain has short circuited and he fears that he might get addicted to your taste. He chases your mouth when you pull away to catch your breath, letting go of the intertwined hands that had sweat in the heat of the moment.
Suguru misses your lips instantly, scanning your face for any signs of regret or discomfort. You place one of your hands on his neck, reach the back of it and caress the delicate spot where his hair ends, and a gasp leaves his mouth at the sensation. You put your other hand on his collar and pull him close, his face dragging against the soft pillows and you kiss him. This kiss is much more desperate than the first one, with your teeth occasionally crashing and tongues exploring, the movie long forgotten still playing on the screen.
When you’re both out of breath, you pull back, still breathing the same air and noses touching.
“It was the best fucking kiss of my life,” Suguru confesses, sounding out of breath.
“Mine too,” you say.
He doesn’t want you to think that it was a spur of the moment thing, so he puts on his serious face and says, “Would you like to go out for dinner with me? As more than co-parents?” 
“I thought you’d never ask,” you reply with a giggle.
“Dress fancy,” He says. “Let’s go.”
“Now?” you ask.
“Why wait ?” he shrugs.
“I don’t have - ”
“You do,” he says, shy. “I had got something for you a while back, but never mustered up the courage to give it to you.”
You sit up, looking down at him with an excited gleam in your eyes. “You’ve gotten me an outfit for our first gate, it seems like you were prepared.”
“I swear to you that I wasn’t.” He says. “Just try it once.”
The dress Suguru brought compliments your figure and complexion well, and you’re surprised to see that it fits perfectly. You uber to a fancy place, and with the man on your side, this is the most perfect first date ever. The maroon dress hugs your figure in the right places, and you feel giddy knowing that Suguru had bought this lovely dress with you in mind. 
He looks even prettier today, sitting in front of you as your date, dressed in an equally fancy maroon suit. You take plenty of pictures with him, distracted by his long silky hair in a half-up, half-down look. You can barely process the food, distracted by the beautiful man in front of you taking in the way he talks. The way he says your name, almost purring, has you wanting to throw your feet and giggle like a little girl.
Suguru isn’t better off himself. Of course, he loves the way his name rolls off your tongue, but right now dressed in the dress he bought for you, sitting in front of him with flushed cheeks, the delicate smile never leaving your face as you speak has his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. He finally has you with him the way he had been wanting for years, finding you pretty even when you were both mere acquaintances. 
He cannot wait to call you his, but he supposes he’ll save that question for the next date - for you to give this relationship a name. In his head, he is already yours - heart, mind and soul - the only question bugging him is whether you want to be his. That’s a worry for later, he thinks, as he plants a delicate kiss on your lips as the long evening comes to an end.
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lemon-lime-behavior · 2 months ago
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Do you have any tips for drawing noses? Sorry this is out of nowhere but I'm wanting to improve on my art, specifically the faces, and it's always the nose I find myself struggling most with.
I really struggle w making it fit the face if that makes sense? Every time I try to add it it just throws the whole face off, especially the eyes, not to mention how to make different nose types and the angles </33
I love your art style so bad, it's so smooth and satisfying to look at and the way you draw noses like it's nbd (and anatomy in general like damn) baffles me so I was just wondering if you maybe had any tricks or not, Ty either way for sharing your art in the first place <33
@extravagav Well I can try! First off thank you very much, I often feel like I still have a very long way to go in regards to proportions and anatomy so I really appreciate your kind words <3
Hokay, so, noses. I do love noses. To start off when it comes to drawing noses I'm afraid I'm going to have to give you the most annoying advice in the world which is just to practice a lot. Find a lot of pictures of noses in a bunch of different shapes from a bunch of different angles and just draw them until your brain melts out of your ears. Pay particular attention though to the nose as a 3D object!
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It's of course trickier to do than I'm making it out to be but the more you practice at imagining the nose as a 3d physical form the easier it becomes to make a nose model in your mind that you can rotate like a microwave.
This is my personal very very basic understanding of the nose's construction:
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it's like three circles and a taco shell.
Okay so now that you've got a basic understanding of the nose's construction, how to put it in the middle of the god-dang face??
So the funky thing about noses is that they tend to change shape the least out of all our facial features when we're making expressions. Our eyes change shape, our mouths move, our eyebrows, our cheeks, our jaws, they all go all over the place. the nose, however, tends to be pretty stationary and doesn't deform much (save in one important way I'll get to later). So because of all this, and here's my biggest piece of advice when it comes to making the nose fit in the face, I like to draw the nose first! I do a very loose head construction, draw the nose, and then sort of "hang" the rest of the features off of it:
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Two very different expressions, same nose!
Now when it comes to noses interacting specifically with the eyes the greatest thing to remember is that the part of the nose that sits between the eyes sticks out farther than you might think, and will likely be obscuring one of them, the extent of which depending a lot on the angle and how pronounced the nose bridge is.
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for someone with a pretty flat nose bridge you'll be able to see most of the eye except in a more extreme angle, while someone with a protruding ridge might obscure the eye entirely. but the nose will likely be interacting with at least one eye if we're not facing the character head on. Really making your brain think in 3d is gonna most helpful here.
Finally! The nose being expressive! So the main way the nose plays in to expression is by wrinkling. the muscles that pull up your top lip and the muscles that pull down the middle of your forehead are almost all connected to the nose, so the nose tends to develop a lot of wrinkles whenever brows are furrowed or teeth are bared.
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Adding those wrinkles can add a lot of impact in the expression! And not just angry ones neither:
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Sooooooooooooooo yeah! noses! They're weird and they come in all sorts of shapes and sizes and they can do a lot to add character to a face and they can also make you want to tear your hair out in big clumps! I'm still learning myself when it comes to noses (and most other things) and I'm faaaar from a master at it, but I hope I've been able to provide at least a little bit of help. If you do use my advice going forward please let me know! Good luck!!!!! (And here's all my nose "headcanons" for the strawhats. The ones who actually have human noses, anyway):
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chimcess · 2 months ago
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Lady's Honor || ksj
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Pairing: Seokjin x ReaderOther Tags: Lord!Seokjin, Lady!Reader, Lord!Jimin, Lord!Jimin, Lord!Yoongi Genre: Regency!AU, Strangers to Lovers, Angst, Fluff, HEA Word Count: 16.8k+ Summary: What unfolds when a gentleman's noble effort to help a lady in distress inadvertently tarnishes her reputation? He finds himself bound to protect her honor at any cost—even if it means risking his own life. Warnings: Attempted assault on reader, society at this time was very judgement, practically forced marriage, but they like one another so it's fine, everyone has a title that is different from their true names, because they're Earls and own land, Eisen is disgusting, Jin is a gentleman, mentions of sex, illusions to sex, light teasing, need for an heir, Jin has a 'My Lord' kink, kissing (scandalous at this time), pregnancy, child birth, minor character death, dueling, main character injured, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: I've been trying to write in new styles and dive into different themes outside of fantasy, and so I really stepped out of my comfort zone to write this one. Rereading some Jane Austen was also helpful. Hope you enjoy.
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Perhaps it was the oppressive heat radiating from the hundreds of flickering candles scattered throughout the ballroom that made him uneasy. But more likely, it was the desperate air of the young woman he’d just finished dancing with. The Earl of Rushmore felt a prickling sensation crawl up his spine, a warning he couldn’t quite dismiss.
“That was ever so splendid, my lord,” Miss Rose Tyrell tittered, bouncing on her toes like an eager puppy. Every exaggerated movement seemed calculated to draw his gaze to her décolletage. “You dance exquisitely.” She leaned in, flashing a smile that he could only interpret as desperate. It turned his stomach.
“It was my pleasure,” he replied, forcing his lips into a smile that barely masked his irritation. The corners of his eyes tightened as he nodded to Sir Gerald Tyrell, her father, standing awkwardly on the periphery. With that, he made to escape the stifling encounter.
Yet just as he turned to leave, the shrill voice of Lady Tyrell pierced the air, dragging him back into tedious conversation. “My lord, we are organizing an outing to Vauxhall Gardens next week, and one of our gentlemen has had to leave London for urgent family business, leaving us one short.” She fluttered her fan with all the grace of a chicken flapping its wings. “Would you do us the honor of joining our group?”
A familiar panic clawed at him, a suffocating sensation that had haunted him through countless soirées with the daughters of ambitious families. It was as if his sordid reputation—of womanizing, reckless drinking, and gambling—had become a beacon, attracting those looking to snag a title for their daughters. The very thought made him itch with the need to flee.
“I’ll have to check my availability,” he said, the words falling from his lips with the practiced ease of a politician. “I shall send word on the morrow. Good evening, ladies.” He bowed stiffly to Miss Tyrell and her mother before making a purposeful exit, each step a declaration of his freedom.
The musicians began to play the next set, and a wave of relief washed over him as he realized he was free from the obligation of dancing with any particular young lady. The evening had thus far been a parade of vapid chatter and trivial pursuits, save for one notable exception—Miss Y/L/N.
He had heard whispers of her modest debut the previous season but had only caught a glimpse of her tonight. There was something about her, an ethereal beauty that shone through the murk of societal expectations, and a vivacious yet modest personality that intrigued him. She shared his passion for stargazing, a rare treasure amidst the sea of watercolor painting and embroidery that most young ladies feigned expertise in.
He spotted his mother among a gaggle of women and approached, forcing a smile. “Mother, I’m going to take a stroll in the garden.”
“Oh, my dear, I had hoped to present you to Miss Webber,” she said, her tone a blend of disappointment and guilt.
Resigned to the endless parade of introductions and dances, he craved a brief escape. “I shall only be gone for one set,” he promised, his voice laced with indulgence.
“Ah yes, and then you’ll disappear into the card room, and it will be impossible to find you a suitable wife. Really, Rushmore, you are two-and-thirty. It’s time you settled down and set up your nursery.”
Her words pricked at him like thorns, and he fought the urge to unleash the torrent of frustration bubbling inside. He knew she meant well; her intentions were rooted in love, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped in a gilded cage.
“Yes, Mother, I understand. If you will excuse me?” He nodded to acquaintances as he maneuvered through the ballroom. Stepping out onto the terrace, he finally felt the weight lift, if only slightly. The coolness of the evening enveloped him, a comforting embrace that allowed him to breathe freely.
Only the crunch of his gleaming Hessian boots broke the silence as he wandered along the gravel path that wove between hedgerows and blooms. He was weary, so utterly weary of the relentless pressure of the marriage mart. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, the sound mingling with the night air.
After a few minutes, he wandered beyond the glow of the paper lanterns dangling from the trees, halting to let his eyes adjust to the enveloping darkness. He tilted his head back, searching for constellations, but the encroaching clouds obscured his view.
In these precious moments of solitude, he could cast aside the weight of his title, the incessant pleas of his mother for an heir. Here, he could simply be Seokjin, not “Rushmore” or “my lord.” He wasn’t sure how long he’d been absent, but he knew it had been long enough for his mother to send a search party to drag him back to the ballroom for another tedious encounter.
The rebellious spirit that had defined his youth flared within him. He would be damned if he shackled himself to one of these vapid fortune hunters. When he married, it would be on his terms, in his time. In a final act of defiance, he chose a longer route back, hoping to prolong this rare moment of freedom.
As he strolled, he noticed a section of the path where the stones had been disturbed and the flowers trampled. He frowned, planning to speak with Lord Min; the gardener needed a firm reminder of his duties.
He had not taken but two steps past the ruined path when he heard a rustling from the rhododendron bushes to his left. He paused, hesitant to interrupt whatever clandestine meeting might be unfolding there. When silence fell once more, curiosity gnawed at him, urging him closer.
Peering through the foliage, he caught sight of an abandoned dancing slipper, its owner nowhere in sight. He almost dismissed it, the corners of his mouth lifting in a wry grin. It had been far too long since he had shared the company of a woman who intrigued him. 
But then the unmistakable sound of sobbing pierced the air, and his heart twisted in an unexpected pang of concern. The battle within him waged on, but as he took another step, he spotted a young woman crawling on the ground, frantically searching for that missing shoe. 
Instinct propelled him forward. He stepped off the path, making his presence known through the rustling bushes, startling her in the process. She scrambled backward, eyes wide with panic, as if he were a specter come to haunt her. Her skirts were stained with dirt, and her hair hung in disarray, obscuring her features.
“Miss? Are you hurt?” His voice broke the tension, filled with concern.
She whimpered softly, the sound twisting his gut. What had happened to her?
Looking around, he saw no one else nearby, no lurking assailants or companions to provide solace. Crouching down, he made no sudden movements toward her.
“Please, miss, I have no wish to harm you. Do you have a companion or chaperone you would like me to summon?” When silence stretched between them, he tried again, softer this time. “Let me help you back to the ball. We’ll find a discreet entrance—somewhere hidden.”
At last, she raised her head, and he sucked in a sharp breath. How had Y/N Y/L/N ended up in such a predicament? By all accounts, she was the embodiment of propriety, not one to engage in scandal.
As he took in her appearance, he noticed the tear in the bodice of her gown, the clutched remnants of a pair of drawers that were also damaged. Rage ignited within him, a hot ember that flared into a blaze. It was one thing for a man to indulge his desires with a mistress, but to force himself on an innocent like Miss Y/L/N? That was an outrage beyond measure.
"Who did this to you, Miss Y/L/N?" he demanded, his voice low, strained, as though the question had been pulled from the very depths of a dark pit within him.
She shook her head, her entire body trembling, a fragile thing caught in a tempest. "No one, my lord," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.
Her reticence ignited a fury in him, a volcanic rage simmering beneath the surface, but he clamped down on it. He wanted to shake her, to rattle loose the truth from her lips like a confession from a guilty soul. But he held back, aware that rage could consume him whole.
"So you mean to tell me that you've ruined your hair, shredded your dress, and torn your—" He faltered, words dying on his tongue as he caught sight of the cruel red welts marring her cheek, vivid streaks of pain that seemed to shout a silent accusation at the dark night. His nostrils flared, drawing in the scent of roses mingling with something more sinister—fear. 
"And you did this all to yourself?" he asked through gritted teeth, the effort to contain his fury almost painful. "Forgive me if I find that scenario a little hard to swallow. Tell me who has harmed you, and I will see the blackguard brought to account for his actions."
He stood up, a sudden restlessness seizing him, his hands clenching and unclenching as he flipped the tails of his dark blue superfine coat behind him. The air crackled with the unspoken promise of violence, a storm gathering within him as he paced, thoughts colliding like thunderheads in a darkening sky. Abruptly, he stopped and pointed at her drawers, still clutched tightly against her chest. "Did he manage to...?"
The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. He couldn’t voice the horrific possibility that loomed over them, and for a fleeting moment, he marveled at the violent protectiveness rising up from the depths of his heart. It felt foreign, primal.
She shook her head, her gaze dropping to the ground, a broken bird struggling to mend its wings. A small whimper escaped her lips, and his heart twisted painfully at the sight. She winced as she shifted her weight to her unshod foot, and his anger flared anew. Who had she been dancing with after him? The names flooded his mind, but one stood out—a dark specter of a man who lurked at the edges of polite society.
Jonathon, Lord Eisen.
In the grand tapestry of reputation, Seokjin would be the saint compared to the notorious Viscount Eisen, a man known for treating young ladies like pawns in his cruel game. Wealthy, yes, but at what cost? 
"Did Lord Eisen do this?" he pressed, the words a growl. "Did he lure you into the gardens?"
Her eyes widened, a silent acknowledgment that echoed like a bell tolling a grim fate. In the distance, a chorus of voices called her name, the urgency cutting through the night like a knife. They were looking for her, and the dread of discovery hung in the air, a heavy mist curling around them.
"Miss Y/L/N, please, let me help you back before we’re found in this position. There’s no reason to ruin your reputation by being seen with someone like me." 
