#Skeleton Dabbing

[noisycowboyglitter]

Skeleton Dabbing Gay Pride Flag: A Creative Way to Dare to Be Yourself

This bold and eye-catching design is a powerful statement of individuality and pride. Featuring a stylish skeleton dabbing with the vibrant colors of the Gay Pride flag, this product is a must-have for anyone who embraces their true self.

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The skeleton, a timeless symbol of mortality, is given a modern and playful twist with its dynamic dabbing pose. This unexpected combination challenges traditional norms and encourages self-expression. The Gay Pride flag, a beacon of hope and equality, is proudly displayed, symbolizing the LGBTQ+ community's resilience and determination.

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The phrase "Dare to Be Yourself" is a powerful reminder to embrace one's unique identity without fear of judgment. This design is a celebration of diversity, inclusivity, and the courage to be authentic. Whether you're attending a Pride parade, a festival, or simply want to make a statement, this product is the perfect way to show your support for the LGBTQ+ community and inspire others to live their truth.

Let your spirit shine with this captivating and empowering design.

Autism awareness is often symbolized by specific colors, each carrying its own meaning. The most widely recognized color is blue, associated with calmness and acceptance. This color gained prominence through Autism Speaks' "Light It Up Blue" campaign.

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However, the autism spectrum is diverse, and so are the colors representing it. Red often symbolizes passion and advocacy for individuals with autism, reflecting the determination of families and support networks. Yellow evokes positivity and optimism, highlighting the strengths and abilities of people on the spectrum. Green represents growth, progress, and the potential for individuals with autism to reach their full potential.

While blue remains a powerful symbol of autism awareness, it's essential to recognize the multifaceted nature of autism. By incorporating a range of colors, we can better represent the diversity of experiences within the autism community.

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Understanding the significance of these colors helps foster empathy, acceptance, and support for individuals with autism.

[creepycornerart]

(via "Christmas Skeletons Dab Dancing " Classic T-Shirt for Sale by CreepyCornerArt) 

Cool Christmas skeletons dab dancing t-shirt, or get this design printed on a hoodie, sweatshirt, phone case, wall art, mug, tote, baseball cap, throw pillow, blanket, notebook, dress, sticker, and so much more! #christmasskeleton #dabbing #dancingskeleton #skull #xmas #christmas #heavymetal #metal #biker  #skull #evil #gothboy #gothic #gothfashion #gothstyle #gothclothes #xmas #giftideas

[dragon-64]

The best pirate droid a captain could ask for. Unless the captain sucks.

[ancientannoyance]

painted some more stuff for my gideon the ninth mini game. more varied backgrounds for gideon to saunter through, more variety in platforms, and now with some basic skeleton enemies

(Next up: Boss Harrow. More complex and varied skeleton animations. Gideon will get a special attack for Crux where she can throw tity mags at him.)

[marlynnofmany]

May your day be full of joyous whimsy, and things made just because you can

[teehandystore]

Curling Sports Funny Skeleton Dabbing Curling Halloween T-Shirt

The t-shirt would feature a graphic design incorporating a skeleton character engaged in the sport of curling.

The skeleton would likely be depicted in a humorous, lighthearted manner, potentially "dabbing" - a popular dance move that has been incorporated into various meme and pop culture references.

[sinshiney]

Nova AU: Reverend Daughter Gideon

[I had a thought that rather than doing canon Harrow's style of corpse puppeting, RD Gideon would get really into programming her constructs with complex instructions (like getting the skellys to dab every time Nova says the word "die"). Her mother's skeleton is her ongoing pet project and she teaches it to mimic affection.]

[lets-zofifi-stuff]

The autum is depressing but at least i have the best socks.

[gonkaccino]

Gonna give a nuclear hot take, here: Minthara doesn't hate gods. It's easy enough to get that impression, considering everything, but she doesn't outright reject the idea of being beholden to a deity. What she hates, instead, are those who demand worship, demand everything of their followers, in exchange for nothing. Mystra, Lolth, even Selune -- in exchange for a life of servitude, what do they offer? Lolth turns her back at the slightest inconvenience, Mystra will happily let Gale "learn his lesson" by letting his orb explode (even if it means the deaths of countless innocents), and Selune? She leaves her own daughter, her flesh and blood, to suffer a century of torment with only the vaguest hope that one day someone might free her.

Meanwhile, let's look at the alternatives: Myrkul revives Isobel, body and soul, in exchange for Ketheric's servitude -- his beloved daughter and he becomes functionally immortal, with Aylin caged! Shar takes memories, sure, she's spiteful, but she's happy to empower Shadowheart as a Dark Justiciar in exchange for the joy of stealing a born-and-bred Selunite. Then, there's Bhaal. Bhaal will have blood, in whatever form he demands, and in exchange, his chosen gets his full power, the slayer incarnate! Not unstoppable, but hey, every time the slayer pops up, it takes an entire Bhaalspawn to kill it!

Even if we ignore that Minthara shows an appreciation for gods who empower their followers, there's one extremely important detail being overlooked in regards to Minthara being pissed enough to break up with a Durge who rejects Bhaal: you lost. You kill Orin, triumph over the slayer, reject Bhaal, and instantly drop dead because daddy just took his juice back. A resist Durge doesn't win. You lose, you die, and through the whims of another god, one who just happens to think it's super funny to piss off the dead three, you're brought back with a chunk of yourself missing. It doesn't matter if you're probably strong enough to kill the Netherbrain after that. A resist Durge commits suicide by God in front of Minthara and then expects a pat on the back for being lucky.

