As soon as I saw this pose reference I knew I had to draw him. Not super happy with how the face turned out since it was an odd angle, but overall I’m proud of it.
Anyways this is my fav yttd character you will def be seeing more art of him in the future!
Wearing a binder makes me more dysphoric than just letting them hang. Wdym I gotta put on an entirely separate article of clothing specifically made for reducing the size of my chest??? Now I'm aware of the size of my chest! AUUUGGHHH
Hello, sorry I've been gone for so long! I really appreciate you all who've stuck around even in my quiet phase. I'm sorry I fell off the face of the earth, I just had a LOT going on, for a while now really. 2026 has had some good things in it of course, but it has been a very difficult year for me mentally and physically.
I want to be up front and honest- I've barely touched "Over & Over" in the time I've been offline- I haven't really done anything except try to sleep (very unsuccessfully) and try to work (slightly more successfully). But! I fully intend on seeing this through to the end, no matter how long it takes. (Don't worry, it won't take THAT long.) I'm working on the next chapter now, and the entire fic is of course fully outlined and planned, I just have to sit down and do it finally.
I feel like I owe at least a vague explanation of sorts, and long story short I am severely depressed. Not enough where anyone needs to make a wellness check or worry I'll actually kill myself, but enough that sleeping and doing things I enjoy becomes incredibly difficult. My depression has gotten bad because of my mental health overall, and my mental health has gone down hill due to my physical health. My body is slowly failing me. Thankfully SLOWLY, but failing me nonetheless.
Screens give me migraines if I'm on them too long, and unfortunately most of my job is on a screen, so writing and being social has taken a big back seat. My joints and ligaments are falling apart, and so are the muscles in my eyes, and everything took a nosedive this year, worsening all of my problems dramatically. Things have calmed down a lot but I am still in a fair amount of pain and exhaustion every day. I don't say this for any pity or attention, I just want to be honest and share my vulnerabilities with you all, because you've all been so kind and shared your time with me for so long.
Long and tedious story short, I plan on becoming more active on here and AO3 again, even if it's just a little at a time! My first order of business is going through any comments and messages I might have, but I might be able to post the next chapter by the end of this weekend, too. Thank you again for sticking around, I really hope to be back more regularly as much as I can be.
Since keiji isnt a policeman anymore, what do you think hed do for work in modern yttd? As a man who likes to help people, i always liked the thought of him being a paramedic, or firefighter, something like that. But we know he likes handiwork, so maybe something along those lines? Idk
Since keiji isnt a policeman anymore, what do you think hed do for work in modern yttd? As a man who likes to help people, i always liked the thought of him being a paramedic, or firefighter, something like that. But we know he likes handiwork, so maybe something along those lines? Idk
They are always heavy, magazines empty from either work or him being cautious. Most of the ones he carries are black, sometimes chipped, or carrying other signs of wear. Grime is usually visible on the chambers or the trigger itself. Nothing you've ever judged him for. He's worn out, practically about to fall asleep at the doorstep if it weren't for your couch.
Leon never brings home more than two guns, possibly because of work policy, or he simply refuses to shove so many firearms into your home. You wouldn't have minded. It just would mean a few more barrels to clean.
The one in your hands now is full of history. Taking it apart, even to do something as nice as wiping the grease, feels immoral. As if you're taking apart someone's treasured memory piece by piece, cracking it open for all its secrets. What would you find in this chamber? Would you even be able to handle the weight it carries?
A shiver crawls up your spine. Probably not.
This one is a grey pistol. Leon has always had it, ever since the two of you met. It symbolizes something important in his life. You can see it in the way he handles it. The way his eyes linger on the carvings for just long enough, possibly hoping he can reach into it. You don't ask him about his past too often because it's easy to see what it does to him. Though, you can't help being human and curious as to why he'd keep such a trinket that causes him agony in the first place. Not that it's uncanny or not normal. You, of all people, know how easy it is to get swept in your own personal goals. It blinds you for a time until you wake up and realize it too late.
