#trying greyscale to colour. not entirely sure how I feel about it but it is less painful when it comes to colours

[wyrtig]

trying something new

[mistercrowbar]

What advice would you give to someone who wants to start draw comics?

Read comics. Try to absorb the layouts and lettering - there’s so many ways to tackle it! Also even in published comics you’ll see that the art is messy and scrungly and you can take that as permission to be messy and scrungly too.

Comics are about efficiency and Good Enough. If you try to make each panel a masterpiece you’ll be there forever. Reasons why I mostly do simple pencil comics.

Start small. Do a scene or gag comic at a time. Get a feel for the medium and all the steps you have. If there’s a step you hate, find a way to emphasize the steps you love. EG I hate laying down flat colours but love shading, so I make my page form comics painterly greyscale with a gradient map to spruce them up.

Thumbnail!!!!! Figure out your page or panel layout before you start pencils. It can just be chicken scratch and sticken figures but it will help make sure there’s a clean line of action carrying the viewer from panel to panel and that your lettering fits.

don’t skimp on lettering. you can have beautiful artwork but if your dialogue is time new roman on half transparent ellipses or somehow unreadable it’s gonna drag everything else down. Blambot is a great source for free and affordable comic fonts and even has guides from an industry pro.

There are a huge bajillion elements to making comics but once you’ve made like, literally 100 pages you’ll start just intrinsically knowing things like the 180 rule, how to place a speech bubble when the first speaker is on the right, and that you can draw one nice background and then have gradient colour blocks carry you through most of the page/scene. And then you’ll still keep learning. Always learning!

LOTS of example stuff under the cut, mostly for lettering and layouts:

thumbnails vs finished page. The detail is just enough to remind me who goes where. You can see I mostly played with the last part of the scene, going from three panels in one row to making each panel an entire row across three rows. Panels on the same row have less “time” between them as the eyes skips from one to the other faster, whereas there’s a little more gap skipping back to a new row (think resetting a line on a typewriter). Here, the first thumbnail may have fit the artwork more neatly, but I wanted to give Astarion more time to deliberate his decision.

You can also see that I changed the top panel from a close up on Aldiirn to a wider shot showing both. This sets the scene, and the rest of it uses simple/abstract backgrounds until the final panel, which makes a nice bookend while making the overall load easier. One good environment panel will carry you for a while, but don't leave your characters in the void for too long.

Make a script before you start layouts but don’t be shocked if you need to cut things out to have them fit a page. Less is more, generally. This also goes for visual elements - what's most important to the scene? What's just extraneous detail you find fun but is creating clutter?

For the 4-panel comics I don’t put time into thumbnails unless it’s a difficult panel, but I always put the lettering and speech bubbles down first so they have enough room and nothing important gets covered. If you do this much you’re a step ahead imo.

This one I’m working on now and there’s a lot going on with four characters speaking to each other! It’s important to keep a clear line going for the dialogue. Astarion’s first line has the top left corner and clearly starts the conversation. The tail of the bubble carries over to where he whispers to Aldiirn, and we pick up Aldiirn’s lines. The rock wall on the right then draws the eye down to Shadowheart and Gale’s bubble at the bottom. I don’t think the tails on the bottom bubbles are 100% ideal, but it’s Good Enough.

There’s also slightly different points in time going on in this panel, because the art is static but it’s a long convo going on. Gale’s signature finger isn’t in response to Astarion whispering, but to his answer to Aldiirn that comes after. Think of how time works in your panels, especially when you got a big one because size = time.

You can use all sorts of things to direct the eye across a comic page, but I find the strongest things are the bubbles & tails and where characters are looking. Here, Gale’s “stop by” line breaks the panel line to help draw the viewer to him in the last panel, since otherwise the eye was likely to end up at Aldiirn.

I generally like bubbles to be tucked into their panels, either fully inside or up at the edges like “my condolences.” It looks neater than when bubbles are willy nilly over the edges which I see as a sign of poor planning. And! it means when you do break panel lines it can be more meaningful.

the 180 rule is a film/stage thing for composition to avoid confusing the audience, but the simplest way to put it is: if a character is on the left side of the scene, they should stay there until the action or whatever moves them. You can see here that Aldiirn is always on the right facing left, even when the camera is a bit behind him or a bit behind Gale. the 180 line is the front of Aldiirn’s tent, and the camera never crosses it in a way that would put Gale on the right.

I find it distracting when a conversation is happening in comic and a character breaks the 180 for no particular reason, though are times I’ve done it because a panel worked much better that way. The book Framed Ink has some great guides on composition and how to change the 180 line.

You can also see in the above comic that it’s arranged so that Gale’s always the first speaker in the panels he appears so there’s no criss cross bubble tails. Buuuut what if the first speaker is unavoidably on the right?

Stack the speech bubbles. You want the first speech bubble CLEARLY and undeniably the closest to the top left corner and then other speakers can go below.

the middle example above also has some examples of playing with the speech bubbles. Wyll’s “square-y round-y” bubble is the standard, the boxy ellipse. The tail has a slight, lanquid curve. He;s comfortable teasing the poor vampire. Aldiirn’s bubble is pointy! the tail straight! with urgency! And Astarion’s bubble and tail are burbling and grumbling through gritted teeth and pain. Varsh Ko’kuu, even though he’s speaking with a standard shaped bubble, has a sharp point in the tail that speaks to his assertiveness in protecting the egg. And Shadowheart has some hesitation with that wiggly tail.

Either hand drawing or using vector shapes for bubbles is fine, but I recommend staying away from true ellipses because they look static. Square-y round-y is where it’s at. Just make sure there’s enough space between text and edge of the bubble, usually enough to fit a capital H or W, but you can play with that spacing too.

The second panel here breaks the “first bubble goes top-left corner” rule, so it’s ambiguous if Gale or Aldiirn speaks first. However! In this case everyone is giving their responses in a jumble to Rath, so order matters less. I’m pretty sure every rule I’ve mentioned has a time and place to break it, but it’s still important to learn the basics first.

Key thing about comics typefaces: the capital I will have bars and the lower case will not. The barred I is used for I, as in, “I am not inclined to share” where the unbarred is used everywhere else.

When choosing a font, I recommend grabbing one that has Regular, Italic, and Bold/Bold Italic typefaces. I use Milk Moustache for my 4-panel comics because it’s very casual and similar weight to my own handwriting, but it doesn’t have an italic typeface and that drives me nuts sometimes. For the most flexibility, choose a font that has lower case AND uppercase type faces. I stick to upper case 90% of the time but lower case adds more options, like Aldiirn’s “really?” being so small due to his stressed state.

There are some official guides on what should be bold or italic in dialogues but they don’t matter as much unless you’re working for a big publisher with a style standard. Italics for thinking and whispering are common. I go with my gut, like Astarion’s speech is so dramatic I use italics and bold liberally, whereas for most others I may or may not just choose a key word to bold.

I think some programs will let you make text to fit a bubble instead of a square box, but tbh I just spend a lot of time manually making the text fit nicely in that bubble shape.

[zoearthuruni]

Artist Research:

Hélène Binet:

Héléne Binet is a photographer whose focus is on capturing architecture. Within her work, she emphasises the importance of lighting and shadows to show the details of the building and create an atmosphere the viewer can pick up on. She works exclusively with analogue and shoots in black and white, which has a great effect on her work, and the lighting is clearly defined, and the greyscale feels fitting with the concrete future-esque-looking buildings she captures. This is useful to my own work, as when I want to manipulate my photographs, the colouring needs to reflect the scenery and the type of building within the photograph. In an Interview with Dezeen Magazine Binet expresses her thoughts on digital manipulation regarding architectural photography stating, "Digital has made architectural photography very slick – sometimes you don't know if it's a photo, or if it's a rendering, and that I find very disturbing, [...] If you've spent five years to ten years making a building, you want to make sure that the photos are like a building and not like a rendering." This point is interesting to me and my own work as I am working with architecture in my photo manipulations. It makes me reflect on how by manipulating even the smallest thing such as colour, the entire image can change, which reflects the building within the image.

Pete Sieger:

Pete Sieger is a photographer whose main focus is on architecture. I found that he writes articles on his own website about his practice, and at one point he wrote about photo manipulation. He states, "I’m at once ashamed and proud of the finished image – ashamed of the extent to which this image was altered, yet proud of the final results shown here. [...] I must admit that I’m fully complicit in this practice of digitally sanitizing architectural images. However, I remain deeply conflicted, and feel the need to establish proper limits personally. Again, where does one draw the line?" This really stood out to me and made me reflect on how manipulation affects architectural photographs, as one would expect them to depict exactly what exists. The final question Sieger asks regarding where one draws the line on manipulation has stuck with me and I think it should be considered when one is editing a photograph for any purpose other than an artwork where it is explicitly stated that the photograph is manipulated. This links back to ideas brought up in the readings I have done and will help me reflect and think when I am creating my own final manipulated image. Below is an image of Sieger's where he has edited the colouring and removed some parts of the image.

Alexander Spatari:

The last photographer I looked at is Alexander Spatari who is a travel photographer who mainly captures architecture. An image of Spatari's that I was drawn to was his photograph of a man walking towards the Coliseum in Rome. I enjoy the composition of this image with the Coliseum in a central position with the man following suit also in the centre. I think the colouring and saturation of this photograph is really interesting as the photo feels very vibrant and bright, making it very eye-catching. I think due to the scenery and time of day the photo was taken, the level of saturation and light within the image works well with the Coliseum as you can see the light through the window shapes in the walls which gives a warm glow from the inside. Figuring out how the light within the image affects the architecture and the overall image will be important for trying to create a different atmosphere in my own image.

[radramblog]

On the origins of Shiny Pokémon

Shiny Pokémon are a quirk of the franchise that has blossomed into a huge part of the Pokémon fandom, to the point where content creators (streamers, mostly) have built careers on spending hours and hours hunting for them.

Considering the humble origins of the concept, it’s kind of a surprise how we got here, frankly.

Shiny Pokémon were introduced in the series' second generation, in Gold and Silver. These were the first games in the series to be in colour, basic as the palettes were, and the developers thought that having variations in a species’ colour, kind of like albinism, would be an interesting idea to use this new technology. At least, I assume that’s what happened, I obviously wasn’t there. There wasn’t originally an official term for Shinies, though “Alternate colour” or “rare” were in some of the earlier games- the first official use of “Shiny” was in a promotional TCG card in 2009. Interestingly, Gold and Silver (but not Crystal) were actually playable on an original Game Boy, albeit in greyscale, which is why the twinkle animation and sound effect that gives the phenomenon its name were added in the first place.

The addition of the Red Gyarados plotline was kind of a genius way of introducing the concept to the player and fanbase. After all, the phenomena are typically extremely rare at 1/8192 per Pokémon encounter, and I believe only one very missable NPC alludes to them in the entire game. It’s quite possible that without all the fuss about the Red Gyarados and the Lake of Rage plot in general, Shinies would have been the subject of the same schoolyard rumours that surrounded the early generations, like “Pikablu” (Marill leaking before its official introduction) or the Pokegods.

I know I didn’t know what a Shiny was when I first encountered one. Sure didn’t catch it either, though I know I was trying to. It was a Ponyta, in Fire Red, and it was on the path up to Mt. Ember who’s name I’ve forgotten. I definitely spent a long time running around after accidentally KO’ing it in order to find this “Blue flame Ponyta” again, to no luck.

The introduction of shinies in Gen II led to some interesting quirks in their original iteration, considering the jank of early gen Pokémon. Shininess, like many other things that generation, were determined by IVs, a calculation that would later be replaced by an individualized “personality value” for each Pokémon. A Gen II (or Gen I, if trading is used) Pokémon will be Shiny if its IVs are all 10 except for Attack (2, 3, 6, 7, 10, 11, 14, or 15) and HP (which is calculated from the remainder), which ironically means the aesthetic bonus that’s not supposed to have an in-game function actually is a result of largely above-average stats. This calculation comes with a few other quirks resulting from other things attached to IV calculations- they can only have a Hidden Power of Grass or Dragon with 49 or 69 power, any species that has a 7:1 male:female ratio such as the starters or Eevee cannot produce a female shiny (Gender is determined by Attack IV, and those species only are female with a 0 or 1 Attack), and, perhaps ironically, only the I and V Unown variants can be Shiny.

That’s a lot of bullshit trivia, isn’t it!

Both in and out of the actual games, it would be a while before Shinies were properly recognized and further integrated into the canon of Pokémon. A few TCG cards featured them, along with a rule in which you could only have one in your deck- I’m not sure how powerful they actually were, but the rarity was at least accurately represented. A handful of trainers in Firered/Leafgreen’s Trainer Tower have them by default, the first (and, I think, only? (nope just checked there’s one guy in Gen VII)) NPC trainers guaranteed to have a Shiny in the games. As well, the Celebi event in Heartgold/Soulsilver would feature a Shiny Pichu, the first guaranteed Shiny since the original Gold/Silver (it also has the Red Gyarados, being a remake), and that generation would feature the series’s first method of increasing the encounter rate with the Poké Radar (as well as the Masuda breeding method), but beyond this, the odds were still and always 1/8192.

It wasn’t until Generation V and Black and White that more effort was taken in the games to acknowledge Shiny Pokémon. This was the first time that the term was actually used inside the game, for one, and Shiny Hunters were given their first real tool in the Shiny Charm- a passive item available by completing the entire Pokédex that effectively triples the encounter rate and stacks with the aforementioned Masuda method (which was also slightly buffed).

This came at a cost, however- the Shiny Lock mechanic. This is an inbuilt feature in the encounter code that prevents certain species of Pokémon from ever generating as Shiny- in this game, that applies to Reshiram and Zekrom, the games’ cover legendaries, as well as the Mythical event Pokémon Victini and anything obtained through the Dream World feature. Shiny sprites for these species still existed in the game, effectively as failsafes, but nothing you could do in the game short of cheating/hacking would let you actually access them. This Lock feature would continue for every main series game that followed, though it would almost exclusively apply to Legendary Pokémon, and would often be taken off of them the generation later- and while I understand the inconsistency between a Pokémon's appearance in story cutscenes and actual battle would be awkward, it is still frustrating that such cool designs like Shiny Victini are completely unavailable.

