#i mourn my old self so hard

[skyllion-uwu]

I oscillate between "yayyyyy I will be able to move on and heal to be even better and happier than before!!" and "What the fuck happened to me that I fell so hard. I'll never be back to who I was before."

The entire time I'm listening to furry electronic music

[enden-k]

congrats on ur abyss run! i didnt even know they gave u a little message at the end lol (perpetualy 27 star-er here)

im rlly curious tho, if u dont mind me asking how long did it take?

oh ye it always gives this message when you went through all floors and continue

uhh not too long, first floors are always very fast to do if youre putting effort into doing it quick. i was streaming and fooling around a little, redid one floor twice and enjoyed free haitham whump three times so it was like an hour-ish doing all.

(in the first years i was always very try hard with abyss but rn i just feel tired and old LMFAO so im very chill with it and rlly just mess around and do the barest minimum. basically how i live my life ig)

[boyslit]

free PSA for the 2% of you writing into the AO3 box: drafts are only kept for a month before AO3 deletes them automatically and you should also keep a backup of your work somewhere else like a physical hard drive, USB drive or cloud service. hell, use all 3. just in case.

okay so I was talking with a friend about writing, and I was about to infodump about an au of mine over discord to them because I can't actually write out the ideas rn since ao3 is dOWN-

and they freaked out??? Apparently I'm weird for writing my works *in* ao3? Like I know people usually write in docs or something but I only feel motivated to write when I'm in the ao3 textbox HJLGFJGDH

So now I have a question for fellow writers on ao3:

[natailiatulls07]

could i request some leclerc!reader and so comfort with charles please

It's okay

Arthur Leclerc Charles Leclerc Lorenzo Leclerc Pascale Leclerc & Leclerc!reader

Summary - In order to find her way in life, Y/n Leclerc runs away in the dead of night only leaving a note

Warning - neglection, running away

-

Growing up with three older brothers and two of such competing in karting competions, life was hard for Y/n Leclerc. Pascale and Hervé invested lots of their money and energy into Arthur and Charles.

When she was seven, Y/n's interest in ballet started. The young girl had her heart set on being a professional ballerina. So thats what she did. Y/n convince Pascale to enrol her in ballet class.

From then on, she became more and more talented. Quickly becoming the top of class. Yet when recitals came round and she was the lead, the only person who came to watch was Lorenzo.

The rest of the family were out at karting competitions cheering on Charles and Arthur. Yes they would apolgise to Y/n for their absence but to her it never really felt quite right.

-

Y/n was 14 years old, life got harder. Karting turned to formula 2 and E. Lorenzo now building his own life, he moved out of the house.

And the worst of all, Hervé Leclerc passed away. This meant attention was limited, Pascale was busy. She had her salon to run, she was running around supporting the two boys racing and she was mourning the lose of her partner.

As much as he wanted to support Y/n during her recitals, Lorenzos life became busier and he could no longer come along each recital. She felt as though no one her family could see her or her talent.

So what did she do? Y/n collected enough money to enrol herself into a ballet academy. In the dead of night she packed just enough and left without a sound. Of course she couldn't leave without leaving a note, she loved her family.

Dear Maman, Charlie and Arthur, I love you all dearly, please don't worry about me. I will be gone for a while, Lo Lo knows where I will be but please do not pester him. Thank you for everything and more Love from your dearest daughter, Y/n xx

-

Y/n Leclerc was a sensation, one of the best of her age. She was a household name, even if you weren't that well educated on ballet you knew who this elegant women was.

However, it was rare for the ballerina to speak publicily, Espercially as many would ask of her surname and family relations. And it wasn't hard to understand why.

"So Y/n please tell me, any relation to formula one driver Charles Leclerc?"

"No comment, thank you"

Charles, Arthur, Pascale and Lorenzo watched on, following her social media through burner accounts not wanting to make this harder for Y/n.

They could see how she spent most of her time dancing, spending time to herself or getting cocktails with friends she made along the way.

~

yourusername

Week in my life...

Spending time alone, you must prioritize self care

Fruit cocktails with friends, the key to my heart

Looking after the minis, they're the cutest little things

Lounging on my sofa after a long day of rehearsals, it is tiring!

Liked by cl_2648749 and 146,283 others

comments are limited

username Gorg gorg girlie

cl_2648749 <3

username I so wanna be her friend omfggg

~

But she wasn't stupid, Y/n knew who those burner accounts were. Every single post, the burner accounts were there front and center. She felt their eyes on her, it was silly really but she constantly felt like they were watching her.

However, Y/n felt warm with that in mind. Like they were finally noticing her for the first time. No longer was she fighting for the attension with her two older brothers. But was it just online? If she were to go back, would it go back to how it was before.

Plus she had built up a life on ballet. Y/n made a family with her friends. Everyone knew her, fuck she is a household name hiding her Leclerc identity from the world, even herself.

-

"I think it's a good idea! It's been long overdue in my opinion"

"No. We need to work to her choices, not make her uncomfortable."

"Okay when?!" Charles throws his arms in the air with frustration. He was pacing in front of the television; Arthur, Pascale and Lorenzo all sat on the sofa watching him.

The topic of Y/n came up in passing by Arthur and it became much more. Charles was fighting, he was desperate to get his dear little sister back home. However Lorenzo, knowing how Y/n felt about everything, was fighting back and trying to prioritize her feelings.

The constant pacing stopped abruptly, and Charles turned to look at Lorenzo with a harsh glare. "Why do you want to so desperately work to her choices? Are you in contact with her?" You could hear a penny drop.

Eyes snapped over to the oldest boy, all confused and harsh. Lorenzo sunk into himself. "I um..." He took a deep breath before continuing. "Yeah um so I kept contact with her yes"

"Is she okay?" The first question Pascale asked. Years of guilt plagued her mind, she neglected her own daughter and she was now paying the price for that.

Lorenzo nodded. "Yes, she's okay...Y/n she um built up a family through her friends and as you know she is doing well for herself..." A small proud smile morphed onto his face, he was proud of her for doing this for herself.

"Does she hate us for what we did?"

He breathed in and out. "No, she doesn't hate any of us...she understands completely..." That did ease some guilt for the other three, it would of killed them to know that she hated them, her own family.

There was silence for a couple of minutes whilst they all fell into their own thoughts. And then Pascale spoke up again. "Can you at least text her or call her whatever...talk to her, please tell her that we love her and that we want to see her again...we're so so proud and sorry"

Arthur and Charles both nodded in agreement. "I'll see what I can do..." Lorenzo promised.

-

It seemed that the next time they would see Y/n would come round much soon than expected. It wasn't planned, totally sporadic.

Charles was in the kitchen, in Lorenzos apartment. He was scrolling through his phone when there was a ring coming from Lorenzos phone. "Lorenzo! Your phone, it's ring!" Looking over the driver read the name.

Y/n

He knew it was wrong to answer the call, but it felt right like this would do something so he did. Charles picked up the phone and answer.

Before he could speak the voice he missed so dear filled his ear, yet it was panicked and he could hear uneven breathing.

"Lo I'm sorry please, I came back to Monte C but uh um the paps they um oh my god I can't breathe they keep following me! Please please I don't- I don't know where to go!" He missed her voice, granted it for much more mature and wiser now, he still missed it.

Though he was entranced by the situation, now very concerned. "It's okay, it's okay" His mind was on speed mode, much like it was in the car. "Send me the location, I'll come and collect you"

Y/n's voice came out calmer and confused now. "Cha...is that you?"

Charles nodded his head before realising she couldn't see him. "Yeah um it is Cha, I'm on my way" He rushed down to his ferrari.

-

Pulling up to her location, his heart clenched. Y/n had grown so much since he had last seen her, she had grown into herself and looked alot like Pascale now.

Charles climbed out of his car, walking over to her and collided her into a bone crushing hug. "Oh chérie, je suis vraiment désolé..." Oh darling, I'm so sorry

Tears soaked his shoulder, the whole chaos of the day and reuniting with her older brother weighing down on Y/n had finally toppled off completely.

She couldn't speak, just hung onto him. That long time spent away from her family catching up to her. "It's okay...it's okay..." Charles whispered in her ear.

-

[eileenwdj]

my spidersonas! their names are Hong Zhizhu/Red Spider (real name Hong Huiran) and Zhizhu Dajun/Lord Spider (real name Xu Xia). they are connected with each other!

backstories, doodles, and other versions under the cut

their backstories:

Zhizhu Dajun (蜘蛛大君) / Lord Spider

Real name: Xu Xia (徐侠)

Born from a poor, commoner family, Xu Xia works in a wealthy noble family's home as a servant to the young master (his version of Harry Osborne probably ?) who allows him to tag along and shadow him during his studies

A god/immortal (whom we shall not name bc I can't think) messed around and accidentally cursed a bunch of animals. Some of these animals became monsters, some physically merged with unsuspecting humans, and some others granted powers to creatures they come across, like the spider that bit Xu Xia

Bro became this world's one and only Spiderman (yayy!!!) and lived the rest of his life fighting crime and protecting the innocent (wahoo!!)

