#i got emotional while writing this lol

[fatedroses]

tfw youre so mad about your healer getting hurt under your watch that you turn into a dragon and consequently cant turn back for a bit. (or alternatively, shrinryu if he was a light party platform instead of a full party one.)

[willowser]

one thousand lonely stars, hiding in the cold—

android!shouto x reader

wc: 2k+

tags: angst, cyberpunk dystopian setting, financial vulnerability, explicit language, minor mention of sex work + sex workers, reader has strong/conflicting feelings about their situation, and — as always — the question of true humanity.

notes: what a great opportunity this was for me to continue exploring this idea !! tysm to @shoto-brainrot for not only giving me the chance, but also for being such a support and helping me to figure out all this commission jazz !! i so appreciate you, and i hope you enjoy it ! 🩷

original post

You’ve yet to find out what caused the damage to Shouto’s faceplate.

By the time you discovered him outside the credit exchange, he had been busted open and left for—whatever the equivalent of dead is for an android. A gaping hole in the left side of his disturbingly human face exposed his inner circuitry to the rain and you think that should have finished him off, truly, but—he's still kicking.��

Technology in the lower district is distinct. The most careful hands could have crafted him down in the best underground salvage yard and he still wouldn't have lasted half an hour with his face submerged in a shallow mud puddle like that. Wiring would have been shot, fuses blown.

Even if the Todoroki Corporation symbol on his wrist wasn't glowing, a blinking light in time with his would-be heart, you'd know what he is. You'd know he didn't belong down here, beneath the smog, in the industrial bones of your dying city.

And yet—

The left side of Shouto's face took the brunt of whatever blow he'd been dealt, and the scarring—if it's even called that?—has extended down over his cheekbone and backward, so violently that his ear had only barely been hanging on. Without the bandage you've wrapped him up in, he's quite a sight: half a tangled mess of wires and pins, a dull cyan light glowing in his orbital socket. With the wrapping, however, he’s almost exactly as he was meant to be: seamless.

The fate of his detached ear had been unknown. Until this morning.

It still works, much to your surprise, learning so only after wondering aloud the whereabouts of your data docket and hearing Shouto answer from across the apartment. Whoever put him together, you realize, took great care to make him durable, adamantine; the carbon nanotubes and polymer arrays that make up his cochlea were hardly affected by the assault.

Someone—or something—meant to harm him, and you know that for certain, now. Such wreckage couldn’t have happened naturally, not to a Skin-Puppet like him.

(When you look at him, you can’t help but consider his creator. How far he is from them and why. If the hands that made him and the hands that ruined him are the same, if he meant to leave or if he was cast out. You haven’t asked, but it’s odd that a machine could keep such information to himself—itself.)

(Given the brutality behind his mutilation, perhaps it’s best you don’t know the answers.)

Working tech from the richer district—KōkyōLuxuria, above the smog, built high into the clouds—could not only earn you enough to eat this week, but also to pay off all your debts to the League. Maybe even finance a decent apartment a few stories up.

And that’s why you’re here: racing through the slums in the rain, doing your damndest to make this sale before time runs out and you’re forced to find another buyer. Coming across a Hack with 1,640,254 credits in their docket is rare; who knows when you’ll find someone from the Trade in Musutafu sector again? You’re likely to sooner perish—either from your empty stomach or that broker that demanded payment two days ago.

Shouto, however, doesn’t see the urgency.

“Hello, handsome! Awful cold out tonight…care to warm me up?”

“Oh, hello.”

At the even, all-too-friendly lilt in his voice, you halt your sprint again, and spin around with a hiss. “Shouto!” You snap—but it comes too late; the Entertainers have struck like lightning, already scrambling his code. 

Out of habit, you’d pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head before leaving the apartment, and now the material separates his image from view—though you can easily imagine the pleasant expression showing on his face, illuminated in pink under the NanotechNymph advertisement.

At his easily captured interest, two women strut from the open doors of the low-lit den, all allure and swaying hips, mirage flickering beneath the heavy rain. They only meet him halfway—too far from the emanator deep within the club—and you dash forward to stop him from wordlessly accepting their offer. You can’t afford to owe anyone any more than you already do.

“Shouto,” you say again, mouth twisting when he looks at you simply. Despite the hood, his bandage grows dark from the rain and—despite his framework, worry fluxes in your stomach at the thought of him getting too wet. “We have to go.”

“Aww,” an Entertainer says to you, girlish pout pulling down her full lips. “You don’t want to come inside and play with us?”

“No,” you try not to look at them any longer, just in case that racks up a charge, too. Rock solid as he is, Shouto allows himself to be steered away, much to your relief. “Buzz off, holo-ham.”

“I’d like to play.” Shouto pipes up, peeking behind his shoulder when the girls squeal in excitement. “Can we come back once we’ve finished?”

“Not for that kind of play.” You put a hand on the back of his head and swivel it, all while shoving him down the sidewalk. You almost remark on how man-like he’s acting, before chasing the thought away.

“What other types of play are there?”

“Just—hush.” 

And he does, finally, when you loop your arm through his: a presumably innocent gesture that draws his attention fully back to you, as physical touch seems to do, with him. Beneath the material of the jacket, he feels natural, all muscle and bone, even leaning into you as if the weather has made him cold. You can feel him tracing your face with his one-eyed gaze—scanning you—and you pretend not to notice.

“Your heart rate has gone up. Have I made you angry?”

“Yes,” you tell him, though he hasn’t, really. “You and your curiosity are gonna make me late, and then we’ll be in some serious shit.”

He looks away then, down to the soaked pavement, a mimicry of disappointment. From the corner of your eye, you can see his manufactured Adam’s apple bob, and the muscle beneath your hand shifts.

“They seemed nice, the holograms.” He says, and you can’t help the soft snort such a comment merits. 

“Yeah, they’re nice, alright, until you can’t pay them.”

Shouto looks at you once again, stride threatening to falter until you tug him along. “Do you know them?”

You already know where he’s going with his question, and the corner of his lips quirk up when you cast him a filthy look. “Well, no, but—”

“Then how do you know—”

“I just do, alright?” You frown at him and he accepts it in full, studying once more. Whatever he finds in your expression amuses enough that he’s placated for the moment, though you know it won’t be long before he’s piping up again.

He does it often—studies you: body language, physiological changes, speech patterns, vocal cues. Human behavior he catalogs and streams to someone back at the Corporation headquarters, finding the miniscule details he can use against you, some day. Whatever the reason behind his damage, he is still a product of his evil overlords, made for reasons you can only imagine. 

This is what you tell yourself. 

As his fingers shift until their smooth pads are brushing the delicate veins in your wrists, as he tightens his arm around yours when another stranger on the streets knocks your shoulder, as he leans into the warmth of your humanness: this is what you tell yourself.

You’re overcome with a sense of loss and you don’t know why, and you clear the strange lump hardening in your throat. “Life lesson number six, Todoroki,” you murmur it closely to him, nearly into the fabric at his shoulder, though he doesn’t react to the name. “Everybody wants something from someone, holo-hams included.”

Shouto seems to process your words, for a moment, and his face is expressionless when you steal a peek up at him. Technicolor rains down on your both, swathing him in a wild array as advertisements dance on the buildings that tower above you, and again you think of his creator. The careful hands that crafted his smooth cheeks, the sharp line of his nose, the leanness of his body. You wonder if he’s ever been deemed precious.

