𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝕻𝙾𝙴𝚃

crosslegged on a fallen stump, shade rewarded by fluttering maple leaves hiding a detailed visage at first glance. between fingers is a piece of ash, precisely cut to form a slender bow. one cannot be a hunter if unable to create their own weapons.

Artemis cannot help the smile that graces her lips, sylphlike limbs embracing beloved Apollo tightly and her nose immediately nuzzles at his throat, humming contently.

Is it? Nonetheless——. Where is her hug, Brother?

That is——. Hmm. It might require a few final touches, Dearest Cousin.

Isn’t it? Ahhhh——. It’s clearly why she’s the best.

Caressed seems to suit. . .

Certainly not cock, dearest brother.