#Pretend it’s not desaturated

[crowcrate]

Would love to see more of actual animal Sonic and Tails! They’re so cute! ❤️

Yippie!!!

[thedailyvio]

Day 299 - 305

WIP Below:

[ghostwise]

Lord, don't let it break this, let me hold it lightly

[shortnotsweet]

QUIET ON THE OLD FRONTIER (excerpt from THE THRILLING AND NOT AT ALL REPETITIVE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN MAN AND KID DANGER: “A CHRONOLOGY OF ENTIRELY TRUE AND HEROIC EVENTS COINCIDING WITH THE END OF HISTORY”) [1] [2] [3] [4]

Well, you know how it goes down in Hollywood: the sun never sinks on the West Coast, and no one can ever die for real.

[ Henry’s expression is frozen, part acceptance, part trepidation. A stallion stands in the forefront of the second panel, backlit by the stretch of desert and a yellow sun. The horse’s front leg is dotted with red; below, Ray is mid-grin with his arms outstretched, hands cut out of frame. The horse, mid-motion, flees toward the horizon. It won’t make it. ]

“I just can’t quit you,” is the kind of thing he would say, big hands outstretched to clasp the back of his neck or to fit over Henry’s windpipe like a noose. It’d be a bit, with a Southern drawl and eyes not quite meeting his, but there would be just enough substance that Henry could pause and think, Well. Maybe you should.

Somewhere underneath that ego is a person capable of letting go, of cutting their losses. Henry’s seen the Old Westerns in their grainy film and open desert, and knows the kind of look good men get in their eye when their horse buckles. It’s the same guarded expression he wore when Drex came barreling back in, looking like Henry might in a few years time—angry, bitter, and stuck in the same place after all those years. Drex came back on his own, but still holding the old reins. Maybe that’s a difference between Ray and the good man; when Henry breaks his leg, he gets benched and pulled from the field. He’ll be back out again the moment his femur mends because he won’t see the break for the escape it could be. A fracture is never just a fracture, and a boy is never just a boy.

A horse with a bum leg gets taken into the field. It can’t return because it never leaves. Oh, well. It was a good beast, a good ride while it lasted.

PANEL NOTES:

The first chapter of the fic “bite your tongue” by ao3 user irregularsatanist (slavishtrust) motivated this significantly, although this is not explicitly lifted. I am obsessed with their mind! Every time I read and reread, my fingers get the itch to storyboard. Much to say, and more to come, surely. (I’m actually being so, so, so serious, the levity of their work is what incepted me into this hyperfixation and every version of the characters I have in my head is inadvertently colored by the blueprint of trauma, codependency, and exploitation in the aftermath of young adulthood that their continuity of portrayal has lain out. I’m not kidding I’m being so real about this rn)

Something about the Wild West motif is just really, really compelling to me: empty space, inherent isolation, man in nature, evocative of incoming change sweeping into the country and devastating those that lived before and in the now and yet still feeling stagnant in the hugeness of the land, and the kind of vulnerability that the wilderness digs out of you. There is no difference between the civilized and the uncivilized here. I don’t think I’m super subtle about it.

There is an anonymous mark on Henry’s neck in the top panel. It could be blood, a bruise, dirt or dust, inflicted or coincidental, etc.

Three instances of hands, or hands in omission: Ray’s hand gripping Henry, the implication of his hands extended outward/upward, and the hand holding the gun in the bottom right panel. In the former and latter, they are highlighted with yellow lines.

Henry does not reach back for Ray, but he doesn’t retreat, either.

Henry and Ray’s respective paneling colors differ.

The horse represents freedom & captivity, cyclical tenancies, dehumanization, and escape into the natural.

Here, Henry may even identify with the gun itself. Ray’s hand over his face + neck mirrors the grip over the firearm, and the line where flesh meets object (or, in this case, Henry) is highlighted by the same line work.

The horse envisioned is a wild one that was groomed into captivity and subsequently domesticated. In most ‘horse’ narratives, the struggle culminates in the question of freedom—or return to nature—as opposed to the human need to keep. By allowing a creature of nature, which was not born into civilization but rather introduced into it, to return to its motherland is a humanist act and therefore a rejection of corporate or urban conformity. The horse exists as an objectified commodity, one to be used or paraded. To relinquish the horse demonstrates more than love, arguably something more important: respect. To respect nature is to relinquish the grip of expansion.