No shit she's mad, seeing you pretend that some moral victory is more important than, y'know, everything else. What the fuck would've happened if Jergal himself didn't break the rules to revive you? The rest of the party tries? Maybe they successfully stop the Netherbrain, maybe, but it's an impossible task even with a Bhaalspawn leading the charge. A heroic Durge commits suicide in front of her, is brought back by the power of a different god, then has the gall to spout some horseshit about being strong enough without Bhaal, who killed them with zero effort.

I can understand people being upset that they can't try to convince her that what they just did isn't the dumbest shit you could've possibly done at that exact moment, but honestly? Her refusal to accept any excuse is fine in my book.

remember the datamined "Minthara breaks up with Durge if they reject Bhaal" dialogue?

it used to have the "IMPOSSIBLE" tag aka unreachable in game.

it doesn't anymore as of Patch 6... (also one of the flags changed?) So, it's possible that it could be in game... 😬

Yeah... Being rejected by two gods, then condemning your lover for... rejecting god...? I get the drow practicality of hoarding as much power possible but... She isn't even mad when Tav/Durge destroy the Netherbrain - something that could help them tremendously if they plan to take over Baldur's Gate 😬

This dialogue's supposed to trigger after Durge reject Bhaal. If any of you brought Minthara to the fight and make that decision, pls lmk if this works or not ty <3

[noisycowboyglitter]

Skeleton Dabbing: Embrace Your Uniqueness and Dare to Be Yourself

"Skeleton Dabbing Dare To Be Yourself" is a quirky and empowering design that combines humor with a powerful message of self-acceptance. This eye-catching image features a skeleton striking the popular "dab" pose, a dance move that has become a cultural phenomenon.

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The skeleton represents the idea that beneath our surface differences, we're all fundamentally the same. By performing the dab, a modern, playful gesture, the skeleton embodies the spirit of embracing one's uniqueness and living life to the fullest.

The phrase "Dare To Be Yourself" accompanying the image reinforces the message of authenticity and self-expression. It encourages viewers to embrace their true selves, quirks and all, without fear of judgment or societal pressures.

This design appeals to a wide range of people, from youth who appreciate the pop culture reference to anyone who values individuality and self-expression. It's particularly resonant with those who feel different or misunderstood, serving as a reminder that it's okay to stand out and be true to oneself.

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The combination of the lighthearted skeleton image with the empowering message creates a memorable and impactful design, perfect for t-shirts, posters, or social media content.

Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) is a complex neurodevelopmental condition characterized by challenges in social interaction, communication, and repetitive behaviors. It affects individuals differently, hence the term "spectrum."

Raising autism awareness is crucial to understanding and supporting individuals with ASD. It involves dispelling myths, promoting acceptance, and creating inclusive environments. By recognizing the diverse strengths and challenges of people with autism, we can foster a society where everyone feels valued and supported.

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Let's work together to build a world where individuals with autism can thrive. Educate yourself, challenge stereotypes, and embrace neurodiversity. Together, we can make a difference.

Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) is often described as a puzzle, as every individual experiences it uniquely. This complexity makes understanding and supporting those with autism a challenging yet rewarding endeavor.

The autism puzzle has many pieces, including social interaction, communication, and behavioral patterns. People with autism may struggle with these areas, but they also possess extraordinary talents and perspectives. By piecing together the complexities of autism, we can create a more inclusive and accepting society.

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Unlocking the autism puzzle requires patience, empathy, and education. It's about celebrating differences, providing support, and advocating for individuals with autism. Every piece of the puzzle is essential in creating a world where everyone feels valued and understood.

[creepycornerart]

(via "Big Nick Energy " Classic T-Shirt for Sale by CreepyCornerArt)

[stealingyourbones]

META NO

Write below a Batfamily meets Danny Fenton story but choose the wildest relationship that you can think of that isn’t adoption or a romantic relationship

For instance:

- breaking into a building for a drug bust but they got the wrong building number and broke into Danny’s apartment.

- gets met over and over because Condiment King of all people continuously kidnaps him for plots

- was brought to the GCPD for wrestling Killer Croc at 3am high as a kite over a new fear gas drug that’s been making its rounds through Gotham.

- accidentally smacked the coffee out of Danny’s hands while catching a perp.

[xoxovanillq]

PUMPKIN

Pairing- Luke Castellan x reader

Warnings- R wears a dress, suggestive comments, allusion to smut, underage drinking mentions

“Stop squirming!” You whine, momentarily pausing your action. You’re straddling Luke’s lap, attempting to do his skeleton face makeup. He kept squirming whenever the cold face paint touched his warm, tanned skin.

“Okay, well, it’s cold!” He responds, sounding like a child.

“That’s how it’s gonna be, I did it and I’m fine.” Luke rolls his eyes, and you kiss his nose in response. You resumed your initial task, painting a black, upside down heart on his nose. Then you begin to smoke out the eyeliner framing his downturned features. You giggle a bit as you finish, taking in how gorgeous he was, even like his.

“Like what you see?” He teases lowly, rubbing his hands up and down your hips.

“Mhm, you look so handsome like this.” You tease back, hands resting on his toned shoulders.

“Am I not always handsome?”

“Well- you’re just *extra* handsome today!” You respond, to which he laughs a bit and then kisses your head.

“Let’s get changed.” He says softly, and you get up from his lap. On your bunk lies a pair of black slacks, a white button up, and a red tie for him. Next to it there’s an old-looking black dress for you.

“Here.” You say you hand him the shirt, watching him struggle to wrestle his camp shirt off without destroying your hard work. “This why I told you to take your shirt off before we started.” You grumble, walking over to help ease the shirt over his head. You then slip the button-up on, doing it up for him.

