strawberry line

4

Zone of truth! I definitely do not have the World’s Most Original designs when it comes to Adventure Zone, but I’m REALLY proud of the color design holy heck. Fun fact, each boy is actually based off of a dessert. I went and found pictures on google to pull colors from and everything.

I also really wanted them to vibe with each other, since they don’t really share any physical features I wanted their colors to tie them together a little. Magnus’ big dumb head was the hardest thing to design when it came to shapes, but after a little working at it I finally got something I liked. 

The characters from adventure zone have been such a GREAT exercise for character design, and drawing fan art of them has been a delight! This podcast was such a blessing and I’m so happy I listened to it.

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🍓Strawberry Meringue Milkshake🍓 

AAA FINISHED DRAWING THE FRUIT KIDS


[ Do NOT tag as me/kin/ID please!]

honeycomb

pairing: harry potter x daphne greengrass

setting: canon au


Harry is fourteen, and Daphne Greengrass is nobody.

She’s in a floaty, pastel colored dress—blush or mint or lavender, he doesn’t really notice—and she’s dancing with Nott, spinning around in a tight, gracefully calculated circle, her hair a gleaming wave of perfectly smooth, meticulously styled cornsilk; and she has freckles, maybe, and blue eyes, no green eyes, and she’s slender in a way that looks like it takes effort to maintain, her cheeks the slightest bit too sharp, her ankles the slightest bit too flimsy; and she’s giggling conspiratorially with Parkinson over by the punch bowl and she’s whispering encouragingly to Bulstrode out in the gardens and she’s smiling shyly, no, slyly at one of the older boys from Beauxbatons, letting him kiss her hand and tuck a winter white rose behind her ear, and Harry’s never spoken to Daphne Greengrass before, has never even thought of speaking to Daphne Greengrass before, but—

But he thinks about it, then, fleetingly.

Just for a moment.


Harry is seventeen, and Daphne Greengrass is nobody.

She’s in an anonymous lineup of dusty, mud-spattered Slytherins, tie loose and blouse shredded and skirt singed all along the hem, the holes in her tights ranging in size from pebbles to sickles to fists; and her is cut in short, bluntly messy chunks, right under ears, and there’s a delicate, heart-shaped locket hanging from a silver chain around her neck, and her lips are dry and cracked and trembling as her gaze flicks frantically from one corner of the Great Hall to the other, bypassing the tear-stained Malfoys and the grief-stricken Weasleys and the curse-scarred, still-warm bodies piled high between them; and she’s clutching a navy wool cardigan that looks too clean to be hers, the fragments of a long, willowy wand bunched in her opposite hand, and she’s not crying, no, she’s not screaming or gasping for air or staring listlessly up at the rafters—she’s searching, Harry realizes, she’s waiting, and eventually, a younger Ravenclaw girl with lopsided blonde pigtails come tearing through the crowd, a sob stuck like wet cement in her throat, and Daphne positively crumples, her face and her posture and the narrow, porcelain-fragile arch of her spine, and Harry’s never spoken to Daphne Greengrass before, has never even truly been tempted to, but—

But he thinks about it, then, fleetingly.

Just for a moment.


Harry is twenty-two, and Daphne Greengrass is nobody.

She’s sitting by herself at the very end of the polished, cedar plank bar, a cut-crystal tumbler of vodka or gin or possibly just plain tap water resting on a cocktail napkin in front of her, and she’s wearing a tiny black dress and blood-red stilettos and has her hair dyed a dark, rich auburn, more red than brown in the dim, smoke-shrouded lamplight; and there are diamonds in her ears and wrapped around her wrists and studded through her nose, the dip of her waist less pronounced than he remembers it being, her hips rounder and her breasts fuller, an undeniable softness to her demeanor, to her features, that’s mimicked in the gentle curve of her mouth and the rosy pink of her cheeks; and Harry’s never spoken to Daphne Greengrass before, has never actually, seriously entertained the idea of doing so, but—

“Oh,” she says, suddenly, catching his eye with a curious, somewhat bemused tilt of her chin. Her voice is slower and quieter and higher-pitched than he’d expected it to be. “Harry Potter. Did you need something?”


Harry is still twenty-two, and Daphne Greengrass is—

Important.

The word strikes him as inadequate, almost offensively underwhelming, but he isn’t sure if there is a word for how carefully—hesitantly—radiantly she fits beside him; because there’s the blurry, strawberry-pink line of a pillow crease on her face, already beginning to fade, and long, curling tendrils of hair escaping the sloppy, oddly complicated looking braid she has hooked over her shoulder, and the sunny yellow polish on her nails is flaky around the edges, peeling off in haphazard little slivers, and she’s licking pastry icing off her lips, the tip of her tongue delving in and out of the microscopic, crescent moon chip in her front tooth, and Harry’s fallen in love before, and he’s fallen out of love before, and he’s lived through what he assumes is a fairly average number of breakups and regrets and one-night stands and relationships that were fundamentally impermanent, always, easy enough to ignore, if he wanted to, easy enough to erase, if he needed to, but—

But he thinks about forever, then, fleetingly.

Just for a moment.

And then another one.

And then another one.