She blushed, ducking her head, and for a moment, he thought he glimpsed a flicker of a smile. But then, she faltered, her fragile façade crumbling. "I cannot walk, my lord. I fear I have... s-sprained my ankle."
Reality crashed over him as he realized that the chill in the air had seeped into her bones, amplifying the shivering that gripped her. With a quick determination, he shrugged off his topcoat and draped it around her shoulders, enveloping her in warmth, an oasis in a desert of despair.
"Put your arm around my neck," he instructed gently, bending down to meet her eyes. When she complied, her drawers still clutched in the other hand, he lifted her as though she weighed nothing, an echo of the strength he didn’t know he possessed. As he carried her toward the house, the softness of her body against his ignited something deep within him, a rush of feelings he was unprepared to face.
"Why did he stop?" he asked, the question an uneasy tremor in the quiet of the night.
She inhaled sharply, her breath hitching, and laid her head against his shoulder. For a heartbeat, he thought she wouldn’t answer, but then, with a voice steeped in trembling fear, she whispered close to his ear, "I fought him. I kicked and scratched... That’s when he slapped me. I think he heard you coming."
The revelation stirred a darkness within him, igniting a fierce desire for vengeance. "He will pay for this," Seokjin vowed, his heart pounding with a dangerous intensity. The very air crackled with his determination to protect her honor. She had a brother, a man more than willing to seek revenge, and yet, here he was, feeling like a moth drawn to the flame of her vulnerability. 
As her head rested against his shoulder, a curious weight settled around his throat, tightening like a noose, a reminder that he had no business becoming entangled in her fate. But how could he turn away when the shadows had crept into her life, and he felt the unmistakable tug of something deeper than duty—something that felt like destiny.
What a coil! thought Y/N, a frenzied swirl of confusion and unease tightening in her chest. She had only intended to stroll with Lord Eisen along the terrace, the moonlight casting a soft glow over the manicured gardens. But when he asked about her interest in the stars, her passion ignited, and she began chattering like an eager canary, the words spilling forth in a rush, a desperate bid for connection. 
Lost in her own celestial musings, she hadn’t noticed the subtle shift in direction until it was too late. The secluded part of the garden loomed before her like a trap waiting to snap shut. In an instant, the air around her thickened with a sense of foreboding, the fragrant blooms suddenly oppressive. 
It was all she could do to keep her wits about her as he forced her against a tree, the bark digging into her back, bruising her lips with punishing kisses that felt like a betrayal of her very soul. She raked her fingernails down his cheek, a desperate act of defiance, but instead of pulling back, it only seemed to stoke the fire in his eyes, a dark hunger awakening within him.
She burrowed her face into Lord Rushmore's shoulder, desperately trying to will the shame of what Lord Eisen had done to her to dissipate like morning mist. Had she behaved wantonly? No, she had acted every bit the lady, hadn’t she? But the tightness in her throat mounted, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. Cursing her overactive emotions, she knew she needed a moment to compose herself before returning to the ball, to that cruel world of social masks and whispered judgments.
As they entered the lit portion of the garden, her brother's voice bellowed her name, booming through the night like a thunderclap. Panic surged in her chest, and she cast about for a more private place, somewhere she could gather the scattered pieces of herself.
"Lord Rushmore's, might we sit at that bench for a moment while I attempt to put myself to rights?" she implored, her voice quivering.
When she looked up into his eyes, she felt that same fluttering sensation that had gripped her during their earlier waltz. His eyes, an unsettling shade of green, seemed to pierce through the façade she tried so hard to maintain. She couldn't help but notice the strength of his arms, how effortlessly he carried her, as if she were nothing more than a feather. And if she were being completely honest, the way his coat hugged his broad torso and how those buff-colored breeches molded to his powerful thighs made her heart race in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying.
Heat flooded her cheeks as that thought twisted inside her like a serpent coiling tighter, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw something flicker in Lord Rushmore's gaze—a fleeting spark that vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind only his mask of calm.
He nodded once, a movement fluid and deliberate, and made his way to a weathered stone bench nestled behind a grouping of lilacs. The flowers whispered secrets in the night breeze, and she felt both comforted and exposed in their presence. With utmost care, he deposited her onto the bench before turning to stand guard, his posture protective, a fortress against the horrors she had just endured.
Hastily, she donned the torn drawers, feeling the fabric scratch against her skin, but it was better than being seen carrying her undergarments. As she fussed with the bodice of her cream chiffon and lace gown, the reality of her disheveled state crashed over her, a wave of hopelessness that threatened to drown her. The earlier magic of the evening had been shattered, leaving only fragments of what could have been. 
But perhaps not completely. The thrill of being in the arms of such a handsome man still pulsed through her veins, even if he wasn’t the type a respectable girl should find appealing. The allure of a man with a dangerous reputation was like a moth drawn to flame, intoxicating yet perilous.
It was silly to think such thoughts, she chastised herself. He was merely doing his gentlemanly duty, ensuring her safe return. Any notion that he might entertain feelings for her was absurd. Besides, the gossip among the parlors of the ton painted him as a confirmed bachelor, much to his mother’s dismay.
She twisted one last piece of hair, pinning it into the mass of curls and braids atop her head. "Do I still look as though I’ve been tumbled in the bushes?" She rested her hands in her lap and looked at the Earl, who seemed lost in thought.
He took several deep breaths, and she wondered if he, too, felt the weight of the moment pressing down on them. His nostrils flared, lips pursed, as he studied her appearance, and the intensity of his gaze sent a fresh wave of heat rising in her cheeks. She cast her eyes down, biting her lower lip to keep from trembling under the weight of his scrutiny.
"Well, your color seems to have returned," he said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, reminiscent of her brother's teasing ways.
"May I examine your ankle?" he asked, shifting to sit next to her on the bench.
Without waiting for her consent, he leaned down and lifted both of her feet, drawing them across his lap. A furious heat shot through her, screaming in indignation, How dare he? But as his warm hands slipped off her dancing shoe and began to probe her foot, any righteous fury fled her like a shadow at dawn.
His touch was gentle, exploring the instep, his fingers moving with a calm assurance that sent shivers racing up her spine. She hissed when he pressed on a particularly tender spot, and he nodded softly, his eyes focused and intent, then replaced her slipper without lowering her feet.
"It has begun to swell slightly, but I don’t believe it to be broken." His words were curt, almost clinical, yet they held a honeyed warmth that seeped into her bones, loosening the tension that had coiled tightly within her.
"And my hair— is it even remotely presentable?" She caught his gaze, feeling ensnared, unable to break free from the magnetic pull between them. The sweet scent of lilacs surrounded them like a fog, and even though she was wrapped snugly in the Earl’s topcoat, a chill raced through her.
For a long moment, the world around them fell away, leaving only the two of them in that secret garden, an electric energy drawing them closer together. 
"Far more than presentable," he murmured, inching closer, his breath warm against her skin.
His hand lifted, tentatively brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. As his fingers lingered against her jaw, she felt the weight of his gaze, a tether pulling her into the depths of something she could neither understand nor resist. 
Her heart thundered in her chest, a wild drumbeat that seemed to echo the chaos of the night. In that fleeting moment, as the lilacs danced in the night breeze, the world faded away, leaving only the two of them standing on the precipice of something undeniably profound.
“Sis-...Kim! Unhand my sister at once!”
Like the fragile sheen of a child’s soap bubble, the magic enveloping them burst the moment Anthony’s voice cut through the night—a jagged shard of ice in a world of warmth. In what felt like a heartbeat, Anthony surged forward, seizing the Earl and slamming him against the rough bark of an ancient elm, his forearm digging into the Earl’s throat with a grim resolve.
Lord Rushmore's retreating form was replaced by her father, who seized her by the shoulders, his gaze sweeping over her with the intensity of a hawk eyeing its prey. "Her dress is torn," he shouted, as if those words could mend the fraying fabric of her dignity. The sheer horror in her father’s tone twisted the knife in her gut, causing Anthony’s grip on the Earl to tighten, his elbow pressing cruelly into the Earl’s neck.
“Anthony, stop! This isn’t what it seems…” Panic clawed at her throat as she saw the search party gather, shadows converging on their secluded haven. Her heart sank, heavy and leaden, as if it were chained to the ground. 
“What has that scoundrel done to you, my child?” Her father’s voice was a fierce whisper, laden with unspoken fears. 
To his credit, the  Earl of Rushmore merely grasped Anthony's arm, a desperate attempt to stave off asphyxiation, doing nothing to fight back against the encroaching storm.
In moments, the terrace teemed with onlookers, the whole ballroom spilling out into the moonlight, the murmurs and gasps igniting an electric buzz that thrummed in the air, each sound a reminder of their encroaching doom. 
“Anthony, summon the carriage and fetch your mother,” her father commanded, voice clipped and taut.
Anthony nodded, stepping back, the heat of anger still radiating from him. He straightened, eyes ablaze, locking onto the Earl with a fury that promised retribution. “This isn’t over, Kim. We’ll speak tomorrow at Parke’s.” With that, he turned and stormed off, leaving chaos in his wake, people scattering like leaves before a gale.
The music from the ballroom swelled, Lady Min's voice announcing the supper dances, a cruel mockery of their plight. In mere moments, the crowd thinned, but it was clear that The Honorable Y/N Y/L/N, daughter of Lord and Lady Y/L/N, and The  Earl of Rushmore would become the latest gossip—a scandal writ large against the night sky.
By dawn, Parke’s gentleman's club buzzed with wagers, bets slung like daggers as men debated Lord Rushmore's fate: Would he indeed find himself shackled in matrimony? How quickly would he wed Miss Y/L/N? And would her brother, Mr. Y/L/N, take the Earl’s life for this affront?
“Tough lot there, ol’ chap,” Lord Newton said as Seokjin strode past, his voice laced with mockery. “Too much trouble for a bit of muslin, wouldn’t you agree?”
Seokjin turned, ready to unleash fury, but two strong hands—one muscular, the other wiry—restrained him, anchoring him before he could lash out. 
“Save your fists, Kim. There’s nothing to be gained from boors like Newton,” Namjoon, Lord Halston, his cousin, interjected, grounding Seokjin with his steady presence. 
The fight ebbed from Seokjin’s body as Halston’s words sank in. Jimin, Lord Whitmore, gave his shoulder a reassuring pat before releasing him, the trio turning from the cowering Lord Bolton as they slipped into a more private parlor. 
Both Park and Halston had witnessed the disastrous ball, no explanation needed for the morning’s stirrings around the betting book. Seokjin had already divulged the details of the night’s chaos, though in truth, it mattered little. Reputation was a delicate thing, and in the eyes of the ton, he’d become the villain in Miss Y/L/N’s tale.
“Will you go make your addresses to her father?” Park asked, his tone serious.
“I fear I must,” Seokjin replied, frustration twisting in his gut. “Blast it, I never meant to land myself in this mess.”
“Come now, Kim. The chit seems biddable enough. She won’t put up a fuss if you want your freedoms, will she?” Halston suggested, shaking open the daily news with a flourish.
Seokjin groaned, raking his fingers through his hair, the weight of propriety and duty pressing down on him. “That’s not how the Kim men are bred. Blast!” He tapped his fingers against the table, cursing the moral fibers woven into his being.
A light touch on his forearm brought his attention back. Park’s finger pointed to the door, signaling an approaching visitor. Seokjin looked up to see Anthony Y/L/N enter, flanked by two unfamiliar young men. 
“Kim,” Anthony greeted, his tone frosty.
“Mr. Y/L/N,” Seokjin replied, offering a curt nod, the air thickening with tension.
“I’m here to settle the matter of my sister’s honor.” 
“I assumed as much. I assure you, I’ll speak to Lord Y/L/N and Miss Y/L/N tomorrow.”
“Did you compromise her on purpose? What was your design?” Anthony stepped forward, rage simmering just beneath the surface.
Seokjin sighed, rising from his chair, emboldened by the silent support of his friends. “I did no such thing. Did she explain what happened?”
“She did, but you should have known better than to be caught in such a position with her—especially with her appearance in such a state. You knew that tongues would wag, and wag they have.”
Seokjin could see Anthony’s fists clenching, breath coming in sharp bursts, his face a mask of barely-contained fury. He’d heard whispers of Anthony’s quick temper but had never imagined standing on the receiving end.
He took a step closer, his finger jabbing into Anthony’s chest. “See here, Y/L/N, I’m prepared to offer the protection of my name and title to your sister. What would you have had me do? Walk away and leave her vulnerable? If I hadn’t intervened, Lord Eisen would have ruined her reputation, violated her very person.”
The words struck a nerve, twisting Anthony’s expression into one of frustration and disbelief. 
“Her reputation will be salvaged,” Seokjin pressed on, “and in a few weeks, another scandal will eclipse this one. What more do you want? Will you have your pound of flesh, too?”
They stood nearly nose to nose now, the air between them electric with tension, fists ready to unleash fury. 
“Yes, that’s exactly what I require,” Anthony spat, his voice low and dangerous. 
“And if you kill me, where does that leave your sister?” 
Seokjin should have known better than to expect any form of civility from the brutish Anthony. The man was a wall of muscle, a shadow looming over him like a thunderstorm ready to unleash its fury. Sure, Anthony had height and heft on his side, but Seokjin was no stranger to the dark art of combat, having spent countless hours in the ring at Gentleman Jackson's boxing saloon. There, he had learned the subtleties of tactical fighting—the way a well-placed jab could shift the tide of a bout. Confidence flowed through him like the heavy liquor that coated the floor of the dimly lit establishment.
"Well, then, let us do this in grand fashion, shall we?" Seokjin said, a smirk dancing on his lips, concealing the tremor of anxiety curling in his gut like a serpent ready to strike.
"What did you have in mind?" Anthony grunted, his voice deep and gravelly, like rocks grinding underfoot.
"A match at Jackson's. Until one of us is rendered unconscious or yields." Seokjin’s heart raced at the thought, part anticipation, part dread.
Mr. Y/L/N paused, glancing between his companions as if he were deciphering a silent code in their expressions. After a moment’s consideration, he crossed his meaty arms over his chest, the muscles bulging like a tightly wound spring. "Agreed. When?"
"Tomorrow afternoon. I shall call upon your father and sister in the morning." The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
"Very well," Anthony replied, the growl in his throat barely concealing his eagerness for confrontation.
As the brutish figure turned to leave, Seokjin felt a sudden surge of courage. "Mr. Y/L/N?" 
The response was a low, menacing growl. "What now?"
"I do have one small request." 
"And that is?"
"Try not to do too much damage to my face. I would hate to have two black eyes and a crooked nose on my wedding day." He forced a chuckle, but it echoed hollowly against the walls of the club.
"You'll be lucky if that's all I leave you with," Anthony grumbled, the threat hanging in the air like a storm cloud. He turned and strode out of the club, his companions trailing like lost souls in his wake.
Once the tension subsided, Seokjin let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. 
"Park?" he asked, turning to his friend.
"Yes, Kim?"
"Do you still have a connection with a certain Bow Street informant?" His voice was a low murmur, as if the walls had ears.
"I do. Shall I put him on the lookout for Lord Eisen?" Park asked, his brow furrowing.
"If you would be so kind, but nothing official, mind." Seokjin felt the weight of impending doom settle over him like a shroud.
Jimin nodded in understanding, murmuring, "Of course." 
"And cousin, will you stand as my second on the morrow?" Seokjin's heart raced at the thought of what was to come.
Namjoon slapped a heavy hand on Seokjin's shoulder, the gesture grounding him. "You needn't ask, my friend. I should be honored to watch you knock some sense into the man." 
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Y/N sat at her dressing table, her maid working diligently to pin up her hair. As she gazed at her reflection, the visage staring back was a stranger, a ghost of the girl she once was. Her eyes felt like sandpaper, dry and weary, the dark smudges beneath them growing more pronounced, shadows of a soul haunted by secrets. 
