he-is-a-fairy

I actually wanted to make this AU for some time.
yes don’t worry I’m still working on my first AU (where Tord isn’t a traitor). I just don’t have time for it yet.

So this AU is Eddsland. Basically Eddsworld + Peter Pan. As a kid, Peter Pan was one of my favorite childhood stories. I loved the fun and adventure in it, and on the other hand I loved the more morbid type of fun in Eddsworld, so I was like “Why not combine them both?”

This is my design so far for Edd Pan (it’s a silly name I know, but I like it). I combined Edd’s Poweredd outfit with Disney’s Peter Pan. He has a Cola Fairy with him (no name yet). Edd gets his powers (like in Poweredd) from the cola emitted by the Cola fairies. Without cola, he can’t fly and sht.

I have more ideas but I’m not spoiling anything just yet…

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you ever think about how happy Shiro was on the mission to get the Green Lion because he’d been in prison for a year and probably hadn’t seen anything green or even been outside and then his first mission he gets to go to this wonderful garden paradise planet populated by chill giant sloths and gentle creatures and he’s just so gosh darned happy to be alive and free

i love how despite jimin constantly barging into his studio unannounced, namjoon smiled every time he came through the door, hugged him to stop him from leaving, constantly called him cute and handsome, praised him endlessly both when he was in the room and even when he wasn’t there, called him an angel without wings, said he’s like a fairy from a fairy tale and then covered his face, giggling 

anonymous asked:

Ok but that photo you drew of Mcree with his serape flaring out behind him just makes the fabric look like fairy wings. And now all I can imagine is that he's a fairy with unusually large, super big wings patterned like his serape so he just lets them flop down over his shoulders. Maybe normal fairy ettiquite is 'don't touch the wings' but he doesn't know/care and just lets them flop over or wrap around his loved ones.

He’s mothman?

Maleficent is a dragon who cursed an infant because she wasn’t invited to a christening, this woman CANNOT raise a child.

Queen Griemhilde is a conceited, vain witch who killed a 14 year old because she was prettier than her, this woman CANNOT raise a child.

Jafar hypnotised the sultan, got himself turned into a magician, a genie, just for power and forced a 15 year old to be his slave girl, this man CANNOT raise a child.

Cruella DeVil is a mentally ill woman whose affection consists of derogatory comments, blowing smoke in your face and never taking no for an answer, this woman CANNOT raise a child.

So, let’s say Evie, Carlos, Mal and Jay grow up on an island without magic, surrounded by murderers, thieves, people who did bad things, people who are proud of these things. Let’s say, they don’t teach them to be evil. Let’s say, they teach them ‘don’t let anyone keep you from what you want, you are a queen, a dragon, a genie, you are magic’. Ben has dreams about a girl with green eyes and lilac hair, of a girl who is different, something fae, and he remembers the fairy who cursed his father because he wasn’t kind, so he asks his parents to let some of the villain’s kids stay in Auradon. Show them goodness.

When they arrive, they don’t arrive in a tumbling mess. They don’t even get out of the car, and when the chauffeur opens the door, there’s a stick thin girl with long blue hair staring at her hands, a muscled boy who almost isn’t a boy anymore, rubbing the bands on his arms, the girl from his dreams, eyes glowing, a little boy dressed in fur curled up in their laps.
They aren’t used to magic, even though it is in their very cores. So they take time to get used to it, to learn to live with death and power under their skin.

They weren’t sent to get a wand for world domination. They were sent to get a wand for freedom. So it takes them longer to realise just what their parents did. It takes talks and family day and Queen Leiah screaming at the top of her lungs (‘Get away from here, do not touch my grandchild, my daughter will never be mine because of you, how dare you, how dare you?’) for Mal to realise that this isn’t about invitations and pettiness. It’s about a woman with hair as yellow as gold and lips that shame the red red rose, growing up poor, in a cottage, falling to her death at the touch of a spindle, this is about her mother talking about the raven with more fondness than her, this is about all the things her mother did, no matter the reason.