The marking says Kendo. You wipe the darkening creases of the K and the O.
Dirt build-up is common for any item in use, but those two letters build up the fastest. It makes you wonder how often Leon himself grazes that same carving.
You frown. No use overthinking about it.
You check the digital clock on your stove. 12:30. Leon will be up soon. A sense of nostalgia fills your body, as you recall times like these again and again. Deja vu, some would call it. Your frown disappears into a small simper.
Having a routine with someone is a feeling one can never truly forget. It's hard to start at first, with a new environment and a new life. Your old habits kick in, sometimes causing chaos in this new bubble. And then, somehow, your body adjusts to the nature, overwriting the old with the new. Your normal isn't what it used to be.
Dating an agent of some kind, whether government or CIA, has merits. And flaws. But so does everything.
A schedule he can not change. Bruises he cannot explain. It's a lot for two people to handle, let alone one.
Despite everything, your love for him always wins. And you want to believe it always will. For now, anyway.
Being so lost in your own thoughts, you don't hear his heavy footfalls. (Leon is exhausted most of the time and falls asleep in his boots.) Two bulky arms wrap around your middle, and you stiffen, suppressing a yelp.
"Don't do that when I have a gun in my hand," you complain, holding up the part as emphasis. Your heart is pumping in your chest, hands shaking with oncoming adrenaline.
"It's not loaded," he snickers. "I would know."
"Jackass," you murmur. You feel him kiss the back of your hair, and the irritation disolves as if it was never there.
"How bad was the damage this time?"
"Just a little grime here and there. Dried blood from... something was on the magazine, but you probably already knew that."
"Yeah, work was work." A phrase he often says. As if he's saying an inside joke that only he knows about. You hope one day he'll let you in on it. "You don't have to clean these, you know. I can do it."
"Well, you do things for me," you reply, still wiping some of the gunk off. "I want to do things for you."
His grip gets a little tighter. "Oh, you do things for me."
You try to shove him. He doesn't budge. "Alright, get off of me. You know what I mean."
He kisses you again before relinquishing his grip. "Yeah, I know. Don't worry."
From the corner of your eye, you watch him. How he moves. He's lighter on his feet this time, turns quickly. It's likely he's not hurt too bad, though he would never tell you. Never would outright crow about if his arm or leg hurts. Even if his bones were visible through his flesh, he would grit his teeth and simply bear it. Leon is too eager to carry his own problems, so you've learned to be observant. Scour any changes in the way he walks and talks, in the way his eyebrows clench.
"You're not my nanny," he told you once. You scowled at him.
"Yeah, you're right, I'm your partner. But it's still my job to be worried, especially when you come home with bandages everywhere."
"I'm fine," he groans.
"Yeah? And I'm a perfect human being. Try again."
"I'd argue you are."
"Not the time, Romeo."
He's a grown man with his own responsibilities. God above only knows what those said responsibilities are, and that's the part that scares you the most.
"Hey," Leon lightly caresses your hair. "You're lost in your own head again."
"Like you're one to talk." You place the parts all next to each other, taking in your work. Mostly clean, you are sure you've missed a few spots that have hidden brown stains, but you believe this is good enough.
You glance back at him. He's also observing what you've done. "The difference is, I like hearing your voice compared to my own." He says, wasting no time to put his pistol back together. "You're a little more positive."
"And you need a full supply of that and then some."
He clicks his tongue. "Smartass."
"Again, look who's talking." Your voice echoes down the hall as you make your escape. "Have you heard some of the crap you say?"
"Not like I hear it every day or anything."
You smile, one that puts an ache in your cheeks. No other man would ever bring out this side of you. No other man has. And you can't imagine anyone else taking his place.
"Thank you, sweetheart." It's quiet, but he knows you can hear him.
"Love you too."
If only he knew how much. Maybe he does. And maybe that's all the both of you need.
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