A lot of people thought of him as a god or a powerful immortal due to his powers and started to build temples for him and worship him (he's not god, he's just some guy who happened to get bit by a spider)

He inevitably died during a great battle against a powerful enemy. Before he died, he vowed to not rest in peace until he finds a worthy successor to serve as protector and defeat the enemy (that is presumably immortal and can strike again at anytime) and he transfered his consciousness? soul? ghost self? idk tbh? to one of his spiders

Unfortunately bro is So Tired™️ that it took him several thousand years to wake up

Hong Zhizhu (红蜘蛛) / Red Spider

Real name: Hong Huiran (洪惠然)

She's a science & engineering geek but also a History major. She originally wanted to major in STEM but ended up with History because STEM majors are expensive as hell

The mysterious and reclusive Zhizhu Dajun is her thesis topic and she frequently visits the museum to look at his statues and displays

One of the displays is a taxidermed spider

It is also the exact same spider that Xu Xia transfered himself into when he died

Xu Xia has only recently managed to wake up but is still barely able to move his new body (I imagine it must be hard to move if your body is filled with cotton, RIP)

He was intrigued by Huiran when he noticed her visiting multiple times. He deems her worthy to be his successor and with the sheer power of (god and anime on his side) will, he escaped his display and bit her

Huiran becomes her world's (and her time's) one and only Spiderwoman (yayy!!) and lives life fighting crime and protecting the innocent (wahoo!!!)

But you see, the way the spiderbite works is that now Xu Xia is technically in Huiran's body... so... so..... it's like,, Asa and Yoru.........

Several thousand-year-old stoic ancient ghost man becomes mentor and father figure to reluctant 22-year-old history student with a science obsession running on 12 cups of coffee and zero sleep

Shenanigans ensue

another version of Zhizhu Dajun’s design:

these were his original colors before he broke. red seemed too happy a color for his path. he then permanently changed to white, forever mourning the lives he couldn't save. Huiran chose to adopt these colors instead of the white.

extra doodles:

[talesfromberk]

First flight

Okie dokie *cracks knuckles* lets get into the first one. Warnings: Slight angst but ends with fluff. Word count: 1.2K

It happened within a blink of an eye, your village was being raided. It had been at odds with a rival clan for almost a century, but this has now reached boiling point. The tension had finally snapped and you weren't anywhere near prepared for the assault that you faced, a war in to a magnitude your village could not fight.

Your dad saved you when you had a very close encounter with someone. He prepared for the worst of the worst if a situation like this arises, so he ushered you down to a cave near a port, a secret passage to which you saw a boat in sight. He shushed you when you tried to question him and urged you onto it.

"Go, go and don't look back. Do you understand ?? I will send for you when we are safe..."

"Dad come on..." You tried to get him onto the boat but it was too late, He pushed you out to sea, the boat beginning to sail.

"DAD !!!"

He watched you go, his expression grim and remorseful. "I'm sorry... I love you my child" He whispered as he watched you go, you watched helplessly as he was then surrounded.

Tears rushed down your face as you could only watch as your village... your home... went up in flames, all the memories gone. Your family, your life, everything you knew. Now out here with no supplies, in this rickety old boat, nowhere to go.

But you didn't have time to mourn as a storm was now approaching, the choppy cold water slashed against both sides of the boat, It grew fierce, making it impossible to steer. You did your best to try and sail out of it, but the rope burned your hands when the winds were against you. Soon a massive tidal wave came crashing through, knocking you offboard. The waves stole you from the boat, taking you under and washing you through the frigid frothy water, washing you away in a completely different direction. The waves then made you slam against a rock, hitting you in the back of the head hard knocking you unconcious.

The waves continued to carry you beyond the storm, eventually sloshing your body up along the shoreline, and pushing you into the sand. The sun rising and shining across your features, You frowned and hissed in pain, that was going to leave a bruise. You slowly rose from the sand and saw your ship in tethers, there was no salvaging it, and it didn't look like you were climbing very far. But then you heard a mighty roar from above, you grew scared and grabbed a plank of wood nearby for self-defence, running into the woods to hide. "Dragon..."

But this dragon was anything but. The dragon's name was Toothless, he was a night fury, the last of its kind. The person who was riding him was Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the III, son of chief Stoick the Vast on the Isle of Berk.

The two were out for their normal flying session, enjoying the cool breeze when they spotted wreckage below, so they decided to fly over the island to be sure, Toothless scanned the surrounding area, he started to pick up on a scent, looking back at Hiccup and making a small noise.

Hiccup looked down and nodded. "Take 'er down bud, We'll check on our guest... Maybe they need help ??" If there was anyone. He gently patted Toothless' side and the two then descended onto the sandy beach.

"Whoever was on this must've gotten caught up in something..." He rubbed his chin as he tried to maybe figure out where it came from. Soon toothless then picked up that same scent again, this time it was much stronger, so he rushed into the woods to try and find the source. "Wait up bud !!"

You hid yourself deep into a nearby burrow, ready to defend yourself, you gripped onto the plank tight as you began to hear footsteps, one lighter and one heavier. Toothless then sniffed you out effortlessly, tracking your scent through the woods and right to the burrow. Hiccup slowly looked around and called out. "Hello ??"

You then saw toothless' snout and backed up, holding the plank in front of you. "Get away !!"

Toothless then growled lowly, his pupils sharpening when he saw the plank before Hiccup put his hand in front of him. "Easy... easy bud. We don't want to hurt you" He turned to you "We're here to help"

"You one of them... *clan name* ??"

He frowned softly. "No, Berkian. We saw the ruined ship and figured we'd look for survivors. Toothless here sniffed you out"

You looked over at Toothless who softened his look, but you gripped onto the plank tight, they could see you starting to shake.

"He's friendly... He's friendly..." He reassured you.

You closed your eyes as you took a shaky breath, dropping the plank. Toothless raised his ears, and then relaxed more, shifting his stance.

Hiccup smiled a little. "What's your name ??"

"Y/n..."

"Hiccup, Or Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, But... just Hiccup. Nice to meet you. And this here, is Toothless" He properly introduced you properly.

You slowly moved out of the burrow, Hiccup then saw an injury on your stomach, His eyes widening slightly. "You're injured, I need to get you help"

"I'm fi... Ow..." You felt a sharp sting and held your wound.

"Ok, we're not actually far from my home, you seemed to have washed ashore on the back of the island, Come on I'll help you" He helped you up, the trio beginning the journey.

They made it back to berk, Hiccup making sure you were away from prying eyes before ushering you inside his home, sitting you down. "Thanks..."

He smiled a little "No problem, Let's get this fixed up" He then looked around for first aid supplies and you sat there and watched on. Toothless sat close to you as a form of comfort. You then heard loud thumps before the door opened to reveal the biggest man you have ever seen in your life.

"My boy !! Where have you..." He then saw you.

"Heh... daaaad. Hey, your back"

"Who is this ??" He went over to him, you could hear them whispering as Hiccup began to explain.

"Toothless and I found them stranded on the back of the island... Their injured"

"Where are they from ??"

"I didn't get to that... I was going to ask when I noticed the wound, They mentioned *clan name* though" He shifted slightly.

Stoick remembers that name. "They could be from *Island name* they have been at war for almost a century" He softened his look and then turned to you, walking up carefully so he didn't look intimidating, sitting down next to you, his gaze intense despite trying not to be intimidating, he usually does that without realising.

"Do you remember how you were injured ??" He softly asked you.

"I... was on a boat..." You began to explain. "Sailing away from my island... we were getting raided..." The memories came back as you felt tears wash down your cheeks. "My dad... saved me"

He nodded. "Hiccup did right to bring you here... I'm so sorry... War isn't easy on anyone" He looked at hiccup briefly, to his prosthetic leg, then back to you. You felt a couple of little licks on your hand, Toothless cooed softly, nudging your hand gently.

"How would you like to stay here for a bit. I understand It's not home, but it's the least we can do to help you" Stoick offered. That made you smile softly. "Thank you"

Whatever berk will bring, you would be ready for the challenge.

[see-arcane]

It's a special day in Dracula!

Jonathan experiences a flashback to the Horrors, Mina experiences bisexuality in the wild, and the poor nameless Pretty Girl in Piccadilly rides out of the story, parcel in hand and chic cartwheel hat on, oblivious to the Count stalking after her. In honor of the anonymous young lady who proves for a third time that Dracula and Mina have literally the exact same taste—Jonathan, Lucy, random beauties on the street—I wanted to take a crack at giving her an identity.

But I am also indecisive as hell, so she can be one of a number of pretty persons of note. For example…

Miss Piccadilly #1: Clarimonde

My original favorite choice, if only because I love the idea of Clarimonde still cruising around after the heartbreak she left behind in her own story, “La Morte Amoureuse” (The Dead Woman in Love), aka “Clarimonde.” She is now and always the undead Parisian party queen of my heart, but I could see her traveling around to dabble in hedonism in other corners of the world. Naturally she has to go and catch the attention of the local aristos. Human or otherwise.