“Are you gonna paint my hands white?” He asks as he tugs on the black slacks.

“No, need your fingers free just in case.” You tease suggestively, pulling on one of the many layers of your dress. He rolls his eyes and then drifts over to help you slide the dress on.

“How many layers is this?” He mumbles, hands resting on your hips again.

“Ummmm, 4, hoop skirt, petticoat, corset, dress.” You recite, counting each article of dress on your fingers.

“Jesus, pumpkin.” He murmurs, picking up his tie and situating it on his neck. You swat at his hands as he begins to tie it. “What…?” He questions with a light chuckle.

“Leave it undone, it looks hotter that way.” He rolls his eyes and laughs lightly as you undo the top two buttons of his shirt. You then grab the white face paint and dab some of it on his chest. “Perfect!” You say cheerfully.

“Perfect.” He responds, pulling you close and kissing the top of your head. “Ready to get going, pumpkin?” He asks, rubbing your back soothingly.

“Mhm.” You hum, looking in your full length mirror, taking in the sight of you two all done up as skeletons.

You arrived to the party, nestled deep in the forest surrounding the camp.  A bonfire sat in the middle, with pumpkin carving set up and a table with a various assortment of alcohol, drinks, and snacks. The two of you settled on one of the logs by the bonfire, a red solo cup filled with liquor in each of your hands. Luke’s free arm wrapped around your shoulder, and your head tilted to rest on his.

“Do you wanna hang here and then go do pumpkin carving or something?” He asks softly, brushing the stray strands of hair from your face.

“Can we dance?” You turn to face him, wide doe eyes staring up at him.

“How could I ever say no to that face?” He teases softly, helping you up and drifting towards the speaker.

Season of the Witch played as the two of you moved together. Luke couldn’t help but think about how lucky he was to have you, and how much he loved you.

“Are you having fun?” He asks softly.

“Mhm, I’m getting a bit sleepy though.” You murmur in reply, rating your head on his shoulder.

“One more song?” He asks, to which you nod slowly.

The two of you danced for another couple minutes before heading back to your cabin, hand in hand, giggling a bit as you were both tipsy.

Let’s just say your costumes weren’t the only things dealing with a bone that night.

[merakiui]

pearl of scarlet, shed of innocence.

yandere!rollo flamme x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, brief nsfw, non-con touching, periods, blood, delusion, descriptions of violence and body horror, mentions of medieval torture, kidnapping/captivity, implied cult, implied stockholm syndrome/brainwashing, subtle gaslighting, descriptions of religious symbolisms/imagery note - manufactured angel, baptized in holy light. self-proclaimed prophet, corrupted in benign blight.

There are no angels in this world, or so it is told.

So to find a scapegoat for sanctuary, the people search far and wide for a lamb to sacrifice.

There are no angels in this world, or so it was told.

You’re brought to the altar beneath a crooked cross, screaming and kicking like rebellious livestock resisting slaughter. Your back is cut open and your bones are bent at awkward, avian angles. As blood drips from the stone, puddling beneath robed soles, feathers are glued on with meticulous, methodical precision. Cold hands hold your arms in place. You try to pry yourself free, but they force you down with disapproving hisses.

From the shadows, the Prophet emerges. He is a man who can foretell tragedy before it strikes, or so everyone has heard. The sun filters in through slanted windows, illuminating half of his figure. You watch dust motes bob in the light like jellyfish. They warp into strange, shapeless blobs when fresh tears overflow and spill.

He stops in front of you, swipes a skeletal finger through the blood on the altar, and holds it up to the light. It is beautifully red, a marvel to behold. An angel who can bleed is a feat unheard of. Almost human, everyone’s eyes seem to say as they exchange looks. You grit your teeth, saliva dribbling from your cracked lips, and suppress wild, animalistic screams. There’s no adjective in any dictionary that can truly describe the world of hurt you’re in. It is almost like stripping your soul away from your body or unzipping your flesh bit by bit so that your skeleton can step out. The air stings, the feathers itch, and the flowing blood is hot and plentiful.

When you look at the Prophet, you wonder if his image is blurry simply because of the tears fogging your vision or the foreboding dark of unconsciousness clawing at the back of your head.

He watches the people dress you up, fawning over a monstrosity made marvelous. A wet cloth dabs at the blood running in rivulets down your back, between the arch of your wings, staining the valley between your ruined scapula.

“Why?” you cry out thickly, choking on the word. “Why me?”

He looks through you rather than at you, green eyes filling with an unusual light. “You’re perfect.”

His gaze seems to signify that this will not be the last time you bleed on this altar, beneath a silent cross. You listen to his footsteps as they click out a steady rhythm. He stops at your side, and you twist your neck to look at him. The hands holding you down lessen their pressure, but you don’t pull away. You blink owlishly at the Prophet, whose stare is cold and clinical, and attempt to understand his perverted psyche.

Your analysis falls apart when he sticks two fingers into the open wound, where your broken bones protrude from your back. Pain flashes through your body and you tense rigidly from the shock. A howl filled with the purest agony rips through your throat, shredding your vocal chords. 

“Stop! Hurts—that hurts! Fuck!” You ball your hands into fists, pointed nails pricking your palms, and you wail like a newborn. He tuts at your sailor mouth.

When he finally slides his fingers out, they’re coated in blood. Seeming satisfied, he steps around to the front and, brushing your hair back, marks your forehead with a blood-stained blessing. A cross. It burns like hot iron on flesh, and your face contorts with a nasty grimace.

