(AEG / LEON)IS.

rules:  fill this up and then tag people you’d like to know better!

alias / name:  stingray / ray! date of birth: april 21st. zodiac sign: taurus. height: 150 cm (4′11″)! hobbies: overanalysing everything, writing (even though it takes forever nowadays sldkfj), drawing, gaming, sleeping, doing literally anything but the thing i’m supposed to be doing— favourite colour: any soft colour tbh? outside of that, blue! favourite books: ngl, i haven’t read actual books in years?? i’m v inclined towards the horror genre with book fiction, though! last song listened to: i love... by official髭男dism (use ccs for translations)! last film or show watched: i’m still trying to get through s3 of castlevania :’) story behind URL: it’s not v deep, but i like to use puns as my rp blog urls and just mashed “guardian” + “lion” together for guardlion! i suppose it could also be a play on “guard dog”? i just really like wordplay basically lfksdjf

This week, Steven didn't grab a motel or anything - opting to just sleep in his ride instead. Not something he's against, as it switches up this journey into different states. Pulling his jacket on after pushing one of the back doors open, Steven swings his legs out.

"Mm-" He stretches. "Gooood morning! Good morning, Lion - Lion?"

That sure is Lion. "...Hey, I thought you were spending time with Connie? Did you come to see me?"

          There’s something almost eager in his answer when it comes: a low rumble that sounds like it could be hail or here or you; a firm push of his head into Precious Thing’s space and hands and face; a slow blink that precedes a bout of fond nuzzling and humming and puffing. Yes, he says with all of those sounds and motions, yes, I came to see you, yes!

          He draws back after a moment, just to breathe in the scent that he can no longer find in the den. There is the same core as always — the same rooted traces that assure him that this is his precious thing that he loves and protects — but now there are new marks, too. Many new ones and too little old ones, he finds, so he renews his contact and begins nuzzling against Precious Thing in earnest.

          Perhaps it is her colours. Perhaps it is her stone. Perhaps it is the way she stands, the way she looks out to the sea, the way her forepaws are twisted over her front. Whatever it is, she is achingly familiar.

          Whatever it is, he is achingly drawn.

          The skies are bright, tonight. Bright enough that she should be able to see him coming should he approach, but they are alone and he thinks she might be startled (as Polished usually is) if he comes as quietly as he always does. So he moves with a notable weight, paws slow and sliding over the sand with shff-shff-shffs.