But, of course, she is psychic and can read Dracula like a bloodstained book. Keep walking, bat bastard. Her vampiric voluptuousness is reserved for VIPs. (Maybe that fetching mourning couple she saw gawking in the park…)

Miss Piccadilly #2: Helen Vaughan

Oh, Helen Vaughan, elegant hostess and demigoddess horror supreme. I don’t care what Arthur Machen says, your story did not end with the conclusion of The Great God Pan. You were life and death and human and beast and all the hideous realities in-between and a mortal end could never keep you down. Especially not when you have so many paramours left to entertain! So many secrets profane and maddening to share! One of these days you’ll catch one who won’t dissolve into madness and self-destruction after a little innocent eldritch chit-chat.

Like this charming Count here! Count? Count, where are you going? Count, she just wants you to meet her dad—why are you running? Why are you running?

Miss Piccadilly #3: Luna Blue

What’s this? An OC?

Well, of course. No one’s actually naming their child Luna Blue in the late 1800s; that’s just her professional pseudonym. It’s amazing how well the spiritualist movement can work out for a girl with a knack for shuffling painted cards or chatting with the night sky and the occasional planchette. She can even boast something more than showmanship behind her skill. The sort of ‘something’ that worried Transylvanians might whisper about in fear on a certain haunted date while a likewise worried solicitor breaks out the polyglot dictionary.

She recognizes Dracula for what he is as surely as he recognizes her. No, she is not interested, voivode. Even if she was, she’d be out a benefactor within—a hard look at him here; cold and far—oh dear. Scarcely more than a month. At least by her guess. But oh, there is good news in his future too! He shall cross paths with an old friend soon! How lovely. She’s certain these things are not connected. Don’t even worry about it.

Miss Piccadilly #4: Cosette Marchand

The fourth and final young lady in the roster is one more original character and she deserves absolutely none of the horror coming her way. This is Miss Cosette Marchand, an artist by hobby and profession. The parcel received from the jeweler’s was a commissioned necklace and earrings she designed herself. A glittering birthday gift for her mother who will chide her for such an extravagance, Cosy, she has no place to wear such things! But they are lovely…

She’s so lost in her daydreaming that she doesn’t realize the hansom behind her has been following the victoria since leaving Piccadilly Square. All the way home. Home, where there are no bloodletting suitors, no wise professors, no divine or diabolic powers to forestall the natural progression of things between predator and prey. There is only a nightmare waiting for her, unobstructed.

…By anything other than my own bleeding heart. I’m too attached. She has to make it.

So.

How does Miss Marchand’s story go?

Turns out, her mother has some experience in these matters. Her mother being one Laura Marchand, who left a thirsty terror of her own behind twenty years ago. One she has mourned as much as feared in the time between the love of a husband eaten by war and the sharper kisses of a girl far more than a friend or living being. She recognizes the sour reflection of Carmilla’s eagerness in the Thing pretending to be a nobleman at the door. She still has General Spielsdorf’s axe. She has kept the steel sharp. Tonight she will whet it sharper still, from dusk until dawn.

You see all that yellow in her dress. It’s recently become one of her favorite colors, owing to a most diverting play she happened to read. Such lush storytelling! What decadent inspiration! She simply had to design something fine in honor of it. She does hope her mother will appreciate the artful way the gold was wrought, twisting in echo of the Sign. A mother who has gone so strangely still since she happened to glance at the second act of the play. Still and cold. Perhaps she will be cheered by her gift and their guests. There is a nobleman at the door, Mother! And there, see, leaking from the yellow damask wall is His Tattered Majesty—oh. Where has their visitor gone? He shall miss the masquerade! Ah, well. His loss.

Scheherazade…2! In which Miss Marchand pulls a Jonathan by stalling via playing to charm and utility. She wears many hats beside the cartwheel when it comes to the arts. Portraiture, fashion in fabric and ornaments. Surely the Count can savor the spider-and-fly game a little longer for that and some pretty panicked smiles. Look how much patience and frustration he burned on Lucy! Yes, yes, a little while longer to draw things out, play at flirtation between artist and patron, isn’t this nice? Ha ha. (Please don’t drink me please don’t drink me please don’t drink me.)

Well. She got drinked. And maybe succumbed to death before the Count could get slain. But the bat bastard does get put down eventually and she still gets to pop back up! Good news: She’s not under the Count’s thrall! She can think and act for herself! Nice! Bad news: Vampire. At least she can drink her problems* away. (*Problems with names like Atherton, Wotton, Gray…)

Her neighbors are the other three Piccadilly girls. Dracula makes his way downtown, walking fast, walking faster— 

Werewolf free space.

[intrepidacious]

❤️ a good time!

tat!bucky’s favorite (or least favorite) thing about twelve

… why not both?

cause and effect

chapter summary: How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.

pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader

word count: 1.8k

warnings: light angst and negative self talk (this is bucky y'all); some light pining 🤭please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i've literally had this one in my drafts for about two years and i hadn't actually planned on posting it for a while yet but i did promise distractions. and i missed him. i always do.

this is part of the time after time universe but can be read as a teaser and/or a standalone 💚

Bucky’s relationship with time has been fractured ever since a cold day in January that stole away the life he was headed towards and turned him into the monster underneath a child’s bed.

It’s hard to feel good about the concept of time travel once a lot of your own time has been taken away from you. Even now, there’s only so many things in his life he has control over; like the fact that he’s actively choosing to go back to therapy now, or that he’s able to keep a pet for the first time since he was thirteen years old. Stupid little things, like what kind of food he wants for lunch or whether he should take the stairs or the elevator.

Every single one of these things he’s fought for tooth and nail, clawing his way out of the past and carving out his own space in reality again, struggling, trying, hanging on like he wasn’t able to all those decades ago.

He’s probably still failing.

Some days, clinging to the present is tense and brings him nothing but grief. Sometimes, it feels like he’s going to have to mourn the past forever, whatever might have been; and maybe that’s his sentence.

He wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. He deserves worse.

And then there’s you.

Flickering in and out of time, constantly moving, changing in the time it takes him to blink.

It’s infuriating to him, the way you get to use your powers. The way you don’t need to think about consequences, because they don’t have to be permanent, don’t have to be something you need to live with for the rest of your life. To you, time has always been something that can be changed with a single snap of your fingers. Whatever you do can just as easily be undone.

Once you decide you’ve seen enough, you can just take the scene from the top.

And you’re so stubborn.

You’ve already seen how this goes on if you let it, and so you’re always right, end of story. There’s an ease to your steps because of it, a nonchalance in every movement, and it makes Bucky’s blood boil to see it so plainly.

With all the good that you could do, you choose to do nothing instead; to stay out of the picture entirely and burn through your powers just because you can, wasting them all on things that don’t mean anything.

How many lives could you potentially save?

Instead, you consume disturbing amounts of caffeine and then continue to provide running commentary to the world around you based on things that, to him, never happen at all. "Do this", "don’t do that", "take the other one", or, his absolute favorite, "don’t make me fix that".

Why not? he wants to ask, say, demand. Why not fix all of it?

It takes a while for him to realize that all of your fire means you’re burning from both ends. In fact, it takes Becca.

"You should bring her by sometime," she tells him on a rainy afternoon. "While I’m still alive and kicking."

His little sister just turned ninety-eight. Her kitchen sideboard is filled with black-and-white pictures reminding him of all the things in her life that he missed, arranged in perfect little wooden frames.

"And why would I do that?" Bucky asks, scowling at his cards.

"Because you keep mentioning her," Rebecca says dryly and whisks the cards onto her pile with quick fingers.

"You gotta be kidding me," he groans, noting down her points. "And I don’t."

"Do, too. I don’t remember you being this terrible at this game."

"Because I haven’t caught you when you’re cheating."

"Exactly. It’s embarrassing." She wins the next trick, too. "How’s Tuesday?"

"Am I clairvoyant now?"

"I was thinking lunch."

"No." Finally, he gets a couple of points down. When he glances up at his sister again, she’s looking at him expectantly and he sighs. "What?"

"You can’t fault me for being curious," she says. She has just as many opinions as she did when she was sixteen. Her eyes are still the same, too, the same shade of blue as his and the same glimmer of archness as their mother.

"Don’t you think it’s weird?" Bucky says, finally giving in. "The whole … time thing?"

"I think it’s very weird, but so’s you returning from the dead and kvetching about it." Her eyes narrow when he starts to protest. His mouth closes again. "Besides," she continues, shuffling her hand around, "it doesn’t sound all that fun."

"To have the power to never make mistakes?"

"To have to live through every mistake twice without anyone knowing."

Something about her words strikes him like a match, and so he tilts his head and squints at her and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s got it wrong.

That you carry not only your past, but all the futures you’ve seen that never came to be; all the what ifs having turned into answers.

And he thinks, how nice. And then he thinks, how horrifying.

It’s a thought that follows him over the next couple of weeks, and it starts reframing your interactions for him, in a way.

"Will you stop staring at me," you say without looking up from your book.

Honestly, he can’t. He’s still trying to pick up on it, the split second between before and after, that little change of your posture, your hair, your face, that tells him more time has passed for you than it has for him.

It’s more of a feeling than anything else, something right at the back of his mind telling him that something is different if he concentrates on it enough, but he’s never sure what it is. And he doesn’t like that; not one bit.

