#now i can use her for pose reference

[donutboxers]

📺Server Room📺

[liquidstar]

WOW I FINALLY FINISHED THIS SET. There were a lot of things I wanted to get right for them so I took some extra time but hopefully it was worth it! The guild for this set is Cobalt Heart- a guild with focus on maritime missions, lead by (of course) guildmaster Neptune. There was no other planet I could've picked for his namesake lol. They're the guild I jokingly call the most jockish, but some moreso than others. I really do hope I did all the characters justice, but if you wanna know more about the individual members, it's under the cut as usual!

Name: Neptune

Name Origin: The planet named for the god of the ocean

Pronouns: He/him

Age: 52

Guild rank: Guildmaster

Weapon: Trident

Ethos (Power): Ocean wave (Control over water- stronger with sea water)

Flaw power is based on: Originally based on his overly relaxed go-with-the-flow nature, but since becoming a father and guildmaster he's matured, and his power grew from simple wave control to more powerful control over the ocean's water. Waves aren't always peaceful, but he's become someone who understands their power and the responsibility needed for it.

Notes: If it's unclear, the marks on his chest are meant to be top surgery tattoos, but in cool wave shapes!

Name: Triton

Name Origin: Neptune's moon, aptly named for his son

Pronouns: He/they

Age: 24

Guild rank: 4 star

Weapon: Twin sai

Ethos (Power): Ocean breath (Underwater breathing as well as other aquatic adaptions)

Flaw power is based on: His ardent wanderlust, especially in regards to the ocean. They literally cannot leave it alone despite any possible better reasoning, which is when it becomes a problem.

Notes: Was his other parent a mermaid or did they just do the fish thing on their own? The world may never know.

Name: Otrera

Name Origin: A trojan asteroid named after the queen of the Amazons

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 32

Guild rank: 5 star

Weapon: Brass knickles

Ethos (Power): Preflexes (Hightened reflexes)

Flaw power is based on: Her overly-guarded and cagey nature.

Notes: But her brass knuckles are pink so its quirky when she knocks your teeth out.

Name: Naos

Name Origin: A star whose name means "ship"

Pronouns: He/him

Age: 21

Guild rank: 3 star

Weapon: Modified crutches

Ethos (Power): Helm (He can change the direction of inanimate objects. It's not limited to projectiles, he can change the direction of objects while they're in someone's hand too.)

Flaw power is based on: His avoidant tenancies, especially where more serious responsibility is concerned.

Notes: Honestly? Joined the guild to boost his playboy status.

Name: Aitne

Name Origin: One of Jupiter's moons, named after the personification of Mount Etna, a stratovolcano

Pronouns: They/them

Age: 27

Guild rank: 4 star

Weapon: Spiked gauntlets and armor

Ethos (Power): Molten Core (Lava manipulation)

Flaw power is based on: Their brash and destructive nature.

Notes: Likes all their food to be charred.

Name: Ariel

Name Origin: A moon or Uranus, named after an air spirit!

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 16

Guild rank: 2 star

Weapon: Baton

Ethos (Power): Harmony (Perfect balance on anything)

Flaw power is based on: Her own difficulty maintaining emotional balance under stress

Notes: She's a gymnast! And even though I didn't make the character named "Ariel" a mermaid, you can still see a scale pattern in her leotard!

Name: Maru

Name Origin: A white dwarf whose name means "Sky." It's orbited by the planet Ahra.

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 18

Guild rank: 3 star

Weapon: Claymore sword

Ethos (Power): Sky walking (She is capable of interacting with air as if it were a tangible object, creating leverage for herself to walk and balance on as if it were solid)

Flaw power is based on: Her somewhat vain tendency to place herself above others

Notes: Complete and utterly confident she's the cooler twin

Name: Ahra

Name Origin: A exoplanet whose name means "Ocean." It orbits the star Maru.

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 18

Guild rank: 3 star

Weapon: Claymore sword

Ethos (Power): Wave riding (Creation and control of tidal waves to ride on, as if she was surfing them with no board. But she does have to be on them.)

Flaw power is based on: Her arrogance and recklessness

Notes: Completely and utterly convinced she's the cooler twin.

Name: Pipoltr/Pip

Name Origin: A star named for "a bright and beautiful butterfly."

Pronouns: Whatever really?

Age: 8

Guild rank: 1 star

Weapon: Giant lollipop

Ethos (Power): None yet!

Flaw power is based on: N/A. This doesn't mean they're flawless, but until their power develops they're really just here to go on fun little adventures.

Notes: This child hangs around with sailors all day long. The words they know....

[raining-anonymously]

something about mouthwashing that has always bothered me is the cake-baking scene. where the game’s dialogue is usually very realistic, this scene feels… weird. the dialogue is unnatural and too video-gamey. anya, swansea, and jimmy are telling curly things he should already know for the player’s benefit, such as the backstory for the communal birthday parties and how to bake the cake. it’s strange. but i think i’ve finally figured it out!

We start with Daisuke. “Look at your face!” suggests that Curly’s reaction to being surprise-birthday’d was an expression of shock. This is supported by Jimmy later apologizing to Curly for jumping him like that.

Back to the present. Curly, who tends to use fewer filler words comparatively, uses the word “uh” twice in two lines. “Uh. Wow,” followed by:

I wanna talk about this question for a minute. Let’s look at the scene. Curly can see the birthday party decorations from his position. Curly knows the approximate date off the top of his head, according to the dead pixel scene, so he should know it’s around his birthday. Curly has also undoubtedly experienced many Pony Express birthday parties before. All this to say, why the hell is he asking what the occasion is? It should be pretty obvious, no?

The answer is dissociation.

We know from Curly’s POV introduction that he spaces out in conversation, and that Anya is aware of this. This lasts to the point where he’s staring off at nothing until Anya asks if he’s listening.

He also appears to dissociate during his conversation with Jimmy before the crash: he stops talking completely until prompted by Jimmy to respond and doesn’t seem to understand what’s happening (Jimmy tells him everyone on the ship should die and Curly seemingly agrees, only to very clearly be upset and in shock when Jimmy goes and makes this happen).

Now, Jimmy, Anya, and Swansea have known Curly for years. Seems pretty reasonable that they would be able to recognize signs of his dissociation, yeah? And they do.

Again, these are things that Curly should absolutely know. I believe Anya and Jimmy saw the facial expression that Daisuke referred to and noticed Curly’s inexplicable confusion and realized he was dissociating. They then informed him of the details of the situation while posing it as a question, likely in an attempt to ground him. Anya ends her information with “right?” while Jimmy ends his with “remember?” This allows them to give Curly the information he isn’t grasping in a gentle way that doesn’t call attention to the fact that this is something he should already know.

Anya then gives him more direct instruction by telling him where the cake recipe is (again, a thing he should absolutely know considering he eats in that kitchen every day) and lightly tells him to go make it. She’s guiding him to a task that he would ordinarily be able to complete on his own because she can tell that he’s unsure and out of it.

Swansea—who, while not as close to Curly as Jimmy and not as attentive to the crew’s mental wellbeing as Anya, has known the captain for years— does the same thing, more directly. He asks Curly about the cake recipe and tells him where to find the ingredients and recipe. Again, Curly should absolutely know this already, but for some reason he isn’t doing it on his own.

From the crew’s perspective, if you as Curly choose to engage in this optional dialogue, Anya and Jimmy told Curly to go make the cake, and instead of doing that Curly wandered quietly around the lounge. Brought on, probably, by this dissociative episode. So Swansea reminds Curly what he’s supposed to be doing and where to go to do it.

(While Jimmy and Anya are consistently shown to be in tune to Curly’s emotions (Jimmy moreso pre-crash), Swansea typically is not; however, he’s standing near Anya during this segment, meaning she had the opportunity to tell him what she’d noticed.)

Now, an interesting thing about Curly’s optional conversations with the rest of the crew here: He doesn’t say anything during them. This is a little odd, considering Curly is a fairly social character. He does have other optional interactions where he doesn’t respond, but those are typically after he’s just had a back-and-forth with the other person or where you’re able to respond nonverbally (such as closing/opening the door to Utility when Jimmy jokes about it). But for the most part, Curly does respond to what others say.

Not here, though. He can drift between Daisuke, Anya and Swansea, and Jimmy, but he doesn’t say a word apart from when Jimmy notices his silence and prompts him to speak.

Even then, he just agrees with Jimmy without any indication that he processed what Jimmy said. If you go for Jimmy’s second optional dialogue, Curly once again has no response.

All this to say—

This post was not made to demonstrate any overarching story element. Honestly, I kinda thought I was stringing conclusions together. But now that it’s all down? It… kinda makes sense. This is consistent with Curly’s character, with Anya’s and Jimmy’s dynamics with Curly, and with the typically excellent, human, non-meta dialogue Mouthwashing utilizes in all other scenes.

It works down to the little details, such as Daisuke being the only one who doesn’t have weird dialogue here; he’s only known Curly a few months and is probably less in tune to the captain’s mannerisms. (Plus the crew tends not to tell him about anything serious.) Furthermore, dissociation can be caused by stress, and Curly is VERY stressed in this scene, preoccupied as he is with needing to tell the crew about the termination. His flavor text during this scene demonstrates that pretty well; his flavor text is much more cynical than his norm and often leads to him thinking about the termination rather than what he’s supposed to be doing.

Is there a possibility that I’m completely wrong? Of course. But I finally have a plausible explanation for something that has been bugging me for months, so I’m satisfied.

hope you enjoyed today’s episode of MOUTHWASHING THEORY TO FILL A PLOT HOLE THAT NO ONE EXCEPT MY PEDANTIC ASS THINKS ABOUT <3

If I said anything wrong re: dissociation or if you have another Watsonian explanation for why this scene is written so oddly, please do feel free to share!

[mh2o29]

tfw you have to call your girlfriend's house to talk to her girlfriend (who is also your boyfriends girlfriend) so you can get your boyfriend released from jail...

(click for better quality PLEASE I beg you)

under the tab are other versions of the drawing so click if you wanna see him with no shirt on .....wait what who said that.....

yall i don't even know how to explain this one i was possessed and controlled by the urge to draw stu macher all pretty and posed like this,,,, so i like when men are pretty SUE ME

credits to @atitanbitch for the idea to include Sid and Tatum in the little bubble and @powderedbleach for reminding me about THE ROBEEEE OH and ofc @harleykeenervarient for sending me the photo reference I used in the first place yall rock <3

included below are alternate versions of this drawing that I was having some fun with mwuahaha that includes no shirt, no shirt plus some ~shweed~ and also ofc trans version bc cmon

alright thats all for now.... thats my cue to slink back into the void until I return with another art drop BYEEEEEE

[tsuy4n]

Okay so I’ve been obsessing over the Saja boys these days. Hyperfixation. New brain rot unlocked. Absolute serotonin. And after reading all these chef's kiss stories on here, my delulu brain said:

"What if Artist!Fem!Reader x Saja boys?"

And no, I don’t mean reader who just likes drawing.

I mean full-on webtoon artist. Sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated, hasn’t seen the sun in days—that kind of artist.

The kind who sees hot people and thinks, "great bone structure. Gonna draw that."

So here’s the ✨vision✨:

Reader isn’t romantically impressed by the Saja boys. At all.

They try to flirt?

"You’re shaped like a Pinterest pose reference. Mind holding that flex for a sec?"

They're shirtless?

"Nice lighting. I need to sketch your obliques."

They do the sexy wink?

"I’ve seen better. Your symmetry’s a little off."

They're out here looking like gods and MC’s just collecting them like rare anatomy models.

How'd she got involved? Well, she didn’t even mean to meet them, really.

She just took a low-key staff job which is some basic behind-the-scenes work. Water duty. Carrying gear. Sweeping up glitter. Whatever pays rent.

But then:

Accidentally walks in on them mid-magic ritual.

Mistakes it for a stage rehearsal.

Doesn’t scream—just critiques the lighting and poses.

Becomes a walking enigma the boys can’t stop thinking about.

THEN her apartment burns down. Rent’s out of the question. And after a lot of suspicious looks and internal debates, one of the Saja boys goes:

"You can stay with us. Temporarily."

So now she’s:

Working for five hot demon idols

Living in their house

Still not impressed.

But wait—it gets worse (better.)

She thinks they’re just dramatic, overly aesthetic idols until she finds out:

They’re literal demons.

And their enemies? Obv the Huntrix which she thinks is another group that has... some similar name to that kpop group.

[Y/n]: "Like— Like Demon slayers?!"

YES. SHE STANS HUNTRIX. But she knows 2...

She has fanart. She follows a fancomic. She thought Mina, They said Mira but she thinks they mixed the name—pink hair, dual-scythe (technically a guandao, but whatever), was fictional.

Sneak Peek Scenes for Flavor:

1. The Huntrix Fangirl Reveal

The boys are bandaged, battered, and mid-complaint.

[Y/n]: "WAIT YOU FOUGHT MINA?! THAT'S SO COOL???" Abby: "She almost took my arm off!" Baby: "She stole my favorite jacket, too!" [Y/n]: *casually flipping through her webtoon collection* "Wait. The one with the dual-scythes and pink hair, right??"