It wasn’t all bad, though, since through some of these mechanics and the growing popularity of the franchise, more players were exposed to the idea of Shiny Pokémon. Black 2 and White 2 also had the games’ second and third Guaranteed Shinies in the form of a gift Gible or Dratini (depending on version) available through a postgame challenge and a Haxorus catchable in an area unlocked by completing the regional Pokédex. This was also when they were more exposed in other media- more TCG cards, their appearance in one of the movies (and the associated in-game events), etcetera.

Were it not for Generation V’s changes and additions, it’s very likely that Shiny Pokémon would be substantially more obscure than the popular huntable prize they are now. For better or for worse, I suppose. Probably better, ultimately, because they are pretty much just a fun thing to have around? I’m not sure how I feel about people spending hours upon hours for a slightly differently coloured mon (though I have done it a couple times), but it’s just a nice thing that exists for people. A little mystery to a series that’s so utterly picked apart, as it were.

[kumeko]

A/N: For the End of the Universe Zine, I wanted to explore a small story in a dystopian world

Summary: In a dystopian world, Keith took his small pleasures. His drives while dropping illegal goods. His ever-complaining mechanic and his low repair prices. The rare night with Shiro. He didn’t need more than that.

He definitely didn’t need Shiro’s dreams of saving everyone, of saving anyone.

…

…

…

…

“Jeez.” Hunk squatted down next to the dented motorcycle, his hand hovering over the metal like he didn’t know where to touch. Horrified, he looked up at Keith. “What’d you do this time?”

“Nothing unusual.” Keith shrugged, his hands in his leather jacket. Considering how fast he had driven to reach here, his black clothes stuck to his skin uncomfortably and he really wanted a shower. “You know how it is.”

“I don’t.” Hunk tied a dirty bandanna around his head. Keith was never sure if that was to protect his hair or if he just thought it looked cool; if it was the former, judging by the dirty overalls and grease stains on his face, it was a failed effort. “I thought transporters had to be careful.”

“Careful and quick,” Keith corrected, walking over to a side table. Pushing away the cigarette butts and bottle caps, he picked up a newspaper. Replicants Stage Coupscreamed the top headline. “And even then it’s hard to avoid the government dogs.”

Hunk tapped the side of the motorcycle and the pedal fell off with a loud clatter. Groaning, Hunk shot Keith a baleful glare. “Why? I give you a great bike and every single time you break it.”

“It’s either that or my life,” Keith pointed out. He flipped through the newspaper quickly, scanning headlines. Issues with the current president, interest rates rising again, a food shortage with no end. The same old fare, nothing at all unusual about the headlines. When Hunk didn’t say anything, he rolled up the paper with a sigh. “Sorry. I’ll be more careful next time.”

“…that’s what you always say,” Hunk grumbled, accepting the apology nonetheless. Pulling out his tool kit, he sat down next to the bike. “It’ll take a day or two to get in top condition.” Pointing a wrench at a grey box perched on a chair, he added, “Oh, and deliver that to Pidge while you wait.”

“Huh?” Keith crossed his arms. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a transporter?” Hunk rolled his eyes. “It’ll be the easiest job you’ve had. Nothing dangerous inside, no one chasing you. Just do it.”

Keith raised a brow. “And how much are you paying me?”

“I’m fixing your bike.” He tapped the back threateningly with the wrench. “You wanna get stuck here forever?”

“Fair point.” Picking up the box, he almost dropped it in surprise. Considering his job, Keith was pretty strong but that would just barely help him with this package. “What do you have in here? It weighs a ton.”

“Spare parts, an engine to take a part, the usual things.” Already in work mode, Hunk absentmindedly waved him off. “Just get it to her today, she has a client.”

-x-

The streets were as dirty and crowded as ever, with throngs of people flowing to and from work. Or to and from the pleasure district, to be exact. Popup shops crowded every corner, offering anything from drugs to weapons to the latest stolen technology. Neon-coloured signs hung off various buildings, enticing pedestrians to enter.

Keith pushed his way forward, his gaze firmly fixed in front of him. He hadn’t missed any of this while he was on the road. There wasn’t really anything keeping him here, fixed to this city. Hunk was a great mechanic but they were a dime a dozen, one in every town. No, to be exact, every town was the same. The same grey, the same dirt, the sense of loneliness and loss.

A world in greyscale. The only time he saw colour was when he was racing down the highway, an illegal package in his satchel.

-x-

The bells chimed as he entered Pidge’s repair shop. A small space, squeezed into the very end of a depilated building, Keith had walked past it three times before spotting it. Inside, the white shelves were lined with the latest in limb replacements, fine technology that actually made it better to lose a body part than to have it.

“In the back,” Pidge called out cheerfully, followed by the sound of metal clicks. She was with a customer then.

“I swear your place gets smaller every time I come,” Keith said dryly. A lightbulb flickered as he made his way to the back room. Even the space between the shelves felt narrower than the last time he came.

“Or you’re just getting fatter,” Pidge shot back, a pleasing lilt to her voice. Someone was in a good mood today.

“Like that’s possible.” Keith snorted, waving a package as he entered Pidge’s unofficial clinic. “Hunk wanted you to have this.”

At one point, the room had probably been a manager’s room or something like that. Now there were curtains on windows and a long bed for the particularly strenuous limb repairs. Not that Pidge’s current operation seemed like one of those. Seated on a worn-out chair, she had her latest patient sitting across from her, his mechanical arm in her lap. A man with a streak of white hair. He glanced up and Keith almost forgot to breath.

Shiro.

Shiro was back.

“Must be the parts I ordered.” Still tinkering with the arm, Pidge glanced over her shoulder. “Just put it on the table, I’ll take a look after.”

“Sure.” Keith tore his eyes away from Shiro long enough to set the box down. Shiro was back. Trying not to sound overeager, he asked, “What happened to you?”

“The usual.” Shiro winced as Pidge tried to reconnect the arm. “There was a trap. We almost got caught.”

“And then your hand got caught instead,” Pidge chimed in, closing an eye as she examined her handiwork. “What’s this, the tenth replacement? There’s a reason you’re my best customer.”

“Eleventh,” Shiro corrected with a sheepish smile.

“Ugh. It’s a good thing I don’t paste my name on these babies, otherwise I’d be dead right now.” Pidge grimaced. Somehow, Keith didn’t think that would save her for too long. Her work was too advanced, too impressive, and all it’d take was a couple of questions to find out just who made the rebellion’s general’s arm.

Taking a deep breath, Keith finally turned around and gave Shiro a proper once over. Dressed in a tank top and sweat pants, it was easy to see that there were no injuries on him. There wasn’t any blood or bandages. A relief, considering it all. It was a rare time when Shiro got away with just a broken prosthetic. Noticing his stare, Shiro smiled. “We didn’t lose anyone, at least.”

That wasn’t what he was worried about. At all. Keith crossed his arms, his eyes roving over Shiro’s biceps, his well-defined chest, and trying not to remember what it felt like to have that body curled over his. To have those hands on him. “I didn’t think you did. There was nothing in the newspapers.”

“Yeah, I guess they’d mention it if they caught us.” Shiro lowered his gaze. “Especially if they caught Allura. The rebellion would be over in an instant.”

“Rebellion.” Pidge clicked her tongue, finally setting down her tools. “You’re making it sound better than just a rag-tag of people who still think they change something.”

“We can,” Shiro answered simply.

No, you can’t, Keith thought, and perhaps more so than the world they lived in, that was the real tragedy: hope.

-x-

This wasn’t love. This was sex, pure and simple. A raw need, a primal urge. A way to forget the present. A way to feel something other than despair.

Keith bit Shiro’s throat, feeling the resulting rumble tremor through this body. Shiro’s hand interlaced in his. His nails scratched on Shiro’s back. All he could smell was Shiro’s musky scent. All he could feel was Shiro’s touch. Nothing else existed—not the road, not the government, not the possibility of death.

“Keith,” Shiro moaned, but Keith didn’t say anything back. He refused to.

This wasn’t love and therefore, he didn’t have anything to lose.

-x-

Through the half-open blinds, neon lights spilled into Keith’s bedroom. It was a spartanly furnished room, consisting of just a bed and a table. And now, Shiro, who was lying face down in a pillow to block out the light. The pinks and oranges from the street signs painted Shiro’s pale back and Keith traced familiar patterns over the many scars that littered his partner’s skin. The one on his shoulder blade, from when he’d been thrown in prison for eight months. The one on his side, from when a gun had almost hit his stomach.

Propping his head up on his hand, Keith idly touched the scar on Shiro’s lower back. Hearing Shiro’s breathing change, Keith asked, “Why do you fight?”

For a long moment, he thought Shiro was going to pretend to be asleep. Instead, he finally turned over, the sheets tangling up around his legs as he stared up at Keith. His single white lock glowed in the dim light. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“There’s no right, not anymore. Not here.” Keith dismissed the argument entirely. That was old world crap. His nail scratched line left by a blade on Shiro’s chest.

“There’s always a right. Especially here, especially now,” Shiro countered, grabbing Keith’s hand. “If I don’t fight, then who will?”

“Someone else.” Keith lowered his eyes. They had this same discussion every time, this useless argument that never changed anything. Soon, Shiro would disappear again, off on some doomed rebellion plot or the other. Maybe he’d die this time, his picture plastered on the photos.

“There’s no one else.” Shiro tightened his grip, interlacing their hands. “Just us.”

And maybe that was true too. But Keith wouldn’t stay around to find out—if he was going to be left again, he might as well leave first. There was always something that had to be transported, some job that needed doing. He’d find one as soon as his bike was fixed.

Instead of answering, he pressed his lips on Shiro’s chest, his hand already reaching down. At least during sex, he didn’t have to think these useless thoughts.

-x-

“All done.” Hunk proudly wiped his greasy hands on a dirty towel and Keith wasn’t sure if his hands or the towel were dirtier than before. Holding onto the handlebars, he glared. “At least give it a few weeks before you break it.”

“No promises.” Prying the bike free, Keith gave it a once over. It looked almost new, except for the scratch on the side. “Impressive.”

“Of course it is! Who do you think you’re talking to?” Excited, Hunk tapped on the engine. “I also spruced up the engine a bit—it’ll go a little faster than before.”

“Nice.” Sling his leg over, Keith slipped onto the seat. Turning the key, the engine purred under him. “I’ll take it for a test spin.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll count the cash.” Hunk picked up the metal box Keith left by his workbench. “It’s all here, right?”

“Yep, paid in full.” Keith revved the engine and closed his eyes. Yeah, that sounded right. “Got a job lined up for tomorrow, so you finished just in time.”

“I finished exactly on time—I said I’d be done now!” Hunk rolled his eyes, popping open the box.

Pulling out of the garage, Keith felt his mood brighten. There was something about the open road, about the one thing, the one place where he wasn’t restricted. There was freedom in flying down the road, the wind in his hair, and nothing but an archaic vehicle to keep him safe. It was a simple happiness.

There weren’t too many of those anymore.

-x-

Shiro was still at his place when he returned, and that was an oddity. Keith had almost expected to find an empty bed, their usual arrangement. Instead, Shiro was brazenly sitting on his kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee.

“You’re here,” Keith said, more a statement than a question.

Shiro looked just as surprised as he felt. “I thought you left.”

“I had to grab some supplies.” Keith set his helmet on the table. Shiro was drinking from the wolf mug. His favourite mug. Did Shiro know that?

“Oh.” Shiro’s fingers curled around the table’s edges. “I was just about to leave.”

“It’s fine.” Keith entered his bedroom. It was funny. Shiro’s scent still lingered on his sheets. Picking up his first aid kit, he glanced back at the kitchen. At Shiro’s back, at the weariness in his shoulders.

It wasn’t that easy to be optimistic, was it. It wasn’t easy at all. His feet moved automatically and before he knew it, his hand was on Shiro’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“Keith?” Shiro asked, looking up curiously.

“I’ll help,” Keith muttered. A pile of newspapers was stacked in the corner, remnants of him checking for any rebel news. Any sign that Shiro had died. He did that every time he arrived at a city and maybe it was time he stopped lying to himself. It wasn’t love but he would be heartbroken nonetheless if he just read about Shiro’s death and did nothing to stop it. Maybe he could show the futility of it all and drag Shiro out of the mess entirely.

“Keith…” Shiro smiled at him brightly and Keith swallowed.

It wasn’t love.

Maybe, if he said it enough times, his body would believe him.

[leofiat-bunny]

LeoFiat ColorRush AU idea

Just watched Color Rush and, about 5 eps in, I had an AU idea for LeoFiat.

(For people who haven't watched Color Rush but are reading anyway, the relevant thing is that a Mono person sees the world in greyscale until they find their "Probe". The Mono has to be close to their Probe to be able to see colour for a while. The colours will fade when your Probe leaves.

This has led to widely reported instances of Mono becoming obsessed with and violent towards their Probes.

If you're thinking of watching it, check the warnings before you do.)

Fiat is Leo's Probe - it's since meeting, so since they were kids.

Fiat has very mixed feelings about this: Leo will never leave him but Leo isn't staying for him but for colour. (He's wrong about that of course, but it seems Leo isn't good at saying things, especially when he thinks it should be obvious.)

If you stuck vaguely with canon, it would double down on Fiat being so vulnerable at the start:

He wasn't able to go to Italy with Leo.

Leo chose Italy over colour.

Leo is enjoying Italy in monochrome.

Maybe Leo is learning he doesn't really need colour (Fiat)?

(Leo is also taking an astonishing number of photos both since he wants to be able to see the colours at some point, and because he wants to show Fiat Italy, but Fiat doesn't know that.)

It would make Leo's not even looking at Fiat after the big fight hit about 1 million times as hard.

Meeting so young did mean they both got to skip most of the angst related to Mono on Probe violence: they weren't exactly watching the news every night at age 9.

When Leo first understood what it all meant and how dangerous Monos could be, he was terrified and decided to stay away. When he told Fiat as much, Fiat started to cry because he didn't understand what he'd done wrong. (Especially since they were probably still pretty young at this point.) Leo tries to explain that he's trying to keep Fiat safe from him.

Fiat scoffs because sure Monos may hurt their Probes but Leo would never hurt Fiat. He gets stern sometimes - a lot actually - but never really angry. It's the most ridiculous notion. The only way Leo would hurt Fiat is if Leo left for such an absurd reason.