I feel like this is the moment when Henry returns and they both reunite with one another after a period of time. Ray’s expression, while still ambiguous, is much easier to parse than Henry’s. Henry, of course, considers himself the defective horse, and weighs the three possible routes: escape (back) into the wild, to be taken into a field and shot (real Old Yeller style), or to be ridden again. Each carries their own merit and implication of autonomy.

The reality of each unfolding is still dependent on Ray: if he lets him go, if he decides Henry must be discarded, if he utilizes him still—or, if he is defective at all.

Ray’s problem isn’t that he’ll be tempted to shoot the horse, but instead that he wouldn’t. The good man takes the creature out of its misery if he can’t heal, house, and release it. This guy would rather have a bloody horse in his house until the end of time than admit he shouldn’t have had it in the first place. From Ray’s perspective, the reunion is best characterized as the return of the prodigal son. To Henry, this is more of an ego death in slow motion.

Ego Death: “The disappearance of an individual’s sense of self, or the removal of one’s perception of oneself as an entity separate from one’s social or physical environment.” (Britannica)

Prodigal Son: “…a man or boy who has left his family in order to do something that the family disapprove of and has now returned home feeling sorry for what he has done.” (Cambridge Dictionary)

The chapter title, “QUIET ON THE OLD FRONTIER” is a reference to All Quiet on the Western Front, the English title of Erich Maria Remarque’s 1929 novel about the traumatic aftermath of World War I. The term, “all quiet on the Western Front” is a colloquialism referring to a lack of progress, or stagnation. “Front” is interchanged with “frontier”, Americanizing the phrase to refer to the Old West and settlement. California, on the Western Coast of the U.S., is assumed to be in close proximity with the location of the narrative.

Of course, “I just can’t quit you” is the iconic dialogue between cowboys Jack and Ennis in Brokeback Mountain (2005), the epitome of the modern Western movie (based on a novel of the same name). Here, the context is not exactly the same, but still (uncomfortably) adjacent. Sometimes, quitting is good. It can help you grow up big and strong.

[averlym]

wow wow wow wow i came here to say it’s jane seymour’s deathday and saw that you have done so much improvement it’s crazy everything looks so lovely and amazing you’re doing great

~ holiday anon

quick portrait i did a while back. lovely reminder to see you again ily holiday anon

[shadowfloofster]

Something I noticed going back to Etoiles' fight with the code is that the second code that appeared is less saturated, looking muchless vibrant than the one with a name, which is odd.

Is the one named, a 'main' one while the other is a support made to help with the sweeping edge damage?

These colours are colour picked from the same screenshot during Etoiles' fight with them, even at night one is more saturated than the other, the one being saturated having the name.

Not sure what it could mean but it's odd they chose to make at least 2 different code models, especially after it stopped having straight lines of code like before and looks more messed up.

[to-shards-you-say]

contradiction in the wobs and i want to take the older one as correct incident

[darkenedurge]

𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐞. (𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭).

.

CONTENT : Blood Kink | P in V Sex (Fem Durge) | Violence, Violent Language | Durge being a freak, Gortash eating it right up | Pre-Tadpole Durge & Gortash

.

˚ ✧.

“If I didn’t love you so, I’d drown in your blood. It’d be pretty, I bet. I can see it.” She says, as she lays – naked, head upon his chest, pointed nail tracing his chest hair. Disturbing it, coercing it into haphazard patterns. She has a habit of this, accompanying tender, gentle movements with deranged words spoken in her pretty, pretty voice. It had never frightened Gortash. Surprised him perhaps, when she had first enlightened him toward the notion – she was rolling her hips into his, palms cupping his jaw with an uncharacteristic softness, completely unbefitting to her, and the tandem of her hips.

“I wish I could slit your throat, and drive my tongue across the slash. Taste you, in ways I haven’t before.”

A minx, he’d called her, with a shake of his head – a tut, and a huffed chuckle.