Roman: "…Yeah, why?” [Y/n]: *eyes sparkling, playing along* "OH MY GOD YOU FOUGHT THE MINA?? SHE’S SO COOL!! I LOVE HER ???"

Dead silence. Mystery: *barks once in betrayal* JINU: *eye twitching* "You… stan the person actively trying to kill us?"

[Y/n]: "Okay first of all, she's not trying to kill me. Secondly, have you seen her design? Iconic. Her color palette? Perfect. Her character arc? Chef’s kiss. The drama. The trauma. The hair."

She pauses.

[Y/n]: *softly, reverently*: "She’s everything I wish I could draw." Abby: "You’re sleeping outside."

2. The Abs Incident

Abby: "Go ahead, babe. One-time offer to touch perfection." [Y/n]: "Okay." *Touches abs with terrifying focus.* [Y/n] *nods* "Good texture. I’m using you for a villain character. Thanks."

3. Rumi’s Breakdown (Huntrix Squad)

Rumi: "THEY’RE DEMONS! HOW CAN YOU STAY AT THEIR PLACE?! Not with just one—but all five?!!" [Y/n]: "Really? Wow.” Mira: *narrows eyes* "…You don’t look surprised." Zoey: Are you in cahoots with them?! Like—were you so BEWITCHED by their faces?! Because SAME. But also, betrayal??? [Y/n]: "Oh no, I’m freaking out inside. I just… this is PEAK webtoon content. Enemies to lovers potential. I’m living in someone’s AU."

4. When She Meets Mira

[Y/n]: "Oh my god. You’re real." Mira: "And you’re the artist who’s been drawing me in armor and… cat ears?" [Y/n]: "It was for the Patreon tier okay please don’t kill me."

5. Late-Night Kitchen Chaos

Baby: "Most girls would kill for a moment alone with me."

[Y/n]: *without looking up from her sketchpad* "Can you move? You’re blocking the fridge light. I’m using it to shade your clavicle." Baby: "…Do I at least look cool?" [Y/n]: "Yeah. You’ve got the perfect bone structure for a mid-arc character death." Baby: "????"

She just wanted rent money 😔Now she has demon roommates, stan wars, and probably develops an accidental crush on the villains.

And somehow, that’s still not the weirdest part of her week.

✨ [Y/n] doesn’t flirt. She doesn’t swoon. She just humbles the boys like it’s her side quest. ✨

On the side note: When I get into it imma start writing! (I’m into it.)

It's here now! > Part 1 <

[rhaeheartzsquirrelz]

Ellie Williams x Female Reader Headcannons

Only women can interact, sorry not sorry 😝

A/N: idk i got bored and just yapped (I use these for my fics btw, expect to see some of these being implemented).

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Fluff .☘︎ ݁˖

Keeps everything you give her. That includes gum and candy wrappers, unopened chocolates (it’s expired and probably molding), stuffed animals, tickets, and even pencils that she accidentally ended up breaking.

She keeps a box specifically for those things.

She’s definitely a hourder. Every little trinket she sees will be hers. On the ground or not, she’ll stuff it in her pockets, bring it home, and display it on her desk for you to see. Even though she tries to be nonchalant about it.

Loves when you cook, not because she can’t but because she claims that she food tastes a thousand times better when it’s made from your hands. Also because, apparently, your special ingredient is love.

Takes you out on museum dates so she can watch as you look up in curiosity at the display of skeletal remains of a dinosaur. She likes the fact that the two of you share interests, it gives her awkward-self something to talk about.

On the topic of awkward, the first time she’d ever had a conversation with you ended up becoming the most embarrassing thing she’d ever done in her life. Stuttering, pausing inbetween sentences, or just straight up forgetting what she was talking about pretty much sums it all up.

Stuffs her mouth with the sweets you bought. Next thing you know, the whole box is gone.

This woman YELLS when she’s on the game. Cursing every sentence turns into rage quitting and shutting off her console. Afterwards, she’ll immediately come to lay ontop of you and burry her face away into the crook of your neck; patiently leting you work your magic on easing her up.

Tells you that matching is childish but secretly ADORES the idea (Mainly so everyone knows you’re hers). You want matching pajamas? Done, she’s bought the two of you five pairs. Wanna get matching keychains? Ellie will handpick every trinket you like from her collection and grunt through the process of hand-making a one in a million keychain for the two of you.

She wears it everyday.

After her hard work she expects you to take care of her sore and achy fingers with extra love and attention. She’s talkin’ kiss the pain away and smother her with cuddles. Even spoil her with chocolates.

Loves when you call her baby. That special nickname gets her going; it might as well as be her motivation to wake up.

Likes being babied… (She’s not proud of it.)

Finds your weirdness endearing because she’s never been comfortable enough to openly be herself; dorky and cringe. She’d rather be nonchalant and act all tough, even though you see right through her act.

Makes dad jokes.

LOVESSS to hold your hand whenever the two of you are out. Small things like resting your head on her shoulder, giving her arm a squeeze, or even staring at her for a moment too long can get her red.

NSFW ༉‧₊˚.

She’ll memorize ever inch of your body during sex and use it as a reference for her drawings.

Her journal is now full of all the different poses the two of you had tried out.

Every little thing you do gets her giddy: squirming your hips, biting your lip, tugging at her hair, or even moaning her name, those are all the things that get her wet. Drenched even.

PS: she’ll get extra wet if you run your fingers to the back of her neck and hold onto her from there— you can ever grip at her hair and she’ll end up whining for more attention. (Even though YOU’RE the one getting strapped down.)

Likes to have you on your back with your legs spread so she can see just how good she’s doing you.

Loses her shit whenever you praise her. Whether it’s when she’s being ate out or when she’s pounding into you, she’s most likely to cum from just watching and hearing you.

Holds your hands in almost every position because that’s her silent way of showing you how mushy you make her. Also because she likes the idea that you’re still paying attention to her rather than the strap she has around her hip.

Loves how you taste. She could have you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if she could.

Fav combo: fingering + oral. She swears it gets you (s)creaming.

[kxsagi]

heyyyy, how are you doing???:)

so I've been seeing a lot of bllk x fem!reader fanfic yk those typical "sneaking in" and "dressing up as a guy" to fit in blue lock. may I request about what the blue lock 11 starters' reaction would be when they found out? i can picture isagi making up different possible scenarios as to how reader hasn't been found and lock off by ego considering he's very VERY meticulous with every player's information? please don't mind this request if you're uncomfortable ｡⁠◕⁠‿⁠◕⁠｡ thank youuuu, have a nice day:)

“𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬”

a/n: heyyy, i'm doing good! i hope you are as well, pretty

thank you for the request, this was more fun to write than i expected!

(art credits go to kaziris_ on x)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, karasu tabito, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu, aryuu jyubei, bachira meguru, chigiri hyoma, niko ikki, gagamaru gin

isagi yoichi

spirals. immediately. 

“wait. no. that’s not – wait. how?? ego checks everything. he runs background checks, medical records, locker room rotations –" 

cue isagi pacing like a madman at 2 AM trying to piece together how you avoided getting caught. 

at one point he’s literally scribbling plays on a whiteboard like it’s match analysis: “okay, so if she never showered when anyone else was around, and faked voice cracks at key points… wait. WAS THAT WHY YOU NEVER CHANGED IN FRONT OF US???” 

he’s not mad. he’s actually kind of amazed. 

"you're like... the greatest tactical deception of blue lock."

itoshi rin

“... i knew something was off.” 

lies. he did not know anything. he’s just salty that you were better than him in the last scrimmage. 

lowkey respects your ability to deceive the system. no one else could’ve pulled it off. 

“well, if you're still here, guess it doesn’t matter. just don’t think I’ll go easy on you because you're a girl." 

surprisingly neutral, but his eyes linger on you more often now.

nagi seishiro

“oh. huh. that’s why your hands are so soft.” 

not phased in the slightest. 

honestly thinks it’s kind of cool that you tricked everyone. “that sounds like a pain. but also kinda genius.” 

keeps accidentally calling you “dude” out of habit and then awkwardly correcting himself: “uh. dudette? nah that sounds weird…”

karasu tabito

laughs SO HARD he literally cries. 

“bro. BRO. you mean to tell me you were out here breaking ankles and gender norms???” 

starts making up fake backstories about how you smuggled a fake mustache into the dorms or used voice-changing tech. 

100% wants to know how you did it. every detail. for science (and blackmail).

otoya eita

the flirt switch FLIPS IMMEDIATELY. 

“so you're saying i wasn't crazy for thinking you were kinda hot?” 

annoyingly smooth about it. calls you “princess” just to see you get flustered. 

absolutely refuses to stop flirting. even more now. 

“if you needed help keeping the secret, you could’ve asked me. i’m great at keeping things under wraps, baby girl.” 

yukimiya kenyu

dramatic gasp. glasses off. slow-motion blink. 

“you… you’re a her?” 

the poetic side of him kicks in: “like a rose blooming in a battlefield…” 

would never admit it, but he starts fixing his hair more often around you now. 

supportive as hell though. tells you he respects your drive and the risks you took.

aryuu jyubei

strikes a pose and fans himself with his own hand. “mon dieu… the betrayal… you mean to say… all this time… i wasn’t the only icon here???”

says you’ve raised the standard of beauty and elegance in blue lock. 

insists on giving you a makeover “to match your true self,” even if you’re like, “bro please no.” 

might actually fight otoya for flirting too much.

bachira meguru

gasps in dramatic anime fashion. 

“NO WAY! you’re a GIRL?! THIS IS AMAZING!” 

he’s totally hype about it. takes it as a challenge, like, “you were able to sneak by the whole blue lock team?? you’re a legend, let’s be best friends forever!”

starts calling you “mystery girl” and constantly refers to you as his “partner in crime.” 

“i knew you were special, but this is next-level. no one can keep a secret like that and still play like a monster!!”

chigiri hyoma

goes very still. blinks. stares. 

“... wait. you're serious?” 

he has a lot of emotions. probably more than he expected. 

part of him’s like, “hell yeah. girl power.” and the other part is like “oh no she’s hot.” 

quietly covers for you when needed. he gets what it’s like to be underestimated.

niko ikki

poor boy.exe has stopped working. 

you tell him and he literally just stares with wide eyes like a deer in headlights. 

doesn’t know what to say for the longest time. then mutters, “i... always thought your voice was kinda nice.” 

gets super flustered afterward and avoids eye contact for three days straight.

gagamaru gin

“HUH???”

pure confusion. “but… you tackled me last week. and cursed at me. in a super deep voice. i thought you were just… intense?”

he's like a golden retriever trying to understand algebra. but he means well. 

“wait does this mean we weren’t supposed to share toothpaste???”

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[gf2bellamy]

Oh my god, can I just say that I absolutely love your newlyweds fic!

Can I please request a spin on that where Spencer and fem!bau!reader are still in the pining/completely and utterly smitten stage of their crushes on each other and need to go undercover as a married couple to catch the unsub?

And Spencer just completely bluescreens/shuts down/gets his IQ slashed to 20 when he first hears reader refer to him as his husband (while internally he's just giggling like crazy) and then reader is the one that gets completely flustered when he calls her his wife and the two of them are just happily dreamily smiling at each other as if a psychotic serial killer is not within three feet of them.

married — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: they interact with the unsub, mention of the unsub's victims / motive , a/n: hi hi hi ! i hope you like this <3 i literally had so much fun writing this

“You okay?” you asked softly, stopping Spencer with a gentle touch on his arm.

The two of you were standing in front of a modern art exhibition building. Hotch had assigned you both to go undercover, posing as a married couple to lure out the unsub. An artist with a vendetta against happy couples.

It was a solid plan, but Spencer had been acting… off. More than usual, anyway.

He hesitated, his eyes darting away from yours as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Yeah, I just—” His voice trailed off, and he glanced over your shoulder, avoiding your gaze. You noticed the way his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, a telltale sign that he was nervous.

But why? This wasn’t his first undercover assignment, and he’d handled far more stressful situations.

You tilted your head, stepping slightly into his line of sight to catch his attention. “Hey,” you said gently, your voice warm and reassuring. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” You flashed him a smile, hoping to ease the tension. “You can tell me about all the art styles. Didn’t you once tell me about surrealism?”

At that, Spencer’s eyes flicked back to yours, a spark of interest lighting up his face.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “Salvador Dalí, René Magritte… their work challenges the perception of reality. It’s fascinating, really.”

You grinned, encouraged by his response. “Well, you can tell me all about that inside,” you said, gesturing toward the entrance of the exhibition. “I’m counting on you to be my personal art historian tonight.”

Spencer’s lips twitched into a small smile, but you could still see the faint unease in his eyes. You tried to ignore the way your own heart was racing, the way your stomach fluttered every time he looked at you.

When Hotch had assigned you this mission, you’d nearly fallen out of your chair. JJ had noticed, of course, and her knowing giggles hadn’t helped. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on your feelings.

You had a job to do, even if that job involved pretending to be married to the man you’d been quietly crushing on for months. A man who had no idea how you felt. You held out your hand to him, your heart pounding in your chest. It was a bold move, but you told yourself it was necessary for the case.

You had to act like you were married, right? Holding hands was part of the job. At least, that’s what you kept repeating to yourself as you tried to ignore the way your pulse raced at the thought of touching him.