So Bucky crosses his arms and leans back. "Why?"

A flash of irritation makes your nose twitch, even though you still refuse to meet his eye.

"It’s rude, for one."

"Noted." He waits for the two that never comes. "Anything else?"

And there it is. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of moment, like the air shifting around you ever so slightly, a certain knowing glint in your eyes when you roll them and get up.

"Annoying!"

He can’t help it. He wonders what your original answer was.

***

Bucky’s relationship with time changes slowly, the deepest cuts carefully mending themselves until looking back doesn’t feel like getting his bones ripped apart anymore, until he looks at you on a cold day in January and realizes he’s fucked.

At first, he hopes that it might be a fluke. A trick of the light, maybe, or seasonal allergies. That’s the reason why his eyes are drawn to your face as soon as he enters a room; the closest source of discomfort always the thing he seeks out first. That’s the reason why his chest constricts like that.

But the truth is, he knows this feeling has been building slowly; he’s just been unwilling to admit it.

Something soft and delicate has started to nestle in that gaping hole inside his chest, unbothered by the walls he’s so carefully built up.

He’d never planned on you.

Fuck, if he’d known in the beginning, he might’ve …

No, he thinks. He wouldn’t have changed anything.

Because you’re too good for him, anyway, and he knows it. Smart and strong and funny and gorgeous and capable of things he’s not sure he’ll ever fully comprehend; and it’s worse than that, because he knows you now.

You’re grouchy in the mornings and you make terrible jokes when you’re nervous and you have a strange feud with his cat and your smile makes him want to put his fist through the wall because what is he supposed to do with any of this?

He’s not made for this dance anymore. That part was taken from him so long ago, and he’s delusional to think that anything or anyone could return it to him after all the bridges he’d been made to cross and burn. Why would someone like him deserve to be given tenderness anymore in this life? Why would anyone want to try?

But that foolish thing blooming inside him feels a lot like hope, despite of what he keeps telling himself.

There’s just something about you that keeps pulling him in, and honestly, he’s tired of fighting it. Then again, the thought of you feeling the same is nothing short of ridiculous.

He’s not the same guy as he used to be. Hell, sometimes he’ll look at old photographs and barely recognize himself.

He remembers life before, and maybe that’s what makes this so hard. He remembers talking to pretty girls, their bright smiles, their soft skin underneath his hands. Good times were easy to come by, even though life was hard in a different way, then. But he was good at it; acting on his feelings alone used to be simple, fun, second-nature almost.

It’s different now.

It used to be different only once before, and look where that’s gotten him.

No, he can’t say anything. Not ever; or not yet, at any rate.

Sometimes, though, Bucky lies awake at night and listens to the rain knocking against his window, and he remembers how much easier falling asleep used to be when he had someone next to him and his mattress didn’t swallow him alive.

He’ll remember the dark circles under your eyes and wish it could be as easy as asking, too. He wonders if there’s a universe you remember where he tries, but he doubts it.

These days, he knows his mind again. And it’s not a burden he wants to share.

You have enough to carry on your own.

Maybe, he thinks as he stares up at the ceiling at three in the morning, maybe there’s still a certain comfort in your powers, in knowing all the possibilities, but it also means constantly losing something that’s real; always mourning the life that isn’t.

He can relate to that.

And maybe that means you can relate to him, too, at least a little bit.

It’s odd, how comforting that last little thought is to him.

When he does eventually fall asleep, you make your way into his dreams, too, sometimes. Those times are the worst.

You’re you, and he’s him, and there’s a sort of "us" in the both of you that doesn’t exist in real life. So when you let him lace his fingers with yours and press your lips to his forehead and it feels easy, that’s usually the point when he wakes up, heart tumbling over itself, right hand tracing the ghost of your touch, always too much, never enough.

He knows it’s not real.

He knows it’s just an indulgence; selfish, really.

The problem is that whatever small hope has decided to settle in his very core is impossible to kill, no matter how much he pushes it down; and he’s not sure he wants to lose it again.

Secretly, silently, serendipitously, you make him have faith in the future again.

But it’s not time for it yet.

if you want to read more about these two (plus a lot of time related shenanigans), read the main series here. or check out the rest of my bucky fics, that's also an option 💚 i don't do tag lists but you can follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications

[writteninlunarlight-years]

Y/N's Song

This is part 2 of the story Tears To Shead. Sally's Song by Amy Lee TW: Violence, unrequited love, heartbreak, self injury (reader uses her banshee powers against herself), the executions

Years have flown by since you unleashed chaos upon Hell with your Banshee powers, manipulated by Alastor's manipulation. Deep down, you always knew he would disappear the moment he had the chance. While you led infernal wars, he stirred up trouble on Earth. But fate has a twisted sense of humor—Alastor eventually fell too, joining you in the depths of Hell.

Alastor, as if born of this realm, wielded powers that matched the most formidable beings in Hell. Meanwhile, you rose in prominence, becoming the trusted right hand of Lilith and Lucifer. You were their go-to strategist, granted the privilege to navigate the rings of Hell alongside them. Your wardrobe transformed from stark silver and blue to a vibrant tapestry of colors, a whimsical patchwork dress that reflected your new status.

When you heard about Alastor’s demise, you held onto the hope that you’d never see him again. The thought of facing him and revisiting old heartaches was unbearable. Yet, cruelly, fate had other plans. Alastor reentered your life, and a tentative friendship began to blossom amid the chaos of Hell. You, now a key advisor, and he, a resurrected overlord, bonded as you both tried to prove your worth to the community.

Years of solitude turned into years filled with laughter and camaraderie. Alastor found a new place in your heart, a place you were too scared to acknowledge for fear of rejection. You had watched him turn away so many suitors, and the thought of being another disappointment paralyzed you.

As Alastor climbed the ranks, a madness began to envelop him—a stark reminder of the man you first met. You could sense the darkness creeping in, the spark of insanity igniting his ambition. While you earned respect as a natural leader, especially as Lilith grew more despondent, Alastor’s descent into chaos deepened.

In a manic frenzy, he confided in you his grand designs to overthrow Lucifer and Lilith. He envisioned himself as the ruler of Hell, and his laughter echoed with a madness that sent chills down your spine. You recognized that look all too well—the harbinger of an overlord's inevitable fall.

You begged him to reconsider, to take a step back. But your words fell on deaf ears; he saw your concern as a hindrance. As tensions escalated toward a catastrophic clash, you knew that with his shadows and your Banshee wail, Hell would tremble under the weight of your conflict.

New sorrow washed over you. It became painfully clear that you and Alastor were not meant to be. No matter how hard you tried to carve out a future together, his relentless thirst for power overshadowed any chance for love or companionship.

Yet, your feelings for him lingered—a bittersweet ache as you watched him chase his destructive ambitions. You remained a quiet observer, mourning the man he once was while he sought supremacy over Lucifer. Each step he took toward ambition felt like a dagger to your heart, a silent lament echoing in your soul.

As you followed his trail of devastation, you sang a haunting melody that intertwined with your grief: “I sense there’s something in the wind that feels like tragedy’s at hand, and though I’d like to stand by him, I can’t shake this feeling that I have.” Your skin, once vibrant with color, dulled to an ashen gray, reflecting the weight of your sorrow.

When Alastor launched his assault on Lucifer’s castle, you felt a painful tug in your chest. With a single strike, Lucifer thwarted him, sending Alastor reeling back into the shadows. You reached out in vain, your heart breaking as he slipped away, determined to seize power once more. “The worst is just around the bend, and does he notice my feelings for him? And will he see how much he means to me?” The words echoed in your mind as despair consumed you.

In a desperate attempt to reach Alastor, you invited him back into your home, hoping that a touch of care might spark some reason in him. You prepared a feast, doting on him as you once had, trying to recall the warmth of your past camaraderie. “Try as I may, it doesn’t last. Will we ever end up together?” you wondered aloud, offering him a boon: if he would only cease his relentless quest for power, you would provide him with this nurturing life every day.

But instead of gratitude, you faced his fury—not at your affection, but at your opposition to his ambitions fueled him. He scoffed at your bold request and, with a bitter laugh, stormed out, leaving you feeling empty. As he departed, you sensed your essence fading, your song slipping further into despair.

The arrival of the executioners filled you with a chilling dread. Like Lucifer’s family, you found a semblance of safety within your walls, but your heart ached with worry for Alastor. Once the chaos settled, his anguished cries echoed in the distance—yet again thwarted by Lucifer, even amid the brutal executions. “No, I think not, it’s never to become…” you murmured, reaching out for him in vain.

When Alastor finally turned to you, the pain etched on his face cut deep, and he simply looked away. Each rejection felt like a dagger to your soul. As your powers surged within you, the weight of your sorrow transformed you. In that moment, you felt like a mere doll, your essence stripped away, a haunting reflection of love turned to anguish.

“For I am not the one…” you whispered, the truth settling heavily in your heart. You realized you would never be what Alastor truly needed. As the years rolled on, this reality became clearer: no matter how fiercely you cared, he would always seek something beyond your grasp. Seven years passed, and once again, he was lost to the very ambitions that had consumed him.

