#three colour schemes again

[manonamora-if]

Tomorrow.

[janamensch]

Here, have a tiny little Quill doodle because I never ever draw him and I wanted to draw his new eye!

[its--ali]

yeah I'm honestly still not feeling the hype for engage I'm just. Hm

[theonotti]

SILENT NIGHT | OS | t.n.

Pairing: Theodore Nott x fem!reader!Riddle

Word Count: 4.5k

Summary: The ghost of Christmas Eve Past haunts Theo's present, but not because he needs to change. He needs a reminder of who to never become.

Warnings: Major Character Death (Not Theo or reader), Domestic Violence (Not with Theo or reader), Hurt/Comfort, angsty, fluffy,

Notes: I'm late, but heres a Christmas one shot for Theo :)

That Final Night | Mio

Christmas Eve: Then

“Teddy? To bed, my love.” 

Theo smiled from his hiding spot behind the curtains. In his eight year old mind, there’s no way she could see him. He was invisible. Behind the silky fabric, he ceased to exist. Beyond the darkness between the window and the curtain, Theo could hear the sounds of his mother’s heels tapping against the hardwood. She was close. He could see the outline of her silhouette from the other side of the thin curtain. 

“Father Christmas won’t leave any presents if he knows a certain boy is still awake and hiding!” Her honey soaked voice echoed out again. Before Theo even had the chance to process her words, the curtain was ripped away and he was in his mother’s arms. She spun herself around, making Theo fell as if he was flying through the air. His shrieks of laughter bounced off the thinly decorated walls before she slowed to a halt, smiling lovingly at the wavy haired boy.

“Come, love,” She whispered to him. “I have your tea ready.”

Setting him back down to his feet, Cassundra Nott smiled down at her son before leading him out of the sitting room and down the corridor to his bedroom. 

Theo didn’t like walking the halls of the mansion, despite his many years of living there. The energy in the air was always so grim, the walls bare and painted a dark grey colour. Theo was convinced that there were demons in the walls, due to the screams he could hear coming from them some nights. His mother assured him time and time again that they were only in his nightmares, but Theo was wise for his mere eight years. The nights he heard the screams being the same nights he would see his father go into the basement of the house as the young lad was ushered quickly to bed was not lost on Theo.

In fact, it only made him wonder if his father was summoning the demons, keeping them there as a way to ensure Theo stayed in line. 

There was only one person who brought any slither of warmth under the cold roof of Nott Manor, and it was the woman walking a few paces ahead of him. Her golden blonde curls trailed down her back, her delicate fingers tracing an invisible line into the wall as she led Theo to his bedroom. He looked at her with such incredible awe. Theo didn’t worship any sort of God, because no God could even come close to comparing to the wonder that was Cassundra Nott. If someone told him that she hung the stars and the moon every night, and that the sun only rose because she asked it to, he would’ve easily believed them. There were few people that Theo had in the world. His father’s care for him only extended as far as keeping the Nott legacy going. So that left Theo with three people: Mattheo, Draco, and his mother. But she topped the list. In every circumstance, she topped the list.

His mother opened the door to his bedroom, ushering him inside. The dark green of the walls made the room seem much darker than Theo would like. His father insisted on the colour scheme matching that of Slytherin house, as if it would somehow eliminate the already incredibly low chances of him ending up in another house come time for him to ship off to Hogwarts. His slot in the House of the Cunning and Ambitious was as guaranteed as the snow falling in the winter, or his father downing half a bottle of whiskey before dinner. Theo wished the walls were blue, though he learned the hard way to not let that thought be anything more than a thought.

A steaming mug of tea was sitting on the bedside table, waiting for him as his mother pulled the blankets out for him. Her smile was warm as he walked over to the bed, crawling under the covers and taking the warm mug between his hands. He knew it had Calming Draught in it, as he received this same dose in his tea every Christmas Eve, as well as the evening before his birthday. 

Cassundra sat on the edge of the bed as she watched Theo take a long sip from the mug. 

“Are you ready for Christmas, love?” She asked gently, raking her fingers through Theo’s hair. As he swallowed the tea, he nodded vigorously. 

“I hope Father Christmas got me the broom I asked for!” He exclaimed. “Mattheo let me try his new broom and it was so fast! I bet I could get to Scotland in under five minutes.”

His mother laughed softly before saying, “Under five minutes? That sounds rather fast.” 

Theo nodded enthusiastically.

“I could get to Hogwarts faster than the train! I won’t even need to take it! And then I could come visit you every single evening, so you can give me a kiss and a cuddle goodnight.” 

If Theo weren’t so young and oblivious, he would’ve noticed the flush that filled his mother’s cheeks, or the tender smile that pulled at the corners of her lips. Or even the sadness that filled her eyes over the idea of him leaving her. 

“Well, we have a few years yet before we have to worry about that,” She said delicately. “Maybe if you don’t get a broom this year, you’ll get one the Christmas before Hogwarts?” But all this response does is make Theo groan in displeasure.

“I don’t want to wait two years! I want a broom now!”

His mother smiled at his impatience, hooking her finger underneath his chin and forcing him to look up at her.

“I know you’re excited, lovely boy,” She said in a soft voice. “But I promise you, you’re going to have a good day tomorrow. I’ve made sure to let Father Christmas know how wonderful you’ve been this year.” She scrunched up her nose as she kissed the tip of his. “He doesn’t need to know of the times you were trouble.” She tilted her head as she looked down at him. “Surely he won’t disappoint.” 

Theo looked up at his mother. Of course she was right. She was right about everything. And he trusted her more than anyone else to make sure Father Christmas knew what he wanted more than anything for Christmas. 

Theo finished the last of his tea, making sure he got every last drop like he always did. When he set the mug down, he smiled up at the beautiful face of his mother, who was already smiling down at him. The potion’s effects were already starting to take hold, the running wheel of his mind slowing to a halt as his eyelids grew droopy. With one hand on the back of his head and the other on his shoulder, Cassundra laid Theo down against his pillow.

“Now,” She said, her voice more stern than normal. “What are we not going to do this year?”

Theo let out a tired sigh.

“I won’t sneak down before morning to see what gifts are left for me.”

His mother nodded once, definitively.

“We don’t need another episode with your father.” In his obliviousness from ignorance and the Calming Drought effects, Theo didn’t notice the disdain in her voice, or the fear that flooded her face. Though he did remember the events of the year prior, the screaming from his father at all hours of the morning, followed by Theo being banished to his room until midday. 

“I won’t sneak down again, mamma,” He said in a small voice, a yawn escaping him as his eyes began to droop shut. 

Cassundra tucked the blankets in before leaning down and pressing a kiss to Theo’s forehead. 

“Sleep well, il mio tesoro,” She said in a quiet whisper as the chestnut haired boy had already lost himself to his subconscious. With one last loving look, and a delicate trace down his cheek to ensure he was really sleeping, Cassundra Nott stood up from the bed and left the room, closing the door tightly behind her. 

Little did she know that this would be the last time she saw her son like this.

It was only a few hours later that Theo was awoken by none other than his bladder. He squinted his eyes in the dark as he jumped out of bed, all but running from the room as quickly as his still asleep legs could take him. It wasn’t until he was in the bathroom that he started to wake up. The clock in the hallway chimed three in the morning, meaning his mother was long asleep. His father had gone out to celebrate the holidays with a few other Death Eaters, and he made sure to tell Cassundra and Theo that it was unlikely he would be home before dinner the next day. 

Just one peak.

And then you’ll be back in bed.

No one will ever know.

The logic made sense to him, and before he knew it, his feet were carrying him out of the bathroom and down the hall. Walking right passed his bedroom, he went right to the stairs and slowly tiptoed down.

It wasn’t until he was halfway down the stairs that the voices registered.

“...wake Theodore, please keep your voice down.”

“How dare you police me in my own home!?”

The slur in his father’s voice was so prominent that he almost didn’t recognize him, though the yelling was a sound the young lad was deeply accustomed to. Theo sank down so he was sitting down on the edge of the step, his hands gripping the wooden poles of the bannister as he watched his mother cower. Standing behind the man of the house was a flash of long, platinum white hair with a cane that was used in this moment to stop him from swaying. Next to Lucius Malfoy was Fenrir Greyback, his arms bare despite the raging cold outside, and Antonin Dolohov, who had a flask to his mouth as he watched Nott Sr. in amusement. All of the men in the living room were inebriated beyond belief. 

Cassundra swallowed hard before she spoke again. The fear was so clear cut on her face that Theo wanted to rush to her and cup her cheeks, telling her all would be okay.

“I’m not policing you…” She said in a small voice. “I just think it’s Christmas Eve, and I’m setting up for Theodore, and-”

Her words were lost to the force of Nott Sr.’s hand wrapping around her throat and slamming her against the wall. Her head was unable to bounce forward, but it was evident by the deep grimace on her face how hard it was hit. The reverberation of his mother’s body denting the drywall caused Theo to fall backwards, almost falling down the stairs entirely. 

“Are you arguing with me?” Nott Sr.’s voice was so low that Theo almost couldn’t hear it. But he’d learn how to pick out that voice at a very young age. It was how he knew when to go sit quietly in his room with a book, remaining unseen and unheard. 

“No!” Cassundra was able to gasp out, her hands trying and failing to pry her husband’s calloused fingers from her throat. 

“That sounded like arguing to me, Nott,” Lucius piped in. “Can't let anyone think your wife wears the trousers in the household, can you?”

Theo was not a violent child, but the sound of his best friend’s father egging on the abuse of his mother was filling the eight year old’s chest with a level of anger he had never felt before. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch. He wanted to hit and hit and hit Lucius until his big, ugly nose went flat. But the fear that his mother taught him to have of his father and the other Death Eaters pulled at his muscles, keeping him frozen on the stairs as he watched the scene unfold. 

Before Theo had a moment to breathe, a wand appeared in Nott Sr.’s free hand, the tip pressed into his wife’s jugular. Theo could feel the air being ripped out of his lungs as he watched the colour leave Cassundra’s cheeks. Her face was illuminated by the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree beside her. Theo’s face was pressed against the wood, so much so that his head was almost fully squeezing between the poles.

“You ungrateful bitch,” Nott Sr. sneered angrily. “Disrespecting me in front of my colleagues.”

“Are you planning to let that slide, Nott?” Fenrir chimed in with a laugh before taking a long swig from a bottle of firewhiskey. 

“Maybe I should have your voice?”

His wand didn’t even move, but a spark of light still shot out of the end, and suddenly, Cassundra’s mouth opened and closed, but no words, not even a stammer or faint whisper, came out. Hot tears spilled down Theo’s cheeks and onto his pyjama bottoms, but he didn’t notice as he watched in horror while his mother tried to speak but only air left her mouth. 

Please stop.

Please don’t.

I couldn’t handle never hearing her speak again.

Or hearing her sing to me.

Or hearing her say my name.

Theo’s hands gripped the poles so tightly that his knuckles turned a blazing shade of white. 

Nott Sr. threw his wife to the ground as Lucius, Fenrir and Antonin laughed in amusement, as if Nott Sr. had told a joke or done something funny. But none of this was funny. Not to Theo, who wanted to run over and protect his mother. Who wanted nothing more than to bring the same sort of pain to his father and friends that they were bringing to the most important person in his life. 

“A woman must remember her place,” Nott Sr. continued on, pacing slow circles around his wife while his fellow Death Eater’s watched in belligerent amusement. The slur in his voice would’ve added a sort of facetiousness to his words, but with the way he looked down at the blonde figure he had just thrown to the floor, it only made it more menacing.

“And how will you remind her?” Lucius asked, causing Theo’s father to turn and look at the blonde haired man with a smirk.

“I have a few ideas in mind.”

Cassundra attempted to scream with every fibre of her being, veins popping out of her neck and forehead while her skin turned a dark red, but no sound came out at all. Theo felt her pain as if he, too, had his voice taken from him, as if he had been slammed against the wall, as if he had been thrown to the floor. 

Nott Sr. turned back to his wife, the smirk fading quickly from his face and replaced with disdain. He raised his wand above his head.

Theo blacked out. 

The eight year old’s legged carried him at a speed he didn’t know he could move at, until he was throwing his arms around his mother, guarding her.

“Father, please,” He sobbed into her soft blonde curls as he addressed the presence towering over them. Cassundra wrapped her arms around Theo, noiselessly comforting him as her fingers raked through his hair, her eyes squeezed shut. The room went deadly silent for a brief moment.

“You will learn to speak when you’re bloody spoken to, boy,” Nott Sr. sneered, his voice low and filled with even more anger than before as he grabbed Theo by the back of his shirt and ripped him out of his mother’s arms, tossing him across the room so hard, he slid across the hardwood floor and into the wall. A shadow leered over him as Nott Sr. rounded on Theo, his wand at the ready.

“If you’re so desperate to be a man, then you can handle her punishment then, can’t you?”

The next few moments went by so quickly, yet also as if they were in slow motion.

Nott Sr. raised his hand above his head, the tip of his wand igniting into a bright red colour. 

A flash of blonde jumped onto his back, tackling the older man to the ground. 

Lucius and Antonin grab Cassundra off Nott Sr. and toss her to the floor once more.

And then, the flash of green.

He didn’t hear his father speak. Hell, he didn’t even see his father get up from the floor. But make no mistake, Theo didn’t miss the older man, with the wild chestnut hair that he did inherit and the menacing look that he did not, pointing his wand at his mother, sending the bright green spell directly into her chest. 

She was gone before the scream left Theo’s mouth. 

“No, no, no, no, no, no…”

Theo crawled across the floor, moving his mother’s head from the floor to his lap as he placed his hands on either cheek.

“Mum, please,” He begged, staring into her lifeless eyes as they remained open. “Mamma, wake up. PLEASE WAKE UP!”

“For Merlin’s sake…” His father mumbled before flicking his wand once more. Theo’s voice evaporated off his tongue, but his lips still moved as he soundlessly begged his mother to come back to him. His tears fell onto the bare skin of her shoulder, and he wondered if they would be enough to warm her back to life. When she didn’t stir, Theo broke down entirely, holding her head close to his chest and burying his face in her golden curls as he began to rock back and forth. 

“One of the house elves will clean it up,” Nott Sr. said to his friends, as if speaking about a

spilled dinner plate and not the dead body of his wife. “Come, gentlemen. The parlour is where my

reserve is, and I need another glass after that… unfortunate incident.”

And so Nott Sr. left the room, followed by Malfoy, Dolohov and Greyback, leaving his grieving son on the floor, where he stayed for hours until the house elves finally pried the body of Cassundra Nott out of his hands.

The hands that would never get to hug or touch his mother ever again. 

~

Christmas Eve: Now

The sound of a crash echoes throughout the kitchen, followed quickly with a loud groan. 

“Sorry, sorry…”

“I swear to Merlin, Malfoy, if you wake up my wife, I’ll throttle you.”

A slew of drunken laughter fills the kitchen as the three men clamber in through the back door. Draco respectfully picks up the trash can he knocked over under the watchful eye of Theo. Once it’s back in its proper position, Draco gestures towards it proudly, as if he had just done something profound.

“Happy, Nott?”

Theo bobs his head back and forth, pretending to mull this over.

“I’d be happier if you weren’t an idiot.”

Mattheo, who had just taken a large pull from the bottle of firewhiskey in his hand, spits it out all over the refrigerator.

“That’s like asking for snow in the middle of July.”

With a deep scowl on his face, Draco shoves Mattheo into the counter before sneering, “Fuck off, Riddle.” 