Spencer looked down at your hand, then back up at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His hand was warm, his grip gentle, and the contact sent a jolt of electricity up your arm. You tried to ignore the way your cheeks heated, focusing instead on the mission.

“Ready?” you asked, squeezing his hand lightly.

Spencer nodded, his smile a little more genuine now. “Ready.”

The two of you walked into the exhibition hall, hand in hand, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the polished floors.

“Which one is his?” you mumbled, leaning slightly closer to Spencer so only he could hear you. Your breath brushed against his ear, and you didn’t miss the way he stiffened for a moment, a faint shiver running through him. He cleared his throat, trying to focus, and glanced around the room.

“Straight forward and then on the right,” he replied, his voice low.

His thumb instinctively brushed over your knuckles, a small, unconscious gesture that made your heart skip a beat. You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from grinning like an idiot. This was supposed to be a mission, but it was getting harder and harder to separate the act from the way you really felt.

“Okay, so let’s start here and work our way to the front,” you said, pointing to a painting nearby.

You couldn’t rush straight to the unsub’s work. That would look suspicious.

Instead, you had to play the part of a curious couple, taking your time to appreciate the art. Spencer nodded, his eyes following your gesture, and the two of you stopped in front of the first painting.

It was a colorful abstract piece, a swirl of blues and greens that seemed to dance across the canvas. “That’s pretty,” you said, tilting your head as you studied it. You weren’t just saying it to keep up the act; you genuinely found it beautiful. But when you glanced at Spencer, you noticed he wasn’t looking at the painting. His gaze was distant, his mind clearly somewhere else.

Spencer was barely focused on the artwork. How could he be, when you were standing so close to him, your hand warm in his? He could feel the softness of your skin, the way your fingers fit perfectly against his own. It was distracting in the best possible way, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to hold your hand like this outside of a mission.

To hold your hand forever.

“Oh, yeah, it’s pretty,” he mumbled finally, realizing you were waiting for him to say something. His voice was soft, almost absentminded, and you couldn’t help but smile at his awkwardness.

“Spence,” you said gently, tugging his hand slightly to bring him back to the present. You could tell he was lost in his own thoughts, and you wanted to pull him out of it. “What do you think about it?” you asked, your tone encouraging.

You were practically giving him permission to ramble, and you knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.

Spencer’s eyes lit up at your question, and he felt his heart skip a beat. He loved the way you always asked for his opinion, the way you genuinely seemed to care about what he had to say. Most people tuned him out when he started talking about things he was passionate about, but not you.

You listened. You always listened.

“Well,” he began, his voice gaining confidence as he turned back to the painting. “The use of color here is really interesting. The artist is playing with contrast—see how the cool tones of the blue and green are balanced by the warmer accents here and here?” He pointed to specific areas of the canvas, his words flowing easily now.

You watched him as he spoke, a soft smile playing on your lips.

And as the two of you moved through the exhibition, discussing almost every painting in detail, you found yourself wishing this moment could last forever.

But soon enough, the two of you had talked your way through nearly every piece of art in the room, and you were inching closer to the unsub’s painting.

Most of the artists stood proudly beside their work, ready to discuss their creations with curious visitors, and the unsub was no exception.

He stood there, his arms crossed, his eyes scanning the room with an analytical gaze.

He seemed to be searching for something or someone.

You and Spencer exchanged a quick glance as you both spotted him. The unsub’s painting was just ahead, a dark, brooding piece filled with jagged lines and splashes of red.

It was unsettling, to say the least. You and Spencer stepped closer. You pretended to study the painting, your hand still firmly clasped in Spencer’s, while keeping the unsub in your peripheral vision.

The unsub’s eyes locked onto you almost immediately, and you could see the flicker of satisfaction in his expression. He had found what he was looking for.

A happy couple, just like the others he had targeted.

Spencer must have noticed it too because his grip on your hand tightened slightly.

Spencer leaned down, his lips brushing close to your ear as he whispered, “You okay?” His breath was warm against your skin, and you had to close your eyes for a second to steady yourself. His voice, so soft and concerned, sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your heart race in response.

“Yeah,” you nodded, turning your head slightly to look at him. His face was inches from yours, his hazel eyes searching yours.

For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped, and all you could see was him. His lips were so close, and you couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to close the distance between you.

But before you could say anything, the moment was shattered. The unsub stepped closer.

You could feel Spencer tense beside you, his protective instincts kicking in as he subtly shifted his stance, positioning himself slightly in front of you. His grip on your hand tightened. But before either of you could say anything, the unsub broke the silence.

“Hello!” the unsub said in a cheery tone, his voice a stark contrast to the dark, brooding painting behind him. His smile was wide, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and you couldn’t shake the unease that settled in your stomach.

“Hi,” you replied, turning to face him fully. You forced a polite smile, trying to ignore how queasy it made you feel to talk to a man like this, a man who had caused so much pain.

“I love your piece,” you said, gesturing toward the painting with your free hand. “Especially the red stripes in this corner. They add such a striking contrast.”

The unsub’s smile widened, and he nodded appreciatively. “Thank you,” he said, his eyes flicking down to your and Spencer’s interlocked hands.

His gaze lingered on the rings on your fingers.

Before you had left for the mission, Derek had handed you both simple silver bands, props to sell the married couple act. You remembered the way your heart had skipped a beat as you stared down at the ring, your fingers trembling slightly as you slid it onto your finger.

Spencer, standing next to you, had done the same, wiggling his ring finger slightly.

He hadn’t been able to suppress the big smile that spread across his face as he looked at you, and you’d felt your cheeks heat up at the sight.

Now, as the unsub’s eyes narrowed at the rings, you felt a fresh wave of nerves. Spencer was still silent beside you, undoubtedly profiling the unsub. You weren’t sure how to continue, so you took the lead, hoping to fill the awkward gap.

“My husband loves paintings,” you said, your voice natural despite the way your heart was racing. “He decided to bring me here on a date.” You paused, glancing up at Spencer with a soft smile, but the moment the word “husband” left your lips, Spencer’s brain, which was always working overtime, seemed to short-circuit.

He froze, his eyes widening slightly as he stared down at you. You could practically see the gears in his mind grinding to a halt. The red crept up his neck, spreading to his cheeks, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at how caught off guard he looked.

You looked up at him, your eyes slightly widening in a silent plea for him to snap out of it. When he didn’t, you quickly turned your attention back to the unsub, hoping to distract him from Spencer’s awkward silence.

“I think he made the right choice bringing me here,” you continued, your tone light and conversational. “I love your painting. It’s so… evocative. What was your inspiration?”

The unsub’s eyes lingered on you for a moment before he finally looked away, his gaze shifting back to the canvas behind him.

“Love and heartbreak,” he replied, his tone heavy with emotion. He stepped closer to the painting, his fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the frame as if caressing a memory. “They’re two sides of the same coin, aren’t they? You can’t have one without the other.”

You nodded, trying to maintain your composure as the unsub’s words hung in the air. But before you could respond, you felt Spencer’s hand slowly untangle from yours.

Instead, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you gently into his side. His hand settled on your lower back and you couldn’t help the way your breath hitched at the sudden closeness.

Spencer’s grip tightened slightly. He didn’t like how close the man was standing to you, and his protective instincts were kicking into overdrive.

You, on the other hand, were trying desperately to keep your heart from leaping out of your chest. The warmth of Spencer’s hand on your back, the way his body pressed lightly against yours.

It was all too much, and yet not enough at the same time.

The unsub continued to ramble about love and heartbreak, his voice growing more animated as he delved into the darker aspects of his inspiration.

But Spencer had finally decided it was time to step in. He had let you lead the conversation for long enough.

“It’s fascinating,” Spencer said, his voice calm as he interrupted the unsub’s monologue. “The way you’ve captured such complex emotions in a single piece. It’s… visceral.” He paused, his hand still resting on your lower back as he glanced down at you, his lips curving into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “My wife has always had an eye for art, but even I can appreciate the depth of your work.”

Your heart stuttered at the word wife, and you felt your cheeks flush with heat. You had been the one to bring up the “husband” angle earlier, but hearing Spencer say it so casually, so naturally, was something else entirely.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and slightly dazed, and for a moment, you forgot where you were. The unsub, the mission, the danger. It all faded into the background as you stared at Spencer, your lips parting in surprise.

Spencer, for his part, seemed completely unfazed by your reaction. If anything, the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and you could have sworn his hand pressed just a little more firmly against your back.

He was enjoying this, enjoying the way you were flustered, the way your breath caught when he called you his wife. And despite the situation, despite the fact that a psychotic serial killer was standing mere feet away, you couldn’t help but smile back at him.

The unsub, oblivious to the silent exchange between you and Spencer, nodded enthusiastically at Spencer’s comment. “Exactly,” he said, his voice tinged with excitement. “That’s what I was going for—raw, unfiltered emotion. Love, heartbreak, betrayal… it’s all there, if you know how to look.”

The unsub beamed at the praise, clearly pleased with your reactions. But as he launched into another detailed explanation of his creative process, you found it increasingly difficult to focus. Spencer’s hand on your back, the way he kept glancing down at you with that soft, almost dreamy expression.

The conversation dragged on.

Spencer could tell that the two of you were done with the job here. He straightened up, his hand slipping from your back to take your hand again.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure,” he said, his tone polite as he addressed the unsub. “But we should probably get going. We have… dinner reservations.”

The unsub nodded, though his expression was slightly disappointed. “Of course,” he said. “Thank you for stopping by. It’s always nice to meet people who truly appreciate art.”

“Thank you,” you replied, forcing a smile as Spencer gently tugged you away.

You walked out of the art exhibit, Spencer’s hand still wrapped around yours.

“Do you think he bought it?” you murmured, casting a quick glance over your shoulder.

The sky had begun to darken. Right on schedule.

The plan had been for you to leave as the exhibit closed, ensuring that the unsub would mark you as his next target. Now, you and Spencer just had to make it to the car and drive to the safe house, where the team was waiting.

“I think so,” Spencer replied, though his voice was a little distant.

You both had the same thought running through your minds, but different words lingering there.

Husband. The word echoed in your head, refusing to fade. It had felt too easy, too natural, to call him that.

Wife. That was the word Spencer couldn’t stop thinking about. The way it had slipped from his lips so effortlessly, like it was something he had thought about before. Like it was something he had wanted.

Neither of you said anything as you reached the car. Spencer walked ahead, pulling the passenger door open for you. A small, old-fashioned gesture, but one that made your heart stutter nonetheless.

“Thanks,” you said softly, sliding into the seat.

He walked around to the driver’s side, settling in but he didn’t start the car right away. Instead, he sat still for a moment, hands gripping the wheel, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the windshield.

You turned to him, brows furrowed. “Spence?”

His grip on the wheel tightened briefly before he finally spoke, his voice softer than usual. “You called me your husband.”

Your stomach flipped. You swallowed, trying to ignore the heat rising to your face. “Well… yeah,” you said, attempting to keep your tone light. “That was kind of the whole point of the mission, remember? Happy couple and all that.”

Spencer let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He finally turned to look at you, and for once, you couldn’t decipher what was going on behind those warm, hazel eyes. “I know. It’s just… you said it so easily.”

You blinked. “Was I supposed to make it sound awkward?”

“No,” he said quickly. Then, after a beat, “It didn’t sound awkward at all. That’s what’s messing with me.”

The car felt smaller suddenly. Your heart was pounding again, and you weren’t sure if it was because of the way he was looking at you or the fact that he hadn’t even tried to start the car yet.

Spencer's fingers were still tapping anxiously against the wheel. He hesitated for a second, like he was debating whether or not to continue, but then he spoke again, voice quieter this time. “I liked it.”

Your breath caught.

You weren’t sure if he meant the act, the mission, or something more. And you weren’t sure if you had the courage to ask.

Before you could say anything, Spencer finally started the car, the engine humming to life and breaking the moment like shattering glass. He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes firmly on the road as he pulled away from the curb. “We should get to the house. The team’s probably waiting.”

You nodded slowly, forcing yourself to look out the window, even though your mind was still spinning.

But one thought lingered, circling back over and over.

Spencer liked it.

And so did you.

[maniwannadiezz]

How to properly create a readable reference… !

Using old pilot reference as an example, I’m here to expand on this to make a turn around sheet that will be more helpful to someone who would be looking at this while animating the design….

1st, get rid of the posing, it’s stretching anatomy and complicating the image, how will we be able to see how her shoulders rest if we can’t see her arms down at her sides? Leave poses for a separate page for exaggerated expressions

2nd, giving her a neutral expression can not only help us better balance the thickness of her lashes but also make the eye shape clearer- and where her features should rest naturally when she is calm. Giving the animator a consistent anchor after an especially exaggerated movement of the face. We always must have a proper clear default.

3rd, proper side angle, her arms pinned back slightly to expose her side, showing the animator how the shirt ends at the side or how the lapels connect to the back and wrap around the neck- which can be shown at the back angle too.

4th, proper back angle, you can see I have two set here one where her hair is out of the way and exposing her back while one had the hair fell down, showing us not only how the back of her shirt looks but as well as how her hair would fall- leaving nothing to imagination and guess which could have contributed to animation consistencies to the pilot art style. Preferably we would also have a straight on shot as well, but for space sake I left that out for now.