“An angel who can feel pain knows of the suffering we endure at the vile hands of mages,” he says, spinning a fantastical yarn. “She is the product of cursed magic, but here she will be our salvation. She will be a symbol of safety, exalted by our hands.” He tilts his head at you, peering into your beady, bloodshot eyes. “And your name shall be—”

You don’t hear it. The shock has left you paralyzed. Before you can succumb to the horror, you’re sewn up tight, stripped, and put in robes of all white. Everything is tailored to your exact measurements. There are holes cut in the back for your wings. They are limp and feathered and mangled, but they are yours.

When the Prophet—Rollo Flamme—lifts your chin and turns your head, you ask him once more: “Why?”

He smiles and folds his hands in front of his chest, his eyes fluttering shut. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, lesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.” After repeating it twice more, he finally peels his green eyes open. “Amen.”

You can’t understand a word, just as you fail to comprehend the world you’ve found yourself in. A tiny sliver of shelter hidden deep within the trees.

You walk on wobbling legs, taking just a few steps forward before falling over into someone’s arms. Before your body surrenders to exhaustion and trauma, you hear the Prophet’s pleased hums.

There is one angel in this world, or so it is told.

They sit you on a throne so that you may, at the approval of the Prophet, offer consolation and consultation to those in need.

A man comes stumbling to your sacred seat. He bows so low to the ground that his forehead touches the soil. You catch pieces of his wild ramble. Most of it registers as static in your brain, the syllables stretched so far they snap.

“...raped—she didn’t—couldn’t…died by my hands—I am—no good… A sinner who—surely you understand—must repent…” He lifts his head then, and you can see the panic scrawled on his face. “Angel, won’t you forgive me?”

The Prophet places his hand on your shoulder and squeezes. He is the only one permitted to touch you because he knows you best. Because he understands tragedy before it can cut you down. His bony fingers are a reminder that you have just as much power as he’s willing to grant you—that it is precisely because of him that you are not lying chopped with the pigs as a failed approximation of an angel.

“Your verdict?” he asks, smoothing out the tension in your shoulders.

You eye the man with frigid abhorrence. I should kill you with my bare hands and when you beg for it to stop I should look you in the eyes and ask, “Did you stop for her when she uttered those same pleas?” And then I will snip the sorry thread of life you cling so desperately to, condemning you to the fiery pits of hell.

“Rat torture.”

The man shrieks. It is a ghastly racket. He blubbers like it’s a particularly scary punishment.

“Angel, have mercy! Please, I beg of you, have mercy on my soul!”

“There are a dozen ways to punish cruelty, but none can ever compare to the type of heinous hurt and torture you have so brutally inflicted upon an innocent woman. That you would come to me in person and expect me to absolve you of such a despicable sin… I am disgusted.”

The Prophet hides his scowl behind a celestial handkerchief. It was the only thing on your person when you were taken and thrown into this woodland prison. He’s kept it for himself; it smells of you, pure and perfumed.

He leans down to whisper in your ear. “Might I suggest the Judas Cradle or, perhaps, The Rack? A rat is far too lenient, Angel of Innocence, and I suspect not even a rodent would enjoy such a rotten creature. Why punish the innocent rat?”

You glance at his face, searching for the motive behind such suggestions. Though he may veil it well, you can sense the distaste and the hatred. It mirrors yours. “Then the Cradle he shall have. But only until he bleeds, after which he shall be stretched and torn apart in a manner befitting his crime.”

“As always, your judgment is sound.” The Prophet turns to look at the man. Two members in white grab his arms and haul him to his feet. “You’ve heard the Angel’s verdict. Follow through with it just as she decreed.”

As he’s dragged away, screaming and sobbing, you rise to your feet.

“I will have no more visitors,” you’re saying, taking the steps two at a time.

The Prophet exits the platform after you, perplexed. Saliva is warm and thick in your mouth, climbing through your esophagus like a winding python. Before you can duck into a nearby tent, you collapse in the grass. Bent on your hands and knees, you vomit.

The Prophet stands over you, watching silently.

Beneath a bright sun, your feathered bones shivering with every great heave, you feel your mind splitting apart. A single stitch comes undone, and with it the rest of your weakened sanity unfurls. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, taste it on your tongue. The soil squirms under your fingertips, searching for the salvation only you can provide. Everything is alive. Everything has a heartbeat. Everything is a lie. (Or is it?)

Everything is also nothing. You cough and choke down a violent wheeze.

The Prophet’s hand brushes your cheek. The tangle in your stomach somersaults, curling in on itself, and then it’s gone.

You look up at him, wiping bile from your lips. Tears gather on your lash line. Perhaps your pathetic appearance instills some sort of sympathy in the usually unfeeling Prophet, for he bends down to your height and cleans your face with his handkerchief.

“It is truly sickening,” he says, “to see the depravity of humankind on display like this. We are grateful for your presence here. Everyone depends on you. Thus, it is important to show them an unfaltering face even when the world around you shakes.”

Trembling, you reach for his wrist. Your fingers curl tightly. “Don’t let another monster like that look at me.”

“I shall personally take his eyes just before his punishment.”

“Please,” you beg, grasping for his robes. “Never again. Please…”

“You’ve done well today. Let us retire for now. I’ll wake you for prayer and dinner.”

“You must promise, Rollo.”

Only you are given permission to address him so informally. Everyone else calls him the Prophet, the Father, the Righteous One. He is more of a god than a human when the rays frame a dainty, sunlit halo just above his head. 

In a way that is almost intimately tender, he closes his hands around yours. “‘If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away.’ I will pluck those iniquitous irises from their sockets and situate them so that he will look upon his flesh as it is twisted and violated without mercy.”

Despite causing such irreversible anguish, his cold, bloodless hands are soft.