“I am no General Thorm, dearest,” Gortash replies, finally, his hand trailing down to her thigh – repositioning her. She whines. “Cut me too deep, and I will not be resurrected.”

Silence, for a moment.

And then, a compromise.

“Let me cut your tongue, slice it.. I want to sup the blood as it spills, as we kiss.”

There was always a breathiness to her voice, a shuddering undertone of unadulterated, unhinged, excitement. Carnal desire, urge. There’s a tremor, in the very tips of her fingers, as she grips the blade – like a vice, furthered well beyond its limits. Gortash pretends to consider, pretends to have his debate – internal, between yes, and no. He pretends, and pretends, before simply sticking out his tongue.

She grins, giggles, raises her blade. Her blade was always close, always near. Within arms length.

She then shifts, onto her knees – resting on her heels, eyes flickering with want. Need.

“Only a little cut,” She specifies, and she’s honest, “I don’t want to ruin you..”

A half-tease. Gortash raises a brow.

True to her word, she makes the slit – immediate in tangling her tongue with his, succumbing to the sickly, sweet taste of iron. Copper, intermingling with the heady aftertaste of wine on his tongue. On hers. They always drank, always fucked. Always talked, always kissed. Bled, burned.

The downfall of one another, the detonation to one another’s ticking time bomb.

“Incredible,” She gasps, breaking them from their saliva stricken embrace – a string of desaturated red still maintaining a shred of connection between them. “You’re incredible.”

Gortash shakes his head, pinning her beneath him in one push – a press of his hand, fingers curling around her crisscrossed wrists, burying her bones in the mattress beneath them. “You are the incredible one, my dearest, dearest pet.”

“I hate it when you call me that.” She lies, spreading her legs – sinfully wet.

He pries her apart, sheathes himself inside of her – the fluttering of her walls greeting his cock, accompanied by her hellish, flaming heat. Her constrictive tightness, mouth falling open with a wiggle and a squirm. “No you don’t,” Gortash replies, with a grunt of effort, as he fucks into her hard. Harsh. Abusive and abrasive.

She moans, upon each thrust, thighs tensing and untensing, only to tense again.

“Bleed me again,” Gortash pants out, gaze dark – voice, low. Despite its strain.

His grip upon her hip, with his free hand, is blissfully bruising. “Kiss me,” She demands, commands, pleads – all at once. “Kiss me, and I will.”

And so kiss her he does. She bites his lip, drawing blood –letting it dribble, down, down his stubbled chin. She drags her tongue, efficiently cleaning up the mess. Her mess.

Gortash finishes, inside of her, not long after. She’d squeezed his throat, their first time together, thumb pressed hard – “You fill me up. Everytime. Don’t waste your seed, lordling. Don’t go claiming anyone else. No, you’ve claimed me now.”

He’d lost count, this was perhaps their third time of the night. Fourth, fifth, even.

Though, she finally seems tired – small, curled in his arms, nestled against him. He knows she doesn’t sleep much. Doesn’t like to, doesn’t want to. She’ll be up again, in the midst of the night – naked, hands buried in some poor unfortunate’s innards. He’ll cling to the smell of her skin, imprinted on the linen sheets.

[cookiestar360]

Character Sheet

Character- Star

Name- Dummy

Nicknames- Star, Light, Bright, Cookie

Gender-

Species- Angel Dummy

Occupation- Guardian "Angel", Training Dummy

Text Color- Gold or Desaturated Yellow

You can ask them questions :)

-Depiction of Star. Note that I am not very good at art.

Overview

Star is classified as a sentient dummy. After coming across a guardian angel, Star was so excited to see the angel, having heavy admiration for the angel's work that eventually Star was inspired to try and become a guardian angel themselves. Despite not being an angel and having a heavy lack of strength, Star tries their best to defend those who don't have anyone to protect them. Star's devotion towards trying to be a guardian angel derives from the concept that a dummy is supposed to help people... typically by getting injured as a training or testing dummy.

Appearance

True form

Skin tone- #7f7f7f

Height- 5`4 (accurately a Dummy would be 4`6 but I don't wanna use that...)

Weight- 90 Lb

Physical appearance- nothing of note. Just a gray person.