5th, all are in the same pose and all body parts match up, none of the hand on hip or out in an awkward position. We have to know in animation the BASICS then from there the animator is free to bend it in practical ways but will always know what the rules may be. It’s exactly why so many shows have animation bibles. The more information you feed your animators the more streamlined your project will be. Don’t make the animators work any harder then they already do by guessing what the hell you were going for…

6th, add ons, what is the inside of her mouth look? What about a place we can’t see such as her top lid (while also getting a view of what her lashes look like down at half lidded) or the underside of her foot? Leave no place left untold! Remember animation can help give your characters the illusion of living in a 3d environment. They can and will see the underside of them or behind them- work thoroughly.

Whether you are making animation or even a comic, a proper reference is crucial to character consistency as well as a perfect place to add additional information one might not see at first but grow incredibly vital in later drawings.

[emeraldgem10]

I am FINALLY DONE with this project!! Now I give you...

Souls Mixed!

When you're cornered with another, mix your strength with theirs and prepare!

AGAIN, I AM FINALLY DONE WITH THIS ANIMATION!! I think I started this in Mid-February of this year and now I am done!

Oh right I also gotta talk about the process of making this, so originally this was going to be a Mario Party DS inspired animation, Eternal Sugar originally had Pitaya Dragon cookie in her spot instead as well of instead of having another Antonblast reference (guess which boss of that game I was going to make reference to) it would be an homage to Mixels instead.

I'll first cover over the unused stuff.

these 2 are the animations that was planned for the MP DS victory screen where Y/N victory pose references Luigi's victory pose from Mario Party 8. However as stated before, this was before the direction of this animation change so in the end this was scrapped.

These 2 are unfinished and unused respectively as the 1st is used but since the explosion cloud covers the island before you can see anything on it I didn't bother polishing up this one. The other was almost final but since I couldn't find appropriate sfx of clouds it ended up unused.

So if you had been following me chances are, you may have seen this already, as this was made before Hollyberry's offical awakened form was revealed for obvious reason it was scrapped, however it was used as a base for the final Mixed Cookie design.

Now for some stuff that was used.

So these 2 were the only Hollyberry sprites complete enough to essentially count as sprites. Also she was one of the bigger hurdles because my god, there was a lot to mimic to get the body parts for movement and the biggest was Eternal Sugar cause I still was adapting to animation, so often I was drawing body parts when they weren't even going to be seen, which that was a time waster :P.

As I said before this was started back in like, Mid-February, when I posted about Sentinal!Y/N. These is the only new sprites I designed for Sentinal!Y/N for this animation funny enough.

This is literally the cutscene background when Hollyberry first arrive in the Garden of Delight but shes removed from it. I actually had to look at a different image of this statue for reference to fill in the part that Hollyberry was covering up, you could probably see the little imperfections if you look closely enough.

And THIS, is my version of a Cookie Run Cubit, I'll just call it a Mixie. If you are familar with Mixels, you already know with its source of inspiration. Its spinning animation was inspired by the series own mobile game "Calling All Mixels", precisely its loading animation that had a Cubit spinning in a simliar fashion!

Finally we have the Mixed Cookie design. Like Mixels, I tooks parts and physical traits of Y/N and Aegis and combined them! There probably was more I could have done, but I'm happy with this design.

Makes me ponder of what Mixes and Maxes we could find with these cookies...

ONCE MORE I AM FINALLY DONE! Don't expect me to get right back to making Y/N sprites yet, I have a lot to catch up with my mutuals on what happened since I was away...

But for now, have a good day and..

See ya!!

[azrielhours]

Captured

Azriel x Reader

Word count: 2018

Synopsis: The camera has been invented and Azriel takes up a hobby of capturing reader, proving how pretty she can be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What is it?”

“An obscura camera, I think we called it.” You turned the device around for him to see the little hole to look through, let him hold it. “It means ‘dark room.’ Light travels in through here,” you pointed to the lens, “and an image is captured using refraction and shadows.”

Azriel frowned in disbelief, making you laugh.

“Watch,” you said, gently taking the Obscura from his hands.

“What do I have to do?”

“Nothing,” you smiled, positioning it before your face. “Smile for me.”

He gave a small, tentative smile. The distrust in his eyes had you laughing again, which made Azriel chuckle genuinely.

You clicked something. A shutter sounded, light flashed, and Azriel’s eyes widened. You pulled the obscura away as it rattled, producing a thin strip of rectangular film. Azriel’s frown returned. “It’s black.”

“It has to develop,” you plucked it away and placed it facedown. “You’ll see in a few minutes.”

“This is what you’d been working on with Nuan?” he asked, referring to the alchemist who’d been in town for a few weeks.

You nodded. “It’s an early prototype, but it mimics the way light enters the eye.” A mixture of her trinketry, your crafty impulses, and some magic. “All this work so we can finally capture your pretty face,” you teased, enjoying the pink dusting his cheeks. You turned the piece of film to him, relishing Azriel’s shock upon peering down at the photograph.

That sincere smile you’d managed to capture was how you often caught him looking at you. A sweet, receptive earnestness lighting his normally cold face. Eyes that beheld you like he missed you even when you hadn’t gone anywhere. Now etched permanently into a photograph for you to cherish.

It was your turn to blush. Playful words aside, this truly did catch his beauty.

He met your gaze. “Teach me how to use it.” You demonstrated, pointing to shoot the nearby bookshelf, but Azriel shook his head. “I want one like that,” he nodded to his headshot.

Your nose crinkled. “I don’t photograph well, Az.”

He scoffed. “Why wouldn’t you?” He positioned the obscura over his eyes like you had.

You covered your face with your hands, hiding. “I don’t like the posing.”

 “Come on,” he cooed, laughing. He reached to move your hair where it fell forward as you ducked your head, then gently held your wrists beneath your chin, broad hand easily cradling them between a thumb and two fingers. He tilted your face up with his hold. You peered at him through your fingers, rosy cheeks peeking through digits. Still holding your wrists, he took the photo effortlessly.

You uncovered your face, still blushing. He wondered how you didn’t see what a perfect subject you’d be. How you could invent the obscura and deprive him of its most obvious benefit.

Azriel studied you, and you saw the gears turn in his head. “Can I borrow it for a while?"

You laughed. “Okay, Az.”

~

It started off rather clumsy, and it took a few tries for Azriel to figure out that lighting mattered. That snapping photos with light in the immediate background ruined the film. He tested his hypothesis by capturing a bewildered Cassian, the confusion frozen making Azriel chuckle. He understood why you’d been laughing at him before. Next, he found that distance was important; that he could shift the angle of his photography. A practice shot of Feyre losing herself in a painting, so focused that she didn’t turn to wonder about the shuttering sound. Rhys landing on a balcony after training. Nesta reading ferociously by the fire.

He got the hang of it and was ready to really begin.

I don’t like the posing, you’d told him. He had no issues with that whatsoever.

The first one happened in the kitchen. The early morning hours were typically shared by the both of you on the grounds of a close friendship. You’d been sipping on coffee like it was medicinal, the light of the sun softening everything. Eyes closed, hair still slightly undone from sleep. He loved seeing you in your fancy dresses, your fighting leathers, but something about seeing you in soft, utterly personal nightwear—linen pants, knit cardigans, slippers—it spread warmth through his chest brighter than your revered sunrise. Today he'd even caught you in his t-shirt you must’ve swiped. Carefully positioning the Obscura over his face where he stood at the doorway, he snapped his photo before inconspicuously joining you, inquiring about the theft he quietly adored. Adoring your answering smile even more.

The next shot was on the rooftop. He’d caught Cassian bandaging you up after sparring. You were sat on the bench, smiling bloody and beautiful. Laughing as Cassian cracked jokes, allowing him to tend to you. He was kneeling on the ground before you, cleaning the cuts on your brow, wrapping your bruised knuckles. The sheer glee in your laugh, the way you sat so comfortably with his brother had Azriel reaching into the pocket realm for the Obscura, capturing the sight of his favourite people bantering fresh out of the ring.

One night after Rita’s, Rhys had offered to fly you home after winning a drinking game against Azriel. He’d winked at the bested Shadowsinger, taking you into his arms and shooting to the sky. Azriel grumbled at first until he’d realized the opportunity he had mid-flight with Rhys ahead. You reached to the skies above, stretching like you could grab the very moon, safe in the High Lord’s arms. He wished the Obscura had the power to capture the sound of your laughter as well, but he’d gladly settle for your silhouette marked by the Night Court stars, their beauty dimmed in the face of your exquisite joy.

The next photo was stolen after a Hewn City mission. You’d been in a billowing dark gown, face so ethereal, so striking and utterly beautiful that he’d struggled to look at you face-on. Everyone had taken to sprawling on the couches after coming home, still in formal attire, helping themselves to drinks as they winded down. You’d fallen asleep at some point, stretched comfortably across the sofa with your head nearly hanging off, hair cascading around you like a halo and down the sofa to the ground. Feyre mentioned wishing she could paint the sight of you, sleeping like some spite or nymph, some woodland creature of beauty, your dress ballooning around you like a nightshade flower. Azriel silently pulled out the Obscura, taking his time levelling the device so the light of the hearth illuminated your face.

“What is that thing you keep doing?” Cassian asked lowly.

Azriel focused, capturing the shot. Taking another one just for good measure. “Nothing.”

His favourite photo was of you and Nyx. You’d been playing with the boy on the balcony, blowing bubbles as he tried dutifully to pop them. They’d land and settle in his hair, making you laugh boisterously, head tipping back as Nyx laughed with you unwittingly. It was like the sun loved you, how it always shone upon you, doing the work for Azriel. He took the photo, falling into the easy routine. Once that photo developed, his heart skipped a beat at its sight. At the promise it captured that he wished was his.

He was a lucky bastard to have this gift—a device that finally allowed him to freeze the light that you were in his life, to etch the sights he so sincerely loved. God, you were special. Azriel had to walk away from the balcony, still staring at the little strip of film, more invaluable than precious jewel. How lucky he was to witness you. Luckier still to capture you in still frames, while you unknowingly captured his heart.

~

Azriel found you in your room, sitting at your vanity. He handed the obscura to you. “There’s no more film.”

You laughed. “Wow. How many photos did you take?”

He shrugged, smiling roguishly. “A handful.”

“Can I see?”

He handed a few.

You rifled through them, gasping at the quality. “These are amazing.” He’d captured Feyre descending the stairs in her regalia, beautiful like a divinity of legend. Nesta pouting playfully, glaring right at the camera. Mor putting earrings in before an outing. “Their mates would love these,” you murmured.

“They would,” he agreed.

You shook your head, stunned. “God, they’re beautiful.” Azriel didn’t know if you meant the photos or who he captured in them. “I wish I photographed this good.”

He would’ve laughed at the absurdity if he could resist his scoff of disbelief. “You do.”

You just shook your head, sneaking a quick glance at yourself in the mirror before eyeing the photos again.

Azriel’s heart stuttered. “You do,” he repeated. “I—” he reached into the pocket realm. “I took some of you as well.” Handing over a few photos, he watched closely as your eyes widened. You took your time studying each photo, brows pinched. He didn’t know if it was in dislike, or—

“Wow,” you breathed. You met his gaze. The fragility in them told him it was awe. “Azriel,” you breathed again, assessing the shots. “Wow. You make me look…”

You faded to silence. “What,” he gently nudged you.

“Pretty.”

He tried to speak. A breath puffed out of him. “Y/n,” he couldn’t stop the reverence in his tone. “You’re beautiful. What do you mean?” He didn’t care how it came off, how saying it warmed his cheeks.

He’d only pulled out a few of the tamer photos. The ones of you with his family or in mundane solitude. He immediately pulled out the rest, laying them before you. The pinch deepened between your brows, looking at the one of you after Hewn City. “Oh my god,” you breathed. You had no idea you could look so… “beautiful.”

“Yes,” Azriel nodded. “Beautiful.” He pointed to the one of you in the kitchen, freshly woken up. “Here as well.” Always.

You took your time studying them, unable to find it in you to care about how stupidly vulnerable this struck you. Too busy grappling with the comfort of feeling this seen. You finally met his gaze, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought that look in his eyes was…

If you were well and truly self-indulgent, you may have called it how you felt inside.

Azriel wished he had just one more piece of film to capture the look on your face. The depth of fondness in your eyes, like he was worth seeing. His heart stuttered again, holding that stare like he could pour his affection directly from his eyes to yours.

“Will you be keeping these?” you asked about the photos.

Azriel chuckled. “Yes. Try taking even one away.”

Oh.

You blushed, breaking his stare. A fine line to toe with your friend indeed.

But Azriel enjoyed that conviction on your face when you saw yourself as he did. “Okay,” he let up, exhaling in mock annoyance. “You can have a few.” He took most of the photos back, making sure to leave you with a copy of the Hewn City one. “I mean, I can always take more.”

You laughed, standing to retrieve your satchel, pulling out spare film. You showed Azriel how to load it in, but before handing the Obscura back, you eyed the first photo he’d taken, with his hands holding your wrists. “I want one like that,” you said, reaching for his face.