You believe him just as everyone else does. Who else can you look to? Who else should you look to?

In times of uncertainty, is it not the job of a deity to come down and dispel negativity?

Every month, there is a gathering at the altar. It falls in line with your biological schedule. The Prophet appreciates your timeliness; he says so as he lifts your robes, revealing skin unblemished. This occasion is markedly different from the usual rigmarole of worship. This is proof of your goodness. Of human-like flesh and blood rendered angelic.

Your innocence is put on display for all, stretched open around pearl-white digits. His hands were bathed in holy water prior to this, and now he stands behind you at the altar to bury his fingers in the snug softness of a place previously untouched. A flower, everyone calls it, always in bloom in pretty shades of red. Angels cannot conceive, but your body yearns for it every other day outside of your cycle. Angels should not bleed, but you are a special case. The only angel in the world—in a world narrowed down to this clearing in the forest. Angels should not ache or age, but you are unique in your bodily functions. So many rules are bent and broken just to keep you here, a flightless bird pinned by macabre piety.

He strokes your wings with his free hand. The skin from which they protrude is numb and hard, healing into a gruesome scar. It is a point of your pride as an angel, manufactured though you may be. Sometimes you think you can feel his touch through your wings, gentle and appreciative, always so careful.

You inhale sharply and throw your head back against his chest when his fingers curl up inside you. Blood drips from the slick petals of your flower, pooling at the pristinely polished surface of the altar. An audience of zealots watches, rapt, as you flinch and gasp.

You do not feel pain when the Prophet touches you. He sees your tragedy through his green eyes, assesses it on your face and in your behaviors, and he soothes it with his fingertips. Perhaps it’s a placebo. Perhaps nothing is real and you are simply stuck in a bad dream.

You want to believe there is a reason for everything, but it’s impossible to find one amidst so much madness.

“Like we are every month, without fail, we are blessed by the red rain of our Angel of Innocence. Behold her flowering purity.” He withdraws his blood-soaked fingers, and you bite your hand to stifle a thoughtless, instinctive moan. Liquid crimson strings from his digits. He presents them to the crowd. They cheer for you, ecstatic to be free of worldly curses. No more foul temptations. No more magic. No more evil. All of the world’s filth is cleansed just beneath your pure shadow.

Or so the fable is foretold. All of it lies in wait at the back of the Prophet’s throat.

You used to struggle and squirm, hide within the ruffles of your robes, and jerk away from the Prophet’s spidery hands. Now you bloom beneath his fingertips, grateful for his attention and touch. He loves you the most, after all.

There is one angel in this world. There is one Prophet in this world. The two, forever intertwined, are hallowed dreams spun from the cotton of quiet thieves.

Or so it is told.

[songfell-ut]

The High Priest

So you know how @iamjoekurose asked me about if Frisk met an opposite-gender version of herself? The idea high-key got its hooks in me and I procured a little something from the sublime @skyworkartzzz and this is male Frisk.

What's that, you say? Mr. Frisk isn't enough? Well too bad, I definitely didn't spend almost a week one-finger typing a la George RR Martin and this totally isn't a scene taking place the morning of All Souls Day in chapter 6. If it was, I'd clarify that this Frisk doesn't need help putting earrings on...it's a little more involved.

You also won't find a casual version of his outfit at the end of it beneath the cut. Nope nope.

Frisk half closed the bathroom door, eyes squeezed shut as he flicked on the witchlight. He slumped against the sink, groped around for the left handle, and ran the water at full blast, yawning mightily as the steam rose. First step, wet his face: grab a washcloth from the pile he knew was beside the tap, shake it out, and reach down to...jerk his hand back, his stupid brain catching up just in time to avoid being scalded. He forced his eyes open and adjusted the water temperature to a less damaging heat, muttering under his breath. He needed to hurry up and finish shaving, couldn't be late to tea with—

To his surprise, the door opened and Sans ducked inside, slumping onto the floor behind him. The skeleton gave him a little salute in the mirror and yawned wide enough to make Frisk wince a little. “Mornin', chief. Gettin’ dolled up already?”

Frisk didn’t dignify that with an answer—Sans had initially believed that “dolled up” applied to all humans dressing nicely, and when Frisk tried to explain that it mostly meant a woman putting on makeup, Sans insisted that all humans were the exact same, and Frisk was a human, and it was therefore a correct thing to say and he now said it almost every morning. Unfortunately, that happened to be how often he came in as Frisk was trying to shave, sitting far too close in the narrow space to pester him with smart remarks.

Well, Frisk had heard much, much worse, and on mornings when he wasn't tired and cranky, he generally didn't mind if Sans wanted to amuse himself observing human grooming rituals. At least he wasn't saying "Okay, I'll shave it for later" and making Frisk laugh too hard to get a blade near his face safely; he had had to order the giant skeleton out of the room and shut the door at least twice now.

Luckily, Sans remained silent as he watched this morning's routine unfold. Once Frisk had dunked the washcloth in the basin and scrubbed his face in a still-too-hot attempt to wake up, he tapped the vanity's middle drawer to remove the barrier. Therein lay a spotless straight razor, a large silver case of shaving soap, and an immaculate brush, kept locked up out of habit from the days at the monastery where everyone stole everyone else's bath items. The priest checked the soap and made a face at how thin it was getting, which amused Sans, judging by his smirk as their eyes met in the mirror; Frisk ignored him and wetted the brush down, swishing it across the soap till he worked up a good lather, and dabbed along the lines of his beard and mustache, tilting his head to slather it thickly beneath his jaw. Then he checked the mirror one more time to see if Sans thought that was funny, too - no, he just seemed mildly interested - and picked up the razor. It was time-consuming but not too difficult, just quick, careful movements to scrape the stuff off a few little strokes at a time—

Except Frisk was so tired and squinty that it wasn't long before he gave one little stroke too hard and flinched. “Dirt on a frigging—”

“Atta boy. Cuss away,” Sans said cheerfully, and gave another huge yawn, ignoring Frisk’s glare in the mirror. “Yer face is leakin’," he added. "Need some help?”