Mattheo, in his truest form, makes kissy faces at Malfoy, who then proceeds to throw a kitchen roll at his head. Before it can hit the floor, Theo catches it in midair. The other two look at him as if he had just juggled seven kitchen rolls, or caught Baby Jesus himself. 

“Alright, alright, let’s move to the parlour before the two of you destroy my kitchen.”

The walk from the kitchen to the parlour is one the three of them have taken on drunken nights like these hundreds of times, yet at this moment, the distance seems to have grown exponentially longer. Mattheo stumbles as he walks, a loud laugh escaping him as he anchors himself with the wall. Theo, in an effort to keep his friend quiet, smacks him upside the head. 

“What was that for?” The dark curly haired man shouts, not without an undercurrent of laughter in his tone. 

“For being a git,” Theo hisses. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

It’s too late though.

Over the sound of Draco’s giggles, Theo can make out the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Theo?”

His heart stops at the sight of you on the landing, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as they jump between him and his friends. He smiles sheepishly at you. 

“Did we wake you, cara mia?”

You shake your head as you reach the bottom of the steps. He sucks in a large gulp of oxygen as he takes in the sight of you. Even in your pyjamas, he finds the sight of you simply breathtaking. The sleep stains on your face and the way your eyes droop makes his heart race as if he was just seeing you for the first time. With a slight sway in his step, his feet carry him towards your magnetic pull, his hands gently gripping your waist. 

“You can tell me if we woke you,” He says in a gentle voice, an undercurrent of guilt filling his tone. But you shake your head again as you bring your hands to the tops of his shoulders, running your fingers along the curves of his muscles to the dip of his neck. 

“I woke up a couple of minutes before I heard you come inside, I promise.”

He doesn’t believe you, but his blood shot eyes are so enraptured by the beauty that is your face that he doesn’t care. His hands move up to cradle your cheeks before he brings his face to yours, peppering your skin with kisses. Your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your temples, your eyelids. Every piece of you that he can reach gets a kiss. His fingertips tease weave into your hair as you place your hands on his clavicle, laughing as he kisses you.

From behind him, Mattheo and Draco both make fake retching noises. 

“I’ve never met a more disgusting couple,” Malfoy whines.

“Truly the worst to be around,” Riddle adds in agreement.

“Oh, piss off to the parlour, you two,” Theo barks as he pulls his mouth away from your face. He doesn’t turn to make sure they leave, trusting the sound of their fading footsteps down the hall. His thumbs stroke the skin of your cheeks delicately.

“Happy Christmas, my love,” He says before gently kissing your mouth. You hum contently as the kiss lasts a few more seconds. 

“Happy Christmas, Theo.”

The sight of you smiling up at him makes his stomach flip. He finds himself wondering how he got so lucky, finding you? From the moment you walked into his life that fateful day at Hogwarts, his life turned into a sort of dream that he didn’t want to wake up from. And it was made even better when you had married him. 

Even after all this time, he can’t get enough of you.

“Get some sleep,” He says gently, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll keep the boys quiet.”

“Please,” You say, your voice still husky from just having woken up. “And please tell Mattheo that if he throws up on the carpet again, it’ll be him cleaning it up, not the house elves.”

Theo lets out a hearty, full laugh. It’s something his life is filled with a lot of these days. With his friends and you by his side, sometimes it’s easy for him to forget that it wasn’t always like this. 

“I love you with my entire heart,” He slurs, gently kissing you again. “Please never forget that.”

You laugh softly again, the sound making Theo feel lightheaded. Or is it the alcohol? No, it’s definitely the sound of your laugh. 

“I love you too, Drunky,” You tease him. “Please make sure you come to bed. Don’t fall asleep in the parlour.” He nods, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

“Yes, cara mia.”

You give him one last kiss to the cheek before you turn and make your way back upstairs. Theo’s eyes watch you the entire way, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as you disappear into the hallway. It isn’t until he hears the creaky bedroom door close that he finally turns and starts walking towards the parlour to join his mates. 

As he walks down the hall, one of the pictures out of the corner of his eye stops him. Slowly, he turns, the amusement leaving his face as his eyes fall on that one painting.

His mother smiles down at him as she sits in a rocking chair. Behind her is a dark space where his father had been, up until a night of grief and alcohol caused Theo to direct a spell towards the fake personification, and subsequently led to the destruction of all paintings of his father in the house. Though he had the frame replaced, the damage remains.

His eyes trace the trail of golden curls that flow down her shoulders and upper torso. He can still remember how soft the strands felt when she’d kiss him goodnight and they’d brush along his cheek.

“Please tell me I’m not like him,” He begs her, his voice suddenly small. “Please tell me I’ve made you proud.”

She smiles tenderly down at him, his heart feeling ready to burst.

“Oh, il mio tesoro,” She says softly as his eyes flutter shut. “You're ten times the man he’d ever be. And I couldn’t be more proud of you if I tried.” 

Theo smiles widely, tears escaping through his shut eyelids.

Bliss.

[pompadorbz]

FINALLY FINISHED MY QPHIL 3.0 DESIGN HOORAY (cant wait to. redesign it again in like 3 months.) (CHECK UNDER THE CUT FOR MY SILLY DESIGN NOTES!!)

I think I said this before but i so. SO BADLY wanted him to have a sleep theme since I always loved how his presence on the island was kinda up in the air. Is it a dream? Is it not? When he goes between the island and hardcore is that change really happening? Who knows.

The idea of making his usual outfit more like a housecoat was super appealing to me, so I opted for this open housecoat look with really heavy frills which were super fun to figure out, and I knew from pretty early on that I wanted to give him a quilt pattern SOMEWHERE on his design, so I thought the inside of the coat would do nicely for a sorta "default state". It also meant I could attribute meaning to the symbols and colours I used. wink nudge.

He has a more subtle angel theme, like with the mobile on his walking stick being a halo with the wing placement further emphasizing this, as well as just his generally lighter colour scheme. When I say sleep was his theme I almost more-so imagine it as like. The feeling of waking up in the morning where you're mostly refreshed but still a LITTLE drowsy. Lots of very spring-y, morning colours.

Just some other quick notes, I always really liked the mod in the server where you could have the crows perch on your shoulder and follow cuz of the lantern, so I thought it'd be fun if I made it so brian just straight up WAS the lantern. So I made him look like one of those wall outlet nightlights!! The backpack being kinda cat shaped was COMPLETELY unintentional but a very welcome result. Missa backpack is real.

As for the alternate outfits, I have a bolas one, as well as an ender king one since I deemed those two the most important. For the ender king I weirdly don't have many notes, like it's fairly straightforward (Save for the elephant in the room but now I'm gonna keep my secrets on why that's a thing). The Quilt design is supposed to be a lighter, easier-on-the-eyes version of the no texture pattern, and I imagine that all the goop and gunk on Phil is hidden under the coat. I imagine it'd look fairly similar to canon so just like. imagine it for now. Might draw it one day. MAYBE. There's some tiny additional colour symbolism but I'll hold my tongue on that and let you guys draw your own conclusions there. I WILL say, however, that instead of his theme being sleep, his theme is "nightmare" (and also kinda sleepwalking since both fit).

The Bolas design was SUPER fun to work with. For starters I wanted the three designs to be in three different states. One with the coat, one with the coat reversed, and one without the coat entirely. Since I wanted to do the checker pattern thing with the possession design, having the sleeveless bolas design worked really well for the shape I landed on, even if it wasn't conventional. and SPEAKING of non-conventional design choices, I decided to go against the usual plague doctor + gas mask fusion design. Which might be controversial... But god. The moment I thought of his mask being a falconry hood, the idea just wouldn't leave my mind. Because of this, the full mask is kinda separated into two parts. The eye mask which kinda also mirrors his usual sleep mask, and the gas mask itself (I kept it in a beak shape since it'd feel odd if i made it any other shape for phil, lol). When designing the whole thing I kept thinking about more apocalypse setting clothing. Like mad max. Or the one gag from that one spongebob movie. Lots of leather. And of course, to match the other sleep themes, the Bolas outfit's theme is "fever dream", although its a bit more subtle. It's easily the weirdest design, The pops of green were simultaneously in reference to the friendship emerald... As well as... Well, the green chain right below the chain on the sickness themed design was probably the most tasteful way I could've chosen to get across vomit without it being too on the nose. (also sidenote, I had a few friends compare bolas phil to... a fly. Which wasn't intentional but it's kinda funny that the guy designed after fever dreams looks a little bit like a bug.) Ok thats it for design commentary I'm gonna go to bedge nyow.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

routine vibe check: what’s the best starter pokemon and why are you right (pictures and long paragraphs of evidence welcomed and appreciated)

Gonna get a good grade in vibe check, normal to want and inevitable to achieve because I have objectively correct Pokemon opinions and will block naysayers

OKAY LET'S GO

I decided to do, like, a top 5 list or something, because I'm bad at picking a single favourite of stuff. And then even that overwhelmed me, so I found one of those tier ranking list sites and produced this:

It was done in less than a minute, so if I wanted to get really picky, I don't know if I would be fully wedded to it (not sure if maybe Sceptile should be one higher) BUT it did help to highlight the important ones.

So!

5. Bulbasaur

It's. Just. So. Nice.

Like you can find cooler, more beautiful, cuter, fancier... there's a whole bunch of ways for a Pokemon to be great. But you will never ever find a nicer Pokemon than Bulbasaur. It's so lovely. Look at it. Look at its face.

I can't put it higher, because the rest of the line is fairly bland in terms of development. It's good and logical and fun, don't get me wrong, but Ivysaur and Venusaur just look like bigger versions with More Flower and Less Cute rather than creatures in their own right. To be honest, if it weren't a starter requiring a three-stage evolution, you could do away with Ivysaur. Something I don't like about a lot of lazy three-step lines is that the middle step just looks like a transitional mid phase rather than a Proper Creacher, like they were artificially inflating the Pokemon number count. Meanwhile it took us until Paldea to get a Girafarig evo that would actually make the giraffe tall. Madness.

However my first ever Pokemon was a Bulbasaur I called Daffodil, and I have traded him forward onto every single successive generation since. He is, quite literally, my First Ever Pokemon. I love him desperately. I still have him. Not many people still have their First Ever Pokemon. But I do and I love him. So, Bulbasaur gets the fifth spot.

4. Snivy

Again, a victim of the Banal Transitional Middle Evo, but both Snivy and Serperior are incredible, and as Meatloaf took such pains to tell us, two out of three ain't bad.

But Snivy! It's so snooty! I was super lucky with mine, too, because I beat the 12.8% odds and got a female, and I loved her. Normally the initial baby starters are designed to be cute but Snivy has SO MUCH PERSONALITY, she's great. And the design of Serperior is utterly gorgeous. She keeps the expression, but rather than the Animal Crossing-style snooty-cute vibe of Snivy you get this thousand yard withering stare of an empress whose servant (you) has just turned up dripping mud in her throne room and asked her for money. Her green and gold colour scheme is exquisite. Her filigree design, including her high collar, give off the air of wealth and sophistication befitting her immaculate pedigree. And all this! In a simple snake. Incredible design work, 10 out of 10, no notes.

Begone, you miserable peasant. Have him boiled.

3. Torchic

Now I'll be real with you, lads, but Pokemon design hit its stride with Hoenn and then got better.

It's partly a fashion thing, of course - you look at some of the Kanto designs and they are remarkably 90s, because that's when the franchise launched. Others are clearly a product of what the 1990's were capable of producing in pixels on an already over-stretched cartridge medium. Like we like to clown on Red and Green/Blue now, but my god, those game designers performed a miracle with Pokemon. Every single square inch of space was used to make that game, and complex designs weren't going to cut it.

(With that said, there is still no excuse for Dragonite.)

And then Johto came about and its Pokedex sucks ass. It's mostly new evolutions for existing Kanto stars, useless babies to inflate the dex number, or poorly thought out single-evos like the inexplicably short Girafarig and the unacceptably dreary Dunsparce (our greatest thanks to Paldea for fixing both of those).

BUT THEN CAME HOENN (trumpets intensify)

And we get habitats! Biomes! A different regional climate, gifting us a brand new area of Pokecology! And therefore a brand new flush of creativity in Pokemon design across the board; less dated, and more inclined to be unique rather than a rehash of Kantonian stuff.

Which brings me nicely to this lad:

Now, I mean. Just look at him. Fucking hell. Cute starter stage, check. LOOK AT HIM FACE

AND THEN he became, at the time, a brand-new unique typing: Fire/Fighting. I realise that is now the norm for like, half of the Fire starters, but that's because of Torchic, actually. He was super popular. In fact if you ever play Ruby/Sapphire/Emerald and you do what my husband and I like to call a Mynci Dave run (use one Pokemon almost exclusively, meaning it gets all the experience points and therefore over-levels to a terrifying degree, allowing you to sweep the game; so named after the noble Primeape we first did this with, Mynci Dave), Torchic is the PERFECT Pokemon to choose, because almost everything is weak to either Fire or Fighting in that region.

Anyway, Combusken is, again, kind of mid (although props for the inverted colour scheme and the fact that it actually does look like a teenager.) But Blaziken, on the other hand... Blaziken is a six foot ninja chicken with wings for hair whose Pokedex entry describes it as able to leap tall peaks in a single bound, a feat it achieves after strengthening its legs by hoofing Geodudes down mountains like they're fucking footballs

Also an impressive bulge.

My first was called Gilgamesh, and he was fucking great. For a long time, this mad lad was my actual favourite Pokemon, not just starter. Brilliant. Love him. Five stars out of three. King.

2. Fuecoco

It would probably surprise you to know I've not actually used one. I chose Sprigatito, and I do really like Meowscarada, actually. But pretty anthro cat boys have been done in Pokemon quite a bit at this point; cats, dogs and rabbits are over-represented in terms of Poke-taxa. Possibly this is another reason for a toad, a snake and a chicken being 5, 4 and 3 so far (ooh, basilisk ingredients, I've just realised.) They're new and unusual! I like an Eeveelution as much as the next person, but they're a whole family of cat-dog-rabbits, like.

However.

Nintendo has tried its hand at Pokecrocodilians three times (Feraligatr, Krookodile, Skeledirge), and they have gotten so much better at design each time that the three of them are basically a scale proxy for ongoing design improvement. Look, I've made a diagram:

EXCEPT

(Strap in)

This one is that rare thing: a three step line that deserves to be a three step line. Let's talk Fuecoco first:

SO CUTE. It's charming, it's charismatic, it's adorable.

It also has hints of its evolutionary end goal, but not like an undeveloped middle evo. It likes singing. The white face hints at the eventual calavera, and it looks a bit like a lil chilli pepper - a ghost pepper, probably in reference to the eventual Fire/Ghost typing. But the colours and shape right now also look a bit reminiscent of a babygro, because this thing is a cute starter. Lookit them teefs. That tuft. Its lovely smile. Beautiful.

And then, at the point you expect it to turn into just the awkward teenage version of the adult, instead we get Crocator:

Oh boy. Oh there's so much to say. Okay okay:

The region it's from is based on Spain, but this thing is incorporating Hispanic elements from across the board. It's a mariachi in a sombrero, except the sombrero also looks kind of like a ring of Mexican marigolds and kind of like a Catalonian Easter cake called Mona de Pascua that has an egg (or egg-shaped confectionary) in the middle. Body shape and markings look kind of like a piñata. The white face is now on its way to a calavera, with the cheek and nostril markings more defined. And it sings, with its open mouth (also how crocodiles release heat, appropriate for a Fire type) and signified by the mariachi theme.

