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weavingstarlight · 2 days ago

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Happy Pride, have some angsty art of Four and Shadow ~

So I decided I wanted to draw Four and Shadow for Pride because, hey, I love these gay boys — but when it came to deciding WHAT I wanted to draw, I had a little more trouble. Instead of doing a classic “Pride post,” I wanted to tell a story. I’ve been spending a lot of time recently with Four and Shadow in Guiding Lights and so I felt like it made sense to draw that version of them (even though it felt a little self-indulgent). I didn’t want to illustrate a particular scene, but instead capture the emotions of the characters symbolically. So, uh, this is what I ended up with!

[Spoilers for chapters 1-17 of Guiding Lights below the cut]

Four was not meant to take over the narrative the way he did. Neither was Shadow. Both characters managed to insert themselves into my outline and demand a larger chunk of the story for themselves. I accept this as “the way writing goes.”

I mention in the fic tags that the soulbonds that unite the Chain are entirely platonic, and this is important to keep in mind with Four and Shadow, who are bonded but who additionally have a non-platonic relationship. It is also important to remember that the soulbonds “activate” the moment a pair of Links get close enough to each other, physically or emotionally (and depending on each Link’s sensitivity to the bond). This means something very important for Four and Shadow’s relationship, which some of you may have already figured out but I’ll lay it out plainly here: The Colors were already soulbound to Shadow when Shadow destroyed the Dark Mirror.

Imagine what that felt like for a moment.

Imagine what Link went through, immediately after his adventure — not only losing his friend, Vio’s partner, but losing his soulmate. And at the same time, rejoining for the first time — going from being Link to being the Colors to being Four — and all that that entailed. (We’ll learn more about what that entailed later in our story.) And the choice, the sacrifice, was made by Shadow and Shadow alone.

Four is no stranger to grief… nor to anger.

And then, quite by accident, Shadow was revived. And Four had to adjust his worldview yet again, now to include the person he was sure he’d lost forever.

But Shadow was the same person as the day he’d died, and Four… wasn’t, anymore.

Fast forward to the “present” day.

Shadow desperately wants to use his powers to rejoin his partner — to save him — but practicality prevents him from doing so. He’s not just worried for Four, he’s scared. And he’s also scared for the other Links, and though he’d be embarrassed to admit it, scared for himself. What happens to Shadow if Four is seriously hurt? What if he dies? Guilt of several kinds bites at Shadow at every moment. He feels angry at his enemies, but also angry at himself for not being able to do more — and even though he knows it’s unfair, he’s angry at the Chain for being slow, angry at Wild for not taking a bigger risk and transporting them with the Slate, and angry at the world for just being sucky. And, selfishly, he misses Four. He’s sad.

Meanwhile, Four is going through his own ordeal. He has no way of knowing where the others are or even if they’re coming to save him. Half of him wants to have faith in his partner and brothers; the other half wants to focus on right now and on saving himself. And there’s a little bit of anger on his part, too — of course the others did the best they could, of course they did… and yet. Four is scared, injured, and lonely, and he can’t afford to be any of those things if he’s going to survive and escape.

But despite all the pain they’ve been through, what unites these two — what unites all the Links — is love. They take strength from each other no matter the distance between them, secure in their love for each other. Nothing can destroy that love, not even death. They’ve already proven that.

During Pride month, it’s great to see examples of queer joy — it’s important to see that! But I think it’s also important to see queer sadness, anger, fear — the full range of human emotions, because queer people and queer relationships contain the same kinds of pleasure AND pain as non-queer ones do. So I don’t feel bad about drawing my poor stressed-out boys during Pride month, and I promise I’ll do happier art of them at a later time. ***

Technically speaking, this piece went great. I’m especially pleased with how the colored pencils came out. My white ink was very dry but it rehydrated well!

8 x 11. Alcohol markers, colored pencils, micron pens, and white ink. Digital background.

[IMG: An illustration of Four from Linked Universe and Shadow (Four Swords manga with a Linked Universe-based design). Four is walking away to the left, visible from the knees up. Shadow is floating behind Four and reaching out for him. Shadow is surrounded by a dark, fiery aura, which flames out behind him. Four is reaching back over his shoulder and their fingers are intertwined. Four is wearing a patchwork tunic, black pants, and black gloves over a light gray shirt. He has blonde hair, pale skin and multicolored eyes. Shadow is wearing a black tunic, white pants, and black gloves over a light gray shirt. He has black hair, paler skin than Four, and red eyes. His feet melt away into dark flames. The “flames” surrounding him are various shades of purple. The background is a textured dark gray-blue. The drawing has black ink lineart and is colored with markers and colored pencils.] *** UPDATE: I made additional posts about the process of drawing this illustration, check them out here!