Pretender form

Height- 5`4

Weight- 97 Lb

Physical appearance- A dummy with two pairs of wings on their back, the top pair is golden and sparkles, the bottom one is white. There are two pairs of wings on the head too. Star also has two angelic rings around their head covered in eyes.

Sometimes they'll appear with medium lengthed white hair with a similar color to their head wings.

The wings they have do not work at all. They can be flapped around but Star cannot fly.

The eyes surrounding Star's head DO work, allowing Star to see in every direction alongside seeing ghosts and other things not visible to the average human eye. These eyes cannot close, even while sleeping, but they can move and depict Star's emotions.

Star's two normal eyes are blindfolded, because of this, you will nearly never notice if Star is crying.

Abilities

Shapeshifting

Star is a shapeshifter, they can shapeshift their body to their own will. Star uses this to form the wings, eyes, and halo on themself. Shapeshifting takes energy to do and Star can wear themself out if they overuse it. Instead of using a weapon, Star will shapeshift into a scythe and throw themself at their opponent. This scythe is uncreatively called "Angelsknife"

Necromancy

Star can use magic to revive the dead. This sounds useful, however Star only knows how to use it on themself. Star can bring themself to life and no one else, and they cannot perform this spell while they are dead... If Star uses necromancy right before they die, they can bring themself back to life. This allows Star to effectively avoid death as long as they know they're going to die.

Behavior

Star has barely any care for their life. Star thinks that they are supposed to die in the name of someone else.

Because of their lack of care, this leads to them having no fear or extra respect of beings with far more power than them, including gods.

Star has impostor syndrome, meaning they doubt their own skills and feels like they aren't fit to be a guardian angel. (However, they quite literally are an impostor of a guardian angel, so the feelings are justified.)

Star will become extremely upset if they fail to protect someone, Which can have harsh consequences.

If Star gets overwhelmed, they will begin to lose control of their muscles as they will start to rapidly and randomly shake. This includes Star's heart, so if Star gets too stressed out or upset, their heart will explode.

If scared, (which doesn't happen often) Star will use shapeshifting to distort their face to appear disturbing. This is done in an attempt to appear intimidating.

Star sometimes lacks comprehension of social cues and can often act in ways unwarranted to whatever situation is going on.

Star sometimes wonders if the other training dummies are also sentient and just cannot move, being subject to dying over and over with no one ever knowing they're sentient. This deeply disturbs Star.

The only show Star watches is Family Guy. There is no explanation behind this.

Star's favorite Pokémon is a Substitute Doll (the Pokémon that gets summoned when you use the move substitute that takes damage for the Pokémon using the move.). They refuse to believe anyone who says that isn't an actual Pokémon.

Relations

Family

Star considers every single other dummy like them to be family. Nearly every other dummy isn't sentient however, and just stands still. Parent- Workspace Grandparent- Game (huh, what do you mean those don't count?)

Other

Seth, Burger, Max, Unpleasant, pleasant, Jaws, Lenora, Gabriel, Cinyu, Zephyros, Marth, Grat, Ultra, aevry, Asa, Zandee, Astereal, pancakepieman45, Unus, Randumb and Korissa

Star views Daisy Bell and Alice as siblings/cousins and heavily cares for them.

Star is inspired by Zailyn and Lamentia and views them as role models.

Songs

Yes. They're all just generic royalty free songs. This is because Star is generic.

Also, Their voice sounds like an old text to speech program without the inaccuracies of a machine.

Star's first ever design was made by @abagofstalechiips

Character- Cookie

Name- Cookie K. Star

Gender- Male

Text Color- Green or Purple

You can ask me questions I guess.

Subpar Person

This is just me "Out of Character"

I'm decently different from Star.

Wears a top hat

No I don't like family guy, but I think the characters are funny.

I made the little header page dividers in this sheet myself, thats just how dedicated i am!!1!1!

I don't typically ever do anything like this so my writing is not the best.

I'd say more about me but that's not important, is it?

[pirateshippotato]

(Spoilers for the infinale)

I had fun doing pixel art, and fun drawing Dia, so here's a pixel art dia animationish thing I did as I continue to pretend I know what I'm doing

The quality on this is bad and exporting it desaturated the colors, but you know

[daandyli0n]

(warnings: implied child death/murder, slight blood, eye contact, possible eyestrain)

Some More Updated Refs For The Rewrite! This Time: The Emily Family!!