Nearly all of the residents relegated to the lower districts owe the Todoroki Corporation in some way. Be it through credit loans or applied interest rates on subsidized housing or hidden costs and high premiums on mandatory, shit insurance—Enji Todoroki sits in the lap of KōkyōLuxuria, has probably never even stepped down from his pedestal. 

There’s no good reason a product of his could have found its way to you: this is what you tell yourself.

“And you want my ear.” Shouto says, looking back down at you as your shoulders tense. There isn’t a byte of hostility in his voice, but he must understand the sharpness to what he’s saying.

“Yes,” you admit with a nod, and some underlying, rogue streak of guilt has you pressing into him, as if your proximity could make up for your selfishness. “The sensors in your ear are gonna pay for our dinner tonight, handsome.”

His stride falters once more, and despite the time clock ticking in the back of your mind—you let him stop you. Maybe you want him to. Nothing ever goes unnoticed by him and you know that and maybe it’s cruel of you to say such a thing, to offer a comfort you can’t admit to, but Shouto looks down at you in all his ruination and—

Before he can say anything, a fat drop of water hits the tip of his perfectly manufactured nose. It makes him flinch, delayed, and the surprise he wears and the scrunch of his brow seem so—human, there before you. Shouto tilts his face to the dark, smoggy sky, and again that worry bites you, about too much water trickling into his core.

“We’re going to be late,” you repeat, though it’s much weaker than it was earlier. This is one those moments in which he overrides all your defenses, uploads something warm and hopeful and frightening into your chest cavity; you can’t tell if you want to run because you have to, for the sale—or if it’s a result of watching him now, haloed in neon.

He’s not one to ignore you, but he doesn’t respond, instead retracting his arm from your grip in order to push the hood back off his head. Raindrops soak into his bandage and the excess pools, dripping down over the line of his jaw and the column of his throat. So close to him, you can see the goosebumps that break out across his skin.

(You wonder if he’s ever been deemed precious. You wonder if he meant to leave, or if he was cast out. You wonder if he was created for continued corruption—or if someone out there wanted him to experience life, no matter how rusty.)

(You wonder if he feels as human as he looks. If he can blush, or if the soft skin below his ear can bruise.)

A small sound bubbles out of him, like a light laugh of disbelief. 

You found him face down in the rain; you’re not sure why it could cause such a reaction now, but he turns to eye the commercial playing behind him, before watching the path of a man walking by the two of you. Rain collects in his perfect cupid’s bow until he licks it away, and his hair slicks to the side when he pushes it out of his face. 

Shouto turns his attention back to you rather plainly, though the edges of his smile pull up a little higher than they usually do, enough that the apples of his cheeks round. He asks you, “What’s going to be for our dinner?” and the question is oddly worded, but each one is intentional. 

Maybe it’s not the rain that amuses him—and maybe it is. Maybe it really is that simple, that innocent. Maybe it’s the microtremors in your voice and your increased heart rate, all the little details that could never go unnoticed. 

There isn’t a way that this could end well: this is what you tell yourself.

You nod once and turn to face back the way you came, resigned, before looping your arm through his again. You trace the delicate veins on the inside of his wrist, careful not to cover the slow-blinking symbol embedded there, and you decide it doesn’t matter what his creator did or didn’t want. Because he has wants of his own, just like anyone.

“Okay,” you sigh, and when you slosh through the puddles collecting on the sidewalk, Shouto seems happy to follow along, this time. “I can probably sweet talk Toyomitsu into buying us some takoyaki, but you’re gonna have to play it cool.”

“Is this the kind of play you were talking about?”

That lilt has returned to his voice, even and friendly and amused.

“No,” you swat at him to hear his little huff of laughter, “now stop asking about that.”

Of course he doesn’t.

[spotaus]

New Age AU (The King's Bed)

Hi. That title sounds super dramatic but istg it's not. here's a Drabble which I've kinda been cooking because! Guess who needs to start writing the main story! (It's me!) This happens immediately following This Drabble which begins the main plot! (There's a bit of the same scene but from a different perspective at the start, my apologies! Picking up that strat from a certain pal of mine lol!)

Hello to @ancha-aus @papiliovolens and @mutzelputz ! (if these tags ever get old lemee know, but otherwise I'll keep trying to remember to add them!

No edits or beta-readings so, as per usual, good luck!

That wasn’t normal. Whatever had happened to the king was not normal. Everything had been tilted sideways in that moment. 

Cross had just been talking to Horror. He’d known what he’d stumbled on, the king was always encouraging him to break his rhythm and he was very aware that Horror always took it easy on him when they sparred. He had great self-control and an amazing handle on his strength. Cross couldn’t even take it as an insult, because he was honestly relieved he wasn’t coming out of trainings beat to a pulp. That hadn’t ever happened here, to any of the knights, no matter how dirty they claimed to fight. It gave Cross a change to evaluate himself. Ask the others what they thought of his work. Get honest answers. Horror was always receptive to the discussions, but Cross always wanted to act fast to ask, to get it out of the way. Training could stay in the training room, for once. 

He’d just finished hanging his armor up in the designated stand, only four were ever in use, his being tucked between Killer and Horror’s, when, past Horror’s hulking form, he noticed Dust shift and duck back towards the rest of the room. Unusual, normally he’d be quick to discard the set and move off to his room. 

The surprised sound from behind him finally convinced him to quiet and turn. Just soon enough to catch the way that Killer and the king were about halfway to the exit. To catch the way the king’s tendrils seemed to be propping him off the floor, how some were writhing, slinging around Killer. To catch how the king’s cyan eyelight disappeared behind Killer’s shoulder as he stumbled and collapsed. 

Killer caught him, of course, letting the weight of their king drag him down to the ground like a safety cushion. Killer never let any harm come to their king. This, though? The king had dropped like a sack of potatoes, and even as Killer held him, he seemed disoriented. Cross felt frozen as he stood and watched what he could of the scene, most of it being of Killer’s back. The king’s tendrils lashed sluggishly against the ground, tugged and slid away from the armor of the knight holding him. He seemed to shift, pushing himself up and turning his head to look around him, ignoring the increasingly worried prompting from Killer. My lord? My lord, what’s wrong? It was still stoic, but it was obvious his hackles were raised. This wasn’t normal. 

Dust had moved beyond the pair, standing at attention, his magic wafting over the room like a miasma. Dry and crackling, enough to make Cross wince at the familiar aura. It hadn’t hurt him on purpose, not since that first day. That was just it, though. Dust was searching for a threat. Some sort of enemy. Anything that might have done this to the king. 

“He’s not responding.” Killer voiced, though Cross couldn’t tell exactly to who. The king had sun down, now. His one socket was closed and- Was he trembling? Cross thought he could see the way the king was shaking in Killer’s grip.

“He’s losing magic.” Dust asserted, not turning around. 

It was hard to tell with Dust’s magic coating the room, but Cross could feel it too. That heavy, encompassing, energy that always followed the king? It was smaller. Less imposing. It seemed… It seemed like it was fading away, rapidly draining from some unseen leak. That shouldn’t happen. That’s not how magic worked. Unless, of course, a monster was bleeding out. A dying soul would flicker and fight, until it suddenly gave in, magic rushing out all at once as they started to dust. 

“He’s what?” Horror, from beside him, seemed to break out of the same confusion that had held Cross back. Kept his feet in place. “Is he injured?” He questioned, already taking a step towards Killer. 