Frisk stared at the tiny trickle of blood that was indeed starting its way down his cheek, then sighed in defeat, wiping the blade on a hand towel. “If you could, please.” However smirky Sans was, there really was some benefit to having company with the power to heal stupid inju—

The razor was suddenly enveloped in red mist. "All righty, one sec." Frisk jumped as the blade tugged itself out of his grip and settled on the counter. “There we go. Now hol' still.” The priest watched Sans raise a bony finger and rest the very tip on Frisk's sleep-ruffled hair; a flick of green later, Frisk's cheek tingled as the cut vanished. "Done."

“Thank you,” Frisk said, scrubbing the blood away and steeling himself - ha, steel - to get back to work. Tired as he was, he couldn't walk out of here with only one side of his face done. But he’d probably be fine now that he was more awake, right? He wouldn’t be more nervous and likely to make another mistake in front of Sans, right? Ha ha, of course not. His hands weren't shaky at all from nerves or exhaustion...

Sans broke into his thoughts with a thoughtful sound. “Ya know what? Just lemme do it. Hold real still, okay?” He sat up, his finger curling very gently to rest over the crown of Frisk's head and keep him in place. “Seriously, don' even breathe wrong," he added, lifting the razor on another wisp of magic.

The human’s eyes widened, hands rising in protest as his brain caught up. "No, no, no thank you," he almost whispered, and cleared his throat, pulling enough of himself together to say louder, "Don't worry about that." He ducked out from beneath Sans' finger, smoothing his ruffled hair. "You're a bodyguard and a diplomat, not a valet."

"Dunno what that is. I'm guessin' somebody who shaves rich people?" Sans waggled the razor in midair. "Ya hired me to protect you from gettin' cut up, an' now you want me t'just sit here and watch ya play with sharp objects in your goddamn sleep? Dunno if I'm good enough ta heal you if ya take yer ear off."

That gave Frisk far too much pause before he could answer, "I'm not going to cut my ear off," with very patient dignity, trying to ignore a bit of lather dripping off his neck.

The boss monster snorted. Up came the shaving brush, but before Frisk could tell him to put it down or at least be careful with it, Sans' magic dipped it into the case almost daintily and worked up more soap. "Look, kiddo, lemme try it. If I fuck it up, I'll heal you an' I won't ever mention it again." The brush rose and drifted close enough to dab Frisk lightly on the neck, which tickled enough to make him crack a smile. "See?" Sans said gleefully. "We're good. Just hold still." And his forefinger settled again on the priest's rumpled head.

Frisk opened his mouth to order him out of the bathroom. But…after a long moment of panic warring with irritation and self-doubt, and hearty embarrassment...he swallowed, and, against his better judgment, said, “All right.” He allowed the razor to approach, and watched in the mirror as it drifted close enough for the lightest experimental scrp, scrp on his cheek. It paused, Sans meeting his eye for an inquiring stare; Frisk started to nod, and was stopped by a growl. He tried a smile instead, but that made his cheeks bunch up; he rolled his eyes instead, gesturing to keep going.

Sans chuckled. It seemed he had been watching the morning routine closer than Frisk thought, because there was no need to tell him to pull the skin taut for a closer shave: a speck of magic pressed just hard enough to help the blade pass over the stubble just so. A few swipes, a wipe on the towel, and Frisk let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "I lied. You can breathe," Sans deadpanned, but when Frisk tried to smile, he got another reproving tap.

It was easier to mock-glare at Sans in the mirror than watch as the blade moved a little faster, with increasing surety, though the skeleton was intent on his work. Difficult as it was shaving oneself for the first time, never mind someone else, the razor made absolutely no nicks, no missed bits; Sans did pause frequently, forefinger tilting the priest’s head this way and that to check his work in the mirror— “Screw this,” the skeleton said presently. “Just turn around.”

With all the cool indifference of a boy letting his mother spit on her hand to fix his hair, Frisk shuffled around in a half circle and waited for more, only for Sans to chuckle again. “Don't give me that look, pal,” he said, sounding…exasperated, but something else, too.

That was it: the High Priest gave up any remaining dignity and sat down cross-legged on the bathroom floor. Sans shifted onto his side, jaw propped up on on hand, then took a sideways one-fingered hold on Frisk’s head and began scraping away again, much quicker and more confident than he ever was.

Well, dirt. The priest wanted desperately to say something, but his skin would be in peril if he moved his mouth; he opted to keep his eyes closed, allowing Sans to turn his head this way and that to get each side, gentle as always. He never touched him with any more force than necessary, Frisk thought, at least after that first encounter in his prison cell; even when the assassin was after him and Sans was physically maneuvering him to safety, he had been careful not to hurt him. Having much more direct proof of the monster's determination to protect him, trusting Sans with a literal blade at his neck? It was incredibly endearing.

Actually, given Frisk's thoughts of skeleton parts and pondering conjugal relations, it was better – worse? – than that. Definitely more confusing; all these years of struggling to muster interest in any of the women chasing him, of ignoring accusations of preferring men because if he did like them, he surely would have noticed it in all those years at the monastery—Frisk had started to think he was just...broken in that respect. Why in every circle of Hell was he feeling so strange about exposing his throat to a gigantic monster in total security that Sans wasn't going to hurt him? It wasn't fear that made his skin tingle like that, or at least not more than a tiny bit. It definitely felt nice, except that that wasn't the word for it.