Process photos Inking timelapse

#legend of zelda #linked universe #lu four #lu shadow #fanart #my art #traditional art #guiding lights #pride month #pride art #happy pride 🌈

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themology · 3 days ago

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harry castillo x curator!reader “a million dollar man”

masterlist | previous chapter

chapter 3 — spatial negotiation

You wore red.

Not crimson. Not something timid like maroon or softened like rust.

Red.

Clear, loud, undeniable.

The kind of red that felt like a warning. You chose it intentionally—the only form of armor that didn’t ask to be forgiven.

The dress was simple in shape, no glitter or tricks. Structured satin, sleeveless, falling just above your ankles. The neckline sharp enough to suggest elegance, the open back enough to suggest you knew what rooms you were walking into. Your hair was clean and off your shoulders, your makeup minimal but unforgiving.

You looked like someone who hadn’t needed to beg for her place at the table, even if you had, privately, many times before.

The Castillo estate wasn’t gaudy. It was discreetly opulent, the kind of wealth that didn’t bother proving itself anymore. The hallways were lit in soft amber tones. Art hung like language, every piece a sentence carefully placed, murmuring something about power, legacy, taste. The entrance hall opened into the main gallery dining room like a stage, all marble floors and hushed luxury.

You were offered a glass of Laurent-Perrier the second you stepped in.

There were ten people at the table. You recognized most of them by name, if not by face—curators, critics, one or two gallerists whose careers were rumored to have been fast-tracked by Harry himself. A silver-haired woman in couture who once chaired the MoMA expansion board. A young man whose sculpture review had caused an entire residency program to collapse. And him.

Harry Castillo stood at the head of the table, glass in hand, smiling in that impossibly even way that didn’t reach his eyes. The room moved around him, not toward him—but for him.

He wasn’t loud. He didn’t have to be. He welcomed each guest not with fanfare, but with small, intentional touches, a brief hand on the shoulder, a reference to a recent acquisition, a private joke with the man beside him about a badly timed Venice flood.

When his eyes landed on you, however, everything in him paused.

His glass lowered. His smile didn’t move.

You knew what red did in a room. But the way he looked at you was like he’d been expecting fire and still got burned.

“Glad you came,” he said, voice lower than necessary.

You didn’t let yourself smile. “I figured someone should represent the underfunded.”

He held your gaze, a flicker of amusement beneath something heavier. “And red’s a generous gesture.”

“It’s just a color,” you replied.

“No,” he said softly. “Not on you.”

You took the seat furthest from him. He clocked it. Didn’t say anything. Just poured your champagne himself before returning to the opposite end of the table.

Dinner was a performance.

The first course was a chilled saffron consommé with a single, floating quail egg—delicate, surreal, intentional. Followed by a halibut carpaccio laced with yuzu oil and pink peppercorn. Then came the real centerpiece: slow-cooked duck over black garlic polenta, garnished with edible petals and a foam you didn’t ask about. Wine was poured at precise intervals, white, then a bold burgundy that made your teeth ache.

The guests laughed, but not always out of humor. Some were performing, others genuinely enthralled.

You could tell who was used to this life by how little they flinched at the menu, or the curation of the guest list. Harry was magnetic in these spaces—not dominating, just quietly omniscient. He leaned in at the right times, called out a guest’s comment to draw chuckles from the others, recited a quote about post-war abstraction that had the older critic beside him nearly applauding.

Still, his eyes flicked to you more than once. Like you were a different kind of question he couldn’t quite fold into his script.

You weren’t passive either. You spoke when you had something to say. You matched their references, dodged a man’s attempt to box you in by mentioning your “youthful eye.” You countered it with a brutal but fair critique of the stagnant trends in commercial sculpture.

The woman across from you raised her glass. “She bites,” she said, smiling.

Harry watched. Not possessively—but with the quiet intensity of someone who wanted to know where your mind would turn next.

At dessert, the air grew denser. A plate of fig panna cotta with honeycomb shards, next to miniature spiced chocolate tarts. The wine turned golden. The table quieter. Someone asked if you’d seen Castillo’s newest acquisition, the oil painting in the west wing, the one “too dense to hang publicly.” You admitted you hadn’t.

“She has a thing for tension,” Harry said suddenly, not looking at you.

“She curates it,” another guest added.

He finally looked over. “She lives in it.”

That shut the room up for half a beat. You said nothing. Just lifted your glass, not in toast, but in subtle defiance.

Eventually, the table scattered. Cigarettes in the garden. A decanter of whiskey passed around the lounge. Some guests left with drawn-out farewells, others disappeared into side rooms, murmuring about funding and co-commissions.

You found yourself at the gallery wall near the exit, half on purpose, half because you needed air. The silence was cooler there. Marble beneath your heels. A soft whir of air conditioning overhead.

“You stayed longer than I thought,” came the voice behind you.