“No, he’s not. Not that I can see.” Killer replied, though he didn’t turn to his fellow knights, his skull was trained down on Nightmare as he shook and hunkered with his eye closed. His tendrils were… His tendrils were melting. Sinking into the grouted brick of the training room and leaking away like little veins. Cross wasn’t sure Killer noticed. It made him feel sick. 

Cross watched as Horror stepped forward again a bit more quickly. 

“Let me take a look, Killer. Maybe it’s-” Horror was cut off by a quick snap from Killer.

“No. There’s no time. Go find Ccino.” It was an order. If it had been directed at him, Cross would’ve already been out of the door, but it was to Horror. Horror was a stubborn monster. A caring monster. Cross could see his expression shift as he stopped moving forward and stared at Killer’s back.

“This is bad, he needs a healer, not-”

“Horror, I told you. Go get Ccino! Now!” This time there was a bite in Killer’s words. One Cross wasn’t sure he’d ever heard from the senior knight. “ This isn’t some sort of test, I don’t know what this is. It can’t be good.” 

The burly skeleton in question grit his teeth. It was obvious to Cross he didn’t want to leave, but he shifted on his feet. His eyelight didn’t even meet Cross’ as he barrelled past him and out the door of the training room. 

That left him alone over on the other side of the room, watching things happen like a horrible accident. As Killer muttered something and Dust seemed to grow more stiff in his posture. Cross gripped the hilt of his sword nervously. What could he do? Killer didn’t want Horror’s help, he certainly wouldn’t want Cross’. He didn’t know much healing, and he couldn’t sense any threats, and-

“Shit.” Dust’s voice again. “His magic levels are dropping. Fast.” 

It was almost like a ripple of water being splashed into Cross’ system when it hit him. Just a moment after Dust’s words. That thick aura barrier dropped. Entirely. Whatever it was that made the king so imposing, so powerful, so familiar to be around. It all seemed to disappear. Cross rocked on his heels. Everything seemed too open, like he’d come up from under the surface of the water. 

“Cross, try to grab his magic.” The order rang in his ears a moment. 

Killer wanted him to do what? 

Everyone knew the king had never allowed Cross to attempt his control magic on him for long. It was supposedly for Cross’ safety, because the godlike magic was so dense and consuming. The king seemed to fear it would backfire not unlike Dust’s, only with a much more fatal result. Cross had respected the boundary placed, only gripping at the edges of the dark magic. Frankly, the king had been right, even the smallest of spells he attempted to control would require too much energy, and would slip away before he could do anything useful. This was an absurd thing for Killer to tell him to do!

“W-what! I- I shouldn’t-” Though he found, just like Horror, that Killer wasn’t looking for others opinions right now. 

“Just try. Now. Hold it in place and see if it stabilizes.” Killer demanded.

Cross knew better. This order did not make him feel good. The king was unresponsive, and technically Cross knew Killer was his superior, and he should be listening, but would the king be mad at him for trying to control his magic? Would-

“When the King and Ccino are unavailable, I’m in charge. Listen to me.” Killer sounded like he was getting frustrated. 

Cross could understand why, though. Their king lay shaking in Killer’s arms. The king lay dying. 

Cross moved closer by a few step, just close enough that he could see the king’s upper half. Killer had tucked the king’s skull into the space between his shoulder and chin, something so deeply gentle that Cross had little time to really process. Cross thrust his hands out, both sending out his wave of intent. He needed to grab tight to the source of that fast-fading magic. The one that he recognized so well and had lost track of in the air. 

Unlike usual, his magic cut through the tar-like body of his king and grasped at something settled in his ribcage. A tight, sticky, sickly orb of magic. When his magic brushed against it, the king’s magic seemed to solidify slightly, recoiling from his intrusion, and he snatched at it. 

Holding the magic looked like nothing. It felt like sticking his hands into a sopping wet puddle and trying to collect the wet dirt at the bottom, the pieces slipping through the space between his fingers, no matter how tightly he cupped beneath. So, he adjusted. Pulled his hands into a circle, entirely enclosing the magic and ensuring there was no escape. A cold feeling bit at his palms, radiating in the space, but it wasn’t as painful as he had expected. Though, he also doubted what he held was the entirety of the king’s magic. More likely, it was whatever was left after the big loss of energy, 

He was so focused on holding it in place, he had no clue how long he actually managed to hold it stable. It was still, there was a brief second where the familiar energy had returned. 

And just like that, it was gone. 

Cross still had hold of something, but it wasn’t the king’s magic. It was something else, tiny. Still familiar, sure, but the slime and gunk simply disappeared, like it had decided it had better things to do. He searched after it, but found it had gone, and there was no sign of it attached to the king’s soul. Distress filled him. Had he failed?

No time to linger on it. 

Cross jolted back a little as the king seemed to regain his senses. Cross watched as he shoved himself out of Killer’s hold… only to retch. He knew the feeling well, magic escaping in any way it knew well. His usually only did that after sustaining injury, though. As far as they knew, the king had never been hurt. Never was touched. 

Killer leaned forward, following the motion, and Cross was shell-shocked to find that the first knight refrained from touching their king as he gagged and lost more of that black goopy magic. It was dripping off of his bones now and.. Oh. What?

The king. The longer he heaved, the more of that magical substance sloughed off from his body. He wasn’t dusting. It was more like… he was shedding his skin? The goop pooled beneath him, slinking away into the crevices of the floor, and revealed bones. Bones. Pearly white, unmarred, clean bones. The king was a skeleton monster, they all knew that, but Cross had assumed he was a hybrid, maybe some sort of earth elemental in his ancestry. The monster who was crunched in on himself just inches from Killer was certainly a normal skeleton monster. 

And. he was small. It wasn’t obvious at first, but as Killer kept easing closer, Cross noticed. The king, or, he assumed the king, had a small skull. His tunic and cape nearly enveloped him. Sleeves hung baggy over his hands and his circlet had slipped over his skull to hang around his neck. Was this his true appearance? Was this their king?

It wasn’t until one socket blinked, a pale violet eyelight popping into view, that anyone spoke. 

“My king?” 

Even Killer seemed frazzled by the proceedings. Dust turned around now, and the three of them watched silent as the king lifted his skull and turned it. Slowly but surely. Until he met Killer’s gaze. Killer was looking at him so gently. The same way he looked at the kittens he’d show them in the stables. 

The king seemingly hardly noticed, because in a split second he whipped his head around to face Dust, only to lose his balance and topple over. 

“Woah, steady!” Killer was quick, and Cross was relieved to find he’d caught the king, pulling him closer and onto the steady platform of his lap again. 

He almost missed Killer asking their king a question. He almost missed the quiet squeak of a response which was promptly cut-off by the white-boned king. From this angle, Cross could see the other side of his skull. The king, before, had a cascade of magical energy obscuring the place where a second socket would have sat. Now, Cross could see the cracks of an old injury, trailing up from a dead socket into the top of his skull. An impact wound, by the looks of it. That didn’t set well.

The king still shook in Killer’s arms, but Dust seemed to have relaxed a bit. All of them could feel it, as Killer practically bundled the king up between his arms. The loss of magic had stopped. The king was stable. Weak, it felt like, but stable. A quick meeting of eyes from Cross to Dust revealed the truth of the matter. They’d need to wait for Ccino. That was all they could do. 

Killer had been right. Insanely right. 

Horror had returned with Ccino, and the poor guy had been frazzled and covered in flour, probably right in the middle of making desert for dinner. It looked like he was going to chew into someone, sounded like it too, and Cross backpedaled out of the way as the head of house made a b-line towards Killer where he was still dutifully on the floor. 