THAT IS A LOT.

And then it becomes Skeledirge. A Fire/Ghost crocodile.

Now the obvious design here is the calavera and the  Día de Muertos theming, which is part of it. But there are also many examples of crocodile figures in Spanish folkloric ghost stories: the Catalonian Cocollona, the Lizard of Magdalena from Jaén, or the Drac de Na Coca, or even the Cuca - that one is Portuguese, but turns up in both Brasil and the Iberian Peninsula including in parts of Spain. It's got a Gaudi vibe (like Barcelona). It's got an alebrije vibe (like Mexico).

And the bird! Nile crocs have a cleaning symbiosis with Egyptian plovers; it also sits at the tip of the snout where male gharials have a sort of bulbous bit to help them make sounds (the singing thing).

But this is what the bird does when Skeledirge uses Torch Song:

It becomes a microphone, then grows in size and attacks the opponent in Phoenix form. Phoenix: Fire/Ghost. Resurrected from the ashes.

Quite simply, your fave could never.

5. Rowlet

My god. (My god)

gasp

Look at this lovely creacher. He is so round and so soft and so lovely. He looks like that baby Yoda meme. He looks like that cat that someone's landlord said they would make an exception for because he looks very polite. Look!!! At his lil bow tie!!! He is a smartly dressed young man and he is kind and he is... well, a bit vacant behind the eyes. A himbo, if you will. But he is all the better for that. What a lovely owl.

He looks a little like a barn owl, perhaps, and those were imported to Hawai'i, where Rowlet is from. But I think he looks a little like a Pueo owl, and given that he will eventually be a Ghost type, that seems right - pueos are one of the physical forms assumed by ʻaumākua in Hawai'ian culture, as I understand it.

And then, hang onto your tits, lads, because this is another banger - THE MIDDLE EVOLUTION IS ITS OWN DESIGN!!! (confetti cannons)

I said earlier that boring middle evos are like just awkward teenagers of the adults. Here, I present to you, a very deliberate Awkward Teenager, in Dartrix:

IT'S A DANDY

I love him I love him I love him

He plays with his fringe and if you touch it without permission he has a tantrum. God, he's so charismatic. Also, that fringe further suggests the pueo - they have pronounced outer rims around their facial disks like that. Look at his bow tie and tail coat. So smart and handsome

This one is so good that it could be the final evo. This is actually my issue with the Delphox line - Braixen is amazing, and then it becomes the bland boredom of Delphox. Braixen should have been the final stop. Here, Dartrix is much the same - good enough to be a high-quality end goal.

Where they differ is that Decidueye is better again.

IT SHOOTS ARROWS MADE OF ITS OWN QUILLS

Also, fun fact - This line is the only starter to change secondary typing. Dartrix is part Flying; but on evolving a second time into Decidueye, it switches to Grass/Ghost. In this evolution, it's definitely mostly a pueo, so the ʻaumākua reference is IN, but actually barn owls also have their associations with the dead in various cultures.

The crown of feathers around its head are also reminiscent of an ayaigasa - a hat worn by Japanese samurai archers. And yet! AND YET!

It still has its lil bow tie look. Bigger now, more of a cravat; but there it is.

A perfect Pokemon, and a perfect evolutionary line. No notes.

Anyway, thank you for this chance to waste three and a half hours writing this essay

[straightforthefl00r]

sidekick? more like sidechick!!

There were three main outcomes Tomura had prepared for, when he schemed to attack USJ.

One: the ideal result was that he would succeed in killing All Might with his state-of-the-art nomu, and move onto the next stage of his plan to world annihilation. The world would hail chaos in one move. He would be known to everyone that he was the bringer of fear; the one who destroyed their precious peace.

Or two: All Might would, annoyingly, not die, but would be fatally injured by the nomu. This would still be partial success, as the Symbol of Peace would be out of commission, and this would mean that society would be well on its way to falling without its stability. Not only that, his League of Villains (well two villains right now, counting Kurogiri) would gain traction in the media, and publicity is always a plus. Tomura could use this to expand the League and his influence across Japan.

As much as he wanted his plan to go in any of these ways, Tomura knew he had to be prepared for any scenario — even his failure.

His third outcome was that if All Might defeated his nomu (which should not be possible due to its extraordinary power), then he should retreat and build up his forces again for another attack.

Unfortunately for Tomura, his attack on USJ resulted in the final outcome.

He escaped with three-ish, four-ish, five-ish bullet wounds, no USJ underlings and no nomu, not even its bloody body.

At this point, he was just glad he had the foresight to plan his failure. Not only were his underlings arrested, the nomu was apprehended by All Might, and he proved to be stronger than ever, despite Sensei insisting All Might has been drastically harmed in their last battle together.

He needed a fucking drink.

“Kurogiri, I’m heading out.”

The door slammed shut and Tomura disappeared into the night.

oOo

You, on the other hand, were having the time of your life.

Exams were finally over and that meant you could finally release your inhibitions, in the form of obnoxiously loud music and sweaty clubs.

You had just finished a lovely evening out with your boyfriend and friends. After a night of raving and dancing and (fairly) responsible drinking, you were just coming out of the club and on your way home.

Your boyfriend went to his apartment earlier before you, a few hours ago due to “something”. You couldn’t hear him clearly above the booming music, you assumed it was because of his chronically weak stomach. He always said that, whether it be nights out or dates. You brushed it off like it was nothing because his health mattered first.

He’ll make up for it.

Probably.

oOo

It was around 4am when it happened.

“What the fuck?” You yelped and found yourself sprawled on the floor, outside a closed bar. The street was empty, save for a few stray cats, occasionally yowling into the night.

The mass you ended up being entangled with was wearing a black hoodie. Dishevelled hair could be seen peeking out from the hood - light coloured, a stark contrast to his hoodie.

You sat up straight on the floor, trying to make sense of what was happening, veins pulsing. You could hear shallow breaths coming from the body turned away beside you.

You tried to shake the person awake, he groaned and the stench of alcohol and iron greeted you. His shoulder felt slightly damp too. You raised your hand up slightly to the yellowing street-light. Your hand had a tinge of orange, leaning more to the red side.

Blood?

“Oi, get up,” You frantically whispered into the person’s ear, “You’re fucking bleeding!”

He started mumbling incoherently under his breath. You could make out weak swears and a few mentions of “stupid fucking heros”.

You stumbled to your feet, pulling him up with you, surprisingly warm and pliant against your shoulder. You wrapped his arm around yourself to steady the two of you.

“Come on, we’re off to the hospital.”

As if snapped out of a trance, the man tried to tear himself from you and shook his head furiously. The both of you barely managed to stay standing, leaning against the nearest rough wall.

He was already facing you, when you looked at him, his eyes glaring at you, as if you were the scum of the earth.

Your hand gripped onto his wrist to steady your centre of gravity. His fist was clenched, so tightly that each knuckle looked like they would burst from his skin to reveal blood as dark as his eyes.

His brows were furrowed furiously.

You frowned at him back.

You could make out the dry skin on his forehead and, despite this, his face was surprisingly good-looking. A faint scar trailing from his cheek to his mouth caught your attention. You started to wonder where he got it from, an accident? Or was it a self-inflicted wound from scratching?

You were a bit drunk still, but the situation was causing you to sober up.

You sighed and tried to signal to him that you were only here to help.

“No hospitals,” he croaked, words low and slurred, “h-hate them.”

You agreed as to not agitate him further, “Let’s go to my boyfriend’s then. His apartment is only a street away from here.”

The man’s face contorted into a look of scepticism, as a strained “why” was pulled from his lips.

“First aid kit.”

He stared at you for a moment, debating on something, before mumbling, “I can walk by myself.”

oOo

Tomura should’ve just drank at the hideout. It was a literal bar after all, however he wanted to get away from all the scheming, nagging and his failure.

And so, into the barrel he went.

“I’m hungry.” He mumbled, eyes glazed over slightly as he stared at the head in front of him.

He was met with a hum in agreement.

“We’re almost there,” You took a breath, “but there’s a convenience store on the corner.”

He doesn’t know why you’re even doing this.

Helping him outside that bar and trying to care for his wounds brought you nothing. You looked so soft.

Stupid sidekicks and their idiot saviour complexes. Tomura was starting to get annoyed. It would be so easy to just turn you into dust.

Poof.

He concluded that it was pity driving your actions.

You looked non-threatening enough and you were still slightly buzzed. He would go through with this and then you would part ways and never see each other again. It didn’t seem like you recognised him.

A roll of bandages came into his view. The convenience store lights were harsh white and made the bandages seem brighter than they were. His head was starting to throb a bit.

“The big roll or the small roll?”

“Small.”

You raised an eyebrow.

Out on the dark streets, you couldn't see him very clearly, let alone his injuries, but in the store, it looked like his hoodie was drenched with blood from his shoulder to the middle of his chest. Even his black sweats were glowing in red if you looked at him from a certain angle. You were still deciding whether you should just cart him to the hospital after all.

You chucked the big roll of bandages in your basket. It was already full of a variety of sweets.

You giggled at the basket.

“What are you laughing at?” Tomura accused, miffed due to his answer being ignored.

“You don’t seem like a sweets guy.”

“Anyone can have sweets.”

“Just saying.”

“Right.” He answered dryly.

“Why are you all bloody?”

“Why are you buying bandages?” He shot back, “I thought your boyf had a first aid kit?”

“Because I don’t think he’ll have enough,” you gestured to all of him. “for your situation.”

“Stupid sidekick.” He muttered.

You rolled your eyes and leaned towards him, “So! Why are you head to toe in blood?” You said with a slight lilt in your voice.

Tomura wondered if you were still a little drunk. He was one to talk.

“Because I ripped a few stitches while drinking.”

“And how did you rip them?”

“Some guys were yapping about how hard ‘All Our Heroics’ was — even when he downloaded the helpers mod for it.” He answered in disgust, “All I did was engage in a conversation with him and told him how stupid he was. And then, we ended up in … disagreement.”

“Clearly.” You deadpanned. “Still. Where did you get your stitches from?”

“Work.”

“Work?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Sue them?”

“Sue them.”

“Annihilate them?”

“Sure, annihilate.” He gave a faint smile.

OoO

By the time you arrived outside at your boyfriend’s place, the sun was starting to rise. A melody of colours took to the skies: swirling clouds painted the perfect picture of peace.

You stopped in your tracks and gazed upwards. Tomura ended up walking into your back. He cursed, as the two of you stumbled.

“This again?” He hissed, “We already knew you couldn’t walk straight at that bar and now you're sending me flying?”

You laughed at him.

“Just look up. Isn’t that pretty.”

“No.”

“Zip it before I push you.”

“Technically, you did.”

“Even more technically, you pushed me. You walked into me.”

“Yeah, exactly, walked into you, not pushed.”

You grinned at him and rolled your eyes.

You walked into the elevator and Tomura followed you in. The two of you were in a comfortable and easy silence.

You were walking to the door before you just suddenly stopped. Tomura prevented himself from bumping into you.

“Seriously? Again, again? I almost dropped our stuff.”

“Sorry about that, but I just remembered, what’s your name? I’ve just been calling you the bloody-hoodie guy in my head.” You questioned.

“I don’t give my name to strangers.”

You stared at him incredulously and gave him your name.

“There, we’re not strangers anymore.”

He was silent.

“People also don’t follow strangers to their homes.” You pointed out, “What’s your name?”

“S-Shimura Tenko.”

“I feel like you just made that up just now.”

“Aw. Shucks.”

You shook your head at him while you opened the door.

The two of you walked in and what greeted you shocked you both. You dropped your plastic bag full of junk food and bandages on the floor and stormed further into the apartment.

Two bodies were on the couch, near the balcony, heads close together and lips touching. Unneeded sounds of pleasure could be heard from where the two of you were standing. They were kissing. Very passionately.

Ouch.

You yelled out your boyfriend’s name in flaming anger.

Two heads turned so quickly to look at you, you could’ve sworn you heard a crack.

It all became clear as you slotted the puzzle pieces together.

“So, you never had chronic diarrhoea,” you sneered, words dripping with sarcasm, “you had a chronic case of cheating scumbag!”

Your boyfriend’s face was flushed when you came in, but it became even redder as you glared at him.

A resounding smack made its way through the room, making you turn your attention towards the other person on the couch.

“I was with you for two years! You fu-“

“What?” You exploded, “You literally asked me out a few months ago. How dare you do that to your partner!” You followed that with curses.

Out of nowhere, laughter echoed. And three heads turned towards Tomura. His laughter was bright and full of amusement.

When he finally stopped, a stunned silence filled the room and he spoke, “So,” he started in the same tone as you when you spoke to your boyfriend, “you’re no sidekick, you’re a sidechick!” He started to laugh again.

You stared at him in pure shock, anger dissipating into slight amusement.

“That was a shit joke.” You said after you managed to dig some words out.

“Who’s he?” Your ex-boyfriend accused, “Were you cheating on me? With that?”

It was your turn to laugh as you told him that you weren’t cheating on him but you were only helping a poor guy out, while he was being scummy.

“I’ve had enough of this,” you frowned, “We’re leaving Shimura!”

You marched over to him and grabbed his wrist.

“No, don’t use your quirk here!” Your ex pleaded, “The landlord is going to have my head.”

You huffed out a self-satisfied puff of air. “Watch me!”

“I hope you don’t mind too much. We’re off to my place.” You muttered to Tomura.

“Oi! What are you trying to-“

Tomura was cut off before he finished his sentence.

He fell through the floor with the convenience store bags grasped tightly in his hands, with your hand gripping his wrist. His pinky was aching and his head ached even more.

He yelled as he found himself on the floor with you once more, legs tangled and things rolling around on the now-dusty ground.

The two of you were laying on the ground, looking at the white ceiling. Tomura could see the walls in the corner of his eye, the colour of it matched your top.

“Sorry about that.” Your voice coming from his right, “My quirk is Rabbit Hole. I can teleport by creating literal holes in the ground. That’s why we are at mine right now and not at that idiot’s.”

“I couldn’t have guessed. Ha.” Tomura replied, oddly calm, “If I touch things with all of my fingers, I can make things turn to dust. That’s why the ground is all dusty.”

You hummed in reply.

“I’m really fucking tired.”

“Same.”

“What’s the time?”

“Shit, if I know.”

“I hoped I left a massive hole at that asshole’s. I hope that it went through all his plumbing and that his apartment is flooding right now!”

“He’s going to sue you.”

“So? Sue me!”

[barbielore]

I don't know how to talk about this politely, because every time I try I keep thinking of dirty jokes. But there's nothing dirty, it's just a normal Barbie.

In 2003, Mattel released Stretch Sensation Barbie: a Barbie whose clothes were made out of rubber instead of either cloth or hard plastic.

As someone who never played with Polly Pocket, I wouldn't have thought of this myself, but most people I've discussed this with have said with confidence that this was Mattel courting the Polly Pocket crowd with Barbie.

She came in two variations, with clothes in a different colour scheme.

The blue/purple version is much easier to come by - I could only find two or three pics of the pink/orange version.

Aside from the stretchy clothes that I cannot help but feel would either be immensely satisfying or a total sensory nightmare, part of the gimmick of the release was being able to mix and match different pieces from the wardrobe to dress Barbie in different styles.

Almost universally the feedback from people I spoke to who had actually owned this doll was that the clothes were hard to get on and off and if you left them in a hot car they would warp and never fit Barbie again. So it's no shock that Mattel didn't create any more Barbie-sized latex gear.