The day after the ball had stretched on in suffocating isolation, each hour dragging like a lead weight. She preferred the company of her book of prayers, each line a refuge from the storm brewing outside her door. It was far better than facing the ire of her father, who would surely unleash a torrent of censure and berating upon her head.
She had attempted to explain the events with Lord Eisen, how Lord Rushmore's was more the hero than the villain in this twisted tale, but her words had fallen on deaf ears. Ignoring her mother’s advice to stay on the terrace, she had strolled with Lord Eisen, allowing the specter of scandal to wrap its cold fingers around her throat.
Her mother had nearly succumbed to a fit of vapors upon hearing the details. The tips of her father’s waxed moustache twitched with barely suppressed rage, while Anthony, her brother, remained frighteningly silent. Once home, she had been ushered into her father’s study for a thorough dressing down, sent to her room like a recalcitrant child.
With a final pin, her maid bobbed a curtsy and exited Y/N’s bedchamber, leaving her in a silence thick enough to suffocate. Lady Y/L/N had dispatched her own maid with orders for Y/N to don her most modest day gown and report to the formal parlor. With trepidation, she slipped into a simple, light blue frock that covered her to her collarbones, devoid of any embellishments. Her hair twisted into a knot, soft waves framing her face, a fragile semblance of grace.
She took her time nibbling on toast, each bite a reminder of the world outside her door, where shadows danced with whispers of her impending fate. Checking her appearance once more, she steeled herself and made her way to the parlor. 
There, she found her mother waiting for her, worry etched into every line of her refined features. Lady Y/L/N had once been a beauty, but the years had wrought their toll, drawing tight the skin around her eyes and pursing her lips into a thin line.
"Good morning, Mother," Y/N said, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on her mother’s cheek, the contact feeling more like a farewell than a greeting.
"Your father is speaking to the Earl of Rushmore. I suggest you prepare yourself for his offer. You’ll be the luckiest girl of the season if he does what is proper and expected." 
Stunned, Y/N felt her heart drop into the abyss of despair. This was only her second season, and she was barely prepared for the storm brewing on the horizon. Marriage? To a man she hardly knew, with a reputation as murky as the depths of a shadowy lake?
"Mother, I cannot marry him. I do not even know him. I—"
"Do not entertain any notion of rebellion, Y/N. If he offers, you shall accept. It is the only way to salvage your reputation, which is, at this moment, in tatters after your comfortable coze in Lady Min’s garden." Her mother's voice was sharp, laced with urgency.
"But I... I had hoped to have some kind of affection for the man I married." Her voice trailed off, nearly swallowed by the silence, as tears threatened to spill over.
The rustle of her mother’s voluminous skirts approached, and she felt the settee dip as Lady Y/L/N sat beside her, a gentle finger lifting Y/N’s chin. Their eyes met, and in that moment, she saw the weight of her mother’s own sacrifices reflected back at her. 
"My child, I wish it were possible for us all to marry for love. But circumstances dictate otherwise. If you do not accept Lord Rushmore's, your prospects of a good match will vanish. And there are far worse fates than becoming a countess, don't you think?"
As if summoned by fate, the door swung open, and a footman announced Lord Rushmore's and Lord Y/L/N, their arrival heralded like the final note of a dissonant chord.
"My lady, if you will accompany me, there are a few matters we must attend to," her father said, glancing at her mother with a look that brooked no argument. "Y/N, the Earl has a matter of utmost importance to discuss with you." 
The footman closed the door, sealing her in a cage of expectation with Lord Rushmore's.
He was breathtakingly handsome, a figure draped in a dark brown topcoat, gold embroidery catching the dim light like whispers of wealth and power. Beneath it, a tan waistcoat clung to him, a gold watch fob glinting like a promise—or a threat. The crisp, white linen neckcloth, simply knotted, was elegant against his throat, while breeches hugged his thighs sinfully until they disappeared into polished boots, a facade of civility masking the predator within.
It seemed that Seokjin had made a valiant attempt to bring order to his hair, but it had either been ruffled by his own restless hands or simply refused to be tamed, a wild, untamed creature defying all attempts at restraint. If one were to judge solely by his disheveled appearance, one might assume he had just rolled out of bed, a thought that sent Y/N's mind spiraling into a frenzy of embarrassment and shame. What was she doing, allowing herself to entertain such visions of him in her most private moments?
As she cataloged his tousled locks and haphazard attire, she caught him doing the very same, his eyes roving over her like a thief scouting for hidden treasures. Suddenly, she felt exposed, vulnerable before this man whose presence filled the room with an unsettling energy. She ducked her head, her tongue a heavy weight in her mouth, unable to find a single word to break the silence.
"Miss Y/L/N, I … How do you fare?" His voice was hesitant, laced with a nervous edge that made her heart race.
She glanced up just in time to see him pinch his eyes shut, as if steeling himself against a tempest of emotions. 
"I am as fine as can be expected," she replied, her words feeling hollow in the charged atmosphere.
"Yes, well. To the matter at hand, then." He cleared his throat, the sound echoing like a distant thunderclap, and positioned himself in front of her, a statue of formal propriety. "Your father and I have discussed the situation, and I am prepared to offer you the protection of my name. I should have exercised more discretion at the ball, and for that, I apologize."
His hands clasped behind his back, his tone dripping with cold formality, the chill of icicles punctuating his every syllable. This was not the vibrant man she had encountered amidst the chaos of the ball. No, this was a figure of duty, an automaton wrapped in layers of ice, and she hated him for it.
"The protection of your name?" she echoed, her voice trembling slightly. "And what exactly would that mean?" She widened her eyes, feigning innocence, though she was no naive girl fresh from the nursery. She understood that marriage in their society came with varying degrees of commitment, some more binding than others.
His forehead wrinkled as he coughed, the sound a harsh rasp, before he paced toward the fireplace. Leaning on the mantle, he turned his gaze toward her, and she stood frozen in place, her spine straightening, shoulders squared, meeting his eyes with an intensity that seemed to draw the very air from the room.
"You would be my wife," he said, words flowing from him like a river, cold and unyielding. "The Countess of Rushmore. You would receive a generous allowance to purchase whatever you desire, and any scandal that may have tongues wagging today would practically disappear once we are wed."
"Do you wish to marry me?" The question escaped her lips before she could cage it, catching him off guard, a momentary flicker of surprise crossing his handsome face.
"Of course I do. I feel immensely… protective of you. I care a great deal for you." His eyes bore into hers, but she sensed a wall between them, one built on duty rather than desire.
"And is there anyone else for whom you care a great deal?" The words trembled on her tongue, and she felt the atmosphere thicken, charged with unspoken truths.
"I beg your pardon, but I don’t follow," he replied, brow furrowing in confusion.
She twisted her fingers together, summoning every ounce of courage as she faced the specter of societal norms that haunted her thoughts. "Do you support a… a mistress?" The word slipped out in a whisper, the weight of it heavy as it filled the space between them. She glanced up and saw his eyes widen, then quickly cast her gaze down, words tumbling out in a rush. "Because I do not believe I could stand such an arrangement. I would rather be a ruined woman and marry a nobody and live in the country for the rest of my life than to share a husband with another woman." Her voice faded into nothing, grounded firmly in the floorboards beneath her.
"I do not have a mistress," he replied, the certainty in his voice like a lifeline. "Once we are wed, I will remain faithful to you and you alone. You have nothing to worry about on that score." 
Relief washed over her for a fleeting moment before the weight of his words sank in. If he had no mistress, then he would expect a marriage that was not just a façade but a binding of souls, in name and in deed. She swallowed thickly and nodded, her heart a tumultuous storm of fear and longing.
"Y/N," he began, then hesitated, as if the weight of her name held more gravity than he anticipated. "May I call you Y/N?"
"Yes, my lord." 
He had moved closer, now standing directly in front of her, the space between them charged with a palpable energy. "Will you call me Seokjin?" he asked, his voice dropping to a soothing tenor that wrapped around her insides like a warm embrace, calming the quivering nerves.
Tentatively, she peeked up from beneath her eyelashes, finding his gaze steady, a promise held within its depths. She nodded, a silent acceptance.
"Very well. Y/N, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" His words, heavy with intent, settled over her like a shroud.
"Yes, Seokjin. I will marry you." 
In that moment, as the promise hung in the air, she felt the world shift beneath her, a groundless fear mingling with an unexpected thrill. What lay ahead was shrouded in shadows, and yet, she found herself stepping forward into the unknown, hand in hand with a man who, in this moment, could be both her salvation and her doom.
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It had been two days since the boxing match with Y/N, a brutal affair that had gone better than Seokjin had dared to hope. Anthony had landed only a single glancing blow to his jaw, leaving a faint bruise that shadowed his skin like a lingering ghost. But the rest of him was a veritable tapestry of pain—blues and purples smeared across his torso, greens and yellows blooming like grotesque flowers. He had given as good as he got, though, and after twelve grueling rounds, Gentleman Jackson had declared the contest a tie. Both men had stood, panting and bloodied, a testament to their resilience and foolishness.
As he climbed into the high-perch phaeton, wincing at the pressure on his bruised ribs, he took the reins from his tiger. Concealing his injuries from Y/N would be no easy feat. The drive to the Y/L/N home was filled with thoughts that gnawed at him like a persistent rat. He couldn’t shake the notion that he had unwittingly fallen into a parson’s mousetrap, the kind of snare that snapped shut when you least expected it.
It wasn’t exactly a shock that Y/N had accepted his proposal. Had she not, London would have turned into a bleak wasteland for her and her family, the whispers of scandal echoing like a funeral dirge. No, the real surprise was the absence of panic that usually clawed at him like a feral animal. He felt no urge to flee, no desire to escape as he had with every other prospective bride. Not even the promise of fidelity had made him balk. Instead, he felt an unsettling calm settle over him, a strange sort of acceptance.
But one thing did trouble him: the absence of Lord Eisen. The man who had wronged Y/N had become a phantom, slipping through the cracks of society’s brittle façade. Seokjin felt a duty to call the villain to account for his behavior, and if an apology was not forthcoming, a duel would have to suffice—a duel to defend her honor, the stakes set high against the backdrop of the London social season.
To his surprise, Y/N was ready only moments after he entered the foyer. His feet seemed to sprout roots, anchoring him to the spot as he watched her descend the staircase. She wore a fashionable lemon-colored dress that clung to her slim waist, the kind of style that screamed sophistication, while her straw bonnet was adorned with a delicate spray of white and yellow flowers. Yet, despite the beauty of the scene, her smile was an unsettling mask—forced, like a stage actor trying desperately to remember their lines.
Perhaps she was not as pleased with her lot as she ought to be. Wasn’t every young woman supposed to dream of snagging a peer for a husband? Seokjin didn’t think himself a hardship to look at, and he had promised her generosity. It left him genuinely perplexed at the cloudiness of her demeanor, like storm clouds brewing overhead. He would have to suss her out during their drive.
“Good afternoon, Miss Y/L/N. You are as lovely as a summer day,” he said, taking her gloved hand and pressing his lips to it, a gesture that felt both tender and fraught with unspoken tension.
“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, that delicious blush creeping into her cheeks, bright as the dawn.
“Have you driven in a phaeton before?” he inquired, trying to gauge her mood, the air thick with an undercurrent of something he couldn't quite name.
“No, I have not. Is it terribly high?” she asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping into her voice.
“The highest,” he grinned, tucking her hand through his arm, the warmth of her presence grounding him amidst his swirling thoughts.
They crept along Rotten Row, the most fashionable hour for seeing and being seen. Nods and exchanges flitted between them like whispers in a crowded theater, laughter and gossip hanging heavy in the air. Park and Halston stopped to chat, their words a playful torment that turned Seokjin’s ears to fire. To her credit, Y/N managed to handle his friends with a practiced expertise, her demure laughter a welcome balm.
But as they parted ways, an open barouche approached, filled with the resident dragons of the beau monde—women so high in the instep they would snub even their own kin if it threatened their standing. Seokjin braced himself, prepared for the cut direct that would slice through the pretense of civility. He turned on his most charming smile, tipping the brim of his hat to them, a mask of confidence. To his relief, they nodded at him and Y/N, their plumed hats bobbing like strange birds pecking for seeds, momentarily offering her the protection that came with his name.
He directed the phaeton down a less congested avenue, glancing at his fiancée. “I’ve acquired a special license to marry. I thought this Friday would give you enough time to have your maid pack your things and deliver them to my home. Is that enough time for you to prepare?”
Her gaze drifted, unfocused as she twirled her parasol in lazy circles, caught somewhere between anticipation and anxiety. “Yes. I believe that will be enough time. Mother has a modiste working ‘round the clock, but my gown should be ready by then.” A laugh erupted from her, bright but edged with a hint of disbelief. “The poor woman nearly fell over herself for the privilege of making the new Countess of Kim’s wedding dress.” Her voice trailed off, shyness washing over her as if she had stepped into a cold river. “We’ll be going to Bond Street tomorrow for my other bride clothes, so there is little else for me to assemble.”
He was disarmed by her effortless humility, the sincerity of her words only adding to her appeal, like a faint light in the darkness. 
“Do you have any opinion on the location? Somewhere small and private, perhaps?” 
Had this been a typical courtship, he would have expected them to reserve St. George’s in Hanover Square, the kind of place where fashionable ton weddings occurred. His mother would’ve insisted upon it, a parade of acquaintances, all eager to witness the spectacle. But this was no ordinary wedding; it was a necessity—a desperate plea for normalcy in a world that felt increasingly chaotic. A smaller chapel would better serve their needs, he thought, yet he couldn’t shake the sense that their union was more than just a formality.
“Whatever you think best,” she said, her voice flat, as if she were reading from a script that had long lost its meaning.
Seokjin snapped the reins, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silence that enveloped them. He tried to ignore the unease pooling in his gut, still grappling with the enigma of Y/N’s enthusiasm—or lack thereof. Just then, the wheels on his side of the phaeton jolted over a substantial pothole, and Y/N slammed into him, the impact hard enough to make the breath hiss from his lungs. 
The sudden gasp nearly made him curse, but he swallowed it down, letting his hand drift to the bruised ribs that throbbed beneath his shirt. “I’m terribly sorry, my lo—Seokjin. I didn’t think I jarred you so.” 
“No, it’s not your fault. I… I’m just careless with the ribbons,” he replied, teeth clenched like a vice. 
Her brow furrowed in confusion, as if she were trying to decipher a foreign language. He waved away her concern, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Why do you seem so displeased with our arrangement?” 
She sighed, her mouth curving downward, eyes fixated on something far beyond the horizon. “It’s rather silly, really.” 
“Nothing important to you is silly,” he countered, slowing the horses until they came to a stop beneath a canopy of fragrant trees, their leaves whispering secrets to one another. He turned to face her fully, heart hammering like a ticking time bomb. 
“I suppose I just feel… very inexperienced.” 
“Shall we try and remedy that, my darling?” He took her hand, cradling it gently as if it were something fragile, something that might shatter at the slightest misstep. 
“Whatever do you mean?” Her voice dropped to a whisper that danced over him, sparking warmth in the chill air, stirring something deep within his chest. 
“May I try something?” 
She blinked, once, twice, the uncertainty in her gaze unraveling him. “Yes?” 
He leaned closer, slowly, carefully, as if drawing nearer to a wild creature, waiting for it to either flee or surrender. Patience enveloped them, thick and electric, rekindling that tension from the ball, drawing them together like moths to a flickering flame. 
When her eyes fluttered shut, he crossed the distance and pressed his lips to hers. It was a gentle exploration, soft and hesitant, the taste of sweetness enveloping him like a shroud. Her rigid posture melted against him, a warmth spreading through his veins. He relished the sound of her breath hitching, the quiet gasps of surprise that filled the air like a prayer. 