@that-darn-clown @hello-there-world

more design details -

Henry:

anxious and awkward man. why did he decide to open a business where he'd mostly be around loud sounds and people? because he genuinely loves his work, that's why-

trans :] transmasc specifically (yes, he and Anna are t4t)

Henry pre-murders: goofy and socially awkward man who's just trying his best. just let him vibe with his kids, jfc.

Henry post-murders: angry, sad, and depressed man. only found solace in his work, and it's why he kept building animatronics for the company; it's one of the few coping strategies he had after Charlie was murdered.

his whimsy is gone entirely by 2012 (Fnaf 3) 😔

he has stability issues (always had, but they got worse with age. when he was still working at Freddy's and Fredbear's he'd almost appear to trip on nothing, or would balance himself on stuff like tables or the wall. this is me projecting a bit), hence the cane.

and, of course: Autism <3

Charlie:

gives off "tomboy, but probably actually transmasc but hasn't fully realized yet" vibes to me, hence the alt. outfit.

(fun fact: my headcanon for Charlie is that she's actually transmasc and bigender, but she died before she could really. realize that)

really likes the star aesthetic. if it wasn't obvious.

hair buns are actually meant to resemble bear ears :] she's a Daddy's Girl <3

really likes the bright green and black/white stripe combination. that long-sleeved shirt she wears in both outfits is her favorite.

both of the twins inherited certain things from their father (like the autism): for example, the freckles, the small tooth gap, the general nose shape, body shape, you get the idea.

kinda pissed and stressed all of the time as a ghost.

realized i forgot the Security Bracelet in her ghost design...shit. pretend it's there, because it's supposed to be.

take a wild guess how she died by looking at her ghost.

like Cassidy, and unlike the other MCI ghosts, Charlie is transparent and not desaturated as a spirit.

doesn't wear her animatronic mask often because she doesn't really. see a need to. the others use it as a way of scaring people, and she doesn't really wanna scare anyone. if she's showing up to you, she either needs help, or she thinks she looks scary enough. she Does wear it on occasion, though.

someone give my girl a BREAK.

Sammy:

has kinda always had Resting Bitch Face...and anger issues, but surely that's not important-

i dunno, i like contrasting The Emily Twins in some ways. Charlie is green, Sammy is orange. Charlie is seen as more loud and outgoing (which, again, gets her confused for an extrovert), Sammy is viewed as being quieter and less approachable. Charlie is more rugged but well-liked (kinda), Sammy is more "proper" but has a smaller circle of friends, comfortably slipping into the background (he's never liked the spotlight that having a somewhat popular/well-known parent brings, anyway).

Sammy kinda got. Really Angry after Charlie was murdered. they were two halves of a whole, she was one of his closest friends, someone who really Knew the Real Sammy Emily. and...she's Gone. just like that. why wouldn't he be angry? it certainly doesn't help how her body was found; thrown amongst the garbage like she was nothing. like she was trash. Sammy practically lost his world that day, and yet people were surprised that he was angry.

Sammy stopped really taking care of himself health-wise as the years went on, as he tried to hunt down Charlie's killer (unknowing that her killer lived only a few blocks down, and was a man he and Charlie had considered family). mostly, Sammy lost an unhealthy amount of weight (shown by his clothes no longer fitting him) and hardly really slept unless Henry forced him (take one look at those eyebags and tell me that's a sign that this man has gotten any good sleep since like. 1982). don't worry, he'll gain the weight back. :]

Sammy Wants To Kill A Certain Hare Man. That's What The Fire Is For :) (Fnaf 3)

[mbgcreates]

Under the Mistletoe

Word count: 1481

A/N: You know what, sure, I'll put this one here. Also, THIS WON'T BE SITTING FOR ANOTHER YEAR!! This was started about two years ago, and I only just finished it 😅 enjoy! Remember, reblogs > likes! Thank you!

Dark is…nervous.