Horror stood just behind Cross, and everyone was there as witness to see Ccino’s expression entirely change. To something gentle and soft. An expression they each recognized, from brief moments of weakness, where Ccino would show them a kindness. They didn’t expect him to say the king’s name, or to see the small form of their leader scramble out of Killer’s protective hold and straight into Ccino’s awaiting arms. 

Cross almost felt uncomfortable, standing vigil to something he didn’t understand. The king, this… this boy? He curled into Ccino and began to cry. It felt like something he shouldn’t see, some private moment, some vulnerable piece of a secret he wasn’t aware of. 

The other knights, if they shared his discomfort, did nothing to show it. In fact, Dust took it upon himself to tell Ccino what had happened as they knew it. “Magic loss. A lot of it.” And Ccino just nodded and cradled the king’s skull closer into his shoulder. 

When the king passed out, it had only been a moment of distress before Ccino settled again and insisted the knights recount to him what exactly happened. Killer took the lead, he’d seen it all. 

Of course, there was a lot to worry about. Maybe he’d been in shock? Yeah, he could blame it on that. After all, their king seemed to be a child all of a sudden. But for some reason he couldn’t help but notice how the other knights were acting. Reacting. As Killer told Ccino the recap of the past few minutes, Cross noticed how Dust was tense. His white eyelights were moving subtly between their king and the rest of the room. His fists were balled at his sides, and his magic unreadable under the shadow of his hood. Meanwhile, beside him, Horror was only staring at the king with wide eyes. His good eyelight trained on the little form which would occasionally shiver against Ccino and be tucked closer into the arms holding him. And Killer. Killer was crouched exactly where he’d been, but Cross noticed that he leaned closer to Ccino, his arms a bit outstretched as though half-expecting to have the king returned to his arms. 

Cross felt awful. Standing there. 

The king’s magic had escaped him. Entirely evaded him. Maybe if he’d trained more, maybe if he’d been quicker to listen to Killer, he could’ve done something. Kept the magic in-tact. Maybe if he hadn’t reacted in the first place he wouldn’t have scared the magic off. Was this… No. No, the king had told him once. One person alone cannot be at fault for the whole. He imagined the king would be gently correcting him right about now if he were conscious. 

“Cross.” 

The soldier blinked as his name was spoken, and he realized that Ccino and Killer were both looking at him. Had they said his name sooner? Ccino’s face softened a bit. 

“Cross, go clean up. We’ll reconvene in the king’s quarters in an hour.” Ccino said.

“A-and the king?” He didn’t know why he questioned it. 

Killer rose to his feet, then. “I wasn’t planning on cleaning up anyways, I’ll be with him and Ccino. Just go about our schedule as normal. Word cannot spread until our lord wakes up and we can speak with him.” He seemed… unnerved. Cross wasn’t sure how he could tell. He just… could. 

Cross, against his better judgement, saluted and hesitantly moved away. It seemed Dust and Horror were already in motion. Had he spaced out? That was embarrassing. 

-

“Horror?” 

Cross muttered the other knight’s name. He’d cleaned up quickly, restless, and had rushed to the quarters of his bulky comrade. When he’d knocked, Horror had opened the door a bit. 

“Yeah? Come in.” Horror answered from somewhere inside.

Cross did just that, slipping through the doorway and shutting the door behind him. 

The inside of Horror’s room was warm. Cozy. Cross wasn’t sure how he kept it so warm, but he thought he’d heard something about magic-weaving from Ccino when he’d mentioned the warmth of a lent blanket. He hadn’t ever realized the comfort magic could bring in that capacity. Inside Horror’s room it was also very dark. Only a few scattered candles lit the space, and the soft orange glow was just enough to illuminate the furniture,a few cushioned chairs, a couch, a table, the wardrobe, and the large bed. The window had a curtain drawn over it, banishing outside light. 

Near the wardrobe, Cross spotted the shifting weight of his fellow knight, and the glow of his eyelight briefly came into view before bouncing away again. Cross drew toward the chairs and leaned his side against the high, sturdy back of one. 

“Something wrong?” Horror asked calmly. Seemed like he was rummaging through his clothes, and Cross noticed that the mass of fur which usually sat over his shoulders was absent. The tunic was missing too, his ribcage exposed. Cross tried not to pay it any mind. 

Something wrong. Of course something was wrong! 

“Our king, Horror. That- that doesn’t happen to normal monsters! Have you seen something like that before?” He whispered it, quietly. No one aside from them should’ve been in their wing of the castle, but then again, their king really shouldn’t have peeled like a banana either, so who knew what could happen next? 

Horror glanced back at Cross. It was a little bit of silence as Horror was seemingly formulating an answer. Cross was always willing to give him as much time as he needed to think, because he had good things to say. It was his own fault that his heel tapped against the floor, only muffled by the thick rug beneath his boots. 

“Mm. No, I haven’t.” He answered simply. “Then again, the king’s not like anything I ever knew. Just one more odd thing on the list.” 

Horror tugged a fresh tunic out of his wardrobe and tugged it over his shoulders, moving to ever-so-carefully clasp it in place around his front. Cross was quiet for a few breaths. Sometimes Horror would have more to say, but this time it seemed like he’d said his peace. He finished with his tunic and looked back to where Cross was stood. 

“It just doesn’t seem right. He was so small, and even Killer didn’t know what was going on! None of us could do anything!” He whispered again. 

At this, Horror turned and walked toward his bed. There at the foot, resting atop a chest, was his fur cape. He lifted it and shook it in the air a bit. Cross could see a bit of dust fly off in the low-light, but it was just as quickly clasped around Horror’s shoulders. 

“Killer hasn’t been here the longest. Ccino was here before all of us, remember?” Horror suggested. “He seems like he knows what he’s doing. We all look to him for a reason. I’m sure you’ll get answers when he wakes up.” 

This wasn’t what Cross wanted to hear! He was hoping for some wisdom, or insight into a secret previously barred from him. Horror had seemed all too calm when he saw the king in his state, Cross had figured he’d known something! Anything! 

“This is… weird. We’ll be fine, though. Promise.” Horror said finally. 

Cross sighed. No matter how desperately he was hoping this was all some sort of big practical joke, or that what he’d seen would make any sense to him at a reasonable pace, he knew that wasn’t the case now. His answers lay with the unconscious king and his most trusted follower, the head of the house. He guessed he’d just have to be patient. No matter how agonizing the wait for answers would be. 

-

The hour passed by rather quickly. 

Cross had made the choice to stay with Horror until they were meant to meet, and he hadn’t regretted the choice. He definitely preferred to have someone else nearby, it helped to keep him from spiralling.. Wondering what he did wrong. 

As usual, the wing was empty aside from them, and it wasn’t far to reach the private room of their king. The door was large and carved with the image of a tree, something Cross had grown very used to seeing ever since arriving here. Horror had knocked, and it was Killer who opened the door to let the both of them inside. 

The king’s room was large, though not much larger than the knights, and was decorated all in shades of cyan with that familiar red-ish wood that seemed to trail all the furniture of the royalty. The big desk in the king’s study was the same shade. The room was brighter than Horror’s, but darker than the torch-lit hall beyond. Sunlight beamed into the room through the two large windows and the balcony doors, providing the only light and casting heavy shadows on the far wall. 

To the left, where Horror started to move towards and Cross followed, was the king’s bed. It was large, it felt like it could probably fit half the council on its surface. Or, maybe it just felt so big because of its occupants. 