[gumbootillustrations]

laurance's ref sheet!! it only took me a month and two different versions to finish lol

but yeah. backstory, lore, closeups, etc under the cut :3

laurance is the adopted son of hayden zvahl, a blacksmith, and joh zvahl, a jeweller, and grew up in meteli alongside his adoptive sister cadenza. cad's the reason why his hair is bright red when aph meets him en route to scaleswind - he's been dyeing it this colour since he was young so that he and cadenza could match and look more like siblings. as such, much of his colour scheme is based around soft reds and oranges, with some golds thrown in. additionally, his earrings (although u can't really see them here) were made by joh, alongside most of his other jewellery, before joh passed away a couple of years prior to aph showing up outside of phoenix drop. his armour is also a lot lighter than garroth and katelyn's due to his fighting style prioritising speed and mobility over strength and endurance - that, and the fact that he works around water a lot and can't let metal weigh him down too much.

after ungrth drags him out of the nether, laurance's colour scheme undergoes a major change - instead of being based around reds and golds, it shifts to be focused around greens and browns. laurance also dyes his hair back to its natural colour (brown), and due to the trauma of being forced through the realm barrier (and having his eyes cut out multiple times by gene), his eyes fade to a pale, milky green. there are other physical changes that come with being turned as well - his nails turn into talons, his ears become pointed, and, due to his now-undead nature, his heart stops beating. he also loses the need to breathe, although he keeps doing so to keep up the facade of being human (he really doesn't want to acknowledge the fact that he's undead now). however, around the start of season three (right before the main cast makes the trip to tu'la), he decides to dye his hair red again and return to the reds and golds that he loves (something something "reclaiming his fire" something something). it also doesn't help that his hair has started growing in a bright copper ever since they returned from o'khasis and xavier's relic had gone missing. surely these events can't be connected

not too many comments about laurance's out-of-armour/casual/tu'la arc outfit. his eyesight's dogshit now (due to the aforementioned events surrounding his turning n escape from the nether) so he technically needs glasses, but he never wears them unless someone (usually garroth) tells him to.

with laurance's shadow knight form, i rlly wanted to showcase how unnatural it is to him. it's big, and bulky, and covered in spikes n shit - it's entirely antithetical to laurance and his fighting style. personally, i think that a shadow knight's armour adapts to their fighting style and personality over time, but because laurance like. never uses this form it doesn't get the chance to adapt to him, although i added in a doodle of what his form might've evolved to look like had he used it more often.

uhh shadow knight lore stuff. shad is a psychopomp - at least, the fragment of his soul/essence/whatever that didn't get totally fucked up by the void is. however, the shadow lord (aka the fragment of shads soul/essence/whatever that did) tends to snatch souls that either a) die in the nether (like laurance n sasha) or b) are deemed to be useful to his cause of destroying irene (like gene and vylad) to make into shadow knights. different things play into how powerful a shadow knight is - gene, being part-mer'ai, being a descendant of kul'zak, and having memory manipulation magicks, is pretty powerful already, but when he's made into a death knell (aka a general in the shadow lord's army) his power can pretty much rival a relic wielder. laurance mayyyybe could've become a death knell if he wanted to, but unfortunately he has a stupid strong sense of justice so uh. yeah.

all shadow knights do get a boon from the shadow lord - it usually reflects their personality, their soul, or their past, and it always centres around blood, fire, or shadows (or a mix of some or all of these - for example, zenix's boon is that his blood essentially acts like napalm). laurance's reflects his childhood in meteli, a town built in a saltmarsh/estuary - his blood is stupid acidic (like acidic enough to melt through flesh, bone, and metal if he's not careful). however, for a long time, he assumes that his boon is being able to alter the temperature of metal (as sasha has told him that all shadow knight's blood is poisonous on some level - he just doesn't know that his blood is particularly poisonous) until vylad tells him that it probably isn't metal related.

uhh more lore stuff - this time regarding xavier, his relic, and plot stuff.

zane absorbs xavier's relic (sort of unwillingly?? like he wants power, and he wants to try and push back against his father's influence, but if he's being honest he would've preferred to take on esmund's relic (which is missing. weird.) but beggars can't be choosers so eh it's whatever), but because not everyone can wield a relic and not every relic can be wielded by every relic-wielder it sort of starts to eat away at his soul and fuck him up. this leads to the climactic battle of s1 in irene's cathedral dimension, which ends when garroth (who gets possessed by esmund's relic) kills zane by ripping xavier's relic out of him. when they get back to the overworld and realise what exactly that weird fuckoff hunk of metal that garroth yanked out of zane's chest is, they decide to give it to garroth for safe keeping - only for the relic to go missing when the main cast breaks into an occupied o'khasis to rescue zianna, although they don't realise it until they return home to phoenix drop. it's around this time that laurance travels to new meteli to catch up with cadenza and get her to dye his hair orange again, only for cadenza to discover that his hair is growing in a bright copper. they... sort of brush this off as a weird shadow knight biology thing until laurance gets into a fistfight with gene and transforms for the first time. it's a bit of a mess but hey we got there in the end.

but yeah i decided to tweak his design a lil bit from my lineup of the second war of the magi's divine warriors because i wasn't suuper happy w how his chestplate turned out n i wanted to tutu w it a bit.

anyway. laurance's ref sheet is fucking finally done. the next ref sheet will probs be either katelyns or an updated ref sheet for garroth since ive tinkered w his protector form a Lot and i probs need to add in a cold weather outfit (laurance doesnt need one bc shadow knights r weird n basically space heaters anyway) and his juror form.

as always, let me know if u have any questions!! :D

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Lived My Whole Life Before the First Light

Omg here we are. At the end. I'm sad, I've been having such a blast with you guys this week! But all good things... Anyway, this is a strange one, rambling and mournful but hopefully with some sweetness. I hope it makes you feel things, I hope it gives you something, I hope we part on this final day of Painland Week as friends and confidants 💛 Huge, huge thanks to the organisers of Painland Week for putting this magical event together! Special love on this day goes out to @mellxncollie , who has been creating amazing gifs all week and has made beautiful ones for this very fic. It's been so so wonderful to collab with you and everyone should go and look at these wonderful creations at ONCE. Warnings for canonical character death (sorry, Charles) and the stuff that comes with it (i.e. refs to bullying/hatecrimes), non-graphic injury description, and just general mournful grief vibes all round. But hopeful ending bc let's face it, we all know how this played out! 7.3k, M-rated, available on Ao3. Thanks again, @painlandweek!

"Colour! What a deep and mysterious language. The language of dreams."

~ Paul Gauguin

Edwin Payne had always possessed a thirst for knowledge. As a child, he'd wished to learn just about everything there was to learn — every fact in every field. He'd been told, many times, that he could live to be a hundred years old, and still not have enough hours to do so.

Edwin had most certainly not lived to be a hundred. But he supposed that if you added his sixteen years of life to his seventy-three of death, he was getting rather close.

The dead years, however, had been far from conducive to study. Knowledge was hard to come by in Hell. Found either in burnt and bloodied books scavenged from individual damnations, or delivered in the form of cruel trials. He'd been taught a lesson or two in his time, but not on anything so polite and pedestrian as geometry. Edwin's key area of personal study in Hell had been one thing, and one thing only: how to escape from it.

It had taken seven decades, a slew of disembowelments and innumerable failed attempts, but at last he'd passed his final exam with merit. Or at least, a version of him had. But there wasn't much to be done for his original self, whose body lay mouldering on the dollhouse floor beneath a thousand savaged duplicates.

Best not to dwell on it.

He supposed he should have been upset about where the door to Hell spat him out. Not many people would be happy to return to the place where they'd met their untimely, violent demise. But to Edwin, after a small infinity in the blackest pit, stepping back into St. Hilarion's hallowed halls felt like greeting an old friend. Well, friend might be a tad generous. More of an acquaintance, or perhaps a second cousin one barely tolerated. Not a person one enjoyed spending time with, but nonetheless a familiar face.

For a day or so he'd wandered about in a bit of a daze, glancing over his shoulder for any sign he'd been followed from the depths. He'd drunk in every familiar feature, and puzzled over the unfamiliar ones. It was a small change in the grand scheme of things, but he suspected they'd replaced the drapes. They were a lighter grey now than they had been in his time. He wondered what colour they'd chosen — or for that matter, what colour they were in the first place. He'd never thought to ask.

Then on his second day of wandering, he'd stumbled across the old library. And that, for several weeks, had been that.

He'd probably had dreams about this, in his youth. Dreams of being left to his own devices, surrounded by books. All the information he could inhale, with no interruptions. Not even from the other boys. Their voices had startled him a few times, and he was always wary when a gaggle of them descended on the library. But he'd quickly realised that none of them could see him, and so long as he turned the pages quietly, he was free to continue his reading unmolested.

And he did so, continuously, for days. Not even boring old human restrictions like hunger, tiredness or eye strain could stop him now. He read everything he could get his hands on, brushed up on everything, filling in the gaps of the last decades. On the future that had been robbed from him, subsiding into history while his back was turned. He'd sat in his own shellshock when he read not only about how the so-called 'war to end all wars' had concluded, but also how little time had passed before the next one. He'd blushed and skimmed the pages pertaining to the nineteen-sixties free love movement. He'd gazed, thunderstruck, at the moon through the library window; wondering what the Earth must have looked like to the man they put up there.

All these years he'd been trapped in the gutters at the deepest depths of suffering, reaching up towards the light; all that time, humanity had been reaching, too. Up, up and up, all the way to the stars.

It became habit, after that, to gaze at the moon in between books and chapters. An opportunity to gather his thoughts on what he'd just read, to file away the facts, to jot down the most pertinent in his notebook. It was rather a meditative process.

Or at least it had been, until the night he'd seen something else beneath that moon. Something tragically earthbound amidst the gently illuminated greys of the grounds. A hunched and trembling shape against the trees, lurching by Edwin's window. A boy, on the run — his pursuers baying for blood like wolves at his heels.

They could put a man on the moon, but some things never changed.

It would be the first time Edwin had left the library since re-discovering it. Holding aloft the pilfered lantern he'd been using to read into the night, he trod carefully through the darkened corridors. The majority of staff and students were in dorms or common rooms by now, voices a soft patter, bleeding with the light under the doors. No one marked Edwin, or came to investigate the lantern floating past. Though some extinguished their own lights and hushed their voices, mistaking him for a warden. Edwin didn't wish to scare anyone, but he drew some comfort from it. He'd grown tired of being pounced upon in long, black, twisting hallways. How comforting for once to be the root of fear and not merely its captive.

Edwin had to search a little while, but he was already familiar with the best hiding places. It wasn't long before he was creeping up to the attic, minding his ghostly tread upon the stairs. He didn't wish to cause alarm, or send the boy deeper into hiding thinking his assailants had found him.

He crossed the threshold, and at once heard a shuddering intake of breath as the harsh white aura of his lantern bounced off the walls. He supposed there was no disguising the glow. He hung back a moment, conflicted. All he wanted was to offer some light and warmth, but perhaps a floating lantern would be a sight too much for the terrified boy. Well, it was too late for that, now. He stepped into the room proper, peering past the flare of his lantern to the source of the sound. A shivering bundle on the floor, tucked into a nook behind the shelves. Trying to be as small as possible and, by and large, succeeding.

Wide, hunted eyes stared into the light. A voice, low and wary, spoke.

"What do you want?"

It was then that Edwin realised the eyes weren't looking into the light. They were looking at him. He glanced behind himself, just to make sure, but he wasn't mistaken. "You can see me?"

It was also when he noticed something equally perplexing happening to the light. It had started to look... less white. No, in fact it no longer looked white at all, but it had not dimmed, and it bore no resemblance to any shade of grey Edwin had ever seen. It was... he didn't even have the language to describe it. If he had to choose a word, he could only say it looked warm. He'd never seen anything like it. Not in seventy years of Hell, nor in his life before. It simply defied description.

He tore his gaze from it. There were more pressing matters to attend to. "I... I thought this lantern might help," he said, still dumbfounded. He approached, with care — this boy was clearly a victim in this circumstance, but there was a defensive set to his jaw. A wild look in his eyes. A creature caught in a trap was as liable to bite a rescuer as an attacker. "You can simply extinguish it if those boys come up here."

The guarded expression cracked, vulnerability bleeding through. As Edwin drew closer, he noticed that the strange new quality of the light was reflected where it hit the boy. There were notes of something else beneath the pallid grey tones of his skin, something richer. Just as something beyond simple black glistened in his enormous eyes.

"You saw them?" the boy rasped.

"I did. I went to school here a long time ago." Edwin knelt before him, bringing the light closer to the lad’s face and marvelling, quietly, at the strange tones that sprang into sharp relief. Whoever this young man was, Edwin's very perception of the world appeared to be shifting in his presence. "We had bullies, too."

He looked so weak, curled up and trembling. He certainly wasn't weak, Edwin suspected that much. Peeking out from beneath the blanket were shoes and trousers of a kind he'd seen these modern boys wearing out on the sports pitch. The lad was no delicate flower, but at this moment, at the mercy of his wounds, he was helpless.

And if he could see Edwin... then his fate was already sealed.

Edwin looked at the boy levelly, at the fear in his strange eyes. He'd seen that fear upon countless faces these last seventy years, on the wretched souls crying out for respite from their torment. He'd worn a similar expression some decades ago, when a careless act of cruelty had damned him, too.

"Rest assured," he said, gently, offering the lantern. "I shan't hurt you."

He could see the moment the boy decided to believe him. His shoulders slumped, his breath escaped in a rattle of relief. He reached out from his blanket shell, and flashed a sliver of that curiously saturated skin at his shoulder. Against the stark white of the sleeveless vest he wore, the difference was now undeniable. Not grey, not white, but something altogether different. Like his eyes, like the metal at his throat and ear that glimmered in the lamplight. Tones Edwin had never seen before, couldn't even name.

It couldn't be...

"Cheers, mate," said the boy, shivering as he brought the lantern closer. "I'm freezing. Never been this cold in my life."

Swallowing, Edwin nodded. "It's the least I can do."

The boy's lips twitched in a feeble half-smile. "Yeah? You mean you can do more?"

Probably not as much as he'd like. But Edwin nodded again. "Of course."

The light shone upon the boy's face and the dark, waterlogged curls of his hair. Steeped in that impossible hue.

"Stick around a bit?" he asked, his voice very small indeed. "Bit lonely up here..."

Edwin had not come here with any plans to stick around. He'd wished to help, of course. But to say he was unaccustomed to dealing with people was a tremendous understatement. He'd planned to drop off the lantern, check the boy was alright, and slip away without a fuss.

But the boy was clearly not alright, half-alive and fading fast. And he'd seen Edwin, asked him in no uncertain terms to stay. Asked him with all the broken hope in his voice and all the impossible buried, blooming hues in his eyes. And if those colours meant what he had always been told…

Well. How could Edwin begrudge his own soulmate a last request?

"My name is Edwin," he said, as measured as he could manage. "Edwin Payne."

The boy grinned. It wobbled at the edges. "Charlie," he introduced himself. "Charles Rowland."

Edwin hummed. Charles. A pleasant name. Respectable. He thought it rather suited the young man. "A pleasure to meet you, Charles."

Charles chuckled, drawing the lantern closer to himself. "Pretty bloody brills to meet you, too, Edwin."