It's been a long time since he's felt this way; the closest he can recall is when Wilford gets overly trigger-happy at the worst of times and jeopardizes his plans, or when the man has one of his memory spells. But this…

Dark glances at the mistletoe hanging from the doorframe of his office, visible only from the inside. It’s been… Well, in another lifetime, he had attempted this tradition before and succeeded a few times, although he was much more nervous then than he is currently. Besides, times have changed. He’s a different man, now. One that he thought wasn’t so capable of something like “nervousness.” Do you even like him enough that this will work—

Nonetheless, he requested some time ago that you come to his office at your earliest convenience. He knows you won’t ignore it, because he hardly ever invites you there. If he does, it must be important. As this is. As you are.

He cannot focus on his paperwork in the interim. Instead of a refuge, it feels like an overwhelming mountain, stretching up almost indefinitely. He's not even sure why he has so much of it, a creature of the void as he is, but somehow, Wilford’s very existence comes with paperwork. The other egos cause headaches, but typically not paperwork. Not often, anyway.

And you. Somehow, you’ve managed to fit in with the craziness that is this revolving door of oddballs. It took time, but you’ve carved out your own niche, and the more aggressive of the bunch eventually stopped antagonizing you. Wilford, as was his wont, took you “under his wing,” which largely meant you’d run around doing increasingly inane errands until Dark had to step in. You weren’t built for that, after all. It was the first time he saw anything that wasn’t (fear) concern in your eyes when looking at him.

Dark sighs and shuffles some papers around. The dark wood of his desk pokes through, matched by the dreary wallpaper, black bookshelves with equally desaturated books, and dark wood flooring. It's like it's bearing down on him, suffocating him in his anxiousness instead of being a comfort. After the day he stepped in, you slowly began to spend a bit more time with him around the manor, and he found himself missing your presence on some days when you weren’t around.

Your footsteps announce your arrival far in advance, his supernatural hearing better than a human’s, and he actually has to take a deep breath to calm himself. In all honesty, the nerves wouldn't be that bad, but for him? Anything more than a little is too much.

He had discovered by way of accidentally overhearing that, despite appearances, you enjoyed the little things, especially the little romantic things. It was strange, to consider such concepts after so long, to let the idea germinate in his mind until an idea bloomed. An idea that he is still second-guessing until this very moment. He pretends to keep working until you rap on the door frame. "Dark? You asked to see me?"

"Ah, you're here." He shuffles the papers again, this time into a neat stack, acting as if everything is normal and you didn’t somehow borderline startle him. “I almost believed you wouldn’t show.”

You both know he said this on purpose; just another jab he can’t help but say. A deflection, now, habitual and not fully meant. You huff half-heartedly. “As if I wouldn’t. Can I come in?”

“Not quite yet.” He knows the anxiousness isn't evident (you’ve never seemed to notice before), but his reply is still rather quick. “We can have a discussion with you over there.”

You roll your eyes. Dark doesn't notice, too caught up in not looking at you. “Sure, real personal discussion. What even did you want to talk with me about?”

“You have been living here for quite some time now, and it looks like you will be here for quite some time longer.” His desk is tidied much too soon for his liking. “I take it everything is still satisfactory?”

“Well, yeah, I suppose so,” you reply, obviously confused. “Wilford is still…Wilford.”

“That he is. And that he will continue to be.” He’s forced to finally look up, and seeing you underneath the mistletoe is like something out of a dream: unreal. Too good to be true. Dark makes himself stand up, palms pressed firmly against the desk as if to steady himself. “If you have more trouble with him, or with anyone else, you know where to find me.”

“Oh, okay, thanks…?”

“I do think Wilford isn’t fully utilizing your talents, but he doesn’t always listen to me.” Dark finds his feet taking him forward, towards you.

“Really? You think so?” There’s a tinge of surprise in your voice, but it’s a good surprise. You didn’t think he would notice, he suspects.

“Yes. And with the days you spend in my office, we could figure out some way to harness and hone them. Maybe then, he’ll listen.”

“I mean, is it really a good idea to get in his way?”

The corner of Dark’s mouth twitches as he stops in front of you. You’re so…short, compared to him. “Well, of all people, I would be the best candidate.”