Near to the edge sat Ccino. His clothes seemed to have been loosely dusted off from the flour previously coating his front, but it seemed he hadn’t been able to do much else. He was sat with his back against the headboard and his legs partially covered by the heavy comforter of the royal bed. Plastered to his side, though, was the form of a young skeleton monster. The king. He still seemed unconscious as far as Cross could tell, but he was partially curled onto Ccino’s lap. His too-big cloak was wrapped around his sides, comforter tugged up as far as it would go without smothering him, and his skull exposed. Ccino was using one hand to press a cloth to the king’s forehead, while the other draped over the king’s back. The two of them seemed so small in the bed made for a god. 

Ccino didn’t acknowledge them, and Horror stopped a few paces short from the edge of the bed. Cross followed his example and stood tense and awaiting. Answers? Orders? He wasn’t exactly sure. 

It only took a few more minutes before Dust appeared in the door. Killer had been pacing circles into the floor at the foot of the bed, and Horror was seemingly entranced by the little monster the head of house was keeping close to his side. 

“It’s clear. Nobody.” Dust reported in a mutter, and Killer seemed to sigh in relief. He planted a hand on Dust’s shoulder, which the other didn’t shrug away. 

The both of them moved closer to the edge of the bed, and Killer was the one to round to Horror’s other side, closest to Ccino and the king. Only when they were all still was there any reaction from Ccino.

“Thank you, Dust.” Was what he said first. Dust must’ve been searching for hidden foes, saboteurs, assassins. Part of Cross worried that Ink might’ve been around, before he realized how irrational that idea really was. Dream would do a lot, but he wouldn’t risk Ink like that. Dust didn’t give any response.

“I am aware that this is a sudden change and I thank all four of your for your quick action to protect our king, on his behalf.” Ccino voiced then, his eyelights lingering on the small skeleton plastered to his side. Cross caught the way his thumb curved along the king’s forehead in a comforting motion. “It would be unfair and unwise to leave you in the dark about his state, so I’ll trust that our king was correct in appointing you as his most loyal and explain best I can.” 

It was only then that Ccino seemed to peel his eyes away from the small king and up to the surrounding knights. 

Cross realized, as Ccino skimmed over each of them, that. Well. He wasn’t technically a knight at all. A trainee a best, but no knight. He didn’t have a mask and had never been knighted. Was this a conversation not meant for him? 

The head of house’s eyelights lingered on Killer for a moment longer than the rest of them before he spoke. 

“Our king, Nightmare. This is the form he had on his thirteenth birthday, just over seven years ago when he attended his twin’s coronation. It’s the form he lost when he completed the ritual and became king as you all knew him, god-like and powerful.” Ccino’s voice was small. “I’m not sure how, but it seems that the magic which made him that way is gone, lost, and now he’s back to the way he was all those years ago.” 

There was a resounding silence in the aftermath of Ccino’s words.

“He never mentioned the possibility of something like this happening, I’m not sure it ever has.” Ccino said. “Despite that, on his behalf I request that we keep news of this change within this circle. I have no doubt that this is still our king and he will still perform his duties as needed when he adjusts to the change.” 

Cross was stunned. Their king… 

“You… said he’s only about 13?” Horror asked from beside Cross. He jumped a bit in surprise at the noise. 

Ccino gave a nod of agreement. Cross was pretty sure none of them missed how Ccino’s hold around the king’s back tightened. Just a bit. Protectively. 

“Young king.” Horror established what they were all thinking. “Is he wounded? I thought I saw…” Horror trailed off, but he gestured to his skull. He pointed to his uninjured side of his head, just above his empty socket. Right, that crack along the small king’s skull. Cross had caught a glimpse of it too when Killer was holding him. 

Ccino seemed all too tense at Horror’s question. That was when Cross noticed all of them had, at some point, gotten a bit closer. It seemed like they were looming. 

“You may take a look if you like, Horror. It doesn’t look like it’s harming him, but I believe it was a result of a blow to the head he took just after his coronation.” Ccino relented, and Horror stepped forward.

Ccino was gentle and honestly seemed practiced at gently shifting and nudging the king. Where he had been tucked into Ccino’s side and mostly hidden, Ccino managed, with a few small hums and leading of limbs, to twist the king so his skull was a bit more exposed and he lay instead with his back to Ccino, an arm now wrapped at his front. Horror waited patiently beside the bed, and only when Ccino had Nightmare in front of himself, practically fully in his lap, did he pull down the now oversized hood for Horror to see the wound. The king seemed to wince in his sleep at the loss of cover. 

It was as Horror looked, ever-so carefully pressing on the edges of the crack, and seeing the sleeping flinch of their ruler, that Cross realized just how much trust Ccino was putting into them. 

This room was full of killers, soldiers, ones who had chosen to follow a god-on-land. It was full of potential threats to the life of a wounded king. 

For just a moment, he was brought back to Ritten. The coup his brother had worked for years and years and years to bring to fruition. If XGaster had ever shown nearly an ounce of the vulnerability that the king was showing now, he would’ve been slaughtered on the spot. Many wanted his head, and now Cross realized, it was for good reason. Now, here, the king frail and asleep, only guarded by a single servant. This, if ever, would be the time to strike. To destroy the crown and claim the land as their own. No one in Orchard rivaled the strength of the knights. 

“It’s raw.” Horror’s report snapped Cross back to the present. The burly knight leaned away from Ccino and the king, but spoke to Ccino still. “Need to clean it, but it’ll hurt. Might want to wait till he wakes up.” He paused. “You said seven years ago? The wound?” 

Horror was always the gentlest of the knights, at least from what Cross had gleaned since arriving. Killer was full of sharp edges and had the same energy as a stray animal. Dust was always so closed off, and Cross knew better than anyone that he was skilled and attacked ruthlessly. Horror seemed so baffled by the wound. 

Ccino nodded in agreement with Horror’s question, and seemed put at ease as the other took another step back to stand tall again. 

“That’s. Someone struck him while he had the magic? Hard enough to hit bone?” Dust questioned quietly from his other side. He too sounded awestruck. 

Cross was aware that none of the knights were ever able to strike him during training, neither had Cross, but he assumed that was because the king had adapted to their fighting styles. Did this imply that the king had never been hit by any of their attacks dead-on? 

Ccino nodded almost sadly. “Tensions were high and both princes were distressed. Prince Dream lashed out and our king did not expect it.” 

Dream? That might’ve been the first time that Cross had heard utterance of the Prince’s name since he had arrived to the castle. He certainly hadn’t been forgotten, his traces still lingering about the place, but Cross felt like a bolt of ice slid down his spine at the mention of the one who had recklessly sent him here. 

Dream had told him the basics. How at the coronation his brother rushed in and took their mother’s soul from his hand. How Nightmare, the king, had eaten it in his place and been transformed into a beast unfamiliar. Had sent him away. For some reason, Cross had dismissed it as rumor, another piece of propaganda that Dream was telling to the hopeless saps that stumbled his way. But… This sounded like it would fit. A second half he didn’t readily share with the world, one where he was outraged at his twin and struck him. 

His mind wandered back to the tapestry. Nightmare’s image had just the same, round, perfectly childlike expression as the crown prince. No injury in sight. Did that imply there was a time where Nightmare had two eyelights? That the way his face had formed and obscured half his face was not a choice, but the result of a wound from his twin? Now that Cross thought about it, this young king did share the boyish features fading from Prince Dream’s face with age-

“That rat.” Killer spat all of a sudden. “I’d do worse than send my brother away if he bashed me over the skull like that.” He voiced. Ccino didn’t react to the comment, only gently shifting the cloth over the king’s skull. The king was looking a bit flushed, maybe from the magic loss? “Good thing you guys know better.” 