Evie still studies with Doug, and she hasn’t been taught to score a prince, she’s been taught to use her beauty, it is all men want, get rid of them before they get rid of you, do NOT die. So she meets with Doug at his house and Dopey stares at her and then he gets Snow White, who breaks down crying at the sight of this thin, beautiful girl with hair in a colour that has haunted her sleep ('what did she do to you, was it not enough for her to kill me, what has she done to you’) and Evie realises that her mother’s stories are not about men, they are about this woman, about her sister, who was 14 and beautiful and dead. And this is about her and all the bones she can count when she looks in the mirror.

Jay befriends the only other Arabian speaking children he can find, plays gurney, ruthless and self centered and for him, and one day Aladdin picks his children up and Jay does one of those backflips where he stays in the air for too long and it knocks the wind out of him. Jay doesn’t understand because of Aladdin, he sees a thief, who is like him, but it isn’t what makes him think, tourney does the trick because they are a team and the world does not revolve around him, he is not the center of the universe.

Carlos knows that his mother is wrong from the moment he is old enough to master critical thinking. She shrieks and hits and worships fur and he spends his days begging for scraps. There’s no magic in him, no rush he gets from crossing the barrier, so he helps his friends. They have always been his lifeline, so maybe now he can be theirs.

“The young elf went to the forest and would’ve never imagined that he would stumble upon a fairy so beautiful that his wings seemed to sparkle between the leaves”

Yuri “Lmao I wasn’t spying at you between the leaves at all do you have a name beside those muscles” Plisetsky is the prince of fairies while Otabek is a little elf that works as a soldier for the elf realm //let me be your wings plays in the distance

Yesterday I went to the park and drew a bit! It was refreshing!

I hate how everyone assumes Jason Todd would be a bad father and not know how to take care of his kids so he’d need his family to teach him how to be a proper father, like b*tch please. Jason would be the best dad and you know it.

He’d be the kind of dad who lets his son do a messy science experiment he saw at school, and when they get green slime all over the kitchen table, Jason just laughs and cleans it up after instead of getting angry. He’d be the kind of dad who goes to every baseball game, every ballet recital, and every concert. He’d be the kind of dad who tells his kid he works with the Tooth Fairy every night instead of admitting the truth that he’s the Red Hood because he doesn’t want them to think he’s a bad guy. He’d be the kind of dad who makes smiley face pancakes in the morning if his kid asks for it and belts out Disney songs while he does so. He’d be the kind of dad who lets his daughter put a bunch of tiny ponytails in his hair, and then goes to the manor like that because she made him promise to. And when his brothers laugh at him, he just laughs along because it was totally worth seeing the proud smile on his little girl’s face when she admired her handiwork. 

Screw all of you people, Jason Todd would be the best father ever, which of course he learned all from Bruce and Alfred. That paired with the fact that he had a crappy childhood, so he does whatever he can to ensure his own children don’t have to suffer like he did. 

A voice told him where to go, and he went.

Maybe there was a time when the word of a disembodied voice would not have been enough. He doesn’t remember it. He doesn’t remember a lot of things. He remembers a lot of things. He remembers the wrong things.

He is slow. Maybe he wasn’t always slow, but he is slow now. There is no straight line between points. He considers every tree and every flower. He picks apples and catches lizards. He stares at the sky, and chases the stars.

He doesn’t speak much. He’s told he never did. He wonders if it was then what it is now, the way the words taste wrong and never fit on his tongue. Hylian and Hylian and Hylian but it never sounds right to the points of his ears. His first language is foreign and his accent is nowhere. He doesn’t sound like a hero. He doesn’t know what he sounds like, but he knows he doesn’t like it. It grates the way any wrong thing grates. He says nothing, and no one seems to mind.

He catches beetles, and stops to take pictures of fish.

In the burnt husk of a home, he finds a rusted shield. It didn’t do them much good, whoever they had been. He finds them all over, these floors without ceilings, these roofs without walls. He wonders, always: have I been here before? Did I know them, once? This house on the mountain, this cabin in the woods, would they have recognized me? Was this a name that fit on my tongue?

He learns to bake a cake, breaks rock salt and rubies from veins of ore in the earth.

He moves the sails of a raft with a Korok leaf, and he thinks: this should be easier. He wills the wind to move, but there is nothing. He looks out at the ocean and thinks: what might we find there? His raft is dead wood. He is alone.