Leo does come around to the idea that definitely hurting Fiat so much now in order to keep from hurting him in some way at some point in the future might not be the best idea. He’s pretty sure he’s justifying it so he can selfishly stay, but he does promise himself that he’ll do regular checkins and if he ever feels like he might be becoming a threat to Fiat, then he’ll leave straight away.

***************

Entirely optional continuation under cut ONLY for people who are okay with not even vaguely, remotely, infinitesimally healthy responses from Fiat!

DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT!

And anyway, if Leo did keep him locked up; if he killed him and ate him... as long as he didn't leave... Fiat wouldn't mind so much really.

He doesn't mean to scare Leo by admitting this, doesn't even realise he did so, but it was effective in getting Leo to stay just to protect Fiat from himself.

(As above, the "you'll hurt me if you leave" argument would have worked on its own, but the effect wouldn't have been quite so urgent.)

No, Leo doesn't do something about this response - namely, tell an adult. He's young and they're not raised to think about mental health; he just takes it on himself to look after Fiat.

[very-grownup]

THE YEAR IS 2020 AND I WATCHED NEON GENESIS EVANGELION FOR THE FIRST TIME, PART 12

Episode 24.

It seems very unfair of us to watch Dorohedoro after Evangelion, because each episode of the former concludes by telling us things we've learned. I feel like all I've learned from Evangelion is "fuck the colour orange".

This is also the episode where I cursed that the episode length of Devilman Crybaby and Madoka didn't sync up with Evangelion so we never got the power trifecta of 'my first homoerotic teenage nihilist crush'.

The actual episode report under the cut.

So, so, so after last week's upsetting underground tang aquarium of Reis adventure the series remembers to check in on the super-traumatized Asuka (which is more than the adults within the series do). We get a greyscale small child Asuka running down an orange (bad) corridor. She's excitedly telling her mother about how she's been chosen to pilot a giant robot and protect humanity and it'll be with other kids and she won't be alone and won't need to depend on her father or anyone else and the excited child shots keep cutting to an ominous door. Eventually the door opens enough to show the red behind it and, knowing what we know from the Asuka episode a few weeks back, you can interpolate pretty easily and upsettingly what opening door onto solid red means.

There's a fight between Shinji and Asuka that we're catching the climax of, with thrown and shattered mugs, and Asuka calling Shinji a liar and Shinji apparently reiterating that fuckin' Kaji is gone (I can't tell if he's trying to tell her Kaji is dead or just that he’s bailed on them).

Misato's gotten notice from Seele, the obelisk council, that the Fifth Child is being sent to replace Asuka and Misato recognizes something hinky is going on and senses conspiracy which is ... pretty reasonable at this point. I'd also be seeing conspiracies everywhere. I wouldn't know what they meant or even whose conspiracies they were, but I'd definitely suspect multiple conspiracies going on if literally anything new happened.

Asuka, naked, maybe bloody? in a bathtub in a destroyed apartment with the ceiling crumbling down. Her eyes are vacant and her cheeks are hollow and she's mumbling about her sync rates falling. It's weird and haunting and the building is as destroyed and non-functional as Asuka. Someone from NERV finds her and it turns out Asuka's been missing for a fucking /week/ in this destroyed city and they've only just found her since I guess she ran away after her fight with Shinji and you know it's at least partially because they don't care about finding her. NERV barely cared about Asuka back when she could get in the robot, they absolutely don't care about her now and it's unclear who, if anyone, is responsible for her since fuckin' Kaji's death. Is there even law in Tokyo 3?

My point is, everything is falling apart in the structure of the show and the world within it and the first ball to truly get dropped and broken is the used up and now valueless teenage girl and it's heartbreaking.

Things are getting so real that Misato is /sending Penpen away/ for his own safety and I'm glad Misato cares about Penpen but I wish Misato could find it in her to care about, say, Asuka (Misato is a fuck up and trying her best, but at the end of the day she's still a fuck up). Is Misato the best adult in the series or is she actually the worst adult in the series because she recognizes how she is failing but fails to take action to correct her failures? As a viewer I can't be disappointed in Gendo because he's shit and I have no expectations of him. But I love Misato and so it hurts more when she lets me down and by this point she is letting me down HARD (but I suppose Misato disappoints herself).

Shinji is also in a bad place and he's contemplating the orange tang wreckage of the city and how the small thread of normalcy has gone now that everyone's evacuated. Shinji misses his friends who ... hoo boy.

The one Shinji last saw in the hospital after nearly killing him via giant robot and the other he last heard calling him to tell him how much he sucked for not wanting to pilot a giant robot. It's sad that those two are as close to friends as Shinji has had.

Shinji desperately wants to talk to someone right now about, you know, the /underground tang aquarium full of Reis/ which it seems to be implied is a result of forbidden science experiments combining Adam Trevor flesh with the remains of Shinji's mother? No one SAYS it but yes?

So Shinji can't talk to Rei about this because he feels weird about the whole thing. Asuka's missing. His friends, such as they were, are gone. The poor kid just needs someone to talk to, to confide in, and he asks Asuka, Misato, and his mother, in that order, for help. Are all women ultimately mother for him? Rei, Misato, and Asuka all got conflated when he was absorbed into the EVA which were all part of an ur-mother thing so ... maybe? I don't know. Probably nobody knows. Shinji certainly doesn't know.

Then Shinji's thoughts are interrupted by Akira Ishida humming "Ode to Joy" (gorgeous piece of music, loved it since I was a little girl) and Akira Ishida is here! Things are not going to get more sensical when Akira Ishida just appears in your anime.

So this is Kaworu, who is sitting on some picturesque rubble jutting out from the orange tang, and he's the replacement EVA pilot. His hobbies are having mysteriously deleted records, perching on things, knowing about Shinji, and talking deep and cryptic, but in a friendly way.

AT SOME POINT IN THIS EPISODE Gendo talks to Shinji's EVA and refers to it by his dead wife's name and is glad the spear of Longinus is on the moon, actually, because with it on the moon it can't stand in the way of their plans and Gendo has an eyeball in his palm.

The obelisk council have a meeting where they are once again berating and complaining about Gendo and it is unclear if they realize that Gendo's not there.

Misato is pretty sure Kaworu is a spy or agent of some sort sent by the obelisk council and she and the dude NERV subordinate who's always around are trying to do some side snooping to figure out what his deal is.

Hey where's Ritsuko? Sitting on a chair in a black void telling Gendo about how her cat died and she didn't think about it at all for years until her grandmother called to tell her it was dead and now she's having feelings about it and Gendo doesn't care about symbolism. Gendo wants to know why Ritsuko destroyed the dummy plugs and Ritsuko is like, I didn't destroy the dummy plugs, I destroyed Rei which ... I don't know, I don't know, are we all operating at cross-purposes here Ritsuko? Are you and Gendo even having the same conversation?

Gendo's like ... is this because I stopped having sex with you? And ... maybe that conversation went further but I think my brain strangled itself rather than contemplate Gendo viewing sex with anyone as a favour he's doing them and one Gendo finds inconvenient (and gross at that).

Rei's having a time and as is often the case with Rei it's unclear what she thinks about what she's thinking? Rei seems like she's a cypher to herself more than she is to anyone else. Rei's maybe trying to figure out what her purpose in life is or who she's alive for? She thinks about Gendo's glasses and something's different with this Rei, I guess, compared to the other Reis. I think something's breaking down, like maybe each new Rei is less and less connected to Gendo? I don't know.

At some point, Rei encounters Kaworu and he's like oh hey, you're like me, I thought so! Maybe they're at NERV or on their way to NERV? Look, the budget ball got dropped with Asuka, this shit is getting impressionistic. So maybe Kaworu doesn't have any background for Misato to dig up because, like Rei, he's a construct from some weird genetic fuckery (I think Misato even compares his lack of background to Rei at one point) anyway he's like it's episode 24 time to drop Lilith references!

Why are you doing this to me, Akira Ishida? If I had one of those murder evidence string boards it would be such a mess right now as I tried to find room for /Lilith/.

Misato's reached the point of fuck it, let's just throw all the kids into the robots for tests and Kaworu is /suspiciously good at robot numbers/.

After robots, Shinji is just sort of hanging around when Kaworu exits ... something NERV-y and Shinji is awkward and shy and doesn't want to go home and needs to take a shower and Kaworu is ... intense and suggestive and friendly. So they shower together and then bathe together and there's, like, an entire wall in the baths that's dedicated to a screensaver slideshow of NERV propaganda and Kaworu just wants to talk to Shinji and get to know him and hold hands in the bath and it's obviously weird.

Shinji is so desperate for friendship and someone to talk to and you don't want to see conspiracy or shady shit here because at this point I just want something /good/ to happen to Shinji for once in this constant tragedy train of a show. Just let him have this weird friend who wants to talk to Shinji about his intimacy issues and how his fear of being alone makes him keep to himself and causes the aloneness because chosen aloneness is better than risking connection and getting rejection. So probably the biggest red flag about Kaworu is that he's talking to Shinji about the things Shinji is concerned about without any overt robot-centric motives.

Then Kaworu invites himself over for a sleepover. Shinji takes the floor because of course he does and they talk more philosophy and fate and destiny and depression and Kaworu is intense and tells Shinji he likes him and no one has given Shinji even this crumb before.

The obelisk council has a meeting that isn't in the void but is over the tang craters of the ruined city and they're meeting with Kaworu because of course Kaworu is their construct of some sort being sent to ... something ... Gendo ... moons ... Lilith ... Adam ...

Misato is watching all of this from the highway through highspec binoculars and cursing that she can't read Kaworu's lips. She's looking at the back of his head, mind you. But I heard what Kaworu said and I don't fucking know, Misato, so don't feel bad.

Misato meets Ritsuko in the black void at some point and if I knew why in the moment I have since forgotten. I don't take notes. I just watch. Misato's angry, though and Ritsuko is just ... overcome with a sense of her own failure or maybe grief or anger at her inability to not repeat her mother's mistakes? There's definitely mom-stuff involved.

I'm aware that these reports are becoming longer and less coherent and also probably less interesting for people to read but once I decide to do a thing I do it. There's definitely a loss of narrative cohesion as the series nears its end, probably due to budget stuff.

It's an episode for people to talk to the EVAs in their giant hangers and Kaworu goes to have a chat with Asuka's robot where chat means 'starts floating and establishes some kind of mental link with the EVA and turns it on'.

In the NERV control centre everyone starts freaking out at the sudden activation of the EVA. IS IT ASUKA? they ask (no, she's shown to be barely conscious in a hospital bed, so someone's caring for her to some degree). NO PLUG, NO PILOT, JUST KAWORU'S PSYCHIC MANIPULATION.

Oh, and Kaworu's an Angel which means an Angel is now using an EVA to punch through ... NERV ... ground ... basement ... heading to where Adam Trevor is, the orange tang ocean, and that's really bad. If he/they succeed ... Third Impact?

Shinji's called in (and Misato hasn't talked to Shinji once about Kaworu even though the last time there was a new surprise EVA pilot it went ... poorly and, well, here we are now) and he's angry and sad and disbelieving (echoing Asuka's disbelief at the beginning). Shinji feels so /betrayed/ and he compares what Kaworu has done to his relationship with his father which is ... a lot to unpack. I suppose the friendship Kaworu offered is the most obvious affection Shinji has been offered by anyone. He wants affection and recognition from Gendo. But any affection, any seeing and noticing of him, must be like water in the desert to Shinji at this point, and if Gendo's greatest betrayal of Shinji's hopes was overriding his will to make Shinji nearly kill Tohji I guess Kaworu, the only character who's shown any interest in being Shinji's friend, being revealed to be an Angel, something Shinji /has/ to kill, is comparable. I'm sorry, Shinji.

Shinji fights Asuka's EVA, controlled by Kaworu, as they descend deeper and deeper into the bowels under NERV, the two EVAs locked into a very cool looking combat that Shinji doesn't want to be involved in, and Misato and her underling confirm plan SELF-DESTRUCT NERV.

"Ode to Joy" is playing throughout this. It feels very natural.

Kaworu gets to where Adam Trevor is, weird and white and bulgy, looking very pregnant and Adam Trevor is also Lilith and they are the parent of humanity while the Angels are maybe less tainted children of god and are siblings to the EVAs?

Shinji throws Asuka's destroyed EVA through the ... wall? into the orange tang ocean zone with Kaworu and Adam Trevor Lilith and since Shinji's the victor of that fight, he seizes Kaworu, who he still does not want to fight, let alone kill. Kaworu's calm about all of this, though. He's ready to die. He expects to die. He also is ready to live but he recognizes this is a situation where for one of them to survive, the other one can't, and he smiles and tells Shinji he wants Shinji to live.

There's once again a really excellent use of the budget and animation limitations the show was hitting at this point, as there's a long, still shot of Shinji's EVA holding Kaworu as "Ode to Joy" soars, the music the only sound for the static shot.

Then the screen flashes and a small shadowy shape sinks into the orange.

Gendo and Rei wear raincoats as blood is hosed off Shinji's EVA.

Shinji sits by Misato, devastated, and tries to express his feelings to her, express his grief and regret. Kaworu was a good person. Kaworu was his friend. Kaworu told Shinji he liked him and Shinji confirms that /no one has ever told him that before/. Shinji feels like he should have died instead of Kaworu. He felt awful about Tohji's near-death at his unwilling hands. Tohji wasn't even really his friend. His grief and culpability in his own loss here is ... huge. And all Misato can say is that Shinji did the right thing in killing his friend. She's the only adult who's been sometimes sympathetic to Shinji, who he's been forging a real connection with, but by this point she's had to deal with so much shit of her own that the fragile pseudo-parent-child relationship between them has shattered. Misato is just another adult who isn't hearing Shinji. He doesn't know why it's changed, he just knows she's telling him killing his friend was right. This concludes my report on Episode 24 of Neon Genesis Evangelion.

Edit: I know there was a lot of discussion and criticism when Netflix released their new dub and sub, particularly with respect to the line "worthy of his grace" and we can all agree, I think, that Netflix's subtitles are sloppy, their localization flawed. But regardless of the words used, it's clear that Kaworu offers Shinji everything he isn't getting from the rest of the world: affection, understanding, intimacy, a sense of being valued, a sense of safety. Love in whatever form, every form Shinji needs and wants.