He laughed but didn’t bat your hand away, to your pleasant surprise. Only standing firm, albeit leaving his face uncovered. You cradled his face gently by the chin in one hand, resting your fingers on his cheeks, barely pressing. He smiled warmly at you, looking right through the camera at you. You captured him.

“There,” you handed back the obscura. “Now I got you,” you held up his matching photo.

He liked the sound of that. “I have you too,” he raised his collection of your photos in his hand in reminder. “And I’ll be keeping you with me.”

~

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[circeyoru]

Never Meant to Be…

[E-Rank!Sung Jinwoo x Summoner!Reader]

“Master Summoner, there is no need for you to waste your time here. This is only a low rank Gate, surely you’re needed elsewhere.”

“Nonsense, all Gates pose their unique level of threat no matter the rank and mana levels emitted.” You hummed as you fiddled with the tablet in hand to complete the final reports of your duties for today, a little fieldday wouldn’t hurt anyone. Besides… It wasn’t like Woo Jinchul isn’t used to your antics by now. Once completed, you turned your full attention to the self-appointed raid leader with a nervous look on his face―not the ‘oh boy a high-ranker is here to spectate’ but the ‘shit, I can’t do what I usually do’ kind of look. You gave him your business smile, “Don’t worry, I’ll be standing in the back, offering support if necessary. Hunters are still humans after all, wouldn’t want to lose any one of you.”

“Right, yes, of course.” The raid leader nodded his head, grudgingly giving you a smile, “Having you here is such a reassurance. Thanks for your services in advance.”

You let the poor man go to his raid team as you stood at the side, watching as he started to brief the other members of an observer joining the raid―that was you―without prior warning. You scanned the team as you stood at alert, your eyes sparkled and the corner of your lip curled up when a familiar figure was in the crowd.

“Let’s move!”

Everyone moved in formation with the strongest leading in the front and the tankers holding up their shields in case of an ambush type of monster. You did as you promised, walking behind the group with your hands in your pockets with an idle expression as you scanned the interior of the dungeon and its atmosphere.

You walked with a skip in your step as you joined his side, “Fancy seeing you here, what are the chances?”

Sung Jinwoo glanced at you for maybe a few second behfore setting his eyes back to his surroundings. It wasn’t that he was disrespectful of your―obviously higher rank and achievements―being, it was more of him not having the luxury of idle chatter while in a dungeon as compared to you. “If it’s you, Master Summoner, I have a feeling it’s not chance.”

“Then fate.” You chirped with a carefree smile, “It has to be that. Oh and also, I have a name, mister. Don’t refer to me by title, aren’t we close enough for that?”

Again, he glanced over as if stealing a peek at a crush in school―you found that side of him adorable. “In public, I think I should do that.” You were about to say something when he paused but he beat you to the punch, “But I also not want to drop that habit and slip up, so…”

You sighed internally. A small part of you deflated, but you understood what he said. He was the lowest of the low, the weakest of the weak. All knew him but not of a positive light. Still, you didn’t fall for him because of his raw strength, it was his determination and will power that caught your eye, the strength to push through against all odds and strive to survive not for himself, but for his family.

“Shall we go visit your mother after this raid? I can treat you and your sister to dinner. She needs her energy to study, right?” You changed the topic to something more lightheaded.

“I can’t impose―”

“Come, form a barrier, Water Serpent!” You suddenly interrupted him and raised your hand in the air. In the blink of an eye, a magic circle appeared under your shoes and enlarged itself until a giant snake appeared. Scales as blue as the ocean, crystal for eyes glowed in the dim dungeon, and its tail shaped like a fish’s fin with an ever present wave of water emitted.

The serpent surrounded the Hunters and a water dome appeared over them. Not a second later, bangs were heard all around perimeter of the dome and its surface, yet it was too dark to tell what was happening.

“Light! Mages, cast light magic!”

The mages did as ordered and orbs of light floated up to the top of the dome from the inside. Gasps were heard immediately when the view became clear. Bats, humanoid bats, were claw at the dome to get to them. Their claws were sharp, yet their speed couldn’t compare to the regenerative abilities of the dome.

“We’re sitting ducks!”

“We’re all going to die here!”

While Jinwoo was working his brain in overdrive to try and find a way out of this, you stepped up to the leader. “Sir, with all due respect, this is not something this team can handle. Can I take charge and bring everyone out?”

“...” The raid leader’s expression showed obvious confliction as he battled himself for the answer to your question. He looked to the team he was given the privilege of leading and the monsters that were doing everything they could to get to them from all sides. He looked to the serpent protecting them under your command. His hands clenched into fists, shaking with silent rage. You thought―everyone else thought―the leader was going to be stubborn and prideful. Yet… “Our lives are in your hands.”

A sigh of relief were sounded from all around. You nodded and patted his shoulder with a grateful smile before it fade and you turned to the rest of the team, “This barrier won’t hold while we’re on the move, it’s only present when we remain station. These beasts aren’t something that you all can handle so the best course of action now is to get you all out of here and have a team with higher ranked Hunters take over. Any objections?”

The team was silent.

“If no, then we must returned to the entrance quickly, I’ll cover you all while you run.” You shouted out to them. You raised your hand and used a small dagger to cut your palm enough to draw blood. You squeezed your hand into a fist until drops of blood dripped onto the ground, “Come, answer my summons, Shadow Mare and Sky Phoenix.”

Two more magic circles appeared, only this time it wasn’t under your shoes but in front of you. The nearby raid members all backed away a bit to make space as the circles enlarged the same way as it did before. Out of the circles, two creatures appeared. One in the form of a horse but bigger than the average size on Earth, in addition, it was as if its cloaked in darkness with his entire body pitch black, save of the glowing white eyes. The other in the form of an eagle, also bigger and much like the folklores depiction of a phoenix but instead of fire and a mix of red, orange, and yellow, there was whirls of wind and a mix of green and light blue. 

“My Water Serpent will guide you to the exit while my Sky Phoenix will fight off any danger so you all can focus on escaping.” You leaped and got on the Shadow Mare’s back, grabbing a hand full of its mane made from shadows. “I’ll distract it from the back, but don’t think that you don’t need to fight, if the situation calls for it, just follow your instinct.”

So the plan came and went, it was agonizing for you since you had to maintain three summons at the same time and provide the mana necessary for its healing from multiple attacks. Over the course of it, you had to grab Jinwoo and pull him up to your ride as he―heroically―stayed back to help someone who tripped but they in turn felt him to fend for himself. You instructed for him to hug onto your waist or else he wouldn’t stay on your summon.

Once you all made it out, you immediately went to the personnel that came with you to file an urgent report of the situation. While your partner went on to request the nearest guild’s aid, you called Jinchul to request for his arrival as you stood guard in case of a dreaded dungeon break. Thankfully, none of the worse case scenarios happened thanks to your quick thinking and the team’s cooperation with the situation. When things start to die down, you went to Jinwoo and passed him the essence stones your summons got from defeating the beasts along the way.

“Here… I know it’s not much but… This should help your mother’s hospital fees and…” You feel yourself going off balance as your world tilted to the side, you saw Jinwoo’s shocked and concern expression, his lips moved but all you heard was an earpiercing ring like the world had gone silent. “Oh, I think… I need to…”

You swear before you blacked out, you heard your name being called out. You could have sworn it was Jinwoo. Then again, it couldn’t be him, right?

⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧⬪⬧

“Must be nice. To have the Master Summoner’s favour.”

“Tsk. What a leech.”

“E-Rank scum.”

“Does he have no pride?”

Words of scorn shifted from calling Jinwoo a weakling to hogging the attention of one of the more talented Hunters in the country; the Master Summoner. The only Hunter that could summoned beasts of great calber, no two summons were the same unless one counted the pack or grouped summons. You were a legendary Hunter despite not being an S-Rank, people say you reported a false rank, but that was never confirmed. You worked in the Hunters Association as the vice-chairman, as more of an on-site staff member to connect to the Hunters, guild or guild-less.

That was actually how he and you met.

You were in your routine inspection, nothing special, just a causal observation to see if any guidelines needed to be improved or changed, even added if necessary. You stood at the back of the team and observed silently, only acting to defend yourself when the situation arose. He found himself captivated, you were so serious that he thought that was your only side.

Until he was saved by you when he was in a bind. It was a weaker monster, a goblin, that pinned him to a corner, the rest of the team moved on without him since he was picked off to the side. He thought that was it, he thought that this was going to be his end. But then you showed up. A line cut through the goblin faster than his eyes could follow and at its destruction, you were standing victorious with a bloody blade in one hand. Your summons, a pack of grey wolves with steel-like furcoat, move to devour the corpse. You walked pass the mess and extented your hand to him, “Are you okay? Come on, we need to catch up to the group.”

There was no annoyance, there was no sarcasm. You were looking out for him as an equal, devoid of ranks. That started it all.

You showed up more to raid he was going to. What started as once a month slowly turned to once a week, it was very gradual to the point it didn’t notice until the gossip and envious gaze directed at him when he was alone. He didn’t care, truly he didn’t. For you were like a ray of hope in his darkness.

Jinwoo didn’t understand why, but you took time out of your schedule to take care of his mother in the hospital and his younger sister when he was recovering in the hospital after a grueling raid that got him lying in the hospital bed. You gotten close to his sister while tutoring her even, not only eating dinner with her while he was busy with recovery or raids.

Your smile and kindness, he always bowed his head in respect and gratitude. He told himself not to be greedy and not to forget his place. There was no way you’d fall for someone like him when you could be with people as great as the other S-Rank Hunters. So he drilled it into his head that you were out of his league and never try to covet you.

Then why…

When you took charge of that raid, when you aimed for everyone’s safety, when you went back for him when he was once more left behind by his teammates, when you told him to hug you as you rushed the two of you back to safety. Did he wish those moments could last longer, just the two of you. His heart ached for you. His mind recorded the moments like they were his last.

And they were.

“Please. Stop everything that you’re doing to me.” Jinwoo’s voice spoke words he never wanted to say. His eyes stared at his intertwined fingers on his lap. He couldn’t face you, he just couldn’t.

“What are you saying? I’ll stop cooking your meat if that’s what you want.” You chuckled with a half-hearted promise, not before you dump another piece of meat into his bowl. “You know, this kind of thing doesn’t need such a serious tone.” You waved your tongs in the air, “We both should celebrate to the occasion nothing bad happened in that dungeon the other day.”

Jinwoo clenched his jaw, “Stop being so nice to me!”

His outburst got people at the tables near the two of you turn their heads in your direction. You chuckled and nodded in apology, motioning for them to continue with their dining. You stared at Jinwoo in concern as you placed the tongs down, lowering the heat a bit to avoid burning the still cooking meat. “What exactly do you mean?”

“The hospital visits, the meals, the money, the homestays, the care… Everything you’ve been doing for me. Please stop it.” Jinwoo told you all this in the eyes, never breaking eye contact. “I know you mean well, but… I… I can handle it. So thank you, but I don’t need it.”

The look of concern dropped from your face, an expression of disbelief and awe mixed together as you tried to keep your smile on. “Are you that dense? Don’t you see why I’m doing this?” 

When Jinwoo remained silent, you clicked your tongue in denial. In his mind, this was the best course of action. As long as he was a lowly E-Rank Hunter, he could never match up to you. This was for the best, for both him and you.

“I thought you’re better than this… That the gossip and rumours wouldn’t push you down…” You whispered, but Jinwoo heard it all. 

His mind shouted “sorry” over and over like a broken record.

“I love you.”

That made his head snap up to gaze at you. Only… Now there was an expression of brokenness on your face, your eyes were watery and your lips in a thin straight line. Your gaze on him was firm and piercing that he felt like he was being burnt through. His mind at a blank when he replayed what you said over and over.

“Do you have to make me say it out loud for you to understand?” Your voice cracked and broke.

He was speechless. There was no way… No way you actually like, no, love him. No way you want him. And no way would this work in the long run. You’d be laughed at, you’d be the talk of the town, you’d be disrespected for associating with him in that way.

“Fine. Have it your way.” You stood up sudden, slamming a slack of cash on the table. “Here, this is the last time anyways. Keep the change since you shouldn’t come find me or the other way around.”

As he watched your back stomping to the exit, his heart screamed at him to chase after you and his mind looped the anger in your voice. Yet his body sat there frozen in time.

In the end, he didn’t do anything.

For it was never meant to be…

Note: Angst angst angst. This is full angst. I think there was a request on a summoner!reader in my inbox before, but now it's gone?? The only thing I remembered from that request was the summoner bit, otherwise I can't recall since it's deleted (not by me okay). Anyways, hope you enjoyed this one while waiting on the monarch series.

𝕮𝖎𝖗𝖈𝖊 𝖄.

My Works: MASTERLIST *(regarding requests, check the Masterlist to see if it’s opened or not and other info related before sending one. Thanks.)

Taglist: @rozuburedo @ariseverdark @skylar896 @o-qi-shisme @stoats-a-dork

[kozachenko]

Finally decided to play around with my old lineless style again! Also figured out a way to draw Reimu that I actually really like!