He catches fairies in his hands, pink light and warmth and a faint ringing in his skin. They never complain. They never speak. He opens his hands to let them go, and they are the wrong color. The Great Fairy laughs, and it’s so much prettier than it used to be. Than it never was. He rolls glass bottles in his hands, but he doesn’t take them with him.

There is something restful in this. He can’t explain it, even if he had words to try. In his long slumber something inside him came unmoored, and he knows things he must not. He is tired. He knows this most of all. There is work to be done. There has always been work to be done.

He lights a fire, roasts a fish, picks at the flaky meat while it’s still hot enough to burn his fingertips.

He thinks of a sister he never had. He thinks of a grandmother he never had. Did he know his grandmother? In the Lost Woods he stares at the Deku Tree, and knows this is not home. There is a green-haired girl on the backs of his eyelids, and she sounds like three notes repeating.

He finds an ocarina made of wood, and runs his fingers over the holes. Three notes, repeating. He plays them, and nothing happens. He checks the shape of the moon and his reflection in the water. He plays three notes, different this time. There is nothing but an ache.

It sounds more like his voice than his voice ever did, and that hurts worse than silence.

He tries to remember Mipha. He wants to remember her most of all. They were friends, he is told. Close, he is told. He has nothing but fragments and a shirt that fits too well. When he tries to remember, he sees blue scales instead of red.

Zelda is Zelda is Zelda. She is the reference point around which the world turns. She is always Zelda, even when she isn’t. Her face is always her face. He is grateful and resentful in turns. There are so many people he would remember, if he could. Instead there is Zelda.

Ganon is not Ganon is not Ganon. He doesn’t know if Ganon has a face. He’s had so many faces. Was this ever a man, this manifestation of malice? He remembers eyes of gold, he remembers snouts. He recognizes the smell of him in burnt cloves and blood.

Fear is red lights and a blue glow. He knows these things were hope, once. He can’t remember it. He can’t remember seeing six metal legs and believing they would save him. Did he always know that it was helpless? It feels like he should have known.

The words are different, but the meaning is the same. He is procrastinating. If he needed an excuse, he would call it training. He would say they need every advantage. He would say they will only have one chance. No one asks for excuses. He says nothing.

Zelda has waited a hundred years. She waits, still.

She remembers a boy who never rushed her. She remembers, the way he does not, his silent patience while she found herself. While she took too long to find herself. She will wait for him to find himself, even if he takes too long. They may doom the world with their patience, but does the world not owe them this? There are so many worlds, and so few of them are kind. What could this world have been, if it had been kind? What might she have saved if it had not demanded saving?

She did not save the world. She will not save the world. She saved a single point of kindness who did not ask it from her. She will not ask it from him, but he may save her all the same. He is courageous. He is kind. Please, be careful.

He catches Koroks in durian trees, and chases dragons through canyons.

He jumps off a cliff to land in a stable, and no one there sees the hero he should be. He is no one, he is nothing. He is halfway to a beast, but they’re grateful for his help, when he offers it. He always offers it. He doesn’t know how not to.

His hands are calloused. Sometimes they bleed. He ties up his hair every morning, and does not stop. Swords fit so neatly in his hand. Sometimes he uses them to light fires or carve birds. It’s just easier. A sword is all he knows. He’s trying to be more. This might be beyond him.

Sometimes he growls when he’s angry. Sometimes he rips things apart with his teeth. Sometimes dogs follow him, but sometimes they whine. The shadows aren’t always unfriendly, and he feels them like fingers in his hair. There are eyes like fire in the mirrors at night, but he can only see them in the corners of his eyes.

The first time the Gerudo catch him, it was because he tried to scale their walls. Why did he think that would work? Urbosa would laugh if she knew.

He catches horses, but they’re never the right one. The hooves are wrong, the gait is wrong. They are never a part of him, an extension of his own legs. He rides across fields and they hesitate the way she never did. He whistles three notes, sometimes, but it never works.

He finds it, eventually. The place the voice told him about. Walls without a roof. Has he been here before? Surely he has. It’s night when he arrives. His footsteps make no sound. This is how he navigates the world, now, quiet as the sky. It’s easier this way. He kneels down to catch the latch on the chest, and when it opens, he cannot breathe.

He stares at it for a long time.

The moon is only the moon. His skin is still his own. Eventually, he breathes again.

He almost laughs.

He slides the mask onto his face.