[socksandbuttons]

How do you think TSAMS would be as parents? ✨️

I love you belle thank you for this totally umprompted yet again bats my eyes

WE'RE GOING DOWN SOME LISTS- edit: this got longer than expected. I have to put the rest under readmore cause I got so EXCITED to answer. I'm sure my brain had more but fdhjks just take IT BEFORE TUMBLR EATS IT AGAIN. puts the rest under read more good GOD

KC: yeah you know my stance on this, he's dadcode. He's got that paternal instinct. I will die on this hill. Do I think they couldve handled his character differently? Absolutely. And i dont mean making him more Dad-like. Just in general more exploration on this poor man suffering from lack of anything past his redemption. KC using the guise of being Father to Bloodmoon, not only that APPEALING to OG Bloodmoon so much, someone to have more familial bonds with in killing vs Eclipse who tried to keep him and use him.

I don't mind KC having had not only favouritism and manipulation there. It's not until he's given wildly conflicting stances that he thinks about it. And then loses this Bloodmoon. And then we dont hear from him. Which i think he was mourning. However thats a topic for another time.

To answer the question better- I think he'd put a lot of effort in trying to rekindle that. He's the 'oldest'. hes aware how used people can be, and works (and canon to a degree) to fix that. He likes the idea of being a dad, a lot of everyone needs a good father figure in this show (stares at creator). And dadcode gives us this, a tall figure willing to scoop you up and comfort quietly as your held and listen to your woes and offer some wisdom.

Sun: BRO IS SUCH A DAD NOW. LOOK AT HIM AND DAZZLE. SPOILS HER BUT QUICK TO MAKE SURE SHES NOT TOO SPOILED. Patient and creative in trying to give them fun and live delgihtfully as a kid given her fate. He's canonly willing to patiently sit kids down, even SunPea from EAPS literally using a tactic to communicate and calm them. While he's shown to be unsure hwo to feel about Jack, he's recently shown to treat him similarily too (in a similar vein, he had a similar way with Lunar, an older brother yes but theres bits in there). Bro IS GOOD with kids despite having complaints (who doesnt). Anythats just canon. I think its cute, genuinely a good dad. KC would be so proud.

Old Moon: Okay so this depends. I personally think he'd be fine to a degree. This is also due to my perception given how he treated Lunar. He adored Lunar, letting him not only stay, but adopted him. (Albiet because they were together but Lunar did open up to Moon and Monty about how he felt. Which Moon canonly is VERY protective of his family, literally an immediate 'alright this is my baby brother now'. Which is sweet. But he's known to be standoffish, Lunar had the fact he was in Moon's head thus more understanding of Moon.) Now this leads what it was then. Moon now is… better to a degree in treating his family. Though because of that he's feeling more silly uncle. (WEIRD RIGHT??) Which is still nice i like he's doing well.

NewMoon/Nexus: NOW THIS. Ive seen people respond the same way actually. NewMoon GOOD DAD. YES GOOD AMAZING. ive read one fic where he takes care of baby sun its cute. He would be- Esp given he would be actually taking the time to be in the daycare more thus more exposure to kids. Sun and Earth being good examples of people who'd help him if he struggled.

Nexus… yeah Nexus is feeling less likely to be good father, much less at all in canon at the moment. But im capable of spinning things. Just depends on circumstance. And how his arc ends (me pleading he gets redeemed or something. just turn him into a baby guys. its fine. itll solved EVERYTHING.) But if he ends on a redemption arc, I can see him being very hard on himself about trying to raise a kid right. he knows what not to do but due to idk being manipulated so badly and blinded by grief and self image problems…. he'd be seeking guidance a lot. He's already wronged many. It may be difficult for him to actively parent a kid. But in turn the kid being the part of his life that knows him for him as he is and still loves him?? Damn.

Earth: Wife- i mean she was programmed with a bunch of child care stuff. She originally was given 'motherly' programming. Of course its deviated but she's a learning AI of course it did, she's embraced being baby sister and frankly shes ALLOWED (people hating on that. She's embracing being girly pop and traditionally femme, doesn't make her wanna be Motherly at all times bruh shes come into her own and im proud of her). Doesn't discount she'd be a good mom. She WOULD actively make sure creator NEVER comes near her child/children. And given how you can OVERSTEP and she activivates her security code? Protective mom, willing to listen but like moms will absolutely not understand somethings.

Lunar: Okay i think its very funny everyones like 'dont… actually let him be a parent' and IM LIKE OKAY. Canonly YES not a parent type person. But Lunar's literally going thru his own life with constant stress and dissociation tactics. It's gotten better for him yes, but definitely in no state of mind to be a parent. Do i think in the future he could be? ABSOLUTELY. Right now? Not really, He's actually a.. interesting babysitter. He doesnt take nothing from kids and he will just not wanna interact if its too much. Encites chaos though, he would be the one who'd help the kids stage an uprising. Though im like eyeing the divorce arc Galaxy had up and im like 'oh my god disaster man… beautiful he's terrible at this'. Which is FUNNY given Lunar before his death was VERY good with kids, a quote with Sun. Anyway, the verdict is current canon Lunar? Not a parent type. Lunar in the future? Possibly yes. Lunar from before his death? Up for debate from ME, but also a no.

Ive seen people seperate each eclipse and like MAYBE. but we're just seperating by like… the eclipse who got the star vs Eclipse who's a clone but not now?? (I got some summary of Solar getting Star Eclipses soul or something-)

Eclipse who got the Star: Yes. I think he'd be a dad. What did you think I'd say? HE WOULDNT? Also true. Look what he's done to all his brothers/creations. But also bro has severe abandonment issues that led to him Killing lunar and then REGRETTING THAT (DONT SAY HE DIDNT. HE DID. AND KNEW MONTY WAS REMAKING LUNAR.) He wouldnt make the BEST parent, but legit as much as he hated how Solar Flare talked to him, got attached. Chances are if he gained a kid somehow it'd be similar. Wouldn't let his kid away from him too long. Before he got the star? Not much of a chance of him being a father canonly. Far too focused on revenge and how unforgiving he felt. In my baby back up au, he's reluctant to even get attached cause of his own self acclaimed goal (altho in my au, he's not immune to babies and the fact that in a sense its what he wanted out of himself and Lunar (think to the episode with Lunar reacting to baby versions of him and eclipse. similar thought)). Honestly him being in the computer was enough for him to close himself off. Solar Flare had to be in his head to even get thru to him. (STARES AT KILLCODE U ARE THE FATHER FIC I ADORE. FLARE BECOMING SENTIENT AND ECLIPSE JSUT GETTING PROTECTIVE OF HIS NEW CREATION… love it)

Eclipse Who Was Cloned But Isnt A Clone Now I Guess: he's gained not only Lunar's reconciliation but also befirended earth, got a somewhat apology from both moons?? IS parenting maybe the sun and moon in his new dimension. He got VERY possessive about looking for HIS sun which is fascinating. Also apparently now a dad? to a ghost? I think?? Anyway, he's already rather proven to be protective but also just willfully watching nearby to let them be. He's retreated into himself a bit but actively does care, even if its hard to show. If he had a kid theyd either understand or wont. But I think small actions could help.

Solar: LISTEN I ALREADY HAD THIS THOUGHT WITH MY SUN!LUNAR AU, HE IS DAD. AND NOW HE'S DAD TO JACK. ITS CUTE. BRO IS SO ANNOYED ABOUT WHAT JACK IS DOING- and then remembering he programmed that- and then hearing monty had to FIX HIM. But also genuinely just accepted he's jack's father. And working to be looking out for Jack despite how exasperated he sounds sometimes. It probably does endear him to know after his 'death' Jack took it to call him father more. Anyway on HOW theyd be a parent. Solar is seen to be rather standoff-ish, given in part to their changed story of his Moon abusing him and his Sun taking the time to actually talk to him before being removed. Bro's got trauma and struggles to let people help him. For being a dad he'd make sure theyre provided for, with jack he's at least making sure to start where he left off but not keeping jack away from him or at arms length either. Unlike Eclipse he'd let his kid do what they want, but also be sure to teach them when needed. He'd seem exasperated with somethings but genuinely try and be patient. Cute moments can include his kid wearing his gloves/goggles and boots… (or in my case his jacket and tool belt lol). Wouldn't take to people dissing his kids well like any eclipse.

Bloodmoon: Alright so- this is gonna be a mix of canon and not but thats why ur on this blog. Version 1 of the Bloodmoons? Honestly yeah I can see them doing so. They took to Lunar once he made the connection they were brothers. However, adopting and having their own would differ. Severely. Having their own, thats their own, immediate take to their new kid. Would be teaching them terrible ways to murder and hunt etc. This would also be something theyd be prideful about, literally showing off their kid and how murdery they are and how theyre doing SO good at being a parent. (UNLIKE ECLIPSE- i mean what).