But reality loomed, a footman lurking at the back of the phaeton, the world of Hyde Park still swirling around them. He savored the way her hands clung to his biceps, the way she leaned into him, trusting and vulnerable. 
As their kiss lingered, he pulled back, heart racing, and squeezed her hands gently. “Despite what you may have heard of my reputation, I want you to be happy. It’s my foremost pursuit. You’ve come to mean the world to me, Y/N. Once we are wed, I hope you will let me court you properly.” 
She bit her lip, turning her face just enough to hide a smile beneath the brim of her bonnet. “That sounds lovely.” 
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A week passed—an entire week!—since their wedding, and Seokjin had done nothing more than kiss her lightly before she retreated to her separate bedchamber. Days melted into one another in their Mayfair townhouse, filled with light conversation about likes and dislikes, books, and the shifting tides of politics. Each night, he would escort her to her door, kiss her as one might kiss a sibling, and disappear into the silence of his own room. 
Y/N had mentally prepared herself for the duty all wives were expected to perform, and the absence of that first night stung like a phantom limb. With each passing day, her fondness for Seokjin grew—perhaps even love—but every time he sent her to bed alone felt like a deeper wound, a rejection wrapped in tenderness. 
Staring at the heavy brocaded tapestries above her, she fumed, a tempest brewing in her chest. Enough was enough. She threw off the covers, slipped into her dressing gown, and marched through the hushed rooms until she found his. His valet must have retired, for the air was thick with stillness and the promise of secrets. 
Without so much as a knock, she flung open the door to his bedroom and halted. There he stood, just out of reach of the fire’s glow, a vision of raw masculinity with one hand resting on the counterpane of his bed. Her breath caught in her throat, captivated by the lean muscles of his back, the dimples above his shapely behind. But then she saw the shadows—fading bruises that painted his torso like a cruel map of his suffering. 
“Good Lord,” she gasped, horror mingling with concern. “What happened to you?” 
His shoulders slumped as he shrugged into his dressing gown, the fabric whispering secrets against his skin. He approached her, tying the sash, hands sliding into the pockets like a man trying to hide the evidence of his pain. 
“It’s nothing, my sweet. Please don’t concern yourself.” 
“Is this why you have not touched me since our wedding?” 
“I didn’t want you to see me in such a battered state. If I were to do more than kiss you, I wouldn’t be able to control myself.” 
“What happened?” 
“An overly enthusiastic sparring partner at Jackson’s boxing saloon.” 
Timidly, she spread open the top of his gown. Her heart raced as she traced her fingers over his bruised skin, circling the marks of violence like a moth drawn to a flame. “Who was your partner?” 
“I… can’t say as—” 
“Please be honest with me. I cannot abide liars.” 
He paused, gaze shifting from her eyes to the floor. “It was your brother,” he confessed, the weight of his words pressing down like an anvil. 
“And he is the one who gave you the bruise here, I suppose?” Her fingers brushed against the stubble on his jaw, memories of their earlier kiss flooding back, tainted now by the knowledge of violence. 
“Yes.” 
“Why?” 
“He felt the need to defend your honor. I was the only target available.” 
Her grip tightened on his lapels, a surge of anger coursing through her veins. “How positively stupid! You had already offered for me, and I had accepted. Why would you let him pummel you so?” 
His soothing voice gripped her, but she wanted no part of it. She stepped away, feeling sick, as if the world had spun off its axis. “And what good would that do? Will you beat him into unconsciousness?” 
He winced, a sheepish smile flickering across his face like the dying light of a sunset. “Will you challenge him to a duel?” she asked, her voice laced with disbelief. When he said nothing, her breath hitched, and she gasped, “You would leave me a widow less than a month after our wedding? A marriage we haven’t even consummated?”
His eyes flared like flames licking at dry wood, and he stepped forward, closing the distance between them in one swift motion. His hands gripped her arms, pulling her face to his, their noses almost touching. “Don’t for a second think, Y/N, that I don’t want to consummate our marriage. I’ve burned for you since the moment we crossed that threshold as husband and wife.”
Then, in a rush, his lips crashed against hers, an urgent storm of desire. His hands slipped from her arms, gliding over her shoulders, up her neck, cupping her face with a tenderness that belied the tempest brewing within him. He kissed her, nipping and sucking at the tender flesh along her neck, each brush of his mouth a brush against the very core of her being.
Dizzy, she felt their bodies meld together, pressed tightly from knees to chest, sensations swirling like a maelstrom. When his lips reached her ear, he whispered, “It’s a matter of honor,” and with that simple phrase, she snapped back to reality, the haze of desire dissipating like fog in the morning sun.
“Go then,” she said, her voice sharp as a knife, pushing away from him. “Seek your satisfaction, but do not come to me. I could not bear it if I gave you my entire self only to have you killed over something so trivial now. Y/N Y/L/N is no more; only Lady Y/N Kim, Countess of Rushmore, remains, a woman of standing, one of the most sought-after guests in London.”
With that, she turned and fled to her chamber, locking the doors behind her as if sealing away the chaos of her heart. She collapsed onto her bed, sobbing until her tears ran dry, feeling the weight of her world pressing down upon her.
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Seokjin waited for over an hour, but she did not join him in the breakfast parlor. He could feel her vexation in the air, thick and heavy, like a summer storm hanging just before the downpour. If only she could understand how her honor intertwined with his own, how he could not simply walk away from the challenge that had been laid before him.
The prospect of a duel with Eisen loomed, but Seokjin preferred other avenues to address the scoundrel's transgressions. He was ready to confront the man, but only if words failed. Until then, he could only wait, his heart heavy with concern and unspoken words. 
He left the door to his study open, hoping to hear the sound of her footsteps. The empty fireplace crackled softly, but the only thing he could focus on was the gnawing worry about her silence. Just then, his butler knocked and announced Lord Whitmore’s arrival.
Seokjin rose to greet his friend, who brushed aside the butler’s offer to take his coat and hat. 
“I don’t believe I shall tarry long, Forbes, but thank you,” Lord Whitmore said, glancing at Seokjin with a look that could only be described as appraising.
“Morning, Park. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 
“You look terrible, Kim. Is the little wife not pleasing you?” 
“Speak another word on that subject, and you may find yourself missing a few teeth,” Seokjin growled, tension flooding his veins.
“Easy, friend. I have other news. Eisen’s been spotted.”
At the mention of the man’s name, Seokjin felt his entire body tense, a primal instinct surging through him, the urge to fight. He flexed his fingers, pacing the length of the room. “Where? Has he returned home?”
“No, he was seen last night at a gaming hell near Covent Garden.”
“Your Bow Street friend is tailing him, I presume?”
“Of course.”
“Then what are we doing standing around woolgathering?”
When they found Jonathon Bartlett, Viscount Eisen, he lay slumped over the gaming table, still dazed from the previous night's indulgences. The weary proprietor explained how he’d tried to send the viscount home, but Eisen had threatened violence if anyone laid a hand on him. It went without saying that the authorities weren’t called in, given the establishment’s questionable legality. But that didn’t deter Seokjin; he was resolute in seeking justice for his wife.
“Lord Eisen, I would like a word with you.”
The viscount lifted his head, eyes bloodshot and watering, about to lay it back down when comprehension finally broke through the fog of drink clouding his mind. “Rushmore? Is that you? Poor sot you are, shackled to a fish like her,” he began to laugh, but before he could rise, he slumped back down, surrendering to the inebriation that held him captive.
“You behaved in a most heinous way toward my wife, Eisen,” Seokjin said, his voice steady as granite, muscles taut like a bowstring. He stood with his arms braced on the table, the weight of his indignation anchoring him against the crude laughter of the man before him.
Eisen leaned back, his arrogance filling the space like stale smoke. “You see, Rushmore,” he continued, as if Seokjin’s words were mere whispers against the roar of his own hubris, “it’s not good form to take the chit astride you in plain view of her papa. One must be smarter about these things. At least I had the decency to carry her off to a nice, dark corner of the garden for some real fun.” 
“Eisen, I warn you—”
“Doesn’t she have the creamiest thighs you’ve ever seen? A right shame she had to ruin everything by carrying on like a hellcat. What I would give to sink into th—”
In the heartbeat it took for the air to thicken with tension, Lord Rushmore's fist connected with Eisen’s nose, a sickening crunch echoing through the room as the viscount crumpled to the floor, blood spilling like a crimson secret onto the polished wood.
Seokjin would have launched himself atop the man, would have rained down blows until his fury found satisfaction, had it not been for Jimin’s firm hands grasping his shoulders, holding him back like a rabid dog on a leash.
Jonathon, now upright but wobbling, wiped the blood from his face, confusion mingling with rage. “What the devil are you playing at, Rushmore?”
“You will apologize to Lady Rushmore.”
“She barely got what she deserved, the tease. Making eyes and overtures all night, then turning into a proper little prudish thing…”
Seokjin slowly removed his leather gloves, peeling them off with a deliberate precision that bespoke his simmering wrath. He straightened each finger, each gesture methodical, before slapping the gloves across Eisen’s face, satisfaction blooming within him as he noted the three pink scars Y/N had left on the viscount’s cheek.
Eisen let out a sick, hysterical bark of laughter. “You’re challenging me, then?”
Seokjin remained a statue, unyielding.
“What’s it to be? Another bout of fisticuffs at Jackson’s? I assure you, I won’t spare your pretty face like the Y/L/N lad did.”
“Pistols, tomorrow at dawn. Who is your second?”
Eisen narrowed his eyes, scanning the growing crowd in the club with a predator’s focus. “Lord Alec Winters,” he replied, a cold gleam dancing in his gaze.
“Lord Halston will be in contact with him to determine the field of honor. Good day.” 
As they mounted their horses, Lord Whitmore turned to Seokjin, his expression grave and weighted with concern. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“What’s done is done,” Seokjin replied, each word heavy with the inevitability of consequence. “I cannot recall the challenge without appearing a coward.”
“Very well, my lord. I shall stand at your side with Halston.”
Seokjin spent the rest of the day cloistered in his study, though hiding would be a more accurate term. Y/N was noticeably absent when he returned home after issuing his challenge. The butler had handed him a note stating that his wife was spending the day with her particular friends, Ladies Jeon and Jung, but it made no mention of when she would return.
He ate his meal alone, the silence in the room amplifying the thrum of his thoughts, before returning once more to the sanctuary of his study. After pouring himself a generous glass of port, he opened the case that held his dueling pistols. He examined the moving parts, ensuring everything was in proper working order, the metallic tang of the weapons grounding him amidst the swirling chaos in his mind.
It was well after dark when he heard her voice echo through the foyer. “Is Lord Rushmore's at home?” she asked, her tone light but edged with something he couldn’t quite decipher.
“Yes, my lady. He is in the study,” came the butler’s formal reply.
“Thank you, Forbes. That will be all.”
Before he could consider the implications of the pistols laid out on his desk, she appeared in the doorway, her presence a sharp contrast to the darkness of the room.
“Seokjin, I just wanted to…” Her voice faded as her gaze fell on the dueling pistols, an expressionless veneer sliding over her features like a heavy curtain. “I just wanted to let you know I was home.”
“Y/N…”
“Goodnight, Seokjin.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as she turned and left, the door closing behind her with a finality that echoed like a gunshot in the night.
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She couldn’t sleep a wink. The moment she’d spotted the gleaming pistols on Seokjin’s desk, nausea twisted in her stomach like a coiled snake. All night, she lay in the dark, listening for any sound from his bedchamber, but there was nothing. The silence stretched, oppressive and thick, until her unease multiplied, leaving her trembling, a leaf caught in an unforgiving wind.
In the pre-dawn darkness, she lit a single candle, its flickering flame casting long shadows as she made her way to the kitchen, seeking a biscuit or something to settle her roiling stomach. But as she crept into the dimly lit space, her heart plummeted when she overheard Forbes speaking to Mrs. Cope, the housekeeper.
“He’s goin’ through with that bloody duel?” Mrs. Cope’s voice dripped with concern, thick as treacle.
“It would seem so,” Forbes replied, his tone grave.
“The poor girl,” Mrs. Cope continued, her voice low, “she was so out of sorts yesterday, and just when I thought they were beginnin’ to warm up to each other…”
Madness. Absolute madness. How could she sit idly by, waiting for news that might shatter her world, wondering if her husband lay dead in a field of honor? Clearing her throat, she startled the two servants. “Forbes, please have a footman saddle my horse.”
His eyebrows raised slightly, but he schooled his features, nodding with a single, curt motion.
“And when you’re done with him, bring him here and I’ll box his ears,” Mrs. Cope added with a wink, a twinkle of mischief in her eye.
Y/N knew the housekeeper had cared for Seokjin since he was a lad of seventeen, just stepping into the world as an Earl after his father’s death. She’d watched Mrs. Cope fuss over him like a second mother, a bond forged in years of loyalty and affection.
“You can count on it, to be sure, Mrs. Cope,” Y/N promised, her resolve hardening.
She rushed back to her chamber, dressing in her riding habit without a moment’s thought for her maid. Tying her hair into a simple queue, she ignored the elaborate hats hanging in her dressing room, knowing they would do little to comfort her.
Forbes held the door open, and as she passed, he murmured, “Hyde Park, just north of the Serpentine.”
“Thank you, Forbes,” she replied, determination coursing through her veins.
The groom helped her into the side-saddle, and she urged her horse into a slow trot until she found her seat. Then she pressed the beast into a gallop, the wind whipping around her face as the world blurred by. The gray mist of foreboding cloaked the park, but she pressed on toward the bridge, morning light peeking over the horizon, the air crisp and biting.
As she crossed the bridge, her heart raced at the sight of a gathering of gentlemen, tension crackling in the air. Two men stood poised to fire, and she could faintly hear Lord Halston calling out, “Ready. Aim. Fire!”
Time slowed as she careened toward the group, her voice piercing the morning hush. “NO!” But it was too late; the shots rang out, echoing in her ears like the toll of a death knell. 
She leapt from her horse, barreling through the crowd of men, her heart pounding like a war drum. “Seokjin!” she called, desperation clawing at her throat as she broke through the front line. Lord Eisen stood to her left, his pistol still raised, confusion painted across his face. To her right, she saw Seokjin, his arm raised to the sky, expression a tempest of fury and concern.
“I am satisfied,” he declared, his voice steady despite the chaos, “Let it be known that Lord Eisen is a debaucher of innocence and a dishonorable blackguard.” He lowered his pistol, striding toward her with purpose.
But before he could reach her, another gunshot shattered the stillness, a sharp crack in the fragile morning. Horror twisted in her gut as Seokjin howled in pain, crumpling to the ground, blood blooming like dark petals through the fabric of his breeches. Disapproving murmurs erupted from the gathered crowd, a cacophony of gasps and curses directed at Lord Eisen.
Her focus narrowed to Seokjin, writhing on the ground as blood seeped from his wound. She fell to her knees, hands trembling as they fluttered over his injured leg.
“Stay back, Y/N, this is no place for you,” he gritted out, his voice strained with pain. “Park, take her back home.”
“No. I’m not leaving. I can help.”
“Dammit, woman, why will you not do as I say?”
“Because I love you!” she shouted, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. “And I won’t leave your side.” She cupped his sweat-dampened cheek, searching his eyes for any sign of hope. “Lord Whitmore, is there a physician present?” she asked, desperation lacing her voice, unwilling to tear her gaze from Seokjin.
“Here, my lady. I’ll just see to binding the wound,” a gray-haired gentleman replied, a black satchel slung over his shoulder.
Seokjin threw his head back on the grass, a roar of agony ripping from his throat. “Be quick about it. I’m not sure how much longer I can remain conscious!”
