#aaand

HAPPY PRIDE FRIENDS !! 🌈💖

(i did these a couple of months ago, for orders i got from my ko-fi shop!)

thank you for the tag @kagrenacs!!!!

I haven't really been working on much lately, it's been a bit of a struggle for art, but here's some old wips I really need to get back into, and some writing!

To accompany this art of Vuovdir, some writing of them too!

“Ask carelessly,” Vuovdir said, “and you will lose the ability to ask at all.” “So he drew very well.” Aela's grin widened, amusement turning her scent warm. Vuovdir took a bite of bread, chewing it slowly as they practiced patience. “Was it really just hands?” Ria risked asking, glancing up. The hall went still again, and Vuovdir’s eyes moved to her. She visibly reconsidered every choice that had brought her to this moment. “It was hands,” Farkas stated, the simplicity of it cutting through the hall better than any threat. Everyone looked at him. He did not look angry -- that might have helped, he only looked plain and earnest and slightly embarrassed, but not ashamed. His pale blue eyes, darkened again today with kohl, moved from face to face as if trying to understand why this required explanation. “I wanted to draw their hands,” he said. “They let me. That’s all.” There was a pause, then Aela tilted her head.

“That’s almost sweet enough to make this less funny.” “It is not sweet,” Vuovdir interrupted sharply Farkas looked at them, and his mouth twitched. Traitor. “Are we finished?” Vilkas set his cup down harder than necessary, the force of it reverberating through the long table. “With breakfast?” Skjor asked, brows raised in faux innocence as if he had not been laughing into his cup moments before. “With gossiping like children.” “Children gossip with less fervour,” Aela smirked, teeth sharp. Vilkas’s jaw tightened at her response, and Farkas lowered his gaze to his plate, suddenly very interesting in cutting his breakfast into tiny pieces. Vuovdir looked at Vilkas properly for the first time that morning. He looked tired. That annoyed them because they did not want to notice. His hair was neat enough, though shorter pieces still escaped around his temples. Heavy expectation sitting on him even at breakfast, making him look armored though he wore only a dark tunic. His scent was sharp and cold beneath the hall’s warmth, faint teakwood buried deep, shame wound around it like thread pulled too tight. He did not look at Farkas when he said, “Some of us have work.” “And yet you sit,” Vuovdir said, fighting the way their lips wanted to twitch up. His eyes cut to them, icy and sharp. Ah. There it was. Morning properly begun.