The colour — for it surely was a colour, Edwin knew of no other word or explanation — of the lantern seemed to pulse, then settle, stronger than before. It illuminated the feeble grin upon Charles' drawn face in hues as yet unnamed.

Edwin would have to find some names. Compare what he could see with what he'd been told, what he'd read. Identify what he could.

While he still had the chance.

"Best thing to happen to me all night," Charles mumbled. "You showing up."

Edwin wished to tell him things could only improve from here; but he knew it to be a lie.

~

"It is the color closest to light. In its utmost purity, it always implies the nature of brightness and has a cheerful, serene, gently stimulating character. Hence, experience teaches us that yellow makes a thoroughly warm and comforting impression."

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"Just didn't seem right. Letting that kid get beat on 'cause he's from Pakistan," said Charles.

His socks peeked out from the blanket, bright white in the lamplight. Interesting — a part of Edwin had always presumed that white would look vastly different with the rest of the spectrum unlocked. It didn't, but there was much less of it. The world was full of more off-whites in more hues than Edwin could've previously imagined. Charles' skin wasn't dissimilar. Pale-ish, but bearing pleasant warm under-and-overtones that made Edwin's look near-translucent by comparison.

"I mean, I'm half Indian," Charles continued. "Why am I so different?"

"That is a fair point," said Edwin, thoughtful, harkening back to some of the history books he'd skimmed of late. "They were the same country back when I was alive."

Fascinating how the times changed, new lines drawn in the sand. Fascinating, and frustrating. In the time Edwin had been gone wars had started and ended, entire countries had been ruptured, borders reshaped. And yet some of life's most persistent mysteries remained unanswered.

He'd not looked much into it, but it seemed little advancement had been made in understanding of the so-called 'soulmate' principle. It had been a frequent enough phenomenon to be common knowledge in Edwin's time, but no one ever had any real explanation for it. Plenty of spiritual explanations, of course. But it seemed no one could point to any tangible scientific reason why a person, upon hearing the voice of a certain other person, had the entire hidden colour spectrum revealed unto them. An entire dimension of the visible world remained inaccessible to the vast majority of the population, and still no one knew why, or even how. Clearly, there was still much research to be done on the subject.

And clearly, the notion of this mysterious person as a 'soulmate' was romantic drivel. Charles seemed a pleasant fellow, but he was a fellow. And two boys could hardly be soulmates, could they? No God-fearing Christian would embrace the concept if that were the case. So no, Charles couldn't possibly be his soulmate. Perhaps the phenomenon represented something else entirely. Like minds? Charles seemed an easy boy to get on with — and Edwin seldom got on with anybody. He even felt at ease sitting beside him on the hard attic floor, nearly touching. Perhaps Charles was simply his universe-appointed fastest friend; the one person in creation who could truly understand him.

Or maybe it was a cosmic fluke, a quirk of biology. Maybe it could have been absolutely anybody in the world.

Yes, that was probably it. Nothing deeper at play than that.

Still, it was a pity Charles would be dead before the night was out. Soulmate or not.

(Definitely not.)

"Right..." Charles mumbled. Followed by a frown. "Wait, what?"

"Hm?"

"What d'you mean 'when you were alive'?"

Edwin looked at him. Charles still seemed rather small, rather sorry. A chilly little lump, all curled in on himself, even now they were side by side and of a height with one another. He looked cold, sallow. Not even the warm hues of the light Edwin had tentatively designated yellow could hide it, cheerful though it may be.

"You ought to move around a bit," said Edwin, standing smoothly. "You must keep your circulation going."

It would do no good, of course. But who knew? Charles might be hardier than Edwin gave him credit for.

"Edwin," said Charles, all seriousness. "What d'you mean when you were alive?"

Edwin's brow twitched. He held out his hand. "Get up, and I shall tell you."

Charles took his hand — and startled. "Fuck — you're colder than me, mate!"

"And for good reason. Come, now. Two or three quick laps of the room. I'll hold the lantern."

~

"Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead."

~ Wilfred Owen

Edwin had heard some truly hideous sounds in his time. Crunching bones, squelching organs, agonised screams. And yet somehow, the wheeze of Charles hacking up water from pulverised lungs was among the worst to date.

"Are you alright?" Edwin asked, hands clasped upon the table — lest he risk something overfamiliar like a pat on the back.

"I'm fine," Charles deflected, voice hoarse and unconvincing. "Just answer my question.

Charles was looking worse by the minute. The warm tones of his skin that Edwin had grown so fascinated by were receding under sallow grey. A new colour was blooming, in and around his eyes; in the puffy lids underneath, in the spiderwebbing veins across the whites.

This colour was not nearly so puzzling — the veins were a dead giveaway. Edwin had read more than enough crime literature to be able to identify the colour of blood.

So, this was the famous red. A bold colour, possibly quite charming in the right context; which this most assuredly was not. Edwin was no physician, but he'd read a number of medical textbooks. Charles bore all the hallmarks of a man bedevilled with internal bleeding. It was not a matter of whether he would die, but of what would kill him first; the cold, or the injuries.

He tore his gaze away. Anger, bitter and harsh, had him by the throat, had his fists clenching together until his gloves creaked. Who were those wretched boys, to lay hands upon Charles? To break him so? This boy who, insofar as Edwin could tell, hadn't a bad bone in his body? Whatever Charles was to him, soulmate or not (definitely, definitely not), he was his. He was supposed to be his, and soon he would be dead, and Edwin understood, now. Understood how people found themselves mired in Hell's fifth circle, swamped in wrath and rage. For no reason, no reason at all, those boys had taken Charles’ life without a care. Taken his life, and the colour from Edwin's eyes, all in one fell swoop. Soon both would be gone; and if Edwin ever found the hooligans responsible they'd have a formidable haunting on their hands.

"Nineteen thirteen, to..." he counted one, two, three, slowly. Collecting himself. "Nineteen sixteen."

"Bullshit." Charles cocked his head, a small smile of disbelief upon his lips. It was a charming expression, in its impertinence. "When did you go to school here for reals?"

"Nineteen thirteen to nineteen sixteen," Edwin repeated, slower. "I am dead, Charles."

Charles laughed. Edwin raised his eyebrows — and pretended not to be fascinated by the flash of not-red in Charles' mouth, his tongue and gums. What was the word for a light red, again? He was sure he'd read it somewhere...

The laughter died, and Charles' eyes went wider still. "...Oh."

There was more of that not-red than Edwin had thought, actually. The shells of Charles' ears, where the dawning light from the window glowed through translucent skin. He'd never considered that a person's ears might appear a different colour to the rest of them. How many secret tricks of the light had he been oblivious to all these years? How many more had he yet to discover? How many would he never get the chance to see for himself?

Just how much more could possibly be stolen from him?

"I... I dunno if this is, um, bad to ask, or what, but..." Charles swallowed. "How'd you die, mate?"

His lips, too, were redder than the rest of him; although that was fading, rapidly. Cooling at the edges. Edwin suspected that wasn't supposed to be the case.

"As I said," Edwin replied, sadly. "We had bullies, too."

~

"Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay."

~ Robert Frost

He had Charles move around again, though it was clear it would serve no purpose. He was delaying the inevitable. Charles was all but shutting down already; the occasional boost to his circulatory system was hardly going to bring him back from Death's door.

But perhaps Charles would beat the odds. Why not? He seemed a resilient fellow. Perhaps he would, indeed, outlast the night, see another day. Perhaps help would arrive. Perhaps Edwin could give him the push he needed to survive this if he only persisted.

Besides, he couldn't let Charles seize up and expire just yet. Charles had questions and damn it all, Edwin would answer them!

"Actually, you can move around any space however you like," Edwin explained. "It is not that you cannot touch things, you just cannot feel them."

A blessing in disguise, on occasion. Though Edwin had done his utmost to fill up this nook by the window with whatever musty blankets and futons he could salvage, he doubted the floor was comfortable. He himself sat with his knees tucked up to his chest, bracing for discomfort he couldn't feel. It was far from ideal. But he supposed that a hard floor was the least of Charles' problems.

Charles was rapidly declining. That cool tinge upon his lips was growing more prominent, his coughs harsher and more visceral-sounding. But here, at least, he seemed as snug as Edwin could make him. Swaddled like a babe, tucked up against the cluttered old shelves. Perhaps this was warm enough to get him through. It certainly seemed warm, with the yellow light burning merrily on.

It glowed not only off Charles' skin and his eyes, but a myriad small reflective surfaces strewn about the forgotten nook. Edwin was particularly taken with the shimmer of it off what appeared to be a dented instrument — possibly a tuba? — near Charles' head. Metals had always looked very similar to one another, in Edwin's grayscale vision. Now he could see the metal of the horn was a somewhat deeper shade than that of, say, the earring Charles wore. Finally, he could see first-hand the differences between the precious and non-precious metals. Alas, he had few of them to choose from, and little way of knowing which was which. He supposed it safe to assume that the instrument was brass, hence its orchestral designation.

But the metal Charles was wearing was his favourite so far. It had a little of the yellow about it, but richer, more lustrous. Edwin found himself quite transfixed by the way it fluttered and flickered in the light.

He was familiar with the saying all that glitters is not gold, of course. But for want of further evidence, gold seemed as good a guess as any.

"It's stupid, but... I think I'd miss kissing," said Charles. He looked right at Edwin, earring and eyes twinkling with the motion. He did have... handsome eyes. Edwin simply must figure out what colour they were. Of a similar hue but different tone to his hair, to the old wooden shelves at his back. "Do you miss kissing?"

"Mmm-mmmm," Edwin mumbled, with a small shake of his head. "No. Not as such."

How many people had Charles kissed, he wondered? Surely not an abundance, they were of a similar age. Had he kissed someone this month, this week? Today? Before his lips grew cold and chapped, when they were... oh, what was that word for a lighter red? Pink, yes, that was it.

Then again, perhaps he went about with painted lips in every day life. He already wore some sort of cosmetic on his eyes, after all, so maybe it wasn't a stretch for a modern young man. Imagine. A boy, staining the lips of his paramours with lipstick when he kissed them...

Goodness. The world really had moved on.

Edwin cleared his throat. "No," he repeated, firmly. "No, I don't miss kissing."

He supposed it was fine that Charles liked it, though. And maybe he'd get the chance to do it again. He just had to hold on a little longer, outlive the dawn chorus, until the teachers noticed his absence and sent people searching. Then he could keep on living, and kissing and whatever else he wished to do and Edwin...

Well, Charles probably wouldn't have much use for a ghost friend. But at least Edwin could keep the colours. Just a little while longer.

Charles chuckled. It was a bit of a sadder sound than the last time Edwin heard it. "Must've had some shit kisses in your life, mate."

Edwin smiled, tightly. "Something of that ilk."

"Shame we weren't mates," said Charles. "I'd've..."

"You'd have... what?"

A smattering of colour returned to Charles' face, then. It might've been a trick of the light, but Edwin could've sworn his cheeks warmed. "I'd've... well, I'd've found you someone to snog, wouldn't I?" he laughed, drawing his blanket closer around his chin. "Got some fit mates from my old school. And the birds proper fancy the brainy lads."

Edwin frowned. "The... birds?"

"Y'know. Lasses. Girls."

"Oh." For whatever reason, Edwin felt... disappointed. And not just at the apparently abysmal state of modern slang. "Yes. Girls."

He cocked his head, watching Charles carefully. He was a very good looking boy. And he wasn't Edwin's soulmate, couldn't be, but...

Edwin cleared his throat. "Charles?"

"Yeah?"

"Do I look..." He wavered. "...Unusual, at all? To you?"

Charles blinked. "Um. Well. Outfit's a bit retro." His eyes widened slightly, a dash of mortification. "Not being rude! I like it! It's... it's cool."

Edwin rolled his eyes. "I don't mean my outfit, I mean... have you noticed anything different about this room since I walked in?" he pressed.

"Well, yeah."

Edwin inhaled. "You have?"

"Yeah."

He leaned in closer. "What have you noticed exactly?"

Charles smiled weakly. "Well. It... feels a lot less lonely. With you here. Warmer, too." He chuckled. "Daft as that sounds. With you being dead, and all."

Edwin's fingers flexed on his knees — all he could do to stop himself hugging them, wretchedly, to his heart. "Yes," he agreed, dully. "Daft, indeed..."

~

"Green makes me think of silence, or maybe it’s loneliness. I get the feeling of a terribly distant star."

~ Kobo Abe

Edwin had only ever known one person ‘fortunate’ enough to meet her soulmate.

Aunt Florence had always been a bit of an odd duck. Flighty and fickle, a perpetual embarrassment to her brother — Edwin's father — whose job it had been to lend financial support to her spinster lifestyle. As she alleged it, she'd found her soulmate in the late eighteen seventies. For reasons undisclosed (to Edwin, at least) they had never married. Edwin had never had the pleasure of meeting her mysterious match.

She had always seemed very fascinated with the world around her, Aunt Florence. A trait she shared with Edwin; though while his interest lay in facts, hers lay in aesthetics. He’d seen her dedicate hours to the study of a singular rose petal in her garden. Edwin was told she could do quite beautiful things with oil paints, for those with eyes to see. They were passable, too, in black and white, but lacking dimension.

Once, when Edwin was about nine or so, Aunt Florence had taken his chin between her willowy fingers.

"What lovely eyes you have, my boy," she'd said, in a smoker's croak. Uncouth for a woman to smoke, particularly one of her social standing, but she'd never much cared what others thought of her. Her tobacco-stained nail had nipped his chin as she held him close. "Your mother's eyes. Sea green... You'll find yourself someone who can appreciate them, won't you?"

Edwin, of course, had had no idea what green was, and little desire to find out. Not if finding a so-called soulmate was the prerequisite condition. He was of an age where the fixation that grown-ups seemed to have on kissing one another was both vexing and perplexing to him. A phase of his life that, to be frank, he'd never entirely left behind. He'd extricated himself from Aunt Florence's talons as politely as possible, and given her a wide berth for the rest of her visit.

The next time he'd seen her, she had taken one look at his eyes, and burst into tears.

They all ended the same way, these soulmate stories. It was a law of nature. Death was not neat, or particularly fair. No matter how blissfully happy the pair, someone always had to leave first; and when they did, the colour left with them.

Some, at least, got time to enjoy it all. Before their love — and their colour — died away. A few decades, or years. Months, even.

Some, like Edwin, got far less. Hours, if that.

And some, like Charles Rowland, got no time at all.

~

"They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two

Moles dead in the pebbled rut,

Shapeless as flung gloves, a few feet apart —

Blue suede a dog or fox has chewed.

One, by himself, seemed pitiable enough,

Little victim unearthed by some large creature

From his orbit under the elm root.

The second carcass makes a duel of the affair:

Blind twins bitten by bad nature."

~ Sylvia Plath

"Shut up, mate. That is brills."

Edwin was inclined to agree. Especially now he could appreciate the full effect. He'd been aware, of course, that his form seemed to partially dissolve into a mirage when he passed through solid surfaces. He'd been unaware that the mirage seemed to possess a certain hue. Not unlike the hue beginning to bleed through the filthy window.

The pre-dawn light was different to the majority of the colours Edwin had identified so far. It was colder. Greyer. Pale and stark against the opaque black silhouette of the distant treeline (interesting, how the trees still seemed black in this light. He wondered if he'd get a chance to see this green he'd heard so much about before the night was over.) If Charles' face was warmed by the yellow lamplight, it was cooled at the edges by the seeping tones through the glass.

This, like the red and the blood, came with an easy reference point. Everybody knew that the sky was supposed to be blue.