When the process was finished, Sans gave a satisfied grunt. “Ha. See?” He nudged Frisk’s shoulder, and the High Priest shook himself, then obediently shuffled around in another half circle, then remembered to open his eyes and pull himself to his feet for an inspection in the mirror. “Beautiful,” the skeleton said triumphantly, setting the razor on the sink.

Wha— Frisk couldn’t help staring at him in the mirror, eyes wide, feeling and seeing his nicely shorn cheeks redden further. “Once again, you have the wrong word,” he said as coolly as possible, and tore his gaze away to busy himself rinsing and drying the brush and razor.

“Wha?” Sans blinked at him, sockets also going wide, and Frisk watched his cheekbones suddenly change color. “Not you, goddammit! Beautiful work,” snapped the boss monster. “As in, I told ya you needed help, an’ then I did it totally perfect. Not like I was gonna cut yer…” He gave a fake cough, evidently remembering that Frisk might not like to hear any hyperbole about having his throat cut.

“Yes, well done. Thank you,” Frisk said hastily, reaching for the towel and barely remembering to run cool water to splash his cheeks first. He needed something cool right now.

...

...

...

(His more everyday garb:)

[kit-williams]

Consequences

Male Lead: Konrad Curze/Solruthis Uadasha/The Night Haunter (Sol being his nickname) Female Lead: Reader/Sorsollia (sun that illuminates)

I'm sorry I love Zalgo text a lot it says HIS

tw: yandere, broken bones, physical assault, torture

@bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @squishyowl @ms--lobotomy

@nekotaetae @sleepyfan-blog

Another successful compliance! As they didn't receive as much fighting as he had forseen but he was certain that would please Sorsollia. The smile on his face disappears seeing another scribe there waiting for him... you were the main scribe they were to collect when he had to do these frivolous talks of what he had done.

The other scribe bows their head and he feels a sense of anger... perhaps disgust that someone else is here... but he swallows the feeling and gets the talk over with. As they are packing up their tablet he stops them. "Where is Sorsollia?"

There is an upturn in their heartbeat, "She hasn't been feeling well. I don't know what she is sick with all I know is that she's off rotation for some time." LIAR his mind hisses but he knows his Sorsollia will be displeased if the only other Scribe that he has 'dained to be in his presence is dismissed.

"Thank you." He dismisses them as he sits and broods. His Sorsollia is alive... he would have been told otherwise. So he simply waits for a few hours... and waits... and waits... and waits. Sorsollia does not come... she does not message... there is silence... and Solruthis Usdasha does not like this.

He moves with the flickering lights... they turn off long enough for him to move to the next hall... to cram himself into the next crevice. Humans are surprisingly unaware creatures though many are Nostroman he passes... he frowns as he heads into the part of the ship that is inhabited by those who do not like it being so dark. Here the prey tends to act skittish... as he watches how one person turns on their heels when they see the hallway lights flicker hiding his movements. The soft nope from their lips would normally make him smile but he is on a mission.

He could easily also push himself into the service halls and move around that way but no... this is his ship and he can slink about how ever he pleases. He comes to her door pushing his thumb over the reader and overriding her locks... after all it is his ship he is the skeleton key.

He moved with unnatural quietness into her abode; spacious given her rank it had two rooms compared to the typical singular room. His ears moved as he heard her pained hiss.

Sorsollia winced as she dabbed the cotton ball against the cut on her forehead her non dominant arm in a sling as her broken wrist was splinted. Most of the swelling on her face had gone down just leaving the ugly bruising. She sniffled hard feeling herself want to tear up and cry again, her eyes went up freezing as there was someone- "Sol?" Her voice cracked as she turned around.

The fearful beating of her heart died as he knew that rushing hopeful beat. His mind was terrifyingly silent as he took a step closer... as he gently grabbed her face and turned her toward him... it was so quiet when he looked over her face... someone had beaten his Sorsollia. Someone had harmed his Sorsollia while he was away. His eyes look at her broken wrist and splinted fingers too he knew a threat he knew what a threat to someone's livelyhood looked like. His thumb absentmindedly wiping away the tears rolling down her cheeks as her legs give way and she lets out a dispared wail. A wail that normally excites him... and oh how it still excited him in a different way. He pulls her out of the small room of the bathroom and holds her close. "Oh my Sorsollia what happened? Did the head scribe order this?" His voice suddenly went cold at the thought of someone abusing her because they were on a power trip.

"No! No... no... no... I don't-"

"Don't lie to me. Sorsollia you know I don't like lying. Don't protect the scum." He snarls holding her tightly, "They must be punished... I am a Primarch no one-"

"I don't know who they were." She sobs into his chest afraid of the repercussions but her Sol was there. "They came to me when you were gone. They didn't tell me who they worked for but to only edit a few documents to make their lord look better. I assume they were thugs for some noble. Because one of them had to have been one... because I talked back to him I was too comfortable in my position working for you because they didn't like a scribe talking back to them." Her voice strained at the end as the tears ran harder. "They knew which hand was my dominant one... so they broke my wrist of the other one to send a message." She was so very ugly when she cried... utterly distressed and distraught.

"And you still told them no?" He probes.

"They told me that they would be back and to use this time to consider it." She hiccups softly.

"When they come back I want you to agree." He says holding her. "I'll make sure I find out who they are and who their employer is." He whispers to her as she sobs into his shirt. Solruthis Uadasha finally truly comes out... there has been a great injustice inflicted upon his charge... upon his Sorsollia. And he will make them pay.