Theyre more involved I'd say but also quite distracted with their own murdering. Lunar would be an UNCLE and Bloodmoon would absolutely drop off his kid for Lunar to babysit. NO I wont hear it for anyone to say he wouldn't. But this stems on Bloodmoon valuing family. Adopting… would be much harder. If the kid was Human? GOOD LUCK. Lunars pact might keep them possibly safe, but we've seen them be impulsive. Altho not impossible just… similar in case to trashman to a degree. Possibly being amused how spooked a kid might be, not fully outwardly killing but higher chance on death. If the kid got used to it and saw bloodmoon more as idk SAFER than a person??? Confusion for this child seeking out a murderer for safety. Anyway slowburn endearment and adoption.

Bloodmoon V2: Believe it or not They'd be more prone to adoption. (But Socks i hear u say the Og bloodmoon took forever- YEAH WE'RE GETTIN THERE). Canonly any bloodmoon and adopting is not totally feasible but stares at FC and how that was a thing where Bloodmoon COULD NOT kill them. Also will never live down the fact we almost got Foxy and Fc being Bloodmoons new keepers/family and Rude RUDE so rude to steal that away. This version of Bloodmoon was slaughtering left and right. Only reigns were Ruin and Stitchwraith (and for a time, Foxy. I believed in him. Thank you Thorns for the AU).

HOWEVER, this bloodmoon still had very strong connection to 'Family' and having one. Bro was jumping from monty being his 'father/creator' (LIES AND SLANDER) to Eclipse (he mentioned this) and then to KC. They WOULD be more prone to choosing their OWN family. They have trust issues and hate being a tool and genuinely (whether they were aware or not) were looking for a connection. Anyway, Similar to how V1 would be, prideful of their kid and yeah teaching to murder. But also kid teaching them silly things like games theyve seen others do, maybe watched some tv- interacted with other kids-. Bloodmoon V2 would kill everyone in this room and then themselves for their kid.

If it was just the remaining twin its gonna be increased ten fold for keeping the kid close.

Ruin: Given we have ruins backstory and also I am heavily influenced by Thorn's version of Ruin as well- Ruin would be an interesting parent. He's got Sun and Moon's code. Protective and willing to teach, but also would be the kinda parent to put them in a room so he can work safely without them interrupting his own plans. Its a weird divide or trying to make sure they dont know too much but are aware their parent is doing something Important. Ruin's own masks getting mixed up in raising the kid where the kid can be used to the flipflop nature their father is providing and also be unsure how to feel on it given Ruin can be quite aloof at times. one thing is certain tho is that Ruin would never let them think theyre anyless of a person.

There is also sweet Ruin who'd be silly and parental. He's affectionate for sure and holding their lil hands.

Dark Sun/Sunburn: @thorns-and-rosewings Is at fault for this entirely, I love how they portray him. This would be more based on their version of Dark Sun vs Canon. Canon seems less likely to really… want to care for anything really. (But again im behind as well and also everyone else i see makes him be dragon dad lol). But Neptor was his creation and had no connection to them, so unless their USEFUL, I guess he doesn't really care. Which would give you a very interesting scenario of slow burn caring. Genuinely just 'Oh well you did that better than I thought. Good job' with like the hint of manipulation but the kid might be fine, this is still a Sun. But guys got goals. So, he could be a good dad but so far from what we've seen (that I'm seeing anyway) Might not have the room in his heart anymore. But again not impossible the man is just gonna need a few years before going 'Oh. Hmn. Well my kid now'. And then after that the kid will be fine, their emotionally dead dad just needs a hug sometimes don't worry about the underlying plans this man might have for the universe. The kid will be fine.

NOW. NOW THORNS' SUNBURN. I love, does have his trauma and utter hatred of all moons. But also fiercely protective of his babies, because they're HIS. Like dude's scary to everyone but utterly endeared to his babies. The one thing that brings him joy, the thing he'd literally kill people over. Baby… Other than being protective, just caring and making sure they're taught well (coughs fearing moons in some cases coughs), having good eating habits. Similar to how Dazzle and Sun are but more subdued, quieter but patient. Moment a moons nearby tho? He's got at least 3 ways to incapacitate them, just in case. Bro's sad tho so he'll have his moments where he just NEEDS to hold the baby close, to be sure theyre safe. Maybe too over protective but depends on who's with him that he would trust. I'm sure thorns could word this better but LOVE LOVE their sunburn in their au's okay.

SolarFlare: Bro dead… Also was JUST getting sentience and all. But given how he was subjected to Eclipses mind and antics? Genuinely could be a good dad cause at least he'd have some idea how to handle things. That is if he even wants a child. Given how new to life he was and all, he'd probably enjoy learning new things and experiences. He is a learning AI and prone to picking up peoples patterns in their mannerisms as we've seen (just barely). Would be learning along with his kid tbh, allowing flowercrowns and uppies. But also with how his body is built? Might have difficulty in movement, and will learn fast his hands aren't the most delicate either. He's rather blunt about things but would be asking for advice in handling children. Might even walk up to Sun for child caring lessons like watching the daycare. Once again his movements and very Sharpness to his body could cause problems (scraping the tunnels- kids trying to jump on him- etc). Iron Giant vibes i'd think actually. All in all he's doing his best and sometimes just misses the mark on what the kid wants but he's figuring it out with them. Very awkward holding kid but the kid would probably love it.

Jack (i guess more in the future): He's silly and delightful but also he's capable of understanding psychology. He handles Dazzle very well (despite… doing some dangerous things but he's learning still in the show so I can forgive this). Would be proud dad, definitely taking his own Jack approach to parenting. Hands on, and probably getting Solar heart attacks from what he's doing lol. Would likely teach kid about knives, with care tbh. Esp now that he knows whats too dangerous for kids and what's more 'nah they can handle that, knife safety'. Would be prone to picking up their kid by the scruff maybe. Crawling around the ceiling with their kid clinging to them like a sloth. Everyone in this family would be protective. Jack would be rather lax in letting his kid roam freely without supervision. Not that he isn't protective, but he's drawing from the fact he likes freedom to do whatever but knows sometimes things do need attention.

Also had the idea if Dazzle couldn't grow up and Jack becoming primary caregiver after Sun. Sad but cute.

I'd add Monty but we see how they are with Lunar (Listen Monty definitely got attached and I'm sure at some point there was a connection due to Monty's own relationship with his dad being strained. Theyre friends but definitely was obvious Monty was pulling more paternal for a bit with Lunar. Not to mention Vegeta- wait I haven't seen him in a while where IS vegeta??? I appreciated Monty's arc with avoiding them to becoming their parent for real. I thought it was sweet.) However, Montys character gets wild sometimes, would be teaching the kid silly things but also if Earth's the mom? Lax parent being supportive and rowdy. Hands on in lessons, but if Earth steps in to correct 'Please don't teach our baby how to hold firearms-' 'I taught vegeta and Lunar' 'Monty they were old enough, our baby isnt even a year old' 'yeah thats why this is very safe, its not even loaded' ' wait Is that a watergun???' 'im seeing no downside here' 'here gimme that' "AH NO-' monty will be kept in line via watergun dont worry about that. Anyway this gator is silly.

B-B-BONUS ROUND because i spent so long thinking about AU's as well don't. worry about how long this post is. Just accept I got to ramble cause I got so happy seeing this ask arounD AND GETTING ONE.

Lord Eclipse: Everyone sit down. He would spoil the heck out of his kid okay. Theyre ROYALTY. They do what they want. Protective to a fault tho with his kid, genuinely keeping their world view limited, fearing he could get abandoned yet again by another creation. Will not let anyone near this baby. Get OUTAA HEREEE

Lord Lunar: Not Evil Lunar, Lord Lunar. We have two Star holding Lunars in canon (Current Lunar is just Star Lunar okay). For this guy to have made a kid in a dying world? He's rather nihilistic about it. Would be giving exactly what his kid wants, sometimes Eclipse needs to step in and go 'Headmaster thats… thats not helping, get this kid some SOUP' 'a pool of soup got it-' 'No like a small bowl.' Servant Eclipse would be such a weird uncle because like he'd be torn between using the kid to mess with Lunar but also… Kid genuinely likes him too. Might even think Eclipse's 'gotta plan to overthrow Lunar' is a game that they play. (It is technically at this point esp for Lunar. Servant Eclipse deseprately just 'I TOTALLY DONT CARE FOR MY BRO- HEADMASTER' the whole time. That's their vibe. Both Eclipse and Lunar would have discussed on ways for this kid to live away from a dying world. It'd be their straw to go 'we should probably leave'.

Evil Lunar: Baby is a monster now, not that Lunar really minds. Look at how much chaos they can cause!! Destruction! Who's a good baby?? They are!! In danger of getting bored of the baby tho. Altho getting outside influence may help uh Keep child ALIVE.

But also me:

Dad Lunar Au i have around where he gets what he wants (eclipse is DEAD), but gains a baby in the process. Unsure how to handle this and opts to find a way to put the baby somewhere else… Finds another and just 'WHO KEEPS LEAVING BABIES AROUND' While cradling them. One's a cry baby and the other is very quiet and has difficulty moving on their own. You can imagine the man trying his best.