Seemed Edwin finally had a word for the sickly tint of Charles' lips.

"Why don't you fall through the floor?" Charles asked, puzzled.

"There are many, many, so-called ghost rules," said Edwin, sagely. He had, after all, spent several weeks conducting his own personal study and compiling the rules himself. "I shan't waste your time listing them."

"Well, I only asked about the floor, didn't I?" said Charles, a teasing lilt to his lip. Honestly, the cheek of the man.

"Because I choose not to fall through the floor," Edwin replied, in utterly falsified exasperation. "Happy?"

Charles had a certain way of smiling; one that spread up from his grinning mouth and into his eyes. Despite the cold, miserable state of the rest of him they fairly shone with warmth, a merry humour. A knowing gleam that said 'look at us, in on the joke'.

Edwin had never been in on the joke, before.

Charles chuckled; and Edwin did likewise, helpless to the draw of it. The magnetic sound. It had his lips lifting of their own volition — even as his heart sank further and further into the floor.

The blue devils, that's what his father had called it. On those rare occasions when he acknowledged Mother's low mood, or found Edwin weeping silently upon his bed. "You've just got the blue devils, my boy. Chin up, now, and soldier on. You've better things to do than mope."

He could feel them, now, those blue devils upon his shoulder. Cold, heavy, and the colour of Charles' bloodless lips. Weighing Edwin down like stones in his pockets. He hadn't felt hot or cold in decades, but now he felt as Charles must have done with the chill lake pressing down upon him, filling his lungs. And unlike Charles, he wasn't sure he possessed the tenacity to break the surface before the bubbles stopped.

He'd fought his way from the pits of Hell itself, and yet this climb seemed more insurmountable by far. He was no longer fighting his way from the dark to the light. There was no light above the surface of this icy water, no light at all. The light was here, the entire spectrum of it; above was only grey, grey, grey, as far as the eye could see.

"Oi," said Charles. He looked so very tired; but still inquisitive to a fault. "What other cool stuff can you do, then?"

Edwin huffed. "I can travel through mirrors, if you must know."

Charles' blue lips parted, breath escaping on a wonderstruck wheeze. "Wicked."

He ought to be more careful with his breaths. He couldn't have had all that many left to draw.

~

"We love the sight of the brown and ruddy earth; it is the color of life, while a snow-covered plain is the face of death."

~ John Burroughs

Charles Rowland passed away in the small hours of the morning. Edwin didn't even need to look up from the page; he just watched the pinkish tint bleed from his own ghostly fingertips, and made a deduction.

Even before his passing, Edwin hadn't looked directly at Charles in some time. He hadn't been able to bring himself to. The colour in his ailing new friend had diminished all but completely, his skin a sallow patina, his lips a cracked grey slate.

Edwin had only come to know colour on this night, and already he could feel its absence like a hole in his heart. He understood, now, why Aunt Florence had dragged herself so mournfully through her twilight years. Going through the motions of existing. Colour, for Aunt Florence, had been life; without it, there was simply no point living.

Somehow, Edwin found his voice, and he read on. Because Edwin was no Aunt Florence, arty and flighty and prone to outpourings of passion. Edwin was his father's son; he soldiered on. No matter what.

But the ache in his chest persisted, despite his best efforts to quash it. There had been so much yet to see. He'd never witnessed the colour purple — an expensive hue of which he'd heard a great many appreciative things. He'd never seen a flower, any flower, in full bloom, or watched one of those famous sunsets.

In the end, he never even got to see what his aunt meant about his eyes. But he had no reflection anymore, so. Perhaps that one was always a lost cause.

On the topic of lost causes; there was someone else in this room with him, yet. Someone who'd lost far more than a fleeting glimpse of creation in technicolour.

""— I cease to believe,"" Edwin finished reading with a soft, forced chuckle. To no response. He looked up to find Charles standing tall, gaze turned to the window. It was the first time all night he'd been without his blanket; and the first time he'd borne not the slightest shiver.

Well. At least he would never be cold again.

"Not enjoying this one?" Edwin prompted, gently. "Carrados the blind detective was just becoming quite popular in my day."

When Charles turned around, of course Edwin already knew what he would find. Knew what his own eyes would fall upon when they followed Charles’ gaze.

But knowing did not prepare him for the reality. The cold, desaturated tableau of Charles Rowland's demise, illuminated like a crime scene in the stark white light of the lantern. How a person so vital, so vibrant as Charles should be without blood and colour defied all reason. And yet there he lay; bereft of hue, and of life.

Edwin swallowed, and closed the book gently upon Max Carrados. "When you could see me, I knew it was too late."

Charles was silent. For the first time all night. Silent as the grave.

"But I simply..." Edwin hesitated. "I did not want to scare you."

In the corner of Edwin's eye, the lantern guttered and died. Good. It didn't seem right; all that light upon Charles, and not a drop of warmth in it.

"Well. Glad you didn't say anything." Charles' voice was stronger, now. How different he sounded, without the rattle of lake water in his lungs.

Charles looked at his hands. As did Edwin. How strange they appeared, in the bleak grey of Edwin's impoverished eyes. How unsettlingly close to the pallor his skin had taken on in his death throes. And yet he wasn't pallid, not in the slightest. Standing tall, unchained from his ailing flesh, he was more wholly and healthily Charles than Edwin had yet seen him.

"Doesn't feel like I imagined. Being dead," said Charles, thoughtful. "Feels okay, doesn't it?"

In truth, there was nothing remotely 'okay' about this situation. Edwin felt... robbed. He felt robbed. Because he would never know the colour of Charles' skin when it wasn't frozen grey, or beaten black and blue. He'd never see this Charles, standing tall in the dawning sunlight, the way he was designed to be seen. The way he was chosen, by God or fate or an impossible quirk of biology to be seen, by Edwin. Only by Edwin. For he was Edwin's, no more could he deny it.

And Charles would never see Edwin. Not the way Edwin saw him. Because by the time they met, it was already too late. Because in a wretched twist of fate, Charles’ soulmate — his unfortunate, unorthodox soulmate — was dead in the ground before Charles was even born.

And Edwin had thought Hell to be cruel and unusual punishment.

"I sincerely wish we could have been friends for longer," said Edwin, dropping the magazine and standing from his seat on the old trunk. "But Death will come for you, now. You should go with her when she arrives."

He turned, and began his brisk march to the door. What's done is done; and Charles was, unmistakably, done. Done in and done for, done in just about every sense.

So Charles would be off, now. He'd be off, and Edwin would just have to carry him, too. In his head, with his facts and his torments and a thousand tiny heartbreaks. What was another one, in the grand scheme of things? What else was there to do in this fugitive afterlife but keep his chin up, and soldier on?

"Well I'm not ready, am I?” Charles called out. “I don't wanna go somewhere else, yet."

Edwin faltered. Turned. Charles was watching him.

"What if I stay here for a bit with you, instead?" said Charles, preposterously.

"Then you will always be running from her," was Edwin's quick, logical response. But Charles was still watching him with those... those damnably appealing eyes, and he felt the need to defend his case. "Also, I'm not good with other people. And I only just came back to this school after escaping Hell, so. I'm out of practice, to be perfectly frank. So. When the light comes. You stay, and I go."

He smiled, tightly, and turned once more. There. He'd avoided mentioning Hell all night, but it was done, now. No boy with a lick of sense would —

"Well, I'm aces with other people."

… He simply could not be serious.

"Pretty chuffed you got out of Hell, mate," Charles continued, maddeningly blasé. "That sounds hard. Nice job."

Edwin turned on him, incredulous. "That is not how you make decisions," he snapped, taking a challenging step towards Charles. "Just based on whatever you happen to be feeling in the moment!"

"It's how I lived my life."

Charles turned his head, looked down at his own body. Edwin couldn't bring himself to do likewise.

"Doesn't seem all that different now."

Charles looked at Edwin, unflinching. And what a different creature he was, free of cold and pain. Lithe but lax, eyes slightly narrowed in almost catlike contemplation of Edwin. He stood before a hellbound soul, near naked and freshly dead, and yet the easygoing slope of his narrow shoulders bore no strain.

He shrugged, nonchalant. White light glimmered from his dangling earring. "Looks like you're stuck with me.”

For a moment it was nigh on impossible to believe he hadn't seen it, too. Hadn't seen the spectrum unfold when Edwin said his name. Because how else could someone look at anyone, let alone Edwin, with such certainty? As if he'd never been more sure of anything or anyone in his tragically short life.

Breathtaking was not a word Edwin liked to use lightly. In fact, he preferred not to use it at all. Who had ever seen something so rare, so staggeringly beautiful they'd lost their breath? It was the sort of word Aunt Florence would have used; flowery and hyperbolic.

It seemed Edwin owed her yet another apology.

Light flared in the corner. Their eyes leapt to it. It was of no colour that Edwin could see and yet he could feel it, deep in his soul, he knew its shape and colour; blue. A kinder, softer blue than that of bloodless lips and dreary skies. The wild blue yonder that he was barred from forevermore; the one that awaited Charles Rowland with open arms.

Charles looked at Edwin.

Edwin looked at Charles.

Charles smiled, soul glowing lantern-bright in those dark, confident eyes. He didn't move, not towards the light or away from it, but he held out his hand. Planted like a tree, unbending, unbowed. His roots sunk deep into the loamy earth of life; his branches beckoning Edwin into their boughs.

Oh, thought Edwin, when he understood — didn't see, simply understood — the colour that had been gazing back at him all along. That's the word I was looking for.

~

Thirty years passed, fading into memory, and with them faded the sting. It was hard to mourn the loss of colour when one could scarcely remember what it looked like in the first place. Those fleeting hours blended and blurred amidst the grey years, lost to time; a single hand-tinted frame in a hundred miles of monochrome celluloid.

Though he tried to remember, Edwin struggled to visualise the yellow light that had bathed their faces; the gold that glinted at the cut of Charles' jaw. Pink lips, red veins, the blue stain of death. Such things were impossible to note down in a world of black ink and white pages, and his aide-mémoires soon failed him. The colours fluttered away into the past, scattered to the winds of memory like his mother's smile, his father's voice, Aunt Florence's smoky laughter and the roses she painted on the guest room walls.

But though he could not recall the exact shade of Charles' eyes, nor compare them to any other — not even his own — Edwin knew something about them. Just as he knew Death's light shone heavenly blue. And for once in Edwin's long and tormented afterlife, he felt truly fortunate. Because he'd been allowed to experience only a fraction of what the visible spectrum had to offer; colours he could count on less than two hands.

And yet somehow, by some stroke of luck, he'd seen the best one nonetheless.

~

"At breakfast that morning I had been struck by the lively dissonance of its colours. But that was no longer the point. I was not looking now at an unusual flower arrangement. I was seeing what Adam had seen on the morning of his creation - the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence."

~ Aldous Huxley

~~

Thank you for coming on this journey with me, my darlings 💛 Love to hear your thoughts! Reminder to check out Olly's amazing gifs! This one took a little while to come together, bc in my first draft Edwin's feelings/progression were a bit all over the place. But I realised that all the sections of the attic scene (not including the very first one/my inserted flashback about Aunt Florence) could track along the five stages of grief quite nicely and that gave me a good framework to loosely follow, starting in his denial of the implications and ending in devastated acceptance of what he's lost. As to why he didn't like, *tell* Charles, well, what would you do? Be honest? If you were a dead Edwardian ghost boy and you found out your actual soulmate was not only another boy, but a doomed one? One who isn't even seeing what you're seeing. Maybe he thought Charles wouldn't believe him, or would take it badly. Maybe he thought telling him would sway him unfairly into staying when Edwin believed he should go. I think he will tell him, one day. And Charles is gonna be PISSED that he kept it from him so long xD For the quotes, I tried to stick to things Edwin could possibly have read, so pre-1989 things, as I like the idea of him using literature as a framework for understanding what he's seeing. It was really interesting writing about colour from the perspective of someone with no reference for it! Some of the quotes might have ended up anachronistic by a couple of years, tbh people are *shit* at sourcing their quotes and while I could source authors easy enough it was hard sometimes to isolate what specific book/anthology the piece came from, or what year it was published. If I'd have had more time I would have done more digging! Anyway, that's about all I got right now. I dunno when I'll be back, probably (hopefully) in a few weeks with the next chapter of Lonely Bones. In the meantime please, feel free to continue chatting with me in the comments, on my tumblr, come be a pal, I've had the time of my life with y'all this week and I'm not ready to get off this train just yet! Until next time! 💛

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

I've had a pretty busy week, but I've also been accumulating more hours in the Aasimar Barbie Dressup Simulator BG3 modding toolkit. And you all get to hear about it. Rejoice! It's that thing where to get good at something you just need to get really obsessed with endlessly redoing one blorbo in it.

(I was trying to have a conversation in Discord about this but my messages kept getting flagged... hence the post hoc moon pasties on some of these, sorry. I tried to be funny with it.)

I've actually redone and spruced up all my textures so now they're much more high res and not annoyingly muddy anymore.

I've also done a ton of streamlining, hoping to remove as many steps and prerequisites/dependencies as possible. No more mucking about with body tattoos and endless interfering layers and neck seam nonsense - I have one proper Larian Virtual Texture for the body and one mask for the metallic "non-skin" colour of the kintsugi. Now all that gets adjusted is a single parameter, applied to the "Nightsong" skin colour preset - which means no more struggling to match her unique marble-pale skin tone with "close enough" character creation options, either!

Thanks for the quick outfit loan, Karlach, it's great to see everything is showing up as expected with regards to gaps in clothing, too.

Also fun, when you load equipment visuals, you can apply the "Nightsong" armour colour preset to them, which is like applying a dye in-game (so colours change depending on the material they represent - leather, metal, fabric, so on). And so you get all the outfits in Aylin's personal colour scheme. Pretty cool! So here's, say, Avernus biker Aylin. Or Selûnite robe Aylin.

Same goes for any of the racial underwear options (this is half-orc and dragonborn). (This is also me showing off the textures again shhhhh.)

So much blue! I know this is the result of her armour having this particular blue defined as the main "fabric" colour for those three fancy belt favour/banner things she has, but I like to think Aylin just has a favourite colour that she prefers with the same intensity she does everything else in life.

In any case, I'll see about packaging this up and reuploading pretty soon!

[acewritesfics]

Crossroads Deal | Dean Winchester 

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Hunter Fem!Reader 

Request: No. From my Wattpad account.

Synopsis: Dean reminisces about the woman he loved and lost. 

Warnings: Death, demons, crossroads deal, burning a body. Pure angst. I love angst. Italics are flashbacks. E/C - eye colour. 

Word Count: 2,850

Main Masterlist

As Dean looks at the body lying a few feet away from him covered in a hotel bedsheet that is stained in her blood, he thinks back to the day he met Y/N, the person who changed everything for him. 

"Who are you?" Y/N growls at the two intruders while pointing her gun at them with the safety off and her finger ready to press the trigger if necessary. 

The taller one responds, hands up in surrender and a hint of fear in his eyes, "Bobby called us and  told us that you need some help." 

"That doesn't answer my question!" She growls once more, this time visibly more agitated than before. "Who are you?" 

"I'm Sam. This is my brother Dean. " The tall one speaks again, introducing them, while the shorter one remains silent. 

"Winchester?" She asks, lowering her gun slightly and scanning each of the men while keeping her eyes narrowed and her guard up. The best hunters were always on high alert and didn't trust anyone unless they had proven to be trustworthy. It was a risky move if you weren't cautious of everyone you came across. 