I guess I wonder how genuine this offer of love is although I suppose it doesn't matter to Shinji because the betrayal happens, the universe punishes him for risking emotional intimacy, and Kaworu's sincerity doesn't change how awful Shinji is left feeling.

[thefieryeclipse]

Another Merry Christmas from me, Peter and Sylar! Sadly, I don’t think I’ll have time this year to write a new Christmas oneshot, so here’s one of my previous ones to try and spread a lil’ Heroes Christmas spirit here on Tumblr ^.^

(Shameless fluff and sickeningly sweet Petlary goodness within!)

Here’s the Ao3 link if you’d rather read it there.

Then Sylar looked at him with only softness to his gaze. And for a second fear, doubt and uncertainty swaddled Peter so tightly he couldn't breathe.

While the other man memorised his face he wanted to run away, and when those eyes fell on his lips a shiver rolled down his spine like a single drop of ice. Suddenly, he remembered the past. He remembered lost loved ones. He remembered too many feelings at once, some old, some new and some still to be found, and all these emotions were far too overwhelming while he sat here in purgatory with the man who had murdered his brother.

What the hell was he letting himself be caught up in...?

The Tree

They willed it to magically happen overnight, but it didn't. They even hunted down all the individual pieces and left them out in hopes they'd somehow put themselves together. They didn't. So eventually, Peter and Sylar took it upon themselves to break the perpetual nothingness of purgatory. Even if that meant settling for far less than perfection.

“I think it'll be better than the real thing anyway.”

Peter Petrelli shifted on the cold ground, resting an arm over his knees while trying to get comfortable. The mound of spare jackets beneath him did nothing to help against the chill in the slightest, but he didn't want to be the one to admit that. God it was freezing. Definitely cold enough for snow, if only Matt Parkman would grant this realm such a luxury as change.

“Of course you do.”

The droll huff to his right somehow didn't irk Peter. The sound was rough but harmless, quiet over the clunking whir of the old generator set up nearby. Sylar sniffed and shuffled an inch closer to the small, electric heater they had salvaged, although the thing was barely more than a weak glow breaking the surrounding darkness of the park.

Peter watched the other man with amusement: the soft touch of light on his face and the faint clouding of his breath only highlighting the nerves that he was trying to hide behind bravado. Peter let him think he got away with it.

“At least it'll be something though, right?” He chuckled, once more excitedly looking up the height of the tangle of wires before him. He held onto his hat as he did so, even though he knew it looked ridiculous. The time had long past when self-preservation was more important than warmth, and very quickly the red and white Santa hats Sylar had brought along as a joke hadn't seemed so stupid after all. At least to Peter, anyway. Sylar was of course under a different impression.

“Just don't get all gushy on me when the timer goes off. I don't think I could handle you breaking into song or something.” Sylar jabbed a look at Peter, who caught it briefly with only a crinkle of his eyes.

The anxious duo fell silent again, watchful, waiting. Peter could sense the taller man shivering, even through the space between them. He could practically feel a draught from the watchmaker's fingers, even though his own weren't close enough to touch. Almost, though. The grass tickled through the pair's gloves like papery icicles but neither guy moved his hand while the other's was so close.

“Y'know something...” Sylar sighed quietly, and at once Peter felt the prickle of doubt creep over him. He shook the fluffy bobble of his hat out his face, irrationally worried that Sylar had gotten bored of humouring his silly plan and would leave, and that Peter would be left alone in the park at night to see all this hard work fail. Then Sylar's fingers twitched in the grass, and a timid smile caught the light of the heater. “This might actually not be one of your worst ideas.”

Tension left Peter's frame along with the other guy's confession. He laughed then, an echo in the midst of an otherwise empty world.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” He teased, chasing the grin that was trying not to emerge on Sylar's face.

It was a nice feeling to have earned the right to boast for once, but now that he had such a sought-after chance it wasn't what Peter wanted to do. Instead, his blood was pounding much faster than it had any right to in this cold. And he finally worked up the nerve to be the brave one, and touched his hand to Sylar's.

“I wouldn't go that far.” Smirking, the recovering killer avoided his eyes, but his fingers continued to link tentatively with Peter's. It was still so careful between them, this newfound intimacy, so bizarre a thing to let happen. Bizarre but unexpectedly wonderful.

Peter just scoffed in reply and shook his head at himself, at Sylar, and at how strange it was that they were honestly sitting here alone in the park with just a shitty heater, Santa hats and each other. Really though, he didn't mind too much.

Then Sylar looked at him with only softness to his gaze. And for a second fear, doubt and uncertainty swaddled Peter so tightly he couldn't breathe. While the other man memorised his face he wanted to run away, and when those eyes fell on his lips a shiver rolled down his spine like a single drop of ice. Suddenly, he remembered the past. He remembered lost loved ones. He remembered too many feelings at once, some old, some new and some still to be found, and all these emotions were far too overwhelming while he sat here in purgatory with the man who had murdered his brother.

What the hell was he letting himself be caught up in...?

But then the pressure was eased when, thankfully, magically, as if he knew what Peter was thinking, Sylar turned the motion into a more reasonable excuse to hold hands, and lifted Peter's into both of his own. Breaking their eye contact, Sylar rubbed Peter's glove briskly. “You're freezing...” It was a pointless observation, as pointless as attempting to warm up an ice cube in two other ice cubes, but everything about it only increased the whirlwind that was dancing through Peter's ribcage.

He melted, due in no part to Sylar's valiant efforts. More and more, Peter was revelling in his new hobby of uncovering these smallest aspects of this man's personality. Sylar was certainly a lot of things, and forced proximity had brought them all to light... but one thing he was not was evil. Peter was sure of it now.

Not that long ago, he would never in a million years have imagined the fearsome killer had a caring bone in his body. But not that long ago, he would never have imagined he would be camping out in Central Park with his brother's murderer either, but somehow here they were.

Maybe this was what today had been all about? Sure, their finished project would hopefully be worth the effort involved, but what if this, here, had been the reward all along? Sylar had been out here all day working with Peter. He hadn't needed to. He hadn't complained about it – too much, anyway. He had helped and he had hoped, secretly or otherwise, and now he was freezing his ass off and still trying to keep Peter happy? It was a feeling like no other the empath had ever known.

He wasn't even sure what he was going to say right then. Just that he was going to say something. But as soon as he opened his mouth, he was gently interrupted by a series of pings ricocheting from above, each one tapping more pure joy into his heart than the last.

Sylar's hands fell still around Peter's as both men stared up in awe, holding their breath as precisely five hundred and fifty hand-placed lightbulbs flickered to life in the branches of the tree before them. The generator clunked and complained but it held steady, feeding power into multi-coloured lights that clicked on one by one on perfect cue, like windows illuminating a mighty skyscraper. And then finally, after hours of planning and crafting and slaving away, Peter and Sylar sat under the fuzzy glow of their shared achievement, lost for words.

It had been worth it.

It had absolutely been worth the adventure involved in building this haven – this tiny speck of cheer and hope that rebelled from the rest of the mundane. It was the one spot in the entire city where perpetual nothingness ceased, and such a thing as potential could shine through the darkness.

It wasn't perfect though, by any means, however Peter was so glad they had decorated the tree blindly in order to preserve the grand unveiling. The thing was shabby and messily done, draped asymmetrically and neglected in parts: it was pathetic and ugly compared to the vision they had first set out to complete, but that didn't matter at all. It was still the most beautiful thing either man had laid eyes on in years.

They turned back to each other, heated to the core, more from their shared endeavor than from the jackets and measly electric heater. Peter couldn't help but grin wider than he thought possible, a phenomenon that appeared to have claimed Sylar as well.

The vastness of night clung to the two lost souls like frost, only it wasn't uncomfortable anymore. That smile, the tender hold on his glove and the glow from the string lights seeped comfort through Peter like honey, pacifying the snowstorm inside as if the sun had broken through clouds. He didn't care that it was sappy and ridiculous and would earn him a lot of teasing if he were silly enough to say so aloud – but he knew it was the lights that had done it. Or the tree. Or something that was wrapped up inside the existence of the thing, collected and presented in the best gift he could ever have hoped to receive.

He couldn't help that he suddenly felt choked up to be able to bask in tones of red and blue and green and gold when the rest of his world was in greyscale. Or that he was immensely grateful to be able to share it with someone. He could, however, do something about the pink state of his companion's ears.

There was only a moment of hesitation before he pulled his hand free, scooped up Sylar's abandoned Santa hat and plopped it down upon the man's head with the bobble stuck up straight in the air. Peter chuckled, adjusting the angle while deliberately ignoring the furious look he knew was being directed his way. “I'm not gonna break into song or anything.” He defended himself, unable not to smile when he leaned back to admire his handiwork. “Just making sure you don't fr-”

He was cut off when something soft and clumsy brushed his lips. Sweetly. Suddenly. Surreally. And then Sylar was pulling away, blinking those rich, dark eyes at him.

“...eeze.” The rest of Peter's sentence left him only as a surprised cloud of breath.

Somehow the guy tasted like snow, although the sky was clear and empty as ever. Somehow his lips were warm although he was still shivering. And somehow, for this brief moment, Peter didn't care that he should have been repulsed at himself for doing what he had, and wasn't.

Sylar's kiss prickled on his skin as the cold air pressed upon it, imprinting the touch into his person forever. It felt like a flashing red tattoo that could surely even be seen from space (if space even existed in Matt's nightmare), and Peter was sure he turned bright scarlet to match it while his heart squeezed in his chest. The gesture affected him just as much as their very first kiss had. Maybe they always would? Maybe he had gone so long without such sweet touches that he didn't remember how to handle one when he got it? Or maybe it just had something to do with this intense, raven-haired man being the engineer behind them all...

Suddenly Peter forgot all about the lights he had painstakingly waited on for hours. Because Sylar was still watching him. “I didn't know you cared.” The watchmaker purred, taking it upon himself to fix his hat over his ears while Peter stared at the curve possessing the mouth that had just encased his.

Sylar's eyes roved over every inch of the empath's face, then a scratchy glove sought out and ghosted across his crimson cheek. Probably his pulse could be felt racing through the touch but Peter didn't care, for he sure as hell could feel Sylar's in return. He tried so hard not to blush further under such warm scrutiny, but of course he failed. He would have failed even if there weren't beautiful holiday lights etching sincerity into every feature of the only other person in the world.

Face burning, that blizzard of feelings inside flocking to life once again, Peter couldn't have not smiled if his life depended on it. “Don't you go getting all gushy on me.” He said hoarsely, making as if to pull free before he could erupt into giggles or something equally as embarrassing, but Sylar wouldn't let him.

Deep chuckles rumbled out of the man's chest, the bobble of his Santa hat drooped down adorably and his thumb traced lightly over Peter's chin, now that he'd braved it so far. Then a glint of malice tore across the angles of his face. But Peter wasn't afraid, or appalled, not even when the murderer broke into quiet song, as innocently as innocent could be. The fucker.

“It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...”

Both men burst out laughing, two sparks of festivity that transcended this tree and carried into the furthest corners of the city where even the lights couldn't reach. They shouldn't be so merry while in hell. Peter shouldn't have felt such happiness to be sat here being serenaded by Nathan's killer. But despite all odds, and even just for one night, they were. And he was.

Shivering on the ground, bathed entirely in soft colours and questionable singing and every inch of Sylar's full, undivided, attention, Peter took back what he'd thought earlier. There was definitely still an evil streak in this man, after all.

[gorogues]

Fictober 2019

Fanfic: Flash Rogues Rated: G

Day Twelve: “What if I don’t see it?”

Roy was anxious, and had been drumming his fingers and shuffling his feet almost continuously for the past hour.  The young woman working nearby paid him no mind, and serenely made her final preparations as he fretted in his chair.

"Is it ready yet?" Roy asked for the third time, and she flashed a sunny smile as she checked the settings on an oversized helmet.

"Almost!  Just making sure everything's in working order."

"Okay..." he mumbled restlessly, practically bouncing up and down.  His father had always said he was too impatient for just about any activity except painting.

The scientist approached him with the helmet in her hands ten minutes later and he leapt to his feet with nervous anticipation.  "Settle down!" she chided him gently, and carefully placed the helmet on his head.  It was heavy and awkward and looked ridiculous on anyone, but to Roy it was the culmination of months of waiting and a significant amount of money.  She flipped the visor over his eyes and turned on the device, which began to hum and deployed several cables that pressed painfully into the flesh of his head.

"I've already explained how this works," she reminded him, and he nodded.  "You'll feel pain as your unused synapses begin to activate, and it might be intense at times, but it won't last.  I'd strongly recommend that you not pull off the helmet until I've had a chance to power things down properly, even if it really hurts.  That'd fry the whole system, and possibly part of your brain as well."

"I understand," Roy replied, though he looked plaintively at her.  "What if it doesn't work?  What if I don't see it?"

She smiled confidently and stepped back.  "You will."

She executed the final set of commands to begin the project, and Roy let out a cry of pain from the sudden influx of energy to his head.  The stabbing migraine was more agonizing than expected, and he clutched at the helmet but didn't try to remove it.

"Feels like my brain's on fire!" he called out with distress, suddenly wishing he'd never initiated this foolish scheme.  It could never work, and he'd never see--

"Colour!" he breathed.  His world had always been in greyscale before, monochrome and drab, but as he stared through the visor, his surroundings slowly shifted into faint colours which increased in intensity.  He realized the walls were painted baby blue, that there was a brightly red mug at the other end of the room, and the woman was wearing a pale green outfit with a striking golden hijab.  His jaw dropped.

"Everything's so...beautiful!" he gasped.  The sight was well worth the money he'd paid and the pain, and he drank in the entire room with awe.  Even the subtle beige floor held a certain beauty to him, because who knew that people even bothered to colour their floors?  And how did people not get distracted by all the hues around them?  He'd never get tired of looking at his surroundings.

There was a painting on the wall and it was truly nothing special, but he jumped out of his chair to study it and all its varying shades.  The artist had probably cranked it out in half an hour as modernist commercial art, but Roy was fascinated by its use of colour because that aspect of art had always been denied him.  He was suddenly extremely curious about other artists' use of colour theory and how they perceived its role in their work, and was lost in thought until the young scientist cleared her throat.