Once the physician bound his leg, Park and Halston helped Seokjin into the doctor’s carriage, then Park handed Y/N inside, her heart hammering with fear as they made their way home, Seokjin’s head resting on her lap, his warmth a fragile reminder of life.
When they arrived at Kim House, Halston administered copious amounts of brandy until Seokjin was thoroughly foxed, the alcohol dulling the edges of his pain.
The doctor worked efficiently, extracting the bullet with practiced hands, though he was the recipient of a lengthy string of vitriol from the Earl. “Curse you, Eisen!” Seokjin spat, his voice thick with indignation. The doctor promised to return the following day to check the dressing and promptly exited the room.
Y/N remained at Seokjin’s side, mopping his forehead with a cool cloth, his features a pale shadow of their usual vigor. He was insensible from both the liquor and the laudanum, yet he managed to crack his eyes open, a flicker of recognition igniting within.
“Did you mean it?” he asked, voice slurred yet filled with an urgency that made her heart leap.
“Why was your pistol raised when I arrived?” She couldn’t help but question, a mix of fear and frustration welling within her.
“I shot into the air,” he scowled, eyes narrowing. “The cur wasn’t worth even a single bullet.” He paused, searching her gaze with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “Did you mean what you said? That you love me?”
“Yes, you ridiculously honorable man. I love you,” she confessed, her heart swelling with the truth of her words.
“As I love you,” he replied, his voice softer, a gentle lullaby beneath the tumult of the day. “’Tis why I had to confront him the way I did.” His words were heavy with sleep, yet fervent as though each syllable was an anchor in the storm.
“Well, you’re going to have to come up with a different way of expressing it. I don’t think I could bear to see you… For a moment, I thought you were dead.” The weight of those words pressed down on her, a chill creeping through her veins.
“I shall never leave your side again, my love.” His voice softened, eyes fluttering closed, his breathing slowing like the ebb of the tide.
For a heartbeat, she thought he had finally succumbed to sleep, but then she felt the gentle pressure of his hand around hers, a tether that bound them even amidst the shadows, a promise whispered in the dark.
"I fear I shall be a useless husband for the next several weeks until the wound is well on its way to healing." Seokjin's gaze pierced through her, an intensity lurking behind his words that took her a moment to grasp. 
A rush of crimson crept up her neck, and she quickly averted her gaze. “Don’t be vulgar. It is far too early in the morning for such talk.”
"I will require a great deal of nursing and special care, you know." His voice was a teasing whisper, laced with something more primal that made her heart race.
"Yes, the doctor explained what would need to be done. I shall take extra special care of you, my lord," she replied, tracing a delicate finger over the smattering of hair on his chest, the softness of the moment shattered by the storm brewing beneath the surface.
"Vixen," he murmured, eyes fluttering shut, a smile playing on his lips. "These next weeks will be torture."
"I do hope so," she shot back, her tone teasing but edged with sincerity. "Perhaps next time you won’t be so quick to engage in something as foolish as this."
She leaned in, pressing her lips to his, the kiss igniting a warmth that spread through them both. Seokjin’s hand found the back of her neck, holding her gently in place as he feasted on her mouth, nibbling and sucking, each sigh from him a reminder of the thin line between pleasure and pain.
With a soft thud, his head dropped back onto the pillow, and he looked deeply into her eyes. “When my leg has healed, the first order of business will be to see to the matter of an heir for the Earldom.”
“Agreed,” she whispered, lying down next to him on the bed for the first time, a sense of gravity settling over them.
Meanwhile, Lord Rushmore stood with his hands casually clasped behind his back, watching a stable boy lead a striking pair of chestnut horses around the yard at Tattersalls. He had no real intention of acquiring any new horseflesh; he had simply agreed to meet Lords Park and Halston there, his mind elsewhere, adrift in thoughts of a summer retreat at Willow Hill, his country estate.
It had been an arduous month, the wound inflicted by Lord Eisen a constant reminder of his vulnerability. Kim hated being an invalid, but Y/N’s determined care was a salve to his wounded pride, particularly when she offered to help him bathe. Yet now, as he was finally cleared to bear weight on his injured leg, her shyness returned, casting a pall over the intimacy they had shared.
“Kim!” Namjoon’s voice cut through his reverie, yanking him back to the present.
“How goes it, Halston?” Seokjin asked, forcing a smile.
“Well, very well. And how does the livestock look?” Namjoon’s tone was light, masking the concern lurking just beneath.
Seokjin circled the courtyard, moving smoothly as Namjoon trailed slowly behind. 
“Still walking like you’ve got a dry stick in your boot instead of a leg, I see?” Lord Whitmore called from behind, his friendly jab punctuating the air.
Seokjin turned, a rueful grin tugging at his lips. He had long since stopped limping, yet the familiar teasing felt like a balm, a reminder of their shared camaraderie.
Jimin stepped up beside Seokjin, tilting his head slightly. “They’re preparing the gallows at Newgate,” he said, his voice low, the gravity of his words palpable.
“I see,” Seokjin replied, his brow furrowing. “And has your Bow Street source heard anything that would be of particular interest to me?”
Jimin shook his head, frustration evident. “He wasn’t able to get a look at the list of condemned.”
“After shooting you in the leg and then strangling his new bride to death, it would serve him right to dance upon nothing. I shudder when I think of the reports that were given as to her physical condition before death. The man is a monster.” Namjoon’s voice grew impassioned, his anger simmering just below the surface. He despised violence against women, a sentiment that burned hotter with each word. “If I had the chance, I’d dispatch Eisen with my bare hands.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Seokjin replied, the heat of righteous indignation flaring in his chest. “Though I must admit, it would take Herculean effort to prevent a towering rage from overcoming me if I were to find Y/N with another man—and in the very act, no less.”
Namjoon opened his mouth to protest, but Seokjin raised a hand. “No, friend, I understand. Her dalliance certainly did not merit her death. If Eisen is to be hanged, he has certainly earned his fate.”
The three stood in a tense silence as the auctioneer began the bidding on a black thoroughbred racehorse, the tension in the air palpable.
“Halston, are you bidding today?” Jimin asked, his voice light, yet curiosity tinged his tone.
Namjoon’s brows pinched together, shaking his head. “No, I haven’t seen anything that strikes my fancy.”
“Shall we be off to Park’s, then?” Jimin’s brow rose expectantly, glancing between Namjoon and Seokjin.
“Not for me, lads. I must see to a few last-minute preparations before we leave for Willow Hill.”
They strolled a short distance away from Tattersalls, where Seokjin’s coach awaited. 
“We shall join you in a week’s time,” Namjoon said, a promise hanging in the air.
“I look forward to a few weeks in the country,” Seokjin replied, a smile creeping onto his lips despite the heavy weight of recent events. “Though I daresay this house party will be quite different from those of past years, with Lady Rushmore now leading you about by the nose.” Jimin chuckled, nudging Namjoon with his elbow, their shared mirth a small reprieve from the shadows of their reality. They exchanged a pitying glance with Seokjin, who merely smiled, shaking his head, caught in the bittersweet nature of love, loss, and the unbearable weight of impending fate.
"I'll have you know that in addition to her Mama and Papa, Lady Rushmore has also invited the Jeons and the Jungs. I would not doubt she has matchmaking on the mind." The words tumbled from Seokjin’s mouth, heavy with implication, each syllable dripping with the kind of mischief that hangs thick in the air before a storm.
Jimin scoffed, shaking his head. "The day I fall into a parson's mousetrap, as you did, is the day I shall kick the bucket from under my own feet and take a short drop."
"Ah, my dear Park, there are a great many advantages to having a wife," Seokjin replied, climbing into the carriage, the sound of his voice echoing like a warning bell against the backdrop of laughter and banter.
"Does that mean you're no longer living the life of a monk?" Jimin called after him, his words laced with a teasing edge. As Seokjin gave two swift raps to the roof of the carriage, the laughter of his friends faded, oblivious to the rich tapestry of pleasure that a loving wife waiting at home could weave into a man's life.
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The scene that greeted Seokjin upon his arrival home was chaos incarnate. Maids bustled about like frantic bees, arms laden with linens and other household goods, while footmen heaved large trunks and portmanteaus down the stairs, the very air vibrating with urgency. 
He nodded as he passed various servants, each one bobbing curtsies or bowing stiffly before resuming their frenetic tasks. But as he reached the top of the stairs, a familiar voice cut through the cacophony—Y/N, directing her maid with a calm authority that belied the frenzy around her.
"I'm afraid I'll need the basin with me inside the coach. Heaven help me if I should cast up my crumpets during the journey. Lord Rushmore's has yet to witness such a distasteful episode. I fear I shall die of mortification if he were to witness such unpleasantness." 
A flicker of irritation sparked within Seokjin at the thought of her hiding an illness from him, a dark cloud threatening to obscure his sunny disposition. He had every intention of chastising her for keeping silent about her health, but that resolve evaporated like morning mist when he rounded the corner into their bedroom. 
There she was, bent over a valise, sorting through her chemises and nightdresses, a vision of domesticity that stole the breath from his lungs. 
The maid was the first to notice him. He raised a finger to his lips and nodded toward the door, signaling his desire for privacy. She nodded once and slipped out, closing the door without so much as a whisper. 
Seokjin moved across the room, his footsteps muffled by the plush woven rug beneath him, until he stood directly behind his still-leaning wife. 
"Liza, have you already packed my tan kid glo—" He gripped her hips, pulling her backside against him, eliciting a shriek of surprise. When she spun around, he caught her in his arms, her wide eyes a mirror of astonishment. 
"Hello, my love."
"Seokjin! How you startled me." She swatted her hand against his chest, but the smile creeping across her lips melted the tension from her flushed features, leaving only warmth in its wake. 
"I am sorry for that, but I was loath to interrupt my view of your delightful figure." 
He stroked his finger along her cheekbone, which bloomed with a telltale blush. She studied him as he trailed the same finger down her throat and around the back of her neck, delighting in the shivers that coursed through her at his touch. Leaning down, he followed the path with the tip of his nose, stopping momentarily to graze the tender flesh behind her ear with his lips. 
"My lord," she whispered, and he felt the weight of that title hang between them like a breathless promise. 
"Yes, my lady?" 
He continued to kiss and nibble his way across her jaw and up to her lips, savoring the sweet aftertaste of honey that lingered from her tea. She responded with equal enthusiasm, suckling his lower lip and tilting her head for a better angle. After what felt like hours, she finally pulled away, gasping for breath. 
"Seokjin, there is too much to do." She leaned away from him, perhaps expecting him to release her, but he tightened his grip around her waist, kissing her again, lost in the moment. 
"We have a moment, do we not?" he murmured against her lips, the world outside fading into insignificance. 
Suddenly, she stiffened in his arms, and he instinctively relaxed his hold. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened with a dawning horror. He let her go as she rushed to the washstand, emptying the contents of her stomach into the basin. 
With purposeful strides, he crossed the room and laid a gentle hand on her back, offering comfort as she heaved, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. When she was finished, he extended his handkerchief and waited, heart pounding in his chest. 
She shuffled to the tea tray, returning to the basin with a cup full of lukewarm tea. Swishing mouthfuls and spitting them back into the basin, she did her best to maintain some semblance of delicacy, but her weariness was palpable. 
When she finally turned to face him, the rosy flush had drained from her cheeks, replaced by an ashen pallor that sent a chill through him. How long had she been hiding her illness? 
"Must you look at me with such pity?" she asked, setting the teacup down and twisting her hands together, a nervous habit that made his heart ache. 
"My sweet, how long have you felt ill? We can postpone our departure until you are well. Everyone coming to Willow Hill will understand." He reached out to caress her cheek, but she turned away from his touch, brushing past him like a ghost. 
He watched, concern knitting his brow, as she paced the room, muttering under her breath, a whirlwind of anxiety. Finally, she cast herself onto the bed, curling into a tight ball, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Seokjin was taken aback, concern spiraling into panic at the sudden shift in her demeanor. Every instinct screamed at him to rush to her side, but he remained frozen, captivated by the raw vulnerability laid bare before him. 
As if pulled by an unseen string, she sat up, wiping her eyes before their gazes connected, and he felt propelled into action. 
He hurriedly knelt in front of her, grasping her hands in his. "What is wrong, Y/N?"
"I did not… It was supposed to be… Oh botheration. I must look a fright." She dabbed the handkerchief at the corners of her eyes, a picture of fragility. 
"Should I summon the doctor?" he asked, dread pooling in his stomach at the thought of his wife being gravely ill. 
The lines of worry etched on her face began to soften, replaced by a look of adoration that made his heart race. 
"I have already seen the doctor." 
"And what is his diagnosis?" Seokjin’s heart plummeted, a darkness settling over him at the very thought of her suffering.
She wriggled one of her hands free from his grasp—he hadn’t realized he was squeezing her so tightly—and cupped the side of his face with a tenderness that caught him off guard. “I’m afraid you were quite successful in your quest for an heir,” she said, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm.
His brow furrowed as the meaning of her words sunk in, slowly creeping through the fog of his mind like a dark shadow. “Do you mean… I say! Are you—” He sprang to his feet, a surge of exhilaration propelling him to nearly drag Y/N off the bed in his excitement.
“I am increasing, and it is all your fault, you insufferable man! I don’t feel the least bit well, and of course, there’s nothing to be done for it but nibble dry toast when the nausea strikes.” Her voice had a sharp edge to it, yet there was a sparkle in her eyes that ignited something primal within him.
Dropping to his knees, he surrounded her with his arms, resting his head gently against her still-flat abdomen. The thought “I am going to be a father” echoed in his mind, a mantra that swelled until it overwhelmed him like a tidal wave.
Y/N threaded her fingers through his hair, massaging soothing circles on his scalp, murmuring sweet nothings that drifted like whispers in the night until, finally, she grasped his chin and gently lifted him to his feet. “I wanted to tell you at Willow Hill. The doctor confirmed the pregnancy only this morning.”
“When will it be here?” he asked, his heart pounding like a drum echoing through an empty hall.
“He shall be born in early February.”
He smirked, a wild gleam igniting in his eyes as he led her back to the bed. With a tenderness that seemed to transcend reality, he cradled her in his arms. “You are sure, then, that I have produced an heir for the title of Lord Rushmore’s?” His voice danced with mischief.
“Of course. It is my greatest wish that the lineage for the earldom be secured, but…”
“But what, my darling?”
“What if it is a girl?” 
“It gives us all the more reason to practice the arduous task of producing a male heir.” He kissed her soundly as he laid her on the bed, hovering protectively over her, his body a fortress against the world. 
“There are still so many things to prepare, Seokjin.”
“Hush, my dear. Let the housekeeper do her job. The world will not fall apart if we steal a few moments of quiet together.” 
She pressed herself into his side, and in that fleeting moment, as if they had stolen a slice of eternity, he felt her body relax, her breaths evening into those of a slumbering angel, wrapped in the cocoon of their shared warmth.
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The next morning unfolded like a symphony of chaos as the coaches were readied for the departure of the Earl of Rushmore’s household. When Forbes gave the word, Seokjin tucked Y/N’s hand in the crook of his elbow and led her to the carriage. Once she was settled, he followed her in, sitting close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. His gaze flicked nervously to the basin opposite them, stacked with lavender-scented handkerchiefs and towels. He hoped her sickness wouldn’t turn their journey into a nightmare.
The carriage lurched into motion, rattling off through the streets of London, bound for the quieter Hampshire countryside. The sun barely peeked over the rooftops, and the cool breeze whispered secrets through the open windows. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment of calm until Y/N spoke, shattering the fragile peace.
“Seokjin, why are we going in the wrong direction? This is not the road to Hampshire.”
He opened his eyes and sat up straighter, unease coiling in his stomach like a serpent. “I have a small matter of business I need to see to before we leave town.”
She frowned, her brow knitting together in concern. “I thought you took care of all your business yesterday.”
“Yes, well, one other matter came up.”