Artist's Notes;

I've mentioned in a few earlier posts that I've been wanting to draw in my lineless style again for a while as a way to test what I've learnt from my previous style in regards to lighting. I did the face first and then for a while was thinking about doing a full body illustration of Reimu just to draw her outfit again. I'll talk about the face first since that's the first drawing I did in this batch.

For the longest time I really couldn't find a way to translate Reimu's face into my style. I was able to make her clothes work out well, just not really her face. I did like elements of how I drew her face a few other times, namely the tiny eyebrows and her pupils, but they didn't really feel like Reimu to me, or at least how I imagined her in my head. I then realized that it was less of a problem with the entire face and moreso the eyes, and it took me quite a bit of trial and error to make something that I was happy with. Also, as much as I thought the tiny eyebrows were cute, it didn't really make sense with her character. Like, from what I know about Japanese history, plucking your eyebrows was something that nobles (rich people) would do, and since Reimu is...neither of those things, I decided to just give her some thicker eyebrows instead (I will be saving the plucked eyebrows for another character though, so they will return). After I got to a face I was happy with, my next challenge was the hair. I did the front part first and liked that enough to continue, and then after more trial and error I realized that deep down I was a short-hair-Reimu-is-best-Reimu-truther this whole time because once I gave up on the long hair and gave her shorter hair something just clicked in my brain. And so, after drawing her outfit in again (this time without the yellow tie which is kinda sad but I'll find a way to incorperate it into future designs because it just was not making sense to me in context with the rest of the outfit) and finnicking around with the bow, I came to a version of Reimu's face that I actually liked. I thought that it made more sense for her character to have her cut it short, mainly because she's doing a bunch of Youkai extermination and she has to keep her hair out of her face somehow. I still wanted to make it kinda messy though, as Reimu is probably too lazy to clean it up herself. I think another reason I like it so much is because in Forbidden Scrollery, Moe Harukawa gave Reimu short hair and that really suited her, so I guess that was just a subconcious reason as to why I liked it so much. I also think that the shorter hair helps to separate her a lot from Marisa, as I think Marisa looks really good with longer hair. Speaking of, now I wanna do a drawing of her and Reimu together to really solidify how I draw them (unlike the previous version where it was just them standing). As much as I do like the face, I am concerned if she looks too much like how I drew Keiki now, but that might just be a product of the stylistic choices I made with her eyes and I might just be overthinking it. I am hyperaware of same face syndrome so that's probably the reason I'm so concerned about it lol.

Now for the fully body drawing. I was struggling to think of a good pose for her, so I just took a picture of myself and used that as a reference while still making slight adjustments for readability's sake. This is another case of, "I've looked at this too long and can spot every single issue with it" but this time I'm still happy with the final product mainly because this was a test drive for how I want to develop my lineless style in the future and for what it is I am more than pleased with the result. The main reason I deviated away from my lineless style was mainly because I was having a hard time with the lighting and making it interesting, and I am so glad that I've finally found a way to make it work! I'm especially happy with the clothes, as I think clothing folds are really fun to draw. I was somewhat inspired by the works of J.C. Lyendecker and the way he draws clothes, though admittedly it is not a one to one, since I mainly wanted to try implying the shading of the clothing folds with shapes (I do really want to do a study of his style one day as his art is incredible). So for the sleeves, I drew in a bunch of triangles where I wanted there to be a strong highlight, roughly coloured in the inside, and then blended them all so it looks like a more subtle. On both of these drawings, I also added in a noise filter to give it some texture (as that's what I used to often do with my drawings) and while I do like it, I might want to experiment with making it more subtle in the future, as it's pretty noticeable in both these drawings. Overall, I'm really happy with the lighting and colours of this drawing, and while I could nitpick several aspects of it (her hand holding the gohei looks too tense, I tried making her look like she was standing on the balls of her feet but the positioning of her Gohei's trail of papers ends up making it look weird, and I could've put more effort into the hair and bow and so many more things), this is more of a piece for me to experiment with my style again, and I'm excited for when I get a new idea for a piece, as I really wanna try some more stuff out with this style!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 5: Who Has Spoken Through The Prophets]

A/N: We're over halfway done, besties! Bless you for reading 🙏

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church…and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 6.2k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg and also her mum (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle, more in comments! 🥰

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

“What name will you choose?” you tease Aemond as reporters stand on the other side of the glass doors, strobing flashes of camera clicks and the deadened drone of their voices as they recount his second miracle into their microphones, one take, two takes, wanting to get it just right. Aemond is clasping your right hand as he sits beside your hospital bed. Neither of you speak to the reporters, or talk to the doctors and nurses about anything except medical care; you don’t want anyone to be able to say the vow of secrecy was broken. But you are posing for the audience, you the nearly-lost sheep, Aemond the benevolent shepherd. You’re just happy you get to touch him. The nurses cleaned his blood from your hair and your face, and you wish they hadn’t. “You should bring back something really wonky and old school. A name that hasn’t been used in centuries. Maybe…Pope Zosimus?”

“Pope Dionysius,” Aemond says, grinning. “No unfortunate connotations there.”

“Pope Hilarius. You do have a great sense of humor.”

“Pope Simplicius.”

“Pope Valentine, so romantic.”

“Pope Telesphorus!”

“Pope Caius, wasn’t that a character in the Twilight movies?”

“Pope Peter,” Aemond says. “After the apostle and the founder of the Church.”

“You’re proud enough for it.”

“Even prouder than you think. I already have a name picked out.” This is a grievous fault, one that no good cardinal would admit to. But Aemond reveals things to you that are unfit for even the confessional booth. You have a concussion, Aemond has fifty stitches, and you are both wearing pale blue hospital gowns; you could almost be mistaken for a normal couple.

Beyond the glass, nurses are telling the reporters that their time is up and shooing them off, down the hall, down the staircase, out into the world where they will tell billions of people what they’ve seen: Aemond’s saintlike selflessness, his chaste devotion to his flock. You will be a footnote: A nun was nearly killed, a nun’s life was saved, now let’s talk about the man who performed a miracle in Saint Peter’s Square.

You can’t ask anybody what is going on within the brick walls of Vatican City, but you have caught the nurses exchanging whispers. A representative for the dean Cardinal Seaborn released a public statement that voting would be paused for three days, allowing time for the cardinals to reflect and pray on recent events. Priests hailing from parishes across the globe are giving sermons declaring that serious consideration should be given to the signs God has made so visible. The Third Miracle Challenge has gone viral on TikTok, documenting people achieving things they once thought were impossible (for example, waking up at 5 a.m. to go jogging, or calling to schedule their own doctor’s appointment). #SexyPope is trending worldwide on Twitter.

If he wins, I’ll never be able to touch him again.

Two nurses enter your room—you’re being held for observation for twenty-four hours, and will be released this evening provided no worrying symptoms develop—and yank the mint green curtains shut, the tiny metal hooks clanging on the rods. They give you a cursory once-over and then spend several minutes chatting to Aemond in their thick Italian accents: “Cardinal Targaryen, will you say a prayer for my sick grandmother?” “Cardinal Targaryen, what is your favorite psalm?” “Cardinal Targaryen, how do you learn to forgive people who have wronged you?” Then they skuttle out of the room and close the door behind them. No impropriety is suspected; Aemond is now above reproach.

I already have a name picked out, Aemond had said. Your eyes drop to the thin gold chain that holds his medallion, concealed beneath the scratchy blue cotton of his hospital gown. “Who are you wearing?”

Instead of answering, he leans in so you can see for yourself; his uninjured left hand sinks into the mattress, the remnants of the cologne he put on yesterday morning steal into your lungs, warm honeyed light like the flame of a candle, vanilla, cinnamon, amber. Your fingertips slip under the chain and follow it down to the gold disk, freeing it from beneath his gown. It’s Saint Thomas Aquinas, his name inscribed in an arc above his portrait. You hold the medallion in your palm as Aemond waits patiently; you like him this close, you don’t want him to leave.

“Pope Thomas,” you muse. “A papal name that’s never been used before.”

“He was a great thinker. He established the doctrine of natural law, which informed the rise of just legal systems, human rights, democracy.”

“And he is very, very famous. He’s worshiped by intellectuals.” You turn over the medallion. On the back is etched one of the saint’s quotes: The things that we love tell us what we are. You ask, only half-serious, perhaps afraid to be more: “What do you love, Aemo?” Power, fame, triumph, me?

He shrugs and smiles, small and crooked. “A few things.”

The disk glints in the midday sun that streams in through the windows. “Why gold?”

“Why not? It’s the best.”

“Greedy,” you say, releasing the medallion. Aemond hesitates before returning to his chair. “Thomas suits you. It was also the name of the apostle who was so skeptical of Christ’s resurrection. He had to feel the Lord’s wounds with his own hands before he was convinced.”

“And I have doubts,” Aemond says, amused, still smiling.

“Most people do, it seems.”

“You don’t?” A pause, a tad self-conscious. “About anyone?”

“I believe in the Faith, and I believe in you. But those are two very different things.” 

Aemond looks down at his bandaged palm, meditative, perhaps even regretful. There’s no going back now. The whole world saw what he did.

“You weren’t like this before,” you say softly. “On the beach, you weren’t…” You stop to think of how to word it. “You weren’t as sharp, or as ambitious, or as…wrathful.”

“That was a long time ago. Twenty-nine years.”

You watch him, seeking. What is there beneath the surface? What runs through him like arteries of magma under the earth? “Do you ever go home to Nisyros?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Not even with all your diplomatic missions and your interviews and your YouTube videos?”

Aemond looks at you, direct, hard, like it’s a warning. “No.”

“Did something happen there?”

“I told you. I never felt like there was really a place for me. Why would I want to go back?”

“But your family is still in Nisyros, aren’t they? You don’t see them?”

“They take the ferry to Santorini when they want to visit me.”

You consider this, tugging restlessly on your own medallion: cheap plain iron, a humble saint.

Aemond asks before you can say anything else: “How’s your head?”

“The codeine is helping.”

“You’ll have to be very careful when we get back to Vatican City.”

You are startled, unsure of what he means. Careful not to touch him? Careful not to want him?

Then Aemond clarifies: “You need plenty of rest each night. No physical exertion, no stress.”

You chuckle nervously. “Oh, right. Sure thing.”

“You still want to assist with the conclave, don’t you?”

“Defo. If they’ll let me stay.”

“I’ll insist upon it,” Aemond says. And Cardinal Seaborn will listen; who could question a living saint, an intermediary between mortals and God? “I overheard a nurse on the phone earlier. She was talking to Mother Maureen Ashwell from your convent in Sydney. It sounded like she was asking a million questions about you, trying to make sure you were alright.”

You smile wistfully. “I wish I could call her. Or text her, or send an email or an Instagram DM or something.” But you can’t without breaking seclusion. You’ll have so much to tell her when you return; you can be honest with her in ways you can’t with Rhaena.

“She seems like a very kind person.”

“Mother Maureen is a blessing to us,” you say, distracted now as you think of her, long dove grey hair always running down her back in a braid, oversized sweaters with cats or ducks or koala bears on them. You gaze out the window at the gleaming silver serpent of the Tiber, where Saint Beatrix fished out the bodies of her martyred brothers in the 300s. “The time she grew up in was very different from ours. She got pregnant when she was in secondary school, and her parents sent her into the bush to stay with her grandparents, and when the baby was born the nurses took him away. He was adopted out to a family someplace, but Mother Maureen doesn’t know where. She’s never been able to find him. She doesn’t even know if he’s in Australia. But she’s still looking, and she’s created all these resources for parents with similar experiences, databases and support groups and brochures made by pro bono lawyers so people know their legal rights. It didn’t make her bitter. She’s the most compassionate person I’ve ever met. And I think that’s so beautiful, when a soul endures something horrible and can still find comfort in the Faith. Can still use it to make the world better.”

But Aemond—scarred, faithless, his sins as loud to you as the roar of an ocean—just studies his bandaged right hand again, not saying a word.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is nightfall when a driver arrives at the hospital to take you and Aemond to Vatican City. You have been given clothes from the donation bin to wear until you can change at the Domus Sanctae Marthae. You look like you’re back at your relaxed convent in Sydney: maroon jumper, Levi jeans, pink Converses. Aemond dons a black button-up shirt and matching trousers and loafers, like he’s going to a funeral.

Cardinal Seaborn is there to meet you at the gate, or rather, he is there to meet Aemond; he gives you a wary glance and then, when Aemond shoots him a daggerlike stare with his head held high, Seaborn smiles accommodatingly.

“Brother, we are so glad to have you back among us,” Seaborn tells Aemond warmly, and reaches to pat his shoulder but then stops short, like he’s not sure if it’s proper to touch him, if perhaps Aemond might be too far above that now. You and Aemond follow Seaborn to the entranceway of the Domus Sanctae Martha. From the other side of the brick wall, you can hear that the crowds gathered in Saint Peter’s Square are singing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.

Cardinal Seaborn escorts Aemond upstairs to his room, while to walk alone to yours. You change into a rose pink jumper and lavender skirt, then cover them with a white wool habit. In front of your bathroom mirror, you adjust your veil and snare pins into your hair to hold it in place.

I don’t want to wear this, you think, more clearly than you ever have since you’ve arrived in Vatican City. This isn’t me. This isn’t necessary to serve God. But ancient places have intractable rituals, and here you must oblige them.