"I'm going to power down the helmet now, because it and you will burn out if it's on for too long per session," she announced.

"No!" Roy pleaded, but she had warned him about it long before the project had gotten to this stage and she knew it was the correct decision.  She slowly ramped down the power so there wasn't a surge of electricity, and Roy's synapses slowly reverted to normal as their stimulated energy was depleted.  From his point of view, it seemed as though all the colour was draining out of the world, and he was incredibly saddened by it.

"How did you feel?" she asked as she removed the helmet from his head, and he smiled despite his grief.

"Amazed.  Powerful.  Fulfilled," he said, brightening.  He still had the memories, after all, and new knowledge about the world and how he could apply it to his art.  "When can we do it again?"

[reedrph]

Hiya Reed! I hope your day is off to a great start! I'm in your inbox today hoping to get some honest feedback for our rp here at Bourbonstreet. We'll be opening on Monday and are very excited to start taking apps. But I figured a fresh pair of eyes can't hurt, right? I know you are only semi-open in regards to these kinds of request. Still, any feedback ( no matter how small) would be great. I'm off to work but I hope you have an amazing day. And we hope to hear from you! Take care !

Overall I think your group is super well done, your main looks really nice, I love the colours you’re working with.  What’s below the cut is only the things I think could be improved upon, and I tend to put focus on visuals since that’s what I have experience with, but this is only my opinion you don’t need to listen to it.

Visuals:

There are a few things that I would personally change, the first of which is while your character graphics are really pretty and well done, but they don’t fully match the rest of your graphics, if you managed to incorporate a bit more red into them they’d create a more cohesive look overall.

The second is that when it comes to using custom pages, I personally normally would advise avoiding them unless you can make them match super well.  For example, when it comes to the citizens and species page, while you’ve carried over the red and the grey, they kinda snap me out of the whole aesthetic of the group because they’re so visually different from your main. While custom pages can be nice and people often think they need to use them and overuse, in a case like this it might be better to just use a regular page and format them nicely on it. On top of that using black and white images on your species while all the other pages have coloured images for the main images in the front also works against you. Because while your mains background may be black and white, the thing that stands out the most is the colour on it, and suddenly there is an absence of those colours for the images and everything is very greyscaled. Make sure any image you use can be matched to look cohesive.  

The application count and the writers welcome page being on a custom pages as well seem a bit unnecessary, in the case of any custom page being used, less is more, because each one takes away from the group visually.

There are three almost successful pages you have, the first is your city tour page, because the background on it helps tie it in with your main, but that black bar across the top is pretty off-putting, if you muted it to that grey you have everywhere it would blend better.

The second is your skeleton page, because you’re using a contained page theme, which matches with the fact you’re using a contained main (if you could find contained themes for all of them it would be perfect), it would look best if it had a background like the main.

The third is almost successful, which is your hub page. I think that if you change the image to match the colouring of the ones used on your main this could look nice. Right now the darkness of it doesn’t match with the aesthetic you’re setting with your main.

Basically you’ve set up this beautiful main, you don’t need all these custom pages, they’re giving off the opposite effect as desired. When I first clicked on your group I was really impressed with how it looked, but the overuse of so many custom pages cheapens things.  If it can be on a regular page, then put it on one, and if you really want it to be on a custom page, match it as well as possible so it’s not as off-putting, you don’t want people ot feel like they’re being snapped out of the group because it doesn’t match.

CONTENT

I think your plot is very well written, I know it’s very common these days for people to include a synopsis at the end of their plot page, but in this case I don’t think you need one, as it makes sure people read the entire plot.

Your rules cover all of the basic things they need to cover, my only suggestion would be adding something in about people needing to reply to (x amount of) starters before posting their own just to make sure people are interacting with everyone.

You have an active link for a trigger page, but it does not currently lead anywhere.

SUMMARY

Basically, your group seems very well put together, and your main is super beautiful. I’d just personally eliminate any unnecessary custom pages, and try to match the few ones that work a bit better.

[holy-fate-worse-than-death]

Red has a new chapter!

Chapter 13 is here! That’s right, it’s the Jaydick fluff chapter you’ve all been waiting for! (No? Just me? Okay...)

As always, you can read the whole fic here, but I feel like this chapter can be read as a standalone bit of Jaydick fluff (with some Superbat mentions), so I’ll post it below the cut.

Word count: 3966 because I’m a long-winded bitch who likes describing Dick Grayson’s face a whole lot

Content Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death, mentions of sex, mentions of canon-typical violence

He was waiting until Bruce got back, Jason told himself. But his fingers, tapping impatiently against the steering wheel in front of him, told a different story. Maybe it was this damn car, a silver Porsche 911 that was older than Jason was. It was small, sleek and low to the ground; not the sort of car Jason would usually drive, but he’d picked it from the garage that morning because he remembered that it was the one Dick had taken his first joyride in. It had seemed appropriate, given that he was driving to Blüdhaven and back. The plan that was slowly coming to life in his head, unfurling like blueprints across the Batcave’s conference table, was fuelled by the type of sheer ego that only Bruce Wayne could pull off. Bruce Wayne and all his shiny cars, and even shinier gadgets.

Jason sighed, reaching out and flicking off the radio with a short, frustrated noise. As if the lasts few days hadn’t been enough to wind him up, every radio DJ in Gotham had seemingly forgotten what taste was while he was gone.

He fished his phone out from the centre console and jammed it into the mount on the dash. It connected to the car’s radio automatically. Jason was planning to play some of his own music, but when his fingers touched the phone he found himself calling Dick’s number instead.

I was going to surprise him, he thought as he set the call to speaker.

It took a few rings for Dick to pick up, and Jason found his heart skipping with each one. A knot formed under his diaphragm and it seemed to siphon off some of his air, leaving him not-quite breathless.

“Jay?” Dick asked mildly, a hint of surprise in his voice.

See the thing is, Jason never calls first. He isn’t – has never been – the one to initiate these things. It was always a one-word text from Dick to Jason’s cell; just the word ‘now’ or an address. Jason never replied to them, but he always showed up. But then that night had happened- and god, Jason couldn’t think about it without wanting to scream or cry or something. How had he gone from ramming Dick’s ass once or twice a month to I hate you for making me fall in love with you, all in one night?

“You driving?” Dick asked after a while, when Jason didn’t say anything.

In retrospect, he probably could have at least said ‘hello’. But there was blood rushing in his ears and someone had just cut him off on the highway. He hummed in affirmation, wondering if Dick could even hear him through the speaker.

Dick’s voice dropped lower then, more serious. Jason pictured him sitting down, tensing his shoulders and worrying at the hem of his sleeve like he always did when he was nervous.

“How’s Damian?” he breathed.

Jason smiled then, despite Dick’s sombre tone. Perhaps he should have been worried, but truth be told the kid was bouncing back like a champ. He’d even had the Kent kid over yesterday. They’d squabbled over ice-cream flavours like real kids, and Jason’s chest had been full to bursting. The Kent kid – Jon – had helped Damian feed all his animals, even his cow and the two-dozen battery hens that now roamed Wayne Manor’s hedge maze (and Jesus, Jason would have to ask Dick later how the fuck that had come to be). It had been weird, seeing these two miniature versions of Bruce and Clark chase each other around the Manor, but it had also felt so spine-tinglingly right.

“He looks like his mom when he smiles,” Jason murmured, not realising he’d spoken out loud until the words were already hanging like a warm cloud in the air.

“How well did you know her?” Dick enquired.

Dick was always so inquisitive, so full of questions. For a long time, it had annoyed Jason, pissed him off to the point where he’d yelled at his older counterpart about it a time or two. But these days he’d just resigned himself to it; understood that it was the natural companion for Jason’s (no doubt equally as infuriating) brevity.

As if to hammer that point home, Jason replied with a single word: “Well.”

Dick hmmed at him then, just as Jason turned onto the Blüdhaven off-ramp. Now or never, he thought to himself.

“You at home?” he asked gruffly.

“Yeah,” Dick replied easily, a smile creeping into his voice, “Night off.”

“I’m coming over,” Jason told him, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

Dick’s breath hitched on the other end of the line and Jason chewed on his lip, wondering if he’d pushed his luck too far.

“Okay,” Dick eventually breathed, letting out a long, shaky breath that Jason wasn’t sure he was meant to hear.

Jason smirked to himself, relieved that he could still take the guy’s breath away when he wanted to. Emboldened, he asked, “So… what are you wearing?”

He’d figured the question – which was the sort of thing only straight men in their forties ever asked their dates – would have earned him a laugh from his jovial older counterpart. Instead, silence tore a schism between them, and Jason was left feeling like all the air had been sucked from inside the car.

When Dick finally spoke, he wasn’t even angry, he just sounded sad: “Jay, please don’t make fun of this.”

Jason’s stomach sank so far that he could feel it in his knees. In his mind’s eye he was seeing Clark, in that abandoned hospital on the outskirts of Smallville, flinching at Jason’s joke and trying desperately to hide it. That moment had already broken Jason’s heart, and somehow this one was so much worse.

He wanted to grab Dick’s sweet, scared face in his hands and kiss him until he forgot every stupid thing Jason had ever said; until he could feel Jason’s feelings pulsating between them. He wanted to breathe new life into this tired, terrified boy who’d been the only one brave enough to call this what it was. The one who’d been brave enough to call Jason’s name since the very first night they were together. The one who’d kept letting him in, piece by piece, knowing that the Red Hood would almost certainly break him; run him through and pierce his heart like he’d done to so many men before him. Admittedly, those men had been criminals, not lovers, but sometimes Jason felt like his whole being existed to cater to criminals.

“I’ll be over in fifteen,” Jay croaked, fumbling to hang up the phone before Dick could protest.

He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror; eyes downturned and sad under a grey-white fringe that had been neatly combed to one side. His eyeliner was smoky, and a little too thick, because he’d applied it in the car to avoid having that conversation with Damian. Not that he was ashamed, it just seemed like something that his brother didn’t need to be thinking about right now, especially with the way the Kent kid made him blush. Jeez, he thought, they really are their father’s sons.

Jason had pulled a crisp white tee from Bruce’s closet (all of Jason’s were stained or torn) and paired it with his tightest black jeans, throwing his usual jacket and boots on with it. Somehow the shirt was enough to clean up his whole look, and he was glad; he wanted Dick to know he’d put in a little effort.

For fucking once, Jason thought bitterly, glaring at his own reflection.

Dick’s loft in Blüdhaven was an intimidatingly light and airy place, with none of the Gotham gothic style Jason was used to. Even in the various short-term rentals Jason had lived in over the years (including a few here in Blüdhaven), Jason had maintained the greyscale colour palette of Wayne Manor and The Penthouse. Here, everything was shades of warm brown; wood-panelled walls and unpolished floorboards, with a modest chipboard kitchen and huge windows with lace curtains that danced in the afternoon breeze.

Dick’s clothing was draped over everything; a salmon-pink button-down over the back of the couch alongside a half-inside-out pair of pale blue jeans, a denim jacket hung over the back of one of the breakfast bar’s stools, a pair of discarded boxers on the living room floor. Everything smelled so much like him, and Jason spied some black-and-red Kevlar mesh poking out from between the couch cushions. Jason snorted at the discarded uniform and sauntered towards the bedroom where he’d heard footsteps. Better than a glass case, he thought.

Come in! It’s open! Dick had called at him when he’d knocked, so Jason did.

Jason swung the bedroom door open and dropped his shoulder against the doorframe. It was darker in here, and Jason spied the rubber-backed curtains on the window that blocked out the sunlight. He smirked at them, the contrast between these curtains and the ones in the living room serving as a reminder that Dick was still the antisocial little cave-dweller they all were.

His eyes fell to Dick then, soft hair curtaining his face as he desperately tried to yank on a pair of jeans that were entirely too tight. Jason was familiar with his plight and had to stifle a laugh as Dick desperately tried to force the offending denim over his ass. His back was turned, and Jason could see the way all the muscles in his shoulders tensed as he hopped up and down, fingers hooked through his belt loops.

“Take it easy, D,” Jason chortled.

He pushed off the doorframe as Dick spun around to face him, a half-hearted glare sent in Jason’s direction. Jason figured he probably deserved it, but he ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Instead, he barrelled into Dick, gripping the back of the acrobat’s waistband and yanking his jeans up over his ass easily, inadvertently lifting Dick into the air in the process. Without thinking it through (and gee, there was a surprise) Jason snaked his hands around to the front of Dick’s jeans to do up his fly for him. There was a joke in there somewhere about the irony of Jason helping him put on his jeans instead of taking them off, but Jason left it unsaid.

Dick’s hands had fallen limp to his sides as Jason manhandled him, and now he rolled his eyes.

“Thanks mom,” he said, shoving Jason away playfully so he could bend over and retrieve his socks from the floor.

Dick sat down on the edge of his unmade bed to put them on, and Jason stood over him, grinning like a maniac. He looked good like that, still shirtless and leaning backwards onto the bed, one leg in the air as he tugged a bat-symbol-branded sock over his foot.

“You still wear the matchin’ panties too?” Jason asked, inching just a little closer to Dick as he began to tug on the other sock.

Dick blushed then, and Jason’s smirk got even wider. He’d just seen Dick putting on his pants, so he knew the answer was yes. But it reminded Jason of so many other times – and the first time, where he’d cracked some lame joke about daddy issues and then torn them off with his teeth.

But this wasn’t about sex, and it wasn’t just about Jason distracting himself from the ludicrous plan he was setting in motion in Bruce’s absence, either. This was meant to be about something else, so Jason sank into Dick’s lap, startling his older counterpart, and pressed his lips gently against Dick’s.

Jason had never kissed like this before. Usually when he kissed somebody it was a jaws-clashing, teeth-gnashing, go-until-you’ve-got-spit-on-your-chin affair. And Jason loved that, of course, but this was something else.