Amusement flickers into your eyes, and it makes you look that much lovelier. “I suppose you’re right. But still…”

“My dear, I think you should…aim higher. Look higher.” When you just blink at him, not picking up on his odd hint, he points upwards, towards the lintel. Your brows twitch in confusion, but you follow where he points. Your eyes catch the sprig of mistletoe, and he watches your expression as the gears turn in your mind, everything clicking into place. You look back at him in disbelief, and whether you’re aware of it or not, your cheeks are tinged with the beginnings of a blush. It makes him want to do this even more. Still, the words are not easy to say, tongue heavy in his mouth. “May I?”

You nod almost dumbly after a moment, and he brings his hand up to cup your face. It is of immense relief that you don’t recoil. If his heart still worked, it would be beating out of his chest. As it is, he can hear yours doing exactly that. It picks up as he closes the gap between you.

Dark brushes his lips against yours, the barest of touches, almost as if he's asking for permission again. When you don't pull away, he kisses you properly, surprisingly soft and chaste. (You didn't think he had it in him.) It’s over far too soon, and when he pulls back, your eyes flutter open to find him studying you. The moment is delicate, just the sound of your breathing as his eyes search yours and time seems to stretch into infinity. 

All you do is lean forward a little, and you seem to fall into each other, his lips meeting yours again, this time with a bit of urgency. You, instead of retreating, accept it, pressing towards him and tentatively lifting your own hand to his cheek. The reassurance flooding Dark is immediate, prompting him to bring your body closer to him. You inhale sharply in surprise, but again don’t move away, relaxing in his embrace. 

Despite the kissing lasting longer than expected, you removing your lips from his still happens much too quickly. Your face is fully flushed, now; he wonders if his cheeks convey the same.

Your voice is soft; one might call it breathless. “You had the discussion…just for that?”

“Well, I had to get you here somehow.” There’s a ghost of a toothy grin for a moment, before his face softens—actually softens, if but a little. “And I meant everything I said.”

Your eyes dart away, sheepish. “Oh…thanks…”

“How do you feel about dinner?”

Those were not words Dark expected out of his mouth, and nor did you, by the way your head whips back up toward him. “Dinner? We eat dinner at the manor all the time.”

“You know what I meant.” A genuine, small smile graces his face. “Just you and me.”

“Y-yeah.” You bite at your lip; he hears your heart rate jump up again. “That sounds…great. When?”

“Tonight, as long as everything goes according to plan.”

You give a small nod, then nod again, more definitively. “Yeah. Sounds good to me.”

“Splendid.” Dark kisses your forehead, then releases you. His arms already feel empty without you there. “I will come get you when everything is ready. I’ll see you later, darling.”

Darling. Something else that just slipped out. But it feels…right, to borrow that from the past. And, with the way you look at him after it, eyes shining with something he cannot yet fully place, perhaps he will keep calling you “darling.” And, maybe soon, his darling.

[arielluva]

apple themed magical girl :)

edit: uhhh tumblr kinda desaturated the colors on this so uh. pretend they’re more saturated!!

[d8tl55c]

scene of programmer021 throwing together the code for the first TCOs: "what if i just give them 100% in all stats lmao."

releases one into a sandbox*

sandbox bricked irretrievably within 3 minutes

ho-ly shit.

..... that's hilarious.

they try like ten more times, each with the same outcome. the little worm is good at what it does, scary good, and programmer is grateful that they went the extra mile with the sandbox layer of protection from it.

at a safe distance, the TCOs are brilliant sparring partners.

*(basically a mini computer running inside of (but held separately from) another computer) (used to test new features without risking a whole system)

on the twelfth go, they've learned enough of its tricks to have more of a chance. both of them take a moment after a long scuffle to catch their breaths. the stick figure gasps on the floor - it's amazing! so lifelike! and programmer is celebrating this little victory for the field of recreational AI right up until

it looks at them.