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

politely humbly asking if is it time for nick valentine headcanons? :)))

It sure is! I absolutely adore Nick, and while I definitely understand the "peepaw" thing people seem to prescribe to him (he does certainly ooze Old Man Vibes), I think the fact that he's also incredibly sexy is sometimes overlooked. Very unfortunate about the whole "cop" thing, but hey, my guy wants for the good of society and he's a menace when I need him to be, so he's husband material to me!

Nick Valentine (FO4) Headcanons

SFW

Physiologically, he gets absolutely nothing from smoking cigarettes, but human Nick Valentine was a 1-2 pack per day smoker back in the day. Granted, only about 20% of those cigarettes are smoked from beginning to end; both then and now, they're moreso the noir version of a fidget toy, something to occupy his hands or fret away at between his teeth as it slowly smoulders away to nothing. Without access to his cigarettes, Nick doesn't necessarily get grouchy, but he does get noticeably more antsy, clearly a little uneasy and unsure what to do with his hands. Still digs into his pockets every five minutes unconsciously.

Doesn't sleep, but keeps a shaky-framed old bed in the agency's office and actually uses it. Sometimes he likes to crawl into it and lie down with his eyes closed for a while, using the quiet time to ponder things, go over evidence, study connections in his mind. He feels a bit embarrassed by it when you ask him if he ever uses the old thing, but the act is nostalgic, even a comfort on an especially bad day.

That old duster he wears means a lot to him, and helping him repair it (or even replace it if something really terrible happens to it) will earn you major points with him. Checking up on him, in general, showing concern for him and his wellbeing will do so. He isn't used to someone caring for him so much, treating him like a regular man from the jump.

Art and art history enjoyer, as well as a good opera recording from time to time. Any time he comes across any kind of art museum or a place that would have once sold or stocked holotapes, he has a look around. Usually he turns up nothing, sometimes he ends up with new holes in him, but every once in a while he sees something, scrounges something up or sees a fairly intact piece of art that reignites feelings in him that he can't quite describe.

NSFW

Nick is a patient, almost overly generous lover. In fact, you'll be hard-pressed to even get him to allow you to touch him in turn early on in your intimate relationship. He's slick about it, using the weaknesses he's discovered against you to keep pushing you to the edge over and over again until you're too exhausted to even coherently think about reciprocating. It's nothing to do with you and everything to do with the daily struggle he fights against his own self image, his own existential thoughts. He also still regularly struggles with mourning Jenny, even though she was never really his to begin with, and he knows that. Unfortunately, that knowledge doesn't stop him from hurting, and it makes it difficult for him to be vulnerable in situations like that.

You can't hide anything from the man; if you have any kinks or interests that you're sitting on for whatever reason, he will sniff them out. Doesn't matter if you find it embarrassing; whatever it is, he'll get it out of you eventually if he notices signs that you like something. It's not like you can stop your face from flushing, your heart from racing, or your panties from dampening.

The seams between the panels that make up his body are very sensitive, and once he feels comfortable enough with you that he'll open up his shirt, it will drive him absolutely crazy if you run your fingers (or tongue) very gently along them.

Practice caution, though; you can easily hurt yourself sticking your hands and fingers and other appendages into certain crevices or panels in his body, and your experimentation can quickly turn painful, ruining the mood. He hates to see you in hurting and it makes him acutely, agonizingly aware of just how inhuman his body really is. Puts quite the damper on his spirits, unfortunately.

He doesn't cum, at least not traditionally, but if you get him (literally) hot and bothered enough he can have a sort of overheating-induced power cycling that's pretty much the closest thing he has. He enjoys it, but he'll only let you get him that far if he's in one of a handful of positions, because he often goes completely lax when it happens, and his body is heavy enough to hurt you if he just falls on you.

Surprisingly dominant in bed. Well, it surprises you at first, once he lets that side of himself show, but it fits in your mind eventually. He likes rules, and he likes enforcing what happens when those rules are broken. Big fan of orgasm denial, but also a big fan of edging you until your mind nearly breaks. I mean, parts of him vibrate, and quite strongly. He will use that against you.

[lovelornronnie]

(Click to enhance teh quality!!)

A piece I made for my fanfic "Paliperidone"!! You can read it here!! or click more on this post

"Paliperidone"

It was stormy nights like this that left Edd restless. Tossing and turning in his bed, trying to put his racing mind at peace as the booming sounds of thunder ensued. The hard pitter-patter of the rain came pouring down ever so violently, making a white noise that most people found comforting. But for him? It was what kept him up so badly at night.

It was nights like these that always made his thoughts race. The raging sound of the storm reminded him of the aftermath of the incident. The rumbling sounds of the storm sounded oh so similar to the explosions that emanated from the giant robot after Tom had launched that good-for-nothing harpoon that proved itself useful, the sounds of muffled rain outside his apartment sounding almost as reminiscent of the sound of the debris from said robot that came crashing down, scattering from each other as it fell. And the worst part? It made him think of when Tord came back to them, back to him.

He couldn't help but lay awake that night, his eyes so concentrated on staring at the ceiling as if there was anything worth looking at on it as his restless mind thought of that fucking traitor. The traitor that he still cared about, the one that he still worries for. Edd wonders what his life is like now, how he thinks of Tom for almost killing him, of Matt who overloaded his robot's system with his button mashing, of his self who genuinely cared so much, who wanted him back so badly... and for also joining in the button mashing with Matt.

He hated every thought that correlated to Tord, but it was something he just couldn't help. He felt so betrayed by himself for thinking that he finally moved on, finally didn't care, finally didn't yearn for that bastard. But tonight? It was as if he was back to square one, learning how to let go and move on. It made him feel so fucking awful, deep to his core. Because why? Why would he want to worry about someone who hurt his friends? Someone who hurt and betrayed him, with a ruthless smile on his face as he flew away into the sky? Someone who left almost everything he loved into a pile of rubble and dust, and killed the only tolerable neighbor that he had?

These questions were so unanswerable to him, that no matter how much he tried, he was only ever left more and more clueless. And even when he thought of an answer that was good enough to explain it all, it only made him feel sick. So he concluded that no answer would ever suffice. Eventually, on another stormy night, he'll find himself asking the same set of questions over and over again like a broken record player- feeling sick time and time again as he reaches yet another false conclusion.

Then a different kind of thought surged through, one that questioned all the things he wanted to come true. What if Tord came back to him for good and never left? What if he never made that giant robot in the first place, so that he had no reason to come back and leave him more broken than he ever was? What if they just...lived happily ever after? All together in one house having silly adventures and getting into all sorts of trouble? Edd yearned for the good old days and mourned for all the things that never happened.

The more he thought of it all, overanalyzing every bit of Tord's behavior and comparing it to the time when they were together and to the time that he went back, all the memories of them together from the first time they met, to the last time they ever saw each other. The stupid hypothetical questions he still clung to that he hoped would at least come true in another timeline. It made him feel so vulnerable. The tears in his eyes threatened to stream down his cheek, his face burning from the stress.

Edd sobbed his stupid heart out quietly, as the walls that separated him and his friends were thin enough that if he were to cry any louder, one of them would start frantically knocking with worry and annoyance. But then again it didn't matter how quietly he cried, as the rain was loud enough that it drowned out his miserable crying.

After crying for what felt like hours, he was left there sniffling, as small beads of tears formed and rolled down his face now and then. His cheeks were stained with tears that he didn't bother to wipe off as he lay there motionless. Echoes of a headache slowly disappeared, as the thoughts in his head started to ease in and stop. And for once tonight, he was at peace even as the storm violently raged on outside.

...

He then got up from his bed, thinking now was a good time to freshen up and wash the tears off his face. As he walked to the bathroom, he felt an odd wave of anxiety cover over him the closer he got to the bathroom. It made him dread something, but what? An intruder? His apartment was pretty secure, with cameras everywhere and a night guard in the lobby.

So why? Why was his stomach churning, as if swarms of butterflies were flying so violently around in him? He couldn't understand what was happening, why he was feeling like this. The closer he inched to the bathroom, the more anxious he felt.

Merely inches away from the door. He felt queasy, chest heaving and struggling to breath. There was nothing for him to be so nauseous and tense of, he felt that his fears were irrational and he was right. So why was he still feeling this if he knew it wasn't real? A gut feeling perhaps? Maybe his body was warning his mind of something it was yet to notice.

The last time he had a feeling like this was when Tord came back, or at least a couple of hangouts later after he came back... Wait.

Tord???

Tord.

No. It can't be. That's not possible. He was gone and he was never coming back...unless?

...

Unless he came back for him. Yes, yes that's it... He came back to apologize.

To make up for destroying everything. He's here to stay forever.... with him.

...

Yes, that's it. This explains the butterflies...his thoughts. How could he be so blind? This was the missing link! It was Tord! And he was finally back again, the real him.

Edd panicked the longer he stayed there at the door, his head full of thoughts of how this was all gonna go, and how he should react. Should he be happy, sad, or angry? How would Tord react? Would he be happy too? The more he thought of it the more of a wreck he was, shaking, breath ragged, sweating.

He finally reached for the doorknob with his sweaty palm, twisting the knob... he slowly opened it...

He couldn't hear any movement, no breathing. The bathroom was full of eery silence, and it only made Edd more anxious.