In the dining hall, the cardinals are enjoying wine and water and bread and spaghetti with basil pesto. Nuns are scurrying around with pitchers and plates. When you and Aemond walk in with Cardinal Seaborn—you several steps behind the men—the over one hundred cardinals draped in red stand to applaud Aemond: his survival, his bravery, his miracle. The loudest cheers come from Aemond’s usual table, Kazi cupping his hands around his mouth like a bullhorn. Across the room, Jahoda and his companions are clapping listlessly with stony expressions.

Lucky sees you, frowns for only a fraction of a second, marches to the center of the floor. “Brothers!” he proclaims, and they will listen to him more than they would to any of the others, Cam because he is so young, Lando because he is so quiet and unassuming, Kazi because he is Kazi. “There has been much suspicion and slander levied against Cardinal Targaryen. Yet God’s design is always shown in time if we have the patience and the good sense to see it. Those of us who know his character and his spiritual gifts never doubted him. But for you who did, let now your consciences be soothed. God brought the cardinal and the sister close together in friendship, grounded in their mutual Faith, so that when she was in mortal peril Cardinal Targaryen would be there to save her from an agonizing death and reveal God’s enduring capacity to perform miracles to the world, to renew our Church, to bring countless lost souls back to the light...”

Rhaena sprints through the thunderous shouts and thumps of fists on tables, then halts with a jolt before she can crash into you, her runners squeaking against the tile floor. “Sorry, didn’t want to jostle you, mate,” she says, laughing, and she gingerly touches your head, your hair covered by your veil. “You good? You’re not in pain or anything?”

“I’m a little banged up, but she’ll be right.”

“You aren’t burned?” Rhaena inspects your face, your hands. “Cardinal Seaborn told us about the fire.”

“Aemo,” you begin, then quickly correct yourself. “Cardinal Targaryen got me out just in time.”

Rhaena’s mouth quivers, then she throws her arms around you and sniffles into your shoulder. And a memory comes back to you from across the globe: taking the guests staying in the shelter to Murramarang National Park to hike and see the roos, and as you were distributing tuna sangers for lunch Rhaena had asked you: Mum, do we have any Tim Tams? And she was mortified when she realized what she’d done, but you only smiled and replied: I can be your mum if you want.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Rhaena whispers.

“Me too.”

“And they’re letting you stay until the conclave is over?”

“Well I can’t leave you here alone with these dinosaurs, can I?”

Rhaena giggles, swiping tears from her cheeks. Now Sister Penny, Sister Helvi, and Sister Nuru have arrived to welcome you back too. Then Sister Penny, flustered and apologetic, asks if you wouldn’t mind helping and hands you a pitcher of red wine.

Aemond sits down with his friends. “Now you are mutilated just like Jake!” Kazi says too loudly, raising Aemond’s bandaged right hand into the air. From several tables away, Cardinal Jacob Green of Iran glares at him.

“They’re saying you will restore the Church’s numbers and more,” Cam tells Aemond, his eyes alight like torches behind his round glasses. “Cardinal Seaborn only told us the bare facts, but he cannot insulate us from something as massive as this. The people out in the square have been chanting your name all day. Good Lord, I can’t wait to get out of here and be able to watch the news and see the posts for myself.”

“It will be over soon,” Lucky says, beaming. “Two more days of deliberation, and then you’ll win the very first ballot. I guarantee it.”

“Unless you go belly-up like that fossilized nun, of course,” Kazi jokes with a wink.

Aemond smiles and takes his rosary out of a pocket of his scarlet cassock. It is red, just like the one you once gave him on the beach; but now the beads are ruby, not glass, and the chain and cross are flashing, polished gold. “I’ll say a few extra Hail Marys to be safe.”

“I’m relieved God has put his thumb so definitively on the scale,” Lando says, twirling pesto-green spaghetti onto his fork. “Now whoever is voting for me can stop.”

You tease as you refill his wine glass: “You know, Cardinal Almazan, there was a Pope Lando once. Way back in the 900s, I think.”

Lando chuckles and waves his hand. “Please Sister, do not speak it into existence, the notion is horrifying.”

“No one can stop Aemond now,” Lucky says in his low gravelly voice, satisfied, victorious, at peace. “You are a living saint. And you have no skeletons in your closet.”

Aemond nods, but is peering somberly down into his wine glass. “If I win, I’m giving you a position here at the Vatican.”

“And I won’t take it.”

“You will. I’ll make you. You can’t argue with Saint Peter’s successor.”

Lucky grins widely. “Sure I can. I’d argue with you anywhere.”

“Lucky, I need you to do this for me.”

“Why?”

Aemond is exasperated. “Because they are kidnapping and ransoming priests in Haiti. They murdered a nun last year. You can advocate for your country from here. You can organize aid missions and continue your calls for an international intervention to build stability there. You can make France fund it. I’ll support you. I’ll champion Haiti more forceful than any pope ever has.”

Lucky gnaws on a piece of bread, unmovable. “We are doctors of the soul. We must go where the disease is.”

There is the screech of a chair against the floor—deliberate, meaningful—and Cardinal Green stands. He walks slowly to Aemond’s table, as if gathering his strength. His hands are clutched together, five fingers on one, only a thumb left on the other. When he stops, his eyes sweeping around the table to acknowledge Cam, Lando, Lucky, and even Kazi, Aemond stares up at Jake uncertainly, touching his fingertips to the gold cross that replaced the one he snapped in half to free you from the burning car like Saint Catherine shattered the breaking wheel.

“Cardinal Targaryen,” Jake says, and the whole room is watching him. The nuns peek between refilling glasses and clearing plates. Cardinal Seaborn fidgets fretfully with his zucchetto.

“Cardinal Green,” Aemond replies tentatively, not knowing what sort of trap is being laid for him. Lucky is rapping his knuckles against the table. Kazi and Cam exchange a skeptical glance. Lando eats his spaghetti.

“I ask that you remember the Catholics of the Middle East,” Jake tells Aemond. “They are small in number, but their love for God is great, and they are so often in danger of persecution, torture, execution. Please do not overlook them.” Now his voice is tremulous, pleading. “Please do not allow the Church to forget them. Please do what you can to foster a just peace between all people there, Christians, Muslims, Jews. There is enough land for everyone. It is an ancient and beautiful part of our world, not a lost cause. Please listen when the people there speak.”

Aemond is so stunned that it takes him a moment to respond. “I will,” he swears.

Jake places his maimed hand on Aemond’s shoulder, and gasps ripple through the dining hall. Jake says: “I think you’re too young. I think you’re too at home in high places. But God has made His favor towards you so apparent, and His judgment is infinitely wiser than my own. Therefore, I submit to it.”

He’s surrendering. He’s withdrawing from the race.

“Thank you, Cardinal Green,” Aemond says, and to you he seems genuinely rattled.

Jake bows his head, then leaves the dining hall. Across the room, Jahoda wears a mask of stoicism, cracks splitting through porcelain. Auclair is glaring venomously at Aemond. Ferarri, his hair still ink-black but his face creased with deep wrinkles, turns to mutter something to Koppel and Nemerenco. If Aemond wins, they have lost the Chair of Saint Peter for two generations. Aemond is only forty-one. He could live another half a century.

When dinner is over, the cardinals flow in a sea of red out of the dining hall and towards the elevators. You and Rhaena are near the back of the crowd, specks of white in red currents.

“I hate this building,” Kazi is complaining to Cam as he puffs on his vape. “If I wanted to see sad rectangular architecture, I could have stayed in Poland...”

“Rhaena, I want you to know something,” you tell her as you walk together.

She is still buoyant, still so relieved that you are back. “Yeah?”

“Look...even if I ever wasn’t a nun for some reason, we would still be close. I would still see you all the time, we would still talk every day.”

Rhaena spins to you, alarmed, panicked; and now you see this wasn’t the right thing to say. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you be a nun?”

“I just...you know...life can change, and I never want you to worry that—”

“You’re thinking about leaving?”

And the terror and grief on her face is so frantic that you instantly shake your head and laugh, like it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard. “No, of course not!”

“You have a concussion,” Rhaena says resolutely.

“Righto.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yeah, I might still be a bit gone.”

“Let me make you a cuppa for once,” Rhaena says, smiling, and zips off towards the kitchenette on the ground floor of the Domus Sanctae Marthae.

Dear God, what am I going to do?

Before you can follow Rhaena, Lucky splits off from the red river of cardinals and approaches you. Your thoughts still whirling, you knit your hands together and bow your head demurely.

“Cardinal Louissaint, thank you so much for what you’ve done for Aemond—”

“Sister,” he says, cutting you off like a blade. Then he leans in close so no one else can hear. You can smell cigar smoke and the vivid green of basil. His large dark eyes are not cruel but urgent, grave, imploring you to understand. “If you care anything for this conclave, and this Church, and this Faith, you will go back to Australia. And you will never speak to Aemond again.”

You’re so stunned that when your mouth falls open, at first nothing comes out—I’m sorry, I never planned for this to happen, I’m burning up with thoughts I never knew were possible, I can’t lose him again, I can’t stop—and he’s gone before you can find your words.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rhaena is snoring softly in her single-sized bed across the room, but you can’t sleep. You stare up at the unembellished wooden cross on the stark white wall, ghost-grey in the moonlight and crawling with shadows, wondering if you are a visionary or a traitor.

I’ll always want to help people, but I don’t have to be a nun to do that, you cannot stop thinking, voices in your skull like the intercessions of angels or saints. I could work for a women’s shelter, I could go back to school to be a social worker, I could be a foster parent, I could work at the Asylum Seekers Centre in Sydney.

And you could have a lover, a boyfriend, a husband, words you once thought would never again hold significance for you. You were a bride of Christ, the man of no vices, no deceptions and no pain and no threats. But now...

I don’t just want a chance to find someone. I want Aemond.

As quietly as you can, you climb out of bed, slide on your white wool slippers, and sneak out of the bedroom without disturbing Rhaena. In the hallway, the yellow incandescent lights are bright and the air is still and silent, the dry heat of the furnace, the cold sand-colored marble tile of the floor. You meander towards the kitchenette to fix yourself a cuppa, something herbal and caffeine-free, maybe chamomile or peppermint. Yes, peppermint would be Christmasy.

As the clock ticks on the wall, you sit alone sipping your tea at the same table where Sister Augustina died, and if she had lived then it would have been her accompanying Cardinal Bogdi Marcu to the airport, and you would never have been trapped in the car, and Aemond wouldn’t have been waiting by the gate to hear the crash and the panic of the crowd, and there would be no second miracle, and news of it would not have spread to cover the world like the flood Noah withstood in his ark, and Aemond’s victory in less than three days would not be all but assured.

What happens to me if he wins?

You’ll fly home to Australia with Rhaena, and you’ll spend the rest of the holiday season at the convent with Mother Maureen and all the other sisters, lighting candles, wrapping presents, baking bikkies, cooking ham and prawns and mince pies and Christmas pudding, playing games, singing the songs you miss so much here on the hushed island of seclusion...and then you’ll decide what to do next.

What happens to the world if he wins? Is it better, or is it worse?

Your peppermint tea is gone, but you are no closer to sleep. You wander out of the kitchenette, down the hall, and into an elevator. You are wearing only your pajamas—white with red and green stripes, and the crimson silhouette of flying reindeer—but no one else is awake to see you out of your habit, hair uncovered and body unclaimed by Christ. Or at least, you assume no one else is awake until you unlock Aemond’s door to find his room empty. You stare at his bed, perplexed; the sheets are tangled, and when you glide your hand beneath them there is still warmth clinging to the soft white cotton. You lift them to your face and inhale: cologne, smoke, sweat, something so familiar it feels like it has been with you your whole life.

Where is he?

You leave Aemond’s room, relock the door, and give it one last puzzled frown. His room is at the end of a hallway all by itself. He doesn’t even have a neighbor anymore since Cardinal Marcu returned to Romania.

You walk back to the elevator, then pass it when you notice the sealed room at the far end of the corridor, the door barred by a blood red ribbon and wax stamped with the Vatican seal. According to custom, it will remain untouched until a new pope is chosen. The late Holy Father eschewed the papal apartments in the Apostolic Palace—roomy, regal, a gem of the Renaissance—and chose instead to reside here in the same spartan guest house where he stayed as a cardinal, before his name was scrawled onto the ballots of over two-thirds of his peers and white smoke billowed from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel.

Fat pope, thin pope; will the next Holy Father be modest too, a man who strips away the gold trimmings and the dignified distance and the erudite speeches in Latin, and fades into the simplicity of a servant? Or will he be someone who reminds people of the ancient power of the pope: an emperor with over a billion subjects, a messenger chosen by God, the trustee of the Keys of Heaven?

By the sealed door is an altar of candles, white and red, still flickering, dimming, burning down to pools of wax in small clear cylinders of glass. Sister Penny, in one of her scatterbrained moments, must have forgotten to extinguish them. You blow the candles out one by one, then pick up a glass vessel full of melted red wax, hot and fluid like molten rock. You pull back your sleeve and then, tilting the glass carefully, spill drips of wax onto the underside of your forearm, where they dry into irregular splotches like blood drops. You close your eyes as the searing pinpoints of heat bite through you, remembering: his palm on your face, his tongue parting your lips, fire on your skin but an inferno below, blood turned to magma ready to erupt. Then you peel off the dots of wax, imagining that Aemond is the one doing it.