“I see.” 
She shifted away from him, her attention drawn outside. His heart sank as he realized where they were headed. The closer they came to Newgate prison, the more agitated he became, as if an unseen force was tightening around his throat.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, glancing at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
“Do you not have a book or some kind of embroidery with which to occupy yourself?”
“I fear I would grow ill if I tried to read, and heaven forbid I should attempt any kind of needlecraft. I would most likely end up sticking myself and bleed to death.” 
He sighed, defeated by her stubbornness. Minutes ticked by, and the rattling wheels on the cobblestone streets were replaced by the jeers of a growing mob gathering for the hangings.
“Seokjin, why is there such a crowd at this early hour?” Her voice was laced with dread, and he could feel her eyes boring into him, demanding answers he couldn’t provide.
He stood, head bent, shoulders rounded, and leaned over his legs to peer out his window. The prison loomed ahead, and the gallows stood like a grim sentinel against the morning sky.
As they approached, the carriage slowed, stopping some distance from the raised platform, yet they had a perfect view. When the gaoler stood and raised his arms, the crowd fell silent, anticipation crackling in the air like static before a storm.
As he read the names of the condemned and their crimes, a chill crept down Seokjin’s spine. One by one, the hooded figures were brought forth, the nooses cinched around their necks as the crowd hissed and jeered, throwing stones and objects at the prisoners.
“And last we have, Jonathon Bartlett, Viscount Eisen, condemned to hang by the neck until dead for the murder in cold blood of Louis Montford, Marquis of Calais.”
Y/N gasped, scrambling backward into her seat, her breath quickening as panic washed over her like a wave. She waved her hand in front of her face, but that same wide-eyed look of distress he had witnessed the day before seized her. She lunged forward, retching violently into the basin.
Once again, he handed her a clean square of toweling and waited, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest. 
“I had heard of the scandal. Lady Min was quite thrilled to share the news with your mother. But… he is not condemned for the death of Lady Eisen?”
Seokjin shook his head, his heart pounding like a war drum. “No. Had he only killed her, he most likely would not be in this position. When he murdered the Marquis in front of his entire household, he sealed his fate.” 
Though he glossed over the details for her benefit, the gruesome images of Lord Montford’s lifeless body, throat slit from ear to ear, lingered in his mind like a dark specter. It was damning, to say the least.
Seokjin peered out of the carriage window, the air thick with a tension that prickled at the nape of his neck. It was nearly time.
“Please, Seokjin,” Y/N’s voice quivered, raw with dread. “I can’t bear this. Let’s go.”
He nodded once, the sound of his heart thumping painfully in his chest. With a sharp rap on the carriage's wooden panel, the horses whinnied in response, and the vehicle lurched forward, rattling down the cobbled streets. 
As they rounded the corner, the roar of the mob reached a crescendo, a grotesque symphony of triumph and bloodlust. It echoed in his ears, a haunting reminder of what awaited them. Y/N leaned heavily against him, her body trembling as she covered her face with shaking hands, bent double as if the weight of the world bore down on her fragile frame. For a moment, he feared she might be sick again.
After a silence that stretched like a taut wire, she slowly lifted her head, her eyes glistening. “I don’t understand why I’ve turned into a watering pot.”
“It’s the good and kind nature within you,” he murmured, though he felt the tremor in his own voice.
“It’s never good to revel in the death of one of God’s children, even if he was a very bad man.” She sniffled into her handkerchief, and gradually, the plush upholstery of the carriage seemed to embrace her weary form, pulling her back from the brink of despair.
“True. He was indeed a most depraved individual, but now we shall never have to worry about him again.”
“Do you think he really would have followed through on his threats against me?” She looked at him, eyes wide with fear.
“It’s hard to say for certain. But if his madness regarding his wife’s lover is any indication, I’m relieved to think you need not worry about his intentions any longer.” 
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28 February 1816
11:54 pm
“I swear to God himself, if I am not allowed to see my wife this instant, I shall break down the door!” Seokjin's voice reverberated through the upper halls of Willow Hill as he pounded on the door to their shared bedchamber, desperation clawing at him.
Y/N had been laboring for nearly twenty hours. The doctor had even consented to allow the local midwife to assist, though his reluctant agreement came with warnings laced with disapproval. 
Just as Seokjin was about to start kicking the door, he heard the soft click of the lock. A frightened, doe-eyed maid opened the door, stepping aside just in time as he barreled past her into the room.
Y/N sat hunched over on a peculiar chair, sweat beading on her forehead and clinging to her hair. On either side of her stood their mothers, both wearing matching scowls, while Siobhan, the midwife, whispered instructions into Y/N’s ear, her voice thick and accented. 
When Siobhan glanced up, her eyes sparkled with an unsettling gleam. Her hair was a wild halo of gray curls, and her face bore the deep lines of age, looking like an apple left too long in the orchard—wrinkled, desiccated.
“The babby is almost here,” she crooned, “but she be waitin’ fer her own special day. This'un is sure to be full o’ spirit.” Her words slurred together, but the meaning hung in the air, heavy and ripe.
“How do you know it’s a girl?” Y/N grunted, a fresh wave of pain coursing through her. “Ooooh, another…”
“Bear down and push, lovey. ’Tis almost done. Are ye ready to catch, doctor?” 
“Hush, witch. I know how to bring a child into the world,” snapped the doctor, irritation coating his every word.
“Kim, come take my place,” Seokjin’s mother urged, but he hardly heard her over the pounding of his heart.
“We’ve only ever talked about names for a boy,” he murmured, glancing at the doctor’s bloodied hand reaching for a towel. 
“Och, there he goes,” Siobhan said, her voice laced with disapproval, and that was the last thing Seokjin remembered before the world around him faded to black.
Everything became muffled, foggy, like he was submerged in deep water. He tried to reach for Y/N’s voice, but his limbs felt like lead, unresponsive. 
Then, a sharp, acrid smell invaded his senses, burning his nostrils. His eyes shot open, heart racing as he scanned the room, confused and disoriented. He was on the floor of his chamber, the strange chair gone, the chaotic mess of moments before replaced by eerie calm. How long had he been unconscious?
A familiar wrinkled face appeared above him. “Ah, there ye be. ’Tis why we don’t let the papas in until after the wee ones are born.”
“Y/N!” he gasped, shaking off the haze. “Where is my wife?”
“I’m right here, my lord.”
He rose unsteadily, dread curling in his stomach, and turned slowly toward her voice. Y/N lay on the bed in a fresh, white nightdress, hair neatly plaited over one shoulder, and cradled in her arms was a tiny bundle wrapped in blankets, a serene infant nestled against her.
He stumbled forward, drawn by an unseen force, and perched next to her, awe washing over him. Siobhan’s departing words barely registered as he soaked in the sight of his wife and child. 
“Y/N, my beautiful Y/N. How do you fare?” he whispered, his heart swelling.
A knowing smile danced on her lips. “You fainted, my lord.”
He felt the warmth of laughter bubbling just beneath the surface. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He remained silent, mesmerized by the tiny rosebud lips of their child. “I hope everyone has sworn an oath to take the events of this room to the grave.”
“Oh dear, I do believe we forgot to summon a magistrate for such proceedings.”
“Then I will assume the entire township, nay the whole of Hampshire, will know of my weak constitution by midday.” He sighed, resting his head on her shoulder, feeling the weight of the world lift just slightly. After a contemplative silence, he asked, “Was she right? Siobhan, I mean.”
“Does it matter?”
“You are alive. The child is alive. Of course it matters.”
He watched as Y/N’s fingers traced the soft strands of reddish-brown hair that crowned their daughter’s head. “She was right. You have a daughter, my love.”
“A girl,” he breathed, the word heavy with meaning. “Was she indeed born on the twenty-ninth?”
“Yes, she waited until it was two minutes past midnight. Siobhan was right on both counts. She wanted to have her own special day.”
The thought struck him like a chill in the night air—he would never survive having a daughter. Anxiety twisted in his chest, coiling around his heart until it clenched painfully with every beat.
Y/N must have sensed his turmoil, her gaze steady and soothing. “Please don’t give yourself an apoplexy thinking of suitors and her coming out. We have many, many years before that becomes an issue.”
“You know me too well, my sweet. But it changes nothing. I would go to the ends of the earth to protect my ladies’ honor.”
He extended his arms, lifting the stirring infant into his embrace. “What shall we call her?”
Y/N tucked the blankets around her legs, her smile illuminating the dim room. “I was thinking perhaps, Lady Caroline Marie Kim, in honor of your late father.”
“Perfect. My mother will be deeply touched.” He marveled at the strength of the little fist that curled around his finger. “She will need a brother to protect her. When shall we start working on that endeavor?”
Y/N arched an eyebrow and shook her head. “You may address that subject with me in three or four years’ time. Until then, do I need to cloister myself in a separate bedchamber?”
Seokjin’s grin took on a mischievous edge as he shook his head. “I don’t think I can bear to sleep without you, my love. I promise I will behave.”
But beneath the surface of their laughter, a dark shadow lingered—a reminder that the world outside could be as dangerous as it was beautiful. And it wouldn’t be until the twenty-ninth of February 1820, that a boy, the next Earl of Rushmore, would arrive.
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© chimcess, 2024. Do not copy or repost without permission.
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yan-lorkai · 3 months ago
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Hi!! I loved your hcs of the Octotrio with a yuu that seems to only have a talent in art. I related to it a lot because sometimes I feel like I’m not good at anything else other than drawing.
I was wondering if you could do the same prompt with Riddle, Ace, Deuce, Cater, Leona, Malleus & the Scarabia boys please? If that’s too many you can just do Leona, Malleus, & Scarabia. Thank you 😊
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.⁠。⁠*⁠♡ A/N: I guess everyone has one of those episodes, huh? I've been writing for more than 8 years now and sometimes I get hit by the "aa but I'm only good at writing, I should totally try something" and then I try something new and hate it bcs I really love to write and nothing can compare lmao. Anyway, I hope you like this darling, I did all the characters requested too btw ~
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.⁠。⁠*⁠♡ Ace would be playful and encouraging, but his competitive nature would lead him to manipulate situations to keep you close. He’d play little tricks to make sure you stay dependent on him, offering "helpful" critiques that subtly undermine your confidence in anything but your art. His lighthearted facade would hide a deeper need to be the center of your attention, he is your muse, the one you use to practice, the who inspires you, making sure that you see him as the only one who truly understands and supports you, all while ensuring you don't realize how he’s subtly sabotaging any other talents you might want to try to explore, for he fears you will not want to spend more time with him anymore if that was the case.
.⁠。⁠*⁠♡ Cater would use his social media prowess to make you art the talk of the school, ensuring your work — and by extension, his support — is always in the spotlight. However, his validation would come with a price, as he subtly isolates you from others, creating an environment where you feel your art is only appreciated by him and his curated audience. Cater’s charming persona would hide his darker intentions, as he manipulates your into believing that your worth is tied to the art you create under his influence, all while keeping you emotionally dependent on his constant praise. You're already good at other things, so surely you don't need to have another hobby, right?
.⁠。⁠*⁠♡ Deuce, unlike Ace, would be fiercely protective of your artistic talent. He’d encourage your art with an almost desperate intensity, pushing you to try different brushes and pens, different scenarios and things, but he'd also pressure you to stay focused on what your good at, ensuring you don’t waste time on things you never tried before. His possessiveness would manifest in his need to be your protector, to the point where he'd become intimidating towards anyone who tries to steer you away from your art, that does not apply to yourself, while he think your drawings / paintings are very beautiful, he would not force you to make it more if you're having an episode where you doubt your skills and think you are good only on the art field. If you want to explore new things, Deuce will be by your side the entire time.
.⁠。⁠*⁠♡ Riddle would be intensely supportive yet controlling, pushing you to perfect your craft while ensuring you don't stray too far from his strict rules, even more if you are already his lover. His obsession with your success would become borderline suffocating, as he constantly monitors your progress and enforces discipline to keep you on the right path, nurturing your already beautiful talent. To Riddle, your art is flawless, it's personal and have a touch of you in every drawing, be it digital or traditional. When you come to tell him about your doubts, about how you're only good at art, Riddle promptly sooth you with gentle words, albeit he is a little awkward while talking. He offer to teach you about whatever you want to learn but be prepared because he is somewhat a strict teacher.
.⁠。⁠*⁠♡ Leona would admire your dedication to your art, and he would ask questions about it too, learning as much as your interest as possible. However, his possessiveness would be almost primal, keeping you close under the guise of protection, ensuring you don’t waste time on anything — or anyone — else. Leona would be dismissive of your attempts to explore other talents, reinforcing that your art is the only thing that matters. His control would be subtle yet overpowering, as he ensures your world revolves around him and your art, leaving you with little room for anything else.
.⁠。⁠*⁠♡ Malleus would shower you with endless admiration, captivated by your artistic talent, even more if you were influenced by an artistic movement. He'll notice all the little details, the subtle way the traces converge, how the color scheme is perfect, the way the shadows and the light reflect. He is your number 1 fan, so supportive of you. However, his intense fascination would drag you into his lonely world, where your art becomes your only outlet and he is your audience - though he has your drawings framed and hung on the walls of the castles, so everyone can look at it and admire. Malleus may not understand your struggles and why would you want to pursue another hobby, but he can arrange anything you may want to try at least once, from singing and dancing to sewing and knitting, even the art of potion making, archery or fencing. He just know you're going to find something you like as much as your art, and if you are happy so is he.
.⁠。⁠*⁠♡ Jamil would secretly nurture your talent, subtly guiding your creativity while undermining any attempts you make to excel elsewhere, he sees your art as something free and with many meanings - it makes him relaxed in some sort of way and Jamil wants to be a little greedy here, he wants you to continue creating more pieces, always keeping you under his watchful eye as you started drawing / painting. There's just something so intimate, so calming about it he can't wrap his head around. He loves watching you creating your art, feeling is guard lowering just a little. If you ever approach him with your doubts, Jamil take you to the kitchen so he can teach you a few things about cooking. It's a different kind of art but when all is said and done, it's just as good as when you're creating and make you feeling accomplished.
.⁠。⁠*⁠♡ Kalim would be so overwhelmingly supportive and enthusiastic about it, showering you with gifts and opportunities to nurture your artistic talent, buying everything you may need to create your art, a new software? Sure, no problem, he brought the most expensive one too. A few new pencils and pens? Right away. You need more frames and paints? It will be here in a couple of hours. However, his naivety mixed with possessiveness would lead to unintentional control over your life, as he tries to keep you happy and close by his side. Kalim’s well-meaning gestures would create a gilded cage, where your art flourishes but your freedom is slowly stripped away. He would be oblivious to the suffocating effect of his love, believing that as long as you're happy creating art with him, nothing else matters, leaving you feeling trapped and not knowing how to communicate with him. He have done so much for you already!
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randombush3 · 8 months ago
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(extremely talented, creative) stalker
alexia putellas x reader
based on this and a poem from when i was little. i chose alexia because she fit the character more and i rushed this immensely because i was being pestered for attention by multiple creatures. oh and i went for something decently light-hearted bc these hozier fics have been affecting my soul and ruining my spotify daylists.
happy monday people x
p.s. not proof-read because it's lunchtime and i'm hungry (edit: i just did my proof-read now and i've realised that it was in fact not lunchtime??? it was past lunchtime and i was just zoned out!)
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Alexia doesn’t care much for art. Sure, she admires the effort, the time such talent sits behind a canvas and marks something that was once blank until others begin to value it. She agrees with the masses about the beauty of quaint watercolour paintings of the coast, and she lets Mapi rave about charcoal and graphite and oils as if she understands what is so special about the varying media. 