There was a scoff from Dust.

“So, our lord is alright. Just a bit… under the weather, we’ll say.” Killer continued, “Ccino and I discussed a little while you guys were cleaning up. Until he wakes up to give us new orders, we’re going to act business as usual. Training and rounds again tomorrow, tonight we’ll trade off guard shifts to keep watch and make sure there’s no one out to get our king or Ccino. Sound good?” 

He sounded jovial as he usually did, but Cross could see the tension held in the way he stood. Like he was waiting for an attack to go flying or to have to start running. Much like before when he had pulled rank, it wasn’t exactly a question. 

Horror nodded beside him. Dust, on his other side, shifted a bit. 

“No problems. Just.” He paused a moment to think. “If Ccino stays.” He gestured to the door. Right , of course, Ccino was the head of house. It would be suspicious if the king fell ill and his servant when missing. Along with that, he was pretty sure Ccino kept this castle running practically by himself. All the servants and guards would probably be lost without his coordination. 

“Don’t worry about that.” Ccino spoke up, “I trust the staff to be capable in my absence, and if I’m really needed I’ll ensure our king is in safe hands before handling any troubles.” 

Dust nodded then, seemingly satisfied. 

The focus then, he realized, fell to him. 

Cross stared blankly at Killer for a moment, before jolting a little. 

“Oh! I-” He stammered for a second before his mouth snapped shut. For some reason, in this exact moment, the past months he’d spent in the presence of these people all left his mind. Was he meant to be speaking? Did this apply to him? He hadn’t even realized he was part of the assembled group for a moment. Maybe it was all the years of simply standing around during important conversations, invisible and ignored. Maybe he was just spooked by Killer’s intense gaze. The weight of a choice. “I… Didn’t realize you were asking me, too.” He answered dumbly.

Killer blinked once. “Of course I am. If our king didn’t trust you to be included in conversations like this you would’ve been out of the castle months ago. So?” 

Cross glanced back to the king. He was still resting. He’d shifted so his face fell towards Ccino’s chest and the head of house had tugged the comforter up and around his lap as far as it would go. 

This was not like last time. There is no evil tyrant. There is no worthy resistance. This was not blind devotion. 

“Then yes. That sounds like the most logical plan. I will partake in whatever ways I can.” 

Cross felt pride well up in his chest with his agreement, an oath if only to himself that he would see this through of his own volition. Killer seemed much less excited by the news and gave an easy nod before looking to Ccino again. 

“Well then what are our plans for tonight, O' mighty Head of House?” Killer questioned. 

The tone shift seemed jarring to Cross, but the others didn’t bat an eye. 

Ccino took a deep breath before speaking. Four knights all awaiting his instructions. “Your first move should be to eat. I was done with all of dinner aside from the dessert, I’ll have to ask for your forgiveness on that front.” He said, “I’d like one of you to remain here with the king, have one of the servants bring a meal for whoever stays and one for the prince. The rest of you focus on maintaining normalcy. In the morning, I will go about rescheduling meetings and arranging for visits to be delayed.” His voice seemed to peter out the longer he went on, until silence followed in his wake. 

“Dust, you should stay for first shift.” Killer suggested, and the other knight nodded in agreement. “I’ll go clean up and bring food your way. I can take the shift into the morning so that Horror and Cross can get some rest.” 

Cross glanced to Killer at the mention of his name, but the knight was un-subtly watching the royal bed. Ccino with their king tucked tight against him still. For a second, Cross wondered how that must’ve been for him. The king suddenly growing small in his arms? Killer had been quick to cradle him after all.

Horror hummed at his side, and Cross noticed him back away. As much as a part of him desperately wanted to stay, to keep watch, to know anything more… Killer had spoken. Dust moved forward, hoisting himself up a bit to sit on a chest towards the foot of the bed. His vigil. Meanwhile Killer dragged his gaze away from the party on the bed and focused in on Cross and Horror, nearly ushering them out himself. 

This was a whirlwind, but Cross was not the victim. Just someone swept along. It’d be fine. The first hurdle would be dinner, and he could do dinner. 

-

Are you eating with the others? That trainee still had a little while to go before he’d be a knight, Killer was sure of it. Not that he didn’t have amazing skills, he just… needed to be a little more observant. 

No, save my seat still. I just know Ccino forgets to eat when he’s working on a project. He can’t go running on empty. Killer had shot back in the confines of the little personal kitchen that Ccino always used for the king’s meals. True to word their food was complete, minus some dough that had gone a bit flat and shapeless on the far counter, surrounded by flour powder. Normally they’d be served by the man himself, but they were all adults, they knew how to serve their own food. 

Killer had kicked the door open with his foot, moving through the doorway with ease and navigating into the halls. Balanced on his arms were three plates of nice warm chicken and various vegetables. Were those carrots? Sick.

He didn’t think much of it as he passed by servants and guards. They all knew better than to ask him what he was doing, and he knew that none of them were threats. Dust would’ve sniffed out a rat in the first minute of his search, let alone the hour Killer had given him. No threats were left inside if there ever was one in the first place.

He came to the ornate door and kicked his heel against it three times. It swung open revealing his shorter fellow-knight. His hood was still up, though Killer could see his eyelights were calm and white. No danger, no harm, but also probably no developments either. 

“I bring gifts! In the form of a warm meal I didn’t make!” He jokingly announced in a stage-whisper as he slipped in past Dust. 

Just as he expected, Nightmare was still curled up into Ccino’s side, though he’d once again been moved to lay more on the mattress than on Ccino’s dirty uniform and chest. Now, Ccino’s one hand was pinned by the sleeping king, gripped in his own, little, boney hands. 

Somewhere behind him the door closed, and Dust slipped past him with a quiet ‘thanks’. With his shape went one of the plates, taken seamlessly from his bicep where he’d carefully been keeping it steady. Dust didn’t bother with much else, taking up his position on the chest once again. If Killer didn’t know better, he would’ve joked about how he could totally fit Dust inside it. …He was saving that one for later. 

For now, he moved towards the bed again. Ccino watched him approach with a hesitancy, but it was not the same awkward and reluctantly docile stare he’d grown to know over the years. Ccino had never really wanted Killer here, he was a criminal and the king fresh to his rule, but he had welcomed Killer when he realized that Killer was sticking around. Ccino might not have known it, but Killer wanted nothing more than to bridge the gap imposed between them. He tried not to get his hopes up that this might have been another of many other little baby steps they’d taken over the years. 

Killer moved closer and set one of the meals on the bedside table just near Ccino’s side. “He’s still out cold, then?” Killer asked the obvious, and Ccino hummed in agreement. His free hand gently caressed Nightmare’s skull, and the pearl-white bones shifted comfortably under the contact. 

Something about this felt all too familiar. Those first days, back when Killer had arrived. When he’d spot the king crumble under his own weight and bare a weakness. It had always been to Ccino. In the nights he couldn’t sleep, he’d sometimes find the king lingering in his study, Ccino not far off on a couch. And then, of course, the documents. Ccino had cared for the king since he was a babybones. 13 years worth of helping and watching him grow. If it hadn’t been obvious to Killer before, it had to be now. How easily Nightmare slept at Ccino’s side, how Ccino had been so receptive to the change. How he had dropped everything to care for this now young king. 