Dick’s lips were soft and pliant under his, tentative and quivering just a little. Unlike last time, neither of them was crying now, and Jason had all the time in the world to work Dick’s mouth open and explore it tenderly with his tongue. He wrapped his arms around Dick’s neck like a girl might and pulled back playfully so that Dick had to chase his mouth to continue the kiss – which Dick did eagerly. Their lips made that sound that happened when people kissed in movies and Dick weaved a hand between them and up to Jason’s face, cupping his jaw and rubbing circles on Jason’s cheek with his thumb.

The kiss never deepened, but when they pulled back to rest their foreheads together they were breathing as though it had. Even so, there was a stillness in the room, a comfortable silence that embraced them as they embraced each other.

Jason opened his eyes first, Dick’s relaxed, gently-smiling face coming into focus. Dick’s dark eyelashes dusted his cheekbones, and his lips were red and shiny now, pulled up into the ghost of a smile and still parted slightly. Jason settled properly onto the bed, knees still bracketing Dick’s thighs, and wondered if he could stay like this forever.

The soft afternoon light filtered in through the bedroom door over Jason’s shoulder, casting the perfect shadows over Dick’s face. His jaw was strong and square, his cheekbones high and angular, but set into an exquisitely masculine shape. His nose was wide at the nostrils, the bridge of it sunken back into his face and crooked from at least a half-dozen broken noses. The first hint of a beard peppered his chin and Jason had to resist the urge to nuzzle his own face against it.

Eventually, Dick’s eyes opened and he sighed contentedly, wriggling with lazy pleasure as he wrapped his arms more firmly around Jason’s waist. Jason thought that it was nice to be held like this (though he’d never say it out loud). He was still tense with the knowledge of what was coming next, but for once he felt safe in someone’s embrace.

It reminded him, perhaps perversely, of the first time Bruce had ever held him; sheltering Jason from the storm he’d been weathering on his own for so many years. And it reminded him of how he’d held Damian and Tim over the past few days, though he’d been in Dick’s role during those moments. Is it supposed to feel like this all the time? he wondered.

Dick was staring up into his eyes now, their haziness disappearing as he scrutinised his younger counterpart. Jason knew what he was looking at, and he wondered if Dick �� or anyone in the family – had ever seen him with makeup on before. Jason squirmed, somewhat despite himself, but Dick’s lazy little smile never faltered.

“So,” Dick began carefully, “What’s the plan.”

Jason chewed on his lip as he contemplated how best to answer that. Jason hadn’t come here with an explicit plan, but somewhere between the Gotham on-ramp and the Blüdhaven off-ramp, Jason had come to know exactly where he’d take Dick. It had seemed silly at that point, to drive all the way out here to pick up Dick, only to drive right back to Gotham, but somehow it had seemed right. Old fashioned, he thought to himself. But it had seemed like the type of thing that Clark Kent would do, and so Jason had done it.

“There’s this old Italian place down by Amusement Mile,” Jason started, climbing out of Dick’s lap to sit next to him on the bed.

He swivelled his head to face Dick, giving his older counterpart a look that hopefully conveyed his seriousness. Instinctively, Jason reached out and took Dick’s hand in his, giving it a little squeeze. Dick didn’t respond, but he didn’t jerk his hand away either – though he was looking at Jason with a calculated sort of confusion; brows knitting together as his eyes flew across Jason’s features, trying to read him.

“They have the best ossobuco in the city,” Jason continued, swallowing down the ache that came from how much he sounded like his Sicilian mother whenever he said anything more Italian than ‘pizza’.

Jason had never been to this Italian place himself, but a long time ago Dick had told him about it. More specifically, he’d told Jason that it was the last place he’d eaten with his parents before their deaths.

Dick had stopped breathing now, and Jason pre-emptively flinched, ready for Dick to wrench his hand away and throw Jason out of the apartment. Which was why Jason nearly choked when Dick squeezed his hand instead.

“Have you ever been back?” Jason asked softly, knowing that Dick had caught on to his plan now.

“No,” Dick whispered, turning his face away from Jason’s to scrunch his toes in the carpet.

Dick took several long, steadying breaths before he spoke again. Jason waited patiently, never loosening his grip on Dick’s hand. He’d wait for Dick Grayson for as long as it took. Had been waiting, he realised, maybe since before his death.

“Is this a date?” Dick asked after a while, eyes flickering over to Jason briefly before returning to the carpet.

“Yes,” Jason answered firmly, utterly determined not to give Dick any cowardly cop-outs this time – not this time, and never again if he could help it.

Dick’s breathing had gone shallow again, but Jason felt suddenly emboldened to press on. Maybe it was the candour with which Clark had apologised to him back in Smallville that inspired him. After all, when Clark had done it, it had earned more of Jason’s respect than anything else could have. He figured he owed Dick at least that.

“But it’s also an apology,” he said, perhaps not as confidently as Clark would have, though he imagined Clark had had far more practice at this during his time as Superman (and during his time dating Bruce Wayne).

Dick turned to him, like he was about to ask, ‘for what?’ but Jason was already answering him.

“For… everything.”

Dick’s tears this time are gentle and quiet. They roll down his face like rain on a windowpane, and it takes a beat before Jason even spots them. When he does, his eyes begin to prick as well, and he reaches out automatically to cup Dick’s face in his hand and turn the older man towards him. Dick’s eyes are wet and glistening, but the hopelessness that Jason had seen in them that night outside Damian’s room is (mercifully) no longer there.

Licking a tear off his lips, Jason smiled weakly and asked, “How do you do this?”

He was half-asking how Dick could stand to cry so often when Jason usually cried about three times a year on average, and half-asking something else, which he voiced as best as he could:

“It’s like every time you cry, I have to cry too.”

Dick laughed at him then; a wet, sunny little laugh that ended in a sniffle.

“That’s called love,” he said easily, his tone as breezy and incredulous as if he was explaining to an alien what a toaster was.

“Well,” Jason said, wiping his tears away and laying back on the bed with a sigh.

He pillowed one of his arms behind his head, using his free hand (which was still in Dick’s) to tug his older counterpart down with him. Dick complied, rolling onto his side and resting his head on his elbow. From his vantage, he stared down at Jason while Jason stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Jason said after a while, finishing the thought he’d left hanging in the air.

Dick’s tears were gone now, and he’d perked up considerably. The amicability between them was unlike anything either of them had had together since before Jason had died, and if Jason had been asked to describe it, he might have called it freeing.

Dick certainly seemed free, as he asked, “You’ve never been in love before?” as unabashedly as a middle schooler might.

Jason chewed on Dick’s words for a while. The question ought to have made him anxious, but he felt nothing but an honest fascination that mirrored Dick’s. Never really thought about it before, he said to himself, deciding that wouldn’t be a good enough answer to satisfy Dick’s insatiable curiosity.

“Once,” Jason finally settled on, letting the story flow out of him before he was even sure where it was going. “He was hot,” he stated matter-of-factly.

He turned his head to give Dick a gratuitous look that said, ‘he was very hot’.

“And smart,” Jason added, “and sweet, and caring.” Jason scrubbed a hand over his face idly. “He was everything I wanted to be back then.”

Jason let out a puff of air from deep in his tightening chest, turning his head back to the ceiling so that he didn’t have to deal with all the emotions muddying Dick’s perfect face.

“This guy inspired me,” Jason continued, quieter now. “He made me want to be a better person.”

Jason smiled, memories that he hadn’t allowed in since his resurrection flooding his mind. But for once they weren’t flashbacks, they were like a warm breeze blown across his face, and he was heady with the sensation of it.

“This was before I died,” Jason clarified, for once not feeling torn apart by the mention of his own death. “How I felt about him changed everything. It made me who I am.”

Jason’s head lolled to the side, still resting on his arm, and he smiled easily at Dick; a smile that reached his eyes, because Jason felt like he was really looking at him for the first time ever.

“I wanted to be good enough for him,” Jason said. “And in the end, you know, I think I almost was.”

Jason sighed wistfully, and Dick shifted on the bed beside him with what might have been discomfort. He was faintly aware that Dick should be uncomfortable, surprised by Jason’s sudden candour, maybe even a little jealous. But he felt good, for once. His chest was light, and he felt like he could take the weight of the world. Or, at least, the weight of Dick and his brothers.

“Did I mention hot?” Jason asked with a laugh.

There was silence after that for a while, as Dick processed, and Jason continued to revel in old memories.

Memories of soaring through the air, and refitting the Robin suit, and eating McDonalds on the corner of Cornerstone Court and Third Avenue at the end of a patrol. Memories of stupid puns and witty one-liners; of aborted jokes, and stories that always got cut off by the blaring of an ambulance siren or the chatter of a police scanner. Memories of pillow forts in Wayne Manor, and ice-cream sundaes made hastily behind Alfred’s back. Memories of raucous laughter and boyhood. Memories of his childhood best friend.

Memories of Dick Grayson.

“You should tell him,” Dick said firmly after a while.

At some point his hand had slipped out of Jason’s, and now Jason felt the ache of its absence.

“Whatever is between us,” Dick continued slowly, holding Jason’s gaze, “You should tell him that he was loved.”

Jason’s smile unfurled alongside the great python in his chest that had been constricting his heart since that night all those months ago, when he’d caught Dick’s eye across the floor of The Black Cat. His grin was untameable, taking over his whole face until his eyes crinkled and his cheeks were sore.

He rolled up onto his side, pushing Dick down onto the bed so that they were a mirroring their previous positions. He tried to wrangle his smile and hold Dick’s gaze with some amount of seriousness, but he failed outstandingly.

“I think I just did.”

[dailylogandoodle]

Any tips for drawing?

I mean, you’re gonna need to be more specific - I can’t impart years worth of skill and memorisation to you in a few tips. I can do my best, though, so here we go:

1: Use references, but don’t stress yourself out trying to get your picture’s proportions and details exactly like the reference image. You’ll waste a lot of time doing that, and all you need from the reference is the general idea of what the anatomy and gesture of the pose is. It’s better to get more drawings done that don’t look exactly like the reference image than to spend all your time on copying every detail of one image - with the first, you get more practise with more poses so you can become familiar with anatomy in general, but with the second you’ll just become really familiar with that one pose and you’ll probably burn yourself out and end up not drawing again for a while.

As a rule for this blog, if it takes me more than 24 hours to draw, it stops becoming a doodle and becomes a drawing, so I never spend more than 24 hours on something. This way, like with the reference images, I can get more practice doing a variety of things, instead of spending days slaving away over one image. I would recommend starting a blog like this if you’re looking to improve your art skills, actually! Just try to remember that it’s a DOODLE per day. Don’t throw yourself into it trying to release masterpieces every day, or your art motivation will die very quickly, and the point is to just get a little bit of low-stress practice in every day, so you improve just a little bit every day. Wow, I just said the word ‘day’ a lot of times.

2: Try to break away from your style every so often as an experiment (draw faces less pointy, thinner lines, shade in greyscale before colouring, draw the hands), but know that you don’t have to make these changes forever. For me, I stopped drawing pointy anime faces so I actually had to know about the anatomy of the bottom of the face, and now my knowledge of faces in general is very improved, and if I get the urge to draw a pointy anime face it’s now a much better pointy face than the ones I did when I was using pointy chins as a crutch to avoid different face shapes. Same with drawing really thin lines for a while - I realised how much I was covering up with thicker lines, and now even though I don’t draw with really thin lines any more, my thicker lines look much better.

3: If you want an expression to be more intense, make the facial features more asymmetrical. In fact, don’t be afraid of asymmetric features in general. I know the totally symmetrical face is considered to be more handsome by science or whatever, but it’s also much less expressive. Generally, the way you should go about it is… If you want to make one eyebrow lower than the other, make the eye below the eyebrow slightly squintier and move the other eyebrow up higher and make the other eye a bit wider. That way, one side of the face is squashed and the other is stretched, so it looks like an intentional decision rather than you not being able to draw the other eye the same way.

That said, getting the other eye correct is much less of a big deal than it’s made out to be - so long as they look generally the same, most people won’t notice. I’ve seen a few other people’s drawings where I’ve only noticed that one of the eyes is uneven after staring at the picture for a while, and my reaction is almost always 'oh, still a good drawing though/doesn’t really take away from the rest of the drawing’, rather than 'oh no, the other eye is wonky and now that I’ve seen this the whole thing is ruined’.

4: Learn colour theory. Learn about composition and negative space and gesture. Learn learn learn. People always make the mistake of assuming artists are naturally talented, or that creativity just magically produces good art. Wrong! Art is a discipline, a craft, and you need to know things about it to be able to do it. If you don’t know how to do fractions, then you won’t be able to do fractions; if you don’t know how to draw a leg, then you won’t be able to draw a leg. This sounds daunting, but what this means is that you have to look up pictures of loads of legs and study leg anatomy and practice loads until you will be able to draw a leg, just like practising a load of sums.

Being an artist is essentially being someone who knows what everything you see in the world is made of and how it works so you can take this knowledge and put it on paper. You need to learn about the texture of skin and hair and what it’s made of before you can render full HD portraits of people with detailed skin and hair.

Roman is actually probably smarter than he seems, because you need a lot of knowledge to create things (and conversely, Logan is probably much better at creative things than he lets on because he has the knowledge to do it – for example, his rap verse was super creative and well done. He just doesn’t utilise his knowledge as much).

Essentially, ignore everyone who tells you art skill is some magical talent that only a few people are blessed with - sure, some people are more naturally inclined to it, but it’s something you have to learn about and practice like maths, writing, music, etc. A person with no natural talent who spends their years practising and learning about the world and what it’s made of and how to draw it is ONE HUNDRED PERCENT OF THE TIME going to be better than someone with natural talent who relies entirely on this innate talent their whole life and never learns and improves. Maybe when they’re a kid they’ll be the best artist in their class, but by the time they’re older, if they haven’t practiced, they’ll be infants compared to people who actually know their stuff.

5: You know that style you use when you’re just casually drawing instead of trying to get your anatomy correct? Like, maybe you draw the face shapes one way when you’re doodling and when you’re working on a big piece you try to draw them a different way that maybe feels less natural? Yeah, that style? Just start using it for your fancier art. You’ll get way more done and improve more because you’re getting more done. This is essentially the same tip as my first one, but I still think it’s really important.

It’s like the Pot Theory that I saw going around once: there was a class divided into two. One half had to make one pot, and it had to be the best pot. They had hours to look up knowledge of how to make pots, so they could make their pot the best pot it could be.