You take the elevator back down to the ground floor and then realize, when you are perfectly still, that you can just barely hear a mechanical humming coming from down the hall. Quizzically, you follow it. There is a small gym here in the Domus Sanctae Marthae, mostly used by geriatric cardinals who plod effortfully along on treadmills or lift 10-kilo weights in the bright morning hours. But now it is after midnight, and the rest of the building is slumbering, and someone else is afflicted with your restlessness.

When you open the door to the gym, you find only one person inside. Aemond is jogging on a treadmill, looking not at all like a cardinal: grey crewneck, grey trackies, white runners pounding on the belt. His clothes are damp with dark spreading pools of perspiration; rivers of it pour down his face. His sand-colored hair is wet. The thin gold chain of his medallion gleams against his throat. You let the door close behind you with a soft click.

Salt, you think dazedly, staring at him. Like the sweat on his sheets, like his blood on my lips.

Aemond looks up at you and raises his eyebrows, not breaking his stride.

You ask when you shake off your trance: “What are you doing?”

“Jogging, obviously.”

You glance down at his right hand, still bandaged. “Should you be doing that?”

“Well I don’t need my hands to run, Sydney.”

“Can’t sleep?” Just like me?

“Can’t sleep,” he agrees, breathing heavily. He hits a button on the treadmill and the belt slows to a stop. When it is motionless, he sits down on the side rail, slicking back his dripping hair, panting.

You go to Aemond, kneeling in front of him on the floor. As he mops the sweat from his face with his crewneck—momentarily revealing that he is wearing nothing underneath, vulnerable belly, sparse hair on his chest—you see that his eye catches on the front of your reindeer pajamas, no shapeless habit, no bra. You smile guiltily. “Sorry.”

Aemond chuckles. “No, don’t apologize. I have to practice resisting temptation.”

Because soon he’ll be the pope. “It feels real now.”

He nods, biting the corner of his lip, dragging his fingers through his hair again.

“Aemo, are you...are you alright?” Are you sure you want to do this?

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Aemond says, his breathing still rapid, sweat still glistening on his scarred face. “This is all I’ve thought about for years. For decades. And nothing else could ever compare to it. I was so sure it was what I wanted. And when I was made a cardinal and I met Lucky and Kazi and Lando and Cam...I felt like I’d found the family I should have been born into. People who saw value in me. People who protected me. And their faith in me is so powerful. They’re so convinced I’ll be able to help the people they’ve spent their lives fighting for. But...”

His blue eye flicks to your face, and you know what you see there because it is the same thing that fills your arteries, your lungs, your skull: doubt. “Now you don’t know what you want.”

“You’re such an aberration,” Aemond says quietly, almost a whisper.

You reach for him, your right hand clasping his left, and beneath your palm his knuckles are warm and slick with sweat. “I feel drawn to you in a way that I can only understand as divine. If God brought us together again, there must be a reason.”

Aemond is tormented; there’s no way to know for sure. “For me to be chosen as the next pope by this conclave, or for me to leave?”

We could leave together, you almost say, a thought that stuns you in its clarity. Is that God’s design, or the Enemy’s? Is it a sin or a revelation, like Paul’s vision on the road to Damascus?

Aemond continues: “And there is one skeleton I’m worried about.”

“It can’t be bad enough to overshadow all of the good that you’ve done.”

But when he looks at you, the fear is radiant Aemond’s scarred face.

His miracle on Nea Kameni wasn’t real, you think without any evidence. If it was, he’d believe in the Faith. But how could anyone ever prove that? All the eyewitnesses told the same story. “Aemo, what is it?”

He still doesn’t answer.

Something else? Embezzlement, violence, coverups, a woman? And now there is a stab of envy, the point of a blade scraping around in your bone marrow, the notion of him loving someone who isn’t you and never will be.

“I have a son,” Aemond says.

You’re so shocked you fall over, catching yourself with your palms as you collapse to the cold white marble floor. “What?”

Aemond speaks slowly, like it takes herculean strength, like he’s lifting the world on his shoulders. “I have a son I’ve never met.”

That’s impossible. But of course it isn’t; cardinals have had bastards for thousands of years. Even some popes did, before modernity made such a thing almost impossible to conceal. “Who knows?” Lucky, Kazi, Lando, Cam?

“No one,” Aemond says. “Me and the mother. And you, now. Nobody else.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-five.”

Involuntarily, you’re shaking your head. That can’t be right. “You were…sixteen?”

“She was one of my Mum’s friends,” Aemond says. “I was home from boarding school for the summer, and…” He swallows noisily, he can’t look at you; he gazes at the wall, ashamed, haunted. “I felt terrible about it the whole time. Not because it was a sin…” No, he doesn’t believe in the seven deadly sins, first enumerated by Pope Gregory I, later defended and expounded upon by Saint Thomas Aquinas. “It was just wrong. I knew it was, I could feel that on a corporeal level, in my stomach, in my ribs. But I did it anyway.”

“You couldn’t consent to that.”

Aemond shrugs, as if it is a weak excuse. “I never said no.”

“It wasn’t your responsibility to.”

“Alys, she knew I wasn’t...” He gestures vaguely, decades-past horror he doesn’t want to revisit. “She knew I couldn’t handle it. So when she broke the news to me, she made it clear that she didn’t expect me to be involved. She told everyone the father was some American tourist she had a fling with. But I knew the truth. And I just wanted to get away from everything, that island, those people, who I was back then. And the Church was my ladder to climb as high as I could...and it’s also the one place on the planet where I could never be claimed as a father or a husband. I was never with another woman after Alys. I didn’t want to be. And then you showed up out of nowhere and it’s like...all the sudden, I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m that kid on the beach again. My whole life was erased and I’m back at the start, and I want to do everything differently.”

I know how that feels. “Do you know where your son is now?”

“Yeah,” Aemond says, and smirks at how absurd it is. “I found him on Facebook. He’s living in Athens, and he and his wife own a shop where they sell soaps and lotions made out of goat’s milk. They’re doing well, I think. They have a lot of five-star reviews. And they have two little kids, Andreas and Athena.”

“You have a family,” you realize.

Aemond winces. “Not really.”

“Do you want to meet them?”

“I never did before. It was my worst nightmare, the possibility that any of them might show up on my doorstep one day. Now...I don’t know. I have all these thoughts I don’t recognize.”

Voices. Visions. Revelations. “I do too.”

He gazes at you, the blue of his eye shimmering as you lay your palm against his cheek, ghost your thumbprint over the ridge of his scar, wish that souls could be stitched back together as cleanly as flesh. “I feel like we both left that beach and nothing was ever alright again.”

“We were just kids, Aemo,” you say gently.

“But I knew that I loved you.”

He stands, hands sliding into the pockets of his trackies so he won’t touch anything he shouldn’t. You watch him walk to the door and open it, thinking: Don’t go. Don’t leave me again.

Then he looks back at you from the doorway, and he sighs, and the weight seems to shed off of him and all at once he isn’t so sad. “You should return to your room now, Sydney.”

“My room?” you say numbly, and you are that nine-year-old girl sitting in the corner booth of a pizza place on the boardwalk, a song you won’t be able to remember drifting from the radio.

Aemond smiles, a slight taunting curl of his lips, the bend of a crescent moon. “Where else would you go?”

He passes through the threshold and vanishes, and all night you dream of oceans and fire and sand sieving through the gaps in your fingers.

[thewertsearch]

Yet another tyrant less an arm and an eye.

This prophecy has so many candidates, I'm starting to think it's one big red herring. Like, maybe Aradia was actually just talking about Troll Captain Hook when she said it, and it doesn't actually refer to a future event in the story.

(I mean, technically, none of Homestuck's characters have arms.)

We've got another early bird on our hands!

Once again, Bro's appearance isn't much of a reveal - he's virtually identical to the Brobot, not to mention his older self, so there's not much else to comment on. I do think his symbol is funny, though.

GG: Is this the real you, btw? TT: Yeah, it's me. TT: I disabled the AR for now.

Hey - c'mon, man, that dude's sentient! You can't just freeze him!

Well, I suppose he might just have 'disabled' AR by logging him out of Pesterchum. I certainly hope that's what he's saying, because the alternative, basically, is that he's temporarily killed the guy.

GG: Jake was having some issues with it earlier, and I don't think he received its obfuscating tendencies in the humorous spirit intended. TT: Yes, I'm catching up with the situation now. GG: Oh, so you're talking to Jake then? TT: Nah. Just reading their chat logs. TT: Man, what the fuck? TT: I can't leave these two alone for a minute. Can a guy get his ablutions on in fucking peace?

If AR is really that much of a problem, then you probably shouldn't be using him as a secretary, and you definitely shouldn't be letting him pose as you.

Besides, if this is how you've been treating your AI clone, then it's no wonder the guy's been acting out. At least give him his own Pesterchum!

TT: The responder doesn't much distort my position on things usually. TT: Its demeanor leaves something desired though. I'd prefer it didn't make such aggressive and repeated claims of fidelity to my persona. TT: Be misrepresentin' hells of key subtleties, yo.

So what you're saying, basically, is that the Responder's conversation with Jake was, in fact, an accurate reflection of your own feelings. You just take issue with how he's expressing those feelings.

In other words...

...you do, in fact, have a thing for Jake.

The poor kid's up to four suitors, now. Do I hear five?

[ethtyn]

LET'S GO OUT WITH A BANG 🚦

taglist:

@ashiyn @single-malt-scotch @goodtimeswithetho @pebbltree @crabbunch @catmaidetho @amethyst-allium @stitchthesewords

sooooo ermm i guess i get to talk about this piece now YIPPEE

i am one of those people who's constantly trying to figure out what their own art style looks like LMFAO. i take frequent breaks from art due to mental health shit so it feels like every time i come back i'm trying to find my footing again.

that being said, i had a lot of caffeine yesterday and started this on a whim and it ended up being something i'm incredibly proud of. i think it helps that i've been redrawing old emotes for a friend's twitch channel, so figuring out which brushes i like right now was really helpful, and i ended up using my personal emote palette like...a lot. that pink in Etho's eye, the purple used for shading, most of the browns are all used in my own emotes. it's wild how much having colours already picked out streamlines things!

Etho is the one i started with, of course, and ended up being one that i went back to re-draw after i'd done...three? or four? more, because the sizing wasn't right and i wasn't happy with the posing. i still wish i could have conveyed him dipping his chin into his coat fluff a little better, but oh well. i thought of the little detail of him looking at Martyn's drawing at the last second (#ethtyn4life) and it made me laugh so i did it. points to you if you caught that!

Joel was the second - life!Joel has always been fey in my head, especially after that season when he just went batshit insane the second he turned red. can't explain it, that's just how it be. i tried to give him an air of subtle menace about him but i think he just looks sleepy 💀 i'd like to do these as individual, larger pieces at some point, so maybe i can work on that more then.

Grian was the third - he reminds me of a Lost Boy here and that wasn't intentional but the Lost Boys always kind of freaked me out and life!Grian's kinda freaky so i think it fits. his little smirk is so creepy and i love him.

i don't remember who i did next after this so we'll just go in order pfft

Bdubs is SO CUTE look at him. one of the few where i couldn't make a menacing expression work, and honestly with how good his profile turned out i barely mind. i did that side profile with no reference, y'all, idk what kind of crack i was on last night. what the hell. this was about the point where i started wanting to do little lore doodles for everybody so i added the clock face - i think it clashes with the red background but what can you do.

CLEOOOOOO CLEO CLEO. i LOVED drawing them, i think their design is one of my favourites of the bunch. her hair has always been snakes in my head and AGAIN i drew those with no reference, can you fucking believe that. i loved the little detail of some of the snakes poking at the people next to her, they're so cute hehe. also Cleo has freckles now, i'm so sorry but i don't make the rules. someone complimented the teeth in the reblogs and THANK YOU!! they're not quite anatomically correct but fuck it we ball and they look cool as hell anyway.

Martyn is so smug, i love him. points if you caught that he's looking at Cleo bc Double Life, i wanted to do something a lil different with him than just another straight up symmetry tool drawing and i think it fits. he is so eye-searing tho sir please tone it down.

Lizzie is fey just like her husband, and also she is smol. i don't think it's conveyed as well as i'd like here but i also didn't want her to look like a straight-up child so i did what i could. she is So Scary with those vacant blue eyes oh my god. and drawing her hair was sooooo fun i love long hair ahh

with Gem i basically smoothed out a rough design sketch i posted awhile back and i'm so proud of the little head cock she's got going on, she looks so cool. also her hair?? idk how i did that. i love her swoopy bangs so much.

Pearl is moth. Pearl will always be Moth. so she got lil antennae and big buggy eyes. drawing that hood was so satisfying, i used to try and draw Raven Teen Titans in high school and could never get the hood to look right so seeing this one come out perfectly was sooooo good. and of course had to include a teensy moon.

that's all i've got, i think - i feel myself crashing LMFAO. maybe at some point i'll come back and say more but here's this for now!