“Are you eating with us after all?” Ccino questioned. Hopefully he hadn’t been staring, that would be awkward. He’d embarrassed himself enough times in front of the other that it probably wouldn’t matter, but he had to keep his composure now of all times. 

He glanced to the plate still in his hand. He scoffed. “As much as I’d love to, four’s a crowd.” He claimed, “This is for you. I figured I’d take up the sacred duty of making sure you remember to eat for yourself, too. At least until our Lord is awake enough to tempt you himself.” 

He gracefully bowed and firmly pressed the plate into Ccino’s open lap. A playful look revealed that Ccino was staring at the food a bit baffled. He opened his mouth to say something, probably to tell him off, but apparently decided against it.

Ccino shifted the plate to his right thigh, probably so he didn’t risk getting any on a sleeping Nightmare. He stared at it a second, before he nodded very subtly to himself.

“Thank you, Killer.” Was all he said. 

Killer grinned wide and nodded.

His spin back to the door left him double-glancing at Dust, but the other gave him a thumb’s up. “Enjoy the meal you guys, I heard the best cook this side of the sea made it.” He teased and slipped out before he could be scolded for the bad joke. 

He would stay, he would love to stay, but it wouldn’t be good. Dust was a lot more attuned to the magic in the air. He could sense threats and react a lot more quickly. Besides, Killer didn’t want to make Ccino uncomfortable. Sure, they were overcoming differences, but Ccino had always been the king’s left-hand man while Killer was his right. Ccino made sure he was calm, and happy, and feeling alright and taking care of himself. Killer was handling his dirty business, warding off harm and threats, acting as his voice. In a room where Nightmare commanded all, they could work like they had for the past seven years. A well oiled machine that had its own parts. This? This was emotional work. Killer hadn’t missed how the king had been shaking and trembling in his arms, tense and worried. The king had ripped away from him the moment Ccino had spoken. Of course, Killer couldn’t really blame him for that, if Ccino said his name like that he might go running too. Point was, Killer knew better than to cross that line. He’d defended Nightmare. Now it was time to give Ccino some time to himself… figuratively. 

He figured Dust would be invested and alert, but unlike Killer he wouldn’t be hovering, and fidgeting, and tossing his knife in the air, or pacing circles into the floor. He wouldn’t be internally cooing over the king’s soft baby features or trying to sneak closer just to see him. Make sure he was really, truly alright. 

Killer needed time to cool off. To come to terms with the current state of things. When he came back for his morning shift he was sure he’d be in a better state. Not worrying so much over how wrong it felt when Nightmare had shuddered and gone limp. Yeah. He could be normal about that. He just had to give it a few hours.

[martyrbat]

a female character isn't allowed to be a character that is also female. she isn't allowed her own agency and complex motives nor any deeper emotions without it being centered around the male cast around her or a child. even if she's not a mother, she remains one because she could always potentially become a mother or she is the ‘mom character’ to the men/children around her and her actions MUST reflect that. if they don't, she's labeled a selfish bitch. if she is an (actual) mother than that's all she is—she isnt allowed deeper characterization or discussion because thats all she'll ever be, that's all she was made to be. male characters are allowed to be fathers (lireral or in the sense of providing for the people around them) with deeper feelings but a mother? never a mother.

[artsy-dreamer]

So, I was checking out Rin’s page in the Ultra Analysis book 

And I came across THIS: 

I am absolutely reeling at how cute this interaction is??? 🥺🥺🥺🥺 

I can just imagine the context of how it might have happened… 

Rin is in line at a hero meet and greet, tightly clutching an autograph book and wearing his best piece of hero merch, trembling with anticipation as he waits to meet his favorite hero, Ryukyu 

On the outside, he keeps his usual composure (or most of it, anyway) but on the inside, his heart pounds harder with every step he takes towards the front of the line 

And finally, he comes face to face with Ryukyu 

They exchange greetings, Rin muttering a quiet “ni hao” as he processes that oh my gosh I’m talking to my favorite hero right now- 

And after Ryukyu has signed Rin’s autograph book and returned it to him, Rin tries to muster up the words to tell her how much he admires her, how much she’s inspired him in his own journey to become a hero, inspired him to wholeheartedly embrace his quirk and push it to its limits… 

But all that comes out is: 

“Your… your quirk is so cool, ma’am…”

Aiyah! What am I, five? That sounded so lame! 

He quickly perks up when Ryukyu smiles warmly and thanks him, then asks him about his own quirk 

Rin’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree, and he quickly goes into detail explaining how his quirk works and his special moves inspired by her, barely able to contain his excitement 

“You can shoot your own scales? Incredible!” 

Rin’s heart nearly stops- did he hear that right? 

This hero that he admires so much 

This powerful hero in the top 10 

With the coolest quirk he’s ever seen in his life 

Thinks HIS quirk is incredible?? 

HIS??? 

QUIRK???? 

It takes every last bit of restraint Rin has not to break down in happy tears right then and there 

Instead, he sincerely thanks her, his voice a bit wobbly in spite of himself, and when they pose for a picture together, Rin’s smile is bright enough to blind a room 

He leaves the meet and greet walking on air and still smiling brightly, hugging his autograph book close to his chest 

Today was a treasured memory that he won’t be forgetting any time soon

[lenievi]

funny thing about early season 1 is that you can sometimes read more emotions on Spock’s face than on McCoy’s lol

[aviisick13]

Drew a thing on how it felt on chapter 4 (some pics are taken from the BDP site)

[transhitman]

JAY IS DONE. I haven't done a finished piece like this in forever and I forgot how long it takes LOL. Begging you on my hands and knees to zoom in on these.

James "Jay" "The Hammer" Hammer is an earth-genasi astral self monk (any pronouns). Their elemental heritage isn't super pronounced since they're a couple generations down from their dao ancestor. Though the opal texture on their teeth, eyes, nails, and palm of their hands was always present, the fact that their insides are multicolored only became unmissably apparent after they developed eczema as a child. It grew in severity in conjunction with her acne later on. Her body contains a supernaturally high amount of silica, which is what her wounds eventually scab over with after the normal blood coagulates. Jay is currently seeking to transcend the material form via a perfect workout routine and nutrition plan, and travels around in search of a more complete and informed worldview. That specific path to enlightenment is a bit unorthodox, but beyond that Jay is an extremely normal guy tbh.

His astral self is based on a design that appears in the music video film Beyond the Mind's Eye, except way beefier lol. As the color wheels on the mask turn, Jay's eyes change to match whichever color on the wheel is furthest to the front. I'll design the body at some point but I don't get that until way later. And I am very tired lol.

[invinciblerodent]

OC Patron Saint Quiz

Tagged by @sketchyelvenasss for Iona - thank you love, I really like things like this too ❤️

Tagging @starfightrpilot if you feel up for it, for one of them plucky wizard girls I so love? ❤️

[And if i might ramble for a bit about Themes and such, this seems... very fitting, actually. Like, looking at the results, it honestly feels almost inevitable that she'd get this one, lol.]

Blood has always been something of a core theme in Iona's story. A lot of her imagery and general persona is meant to be very visceral, guided by blood, and in some ways, it's always all coming back to it: some elements are more surface-level (like the red of her hair being explicitly meant to resemble blood when stuck to her skin), but also a lot of her background is based around the rejection- and then the embracing of a legacy of blood.