Now, the other half was assigned to make as many pots as possible, regardless of quality. They had much more fun experimenting, finding out what works and what doesn’t, and they practised a lot more than the other class even though their first few attempts were terrible. In the end, the first half’s pot was… Okay, but the half that had produced loads of pots had pots that looked much better because they’d practised loads and allowed themselves to fail and then learn from it. Funnily enough, in art, quantity is better than quality.

(Essentially, by producing one Logan doodle per day, I’m doing the same thing as the students who just made lots of pots, regardless of quality. That’s why I’d recommend starting a blog like this if you want to improve.)

[hxh-secretsanta-2017]

from :@chaasiu​

for @readbooksandweep​ who asked for a leopika soulmate au involving colour. thank you for all the asks you've sent me throughout the month, and happy holidays!

There’s something special about a person’s eyes that captivates Leorio—and not just in the scientific sense where light rays enter the cornea, diverge at the lens, and an image registers in the brain. It’s the fact that people are always looking, always searching, despite this world being so dull and grey. How people still manage to hold onto hope even when the statistics are against them.

And they’re not at fault, not really, because Leorio often catches himself doing the same. He allows curiosity to take over him, questioning every person he passes by on the streets: Is it them? Could this person be my soulmate?

The answer, he knows, is almost always a no. Because the world is kind and cruel at the same time—his soulmate will only reveal themselves to him when the time is right, and before that time comes, he will continue to be blind.

So, for now, he tries to enjoy his days in the colourless.

As a man nearing his thirties, Leorio Paladiknight has found himself a stable job at a small clinic in the city. He spends his days helping out other citizens in the best way he knows how and while he is frequently put in high-stress situations, the friendly atmosphere between the physicians and patients makes it more than worth it.

His client today is a friend and it’s starting to become concerning just how often Leorio sees him here at work.

“Hold still, Gon,” he says as the younger boy squirms in his seat, wincing as Leorio carefully applies disinfectant to the cut on his leg. “You really have to be more careful next time, got it?”

“I will!” Gon agrees enthusiastically and Leorio only sighs because he wouldn’t be surprised to see him back at the clinic next week. Recklessness is in Gon’s blood.

Off to the side of the room, Kurapika watches the scene play out in silent amusement. Beside him, Killua’s eyes are flickering all over, from the door to the posters on the wall to the cabinets full of medical equipment. He seems to be micro-analyzing everything which strikes the doctor as odd considering there’s nothing around them that he hasn’t seen many times before. Then again, Killua has always been a weird kid.

Bringing his focus back to Gon, Leorio asks, “How did you get this injury, anyway?”

The grin he receives is so wide that it seems to split open the brown-haired boy’s face as he physically bounces in excitement. “We went to the park to try out the new skateboard Killua got recently and I was going down this path when the world just—exploded with colour.” His arms are spread out, mimicking a hose spraying water. “It’s like, suddenly, everything was complete and I could finally see the other half the world that was missing. I guess it shocked me so much that I lost control of the skateboard and fell off.”

It’s not the fact that Gon has found love and Leorio hasn’t that weaves a sting of jealousy in his heart; it’s the uncertainty that he might never get to experience the full effect of colours that he truly envies. The tone Gon uses to describe the whole situation almost makes the doctor want to believe in magic.

“So, you can see more than just blue now?” He has to know.

Gon nods vigorously.

“And you can see more than just green?” He turns to Killua, still partially in disbelief.

The white-haired boy holds a secretive smile. “Yeah.”

And thinking back to just a few minutes ago when Killua had been looking around the room as if seeing it all for the first time, Leorio supposes that this is all new to him. Because that’s how it starts, or so Leorio’s been told. The first colour you see is the colour that’s most closely associated with your soulmate. Then, for the next few days, weeks, months, years, the rest of the world is still grey until everything else fills in.

“Wow,” he breathes out, and wonders what he would give up just to experience all that for himself.

When he finishes tending to Gon’s wound, he leads his friends out to the hallway and walks them to the entrance of the clinic, mind still spinning with all this new information. Just as they’re about to leave, Killua turns around and shouts, “Hey, old man, when will you finally find your soulmate? At this rate, by the time you actually find them, you really will be an old man!”

Leorio gestures to shoo him out of the clinic and he really wouldn’t be Killua if he didn’t piss off Leorio at least once every day. “Yeah, yeah, just get out of here, you brat!”

As he turns around to fill out some forms, Kurapika is a relaxing and welcoming presence at his side. Unlike the younger boys, Leorio has always looked forward to the blond’s visits, however rare they are.

“It’s truly amazing, isn’t it?” Kurapika laments thoughtfully.

Leorio hums in agreement. Gon and Killua had met as kids, then grew to become best friends, and now soulmates. They’ve told them of the time they had gone fishing at a lake, Gon leaning back to cast out the bait into the water and almost falling in because the entire body of water before him had lit up in a dazzling shade of blue. When he turned around, he saw that Killua’s eyes were the same colour.

At the same moment, Gon’s pants had turned obnoxiously green, as the white-haired boy had expressed it. The grass beneath their feet was a similar hue and it was then that Killua began to question Gon’s fashion sense. In a way, the vibrancy of the colour matched Gon’s outgoing personality perfectly.

Leorio glances over at his friend and wishes he could see what colours make up Kurapika, where the lighter shades of his skin fall and the where the blend of light paints over his clothing and how much more beautiful he’d look outside of the greyscale.

“Do you think you’ll ever meet your soulmate?” he asks, and watches as Kurapika furrows his eyebrows in deep thought.

“I’d hope so,” the blond says eventually, a gentle smile on his face when he looks up at Leorio. “I think we’re all subconsciously searching, anyway.”

And the doctor nods, because it’s true. He continues to think about it that night, long after Kurapika has left and the clinic closes for the day, and discretely wonders if he would still want to find his soulmate if it meant that he wouldn’t be with Kurapika.

.

What Leorio knows: over the past few years since meeting Kurapika, he’s developed something akin to a crush on the Kurta. He’s denied it to himself for a long time and it’s pathetic because it’s so unlikely that they’re soulmates, but it’s not just something that he can control. Sometimes, he thinks he’d even be okay with never seeing colours at all if it means he could have a happy ending with Kurapika.

What Leorio wishes people told him: the colours come because you find love, not because they make you fall in love.

.

Kurapika’s house is effortlessly clean. It never fails to impress Leorio when he stops by for a visit and sees that every single item has its place in the rooms. Unlike his own home, where stray pieces of clothing somehow end up all over chairs and couches and loose papers reside on the floor more often than in folders or on a shelf, Kurapika actually maintains a tidy household.

Entering through the doorway, Leorio slips off his shoes and mutters without really thinking, “I should hire you to clean my room.”

The other boy raises an eyebrow at this, the corners of his mouth lifting upward. “Oh? My services are expensive, you know. I doubt you’d be able to afford it.”

“What a cruel friend.” Leorio feigns hurt.

Letting out a quiet laugh, Kurapika gestures at him to take a seat in the living room. “Would you like a drink? Although I only have tea to offer.”

“Sure, tea is fine.”

As the blond walks over to the kitchen, Leorio makes himself comfortable on the couch. It’s been far too long since he’s last visited, truthfully. Between his lengthy shifts at the clinic and Kurapika’s own busy schedule, the two of them rarely have a day off at the same time to hang out. He’s missed this—this calm and relaxing atmosphere that seems to settle around them when it’s just the two of them alone.

The sound of an alarmed shriek followed by the shattering of glass has Leorio jerking his head up in time to see Kurapika jump a foot back from where he had been standing. His hands are clasped around his mouth, body backed up against the wall in fear.

Immediately, adrenaline kicking in, Leorio runs over and sees the cup Kurapika had been holding earlier broken on the floor. Turning to the blond who is visibly shaking, he asks, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Kurapika only manages to raise an arm and point at the counter in front of him, stammering out incoherencies, eyes wide. Following his line of sight, Leorio glances over and sees a small spider crawling on the marble surface. It all makes sense, then, when he remembers Kurapika telling him about spiders triggering a response in him; something about his parents and the loss of his childhood friend and how he’s never really been able to get over it completely.

Working quickly, Leorio disposes of the spider and returns to the blond’s side. He watches, helpless, as Kurapika sinks down to the cold tiled floor and curls up within himself, gasping softly every now and then.

“Breathe,” Leorio instructs, voice quiet but firm. “It’s okay, just breathe.”

He holds Kurapika in his arms, trying to provide any amount of reassurance he can as the younger boy shakes with a force Leorio’s never seen before, a state of vulnerability that’s completely foreign to him.

“I-I’m sorry,” Kurapika says finally, as if choking the words out forcefully, breathing still uneven. The doctor can tell that he’s trying his hardest to compose himself again.

And Leorio shakes his head, replying with the one thing he believes most in his heart. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s when the tears start flowing and Kurapika feels truly and utterly broken that he asks, “How do you think my soulmate would react if he saw me like this, freaking out over a tiny insect?” The question causes a bitter laugh to escape his lips, face still hidden in his arms as if he’s too embarrassed to raise his head. “How can anyone love me, Leorio?”

And Leorio holds him tighter, rubbing soothing circles on the younger boy’s back, wishing that he could take away emotional pain like how he stitches up physical injuries at the clinic. He wants to say, even if they don’t love you, I will; wants to say, I don’t need the colours to see that you’re amazing; wants to say, I’ll always be here for you—if you’ll let me.

He wants to say so many things but swallows the words back down because that’s not how their world works and Kurapika is not his to love.

Instead, Leorio leans forward to rest his lips on top of the younger boy’s hair. Closes his eyes and murmurs, “Your soulmate is a fool if they don’t realize how lucky they are.”

.

His hand is steady, experienced, as he uses a pair of tweezers to delicately remove the stinger from skin before pressing an ice pack to the swollen area. “There you go,” Leorio tells his client. “Bee stings can be a pain but you don’t seem to have an allergic reaction, so it shouldn’t take long to heal.”

Ponzu, a young girl who happens to wear a pink shirt and a large hat, smiles at him appreciatively. “Thanks for your help. I’m also sorry for getting a little bit of red on you,” she says, pointing at the smudge of blood staining the bottom of Leorio’s shirt, most likely caused by having brushed against her arm when the stinger was being removed. He hadn’t even noticed it until she brought it to his attention, and hadn’t noticed her wording until he looks down, expecting to see grey, and instead sees—

“Oh,” she exclaims, noticing the expression on his face and misunderstanding, “what I meant is that I accidently smeared some blood on your shirt. You’re still colourblind, aren’t you?”

Is he? Leorio stares at the spot on his clothes, mystified. Is he still colourblind, or is this…?

Red, the logical part of his mind supplies him. Blood is red.

“Doctor?”

At the sound of Ponzu’s voice, he snaps out if it and quickly composes himself. “Right, sorry. Don’t worry about the stain, it’s nothing that can’t be washed out.” He tries to give his patient a smile through the pounding in his head as he goes to one of the drawers to take out a small bottle. “These painkillers will help with the aching and the swelling should fade away within a week.”

“Thank you.” She accepts the medicine gratefully. Her gaze stays on him for a few moments longer as if she has something else to say, but she simply bows politely before exiting the room.

Now alone, Leorio takes the time to confirm his suspicions. He looks around the room and sees certain objects pop out at him: the (not-grey) pen he’s used so often that lies on the desk, the (not-grey) first aid kit on a shelf in the corner, one of the (not-grey) chairs off to the side. They’re not grey and he sees, really sees them for the first time, and thinks, holy shit.

His next thought is: I have to tell Kurapika.

Before Leorio even realizes what he’s doing, he’s already making his way out the door, well aware that he’s still in the middle of his shift and not caring in the slightest. As he runs the three blocks to Kurapika’s house, it’s like he’s a newborn again experiencing everything for the first time. Different parts of the world light up before him, from the leaves that are just beginning to change colour to a few of the cars passing by on the street, all delightfully, magnificently, undeniably red.

He’s out of breath when he finally rings Kurapika’s doorbell and still trying to get oxygen into his system when Kurapika opens the door.

“Leorio?” the younger boy asks, visibly surprised. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Through his wheezing, he’s somehow able to make out a few sentences. “I just—I was working with a patient and she had some blood on her arm and, like, I almost messed up the treatment procedure because I could see it. I could see the colour. Red.”

Kurapika only manages to blink as Leorio bounces on his feet, words coming out in a stream of excitement.

“It’s—it’s so vibrant and bright and dark at the same time and I can’t even describe it, Kurapika, but I had to come and tell you. It’s just beautiful.” He only stops to catch his breath and freezes when he notices— “It’s… the same colour as your eyes.”

There’s a moment of stillness before the blond finally clears his throat and shifts around almost nervously, taking the pause in Leorio’s words to speak up. “Actually, just now, I think I also caught a glimpse of… colour.”

It feels like an eternity that they stand at the doorway unmoving, shocked into silence and staring at each other because this—this can’t be a coincidence. Leorio feels it deep inside him, a confirmation in his very soul that his speculations are correct, even if it all seems too good to believe.

“No way,” he whispers. “It’s you.” He takes a step back as if re-evaluating the whole situation. “This whole time, it’s been you.”

Kurapika smiles tentatively, like he gets it but doesn’t entirely understand. “I suppose this means that we’re… soulmates?”

Everything is still reeling in his head, but the word soulmates resonates with Leorio now in a way that it never did before. He nods slowly in reply, not able to fully take it in yet, but he finds himself moving closer to the younger boy; closer and closer until he brings their lips together and somehow, it’s like the world burst into colour in that moment despite the monochrome of greys still surrounding him.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he says when they break apart.

There’s a light blush of red—red that he can actually see now, red that is faint and just barely there but still definitely noticeable—on Kurapika’s cheeks as he looks up at him almost shyly. “Me too.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes, letting their brain catch up with their hearts. “So, what colour did you see?”

“Brown.”

Leorio wrinkles his nose. “Brown? The colour I’m associated with is brown?” He’s heard that brown is dark and murky, like the dirtied water of swamps and the mud that gets stuck to the bottom of boots, none of which seem particularly appealing. Killua had once mentioned that it was also the colour of shit.

Kurapika laughs gently at his reaction. “It’s a strong and solid colour, a reliable foundation like the bark on trees. You’ll see when it comes. I think it suits you perfectly.”