"Yeah," Dean says, dropping his arms as she appears to relax a little. 

"Bobby sent you?" she asks making sure, 

Both of the men nod their heads. 

"Would you please lower that completely? I don't feel like being shot by some girl today," Dean sneers, annoyed. 

Lowering her gun, she puts the safety back on and places it back on the table, glaring at him. She resumes what she had been doing before she was rudely interrupted by them while showing and explaining to them all the evidence and theories she's already come up with.. 

Dean looked and listened to her attentively. As she recounted everything and displayed all the evidence she had gathered, he observed her rigidity in posture, her icy tone of voice, and lack of eye contact. Although he understood that she didn't know them and that he never expected her to welcome them with open arms, this seemed different. Her being standoffish seemed to go a bit farther than workplace professionalism. 

It didn't help that this case seems to be a particularly difficult one, with a werewolf and a vampire collaborating to create some kind of hybrid. Being the seasoned hunters that they are, Y/N and the Winchesters believed they had seen everything before this case. Vampires and werewolves were known enemies in every lore book ever written. It didn't make sense to them that they would suddenly start working together.   

Of course, there was a lot of arguing between her and the oldest Winchester, someone being used as bait, and their scheme going sideways, which was nothing new for the Winchester brothers. The three hunters barely made it out alive after suffering various injuries. 

Y/N was grateful for the help Bobby and the Winchester's provided no matter how hurt she got, knowing that if she continued to pursue the case alone, she'd be in hell much sooner than intended. Crossroads would be overjoyed by that. 

After they returned to the hotel room, Dean, who had the least injuries, bandaged himself before assisting Sam and Y/N. He was wrapping Y/N's lower arm when he notices she has a distant look in her eyes. 

"What are you thinking about?" He asks her, making sure the bandage wasn't too tight or loose. 

"Just contemplating the fact that there are already enough monsters in the world and that we don't need any more. However, here we are, with monsters creating new monsters," She exhales. "How crazy is that?" 

Dean finishes applying the bandage and remarks, "If this job has taught me anything, it's that there's far more out there than we realize." 

"And that something will always surprise us even if we know to always prepare for the unexpected," she adds . 

"Exactly," he says, agreeing with her. "Are you sure you're going to be okay on your own?" 

"I gotten this far, haven't I?" She smiles at his sincere concern for her. Her ice-cold attitude toward them has somewhat thawed over the course of the five days they've worked together. She was able to say that she trusted the brothers to have her back, and she's proven to them that they could rely on her to have their backs as well. 

"I now have your phone numbers, so if I need to, I'll contact you after I call Bobby." 

He rolls his eyes, "So pleased to hear that I'm second on your list of people to call." 

With a tiny smile lingering on her lips, she says, "Actually you're third." 

He puts his hand over his heart while seeming to stare at her pretending to be offended. "You hurt me. Really, you'd call Sam before me?" 

"He argues less," She chuckles. 

"You wait till you're always around him," he says as he cleans up the leftover medical supplies. "But honestly, you'll call us if you need us, right?" 

Y/N nods in agreement knowing that it's what he wants to hear. "It would be best if you never saw me again. I don't want you to become attached to me." 

Dean first believed she was joking, but he was mistaken since exactly that is what happened. He became attached to her, falling in love with her hard and fast.  Within a month of their initial encounter, they ran into one other twice more before agreeing to stick together. But it wasn't just Dean who got attached to the former solo hunter. Like his older brother, Sam had also fallen in love with her, but in a very different way. Y/N was the sister the younger Winchester never had. They bickered like siblings, got along like siblings, mocked one another, and stood up for one another exactly like brother and sister. When they discovered her big secret, both brothers struggled with it. Dean, of course, took it the hardest. 

While working on the demon case they're currently working on, Bobby unintentionally revealed that her time was running out far too quickly for his liking. 

In disbelief, Sam exited the room with Bobby, leaving Dean and Y/N to talk. Although Y/N's revelation had upset him, he was aware that Dean was hurting more. Sam had witnessed first hand how quickly Dean and Y/N had fallen in love with each other.  

"Were you ever going to tell us?" Dean asks, leaning against the kitchen wall as she sits at Bobby's kitchen table. He's upset and angry. "Were you ever going to tell me?" 

She nods despite knowing that nothing she says would help her. "Of course I was. I didn't know how." 

To her, Sam was like a younger brother. Being an only child raised by a single mother, she never had siblings. She enjoys how it feels to have a younger brother. 

But Dean is different. So, so, so very different. They constantly draw each other in. Neither of them felt the same way about anybody else. And despite her best efforts to stay away from him, she constantly found herself near him, whether they were sharing a drink at a bar, comforting each other after a nightmare, preparing for the next hunt, or helping him with Baby. 

"'I made a deal with a demon and I have less than a year to live' would be a pretty good start," he glares at her, the anger and despair visible in his voice and green eyes. "What did you think will happen? That you'll be gone in 6 months and we'll… I'll forget about you? That's not going to happen!" 

She repeats what she said when they first met, "I told you not to get attached." 

"It's too late for that," he confesses. "I'm attached, Sweetheart." 

It's silent for a few minutes as they both try to gather their thoughts while suppressing their tears and emotions. 

 "I'm going to get you out of this." Dean says as he breaks the heavy silence that had fallen over them. "We'll figure it out. It's what we do. If not, we'll figure out a way to pull you back out." 

He walks up to the books that are scattered on the table and looks through them as though he's looking for information. But all he says is blurred lines and fuzzy pictures, his eyes unable to focus as the flood with tears. 

Dean," she calls out in an effort to grab his attention as she stands up and approaches him. "Hey," she says as she removes the book he's clutching from his grasp and lays it back on the table. "There is no coming back from this, Dean. I am beyond redemption. The contract is unbreakable. They will not let me go, not for anyone." 

"You're not even willing to try?"  He asks, feeling defeated, though he is not about to give up as quickly as she is. 

"All I want to do is make the most of the time I have left. Hunters do not have a lengthy life span. It's rare, and you know it," She informs him, a slight frown on her face. 

"I'm not going to let you die," he says firmly, the defeat he was feeling replaced by determination. 

"You have to," she replies regretfully. The day she met Dean Winchester was the day she knew she made a mistake making that deal. 

Before anything further is spoken, he exits the room saying, "No, I don't." 

After that, a lot of things changed between them. It had become tense, Dean and Y/N were distancing themselves from each other, they were both more short-tempered than usual and snapped at each other as if they were a couple going through a bad divorce . Before she met Dean, Y/N had accepted her fate, but the brothers and Bobby wouldn't listen to her, and they did everything in their power to free her from the terms of her crossroads deal. Dean went as far as summoning the demon at a crossroads. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Behind Dean, who is glaring at the demon in front of him, Y/N's angry voice can be heard. 

Dean shouts back, "Unlike you, I'm trying to save your ass." 

"Dean, listen to her; nothing can be done. Your little girlfriend will spend all of eternity in hell," The crossroads demon says taunting the hunter as she grins at him triumphantly. 

"That's crap!," he yells, his gaze fixed on the demon as the crunch of gravel under Y/N's footsteps gets louder as she approaches them. 

The demon quips, "Really, it's ironic. You finally meet the woman you would give it all up for and she-" 

"Stop talking!" He growls at her, stopping whatever tirade she was about to deliver. 

"You two could have had a beautiful future together. Marriage, normal jobs, a beautiful home with mini Winchesters roaming around the backyard oblivious to this life that you once lived," the demon continues to taunt the couple. "If only you had met her before she made the deal." 

"Would you shut up?" Y/N yells at the demon this time. She turns to face Dean with a guilty look on her face as opposed to his eyes, which were full with rage and determination. "We have to leave." 

"We're not leaving until she destroy's your contract," he frowns at her. 

"Even if I really wanted to, I can't do it." The devil says, drawing both of their gazes to her. "Lucifer's orders." 

"You can't save everyone, Dean, and that includes me." Y/N says, forcing him to look at her again. 

"Why are you giving up so easily?" 

"Believe me, I'm not. Bobby and I have both tried, as have you and Sam.  I'm not getting out of this." She says as tears begin to form in her eyes. 

"She's right," The demon agrees. "Just tell her you love her, and make the last four months of her life unforgettable. She'll need something to cling to while she's down there." 

Before storming back to the impala, Dean glares first at Y/N, then at the demon, and then back at Y/N.  

Y/N goes to chase after him, only to be stopped as the demon begins speaking again. "In your contract, I can make one adjustment. I used to be human, and I was in a situation extremely similar to yours right now. When the hounds come for you, once you're gone since there's no stopping them, I'll allow your soul five minutes to say your final goodbyes before personally dragging you back to hell myself." 

Dean is scowling as she looks in his direction. He can hear everything that is being said. 

"Why the sudden bleeding heart?" She inquires returning her attention to the demon. 

"Like I said, I was once human," With that, the crossroads demon vanishes.  

Y/N approaches Dean and, without wasting any time, pulls him into a kiss, reminding him of her love for him. 

They didn't go back to Bobby's house that night, where Sam and Bobby were waiting for them. Instead, they traveled to a secluded meadow where she often went to spend some time alone when she was a teenager.  They spent the night together in the impala talking, kissing, making love and eventually falling asleep. 

After that evening, everything changed once again. The couple became inseparable once again. No one mentioned her crossroads deal and went about life as they normally did. Things seemed better, though their situation continued to weigh heavily on their minds and hearts. Dean promised to make the following four months the best of her life. And he did. 

They got married while working on a case in Las Vegas, and during their downtime, he took her to the places she always wanted to see and always found ways to show and remind her how much he loves and appreciates her. He also never disclosed to her his ongoing efforts to find a way to save her. 

He is brought back to reality as he feels fingers entwine with his own. She appears as a ghostly figure as he looks up from his shoes, her torso covered in blood, her complexion a ghastly shade of grey, and her usually vibrant eyes now a dull E/C. Her ghostly form still wears her wedding ring and the necklace he got her on her last birthday. He is tormented with guilt knowing he could have done more for her. 

"It's going to be okay," she says, causing him to shake his head and avoid looking at her. 

She lets go of his hand and cups his face. Standing on her tiptoes, she draws him into a kiss that spoke more than any words could in this moment. It spoke of the love they shared. An unexpected love. A love driven by passion, irreplaceable memories, and hope for the future. A once in a lifetime kind of love. 

The kiss doesn't last long before Y/N breaks it, keeping their faces close and savoring their final moments together. 

"It's time," she says softly. "You know what to do." 

He wants to refuse, unable to let her go just yet. He couldn't drag her out of hell, and there was no angel who was willing to do it for him. Both demons and angels claim that this is her fate and that it was supposed to be this way. 

Her cool lips make contact with his warm skin as she kisses his cheek, sending a chill through him. But that shiver paled in comparison to the chill he experienced  as she began to fade away as he pulled the matchbook from his pocket and lit it. 

"I love you," he whispers. 

"I love you too," he hears her say before tossing the matchbook onto the body of the woman who abruptly and unexpectedly stole his heart. 

As the body bursts into flames, he collapses to his knees in exhaustion and grief, his eyes never leaving her body as memories flash through her mind. 

Y/N in the front passenger seat of the impala singing Bon Jovi's Livin' on a Prayer at the top of her voice while he drives them back to Bobby's after a case. 

Her smearing ice cream all over his face when he started a food fight with her in Bobby's kitchen. 

Them showering together after a hunt that had them covered in blood, mud and god knows what else.  

Laying together naked in bed, her asleep curled against him as he watches her, soaking her all in and making sure he doesn't forget a single detail about her.  

Them stargazing. 

Her playful bantering with Sam.  

Her getting excited about going to a beach. 

Her smile. 

Her eyes. 

Her laugh. 

Her tears. 

Her voice. 

Her heart. 

After what feels like hours, he stands up when he hears footsteps behind him. He doesn't have to look to know it's Sam and Bobby as the two men stand on either side of him, none of them speaking a word as they grieved for the woman that had touched their lives in different ways. 

[six-eyed-samurai]

Thinking about being such a Demon Slayer fan that you literally have every merchandise possible: posters, figurines, plushies, magnets, haori and even the character's accessories. You've even dyed your hair in (character)'s iconic colour scheme and style.

But that wasn't enough for you, so you decided to go to Japan. Hey, the tourism was good, and if you got to buy and explore more of your favourite anime, bonus!

So you arrive and wander the streets gawking in awe with full shopping bags in your hands, humming Gurenge under your breath. You were so lost in your daydreams you slam into someone - sorry, two people.

Cue your apologies as you scramble to your feet, but a melodic voice interrupts you with assurances that it was alright as two pairs of hands help pick up your fallen items. You look up to see a pair of petite sisters with matching blue-tinged hair and smiles.

"That's a nice hairpin!" Was what the elder and taller of the two called out as they continued to walk past you, and you self consciously raise a hand to the Kocho family butterfly pin in your hair.

You continue your walk downtown, strolling past screens with the world famous Tenma Uzui's face plastered on it as he lifted his latest medal and advertised products. At the toy store you had paused to look into, three youngsters rushed out with their newfound prizes in hand.

"Sabito! Give it back!"

"Hey, you already said we'd swap!"

"Until Makomo said she'd give me hers!"

You glance at them out of the corner of your eye and laugh seeing them fight over the colours of the warding masks. An old man with a red face mask stepped out of the shop shortly after and began to shepherd the trio away.

Seeing the Gashapon machines inside the store, you decide to step in too, but before you could the door flew open and a short, purple-haired man tumbled out. Clearly he had been kicked out but he wasn't taking the hint.

Inside the shop an exasperated but still polite voice echoed. "For the last time, Enmu, that toy train is for display only."

"I'll buy it someday!" Enmu declared cheerfully as if this were a regular occurrence and simply brushed himself off and headed to the direction of the nearest station.

You shrug and quit your side eyeing, venturing inside. The red haired shopkeeper looked up from the counter, his formerly poker face transforming into a bright smile that matched the red sun of his hanafuda earrings. "Hi, are you looking for anything? Tourist?"

Sheepishly you replied and casually asked Yoriichi, as he had introduced himself, for any recommendations on where to eat for lunch.

"Oh, you should try the diner down the road! It's family run - Mrs. Iguro is very sweet and they're very famous for their sakura mochi! My wife Uta and I frequent there, so just tell them I sent you."

That sounded good to you, so you thanked him along with your exchange of tokens, then asked for directions.

"It's right on front of where my brother works, Kibutsuji Enterprises. It's a huge office, you can't possibly miss it."

"Kibutsuji Enterprises...? I think I've heard of them, run by Kagaya Ubuyashiki right?"

"Oh, no, don't get confused, they're rival companies actually. The Ubuyashiki company has a wisteria as its logo."

A little confusing, but alright! You thanked him profusely once again and left, making your way through the busy streets to the diner.

You thanked your lucky stars you got there on one piece, for there was a motorbike zooming and booming through the crowds without a care for law or life just now as you were walking. Thankfully you had jumped back just in time before they could mow you down. From what you could see in the racing blur there appeared to be a green-haired young boy dressed in a crimson shirt with a manic smile on his face and a screaming white-haired girl clutching onto him for dear life driving. You hoped the two scarred faced policemen would catch them - no doubt, actually, seeing as they were both already brandishing guns and chasing after the two with furious speed .

"SHABANA, YOU'RE ABOUT TO GET FINED AGAIN!"

"I DON'T GIVE TWO FXXKS, SHINAZUGAWA!"

"Yeah, that's right, Onii-chan!"