She was withdrawn... hardly holding the name Sorsollia but he played his role just as she did. They stayed apart as he played the distant ruler and not the attentive lover and she hardly needed goading into her role of the cowed submissive. He held her the night he came back... as she was tired and sleep wasn't coming to her... she was afraid and clung to him but for now she was by herself.

Konrad leaned back on his throne as the chirping of the small cogitatior he planted in her room. His impassive face split into an insane grin as he watches how the three... no four, his eyes spy the man at the door, "faceless" mooks walk with such false swagger. His nails dig into his seat as her arm is grabbed and Sorsollia collapses to her knees trying to get her wounded arm free. Konrad had sat and tended to her wounds to soothe her as she had been living in such sweet fear for days.

His dark eyes narrow at the hand touching his Sorsollia far too affectionately. Konrad gritted his teeth in that manic grin feeling the teeth chipping before healing. But once they were gone he quickly collected his Sorsollia taking the document they wanted her to improve and the name of the noble that had the AUDACITY to threaten what was H̷̨̭́̿Ḭ̴̏̕S̷̢͇̐. He hid her away in his room as Solrithis Uadasha got to work.

The lookout lay dead and blind... his tongue shredded to ribbons as they went down without saying anything. His torture felt much like an afterthought much just like their role in all of this. The two guards who had beaten and broken his Sorsollia's wrist he was careful in the application of pressure and pulling away... breaking more and more of their bones and perhaps like a Drukhari he twisted their useless limbs into unnatural shapes as the two bleated for death and each day he brought them closer and closer with more and more bones breaking and each day they did not expire he continued to crush and twist.

The lower noble who felt so big to be perhaps within the fucked up standards of society be able to get away with beating the personal scribe of a Primarch. Perhaps he had the right.... perhaps he did... but unfortunately for him he picked the wrong Primarch to try and get away with this crime. He had cut off the hand that he had dared touch what was his and was slowly peeling it bit by bit and feeding the flesh back to him.

Sorsollia was far too kind for her own good... he'd have to see what the laws from where she was were like... He pushed the flesh into the mans mouth grinning. "You know she said that the sins of the father don't pass on." He laughed, it was a hideous laugh one of disbelief that he held affection for someone so blind to the cruelty of the universe. And yet he hesitated to rip the veil from her eyes because once he did that... he was certain she would see the disgusting creature that he was. He craved her affection... he craved her attention... he craved her seeing him as a man. She couldn't be blind to everything... she was a legion scribe... she knew the methods.

There was a nasty thought planted in his mind now... the paranoia and mistrust rearing its ugly head... he left the torture room unable to find satisfaction in conducting the punishments until he figured out why. "Sorsollia." He said entering the room wiping the blood from his hands as she paused what she was listening too looking over at him from the lit corner of his room.

"Yes?"

"I need to know something." He walked over.

"Of course I live to serve." She said with a genuine smile but that only heightened his paranoia.

"Why did you want to work for my legion? We are perhaps the most cruel ones... and you had personally applied."

"I had personally applied for both your legion and the blood angels." Her lips became a thin line as she thought of words, "While I don't agree with the methods you employ... your rate of compliance compared to the body count is a good ratio. Um..."

"Speak."

"I just don't agree with it... but it leans more into the necessary evil. Not that you are evil Sol." Sorsollia quickly adds, "Just all of this... the great crusade... perhaps there is a selfishness in my part for hoping that I'm on the correct side of history... instead of simply being a conscientious objector... that maybe this will all be worth it in the end. But what do I know of war and combat... I'm just a helpless Scribe." She says looking at her wrist, "I chose you for the low ratio of bodies to compliance."

"And Sanguninius?" He says not betraying the way his hearts were twisting at the thought of his Sorsollia being in the Great Angel's company... being his Scribe. Konrad wants to claw his scalp at the anxiety that bubbles over at the thought of her being enamored with the perfect angel.

"I've heard he is kind. He gives many chances to accept the imperium's generous offer... but I've heard that the Blood Angels can be... scary. " She nervously laughs, "Me talking about how scared I am of the Blood Angels when I work for the Night Lords. I probably sound stupid..." He's noticed since she's been attacked how critical of herself she has been.

He pulls her into his arms his long fingers combing through her hair, "Sorsollia." He listens for her hum, "In a couple of days this will all be over. I want you to return to being yourself."

The pitying smile she gave him nearly had him snarling, "You're very bad at comforting but I appreciate the attempt. Just..." Her voice sounded so small, "Please promise me this won't happen again? Just... I thought I was safe and-" Her voice breaks as tears flow.

Giving her his child would let everyone know who she was... it would make sure no one would touch her... He kisses away her tears, "Shhh Sorsollia I swear upon one of my hearts that it won't happen again."

That gets her to smile, "If I'm keeping track that means you've sworn on both of your hearts so far."

"So it is. I've already taken care of the thugs that hurt you. They've been punished."

She just nods and hides her face in his chest, "I should probably go back to my room."

"One more day Sorsollia. You slept so fitfully last sleeping cycle... it would make me worry to find out you've been struggling to sleep. And I need to make sure you are comfortable so your wrist and fingers heal."

"Okay Sol. One more night." She sighs happily just feeling that she'll soon be able to put this all behind her. For Konrad he was thinking of what he was going to do to the noble who was so eager to get the Primarch's gaze... oh the dark grin on his face as he certainly had it now. He gave his Sorsollia a kiss on the forehead and swore that the sparkle to her eyes was slowly returning and that made his hearts sing.