She knows she is only here today because the art is about sports. The gallery seems almost reluctant to allow the athletes in, worried they have brought with them their football boots and cones to dribble around, but it would be bad practice to prohibit the muses from the collection. She isn’t an idiot, though, and she knows that no amount of forced reading about the artist and other sophisticated matters will slip her seamlessly into the crowd. 
There are lots of people; people she has never heard of, but make it clear they are far superior to her by the way in which their eyes politely drop to the tattoos inked onto her calloused hands. Their skin is soft, accustomed to the stems of crystal champagne flutes, and the drawings that hold so much personal meaning to the footballer are scrutinised to the point of silent… offence.  
So much for appreciators of art, she thinks to herself, counting down the minutes until it is acceptable for her to leave. 
With a huff and a vow to never – no matter how much she earns – forget where she has come from, Alexia staggers, uncomfortable in these particular heels, towards the painting she deems easiest to understand. 
It is the largest in the room: deep, crimson reds on top of familiar greens, streaks of gold falling out of a ponytail. 
Call Alexia egotistical, but anyone would be drawn to a painting of themselves. 
The artist has done a good job, she guesses, not entirely sure if there is a deeper meaning behind the grass stains on her socks or the crumpled shading of her Spain jersey. It is a little creepy that someone she does not know has captured her likeness so expertly, so practised. 
“The nose isn’t quite right,” a voice says beside her. 
Alexia turns in surprise, amused enough by the stranger’s observation to examine her painted face, eyes not drawn from how majestic her image is beginning to seem. She sees no obvious issue, and so she replies, “I think it’s fine.” 
“Just fine?” 
She is still staring at herself, now impressed by the grandeur of the painting; its size, its quality. “Well, I am unsure how someone painted me so accurately when I was never called in for a… I don’t know, a consultation? And it seems a little weird to me that my hair is loose, because I tend to slick it back so it doesn’t fall out of my ponytail, and, you know, I always have something written on my boots, but otherwise, it’s fine. I doubt anyone here has ever watched a football match, so none of this will matter to them.” 
“It doesn’t bother you that someone might pay millions for a painting that you have deemed not-quite-right?” 
The voice is somewhat too interested, and suddenly Alexia swivels around to face its owner properly, worried she has spoken her mind to a journalist. 
“Those millions go to a charity that will improve women’s sports every–” 
You are definitely not a journalist, although once, when art really wasn’t paying, you had off-handedly typed out a few articles for one of the bigger galleries. 
Alexia knows you are not a journalist because you are dressed to be in front of the cameras, not behind them. 
Your hands hang by your sides, but in a rather unnatural manner as though you are itching to do something else, and she is briefly overcome by the horror that you seem elegant enough to be a potential buyer. Has she put you off? 
“Oh,” you interrupt, “don’t be so profound. Sometimes you footballers sound like change-making machines.” 
“There is change to be made,” she responds indignantly. 
“Hence the exhibition,” you allow with a little smirk, nodding towards the rest of the room. Although the biggest of the collection, you had asked for your painting to be displayed in the corner; a filter, in a sense, to ensure no one throws money at the largest thing in the room just because they can. “It creeps you out to be painted?” 
The question is curious, but Alexia no longer feels like she has been caged in an interrogation room. 
She thinks about her answer for a moment, torn between returning to gaze at the expanse of the scene in front of her or staring at you, wondering if you count as one of the works of art on display. 
“I have never met the artist,” she explains neutrally. You laugh, and it sounds infused with champagne and nervousness. “What? It’s like having a stalker. An extremely talented, creative stalker, but someone who studies me in secret nonetheless.” 
“No, I understand. She must have researched you until the ends of the Earth.” 
“The artist is a woman?” She isn’t sure she is surprised, but she asks you anyway, wanting to anchor you to the spot. 
“Alexia, this is an exhibition for women’s sports.” Your point is valid, but you have said her name and she is far more intrigued by the way that had sounded to praise you for your intelligence. You let out an airy breath and click your tongue. “I’d even say, given by the way she has painted you from the back, that the artist fancies you.”
“It’s the squats,” she easily replies with a giggle. “Who is the artist?” 
You take a step towards her, the sharp points of your heels clacking against the concrete floor. She follows your index finger to the white plaque beside the canvas, reading the name written in small, black letters. 
“I haven’t heard of her.” 
Alexia sounds so thoughtful that you have to hide your smile behind your palm, coughing to provide an excuse for the action. 
“Because you’ve heard of quite a few artists, haven’t you?” 
“I know the main four.” 
“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” 
“No.” 
Again, you laugh, and it is melodious and rich and Alexia wants to hear it for the rest of her life. Which is not normal, she tells herself, because you are some loaded stranger and she is only here for another hour before she can escape back to the pitch and her teammates who like her tattoos and admire her and respect her hard work without seeing her as some tacky social-climber who scrounged an invite to an area of society where she is institutionally unwanted. 
“Picasso,” she then offers, rather petulantly, looking at you with a childish frown. In her head, she estimates the distance between your bodies, noticing how you have not returned to your original position. 
“Ah, well done. He’s quite niche.” She doesn’t appreciate the teasing, and so she steps sideways to… put a stop to it somehow. Obviously, the plan had never truly been formulated, and it comes across as a half-lunge to push you away, but then you are swinging your arms as though the conversation is boring you and she desperately wishes you’d stay put. 
“What do you think about the painting?” she fires into the shortened space between you, the question wrapping around you like a rope that ties you to the spot. 
“It’s boring.” She scoffs, because after all, it is a painting of her. “The poor artist must have been tortured by the task, having to force her eyes to stay open while watching football matches.” 
And if Alexia were not so distracted by the way your swinging hand has begun to brush against her own, she would probably catch you out there and then. 
(But your touch is electric and she is otherwise engaged.) 
“Like, come on, can’t the sports photographers just get their pictures blown up? No one needs such an outrageously huge portrait of Alexia Putellas in their home, or stadium, or whatever. I reckon the artist is now regretting the angle she painted from, anyway, in case some pervert with more money than sense bids for it and hangs it up in his bedroom.” 
“Bedroom?”
The tips of Alexia’s ears go red, a stark contrast to the expensive silver hoops she sports, and you stop your fidgeting, hand resting on top of hers – perhaps unintentionally – as her misunderstanding wedges an awkward pause into the middle of your rant. 
“Sorry,” you apologise, “that was probably not the best thing to say, considering it’s a painting of you.” 
Alexia runs through what you have said, hoping her subconscious has caught it while her mind was preoccupied with what your sexual orientation might be. “Why have you come here if you are so against the principle of it?” 
“I was required to,” you explain, through half-gritted teeth and a jaw that tenses with leftover annoyance from a conversation you had with the coordinator. 
Seizing the opportunity to get a humorous punch back, Alexia quickly fumbles out a, “someone’s important.” 
She’d celebrate her victory over you, the way you blush in embarrassment, if you hadn’t started anxiously playing with her fingers. Suddenly, the air that bridges the gap between you is set alight and Alexia stares at where you are connected. 
You hastily pull away. “Sorry,” you say for a second time. “I have to sell this, and I’m nervous.” 
“Sell wh– The painting?” 
“No, Alexia, I’ve been sent by Real Madrid to hold you hostage so I have to sell this act.” Briefly, fear washes over the footballer’s face, tanned skin paling at the idea that you have a weapon concealed in the satin folds of your dress. Then, your hand makes a decisive movement and your fingers are intertwining with hers before she can run to safety. “I thought it was best to lure you in by flirting with you.” 
“You’ve been… flirting with me?” 
“God, imagine if I actually were here to kidnap you.” You hold up your joined hands so that she can see for herself. “Is your weakness women who bully you?” 
She blushes again, unsure how to handle what you have insinuated. 
Alexia grasps onto what little dignity remains and straightens herself, shoulders rolling back as she emulates the confidence she has been painted with. “Only pretty women,” she drawls. 
She is about to use whichever line appears in her mind first, completely unashamed by it because she has guessed you would tease her no matter what leaves her mouth, but some evil, cruel person clinks a small fork against their glass, clearing their throat, and your hands quickly return to your body, your attention drawn away from the conversation. 
“Thank you all for coming,” announces the event coordinator, clearly gearing up for a speech. “There will be time for more chatting later, but I cannot resist showing off our most talented artist any longer.” 
You roll your eyes. The expression is directed at Alexia, who chuckles privately, sunshine blooming in her chest that you have spared a silent comment just for her. 
“Y/n, darling, where are you?” 
An authoritative gaze searches through the crowd and lands on you.
The dots connect, Alexia begins to feel like an idiot, and you are sashaying away before she can ask you to stay.
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ryanguzmansource · 2 months ago
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September 27, 2024
Ryan Guzman is currently filming his next thriller: Midnight and, in his talk with Xmag, he takes a tour of his professional career. Despite his current international projection as an actor, Ryan Guzman did not plan to dedicate himself to acting at first. The American actor and model began to get interested in mixed martial arts when he was only seven years old and, after winning his first black belt when he was ten, he was a mixed martial arts fighter in Sacramento until 2010. A shoulder injury prevented him from continuing with his dream and he redirected his career working as a model in various magazines and brands such as Abercrombie & Fitch, Affliction and Reebok. Everything completely changed when he got his first starring role in Step Up: Revolution. “It changed the direction of my life. It was as if I was launching myself into a world that I had only seen in the distance.” The dance franchise was an international success and Ryan tells us about the process he followed for the films, which, according to him, has always been the same over the years. “I try hard at something new without fear of failure. I do it this way because I know that I can fail at the beginning of anything I try. The goal is to learn from my failures and be open to new ideas when it comes to acquiring and perfecting a skill.”
His career as an actor continued in 2015 with the psychological thriller The Boy Next Door, which as Ryan explains, gave him "an invaluable perspective on the business side of the entertainment industry.” In the film, he shared the limelight with Jennifer Lopez and Ryan tells us about his experience working on the film and what it was like working with her. "Jennifer's life is something that most people won't be able to comprehend because it involves A LOT. She's a superstar. He has a million things going on at the same time. I had a great time collaborating with her and the director, Rob. They both made me feel very comfortable. It was so much fun playing the bad boy!” From a psychological drama about a woman who falls in love with her younger neighbor, Ryan jumped to play Eddie Diaz in the police drama series 9-1-1, which tells the story of a Los Angeles rescue group willing to attend to any emergency. The series underwent a big change after its transition from the FOX network to ABC and Ryan explains how that has affected his character. "Eddie's character has evolved a lot since his introduction into the 9-1-1 universe. As in any great evolution, destruction must occur in order to rebuild something new. The transition from FOX to ABC came at a perfect time for my character and I was able to represent that evolution through destruction just before another defining event in Eddie's life. Season eight is about Eddie making peace with his demons and finding self-love.” Being a series that deals with extreme and challenging situations, Ryan describes how he prepared physically and psychologically for those moments. "Empathy is the key. I draw from what I've experienced and my understanding of it; then I use the truth of those encounters to connect with the character. As for my physical fitness, I keep practicing martial arts." Recently, one of his latest projects has been the fictional comedy The Present, starring Isla Fisher and Greg Kinnear. Ryan explains that the possibility of working with these two actors was one of the reasons I chose this film. “The moment I saw that Isla Fisher and Greg Kinnear were involved in the film, I joined the project. These are two actors I've always wanted to collaborate with. Working with Isla was a dream, she gave me a lot of love and knowledge and Greg is someone who I have always enjoyed watching perform. Also, the theme resonated deeply with me, as I was going through a divorce at the time, which made the story especially relatable.”
Right now, the American actor is involved in the filming of the thriller Midnight. "I received the script from writer Lamont Magee and when he asked me if I would be interested in one of the roles opposite Rosario Dawson, he didn't have to say much more to capture my interest. 'Midnight' was an opportunity to show action in a way that I haven't been able to do as much as I would like as an actor.” According to Ryan, the thriller promises to be an intriguing story and one that will surprise the spectators. "I think seeing Rosario Dawson come face to face with Mila Jovovich is intriguing enough, but then you add the layers of her sister's character, played by Alexandra Shipp and the truth is that the audience is about to discover a lot of twists and surprises.” As immersed as he is in his work, Ryan ends the interview by expressing how grateful he feels to have a community of fans and followers who have always been supporting him. “I cannot fully express the depth of my gratitude to those who have found my work entertaining and have continued to support my career over the years. THANK YOU!”
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cosmerelists · 7 months ago
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Cosmere Characters React to Finding Fanfic/Fanart of Themselves: A Collab with Cosmereplay
As requested by anon :)
I asked @cosmereplay to collab with me on this anon's request, and happily, she agreed! Basically, I've written the fanart parts of this, and Cosmereplay has taken care of the fanfic parts since I, ah, don't read fanfic and wouldn't know the really good jokes.
1. Shallan, Adolin, & Kaladin Read Fanfic
Shallan (reading tags): Hmmm...ace Kaladin, aromantic Kaladin, bisexual Kaladin, bottom Kaladin (I'll have to look into that one later...), demisexual Kaladin, demiromantic Kaladin, dom Kaladin... Adolin: What are the relationship tags like? Shallan: Let's see... blushes thoroughly OH LOOK KALADIN/SLEEP! THAT'S SO SWEET! Oooh...Kaladin/Happiness! Kaladin: Everybody's a critic. Adolin: They just want you to be happy, Kal! Kaladin: I-I'm fine most of the time!
2. Elend & Vin Look at Fanart
Elend: Wow! Stunning! Magnificent! Vin (peering over his shoulder): Uh, Elend, I think you're supposed to be looking at art of yourself. Those are all pictures of me. Elend: Can you blame me?? I mean look at you here! Vin: I suppose I look...somewhat cool there. Elend: Ascendent, I'd say!
3. Ellista and Pai Read "Covenant" by liesmyth
Ardent Ellista: Oh you HAVE to read this one, it's the most popular Cosmere fic by kudos! Kaladin Stormblessed and Highprince Adolin are soulmates, it's so sad yet hopeful! Ardent Pai: I bet it doesn't even mention their class differences. Ardent Ellista: No it totally does! And it really gets in the way of them kissing!! Ardent Pai: Well maybe I'll take a look then.
4. The Kholin Family Look at Fanart: Part 1 (Dalinar & Navani)
Jasnah (slamming a large tome onto the table): All right, everyone. I've finished my extensive research into the fanart of our family. Jasnah: Dalinar, according to my findings, people on the internet find you (a) extremely sexy and (b) wish you to be shirtless on the beach. Jasnah: There is also extensive interest in you being strong but vulnerable in the face of Odium, which I believe goes back to point (a), your assumed sexiness. Dalinar: ... Dalinar: I see. Jasnah: Navani, the residents of the internet desperately wish to see you explore women as romantic/sexual options. Navani: ...In general, or specific women? Jasnah: Mostly Ialai and Raboniel, from what I have seen. You can see here, and here. Navani: Sure, makes sense. Dalinar: (Does it??)
5. Sigzil & Lopen Read Fanfic
Sigzil: Bridge Fourgy? Ohhh... oh no... Lopen: Well now you GOTTA read it, gancho! Sigzil: I will burn it is what I will do.
6. Hoid & Design Look at Fanart
Hoid: (huffing and harumphing) Design: Well, I think the art is nice! Hoid: (harumphing and huffing) Design: The colors are spot-on, there's some symmetry... Hoid: (muttering) I've been involved in practically every Cosmere-significant event...I tell stories with colors and magic imagery...I beat up Kelsier that one time... Hoid: But nooooo they only want to draw me in the Mare shirt with mismatching socks and sandals!!! AND TINY RED SHORTS Design: Wow, look at my boobs in this one! They're so round and shiny! Hoid: ...I feel like you are not sympathizing with me here.