You pass a school bus dropping off a bunch of tiny preschoolers, herded and fretted over by their hulking giant of a teacher. His wooden bead necklace matched yours, clacking together as he urged the kids to stay together. How cute... although such a big man being so kindly was a little unnerving.

"Oh? Want to try our signature Eternal Paradise perfume? We guarantee you'll have anyone falling for you with it!'

You ignore the blonde salesman leaning outside his store. He peered over his rainbow tinted sunglasses to catch you rolling your eyes and with a fake gasp of hurt he grabbed his chest. You snort and continue walking.

Mrs. Iguro was just as welcoming as Yoriichi had promised, although you were rather caught off guard by her bright pink and green hair and the fact she was carrying a whole stack of plates and balancing a baby at the same time.

"Hi!!! Welcome, do take a seat, what can I get you? Obanai's special for today is Western food - oh wait, silly me, you're not from around here, are you? I expect you'd want something local! Coming right up!"

You can't help but be buoyed by her bubbly nature, waiting patiently with a contented grin. You look around the diner and while the snake ornament at the counter catches your eye you find yourself studying the other customers instead.

A pair of identical twin boys eat quietly, with a younger boy with rosy cheeks noisily chatting with them; evidently a playdate of some sort.

"Don't forget, Kotetsu, you're paying because you lost the last shoji match."

"Aw, Tokito, you're such a seaweed head. I'm just a beginner!"

"Brother's a seaweed head, not me."

"HEY! WE LOOK THE SAME!"

You chuckle and your gaze strays to the other table, where a family of three ate their ramen. Their son seemed a little paler than normal and you couldn't help but overhear the mother's worrying.

"Darling Rui, don't eat so fast, you might choke and you just recovered!"

Embarrassed at your eavesdropping you duck your head and look at the other table where a group of rowdy students sit and snack.

"YOSHITERU AGATSUMA, HOW DARE YOU BURP LIKE THAT IN PUBLIC!"

"It was an accident, Toko! I can't control it!" Was the whining answer. "KANATA, DEFEND ME! OW! YOU'RE NOT A REAL FRIEND, KAMADO!"

"UMAI!"

Mrs. Iguro - or Mitsuri, as she had insisted you call her - arrived with towering plates and hell lot of topics to converse about. You happily indulged in their famous udon and her delighted talking while her husband glared at you from the window, although the threat was rather marred by the fact he was feeding a toddler at the same time.

You learnt Mitsuri - so cool! Her name was the exact one as the Love Pillar from the series! - had five kids (your head was still spinning over the fact) and that her hair had turned out that way from eating too much sakura mochi, which made you wonder what was happening to you after eating so much (favourite food) over the years.

After your meal you repeatedly thank Mitsuri for her meal and longingly promise to stop by again you leave for the last place on your agenda, Gyokko Art Studio.

The exhibitions mainly displayed brightly painted vases and scupltures; you had a lot of fun taking selfies with the gigantic koi fish statue and the one of a dozen blacksmiths forging swords. The studio also doubled as a pottery school, and when you enter you had immediately spotted the five rowdy teenage boys who were now arguing over a kiln and a broken vase at the back.

"KARAKU, YOU BROKE IT!"

"Hey, Sekido, chill! Zohakuten pushed me!"

"SHUT IT, WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS BLAMING ME? IS IT BECAUSE I'M THE YOUNGEST? AGEIST!

"Guys...quiet down....granddad is sleeping upstairs...."

"Nah, Aizetsu, I wanna see what happens!"

"Enough! All of you just clean that mess up! We have visitors! Your grandfather and I may be friends but I will never know what went wrong when he was raising all of you!"

Out of the back appeared the most flashy man you had ever met, eye catching with his coiffed purple hair and thick makeup, his scale tattoos catching your eye as he shooed the arguing brothers away. Eyes outlined with clashing green and red turned to you and he held out a stained hand. "Managi at your service! I run this humble store and I deeply apologize for the boys. Honestly, the Hantengu brothers are absolute menaces and I speak knowing the Shabana siblings."

Managi gave you a quick private tour of his studio, his arrogant but dramatic way of speech amusing you greatly, especially when he complained about a pair of twins who came in on the weekends, his two workers, children...well, Managi had an opinion on everything.

"Those Tokito whippersnappers have no appreciation for art! The only reason I haven't shooed them out with clay gluing their ill-mannered mouths shut is because their mother is a regular of mine."

"Haganezuka! Absolute concentration in what he does and a prodigy in vase making, but he is absolutely terrible with customer service! I usually leave that to Kanamori but we waste more time preventing Haganezuka from attacking customers than actually selling.

It was definitely a trip you'd like to remember, so you bought a small cup that had caught your eye and waved goodbye to Managi as you left for your final destination, your hotel.

You decide to take the longer way round to enjoy the picturesque walk beneath the sakura trees. Stopping to admire the pink fall you suddenly realize there's a couple beside you taking photos. Embarrassed that you might be unintentionally photo bombing, you move away, but a tap on your shoulder spins you back around.

"Hi, excuse me! Do you mind taking a picture of Hakuji and I? We tried taking a selfie but haha, the shot didn't cover the trees."

You oblige, secretly delighting in observing the young but loving couple interact with each other - especially when the punk-looking, tattoo-covered Hakuji was holding her so gently like that. You take their photo and after their grateful thanks you resumed making your way back.

Upon arriving at the lobby you were annoyed to say the least to find yourself stuck behind an irritatingly loud young man arguing with the poor receptionist. Of course, you couldn't actually see the receptionist's - Nakime, on her name tag, and that sounded rather familiar - face due to her long bangs but anyone would honestly be irritated with how obnoxiously he was talking.

"Sir, I have explained to you already, your booking was cancelled because you were late with your payment-"

"Oh come on, woman, it was just a day late!"

"You too are very late with your excuses."

The tall, tuxedoed man from the sofa had gotten up and was now towering over the younger man after politely excusing himself for getting in your way. "Miss, look for a room registered under Kokushibo. I suspected my fool of a secretary Kaigaku would make yet another mistake."

"HEY, LISTEN HERE, OLD MAN-"

"Kaigaku, I really don't have time for this, my wife is going to be back soon from taking the kids to the zoo. Thank you, miss, and excuse us."

"That guy was irritating you, wasn't he?" You remarked, accidentally blurting out your thoughts. "I mean, I wasn't eavesdropping!"

The receptionist smiled faintly. "Don't worry, I'm used to him. Your name?"

And it was only when you flopped down on your hotel bed and stared at the ceiling did it occur to you that a lot of people had seemed very familiar to you today.

Perhaps fiction and reality weren't that far apart after all.

[havinganidentitycrisis]

🪦💀 SOUL EATER X MONSTER HIGH 💀🪦

✖️✖️ DEATH TRIO ✖️✖️

☆ wanted to make some aside artwork for this very enjoyable, self indulgent AU, and naturally i just had to draw these three icons again. i literally had to, their designs were just begging to be drawn again.

☆ this one definitely took a hot minute to complete, but i'm so happy with the colour scheme and vibes of this piece, and i was just so excited to draw these three all together. i love them so much, mwah mwah mwah ♡

[mathewharris7703]

"A sun shines bright over Bluey's eyes as she finally wakes up from what seems to be a long nap. She rubbed her eyes, yawning, before her vision were unblurred and saw that instead of being inside of her house, she found herself lying on the beach filled with colourful palm trees and a sea overlooking a mountain. It looks so familar to her, like something that came from a fairytale that she heard before. However, it is oh so real. She could feel the sand and the breeze flowing through her body. It is one thing for sure, she isn't at home right now.

Dusting herself off, she walked to what she saw to be civilianisation and walked towards it, passing through the bushes to see some beachhouses and some stores in the distance. In her mind, she can go up to one of them and see if they can contact her family so she can be picked up and taken back to her home before they can worry. Seems simple enough. She continued to walk forward passing next to the various dogs in this holiday looking town. She was confused by the site of everything.

Bluey saw kids riding on bikes with no helmets; sitting on high seats. In one of the stores she observed, she saw tons of music cassettes and an arcade machine where a bunch of kids were playing and waiting to have a go, she even saw some of their tacky outfits that has their own names on it. She felt something was off, she felt the same familiarises from a previous story she was told about a wild place. She tried to remember but with her mind feeling slightly fogged, she couldn't for now. All she knows is that she has to contact her family. So she went inside of the shop, asking the keeper if he could contact someone for her, giving the name of her dad: Bandit.

The keeper's eyes were widen, laughing quite a bit before seeing the serious look on the young blue dog's face. Calming down a bit, the kind keeper pointed Bluey to the holiday house nearby to the shower blocks, past the grass, warning her to be careful of the prickles. She thanked the shopkeeper and ran off towards the block. It wasn't too far but she made it to the shower block and walked onto the grass to take the shortcut towards the holiday home that she was pointed towards to. Just then, she then sees a purpleish-blue frisbee disc coming her way and landing just right in front of her. She looked down with a thought and picked it up wondering where it came from.

"Oh Stripe..." Bluey heard a voice in the background of some older teen, sounding annoyed at someone. She raised an eyebrow, wondering who said that and why her uncle name was used. Maybe it was someone with the same name? "I got it!" She hears another voice, a more younger voice of that of a 10 year old with a gruff kind of voice. It was now more familar than ever to Bluey, like she heard that voice before. That was when it dawned on her.

She heard running footsteps coming towards her before sounds of grass scrattering as her thoughts came to her more. She was not just away from home, she's not even in her own time. The arcade machines, the cassettes, dogs not wearing any helmets and the place she was in. It all came to her in a sudden. She looked at the frisbee disc again and turned it around to see three names on it: Rad, Stripe and Bandit Heeler. She gasped, realizing it all before she looked straight up and saw a confused 10 year old dog, who looked very similar to Bluey.

The 10 year old dog was a boy with a blue fur colour scheme like Bluey, a black bushy tail at the end and a hair mullet. It was Bandit Heeler, Bluey's dad as a kid from the wild 80s.

The two dogs didn't spoke a single word. Bandit was confused over seeing a dog looking similar to him and Bluey was surprised in actually seeing her dad when he was a kid himself, more surprised that she is now in the 80s and not in her own time period. The silence went on for a bit before the young 10 year old asked if they had met before. This caused Bluey to chuckle feeling nervous and pretending that she's their second cousin from a distant family, that was visiting the holiday place but accidentally lost them. This caused Bandit to feel bad for Bluey and asked if she wants stay with him and his family in the meantime until her parents were found.

With no other place to go and no way to get back home to her time, she accepted the offer, giving the frisbee disc back to Bandit and the two walked off to the beach house. The two introduced themselves to each other, with Bandit finding Bluey to have a wonderful name." Art by Mochiskii Inspired from the Gravity Falls Timestuck AU

[total-drama-brainrot]

psycho!noah au, what do the aftermath cast think? conversely if they dont know/dont see the show (isnt it implied to be canon in wt that they watch the show or atleast can?), how do they react to newly eliminated cast members telling them?

and then, at whatever point he gets eliminated or just whenever the cast sees him again, how do they react with that new info?

The justification I have for Noah remaining stealthed under his "stoic cynic" persona pre-reveal in this AU is a little convoluted, but I do have one. Vaguely. Which I'll try to outline here for continuities' sake.

So, to clarify; Noah only competes in Island and World Tour, just like in canon. Most things happen just like canon, with the exception of Noah lasting a little longer in Island so he and Izzy have more time to be menaces (I have no idea how I'll shift the elimination order to justify keeping him around, though). Noah's still eliminated fairly early and ends up on the Playa, where the other elimination fodder welcome him with open arms, because in Island they're only given access to the raw camera footage instead of the final cut!

I imagine it'd be pretty hard for a Brand New Show to have the manpower of a full professional editing team that can plan and prosecute the final cut of a whole ~20 minute episode in only three days (in-universe), so to keep the losers as in the know as possible in real time, they're given access to the same live camera footage Chris and Chef have, just without the confessionals.

Since the confessionals are, uh. Toilets. And no one wants to have 24/7 access to toilet stall footage.

Noah only ever really drops his ruse in the confessional, or around Izzy, so none of the losers have gotten the opportunity to see the real him in action; even when he is visible on camera, it's only during the stolen moments he shares with Izzy outside of challenges, wherein the two plot and scheme together like Pinky and the Brain. Given that the majority of them don't even bother to watch the live footage unless there's a challenge actively happening (or something else otherwise noteworthy), his true nature goes undetected amongst them as well.

And then, in Action, the show's budget and workforce increases. Suddenly, the editing team is thrice the size of Island's, and they are capable of providing a final cut of each episode within the span of 24~72 hours, allowing the show to air quicker. Which has the added bonus of allowing everyone in the peanut gallery access to the yet-to-be-aired episodes (instead of the live footage), keeping them up to date with the competition whilst also giving them the same perspective as the audience itself. Including people's confessions.

It's a good thing Noah didn't compete in Action, then. His mask of indifference lives on.

Then there's a year-long break between seasons, wherein Noah works under Chris as his personal assistant. Yada yada yada, World Tour happens. He knows that the losers are going to see his confessions. So now Noah has to choose between maintaining his persona at the sake of losing out on toying with the greater audience, or carrying on as he did in Island at the cost of revealing his 'true colours' (which, in this case, still isn't the real Noah so much as an exaggeration of his more deranged tendencies, since Noah's still essentially performing for the cameras; just with a different role).

Of course he goes with option two. He's primarily motivated by his own amusement- that was the reason for his whole charade in the first place.

(Alright, clarification over, time to actually answer the question.)

So the peanut gallery and steadily increasing number of World Tour Rejects are horrified when, in Noah's scattering of confessions- as he doesn't confess very often, so when he does it's a treat to himself and the audience- he mostly waxes poetic about how exciting each near-death experience the cast go through is, and all of the different ways he so wanted to cause the others harm (either in general, or themed around the challenges), being so much more expressive than anyone's ever seen him (concerningly so, to the point of it breaching the uncanny valley) and giddy over the prospect of performing Acts Of Incredible Violence against his castmates.

They're living in that same fearful anticipation the wider audience experienced through his tenure in Island; waiting for Noah to Drop The Act and fulfil his promises of brutal sabotage, if only to finally put an end to the constant looming threat of his self control snapping. They're horrified bystanders of a car crash waiting to happen (at least, they think they are. Noah's not actually gonna do any of the things he's suggesting, probably, but keeping the audience on their toes is one of his favourite games!) and each episode he features in is a test of both their patience and their own sanity.

Because, could you imagine watching your friends interact and be friendly with someone who (you think) is out for their blood, entirely unaware of the danger? that's literally what they're experiencing.

And Noah, because he's a little shit who thinks he's funny (he is), sometimes goes so far as to fake-out the audience by rearing up attacks against his castmates during challenges, only to shoot the nearest camera a wry wink and a sly smile as he carries on with the actual task at hand, the others none-the-wiser.

It becomes so concerning, in fact, that every new arrival is immediately checked over for any signs of injuries or Noah's Influence and hastily given the rundown on The Situation. Which is, more often than not, met with the same incredulity as Sierra's claims- until they're shown various clips of Noah's confessions, or the fake-outs and otherwise unhinged looks he teases the cameras with.

-

For the second question; I have no idea. I'm still workshopping how people will react to Noah, and how Noah in turn will react to them. Post-reveal p!Noah will, eventually, disclose the fact that he's not as bloodthirsty as he portrays himself as, but until then it's anyone's guess as to how far he'll take the bit- and who could/will get hurt in the process.