TCO #12 turns its hollow face out through the screen, looking at them.

programmer is unsettled.

can it see them?

their webcam is off.

surely it's impossible?

right?

and yet, it seems to see them regardless, because not only does it react to their reaction (little twitches eerily realistic, how did their program know to do those things), it capitalizes on their shock. it springs to its feet while they're still open-mouthed and reaches the walls of the sandbox window (which programmer had been herding them away from at all costs), crashing against the side, rebounding, and hitting them again and again.

programmer flails to reconnect to their Cursor (you know when you forget where it is and have to wave it around before you can use it again? like that, but with even more panic, confusion, and imminent peril).

there are cracks in a multitude of funny colors forming at the edge of the sandbox instance. pieces of the window dent out of its normal bounding box. The Chosen One adapts instantly, focusing its hits toward the weak points.

WTF! this has gone way too far.

programmer's Cursor swoops around from out of nowhere and catches the TCO by the base of its head. it tries to breathe fire and only manages strangled puffs of smoke. its legs kick the air. where once it was so elegant and poised it twists and writhes-

programmer drops it.

they feel cold.

their Cursor retreats outside the walls of the sandbox PC, clicking into the main system's File Explorer. already open is the folder with this sandbox, its partition of storage, and setup files inside.

they click it. press Delete on their keyboard.

the TCO tries to stand. it pushes through a dizzy spell, one hand holding the spot under its head that must be its neck, and sprints toward the breach it was working on.

a confirmation pane appears, from the process responsible for running the sandbox.

its arms are strong, but the more TCO_12 struggles the more it's clear that this wall would need way more firepower and concerted effort... and time... to break. it's out of time. it realizes this.

are you sure you want to end this process? ALL data will be lost.

programmer sees when it loses hope, because it abandons the wall. it abandons the whole game: the pride and dignity it fought with, the play-pretend that it held any real power here. it turns outward again, toward the screen. small hands slam against the barrier between them, knock-knocking faster, faster, please please please, its legs shake and give out but it keeps knocking, on its knees, please please please please PLEASE

the sandbox is deleted.

the window that displayed it freezes, lighting up too-bright and desaturated.

a snapshot of the TCO is frozen in place, begging for...

begging for what? it was never meant to know anything. to want anything. how did it know there was anything outside its reality to want?

or was it simply afraid to die?

Windows catches up, and sweeps the frozen program away.

programmer021 is left alone with the spot where TCO_12 used to be.

their friends want to play with their latest stick figures. they were supposed to update today.

programmer numbly uploads the most recent release build they have. killer and BEAST were fun to work on. they'll warn everyone not to touch TCO until.... until programmer works out how to... until ever, and if one of them does, it'll be their own fault.

[cecilthecowardly]

cecil the cowardly's definitive Anatomy Of A Vampire. written with no love whatsoever. obviously

the head of the vampire. often shadowed and sunken, there's not a paleness so much as a slight desaturation. a coldness to the touch that could be warmed with a gentle kiss if you dared.

the neck. arguably the most important aspect to a vampire from the perspective of a hunter. oftentimes there will be puncture marks from being turned, but the location can vary wildly depending on the circumstances. it's a wonderful place. many vampires can be ashamed of it depending on their willingness to be turned. this was my case. others wear it as a sign of pride when they are in a safe place to do so. ask before commenting on it.

the torso. littered with scars ranging from combat to an accumulation of smaller injuries caused simply by living for so long. the heart has long stopped beating and the lungs pretend to take in oxygen.

the arms. littered with scars of various origins. sometimes sharp and angular, other times rounded. rough hands from years of use.

the legs. worn out and unbelievably tired from more than a lifetime of overuse. older vampires tend to prefer changing forms if they have the ability to as ways to compensate. just because we have extra speed doesn't mean our legs are able to deal with it!

tl;dr all vampires are beautiful and as a vampire i am holding all of your hands

[eternalsomnia]

OHNNTOBER 3 | SPIDER 🕷️

Last night I'd have sworn that this was my best piece by far, but now that I look at it... I hate the colors, so sad and desaturated. I´m posting it anyway, because it was my dream to see this gorgeous man with princess long hair and no beard but I don't love the result anymore.

Maaaaybe I'll be doing something with the colors later, maybe not, who knows? for now my soul and my hands are entirely focused on the next prompt.

✨Details✨

I know, the text in the spider is on the wrong side of it, but I wanted it to be seen, let's pretend it was always at the top of the spider, please.