7. Rushu & Jasnah read "The Princess and the Captain" by ailvara
Rushu: Your Majesty I looked into the most popular fanfic by hits and discovered it's an ongoing slowburn romance between you and, uh... well... Jasnah: Out with it, Rushu. Rushu: You and Kaladin Stormblessed. Jasnah: Me? And Kaladin?? But he's half my age! And we've done nothing but argue! Rushu (blushing): I think that's part of the appeal, Your Majesty. Jasnah: Give me that. (reading) Well if he said THAT then maybe I wouldn't have... hm... Rushu, cancel my appointments for the next hour, I need to finish this. Rushu: Of course, Your Majesty! (sotto voice) Thank goodness she still doesn't know about the Hoid foot fics...
8. The Kholin Family: Part 2 (Adolin & Renarin)
Jasnah (continuing to leaf through her large book of findings): Adolin, according to my research, the internet thinks that you are a handsome, sweet man who wishes to be with his friends. For example, here. Jasnah: It is mostly you, Shallan, and Kaladin, however you want to read that. Adolin: As...reality? Jasnah: Renarin, if you are not suffering emotionally alongside a stained glass motif, or suffering emotionally as a child alongside Dalinar, then you are with Rlain. Renarin: With him as in...? Jasnah: Yes. Renarin: ... Renarin: I thought we were being fairly subtle! Jasnah: You were not.
9. Moash & Leshwi Read Fanfic
Moash: What are the fics about me like? Leshwi: Well, you either die a violent, horrible death or you make tender love to... Leshwi: ... Leshwi: ...Kaladin Stormblessed? You know him? Moash: Ok so here's the thing
10. Moash & Kaladin Look at Fanart
Moash: Okay...I should definitely get my ears pierced, right? Moash: I mean...look at me. Look at me, Kal! Hot, right? Moash: ...Kal? Kaladin: ... Kaladin: [silently pushing this art toward Moash] Kaladin: There are a lot like this. Moash: What, of you standing? Kaladin: Smiling. Kaladin: People want me to smile, I guess. Moash: ... Moash: Well, I bet you'd smile more if I was always looking hot in earrings, huh? Kaladin: Heh, yeah, probably.
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turnaboutfix · 7 months ago
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Oh yes of course!!!
I meant specifically like her very early concept art (blue haired) and like, one of the first ones where she has short hair (but still with those 2 loose locks at the front)? I hope you know which one I'm talking about lolol
BUT if you wanna speak your thoughts on like. All of them. I want to hear 👂❓️
( @ellivcca asked what I thought about Maya's concept art and I replied in priv if they could be more specific)
Let's talk about Maya's designs! ✨
I will skip the blue-haired art for now, since I have more to say about her other early designs. They're in a few Japanese AA Guidebooks, but "逆転裁判2 真相解明マニュアル", or "Gyakuten Saiban 2: Fact-Finding Manual" has the most in one place. There are blurbs that discuss the designs, and I'll do my best to summarize them. My Japanese isn't amazing and I had to mostly rely on machine translation + cross referencing dictionaries, so it's possible I may be inaccurate. Also, I'm a novice at Japanese culture, so if I'm misrepresenting anything please bring this to my attention and I'll correct things accordingly!
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The book acknowledges that Maya was intended to be of high-school age, hence the the sailor suit artwork. They seem to suggest that the loose socks was a hint at Maya's spunky personality.
When they began to explore her as a spirit medium (1), they wanted her to come from a wealthy, noble family. It looks like a lot of these explorations made it to Franziska's design, with some of the shapes of the shoulders and the jabot-looking neck wear, which is interesting!
As they kept exploring in the second round of sketches (2), they stressed traditional/folk dress as being an important part of her design. They noted they had her carrying something on her back at the time, which I think hints more to her "folksy" feel.
The beaded necklace she's wearing in (2) are drawn from Mala bead necklaces, which are prayer beads rooted in Hinduism and Buddhism and are said to help focus the mind during meditation. They seem present in a lot of spiritual figures in Japan.
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Later (3), they explicitly comment drawing inspiration from the Matagi, a group of hunting clans in the northern Japanese mountains (be careful looking them up, they do bear hunting and there's a lot of explicit imagery, even on the wikipedia).
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They comment on that this version of her early character might be very athletic. She also seems to be more stoic in these explorations.
Then, for (4) and (5), they evolved the design to make it look appear more feminine, giving her long hair, but making a note that her look isn't typical of modern people. The large orbs in (3), (4) and (5) I think are supposed be drawn from "Yuigesa"(結袈裟), or harnesses decorated with pom-poms worn by Shugendō practitioners, hermits who live in the mountains and practice asceticism.
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Then in (6), they added the magatama and committed to her having black hair. They note shortening the hem of her costume from design (5).
The magatama addition is pretty significant! Magatama necklaces are used by noro priestesses of the Ryukyu Kingdom from the islands in the very south of Japan.
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Their religion broadly speaking, involves ancestor worship and the relationships between the living and dead, gods and spirits. It seems to me like the culture in Kurain Village draws a lot from the Ryukyuan people--and you can even see this with the beads along with the magatamas.
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But there seems to be a lot of generic imagery of Spirit Mediums that I've been able to find in Japanese media which have shared elements of design in Maya's final design. The most interesting of these to me is "ほんとにあった!霊媒先生", or "It Really Happened! Spirit Medium Teacher". The design similarities are striking (and make me wonder if Maya was an inspiration?)
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So, to summarize it all up, it seems like the early designers (and there were only two! Kumiko Suekane and Tatsuro Iwamoto) wanted a character who was different, folksy, feminine and spunky that displayed unique spiritual power to aid in the narrative/game mechanics of the games, and they explored the different facets of their own culture--from the northern Matagi clans to the southern Ryukyuan people--Japanese iconography, and tastes into Maya's final design.
And I think that's Real Neat. :)
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Thoughts about other designs (Blue-Haired/SoJ Maya) under the cut cuz oh my gosh this post is already huge.
Blue haired Maya!
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What's interesting to me is that a lot of the design language on this early Maya art seems to have been carried over to Ema's design (glasses, boots, coat/skirt). She also has similar vibes to Lynne from Ghost Trick.
I definitely enjoy Maya's final design a lot better, but I like the triadic color harmony and spunk here!
And then her design update in Spirit of Justice! These concepts are from "逆転裁判6 公式ビジュアルブック", or "Gyakuten Saiban 6: Official Visual Book". :)
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Takuro Fuse (the character designer) comments that he never drew Maya before when he took a stab at updating her, so he wanted to get that down first before tackling the designs. He wondered how she would change over the course of 11 years, and first experimented with a design, thinking about how Mia would look like as a spirit medium. He thought it would be interesting if Phoenix wouldn't be able to tell if Maya channeled Mia. (Me too tbh.)
I feel like this design has a bit too much going on, but I do like the longer cream colored sleeves!
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Takuro talks more about how he was exploring all sorts of designs before landing on something more simple. He wanted her to have what he called a "traveling costume" and was very fond of the hat. These designs seem to pull from similar places I've discussed with Maya's early designs, as well as Japanese pilgrims.
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As fun as the additions and changes to her design are, I think it was very smart to just add subtle changes: the longer robes, jacket, and the additional beads to her necklace. The shawl is a nice touch, too. This reflects how post-7yg Phoenix and Edgeworth also have subtle changes to their designs as well, which I love and I think were very smart moves from a design-perspective as well as personal taste. Their designs are very iconic and I think it was a service to maintain that iconography.
This was a very fun thing to explore! Thank you kindly @ellivcca for the ask!
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uly55es · 3 months ago
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'In another life, We could have been more.'
More details below// Uncensored Image Below!!// MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH!!! In the slowburn I'm writing, Monoma and Shinso live through a long and yearnful friendship. Both convinced the other would deny their feelings to focus on their pro-hero journey. Monoma wants nothing more than for Shinso to take Aizawas places as a night-time/quiet hero, to take care of his parents and Eri. He can't fathom Shinso wanting to be in the light with him, to do pro-hero modeling, interviews or such next to him. He knows Shinso- he knows how he prefers to be in the dark through his work, knows his association with Deku and his parents Pro-Hero history. He values himself and Shinso so so much- he doesn't want to force him into a spot light that he couldn't cope with. Imagine what the press would say? if the silent hero was caught around the loud, arrogant and hated 'Phantom Thief'. It's unfair to tangle Shinso's chaotic life in his status, for the chance that his confession instead causes disrepair in their long friendship. Shinso wants so badly to stand with Monoma, to be in his shadow- watching his six. To stalk alleys with him while looking for those to help or capture- But he's not stupid. Monoma is bright-brighter than the sun, louder than anyones he's met and his energy fills any room he walks into. He couldn't forgive himself if his adoration- if his love for Monoma pressured him to follow Shinso to the shadows, to dim his light. He knows that the dark hero 'mind-jack' is already fighting the press about his villianous quirk and appearance, he almost leans into it- but To push Monoma into that drama? someone whos sobbed into Shinsos arms about his own parents calling him 'evil' for his 'Villainous' quirk? its unfair, a chance that Shinso can't take. He hates seeing Monoma is pain as it is. There is silent acknowledgement of their friendship turning into something more domestic and intimate- drunken kisses, holding hands for comfort, practically living with eachother, calling and texting constantly. But- never as Pros, never as 'The Phantom Thief' and 'Mind-Jack'. The press, the danger and the chaos of their undisclosed relationship couldn't be risked. Risk. Shinso wish he took it- they're both Pros anyway, and Aizawa filled his head with the understanding that being a pro is dangerous- His own missing limbs or senses to prove it- and that he needs to live life smart and proud. But he's a coward at heart, never pushing the limits of their relationship, never trying to learn if these feelings were actually requited or not. It doesn't matter now. A villain who was just lucky enough, hitting the right place, movements too quick and now- nothing. Now he has nothing, no love, no friend, no light.
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YAH :D I've been drawing too much fluff of these two. so. Yah :D
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illustromic · 2 years ago
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My thoughts on drawing wings (an unofficial tutorial)
Do you want to get better at drawing your favorite winged character? Do you have winged OCs? Just want to learn something new? I can't promise this post will help, but maybe it'll give you some helpful tips.
I know, I knowww, wing tutorials have been done to death. I don't care. This was initially inspired by a conversation on twitter, but actually I've wanted to write down my notes on the topic for a long time lol. Basically wings are one of my special interests so it's very important, for me, to draw them both nicely and also realistically.
On that note, let me first show you my resume *distant sound of floodgates opening*
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Like what you see? Read on! (Oh, and I will only be covering feathered/avian wings bc those are the type I know best.)
Now, I'm not here to give you a step-by-step guide on wing anatomy and aerodynamics, because there are plenty of other resources that cover this already, and I'll list my faves at the end of the post. Right now, I'm going to give you some easy guidelines and tricks that I wish more artists knew.
1: Wings do, in fact, have bones (crazy, I know) and are actually very rigid because they have to support the weight of a living creature. There are some positions you cannot physically force a wing into irl.
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2: Flight feathers are not placed willy-nilly on the wing, because then they wouldn't catch the air properly. Again, like the bones, they are rigid and strong, so don't draw them like fur or ribbons. All wings have the same pattern of feather placement, with slight variation depending on species. If you learn the feather sections, it will automatically improve your drawings a lot.
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2.5: Feathers overlap each other like a handful of playing cards, and this looks different depending on which side of the wing you're drawing. They always do this unless they're extremely untidy.
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3: The size of the wingspan is important if you're going for a more realistic design. There is no "scientifically accurate" measurement when it comes to fictional creatures, but my general rule is when in doubt, you probably need to make them bigger. Personally, for my original winged human species, I give them wings that can be up to 12 feet long each (the artistic sacrifice is that it's really hard to fit the wings on the dang page lmao, so make your own call).
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4: Get used to drawing folded wings. Most of the time, birds keep their wings folded because it prevents them from getting damaged and it conserves energy. The trick is to get good at visualizing how the joints bend and overlap (look at plenty of photos!) In general, they can fold much tighter than you think.
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5: Wings and feathers take a lot of patience to draw, but the results are worth it. I've seen so so many incredibly beautiful and skillful artworks that are---well, maybe not ruined, but still negatively affected by a pair of wings that look like an afterthought, or not even like wings at all. You have no idea how much a little extra time and practice will add to your work until you see for yourself.
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Finally, some notes on "stylized" wings: Of course it's perfectly ok to draw more simplified/cartoony wings if that's your preference!! BUT there is a difference between a stylistic choice and a lack of effort/poor understanding of the subject matter. Even cartoonists have to learn the fundamentals of realism so they know how to make their designs logical and appealing. Here are some examples of more stylized wings that I feel retain the core principles of anatomy/aesthetics:
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And last but not least: A list of helpful links I use personally for reference and inspiration!
I made this pinterest board for general artsy inspo, and this board to curate my very favorite tutorials/refs/information, focusing on the scientific aspect of wings and flight in general. Feel free to use both! (I also suggest pinterest in general for pose refs and such, but try to only practice using photos at first and not other drawings.)
I highly recommend this blog and this blog if you want examples of artists who draw more realism-based winged creatures!! They are both huge inspirations for me and I think you should totally follow them even if you don't plan to draw wings lol <3
If you're REALLY serious about it, my favorite ref books are: Winged Fantasy, a lovely drawing book by Brenda Lyons; Proctor & Lynch's Manual of Ornithology; and Angelus vincens by R. Spano, which is essentially an artbook by someone who (I believe) designed biologically plausible "angels" for their senior thesis.
Ok, idk how to end this lol but I hope it helped! I know it's not my normal kind of post but I'm super busy with college stuff rn and this was all I had time for. If you guys have any questions or feedback, please let me know!!!
-Aloe <3
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yuikomorii · 11 days ago
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Well, the truth is I've never been a fan of Ayato, nor do I feel particularly attracted to his design no matter how visual it is, I think it's normal that he draws attention being a vampire compared to the rest of mortals or that he fits the Japanese standard since Satoi makes it visual. I don't know, I never liked him when he expressed himself ugly about Yui calling her a chichinasi or when he made derogatory comments about her physique, I know it may sound silly or funny because this is DL and Yui is told and done worse things than that simple nickname, lol XD I say it because I know that Shu tells her worse things in a CD, I don't think he's a bad character, I think that to a certain point he is funny, but meh, I understand those who hate him or don't like him or don't find him attractive, sometimes it's not the appearance but how the character makes you feel, although the game is for masochists I suppose I am too because I also see the game. LOL I love your page <3
// I mean, I understand that every person experiences attraction differently, but by that logic, none of the characters are attractive to you? Since literally everyone insults Yui, and a lot of them even more than Ayato. On top of that, Ayato is more than his insults, and he’s basically the Diaboy who used the 綺麗 (beautiful) word on her the most. xD
I personally dislike Karl’s personality and I’m not attracted to him either, but he’s definitely a very fine man and I can’t deny it.
Moreover, I believe there’s a difference between attractiveness and actual good looks. I know that some people view beauty as something subjective, but it became a social construct in today’s society, which means that there will always be features seen as universally more desirable, and that’s exactly where Ayato fits in. He is made to fit the EA standards the most, yet even in the West he’d undoubtedly be viewed as good-looking by most people. His features strike a perfect balance between youthful charm and elegance, making him appealing not just to those who favor cute guys but also to those drawn to handsome ones.
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I find it immature when people start hating on fictional characters, since they don’t even exist, so it’s just a waste of energy. That said, it’s perfectly normal if Ayato, or any other character, isn’t someone’s cup of tea. You can dislike a character while still acknowledging that they’re stunning. That’s why I can’t believe anyone would genuinely think Ayato is ugly. His visuals are practically flawless, and I can’t even imagine how Japanese fans would react if they saw someone calling him unattractive, when these are just FEW of their reactions.
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As I mentioned earlier, if you’re not drawn to his design or personality, that’s alright, no problem at all. What really matters is avoiding spreading hate and not trying to convince others that he’s unattractive. As long as you don’t do that, you’re good.
Thank you for enjoying my page though!
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