.... Which makes her sound a lot like a Dark Urge character even though she's not, lol- what I mean lives more in the ballpark of the immortality and continued chain of existence of an elven soul, the magic continuing to be passed down through her bloodline, it just being matrilineal in its nature (since femininity in general is often conventionally associated with blood), her whole past being about denying and hiding what her blood is capable of... It's kind of a contrast of living in opposition to her nature vs. indulging in it, not to mention how heartbeats, warmth, and the consuming of blood, of life, all feature heavily as a theme in her most important relationship too.

I sometimes like to kinda "reduce" her almost to her cunning and wit because I find it fun, I like her being my weasel-woman too morally slippery to be caught by the consequences of her actions, but I do also love that beneath that veneer, she's just.... ferociously and defiantly alive, and learning what that means for herself.

Like, I really like the thought that she wears masks and plays roles and lies effortlessly, but if you cut into her, at her core... there is always going to be blood. She is blood, and fire, and force, and defiance, and yearning, and teeth, passion, life.

It's fitting that one of the first moments of genuine authenticity in her adult life was someone tasting her blood, and that the one most drawn to her would be an undead man seeking to feed off that heat in her, lol.

[kerryweaverlesbian]

You legit have the best spn takes I love the patheticness of Rowena but never actually thought too much about it but your post makes me appreciate that part of her sm

Thank you! People are so nice to me 🥹 she needs to be a little scheming worm who gets maybe two thirds of what she wants maximum. She needs a project. She would be bored of running Hell with no conflict or further goals within about a week. Rowena has wanted the IDEA of running Hell for a long time but from what we've seen of what being monarch of Hell actually IS with Crowley (or, what he made it into) she's going to be bored out of her skull. She looked bored in the episode. She's a schemer!! Let her scheme! It's like if Chandler from FRIENDS just stopped telling jokes forever as his final position on the show and all his (titular) friends agreed it was good for him. Or if Winston from New Girl put down his racoon costume and said "I'm going to become an ivestment banker" and did it with no issues and no silliness that was his endgame. It doesn't feel right.

Anyway!!!!! Pathetic Rowena is so good. When she was trying to build a coven and all the witches were like. Have you forgotten that you're a complete loser??? Or when she "reconnects" with Crowley as his untrustworthy advisor and gives the most obviously scheming bad advice and the only reason he lets her get away with it is because she's his mother and he pities her a little. Or when she manages to get in good with Amara but Amara's like hm. You kind of suck huh. like that's golden.

I would have had, for her final appearance as "queen of hell", she does her whole big grand entrance being carried around by demons (loved that for her), giving (slightly quicker) lofty advice* about working on relationships (because that IS necessary for the theme of the episode) and getting her demons to look for Michael. And THEN after they get the news that he's not in Hell, have one of her demon aides warn her that the actual queen is coming so she's gotta go and the boys are like. The who. What. Meanwhile Rowena is scrambling to get her things and is like 'aye well maybe introducing myself as queen was a tad preemptive, but I will be. Good luck boys, best get out of here sharpish if you want to keep yer heads ❤️" and a specific goodbye to Sam with a kiss on the cheek since she was. His best friend???? and they don't presently have A Moment in the episode. It wouldn't take much. It would also solve the weird place of them being best friends with the queen of hell where - presumably - eternal torture is still happening. Easier to handwave if the position of power is incredibly tenuous like Crowley's was always depicted as.

To conclude. Kiss kiss kiss 💋

*not to be confused with giving Lofty advice, a character from BBC Casualty who crossed over to BBC Holby City and whom I hate with the fire of a million suns.

[candycryptids]

Got tagged by @cafe-melanion for… (very short drumroll I’m excite!)

5 Character Associations !!

(Featuring Mochiie this time OwO;)

Emotions

Compassion

Stubborn

Selfless

Pensive

Protective

Colors

Crimson

Goldenrod

Emerald

Burnt Umber

Black

Scents

Leather

Garam Masala (Curry Spice)

Campfire Smoke

Gooseberry

Fresh cut hay

Objects

Chocobo Saddle (meticulously maintained)

Wooden bowl + spoon (old, stained from use )

Krakka Roots

Satchel (full of imported spices)

Comb (ornate carved wood, features Sun and Moon motifs)

Body Language

Touching/finger combing his hair when he’s thinking (strategizing)

Touching his fingers to the meat of his palm in rhythm (also while thinking, this time about numbers or songs)

Holding (someone’s) wrist/shoulder/cheek/back of neck (based on familiarity) while talking

Forehead touches as a form of affection

Biting his nails/pulling his tail fur (Anxiety/dread)

Aesthetics

Multiple cups of gently steaming tea with creamer arranged around a table

Constellations, suns, moons, tarot

Silky fabric that flows like water in shimmering jewel tones

Children with wooden swords playing at knights and heroes together

The rush of wind against the body while running full gallop on Chocobo or horse back, the heart sings

(Bonus) The crisp thwang noise of an arrow being released, dripping blood, red claws, and bared teeth.

(no pressure!) but I taaag..

@mrlarkstin @avirael and… …. 🤔 (realizing I don’t remember many xiv blogs off the top of my head who haven’t done this before u h) Anyone else who’s wanting to do some associations for their WoL/OC’s >:’0

[theultracharmingladynoire]

something something about how the rings not just symbolised Yuuri and Victor's bond and was not just an omamori for them something something Victor was the first person Yuuri wanted to hold on to and share his dreams with and depend on after fighting for so long ALONE something something the rings symbolising this exact same thing something something about how Yuuri's arc still is wonderful even when he didn't win the gold because he finally learnt to actually depend on people, share his dreams and aims with them and not fight alone which is something he struggles with for the whole show

[beeapocalypse]

back on the arduous track to figure out how to write again after months of nothing

[after-nine-at-the-oasis]

Finished Season 1 of my HSMTMTS rewatch and I am having FEELINGS

Honestly I just love season 1. Like I adore all the seasons obviously, for their own reasons, but there's just something about season 1. Not only the first season but the first one I saw, and it's just so special. I remember looking at the tag after the season, before I even had a Tumblr account, and freaking out over the deleted scenes. And laughing over it with my sister but still being actually excited for the next episode to come out. I know I can always rewatch it, and the rest of the show, but it's still sad knowing we'll never get another curtain call, another choosical, another school dance, another what team, and another of every other amazing moment after next week.

I'm just not ready to let them go :'/

[respondedinkind]

" you don't scare me. " / from Carol Marcus over at @daretr3ks

The way she speaks those words out into the air between them - you don't scare me - causes a hint of amusement to bubble up behind a firm sternum; Khan's clear gaze, which had briefly averted seconds ago, trails back to Carol's own about a second later, accompanied by a hint of a knitted brow and a quiet exhale of breath.

---Assessing her. Wondering. Contemplating, even.

"As long as you don't give me a reason to scare you, Miss Marcus..." That name leaves a bitter taste at the back of Khan's tongue, an oily residue sticking to the roof of his mouth, "...I don't see a reason for why I would attempt to do that."

Even though much people claim he is - Khan actually is not a monster, after all. He can be, if he needs to, but... he'd prefer to not be one, for the matter.

"And since you certainly don't scare me either, we seem to be in agreement here."

Nimble fingers reach for one of the two freshly poured cups of coffee... and then he holds it out for the lady to take, offering it to her.

@daretr3ks

[rainerghost]

Vent

When someone manages to unintentionally press your buttons while you're still feeling kinda emotionally tender because something during class reminded you of a thing and now you feel angry, guilty and godawful in general because of it