Finally gathering the courage to open the door, he swung it open enough for him to have a whole view of the bathroom, and there...

... was nothing.

Edd desperately looked around the bathroom, trying to find anything that was odd. If the shower curtain had moved 3 inches to the left if the window was opened by a little if the toilet seat had always been closed... but nothing

Tord was never there... and he never will be.

He looked to the ground and saw something knocked down on the floor.

It was a translucent orange bottle, his prescription for his schizophrenia.

[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! 💛

[sunnystrollblog]

Clay: If I were a drink, I'd be Cherry Vanilla Coke. If you were a drink, what would you be?

Trickee: Bleach.

John Dory: Sewage.

Clay: ...Please calm down, edgelords.

Boom: You are a spineless twit!

John Dory: You cannot talk to me that way, I am your superior!

Boom: A six-year-old girl could talk to you that way!

John Dory: Yes, because that would be adorable.

Boom: No, it's because you are a five-year-old girl and there's a pecking order.

*when the Squad drops food*

Floyd: Eh, oh well.

Ablaze: FIVE-SECOND RULE!

Branch: FUCK!

Bruce: *just gets more food*

Boom: *drops to their knees and mourns the food*

Clay: *eats the food off the ground*

Floyd, ordering Starbucks: Hey, I just got my heart broken, what do you recommend?

Branch, who’s running the drive thru: …

Branch: Tequila.

Hype: Branch and I are so close we even share a toothbrush.

Branch: We what?

John Dory: I’m not lazy, I just find it hard to put effort into things I’m not passionate about.

Clay: What are you passionate about?

John Dory: Sleeping.

Trickee: You have Crayons?

Bruce: Yes, I have—

Trickee: You're— how old are you?

Bruce: YES I AM AN ADULT AND I HAVE CRAYONS, I HAVE A BOX OF EMERGENCY CRAYONS IN THE CABINET UNDER THE TV BECAUSE EVERYBODY NEEDS CRAYONS SOMETIMES, OKAY? EVERYBODY NEEDS CRAYONS.

John Dory: My head hurts.

Trickee: That’s your brain trying to comprehend its own stupidity.

John Dory: What the hell is wrong with you?

Branch: I have this weird self-esteem issue where I hate myself but still think I’m better than everyone else.

Boom: I can’t tell if you’re a genius or just incredibly arrogant.

Hype: Well, on a good day, I’m both.

Hype: I think I should be allowed on ghost hunter tv shows.

Branch: I think that would be dangerous for the ghosts.

Ablaze: It’s funny how well you and Branch get along. Didn’t they hate you at first?

Hype: Branch hates everybody at first. It’s their way of reaching out to people.

Floyd: I'm having problems with a guy...

Trickee: Like his dead body won't fit into your trunk kind of problems, or you like him kind of problems?

[lackadaisycats]

Hi Tracy, i wanted to ask a somewhat personal question. How do you deal with losing beloved pet? I recently lost my 9-year-old tortie a month ago to kidney failure and GDV and even though i still got three other babies to dote for (and they're all lovely), it's really hard to feel as much love as i did with my tortie. She was my first cat and was incredibly loving and patient with, helped me immensely while grieving for my father's passing a few years ago.

With her gone, it really does feel like a lot of me also went with her. It makes living very hard. I made tiny sculpture and wood soldering in her memory but i don't really know how to deal with the actual emptiness inside me. Sorry for the word vomit but i figured since you also lost a precious cat before, you might have insight for this situation

I'm so sorry for the loss of your beloved tortie.

I don't have any special skills for dealing with death, really, but I suppose I can speak a bit about personal experience.

I think it's natural to feel a yawning emptiness when something so intimately intertwined in your life - a constant companion, a source of joy, something around which your daily schedule is structured - is suddenly gone. It can be a very lonely sort of grief too, as the loss of a pet doesn't generally come with the same community and ritual that human death does. To others, your dear companion was perhaps just an animal. Not to equate it with human death in the broader scheme, exactly, but it can mean personal devastation, compounded by being alone in coping with it. Societally, we probably do ourselves some significant harm believing we must rapidly "get over" losses like this.

There's no getting-over-it that I know of, anyway, but there is the knowledge that the nature of grief changes over time (it sounds like you're no stranger to that). The stormy waves that knock you about with the immensity of the loss gradually give way to more placid waters. The sadness remains, but grows gentler and maybe sweeter even, because it creates a quiet space to reflect on the pet that enriched and graced a chapter of your life with their presence.

In the meantime, while awaiting some peace, I personally find there's an analgesic effect to making the feelings of grief actionable. The meditative nature of art and the act of memorializing a companion animal won't fill in that void, but it can help you start to process and accept it, to find a way to transmogrify it into a repository for your feelings and memories of love. I'd say keep making sculptures, make a scrapbook, draw a picture of her - anything, if it puts you in a different state of mind as you're doing it.

Looking after animals that are in need of care and attention in the moment, even if you feel emotionally distant, might help you regain some footing too. Setting up shelters for feral cats and fostering rescues are some things I like to do. There's a sort of grounding, self-rescue interwoven in focusing some energy on the living.

Most of all, grant yourself time. Do yourself the kindness of not feeling bad about feeling bad. Mourn without believing you must rush to find a cure for the sadness.

If, however, you are suffering or finding it impossible to function day to day, please do reach out to seek qualified counseling.

[sarucane]

Why was finding Stede's letter so important for Ed?

Real talk, I adore the season 2 finale and to me the rush is worth it to have a safe ending place. But this episode is so overpacked, and Ed goes through such an incredible character arc and I love it, so here goes my rant on why he burst into tears and screamed at the forest when he read Stede's letter.

Ed is all goddamn over the place in the first part of this episode, tossed about by his insecurity and baffled by what is safe and what is unsafe. He has a voiceover about how amazing being a fisherman is, then ends up regressing into childhood trauma when another father figure freaks out over dinner. Ed doesn't even choose to leave the fisherman fantasy: the fantasy gets shattered and he gets fired in a high-speed parallel of Stede trying to go home (return to a safe, simple life) and finding he doesn't belong there in S1E10. At least Ed does manage to not drown in self-hatred on the way out.

And then Ed returns to the pirate safe space, only to find that it's been invaded and taken over. And that his selfishness, the low self-esteem that distorted his view of reality and his relationship, may have had real consequences for someone he loves (another parallel with Stede, this time early season 2). Ed may have been off pretending to be a "dirty old fisherman" while Stede died.

What was safe is now unsafe. All Ed has left is himself--so he really looks at himself.

At the fact that the kraken is always there, no matter what clothes he wears or how deeply he tries to bury it. He can fight that and run from it, and end up losing everything. Or he can embrace it, and figure out what comes next. Be what he was made by his past, however dark that past was.

But Ed's past wasn't all darkness. Ed walks onto the beach and gets a letter from the past, and suddenly there is something safe again in his world. Something worth killing for.

Ed first started falling for Stede through the stories Stede built around himself, stories formed by boastful encounters with Izzy, muttered hallucinations, and trinkets decking his ship. Back then, Ed didn't believe he himself was a good person, didn't believe he could have friends. But Stede told him stories about friendship and treasure maps, and Ed took these to heart and told stories to match, and Ed found truth through the fiction.

Then Stede left, and those stories fell away for Ed. Ed embraced the story of the kraken, of Blackbeard. Instead of a story about love or survival, he wrote a story about an impossible bird, a raiding record, and a treacherous crew--and mourned a story about lost love.

But Stede kept writing stories. He poured himself into his letters, poured his heart into sustaining his connection to Ed in spite of all the obstacles.

Ed didn't believe in this story after Stede came back, even though he wanted to. He kept emotional distance from Stede, avoided risks, and bailed after two days. Because Ed didn't trust that their bond was solid, that their story was something that could survive Ed's darkness, insecurities, and damage. Didn't trust that what Stede said this time, he had truly thought about, and meant with all his heart.

Stede didn't get how insecure Ed was in all this, because Stede was just so sure of Ed, and of their love. Stede believed in his story with his whole soul, and Stede's stories have a way of creating reality--after all, the whole crew of the Revenge became "real boys." But he couldn't figure out how to communicate this to Ed, to let Ed believe it too.

And then, at a moment where his identity is fractured and re-forming, Ed finds this letter. And just like that, there's a solid ground of story beneath his feet.

Because there was, in fact, solid ground beneath his feet all along.

Ed's and Stede's relationship, like all relationships, is hard. But they formed a real bond of love in season 1, and like Mary Bonnet said, being in love is easy. Ed can trust it--like he did before, but for real this time.

Ed's figuring this out ruddy late. He and Stede didn't communicate these things to each other when they had the chance, and now the chance may have slipped away. So now, Ed yells his feelings at the world and runs off to try to find his person.

When Ed finds Stede again, he doesn't hold back anything. He doesn't hesitate to kill, and he doesn't hesitate to drop his sword when he reaches Stede. They're finally face to face, in every way. Finally balanced, and seeing each other clearly, and able to communicate.

And, for the first time since he and Stede reached each other this season--for the first time since his vision in the Gravy Basket really--Ed is utterly vulnerable.

And entirely safe.