You turned. He was two feet away. No tie. Sleeves still rolled. A little tired around the eyes.

“I thought about leaving early,” you said.

“I would’ve stopped you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that another test?”

“No,” he said. “That’s honesty.”

A beat passed.

“Do you always study your guests this much?” you asked, eyes scanning the painting beside you. A large abstract piece, deep reds and bruised golds, edges almost violent in their layering.

“You ask too much questions,” he said.

You turned to face him fully then. Neither of you smiling.

“Why am I here, Harry?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you like he was weighing every way not to say what he wanted.

“Because I don’t believe in accidents,” he finally said. “And you’ve disrupted too many rooms for it to be coincidence.”

You swallowed. His closeness made the air harder to breathe.

He stepped closer—barely—but it felt like a question. Not a move.

“I’m hosting something more private next week,” he said, voice quieter now. “A smaller dinner. Fewer people. Just artists. Come.”

You didn’t answer. You let the tension sit between you, like a wire you weren’t ready to cut.

But you both knew.

You’d say yes.

Just as you turned your head to break the gaze between you, something low and warm stirred in the walls, music. Distant at first. A faint, nearly imperceptible hum that filtered through the quiet like a fog. The kind of melody that wasn’t planned but always finds a way to settle in at the end of nights like this. Something old. A jazz standard, maybe, a brushed snare drum, a dragging piano, and a voice full of velvet and regret.

Harry glanced toward the sound system hidden in the gallery’s recesses, then back to you. His expression was unreadable at first, somewhere between amusement and challenge.

“Careful,” you said, watching him. “That almost sounds like intention.”

He smiled faintly. “Not everything is.”

You felt your pulse shift in your throat. He stepped forward, not to crowd, but to be known. To be in your frame of reference again, entirely. He didn’t ask the next question with words. He offered his hand, slow and open, like a soft proposal.

You looked down at it. The invitation wasn’t romantic, not entirely. It felt… deliberate. Weighted. A dare in silk gloves.

“This is not the Met Gala,” you said, half under your breath, fingers brushing against his palm without committing yet. “And I don’t dance with men who donate anonymously.”

He tilted his head, a smirk flickering just under the edge of his mouth. “Then don’t call it a dance. Call it… spatial negotiation.”

You laughed once—soft and reluctant—and finally placed your hand in his.

His hand was warm, steady. You expected it to be colder. More practiced. But there was something about the way he held yours, not too tight, not too loose, something curious, unhurried.

He didn’t lead you toward the center of the room. Instead, he pulled you into the shallow spill of light near the painting you’d both been standing in front of, letting the thick brushstrokes and gold leaf witness whatever this was becoming.

The music folded around you like breath.

His other hand found the small of your back. Not possessive. Anchoring.

You hadn’t danced in years—not properly.

Not like this. Not in a room where someone like him was watching you like this. You’d always thought of dances as something ornate, frivolous, reserved for people with less urgency, with more time to spare. But now, pressed into the sound of something languid and slow, your heels steady on the stone floor, your pulse echoing in your ears louder than the saxophone, you realized something terrifying:

You liked being seen by him.

You weren’t sure you liked him, not yet. But being observed by Harry Castillo felt like being translated.

He didn’t say anything. He simply moved with you, intent, restrained, respectful in posture but charged in proximity. You could feel the faint pull in his fingers when the tempo dipped. The slow glide of your bodies in tandem, a low hum of friction where fabric met fabric. His gaze never wandered, never dipped to your mouth or your collarbone, which would have been obvious.

Lazy. Instead, he held your eyes the way a man might hold a match, close enough to feel its heat but not let it burn.

“You’re a good liar,” you murmured into the space between you.

That caught him off guard, faintly. “About what?”

“About not orchestrating this.”

He grinned, slow. “Again, I don’t believe in accidents.”

A silence fell between you, not uncomfortable, just pregnant with things neither of you were prepared to say.

You let yourself lean in, barely, enough to feel the breath on his throat. Not out of intimacy, but to gauge him. To test. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just matched your energy like a mirror.

Outside, you could hear the shuffling of staff, the murmur of doors opening for departing guests, the low thud of heels on stone. Inside, this gallery-turned-dancefloor remained suspended in some other hour.

Eventually, the song dipped toward its final bars. The notes began to stretch, the singer’s voice fraying at the ends like thread.

You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t a promise.

It was the breath before it.

He released your hand slowly, letting it drop with a trace of finality. The music faded into silence. Your heart did not.

“I’ll send you the address,” he said, voice quiet and even.

“To what?” you tilt your head curiously. “Just some small dinner, whiskey neat.”

You nodded once. “I’ll think about it.”

He said nothing more.

You walked out of the gallery alone, your red dress a slow flash of heat against the cool night.

And when you reached the car, when your fingers finally touched the handle, you exhaled for the first time in twenty full minutes.