And the older man leans in for a kiss again because he thinks he’s more than okay with being brown if it means getting to be with Kurapika.

.

(“Shouldn’t you be getting back to work though?”

“Ah! Fuck, you’re right,” Leorio mutters, scrambling to straighten his hair and make himself presentable. He half-runs, half-trips down the path for a few steps before stopping and turning around to blow Kurapika a kiss as dramatically as possible.

The Kurta only shakes his head despite the smile lingering on his lips.)

.

Leorio has always been fascinated by a person’s eyes. They’re the first point of contact that light rays hit to let you observe the world. They’re what allows him to see red, to see the rest of the colours when they eventually come in time.

Kurapika tells him that his eyes are warm and inviting and that they display the full effect of just how generous he is. Brown like hot chocolate and smooth caramel and the determination that paints over him when he’s focused on work at the clinic.

Gon describes Killua’s eyes as if they contain oceans in their little round orbs, washed over in a brilliant shade of blue. When he’s angry, the white-haired boy can throw fiery tides at you with just one look. In the intimate spaces shared with only Gon, they are gentle and calm, as if stroking seashells on the shore.

When Leorio himself looks at Kurapika’s eyes, he is overwhelmed by kindness. He can feel the blond’s thoughtful nature touching everything that he lands his gaze on, a true and genuine love for the things he cares about, even in the greyscale. There is compassion hidden behind each glance and unconditional support for those he admires.

Leorio has always been fascinated by a person’s eyes, but he thinks that the way Kurapika’s glow a bright scarlet colour is the best by far.

[shootingstarcipher-blog]

Grey

Bill had been acting strange for weeks. Stranger than usual, at least. They weren’t together all the time – hardly ever, in fact, as Bill only came to him once every few days and never stayed for more than five or ten minutes – but Dipper could tell something was wrong. That’s something he’d never considered before – that something (besides his obvious insanity) could be wrong with Bill Cipher.

Over the last few weeks, the demon had been kept to his routine of visiting him regularly but his visits had gotten shorter and shorter, and he had started to speak less and less each time he visited. Last time, which was three days ago, he had barely said a word. Usually Dipper would have considered his silence a blessing but only because it was a rare occurrence and it would give him the chance to focus on something other than the monster that seemed to bent on turning his life upside down; now he was actually beginning to worry about the demon.

That was another thing he had never expected to happen. Only a couple of months ago, he had decided to accept that he no longer despised Bill Cipher with every fibre of his being, and now he was actually concerned about him. He had realised already that something about the way Bill treated him made him feel special and accepted, like he really belonged somewhere, and that was something he’d never felt before. Sure, he and Mabel were close – better than just close, practically inseparable – but it was different with Bill. Mabel had other friends. He and Bill only had each other.

But the demon wouldn’t tell him anything about what was upsetting him. Dipper had tried to get answers out of him on a number of occasions but was only ever met with an evasive grunt or a sudden change in the topic of conversation, and sometimes even silence. It was getting out of hand. He was even starting to find it difficult to get to sleep now that he was always worrying about the demon’s sudden personality shift. He needed answers. That’s why he made up his mind that the next time they crossed paths, he would do everything in his power to find out what was going on.

He was alone in the attic room of the Mystery Shack, just hours after he’d vowed to uncover the reason behind Bill Cipher’s odd behaviour, when the world around him started to fade to grey until only he and the triangular one-eyed demon hadn’t been drained of colour. He may have not been drained of his gold colour, but he certainly seemed to have been drained of all signs of life.

His top hat was drooping, his eye was half closed, and all four of his limbs dangled off his triangular body at unnatural angles. If Bill had been a human, Dipper would have thought he was depressed. But dream demons didn’t get depressed, did they? And certainly not ones like Bill Cipher.

“Demons can feel, kid – even me. I just don’t like to admit it,” the demon confessed, hovering above Dipper’s bed and crossing his legs.

“So what’s been going on with you? You’re not acting… I don’t know, normal – for you, I mean. You’re never normal.” As he spoke, Dipper clambered onto his bed and mimicked Bill’s position, facing him. Bill’s eye squinted into a half-hearted grin in response.

But he said nothing and turned away from him, evading his questions once more. He lowered himself and uncrossed his legs so it was if he was sitting down on the edge of the bed, though they were both aware that he couldn’t really touch anything in that faded, grey world without making a deal – and Dipper was never going to do that again, not after the last time.

“It’s nothing, Pine Tree. I’m fine.” It was such an obvious lie that Dipper could barely believe it. Never in his life had he thought he’d ever hear Bill say something so incredibly unconvincingly.

“You really thought I’d believe that?” he scoffed, narrowing his eyes at the demon and moving to face him again. “I expected better from you, Cipher.” There was definitely something wrong with him. The way his entire body drooped, the way that sad look in his eye practically screamed misery and despair… Dipper couldn’t argue with the evidence. Bill apparently thought he could.

Bill kept quiet – not a surprise this time – and his body drooped a little more. He eyed the ground, avoiding making eye contact with the mortal. As he stood there watching him, Dipper couldn’t help but notice that the twinge of concern he had felt for the demon was rapidly intensifying. He wasn’t sure how much more of the worry and uncertainty he could take.

Knowing that he wasn’t getting anywhere by demanding answers Bill had no desire to give, he decided to take a different approach and perched beside him on the edge of the bed, keeping his voice and gaze lowered as he spoke. “Bill, listen. If you don’t want to tell me about it then it’s fine. But I know something’s wrong with you and believe me, as much as I hate to admit it, I do actually care. So if you decide you want to talk about it, just know that I’m here for you, okay?” Though he would have preferred to have been lying, everything he said was the truth and with one quick glance into his mind, Bill realised that.

That was how Dipper Pines finally succeeded in convincing him to open up about what was bothering him.

For a while, both of them were silent. But the tension between them had hit its climax and was diffusing. Dipper lay back on the bed, letting his legs dangle over the edge, and Bill copied him, lying back and hovering above the bed, holding out his hand so it was near the mortal’s - almost touching but not quite. They couldn’t. They could never – not without a deal. And Dipper was never going to make another deal with him ever again.

That thought was what set it all off. Bill. Dipper noticed it first. The golden colour of the demon’s body suddenly started to fade to grey, rapidly spreading from the bottom of his triangular shape to the tip, where his top hat hovered above him in its now usual drooping position. Even after Dipper pointed it out to him – in possibly the most alarmed manner he’d ever said anything at all – it seemed like Bill didn’t care. He didn’t appear surprised or alarmed, and he didn’t even respond to Dipper’s sudden exclamation. He just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, as if he were trying to ignore the entire situation.

He probably was, Dipper decided. He was just trying to ignore what was happening as if he thought that would make his problems disappear. The last thing Dipper wanted was to care. He shouldn’t have cared. After all Bill Cipher had done to him, seeing the demon like this shouldn’t have bothered him at all – and yet it did. For some reason, he couldn’t stop himself from wishing he could make things right again – as wacky and weird as “right” seemed to be for the demon – and make Bill feel okay again.

“I know you care, kid. But that doesn’t make it any better.”

Bill’s voice tore through Dipper’s mind like a blade through soft, delicate flesh. Dipper didn’t know how to respond, not understanding what the demon wanted from him. He couldn’t help, could he? Whatever it was that was bothering him, he couldn’t stop it. Except that Bill apparently thought otherwise.

“You can help. You just won’t.” That made it even worse. “You don’t want to. I mean, you might want to help, but you don’t want to do the one thing that will.”

What do I have to do? He couldn’t find the strength to force the words out, but he knew that Bill was listening. How can I make it better? Whatever it was, Dipper was dreading it. He’d have to do something horrible; he could sense it – something he’d never, ever be willing to do. He paused for a moment, realising that he had lost control over his emotions long ago, and considered the possibility that it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. It could have a been a trick, after all – a ploy to convince him to do something he’d never do on his own. He wouldn’t have put it passed him, but now that they had defined their relationship as something other than enemies, he hated the idea that Bill would do something to ruin it.

Bill sat up then, looking Dipper in the eye for the first time since he’d started acting differently. It was a harrowing experience, to gaze up at a being that had once been bright, colourful in every sense of the word, and – albeit ruthless and destructive – never anything less than the spirit of chaos and madness, only to find that it was no longer any of what it had always been.

Now a greyscale image of melancholy, Bill glanced down at the human and sighed, understanding perfectly what he was thinking. “I… Pine Tree, I want to be able to touch you.”

It was a strange request, even for Bill Cipher. Dipper hesitated before attempting to answer, and eventually only managed to choke out a barely audible “Why?”

“Please, Pine Tree, just make a deal with me. What do you want?”

There was a pause. Dipper hadn’t heard him ever say something so polite before. And as for what he wanted… Well, there was one thing – one thing he’d always avoided thinking about whenever the demon was present. They weren’t enemies anymore, but neither of them had defined their relationship in detail. Friends? Maybe. But Dipper was almost certain he wanted something more than that. As of late, his feelings towards Wendy had subsided and he had started to spend most of his time thinking about Bill, as if his feelings had transferred from Wendy to the demon.

“I know, kid. You don’t think I notice how you stare at me?” The shrill sound of his voice startled him, and Dipper had to take a moment to comprehend what he was saying. “I don’t understand it but I do accept it,” Bill went on, drawing his attention again. “And I want to try it. Maybe I feel that way about you, but I just don’t know it yet. I feel something… strong. And it’s weird. But,” he paused and stood up, feet dangling in mid-air as he floated above the wooden floor and stretched out his hand, a familiar blue flame dancing in his palm. “If you make a deal with me, we can try being together – in one of your… human-type relationships. We’ll both get what we want.”

Perhaps he should have had more sense. It seemed too good to be true, after all. But in a momentary lapse of reason and sensibility, letting emotion overcome him, he reached out and connected their hands, the blue flame extinguishing itself to signify that the deal had been made. When Dipper went to pull away, the demon held onto him and laced their fingers together. It was then that for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Bill’s eye squinted into a grin as the golden colour returned to his triangular form, illuminating the room once again.

[angeliquefreaque]

What is your preferred method of making aesthetics? (Programs, websites, where and how you find your images, the creative process in general?)

this is an interesting question! a rundown under the cut:

program: GIMP because i’ve used it for years (interface honestly sucks but it works)

websites/images: 99% of the time i use Pinterest, i also snag stuff off my dash (fashion, historical and whatnot) and when i’m really desperate i try googling. whenever i make an aesthetic, i look in my folders first which are organised vaguely by character and whatnot, then i go on a search binge and save everything i like into those folders for use another time. oh and on my main blog, i tag certain things as inspo so i can look through it later.

the process…sometimes i start with a character/pairing/theme i just feel like doing (or a request), sometimes i have an image lying around that inspires me to something. the colour scheme generally takes shape as i look for images and find that i’ve got good green ones or whatever (then of course the ones i want to use that AREN’T right, i have to fiddle with or abandon…this is the most arduous part, i think). i always want nice clear images of models to represent characters and while i have some regulars, i value the look of the photo more than using the same person every time. finding good faces is hard but it’s super important, both looks and expression (and whether it works in the composition). if it’s a pairing, finding suitable couple images is really hard but really worth it. then i like good strong ‘abstract’ images to fill it out, i always value something bold and quirky if i can get it (illustrations, especially vintage, and so on). vague imagery is not good. if i want text, i like to find something like old newspaper excerpts, i never just type something myself. i like strong colour schemes, contrast and impactful pictures, with everything very on-theme- if it’s a picture of flowers or something, then it’d better be really sharp and colourful. balance in the composition is really what makes aesthetics pop too- if you overanalyse my aesthetics, you’ll see multiple levels of balance to the images. the obvious ones would be putting the faceclaims in opposite corners and so on, but i also balance colour and other imagery carefully (although mostly just by feel, but sometimes with planning).

when it comes to the technical part, the size and quality of images is important to begin with, though since they’ll be small in the overall composition, they don’t have to be AMAZING and i do size up a little or mess with proportions if i need to and i can get away with it. i never like to end up with a blurry or grainy aesthetic. cropping is a real skill, lol- a totally unfitting image can look amazing if you crop right, this is particularly true of faceclaim/model pics. i’m cautious with greyscale images because fiddling with the colours can end up looking awful (i’m too lazy to colourise for real so i just tune the existing colour up), and i think using them too often as-is can look bland (i always mix greyscale pics with coloured ones). broadly speaking i up the contrast and whatnot on most pics, basic stuff. when using GIMP, i always make sure my canvas and images are exactly the right size (i stick to 1000x1400 usually, the two-column ones- that’s 8 images sized at 500x350, but i do change sometimes. there’s no ‘right’ size that i’ve found yet as far as tumblr’s shitty resizing goes). i use snap to grid to position things exactly right. i drop a ton of images i’m considering on the canvas, crop them, resize them and mess with them, then eliminate them as i go along and mess with the positions until it looks right. i don’t usually put gradients or anything over the entire thing, but i have on occasion.

generally, making aesthetics for me is about being really picky, really patient and really obsessed with fine detail, lmao. i also try to keep plenty of images on hand in ORGANISED folders. it helps to not give a fuck and do whatever inspires you (there’s a reason i do 90% nyo!austria). also look at other people’s aesthetics for inspiration and…what not to do (sorry).

as a general rule i don’t use fanart, cosplay or anything like that, it defeats the object for me. i also do not like seeing tons of quotations shoved in, especially of the emo teen variety, especially in bad fonts. very blurry, grainy, desaturated or otherwise bleh images are a no-go. super famous celebs as faceclaims is also jarring for me and i’m VERY fussy about how these characters look in my head (i’m okay with lesser-known celebs and somewhat-known models, lmao). for the record, i often mess with models’ eye colour for obvious reasons. extensive photoshopping is beyond me, though- i usually just tweak (though i HAVE edited a tattoo out, badly!)

what i DO like is pictures of food, i love food. illustrations, bits of wallpaper, newspapers, animal pics, shots of just lips/eyes/hair, single unusual objects, fashion, really funny/IC text posts, jewels, and a strong contrast of colours, etc…that’s pretty much what i like. oh and sexy images. i toyed with the idea of animated (explicit) gif aesthetics once but i’ve not done it yet…